The heat of the day rolled into the room in shimmering, oppressive waves, crashing onto Albus Dumbledore as he stared out the wide open window. Occasionally, a breeze would waft in, cooling the beads of sweat that ran like rivulets down his face. He couldn’t remember a summer or a day that had been hotter than this mid July day of 1945. Albus thought it ironic that a hot day like this was the day that four dead bodies had been found in a grand manor, the sickening scent of decay worsened by the heat. Albus had been lucky; the body he had been asked to identify was in a room that had an open window, but the Aurors in the room a few doors down hadn’t had such luck; three dead bodies locked up in the stifling dining room had caused quite a stench.

Albus sighed, his fingers drumming on the surface of a dark mahogany desk, which stood close to him. On top of the small desk was a huge bouquet of flowers, its sweet floral scent masking the death around him. When he had first walked into the room, the bouquet and desk had been the first thing he had seen. Though the minor details about the two objects had escaped him, he had thought that something about the flowers had been out of place to him, but he couldn’t quite grasp the reason why; he had been too preoccupied with the task the Aurors had given him.

He had been given the task of identifying the fourth victim and it had been quite easy for Albus to do since the victim was a student of his and a brilliant one at that. Tom Riddle was not one people could easily forget. His good looks and incredible magical talent often caught people’s attention. Tom had always been ambitious and, to Albus, had always had a dark streak to him that he had cleverly hidden away from others.

But the dead boy, who was sprawled out on the floor behind Albus, had a look of complete shock on his handsome face; this unnerved Dumbledore more than he thought it would . Ever since he had met Tom Riddle in the orphanage, so many years before, Riddle had never been one to be caught off guard by anything. Until now.

Albus turned around and looked down on the prone body of the sixteen-year-old boy. Tom still had a wand in his hand; the wand, the Aurors had ascertained by the use of Priori Incantato spell, had not cast a defensive spell. Whoever had killed Tom had been quick and unforeseen.

What the Aurors had found out was that the wand in Riddle’s hand was not Tom’s, but was, in fact, the wand of a Morfin Gaunt, a dimwitted tramp who lived not too far from the manor. This same wand had killed the three other victims in the dining room not too far from this room. It had been concluded that Tom had stolen the wand and a Gaunt family heirloom, a ring, from the mad Morfin Gaunt. Riddle had then killed his father and his grandparents with this stolen wand; no doubt Riddle had planned on laying the blame on Morfin Gaunt, who had been found in his home, with quite a patchy memory as to how he had lost his wand and his father’s ring, an heirloom of Salazar Slytherin himself.

But then something or someone happened that Riddle had not expected and now he lay dead, the best of his plans now ash. The scene was very clean, with no evidence as to who had killed Tom Riddle and the Aurors were in no big rush to solve this mystery. To them, the one who had killed Riddle had only killed a murderer of three Muggles and if the case remained unsolved, so be it.

Something about this situation was off. Albus had spent the last hour raking his mind for this elusive doubt he had; that nebulous thought that always managed to escape him. No matter what avenue he let his brain wander down, he still came to a dead end.

Albus sighed again and then strode over to the door of the room. When he reached it, he turned and swept the room with his eyes one last time. Once again they landed on the centerpiece bouquet of flowers on the little desk near the open window, except this time his mind had made a connection. Those flowers were fresh, no more than a day old. According to the Aurors, the only persons who had been in the manor except themselves and Albus had been the murderers. Dumbledore shuddered because he realized that the flowers were orchids, his dead sister’s favorite flower. Albus wondered if this was a warning to him or a sign of more ominous things to come.

*****************

The young woman in white ran with such litheness and grace through the age worn and crumbling rooms. Albus followed behind her, his heart beating wildly as his strides turned into a quick jog. He had to catch her, had to see her face. Whenever he got close enough to touch her, she would slip away and he could never see her through her thick veil of brown hair.

But he instinctively knew who she was, had always known who she was. Her scent would have told him who she was wherever she was. She smelled like sunshine and orchids. Ariana had always been light of foot, and graceful, a breeze of fresh air and infectious happiness. She could have been a dancer. This young woman ahead of him was the Ariana as she would have been if the past had been different.

Albus followed the girl in white down a hall. She had slowed down, her gait measured and cautious and, in a like manner, so was Albus. She was leading him somewhere and he was going to follow. A fine layer of dust had coated the floor and each step of his caused a cloud of it to rise. The drab gray walls around him looked desiccated; they were pockmarked with age and curled, faded wall paper.

Ariana stopped in front of a closed door, its tired surface veined with cracks and dirt. She opened the door and stepped inside. Albus followed her to the door and into the room. It was darker than the hall and somewhat familiar. The years of dust and decay had not reached this room; it was a elegant little library, with plush armchairs and neatly organized shelves of books. In the center of the room was a little table and in the middle of the table was a bouquet of orchids. Ariana was pointing at the orchids, her body at such an angle from Albus as to hide her face. He moved closer to her, but she pulled away as she always did; she was always just out of his reach. Her hand had dropped to her side and she stepped into the shadows of the room, her white dress the only illumination.

Albus took a step forward again, but this time, his foot ran into a solid object. He looked down and saw the still form of Tom Riddle just as he had been found this afternoon. Everything was almost exactly as Albus remembered, but something was off. His eyes travailed across the scene from the surprised look on Tom’s face to the way his body had fallen to the ground like a limp rag. Albus noticed that Riddle still had the wand in his hand that he had used to kill his father and grandparents, but something was missing. Albus tried and tried to remember what it was that Tom had that was missing.

“Professor Dumbledore.”

Albus’s head snapped up when he heard the deep baritone voice. Looking frantically around him, he saw no one, not even the woman in white. His heart pounded in his chest, unsure if the voice he had heard was real. He closed his eyes and tried to ferret out where he had heard that voice before because he had heard it before.

“Professor Albus Dumbledore.”

Albus remembered where he had heard that voice before and opened his eyes.

What he saw before him was not the room or Tom or the girl in white, but a large, pot bellied man, who had a scowl on his face and his hands placed firmly on his hips. His robe was in need of serious repair, quite patched and frayed. Albus suddenly remembered who this was; it was the Auror Ollie Pratcher. Ollie had been the lead Auror who had been investigating the murders at the Riddle manor. It had been Ollie who had asked Albus to come and identify Tom’s body and Ollie who had brought him to St. Mungos where Tom was being sent to the morgue and Albus was being asked a few questions about the boy.

Ollie’s gray eyes were narrowed in irritation as he looked down on the befuddled Professor; Albus must have fallen asleep. It would explain the dream he had of the woman in white, a dream he always had of Ariana, but this time, she had led him back to the murder scene and had pointed to the flowers, her flowers. The thought that the flowers were hers had sent shivers down Albus’s spine because it meant that the murderer of Tom was definitely trying to send him a message.

