At the same time, on another floor of the building, the light was still on in the headmistress's office at Solow Orphanage.
Mrs. Margaret Hawke sat behind the oak desk she had used for twenty years, holding a cup of red tea that had long since gone cold.
Her other hand rested on the desktop, her index finger tapping it unconsciously, producing a light, crisp sound. The clock on the desk read 11:17 p.m. For most ordinary people, that was an hour to be in bed already, but for Mrs. Hawke, it was merely another ordinary moment in another long workday.
Solow Orphanage was not the largest orphanage in London, nor the best funded, but it did have one defining feature: it was one of the few orphanages in London willing to take "special cases."
And "special cases" did not only mean children with physical disabilities or psychological trauma.
More often, it meant children rejected by other institutions for one reason or another. Behavioral problems. Background issues. Or simply because of some outrageously bureaucratic excuse like "no vacancies available."
Mrs. Hawke had sat in this position for eleven years and had seen every kind of child. Some were obedient and sensible. Some hardly spoke at all. Some were quick to anger. Some were clever enough to make people uneasy. She had thought she'd seen every possibility, thought she was prepared for any surprise.
But the visitor tonight truly was the most unusual one in her twenty-three years of work.
When the doorbell rang, Mrs. Hawke had been sorting next week's supply order, a task she loathed but had no choice except to handle personally, because the last staff member in charge of procurement had tampered with the accounts and nearly left the orphanage unable to pay for next month's meals.
At first,
Mrs. Hawke had not expected any visitor at all. At this hour, the bell ringing was unusual in itself. Security at Solow Orphanage was not especially strict, and now and then people from charities would bring donated supplies around this time, but they usually called ahead.
She had received no call today.
And yet,
the visitor had come.
And he looked like an aristocrat.
When Mrs. Hawke opened the door, the first thing she saw was an umbrella. A long-handled umbrella that looked expensive. There was barely any rain on its surface, which meant the man holding it had either just stepped out of a car or had used some rather unusual method to avoid the rain altogether.
Then she saw the person beneath it.
An old man.
A very old man.
His hair was pure white, not gray-white or salt-and-pepper, but white as snow, falling to his shoulders and reflecting the dim light of the rainy night with an almost silvery sheen.
The old man's beard was white too, long enough to reach his chest, tied somehow in a way she couldn't quite make out so the wind wouldn't scatter it in all directions.
He wore a dark robe, not an ordinary overcoat or trench coat, but a true robe, the kind that looked as though it had stepped out of a Victorian oil painting. The fabric seemed heavy, and expensive, catching the lamplight with a muted deep-purple glow. The whole man carried an air of distinction and authority.
Mrs. Hawke could feel the gaze behind those spectacles. Sharp, profound, and possessed of that strange quality only found in people who had lived through many years: both gentle and cutting at once.
"Good evening."
The old man spoke.
His voice was younger than Mrs. Hawke had expected, low and clear, with an old-fashioned courtesy to it, as though it had drifted out of an old gramophone record.
"Would you happen to be Mrs. Hawke?"
He was exceedingly polite.
"Yes, that's right," Mrs. Hawke replied at once, unconsciously straightening her back. She did not know why, but in front of this old man, she felt she ought to stand a little straighter.
"And you are...?"
Mrs. Hawke searched her memory with some hesitation, but found nothing. A man this distinctive was not the sort one would forget, so this had to be the first time she had ever seen him.
"Albus Dumbledore,"
the old man said, bowing his head very slightly, with the sort of elegance one associated with gentlemen from another century. "I am the headmaster of a... hm... rather unusual private school."
He introduced himself.
A name that could have served as a weighty footnote to an entire era was spoken just that lightly. Unfortunately, Iain, who fancied himself blessed with silver-tongued eloquence, was not here to hear it.
Mrs. Hawke led the old man into the office and poured two cups of tea, placing one before Dumbledore. Dumbledore lowered his eyes to the cup and smiled faintly.
He did not drink.
He sat there, quiet and mild.
Mrs. Hawke felt as though even the chill in the office had eased a little.
"So then, Mr. Dumbledore, may I ask what brings you here?" Mrs. Hawke sat back down, folding her hands on the desk.
She adopted the posture of someone ready to discuss serious business.
"I've come for a child. He needs to complete his education at our school." Dumbledore did not beat around the bush. He stated his purpose directly.
Mrs. Hawke was not surprised.
She had always been an intelligent woman. Still, for the headmaster of a private school to come personally, in the rain, late at night, was a bit much.
"Has one of our children impressed you with his academic potential?" Mrs. Hawke let her gaze rest on Dumbledore for a moment, her tone carrying the faintest hint of testing curiosity.
Ordinarily speaking, private school admissions followed a set process: brochures first, then open days, then rounds of interviews and written exams. Even if a school was interested in taking a child from an orphanage, they would usually send a letter first, arrange a daytime appointment, and send someone from admissions to discuss it.
For the headmaster himself to appear, and at eleven at night, was unusual no matter how one looked at it.
"In truth, that child has belonged to Hogwarts from the moment he was born."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. The smile was light, brief, like a ripple passing over the surface of a lake and vanishing just as quickly. His eyes, Mrs. Hawke now saw clearly, were blue. A very pale blue, almost transparent, like glacier ice washed through with sunlight.
At that, Mrs. Hawke raised an eyebrow slightly. She waited a second, expecting Dumbledore to continue, perhaps to explain why the child belonged to the school, or to say something more about Hogwarts itself.
But the old man did not.
He stopped there, as though that sentence alone should have been explanation enough.
"But isn't this all rather late? Tomorrow wouldn't have been too late, surely." Mrs. Hawke glanced at the clock on her desk, confusion and discomfort in her voice. It was already past eleven, and the rain outside was growing heavier. To come at such an hour to discuss a child's schooling did not feel normal from any angle.
