Note to Readers: To begin, I must give all the credit that can possibly be given to J.K. Rowling, who is the obvious owner and creator of the Harry Potter universe. Any canon that I refer to (or flat-out use) in this fic gives full credit to JKR, and I am by no means making a prophet from this.

Also, I must add that at the beginning of this story I use a lot of canon because it is, of course, an alternative ending to Harry Potter and the Half–Blood Prince; the canon I use here is just to keep the story and it's characters as in-character as I can. The more chapters there are, the less canon I'll be using.

That's about all for now.

I dearly hope that you enjoy the story! Comments are always appreciated.

It was nearing eight O'clock in the evening when Harry headed down a deserted corridor, which was lit only by the late sunlight that filtered through the tall windows of Hogwarts Castle on this fine, summery day. No torches had been ignited within the school yet and all wall still and tranquil. Harry's footsteps echoed through the passage, his pace leisurely in contradiction to his mind, which was full of thoughts attempting to work out how the evening might end.

Since the very moment when Harry had heard what the Prophecy made for he and Voldemort had said, he had wondered when Dumbledore would begin preparing him for the battle that he knew he had no choice but to face one day. Dumbledore had had sixteen years to consider the prediction made by Sibyll Trelawney, so surely he had a plan by now to help prepare and protect Harry?

Harry certainly hoped so as he walked closer and closer to Dumbledore's office with every step. Dumbledore had a brilliant mind, at any rate, and he was surely perfectly willing to teach Harry any magic he could. Harry only hoped that he himself would be able to keep up with it all. If he wasn't smart enough to learn everything he needed to before facing Voldemort… but Harry didn't want to finish that sentence. Their battle would probably be years from now, anyway…

The only thing that kept Harry from worrying about Voldemort to an unhealthy extent was the knowledge that Dumbledore would be there for him, even if he ended up otherwise completely alone. Harry couldn't honestly bring himself to imagine the duel or battle that might break out between Voldemort and himself, but be liked to think that Dumbledore would be there, somewhere – to give him confidence if not actual help. Dumbledore always seemed to show up when his help was needed, after all.

Harry had reached the stone gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's Office. Taking a deep breath, he gave the password ('Acid Drops') and watched as the stonewall split apart, revealing an ever-moving spiral staircase that would lead him up to Dumbledore. Harry walked onto the stairs and climbed higher, reaching the door and griffin doorknocker. He hesitated for only a moment, before knocking.

-X-

"So, Harry," Dumbledore began calmly around five minutes later. "You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these – for want if a better word – lessons?"

"Yes, sir," Harry responded keenly.

Harry was still a little dishevelled to see that there blatantly wasn't enough cleared space within Dumbledore's office for them to practice powerful jinxes and hexes as Ron had suggested, or else (more legally) to be taught advanced defensive magic that would protect him, as Hermione had guessed. Though Harry made no comment on this as he sat opposite his headmaster.

The office remained the same as always; lit through the tall windows by the nearly setting sun, with silver ornaments on spindle-legged tables, portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, and Fawkes the phoenix standing on his perch by the door, watching Harry and Dumbledore converse.

"Well," Dumbledore began, "I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information."

A short silence followed these words.

"You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," Harry said, trying hard not to sound too accusatory as he spoke. Upon hearing his own words, he found the mistake in his attempt to sound polite, and hastily added, "Sir."

"And so I did," Dumbledore confessed. "I told you everything I know. From this point fourth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From hereon in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."

"But you think you're right?" Harry asked.

"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being – forgive me – rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."

"Sir, does what you're going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy?" Harry asked cautiously. "Will it help me… survive?"

"It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy," Dumbledore confirmed as calmly as always, "and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive."

Harry was still making an effort to try and guess what these lessons might be about, and Dumbledore stood up, walking around his desk towards a cabinet that rested besides the door, Harry watched him attentively. After of moment or two, Dumbledore retrieved a stone basin etched with ancient runes along its edge from the cabinet, and brought it back towards his desk, where Harry was waiting.

"You look worried," Dumbledore observed.

