THREE WIZARDS

SUMMARY:

Young Albus Dumbledore, in desperate need of a proper friend, devises a spell to bring powerful wizards to him—only, he just might have been a tad overzealous. Result: the temporal displacement of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle to the year 1912.

DISCLAIMER & NOTES:

(1) We claim no rights to Harry Potter. We own no recognizable elements of this tale.

(2) This story is a co-production of ellyanah and I (pouf). Odd-numbered chapters are mine; even-numbered chapters will be written by ellyanah unless we indicate otherwise. As a result, it appears likely that Three Wizards will look largely schizophrenic, but we will do our best to produce coordinated chapters.

(3) Three Wizards takes for granted information from all seven books, though it disregards the final epilogue. Our tale interrupts Harry's life many years after he has defeated Voldemort. Also, pretend that removing his horcrux didn't take away his parseltongue.

(4) Of ages and dates: All three of them are 31 years old according to their official dates of birth.

(5) We claim no rights to Vocalise. Facts about it in the story are accurate.

(6) About Lake Baika: Buddhism did spread there in the late middle ages, and prayer wheels do exist, but the context in which I used this information is purely fictional and not historically accurate.

(7) For heaven's sake, Albus ruminates too much. I want to hit him. Oh, and you will soon find out exactly what he did.

(8) Oh, and before we start, I suggest you watch the dates in the section headers to avoid confusion.

CHAPTER THE FIRST

In which Albus Dumbledore has a moment of weakness and believes he is a failure,

Harry Potter's merriment is rudely interrupted,

And someone dares to kidnap Tom Riddle in the middle of his tantrum.

DECEMBER 24, 1912:

PRIVATE QUARTERS, HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Early that morning, Albus Dumbledore was broodingly nursing his eighth cup of tea, sitting rigidly in a plush armchair. The sun had just risen, as evidenced by the ray of brightness filtered through a small opening between the closed, heavy drapes hung from one of the windows. The light hit the length of his side even as the rest of the room was plunged in darkness, revealing much ambient floating dust and highlighting the young wizard's features. He looked as though he had not slept that night, and indeed, he had not; he had spent the darkness hours drinking tea, repeatedly summoning some poor house-elf in the middle of his sleep. The excess caffeine had overloaded his nervous system, and a muscle beneath his left eye sporadically twitched. Heavy bags beneath his tired, glazed eyes marred his sickly complexion, and his auburn hair looked dull even in the sunlight. He looked frail, ensconced in the large fireside chair with his thin night robe hanging limply from his frame and highlighting the protuberance of his bones. Then again, it was not so surprising—negative emotions had always strongly affected him physically.

In the background, a large wizarding gramophone played a recording owled by Gellert—according to the accompanying letter, it was the voice of Antonina Nezhdanova as she sang Vocalise, the most recent composition by Rachmaninoff, straight from Russia. Albus had received both the previous day, near enough to the 25th of the month to act as a painful present. He impulsively jerked his wand, not bothering to divert his eyes from the cooling drink, his fingers brusquely and clumsily tightening around the cup—he was staring at it so intently that an observer might even believe him to be attempting to divine the solution to an impossible mystery. On the opposite side of the sitting room, a drawer gracelessly bumped open as folded piece of paper flew out of it and across the room to land on the small table, by Albus' porcelain saucer. He did not look at it; he didn't need to. He already knew its appearance by heart, having memorized the smooth texture of the parchment, the location of its every crease and the way his name looked, written on the back of the letter—the harsh angles that characterized Gellert's handwriting, and the unique hue of the ink.

Oh, he had certainly paid it enough attention to know it so well. When he had received it, he had at first stared uncomprehendingly; it almost seemed surreal, that after all those years, Gellert would contact him. He had read and re-read it, searching for some other meaning, hoping that perhaps he had misread, his fingers gradually starting to tremble as time went on, until he had no longer been able to hold it—then, he had locked it into the very same drawer he had just summoned it from, futilely thinking that he would forget about it. He had not even lasted an hour before he had scrambled for the key and hurriedly grabbed the letter, once more shakily reading it while cursing himself for his weakness. The cycle had carried on throughout the afternoon, caused him to skip dinner, lasted the entire night, and Albus was apparently not going to stop come morning.

