"Each person can only exchange seventy Galleons. But because of Headmaster Dumbledore, I can authorize a limit of one hundred Galleons for you. That comes to five hundred and five pounds total, including a five-pound handling fee."
The goblin's voice was clipped, professional, and only barely patient.
Tom's brow furrowed immediately.
"That's it?" he said, plainly dissatisfied. "Professor Dumbledore just told me most people can exchange around two hundred Galleons."
"Because times have changed."
Goblins had never been known for smiling at anyone who couldn't make them money. But Dumbledore standing there like a polite, terrifying landmark forced the goblin to keep his manners intact.
"Muggle currency is of little use to us. We exchange pounds every year and can't even spend it all. Gringotts must control the volume." The goblin's eyes narrowed, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "And don't call it 'little.' This is enough for you to live at Hogwarts for a full year."
He tilted his head with mild contempt.
"Two hundred Galleons? That was fifty years ago. Do you Muggles honestly think your money is still worth that much today?"
Tom opened his mouth, then paused, because Dumbledore let out a small cough that sounded suspiciously like embarrassment.
"I… apologize, Tom," Dumbledore said, looking about as uncomfortable as a man like him ever looked. "The last time I brought a student to Gringotts was more than forty years ago. I admit I'm not entirely up to date on the details."
Tom couldn't help it.
He rolled his eyes.
Forty years. From then to now, British prices had exploded. Doubled and doubled again, and then some. Honestly, by comparison, the goblins were almost… decent?
Almost.
Tom turned slightly, eyes bright, and decided to press while the iron was hot.
"Professor," he said very politely, "could you lend me some money?"
The moment the words left his mouth, even Tom admired his own shamelessness.
"These funds probably won't be enough if I want to buy extra books. I can pay in pounds, of course. Or, if you're patient, you can wait until I graduate and I'll repay you in Galleons. With interest."
Tom strongly preferred the second option.
Because if everything went according to the original story, by his sixth year Dumbledore would be dead. Which meant… free money.
Pure profit.
Dumbledore didn't seem to notice the dark little calculation happening behind Tom's innocent expression. He only smiled thoughtfully.
"Muggle currency isn't particularly useful to me," he said. "So yes. Repay me after you graduate. I look forward to that day."
Then, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he agreed.
Dumbledore had never been stingy about helping students, even financially. And in this case, he clearly felt responsible. His outdated assumption had created the misunderstanding. If Tom needed more, then more he would have.
He stood, adjusting his robe.
"Wait here for a moment. I'll withdraw the money for you. And handle a few personal matters while I'm at it."
With that, Dumbledore followed another goblin toward the vault lifts.
Tom's heart gave a quiet, uncomfortable jump.
Personal matters?
A thought surfaced so fast it almost made him laugh.
What if Dumbledore's personal matter was retrieving the Philosopher's Stone?
Tom remembered that in the original timeline, Hagrid was the one sent to collect it. But with Tom's existence changing the sequence of events, could the task have shifted to Dumbledore instead?
It didn't really concern Tom, not directly. Still, the possibility was interesting enough to chew on for a minute.
Then he let it go.
Instead, he struck up a conversation with the goblin left nearby, asking about an idea he'd been considering.
Could he exchange gold for Galleons?
The answer was yes.
And the moment Tom did the math, he felt the kind of pain usually reserved for taxes and betrayal.
At current rates, five pounds could buy roughly 0.8 grams of gold. And it took ten grams of gold to exchange for one Galleon.
That meant one Galleon effectively cost around sixty pounds.
A twelve-times markup, and then some.
"Gold Galleon" didn't mean "this is made of gold," either. It was goblin metal. Who knew what was actually in it. Probably secrets, spite, and something that would poison a normal forge.
Tom's enthusiasm for clever currency tricks died instantly.
His savings weren't deep enough to survive that kind of hemorrhage.
Better to earn money in the wizarding world and spend it in the wizarding world. Simple.
…
About half an hour later, Dumbledore returned to the main hall of Gringotts.
He carried a key and a small pouch.
He placed both into Tom's hands.
"Here are one hundred Galleons. And I've rented a vault for you as well. There are six hundred Galleons stored inside it."
Dumbledore's tone turned gently serious.
"One hundred Galleons per year. I hope you plan carefully how you use this."
