As they walked towards the train station, Dumbledore didn't use magic to hasten their journey. Instead, he strolled alongside Tom, asking gentle questions about his life. Tom answered honestly. He was an orphan, abandoned at the children's home. His only gift from his parents was his name. He'd learned of their deaths years later from a news report about a plane crash. They had left him nothing but a mountain of debt, which, thankfully, he was not required to pay.
"The other children at the home," Dumbledore observed, his tone casual, "they seem to be rather afraid of you."
Tom stopped and looked up at the old wizard. "Sir, do you know what an orphan fears most?"
Dumbledore waited, listening.
"They fear others knowing they are weak," Tom said, his voice quiet but firm. "The moment someone senses you're an easy target, they will try to bully you for their own amusement. The best way to prevent being bullied… is to arm yourself, and become the one they fear."
Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly.
"Of course," Tom added quickly, "I wasn't bullying Seth. He's my friend. I'm teaching him to defend himself. He'll need to be strong when he goes to secondary school."
Dumbledore's expression softened. "I am sure he will appreciate your… guidance," he said, his good humor returning. "I suspect you might make an excellent Hufflepuff, Mr. Riddle. Provided you refrain from bullying, of course."
"Hufflepuff?"
"The name of one of our four great houses…"
An hour and a half later, after a train and a tube ride, they stood before a grimy, dilapidated pub called The Leaky Cauldron. Inside, a few wizards sat drinking. At the sight of Dumbledore, they all stood, stammering greetings. The hunched-over bartender rushed forward, his face breaking into a wide grin.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore!"
"Afternoon, Tom," Dumbledore replied, then gestured to the boy beside him. "And here we have another Tom. A curious coincidence, is it not? Mr. Riddle is a new student this year."
"A pleasure to meet you, young Tom!" the bartender boomed. "Stop by for a drink on the house when you're done shopping! Non-alcoholic butterbeer, of course."
Dumbledore led Tom through the pub to a small, walled courtyard. He tapped a specific sequence of bricks with a gnarled wand. The wall trembled and parted, revealing a wide archway. The bustling, chaotic noise of a hidden world washed over them.
Tom's eyes widened, taking in the dense, vibrant crowd. "The magical world…"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, pleased by the boy's genuine awe. "Now, first things first… money."
They made their way to a grand, white marble building: Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Inside, a goblin informed them of the exchange rate.
"The limit is seventy Galleons per person," the goblin rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "But for you, with Headmaster Dumbledore, we can allow one hundred. That will be five hundred and five pounds, including the five-pound service fee."
"So little?" Tom asked, frowning. "Professor Dumbledore told me the rate was closer to two hundred Galleons."
"Times have changed, boy," the goblin sneered. "Muggle currency is of little use to us. We have a surplus. One hundred Galleons is more than enough for a year at Hogwarts."
Dumbledore looked embarrassed. "My apologies, Tom. It has been over forty years since I last escorted a student to Gringotts. The rates… they have clearly changed."
Tom saw his opening. "Professor," he said, his tone respectful but firm, "could you perhaps lend me some funds? I wish to purchase more books than the standard list requires. I can repay you in pounds, or, if you are patient, in Galleons with interest upon my graduation." He secretly hoped Dumbledore would choose the latter; the old man was fated to die during Tom's sixth year.
"Muggle currency is of little use to me," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Very well. Repay me when you graduate. I shall look forward to that day." He followed a goblin into the depths of the bank to handle his own affairs and retrieve the loan.
Is he getting the Philosopher's Stone? Tom wondered. Hagrid was supposed to do it. Has my presence changed things?
Dumbledore returned shortly, handing Tom a small pouch and a key. "Here are one hundred Galleons. I have also taken the liberty of renting a vault for you. It contains another six hundred. That should see you through your seven years, provided you budget wisely."
"Thank you, Professor," Tom said, genuinely impressed by the old wizard's generosity. Eight hundred Galleons was a small fortune.
Their next stop was Ollivanders, a narrow, dusty shop. As they entered, a soft voice spoke from the shadows.
"Albus. A rare visit indeed." An old man emerged from between towering shelves of wands. "The last time you graced my shop was forty-eight years ago. It was a summer day, much like this one."
"Garrick," Dumbledore chuckled, "do not flaunt your memory. It only makes me frightfully envious."
Garrick Ollivander embraced Dumbledore, then his pale, moon-like eyes fixed on Tom. "And who is this fortunate young wizard, to have Albus Dumbledore himself as his guide?"
"Tom," the boy said clearly. "Tom Riddle."
Ollivander stumbled backward as if struck, his face draining of all color. He fell to the floor in a dead faint.