The Butterfly's Wings

In 1938, Dumbledore was not yet the headmaster of Hogwarts. Back then, he was merely a Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts, probably in his fifties. But that year, he did one insignificant thing that completely changed the future of the wizarding world.

He admitted the future Dark Lord, Voldemort, into Hogwarts, setting Tom Marvolo Riddle on the path of pursuing his ambitions.

Hoffa had read the original novels and had once been one of their fans. But he had never imagined that after dying, he would transmigrate into this world—into Britain in 1938, no less—and come face-to-face with one of this world's most popular wizards the moment he woke up.

He did not know what this meant, but after Mrs. Cole left the room, Hoffa had already backed into the corner. He watched Dumbledore, terrified that he might use Legilimency on him, or Obliviate.

Neither outcome was something he could accept. He had just experienced death and muddled memories, and his nerves were still stretched taut in a fragile state.

But Dumbledore did not do either. Clearly, there was only an interested gleam in his eyes. He was very curious about this orphanage child who knew his name.

He did not rush to speak to Hoffa. Instead, he took down the cat hanging from the ceiling, then leaned against the room's battered table and examined Hoffa with a smile.

"Muggles wouldn't know my name, Hoffa."

He had already remembered Hoffa's name.

"Oh." Hoffa answered stiffly. In his previous life, he had only been a teenager himself. Dumbledore was at least fifty-six now, and facing an old wizard who had lived so many years, he did not feel the slightest sense of superiority.

"You didn't even ask me what a Muggle was."

Dumbledore fixed Hoffa with cheerful blue eyes. "What is your full name, Hoffa?"

"Hoffa Bach."

Hoffa sighed and decided to tell the truth. Before someone on this level, all he could do was play the part of an honest child.

"Bach... That sounds like a family from France." Dumbledore pondered for a moment, then took out his wand and laid it flat across his knees.

Hoffa instinctively shrank back, his eyes filled with wary vigilance. He had recovered from his initial shock. Now, all he wanted was for Dumbledore to leave as soon as possible so he could sort out his thoughts and properly face his brand-new life.

Dumbledore keenly noticed Hoffa's fear, so he raised his wand and pointed it at him.

The wariness in Hoffa's eyes intensified. He took a step back, pressing himself tightly into the corner.

What is he doing? What is Dumbledore going to do to me?

Is it coming? A Memory Charm? The Imperius Curse?

His mind was in chaos.

Just as he was at his most tense—

Bang!

A glass on the table suddenly exploded, as though responding to Hoffa's anxiety.

Then—

Pfft!

With a popping noise like a cheap horn bursting, like a bargain Halloween party popper, several ribbons emerged from Dumbledore's wand. They drifted softly down from the air, accompanied by a few sparkling motes of light, and landed on Hoffa's face.

Hoffa stood frozen against the wall, letting the ribbons fall and catch on his head.

What was this? There was nothing like this in the original story. What was he supposed to do?

Dumbledore gave a light cough, put away his wand, and muttered, "Am I really that frightening?"

Hoffa said nothing. He looked at the glass on the table, then at Dumbledore's delighted expression. He was completely speechless.

"Did Beauxbatons send you an invitation, Hoffa?"

Hoffa silently shook his head.

"I see... I understand." Hoffa had no idea what he understood.

As he spoke, he stood and put his top hat on. Then he said gently to Hoffa, "Perhaps you should change your surroundings. And by the way, I like shorthair cats as well. Find a better place and bury the little fellow."

With that, he gave Hoffa a slight wink, turned, and walked out.

Only after Dumbledore left did Hoffa slowly slide down the wall and sit on the floor.

For a while, his brain seemed to have crashed. It took him quite some time to confirm his coordinates in time and space.

London, Britain, 1938. The same orphanage as Tom Riddle.

And what Dumbledore was about to do now was admit the future Dark Lord into school.

