Saved Memories

It was always dim in his room. Somehow the light, even at midday, never seemed to pierce the gloom that lived along the back wall. Still, he could tell the difference between the deep night air and the coming dawn. This night he still had a few hours before the dawn arrived.

How often had he spent sleepless nights staring up at the ceiling, memorizing every crack in the rock, every joint between two pieces of stone, every spider web, every shadow? It was his form of meditation, a simple task to quiet his mind and allow the deeper thoughts free reign.

Patience. Patience and caution, these two properties would be the parameters for the rest of his life at Hogwarts; this night above all nights, he knew this. He had time. But it was so hard lying in the dark and knowing. Knowing to the core of his being, knowing in every single bone in his body, that he was meant for brilliance, that he held within himself the potential to do so much... not more, no, he was meant to do great things. Some nights he positively ached with it. The future, his future, was ever on his mind, a physical presence in the back of his head.

And he had gotten so close, so very close in these past few months. "Really," he thought, "I should look at this more as a triumph; I found the notorious 'Chamber of Secrets' and I survived. Not only survived, but awarded a medal for special services to the school no less." His well-formed mouth curved with a slight smile at the thought of detentions to come and nameless children pausing with wonder at his name on the award: Special Services to the School and his name. This time he laughed out loud.

Impatiently he sat up and brushed his unruly dark hair out of his face. No meditation tonight; he was too restless. Walking over to the desk he absently picked up a small black book, but paused looking at it. How he hated the thought of all that work, all those long years now wasted. A record. That was what he needed. A way to preserve these moments that signified the beginning of the rest of his life.

Forming a perfect image of himself as he was in his mind, he opened the diary and began to cast the spell

~~~~~~

Many people would have been surprised to learn that the deep quiet of the night was arguably Albus Dumbledore's favorite time of day. Oh he loved the crisp fall mornings when the colors of the leaves and the sky seemed to be in perfect contrasting harmony, or the sheer sogginess of a spring afternoon. Indeed, every time and every season held some delight to the esteemed professor, but the night with dreams woven close was his favorite time just to be.

But not tonight. The events of the day rang too clear in his head. "Armando Dippet is a blind fool," he thought to himself, "and we may all pay for his willful blindness. Pay dearly I am afraid." With a sigh he left the window and moved to pull out his pensieve. "It all shall be recorded, for now that is all I can do."

As the last glowing thread settled into the cauldron Dumbledore felt anything but competent. His fears and worries were far from being assuaged by the usually healing process. Recording his memories seemed empty and wasted; there very well may come a time when they come back to haunt him. "Tom, Tom, I know that there is more to that boy and I sense a deep, ruthless, streak. It all fits on the surface, but I must be missing... something."

He turned back to the glowing pensieve and stirring slowly called up memory after memory.

Tom Riddle, a small dark haired child, staring straight ahead as he gets sorted into Slytherin. No emotion - he could be anywhere in the world, or nowhere.

Stir.

A solitary second year boy sitting in the library, the Potions master mentioning how he has remarkable intelligence - he is doing fourth year work with ease.

Stir.

Tom Riddle alone over Christmas break, his bright eyes troubled. "But Professor, I have no family to go home too." Said even while looking at a picture of his own, quite alive, Muggle father; the father who abandoned him upon learning of his mother's true nature. He seemed to stare at the simple snapshot with distain masked as slight intellectual curiosity.

Stir.

Tom's fourth year - a faculty meeting where it is agreed that he shall be given free reign of any book in the library, including restricted. Such intelligence should be fostered and rewarded. Albus's is the only protesting vote.

Stir.

Stir.

Dumbledore looked up, that was strange. There was no memory of Tom from his fifth year, at least not until the attacks started. Then he was everywhere. So concerned, so willing to use his great intelligence to help. Everyone assumed when he disappeared that he was just studying, but where was he? And what was he studying?

Stir.

Riddle coming around a corner lost in thought. "What are you doing wandering around this late, Tom?"

"I had to see the Headmaster, sir."

"Well, hurry off to bed. Best not to roam the corridors these days.

Not since..." But he stopped at the unusual look of confusion and anger in his eyes.

"The school can't be closed? I cannot go back to the orphanage!"

"I know it is hard on us all, Tom, but..."

"What if the monster was caught? What if the attacks stopped?"

"Yes, if. Tom, do you have something you wish to tell me?"

But Tom had run off before the words were out of Dumbledore's mouth.

Stir.

Tom standing before the Great Hall receiving his award, the perfect picture of joy and humility, doing his duty and glad to help.

"But what was that in his eyes? And how convenient that he happened to walk in on poor Hagrid just after being told the monster must be caught in order to keep the school open. No, surely someone with that much to loose if the school was closed would never... but maybe..."

Dumbledore, in a gesture that he would become more and more familiar with in the coming years, absently scratched his beard, muttering under his breath. He moved back to his seat by the window. "Poor Hagrid. That part doesn't quite fit either. Hagrid.... Where was he for all that time?"

Softly to the cool night air, Dumbledore whispered, "I do not believe that your graduation will mark that last time we meet Tom. I do not believe so at all."

In a room not that far under Dumbledore's feet Tom shut his diary and, smiling, drifted off to sleep at his desk, his head cradled in his arms.