"Hey old man, give us your money!"
"Do it fast and you won't get hurt!"
Two muggers loomed over an elderly man in a dark alley. From the looks of his flowing robes, long white hair, and composed demeanor, it was clear he came from wealth. He carried himself with a dignity that made him an obvious target.
But the man didn't seem afraid. In fact, he almost looked... amused.
"Please, don't hurt an old fellow like me," he said kindly, smiling as though he were greeting friends. "You've both got long lives ahead of you. Don't waste them on something like this."
One of the muggers faltered for a second, but the other snapped at him.
"Don't freeze now! We started this—we finish it. Get his wallet already—!"
Before he could move, a blur crashed into him from behind. A boy, thin and scrappy, wrapped an arm tight around the mugger's neck.
"Run, old man!" he shouted.
The elder blinked, surprised. The boy had dark brown hair, pale skin, and—most striking of all—bright yellow eyes that glowed like twin embers in the dim alley.
As the older man stood still, fascinated, the second mugger yanked the boy off his partner and began pummeling him.
The boy took every blow, curling in on himself, clinging to the hope that his distraction had given the man time to escape. Even as pain surged through his ribs and skull, he didn't let himself regret it.
Then, just as the world began to tilt and fade, a brilliant flash of light erupted beside him. The attackers were flung backwards, crashing into bins and brick with a dull thud. They didn't rise again.
Gasping, the boy lifted his head. The old man was still there, standing tall with a wand in hand, its tip glowing softly. The old mad got down on his knee, not caring about the dirt that now stained his robes as he leveled his gaze with the boy
"Are you all right, young man?" the elder asked.
His voice was warm—strangely soothing. Just hearing it made the pain feel distant.
The boy nodded, dazed. "Y-Yeah... sir... They're not dead, are they?"
"No," the man said with a smile. "They'll wake up with a nasty headache and no memory of this place."
The boy looked at the unconscious men, then back up at the old man. "That's...a relief."
The elder's expression softened further at the concern the boy shared, even at his enemies. "And where are your parents?"
The boy's expression fell. "I… don't have any."
The old man's smile faded. He sighed, eyes full of quiet pity.
"...I'm truly sorry to hear that."
The boy gave a small nod, his body trembling slightly. Noticing the strain etched into his movements, the old man raised his wand again and gave it a gentle wave.
A soft, golden light washed over the boy, sinking into his skin. He gasped, watching in stunned silence as the pain melted away. Cuts sealed, bruises vanished—his body whole again, as if untouched by violence.
But while the boy marveled at the healing, the old man froze. A flicker of something crossed his face—shock, perhaps even dread. It passed quickly, hidden behind a composed expression. The boy didn't notice, too mesmerized by the miracle happening before his eyes.
...You've been through far too much, haven't you, dear boy?
Once the light faded, the boy carefully stood. He stretched his limbs, testing for pain, still in awe of what had just happened. But even as the boy moved freely, the old man remained still, clearly wrestling with some invisible weight.
After a long pause, the old man inhaled deeply and looked up—his gaze locking with the boy's strange, golden eyes. Whatever he had seen, whatever he feared, he now faced it head-on.
"…I can offer you a home. I know someone who could take you in, if you'd like."
The boy's eyes widened—just for a moment. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, followed by a brief spark of fear at the idea. But beneath it all, something else stirred: a quiet, fragile ember of hope.
"…Can I? Can I really have a home?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief, as though the very thought was too much to hope for.
"…You may," the elder said, glancing at the unconscious thugs before returning his gaze to the boy. "And I can give you something—to defend yourself, should you ever find yourself in danger again."
"Really? How?"
"With magic, of course." The wizard gave a small smile, then gently tapped his wand against the boy's forehead, murmuring a quiet incantation under his breath.
In an instant, a wind stirred to life in the alley—a place that had been still and suffocating only moments before. Dust lifted from the ground, swirling into the air as the polluted stench that once clung to the walls was blown away. The boy raised an arm to shield his eyes from the sudden gust.
