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July 30th, 1991.

For gloomy, rain-prone London, it was an unusually sunny day.

It was the kind of day that made you want to drag a lawn chair into the yard and take a peaceful nap under the sky.

Of course, only a lucky few could afford such a leisurely life. Most people were too busy hustling—doing their best to cling to dignity and survive a little longer in this chaotic world.

That was especially true for neighborhoods like Lewisham, in south London.

Central areas like Chelsea and Kensington had long since been taken over by aristocrats and blood-sucking finance bros. Working-class families, dockworkers, and many Caribbean immigrants were pushed out to districts like this one—cheaper, rougher, and far from the heart of the city.

People hurried down the streets, rushing to work like their lives depended on it—because, for many, it did. No one wanted to be the reason their boss's mansion or sports car didn't get finished on schedule.

But even in their rush, people couldn't help but slow down and do a double take when they passed a certain old man.

Not that the old man minded. He just smiled and gave polite nods to passersby, moving at a surprisingly brisk pace that put many younger folks to shame.

He attracted attention for one simple reason—he looked absolutely out of place.

Tall and lean, with silver hair and a beard long enough to tuck into his belt, he wore a floor-length purple robe embroidered with stars and crescent moons.

After about half an hour of walking, the old man stopped in front of 23 Elm Avenue, a modest white townhouse with a sign on the door that read: Lewisham Children's Home

The neighborhood was clean and quiet—rows of white, terraced houses lined the streets. It was office hours, so hardly anyone was around.

He rang the doorbell.

"Coming!"

A woman's voice called out, and a few seconds later, the door creaked open.

A middle-aged woman in her forties blinked at the sight of the man on her doorstep, stunned into silence for a solid five seconds before finally asking, uncertainly: "You're… Headmaster Dumbledore?"

The old man nodded with a warm smile. "That's right. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. You must be Ms. Allman?"

"I received your letter, and I thought I'd come in person to clear up any doubts you may have."

Ms. Allman forced a smile, though her mind was racing.

He's a headmaster? Dressed like… that? Is his brain this old? Should I call someone?

But Dumbledore didn't explain further. Instead, he peeked past her into the house.

"And where might the boy be?"

"Out back. He's training in the yard. Come with me."

She stepped aside and led him through the house.

By the 1990s, large institutional orphanages in the UK had mostly been phased out. In their place, the government promoted foster care, encouraging families to take in children.

Homes like this one were more of a temporary haven—for kids going through family issues or emotional struggles. Most didn't stay longer than six months.

But there were exceptions. Orphans who didn't want to be adopted could live here until they turned eighteen, receiving government support along the way.

Ms. Allman was the appointed caretaker of this home. Everyone else working there volunteered their time.

They passed through the house and stepped into the backyard.

Four boys, all around ten years old, were hanging out. One of them stood out immediately—a striking boy with black hair and sharp eyes, sweat on his brow, pounding away at a worn-out punching bag hung from a drying rack. His fists were covered in battered boxing gloves, and every punch made the bag tremble.

He was—frankly—stunning. Sharp features, a straight nose, and eyes that practically glowed with intensity. Like someone had chiseled him out of marble with divine precision.

"Tom!"

Ms. Allman called out. The boy paused, turned, and she continued:

"This is Headmaster Dumbledore. He's come to invite you to his school."

"Thank you, Aunt Allman."

Tom nodded politely, then turned to the old man and gave a slight bow.

"Nice to meet you, Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Relax, my boy," Dumbledore chuckled. "If you don't mind, could we speak in your room?"

"Sure." Tom answered without hesitation. He peeled off his gloves and handed them to another boy nearby.

"Seth—1,000 punches. No slacking."

"Y-Yes, boss…"

Seth groaned, but obediently slipped on the gloves and got to work.

As Dumbledore stepped back inside, he glanced over. Sure enough, Seth was already punching with full force, sweat starting to fly.

Upstairs, Tom led Dumbledore to his room.

He had the master bedroom—spacious, with its own private bathroom and walk-in closet. A desk sat in the corner beside a bookshelf stacked with trophies and certificates. More books cluttered the desk itself.

"Please, take a seat, Mr. Dumbledore."

There was only one chair in the room, which Tom offered. He sat on the bed himself.

"The chair's a bit small for me," Dumbledore said as he settled in awkwardly, legs a little cramped. But he didn't mind—his smile was gentle, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

"Let's do a proper introduction," he said softly. "I'm Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here to officially invite you to join our school, where you'll learn to control and master the power of magic."

"I know, sir. I've read that letter at least fifty times."

Tom cleared his throat. "My name is Tom Riddle. As you can see, I'm an orphan. It's an honor to be accepted into Hogwarts—especially with the Headmaster himself coming to see me."

Tom Riddle…

Dumbledore's sharp eyes suddenly lost focus, his expression distant.

Tom Riddle. Orphan. Handsome. Commanding.

Could the cliché checklist get any more complete?

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