Before long, Hoffa heard faint clicking sounds coming from upstairs, as though a nest of rats were gnawing on a table. The sound was so soft that one would not notice it without listening carefully.

But it was not rats. Hoffa knew what it was.

In 1938, when Dumbledore recruited the eleven-year-old Tom Riddle into Hogwarts, he expressed his displeasure over Tom bullying the other children. At that moment, he used a burning wardrobe to intimidate Tom and forced the future Dark Lord into the only repentance of his life.

The story of Harry Potter was long, but if one had to say, perhaps this was the true beginning of the entire story.

After all, if Tom Riddle had not entered Hogwarts, he would not have become Voldemort. If Voldemort had not killed Harry Potter's parents, none of what came after would have happened.

And now, this historic moment was taking place directly above his head.

Faint voices drifted down from upstairs.

A boy: "I don't have any money!"

Dumbledore: "That is easily solved. Hogwarts has a fund specifically for those who need assistance buying textbooks and school robes. Some of your magic books may have to be bought secondhand, but..."

The boy: "Where do you buy magic books?"

Dumbledore: "In Diagon Alley. I brought your book list and school supplies list. I can help you buy everything..."

The boy: "You're going with me?"

Dumbledore: "Of course, if you..."

The boy: "I don't need..."

Five minutes later, the conversation ended, and the sound of a door closing came from upstairs.

Just as Hoffa thought Dumbledore and Voldemort's first meeting had ended like that, Dumbledore's voice came down once more.

"Oh, and the child whose room you took is also a wizard. If you know London well, I hope you can help him."

Tom Riddle let out a mocking laugh. "Hoffa? Him?"

Dumbledore did not reply again. He closed the door and left.

Downstairs, after hearing all this, Hoffa collapsed onto the bed completely. He did not know whether to laugh or cry. There was no doubt that he possessed magical talent. Dumbledore had just tested it in a way he had never expected.

Whatever he was like in the novels, the Dumbledore of this time was far more forceful and sharp than Hoffa had imagined. Perhaps it was because he was younger now.

And Voldemort was far more terrifying than Hoffa had imagined. His predecessor had already died, killed by eleven-year-old Tom Riddle over nothing more than a room. If Dumbledore knew he was dealing with an eleven-year-old murderer, he probably would never have admitted him to Hogwarts.

Lying spread-eagled on the bed, Hoffa sighed. Out of habit, he wanted to pull out his phone and send a WeChat message to complain about reality. But when he touched his pocket, his bitter smile deepened.

There were still more than seventy years until Steve Jobs released the iPhone 4. That guy was probably still a single-celled organism. He should give up on the idea of using a phone.

After sorting through his thoughts, Hoffa picked up the cat Tom Riddle had hanged and dug a pit in a corner of the orphanage to bury it.

Looking at the little mound piled up with a few pebbles, Hoffa pressed a hand to his chest and softly said, "I'll live well for your sake too."

Not long after, the orphanage announced that dinner was ready.

Hoffa adjusted his mindset, and the gloom vanished from his face. He had magical talent and would very likely attend Hogwarts. Wasn't that exactly what he had dreamed of as a child in his previous life? Since that was the case, what was there left to complain about?

On his plate was only a slightly yellowed piece of white bread, two slices of bacon, half a broccoli floret, and a glass of orange juice.

This was Hoffa's first meal in London in 1938. The orphanage food was not particularly good. It was only enough to keep the children from starving.

On top of that, British cooks were famously careless, and Hoffa found the bacon in his mouth exceptionally tough.

But before he could force himself to swallow the bacon, a plate was set heavily down across from him.

Clang!

Hoffa looked up with half a strip of bacon hanging from his mouth.

A tall boy stood there, with black hair, pale skin, and an exceptionally handsome face. At least, Hoffa thought he was much more handsome than Hoffa's appearance in this life. Hoffa was the ordinary boy-next-door type, while the other boy was the kind of handsome who would attract talent scouts once he grew up and walked down the street.

