In 1938, Dumbledore was not yet Headmaster. He was the Transfiguration Professor, a wizard in his fifties, still sharp and relatively unburdened by the crushing weight of his later years.
Yet, in this year, he made a small, seemingly insignificant decision that would rewrite the future of the wizarding world.
He admitted the future Dark Lord into Hogwarts.
Thus began the rise of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Hofa knew the story. He had been a fan in his past life. But he never imagined that after dying in a theater explosion, he'd wake up in 1938 London, staring down one of the most famous wizards in fiction.
Dumbledore stood in the small, dingy room, examining him.
As soon as Mrs. Cole left, Hofa retreated to the corner. He pressed his back against the peeling wallpaper, heart hammering.
Legilimency? Obliviate?
He was terrified. His nerves were already frayed from death and memory fusion; a mental probe might just snap his mind in half.
But Dumbledore didn't raise his wand. His eyes, bright and piercing, held only curiosity. He was intrigued by the orphan who knew his name.
Dumbledore didn't speak immediately. He untied the dead cat from the light fixture with a wave of his hand, laying the stiff body gently on the broken table.
Then he smiled.
"Muggles wouldn't know my name, Hofa."
He had already memorized Hofa's name.
"Oh," Hofa managed, his voice dry.
He had been a teenager in his past life. Dumbledore was at least fifty-six. Facing a wizard of this caliber, Hofa felt no sense of superiority, no "I know the plot" arrogance. Just smallness.
"You didn't ask what a Muggle is," Dumbledore noted, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "What is your full name, Hofa?"
"Hofa Bach."
Hofa sighed. Honesty was the only policy when facing a human lie detector. He had to play the role of the confused, honest child.
"Bach... Sounds like a family from France," Dumbledore mused.
He drew his wand and laid it across his knees.
Hofa flinched. His eyes locked onto the wood. The initial shock was fading, replaced by a singular, desperate thought: Get him out of here so I can think.
Dumbledore noticed the fear. He raised the wand.
Hofa scrambled back, pressing himself flat against the corner.
What's he doing? Memory charm? Is this it?
Panic rose in his throat like bile.
BANG!
A glass on the table shattered. Not from a spell, but from the sheer pressure of Hofa's accidental magic responding to his terror.
Then—
Pfft.
A sound like a deflating balloon.
Instead of a curse, Dumbledore's wand emitted a stream of colorful ribbons. They drifted down softly, accompanied by sparkling lights, landing on Hofa's head.
Hofa stood frozen, ribbons draping over his nose.
He blinked.
What the hell? This wasn't in the books.
Dumbledore coughed lightly, tucking his wand away. "Am I really that scary?"
Hofa stared at him, then at the shattered glass, then back at the grinning wizard. He was speechless.
"Did Beauxbatons send you an invitation, Hofa?"
Hofa shook his head mutely.
"I see... I understand."
What does he understand? Hofa wondered, but kept his mouth shut.
Dumbledore stood up, placing his bowler hat back on his head.
"Perhaps you need a change of scenery. And by the way," he gestured to the table, "I'm quite fond of British Blues myself. Find a nice spot to bury the little fellow."
He winked. Then, he turned and walked out the door.
Hofa slid down the wall until he hit the floor.
His brain felt like it was rebooting.
London, 1938. Roommates with Tom Riddle.
Upstairs, history was happening.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
A faint sound from the ceiling. It sounded like rats gnawing on wood, but Hofa knew better.
It was the sound of a wardrobe rattling.
Right now, Dumbledore was confronting eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. He was setting a wardrobe on fire to intimidate the bully, forcing the future Dark Lord into his one and only moment of "repentance."
The Harry Potter saga was long, but this moment? This was the true beginning.
If Tom Riddle never went to Hogwarts, Voldemort never rises. James and Lily never die. Harry remains a normal boy.
And it was happening right above his head.
Voices drifted down through the thin floorboards.
"...I haven't got any money."
"That is easily remedied," Dumbledore's voice was calm. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks second-hand, but..."
"Where do you buy spellbooks?"
"In Diagon Alley. I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything..."
"You're coming with me?"
"Certainly, if you—"
"I don't need you," Tom cut in, sharp and cold. "I'm used to doing things for myself."
Five minutes later, a door slammed upstairs.
Hofa thought it was over. But then, Dumbledore's voice drifted down the stairwell again.
