Chapter 2: Tamara Riddle
The bloated administrator froze.
In her eyes, Tamara was that strange child who usually lurked in corners, gloomy and silent as a ghost. Now she clutched the edge of the table, cheeks flushed a furious red. Those oversized black eyes shimmered with mist, fixed on the woman with a look so fragile it could have cracked stone, like a startled fawn cornered by a hunter.
The administrator's prepared roar caught in her throat. The sensation was deeply unpleasant, as if she had swallowed a fly.
Her hand, still gripping the tin bucket, stopped in mid air. The fleshy folds of her face twitched in awkward confusion.
"Er… all right. All right."
She scratched at her head, suddenly uneasy. Her voice softened without her noticing, and there was even a hint of gentleness that did not belong to her.
"Feeling unwell, are you? Bloody flu… forget it, I will mop the hallway myself."
She hesitated, as if the words tasted strange.
"You rest a bit. Clean yourself up. Do not let the guests see you looking like this."
The door clicked shut.
Only then did that leg weakening surge of current finally fade.
Tom Riddle, now trapped in Tamara's body, collapsed onto the cold wooden floor like a dropped rag, gasping for breath.
Humiliation.
A humiliation he had never imagined.
It was ten thousand times worse than the day Dumbledore had threatened him with the burning wardrobe. At least then he could fight back with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. Now?
He had actually behaved like rubbish in front of a lowly Muggle.
"System," he hissed inside his mind. "Explain."
The cheerful mechanical voice answered immediately, as if it were eager for praise.
[At your service, host! This is the core protection mechanism of this system, the Evil Intent Transformation Module.]
[Given that your current physical condition cannot support high intensity Dark Arts combat, and to prevent you from repeating your mistakes and returning to an antisocial path, the system is set as follows. When your killing intent exceeds the threshold, it will be forcibly converted into harmless states such as fragile, shy, or charming.]
[Simply put, the more ruthless your heart feels, the softer you appear on the outside.]
Tom laughed from sheer rage.
He glared at the girl in the mirror, cheeks still flushed, eyes bright with furious moisture, and slammed his fist into the floor.
"You have turned the great Dark Lord into a joke."
[No, dear host. I have turned you into a lovable, beautiful girl.]
[By the way, your name is now Tamara Riddle, as it appears on legal documents and the Hogwarts acceptance letter. You can also call yourself Tami.]
"Shut up. I will never use that ridiculous name."
He forced himself upright and paced the cramped room like a caged animal. The situation was dire, but not hopeless.
Tom Riddle was, above all else, pragmatic. Slytherin's blood ran through his thinking, even when his veins held only spite. If there was a way out, he would find it.
Since killing earned him electric shocks, and his magic felt drained to a pathetic trickle, he would play this game by its rules.
At least until he found the seam where it could be torn open.
"Open the panel," he commanded coldly.
A pale blue screen flared into existence.
[Name: Tamara Riddle]
[Age: 11 years old]
[Magic Status: Sealed]
[Virtue Points: Love: 0]
[Life: 0]
[Wisdom: 0]
[Courage: 0]
[Current Task: None]
Tom stared at the glaring zeros for a long moment.
Love being zero was tolerable. Life and courage being zero was irritating. But wisdom?
His lip twitched.
He was not an idiot.
The system jumped in at once, smugly helpful.
[Only actions and virtues that benefit others and society are counted as points.]
[Every ten points unlocks a spell. Host, you must keep up the good work.]
Tom went silent.
To become stronger, to reclaim what was his, to use even something as basic as a Levitation Charm, he needed those cursed points.
Noise drifted in from outside the door. Other orphans, by the sound of it, were cleaning.
Then the system chimed again.
[Ding! Daily task triggered: The Glory of Labour.]
[Task Description: The orphanage is also a home, and maintaining environmental hygiene is everyone's responsibility. Please help the administrator, Mrs Martha, clean the second floor hallway.]
[Task Reward: Life +5, minor physical recovery.]
[Failure Penalty: Random deduction of one Charisma point. Even if you are already beautiful enough, becoming ugly is unacceptable.]
Tom's mouth tightened.
Make the Dark Lord mop floors.
For five life points.
"And if I do not do it?" he asked, voice razor thin.
[Then you might remain in this weak body for the rest of your life.]
The system's tone was full of innocent concern, which only made it worse.
[Besides, that guest is about to arrive. If you wish to appear before him with a perfect image, it is best to show your industrious side.]
Guest.
Tom's pupils contracted.
Today was the day the Hogwarts acceptance letter would arrive.
No matter what this farce was, he refused to look like a fool in front of a Hogwarts professor.
He drew in a slow breath and crushed the emotions churning in his chest into something cold and usable.
He crossed to the bed, picked up the envelope he had tossed onto the sheets earlier, and shoved it beneath his pillow. Then he turned to the bucket and rag in the corner.
He lifted the mouldy rag between two fingers. Disgust made his fingertips pale.
"Very well," he whispered through clenched teeth, his expression so murderous it looked as though he wanted to wring the rag like Harry Potter's neck.
"For power. For revenge."
Ten minutes later, a strange sight appeared on the second floor corridor of Wool's Orphanage.
Tamara, who usually carried herself with an arrogance that suggested she despised everyone around her, knelt on the filthy wooden floor with a rag in her hand, scrubbing stains one by one.
Her movements were unfamiliar, even clumsy, but she wiped each mark with brutal force, as if the floor had personally offended her.
"Look at this," a freckle faced boy said as he passed, whistling. "The princess is actually working."
It was Billy, the leader of the orphans.
"Did the sun rise in the west?"
Tom did not look up.
In his mind, he recited the incantation for the Killing Curse, imagining each wipe as peeling Billy's skin away.
[Warning: Killing intent detected. Please smile.]
Tom's hand jerked. He nearly flung the rag across the corridor.
He forced in a breath, looked up, and made his face obey.
The smile he produced was stiff to the point of pain. Yet because the girl's features were so delicate, it still landed with an unsettling sort of charm.
"Good morning, Billy," he said, voice too soft for his liking. "Are you here to help as well?"
Billy blinked, momentarily dazzled, then flushed red as if the air had slapped him.
"W Weirdo," he muttered, and hurried away.
Tom watched him retreat and sneered inwardly.
Idiot.
He had barely finished half the corridor, and his knees were beginning to ache in a way that felt almost unbearable, when a steady, rhythmic knocking came from downstairs.
Not a hurried pound.
Three elegant taps, measured and deliberate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Tom's scrubbing stopped dead.
He could feel the familiar aura, like a presence pressing gently against the world.
Albus Dumbledore.
What a fateful reunion.
It had been Dumbledore who brought him to Hogwarts the first time. Tom had not expected the same man to arrive again in this new life.