Wool's Orphanage, a longstanding institution in London.
A square building surrounded by high railings, it looked worn and tired on the outside, but inside, it was clean, orderly, and well-kept.
Its founding date had long been lost to time, and despite its age, the place had no prestigious history. No great merchants, politicians, or scholars had ever come from here. It rarely attracted donations, and good-hearted adopters were few and far between.
This was an ordinary, dilapidated, and almost bankrupt orphanage—managed by an equally ordinary woman: Mrs. Cole.
But in a hidden world, unseen by ordinary people, this orphanage held a quiet reputation. And from this day forward, it was about to become far more famous.
June 11, 1971.
Today, the orphanage received a very unusual visitor.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound echoed through the hallway, reaching Mrs. Cole's ears.
She set aside her knitting from the rocking chair and hurried to the door, grabbing a black umbrella from the stand nearby.
"Who in the world visits an old orphanage on a rainy day like this?" she muttered.
Opening the door, she saw a tall, thin old man, his silver hair and long beard clinging wetly to his soaked purple cloak. He held a battered black umbrella, and droplets clung to his half-moon spectacles.
Though clearly old enough to be her father, something about him felt younger. His bright blue eyes gleamed with energy.
"Oh—please, come in," Mrs. Cole said, fumbling with the large key that unlocked the rusted gate.
"The weather's dreadful. The children's clothes haven't dried in two days."
"Indeed," the man replied politely, stepping inside with quiet grace. He looked around, his eyes full of nostalgia. "Still so neat. Nothing has changed."
"We do our best," Mrs. Cole said proudly, handing him a clean towel. "We don't have much, but we keep the children clean and fed. Just like the previous Mrs. Cole taught me. Not many people help places like this... not many help the children, either."
"Have you been here before?" she asked, curiously.
"Oh yes, many years ago," he said. "Perhaps thirty-two... thirty-three years? It's hard to recall. But I was received kindly, and I never forgot."
"You must be over eighty, then?" she asked as she made tea.
"Believe me," he said, drying his beard, "I'm far older than you'd guess."
They spoke for a while, the kind of casual chatter that filled rainy days and warmed lonely evenings. Finally, Mrs. Cole remembered the purpose of his visit.
"How rude of me—I never asked your name."
"I am Albus... Albus Dumbledore," he said with a smile. "Headmaster of a school for gifted children. I've come looking for a boy named Thomas."
"Oh! You mean Thomas," Mrs. Cole said brightly. Her eyes lit up.
"Little Thomas is our pride. We've never had a child like him—so clever and well-behaved. I've raised a lot of wild, mischievous children in my time, but never one like Thomas."
Mrs. Cole refilled Dumbledore's cup, unable to hide her fondness. "He could speak by one year old. Never cried, never fussed—not even when hungry or bullied. Always faced things calmly. And the way he reads—my word. He reads everything. Newspapers, dictionaries, novels... He was reading the morning paper fluently by age three."
She went on for some time, like a proud mother bragging about her favorite.
Dumbledore listened carefully, piecing together a portrait: intelligent, mature, reserved, and hardworking. Perhaps a bit too perfect. Still, he was intrigued.
After a moment, Dumbledore looked at her more seriously.
"Miss... has anything unusual happened around young Thomas?"
Mrs. Cole paused, then nodded.
"Yes, strange things. Unexplainable things. Knives floating in the air... or Thomas moving across a room faster than any child should. Not often—but often enough to worry the others."
Dumbledore sipped his tea thoughtfully.
Yes, he thought to himself.
Just as I suspected. This child is of wizard blood.
And something... more.
Meanwhile, in one of the upper rooms of the orphanage...
A boy with crimson red hair and slightly tanned skin stood by the window, watching the younger children below with a thoughtful look.
This was Thomas.
"Julian," he called out, voice calm but firm. "What have I said? You make a mess, you clean it. That's the rule."
One of the boys nearby pointed and grinned. "Hah! Yeah, what the boss said!"
Thomas groaned. "Jack, stop calling me that. Please. We're the older kids—it's our job to set an example for the little ones. And make life easier for the staff, not harder."
The room echoed with a half-hearted, synchronized response:
"Yes, Boss."
Thomas buried his face in his hand. "I blame you for starting this," he muttered, shooting Jack a glare that had no real heat behind it.
Just as Thomas was about to herd the younger kids downstairs for their evening routine, a familiar voice called from below.
"Thomas," Mrs. Cole's voice echoed up the stairs, "someone's here to see you."
The room went quiet.
Thomas blinked, a faint frown forming. Someone to see me? That's new.
He stood up and adjusted his slightly worn shirt, brushed some lint from it, and made his way down the creaking stairs, past the curious gazes of the younger orphans.
