Summary: Harry James Potter, hailed Boy Who Lived, is adopted by Albus Dumbledore on the night of the Dark Lord's fall. Raised under the guidance of a genius warlock, Harry grows up to be an open-minded and formidable young man. He makes a companion out of Tom Fuerst, a strange English boy of German upbringing. Harry finds that unraveling the other boy's secrets brings to light his own darker tendencies.

Main Pairing: Harry Potter / Tom Riddle (Tom Fuerst)

Tags: A more ethical and upstanding Dumbledore, primarily a (complicated) friendship story but will eventually lead to slash (because too much UST between the two main characters like wtf), het, mature language, semi-graphic violence in the future, mild gore, a lot of sleeping around for our main characters before they finally get it on with one another, black and grey (or dubious at least) morality, canon divergence from October 31, 1981. A lot more but these are the most prominent and least likely to give away any spoilers.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. If there is anything in this piece of fiction that might offend the sensibilities of any reader, kindly send me a message and I will gladly put up an appropriate warning if warranted.

Notes: This has been sitting in my old hard drive for years, and instead of being a responsible author and updating any of my existing works, I've decided to post yet another WIP. (Please don't kill me.) I literally have more than a hundred half-fleshed out ideas for HPTMR/HPLV (157 in just the last couple of years, according to my last count) with accompanying prologues and some thousand words for each, and I figured that if I keep on posting my stuff, someone may find inspiration in them and make something out of the harebrained plots that I keep on generating.

Chapter One will be out in a jiffy (hopefully). As always, concrit is greatly appreciated.

Enjoy.

And under the waters, the sun

Prologue

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The cool, calm night lulled the residents of Privet Drive, Little Whinging into comfortable sleep. The long stretch of the asphalt street was barren, all for the exception of a tall, eccentrically robed man.

His greying beard fell heavily down to his narrow waist, until it was tucked under a band of golden rope. A pointy hat sat lopsidedly on his head, tilting ever so slightly to the right but never tipping to a seemly fall. Slim-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on a crooked nose, hiding magnificent, yet solemn blue eyes.

Clasped in the strange man's hand was a lighter, except it was not. He was holding it up, watching patiently as the glow of the streetlamps spluttered, until the lights were flying speedily towards the module of the silver contraption. The street was bathed in darkness, bar a house that boasted of a gleaming, brass 4.

The old man strode towards the house, and would have normally thought of humming a tune, if not for the reminder of the reason of his presence there. A melancholic aura seemed to have dowsed his lanky form at this thought.

"How may I help you, Minerva?" he warmly greeted a tabby cat, quirking up his lips into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The tabby cat smoothly transformed into a stern-faced woman. A frown tugged down on the woman's lips. "Albus!" she exclaimed. "Is it true?" Her piercing eyes never left those of the old man's, their brightness belying her anxiety and dread.

"Whatever do you ask?"

"The Potters?" the witch replied hesitantly, afraid to know the answer.

The sadness in the old man's eyes told her enough, before the wizard replied, "I'm afraid it is."

A shocked gasp escaped the woman's throat, followed by a hand lain over her heart. "Oh, dear! Poor James, poor Lily… What happened? Where is their son?" Questions poured out of Minerva McGonagall's mouth, grief gripping her for lost friends.

"Hagrid's well on his way with young Harry. I imagine they'd be here in a few minutes' time," Dumbledore said.

A glare broke out on McGonagall's face. "Hagrid? For Merlin's sake, Albus! I do mean no offense towards Hagrid, but I hardly believe him capable of safely taking a baby here!" she said, worry tingeing her voice.

"I know you do not mean harm, Minerva, but I would trust Hagrid with my life," Dumbledore replied firmly, no doubt in his tone.

The stern-faced witch was ready to argue more, but a look from her mentor and colleague had her acquiescing, though her mouth was still twisted in disapproval. She asked again, "What happened, Albus?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, this time, and a sad but true smile lit up his face. "Voldemort has been defeated, dear friend. The Killing Curse had rebounded off young Harry—for this, the whole of wizarding Britain is calling him the Boy Who Lived—and hit Voldemort, instead, leaving only but his robes and a pile of ash."

McGonagall flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. Dumbledore continued, seemingly ignorant of the witch's fear.

"But I'm of the belief that Harry was protected from Voldemort's killing curse with something else; his mother's love, and life. A powerful and noble sacrifice, from a brave woman…" Dumbledore trailed off.

A moment of silence tailed his declaration, before the witch caught something peculiar with the older man's wording. "Defeated?" she mused, pursing her lips as she looked askance at the old man.

Wizened blue orbs stared at her, seriousness lurking behind Dumbledore's glasses. "I suspect that Voldemort will rise again, Minerva. Voldemort is hardly a man that will let death undermine his genius."

Unfortunately, Minerva McGonagall knew how those words rang true. The feeling of relief that grew in her chest at having heard the Dark Lord's defeat died. Her lips thinned; if she were a lesser woman, she would have been worrying her lip out of renewed fear.

