November 1981, Hampshire, England.
On the busy streets of the city, the vendors watched every passerby with growing anticipation—especially those emerging from the movie theater next door. It was common for people to buy snacks like cream puffs on their way home, or to pick up small items like hairbands for their children.
At the far end of the street, the Morgan family of three was still reminiscing about their happy day.
"It's a perfect day, Mrs. Morgan. Maybe I can invite you to spend next weekend with me," said the man walking on the left, holding a child in his arms. He was about twenty years old, handsome, and couldn't stop smiling as he spoke.
"Well, Mr. Morgan, it's a good suggestion," the beautiful woman beside him replied, stuffing the last cream puff into her mouth and swallowing. "But I'll have to think about it carefully."
At the same time, she gently rubbed his sleeve with her fingers when he wasn't paying attention.
The two looked at each other and laughed.
Loren, nestled in the man's arms, was speechless. Scenes like this had played out repeatedly over the past year since he arrived in this world—so nauseating that they were almost unbearable.
He let out a small grunt, holding the lactose-sweetness in his mouth, shifted into a more comfortable position, and planned to continue sleeping. Even though he had the soul of an adult, this body was still that of a one-year-old child.
The happy moment didn't last long.
"Peter! You have to pay the price for your actions!"
The roar came from behind the young couple, shrill enough to hurt the ears, overflowing with rage.
A short, fat figure in a gray suit suddenly dashed out from a side alley, passed the couple, turned the corner, and disappeared from sight.
Turning around, they saw a tall, thin man with a messy beard and wild hair. His bloodshot eyes were fixed ahead, and he held a long, thin wooden stick in one hand. The roar had come from him.
The young couple froze, confused. They looked at each other, then quietly stepped out of the way.
Suddenly, Loren felt a surge of unease and panic. Goosebumps spread from the back of his neck to his scalp, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"Run!" he babbled.
Boom!
A powerful shockwave erupted from the corner of the street, blowing apart nearby buildings. Mud and rock flew in all directions. Bricks and stones were tossed into the air. The blast tore open the road, exposing a sewer grate. It was like an earthquake.
In an instant, little Loren saw only his father shielding both him and his mother. His mother tucked him under her body, her sky-blue skirt the last thing he saw.
Loren's eyes gleamed with a strange blue light, spreading from his pupils until his entire gaze glowed, blotting out the black of his irises.
Sirius glanced sideways, a bit surprised that such a young child was already experiencing a magical outburst—but it didn't matter. Damn Peter...
A warm, sticky sensation seeped into Loren's clothes.
And then—he blacked out.
"This is too cruel, Crouch. That damn Death Eater nearly blew up the entire street. Twelve Muggles are dead—and Peter Pettigrew, too. Only a finger of his remains," said Cornelius Fudge, dressed in a pinstriped suit. His voice trembled with fear as he surveyed the wreckage.
When he had arrived, Sirius Black had been standing in the middle of the scene, laughing madly—like a demon in purgatory.
Standing beside Fudge was Barty Crouch. Something huge had happened yesterday, and they hadn't slept all night. Even so, Crouch still wore a perfectly knotted tie and neatly combed hair.
These damn Death Eaters must go to Azkaban, he thought. And they must receive the Dementor's Kiss.
"Handle it according to the Statute of Secrecy," Crouch said, snapping back to reality. "Coordinate with the Muggle government and offer compensation to the victims' families."
He issued his orders calmly and precisely.
The surrounding Aurors moved quickly, clearing the memories of nearby Muggles with practiced ease.
Voldemort has fallen, they all thought. Everything will be fine now.
June 1985, Sir Hillier Children's Welfare Home, Hampshire.
Five-year-old Loren Morgan was helping Sister Joyce sort through donated clothes. At the welfare home, older children were allowed to take on light chores. They knew that those who behaved well were more likely to be adopted.
"Sister Joyce, when will Mr. Bumble be back?" Loren missed the canteen manager who used to sneak him extra food. Since he'd left, Loren had started feeling dizzy from time to time—probably anemia from malnutrition, he guessed.
Joyce's expression froze at the mention of that name. Then she gently replied, "Mr. Bumble went on a long journey. He probably won't be coming back to work here anymore."
Loren sighed, disappointed that his free food source was gone.
"Can we not eat potatoes tonight?" he muttered. "I've eaten more potatoes in the last five years than in the past twenty combined."
"Hmm. Maybe we can cook them a different way. Got any ideas?" Joyce smiled. She knew the food was barely sufficient—most of the budget had to go toward coal and clothes for the winter.
Loren frowned and said nothing, sighing again.
Joyce looked down at the little boy, his sky-blue eyes lowered, face creased with an adult's worry. She couldn't help but chuckle.
"The church and city officials are here today. They're speaking with Ms. Maggie. Maybe we'll get new food," Joyce said, more to comfort herself than the boy. Or maybe they're here about what happened last month…
Before she could finish the thought, there was a knock at the door.
"Joyce, bring Loren out! There's good news!" called a cheerful voice.
Good news in an orphanage usually meant someone was being adopted. Joyce's heart skipped a beat. She grabbed Loren's hand and rushed to the front.
"Ms. Maggie, what's the good news?" she asked eagerly.
"Come with me," Maggie replied.
Maggie, the director of the welfare home, led them to the reception room. She was in her forties but still walked briskly and carried herself with energy.
Inside the room, two men stood to greet them—one wearing a white clerical robe, the other a single-breasted black coat.
"This is Deacon Thorn from the church," Maggie said, "and Mr. Pinault from City Hall."
Joyce was about to offer a polite greeting, but Pinault spoke first.
"Time is short, so I'll explain quickly. Last week, while updating household records, we discovered that Loren Morgan's mother has a surviving uncle. We contacted him, and he has expressed his willingness to take custody of Loren."
Thorn added, "Please complete the paperwork promptly. We'll escort young Loren tomorrow morning. He should be settled in before the end of the month."
"That's wonderful!" Joyce exclaimed, hugging Loren. "God has finally seen this poor child."
Loren stood still, overwhelmed. He'd opened his eyes in this orphanage. As he grew older, Ms. Maggie told him that his parents had died in a car crash—but he'd always suspected there was more to it. His memories before the orphanage were a blank.
All he'd known was this place: gentle Sister Joyce, strict but kind Maggie, and Mr. Bumble, who had once shared food—before disappearing last month.
Now, suddenly, he was being sent away.
He felt panic stir in his chest.
Maggie sent him and Joyce off to pack a few belongings. Then she accompanied Mr. Pinault and Deacon Thorn to complete the necessary documents.
The next morning, at the orphanage gates.
Joyce stood beside the car, watching little Loren sit quietly in the back seat. Her eyes brimmed with sadness. She handed him a small bundle wrapped in white cloth—inside were some clothes and small trinkets.
"Come back to visit when you grow up, Loren," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Loren's cheeks flushed, and he nodded silently.
"Let's go, kid! We've got a long drive ahead!" Mr. Pinault called from the passenger seat, sounding cheerful.
The pale blue Ford Anglia rumbled to life and pulled away.
As the car became a black dot in the distance, Joyce murmured, "Did Loren really go to a relative's home?"
"I don't know, Joyce," Maggie answered, tone flat. "This decision came from higher up. But little Loren will be taken care of. And Bumble… Bumble will burn in hell."
"He deserves it—killing so many children…" Joyce whispered, her voice trembling with fury.