A few minutes later, he could no longer pretend to be preoccupied by his tea. He set down the cup on the saucer and called a house-elf, asking for a replacement with precisely four sugar cubes. Almost uncontrollably, he lightly lifted the letter and moved it in the path of the sun ray, as he swiftly opened it. With riveted eyes, he read.

Dearest Albus,

Forgive me for not writing all these years.

We parted on unfavourable terms, which I regret. I know that your strong emotions following the misfortune with your sister Ariana had much to do with your uncompromising reaction, and I am at fault for leaving without giving you time to soothe your disposition.

Over time, I grew to realize that, despite our differences—and perhaps because of them—we could together accomplish more than we ever could apart. Do you remember, Albus? For the greater good. Imagine what we could do, to keep our kind safe from the muggles, to strengthen the magic of future generations, to lead wizardkind into a new era of glory and prosperity!

I know that, even if you might hide it even from yourself, you agree with your own words, Albus. The greater good was, and is, your greatest preoccupation—because it makes you feel worthy, does it not, to better the world for others?

Oh, I agree that it's an arrogant notion, but, dearest friend, magic is might. Without powerful leaders, the wizarding world falls into inertia. You know this. Your own country is a perfect sample of cultural despondency, and the British don't even know it! Take a look at your headmaster, at your ministry! Do you truly believe that it's fair to allow this to go on? Under better leaders, citizens would flourish, Albus! Instead, development is arrested, held back by the fools who gain power for little reason more than bribes and heredity.

Tell me, have you been to Russia? The way things are run here would drive you mad. I'm sure you've heard of the revolution a few years back, in muggle Russia, but the situation is much worse in wizarding Russia. The people, even noble purebloods of ancient lines, live in squalor and poverty, oppressed by a line of quasi-squibs, whose power is only maintained by the force of tradition and the compulsions that are periodically cast on their advisors and military leaders.

I wish you would join me—then, perhaps, we could succeed in changing things for the best. In fact, I have made a few friends (though none your equal in my eyes, I assure you) who would be ready to help us in the endeavour.

I write from St. Petersburg, you know. Just a few days ago, I attended a wonderful performance of Vocalise, Rachmaninoff's composition for Nezhdanova—I have enclosed the recording—and I felt the need to share it with you, as I know that you enjoy such masterpieces.

Do write back, my old friend.

Love,

Gellert

He shifted the parchment away from the light and placed it on the table once more. He was just about to reach for the newly arrived steaming cup of tea when there was a series of excited raps on his door. Thwarted in his attempt to indulge, Albus stood, his tall lanky form casting an elongated shadow across the floor. He took in a sharp breath when he walked off the rug onto cold stone, but nonetheless walked across to the door to his quarters without bothering with a warming charm, instead absently waving his wand to silence the gramophone. His suspicions about the identity of his visitor were confirmed when he opened the door: Dippet stood in the hallway, looking jovial. Albus repressed a sigh.

"Good morning, Armando. I trust all is well within the school?"

The response was so overjoyed and loud that it threatened to induce a headache. "To you as well, Albus, to you as well! And there's no need to worry about anything, no worries at all," he paused, looking slightly hesitant, "I was merely concerned for you—you see, a number of our colleagues have noticed that you seemed… unsettled after you received a letter at lunchtime… and then you locked yourself in here…" The older wizard rather blatantly tried to look around Albus into his quarter.

"Then allow me to allay your fears—I merely suffered from an upset stomach, and then I forgot the time—completely absorbed in research—in fact, it's waiting for me presently, and it's rather fascinating, so I'll let you enjoy your morning," Albus truly did not have the patience to deal with platitudes at this point. Armando was annoying, with his silly concerns, his weak magic, his interest in meaningless social niceties.

"Ah, but of course, of course," Dippet shuffled his feet, "well then, I'll leave you to it—but don't forget to enjoy the holidays, eh?"