Albus saw the look of irritation on Ollie Pratcher’s face spread and he realized that the Auror had asked him a question.

“I’m sorry, but could you repeat the question?” Albus asked politely.

Ollie huffed, but then asked again what he had asked before.
“We have finished looking over the things that Tom Riddle had on or with him. With the exception of the wand he had had in his hand, which tie him to the murder of the three Muggles, everything else is in this box,” and just then Albus saw the tiny box that was tucked under the Auror’s arm. “We were wondering what you would like to do with it. Do you want to keep it or destroy it?” Ollie finished as he handed the box to Albus.

Albus realized that Tom had had no next of kin that would have claimed him as kin; Tom’s only other blood relative was Morfin Gaunt and that man would not have claimed his sister’s son as family. That left only Albus to claim this box and something about that made him sad. Tom had never had much and maybe that was why he had turned out the way he had.

Albus took the box from the Auror’s hand. It was tiny and held so little. He looked down and saw a robe and another wand, Tom’s own which he must have pocketed before the attack, in the box and nothing else. Albus sifted through the box looking for more and found nothing. His nerves became electrified as he realized what was missing, here and in his dream. When Albus had seen Tom today laying dead on the ground, the youth had had a huge, ancient ring on his index finger; it was the ring he had stolen from Morfin Gaunt, a ring Morfin claimed had been handed down in the family for generations and that had come from Salazar Slytherin. Now it was gone.

“Where is the ring Tom had been wearing?” Albus asked.

“What ring? He hadn’t come into St. Mungos with a ring,” Ollie replied with a dark warning in his voice.

“Tom had a ring he had stolen on his index finger. It was with the body at the crime scene. Surely you remember it since the Aurors were the first to view the body before I came.”

“My Aurors did a fine job collecting evidence. If there was a ring, they would have remembered it and it would have been in this box!” Ollie snapped.

Albus was tempted to say more, but didn’t; he saw the anger that tightened the Auror’s face. All he could do was nod his head. Albus got up with the box in hand and strode out of St. Mungos. Deep within his mind, a new shadow and doubt had cropped up and it centered on the mystery of the disappearing ring.

*************

The hot summer sun’s red distorted body began to melt into the horizon as the end of the day was ushering in the coming night. Albus felt a numbing weariness began to seep into his bones and for a moment he felt much older than he really was. Pressed tightly under his arm was the box of personal items that had belonged to Tom Riddle. The box may have been tiny, but it weighed heavily on his already frantic mind.

After having Apparated to Hogsmeade, Albus decided to walk the rest of the way to the school. Though his body was tired, his mind did not want to face the people of Hogwarts, especially the staff and the Headmaster. The Headboy, who had murdered three Muggles, had been found dead by an unknown hand. It was enough information to make any mind reel; it was news that the staff and Headmaster would be distressed to hear.

His feet plodded along ungracefully down the dirt road that led out of Hogsmeade and up to Hogwarts. He was glad that his body knew where to instinctively go because his mind was a jumbled mess, a dark and savage place at the moment. If he delved deep enough within his scrambled thoughts, he always came up with the same image in his head of the darkest place his thoughts could descend. It was the image of a place he had only ever heard of.

When he had been a young man fresh from Hogwarts, he and his friend Elphias Doge had planned to travel the world, but that was the summer where everything had changed. It was the summer when his mother, Kendra Dumbledore, had been killed and Albus had become the sole provider for his family and especially for his sister. Elphias had gone ahead and traveled the world and Albus had had to stay behind, gleaning what he could from the letters Elphias had sent him.

In one letter, Elphias had visited an ancient Aztec ruin He had said that the huge stone archway, which had been intricately crafted and carved, had had the very roots of a nearby tree reclaim the space the monument had taken up. He had said that it had been the most awe inspiring sight he had ever seen, but also the most frightening. It was at such a temple that humans had been sacrificed.

Now, as Albus made his way up to the main gate of the castle grounds, he couldn’t get the vivid image he had created of the temple where human lives had been sacrificed out of his thoughts. In his mind, he saw the bone white slabs of the temple entrance peeking through the thick, snake like roots that had wrapped around the entire exterior, leaving only the black opening free. That place had become a repository for all his bad thoughts and shattered dreams, a breeding ground of the places he had been in his life and times he never wanted to remember again. It was a place that he shuddered to think existed inside him, but indeed it did.

It was also the place where Tom Riddle’s death and his tiny box had gone, along with Albus’s guilt. Inside his mind, the temple of human sacrifice was a menace that had settled in the back of his thoughts and that one day he would have to face. Whenever his mind was agitated, he would see this dark place; it was like it waited for him to venture into its depths and face the true horror that was himself.

Albus became surprised when he noticed that he had walked the entirety of the school grounds and up to the entrance of the school. His thoughts were so jumbled that he had not been aware of where his feet had taken him.

As he approached the castle entrance, he couldn’t shake the feeling of partial responsibility; he should have seen the signs earlier about Tom’s mental instability; he should have tried harder to reach the boy. He had known Tom was alone in the world, had known that Tom had not been particularly social. A heavy weight had settled on his heart as he began to think that he could have prevented the deaths of four people today if only he had paid attention to the signs. It was like how he had failed Ariana all over again; he hadn’t been there when she had needed him and now she was dead. The striking parallels were not escaping him and they were just a few more things that disappeared into the temple in his mind.

Despite his inner turmoil, Albus had made his way to his office, with Tom’s box tucked tightly under his arm. He tapped the door with his wand and it slowly opened. His desk was a mess, covered with worn research papers and old copies of Transfiguration Today. As Dumbledore came closer to his desk, he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting on top of his papers was the missing ring and a single orchid. Near it was a note, written in a familiar, elegant script.

To save the many, a few must be sacrificed.

The box under Albus’s arm nearly tumbled to the floor as his eyes took in the note and the contents near it.

*************

The next day, Albus felt refreshed, his mind a keen blade. He began to look at the situation he was in with scientific rationality, analyzing the best way to find the answers he needed. It was obvious that the murderer of Tom Riddle was leaving Albus clues, as strange as they may be. He didn’t quite understand yet the importance of the ring, but he would.

But first he had to understand the motives behind Tom’s actions; why he had stolen the ring and who else had been in that house. The first person he had thought of talking to about Tom was the Head of his House, the Potions Master Professor Slughorn. That was why Albus found himself up early on a Saturday heading down to the dungeons where the Potions classroom was.

When he walked into the dungeon, he found Horace bending over a simmering potion, whose surface seemed to glow faintly. Slughorn was, very carefully, taking samples of the brew and filling tiny, rounded flasks. He had then set them in a neat row on his desk when they were full. He was in the middle of filling his last flask when Albus had arrived.

