Chapter 3: That Man
"Martha! Go and open the door! We have a guest!" the Matron shouted from downstairs.
Tom rose slowly from the floor, brushing dust from his knees. He flung the rag back into the bucket, splashing dirty water over the rim.
Right on cue, the system's voice chimed in his head.
[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," Tom replied coldly in his mind.
He walked to the window at the end of the corridor and used the glass as a mirror. He smoothed his tangled long hair and tugged the dusty grey dress into something less disgraceful.
The reflection showed a pale, fragile little girl with wide, innocent eyes.
Tom adjusted her expression piece by piece, like fitting a mask.
Her gaze should look clear, but wary.
Her mouth should be set tight, stubborn rather than sulky.
Her shoulders should curl slightly inward, a posture that suggested a child who expected to be hurt.
Dumbledore was not easy to fool. Tom needed to look pitiable, but not theatrical enough to raise suspicion.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
First came the corner of plum coloured velvet, vivid and jarring against the orphanage's dark, shabby walls.
Then the tall figure stepped into view.
An old man, brisk and alert, with long silver hair and a beard that reached his waist. Half moon spectacles sat on his nose, and behind the lenses his bright blue eyes held a sharpness that felt as if it could cut through lies and look straight into bone.
When that gaze landed on the little girl at the end of the corridor, hugging her own arms as if she were cold, the old man's pace faltered.
Their eyes met.
Across the boundary of life and death, the Dark Lord and the great wizard completed their first reunion of this lifetime in a narrow corridor that stank of soap water and old rot.
A flicker of clear surprise crossed Dumbledore's face. It faded into something more complicated, searching, as though he were chasing a familiar echo he could not name.
"Hello," Dumbledore said, smiling. His voice was gentle, the same gentleness he had once used on a boy sitting by a bed years ago.
Then he spoke her name, and the surname made his expression shift by the smallest degree.
"I believe you are Miss Tamara Riddle?"
Tom felt his heart hammering, not only with nerves but with hatred so deep it tasted like iron.
He lowered his eyes at once, avoiding the blue stare that seemed poised to perform Legilimency.
"I am."
The girl's voice came out clear, yet there was a faint tremor threaded through it.
She raised her head again, obsidian eyes showing the right balance of confusion and defensiveness, with just a touch of panic at hearing her name from a stranger.
"Are you a doctor? Or a policeman? I… I have not done anything bad today."
"Oh, no. Of course not," Dumbledore said, lifting a hand as if to soothe her. He stepped closer, but his gaze never truly left her face.
"I am a professor at Hogwarts. I wondered if we might find somewhere quiet to talk. Your room, perhaps."
Tom's fingers tightened on the hem of her skirt.
Here it came.
That damned room. That interrogation dressed up as kindness.
The last time, Dumbledore had set his wardrobe on fire, a carefully chosen display of power. One of the few humiliations Tom remembered with perfect clarity.
"If you insist," Tom said, reluctant, and turned to push open the mottled wooden door behind him.
Dumbledore entered. His plum coloured velvet robes made the small room feel even smaller.
He looked around slowly. His eyes passed over the neatly made bed and the empty desk, then settled on the wardrobe in the corner.
Tom's pulse jumped.
"You seem a tidy child," Dumbledore said softly, his tone unreadable. "It is very clean in here."
"I do not like mess," Tom answered, flat and controlled. He sat on the bed's edge, hands placed neatly on his knees, doing his best to look like a good, well trained child.
Dumbledore pulled a silver object from his pocket, shaped like a Muggle lighter, and turned it over in his fingers for a moment. Then he produced a small bag of sweets as if it were nothing at all.
"Would you like a Sherbet Lemon?"
"No," Tom refused at once. It was instinct more than manners. Unknown food was a risk. For all he knew, it was laced with Veritaserum.
"This is a Muggle sweet. I like it very much," Dumbledore said mildly. He unwrapped one for himself and popped it into his mouth, then drew over the only chair and sat down.
"Tamara, do you know why I am here?"
"Because I am different," Tom said. He raised his head and spoke slowly, emphasising each word.
"I can make things move. Or I can make hair grow long and curly."
Dumbledore nodded, expression gentle.
"Yes. You have magic. You are a witch, Tamara."
Even having heard it once before, hearing it again sent a strange surge through Tom's chest.
A witch.
Even like this, even stripped of power, he belonged to that world. Not this filthy Muggle orphanage.
"Hogwarts is a school for teaching people like you how to use magic," Dumbledore said, and held out the heavy parchment envelope.
Tom took it, fingers brushing the crest, tracing the raised lines as if he could draw strength from them.
"So," Dumbledore said, and his gaze sharpened as he leaned forward slightly, "since you can do those things, Tamara, I want to ask you something."
Tom went very still.
"Have you ever used these abilities to hurt others?"
A trap.
Tom recognised it instantly. This was where he had stumbled before, boasting about a rabbit he had hung.
His eyes flicked to the wardrobe.
It was empty now. Apart from a few old clothes, there was nothing. No stolen mouth organs. No pilfered silver thimbles. No trophies taken from frightened victims.
He had been awake less than an hour. He had not had time to collect anything at all.
"Hurt others?" Tom repeated, and widened his eyes, letting shock and injury bloom across his face.
"I…" The girl's voice dipped. She twisted her fingers together, and her eyes reddened slightly as if tears were near.
"Maybe I have, sir. Billy stole my bread once, and I just… I just glared at him, and he fell down."
She swallowed, small and trembling, as if ashamed.
"But I did not mean to really hurt him. I just did not want to go hungry."