The bloated administrator stood frozen in shock.
In her eyes, that strange girl Tamara—usually gloomy and silent as a shadow—was now clutching the edge of the table, her small hands trembling. Her pale face was flushed red, and those oversized black eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She looked up with a fragile, wounded expression, like a frightened fawn cornered by hunters.
The furious scolding the administrator had prepared caught in her throat, as uncomfortable as if she had swallowed a fly whole.
Her hand, still gripping the tin bucket, hung stiffly in midair. The fleshy folds of her face twitched awkwardly.
"Uh… alright, alright," she muttered, scratching her head in embarrassment. Her tone softened unconsciously, even carrying a trace of gentleness she did not realize she possessed. "Are you feeling unwell? Damn flu… forget it. I'll mop the hallway myself."
She hesitated, then added, "You rest for a while. Clean yourself up. Don't let the guests see you like this."
The door clicked shut.
Only then did the strange, paralyzing sensation—the invisible electric current that had locked his muscles—finally dissipate.
Tom Riddle—now Tamara—collapsed onto the cold wooden floor like a puppet with its strings cut. He lay there, gasping for breath, palms pressed against the rough boards.
Humiliation.
Unprecedented humiliation.
This feeling was ten thousand times worse than the day Albus Dumbledore had threatened him with the burning wardrobe years ago.
At least back then he could glare defiantly, radiating hatred and pride. He had power. He had control.
But now?
He had just acted like a trembling piece of rubbish in front of a lowly Muggle.
"System," he said coldly in his mind, his thoughts sharp as knives. "Explain."
The mechanical voice responded instantly, cheerful and bright—far too bright.
[At your service, Host! This is the core protection mechanism of the system: the 'Evil Intent Transformation Module.']
Tom's jaw tightened.
[Given that your current physical condition cannot withstand high-intensity Dark Arts combat, and to prevent you from repeating your former destructive path, the system has been configured as follows: whenever your killing intent exceeds the safe threshold, it will be forcibly converted into harmless outward states such as 'fragile,' 'shy,' or 'charming.']
There was a faint chime, as if the system were proud of itself.
[In simple terms: the more ruthless your heart becomes, the softer you will appear on the outside.]
Tom let out a hollow laugh born purely of rage.
He rose unsteadily and faced the cracked mirror on the wall. The girl reflected there had flushed cheeks, misty eyes, and trembling lips—all signs of suppressed fury misinterpreted as vulnerability.
He slammed his fist against the floor.
"You've turned the great Dark Lord into a joke."
[No, dear Host, I have turned you into a lovable and beautiful girl.]
The voice sounded almost pleased.
[Additionally, your legal identity has been updated. Your name is now Tamara Riddle, as stated on all official documents and your Hogwarts acceptance letter. You may also use the nickname Tami.]
"Silence. I will never use that ridiculous name."
He forced himself to stand and began pacing in the narrow room, bare feet striking the warped floorboards.
The situation was dire—but not hopeless.
As a Slytherin, Tom Riddle's greatest strength had always been his ability to adapt. When cornered, he observed. When restrained, he planned. Desperation was merely another variable to manipulate.
If killing triggered electric punishment, and his magic was sealed, then he would play this absurd game—temporarily.
Until he found a way to break it.
"Open the panel," he ordered.
A pale blue screen shimmered into existence before him.
[Name: Tamara Riddle]
[Age: 11]
[Magic Status: Sealed]
[Virtue Points:]
[Love: 0]
[Life: 0]
[Wisdom: 0]
[Courage: 0]
[Current Task: None]
Tom stared at the row of glaring zeros.
Love being zero—fine.
Life being zero—acceptable.
Courage being zero—debatable.
But wisdom?
Zero?
He clenched his teeth.
"I am not an idiot."
The system responded promptly.
[Only actions and virtues that benefit others and society are converted into points.]
[Every ten points will unlock one spell. Host, please continue working diligently toward goodness.]
Tom fell silent.
To regain strength. To reclaim power. To cast even the simplest Levitation Charm.
He needed virtue.
The irony was suffocating.
Voices echoed faintly from the hallway outside; the other orphans were cleaning.
A soft chime rang in his mind.
[Ding! Daily Task Activated: 'The Glory of Labor.']
Tom closed his eyes briefly.
