Chapter 2: Tamara Riddle
The bloated administrator stood frozen in the doorway, her jaw hanging slack.
In her eyes, the freakish Tamara Riddle—a girl who usually skulked in the shadows, as gloomy and silent as a graveyard ghost—was currently clutching the edge of the rickety wooden table, her delicate face flushed a feverish pink. Those oversized, obsidian eyes were brimming with unshed mist, staring back at the older woman with a heartbreakingly fragile gaze. She looked exactly like a frightened little fawn caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry.
The vicious roar Mrs. Martha had prepared instantly caught in her throat, choking her as uncomfortably as if she had swallowed a live fly. Her thick, calloused hand, which was gripping the handle of a battered tin bucket, hovered awkwardly in mid-air. The fleshy folds of her face twitched.
"Uh... alright, alright."
The woman scratched her greying hair, shifting her weight uneasily. Her harsh tone melted, unconsciously softening into a gentle cadence she hadn't used in decades.
"Are you feeling unwell, child? Damn flu going around... forget it, I'll mop the second-floor hallway myself." She took a hesitant step back. "You... just rest for a bit. Clean yourself up. Don't let the guests see you looking so miserable."
The moment the brass doorknob clicked shut, the leg-weakening sensation of high-voltage electric current finally dissipated from her veins.
Tom Riddle—now trapped in the body of Tamara—slumped onto the cold, drafty wooden floor like a puddle of melted wax, gasping for air. Her chest heaved.
Humiliation.
Utter, unmatched humiliation.
This suffocating indignity was ten thousand times worse than the day Albus Dumbledore had threatened him with a burning wardrobe all those decades ago. At least back then, he could fight back. He could glare with vicious, unyielding hatred. But now? He had actually whimpered and trembled like a pathetic piece of trash in front of a filthy, lowly Muggle!
'System,'he hissed sinisterly in his mind, his mental voice dripping with venom.'Explain.'
The cheerful, sickeningly perky mechanical voice chimed immediately, sounding almost as if it were eagerly fishing for a compliment.
[At your service, Host! You have just experienced the core protection mechanism of this system—the 'Evil Intent Transformation Module'!]
[Given that your current physical condition cannot support high-intensity Black Magic combat, and to prevent you from repeating your past mistakes by walking down your old, tragic anti-social path, the system has established a hard limit. Whenever your killing intent exceeds the safe threshold, it will be forcibly converted into harmless, socially acceptable states. Examples include 'fragile', 'shy', or 'charming'.]
[Simply put: the more ruthless and murderous your heart feels, the softer and more adorable you will appear on the outside!]
A hollow, breathless laugh tore from Tom's throat, born of sheer, unadulterated rage. He dragged his gaze toward the cracked mirror resting against the peeling wallpaper. Staring back at him was a girl with flushed, rosy cheeks and large eyes shimmering with unshed tears—tears caused entirely by his blinding fury. He slammed his small, delicate fist hard against the floorboards, bruising his knuckles.
"You have turned the greatest Dark Lord in history into a bloody joke!"
[No, dear Host! I have turned you into a lovable, beautiful girl.]
The system paused, letting out a synthetic little chime.
[By the way, your legal name is now Tamara Riddle, exactly as it appears on your birth records and your Hogwarts acceptance letter. You can also call yourself Tami!]
"Shut up. I will never use that sickening name."
Tom struggled to his feet, his knees still trembling slightly from the residual shock. He began pacing back and forth across the cramped, dingy room, his bare feet slapping against the wood.
The situation was dire. Catastrophic, even. But it was not entirely hopeless.
As a pragmatic, cunning Slytherin, what Tom Riddle excelled at above all else was finding a way out of a desperate, suffocating corner. Since harboring murderous thoughts resulted in debilitating electric shocks, and his vast reserves of dark magic were completely depleted, he had no choice. He had to play this damn game by the rules—at least until he found a vulnerability in the system to exploit and shatter.
"Open the panel," he commanded coldly.
A pale, translucent blue light screen materialized in the air before him, illuminating the dusty room.
[Name: Tamara Riddle]
[Age: 11 years old]
[Magic Status: Sealed]
[Virtue Points: Love: 0]
[Life: 0]
[Wisdom: 0]
[Courage: 0]
[Current Task: None.]
Tom stared at that glaring, mocking row of zeros for a long, agonizing minute. His jaw locked. A vein pulsed faintly at his temple.
He could tolerate Love, Life, and Courage sitting at absolute zero. He despised those pathetic Gryffindor concepts anyway. But why in Salazar's name was Wisdom zero?! He possessed the greatest magical mind of a generation! He hadn't suddenly become a brainless troll!
Sensing his rising indignation, the system promptly stepped in to explain.
[Please do not be upset, Host! Only actions and virtues that actively benefit others and contribute positively to society are counted toward your point totals.]
[Every ten points accumulated will unlock a spell from your sealed repertoire. Host, you must keep up the good work and spread joy!]
Tom remained dead silent, his dark eyes fixed on the floating blue text. The reality of his situation settled over him like a suffocating weighted blanket. To become stronger, to reclaim the terrifying power that rightfully belonged to him, to even cast a spell as rudimentary as a Levitation Charm... he needed these damn virtue points.
