I Am Tom Riddle

July 30, 1991, London.

The heavens took a nap and forgot to cover London with a blanket of clouds. A few wisps lay limp across the sky, and the sunlight was warm enough to coax the lazy bugs out from the seams of one's bones to bask. On a day like this, one ought to find a corner and flatten oneself out like a cat-pancake.

Unfortunately, few people have the luxury of being a cat-pancake; most must scramble for tomorrow's bread.

Lewisham, in South London, was exactly that sort of place. Dockworkers, office clerks, and Caribbean immigrants were squeezed into this remote district, their footsteps on the street so hurried it seemed as if they were being chased by dogs.

However, whenever they passed an old man, they couldn't help but hit the brakes.

The old man nodded with a beaming smile, his gait impossibly light, his silver-white beard fluttering in the breeze.

His appearance was truly eye-catching: tall and thin, with silver hair and a beard long enough to be braided. His purple robes dragged on the ground, embroidered with stars and moons, as if he were wearing a planetarium. Behind his half-moon spectacles, those blue eyes were far too bright for a man of his age.

After walking for about an hour—during which he declined three passersby asking if he was filming a movie—the old man stopped in front of a house. The sign read: 23 Elm Street, Lewisham Children's Home.

He rang the doorbell.

"Coming!"

The door opened, and a woman in her forties saw him, her eyes widening larger than the rag in her hand. "Are you... Headmaster Dumbledore?"

The old man nodded with a smile. "I am. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Ms. Arman?"

Arman squeezed out a smile, her misgivings fermenting and swelling like dough. This outfit... could he really be a proper headmaster?

Dumbledore didn't offer an explanation, his gaze probing into the house. "And the boy?"

"He's exercising in the backyard. Follow me." Arman stepped aside, wondering as she walked whether she should call the police.

In 1990s Britain, the old-fashioned, crowded orphanages were no longer permitted. Foster care was the trend now. The Children's Home was more of a temporary stop for kids with family conflicts or emotional issues; most didn't stay longer than half a year—though some did linger.

Arman was sent by the government to manage the place. Aside from her, the others were volunteers, their main job being to keep the children from tearing the house down.

They passed through the living room and reached the backyard.

There were four boys in the yard, all around ten years old. One boy with black hair and black eyes was wearing old boxing gloves, throwing punches at a sandbag. The bag swayed back and forth, emitting a pitiful "thud-thud" sound.

The boy was strikingly handsome, provided one ignored his current grimacing expression.

"Tom!" Arman called out.

The boy stopped and turned, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead.

"This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to study at his school."

"Thank you, Ms. Arman." Tom bowed toward Dumbledore. "Hello, Headmaster. My apologies, I'm a bit... drenched in sweat." He wiped his forehead, accidentally smearing sweat into his eye, causing him to squint immediately.

"Take it easy, my boy." Dumbledore smiled and gestured toward the house. "If you don't mind, could we chat in your room? I believe Mr. Sandbag might need a rest."

"Of course." Tom handed his gloves to a boy nearby. "Seth, one thousand reps, no slacking. One short, and your chicken leg at dinner is mine."

"Yes, Boss." Seth took them with a bitter face.

Before turning away, Dumbledore glanced back. Seth had already put on the gloves and was hammering away at the sandbag with all his might, grimacing with every strike.

Upstairs, in Tom's room.

This room had originally been the master bedroom. A desk and bookshelf stood against the wall, with books spread across the table and certificates and trophies lining the shelves.

"Please, sit, Mr. Dumbledore." There was only one chair in the room. Tom gestured for the old man to sit, then perched on the edge of the bed, casually shoving a grinning skull-shaped pillow under the quilt.

"My boy, let us have a proper introduction." The chair was a bit low for Dumbledore, and the hem of his robes piled on the floor like a purple mushroom cloud, but he didn't seem to mind. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. I cordially invite you to attend Hogwarts to learn how to control and master the magical power you were born with."

"I know, sir. I've read that letter at least fifty times." Tom cleared his throat. "I am Tom Riddle, and as you can see, I am an orphan. I am deeply honored to receive an invitation to Hogwarts, and even more so to have the Headmaster visit in person." As he spoke, he accidentally knocked over an empty soda can by the bed, which clattered to the floor.

Tom Riddle... The old man's eyes glazed over for a fleeting moment.

Tom Riddle, an orphan, exceptionally handsome, clearly the leader among these children. With all these factors combined... countless "coincidences" flashed through Dumbledore's mind, finally settling on a hooded, noseless figure. He quickly shook his head to banish the image.

Dumbledore had seen too much in his life; even if there were many similarities, they could be explained as "coincidences." He would not jump to conclusions based on a name and a similar background, even if this child might have a skull pillow hidden under his bed.

He regained his composure after only a few seconds. Looking at the polite smile Tom was struggling to maintain, he stroked his beard. "Mr. Riddle, 'honored' is perhaps too strong a word. But this is indeed a... curious fate." He paused. "Much like buying celery at a Muggle supermarket that decides to dance on its own."

"We have a Potions professor at our school. Usually, this task would fall to him, but he is currently brewing a critical potion and cannot get away. However, you will have plenty of opportunities to meet; he is a true master of potions—though his temper is like the bottom of a scorched cauldron."

Dumbledore shifted his tone, his blue eyes peering at Tom through his half-moon spectacles. "That said, Mr. Riddle, you are a very special new student yourself. My colleagues and I have welcomed many students from Muggle families, and we have quite a bit of experience, but I have never seen a child who accepted the existence of magic so readily. Usually, we have to use a few tricks to convince them we aren't con artists. For instance—"

He snapped his fingers, the sound as crisp as biting into an apple.

The scattered books on the desk immediately began to move on their own, stacking themselves neatly. The book on top, How to Become a Social Butterfly in One Week, even turned its spine outward of its own accord.

"Mr. Riddle, have you never suspected that this might just be a scam?" Dumbledore blinked. "For example, that I am a retired magician from a circus, specializing in tricking children into buying magic props?"

Facing Dumbledore's question, Tom did not flinch. He met the old man's bright blue eyes directly. He held out his hand—not to shake, but palm upward—with a look of earnestness:

"To be honest, Headmaster, my first reaction was... where did you buy those robes? The fabric is truly excellent."