And then… the smell was gone.
Cautiously, he lowered his arm, blinking through the fading light. His eyes widened.
Before him, the alley no longer felt grim or lifeless. It glowed faintly, gently—like the world had shifted just slightly toward something brighter. Motes of light now danced around him, as if the very stars had come to greet him.
It was a sight that, even if he were one day cast into depths of hell, he knew he'd never forget.
Steel sheets, cloth, and all manner of miscellaneous items floated around them, drawn toward a single orb of light cradled in the old man's palm. With such a strange mix of materials—each so different in shape and substance—it was hard to imagine what fusing them together might create. But as the boy watched, he saw the elements begin to transform, shifting and reshaping themselves into something entirely new. One by one, they lost their original forms, absorbed into the light and remade into something beyond recognition.
Soon the light faded, and what was left in them were two polished rods of iron, about a foot long each.
"...A pair of rods? How interesting..." the old man muttered under his breath as he presented them to the boy. "No blade, no edge. It may not be as deadly as say, a sword, but I can promise you this. These will serve you well, take good care of them."
The boy stared at the rods in awe as they landed in his small hands—cool, solid, and gleaming in the light.
"I'm going to erase your memory of tonight's events," the old man said gently. "It's for your own safety, don't worry, I'll still guide you to your new home, you have my word."
The boy flinched. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to protest—wrestling with the idea, as if it was something too difficult to accept. But then, with a surprising composure for someone so young, he swallowed his words and dropped his gaze, frustration simmering in silence as he stared at his feet.
Dumbledore observed the quiet struggle with a patient, sympathetic gaze.
He raised his wand, aiming it gently toward the boy's temple—only for the boy to speak up suddenly.
"Sir—your name. What's your name? I know I won't remember it but… I want to ask anyway."
The man hesitated for a heartbeat.
"Albus," he said. "Albus Dumbledore."
The boy managed a weak smile. "Albus Dumbledore... Mine's…" he paused, then nodded. "Vincent. Vincent Wong."
He looked up at Dumbledore, his golden eyes steady and unwavering as they met the old man's gaze.
"I'll see you again, right?"
"Only time can tell."
And with that, a final flash of white swallowed the alley.
...
Four Years Later...
"Professor, are you reading the Muggle newspaper?"
McGonagall had entered Dumbledore's office, a folder in hand—resumes for the new Defense Against the Dark Arts candidates.
After Professor Quirrell's possession by Voldemort, they were back to searching again. She caught sight of the paper in his hands.
Dumbledore looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Minerva. Do you remember that incident four years ago? The muggers who tried to rob me?"
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "If Rita Skeeter ever got wind of that... 'Dumbledore, greatest wizard of the age, mugged in an alleyway.'"
He chuckled. "There was a boy that night—a boy I saved."
"Vincent Wong," McGonagall said, narrowing her eyes. "A foreigner. You made him weapons—two metal batons, forged by your own hand. What about him?"
Wordlessly, Dumbledore passed her the newspaper.
McGonagall glanced at the front page and her breath caught.
LONDON'S VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN
The photo showed a shadowed figure leaping between rooftops, twin rods glinting faintly in his hands.
"...You think that's him?" she whispered.
"I'd say he's doing rather well," Dumbledore replied with a smile.
"Doing well?!" she snapped. "He's out there fighting criminals with two sticks! He'll get himself killed!"
Dumbledore winced at her outburst but said nothing, his thoughts drifting to the boy from that night as he wondered what he was doing at this very moment.
...
"RON, TURN LEFT! TURN LEFT!!"
"BLOODY HELL, HARRY—YOU DRIVE THEN!"
Vincent was watching with a blank expression at what was happening before him. It took a moment before he lost it with the bickering.
"WHY THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS CAR FLYING?!!"