Wools Orphanage stood quietly in a forgotten corner of London—a square, aged building surrounded by high iron railings. Though the orphanage looked worn and shabby from the outside, inside it was strikingly clean and meticulously maintained. Not a speck of dust lingered on the window sills, and every floorboard gleamed from years of scrubbing. Still, it was far from grand.
No one knew exactly when Wools Orphanage had first opened its doors. Despite its long-standing history, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it—no celebrated alumni, no stories of wealthy benefactors, and no long lines of generous families arriving to adopt. It simply existed, quietly and humbly, fading deeper into obscurity with each passing year.
The woman who managed the orphanage, Mrs. Gary, was herself an ordinary soul—an aging caretaker with no fortune or fame, simply doing her best to look after the children in her care. She was over sixty now, thin and bent with time, yet her hands remained strong from decades of labor. Despite her tireless efforts, the orphanage teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. Donations were scarce, visitors rarer still.
But far beyond the quiet streets of London—beyond the world of ordinary people—Wools Orphanage carried a reputation that not even Mrs. Gary was aware of. In a hidden society, one untouched by the mundane concerns of the mortal world, whispers of this orphanage stirred interest. And on this particular day, June 11, 1991, its quiet obscurity was about to change.
"Knock, knock, knock—"
The sound of knuckles rapping against wood echoed through the narrow hallway, reaching Mrs. Gary's ears. She stirred from her recliner, setting aside her needlework and blinking toward the rain-slicked window.
"Now who could that be?" she muttered to herself, puzzled. "Who in their right mind would come to visit such a crumbling orphanage on a day like this?"
The rain had been falling steadily since morning, drumming against the roof and washing the streets in a dull gray haze. Grabbing an old black umbrella from the door rack, she carefully opened it and shuffled toward the heavy front gate.
There, standing just outside, was a tall, thin old man. His long silver hair reached down to his waist, as did his beard, which swayed gently in the wind. He was dressed in strange, old-fashioned clothes—a deep purple cloak draped over a weathered robe, and a tattered overcoat wrapped tightly around his shoulders. A worn black umbrella hung loosely in his hand, failing to shield him from the storm.
Despite his sodden state, the old man's expression was serene. His half-moon spectacles were speckled with raindrops, and yet behind them gleamed a pair of piercing blue eyes—bright, intelligent, full of warmth and life. Mrs. Gary, who had long passed the age of vanity, felt oddly as though this man were older than her by decades, and yet he stood with a youthful energy that made her feel her years quite heavily.
"Oh, dear—come in quickly," she urged, fumbling with the ring of large brass keys at her waist. She finally managed to unlock the rusty iron gate and pull it open with a creak. "The weather's been dreadful. I haven't even managed to get the children's laundry out for two days!"
"That's quite true," the old man said, stepping inside. His voice was soft, thoughtful, and kind. He glanced around the courtyard with familiarity, a wistful expression forming in his eyes. "This place hasn't changed much. Still so tidy. So... peaceful."
Mrs. Gary beamed with pride, despite the leaking roof and chipped paint. "It's always been like this," she said, leading him into the hallway. "We may not have much money, but I've always believed children deserve a clean, safe place. It's been like that since the days of Mrs. Cole, rest her soul. It's just a shame more people don't come to help out, or visit the children."
She handed him a clean towel from a cupboard near the door. "Goodness me, you're drenched. Here—dry yourself off, and I'll put the kettle on."
As the stranger wiped the rain from his face and beard, Mrs. Gary observed him with curiosity. "I don't believe I've seen you before," she said, squinting slightly. "Have you visited us before?"
The old man smiled. "Ah, yes, but it was many years ago," he replied. "Fifty-seven... no, fifty-eight years ago, I believe. Mrs. Cole was still in charge then. A remarkable woman. She helped me greatly."
"Good heavens, that must've been before I was even hired!" Mrs. Gary chuckled. "You must be... well, you look at least eighty, I'd say?"