With barely coherent parting words, Albus gently shut his door. A flick of his wand had Vocalise filling the air again, and he leaned back against the door for a few moments, just listening as his feet grew colder. What a fitting piece Gellert had chosen, indecisive and fragile despite the almost unbearably stable rhythm, constant yet faltering. The haunting melody followed him as he walked to the table, picked up the letter once more, crossed the room once more, and set it back into its drawer. As he locked it, the song ended, and a slight clicking sound signalled the automatic resetting of the recording as the beginning chords commenced again. He spun around to finally walk back to his seat.

His bare feet snuggled into the warm downy rug as he sat down, the gratifying sensation only comforting him as he once again turned his thoughts to the letter. Gellert knew him—too well. He was not so naïve as not to notice how the muggleborn issue was glossed over, how there had been no mention of killing anyone, how the younger wizard had focused on those injustices that particularly disturbed him, or how he had subtly hinted at companionship. Albus Dumbledore was a man of many faults, but stupidity was not one of them. He knew—quite well—what it meant for Gellert to have friends ready to help him: he had gathered supporters of some sort, and was quite possibly ready for a violent government take-over. Intellectually, he knew that he would never participate in such ventures, not when he knew just what Gellert was capable of. But the idealist part of him was still attached to the man and everything that he represented, and did not allow him to outright decline the invitation.

The knowledge that he would likely still be with Gellert if disaster had not struck profoundly disturbed him. It reminded Albus that he had a destructive potential—his utilitarian philosophy, his great magical power, his unconditional love for magic and everything it touched… his veiled arrogance and restrained ambition—his very being itched to do something great and saw it as his birthright, but oh how terribly easy it would be for him to lose himself, making hideous mistakes, wronging others as he went on believing that he had done right for the greater good... He took a sip of sugary, warm tea.

All these years, the thought had chilled him enough that he had voraciously kept his ambition in check. His NEWT exams were the last truly remarkable thing he had publicly done. On the outside, he looked to be the typical scholar—curious, inquisitive, and occasionally bringing in new material that was not truly groundbreaking. Albus never published anything important. He had shown just enough to get the teaching job, and kept any revolutionary advancements to himself. It was not done out of intellectual avarice. Rather, it was partly because he knew that if he did publish those things, the attention he would receive would only further tempt him to take a leadership role of sorts. He did not think he deserved it: he was far too likely to fall into a moral slippery slope, demanding more power and causing others to suffer, all for an overarching vision.

Another part of him also felt that this way was best because it would even further alienate him to rise above the rest. He did not like to admit to his loneliness, but it was always present. He was constantly reminded that other wizards didn't understand magic the way he did, that they didn't share his passion for it. It was a little-known fact that wizards' power levels correlated to their connection to the very essence of magic. For someone like Albus, the connection went above and beyond what his peers experienced. Average fools (like Dippet) used magic as a tool despite whatever theoretical understanding they might have that magic wasn't merely a means to an end. He worked with magic, because magic at its core, inherently, was intent, all the intent in the world—and he had known since childhood that intent was everything he needed to give magic a direction. He longed to explore the mysteries of magic, to push its boundaries as no one ever had before, but any findings would be given to a blind community, with no one able to grasp even his main premise, no one but Gellert. But he couldn't viably fill the loneliness with Gellert, could he? Albus knew it well enough, but still, the idea usually nagged him once in a while, and that morning, it was constantly present in the undercurrent to his thoughts.

And then— a manic twinkle erupted in his eyes.

It hit him. The solution, that is.

He jumped to his feet as if he was possessed, accidentally bumping his knee on the table's leg hard enough that it sent his nearly full cup of tea crashing to the floor. With a hasty swipe of his wand to give himself slippers in mid-step, he ran out of his quarters, leaving the door ajar behind him. In just a few minutes, he had raided the Restricted Section at the library, and was running, cheeks flushed, back to his rooms with a long trail of books floating behind him in a merry circus, ancient manuscripts and tomes of recent breakthroughs happily bobbing along. He directed them to the table with a thought as he hurriedly flung open all of his curtains, waving his wand in a grand arc to flood the room in sunlight. Two flicks respectively turned off the music and lit the fireplace, and a final motion summoned a self-inking quill and a self-replenishing stack of parchment from his bureau. When Albus sat, he did not even notice that a house-elf had taken care of the mess the teacup had made—he did not waste a second before he began flipping through the books, ravenously cross-verifying information, taking note of potentially useful runes and possible arithmantic formulae, and feverishly double-checking every step of his work. Nor did he notice when the shadows moved as the sun rose and fell, or when Dippet once again knocked at his door to beseech him to at least eat dinner.

