Chapter 3: That Man
"Martha! Go open the door! We have a guest!" The orphanage matron's shrill voice pierced through the rotting floorboards, rattling the dust motes dancing in the dim corridor.
Tom slowly pushed himself off the floor, his small, unfamiliar hands brushing the grime from his bruised knees. He tossed the filthy rag into the tin bucket. Gray water sloshed over the rim, staining the scuffed wooden floor.
Right on cue, that sickeningly cheerful mechanical voice chimed inside his skull.
[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.]
'I do not need you to remind me of that, you useless parasite,' Tom sneered internally, his jaw locking.
He dragged his new, pitifully weak body toward the grime-caked window at the end of the hall. Using the cracked glass as a mirror, he critically examined his reflection. He smoothed down the frayed edges of the dusty gray dress and untangled the messy, dark hair framing his face.
Staring back at him was a pale, frail little girl with massive, sickeningly innocent eyes. It was a disgusting vessel, but a useful one. Slowly, methodically, he began to adjust his features. The eyes needed to be wide and clear, yet clouded with just the right amount of defensive wariness. He pursed his lips tightly, projecting the image of a stubborn child forced to grow up too fast. Finally, he hunched his narrow shoulders inward, shrinking his silhouette to radiate an overwhelming lack of security.
Albus Dumbledore was no fool. The old wizard was perceptive, paranoid, and dangerous. To survive this encounter, Tom had to appear utterly, heartbreakingly pitiful—but perfectly calibrated. One tear too many, one flinch too dramatic, and the old man would smell a rat.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs.
A flash of plum-colored velvet appeared at the landing, the rich fabric clashing violently against the peeling wallpaper and water-stained walls of the orphanage. Then, the tall figure ascended into view.
The old man radiated an infuriatingly vibrant energy. His long silver hair and beard cascaded all the way down to his waist, gleaming in the dull light. Behind half-moon spectacles, those piercing blue eyes sparkled with a sharp, calculating light—a gaze that always seemed capable of slicing straight through flesh and bone to lay bare the darkest secrets of the soul.
Those blue eyes swept down the corridor, locking onto the small, cold-faced girl hugging her own arms at the far end. For a fraction of a second, the old man's steady pace faltered.
Their eyes met.
Across the impossible boundary of life and death, across decades of blood and war, the Dark Lord and the White Wizard completed their first reunion of this new lifetime. And it was happening here, in this narrow, foul-smelling hallway.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Dumbledore's weathered face. The surprise quickly melted into a complex, intensely searching look. He tilted his head a fraction, clearly sensing an unsettling familiarity radiating from the fragile child before him.
"Hello." Dumbledore smiled. His voice was warm, rich, and sickeningly gentle—the exact same tone he had used when speaking to a sullen little boy sitting on a lumpy bed so many years ago.
"I believe you are Miss Tamara Riddle?"
The surname hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history.
Tom's heart hammered frantically against his ribs. It was not mere nervousness. It was a visceral, bone-deep hatred boiling in his veins, screaming for him to draw a wand and strike the old man down. But he forced his chin down, breaking eye contact before Dumbledore could slip past his mental shields with a passive Legilimency probe.
"I am." The girl's voice was crisp and clear, yet laced with a masterfully crafted, barely perceptible tremor.
She slowly raised her head. Her large, obsidian eyes widened, projecting the perfect blend of childhood confusion and street-smart defensiveness. She allowed a flicker of genuine panic to show—the natural reaction of a solitary orphan having her full name spoken by a towering stranger.
"Are you a doctor? Or a policeman?" She took a half-step back, her small hands gripping the fabric of her dress. "I... I didn't do anything bad today."
"Oh, no, of course not." Dumbledore waved a hand in a placating gesture, taking a slow step forward. Yet, despite the casual movement, his sharp gaze never strayed from Tamara's face. "I am a Professor at Hogwarts. I thought we might find a quiet place to talk? Like your room."
Tom's knuckles turned white as he gripped his skirt.
'Here it comes,'he sneered inwardly.'The damn room interrogation.'
