The waves of the Thames crashed against the rocks, sending layers of foam into the air.
The sky, mottled with gray fog, stretched endlessly. In the distance, the towering Big Ben stood amidst the thick industrial smoke, unchanged from what it would look like fifty years later.
It was 1938, and Hofa found himself in the Wool's Orphanage in London.
The orphanage was a grim, square building with a history shrouded in mystery.
Some said it was built to help the children of soldiers who died in World War I, while others claimed it was once a medieval church used to quarantine plague victims.
Regardless of its origins, one thing was clear—it was a rundown place.
Tangled wires crisscrossed the sky above, and the buildings were haphazardly arranged on the gray stone ground, devoid of any aesthetic appeal.
A large iron gate separated the orphanage from the bustling streets outside. The ground was covered in foul-smelling white smoke, and rusted manhole covers gurgled as steam rose from them.
Even rainwater struggled to drain, pooling at the entrances of the clogged sewers.
In a basement room of the orphanage, a young boy lay with his eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
He was about eleven years old, with short black hair and pale skin.
His mixed-race features gave him a somewhat delicate appearance, though the bruise on his forehead marred his looks.
He twitched occasionally, as if in great pain.
*Knock, knock.*
There was a polite knock at the door, but the boy didn't wake.
After a moment, the knocking grew louder.
*Knock, knock, knock!*
---
Hofa jolted awake from a nightmare, sitting up abruptly and immediately checking his head and crotch. Relieved to find all his body parts intact, he let out a sigh. He was still alive.
Sniffing the air, he caught a whiff of sour mildew. The room before him was dark and dirty, a far cry from the fiery explosion he had last seen in the movie theater.
Hofa looked at his hands in shock—they were pale and frail. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his forehead, and his vision blurred. He fell back onto the bed, barely conscious. In his dazed state, he could hear the knocking at the door growing more urgent.
---
It took a while for Hofa to recover from the pain. As he did, he realized that his mind was now filled with memories that didn't belong to him. He was still Hofa, but he was no longer the Hofa from Earth.
The Hofa from Earth had been an ordinary high school student in China, with no family, no car, and no money. His only hobby was saving up to buy books and watch movies. But during an IMAX screening, the theater had exploded, and he had ended up in this strange place.
Now, his full name was Hofa Bach, an ordinary orphan who had grown up in this very orphanage. Fragmented memories told him that the original owner of this body had been lured into a seaside cave during an orphanage picnic, pushed off a cliff, and plunged into the icy sea. By the time he was brought back to the orphanage, he was on the brink of death, allowing Hofa to take over.
The boy's memories were filled with images of London's filthy, waterlogged streets. He had never been anywhere else. He didn't know what phones or computers were, let alone the internet. The only things he had seen were the black smoke-belching old cars on the streets and the ubiquitous black umbrellas.
Hofa strained to recall more useful information from the fragmented memories. As he did, more pieces surfaced. His father in this life had been a native of China, a man who had fled the war and ended up dying in Europe during World War I. The surname "Bach" likely came from his foreign mother, though Hofa had no memories of her.
---
"An orphan... I've actually traveled through time!" Hofa rubbed his head and exhaled deeply. He didn't mind the time travel—after all, he had nothing to miss from his previous life. But this starting point was far from ideal.
He took a closer look at his surroundings. The room was small and dirty, with a grimy bed, a broken wooden table, and faded soldier posters on the walls. Hanging from the ceiling was a stiff, lifeless British Shorthair cat.
The cat's name, Hofa recalled, was Ado. It had been the original owner's closest friend.
A wave of anger washed over Hofa. Who would hang an innocent cat like this, especially in front of its owner? Before he could delve deeper into the memories to find the culprit, there was a soft knock at the door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock.
*Click!*
The door swung open abruptly, as if someone had kicked it. Hofa jumped back in surprise.
Two people stood in the doorway—a man and a woman. The woman was familiar. Hofa immediately recognized her from the memories. She was Mrs. Cole, the administrator of Wool's Orphanage. She was a thin, anxious-looking woman.
But the man beside her was an unexpected visitor. He was an eccentric old gentleman, Hofa thought, as his appearance was completely out of place in this environment. He had blue eyes and a long nose that looked like it had been broken before. His auburn beard and hair were neatly tied, and he wore a well-tailored velvet suit, holding a cane and a top hat.
Hofa had no doubt that the suit was custom-made on Savile Row. But what surprised him wasn't the man's attire—it was his beard and hair. He looked oddly familiar.
"Tom, someone's here to see you..." Mrs. Cole said casually, but then she jumped as if she'd stepped on a cat's tail. "Wait, what are you doing here? Hofa! Did he take your room?"
Hofa was still trying to figure out who the familiar old man was and didn't immediately respond to Mrs. Cole.
The old man stepped into the room, glancing around. He sighed when he saw the hanging cat, then stood in front of Hofa. His deep blue eyes calmly studied the boy.
Then he reached out with his long fingers and gently touched the bruise on Hofa's forehead.
"Poor child..." A soothing sensation spread through Hofa's wound, and a flash of realization struck him. He looked up at the doorplate, which had the name "Tom Marvolo Riddle" scrawled on it.
*What the... Harry Potter's world? Am I Voldemort?!*
Hofa's mind was in chaos, but he quickly realized he was overthinking it. He was still Hofa, just sharing a room with Voldemort. The reason became clear as he recalled more memories. This was an orphanage, and the original owner of his body had been a well-behaved child favored by the orphanage administrator. His room had been on the first floor, where he could enjoy the sunlight. Tom Riddle, the young Voldemort, had coveted that room and lured Hofa into a cave. After failing to intimidate him, Tom had pushed Hofa off a cliff.
Before Hofa could fully process the tragic fate of his predecessor, a flood of information about the world, the era, and the story overwhelmed him. His eyes widened as he pieced everything together.
The old man finished healing Hofa's wound and turned to Mrs. Cole, saying softly, "Take me to see Tom."
Mrs. Cole nodded and prepared to lead him away.
As they reached the door, Hofa finally reacted. Pointing at the old man's back, he blurted out, "D-D-Dumbledore...!"
The auburn-bearded Dumbledore turned around in surprise, his forehead creasing with lines as his blue eyes widened.
The air grew tense.
Hofa quickly covered his mouth. *Damn it! I wasn't careful enough.* In his shock, he had let his guard down. After all, Dumbledore was one of the most powerful wizards in the world, with countless ways to uncover secrets—truth serum, Legilimency... While Hofa doubted Dumbledore would resort to such methods, it was better to be cautious. If his secret—that he had taken over this body—was discovered, who knew how the magical world would deal with him?
But Dumbledore wasn't about to let it go. He asked gently, "Have we met before?"
Hofa shook his head vigorously, still covering his mouth.
"Then how do you know my name?" Dumbledore took a step forward.
Hofa took a step back.
Dumbledore chuckled lightly and politely said to Mrs. Cole, "Just a moment. I'd like to have a private chat with this child."