And, at sundown, when he finished designing a ritual to bring him some company he could relate to, he did not hesitate to set it in motion and to finish it with the words to the sealing spell. It was doubtful that anything could have stopped him—his demented grin alone would have been enough to scare away the poor soul attempting to reason with him. Albus Dumbledore would later describe it as the nuttiest moment of his life, and that was saying a lot.

DECEMBER 27, 2011:

RUSSIAN SIBERIA, A DARK AND DAMP CAVE JUST SOUTH OF LAKE BAIKA

A young man cautiously sat on his heels as he carefully examined a handheld, gold-plated wooden Buddhist prayer wheel, kept away from the moist stone by a polished rest. Nearby, a walking stick and a scoffed leather bag rested on the ground beneath a floating lantern. The fire contained within the lamp cast soft, wavering shadows down upon the man that veiled his eyes beneath long bangs, even as the light chillingly punctuated his smug smirk. Indeed, he had a right to be satisfied: his previous month had been dedicated to tracking down the wheel—he had relentlessly inspected countless forgotten caves in its pursuit, ignoring Christmas, taking only minimum care of himself, until finally, he had happened upon an ancient shrine. Amidst its rotting wood, he had found the key to discovering the wheel: a scroll upon which a formula he recognized all too well had been scribed—"The Mani of Divine Healing is located at the cave southernmost of Lake Baika." Evidently, the cave had been under a Fidelius charm, its location carefully written before the death of the Secret Keeper. The man had been slightly miffed that he had not considered the problem of finding the wheel from that angle, but as he nonetheless admired its impeccable condition, he did not linger long on his irritation.

He slowly shifted his hand around the object, perspiration beading on his forehead as he weaved his magic into the rather aggressive defensive wards, careful not to touch it and barely restraining himself from quivering in anticipation and glee. The man did not need more than a few minutes to accomplish his purpose: he quickly and inextricably tied himself to the wards and dragged them down by violently pulling his magic back into his palm. The abrupt disappearance of centuries-old magic momentarily caused a power void in the cave, the lack of magic in the area silencing and stilling all that it contained, even stopping a water drop's fall in mid-air as if time itself had been banished. For a few precious, blissful moments, the man basked as his acute magical senses were completely numbed. But too soon, the moment ended. Ambient magic painfully whipped past him toward the prayer wheel to fill the vacuum, brutally throwing his walking stick at his head, pushing him to the ground and sending his lantern and bag crashing into the wall. The magical force, as if it were a strong wind, made his muggle coat billow and slap noisily against the skin of his back. His face protected between his arms and his hair blowing against his head, he endured the battering as he usually did—with clenched eyes and tightened muscles.

When, at length, the magic stilled, the man's posture relaxed, and he slowly raised his head, and then his chest, from the ground, supporting his weight with his forearms. Once he was assured that the prayer wheel was intact and free for the taking, he let out a relieved breath and brushed aside his long bangs, wiping the sweat from his brow with a hand weighed down by his now soggy coat. Unhindered by hair, the light from his lantern (thankfully charmed to be unbreakable) shone into his bright green eyes, giving them an odd gleam in the feeble orange glow of the fire. But despite how exceptional his eyes were, his most recognizable feature lay just above them; on his forehead was a shockingly red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt—the one that inescapably marked him as a celebrity throughout the British wizarding world: Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, Order of Merlin, and a litany of other titles. In fact, it was that scar, the problems it had led to, not to forget his status as the 'saviour', which had permanently driven him to search for forgotten and legendary artefacts as a curse-breaker.

Of course, upon the final defeat of Voldemort, he had gladly accepted the respite of normal life; his entire life until that moment had been riddled (pun not intended) with abnormality and danger. The change had been utterly welcome: he had dated Ginny for a short while before they had married, he had become a successful auror, he had avoided journalists, and he had faced no immortal megalomaniacs bent on killing him because of a ridiculous self-fulfilling prophecy. But then, expectations had come. Ginny had wanted a devoted, caring and obedient husband to father her children. The ministry had wanted a sycophantic devotee to ask no questions about its inefficient system. The press had demanded more achievements, as if his previous contribution to society was no longer enough. And the Hallows had developed a mind of their own upon their rejection by the Master of Death.

