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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Man in Violet Robes

July 30th, 1991

For London, a city perpetually poised to weep rain, the day was an anomaly. The sun, warm and unapologetic, spilled across the southern borough of Lewisham, making the few soft clouds in the sky seem like cotton afterthoughts. It was the kind of day that begged for a lounge chair and a long, lazy nap.

But such luxuries were for the few. In Lewisham, a district of dockworkers, salaried grunts, and a large Caribbean immigrant population, life was a hurried affair. People scurried along the pavements, their steps quick, as if a moment's delay might cost their bosses a brick for a new mansion.

Yet, as they passed one particular old man, many found their pace slowing. They would glance, then glance again. The man, far from being offended, would simply smile and nod, his own pace surprisingly brisk, outstripping many of the younger commuters.

He was, after all, a spectacle. Tall and thin, with silver hair and a beard long enough to be tucked into his belt, he wore a sweeping purple robe that brushed the ground. The fabric was rich, embroidered with glittering stars and moons. Behind half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes were startlingly bright and clear, alight with a vigor that defied his age.

After a half-hour's walk, he arrived at his destination: Number 23, Elm Avenue. A neat sign on the door read 'Lewisham Children's Home.'

He pressed the bell.

"Coming!" a voice called from within. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in her forties. She stared at the man for a full five seconds before asking, her voice laced with uncertainty, "You're… Headmaster Dumbledore?"

The old man's smile was kind. "Indeed. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Mrs. Alman. I received your letter and thought a personal visit might assuage your concerns."

Mrs. Alman forced a tight smile. If anything, her concerns had just multiplied. This bizarre attire… a proper headmaster? Or a senile old man who'd wandered off?

Dumbledore, however, seemed unconcerned with her thoughts. His gaze drifted past her into the house. "Where is the boy?"

"This way. He's in the back garden, exercising."

She led him through the house to a small, tidy garden. Four boys, all around ten years old, were there. One of them, a boy with striking black hair and intense dark eyes, was methodically punching a worn sandbag that hung from a clothesline. He was unnervingly handsome, his features so fine and sharp they seemed sculpted by a master artist.

"Tom!" Mrs. Alman called.

The boy stopped, turning his gaze towards them.

"This is Headmaster Dumbledore," she continued. "He's here to invite you to his school."

"Thank you, Mrs. Alman," Tom said, his voice polite. He gave Dumbledore a slight, formal bow. "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Please, my boy, no need for such formality," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. He gestured towards the house. "Might we speak in your room?"

"Of course." Tom handed his boxing gloves to another boy. "Seth, one thousand punches. Don't slack off."

"Yes, boss," Seth mumbled, his face a mask of misery.

As Dumbledore followed Tom back inside, he glanced over his shoulder. Seth was already punching the bag, each blow delivered with grim determination.

Tom's room was the master suite of the house—spacious, with its own bathroom and closet. A desk and a bookshelf stood against one wall, the shelf laden with trophies and academic awards.

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Dumbledore," Tom said, indicating the room's only chair while he sat on the edge of his bed.

Dumbledore settled into the chair, which was a bit too small for his lanky frame. "Let us have a proper introduction, shall we?" he began, his voice gentle. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to formally invite you to attend, to help you understand and control the power you possess."

"I know, sir," Tom replied, his voice steady. "I've read the letter more than fifty times. I am Tom Riddle. As you can see, I'm an orphan. I am honored to be invited to Hogwarts, and to be guided by the Headmaster himself."

Tom Riddle. The name echoed in Dumbledore's mind, a ghost from a dark past. Tom Riddle. An orphan. Strikingly handsome. Dominating. The parallels were unsettling.

But Dumbledore had seen too much to judge a boy on a name and a similar history. He stroked his beard, a subtle gesture to mask his momentary lapse. "Not an honor, Mr. Riddle, but certainly a curious twist of fate. Our Potions Master was meant to be your guide, but a critical brew has kept him occupied. You'll meet him soon enough; he is a true master of his craft."

He leaned forward slightly. "You are, I must admit, a very unusual new student. My colleagues and I have extensive experience introducing Muggle-born children to our world. You are the first I have known to accept the existence of magic so readily. Usually, we must perform a small demonstration to be believed. Like so."

Dumbledore snapped his fingers. The scattered books on Tom's desk levitated and arranged themselves into a neat stack.

"Do you not suspect this is all some elaborate trick, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom met the old wizard's piercing blue gaze without flinching. He held out his hand. "Sir… magic has always been with me."

From a thick volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales on the shelf, a gold-trimmed envelope flew out and settled perfectly into Tom's palm. It was his Hogwarts acceptance letter.

"Since I was six," Tom explained, turning the envelope over in his fingers, "I've known I had… abilities. But I never believed I was unique. I knew there had to be others like me in the world."

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Dumbledore applauded, his expression one of genuine delight. "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Such remarkable control. You are mistaken on one point, Mr. Riddle. A young wizard able to wield magic by will alone, before even receiving a wand… that is rare even in our world. Vanishingly rare. I have no doubt you are destined for great things."

As Dumbledore praised him, Tom felt a wave of relief wash over him. The first test is passed.

He was a transmigrator. His past-life memories had returned at age six, during his first bout of accidental magic. He hadn't known he was in the Harry Potter universe until, years later, he'd competed in a primary school mathematics tournament against a brilliant, bushy-haired girl named Hermione Granger. A casual inquiry revealed her father was a dentist, and Tom's world had tilted on its axis.

Tom Riddle. He was Voldemort.

He had considered changing his name, but the legal hurdles for a minor were immense. More importantly, he couldn't risk the magical world losing track of him. So he had lived with the cursed name, waiting. And the letter had come.

He hadn't expected Dumbledore himself. But it made a grim sort of sense. The Headmaster had to see for himself if this was some dark reincarnation. Tom knew that feigning shock would be pointless against a man of Dumbledore's experience. So he had gambled, choosing to display his talent openly, framing it as natural discovery. He was betting on Dumbledore's character—that the old wizard wouldn't resort to Legilimency out of pure suspicion.

It seemed his gamble had paid off.

"Well, Mr. Riddle, this has been far smoother than I anticipated," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair. "Time is on our side. Shall we press on and acquire your school supplies? I have a small errand to run in Diagon Alley myself."

"Of course, sir. Just a moment." Tom went to his desk and pulled a thick wad of banknotes from a drawer—mostly tens and fives. He had earned over a thousand pounds from academic competitions and government stipends.

Dumbledore blinked. "Ah, I should have mentioned. For students in difficult circumstances, Hogwarts and the Ministry have a fund…"

"But I'm not in difficult circumstances, am I?" Tom said, fanning the cash with a confident smile.

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