Just then, the muffled clatter of wooden buckets and the shrill voices of children drifted through the thin door. It sounded like the other orphans were beginning their morning chores.
[Ding! Daily task triggered: The Glory of Labor.]
[Task Description: The orphanage is also a home, and maintaining environmental hygiene is everyone's responsibility! Please help the administrator, Mrs. Martha, clean the second-floor hallway.]
[Task Reward: Life +5, minor physical recovery.]
[Failure Penalty: Random deduction of one Charisma point. (Note: Even if you are already beautiful enough, becoming ugly is absolutely unacceptable for a young maiden!)]
Tom's upper lip twitched in sheer disgust.
Make the Dark Lord mop a filthy floor like a common house-elf? And for a measly five Life points?
"If I don't do it?" he challenged, his tone sharp as shattered glass.
[Then you might stay trapped in this weak, magicless state for the rest of your life.]
The system's voice dripped with well-meaning, patronizing concern.
[Besides, that special guest is about to arrive. If you wish to appear before him with a perfect, flawless image, it is highly recommended to show off your industrious, hardworking side!]
Guest?
Tom's pupils contracted into sharp pinpricks. He glanced toward the small, barred window. Today was the day. The day the Hogwarts acceptance letter was scheduled to arrive.
No matter the cost, he absolutely refused to look like a helpless, ignorant fool in front of whichever Hogwarts professor they sent to fetch him.
Tom took a slow, measured breath, violently suppressing the dark, murderous emotions churning in his chest. He walked over to his lumpy mattress, picked up the heavy parchment envelope he had previously tossed aside in a fit of rage, and carefully tucked it beneath his thin pillow. Then, he turned his attention toward the rusted tin bucket and the grey rag sitting in the corner of the room.
He crouched down and pinched the moldy rag between his thumb and forefinger, his knuckles turning stark white from the sheer force of his revulsion.
"Very well," he whispered aloud, his voice squeezing through tightly gritted teeth. His expression contorted into a mask of pure malice, looking exactly as if he were preparing to wring the filthy rag just like he wanted to wring Harry Potter's neck.
"For power... for revenge..."
Ten minutes later, a deeply unsettling sight unfolded in the drafty second-floor hallway of Wool's Orphanage.
Tamara Riddle—the girl who was usually so intensely arrogant that she looked down on the other children like they were insects—was currently kneeling on the grimy wooden floorboards. With a wet rag clutched in her delicate hands, she was scrubbing away years of accumulated dirt, stain by stubborn stain.
Although her movements were stiff, unfamiliar, and painfully clumsy, she attacked every spot with a terrifying, aggressive force.
"Well, look at that. The dark princess is actually doing some honest work." A freckle-faced boy sauntered down the hall, letting out a mocking whistle. It was Billy, the undisputed bully and leader of the older orphans. "Did the sun rise from the west this morning?"
Tom didn't bother looking up. He kept his eyes fixed on the soapy water, mentally reciting the precise wand movements and incantation for the Killing Curse. With every vicious scrub of the rag, he imagined he was slowly flaying the skin from Billy's miserable bones.
[Warning: Severe killing intent detected! Please smile and spread positivity!]
A jolt of electricity threatened his spine. Tom's hand jerked violently, nearly hurling the filthy rag across the corridor.
He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing his facial muscles to obey. He slowly looked up, his exquisite, doll-like face squeezing out an incredibly stiff, unnatural smile. Yet, because of her overwhelming natural beauty, the forced expression only made her look tragically brave and sweet.
"Good morning, Billy," she chimed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Are you here to help me clean, too?"
Billy froze. He was momentarily dazzled by that radiant, angelic smile. The cruel taunt died on his lips. He stammered out a pathetic, "W-weirdo," before his entire face flushed beet red and he sprinted away down the stairs.
Tom watched the boy's retreating back, a cold, venomous sneer echoing in his mind.
Idiot.
Just as he finished scrubbing the halfway point of the corridor, a sharp, unbearable ache blooming in his bruised knees, a sound echoed from the main entrance downstairs.
It was a steady, rhythmic knocking against the heavy front door. It wasn't the hurried, chaotic pounding of a delivery boy or a local tradesman. It was three elegant, perfectly spaced taps.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Tom's hand froze. The wet rag dripped soapy water onto the clean wood.
He didn't need to see the man to know who stood on the other side of that door. Even without his magic, his soul could sense that suffocating, familiar aura radiating through the floorboards.
Albus Dumbledore.
What a twisted, fateful reunion. Dumbledore was the one who had first brought him out of this wretched place and into Hogwarts all those decades ago. He hadn't expected that, even in this humiliating new life, the old fool would still be the one standing at his door.
[Akarin's Note:
Enjoying the story? Dropping a quick review, comment, or Power Stone means the world to me and keeps these daily updates flowing!
Want to read 50 chapters ahead or just want to help keep a shameless translator alive? (My livelihood actually depends on this, haha 😭). You can support me directly here:
(P.S. Just remove the brackets and replace the [.] with a regular dot . to use the links!)
✨ Patreon (50 Advanced Chapters): patreon[.]com/AkarinTL
☕ Ko-fi (Support / Sponsor): ko-fi[.]com/AkarinTL
🔗 All My Links: linktr[.]ee/AkarinTL
Thank you so much for reading and keeping this project alive!]