It was a damp, foggy night in London, July 15th, 1991, when a narrow, rubbish-strewn alley became the unlikely stage for a confrontation. A blond-haired boy stood alone, a short, rusted metal rod clenched in one hand, his stance low and guarded. He faced a large, mangy black dog whose fur hung in matted clumps, ribs showing beneath its patchy coat. Its eyes gleamed with hunger and desperation.
Behind the boy, a stack of overflowing bins reeked with the sharp stench of rotting food and mildew. The dog had clearly claimed the pile of trash as its own.
A short distance away, hidden in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, two figures stood watching. One was an elderly man with a sweeping silver beard and twinkling blue eyes half-hidden behind spectacles.
The other, a tall, stern-faced woman in emerald green robes, clutched her wand tightly. "Albus, we can't let him go through with this," she whispered urgently. "That beast could tear him apart!"
Dumbledore held up a calming hand, his gaze fixed on the boy. "Wait, Minerva. Let's see what the boy can do."
In the alley, the dog gave a low, warning growl and lunged. The boy didn't flinch. He sidestepped neatly, the rod whipping through the air in a controlled arc.
The dog skidded past him, claws scratching across the wet cobblestones. It turned quickly, more agile than its size suggested, and launched itself again, this time aiming straight for the boy's throat.
He ducked under it, the stench of the creature's breath burning his nose, and drove the rod up with both hands. It struck the dog's chest with a dull thud and a yelp of pain.
The boy turned with the momentum and brought the rod down hard, the swing awkward but fast, faster than it should've been. The metal blurred as it crashed into the dog's side with a sickening crack.
The animal let out a ragged howl and collapsed onto its side. For a moment, it lay panting, one leg twitching feebly.
"Looks like he has prevailed," Albus said softly, his eyes narrowed, though the faintest shadow crossed his expression.
But Aldric wasn't done. He stepped forward quickly, raised the rod high, and struck the dog's injured side with a heavy blow. With a final thud, the dog fell again.
Aldric climbed onto its back, pounding its head relentlessly with the metal rod. Minutes passed before he finally stopped, panting heavily. The dog lay motionless beneath him, its head a bloody mess, blood pooling on the ground. Catching his breath, Aldric stood and dragged the lifeless animal away into the darkness beyond the alley, paying no attention to the trash bins they had fought over moments before.
Nearby, two figures exchanged a silent glance, clearly taken aback by what they had just witnessed. They were none other than Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House and Transfiguration professor.
They had expected Aldric, an under-11-year-old boy, to simply try to scare off or fend off the dog. What caught them by surprise was that Aldric had chosen to kill the animal, and seemed ready to make a meal of it.
McGonagall turned stiffly to Dumbledore. "He's been a stray orphan for five years. If he were soft-hearted, he probably wouldn't have survived. But he's still a child, Albus," she said gently, knowing Dumbledore might disapprove.
"Don't worry, Minerva. I can see the boy's heart isn't bad. Besides, we teachers are still watching over him," Dumbledore replied without turning, his eyes fixed on the dark path where Aldric had disappeared.
Meanwhile, unaware of the two wizards who had witnessed his actions, Aldric hummed a little tune as he walked down the empty street. That night, he had set out to find food, originally aiming for the trash bins in his territory.
In these countries, people often wasted food, perhaps because there was so much of it. Thanks to this bad habit, Aldric frequently found something to eat.
Tonight, luck was on his side, an unlucky black dog had wandered close enough to become his dinner. Given the choice, Aldric had naturally turned away from the foul-smelling garbage.
Even though a homeless orphan had no right to be picky, staying somewhat clean helped avoid sickness. Aldric was indeed an orphan.
In theory, he should have been in an orphanage, but he knew all too well that not every orphanage was as nice as it seemed, getting a good one is like playing gatcha games, with his life on line. Many were just fronts for human trafficking.
Their clients varied, even couples with serious criminal records and no marriage certificates could adopt children. Most wouldn't have passed Britain's strict adoption requirements, but as the saying goes, money makes the world go round.
Pay enough, and those tough regulations loosen just enough, the size of the opening depends on the bribe. Aldric had never stepped foot in those orphanages, but he understood how things worked.
Everything in this world cost money, and without it, you couldn't get into a decent orphanage. For street orphans like him, especially those older than most, even a single day without a home could lower their chances of survival.
At this point, one of the places willing to take Aldric in were government-run children's homes, though even then, it was only after the so-called "social services department" (which was really just another dreary branch of the city council) caught him and processed him through official channels.
But those orphanages were terrible. As the social workers bluntly put it, "You street rats who steal and scavenge deserve nothing but to rot in such places." Aldric hated to think about the awful treatment inside.
Even worse, no one wanted to adopt kids from those orphanages. And if someone did, it was never out of kindness, everyone in London knew what kind of children those places held.
To avoid being caught and thrown into one of those dens, Aldric had built himself a little shack deep in the woods on the outskirts of the city. He called it the Garbage House, a fitting name since it was literally made out of trash.
Now, full from his meal, Aldric lay on a worn-out mattress inside the shack, his eyes fixed on a wind chime hanging from the ceiling. After staring at it for twenty minutes, the chime suddenly jingled softly, swaying gently even though there was no breeze.
A bright smile lit up Aldric's face. It was the first time in six months that he had consciously triggered his power to move the wind chime.