"Your forehead healed pretty quickly, Hoffa."

The boy narrowed his eyes and spoke softly, looking at him as though he were some novel toy.

Without question, this handsome boy before him was the famous Tom Marvolo Riddle. The genuine article. Voldemort, the most powerful dark wizard in European magical history. Fifty years later, no one would even dare speak his name.

Hoffa hated him.

No one would like a child who dared to murder at eleven, who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals. And this child would never repent.

But Hoffa was not afraid of him. At this point, he was not Voldemort yet. No matter how formidable he was, he was still only a child.

He swallowed the bacon in his mouth and slowly rose to his feet.

"Get lost, Tom."

Hoffa spoke calmly, his presence not losing to the other boy's in the slightest.

Tom froze. Then his face suddenly turned pale, and a trace of red flashed through his eyes. He looked like a savage beast.

But then something Hoffa did not expect happened. He did not rush over to beat him up, nor did he use magic. Instead, he smiled slightly and leaned closer, as though his previous viciousness had been nothing but an illusion.

"You and I are the same kind of person, Hoffa."

Pointing at the children eating dinner nearby, he said softly, "People unlike these idiots."

Hoffa was stunned.

All he could say was that this was indeed the young Voldemort, a future tyrant. Such a temperament was completely beyond that of an ordinary child. One moment he had pushed Hoffa off a cliff, and the next he came to build a relationship with him. No wonder he would later gather such a massive army of Death Eaters.

To be honest, if Hoffa had not known a little about the future, he might really have been fooled by that infectious smile.

Tom said, "If you're willing to be my friend, I can take you somewhere amazing."

After saying that, he even extended his left hand toward Hoffa with a pleasant smile.

But Hoffa merely sneered at the hand suspended in the air.

"I'll go to Hogwarts on my own, but I won't shake the dirty hand of someone who kills innocent animals."

The moment he finished speaking, Tom Riddle's small face filled with hatred.

Every lightbulb on the orphanage ceiling flickered. The air suddenly tightened, and the orange juice in every child's plate nearby burst apart. Cries immediately erupted everywhere!

Hoffa frowned. What an intense magical disturbance. Although he had not yet come into contact with magic, he could still sense the terrifying talent within the other boy purely by instinct.

Hoffa's face turned pale, but he did not retreat in the slightest. In his previous life, he had only been an ordinary person. But he was also an ordinary person with his own principles. Let alone someone destined to fail—Hoffa would never shake his hand even if he were destined to succeed.

The hand withdrew.

The ceiling lights returned to normal.

Mrs. Cole rushed into the hall in a panic and began soothing the crying children.

By then, Tom had returned to normal.

"I'll be watching you, Hoffa." He spoke lightly, then turned and left.

His words were calm, but the killing intent behind them was naked and undisguised.

Hoffa gave a cold snort, shook his head, and tossed the remaining strip of bacon from his plate into his mouth.

Offending the Dark Lord on the first day after being reborn—he was really courting death!!

To be honest, Hoffa did not like offending people. The traditional Eastern upbringing from his previous life had taught him the importance of keeping a low profile, but that was precisely why he had been so eager to distance himself from Voldemort.

Picking the right side and quietly making a fortune was the true way forward. Unlike Voldemort, who carried enormous ambition and openly set himself against the world.

Even with talent a hundred times greater, the result would still be getting taken down. It would be the same even without Harry Potter.

At that thought, Hoffa could not help shuddering again.

Although Voldemort was destined to fail, Hoffa had no desire to become a casualty of a wizarding war.

This was not the era when Harry was born. His father had not even been born yet. Hoffa had no way to ride the protagonist's plot armor and tag along behind the Savior. Much less understand the course of history and pick up opportunities everywhere.

The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Prisoner of Azkaban—those were all things from half a century later...

Right now, he was completely in the dark.

The road ahead was nothing but chaos.