For London—a city that always seemed to wear a gloomy face, as if rain might fall at any moment—today was a rare occasion of bright sunshine.
A few soft, cottony white clouds dotted the sky, while warm sunlight, tinged with a hint of heat, poured down unobstructed.
The pleasant atmosphere made one want to set out a lounge chair in the yard, stretch out comfortably, and take a midday nap, savoring this hard-won good weather.
Unfortunately, those with the luxury to enjoy a leisurely life were always in the minority. Most people still had to rush about, struggling just to remain in this world a little longer—and with a bit more dignity.
South London's Lewisham district was exactly such a place.
Areas like Chelsea and Kensington—the city center—had long been occupied by aristocratic gentlemen and bloodsucking financiers. Dock workers, ordinary wage earners, and large numbers of Caribbean immigrants could only live in these outlying districts.
On the streets, pedestrians hurried along, afraid that even a single slow step might delay them from adding another brick or tile to their boss's mansion and luxury cars.
Yet whenever they passed by an old man, they couldn't help but slow down, turning back to look at him once or twice.
The old man didn't seem offended at all. Instead, he smiled and nodded in greeting, his steps light and brisk—faster, even, than many young people.
The reason he drew so much attention was his peculiar appearance and attire.
He was tall and thin, with silver hair and beard long enough to tuck into his belt. He wore a purple robe that dragged along the ground, its fabric clearly expensive, embroidered with dazzling stars and moons. Behind a pair of half-moon spectacles were brilliant blue eyes, clear and bright in a way that didn't belong to someone of his age, shining with vitality.
After walking for about half an hour, the old man arrived at his destination—23 Elm Tree Avenue. A sign hung on the door reading "Lewisham Children's Home."
This was a clean, orderly residential area. White terraced houses lined both sides of the road, and since it was working hours, the surroundings were very quiet.
The doorbell rang.
"Coming!"
The old man didn't have to wait long. A voice answered from inside, and the door soon opened. A middle-aged woman in her forties stared at him in a daze for a full five seconds before asking uncertainly,
"Are you… Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled and nodded, confirming his identity. "Yes. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts—Albus Dumbledore. You must be Ms. Arman, correct?"
"I received your reply. To put your doubts at ease, I decided to come in person today."
Ms. Arman forced a smile.
For some reason, her doubts only seemed to deepen.
With that strange outfit—could this really be a proper headmaster?
Could he be suffering from senile dementia?
However, Dumbledore had no intention of explaining further and instead looked toward the inside of the house.
"Where is the child?"
"Please follow me. He's exercising in the backyard."
Ms. Arman stepped aside and led the way.
By the 1990s, most centralized orphanages in Britain had already been abolished, replaced by a foster-care system that encouraged citizens to adopt orphans.
Children's homes like this one functioned more as temporary shelters for children with family conflicts or psychological issues. Most stayed no longer than six months.
There were exceptions, though. Orphans unwilling to be adopted could remain until the age of eighteen and receive ongoing subsidies.
Ms. Arman was the government-appointed manager of this children's home. Aside from her, all other staff members were volunteers.
Passing through the house, Dumbledore followed her into the backyard.
Four children were there, all boys around ten years old. One black-haired, black-eyed boy was wearing a pair of worn boxing gloves, throwing punch after punch. A sandbag hung from a clothes rack, swaying violently under the blows.
The boy was strikingly handsome—bright eyes, a straight nose, and features so refined they looked as though God Himself had carefully sculpted them into a perfect masterpiece.
"Tom!"
Ms. Arman called out. After 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 Arman."
Tom expressed his thanks, then gave Dumbledore a slight bow. "Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."
"Relax, my child." Dumbledore smiled and gestured toward the house. "If you don't mind, may we talk in your bedroom?"
"No problem."
Tom agreed readily. He handed the gloves to another boy. "Seth. One thousand punches. No slacking."
"Yes, boss."
Seth nodded with a miserable expression.
When Dumbledore reentered the house, he glanced back. Seth had already put on the gloves and started training, every punch thrown with full force.
...
On the second floor, Tom led Dumbledore into his room.
It was the master bedroom of the house—spacious, with its own bathroom and walk-in closet, a complete suite.
In a corner against the wall stood a desk and a row of bookshelves. The desk was piled with books, while the shelves displayed various certificates and trophies.
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Dumbledore."
There was only one chair in the room. Tom gestured for Dumbledore to sit, while he himself sat down on the bed.
"Child, let us have a proper formal introduction once more."
The chair wasn't quite the right height for Dumbledore, making him look slightly cramped, but he didn't mind at all. Wearing the gentle smile unique to elderly men, he spoke softly:
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I sincerely invite you to enroll at Hogwarts, where we can help you control and master the power of magic."
"I know, sir. I've read that letter no fewer than fifty times."
Tom cleared his throat. "My name is Tom Riddle. As you can see, I am an orphan. It is an honor to be invited to Hogwarts—and to be personally guided by the headmaster himself."
Tom Riddle…
The old man's sharp, brilliant eyes began to lose focus, his expression turning distant.
Tom Riddle. Orphan. Striking appearance. Dominant personality.
These elements…
Could they possibly be stacked any higher?