July 30th, 1991.
For London, a city that always seemed to wear a sullen face and keep rain loaded in the chamber like a threat, today was a rare gift. The sky was bright, scattered with a few soft, cottony clouds. Sunlight, warm and faintly hot at the edges, poured down without resistance, as if the whole world had finally agreed to unclench.
It was the kind of day that made you want to drag a lounge chair into the yard, tip your head back, and let the hours melt into a perfect afternoon nap. A day that practically begged you to be lazy.
But the number of people who could afford that kind of leisure was always small. Most spent their lives running; running for money, for dignity, for the right to stay in this world a little longer and a little more comfortably.
Lewisham, in the south of London, was exactly that sort of place.
Chelsea. Kensington. Those central districts had long since been occupied by titled gentlemen and the bloodsuckers of finance. The docks, ordinary wage workers, and a large wave of Caribbean immigrants were pushed outward, forced to settle in areas like this far from the glitter and close to the grind.
On the street, pedestrians moved fast, heads down, steps sharp, as if a single second lost would cost them their jobs. They hurried as though their lives depended on it, terrified of arriving late and delaying the grand project of adding yet another luxury brick to someone else's mansion, yet another polish to someone else's car.
And yet, whenever they passed one particular old man, they couldn't help slowing down. Some turned their heads twice. Others stared outright.
The old man didn't look offended. If anything, he seemed amused. He offered a gentle smile and a polite nod, walking with a briskness that put many younger people to shame.
He drew eyes because everything about him was… strange.
He was tall and thin, with silver hair and a beard so long it could practically be tucked into a belt. He wore a purple robe that brushed the ground, the fabric expensive at a glance, embroidered with bright stars and crescents. Half moon spectacles perched on his nose, and behind them were eyes clear, vivid blue far too bright for a man of his age, sharp with a youthful, almost mischievous light.
After about half an hour, he reached his destination:
Number 23, Elm Avenue.
A sign hung on the door.
LEWISHAM CHILDREN'S HOME.
The neighborhood was clean and orderly, lined with white terraced houses. It was working hours, so the area was quiet enough to hear distant traffic like a faint hiss. The old man lifted a hand and pressed the doorbell.
A moment later, a voice called from inside.
"Coming!"
He didn't wait long. The door opened, and a middle aged woman in her forties stared at him so hard she forgot how to blink. For a full five seconds, she simply stood there, frozen. Then, uncertainly, she asked:
"Are you… Headmaster Dumbledore?"
The old man smiled and nodded, as if people dressed like him got this question every day.
"Yes. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore." His voice was gentle, pleasantly warm. "And you must be Ms. Arman."
He continued without rushing her, polite but unbothered by her stunned expression.
"I received your reply. In order to ease your concerns, I thought it best to come in person today."
Ms. Arman forced a smile.
Somehow, her concerns had not eased at all. If anything, they'd just multiplied.
A headmaster? Like this?
Purple robe. Stars and moons. Beard like a wizard from a children's book. Half moon glasses.
Is he even… real?
Or worse.
The awful thought crept in before she could stop it.
What if he's just a confused old man? Senile? Someone who'd wandered out of a theater?
But Dumbledore didn't seem interested in explaining his wardrobe choices. His gaze drifted past her shoulder into the house.
"And the child?" he asked, calm as stone. "Where is he?"
Ms. Arman cleared her throat, stepping aside.
"Come with me. He's in the back yard, exercising."
She led him inside.
By the 1990s, Britain had already abolished most large, centralized orphanages. In their place came a foster system, encouraging citizens to take children in. A "children's home" like this wasn't quite an orphanage anymore it was more like a temporary shelter for kids with family conflicts, behavioral issues, or emotional troubles. Most didn't stay longer than six months.
There were exceptions.
Children who refused adoption, or who couldn't be placed, could remain until they turned eighteen, supported by steady government assistance.
Ms. Arman was the government appointed manager of this house. Aside from her, the rest of the staff were volunteers people with good intentions, limited time, and the kind of weary compassion that could be stretched thin.
They passed through the interior, and Dumbledore followed her to the back yard.
Four boys were out there, all around ten years old.
One of them stood out instantly.