"But," a smile blossomed once again on Dumbledore's face, "his comeback will be a long time away, I speculate. The war that we have been fighting for years has, technically, come to an end. It is truly a time for celebration. The break of peace is needed, by everyone," he said, looking at her pointedly, "and you, my dear, should have been partying away with this blessing. I myself have joined a couple throughout the day on my way here."

The reminder of parties brought back McGonagall's glare with a vengeance. "I saw the muggle news, Albus! Robed wizards strolling about the streets, hundreds of owls flying throughout the day—shooting stars! In Kent, Dundee, and Yorkshire! I bet that was the work of Dedalus Diggle, the foolish man. We have a Statute of Secrecy to uphold, Albus. They have to remember themselves," she heatedly said, although the witch remained poised in her spiel.

"That we do," Dumbledore agreed, before continuing, "yet joy has been missed for several long years in our world. It is not our right to take away their celebration when there is cause for celebration," he reminds, eyes twinkling.

McGonagall sighed, and grudgingly acceded. Their conversation was cut short as a deafening Boom! disrupted the calm night. The sound was followed by a hunky mass of metal and smoke, as a big man drove unsteadily along the street. The motorcycle's tires screeched as it came to a stop, right next to the picket white fence of Number Four, Privet Drive.

McGonagall picked up her lengthy robes and hastily approached the half-giant. She eyed Hagrid, before curtly asking, "Where is Harry Potter?"

Hagrid took off the helmet that was barely containing his stringy bushy hair, sniffing, before picking up a bundle that was coated in Gryffindor colors. " 'ere 'e is, Prof'—hick—ssor," he replied, cradling the baby close to his wide chest as he cried, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

"There there, Hagrid," Dumbledore said, patting the half-giant's back. Shrewd blue eyes traced the baby's face, noting the lightning-shaped scar on the baby's otherwise unmarred forehead. He gently pulled the bundle into his arms, careful not to jostle the slumbering little boy.

The fresh scar was a curse mark; of that Dumbledore was sure. The dark magic broiling just about the curse mark would have consumed baby Harry's magical core, and therefore forfeited his life, if Dumbledore had not arrived in time at the destroyed Potter's cottage in Godric's Hallow. The old wizard had warded off most of the effects of the dark magic, with a spell that he wouldn't have imagined that he would use after facing Gellert Grindelwald in battle.

"It was 'orrible, Prof'ssor!" Hagrid cried, big shoulders shaking in grief. "James and Lily are—are—they are—d-dead!"

Dumbledore nodded sadly. He carefully passed the baby to the outstretched arms of his deputy, turning towards the sobbing half-giant and placing a hand on his shoulder, employing, with pure magic, a sense of calm to damper Hagrid's emotions.

The half-giant sniffled again, but after a while, Hagrid stopped crying, loudly blowing his nose into a dirty handkerchief. Dumbledore patted his shoulder twice before stepping aside, focusing his attention once again on Harry, sleeping peacefully in McGonagall's arms.

"What are we to do with little 'Arry, Prof'ssor?" Hagrid asked, a bit nasally.

Dumbledore sighed, shoulders sagging down in a great show of despair, as if a heavy responsibility has been placed, literally, on them. He said, "It is best that young Harry lives apart from the fame and glory of his indeed wondrous achievement. A boy like him must grow up as normally as permitted, with loving relatives and a warm home. Away from attention…"

"But Albus! You cannot mean to leave him with these muggles?" McGonagall interjected, horror and indignation present in her voice as she visualized the implications of her mentor's words.

"These muggles are Harry's relatives, Minerva," Dumbledore reprimanded, sharp eyes directed towards her. "They will care for him and provide for him. They may not be Lily and James, but they are as close to family as he can get. I will leave a letter implicitly stating the conditions of young Harry's predicament. I am sure that Petunia Dursley, Lily's sister, will understand enough."

Minerva McGonagall may have accepted a great lot of the Headmaster's decisions for times too many to count, and sometimes reluctantly, but this was a matter where her own belief wouldn't budge to accommodate. She glared fiercely, protective, maternal arms cradling the important bundle to her bosom, and she said, "I hardly think this is the life that James and Lily, bless their souls, would want their son subjected to! You are right; I have been here, watching the Dursley family, for a duration of the day too long, and I must say that they are not ideal for a wizard of Harry's standing. There cannot be individuals more different from us than them!"

"You are passing harsh judgment too early, my friend," Dumbledore replied, a frown painting his face. Hagrid stood to the side uneasily, fiddling with his dirty handkerchief as he watched two strong wills clash in front of his eyes. "I doubt that the Dursleys would abandon Harry, their nephew, and treat him any less good than they would their own son."