"Believe me," the man said with a chuckle of his own, "I'm older than you think."
They shared a warm silence as Mrs. Gary poured two cups of steaming tea and placed them on the sitting room table. She was used to spending her days with children and had few visitors. Conversation with an adult was a rare and pleasant change.
"So then, Mr...?" she asked at last, catching herself in her hospitality. "I'm terribly sorry—I didn't even ask your name."
"Albus. Albus Dumbledore," the man said kindly. "I'm the headmaster of a private school, and I'm here today to visit a boy named Albert."
At the sound of that name, Mrs. Gary's tired eyes brightened. "Albert?" she repeated, her voice filled with pride. "Oh, our little Albert is the pride of this place. You won't find a more well-mannered, clever, or resilient child anywhere in London!"
She leaned forward eagerly, already glowing with the joy of talking about the boy. "I've seen my fair share of children in my time—some sweet, some naughty, some just plain wild. But Albert? Oh, he's something else. A little gentleman, that one. He hardly ever cries, even when he was a baby. At just one year old, he could already say clear words. And not long after, he stopped fussing entirely—not for hunger, not for being hurt, nothing. And when the older boys bullied him? He didn't come running to me, no—he faced them with quiet determination."
Dumbledore sipped his tea and listened patiently as Mrs. Gary continued, clearly delighted to share her stories.
"He's so clever too! Always reading. From the moment he could make sense of the letters, he was never without a book. Newspapers, magazines, dictionaries—even the medical almanacs I keep for emergencies. He reads everything he can get his hands on. By the age of three, he could read the morning paper out loud—without missing a word! And the way he absorbs information... it's just astounding."
She took a breath and smiled wistfully. "You know, sometimes I wonder if he really is just ten years old. He talks like someone far older—so wise, so calm. But he's never arrogant. Always kind to the little ones, always patient when I'm tired."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. His expression had grown serious, though a twinkle of curiosity still danced in his eyes. "He sounds like a remarkable child indeed."
"Oh, he is," Mrs. Gary agreed with conviction. "Not once has he ever caused trouble. Even when he's hurt, or confused, or lonely—he never complains. He just... finds a way through it."
She refilled the headmaster's tea and continued, now fully in the rhythm of storytelling. "I remember last winter when little Sarah caught a bad cold. The other children were afraid to go near her, poor thing, but Albert sat with her for hours, reading stories and making her laugh. And when the doctor came? Albert remembered every word the man said and helped me make sure she took her medicine properly!"
Dumbledore smiled. "He must be very special to you."
"Like a grandson," she said simply, her voice soft with emotion. "I've grown attached to many children over the years, but Albert... He's different. There's something in him I can't quite explain. Something... unusual."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Unusual?"
She hesitated. "I suppose I shouldn't say strange. He's just... there've been moments. Things I can't quite explain. Once, I found him sitting by the window, talking to a bird. Not just talking—whistling in patterns, like he was having a full conversation. And the bird seemed to respond."
There was a brief silence.
"Another time, I saw him reading in the hallway at night. The lights had gone out—we couldn't afford to fix the generator—and yet he was reading by what looked like candlelight. But there wasn't a candle anywhere."
She laughed nervously. "You must think I'm getting senile."
"Not at all," Dumbledore said warmly, his eyes gleaming. "Quite the opposite. You've given me a clearer picture than I could've hoped for."
They sat in companionable silence for a few more moments as the rain drummed steadily outside. Somewhere upstairs, the laughter of children echoed faintly through the halls.
Dumbledore stood and placed the empty teacup gently on the tray. "I think it's time I met young Albert."
Mrs. Gary nodded and stood with him. "Follow me. I believe he's in the library. That's his favorite place."
As they made their way down the corridor, Dumbledore felt something stir in his chest—a sense of anticipation, of familiarity. Something told him that this meeting would mark the beginning of something important.
And he was not wrong.