He had lived up to it all without complaints for a short while, indulging Ginny, acting the part of a bureaucrat, feeding tidbits of information to Skeeter and her compatriots, and pretending that the Hallows didn't exist. For his credit, he had tolerated it until he was twenty years old. At that point, he had realized that Ginny was annoying, that loving, caring families and bossy wives were not for him. He owed it to his accidental magic that it had recognized his unconscious refusal to commit to that life: it had prevented his wife's pregnancy, such that when he finally had had enough with the boredom of interrogating minor criminals and the irritation caused by the media's attention, there had been very few attachments between him and his 'normal life'. He had shortly asked for a divorce, which had incited the wrath of the Weasley clan for having disturbed their family structure—with the exception of the twins, who he suspected had always expected that outcome.

When he quit his job and left his wife, the tabloids had gone mad, claiming that their saviour had failed the ministry; that he had renounced the Weasley family to cover a secret scandal; that he was a new Dark Lord out to destroy society. From then on, it had been a simple decision to avoid England. As his final act in wizarding Britain, he had finally ceded to the pull of the Hallows, recovering them as his acknowledgement of his title as the Master of Death—a dub which had been held by no other before. When all three had been united on his person, the cloak worn, the stone in his left hand and the wand in his right, they had for all intents and purposes imbued his person with their magical characteristics and left their respective objects without a trace of power. He had at first experienced his usual reaction to such abnormalities: he had been mortified. After having spent a few hours in a Parisian café, he had had a sort of epiphany—a resolve that from then on, he wouldn't care a whit about being normal—and he had gaily used this new power for the first time by regaling himself with a wandlessly conjured sour cherry candy (a habit he had appropriated from Dumbledore).

From there, he had taken a leaf from Voldemort's book: he had travelled the world for many years, figuring that a quest for rare knowledge would be satisfying enough. It had first led him to Egypt, where he had learned of ancient wards and how to break them, of hieroglyphics and their role as runes, and of immortality rituals that he supposed Tom Riddle had disdained because they left their practitioners as squibs. He had explored the Saharan Desert, where he had survived with few hardships after a desert wizard had taught him permanent conjurations based on blood that permitted their creator to have sustenance for himself without losing it the instant his conjured food and water faded away. He had gone to Eastern Europe, where the Dark Arts were legal; he had learned them from an aged Estonian wizard, who had taught him advanced Occlumency skills designed to allow one to keep control of the self even when insanity threatens to consume dark arts practitioners. He had spent months in wizarding Constantinople, the last bastion of Ancient Rome, learning the secrets of complex arithmancy, spell creation and alchemy. The Middle-East had granted him an understanding of astronomy, divination, and Centaur weltanschauung. He had learned the Healing Arts in Tibet, and had become absorbed in the philosophies of magic in China. In South America, he had learned of time magic, finally understanding the workings of time turners. Australian Aborigines and North American Natives both had taught him of the flow of magic in wildlife... and so much more, from every corner of the globe.

For the past eleven fascinating years, he had learned all he could about magic, taking intermittent curse-breaking jobs and finding a number of magical treasures, as such tasks were best suited to his talents. He had paid little attention to himself beyond practical matters, often neglecting to cut his hair, for instance, and had kept little contact with his old friends, preferring to distance himself from his past. Only Hermione regularly exchanged letters with him: she and Ron had married shortly after the final battle, but over the years, her husband had expected her to be a housewife and grown annoyed with her refusal to conform to British wizarding expectations of women. Eventually, she had had enough of not living up to her potential, left Ron, become a Healer, studied medicine in a muggle University, and had finally thrown herself into research combining muggle and magical medical principles to cure the incurable. He had received her Christmas owl two days ago, in fact: he had sent her a Tibetan manuscript from the Bon lineage of traditional doctors, and she had responded with an old parseltongue compilation of spells that could be performed both by magical snakes and parselmouths.

