Tom didn't have any kind of cheat, no hidden "golden finger" waiting to save him at the last second. But maybe it was because he'd lived two lives. His memory wasn't quite photographic, yet it was still far better than the average person's, and his ability to learn was downright terrifying.
And don't think only students "over in the East" had competitions and academic battles. Schools in Britain ran the same game, just with different packaging.
Between prize money from contests, school awards, government subsidies, and even appearance fees from TV stations, Tom had quietly built up a decent stash of cash.
The money sitting in his drawer was just for day-to-day spending. The real cushion was the forty thousand pounds resting in his bank account, earning interest like a well-behaved little soldier.
When Dumbledore found out how capable Tom was, even he could only raise a thumb in genuine admiration.
After saying goodbye to Alaman, Tom followed Dumbledore out of the children's home.
If it had been any other child, Alaman would never have let them go so easily. But Tom had been "too sensible" for too long. His competence, his calm, the way he handled himself like a miniature adult… it made her relax without even noticing.
Or maybe Dumbledore had quietly worked a bit of magic in the background.
Maybe.
They walked along a tree-lined path, dappled sunlight flickering over the ground. Dumbledore didn't use any wizarding shortcut to save time. Instead, he seemed almost pleased to take the long way, leading Tom toward the train station with the enthusiasm of a kindly elder out for a stroll.
Along the way, he asked questions, the kind adults asked when they cared. How was life at the orphanage? Did Tom have friends? Was he eating properly? Was he sleeping well?
Tom didn't bother hiding anything. He laid out his situation plainly.
He'd been abandoned. Becoming an orphan wasn't some tragic turning point in a novel, it was simply the starting line he'd been handed. His parents had given him one "gift" at birth: a first name and a surname. Then they left him on the orphanage doorstep like an unwanted parcel.
The next time he heard anything about them, it was from a news report about a plane crash.
No inheritance. No last letter. Just debt.
A whole mess of debt, too. The only good part was that it didn't fall on his shoulders.
After listening, Dumbledore's mouth twitched in a way that suggested he didn't know whether to sigh or laugh.
"This sort of thing happens rather often in the Muggle world," he said mildly, though there was something sharp behind the gentleness. "An 'accident' becomes a child. Certain restrictions make it difficult to… undo. And when reality sets in, the child is handed to the government and the parents go on living freely."
Tom didn't respond. He'd heard the same story a hundred different ways, just with different names and different excuses.
What amused him, in a bleak sort of way, was how the wizarding world and the Muggle world could exist in the same country and still feel like two separate fates.
Because the magical side was already struggling. Their population was thin enough that it was starting to show.
The Weasley family was an exception, not the rule. Six boys and one girl standing together, and every pure-blood family that saw them felt their eyes go red with envy.
There were probably quite a few people who regretted, very deeply, that they hadn't married Molly Weasley back in the day. If they had, the bustling household would have been theirs.
Same nation, different destiny.
As he was thinking this, Dumbledore didn't forget to keep digging, gentle as a spoon but persistent as a drill.
"I noticed the children at the orphanage seem rather afraid of you," he said, almost casually.
Even when they'd left, that boy named Seth had still been obediently punching the sandbag, following Tom's instructions as if his life depended on it.
The scene brought Dumbledore an unpleasant flash of old memories.
Tom stopped walking. He looked up at Dumbledore.
The problem was, Dumbledore had too much beard. It was like trying to read a person through a curtain of white fur. Tom couldn't see his full expression, only those deep eyes that felt like they could look straight through time.
"Sir," Tom said, his voice steady. "Do you know what an orphan is most afraid of?"
Dumbledore made a listening gesture, patient and attentive.
Tom answered his own question.
"They're afraid someone will discover their weakness."
He spoke as if he were explaining a simple rule of the world, something as basic as gravity.
"If people find out you're easy to bully, someone will try it. Not because they need to. Not because they gain anything. Just because it feels good to them."
He paused, then continued in the same calm tone.
"And the best way to prevent bullying is to arm yourself… and bully first."
Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly. Even his beard seemed to tremble.
Tom immediately added, as if he'd anticipated the reaction.
"Of course, I'm not bullying Seth," he said quickly, patching the hole before anyone could push a finger through it. "He's my friend. I'm teaching him self-defense. He's going to secondary school soon, and he needs the ability to protect himself."
Dumbledore thought of Seth's bitter face, and the way he still worked hard to complete Tom's "assignments" anyway. That didn't look like hatred. It looked like someone clinging to the only rope offered to him.
"He'll understand your intentions," Dumbledore said, and for some reason his mood brightened. "I think you could become an excellent Hufflepuff, provided you don't actually bully people."
"Hufflepuff?" Tom frowned. "What's that?"
"The name of a House," Dumbledore explained. "Each House is excellent in its own way…"
Their shadows stretched longer and longer on the road, until they finally disappeared from Elm Tree Avenue.
…
After a train, then the underground, an hour and a half passed before they reached the entrance to Diagon Alley.
It was not grand. It was not magical-looking. It was dirty, cramped, and worn down in the way that suggested the building had given up on dignity decades ago.
The Leaky Cauldron.
It was around three in the afternoon, not peak time. Only two or three tables had customers.
But the moment Dumbledore stepped in, everything changed.
Wizards who had been drinking and bragging shot to their feet as if pulled by invisible strings. Greetings came out stiff and hurried, like students suddenly caught by a strict headmaster.
Even the hunched man behind the bar, wiping the counter with a grimy rag, hurried over with a broad smile.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
"Good afternoon, Tom. Oh, wait," Dumbledore said, amused. "There's another Tom here today."
He chuckled and introduced them with the sort of gentle humor that made people relax whether they wanted to or not.
"Mr. Riddle, this is Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron. Curious, isn't it? Tom, Mr. Riddle is one of this year's new students. I'm taking him to buy what he needs."
"Fate, eh? Real fate," the bartender Tom laughed, delighted. "Pleased to meet you, little Tom."
There were countless Toms in Britain, but with Dumbledore standing there, the man's warmth turned up another level.
"When you're done shopping, you can sit down and have a drink," the bartender offered. "My treat. Non-alcoholic butterbeer."
"An excellent idea," Dumbledore agreed easily. "Then we'd better be quick. See you soon, Tom."
"See you soon, Professor."
Dumbledore led Tom through the pub to the small courtyard out back. He pulled out a wand with knobby segments, almost like bone joints, and explained how to enter Diagon Alley.
"Three up… and two across…"
He tapped the bricks three times.
The wall shifted. Stones slid apart with a smooth, practiced motion. In the blink of an eye, a wide archway opened, and a wave of sound rushed out as if the world behind it had been holding its breath.
Noise. Footsteps. Laughter. Bargaining voices.
Life.
Tom's eyes lit up as he stared at the crowded street beyond.
"The world of magic…"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, and he seemed genuinely pleased by Tom's expression. For the first time, Tom looked like the child he actually was. "The world of magic."
Then Dumbledore smiled, like a man about to teach the first true lesson.
"Come along. The most important thing first."
He leaned in slightly, voice playful.
"Money."
They crossed the length of the street and reached a towering building that radiated authority even before you read the name.
Gringotts.
At the grand entrance, two goblins bowed with practiced politeness. One of them became their assigned guide, leading them inside and toward the counter to exchange currency.
Tom followed, eyes sharp and heart steady, but he couldn't stop the thought from slipping through.
If magic had a gate, then this was it.
And once he stepped through… there was no going back.