Tom Riddle did not have any miraculous "cheat system" like those heroes in novels. What he did have, however, was something just as dangerous: two lifetimes of memory.
His memory was not photographic, but it was sharp enough to put him far above most of his peers. Combine that with a strong learning ability, and Tom became the kind of boy who seemed to drink in knowledge wherever he went.
And it had paid off handsomely.
People often thought competitions and prize money were only a big deal in certain Asian countries, but the same spirit thrived in British schools. Tom had entered math competitions, academic contests, science quizzes—you name it—and he always came out near the top.
Scholarship grants, government subsidies, and even small television appearances had all added up. By careful saving and discipline, Tom had built a surprisingly solid fortune.
The twelve hundred pounds in his drawer? That was nothing more than pocket money. In reality, he had a deposit of forty thousand pounds sitting in the bank, quietly earning interest.
When Dumbledore learned of this, he couldn't help but lift his hand and give Tom an uncharacteristically Muggle gesture—a thumbs up. The old wizard's eyes twinkled. Even among wizards, this boy is resourceful.
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Farewell to the Children's Home
After a brief word with Ms. Arman, Tom stepped out beside Dumbledore. The woman, who was usually cautious to the point of suspicion, felt oddly calm letting Tom go.
Any other child, she would never allow to wander off so freely. But Tom? He was too capable, too mature, too… unusual. She trusted him in ways she couldn't quite explain.
Or maybe, she thought, watching Dumbledore's purple robes disappear down the lane, the headmaster put a charm on me.
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The Walk to the Station
Instead of whisking Tom away with magic, Dumbledore chose to walk. They strolled beneath tree-lined streets toward the station. The old wizard seemed in no hurry at all, asking questions in a gentle, conversational way, like a grandfather fishing for stories.
Tom answered openly. He spoke of being abandoned as a baby, left at the door of the orphanage with only a name and a surname as his birthright.
The next time he heard of his parents was in the newspaper. A plane crash.
They had left behind no inheritance, only debts. Fortunately, the law did not force children to pay for their parents' mistakes.
Dumbledore listened, his lips twitching, his heart heavy. Such tales were not rare in the Muggle world. In a society with strict limits on abortion, children were often born into circumstances their parents could not manage. The government became caretaker, while the parents went on with their lives—or ended them abruptly.
The wizarding world, too, was not immune to tragedy. Yet there was an irony: while Muggles abandoned children, the wizarding world was starved for them.
The Weasley family, with six boys and one girl, was seen as both chaotic and enviable. How many pure-blood families, Dumbledore mused, secretly wished they had Molly's fortune?
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Bullying and Power
"I noticed the children at the home are rather… wary of you," Dumbledore said delicately.
The memory of Seth punching the sandbag dutifully, sweat flying, lingered in his mind.
Tom stopped walking. The boy tilted his head up, though Dumbledore's long beard blocked part of his view. All he could see were those deep, ocean-blue eyes.
"Sir," Tom said quietly, "do you know what the most frightening thing about being an orphan is?"
Dumbledore leaned closer, his expression serious.
"You're afraid people will discover your cowardice," Tom continued. "If others sense weakness, they will bully you. And once they start, they won't stop. They'll enjoy it."
His voice grew harder. "So the best way to prevent bullying… is to strike first."
Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly, and his beard twitched.
Tom quickly added, "Of course, I don't bully Seth. He's my friend. I'm teaching him how to defend himself. He's going to middle school soon—he needs strength."
Dumbledore thought of Seth's determined punches, his willingness to obey Tom's instructions despite exhaustion. There was no hatred between them, only a strange kind of loyalty.
His face softened. "Then I think Seth will understand your intentions. In fact, Tom, you may have the makings of a fine Hufflepuff… provided you do not mistake leadership for bullying."
"Hufflepuff? What's that?" Tom asked.
Dumbledore chuckled. "One of our four houses at Hogwarts. Each one produces greatness in its own way…"
Their shadows stretched long on the pavement, fading as they left Elm Avenue behind.
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Arrival at the Leaky Cauldron
After an hour and a half of trains and subways, the pair arrived at a dingy, soot-stained pub squeezed between a record shop and a bookshop. The sign above creaked:
The Leaky Cauldron.
Inside, the bar smelled faintly of stale beer and damp wood. At three in the afternoon, it was quiet—only two or three tables occupied by wizards swapping stories.
The moment Dumbledore entered, every head turned. Wizards scrambled to their feet, some bowing awkwardly, others mumbling greetings.
Behind the bar, a stooped man with thinning hair and a filthy rag rushed over, beaming.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore!" he said eagerly.
"Good afternoon, Tom," Dumbledore replied with a mischievous smile. "Ah, two Toms in one room—what a delightful coincidence."
He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "Mr. Riddle, this is Tom, the innkeeper of the Leaky Cauldron."
The barman grinned, wiping his hand on his apron before extending it. "It's fate, lad! Pleasure to meet you, little Tom."
"Nice to meet you, sir," Tom replied politely.
The barman laughed heartily. "Once you're done with your shopping, stop by for a Butterbeer—non-alcoholic, of course. My treat."
"Splendid idea," Dumbledore said warmly. "But first, errands. See you shortly, Tom."
"See you later, Professor!" the barman called as they passed through the smoky pub into the back courtyard.
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Entering Diagon Alley
Dumbledore drew his wand, knobby and ancient. "Now, watch carefully. Count three bricks up, two across…"
He tapped the wall.
At once, the bricks began to wriggle and shuffle aside, rearranging themselves until they formed a grand archway. Beyond it lay a bustling street lined with crooked shops, cauldrons stacked high, owls hooting, wizards haggling.
Tom's eyes widened. His heart thudded.
"A world of magic…" he whispered.
"Yes," Dumbledore said, his smile deepening. "Welcome to Diagon Alley."
For the first time, Tom looked like a true child—his usual composure giving way to awe. Dumbledore's chest swelled with quiet relief. At last, here was the spark of wonder he had been waiting for.
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Toward Gringotts
"Come," Dumbledore said, his robes swishing as he led the way. "The most important matter first—money."
They joined the throng. Shopkeepers called out, enchanted broomsticks zipped overhead, and the aroma of fresh pastries mingled with the sharp scent of potions.
Dumbledore was greeted constantly. Wizards and witches bowed, shook his hand, or whispered excitedly as he passed. His popularity stretched even here, in the heart of wizarding commerce.
Finally, they reached the imposing white marble building at the far end: Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Two goblins in fine uniforms bowed deeply at the doors. One stepped forward, his long fingers folded neatly.
"This way, Headmaster Dumbledore," the goblin said smoothly, his sharp eyes flicking toward Tom.
He would be their personal escort.
And so, with the crowd bustling behind them, Tom Riddle stepped into the world of wizarding finance—his first step toward the true power hidden within this magical society.
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