Harry knew at this that he must have been examining the Pensieve with an expression of vague unease. He was trying to work out what use the Pensieve could be put to here, and was trying not to think about his past experiences with this memory-holding basin, which hadn't been quite as comfortable as he could have wished. Whether it was watching a trial from fifteen years ago featuring a few Death Eaters who had been correctly convicted of a terrible crime, or seeing unfavourable memories of James, Lily, Peter, Sirius, Lupin, and Snape from their teenaged years, Harry couldn't say he was very excited about the idea of venturing into this Pensieve yet again.

"This time, you enter the Pensieve with me," Dumbledore said kindly, "and, even more unusually, with permission."

-X-

"What happened to the girl in the cottage?" Harry asked the moment they were back in Dumbledore's office, having just seen the memory of The House of Gaunt. "Merope, or whatever her name was."

"Oh, she survived," Dumbledore assured him, sitting back down at his desk and offering Harry to do so too. "Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months."

"Marvolo?" Harry repeated.

"That's right," Dumbledore said. "I am glad to see you're keeping up."

"That old man was –"

"Voldemort's grandfather, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Marvolo, his son Morfin and his daughter Merope were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty tempter, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."

"So Merope," Harry began, feeling his previous pity at the sight of the depressing girl mix with confusion and disbelief. "So Merope was… sir, does that mean she was… Voldemort's mother?"

"It does," Dumbledore verified. "And it so happens that we also got a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"

"The man Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?"

"Very good indeed," Dumbledore said, beaming. Harry saw his headmasters' smile, and he wondered why it was there for a moment. This had been by far the grimmest memory he had ever seen… It took him a moment to register that Dumbledore must have been smiling merely because he, Harry, was working this all out so quickly…

-X-

Late Sunday evening, after hours of homework and talking with Ron and Hermione about some of what he had learnt from the memory Dumbledore showed him, Harry was staring into a fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, thinking. The only sound that could be heard beyond the crackling fire was Ron sighing about the seemingly endless conclusion to his latest essay, and Hermione turning the pages of her copy of Advanced Potion Making at an uneven pace.

Hermione appeared to have taken up the habit of studying her potions book as avidly as she could in the short time there was between school and homework, and Harry guessed that she was trying to remember absolutely every tip and rule from the 'official' book, which she hoped in vain might rival that of the Half-Blood Prince. Harry didn't really know what to think of this, especially when the memory he had seen was of far more interesting to him now.

Harry wanted to talk about the memory he had seen, but since he had spoken to Ron and Hermione about it for the entire evening yesterday and for hours already today, the other two didn't seem as eager to continue discussing it as Harry was. It was past midnight when Hermione decided to go to bed, and Ron hastily rushed the end of his essay away from her prying eyes.

"I don't even care if I get a bloody 'T' for this, I'm knackered," Ron expressed in an undertone. Harry smiled a little. He had to hold back asking Ron what he thought about the memory again, as a short silence fell. Ron stretched and yawned when Harry didn't start up any conversation, and said, "we should get some sleep, finally."

"Yeah," Harry agreed almost unwillingly, and they make their way up to the boy's dormitories.

Neither of them spoke much as they got changed and headed for their beds. Ron said goodnight, and Harry mimicked as he turned off the light that rested on his bedside table. After this, Harry lay on his back, thinking. As late as it might be, he found that he wasn't as tired as he really should be from all those hours of homework and talking with Ron and Hermione. He just didn't feel as though he had thought over the memory of the Gaunt House enough. He was very intrigued by every aspect of it…

Harry didn't know what he felt towards the idea of Merope Gaunt anymore. He had felt terrible for her at first, and had pitied the sad, lonely life she had lived. The more he thought about it, the more he felt as though this was because he himself had lived a similar life with the Dursleys, on a perhaps lighter scale. Hogwarts hadn't rescued Merope however, by the looks of it. She had been stuck to live with her abusive father and brother until around the age of eighteen. Harry could imagine how horrible that must have been. Morfin and Merope probably never went to Hogwarts at all, he mused.

Marvolo had been a horrible Wizard, and his son Morfin had been the spit-and-image of him, personality wise, from all Harry could see. Marvolo had seemed insane, and far too brutish to be given the benefit of the doubt relating to his past. Harry wondered for a minute what had happened to his wife. He wondered whether she had been more like Merope or Morfin…

Then there was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who had probably been just as fond of Merope as Marvolo. Riddle hadn't seemed like a decent person at all to Harry, even if Merope had tricked him into falling in love, and running away with her. With parents who had died to save him, Harry couldn't fathom how Tom Riddle senior had been able to leave Merope when she was pregnant, and without money. Although, Harry could imagine how bewildered Riddle might have been when Merope stopped giving him the Love Potion…

The more Harry thought about it, the more he deducted that Voldemort had been created though a simple, loveless event. It would certainly make sense as to how insane he was now, and how he was unable to feel love, as Dumbledore had suggested quite a few times. Harry wondered whether Dumbledore would show him some memories of Tom Riddle at his orphanage, but he wasn't sure whether that would even be possible.

