I continued meditating for I don't know how long, as the room lacked a clock. I hoped to experience some sort of enlightenment, progress, or at least something that would give me a clue as to where I actually was. Unfortunately, nothing of the sort happened.
The only thing I noticed was that my breathing was easy, calm, and stress-free. I might have been stress-free, but I was pissed off as hell. I had no idea what had happened in my world, or why I was here. Did my body die there? What about my family? My girlfriend? My cat? My friends? Or is this all just a figment of my imagination? Am I dreaming?
"Knock, knock, knock." The knocking jolted me from my thoughts.
"Come in," I shouted. Still that high-pitched, childish voice, I thought with a sigh.
An older woman entered the room—the exact one I had seen in a flash during the conversation with Barlow. She looked to be about fifty-five. Her grey hair was pulled back into a simple bun, not out of a habit of vanity, but for practicality. She wore a grey spring jacket, slightly worn at the pockets, as if she had been wearing it for several seasons. Her face was narrow and pale, with fine wrinkles born not of laughter, but of years of responsibility and fatigue.
"Good day, Patrik. Are you ready to go home?" Her eyes radiated neither the warmth nor the kindness I would have expected from a head of an orphanage. They seemed wary instead.
Was she afraid of me?
If so, why? I was certain she was the head of the orphanage, but her behavior didn't fit the picture. It wasn't the fake smile of Bates, which oozed sliminess. With her, it felt different—natural, even uncomfortably honest.
"Who are you?" I tried for a cold tone, but if you heard an eight-year-old kid talking coldly in a squeaky voice, it would probably make you laugh.
"Do you really remember nothing, Patrik?"
Was she suspecting me of something?
"I really don't remember anything," I replied. "But I can see you're afraid of me. Maybe it would be better to call Doctor Barlow—just in case you're just another Bates."
I pressured her with a subtle threat. To be safe, however, I placed my hand on the call button by the bed.
She paled slightly, but then she chuckled. It was so unexpected that I froze in surprise.
"Just like Riddle," she muttered. If the room hadn't been filled with such a tense silence, I might not have caught it at all.
Riddle? Another name that sounded familiar.
"My name is Amy Benson," she continued. "I am the matron of Wool's Orphanage. You may call Doctor Barlow if you wish; he's already on his way regardless. Formally, he must sign the hospital discharge papers. He should be here any moment."
She paused for a second. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm just cautious. You've been a strange child since you were little. Strange things happened around you—and I don't exactly have good memories of such things."
Benson explained this matter-of-factly, with the same calmness she would use to comment on a change in the weather.
Hmm... so I have some abilities, but what kind? I thought.
"Could you please tell me more?" I asked. The information was too important for my pride to stop me from asking.
She looked into my eyes as if trying to see if I was serious. What she saw there apparently convinced her to continue.
"Strange things happened around you. Objects moved on their own, as if obeying your will. When someone took a toy from you, it returned to you immediately. Some things flew, others trembled gently in the air or changed position, as if you were giving them a signal."
"A priest, who once saw a teddy bear moving toward you, was convinced you were possessed by the devil and wanted to perform an exorcism." She gave a cynical half-smile and continued.
"Thank God, the priest used to drink wine when no one was looking. I managed to convince him he was hallucinating. I told him that if he didn't stop drinking so much and kept having hallucinations, I would report him."
"I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to protect you and the other children, so you were given a separate room. As if by a miracle, all those strange things happening around you stopped."
"Then why are you so cautious with me?" I asked. I was already starting to suspect where I was.
"I come from an orphanage myself, and I have experience with a boy similar to you. My matron, Mrs. Cole, didn't know how to handle him at all. She didn't protect him, and the priest regularly tried to exorcise him. They locked him in solitary confinement and he received no food. Looking back, I don't understand how that could happen—it was abuse. It's true he was different, strange. But the more they hurt him, the more he hurt others. With you, I vowed to protect you, but every time I look at you, I see him," Benson admitted bitterly.
"What was his name?" I asked. If it was Tom Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort, I knew exactly where I was... and even who my father was.
"Tom Riddle," she answered simply.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benson, for the information and for taking care of me." I smiled at her sincerely and with gratitude.
It was clear to me why she was afraid, even if she wouldn't admit it. A wizard child would frighten almost any Muggle—especially in these years. Thank God she had experience with a young Voldemort.
I also noticed her clothes: scuffed, older, but practical. For someone who receives government funds to care for children, it looked trustworthy. Many heads would keep part of the money for themselves and give the children only the minimum. But maybe that was just my cynical mind and distrust of people from government organizations.
She looked into my eyes for a moment as if checking if I meant it, but finally nodded with a small, gentle smile.
"You're welcome. It is my duty... and also a joy to help orphans," she said sincerely.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Without waiting for permission, Doctor Barlow walked in.
"Sorry, we're in a rush. The ambulance brought in a stabbing victim—the twelfth one this week," panted an apologetic Barlow.
"Here are the papers, Mrs. Benson. Patrik, it was a pleasure to meet you." He quickly handed Benson a stack of documents, shook my hand, and vanished again.
He entered and left with such speed that Benson and I were left standing there in surprise.
"Ready to go, Patrik? A taxi is waiting for us in front of the hospital," she asked after a moment of silence.
"Yes, let's go." I didn't have to pack—I had nothing here and had been changed out of the hospital clothes since morning.
***
The journey was indeed short. I was surprised by the taxi and the other cars—all vintage models, at least to me. The sky was overcast, but fortunately, it wasn't raining. The air was cold and carried a faint whiff of smog.
