I continued my meditation. I had no idea how long I had been sitting in silence, as there was no clock in the room. I hoped something would happen. That some enlightenment, progress, or at least a small flash of intuition would come to help me understand where I actually was. Unfortunately, nothing of the sort happened.
The only thing I perceived was my breath. It gradually slowed down, and my body began to relax. My thoughts, however, remained as chaotic as before.
What had actually happened to my original world? Did I die there? What about my family? My girlfriend? My cat? My friends?
And what if this reality isn't real? What if it's just a cruel figment of my own mind?
Was I dreaming?
Three sharp knocks on the door cut through the silence of the room, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"Come in," I called out. Still that squeaky child's voice, I thought with a quiet sigh.
An older woman entered the room—the exact same one I had caught a glimpse of in a fragmented memory during my conversation with Doctor Barlow.
She must have been slightly over fifty. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight, practical bun. It wasn't a style that looked elegant, but rather functional. She wore a grey spring jacket, a bit worn around the pockets, as if she had been wearing it for several years. Her narrow, pale face was framed by fine wrinkles, which didn't look like the traces of frequent laughter, but rather the result of years of worry and responsibility.
"Hello, Patrik. Are you ready to go home?"
Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost businesslike. When she looked at me, I saw no warmth or maternal kindness in her eyes that one might expect from the matron of an orphanage. Instead, they seemed watchful and alert.
Is she afraid of me? flashed through my mind.
If so, why? Her behavior didn't fit the image of an orphanage matron that I had built in my mind.
There was nothing like Bates about her. No fake smile, no acting. With her, it felt completely different—natural and almost uncomfortably honest.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to give my voice the coldest tone possible.
The problem was that when an eight-year-old with a squeaky voice attempts a menacingly cold tone, the result is more comical than terrifying.
"Do you really remember nothing, Patrik?"
There was a hint of suspicion in her voice.
"I really don't remember anything," I replied honestly. "But I can see you have a certain degree of respect for me. Maybe it would be better to call Doctor Barlow—just to be safe. I'd hate to find out you're just another Bates."
I decided to push a little. Not too much, just enough to see her reaction. At the same time, I placed my hand on the call button next to the bed, ready to press it if needed.
The woman turned slightly pale, but then let out a quiet, dry chuckle. Her reaction was so unexpected that I was left completely taken aback for a moment.
"Just like Riddle," she muttered under her breath.
If there hadn't been such a tense silence in the room, I would have surely missed that quiet whisper.
Riddle?
Another name that instantly set off alarm bells in my head.
"My name is Amy Benson," she continued, louder this time. "I am the matron of Wool's Orphanage. You can call Doctor Barlow if you like, he is on his way anyway. He still needs to formally process your discharge and paperwork. He should be here any minute."
She paused for a moment, sizing me up.
"I'm not afraid of you, Patrik. I'm just cautious. You've been a strange child since you were a baby. Things happened around you that couldn't easily be explained... and I don't exactly have the best memories of them."
She said it completely calmly. Without accusation, without fear. As if she were describing something unpleasant, but long in the past.
I have abilities... but what kind, exactly? The thought flashed through my mind.
"Could you tell me more about it, please?" I asked.
This information was far too important for my own pride to stop me from asking.
She looked me straight in the eyes, as if trying to discern whether I was serious. She must have found the answer she was looking for in my gaze, because after a moment she continued.
"Things happened around you. Things that couldn't be explained. They moved on their own, as if responding to your will. When someone took your toy, you'd have it back in your hands a moment later. Some objects flew, others floated in the air, as if waiting for your command."
A bitter smile appeared on her lips.
"The local priest once saw a teddy bear slide across the floor toward you on its own. He was convinced you were possessed by the devil and insisted you needed an exorcism."
She gave a brief shake of her head.
"Fortunately, the priest had a habit of sipping communion wine in private when he thought no one was watching. I convinced him he'd merely had hallucinations. I told him that if he didn't stop drinking, I would be forced to inform his superiors."
Benson sighed.
"I didn't know what to do. But I knew I had to protect both you and the other children. That is why you were given your own room. And then... as if by a miracle, all those strange things stopped."
"Why are you so wary of me then?" I asked curiously.
Though in my mind, a terrifying mosaic was already starting to come together. Something was beginning to dawn on me, but I didn't want to admit it to myself just yet.
Benson lowered her gaze for a moment.
"I grew up in an orphanage myself, and I have personal experience with a boy who was just like you," she admitted in a quieter voice. "Our matron back then, Mrs. Cole, had absolutely no idea how to handle him. She didn't protect him. And the priest regularly tried to 'cure' him."
She paused for a moment.
"They locked him in solitary confinement. They starved him... Looking back, I don't understand how we could have let it happen. It wasn't upbringing. It was pure cruelty."