Albus became entranced by the iridescent potion. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the beauty and likeness of memories in a pensive. It was memories and observations that were going to put the pieces of this mystery together. After watching silently in the doorway, Albus shook his head to clear his mind from the enthrallment it had been under from the potion and stepped into the classroom.

“Horace, may I have a word with you?” Albus asked calmly.

Albus had not expected to get the reaction he got from Horace. The Potions Master shot up from his bent position, nearly spilling the swirling blue-white liquid. His eyes were wide with fear and a profuse amount of sweat blanketed his forehead. Albus knew that Horace was nervous about something and he had a feeling that it had nothing to do with the potion in his hand. Professor Slughorn set the flask down at the end of the line of flasks on his desk and then slowly turned to face Albus. Dumbledore noticed how Slughorn’s usual attentive dressing habits seemed to have been abandoned today; he was in quite a state of dishevelment.

“Are you alright, Professor?” Albus asked cautiously.

Horace smiled tensely.

“Yes, Professor Dumbledore, I’m quite fine. What is it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“I don’t know if you have heard the terrible news about Tom Riddle,” Albus could see Slughorn’s face growing paler by the second. “But he was found dead yesterday afternoon, alongside his Muggle relatives, whom, it is suspected, he killed himself.”

Horace fiddled with a torn hem on the sleeve of his robe, his eyes not meeting Albus’s as he replied.

“I had heard something about the horrible occurrence. I still can’t believe that such a brilliant boy, our own Headboy, would ever do such a thing. Is it possible that he was framed?”

“Yes, that is always a possibility, but the Aurors seem to be pretty certain he had killed his father and grandparents. The wand, which had done the deeds, was in his hand and there was trace evidence in the room where his father and grandparents had been killed which proves that Tom had been in there. My question is, is there anything that you know about his past, anything that you can tell me as to why he was in that house in the first place and why he had committed those horrible crimes?”

Horace looked at Albus, his face a chalky white.

“Well, Tom had been obsessed about his heritage. He had searched every book of lineage that he could get his hands on, some of which I found for him myself. He was determined to find out about his biological parents and who it was that had passed on his formidable magical ability. I was sure it had been a harmless pursuit. In fact, I encouraged it because I thought he would have been able to move on from his past and onto his future, but Tom just seemed to sink deeper into his obsession. Not once had I suspected that he would have used the knowledge he had gained and killed his biological father and grandparents, as you say it has been proven he did. I would have said something if I had had the slightest suspicion.”

“I have no doubt you would have, my friend. We can not always predict what others will do with the knowledge that is given to them. There was one thing that Tom did which had been odd. He had stolen a ring from a Morfin Gaunt, a man who did not live far from the Riddle manor and, I believe, Tom’s uncle on his mother’s side. Do you know why Riddle would have gone through all the trouble he did to get that ring? Was he dabbling in something he shouldn’t have been? He used an Unforgivable Curse to kill his Muggle relatives and this has me worried as to what else he knew.”

This time Horace stood awkwardly silent, the fear he had had before predominant in his features.

“I don’t know the full extent of Tom Riddle’s knowledge or if he was dabbling in something he shouldn’t have been. He would never have confided such information to me, his teacher. He may have said something to one of his friends about his activities.”

Horace dropped his eyes with his last words and Albus knew that Horace had an inkling of what it was Tom would have needed the ring for. Albus also had reason to believe that Tom had been killed because of that ring and now the murderer was sending Albus eerie clues. His mind was convinced that he had to find out why Tom had needed that ring.

“Do you know who was Tom’s closest friend?”

“Well, I don’t know who his closest friend was, but Antonin Dolohov used to hang around Tom a lot.”

“Thanks Horace.” Albus replied. He then turned and left the dungeons, off to look into his next clue.

***********

It took awhile for Albus to track down Antonin Dolohov. After spending most of the morning asking the people he had seen with Riddle and Dolohov, he finally discovered that Dolohov could usually be found having a pint of beer at the Hogshead every Saturday at mid-day.

By noon, Albus was walking down the lonely country road towards the Hogshead. The heat was already rising from the road in waves. Dust billowed up and coated his skin, drying out his lips and mouth. His face was streaked in dirt and sweat, but his mind was cool and calm. He barely noticed the heat as he thought of all the things he would ask Dolohov.

Unlike the Three Broomsticks, the Hogshead was farther from the commercial district of Hogsmeade. It made the walk there lonely. He had always meant to ask Aberforth, who owned the bar, why he had opened the Hogshead so far from the hustle and bustle of things. Albus guessed his brother preferred the solitude, but never knew the real answer; he and his brother were not on the best of terms. Due to the bar’s isolation, it tended to attract the more violent and unscrupulous of clientele. This had worried Albus a few times, since Aberforth was all he had left, but his brother seemed to be able to hold his own.

Just as Albus was walking up to the Hogshead, his fears about the bar and its reputation were confirmed when a man of thirty-five came stumbling out the door. He was a tall man, with a strong, handsome face and electric blue eyes, but it was his hair that gave him away; it was a vibrant shade of red. Septimus Weasley was usually more prim in his comportment, but at this moment, he was far from his usual clean self. Blood ran rivers down his face from a wound he had on his head. A look of anger and pain seared his features when he met Albus’s eye.

Dumbledore stepped forward, in shock, offering his arm to the staggering man.

“Septimus, are you alright? Who did this to you?” Albus asked. Septimus had been a former student of his and one he generally thought highly of.

“Albus, thank you for your concern. I’ll be fine once I get myself to St. Mungos. It actually looks worse than it is. I managed to block the majority of that rascal Dolohov’s curse before it hit me. He, on the other hand, did not fare as well. I gave him a few wounds to remember me by if he speaks about my wife in a less than decent way again. I have to be off now.”

And with that said, Septimus Apparated away.

Albus understood the basics of what had happened before he even entered the Hogshead. It had been quite the scandal in the wizarding high societies when the Muggle-loving Septimus had run off and married Cedrella Black, after she had been promised to Abraxas Malfoy. She had been disowned by the Black family and they were now treated like pariahs amongst some of the pureblood families.

Antonin Dolohov was a member of one such pureblood family that saw the union of Septimus Weasley and Cedrella Black as a disgrace. It didn’t take much imagination as to what Dolohov had said that had started the fight.

As Albus walked through the door of the Hogshead, there was a frenzy of confusion. Several scuffles had broken out after the fight with Septimus had been started and were just now being settled. Aberforth and his men had their hands full dealing with the riotous patrons; Albus had come just as the turmoil had settled down.

Albus spotted Antonin Dolohov right away. The twenty-year-old young man was covered in blood, bruises blooming all over his face and arms. He was pinned to the floor by Aberforth, but was still trying to worm free. Aberforth was a big man, as tall as Albus, but much more broader and was easily holding the boy down. When Albus had walked in, Aberforth had shot him a look of irritation and anger.