Dumbledore's expression did not change.
But the fingers resting on his knee moved ever so slightly, as if by unconscious habit.
"How shall I put it... the matter is somewhat urgent," he said, his speech just a touch slower than before. "That is why I came at this hour."
He paused for the briefest instant. So brief that, had Mrs. Hawke not spent years honing the art of reading people, she never would have noticed it.
Then Dumbledore continued.
"The professor originally meant to come explain matters to the child is, in all likelihood, having some sort of mishap and has become stranded somewhere..."
As he said this, something subtle flickered across his face. It was not worry, nor anger, but something more complicated, too difficult to pin down with any single word. The corners of his mouth tightened a fraction, and his eyelids lowered for the briefest beat, as though he were enduring something, or concealing something.
There was a trace of helplessness in that expression, so faint it was nearly imperceptible.
But it lasted less than two seconds.
Then Dumbledore's face resumed that warm smile of his, the kind that made people feel as if they had stepped into sunlight after rain.
As though that tiny lapse had been nothing more than Mrs. Hawke's imagination.
"I see." Mrs. Hawke nodded, wearing an expression of understanding. She did not quite understand how a school professor could become "stranded somewhere," but London rain at night could certainly cause all manner of transport problems, and since he clearly did not care to explain further, she chose not to press.
"I do apologize for the trouble, Mrs. Hawke. Calling on you so late is terribly discourteous." Dumbledore's apology was perfectly judged, neither too lofty nor too humble. It was the sort of old-world courtesy that did not make one feel brushed aside, nor feel that the speaker was humbling himself. The kind of social grace that belonged to another century.
It was no longer commonly seen in Britain.
That only made Mrs. Hawke feel a little awkward in return. She waved a hand and said, "Not at all, not at all. You've come all this way for a child's future, in weather like this too. It can't have been easy."
She accepted the school documents and credentials Dumbledore handed her. She saw nothing wrong with them, and somehow found herself accepting them as genuine without the slightest trace of doubt.
"On par with Eton, is it..."
It seemed Hogwarts was not above borrowing a little prestige either. As Mrs. Hawke gradually "understood everything," she grew more astonished. She could understand why she had heard so little of the place. Britain did indeed have some old private schools with long histories that kept themselves out of the spotlight, caring little for fame and focusing only on their own educational philosophy.
Still, there was one thing she absolutely had to clarify, because it touched on the orphanage's most immediate practical concern.
"And the tuition..." Mrs. Hawke chose her words carefully, her fingers twisting together unconsciously. "As you know, this is an orphanage. These children don't have families to rely on. If there are significant costs involved, I'm afraid we simply couldn't manage them. Of course, I don't want a child to lose an opportunity either."
"If you could leave me the relevant materials and a fee breakdown first, I could see whether there might be some charity funding we could apply for..." Her voice dropped a little toward the end.
She knew she was speaking of something difficult, perhaps impossible.
Even an ordinary private school charged several thousand, sometimes over ten thousand pounds a year. For an orphanage that relied on public donations just to keep daily operations running, that was terrifying.
An unimaginable sum.
Seeing her reaction,
Dumbledore at once offered reassurance.
"There is no need to worry about tuition. That child's family left him a very considerable inheritance, provided he completes one small identity verification."
"Though of course, that matter is not urgent."
"Hogwarts also has a fund specifically for children of talent who come from difficult circumstances. If this child is admitted, he will not be required to bear any of the school fees."
Dumbledore explained patiently.
His words were wholly unexpected.
Mrs. Hawke froze for a moment.
Full sponsorship? Even living costs covered?
In her experience, such a thing was extremely rare. Even the wealthiest private schools generally offered scholarships that covered only part of the tuition. Boarding, meals, books, uniforms, and all the miscellaneous expenses added together were no small sum either.
And then there was the inheritance.
If the child truly had family money left behind for him, perhaps the man before her was the one safeguarding it. If so, then everything suddenly made perfect sense.
He must have known the parents of one of the children here, and known them closely enough to be entrusted with managing the estate. That would explain why he had come in person to recruit the child.
And for a school that prestigious to admit an orphan under such exceptional terms, with no tuition burden at all, there had to be some close personal connection involved.
Everyone knew scholarships belonged to the well-connected.
Yes.
That had to be it.
Europe, after all, was always full of this sort of relationship-driven business.
"That's wonderful! Then I'll take you upstairs right away to see him. Oh, and I nearly forgot, I don't think I ever asked. Which child is it you've come to see?" Mrs. Hawke's expression visibly relaxed. She stood up and took her shawl from the coat rack behind the desk, draping it over her shoulders.
The headmistress was plainly eager now.
In her view, any private school capable of providing full support to its students had to possess a vast alumni network, successful graduates giving generously back to the institution.
That was how British private education often worked.
For any orphan, being able to study at such a school would absolutely be life-changing.
Dumbledore rose as well.
His movements were slow, and he even tilted his head slightly, looking past Mrs. Hawke at the brass plaque mounted behind her. It did not look especially old.
Solow Orphanage.
Est. 1873.
Dumbledore's eyes settled on the name, and for that moment his gaze became unusually deep.
It was not the look of someone reading a brass plaque.
It was the look of someone staring at a piece of history, a story, a secret buried by time.
The mottled metallic sheen of the plaque reflected in his pupils.
"Iain Kent. Though of course, that is not the name the child was originally meant to bear. Had his parents not died, I believe his name would have been..."
"Iain Ambrosius."
For a long moment, as though caught in some thought of his own, the old man simply looked.
Only then did he answer the headmistress's question.