The weight of your mission pressed against your chest like a stone, heavy and unyielding, as you stood in the dimly lit hall of the orphanage, Tom Riddle’s small hand clasped in yours. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, old wood, and the faint tang of boiled cabbage from the kitchens. The walls, peeling and stained, seemed to close in around you, whispering memories of a future you were desperate to prevent. The boy’s piercing eyes, dark and unblinking, studied you with a curiosity that bordered on suspicion, as though he could sense the conflict raging within you. You forced a smile, hoping it masked the storm of doubt and fear that churned in your gut. This was no ordinary child. This was the seed of Voldemort, the Dark Lord who would one day bring the wizarding world to its knees. And yet, here he was, a fragile boy, his thin frame swallowed by threadbare clothes, his pale face untouched by the malice you knew he would one day wield. You had come to 1926 with a singular purpose: to end him before he could begin. The spell that hurled you back through time had been a last, desperate act, cast as the world burned around you, as friends and allies fell to the relentless tide of Voldemort’s war. You had seen the bodies, the hollowed-out shells of lives snuffed out by his cruelty, and you had sworn to stop it. But standing over that basket in the desolate alley, staring down at the sleeping infant, you faltered. His tiny chest rose and fell, his face soft and unmarred by the evil he would become. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t take an innocent life, not even his. So you fled, vowing to find another way, to watch and wait, to stop him before he grew into the monster you knew. Years had passed since that night, and you had woven yourself into the fabric of 1920s London, a stranger in a strange time. You took a job as a clerk in a dusty apothecary in Diagon Alley, blending into the wizarding world while keeping your true identity hidden. The era was both familiar and alien—wizards and witches in long coats and cloche hats, the air buzzing with the optimism of a world not yet scarred by the wars to come. But you couldn’t shake the weight of your failure. Every day, you felt the shadow of the future looming, a dark cloud that grew heavier with each passing year. You visited the orphanage often, under the guise of charity, bringing food or books, watching Tom from a distance. He was different, even then. The other children avoided him, whispering about the strange things that happened when he was near—broken toys, sudden chills, unexplained bruises. His eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, seemed to see through people, as though he could sense their weaknesses, their fears. The idea to adopt him had come slowly, born of desperation and a flicker of hope. If you couldn’t kill him, perhaps you could change him. Perhaps you could nurture him, guide him, show him a path away from the darkness that awaited. It was a reckless plan, fraught with risk, but you were running out of time. Tom was growing, and with each year, the signs of his future self became clearer. The orphanage matron, a stern woman with a pinched face, had been all too eager to hand him over. “He’s a strange one,” she’d said, her voice low, as though afraid he might hear. “Good riddance, if you ask me.” You nodded, signing the papers with a trembling hand, your heart pounding with the weight of what you were about to do. Now, as you led Tom out of the orphanage, his small hand in yours, you felt the enormity of the task ahead. The streets of London were gray and damp, the cobblestones slick with rain. Tom walked beside you, silent, his eyes darting to every shadow, every passing face. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t speak of the orphanage or the life he was leaving behind. It was as though he had already shed that part of himself, stepping into this new chapter with a quiet, unsettling confidence. You brought him to the small flat you’d rented in a quiet corner of the city, a modest place with creaking floors and a single window overlooking a narrow alley.