July 30, 1991.
For London, a city perpetually gloomy and seemingly always on the verge of rain, today was a rare sunny day.
The sky was dotted with a few soft white clouds, and warm sunlight, carrying a hint of summer heat, poured down unhindered.
The cozy atmosphere made one want to put a lounge chair in the yard, take a comfortable nap, and enjoy this hard-won good weather.
However, only a select few had the opportunity to enjoy such a leisurely life. Most people needed to work hard simply to survive longer and more decently in this world.
This was the reality in the Lewisham area of South London.
Central areas like Chelsea and Kensington had been occupied by aristocratic gentlemen and financial vampires. Most dockworkers, ordinary wage earners, and a large number of Caribbean immigrants could only live in such outlying areas.
Pedestrians on the street walked hurriedly, fearing that if they were a step slower, they might miss a chance to contribute further to their boss's luxury houses and cars.
Yet, as they passed a particular old man, they couldn't help but slow down and glance back.
The old man did not seem offended by this; instead, he smiled and nodded in greeting. His steps were brisk, even surpassing the pace of many younger people.
The reason for his conspicuousness was his unique appearance and attire.
The old man was tall and thin, with a silver beard and hair so long they could be tucked into his belt. He wore a purple robe that dragged on the ground. The fabric was obviously expensive, embroidered with dazzling stars and moons. Behind his half-moon spectacles shone a pair of bright, penetrating blue eyes—a sharpness that belied his age.
After walking for about half an hour, the old man arrived at his destination: 23 Elm Avenue. The words "Lewisham Children's Home" were displayed on the door.
It was a clean and tidy residential area with white townhouses lining both sides of the road. As it was working hours, the area was very quiet.
The doorbell rang.
"Coming!"
The old man didn't have to wait long before a response came from inside. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman in her forties. She stared at the old man for a good five seconds before asking uncertainly:
"You are... Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled and nodded, confirming his identity: "Yes, I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Ms. Armand, correct?"
"I received your reply. I came here today to address your doubts."
Armand forced a smile.
I feel like the doubts in my heart are only growing deeper. What should I do?
Dressed so strangely, can he really be a proper headmaster?
Could he have Alzheimer's?
However, Dumbledore did not intend to explain himself further. Instead, he peered into the room.
"Where is the child?"
"Come with me, he's exercising in the backyard."
Armand stepped aside to make way and led the old man inside.
By the 1990s, large centralized orphanages in the UK had largely been abolished, replaced by a family foster care system that encouraged citizens to adopt orphans.
The children's home now functioned more as temporary housing for children with family conflicts or psychological problems. Most stayed for no more than six months.
However, there were exceptions. Orphans who did not wish to be adopted could live here until they were 18 years old, continuing to receive government subsidies.
Armand was the government-appointed manager of this children's home. Aside from her, all staff were volunteers.
Crossing through the living area, Dumbledore followed Armand to the villa's backyard.
There were four children in the backyard, all boys around ten years old. One boy with black hair and black eyes was wearing worn boxing gloves, throwing continuous punches that shook the sandbag hanging from the clothesline.
The boy was strikingly handsome, with bright eyes, a straight nose, and delicate features—like the most perfect sculpture carved by God himself.
"Tom!"
Armand called out. When the boy stopped and looked over, she continued, "This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to join their school."
"Thank you, Auntie Armand."
Tom thanked her and then bowed slightly to Dumbledore. "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Be at ease, child." Dumbledore smiled and gestured towards the house. "If you don't mind, could we talk in your bedroom?"
"No problem." Tom agreed readily and handed the gloves to another boy. "Seth, one thousand punches. No slacking off."
"Yes, boss."
Seth nodded with a grimace.
As Dumbledore re-entered the house, he glanced back and saw Seth had already put on the gloves and started practicing, putting all his strength into every punch.
...
On the second floor, Tom led Dumbledore to his room.
The room he occupied was the master bedroom of the house, quite spacious. In addition to the bedroom, it had a private bathroom and dressing room—a complete suite.
A table and a row of bookshelves stood against the wall in one corner. Many books were piled on the table, and the shelves were filled with various awards and trophies.
"Please have a seat, Mr. Dumbledore."
There was only one chair in the room. Tom gestured for Dumbledore to sit there while he himself sat on the bed.
"My boy, let's formally introduce ourselves again."
The chair was a bit low for Dumbledore, and he felt somewhat cramped sitting in it, but he didn't mind at all. A kindly smile, unique to elderly gentlemen, graced his face as he said softly:
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to cordially invite you to study at Hogwarts and to help you control and master the power of magic."
"I know, sir. I've read that letter no less than fifty times."
Tom cleared his throat. "I am Tom Riddle. As you can see, I am an orphan. I am honored to attend Hogwarts and to be personally guided by the headmaster himself."
Tom Riddle...
The old man's bright pupils dilated slightly, and his expression grew distant.
Tom Riddle. An orphan. Extraordinarily handsome. Domineering presence.
Could this combination of elements be any more loaded?
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Dumbledore had experienced so many twists and turns in his long life. While this situation had many overlapping factors, it could ultimately be chalked up to coincidence.
He would not arbitrarily label a student simply because they shared a name or had a similar background to another.
Dumbledore's distraction lasted only a few seconds before he returned to normal. Looking at Tom, who still wore a polite smile, he stroked his beard to cover his momentary lapse and said gently, "Mr. Riddle, it's not so much an honor, but it is indeed a wonderful fate."
"We have a very busy Potions Professor. He was supposed to be your guide, but unfortunately, a potion he is brewing has reached a critical stage, and he cannot leave. So I, an old man, must trouble you with this visit instead."
"But you will have the chance to meet him someday. He is an absolute master of potions, and learning from him will benefit you greatly."
"Actually, Mr. Riddle, you are also a very special new student."
Dumbledore changed the subject, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "My colleagues and I have extensive experience in welcoming Muggle-born new students to Hogwarts."
"You are the first child I've known who accepted the existence of magic so readily. Usually, we have to perform a few tricks to make them believe us. Like this."
Dumbledore snapped his fingers. The books scattered on the desk immediately began to move, quickly arranging themselves into a neat stack.
"Mr. Riddle, don't you suspect that magic might be some kind of trick?"
Faced with Dumbledore's probing question, Tom looked directly into the old man's blue eyes without hesitation and stretched out his hand.
"Actually... magic has always been around me."
From the interlayer of a thick collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales on the bookshelf, a gold-edged envelope flew out and landed neatly in Tom's hand.
It was the Hogwarts acceptance letter he had received the day before.
Tom played with the envelope and explained, "Ever since I was six, I've discovered I had some extraordinary abilities. But I never believed I was special or unique. I was sure there must be others like me in the world."
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Dumbledore did not hesitate to applaud and offer praise: "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. What excellent control."
"Mr. Riddle, you are wrong about one thing. Being able to cast spells by will alone before even starting school is rare, even in my... no, in our world."
"Believe me, you will achieve great things in magic in the future."
It was normal for a young wizard's magic to manifest uncontrollably. If it didn't, they were considered a squib.
But usually, after such an outburst, magical power would fall dormant. Only after obtaining a wand and undergoing proper learning and guidance could one use magic proficiently.
The move Tom had just performed was extremely skillful, clearly demonstrating effortless control.
But while Dumbledore was delighted that Hogwarts was about to gain another outstanding student, he also felt a pang of melancholy.
He's like him. Even more like him.
"Thank you for the compliment. I'm just luckier." Tom lowered his head shyly, but inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief.
This level is passed...