As he reached the bottom step, his eyes locked onto the man standing near the entrance. Long silver beard, strange robes, purple cloak, and eyes that gleamed with age-old mischief and wisdom.
No. Freaking. Way.
Thomas knew that face.
Albus bloody Dumbledore.
Dumbledore smiled kindly as their eyes met.
"You must be Thomas," he said, his voice warm and oddly musical. "Or... should I say, Lazarus?"
Thomas didn't flinch. He simply nodded and offered a neutral, polite tone. "Thomas is fine."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Very well. Thomas. May we speak privately?"
Thomas glanced toward Mrs. Cole, who gave a supportive nod before returning to her duties. He followed Dumbledore into the small visitor room, a space rarely used, with furniture that seemed stuck in time.
They sat across from each other. Dumbledore reached into his cloak and pulled out a yellowed envelope sealed with red wax.
"To begin," he said, offering the letter, "welcome to Hogwarts."
Thomas took the envelope and opened it with carefully controlled interest. He already knew what was inside—he'd been waiting for it. Still, seeing it with his own eyes was something else. Proof. Confirmation.
He looked back up. "I take it... I'm a wizard?"
Dumbledore's smile widened, eyes twinkling. "Indeed. But I suspect you already had your suspicions, didn't you?"
Thomas didn't answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, watching Dumbledore the way a duelist watches a rival—cautious, curious, calculating.
"I've seen things I can't explain," Thomas admitted. "Things no one else sees. I knew something was different."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, fingers steepled. "You're quite a fascinating young man, Thomas. Mrs. Cole speaks highly of you. Exceptional intelligence, calm under pressure, and... an uncanny understanding of the world."
Thomas tilted his head. "I just read a lot."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, but you also understand more than you should for your age."
And more than you'll ever guess, Thomas thought silently. Because I've read the books you haven't even written yet.
Dumbledore's expression shifted ever so slightly, a glimmer of something speculative passing behind his eyes. As though he sensed that there was more to this boy than he was letting on.
"Well, Thomas," Dumbledore said, standing. "I will arrange for someone to take you to Diagon Alley in a few days. You'll receive your school supplies, wand, and other essentials. Hogwarts will be your new home come September."
Thomas nodded again, standing as well. "Thank you... Headmaster."
As Dumbledore made his way to the door, he paused and looked back.
"I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of wizard you become."
With that, he left, the door shutting gently behind him.
Thomas remained still for a moment.
Then he looked down at the letter again and exhaled.
"So... it begins," he muttered.
Dumbledore turned at the doorway, giving Thomas a final nod.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we'll be getting your supplies. Until then, rest. You'll need it."
With a small smile, he stepped out, the sound of his boots echoing faintly through the corridor until the door clicked shut behind him.
Thomas stood there for a moment, then slowly sank into the old, creaky armchair. He stared at the Hogwarts letter in his hands, expression unreadable.
Inside his head, though, chaos.
Holy hell... I'm actually in Harry Potter.
He rubbed his temples.
I mean, yeah, the orphanage's name tipped me off, but I thought that was just a coincidence. A little Multiverse flavor, maybe. But no. It's real. The robes. The beard. The twinkle eyes. That's freaking Dumbledore.
He leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.
Now I really wish I'd picked the Wizard God Template.
He sighed.
Sword God sounded cool, but now I have to explain sword forms to people who think a good offense is "Expelliarmus."
From outside, he heard Jack shout, "Boss! Are we still cleaning the hallway or what?"
Thomas groaned.
"I'm eleven, I'm in Harry Potter, and I have a cult of tiny gremlins who worship me. Great start."
Later that night…
Thomas lay on his creaky old bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of the orphanage dorm.
He let out a long, tired sigh.
"What was my original plan again?"
Then it hit him.
Right. The plan was simple.
He was reborn in 1971. That meant a massive head start.
Step one: speedrun technology.
Step two: make people respect you.
Step three: get stupid rich.
Step four: write your name into history books so you'd never be forgotten.
Step five: marry a hot, loving wife who would happily deal with your eccentric genius energy.
That was the plan.
And with the Sword God Template, his body was nearly perfect. He had cultivation-level physical ability, stamina for days, and instincts sharper than a blade.
Plus, he had the mind to back it up—he'd graduated from Harvard in his past life, top of his field in tech. With future knowledge and a few basic circuits, he could've bootstrapped the microcomputer revolution by himself.
He was going to build the next IBM or Apple before either existed.
That was the dream.
And now?
Now he was in bloody Harry Potter.
Magic. Owls. Talking hats. Flying brooms.
Wands instead of swords.
And a timeline full of future war, trauma, and questionable headmaster choices.
Thomas groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.
"There goes my tech empire."
He flopped over and whispered to himself.
"…Guess I better become a Sword Immortal in a magic school instead."
