Chapter 1: The Orphan of Fog City
The Thames churned. Gray waves slapped against the stone embankment, foaming with filth.
Above, the sky was a bruised patchwork of fog and soot. In the distance, the silhouette of Big Ben pierced the industrial smog, looking exactly as it would fifty years later.
London, 1938. Wool's Orphanage.
It was a square, grim block of a building. Some said it was built to house the children of soldiers lost in the Great War. Others claimed it was a repurposed medieval pest house for Black Death victims. The rumors varied, but they all pointed to one truth:
This place was a dump.
Tangled power lines choked the sky. Houses were stacked haphazardly on the gray stone ground like discarded toys. A heavy iron gate severed this decay from the busy street outside. Inside, foul white steam drifted from the earth, and rusty manhole covers rattled, spewing vapor. Even the rain seemed to hesitate before clogging the drains.
In a basement room.
A small boy lay with his eyes shut tight.
He looked about eleven. Black hair, pale skin. His face had a delicate, mixed-race quality to it, though the massive bruise on his forehead ruined the aesthetic.
He twitched.
Knock, knock.
A polite rap on the door. The boy didn't wake.
A pause.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Louder. Harder.
Hofa snapped awake.
He sat up, gasping, hands flying instantly to his head, then his crotch. Still there. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Alive.
He sniffed. No smell of popcorn or burnt plastic. Just sour mold and damp rot.
The exploding IMAX screen was gone. In its place was a dark, filthy cell of a room.
Hofa stared at his hands. They were pale. Thin. Small.
Pain exploded in his skull.
It hit him like a hammer. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the mattress. Through the ringing in his ears, the knocking at the door sounded frantic.
Time blurred.
When the pain finally receded, it left something behind. Memories.
He was still Hofa. But not the Hofa he knew.
The old Hofa was a nobody high school student in China. No money, no car, no family. His biggest thrill was saving up for books or a movie ticket. He'd been watching a film when the theater blew up.
Now?
Now he was Hofa Bach.
An orphan. A nobody in a different world.
The memories of this new body played out like a silent film. The original owner of this body—little Hofa—had gone on a picnic with the orphanage. Someone had tricked him. Lured him to a cave by the sea.
The shove. The fall. The freezing embrace of the ocean.
He'd been dragged back to the orphanage half-dead. That's when the switch happened.
This kid's world was small. Just the sewage-stained streets of London. No internet. No phones. Just sputtering cars belching black smoke and an endless sea of black umbrellas.
Hofa rubbed his temples, trying to sift through the fragmented mind for anything useful.
His father in this life had been Chinese, fleeing war only to die in Europe during WWI. The surname "Bach" likely came from a foreign mother, but her face was a blank space in his memory.
"An orphan again..." Hofa muttered, rubbing his throbbing head. "And I transmigrated."
He sighed. He wasn't particularly attached to his old life, but this starting loadout was brutal.
He took a better look at his surroundings.
A filthy bed. A broken wooden table. Faded recruitment posters peeling off the walls.
And a cat.
A British Blue, hanging from the ceiling light fixture.
Stiff. Cold. Dead.
The name surfaced instantly: Aldo.
It was the previous owner's best friend.
A surge of foreign rage boiled in Hofa's chest. Pure, unadulterated hatred. Who would do this? Who would hang a defenseless animal in its owner's room?
Before he could dig through the memories for a culprit—
Click. The sound of a key.
BANG!
The door didn't open; it was kicked in.
Hofa scrambled back against the wall.
Two people stood in the doorway. A man and a woman.
The woman was familiar. Skinny, anxious, sharp-featured. Mrs. Cole. The matron of Wool's Orphanage.
The man standing next to her, however, looked like he'd taken a wrong turn from a different century.
An eccentric old gentleman.
He wore a velvet suit of crushed plum, cut in a style that screamed Savile Row but fit the surroundings like a diamond in a gutter. He held a bowler hat and a cane. His nose was long and crooked, as if it had been broken at least once. His auburn hair and beard were long, tied neatly.
But it wasn't the clothes that froze Hofa's blood. It was the face. He knew that face.
"Tom, you have a vis—"
Mrs. Cole stopped. She jumped like a cat that had its tail stepped on.
"Wait. What are you doing here? Hofa! Did he steal your room again?"
Hofa was too busy staring at the old man to process her words.
The gentleman stepped into the room. He glanced around, his eyes lingering sadly on the hanging cat. Then he turned to Hofa. Bright blue eyes peered over a long, crooked nose.
He reached out a long finger and gently brushed the bruise on Hofa's forehead.
"Poor child."
A cool sensation washed over Hofa. The pain vanished. The wound knit itself together in seconds.
Clarity struck like a lightning bolt. Hofa's eyes darted to the nameplate on the back of the door.
Written in crooked, childish scrawl:
[ TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE ]
Holy shit.
Harry Potter.
Am I Voldemort?
Panic flared, then subsided as logic kicked in. No. He was Hofa. He was just in the wrong room.
The memories clicked into place. Hofa's room was upstairs—sunny, decent. Tom Riddle lived in the basement. The future Dark Lord had coveted Hofa's room. When intimidation didn't work, Tom had lured Hofa to the cave and pushed him off the cliff.
Hofa stared, eyes wide. The timeline, the setting, the psychopathic roommate... it was all too much.
The old man turned to Mrs. Cole. "Take me to Tom, if you please."
Mrs. Cole nodded nervously, ushering him out.
They reached the doorway. The realization finally hit Hofa's vocal cords. He pointed at the man's retreating back. The name slipped out before he could stop it.
"Dumb... Dum... Dumbledore..."
The old man stopped.
He turned slowly. The auburn beard twitched. The blue eyes widened, losing their twinkle for a fraction of a second.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Hofa slapped a hand over his mouth.
Idiot!
He wasn't just a wizard. He was the greatest wizard of the age. A Legilimens. A man who could peel minds like oranges. If he found out Hofa was a soul-squatter from another dimension... Azkaban would be a mercy.
Dumbledore didn't leave. He looked at the boy with a gaze that felt like an X-ray.
"Have we met?" he asked softly.
Hofa shook his head so hard his neck cracked. Hands still clamped over his mouth.
"Then how do you know my name?"
Dumbledore took a step forward.
Hofa took a step back.
Dumbledore smiled, but the eyes remained sharp. He turned his head slightly to Mrs. Cole.
"One moment, Madam. I believe I'd like a word with this young man as well."