The atmosphere is heavy with the fall of a regime and the desperate hope of a mother.
The Greenwood Manor, a cold, aristocratic estate that has become a gilded cage. The date is shortly after the Attack at Godric's Hollow, when the Wizarding World is celebrating the "death" of Lord Voldemort.
Alyssa Greenwood sat in the dim light of the nursery, her face pale but her eyes burning with a cold, clear resolve. On the bed lay her newborn son, Andrew. He had his father's dark hair, but as he opened his eyes, she prayed they would never hold that crimson glint.
"He is gone, Mipsy," Alyssa whispered to the trembling house-elf standing by the crib. "The Dark Lord has fallen. My 'husband' is a shadow, and my family... they are already dead to me."
She looked at the Daily Prophet on the table. Her father and brothers were celebrating, unaware that Alyssa had already sent the owls to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. By dawn, the Aurors would arrive. She had ensured their path was clear, and their sentence—the Dementor's Kiss—inevitable.
"Mipsy, listen carefully," Alyssa said, her voice cracking as she touched Andrew's cheek one last time. "You must take him. Not to a Wizarding family. Not to the Greenwoods. Take him to the Muggle world. Find an orphanage far from London. Change his name if you must, but keep the name Andrew. It was Edward's middle name."
The mention of Edward Weasley brought a flicker of warmth to her cold expression—the only man she had ever loved, murdered by her own kin to clear the way for her forced union with Tom Riddle.
"Mistress is staying?" Mipsy squeaked, tears fat and shiny on her cheeks.
"I must," Alyssa said, standing tall. "I will face the Wizengamot. I will ensure the Greenwood name is burned to ash so it can never touch him. He must grow up as no one. A blank slate. A boy who can choose to be good."
As the house-elf took the bundle and vanished with a soft crack, Alyssa walked to the window. In the distance, she could hear the faint screams of the Dementors approaching the gates to claim her family. She sat down, poured a glass of wine, and waited for the end of her world, so that Andrew's could begin.
******
St. Jude's Home for Children. It was a grey, soot-stained building in the heart of a bustling city, but inside, the air felt different.
Andrew—just "Andrew," as far as the matrons knew—was a child of extraordinary magnetism. He had the dark, wavy hair and the aristocratic features of a young prince, but his eyes weren't cold pits of ambition. They were bright, observant, and kind.
Andrew didn't use his magic to hurt the other children or steal their toys. Instead, his "accidental magic" manifested as a literal radiance.
When a younger child cried from a nightmare, the shadows in their room would seem to retreat, replaced by a soft, golden glow that smelled of summer rain.
Flowers bloomed in the cracked pots on the windowsill even in the dead of winter whenever he passed by.
He was a natural leader, but he led through service. He helped the matrons with chores and protected the smaller children from bullies—not with violence, but with a word and a smile that made the bullies feel ashamed of their own anger.
Mipsy's spell was absolute. On every legal document, the surname "Riddle" was nothing but a smudge of ink that the eye simply slid over. To the world, he was just Andrew. Even the Great Albus Dumbledore, looking at the magical registries at Hogwarts, would see only a flicker of static where a last name should be.
It is the summer of his eleventh birthday. Andrew is sitting in the small courtyard of the orphanage, repairing a broken wooden horse for a younger girl. He doesn't use tools; he simply touches the wood, and it seems to "remember" being whole.
A tall, stern woman in emerald-green robes (Professor McGonagall) enters the courtyard. She is prepared to find a "problem child" or a confused Muggle-born. Instead, she finds a boy surrounded by children, radiating a sense of peace that she hasn't felt since before the war with Voldemort.
"Andrew?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
The boy looked up, and for a moment, Minerva McGonagall felt her heart stop. The face—the sharp jaw, the dark curls—was a ghost from her past. It was the face of the most brilliant, dangerous student she had ever taught.
But then he smiled. It wasn't the cold, calculating smirk of Tom Riddle. It was warm, genuine, and bright.
"Yes, ma'am?" Andrew stood, dusting off his trousers. "Are you here about the school? I've been expecting someone. I... I can do things. I think I'm meant to learn how to do them properly."
Minerva swallowed hard. The boy was a beacon of light. "I am Professor McGonagall. And yes, Andrew. You are a wizard."
******
The sun streamed through the high windows of the orphanage common room, catching the dust motes and making them dance around Andrew as if they were drawn to him. Professor McGonagall sat across from him, her expression a mask of professional calm that hid a growing sense of wonder.
"You are telling me, Professor," Andrew said, leaning forward with an elbow on his knee, his eyes bright with intelligence, "that the 'accidental' things I've done—the way I fixed the boiler by just touching the pipes, or the way the garden stays green even in November—that isn't just luck? It's magic?"
"It is magic, Andrew," McGonagall replied, her Scottish lilt softening. "You come from a world where such things are a part of life. There is a hidden society—a Wizarding World—living alongside this one. And you have a place in it. You've been enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry since the day you were born."
Andrew didn't look shocked or frightened. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face—the charismatic, sweet expression that made everyone at the orphanage trust him instinctively.
"Witchcraft and Wizardry," he repeated, the words tasting like fine wine. "It sounds like something straight out of Professor Tolkien's books. I suppose I won't be finding any Ents in London, but a school for magic... that is a much better story than I expected for my life."
"You are familiar with the Muggle tales of magic, then?" McGonagall asked, curious.
"Oh, much more than familiar, ma'am," Andrew said, gesturing to the well-worn copies of The Fellowship of the Ring on his bedside table. "I've read them dozens of times. I find I don't care much for picture books—there isn't enough meat on the bone, you see? I prefer the novels. They talk about the craft, the history, and the weight of power."
He held up his hands, which were calloused but clean. "I've spent my free time at the local smithy. I love the way metal responds to heat and intent. I had originally planned to move into jewelry making—to create things that last, things that carry a bit of the maker's soul in them. But if I'm a wizard..." he paused, his eyes twinkling with a sudden, ambitious spark. "I suppose I'll have to adapt. A jeweler who can use magic... just imagine what could be forged then."
McGonagall felt a sudden chill, though the room was warm. He spoke of "forging" and "soul" with such casual grace.
"The Wizarding world has a great need for talented craftsmen," she said carefully. "But first, you must learn the basics. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions... and the history of our people. There was a war, Andrew. Not so long ago. A dark time that we are only just beginning to step out of."
Andrew nodded solemnly, his charisma shifting into something deeper, more protective. "I understand. Every great age has its shadows. In the books, they call it the Long Night. If I am to enter this world, Professor, I want to be someone who brings the dawn, not someone who hides from the dark."
He stood up, offering her a hand with the poise of a young lord. "Shall we go, Professor? I believe I have some shopping to do, and I'm quite eager to see what a 'magical' forge looks like."