Orphan of the Fog

The waves of the River Thames slapped against the rocks, churning up layers of spray.

The sky was mottled with gloomy grey fog. In the distance, the towering Big Ben stood amidst the thick industrial smoke, exactly as it would look fifty years later.

1938, London, Wool's Orphanage.

It was a square, gloomy, and rigid building.

The origins of the orphanage were untraceable. Some said it was built to help the children of soldiers who died in World War I, while others claimed it was a place where medieval churches once held plague victims. The conflicting stories only proved one thing.

It was a dump.

Dense tangles of wires crisscrossed the sky, and houses were piled in a jumbled mess on the grey stone ground, devoid of any aesthetic appeal.

A large iron gate completely isolated this place from the busy streets outside. Foul-smelling white smoke permeated the ground, and rusted manhole covers bubbled with steam; even rainwater would clog up before the sewer grates.

In a basement room of the orphanage.

A young boy lay with his eyes tightly shut, seemingly asleep.

He was only about eleven years old, with short black hair and pale skin. His face, which carried a hint of mixed-race features, was quite delicate, though a bruised forehead completely ruined his appearance.

He lay on the bed, twitching from time to time as if enduring great pain.

Knock, knock.

Polite knocking sounded outside the door, but the boy did not wake.

A moment later.

Knock, knock, knock!!

The knocking grew louder.

Hoffa woke from a nightmare. He sat up abruptly and touched his head, then his crotch. Finding that no parts were missing, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He was still alive.

He sniffed and caught the scent of sour, rotten mold.

Before him was not the fiery scene of an exploding cinema, but a dirty, dim room.

Hoffa looked at his palms in shock; they were fair and thin.

Suddenly, a sharp pain surged in his forehead. He rolled his eyes back and fell straight down again. In a haze, he heard the knocking outside sounding somewhat urgent.

He did not know how much time had passed before Hoffa slowly recovered from the pain.

His brain now held a portion of memories that did not belong to him.

He was still called Hoffa, but he was no longer the Hoffa from Earth. The Hoffa from Earth had been an ordinary high school student in China, a loner. He had no house, no car, and no money; his only hobby was saving up to buy books and watch movies.

But just as he was watching an IMAX movie, the cinema suddenly exploded, and he ended up in this godforsaken place.

His full name was now Hoffa Bach.

He was a child raised in an orphanage, as ordinary as they came.

Some residual memories told him that the original owner of this body had been tricked into a seaside cave during a picnic organized by the orphanage, fell off a cliff, and plunged into the icy seawater. By the time he was carried back to the orphanage, he was already at death's door, which allowed Hoffa to take his place.

Everything in this child's memory consisted of London's sewage-filled streets. Apart from that, he had never been anywhere else. He did not know what telephones or computers were, nor did he know about the internet. He had only seen the old cars belching black smoke on the street and the black umbrellas visible everywhere...

Hoffa thought hard, trying to scrape some survival-related information from his fragmented memories.

He shook his head, and some sporadic memory fragments surfaced once more.

The father of this life had been a native Chinese man, one who had come to Europe to escape the war but died in a foreign land during World War I.

The surname Bach he carried likely had something to do with a foreign mother.

However, there was absolutely no memory of his mother in Hoffa's mind.

"An orphan... I actually transmigrated!"

Hoffa rubbed his head and let out a foul breath. He did not care about the transmigration—after all, he had no attachments in his past life—but this starting setup was a bit too pathetic.

He examined his surroundings more carefully.

A filthy bed, a broken wooden table, and a few faded soldier posters on the wall.

And a British Shorthair blue cat hanging from the ceiling.

That was right; the cat was hanging straight and stiff from the ceiling, looking miserable.

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

Ado.

It was the best friend of the previous owner of this body.

An inexplicable rage welled up in his heart. Hoffa felt a sense of extreme loathing. Who could it be? To hang an innocent, poor cat here, and right in front of its owner!

Before he could search his memories for the culprit.

Outside the door, there was a light tapping and the sound of a key in the lock.

Click!

Suddenly, the tightly closed door popped open with a bang, as if someone had given it a heavy kick.

Hoffa recoiled in fright.

Two people stood outside, a man and a woman.

He was very familiar with the woman; the moment Hoffa saw her, he pulled her identity from his memory.

It was Mrs. Cole.

The matron of Wool's Orphanage, a gaunt, perpetually anxious woman.

And standing beside her was a very unexpected visitor.

He was a strange old gentleman, or so Hoffa thought. The man's attire was completely out of place in this environment. He had blue eyes and a long nose that looked as if it had been broken before. His auburn hair and beard were neatly groomed, and he wore an exquisite velvet suit, holding a cane and a top hat in his hands.

Hoffa did not doubt that the suit was tailored on Savile Row, yet what surprised him most was not the old gentleman's attire.

It was his beard and hair; he felt this person looked strangely familiar.

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

The gaunt Mrs. Cole said nonchalantly, but then she jumped like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

"Wait a minute, why is it you? Hoffa! Did he steal your room?"

Hoffa was still wondering who the familiar old man was and did not react to Mrs. Cole's words for a long time.

The old man had already walked into the room, looked around, and sighed before the hanging cat. He stood before Hoffa, his deep blue eyes under his long nose looking at Hoffa calmly.

Then, he reached out his long fingers and gently stroked the bruise on Hoffa's forehead.

"Poor child..."

He felt the wound on his forehead beginning to heal. A bolt of lightning flashed through Hoffa's mind, and he looked at the doorplate on the room in disbelief.

It was written in crooked English:

[Tom Marvolo Riddle]

Holy crap! The world of... Harry Potter?

Am I Voldemort!?

Hoffa's brain was in a state of chaos for a moment, but soon, he realized he was overthinking things.

He was Hoffa, just staying in Voldemort's room. As for the reason, he immediately knew from his memories.

This was an orphanage. His previous self had been a well-behaved child who was favored by the matron. His room was on the first floor where he could get sunlight, while Tom's room was in the basement.

Tom Riddle, the young Voldemort, had coveted his room, so he tricked him into the cave. After failing to intimidate him, he pushed Hoffa off the cliff.

Before he could dwell on the tragic fate of his predecessor, information regarding the world, the era, and the story surged into his brain. Hoffa's eyes grew wider and wider.

The old man finished treating Hoffa's wound, turned to look at Mrs. Cole, and sighed, "Take me to see Tom."

Mrs. Cole nodded and prepared to lead him away.

As the two reached the door, Hoffa finally reacted. He pointed at the old man's back, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"Dum... Dum... Dumble..."

Dumbledore, with his auburn beard, turned around in surprise, his forehead creasing into several lines, his blue eyes widening.

The air grew quiet.

Hoffa quickly covered his mouth. Damn it! He still wasn't careful enough. He hadn't been able to control his mouth in his shock.

He had to remember that this man was the world's top wizard, who had a hundred ways to expose his secrets. Veritaserum, Legilimency... although he felt Dumbledore probably wouldn't stoop to such methods, being careful was always the right choice.

If it were discovered that he had possessed this body, who knew how this mysterious magical world would deal with him.

But Dumbledore did not intend to let Hoffa go. He asked softly, "Have we met?"

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

"Then how did you know my name?"

As he spoke, Dumbledore took a step forward.

Hoffa took a step back.

Dumbledore was speechless. He politely turned his head to Mrs. Cole and said, "Wait a moment, I would like to have a private word with this child as well."