Dumbledore strode over to Aberforth. Dolohov saw Albus coming and a lightening bolt of fear lit up his face. He immediately stopped fighting the bartender.

“Albus, what can I do for you?” Aberforth asked tartly.

Albus ignored the tone of his brother’s voice.

“I have actually come to speak with the young man you have pinned to the ground.”

Dolohov’s eyes widened as dread began to seep into his face. Aberforth, sensing the fight had left the boy, let up on his grip of the youth and stood to face Albus.

“You want to speak with this scum?” Aberforth spat out, his eyes watching Dolohov as the young man stood up shakily. Antonin watched Albus warily.

“Yes, he has information I need to know. Is there a private place I may go to speak with this young man, Aberforth?” Albus asked.

Aberforth remained silent for a moment, but then responded in a more civil tone.

“Yeah, I have a place, but after you’re done, this scoundrel is going to be taken away by the Aurors. I have sent word to them and they are on their way!”

When hearing this news, Dolohov tried to sneak past Aberforth to the door, but was caught one handed by Aberforth by the scruff of his neck. Aberforth dragged the youth to the back of his bar to a secluded table tucked away in a corner. Albus followed closely behind. After slamming Dolohov down in a seat, Aberforth strode off to deal with the rest of the mess. Albus quickly took the seat opposite Dolohov.

“As I said, I have some questions for you. They have to do with Tom Riddle, your friend.”

Dolohov smiled, though it turned into a grimace under all the swelling on his face.

“Ah, Tom. He is one who has the right sort of pride and view of things, unlike that blood traitor Septimus Weasley.”

“Was it the sort of pride that had him practicing dark spells he shouldn’t have? The sort of pride that got him killed?” Albus snapped, his anger on the surface. He didn’t think much of people who esteemed that sort of pride.

A look of utter shock flooded Dolohov’s face. He had had no idea that Tom had been killed.

“What…”

“Don’t waste my time, Dolohov. I know that Tom knew the Unforgivable Curses, and that he had stolen a ring. I know he had killed his father and grandparents and I also know that he more than likely told you all about his plans. Now, what was it he wanted the ring for?”

Dolohov remained silent, stunned by all the knowledge Albus did have. Albus slammed his fist down on the table, making the youth jump in his seat.

“I don’t know what Tom wanted with the ring, except that he had said it was going to be used for something important, along with his journal. He said that he had found a way to live forever. He never told me anything more about the ring.”

“So you knew he was planning on stealing the ring, killing his Muggle relatives and framing another man?”

Dolohov nodded his head, unable to meet Dumbledore’s eye.

“And you did nothing?!” The anger in Dumbledore’s voice could have sparked an inferno.

This time Dolohov lowered his head, whether in shame or defeat, Albus was never really sure. Albus stood up quickly, knowing he had gotten all he could from the cretin. He strode over to Aberforth leaving the stunned Dolohov in his chair, and told his brother all that Dolohov admitted to knowing and then made his way to the door.

Just as he was about to leave, Albus saw a man dressed in a black cloak hidden in the shadows near the door. The man was unnaturally still and silent and Albus could feel the man’s eyes on him, even if he couldn’t see them. Something about the man sent a chill up his spine, a chill that remained with him even as he stepped out the door and into the hot summer sun.

************

The sight of the man in black haunted Albus as he walked back up the road to Hogwarts. Between the disappointing questioning of Dolohov and the frightening implications of the man in black, Albus’s mind was in quite a frenzied state.

He slowly began to cull the important facts from what Dolohov had told him about Tom Riddle. The ring had had some sort of importance to Tom and may be the reason why he was killed. The question was, why had the murderer put the ring in his office? What was the murderer trying to tell him? Afraid of the ring’s implications, Albus had hidden the piece of evidence in a safe spot only he knew of.

Everything seemed to center on this one item and what Tom had planned to do with it. Dolohov had said that Tom was going to use the ring and his journal to become immortal. Somebody had not wanted that to happen or had wanted the ring and probably the journal for more nefarious reasons.

That left the journal as the only clue Albus had to go on. As Albus trudged back up to the castle, his mind sifted through all the times he had ever seen Tom Riddle and his journal. He had always seen Tom surrounded by a crowd of people, but Riddle had never really seemed to be apart of that crowd. Tom had been brilliant in everything, but most especially in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. As Albus dug deeper into his memories, he began to notice that wherever Tom had gone, be it classes or the Great Hall, so had his journal. It had seemed like an innocuous item at the time, and Dumbledore’s conscious mind had simply forgotten that little detail.

And that journal was what he must find next. Albus began to think of the places he could start looking. With Tom’s death so close to the end of the school year, there may still be a chance that his school things were still at Hogwarts. He would have to speak with Professor Slughorn first in order to get to those items.

And that was how he found himself back where he had started in the morning, standing outside the Potions Classroom looking in. This time Horace was sitting at his desk and carefully measuring out the blue-white potion he had brewed earlier, his face twisted in deep concentration and a dash of worry.

Albus knocked this time and waited until Horace saw him standing there. The Potions Master warily waved Dumbledore in, a sudden panic sweeping across his features. Huge droplets of sweat collected on his forehead and Albus knew Horace was hiding some pertinent information. Albus walked in and sat down in a chair next to Horace.

“Hello, Horace. I need your help again. I have just come back from talking to Antonin Dolohov. Despite the deep trouble he was in when I met him, he told me a few more interesting things about Tom. The main thing of interest that he told me about had to do with Tom’s journal. I was wondering if you have any idea what has become of Tom’s school items, now that he is deceased. Have they already been shipped back to the orphanage?”

He watched Horace slowly put down his flasks, as a look of utter puzzlement clouded his face.

“No, his school things haven’t been shipped to the orphanage. For the past couple of years, Tom had asked me to hold onto his school items during the summer, since he wasn’t sure if they would be safe at the orphanage. Apparently, that place has a real problem with thievery.”

Albus had no doubt that there was such a problem in such a place, but he also knew that the thief had probably been Tom himself.

“Do you have his things now?”

“Yes. They’re locked up in my room.”

“And the journal?”

Horace paused, as he contemplated why Albus asked such a question.

“I remember the journal being one of the things that Tom left in his trunk. Why is it so important? Do you think Tom was killed because of what was in his journal?”

“I believe Tom was killed because of what he planned on doing with the journal. Dolohov said that Tom had planned to become immortal and the journal had been apart of that plan.”

Albus watched as Horace’s pale face turned into purple ash.

“Horace, if you know something please tell me. The person who murdered Tom is still out there and may be after that journal. Do you know what Tom had planned to do with it?”

Horace fidgeted in his chair, his eyes scrutinizing the surface of his desk as he answered.