And so there he was, once again treasure-hunting, alone in a forgotten grotto, muddy and soggy from an encounter with the ground, yet entirely satisfied because he had done the unattainable—to other wizards, that is. Wiping his squalid hands on stained khaki trousers as he clambered to his feet and walked toward the prayer wheel, he felt the familiar thrill of complete elation, the one he had unknowingly been hooked on since his very first year at Hogwarts; the one that came with impossible successes, that fulfilled his need to feel powerful and useful. He swiftly conjured a piece of silk, and, careful not to dirty the priceless handheld artefact, delicately wrapped it around the wheel. With a wave of a hand, he set wards to protect the package against harm and the notice of anyone but himself—and then proceeded to drop it unceremoniously in his carrier bag, which lay crumpled by the wall. With a last glance around the cave, he flung the shoulder strap over his head, summoned his walking stick into his hand with a twitch of his fingers, and strode out of the cave with his lantern trailing behind him.

He was immediately assaulted by unbearably bright sunlight. He shadowed his narrowed eyes with his arm with a slight wince and looked around the area for his sole travelling companion: Dobby. He looked forward to going back home, actually—he would celebrate both his find and Christmas, probably reading the parseltongue journal Hermione had sent him while drinking one of Dobby's perfect hot chocolates. No matter what he did, any hot chocolate he conjured fell short of that particular treat. He did not have to extend much of an effort to find the elf, as he was located first: a short being soon slammed into Harry's legs and tightly wrapped its arms around them in a flurry of shrill words.

"Master Harry Potter sir! Dobby knew Master Harry Potter would succeed! Harry Potter sir is the greatest wizard!"

But before Harry could even attempt to calm the diminutive house-elf, he felt a strange sensation, almost as if something that had been seeking his magic had found it—and then it literally grabbed his magic and pulled.

JULY 27, 1957:

GROUNDS, HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Tom Marvolo Riddle, self-dubbed Lord Voldemort, sole heir of Slytherin, slammed the main door to Hogwarts with the force of his magic as he furiously strode away from the school with billowing robes. He had just applied—perfectly lawfully—for the DADA position at Hogwarts, only to be rejected by some meddlesome old coot! He tightly gripped his wand as he crossed the grounds, a dangerous snarl growing on his face. He was perfectly qualified for the job. Tom knew quite well that Dumbledore—he hatefully hissed the word under his breath—had only refused him on principle. Oh, perhaps he had an inkling of his plans to collect followers, but was the man truly so blind as not to realize that he was doing the very same, only with benign smiles and his bloody lemon drops?! To think that, had he come back just two years earlier, he could have easily charmed Dippet into hiring him and being glad for it.

Tom Riddle loathed Albus Dumbledore—in italics. It wasn't truly because the man saw through him; if anything, had it been his only grievance, he might have respected Dumbledore. No, he quite honestly would have liked to have an honest challenge, and that was the problem. Dumbledore did not live up to his potential, and Tom… well, Tom took that as a personal insult, and personal insults to Tom tended to spell out death for their perpetrator. He knew very well that Dumbledore, like himself, had more to his name than intelligence: he had power the likes of which was only born perhaps every generation—or two, or three. He rather thought that it was a responsibility for people like them to take on a position of power. After all, compared to the doddering idiots hovering around, they knew best. And Dumbledore did absolutely nothing, and it wasn't even because he didn't notice the problems that he could solve. No, he was clever enough to see the poor state of society, and he was powerful enough to stop Tom's predecessor as a Dark Lord, and yet he was content with keeping the status quo and letting utter morons and magically weak fools decide the future and the opinions of the wizarding world. It was utterly contemptible. Truthfully, Tom thought that Dumbledore himself was more of a threat to wizards than any Dark Lord. People like Dumbledore encouraged ministerial bureaucracies to carry on with whatever silliness and corruption they had going. They weakened the population at large. Dark Lords, no matter what they did or what their aims, rattled society—they incited change, they forced people into some type of action, they ultimately strengthened them.

