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The Thames crashed against the rocks. Waves churned.
Gray fog fractured the sky. In the distance, Big Ben rose through industrial smoke—looked exactly like it would fifty years later.
Wool's Orphanage, London.
A square, grim building.
No one knew its real history. Some said it housed children of soldiers killed in the Great War. Others claimed it was a medieval plague house. The conflicting stories proved one thing.
This place was a dump.
Power lines tangled overhead. Houses crammed together on grimy stone. Zero aesthetic appeal.
An iron gate sealed it from the busy street. White steam reeked from the ground. Rusted manhole covers bubbled with vapor. Even rainwater backed up at the drains.
The orphanage basement.
A boy lay with eyes shut, apparently sleeping.
Around eleven. Black hair, pale skin. Mixed-blood features—would've been decent without the massive bruise on his forehead.
He twitched on the bed. Like he was in serious pain.
Knock knock.
Polite knocking. The boy didn't wake.
A pause.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
Louder now.
...
Hofa jerked awake from a nightmare. Shot upright, grabbing his skull, then his crotch. Everything still attached. He exhaled.
Still alive.
He sniffed. Sour mildew.
He wasn't staring at an exploding movie theater. Instead—a filthy, dark room.
Hofa stared at his hands. Pale. Thin.
Sharp pain stabbed through his forehead. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed again. Through the haze, he heard urgent knocking outside.
...
Time passed. Hofa slowly recovered.
His head now held memories that weren't his.
His name was still Hofa. But he wasn't the same Hofa from Earth. That Hofa had been an ordinary Chinese high school student. Alone. No house, no car, no money. His only hobby? Saving up to buy books and watch movies.
Then the IMAX theater exploded during a screening. Now he was here.
His full name now: Hofa Bach.
A completely ordinary orphan.
Fragments of memory told him the body's original owner had been tricked during an orphanage picnic. Lured to a seaside cave. Fell off a cliff into freezing water. By the time they brought him back, he was barely breathing. That's when Hofa slipped in.
The kid's entire memory: London's flooded streets. Nothing else. He'd never seen a phone or computer. Didn't know what the internet was. Just old cars belching black smoke and black umbrellas everywhere.
Hofa concentrated hard, trying to dig up anything useful from the broken memories.
He shook his head. More fragments surfaced.
His father this time had been a native Chinese man. A refugee fleeing war who came to Europe, only to die in World War I.
The Bach surname came from a foreign mother.
But Hofa had zero memories of her.
...
"An orphan. And I transmigrated."
Hofa rubbed his head and exhaled. The transmigration part didn't bother him—his previous life had nothing worth missing. But this starting template sucked.
He examined his surroundings.
A filthy bed. A broken wooden table. Faded soldier posters on the wall.
And a British Shorthair cat hanging from the ceiling.
Yeah. The cat hung there, stiff and dead. Miserable.
A name surfaced in Hofa's mind.
Ado.
The previous owner's best friend.
Inexplicable rage welled up. Hofa felt intense disgust. Who would hang an innocent cat like this? Right in front of its owner?
Before he could search his memories for the culprit...
...
Light knocking outside. Keys in the lock.
BANG!
The door flew open like someone had kicked it.
Hofa stumbled back.
Two people stood in the doorway. A man and a woman.
He recognized the woman immediately. Memory supplied her identity.
Mrs. Cole.
Wool's Orphanage manager. Gaunt, always anxious.
Beside her stood an unexpected visitor.
A peculiar old gentleman. That's all Hofa could think. The man's appearance clashed completely with the surroundings. Blue eyes, long nose—looked broken once. His auburn hair and beard tied back neatly. He wore an expensive velvet suit, holding a cane and hat.
Hofa had no doubt that suit came from Savile Row. But what shocked him wasn't the clothes.
It was his beard and hair. Something about him looked weirdly familiar.
"Tom, someone's here to see you..."
Mrs. Cole said absently. Then she jumped like a cat whose tail got stepped on.
"Wait, why are you here? Hofa! Did he steal your room?"
Hofa was still trying to place the familiar old man. Didn't react to Mrs. Cole's words.
The old man had already entered, looking around. He sighed at the dead cat. Then he stood before Hofa, deep blue eyes calm under that long nose.
He reached out with long fingers, gently touching the bruise on Hofa's forehead.
"Poor child..."
The wound tingled as it healed. Lightning flashed through Hofa's brain. He stared at the door plate in disbelief.
Crooked English letters read:
[Tom Marvolo Riddle]
Holy shit! The Harry Potter world?
Am I Voldemort!?
Hofa's brain scrambled. But he quickly realized he'd jumped to conclusions.
He was still Hofa. Just stuck in Voldemort's room. The reason came from his memories immediately.
This was an orphanage. His previous self had been a well-behaved kid, liked by the manager. His room was on the first floor, got sunlight. Tom's room was in the basement.
Tom Riddle—young Voldemort—coveted his room. So he'd tricked Hofa into a cave, threatened him, then pushed him off a cliff when that didn't work.
No time to dwell on his predecessor's tragic fate. Worldview, era, story... information flooded his brain. Hofa's eyes grew wider.
The old man finished treating Hofa's wound, then turned to Mrs. Cole with a soft sigh. "Take me to Tom."
Mrs. Cole nodded, preparing to lead him out.
They reached the door. Hofa finally snapped out of it. He pointed at the old man's back, words bursting out.
"Dum... Dum... Dumble..."
The auburn-bearded Dumbledore turned in surprise, forehead creasing, blue eyes wide.
Silence.
Hofa quickly covered his mouth. Damn! Not careful enough. The shock made him lose control.
The man was one of this world's greatest wizards. Had a hundred ways to expose secrets. Veritaserum, Imperius Curse... Though Hofa figured Dumbledore probably wouldn't stoop to those methods. Still, better safe than sorry.
If they discovered he'd taken over this body, who knew how this mysterious magical world would deal with him.
But Dumbledore wasn't letting it go. He asked softly, "Have we met?"
Hofa covered his mouth, shaking his head frantically.
"Then how do you know my name?"
Dumbledore stepped forward.
Hofa stepped back.
Dumbledore paused. He turned politely to Mrs. Cole. "One moment. I'd like to speak with this child privately as well."
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