“I don’t know what Tom was going to do with the journal, but I can take a guess. Not too long ago, Tom had asked me about Horcruxes and how one went about making them. I thought it had been a legitimate question about the Dark Arts at the time, a purely scholarly curiosity.”

Dumbledore leaned back in surprise. He had heard of Horcruxes. They were the darkest of magic because they dealt with the ripping of the soul and putting them into objects. Not many who had attempted such a thing had lived or had been the same and almost all had been evil. Why Horace would ever think it was okay to tell a student about them was beyond Albus, but the real question was how did Tom know of such magic?

“You told him how to make a Horcrux?! Horace, what were you thinking?!” Albus barked.

Horace flailed his hands wildly as if he wanted to wave away such an assumption.

“No! No! I would have never told him how to make one or even where to look for such information. I merely told him the principles behind the magic and the dangers that came with making one. Do you really think Tom made a Horcrux?” Horace asked, appalled at the idea of Tom ripping out a portion of his soul and what it took to do so.

“I think we need to see that journal, Horace!” Dumbledore responded. He then stood up.

Horace stood as well, a look of determination on his face. He led Albus out of his classroom in the dungeons and up a few flights of stairs. In a matter of minutes, they had arrived to the teacher’s corridor, where the staff resided throughout the year. When they arrived, there was utter chaos in the corridor, centered around Horace Slughorn’s room.

Albus and Horace walked up to the Potions Master’s room and stared in disbelief at what had happened to it. Someone had broken down his door, which had been protected by some defensive spells (as every teacher’s room was) and had ransacked his room. Horace stumbled into his room, a look of shock and fury rolling over his features. He was unable to complete a full sentence and every word staggered in anger.

Albus, on the other hand, looked on the scene as calmly as he could. He noticed that most of the destruction had occurred around or in a large trunk, presumably Tom’s. Nothing else seemed to have been messed with. Horace didn’t seem to notice this, still outraged by the vandalism, but Albus knew all too well that someone had also been looking for the journal and may have found it.

It was late into the evening before Albus Dumbledore brought his weary body to his room. It had been quite an eventful day and his mind was past fatigue; it was exhausted. He had witnessed the end of a bar fight, found out that his fellow Professor had told a student about Horcruxes and that the same student may have gone and made one or two of said items. The day had gone from bad to worse because now it seems the murderer had not only broken into Professor Slughorn’s room, which was protected by sophisticated spells, but had also destroyed the room and taken the journal. Dumbledore knew the journal was gone because he had just come from helping Horace clean up his room and sift through the debris to see what was missing.

Horace had been incensed by the brazen act of vandalism and was determined to find out who had done it. He was convinced that it had been a former student of his playing a prank and still did not see that it had only been Tom Riddle’s trunk and the area around the trunk that had been savaged. Dumbledore had noticed that fact right away.

Now that Albus had reached his own room, his mind didn’t think it could handle the strain of another thought passing through it, as it tried to put the pieces of this mystery together. Albus’s body was cold, despite the thick layer of heat that lingered in the castle walls after the sun had fallen. He was chilled by the thought that someone very powerful, the same person who had killed Tom Riddle, had been only a few floors above ransacking Slughorn’s room while Albus was in the dungeons. He couldn’t help, but see dark implications in this and his mind began to search every shadow in the hall as he walked up to his door.

After being certain no one had followed him, Albus opened his door. He quickly lit up the interior with his wand and swept his room with his eyes before he stepped into it. No one jumped out or attacked him and he felt he could breath easier. He quickly shut the door behind him.

After removing his shoes, Albus finally thought he could relax. He strode over to the chair that sat next to his desk and let his body fall into its comfortable softness. With a wave of his wand, he lit a candle that sat on his desk. As he basked in the comforting warmth and light of the candle, he felt all his stress slowly seep out of him. After scanning his bed and desk for anything that may be out of the ordinary, he felt comfortable enough to close his eyes if only for a moment.

Albus had no idea how long he had been asleep, but he did know that some sound had woken him up. The sound had been familiar and had stirred the inner depths of his mind. As his eyes slowly opened and adjusted to the dim light of the candle on his desk, now half its original height, his mind struggled to understand what it was he had heard. He swore he should know what it was.

Shaking his head to clear it of the twilight realm between dreams and reality, he began to get his bearings. He looked about him and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Until his eyes landed on his desk.

Sitting wide open on his desk was a black, tattered leather journal, its pages worn from use. It was blank, but that was not unusual for, what Albus clearly thought was, a magical journal. He also had no doubt he was looking at the mysterious journal that had belong to the now deceased Tom Riddle. Albus felt icy fingers of fear seize his heart and tightened their relentless grip. In the middle of the pages was a piece of paper with a note on it, its ink still wet and glistening.

It said:

If you want to know why this is happening, I will be waiting at the Leaky Cauldron every day at dusk and will explain everything. I only ask that you come alone. Know that, the death of one boy was done for the greater good.

The murderer had been in the same room as he, had stood inches away from him. The murderer had also left him the journal and had time to pen up a note. Albus finally understood what the noise was that had awoken him.

It was the sound of his door as it was shut behind the intruder.

Albus slowly felt his heart start up again. It had nearly stopped when he had seen the letter in the journal. With the restart of his heart, his mind began making lightening quick decisions. He jumped up from his seat and grabbed his wand, which was by his side. He ran to his door and yanked it open. The intruder had been in this room less than five minutes ago. There was still a chance that Albus may still find him and he was tired of these games; this person had been too close too many times.

As Albus ran out of his room, he saw the hem of a black robe whip around the farthest corner down the hall. Fire burned inside Albus as he ran after the robe. He was angry, his nerves stretched thin. He felt violated that someone had been in his room, had written a note, mere inches from him. He hated that helpless feeling, which ignited his anger even more.

Albus reached the end of the teacher’s corridor and looked down a spiral staircase. The ancient stone stairs wound down into darkness. Along the walls, long glass windows let in pale moonlight, which cascaded down the stairs, causing alternating spaces of light and darkness. With the use of the moonlight, and his wand, Albus made his way down the stairs stealthily. He could hear the faint whisper of footsteps as the intruder got farther and farther away from him.

Albus sped up, his heart pumping wildly. Every time he stepped into a dark spot on the stairwell, his mind imagined all types of horrors waiting to grasp at him and every time he found himself in a pool of light, his fears eased.

He eventually made it to the end of the stairwell and into a wide hall that led one way to the Great Hall and the other to the entrance. Without hesitation, he headed towards the entrance. If he had been an intruder, he would not have lingered in Hogwarts; he would have gotten out of the castle and off the grounds as soon as possible in order to Apparate away. If that happened, Albus knew he would lose his chance to catch the murderer.

