"Martha! Go open the door! We have a guest!"
The dean's voice echoed up from downstairs, sharp and impatient.
Tom slowly rose from the floor, brushing the dust from his knees with careful, unhurried movements. He tossed the rag back into the bucket, sending a small splash of murky water against the side.
Right on cue, the mechanical voice sounded in his mind.
[Key character detected nearby.]
[Main Quest Issued: First Impression.]
[Quest Description: Gain Albus Dumbledore's trust without revealing your true identity.]
[Quest Reward: Unlock the Newbie Gift Pack.]
[Consequence of Failure: Death, obviously.]
Tom suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
"I don't need you to remind me," he muttered silently.
He walked to the window at the end of the corridor and used the faint reflection in the smudged glass to assess himself. With deliberate precision, he adjusted his messy long hair and smoothed down the dusty gray dress clinging loosely to his thin frame.
The face reflected in the glass was pale and fragile—a little girl with large, innocent eyes.
He studied that face critically.
The eyes needed to be clear, but not empty—there had to be a trace of wariness lurking beneath the surface.
The lips should remain pressed together, conveying stubbornness.
The shoulders had to curve inward slightly, suggesting insecurity and a lack of protection.
Albus Dumbledore was not a man easily deceived. If Tom overacted, suspicion would follow. If he appeared too confident, curiosity would sharpen. He needed to look pitiful—convincingly so—but never theatrical.
Footsteps creaked along the stairs.
A corner of plum-colored velvet appeared first, vivid and out of place against the dark, peeling walls. Then the tall figure emerged fully into view.
An elderly man, yet radiating vitality. Long silver hair flowed past his shoulders, and a beard reached nearly to his waist. Behind half-moon spectacles, bright blue eyes shone with unsettling clarity—eyes that seemed capable of peeling back layers of flesh and bone to examine the soul itself.
When those eyes fell upon the cold-faced little girl standing at the end of the corridor with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the man's pace slowed almost imperceptibly.
Their gazes locked.
Across the invisible boundary between life and death, the Dark Lord and the white wizard met once more—though neither name had yet been spoken aloud in this lifetime.
A flicker of surprise crossed Dumbledore's face. It quickly melted into something more complex, more searching. A trace of familiarity lingered in his expression, as if some forgotten instinct stirred uneasily.
"Hello," he said at last, smiling gently.
His voice carried the same warmth he had once used with a lonely boy sitting stiffly beside an iron-framed bed many years ago.
"I believe you are Miss Tamara Riddle?"
The surname lingered in the air between them.
Tom felt his heart hammering violently in his chest—not from fear alone, but from a hatred so deep it felt etched into his very bones.
He forced himself to lower his gaze, avoiding those penetrating eyes that seemed perpetually poised to perform Legilimency.
"I am."
The girl's voice was light and clear, though it carried the faintest tremor.
She lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze briefly. Her dark eyes shimmered with confusion and defensiveness—just enough panic to make her seem ordinary, vulnerable.
"Are you a doctor?" she asked hesitantly. "Or a policeman? I… I didn't do anything bad today."
"Oh, no, of course not," Dumbledore replied smoothly, waving one hand dismissively as he stepped closer. Yet his eyes never left her face.
"I am a professor at Hogwarts. I was hoping we might find somewhere quiet to talk. Perhaps your room?"
Tom's fingers tightened around the hem of his skirt.
Here it comes.
The interrogation.
The memory burned fresh despite the years that had passed—Dumbledore setting fire to the wardrobe, orchestrating a calculated display of power. One of the rare humiliations of his life.
"If you insist," Tom replied quietly.
She lowered her head, turned, and pushed open the mottled wooden door behind her.
Dumbledore followed, his plum-colored robes sweeping into the cramped space and making it feel even smaller.
His gaze traveled slowly across the room: the neatly made bed, the empty desk, the clean floorboards.
Finally, it settled on the wardrobe in the corner.
Tom's pulse surged into her throat.
"You seem like a tidy child," Dumbledore observed softly. His tone was pleasant, but unreadable. "It is… very clean in here."
"I don't like things being messy," Tom answered in an even voice.
