Oliver Twist

The waves of the River Thames crashed against the rocks, sending up layer upon layer of spray.

The sky was mottled with gloomy gray mist. In the distance, Big Ben stood tall amid the thick industrial smoke, looking no different from how it would fifty years later.

London, 1938. Wool's Orphanage.

It was a square, gloomy, old-fashioned building.

The orphanage's origins were lost to time. Some said it had been built to help the children of soldiers killed in World War I; others claimed it had once been a medieval church where victims of the Black Death were held. The many conflicting stories about its origins proved only one thing.

This place was a dump.

Wires crisscrossed the sky, and buildings stood haphazardly on the gray stone ground, utterly devoid of beauty.

A huge iron gate completely cut the orphanage off from the busy streets outside. Foul white smoke hung over the ground, and water bubbled out through a rusted manhole cover. Even the rainwater got backed up at the mouths of the drains.

A room in the orphanage basement.

A little boy lay with his eyes closed, apparently asleep.

He was about eleven, with short black hair and pale skin. His slightly mixed-race features were rather delicate, but a bruised and swollen forehead completely marred his appearance.

He lay on the bed, twitching from time to time as if in terrible pain.

Knock, knock.

Outside the door, someone knocked politely, but the boy didn't wake.

After a while.

Knock, knock, knock!

The knocking grew louder.

Hoffa woke from a nightmare. He sat bolt upright and felt his head, then checked his crotch. Only after making sure all his parts were still there did he breathe a sigh of relief.

He was still alive.

He sniffed and caught a whiff of sour, moldy air.

The scene before him wasn't a movie theater blazing with the light of an explosion. It was a filthy, dim room.

Hoffa stared in shock at his own hands. They were pale and slender.

Suddenly, a sharp pain surged through his forehead. His eyes rolled back, and he dropped straight down again. In his fading awareness, he heard the knocking outside grow more urgent.

He didn't know how long it took before Hoffa slowly recovered from the pain.

A set of memories that didn't belong to him had appeared in his mind.

His name was still Hoffa, but he was no longer the Hoffa from Earth. That Hoffa had been an ordinary high school student from China, all alone in the world. He had no house, no car, and no money. His only hobby was saving up to buy books and watch movies.

But while watching an IMAX movie, the theater had suddenly exploded, and he had ended up in this godforsaken place.

His full name now was Hoffa Bach.

He was an utterly ordinary child who had grown up in an orphanage.

The few memories that remained told him that the original owner of this body had been tricked into going to a seaside cave during an orphanage picnic. He had fallen off a cliff into the icy water. By the time he was carried back to the orphanage, he was already at death's door, allowing Hoffa to take over his body.

All the child remembered was London's streets, flooded with filthy water. He had never been anywhere else. He didn't know what telephones or computers were, or what the internet was. All he had ever seen were old cars belching black smoke and the black umbrellas that were everywhere...

Hoffa racked his brain, trying to scrape together anything useful for surviving from the broken fragments of memory.

He shook his head, and a few scattered memories surfaced again.

His father in this life had been a native of China. He had fled the turmoil and come to Europe, only to die in a foreign land during World War I.

The surname Bach after his name probably came from a foreign mother.

But Hoffa had absolutely no memories of her.

"An orphan... I've actually transmigrated!"

Hoffa rubbed his head and let out a breath. He didn't mind transmigrating; he hadn't had much to leave behind in his previous life anyway. But this starting hand was a little too lousy.

He took a closer look at his surroundings.

A filthy bed, a rickety wooden table, and a few faded posters of soldiers on the wall.

And a British shorthair cat hanging from the ceiling.

That's right, the cat was hanging stiffly from the ceiling, dead in a pitiful state.

The cat's name surfaced in Hoffa's mind.

Ado.

It had been the original owner's best friend.

A strange anger welled up inside him, along with a deep hatred. Who had done this? Who had hanged an innocent, pitiful cat here, right in front of its owner?

Before he could search his memories for the culprit...

There came a soft knock at the door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Click!

Suddenly, the tightly shut door flew open with a bang, as if someone had kicked it hard.

Hoffa jumped back in fright.

Two people stood outside, a man and a woman.

He knew the woman very well. The moment he saw her, her identity came to him from his memories.

It was Mrs. Cole.

The administrator of Wool's Orphanage, a gaunt woman who was always a little anxious.

Standing beside her was a very unexpected guest.

He was a peculiar old gentleman, or so Hoffa could only think. His appearance didn't fit the surroundings at all. He had blue eyes and a long nose that looked as if it had been broken before. His reddish-brown beard and long hair were neatly tied back. He wore a finely tailored velvet suit and held a cane and a top hat.

Hoffa had no doubt the suit had been made on Savile Row, but that wasn't what surprised him most about the old gentleman.

It was his beard and hair. Hoffa had the strange feeling that the man looked familiar.

"Tom, someone is here to see you..."

Mrs. Cole said casually, but the next moment she leaped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"Wait a minute, what are you doing here? Hoffa! Did he steal your room?"

Hoffa was still trying to figure out who the familiar old man was, and it took him a while to register what Mrs. Cole had said.

The old man had already entered the room. He glanced around and sighed at the sight of the hanged cat. Then he stopped in front of Hoffa and looked at him calmly with the deep blue eyes beneath his long nose.

Then he held out a long finger and gently brushed the bruise on Hoffa's forehead.

"Poor child..."

Hoffa felt the wound on his forehead begin to heal. A flash of lightning passed through his mind, and he looked at the plaque on the door in disbelief.

Crooked English letters spelled out:

[Tom Marvolo Riddle]

Holy crap! H-Harry Potter's world?

I was Voldemort!?

Hoffa's mind was in a muddle, but he soon realized he had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

He was Hoffa, just in Voldemort's room. He immediately understood why from his memories.

This was an orphanage. In his previous life, he had been a well-behaved child who was quite loved by the orphanage's administrator. His room was on the first floor, where it got sunlight. Tom's room, on the other hand, was in the basement.

Tom Riddle—the young Voldemort—had coveted his room, so he had tricked Hoffa into going to the cave. When threats had failed to work, he had pushed Hoffa off the cliff.

Before he could dwell on his previous self's tragic fate, all kinds of jumbled information—about the world, the time period, the story—flooded his mind. Hoffa's eyes grew wider and wider.

The old man treated Hoffa's wound a little, then turned to Mrs. Cole and sighed. "Take me to see Tom."

Mrs. Cole nodded and prepared to lead him out.

The two of them reached the door. At last, Hoffa came to his senses and pointed at the old man's back, almost blurting out the name.

"D-D-Dumble..."

Dumbledore, his beard reddish-brown, turned around in surprise. Several lines creased his forehead, and his blue eyes widened.

The air fell quiet.

Hoffa hurriedly covered his mouth. Damn it! He still wasn't careful enough. He'd been so shocked that he hadn't been able to control himself.

After all, the man before him was one of the world's most powerful wizards. He had a hundred ways to uncover Hoffa's secret. Veritaserum, the Imperius Curse... Hoffa thought Dumbledore probably wouldn't stoop to using those methods, but it was always best to be careful.

If anyone discovered that he had taken over someone else's body, heaven knew what this mysterious magical world would do to him.

But Dumbledore had no intention of letting Hoffa off the hook. He asked softly, "Have we met before?"

Hoffa covered his mouth and shook his head like a rattle drum.

"Then how do you know my name?"

As he spoke, Dumbledore took a step closer.

Hoffa took a step back.

Dumbledore was taken aback. He politely turned to Mrs. Cole and said, "Please wait a moment. I'd like to speak with this child alone, too."