Albus reached the front door, which was slightly ajar and ran through it. He raced down the front steps. Ahead of him, he saw a moving black shadow that ran towards the Forbidden Forest. Albus sprinted after the man in the black robe, determined to get to him before the man reached the boundary of Hogwarts. He felt his adrenaline pumping through his body like an electric current, sharpening his senses and clearing his mind. He had one goal and one goal only. To catch this murderer and finally make sense of all the things that had happened.

Cool wind slapped Albus’s face as he ran down the hill, the lights of the castle disappearing behind him. His rational mind began to protest, but his will pushed his feet forward. He began to think of all the things he would do or say when he caught up to the man in black. He couldn’t very well attack the man since the intruder had had a chance to kill him and didn’t. No, this man wanted something else. Wild suppositions hurdled through his head as he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

From there he slowed down, his rational mind making more of a presence. He couldn’t just charge into the forest blindly, especially since he knew of the type of creatures that resided there. If the murderer had fled to the forest, it could very well be a trap for Albus.

His mind wanted to think through all the consequences of following a murderer into a dark forest at night, but his heart stubbornly persisted in charging in there, reminding him that the more he waited, the further the murderer got from him. Finding a compromise, Albus walked into the forest at a fast pace, his senses attuned to all the different sights, smells and sounds, trying to pick out anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing seemed out of place. As Albus followed the main path, since he assumed the intruder would not have strayed far from it, he didn’t detect one difference. There was the usual night sounds. Ten minutes passed, and the cool mists that hovered over the leaf strewn path, swirled around his ankles.

Suddenly to his left, he heard a thudding of heavy feet, and the movement of something big coming his way. Out of the darkness, stepped a Centaur. Teresias was a young, pure white stallion, with midnight black hair. He was the friendliest to Dumbledore out of his kind, but tonight he had a look of wary suspicion. He stopped a few feet from Albus, looking at him with a puzzled look.

“Albus Dumbledore, it is good to see you, though the stars have told me some odd things of late about you.”

“Yes, things have not been quite as they usually are. Teresias, have you seen a man in a black cloak come through here just a few minutes ago?”

Teresias looked at him oddly.

“This is not the night you will meet the man in black. Only at the appointed hour at dusk will you see the truth.”

Teresias didn’t say another word, and Albus knew he wouldn’t get another answer. He also knew that the murderer had probably reached the boundary of the school grounds by now and had Apparated away.

“Thanks, Teresias,” Albus answered.

He then turned back to path and walked back to Hogwarts, knowing that in the very near future he would have to face the man in black.

************

Albus ran as fast as he could through the woods. The mist that swirled around his ankles was thick and seemed to wrap around them like chains. Ahead of him, the man in the black cloak darted in and out of trees, like a ghost. Albus pushed himself to run faster, his heart pounding and his breath coming out in jagged spurts. The trees seemed to grow denser and more unyielding the closer he tried to get to the man in black. He ran past Teresias and vaguely remembered the words he had spoken. He ran into the darkest and thickest part of the forest, his fear running alongside him, and it was only his stubborn tenacity that kept him going.

Just when he thought the woods would never end, he realized that he was no longer running in a forest, but through a dark dungeon. Blue fire burned in the sparse brackets on the wall, casting a somber hue all around him. The tunnel he was in was serpentine, and Albus was having a hard time mitigating the turns, always one step behind the murderer. On and on he ran, the tunnel becoming more and more dark, the way more and more treacherous.

He ran past a classroom and saw Horace bending over a boiling potion, his face shrouded in the fumes. In a flash, he was past the Potions Master, but not before Slughorn’s voice could be heard drifting from the classroom.

“Not too long ago, Tom had asked me about Horcruxes and how one went about making them.”

Horace’s words hung in the air around Albus and lingered in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking of the ring and the journal. Had Tom gone so far down the dark path as to take a life to make a Horcrux? That was the sacrifice needed to rip out a part of a soul and place it into an object. It was a debasement of life, and not worth the immortality given. Albus shuddered as he thought of such horror and the darkness a soul must possess to be able to do such a thing.

Finally, he ran into a rounded chamber that was lit by golden flames in brackets on the wall. It was also a dead end. Expecting to finally meet the man he had been chasing all this time, he was surprised to find himself looking into a mirror. The Mirror of Erised to be exact. He had heard rumors of the famous mirror, but he had never seen it before. He had heard how it worked though. When he stepped closer to the mirror, he saw Ariana at his side, her small hand in his. He looked at his hand, desperate to see hers and he forgot about the chase and the murderer. In the mirror, he saw what he wanted more than anything. Behind him and Ariana, he saw his father, his mother and his brother. He ached being so close and yet so far from them. He stood with their ghostly apparitions at his side for awhile, content in where he was. Albus could stand like this forever.

“Albus, wake up!” Ariana said.

It was only until Ariana spoke that Albus remembered what it was he was after.

And with that, he woke up.

The late morning light slanted down through his window, promising another hot and muggy day. It lacerated his face and stung his eyes as he opened them. He slowly sat up and shook the lethargy from his head and body. He remembered his fruitless pursuit into the forest the night before. And he remembered the odd dream he had had afterwards, with the same futile quest ending in nothing. He remembered the ring and the journal and how it seemed to haunt his every waking thought.

And he remembered the note from a murderer left in the journal. He was no closer to understanding why all of this was happening and what the murderer had been trying to tell him by leaving these obscure clues. It was clear that Tom may have made the ring and journal, or planned to at least, into Horcruxes, but why was the murderer leaving these items with Albus? What was he supposed to do? He had run out of ideas and feared that he must go to the Leaky Cauldron at dusk if he wanted any answers.

So Albus waited as the rays of the day turned bright and hot, as the hours slipped by. He paced in his room and ate some food, though it was tasteless. He read and conjectured, but most of all he waited. It was unbearable because every few seconds he thought of what he would say and what he would do when he finally met up with the man in black. He thought of every way in and out of the Leaky Cauldron and the defensive spells he would use if it were a trap.

As the day neared dusk, his mind was tired of all its overbearing thoughts and just wanted some answers. Albus found he was having spasms of terror and doubt when he picked up his wand and headed to the door of his room. He found he was anxious when he walked out of the castle and across the grounds. He found he was numb when he finally got to a place to Apparate away.

But oddly, when he finally stood in front of the Leaky Cauldron when the light of the day was fading, he found he was calm and ready. He wanted and needed answers, and with this stillness, he walked through the front door of the Leaky Cauldron.

A thick fog of smoke surrounded Albus the minute he stepped through the door of the Leaky Cauldron. The rolling and constant waves of voices percolated throughout the air, coming from the hazy shapes of witches and wizards who sat around tables. The bar was full, yet oddly quiet. People were there to drink and to forget about their worries and Albus felt quite at home.

Scanning the crowd, Albus had expected to see a man in a black cloak, and when he didn’t, he felt foolish. Of course, a murderer wouldn’t have sat out in the open in a suspicious black cloak. Albus searched the room again, this time looking for lone witches and wizards and finding none that were not apart of some group or in some conversation. Albus sighed and waded further into the pub, feeling the further he got from the door, the further he was from his escape.