His only satisfaction with his visit to Hogwarts was that he had hidden his latest horcrux within the Room of Hidden Things, where it would stay perfectly safe right under Dumbledore's nose. He was in fact quite smug about that particular achievement. His snarl twisted into a further grimace when a smirk vied for dominance on his face. His fast pacing soon brought him to the edge of the Forbidden Forest: he could have simply left through the main gates, but the forest was the perfect venue for him to vent his anger. He furiously treaded through the trees, snapping his wand at all that stood in his way—reducing the larger ones to cinders, shattering thinner trunks and breaking offending branches and twigs. The feeling of his magic powerfully rushing through his body only served to fuel his anger, and his curses only grew in intensity and in magnitude. The magical creatures of the forest fled the area before he could even see them, and he cast a long crucio on the single animal—a small rabbit—he encountered.

When Tom reached what seemed to be the center of the forest, he could no longer restrain himself.

"Fiendfyre!" He bellowed, and the powerful fire erupted from his wand. It burned a tree—then two, then four, and as it grew, it took the shape of a great basilisk. The fiery snake—or snake fire, whichever—took just a few seconds to slither through the nearby trees, perhaps within a ten-metre radius, and pulverise them all. Tom let out a lengthy burst of hysterical laughter before dispelling the fire. It would not become him to allow it to attack him, after all. But he did not stop the destruction, and he let out a stream of curses.

"Reducto!"

A silent cutting curse.

"Bombarda!"

Another explosion curse.

"CRUCIO!"

Nerve damage permanently addled a squirrel, and its partner was a tempting victim.

"AVADA KE—"

He was so absorbed in his wrath that he did not notice when, as if he had activated a portkey, something discourteously pulled at his navel before he had even finished his curse. As he was transported, the pieces of soul contained within a diary, a ring, a locket, a cup and a diadem followed.

DECEMBER 24, 1912:

PRIVATE QUARTERS, HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

For a moment, Albus waited with bated breath for something to happen, for a wizard or a witch to come crashing through the Hogwarts wards to appear before him. …Nothing. As the moment grew longer, his chest gradually began to deflate, his triumphant smile to wilt, and the twinkle in his eyes to dim. Soon enough, he let out a self-depreciating chuckle, looking the very image of a defeated wizard. He had been foolish, very foolish indeed. The young professor sank into his armchair, and, just for a second, his sorrow turned to rage—the kind of irrepressible fury that emerged in him when his self-loathing became too much—and, with a violent sob, he rigidly leaned forward and swung at his table, overturning it and sending the chaotic mess of books and papers to the floor. A few errant pieces of parchment hovered and glided, some directly into the hearth, others merely catching fire before sashaying away from the flames onto the floor.

The wizard sagged deep into his seat, gazing with unfocused eyes into the fire, unmoved by the blazing parchment burning holes through his favourite rug. Numbly, his fingertips grazed the armrest as his mind wandered. He briefly thought of the upcoming day, when even the students who had nowhere else to go, no one with whom to enjoy Christmas, would surely rejoice in the festive magic of Hogwarts. Albus knew that he would have to adopt a cheerful mask, for their sake if not for his own. He did not know if he would be able to maintain the charade when he saw their carefree smiles. He feared the reminder of his failures, the moment those smiles would trigger the image of Ariana, adorable, happy Ariana, from before the attack by the muggle boys, before his father's incarceration, before his mother's death, Gellert, and—and—everything.

He chucked his spectacles to the floor and curled upon himself, supporting his head with his hands and wearily massaging his eyelids with his fingers. For a long time, he remained still, seemingly frozen in place as he attempted to still his raging emotions, all the while berating himself for having, even for a second, held the silly hope that he could move on from his past if he had someone who understood. In that armchair, he started doubting that he was even competent enough to fulfill his role as a professor—for how could he possibly ensure the safety of his students when his negligence had cost the life of his own sister? How could he possibly imagine instilling proper values in youths when an aspiring dark lord was using Albus's own words as a creed? The transfiguration professor ruminated at length that evening, motionless to the point of complete numbness.

When, long into the night, Albus Dumbledore finally moved, slowly rising and walking directly to his bed to fall into a fitful sleep, he left behind him an image of failure; the small table on its side, half-moon glasses forgotten, open volumes with rumpled pages on the floor, and greyed cinders of burnt papers scattered near the fading embers of the fireplace.