The memory burned hot in his mind. Decades ago, in that very room, Dumbledore had set his wardrobe ablaze. It had been a calculated, careful show of overwhelming magical strength designed to intimidate a child. It remained one of the few true moments of humiliation in the Dark Lord's entire existence.
"If you insist," Tamara murmured, her tone thick with reluctance. She kept her head bowed, turning to push open the mottled, peeling wooden door just behind her.
Dumbledore stepped across the threshold. His voluminous plum-colored robes instantly made the cramped, dreary room feel suffocatingly small. The old wizard took his time, his eyes sweeping over the perfectly made bed, the bare, splintered desk, before finally coming to rest on the battered wooden wardrobe in the corner.
Tom's breath hitched, his heart leaping into his throat.
"You seem like a tidy child," Dumbledore noted softly, his tone entirely unreadable. "It is... very clean here."
"I do not like things being messy," Tamara answered, keeping her voice flat and guarded. She perched herself on the very edge of the thin mattress, pressing her knees together and resting her hands neatly in her lap. She channeled every ounce of her willpower into looking like a perfectly obedient, harmless little girl.
Dumbledore reached into his pocket and withdrew a strange, silver object that resembled a lighter. He turned it over in his long fingers for a moment before slipping it away. Then, with a flourish that bordered on theatrical, he produced a crinkling paper bag of sweets.
"Would you like a Sherbet Lemon?"
"No." The refusal shot out of her mouth subconsciously. It was the deeply ingrained paranoia of a tyrant—an absolute, instinctive rejection of any unknown substance. Heaven only knew if the old bastard had laced the sugar with Veritaserum.
"This is a Muggle candy, I like it very much." Unbothered by the rejection, Dumbledore unwrapped a yellow drop, popped it into his mouth, and pulled the room's single, rickety wooden chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the wood groaning under his weight.
"Tamara," he began, the citrus scent of the candy wafting through the stale air. "Do you know why I am here?"
"Because I am different from the others." Tamara raised her chin. She spoke slowly, injecting a defensive pride into every syllable. "I can make things move. Or make hair grow long and curly."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression softening into genuine warmth. "Yes. You have magic. You are a Witch, Tamara."
Even though he had lived through this exact moment decades ago, hearing those words again sent an indescribable, electric surge of emotion tearing through Tom's chest.
A Witch.
Even trapped in this pathetic, fragile shell, even stripped of his overwhelming dark power, he still belonged to that magnificent, hidden world. He was a creature of magic, far above the filth and squalor of this disgusting Muggle orphanage.
"Hogwarts is a school specifically for teaching people like you how to use magic," Dumbledore explained, reaching into his robes to produce a thick, heavy parchment envelope. He extended it toward her.
Tamara reached out with trembling fingers and took the letter. She looked down, her thumb lightly tracing the raised wax seal of the Hogwarts crest.
"So..." Dumbledore's voice dropped a fraction of an octave. His gaze sharpened, cutting through the warm grandfatherly facade as he leaned forward slightly in his creaking chair. "Since you can do those things, Tamara, I want to ask... have you ever used these abilities to hurt others?"
Alarm bells shrieked in Tom's mind.
It was a trap. He knew exactly what this was. This was the exact moment he had failed in his past life, arrogantly boasting about hanging a rabbit from the rafters to prove his superiority.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the wardrobe in the corner. It was empty now. Aside from a few moth-eaten dresses, there was absolutely nothing inside. No stolen mouth organs. No snatched silver thimbles. No morbid little trophies taken from terrorized victims. Because he had awakened in this pathetic body less than an hour ago, he hadn't even had the time to collect any trophies at all.
"Hurt others?" Tamara's eyes widened to comical proportions. She shrank back, her delicate features twisting into a mask of deep, heartbreaking injustice.
"I..." The little girl's voice cracked. She lowered her head, nervously twisting her thin fingers together in her lap. When she looked up again, the rims of her large, dark eyes were flushed red with unshed tears.
"Maybe I have, sir," she whispered, a single tear threatening to spill over her lashes. "Last time Billy stole my bread, I just... I just glared at him, and he fell down."
She let out a small, pathetic sniffle, looking up at the towering wizard with absolute, desperate innocence. "But I didn't mean to actually hurt him. I just didn't want to go hungry."
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