July 30th, 1991
For London—a city so often brooding beneath rainclouds and dreary skies—today was a rare blessing of sunshine.
A few soft, cotton-like clouds floated lazily across the sky, while warm, golden sunlight poured down unimpeded, carrying just the right hint of summer heat.
It was the kind of day that made you want to drag a lounge chair into the garden, stretch out lazily, and drift into a nap, soaking in the gift of good weather.
But moments like these were luxuries that only a lucky few could afford. Most people were far too busy struggling to stay afloat in this world with dignity and a little extra time on their hands.
Such was life in the borough of Lewisham, in South London.
Places like Chelsea and Kensington had long been taken over by nobility and blood-sucking bankers, while dock workers, blue-collar employees, and a large number of Caribbean immigrants were pushed into distant corners like this one.
People hurried down the streets, walking briskly as though a single missed step might cost them the chance to add one more brick to their boss's mansion or polish another luxury car.
But when they passed an old man on the pavement, even the most hurried pedestrians couldn't help but slow down and sneak a second glance.
The old man, rather than taking offense, would smile and nod politely in return. He walked with a spring in his step, even faster than many of the younger folks.
There was a reason he drew such attention: everything about him was unusual.
Tall and thin, with a beard and silver hair long enough to tuck into his belt, the man was dressed in a deep purple robe that brushed the ground as he walked. The fabric shimmered with quality, and embroidered upon it were glittering stars and crescent moons.
Perched on his nose was a pair of half-moon spectacles, behind which gleamed a pair of bright blue eyes—clear, sharp, and far too lively for someone his age.
After about half an hour of walking, the old man finally reached his destination: 23 Elm Avenue. A modest sign hung on the front door, reading "Lewisham Children's Home."
This was a tidy little neighborhood of white terraced houses. It was the middle of the workday, so the area was unusually quiet.
He rang the doorbell.
"Coming!"
A woman's voice called from inside, and within moments, the door creaked open. A middle-aged woman—somewhere in her forties—stood in the doorway, staring at the visitor for a full five seconds before hesitantly asking:
"You're… Professor Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled and nodded warmly. "Indeed I am. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You must be Miss Arman?"
"I received your reply and came today to ease any concerns you might have," he added gently.
Miss Arman managed a polite smile.
Though now I think I have even more concerns than before...
This get-up—could he really be a legitimate school headmaster?
Don't tell me he's senile...
But Dumbledore didn't offer any further explanations. His eyes had already begun scanning the interior of the house.
"Where is the boy?"
"Right this way, he's training in the backyard," Arman replied, stepping aside and leading him through the house.
By the 1990s, Britain had done away with most large, centralized orphanages. They'd been replaced by a foster system that encouraged families to adopt children.
Children's Homes like this one were more like temporary shelters—meant for children experiencing family trauma or psychological difficulties. Most stayed here for less than six months.
But exceptions did exist. Some children, like those unwilling to be adopted, could stay until they turned eighteen, with government support all the way through.
Arman was the administrator assigned to this home by the government. Everyone else who worked here did so as volunteers.
They stepped into the backyard.
Four boys, all around ten years old, were out there. One of them—a black-haired boy with dark eyes—was pounding away at a sandbag with worn-out boxing gloves. The sandbag, hung from a makeshift clothesline pole, swung wildly with each punch.
The boy was strikingly handsome. His eyes were intense, his nose sharp, and his features were so perfectly shaped they looked as though God Himself had carved him with special care.
"Tom!"
Arman called out. The boy stopped and looked over. She continued, "This is Professor Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to join his school."
"Thank you, Aunt Arman," Tom said politely, then turned to Dumbledore and offered a slight bow. "Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
"No need to be so formal, my boy," Dumbledore chuckled. He gestured toward the house. "If you don't mind, could we talk in your room?"
"Of course." Tom nodded without hesitation. He handed his gloves to another boy. "Seth, one thousand punches. No slacking."
"Yes, boss…" Seth groaned, slipping on the gloves.
As Dumbledore turned back to the house, he glanced over his shoulder. Seth had already started punching, throwing his whole body into every hit.
…
Upstairs, on the second floor, Tom led Dumbledore into his bedroom.
It was the master bedroom of the house—spacious, with its own private bathroom and walk-in closet.
A desk sat in one corner next to a tall bookshelf. Books lay neatly stacked on the table, while the shelves were lined with awards and trophies.
"Please, take a seat, Professor Dumbledore," Tom offered.
There was only one chair in the room. Dumbledore took it, a little awkwardly given its height, while Tom sat cross-legged on the bed.
"Let's do this properly, shall we?" Dumbledore said, smiling with that gentle warmth only the elderly seem to master. He didn't mind the uncomfortable chair in the slightest.
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here to offer you a place at our school and help you learn to control and master your magical abilities."
"I know, sir," Tom replied, clearing his throat. "I've read that letter more than fifty times."
"I'm Tom Riddle. As you already know, I'm an orphan. It's an honor to be invited to Hogwarts—especially by the Headmaster himself."
Tom Riddle...
Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes flickered, his thoughts drifting.
Tom Riddle. Orphan. Striking appearance. Dominant presence.
Every warning sign... glowing like a Christmas tree.