She sat primly on the edge of the bed, hands resting flat against her knees. Every movement was deliberate—precise. The portrait of obedience.
Dumbledore reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver object resembling a lighter. He turned it over between his fingers thoughtfully before tucking it away again. Then, as if conjured from thin air, he produced a small paper bag.
"Would you like a Sherbet Lemon?"
"No," Tom answered instinctively.
Heaven only knew what might be hidden inside. Veritaserum came in many forms.
"This is a Muggle sweet," Dumbledore said mildly. "I am rather fond of them."
He unwrapped one for himself and placed it in his mouth before drawing the only chair closer and sitting down.
"Tamara," he continued gently, "do you know why I am here?"
"Because I'm different."
Tom lifted her head slowly and spoke with deliberate emphasis.
"I can make things move. Or make someone's hair grow long and curly."
Dumbledore nodded once.
"Yes. You possess magic. You are a witch, Tamara."
Even though he had heard those words once before, the sound of them still stirred something fierce and indescribable in Tom's chest.
A witch.
No matter how diminished he was now, no matter how far he had fallen, he still belonged to that world—the great and hidden world of magic—not this filthy Muggle orphanage.
"Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, producing a heavy parchment envelope, "is a school dedicated to teaching young witches and wizards how to control and develop their abilities."
Tom accepted the letter with careful fingers. The paper felt thick and textured beneath her touch. Her thumb traced the embossed crest slowly, reverently.
"So," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward slightly.
His voice remained calm, but something sharpened beneath the surface.
"Since you can do these things, Tamara, I must ask—have you ever used your abilities to harm others?"
There it was.
The trap.
Tom knew this moment intimately. In another life, arrogance had betrayed him. He had boasted about hanging a rabbit, about terrorizing other children.
This time, there were no trophies hidden away. No stolen trinkets. No souvenirs of cruelty.
He had been awake in this body for less than an hour. There had been no time to indulge old habits.
"Harm others?" Tom repeated softly.
Her eyes widened. She looked genuinely startled.
"I…" She twisted her fingers together nervously, gaze dropping to her lap. Her voice grew small. "Maybe I have, sir."
She hesitated, letting silence stretch just long enough to appear reluctant.
"Once… Billy stole my bread. I just… I glared at him."
Her lashes fluttered.
"And he fell down."
She swallowed.
"But I didn't mean to hurt him. I just didn't want to go hungry."
Silence filled the room.
Dumbledore regarded her steadily, blue eyes thoughtful rather than accusing.
Tom kept her breathing shallow but steady. Not too calm. Not too frightened.
Just a child defending herself.
At last, Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair.
"It is understandable," he said slowly, "to feel anger when wronged. What matters is how we choose to act on it."
His gaze lingered on her face, searching.
"You must understand, Tamara—magic is neither good nor evil in itself. It reflects the heart of the one who wields it."
Tom lowered her eyes again, hiding the cold amusement flickering within them.
If only that were true.
But she nodded obediently.
"Yes, sir."
Dumbledore rose at last, smoothing his robes.
"You will receive further instructions regarding your enrollment. I trust you will be ready when the time comes."
"I will," Tom answered softly.
He paused at the door.
For a brief moment, his expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible.
Concern.
Curiosity.
Perhaps even unease.
Then it vanished.
"Good day, Miss Riddle."
The door closed with a quiet click.
Tom remained seated until the sound of retreating footsteps faded completely.
Only then did her posture change.
Her shoulders straightened. The timid curve disappeared. The wide, uncertain eyes narrowed into something sharp and calculating.
The trembling ceased.
A slow smile curved her lips.
"First impression," she murmured to herself.
A faint chime echoed in her mind.
[Main Quest Progress: Incomplete.]
Tom stood and walked to the wardrobe.
He opened it calmly.
Empty.
For now.
Her fingers brushed the rough wood lightly.
"This time," she whispered, voice low and steady, "I will not make the same mistakes."
Outside the small window, the orphanage corridor returned to silence.
But somewhere in that silence, the future had shifted—ever so slightly.
And neither the Dark Lord nor the white wizard yet knew how deeply their fates had entwined once more.