"By the way, Tom. The boy whose room you took... he is a wizard as well. If you know your way around London, I hope you might help him."
A cold, mocking laugh echoed.
"Hofa? Him?"
Dumbledore didn't respond. The front door opened and closed.
Silence returned to Wool's Orphanage.
Hofa lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He was a wizard. Dumbledore had tested him—with party streamers—and he had passed.
But the reality was heavier than the excitement. Dumbledore was sharper, more dangerous than the grandfatherly figure in the movies. And Tom Riddle?
Tom Riddle was a monster. He had murdered Hofa's previous self for a room.
Hofa reached for his pocket instinctively, wanting to pull out a phone to vent on social media.
His hand grasped empty air.
Right. Steve Jobs wasn't even a glint in his father's eye yet.
He sighed, pulling himself up. He picked up the cold, stiff body of Aldo the cat.
He went to the courtyard, dug a small hole in the corner, and buried him. He piled a few pebbles on top.
"I'll live well for both of us," he whispered, patting the dirt.
A bell rang. Dinner time.
Hofa stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. The gloom vanished from his face. He had magic. He was going to Hogwarts. This was every kid's dream, wasn't it?
Time to eat.
Dinner was a tragedy.
A slice of yellowish bread, two strips of bacon that could be used as shoe leather, half a broccoli floret, and a cup of watery orange juice.
Hofa chewed the bacon. It was like gnawing on a tire.
CLANG!
A metal tray slammed onto the table opposite him.
Hofa looked up, bacon hanging from his mouth.
A boy stood there. Tall for his age, black hair, pale skin. Handsome. Not cute-kid handsome, but model handsome.
"Your head healed fast, Hofa."
The boy's eyes narrowed, scanning Hofa like he was a puzzle with a missing piece.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
The future Dark Lord. The most dangerous wizard in a century.
Hofa felt a spike of revulsion.
No one likes a child who kills. No one likes a psychopath.
But Hofa wasn't afraid. Right now, Tom was just a kid with issues. A dangerous kid, but a kid.
Hofa swallowed the bacon. He stood up slowly.
"Piss off, Tom."
His voice was calm. Steady.
Tom blinked. His face went slack with surprise, then pale with rage. A flash of red light flickered in his dark eyes.
But he didn't attack.
Instead, the rage evaporated. Tom smiled. A charming, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned in close.
"You and I are the same, Hofa."
He swept a hand toward the other children eating their slop. "Different from these idiots."
Hofa stared.
The audacity.
This kid pushes him off a cliff one day, then tries to recruit him the next? No wonder he built an army of Death Eaters. The charisma was weaponized.
"If you want," Tom whispered, "I can show you something amazing. We can be friends."
He held out his hand.
Hofa looked at the hand. Then he looked at Tom.
"I'll find my own way to Hogwarts," Hofa said coldly. "And I don't shake hands with people who kill cats."
Tom's face crumpled. The charm shattered, revealing pure, unadulterated hatred.
BZRT!
The lightbulbs overhead flared. The air pressure dropped.
POP! POP! POP!
Around them, every cup of orange juice on the table exploded. Glass and juice showered the terrified children. Screams erupted.
Hofa winced, shielding his face. The raw magic rolling off Tom was suffocating.
But Hofa didn't step back. He had been an ordinary guy in his past life, but he had principles. You don't side with the guy who murdered you. You don't side with the guy who tortures animals.
Tom lowered his hand. The lights stabilized.
Mrs. Cole came running in, shrieking at the mess.
Tom smoothed his expression into a mask of indifference.
"I'll be watching you, Hofa," he said softly.
It wasn't a goodbye. It was a threat.
Tom turned and walked away.
Hofa sat back down, his heart pounding against his ribs. He popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth.
Day one, and I just declared war on Voldemort.
Brilliant.
He chewed thoughtfully.
In his past life, he kept his head down. Stayed low, avoided trouble. But that was exactly why he had to reject Tom.
Joining Tom Riddle wasn't ambition; it was suicide. Even without Harry Potter, following a maniac who wanted to fight the world was a one-way ticket to an early grave.
Hofa shivered.
He was in 1938. No Harry Potter. No James or Lily. No Marauder's Map. No prophecy.
Just him, a confused transmigrator, and a very angry Dark Lord in the making.
The road ahead was dark. And he was walking it blind.