Lewisham, South London – July 30, 1991
On July 30, 1991, London's typically gloomy sky was replaced by rare sunshine in Lewisham, South London. A few wisps of cloud wandered through the sky as warm sunlight, carrying a slight bite of heat, drenched the streets. The inviting weather seemed perfect for lounging in the yard with a nap, basking in the long-awaited sunshine. Yet, for most residents, such luxury was a distant dream, their lives marked by hard work and quiet struggle.
In Lewisham far from the aristocratic enclaves of Chelsea and Kensington, where gentlemen and financiers reside ordinary workers and Caribbean immigrants carve out humble lives. The streets, lined with tired faces, were still animated as people hurried, determined not to fall behind in their daily grind, adding, perhaps unwittingly, to someone else's opulence.
Amid these hurrying crowds, an unusual figure attracted constant glances and second looks. An old man, tall and remarkably thin, walked briskly his pace outstripping many of the younger passersby. His long silver hair and equally impressive beard were neatly tucked into his belt, and he wore a purple robe, trailing elegantly behind him and embroidered with sparkling stars and crescent moons. Behind his crescent-shaped glasses, sharp blue eyes shone with an intelligence and clarity that seemed almost out of place for his age. Despite his conspicuous appearance, he greeted curious onlookers with a friendly nod and warm smile, never perturbed by their scrutiny.
After a half-hour walk, the old man arrived at his destination: 23 Elm Avenue. Hanging on the faded door was a sign reading "Lewisham Children's Home." The neighborhood stood silent under the mid-morning sun, its white townhouses quiet during work hours.
He rang the doorbell.
"Coming!" a voice called from inside. Soon, the door swung open to reveal a woman in her forties, who spent several seconds in stunned silence. Finally, she spoke:
"You are... Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled, nodding. "Yes, I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore. You must be Ms. Armand."
"I received your reply. You said you wanted to address my concerns. Please come in."
Though Ms. Armand forced a smile, her uncertainty deepened. Could this eccentric, extravagantly dressed man really be a respected principal? Still, Dumbledore did not elaborate, but simply gazed past her into the house.
"Where is the child?" he asked.
"He's exercising in the backyard. Follow me."
She led him through the tidy living room toward the backyard of the villa.
By the 1990s, most large orphanages in the UK had been replaced by a family foster care system, encouraging citizens to adopt. Children's homes like this were now mostly temporary shelters for those facing family troubles or psychological challenges; most stayed less than six months. Yet there were exceptions: orphans who declined adoption could remain until age eighteen, receiving government support. Ms. Armand managed the home, with all other staff being volunteers.
In the backyard, four boys around ten years old played. The most striking was a black-haired, dark-eyed child, delivering powerful punches to a sandbag hanging from the clothesline, worn boxing gloves atop his hands. Imperfect as the day's sunshine was, the boy's appearance seemed to perfect it his eyes were bright, his nose straight, his features delicately chiseled, as though sculpted by a master artist.
"Tom!" Ms. Armand called. The boy, pausing his punches, looked over.
"This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to his school."
"Thank you, Auntie Armand." The boy responded with a polite bow to Dumbledore, "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Relax, child," Dumbledore replied gently. "Would you mind if we spoke in your bedroom?"
Tom nodded, handing his gloves to another boy nearby. "Seth, a thousand punches, don't slack off."
Seth grimaced but complied, putting on the gloves and starting his set with determined energy.
Dumbledore followed Tom into the villa and up to his room a suite with a private bathroom and dressing area, spacious and neat. Against the wall stood a table and shelves overflowing with books, awards, and trophies.
"Please sit, Mr. Dumbledore." Tom offered the room's sole chair, taking a seat himself on the bed.
"Let me introduce myself properly." Dumbledore sat, ignoring the awkward height of the chair, his smile gentle and warm.
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is my pleasure to invite you to our school, where you can learn to control and master your magical abilities."
"I know, sir," Tom said earnestly. "I have read your letter no less than fifty times."
Tom cleared his throat, "I am Tom Riddle. As you see, I am an orphan. It's an honor to attend Hogwarts and to learn from the headmaster himself."