Her voice grew quiet.
"Yes, he was different. Strange. But the more they hurt him, the more he changed. He began to grow crueler to the others."
She looked at me again.
"With you, I promised myself I would protect you from a similar fate. But every time I look at you... I see him."
"What was his name?" I asked.
By then, I already practically knew the answer. But I needed to hear it directly from her lips.
"Tom Riddle," she replied simply.
So my suspicion had been correct.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benson," I said after a moment. "For all the information, and for protecting me."
I gave her a sincere smile.
Suddenly, it began to make sense why she was so cautious around me. If she had personal experience with a child around whom inexplicable things happened, her apprehension was understandable. I was incredibly lucky that, instead of choosing fear and cruelty, she had taken a different path than Mrs. Cole.
I noticed her clothes again. Simple, a little worn, but clean and practical. She didn't seem like someone who would build her own comfort at the expense of the children. Rather, she seemed like a person who watched every penny and took her responsibilities seriously.
I realized that even now, I was automatically looking for reasons to distrust her. After all the experiences from my previous life, I was used to looking at people with a certain degree of suspicion.
Perhaps, though, in this case, the fault didn't lie with her.
Maybe it was just my own cynicism and deeply ingrained distrust of authority.
Mrs. Benson watched me for a moment, as if still trying to gauge whether my words were sincere. In the end, however, she merely nodded with a gentle, tired smile.
"You're welcome, Patrik. It is my duty... and, after all, my calling," she added quietly.
Just then, there was a brief knock, and the door opened almost immediately.
The hospital room door swung open, and Doctor Barlow walked in. His creased coat, the dark circles under his eyes, and his weary expression made it clear he had just finished a long shift. He paused in the doorway for a second, his expression saying it all—the hospital hadn't let up today either.
"I'm sorry, it's absolute chaos here today. The ambulance just brought in a patient with a stab wound—the twelfth one this week already," he said breathlessly.
He held some papers in his hand.
"Here are the discharge documents, Mrs. Benson."
Then he turned to me and smiled.
"Patrik, it was good to meet you. Take care."
Barlow quickly handed Benson the folder of papers, shook my hand, and within seconds, he was gone.
It all happened so fast that the matron and I just stood there in silence for a moment, processing his abrupt departure.
"Ready?" she asked after a brief silence. "The taxi is waiting for us outside."
"Yes, we can go."
I had nothing to pack. I had all my personal belongings on me, and I had already changed out of my hospital clothes early this morning.
The journey was short, yet strangely fascinating to me.
The sight of the taxi and the surrounding cars left me in no doubt—I had ended up in an era I only knew from historical footage. The vehicles around me looked like pieces of the past that someone had dragged out of a museum and sent back onto the streets.
A heavy, leaden sky hung over London, but fortunately, it wasn't raining. The cold air carried the sharp smell of the city—a mixture of exhaust fumes, dampness, and industrial smog.
Wool's Orphanage loomed ahead of us like a relic of another era.
A high tower and a massive wrought-iron gate gave it the appearance of a small, enclosed fortress. The entire building looked cold and impersonal, as though it still carried the echo of the strict order that had once governed it.
Up close, it was clear its best years were long behind it.
Weathered bricks, cracked plaster, and damp patches plainly showed that maintenance hadn't exactly been a priority. Once, it might have been the grand residence of a wealthy family, which later passed into the hands of a charity. Now, however, majesty was slowly giving way to time and a lack of funds.
Right at the entrance, I was hit by the smell of old wood, mustiness, and dampness. I was surprised that I didn't smell the typical stench of mold.
Maintaining and heating such a colossal building must cost an unbelievable amount of money, I thought.
Looking at the long, cold corridors sent shivers down my spine. Despite this place being called a home, it felt more like a cold, impersonal institution. A place where children merely survived, not a place they could call a real home.
"Come, Patrik, I'll show you to your room. You can rest a bit. Lunch is at half past twelve, and I'll come get you then," Benson said, stepping down the corridor.
The room was exactly as I had expected—small, simple, and austere.
Right by the door stood a massive wooden wardrobe. To the left was the bed; a plain metal frame with a thin mattress that was long past its prime. The right side of the room was taken up by a simple writing desk with a single chair. Above it was a large window in an old iron frame, through which cold air from the street forced its way inside.
I'll probably have to wear more layers to sleep, I sighed to myself, immediately recalling the comfort of modern windows and heated apartments from my former life.
On the other hand, I had always considered myself a simple man. This space didn't actually bother me. I had everything I needed here—a place to meditate, exercise, and study.
But the greatest advantage was something else entirely.
This room was mine alone.
The thought of having to share a small space with noisy children genuinely terrified me.
With a sigh, I threw myself onto the bed. Finally, I had a moment of peace to sort through my thoughts and analyze everything I had learned today.