Unless memories could be taken from Muggles, and unless a few orphanage workers or orphans from when Voldemort grew up were still alive, no one besides Voldemort would have any memories of that place. It would be a bit difficult for Dumbledore to convince a Muggle to give up their memories, especially since Muggles aren't easily convinced that Magic exists. It was against the law to tell Muggles about the Wizarding World in the first place, Harry then remembered. It would be impossible to get memories, in that case…

Harry was finally feeling more tired now. Maybe Voldemort had murdered every other orphan and carer he had known… but Dumbledore wouldn't stop these memories now, even if they had to skip Voldemort's earlier childhood. They still had his Hogwarts years. Harry yawned, and lay more comfortably in his bed, thinking about the Gaunts. He couldn't wait for the next lesson with Dumbledore.

-X-

A little over a month passed before Dumbledore arranged for a second meeting with Harry, and though Harry wondered where Dumbledore had been in all that time while so much was going on at Hogwarts, he was still eager to see more memories. It was around ten minutes into their meeting when Dumbledore opened a memory, and poured it into the waiting Pensieve, swirling the stone basin a few times as Harry watched.

"You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton," Dumbledore said. "Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort."

"How do you know she was in London, sir?" Harry asked curiously.

"Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," Dumbledore explained, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing."

Dumbledore continued to swirl the memories within the Pensieve, and Harry watched him, waiting for him to continue. But after a moment or two, Harry realised that a figure was arising from the shimmering liquid. A short old man, whose hair obscured his eyes, could be seen revolving slowly upon the stone basin. He began to speak as soon as he was fully formed.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along… going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favourite teapot.' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

With one more forceful shake of the Pensieve from Dumbledore, Caractacus Burke fell into the liquid below and vanished. Harry stared at his headmaster, who seemed quite calm.

"He only gave her ten Galleons?" Harry asked indignantly.

"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," Dumbledore simplified. "So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London, and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms."

"But she could use magic!" Harry exclaimed. "She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn't she?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said, "perhaps she could. But it is my belief – and I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right – that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life."

"She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?"

At this, Dumbledore's eyebrows raised.

"Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?"

"No," Harry said quickly, "but she had a choice, didn't she, not like my mother –"

"Your mother had a choice, too," Dumbledore interrupted lightly. "Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of her son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand…"

"Where are we going?" Harry asked.

"This time," said Dumbledore, making his way around the desk to stand next to Harry, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry…"

-X-

The memory of Tom Marvolo Riddle visited by Dumbledore at the orphanage gave Harry a lot to think about when he left the headmaster's office that evening. The sight of Voldemort as an eerie, eleven-year-old child was one that Harry didn't believe he would forget any time soon, if at all, and the description Dumbledore had given him of Riddle in his years at Hogwarts was much the same.

Harry could clearly visualise how amazed and awed all of the Slytherins must have been the moment Riddle displayed his ability to speak to snakes, and he could only guess how empowered Voldemort himself must have felt with the impression he had made so early on. Harry didn't think that Riddle would hesitate for even a second in seizing his chance to become the leader of the Slytherins once he understood how very astonishing his talents were. Perhaps some of the early Death Eaters had even witnessed some extraordinary, accidental magic from the boy, before he learnt to compose his emotions more efficiently at a later age.

The handsome Tom Riddle in his teenaged years would doubtlessly have charmed every Professor within Hogwarts, minus Dumbledore, and he would have made every single student within the school petrified of him just to gain more for his select group of friends, Harry was sure. These friends would one day become the vile Death Eaters that Harry hated so very much today. Harry wondered how much the early Death Eaters had managed to get away with within the castle walls, and he also wondered how Riddle had convinced them all to follow him so far into the realms of the Dark Arts… Though perhaps convincing all of his friends to become followers hadn't been that hard for Riddle…

Harry felt someone nudge his arm, and he looked over to see Hermione glaring at him.