Tom held the pouch. It felt heavier than it should, like it contained not just coins, but leverage. Possibility. Safety.
"Thank you, Professor," Tom said, perfectly sincere in his voice. "I promise I'll use your money well."
Inside, he was thinking something else entirely.
Eight hundred Galleons.
Eight hundred.
If he didn't buy luxury items like top-end brooms or custom robes, this would comfortably carry him through graduation.
Dumbledore blinked once, just slightly.
That sentence had sounded… a little odd.
Use your money well.
Not "use this money well," but your money, as if Dumbledore had already handed ownership over.
It was probably nothing.
Probably.
Dumbledore decided not to dwell on it. He cleared his throat and smiled.
"Then let's continue, Mr. Riddle. We still have quite a lot to buy."
They left Gringotts and moved through Diagon Alley, purchasing the required school supplies for the coming term. Uniforms. Textbooks. Scales. Cauldrons. The standard list that turned new students into broke students.
With Dumbledore accompanying him, shop owners were respectful to the point of nervousness. Some even offered discounts, eager to be seen favorably by the most famous headmaster alive.
Even so, by the end of the circuit Tom had spent over forty Galleons.
Without discounts, it would have been fifty.
And he still needed a wand.
That fixed expense would push the total to sixty-plus Galleons easily.
If Tom had been limited to the standard Gringotts exchange, he would be down to a handful of coins now. Surviving the school year wouldn't be impossible, since Hogwarts covered food and lodging, but it would be tight.
Tight enough to feel every purchase like a mistake.
Compared to Ron Weasley, whose yearly spending money might not even reach one Galleon, Tom would still look wealthy. But Tom wasn't aiming for "not starving."
He was aiming for advantage.
And there were books he wanted. A lot of them. He'd noticed titles on shelves that weren't on the Hogwarts list, each priced like it thought it was rare art. He planned to return later and buy them quietly.
Because with Dumbledore beside him, every choice felt… watched.
Tom didn't like that.
He didn't want his curiosity, his ambition, his shopping habits, to be "interpreted."
He also had no intention of stopping once he'd spent the one hundred Galleons in his pouch. The vault money would be used too, strategically.
Tom followed Dumbledore toward their final stop of the day and sighed internally.
"How does this world not come with a system?" he complained to himself. "No quests. No cheat codes. No pop-ups. Just me, raw effort, and the risk of being murdered by canon."
Without a system, he would have to learn everything the hard way.
So much for lying flat and enjoying reincarnation.
They reached a narrow, dusty storefront.
Ollivanders.
Tom stepped inside and instinctively held his breath, as if the act of opening the door might shake centuries of dust loose into his lungs.
A soft voice drifted from between the tall shelves.
"What a rare visitor, Albus," it said.
An old man emerged slowly from the shadows between towering cabinets, moving with a quiet, almost reverent grace, as if even his footsteps refused to disturb the wands sleeping around him.
"The last time you came to my shop was forty-eight years ago." His pale eyes gleamed. "It was summer then, too."
Dumbledore smiled helplessly.
"Garrick," he said, "please stop showing off your memory. It makes me jealous to the point of despair."
The old man laughed, light and pleased.
"My memory is only sharp when it concerns this shop and wands."
Garrick Ollivander stepped forward and gave Dumbledore a brief hug, then turned his attention to Tom.
His gaze swept over the boy slowly, measuring. Not his clothes, not his money, but something deeper. Something invisible.
"And this lucky young wizard," Ollivander said softly, "what is your name? To have Dumbledore as your guide… that is not common."
Tom didn't hesitate.
"Tom," he said.
Then, with the calm certainty of someone stating a fact that couldn't possibly hurt him, he added:
"Tom Riddle."
Thump.
Ollivander's knees hit the floor.
He stared up at Tom, eyes wide and empty, as if the name had struck him like a curse.
For a second, the shop was perfectly silent.
Then Dumbledore's voice cut in, low and sharp in a way Tom hadn't heard before.
"Garrick?"
Ollivander didn't answer.
He just kept staring at Tom, breathing shallowly, as though he'd seen a ghost walk in wearing a child's face.
And Tom, standing there with his new pouch of coins, suddenly felt the air turn cold.
Because if Ollivander recognized the name…
What else did he recognize?
And what, exactly, did he remember about the last Tom Riddle who came into this shop?