So, I was in the world of Harry Potter.
I stared up at the grey ceiling, letting the full weight of that realization sink in. I had ended up in the orphanage where Voldemort grew up, and based on Benson's words, it was more than likely that I myself was a wizard.
I began to search my memory for everything I knew from Rowling's books.
My father was supposed to be Evan Rosier—a Death Eater and loyal follower of the Dark Lord, who, by all accounts, was eventually killed by Mad-Eye Moody. If I remembered correctly, Rosier belonged to roughly the same year as Barty Crouch Junior.
Which meant that when he fathered me, he must have still been very young.
A truly textbook example of responsible parenting, I thought with a sarcastic smile.
But it quickly faded.
How on earth had I ended up in a Muggle orphanage?
The Rosiers, after all, were one of the old pure-blood families. There had to be relatives of mine in the wizarding world—cousins, uncles, aunts... someone who must have known about me.
For me, though, it was more of an advantage. The orphanage offered me something I likely never would have had in a wizarding family—a certain degree of freedom.
Freedom had always been one of my highest values.
The ability to go where I wanted, control my own time, and do things as I saw fit. Naturally, as a child, it would be much harder, but it was still far better than living under the constant surveillance of some aristocratic family full of ancient prejudices.
Furthermore, there were plenty of children in this large orphanage, meaning the matrons' attention wouldn't be focused solely on me. That suited me perfectly.
Those flashes of Doctor Barlow's memories... that must have been Legilimency, I mused excitedly.
If that was true, it meant I had a natural talent for the mind arts.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the thought sink in.
I recalled that the young Riddle was able to use his magic even as a child. He could influence his surroundings, move objects, sense things others couldn't, and cause pain without a single touch. I assumed these abilities had fully developed in him precisely during the times he faced solitude, punishment, and helplessness. Desperation, the need for control, and the desire to never be a victim again had become his driving force.
If he could do it, so can I, I promised myself with determination.
I had no choice. I had ended up in a world where a powerful wizard could force you to obey any command with a smile on your face. A world where they could alter or erase your memories so perfectly that you would stop believing in your own past.
It was a terrifying prospect.
I had three years until Hogwarts. Plenty of time to understand my abilities, learn to control them, and prepare my body for what lay ahead. I needed to improve my strength, stamina, and flexibility, and seize every opportunity this new life offered. I didn't want to be just another child waiting to see what the world would do to him. I wanted to be ready to defend myself and take my destiny into my own hands.
I certainly had no intention of following in my biological father's footsteps and bowing to a noseless fanatic who posed as a champion of blood purity despite being a hypocrite himself. But by the same token, I had no intention of playing the role of Dumbledore's pawn, believing that every enemy could be redeemed if only you gave them an infinite number of second chances.
My goal was simple: I wanted to be free, to live in safety and comfort, and to have the people I cared about close to me.
But for that, I needed power.
And I was sure I could acquire it. Even the greatest talent remains nothing but wasted potential if left undeveloped. The question, however, was what would happen when you combined natural aptitude, the discipline of an adult, and knowledge of the future.
I held an advantage in my hands that almost no one else had. I knew I possessed talent—unconscious Legilimency at eight years old was proof enough. Moreover, I possessed the mind of an adult, capable of focusing, planning, and working on myself in a way a normal child could not.
Magic is power. And I will master it.
Later that afternoon, Benson picked me up and led me to the dining hall. Even from the corridor, the chatter of children and the clatter of cutlery could be heard. But the moment we crossed the threshold, all noise suddenly died. Dozens of eyes turned in my direction instantly.
The silence didn't last long, though. A moment later, a hushed whisper spread through the room, and I caught several admiring looks directed at me.
What's going on? crossed my mind, and I furrowed my brow slightly.
"By standing up to Bates and protecting little Laura, you've become a hero to many of them," Benson whispered, leaning in toward me. "But please, keep the details to yourself. Not all children can process things like this the way you do."
I grew alert for a moment. Could she read minds, or had she just gauged my reaction perfectly?
The second option was far more likely. She had probably just read my surprise correctly from the expression on my face.
***
Author's note:
Here we have another chapter! Did you know that Amy Benson grew up in the orphanage alongside Tom Riddle? It was her and other children he hurt during that famous trip to the seaside.
The plot is starting to pick up, and in the next part I plan to move it forward even more significantly. I will be very grateful for your comments—they genuinely help me improve. Let me know what you like and what you don't. Are there too many dialogues? Too little description? Does the pacing feel slow to you? Every bit of feedback matters to me. If you're enjoying the story, please consider supporting it with Power Stones—it really helps with visibility and motivates me to keep improving and updating regularly. Thank you for reading!
Finally, I wish you a beautiful holiday season! :)