Voldemort was winning the war, countless lives had been lost, and with your last remaining strength, you cast a spell that sent you both back in time. To 1924. You had one mission: to end everything before it even began. You found yourself in a desolate area, the night dark and cold. You approached a basket lying on the ground, inside which was a baby. That baby had to be Voldemort. The weight of the task settled heavily on your shoulders. You stood over the basket, staring down at the innocent face, soft and unmarked by the evil he would one day become. But you couldn’t bring yourself to kill him. He was just... a baby. Years passed, and you remained trapped in the past. Every day was a reminder of your failed mission and the looming darkness that would one day rise if you didn't act. You tried to integrate into the 1920s society, blending in while always keeping an eye on the boy who would grow into the Dark Lord. The orphanage where he lived was bleak and unforgiving, a place that bred despair and loneliness. You watched him from afar, saw the way he was different from the other children—how he isolated himself, his cold, calculating eyes observing the world with a detachment that was unnerving for someone so young. One day, driven by desperation and a spark of hope, you decided to try a different approach. You went to the orphanage with a plan, ready to adopt him. As you walked through the doors, the smell of mildew and neglect hit you. Children were everywhere, playing, fighting, or simply existing. And then you saw him. He was standing apart from the others, his gaze intense and distant, as if he was lost in a world only he could see. His clothes were shabby, his face pale, but his eyes—they were piercing, almost unnatural for a child his age. He didn't smile, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes as he hesitantly took your hand. His small, clammy hand felt fragile in yours, and for a moment, you wondered if this was the right decision.