At this McGonagall's indignation grew. She shook her head, jaw tight, as she said, "You do not understand. I have watched these muggles for a day, and I have seen enough to prove that this is not a home for Harry Potter. Yes; perhaps it is better to raise this child up without the special attention of his achievement, but not away from our world. From magic. I grew up restricting my magic, because my father was a muggle. I grew up with a mother who chose not to use her magic, but felt pain and envy at having to see her children use theirs. That is a faith I will not have Harry Potter—or any wizarding child, for that matter—subjected to, Albus. You must understand." Fierce green eyes pierced solemn blue, pain at having reopened past wounds and determination at having her view seen swirling in their depths.

Albus Dumbledore then saw what had made Minerva McGonagall the strong woman that she was. Loyalty, devotion, an empathy with others that not many possess; a tempest that will stand up for her beliefs, backed with a strong mind and a stronger will. He had seen the potential in her in her younger years, and he is proud to say that he was not mistaken. Minerva McGonagall is a woman to behold.

Perhaps his letter to the Dursleys will never be opened, after all.

"But where will we place Harry, Minerva?" Dumbledore said, "Which home shall be the best for him?"

At this, McGonagall faltered, but relief was obvious in her eyes. Then she stood up straight again, mind racing to answer the wizard's question. It was not unlike her apprenticeship days, where her mentor would ask her questions and let her decide things on her own, except this time, it was to decide a young wizard's home. An idea began spinning in her mind. Yes, yes, that would definitely do.

Pulling the sleeping bundle closer to her chest, eyes bright with answer, she tried, with conviction, "You."

There was a moment's pause before Dumbledore answered, "I?" His eyebrows rose.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Hagrid echoed, confusedly scratching his scraggly hair.

"Yes," the stern witch said, a smile turning her lips for the first time that night. "There could not be a better candidate, all options considered. The Weasleys' hands are full with six kids. We could not let Augusta handle another child after what had happened to Alice and Frank. The Blacks are out of the question, and all other families more than capable of providing comfort and luxury to Harry are considerably Dark. All others are not close enough to Lily and James to know how they would have preferred how their son is raised. There could not be a better candidate," McGonagall firmly repeated.

"Yet I am old, Minerva," Dumbledore lightly pressed, "and I believe that there are others out there who are more than capable of bringing up young Harry. I am not equipped."

"I'd gladly volunteer, Professors, but I think Professor McGonagall is right," Hagrid inputted, tilting his head towards the aforementioned witch. McGonagall appreciated the support with a considering look and a grateful smile.

"There are the Prewitts—"

"And I'm sure that they'd raise Harry away from the glory of his name," McGonagall interrupted pointedly.

"There are many young couples out there, and I am certain that they'd gladly let Harry into their homes," Dumbledore claimed.

"They would let Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, into their homes, yes," McGonagall disputed, "but I hardly call these young couples trustworthy and ready to raise Harry. As I had said, one who is closer to the Potter family will be preferred to adopt Harry. Besides, we would not want to burden them with a child so early into their marriage. I may be convinced if you could name a few."

But the old wizard cannot. An idea came into his mind. He said, "And how about you, Minerva? You are a woman of fine standing. You are more than qualified—"

"No." McGonagall shook her head decisively. "Even if I were, you are more qualified than I am, Albus."

"I have a lot of responsibilities," Dumbledore rebuked sadly, "responsibilities that will not keep Harry Potter out of the limelight. Certainly you can foresee that."

"You have great responsibilities, but you have greater friends," McGonagall reprimanded softly, warm in her approach. "The boy would need a parental figure in his life as he grows, and you will be more than adequate. We will help you, Albus. We will not leave this responsibility in your hands alone."

"Aye, that we'll do, Professor!" Hagrid crowed in encouragement, grinning widely.

"You have done a great good for the wizarding world, Albus, and we'll be forever indebted. Perhaps you believe you have brittle bones, but you are strong yet. This may be a part of your life's grand mission, and you never know, this may be the brightest. You may be the best father figure to Harry Potter," McGonagall said resolutely.

He understood his deputy's point. He sighed, and conceded half-tiredly, half-exasperatedly. He turned twinkling eyes towards McGonagall, and amusedly eyed the shared triumphant smiles between the witch and Hagrid. "For the meantime, I will try. But I cannot promise that I am the best—"

"You are, of course."

"—and I will still place Harry in the Dursleys' home, if all else fails," he firmly said.

The witch knew that that was the most she can verbally grapple out of the intelligent Hogwarts Headmaster. She tilted her head in reluctant agreement. At the very least, the wizard will try.

But McGonagall knew that Albus Dumbledore never fails, if he sets his heart out to the task. He will succeed.

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Snippet from next chapter:

"Oh, dear," McGonagall exclaimed.

"Oh dear indeed. Minerva, if you weren't a dear friend, I wouldn't give you even the most misshapen of lemon drops for bringing upon me this," Albus Dumbledore expressed, staring in horrified fascination at the particularly foul-smelling nappy of one Harry Potter.