"You're doing it again," she hissed.

They were currently in the library, doing as much of their homework as they could manage before dinner. It had been days now since Harry had seen the memory of the orphanage.

"Doing what?" Harry inquired.

"Just staring into space!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "You're supposed to be finishing your Transfiguration essay. I honestly can't see how your going to keep up with all the work we have to do if you keep becoming distracted by absolutely nothing all of the time!"

"I was thinking," Harry snapped, annoyed. "Something I can't seem to manage when you keep interrupting me."

Harry was surprised that Hermione hadn't just left him there to be unproductive and fall behind on his work. She disapproved of his help in potions from the Half-Blood Prince so strongly that making him waste several hours doing nothing seemed a fair repayment. Harry knew he should be glad that Hermione was keeping him on track, but in truth he just wanted to dwell upon the memories.

"You've been sitting there for twenty solid minutes, Harry," Hermione explained. Luckily, she made no further comment after this as Harry returned to his essay. Harry waited five minutes, until he was sure she wasn't checking on him as often, before he continued thinking. The essay was almost done anyway, even if he had spent far too much time on it so far.

There was also the memory of Caractacus Burke, Harry remembered. He almost wished that he hadn't seen that at all. No matter what Dumbledore said about Lily being stronger than Merope, Harry couldn't help but feel as though Merope had given up too easily. She was the same as Lily in many ways. The more Harry dwelt upon it, the more he believed that it was her past that made her too weak to live on past her son's birth – along with the obvious fact that she was abandoned and heartbroken.

Harry knew she must have really loved Tom Riddle senior if she fell apart so easily after him. Besides for her son, Harry had to own that she didn't have very much to live for. Her entire life had been a living hell, so who could blame her for craving freedom once and for all? She was probably terrified that her father or brother would track her down, what was more. At least she had had the decency to live long enough to give her son life…

Yet it was after this when Harry became unsure what he should be feeling. He could rationalise the life of Merope Gaunt as much as he wanted to, but that didn't stop the fact that she had given birth to the greatest Dark Wizard the world has ever seen. Merope's story had affected Harry greatly, but the addition of Voldemort within it made Harry feel guilty for the compassion he had towards the helpless girl.

Voldemort had done a lot of terrible things, Harry knew… and he didn't deserve any sympathy, Harry decided after only a second of thought. This much was obvious. Harry stared down at his Transfiguration essay with a look of concentration and confusion, still pretending to read it. Harry just felt bad for Merope Gaunt – that was all. Harry felt as though this settled something… He just empathized with Merope Gaunt because he saw a lot of his mother in her, when he really thought about it. That didn't mean he cared about Voldemort.

Voldemort was a mistake and… but Harry couldn't say that Voldemort should have never been born. He himself might have never been born, if Voldemort had decided to kill him as soon as he had heard about the prophecy. Harry sighed, which bought him an annoyed look from Hermione. As far as Harry could tell, Voldemort didn't have the excuse to become what he became. Orphanage or no orphanage…

'Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?' Dumbledore had asked him. Harry wished he hadn't remembered this either. He somehow feared these words, especially hearing them from Dumbledore, who assumed things correctly almost all of the time. Tom Marvolo Riddle had suffered in an orphanage for his entire life, with no one who cared for him and with no one he cared about, just like Harry with the Dursleys. It was almost unsurprising that he was full of so much hate, because to top it all off he had been the middle of war torn London growing up. The orphanage would have been affected to some degree, with rations and fear of air raids…

Tom Riddle as an eleven-year-old seemed very, very uncanny to Harry. The paranoia he showed at the sight of Dumbledore and his determination to suss out the old wizard at even so young an age was certainly unusual. The stories Harry heard about Riddle, and what he did to the other orphans was simply creepy, and the smile that had appeared on Riddle's face when he accepted that he was a wizard was unnatural. "I knew I was different," he had whispered in freakish elation and shock, "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something…"

Harry would never accept the assumption that he was somehow similar to young Voldemort. He wouldn't even believe it when he remembered what Tom Riddle had suggested in the Chamber of Secrets so many years ago: "There are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed. Both half–bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself." No matter how many parallels anyone could draw between Voldemort and himself, Harry wasn't going to begin showing sympathy for the murderer of his parents.