Wool's Orphanage, a long-standing institution in London.
It was a square, rather bleak building, surrounded by high railings. Inside, though shabby, it was impeccably clean, not a speck of dust to be seen. The exact date of the orphanage's founding was lost to time. Despite its considerable history, there was little else to commend it—it had produced no famous merchants, politicians, or scholars, nor did it attract significant donations or a plethora of kind-hearted people looking to adopt.
It was merely an ordinary, run-down orphanage teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, and its current matron, Mrs. Gary, was just an ordinary old woman.
Yet, this very orphanage held an extraordinary reputation on the other side of this world, in a society beyond the touch of ordinary mortals. And that reputation was bound to become even more pronounced starting today.
For today, June 11th, 1991, this orphanage received a most peculiar visitor.
"Thump, thump, thump—"
The sound of knocking reached Mrs. Gary's ears.
Nestled in her armchair, she put down her needlework and hurried towards the door.
"On such a rainy day, who on earth would be visiting such an old orphanage?" she wondered, grabbing an old black umbrella from the stand by the door and opening it as she headed towards the main gate.
Standing at the gate was an old man. He was tall and thin, with silver hair and a silver beard so long it could be said to reach his waist. Over his long robes, the old man wore a purple cloak and held a rather grubby black umbrella. His robes were soaked through, and his half-moon spectacles were spattered with raindrops.
Mrs. Gary was sixty years old, but she felt this old man was much her senior. Yet, remarkably, this gentleman, old enough to be her father (in Mrs. Gary's estimation), seemed far more energetic than she. His brilliant blue eyes twinkled with bright amusement.
"Oh, do come in, quickly!" Mrs. Gary fumbled through her keychain for a large key and, with some effort, opened the somewhat rusted main gate of the orphanage. "The weather has been dreadful lately; the children's clothes have been hanging for two days and still aren't dry."
"Indeed, it has," the old man agreed, following Mrs. Gary through the main entrance of the orphanage. He looked around, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes.
"It hasn't changed a bit in here, still so tidy," he remarked with a sigh.
"But of course," Mrs. Gary said, pulling a clean towel from a cupboard and handing it to the sodden old man. "It's always been like this here. We may not be able to provide wealthy living conditions, but we do our utmost to give the children a good environment. It's been that way since Mrs. Cole's time. A pity so few people come to help us, and even fewer to help these poor little dears." As she spoke, the rather talkative old woman couldn't help but start complaining again.
"Have you been here before, sir? I don't seem to recall you," she asked, a touch of curiosity in her voice.
"Oh, that was many years ago," the old man reminisced. "About fifty-seven… or was it fifty-eight years now? I can't quite recall. Mrs. Cole was the one who received me then; she was a great help."
"Then you must be over eighty, surely?" Mrs. Gary bustled about, preparing tea for her guest, asking casually.
"Believe me, my age is greater than you imagine," the old man replied, finally having dried his beard and hair with the towel. He then began to chat with the somewhat lonely old woman.
After a good while, her desire for conversation sated, the old woman finally remembered the matter at hand. "So, Mister… oh, how terribly rude of me, I completely forgot to ask your name."
"Albus. Albus Dumbledore," the old man answered. "I am the headmaster of a private school. I've come here looking for a boy named Felix Chance."
"Oh, Felix Chance!" At the mention of this name, the old woman's cloudy eyes seemed to brighten. "Little Felix is our pride and joy here. There isn't a cleverer or more sensible child than him. I've watched him grow up. I've seen all sorts of mischievous little mites, you know, it's the nature of my work, but I've never encountered such a bright and mature little man."
Mrs. Gary's face beamed with immense pride and delight, and she began to chatter on. "Little Felix could speak by the time he was one. From then on, he never cried or fussed with us, whether he was hungry or bullied by the older children, he always tried to face it all by himself. Oh, he's such a strong child."
Mrs. Gary refilled Dumbledore's teacup with black tea and continued, "This child absolutely adores books. Ever since he learned to recognize words, he's been reading – newspapers, magazines, dictionaries, novels… he reads everything. He has such a sharp mind, a quick learner too. By the age of three, he could read the newspaper fluently…"
As if describing her own treasured grandson, the old woman spent a considerable amount of time detailing the attributes of the ten-year-old boy named Felix Chance. Dumbledore listened patiently, gradually forming a basic impression of the child: intelligent, sensible, eager to learn, diligent, kind, and so on. Although he knew there was likely a degree of subjective bias in the old woman's praise, the overall impression was, for the most part, quite perfect.