He saw Tom the bartender talking to some men near the back, big men with large black mustaches and a rough glint to their eyes. Albus strode over to Tom. The bartender was an honest, hardworking man and someone who was very friendly towards Albus since Dumbledore was a Professor to his son, Tom Jr.

When Albus arrived next to Tom’s side, the bartender gave him a wide smile, his eyes crinkling in happiness. He excused himself from the burly men who nodded gruffly, and stepped towards Albus.

“Albus, it’s so good to see you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you have done for my son. He is progressing so well, but I have a feeling you’re not here to talk about my son. What can I do for you?”

“Can we talk in private? I have to ask you something about your patrons and that may not do to have this conversation out in the open.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in consternation, but he nodded and led Albus to a door near the back of his pub. He withdrew a large, ornate key, that was lovely and old. Dumbledore thought it peculiar that such a key would be used in such a normal task as opening a door, but it may very well be a magical key with other properties.

Behind the door was a small office. It was filled with ordinary Muggle objects like a scarred up wood desk, a faded brown leather chair behind the desk and a drooping sofa against the wall near the desk. One would have never guessed that this room belonged to the owner of a magical pub.

Albus walked in first and sat down on the sofa. Tom followed quickly behind and shut the door. He carefully pocketed the beautiful key. Tom marched over to his desk and sat down, worry creasing his face.

“Is there some danger to my pub that you know of? Some disreputable characters that you noticed around the Leaky Cauldron. If you have, tell me at once because I will not have any of that sort in my pub!”

Albus smiled as widely as he could, but he couldn’t quite put together what he wanted to say. And Tom noticed the hesitation, his brow furrowing in anxiety.

“I have, actually, come to ask you if you have seen anybody of late that has been odd; anybody who is a normal patron at around dusk, a man in a black cloak perhaps.”

“I have seen a few regulars at that time. Some have come in wearing black cloaks, but that is not unusual since that time of the day is one of the more busier times. Why do you ask?”

Albus’s smile faltered, as his doubt quickly flashed across his face. He knew that Tom had seen his doubt because the bartender leaned back in his chair, a bright keenness to his eyes.

“There is someone who I was suppose to meet, someone who said that they came here everyday at dusk. This person wears a black cloak,” Albus finally replied.

“This someone you were suppose to meet, are they giving you problems? Is it something I can help with?”

Albus quickly waved his hands, trying to dispel those thoughts from the bartender’s head.

“No. No. I just needed to talk to him about something, but I guess he isn’t here this evening. Sorry to have taken up your time Tom, since I know you are a busy man,” Albus said.

“Not at all, Albus. It is always a pleasure to see you and please don’t hesitate to ask for help from me. I will keep a lookout for any regulars that wear a black cloak and come in around dusk and I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Tom. I really appreciate it. I‘ll be going now.” Albus stood up, knowing he shouldn’t say anymore than he already had. He held out his hand and Tom stood and shook it.

The bartender showed Albus to the door, perplexed and worried by his friend’s odd behavior and reticent attitude. Albus strode through the door, with Tom behind him, without saying a word and feeling foolish. Why had he thought the murderer would have been here? Had he been so desperate for answers as to come searching for danger and trouble?

As Albus walked away from the bartender and wound his way through the crowd, he kept looking for a man in a black cloak. He had been so certain that he was going to find his answers, but they seemed to be locked away from him, just out of his grasp. He almost wished he had a magical key like Tom, which would reveal all the answers for him, but he knew that that was not realistic.

As he reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron, he made one last swept of the bar with his eyes. When he saw nothing out of place, he walked out into the darkening night. He was partly relieved that he had not met the man in black, not sure if he was ready to face the truth. With a mixture of disappointed expectations and relief over not having those expectations met, Albus was embroiled in conflicting emotions. It was in this state of contemplation and vexation that Albus had not seen the man in a black cloak step out of the shadows and follow the Professor.

************

The cold fingers of the mist stroked the back of Albus’s neck, sending their chill down his spine. He ran down the long, narrow and twisting alley, his breath coming out in spurts of white air, his heart hammering deep inside him. The night fog followed him, melding onto the old gas lamps that were bracketed to the walls. The light from the lamps were fretful, flickering precariously, and creating shadows that haunted Albus.

In every shadow his mind saw the murderer, the murderer he knew was after him now. He had seen all the clues, known every fact and yet he still couldn’t reconcile the truth in his mind. And now that truth was chasing him, hunting him down with its harsh realities.

After he had left the Leaky Cauldron, he had been in such a flux of emotions that it had been a few moments before he realized that he was being followed; he had caught sight of the man in the hooded robe out the corner of his eye. Albus had pretended as if nothing was wrong. At first, he had walked nonchalantly down the street, hoping his boldness would scare the stranger away; he was, after all a highly respected and feared wizard, but the stranger had not altered his course. When Albus had quickened his footsteps, the stranger had matched his pace. It was odd; they even seemed to walk the same.

He had found the nearest alley, and had slipped down it as quickly as he could. He had then broke into a run. It wasn’t very courageous of him and he should have turned around and faced his enemy. That was something the normal Albus would have done, but this situation was different. His hunter had known too much about him; he shouldn’t have known about Ariana and that her favorite flowers were orchids. All the little things had added up in his frazzled mind and the coincidences were beginning to topple over on him; he just couldn’t face this unknown and slightly familiar stranger.

Albus had been running a long time, speeding around the twists and turns of the alley. Occasionally, he would run past a poverty stricken Muggle or a shady character and his heart turned to ice; it had not been that long ago that a Muggle serial killer had stalked young women down allies just like this one. The Muggle newspaper had named him Jack the Ripper and to this day Albus still thought the name grotesque. Not that he was afraid of any Muggles, though it had been hinted that Jack had been a dark wizard.

Albus eventually slowed and then finally stopped down the middle of the alley. He looked around him quickly and was relieved to see no one near him. He had no idea why he had run in the first place when he could have just Apparated away.

Maybe you really do want to meet the man in black, the one who has been following you all night, thought his subconscious mind.

He shook his head in disbelief, but realized that his mind was probably right. He had to admit he was curious as to who the murderer was. By this time, his breath had slowed and his heart had returned to its regular speed.

Just as he got his senses under control, he saw the slightest movement in the shadows not too far from him. He slowly turned and saw the man in the black robe had indeed followed him. Albus wondered how long the man had hidden in the shadows and why he had not attacked him. The man in the robe took a tentative step forward and Albus thought that odd; it was as if the man had not wanted to scare him.

Albus immediately reached for his wand and held it out at the stranger. The man in black froze in mid-step.

