Chapter 1: The Orphan of the Foggy City
The sky was streaked with patches of gray amidst the gloomy fog, and in the distance, Big Ben towered over the industrial smoke, looking no different than it would fifty years later.
London, 1938. Woots Orphanage.
This was a square, grim, and austere building.
The orphanage's origins were shrouded in mystery. Some said it was established to aid the children of soldiers who died in World War I. Others claimed it was a medieval church that once housed victims of the Black Death. Regardless of the story, one thing was clear:
The place was in shambles.
A chaotic web of power lines crisscrossed the sky. Buildings were haphazardly stacked on the gray stone ground, utterly devoid of aesthetics.
A massive iron gate separated the orphanage from the bustling street outside. The ground reeked with foul-smelling white fumes, rusted manhole covers gurgled with steam, and even rainwater clogged at the edge of the drains.
In the orphanage's basement.
A young boy lay with his eyes closed, as if asleep.
He was about eleven years old, with short black hair, pale skin, and delicate features that hinted at mixed heritage—though the bruises on his forehead ruined his appearance.
He lay on a bed, occasionally twitching, as if enduring unbearable pain.
Knock, knock.
A polite knock came from the door, but the boy did not wake.
A moment later:
Bang, bang, bang!
The knocking grew louder.
Hoffa woke abruptly from a nightmare. He sat up, touching his head and… other regions. Finding everything intact, he sighed in relief.
He was still alive.
Sniffing the air, he caught a whiff of a damp, musty stench.
Gone was the fiery, explosive scene of the IMAX cinema. Instead, he found himself in a filthy, dimly lit room.
Shocked, Hoffa examined his pale, slender hands.
Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his forehead. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed again. Through the haze of his pain, he vaguely heard the knocking outside grow more urgent.
Hoffa gradually regained consciousness after an unknown period.
Memories that didn't belong to him flooded his mind.
He was still Hoffa, but no longer the Hoffa from Earth. That Hoffa had been an ordinary high school student from China—a loner with no house, car, or money. His only hobby was saving up to buy books and watch movies.
But during one fateful IMAX screening, the theater exploded, and he ended up in this strange place.
Now, his full name was Hoffa Bach, a child raised in an orphanage—a perfectly ordinary boy.
Fragments of memory revealed the tragic fate of this body's previous owner. During an orphanage outing, he was lured to a seaside cave, pushed off a cliff into the icy waters, and barely survived, giving Hoffa the chance to take over.
The boy's memories were confined to the sewage-filled streets of London. He had never ventured beyond the orphanage, had no concept of telephones, computers, or the internet. The only vehicles he'd seen were smoke-belching vintage cars, and black umbrellas dotted the streets.
Hoffa racked his brain, scavenging for survival information from these fragmented memories.
Among the fragments, Hoffa uncovered that this life's father had been a Chinese man who fled wartime chaos to Europe but perished during World War I. The surname "Bach" likely came from a foreign mother, though he had no memories of her.
"An orphan… and I've time-traveled!"
Rubbing his head, Hoffa exhaled. He didn't mind the idea of time travel—he hadn't left much behind in his previous life—but the starting conditions here were abysmal.
He carefully observed his surroundings.
A filthy bed. A rickety wooden desk. Faded posters of soldiers on the wall.
And… a British Shorthair cat, hanging lifelessly from the ceiling.
Yes, the cat hung there stiffly, an absolutely pitiful sight.
A name surfaced in Hoffa's mind: Ado.
The cat had been the closest friend of the body's previous owner.
A wave of rage welled up in Hoffa. Who would do such a thing? Who would hang an innocent, helpless cat in front of its owner?
Before he could delve further into these thoughts, the door rattled with soft knocks and the sound of a key turning.
Click!
Suddenly, the tightly shut door burst open, as if someone had kicked it in.
Startled, Hoffa stepped back.
Two figures stood in the doorway—a man and a woman.
The woman was familiar. From the instant he saw her, Hoffa's memories supplied her identity:
Mrs. Cole, the administrator of Woots Orphanage. A frail, anxious woman.
Beside her stood an unexpected guest:
An eccentric old gentleman.
This man's attire clashed with the grim environment. He had piercing blue eyes, a long nose that appeared to have been broken, and neatly tied reddish-brown hair and beard. He wore a velvet suit and carried a cane and a top hat.
Hoffa had no doubt the suit was bespoke from Savile Row. But it wasn't his clothing that surprised him—it was his face. Something about this man seemed eerily familiar.
"Tom, someone's here to see you…"
Mrs. Cole spoke casually, but then she stiffened, like a startled cat.
"Wait, why are you here, Hoffa? Did he steal your room?"
Hoffa, still trying to place the familiar old man, didn't respond.
The man entered, glancing around. He sighed at the sight of the hanging cat, then turned his calm blue gaze to Hoffa.
Reaching out, he gently touched the bruise on Hoffa's forehead.
"Poor child…"
A soothing warmth spread across the bruise, and suddenly, Hoffa noticed the nameplate on the door.
It read, in crooked English: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Oh no! Is this… Harry Potter's world? Am I Voldemort?!
For a moment, Hoffa's mind spun. But soon, he realized he was overthinking.
He was still Hoffa, merely occupying Voldemort's room. His memories explained it all:
This orphanage housed them both. Hoffa's previous life had made him a favorite of the staff, earning him a sunny first-floor room. Tom Riddle, however, resided in the basement.
Jealous, Tom had tricked Hoffa into the cave and pushed him off the cliff.
Before Hoffa could dwell on this grim discovery, the old man finished healing him and turned to Mrs. Cole.
"Take me to Tom," he said with a sigh.
Mrs. Cole nodded and led him away.
At the door, Hoffa pointed at the man's retreating back, blurting out:
"Dum… Dum… Dumbledore?"
The reddish-bearded Dumbledore turned in surprise. His blue eyes widened as his brow furrowed.
Silence hung in the air.
Hoffa clamped his hand over his mouth. Damn it! He'd let his shock get the better of him.
He couldn't let slip that he knew anything about this world. Dumbledore, as one of its most powerful wizards, had countless ways to uncover his secrets—Truth Serum, Legilimency …
But Dumbledore wasn't ready to let him go.
"Have we met?" he asked gently.
Hoffa shook his head vehemently.
"Then how do you know my name?"
Dumbledore stepped closer, and Hoffa instinctively stepped back.
"Wait outside," Dumbledore said to Mrs. Cole. "I'd like to speak with this boy alone."
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