July 30, 1991
For London, a city usually cloaked in drizzle and gloom, today was an exception. The sun, that rare guest, spilled warm rays across the city, as if mocking the gray clouds that normally ruled the skies. The streets glistened with sunlight, dotted with cotton-white clouds drifting lazily above.
On such a day, most people would want nothing more than to set out a lounge chair, sip tea, and nap in the yard. Unfortunately, very few had the luxury of leisure. The majority were too busy struggling for survival, trying to keep a place in this relentless world.
This was especially true in Lewisham, South London—a working-class area where dreams were small, paychecks were smaller, and everyone hurried about as if chased by invisible whips.
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A Strange Old Man Appears
As pedestrians rushed past, their heads down, they couldn't help slowing when they saw him. Heads turned, whispers followed. Yet the old man seemed unfazed, smiling and nodding as if every glance was a friendly greeting.
He walked briskly, with surprising energy, even overtaking some younger men on the pavement. What drew such attention wasn't just his vigor, but his eccentric appearance:
He was tall and thin, with silver hair and beard so long they could be tucked into his belt.
His robe was a shimmering purple, embroidered with stars and moons, trailing across the pavement as though he had walked out of a storybook.
Behind his crescent-shaped glasses gleamed a pair of bright blue eyes—clear, piercing, and unnervingly youthful.
This peculiar figure was none other than Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts.
After half an hour of walking, he stopped before a neat townhouse with a sign above the door:
"Lewisham Children's Home"
The bell rang.
"Coming!" called a voice inside.
The door opened to reveal Ms. Arman, the manager of the home, a middle-aged woman with cautious eyes. For a moment, she froze, staring at the bearded wizard in the extravagant robe.
"You are… Headmaster Dumbledore?" she asked hesitantly, as if suspecting she had just opened the door to a lunatic.
"Yes," Dumbledore said kindly, bowing his head. "Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Ms. Arman?"
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Ms. Arman's Doubts
"I received your reply," Dumbledore continued smoothly. "I've come to answer your questions and clear any doubts."
Arman forced a smile. In truth, her doubts were multiplying faster than weeds.
Strange clothes? Long beard? Sparkling robe? Can this man really be a headmaster? Or has someone's grandfather escaped from a costume party?
Still, politeness prevailed. She stepped aside. "He's exercising in the backyard. Please follow me."
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Life in the Home
By the 1990s, large orphanages in Britain had been phased out in favor of foster care. Children's homes like this one served as temporary shelters for kids facing family troubles. Most stayed no longer than six months.
But there were exceptions. Some children—those unwilling to be adopted—remained until eighteen, living off government subsidies. Tom Riddle was one such exception.
Ms. Arman, assigned by the government, ran the place with the help of volunteers.
She led Dumbledore through the tidy house and out into the backyard.
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Meeting the Boy
Four boys were in the yard, all about ten years old. One boy immediately caught the eye.
He had black hair, black eyes, and wore worn-out boxing gloves. His fists pounded a sandbag tied to a clothesline, each strike making the bag sway violently.
The boy's features were strikingly handsome: bright eyes, a straight nose, and sharp, delicate lines as though sculpted by God himself.
"Tom!" Arman called. The boy stopped mid-punch, turned, and wiped sweat from his brow.
"This is Headmaster Dumbledore," Arman introduced. "He's come to invite you to join his school."
"Thank you, Auntie Arman," Tom said politely. He turned to Dumbledore and bowed slightly. "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Be more casual, child," Dumbledore chuckled warmly. "If you don't mind, shall we speak in your room?"
"No problem." Tom handed his gloves to another boy. "Seth, one thousand punches. No slacking."
"Yes, Boss," Seth replied grimly, already slipping on the gloves with determination.
As Dumbledore followed Tom back inside, he glanced over his shoulder. Seth was already throwing punches with fierce concentration. A loyal lieutenant, clearly, Dumbledore thought.
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The Room of Tom Riddle
Upstairs, Tom opened the door to his room. Unlike the cramped spaces one expected in a children's home, this was the master bedroom—large, with its own bathroom and dressing room.
A neat desk stood in the corner, stacked with books. A shelf beside it overflowed with certificates and trophies, silent witnesses to Tom's talents.
"Please, sit down, Mr. Dumbledore," Tom said politely, motioning to the single chair.
Dumbledore settled into it, though it felt awkwardly small for his tall frame. Tom himself sat on the bed, composed and watchful.
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A Conversation of Destiny
"Let us introduce ourselves properly," Dumbledore began, smiling with grandfatherly warmth.
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I've come to invite you to study with us—where you will learn to control and master the power of magic."
"I know, sir," Tom replied calmly. "I've read the letter fifty times."
He straightened his back, his tone polite yet strangely commanding for a child his age.
"I am Tom Riddle. As you can see, I am an orphan. It is my honor to attend Hogwarts—and to be personally guided by the Headmaster himself."
The name struck Dumbledore like a spell.
Tom Riddle.
The headmaster's pupils dilated, his bright eyes clouding for a moment. He studied the boy's sharp features, his controlled tone, and the commanding presence that seemed far too strong for a ten-year-old.
An orphan. Handsome. Intelligent. Already a leader among the other children.
Tom Riddle… what fate lies ahead for you?
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