Wool's Orphanage was strange, but its aesthetic immediately caught my attention. The tall tower and sharp gate resembled an old fortress. The entire building felt dark and cold, as if it radiated silence and discipline on its own. Up close, you could see the weathered bricks, cracks in the plaster, and signs of wear—clear indications that the home's best days were long behind it. It looked like the residence of a poorer nobleman. They say rich people donated their houses and money to orphanages, but here, time and neglect had left their mark on every detail. That was exactly how Wool's felt: majestic, yet neglected, with a hint of ancient glory that now only slept silently within the walls.
As soon as I entered, I felt a staleness, cold, and dampness. Strangely, though, there was no smell of mold.
Cold... heating this whole place must cost a fortune. I'll have to dress warmly, I thought, and at that moment I shivered, as if its cold corridors were already welcoming me.
"Come, Patrik. I'll show you your room. You'll be able to rest—lunch is at 12:30, so I'll come for you then," Benson announced.
***
The room was small, cold, and ascetically bare. It didn't surprise me; this was exactly what I expected. A massive wardrobe stood right by the door. To the left cowered a bed—nothing more than a steel frame with a pitifully thin mattress. The right side was occupied by a stark desk and a chair. Above it opened a large rectangular window in a cheap metal frame. I could feel a draft uninvitedly seeping in.
"I'll have to dress warmly even in bed here," I sighed. I immediately missed sealed plastic windows.
On the other hand, I considered myself a relatively modest person, so the room suited me well enough. It was small, but I had space for training, studying, and meditation. However, I considered the biggest plus to be that I was alone here. It would probably drive me crazy if I had to live with other kids.
I flopped onto the bed with relish. I had time to go over all the facts and clarify the information I had gained today.
"So I'm in the world of Harry Potter," I mused aloud. "In the orphanage where a young Voldemort grew up. And according to what Benson said, I'm a wizard."
I recalled what I had read in Rowling's books. My father was Evan Rosier—a Death Eater and loyal follower of Voldemort, killed by Moody. If I remember correctly, he belonged to Barty Crouch Jr.'s year. My "daddy" must have been pretty young when he created me. Really clever... I laughed cheerfully.
The laughter quickly faded, however, replaced by questions. How is it possible I ended up in an orphanage? Or rather, why did this body end up in an orphanage? The Rosiers were a pure-blood family. Surely there are relatives somewhere—cousins, anyone.
For me, though, it was good news—it guaranteed me freedom. Freedom was always the most important thing to me. To go where I want, do what I see fit, and whenever I feel like it. As a child, it will be harder, but it's still better than being under the constant supervision of a family. There are surely a lot of kids in this home, so the staff's attention will be scattered. That suited me perfectly.
Those flashes with Barlow... that was definitely Legilimency, I pondered. I peered directly into his memories. I'll have a talent for the Mind Arts. I paused for a moment, letting the thought sink in.
I remembered that young Riddle was able to use magic consciously: he sensed lies, moved objects, and caused pain without touching anyone. I assume he mastered his abilities while being locked in solitary and left hungry. A desperate desire to survive and seek revenge was his greatest motivation.
"If he could master wandless magic, so can I," I promised myself resolutely.
I must succeed; I have no other choice. I live in a world where a wizard can simply control you so that you follow his orders with a joyful smile. Or they erase your memory so thoroughly that you won't even remember how to hold a pen... It's terrifying.
I have three years to consciously master my abilities and improve my fitness and agility. I must be ready to defend myself and decide my own fate. I certainly have no plans to follow in my "father's" footsteps and bow to a noseless guy who only pretends to be someone with pure blood. But I don't plan on being a moral compass in the style of Dumbledore either, giving everyone second chances.
My goal was clear: to be happy, free, to live in comfort and with people I will love.
For that, however, I need strength and power.
I am sure I can be powerful. Even the greatest talent in the world will remain mediocre if they don't work on themselves. But what happens when talent, hard work, and the knowledge necessary for success combine?
Fate has granted me perfect circumstances to succeed and create my own path. I knew I had talent—Legilimency at eight years old? Even if it was unconscious, I took it as a clear sign. Moreover, as an adult trapped in a child's body, I can focus and work on myself much more effectively than a real child.
Magic is power. And I will master it.
***
Later, Benson came for me and led me to lunch. Even before entering the dining hall, I heard children's laughter and muffled chatter. The moment we crossed the threshold, however, everyone fell silent. A deathly hush followed.
It didn't last long, though. The children immediately began to debate excitedly, and I noticed more than one admiring glance cast my way.
It was strange. Why are they looking at me like that? I asked myself inwardly.
"By preventing Bates from hurting Laura, you've become a hero to many," Benson whispered to me. "But please, keep the details to yourself. Not all children are as mature as you."
For a moment, I felt a chill. I wondered if she too could read minds, but I immediately dismissed it—she probably just saw the surprise on my face.
This is going to be hard, I thought as soon as I sat down at the table.
***
Here we have another chapter! Did you know that Amy Benson grew up in the orphanage alongside Tom Riddle? It was her and other children he hurt during that famous trip to the seaside.
The plot is starting to pick up, and in the next part I plan to move it forward even more significantly. I will be very grateful for your comments—they genuinely help me improve. Let me know what you like and what you don't. Are there too many dialogues? Too little description? Does the pacing feel slow to you? Every bit of feedback matters to me. If you're enjoying the story, please consider supporting it with Power Stones—it really helps with visibility and motivates me to keep improving and updating regularly. Thank you for reading!
Finally, I wish you a beautiful holiday season! :)