He closed his eyes, mind already racing through how he might blend cultivation with spellwork, or maybe forge his own magical sword…
Thomas groaned and flopped back down on his mattress, staring at the ceiling like it had wronged him personally.
"Well... at least I can be friends with Harry," he muttered. "I mean, I can still do the tech—"
His brain froze.
"…The year's 1971."
Pause.
"Harry Potter starts Hogwarts in 1991…"
Silence.
Then:
"Oh. Double fuck."
Thomas clutched his blanket like it might shield him from the crushing realization.
"Okay… okay. Breathe. Think," he muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Who were the key players in 1971?"
His mind scrambled, sifting through hazy memories of wiki pages, fanfics, and late-night lore videos from his old life.
"James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. Peter f-ing Pettigrew."
He blinked.
"…Lily Evans. Severus Snape. Young Dumbledore. Possibly less manipulative. Or not. Jury's out."
He rubbed his temples.
"That means I'm going to school with Harry's parents. They're my classmates."
A slow, horrified realization crept in.
"…I have to share air with James Bloody Potter for seven straight years."
He groaned dramatically, flopping face-first into his pillow.
"And I know how everything ends. Wars. Death Eaters. Prophecies. Tragedy. The whole Voldemort Reboot Saga."
He sat up suddenly, eyes wide.
"…Wait. Lucius Malfoy is still at Hogwarts."
A moment passed.
"…Huh. That could actually be useful."
Thomas rolled off his bed in a blur of motion, moving with the kind of speed no eleven-year-old should possess. In less than a heartbeat, he was at the old desk in the corner, rummaging through a drawer.
Pen. Paper. Ink. Candle.
Click.
The candle flared to life with a simple spark from his finger—chi-infused friction. A Sword God didn't need matches.
He slammed the notebook open and began scribbling furiously, the pages filling line after line.
"Important Timeline Events: Voldemort's Rise, First Wizarding War, Prophecy, Potters' Death, Horcruxes, Basilisk, Sirius in Azkaban, Dobby, Chamber of Secrets, Triwizard, Umbridge, Deathly Hallows—keep Harry alive—DO. NOT. TRUST. THE. RAT."
Dates, names, events, magical artifacts. Anything and everything he could remember.
He paused for a moment, tapped the pen to his chin.
"Gotta rebuild the future like every other overpowered reincarnated protagonist. It's practically a rite of passage."
His eyes glinted with a mix of determination and madness.
"Only this time… the Sword God is writing the script."
Thomas's pen froze mid-sentence as a slow smirk crept across his face.
"First Wizarding War…"
He leaned back in the creaky chair, eyes gleaming with potential.
"I wonder if I can…"
His gaze flicked to the date he'd scrawled in the margin: 1971.
"Harry isn't even born yet. Lily, James, and Snape are just kids. Voldemort's not even started his full campaign. No Death Eaters, no marked foreheads…"
He chuckled—low, confident, and just a little unhinged.
"Perfect."
He looked down at the notebook, now not just a list of memories—but a blueprint for war, peace, power, and rewriting destiny.
"Time to change history… before it even begins."
Thomas tapped the edge of the quill against his notebook, now stained with scribbles, arrows, and underlined names. His mind was racing—calculated, calm, ruthless.
"Okay… targets of influence."
He drew a neat line down the page, dividing it into columns: Allies, Potential, and Liabilities.
"Lily Evans—Kind, brilliant, powerful. I can get along with her. Keep her close."
He jotted a checkmark next to her name.
"Severus Snape—Huge wildcard. Can either become a hero… or a Death Eater. Gotta lock that down early. Reinforce his loyalty before his insecurities twist him."
He paused, then added: Teach him confidence. Teach him to defend himself before he turns bitter.
"Lucius Malfoy… still at school. Ambitious. Pure-blood supremacist… but not a fanatic. Yet. Could be turned, or at least neutralized. Play the long game there."
He scratched out Potential Ally or Neutral under Lucius's name.
"James Potter… Liability. Arrogant, cocky, privileged. Probably too deep in his own ego to see past his nose. But popular. Need to minimize his influence without direct conflict."
He added: Possible Rival.
Then he circled one name—dark, bold, underlined.
Tom Riddle.
"Not Voldemort yet, but already out there. Gathering power. Making moves."
He stared at the name for a long moment.
"If I can hit him early, before the Horcruxes are finished—before he's immortal…"
Thomas leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
"…Then maybe I can stop everything before it begins."
He glanced over his growing web of connections and notes, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips.
"This world has no idea what's coming. And I've got twenty years of spoilers and a sword god template."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Let's rewrite the future."
To be continued
Hope people like this fanfic and give me Power stones, Expect 3 to 4 Ch A week and enjoy