July 30, 1991, London.
The heavens had dozed off and forgotten to tuck London beneath a blanket of clouds. A few clouds sprawled across the sky, and the sun was warm enough to coax the lazy bugs from between your bones to bask in the light. On a day like this, all you wanted was to find a corner and spread yourself out like a cat-shaped pancake.
Unfortunately, not many people could afford to laze around like that. Most still had to work for tomorrow's bread.
That was just how Lewisham, in south London, was: dockworkers, office workers, and Caribbean immigrants could only squeeze into neighborhoods on the outskirts, where everyone hurried along as though a dog were chasing them.
Yet whenever they passed an old man, they couldn't help slowing down.
The old man smiled and nodded, his steps light as could be, his silver-white beard fluttering in the breeze.
He was impossible to miss: tall and thin, with silver hair and a beard long enough to braid. His purple robes trailed along the ground, embroidered with stars and moons, as if he'd put on an entire planetarium. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes shone far too brightly for a man his age.
After walking for about an hour and turning down three passersby who asked if he was filming a movie, the old man stopped in front of a house. The sign read: 23 Elm Street, Lewisham Children's Home.
He rang the doorbell.
"Coming!"
The door opened. When a middle-aged woman in her forties saw him, her eyes widened until they were bigger than the dishcloth in her hand. "You... must be Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled and nodded. "I am. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Ms. Arman?"
Arman managed a strained smile, her doubts swelling like rising dough. That getup... could he really be a proper headmaster?
Dumbledore didn't elaborate. He peered into the house. "Where's the boy?"
"He's exercising in the backyard. Follow me." Arman stepped aside and led the way, wondering whether she ought to call the police.
By the 1990s, old-fashioned orphanages with dormitory-style sleeping quarters were no longer allowed in Britain. Foster families were all the rage now. Children's homes were more like temporary shelters for kids whose families were having problems or who were struggling emotionally. Most stayed less than six months—though some did refuse to leave.
Arman had been sent by the government to run this place. Everyone else was a volunteer, and their main job was to keep the children from tearing the house apart.
They passed through the living room and reached the backyard.
Four boys, all around ten years old, were in the yard. One of them, a black-haired, black-eyed boy, was wearing an old pair of boxing gloves and punching a sandbag. It swung back and forth, letting out pitiful thumps.
The boy was exceptionally handsome, if you ignored his current grimace.
"Tom!" Arman called.
The boy stopped and turned to look at her, sweat beading on his forehead.
"This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to study at his school."
"Thank you, Aunt Arman." Tom bowed to Dumbledore. "Hello, Headmaster. Sorry, I'm a bit... sweaty." He wiped his forehead, only to smear sweat into his eye, and immediately squeezed one eye shut.
"Relax, my boy." Dumbledore smiled and pointed toward the house. "Would you mind if we talked in your room? I think Mr. Sandbag could use a rest."
"Of course." Tom handed his gloves to a boy beside him. "Seth, a thousand punches. Don't slack off. Miss one, and I'm taking your chicken leg at dinner."
"Yes, boss." Seth took them with a pained expression.
Before turning away, Dumbledore glanced back. Seth had already put on the gloves and was pounding the sandbag with all his might, baring his teeth with every punch.
Tom's room, on the second floor.
The room had once been the master bedroom. A desk and bookcase stood against the wall, books were spread across the desk, and certificates and trophies lined the shelves.
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Dumbledore." There was only one chair in the room. Tom gestured for the old man to take it, then sat on the edge of the bed and casually tucked a grinning skull-shaped cushion beneath the covers.
"My boy, let's introduce ourselves properly." The chair was a little too low for Dumbledore, and the hem of his robe pooled on the floor like a purple mushroom cloud, but he didn't seem to mind. "I'm Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. I'd like to extend a sincere invitation for you to attend Hogwarts and learn how to control and master the magic you were born with."
"I know, sir. I've read that letter at least fifty times." Tom cleared his throat. "I'm Tom Riddle, as you can see, an orphan. I'm very honored to have received an invitation from Hogwarts, especially with the Headmaster himself coming to see me." As he spoke, he accidentally knocked over an empty soda can by the bed. It clattered to the floor.
Tom Riddle... For a moment, the old man's eyes grew distant.
Tom Riddle, an orphan, handsome, and clearly the leader among these children. Put all those things together... Countless "coincidences" flashed through Dumbledore's mind, before settling on a hooded figure with no nose. He quickly shook the image away.
Dumbledore had been through too much in his life to jump to conclusions. No matter how many similarities there were, they could still be explained as "coincidences." He wouldn't make assumptions just because of the same name and a similar background—even if the boy might have a skull-shaped cushion hidden under his bed.
He was distracted for only a few seconds before returning to normal. Looking at the polite smile Tom was struggling to maintain, he stroked his beard. "Mr. Riddle, I wouldn't go so far as to call it an honor. But it certainly is a... remarkable coincidence." He paused. "Like finding celery that dances by itself in a Muggle supermarket."
"We have a Potions Professor at our school. Normally, this would be his job, but unfortunately, he's brewing an urgent potion and can't get away. Still, you'll have a chance to meet him. He's a true Potions Master—though his temper is like the bottom of a scorched cauldron."
Dumbledore changed the subject, his blue eyes studying Tom through his half-moon spectacles. "That said, Mr. Riddle, you're a rather unusual new student yourself. My colleagues and I have brought many students from Muggle families to Hogwarts, so we have plenty of experience. But I've never seen a child accept the existence of magic as calmly and so quickly as you have. Usually, we have to resort to a few little tricks to convince them we're not con artists. For example—"
He snapped his fingers. The sound was as crisp as a bite into an apple.
The books scattered across the desk immediately moved by themselves, stacking neatly in a pile. The one on top, How to Become a Social Butterfly in a Week, even obligingly turned its spine outward.
"Mr. Riddle, did you never suspect that this might be a scam?" Dumbledore asked with a blink. "That I might be a retired circus magician, trying to trick children into buying magic tricks?"
Tom didn't shy away from Dumbledore's question. He met the old man's bright blue eyes head-on and held out his hand—not to shake, but palm-up, his expression earnest.
"To tell you the truth, Headmaster, my first thought was... where did you buy that robe? The fabric's really nice."
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