“I am not here to harm you, Albus,” whispered the dark figure. His voice was low, but not dangerous. The words whispered had been gentle, not aggressive. Somehow this person was familiar, but it still unnerved Albus that his name had been used.

“Who are you and why are you here?” Albus asked curtly. He used the same tone of voice as when he wanted answers and answers fast. He hoped it was intimidating enough.

Around them, the mist swirled about their feet, covering the ground in a thick layer; it had turned the two men into specters of the night.

“Both are complicated questions to answer. There is only one way I can answer one of them,” the stranger finally replied, after an abated silence.

With that, his bone white, ancient hand shot out from the robe and like a flash flipped the hood of the robe from his face. Albus’ heart nearly stopped when he saw who stood before him.


The man in front of him was a tall, lean man, as tall as he was. He was much older, with a mane of white hair and a beard that cascaded down from his chin. He wore a gray, simple robe, something Albus himself would have liked to have worn, but it was his eyes that arrested Albus’s attention.

They were the same electric blue as his own and the stranger wore half-moon glasses as he did.

Albus could barely breathe as his mind began to reconcile who it was he saw before him. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was looking at himself, but much, much older. The implications of this revelation was too much for his brain to handle, and the young Albus staggered and fell against the nearby wall. He looked down, in order to calm his breathing and his heart. He noticed that the once thick mists had cleared. Every detail of the alley and the night was stark and clear. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them things would be different, that his world hadn’t really turned upside down.

But when he opened his eyes, his older self was still there, patiently watching him, allowing him to adjust to the situation as he would have done himself.

“What…How…Have you come back in time to kill Tom Riddle?”
The young Albus asked.

“Yes.”

The young Albus suddenly felt very angry. He couldn’t understand what could have possibly driven his older self to go back into the past and change it. He knew better than to mess with time and he would have thought his older self would have known better. If he could have changed the past, he would have saved Ariana a long time ago, but the young Albus knew better than to do that, because changing one thing in the past, even the smallest of things, caused tiny ripples, which changed into crashing waves. Something bad must have happened to have made his older self have to resort to such drastic measures.

“You…I know better than to disturb time as you have. What could have possibly have happened that I would have changed time? And what does Tom Riddle, the ring and the journal have to do with anything?”

His older self gave him an imperious look that made him feel like a dolt. He would have to remember not to use that look again.

“They have everything to do with the situation we are in right now. As you have learned from Slughorn, Riddle knew about Horcruxes and how one went about making them.”

“Are you saying that a teenage boy managed to make a Horcrux, a form of the darkest magic, one that requires murder to complete?” The young Albus asked.

“He managed to make seven in his life. The ring was the first he made with the murder of his father and grandparents. The journal was also a Horcrux. I killed him before he could turn either one of them into a Horcrux. He will stay dead, as is the natural order of things. Tom Riddle would have grown into the darkest wizard of all time. He made Grindelwald look like a saint. He was responsible for killing hundreds and his followers were responsible for killing and torturing hundreds more.”

The young Albus looked at his older self, seeing his older self avert his eyes and fidget. He knew that his older self was not telling the absolute truth.

“So why have you given me the ring and journal? What aren’t you telling me? I know you haven’t told me the absolute truth. Did something happen in the future that made you take this step?”

He saw his older self wilt, and he looked more than ever like a fragile creature. His eyes dimmed and brimmed with tears.

“I gave you the journal and ring to be sure that they were kept in sure hands, my own, in case all of this wasn’t really over. As for the future, you’re right. Something happened that shouldn’t have, that I could have prevented if I had been faster. In the future, it was predicted that a boy would come and defeat the Dark Lord, or as Tom liked to call himself, Lord Voldemort. I was with that boy, Harry was his name, in his sixteenth year on top of the Astronomy Tower. I was dying,” The younger Albus suddenly noticed his older self’s other hand, which was black and withered. “but Harry had not known that at the time. I was planning on sacrificing my life for his and one other boy by the name of Draco. The Death Eaters, Tom’s followers, had burst onto the roof before my ally or Draco got there.

“My ally was undercover and the one teacher I trusted with the task I had given him. He was suppose to kill me instead of Draco, who had been misled into the task, but who didn’t have the heart of a murderer. I had wanted to spare Draco that horror, but my ally didn’t reach the roof before the Death Eaters. I tried to stun Harry so that he couldn’t join into the fight, but I couldn’t get to him and fight off the Death Eaters at the same time. The Death Eaters killed him right in front of my eyes, and the only hope we had was now gone.”

His older self cried freely now and he couldn’t help, but feel a twinge of sorrow himself.

“Somehow, I escaped the fight on the rooftop, though I felt as if I should have died right there next to Harry, a boy who should have never had to shoulder the burden he had to. I knew I didn’t have much time left and decided to rectify the wrongs of the past. I decided to kill Tom before he could ever become the menace he would become. Could I have made the future worse? It is always a possibility, but I believe that the future will be better, brighter. It will be a future where children aren’t orphaned and left to face a cold world alone. A future where a teenage boy isn’t bullied into becoming a murderer. I did what was right for the greater good and if that meant killing a teenage boy, then so be it. I can now die with some peace in my heart.”

The young Albus was stunned by the revelation, but he thought that he would have done the same thing and then realized that he did do the same thing.

“What do I do with the ring and journal?” asked the young Albus.

“Whatever you do, don’t put on the ring. It’s cursed. Hide it away somewhere, somewhere no one will ever find it, a place even you couldn’t get to it if you wanted to, like the bottom of the ocean. Destroy the journal.”

“What is so important about this ring that you would have me throw it into the ocean?”

His older self paused, his hesitation electrifying the air. The young Albus knew there was more that he wasn’t telling of the story.

“It’s best if you just got rid of it. You of all people would know that I or you would never say something like that if it wasn’t to be taken seriously.”

The young Albus did know that fact to be true. He nodded sternly, and his older self knew that the younger Albus would see those tasks through. The older Albus sighed as if a large weight had been lifted from his heart. He turned to leave.

“Wait!” said the younger Albus.

The older Albus turned around, his eyes twinkling with mirth, as if he knew what the younger Albus would ask, but then the younger Albus supposed he would know.

“Did you have anything to do with the orchids in the room at the Riddle manor?”

The older Albus smiled.

“It seemed fitting that the one thing of life in that room had been something that represented someone as pure as Ariana. Don‘t you think?”

“I suppose you’re right. I would have done the same thing,” said the younger Albus.

“You did do the same thing,” responded the older Albus, a smile covering his worn face. With that said, the older Albus turned on the spot and Disapparated away, to what, the young Albus assumed, was his own time and place.

The younger Albus also Disapparated away. He would do what was asked of him; he would destroy the journal and get rid of the ring. He hoped that the future was a better place to live in, hoped that he had not made it worse. He guessed he would have to live his life to find out and he smiled at that prospect.