In his long, storied life, Albus Dumbledore had weathered more storms than most could imagine. And while the pieces all seemed to fit a certain picture far too well, he was not a man to jump to conclusions.
Coincidence, after all, was still a possibility—even when the coincidences came wrapped in neon signs.
So, though the boy's name and background mirrored someone once infamous, Dumbledore allowed himself only a momentary lapse into thought.
He quickly returned to the present, masking the brief daze by stroking his beard as if pondering something deeper.
Then, with the warm, gentle voice only an old man could deliver, he said, "Mr. Riddle, I wouldn't go so far as to call this an honor—but it is, without a doubt, a rather remarkable twist of fate."
"We have a Potions Master at Hogwarts who's unfortunately... always buried in his cauldrons. Normally, it would've been his job to guide you into the magical world, but he's in the middle of a delicate brewing process that simply couldn't be interrupted."
"So it falls to me—an old man with more free time than I deserve," Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. "But you'll meet him soon enough. He's a true master of the craft, and I've no doubt you'll benefit greatly from his knowledge."
"Actually," he continued, shifting tone slightly, "you're quite a unique case, Mr. Riddle."
He leaned forward, curious now. "We've brought many Muggle-born students into Hogwarts over the years, and my colleagues and I are used to the disbelief—the skepticism. Usually, it takes some effort to convince them magic is real. Spells. Demonstrations. Proof."
"To illustrate—"
With a snap of his fingers, the messy pile of books on Tom's desk suddenly floated into the air, flipping, twisting, and arranging themselves neatly in a tidy stack.
Dumbledore turned back, brow slightly raised. "But you, Mr. Riddle, didn't seem surprised. Not even once. Did it never cross your mind that all this might be a hoax?"
Tom met Dumbledore's piercing gaze without flinching. Slowly, he raised his hand.
"Actually… magic has always been with me."
From the bookshelf behind him, a thick Grimm's Fairy Tales sprang open. From its hidden crevice, a golden-edged envelope soared into the air and landed squarely in Tom's palm.
It was the same envelope he had received yesterday—his Hogwarts acceptance letter.
Tom toyed with the envelope thoughtfully, then explained, "Since I was six, I've noticed… unusual abilities. Things I couldn't explain. But I've never believed I was truly unique. Surely, I thought, there must be others like me."
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Dumbledore applauded, his praise heartfelt. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Such control—most impressive."
"But you are mistaken about one thing, Mr. Riddle. Students who can intentionally perform magic before even stepping into Hogwarts? Even in our world, that's practically unheard of."
"Trust me. You have a remarkable gift. I foresee great things in your magical future."
It was common for young witches and wizards to experience magical outbursts—uncontrolled, emotional surges. If those surges never came, they were often classified as Squibs. But to wield magic deliberately, reliably, without a wand?
Tom had demonstrated that effortlessly. He was already in control.
Dumbledore was genuinely pleased that Hogwarts would soon gain such a gifted student—
—and yet, something twisted in his gut.
So similar. Too similar...
"You flatter me, sir," Tom said modestly, lowering his head with the perfect amount of feigned shyness. Inside, however, he exhaled in quiet relief.
That hurdle... cleared.
The truth was—Tom wasn't just any boy.
He was a reincarnator.
When his magic first flared at age six, it also unlocked the memories of a previous life.
At first, he had no idea which world this was. But everything changed during his third year, when he began competing in math competitions and came across a bright young opponent named Hermione Granger.
Her intellect was only matched by her intensity. And when Tom asked around and learned that Hermione's father was a dentist...
That was it.
No way.
No bloody way.
He was in Harry Potter's world.
And his name?
Tom. Marvolo. Riddle.
That Tom Riddle.
The one who would become Lord Voldemort.
Tom had considered changing his name. He really had.
But as a minor, legally altering his identity was near impossible without parental consent. Even if he could, there was no guarantee the name change wouldn't interfere with Hogwarts's magical tracking systems.
This was a world where magic could read into your very soul. He wasn't about to take unnecessary risks and possibly miss his one chance to enter this world's greatest magical institution.
So he bore the name—Tom Riddle—and lived cautiously ever since, waiting. Hoping.
Until, two days ago, when his Hogwarts acceptance letter finally arrived.
Still, he hadn't expected Dumbledore himself to show up.
Not Hagrid. Not McGonagall.
The Headmaster. In person.
But thinking about it… it made sense.
To Dumbledore, the name Tom Riddle meant something very specific. And the boy's background—an orphan, gifted, handsome, strong-willed—it mirrored that Tom Riddle all too well.
Of course the great white wizard of the century would want to come see for himself. To make sure history wasn't repeating itself.
When Dumbledore had questioned his lack of disbelief earlier, that had been the first trial.
Why wasn't he shocked? Why didn't he need convincing?
Tom had thought hard about how to answer.
He couldn't fake surprise—not to this man, who'd lived over a century and seen more than most would dream.
Instead, he leaned into the truth—his talent, his ease with magic. Something believable. Something real.
Yes, it was a gamble.
A gamble that Dumbledore wouldn't judge him based on his name alone. That he wouldn't invade his mind with Legilimency or scour his past for hidden truths.
Had that gone wrong, Tom was ready to throw in the towel and spill everything. He'd even been half-tempted to see what it would look like if Dumbledore tried to destroy all seven Horcruxes in a single afternoon.
But there was no telling what else the old wizard might do. Dissection wasn't off the table.
Thankfully, he had gambled right.
Dumbledore had done nothing out of line.
"Mr. Riddle, I didn't expect things to go quite so smoothly today," Dumbledore said at last, rising to his feet.
"I have an idea—why don't we take this momentum and get your school supplies in order? I was heading to Diagon Alley myself."
"Of course, sir. Just give me a moment."
Tom nodded and walked over to his desk. From a drawer, he pulled out a small stack of paper currency—mostly five and ten-pound notes.
In Britain, even decades later, the fifty-pound note remained the highest denomination. But using it for small purchases? That was asking for trouble. Flash a fifty in a corner shop and you were likely to be cursed at with a few colorful f-words.
"Mr. Riddle."
Dumbledore seemed to realize something. "Hogwarts and the Ministry have funding programs for students from underprivileged families. Everything can be covered—no repayment required."
"But I'm not underprivileged, am I?"
Tom counted the notes—£1,200 in total—and flashed a smile as he fanned them in the air.