[Task Description: The orphanage is also a home. Maintaining cleanliness is everyone's responsibility. Please assist the administrator, Mrs. Martha, in cleaning the second-floor hallway.]
[Reward: Life +5. Minor physical recovery.]
[Failure Penalty: Random deduction of one Charisma point. Even if you are already beautiful enough, becoming unattractive is unacceptable.]
His eyelid twitched.
"The Dark Lord… mopping floors."
And for five miserable points.
"If I refuse?"
[Then you may remain trapped in this weakened body for the rest of your life.]
The system's tone was gentle—too gentle.
[Furthermore, the guest will arrive shortly. If you wish to present a favorable image, demonstrating industrious behavior is advisable.]
Guest?
Tom's pupils narrowed.
Today was the day the Hogwarts acceptance letter would arrive.
No matter what, he would not appear pathetic in front of the Hogwarts professor.
He inhaled deeply, suppressing the violent surge of emotion inside him.
He picked up the envelope lying on his bed—the letter he had carelessly tossed aside—and slid it beneath his pillow.
Then he turned toward the bucket and rag in the corner.
The cloth was damp, sour-smelling, and faintly moldy.
His fingers whitened from suppressed disgust.
"Very well," he whispered through clenched teeth. His expression was so cold it seemed he wished to wring someone's neck instead of the rag. "For power… for revenge…"
Ten minutes later, an unusual scene unfolded in the second-floor hallway of Wools Orphanage.
Tamara Riddle—the aloof, arrogant girl who normally kept everyone at a distance—was kneeling on the scuffed wooden floor, scrubbing stains with visible effort.
Her movements were awkward. Unpracticed.
But every stroke was forceful, deliberate, almost violent.
"Look! The princess is working," a freckle-faced boy jeered as he passed by. It was Billy, the self-appointed leader of the orphans.
"Did the sun rise in the west today?"
Tom did not look up.
In his mind, he recited the incantation for the Killing Curse, imagining each wipe of the rag stripping away Billy's skin.
[Warning: Killing intent detected. Please smile.]
His hand jerked violently.
The rag nearly flew across the corridor.
He inhaled slowly.
Then he lifted his head.
His delicate face twisted into what could generously be described as a smile. It was stiff and unnatural—but due to her startling beauty, it appeared oddly enchanting instead of terrifying.
"Good morning, Billy," she said sweetly. "Are you here to help as well?"
Billy froze.
His face flushed bright red.
"W-weirdo," he muttered, before scrambling away.
Tom watched him retreat, contempt simmering beneath the forced gentleness.
Fool.
Half the hallway later, his knees throbbed painfully. His back ached.
He despised weakness more than anything.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound came from downstairs.
Three steady, measured taps.
Not hurried.
Not aggressive.
Elegant. Controlled.
Tom's hand stilled.
He knew that rhythm.
He knew that presence.
Albus Dumbledore.
Even without magic, he could sense it—like a faint hum in the air.
What an amusing twist of fate.
It had been Dumbledore who brought him to Hogwarts in his previous life. The same man who had watched him with wary eyes, already suspecting the darkness within.
And now—
They would meet again.
Tom slowly rose to his feet.
His knees trembled slightly from strain, but his posture straightened instinctively. Pride was instinctive. Even in this frail body.
In another world, he had greeted Dumbledore with guarded hostility.
This time?
He would greet him with a smile.
Because the rules had changed.
The more murderous his thoughts became, the more harmless he appeared.
How ironic.
Perhaps… this too could become a weapon.
He wrung out the rag one final time and placed it neatly inside the bucket.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Measured.
Calm.
Approaching.
Tom's lips curved upward.
Not forced.
Not trembling.
But controlled.
If the system wished to turn his cruelty into sweetness—
Then he would become the sweetest poison imaginable.
Let Dumbledore look into those wide, innocent eyes.
Let him see only a quiet, diligent girl.
Let him lower his guard.
After all, the most dangerous serpents were the ones hidden in flowers.
And Tom Riddle—no.
Tamara Riddle—
Had always excelled at hiding his fangs.
The door downstairs creaked open fully.
A familiar, gentle voice drifted upward, speaking to Mrs. Martha.
Tom closed his eyes briefly.
The game had begun.
And this time—
He would win by playing saint.