Wool's Orphanage, a longstanding orphanage in London.

It was a square building surrounded by high railings, appearing worn out on the outside but remarkably clean and tidy on the inside.

The establishment's founding date was lost to history, and despite its considerable age, it lacked notable achievements.

No famous merchants, politicians, or scholars had emerged from here, and it struggled to attract donations or well-intentioned adopters.

This was an ordinary, dilapidated, and almost bankrupt orphanage, managed by Mrs. Cole, an ordinary elderly woman.

However, in a hidden society inaccessible to ordinary people, this orphanage held an extraordinary reputation that was destined to become even more prominent from this day forward.

On this day, June 11, 1991, the orphanage welcomed a special guest.

"Knock, knock, knock—"

The sound of knocking reached Mrs. Cole's ears.

She set aside her knitting in the rocking chair and hurriedly made her way to the door.

"On such a rainy day, who would visit such an old orphanage?" she wondered, grabbing a black, old umbrella from the rack by the door and opening it as she approached.

Standing at the door was an old man, tall and thin, with silver hair and a silver beard that reached his waist. Over his robe, he wore a purple cloak and held a dirty black umbrella. His robe was soaked, and droplets covered his half-moon-shaped glasses.

Mrs. Cole, 60 years old, felt that this man was much older than her. Strangely, though, despite looking old enough to be her father, he seemed more energetic, his bright blue eyes full of life.

"Oh, come on in," Mrs. Cole fumbled with a large key from her keychain, struggling to open the somewhat rusted gate of the orphanage. 

"The weather has been terrible lately, and the children's clothes have been left out for two days without drying."

"That's true," the old man agreed, following Mrs. Cole through the orphanage's main entrance. He looked around, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes.

"Nothing has changed here; it's still so neat," he sighed.

"Of course," Mrs. Cole proudly handed a clean towel to the wet old man, saying, "We've always been like this. While we may not provide affluent living conditions, we do our best to give the children a good living environment, just as Mrs. Cole did.

Unfortunately, not many people come to help us, and not many come to help these poor little ones." As she spoke, the somewhat grumbling old woman couldn't help but complain.

"Have you been here before? I don't seem to remember you," she asked curiously.

"Oh, that was many years ago," the old man recalled. "Around fifty-seven... or fifty-eight years ago? I can't quite remember. Mrs. Cole received me back then and provided me with significant help."

"Then you must be over 80 years old?" Mrs. Cole asked casually while preparing tea for the guest.

"Believe me, I'm older than you imagine," the old man finally dried his beard and hair with the towel, then engaged in conversation with the somewhat lonely old woman.

After a while, the satisfied chatterbox of an old woman remembered the main reason for their meeting. "So, Mr... Oh, how rude of me; I forgot to ask for your name."

"I am Albus..... Albus Dumbledore," the old man answered.

"I am the headmaster of a wizarding school, and I am here to find a boy named Alaric."

"Oh, Alaric." When mentioning this name, the murky eyes of the old woman seemed to light up.

"Little Alaric is our pride and joy. There hasn't been a child as intelligent and sensible as him. I've watched him grow up. I've seen all sorts of mischievous and troublesome poor children, you know, it's my profession, but I've never seen such a smart and sensible little boy."

Mrs. Cole's face revealed immense pride and joy, and she couldn't help but complain a little.

"Little Alaric could speak at the age of one. Since then, he has never cried or made a fuss, whether hungry or bullied by older children. He always faces difficulties on his own. Oh, he's such a resilient child."

Mrs. Cole refilled Dumbledore's tea and continued, "This child loves reading. He started reading when he learned to recognize words—newspapers, magazines, dictionaries, novels... he reads everything. His mind is sharp, and he learns quickly. He could fluently read newspapers at the age of three."

As if introducing her own proud grandson, the old woman spent a long time describing the 10-year-old named "Alaric."

Dumbledore patiently listened, gradually forming a basic impression of the child: intelligent, sensible, eager to learn, hardworking, kind, and so on.

Although he knew there might be some subjective bias from the old woman, the overall impression was still near perfection.