Black hair. Black eyes. A pair of battered boxing gloves. He was throwing punches over and over into a sandbag that had been slung from a clothes rack. The bag swung and shuddered under the impact, creaking slightly with every hit.
The boy was… striking.
Not just handsome almost unreal. His eyes were bright and focused, his nose straight, his features refined like someone had carved them deliberately, painstakingly, as if perfection had been the goal from the start. He didn't look like a child who belonged to a crowded house run on government funding.
He looked like a protagonist.
Ms. Arman raised her voice.
"Tom!"
The boy stopped at once. He turned, expression controlled, breathing steady despite the exercise.
When he met her eyes, Ms. Arman continued, careful to sound normal.
"This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's here to invite you to attend his school."
Tom's posture softened by a fraction polite, practiced. He nodded.
"Thank you, Aunt Arman," he said smoothly.
Then he stepped forward and gave Dumbledore a small bow, the kind you'd see in a place with manners drilled into you.
"Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore."
Dumbledore's smile widened.
"Relax, my boy," he said kindly, gesturing toward the house. "If you don't mind, could we speak in your room?"
"No problem," Tom replied without hesitation.
He pulled off the gloves and handed them to another boy shorter, with a wary face that suggested he'd learned when to obey and when to keep his mouth shut.
"Seth," Tom said, as casually as if he were assigning homework, "one thousand punches. No slacking."
Seth's face twisted into misery.
"Yes, boss," he muttered, and nodded anyway.
As Dumbledore followed Tom back into the house, he glanced over his shoulder.
Seth already had the gloves on. He was punching the bag with full force, like his life depended on it.
No complaints. No bargaining.
Just obedience.
The old man's blue eyes sharpened, thoughtful.
…
Up on the second floor, Tom led Dumbledore into his bedroom.
It wasn't just any room.
It was the master bedroom of the house spacious, with a private bathroom, a walk in closet, the whole suite. It was far larger than what any child in a children's home normally received.
A desk sat in the corner against the wall, beside a bookshelf. The desk was scattered with books. The shelf held an orderly display of certificates and trophies.
Tom gestured to the only chair in the room.
"Please sit, Mr. Dumbledore."
Dumbledore took it. The chair was a bit low for him, making him look slightly cramped, but he didn't seem bothered. He wore the kind of gentle smile old people carried when they'd long ago stopped caring about appearances.
"My boy," he said softly, "let us do this properly. A formal introduction."
Tom sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on his knees, attentive.
Dumbledore's voice took on a ceremonial tone.
"I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I sincerely invite you to study at Hogwarts, where you may learn to control and master the power of magic."
Tom's lips quirked faintly.
"I know, sir. I've read that letter no fewer than fifty times."
He cleared his throat, composed, almost theatrical in his own way.
"I am Tom Riddle. As you can see, I'm an orphan." He spoke the word without pity, without embarrassment like it was a fact he'd already decided wouldn't weaken him. "It's an honor to be invited to Hogwarts, and even more so to have the headmaster come personally to guide me."
Tom Riddle.
For the first time, Dumbledore's expression shifted.
The sharpness in his eyes blurred for a heartbeat, like a candle flame flickering. His gaze lost focus, drifting into a distant place that had nothing to do with this tidy room.
Tom Riddle.
Orphan.
Unusually handsome.
Dominant.
The elements lined up in his mind with a click that felt far too familiar.
His lips parted slightly, almost as if he were about to say something… and then stopped.
For a moment, his face was blank, caught between disbelief and a complicated kind of recognition.
It was only a second.
But it was long enough.
Long enough for the air to tighten, for silence to thicken, for something unspoken to settle between them like a shadow.
Tom watched him, eyes calm, patient, unreadable.
Dumbledore's fingers curled lightly on the armrest, and his voice, when it came, was still gentle
but there was a new note in it, quieter and sharper at the same time.
"…Tom," he said, as if testing the name, "tell me. When you were very young… did anything unusual ever happen around you?"
Tom's smile didn't change.
But something in his gaze did just slightly, like a door that had opened a crack.
"What do you mean," he asked, tone polite as ever, "Headmaster?"
And in that instant, Dumbledore realized he might have come to Lewisham expecting a child
only to find someone who already knew far more than a child should.
So the question became:
Had he arrived in time… or was he already too late?