Chapter 2

There were no alarm clocks in the orphanage, of course. My roommate, flashing his scratched face (he'd fallen out of a tree stealing apples, I remembered instantly), jumped up quickly, put on his old boots, gave me a hard-reading look, and ran out of the room.

Stretching my memory a little, aha, Larry Johnson, we had a fight four days ago. Wolf's magic-enforced fists did a good job at the sides of the skinny boy, reliably knocking away the desire to laugh at the "silly name". Of course, this did not help the positive relationship.

My neighbor was a recent transfer boy. He fit in easily enough, quickly "understood the system," or, more likely, understood only the very top of it. He could not have had time for more, and he was not particularly clever, as I had already seen from the old memory of the body.

I lived in a rather small room for two people. It considered "elite," so Larry turned his nose up at me, thinking he was a local big shot. It was a good place to press the quiet neighbor and dump all the day-to-day stuff on him. And also to have a good laugh at the loser.

The previous me didn't punch him in the face. But he gave him a good shot in the ribs. At the end of the "fight" he was on the ground, crying and sobbing, and I was slapped on the shoulders approvingly.

Paul Haraldson, one of the current "gate-crashers" - a fifteen-year-old forehead who had never gone to the factory, said approvingly that " he always had a place for people like this" whatever that meant. Eh, nah, I'm definitely not going to the gang.

Unlucky Larry, his new official nickname, was angry when he recovered, but he behaved very carefully. And his authority, whatever it was, was completely gone. A couple more mistakes and he'd be a new outsider. There were a few of them here, boys and girls too. I don't envy the lives of these people.

I don't care, anyway. I make my bed carefully, it's where order begins. I quickly remember where the toilet and the sink are. Obviously, they are shared, but everyone is used to it and there is enough space. Quickly do all the morning procedures, along the way looking at the surrounding area with my own eyes, this will be much faster to get into the rut than navigating by memory only.

Girls have their own bathroom, on the opposite side of the corridor, I realize when I see just the boys here. Some kind of gender separation, I wouldn't be surprised otherwise.

After washing, I went down to the first floor, to the dining room. People were already sitting there, clinking their spoons. The teenagers who were working had already eaten breakfast and left for their shift. It began at 6 a.m., and they returned close to midnight. There is only enough time for a short nap. Weekends are once a week, but sometimes it happens that you have to go to work during them, too. What can you do, there's a whole line for your job, even if it`s a bad one.

There are only two reasons why they take orphans: first, they can be paid a lot less. The second and more important reason is that they are aware of the work from childhood, because they start plowing at the age of twelve. And officially they are hired at sixteen.

And of course, almost everyone spits on this, but what is the point of hiring a new, unknown person if there's an old, trusted one? Who, moreover, can be paid much less and keep the difference in their own pockets? I think some of that difference goes into the pockets of Mrs. Cole and her assistants.

The short breakfast passed quickly, with difficulty and disgust, and I had to eat the gray, cold porridge, which had no taste at all. However, Wolfgang's body was used to this sort of thing, so the nasty taste was managed to be suppressed rather easily.

I decided to settle into the orphanage first, becoming Wolfgang Weyber for good. Then I would try to use magic. Carefully, without anyone noticing. The very first thought of magic slightly excited my source. I felt a pleasant heaviness in my chest, a feeling that I could just now pour this flow around me. I realized that I was sitting right in the middle of a table full of children, and that if I gave my magical impulse a negative tone, there might be a big meat grinder. Or not. Experiments needed.

At breakfast, I also find out today's date. On the wall hangs a large calendar, that was flipped by a fat cook, exposing a new date: September 7, 1932. The day of my arrival.

My birthday is April 19, it has already passed. I think about the dates in my head:

I'm seven years old now, I'm entering Hogwarts at eleven. So I don't have to wait extra time, like Hermione did in canon. In four years I can go to study magic. In that time I need to train a couple of attacking techniques, just in case.

Also, Wolf, that is me, has a good talent for mental magic, as well, as requested. So, I had to try legiliments as well. I can feel emotions and fragments of thoughts without even trying. And then Riddle. I need to make contact. One way or another, we're going to school together. It would be silly to study magic separately, since together we'd make much faster progress. I have a plan... a plan that I can wipe with, but I don't want to screw up the whole idea.

Ha ha, how quickly I "adapted". Already immersed in the role. Already living in a new world. Is it my new plastic childlike mentality? Or do I really not care about my past life? Or maybe it's "help" again from these god-dudes who sent me here?

`I'll think about it tomorrow,` I muttered quietly, quoting Scarlett O'Hara, the character in «Gone with the Wind». You should know the classics; I'm a literature professor for a reason, aren't I?

After breakfast, we gather in a group, and Mrs. Petters takes everyone to the church school, which is not far away, literally across the street. As we walk along, I look at the London of the 1930s. It's a depressing view. Ruined houses, no roads, puddles and mud everywhere. Or is it just because the orphanage is in one of the poorest neighborhoods?

Our group is mixed, boys and girls, of different ages, but split into separate columns. Girls are taught too, but in different classes, and the teachers are different. I saw that woman nun. Judging by her appearance, as well as by the rumors going around, she certainly did not suffer from forgiveness. It was easier for the boys in this area.

In the church school we were given our exercise books (it makes sense, who would give them away, everyone would lose or spoil them). The girls were taken away immediately, and then we were divided into two groups. The older ones were taken to another room, while Father Ricardo, the priest, stayed with us. Here, in the thinning crowd, I finally spotted Reddle.

He matched Wolf's memory - he looked pale and skinny, but his ragged clothes were clean and carefully made up. We were alike in that, though. Except I had better clothes. This is where the good attitude of the administration comes into play. When we are given new clothes (this happens once a year, in most cases we get already worn clothes from the older guys), I am given something fresher than the majority.

The lesson began with prayer. My memory told me the right words to say them loudly and clearly, because the priest was watching carefully, walking between the rows and twisting the knotty rod in his hands.

There was a sharp whiff right behind my back.

"Ouch! Aah!" Charlie Maysore screamed, his voice clearly stuttering on some of the lines and lowering on others, obviously messing up the words.

"Jesus suffered for us, and you can't even remember the words of thanks?! Idiot!" Father Ricardo threw a couple more mighty blows, not hesitating to use force. One of the blows went through his hands, which the boy intuitively tried to cover himself with. They immediately showed a clear red mark on them.

"Forgive me, please! Father Ricardo! Don't hit me again! I won't do it again!" The boy cried out desperately. Am I sorry for him? Not really. It's not the first time he's been a fool, he should have known by now what was driving the priest mad and not make such mistakes. And the prayer is not new, it should word-perfect...

"God will forgive," the "teacher" finished angrily with a punishment, "go on! What are we waiting for?! "

The class obediently continued mumbling the memorized lyrics. At this point I could clearly hear the voices of a good third of the class trembling. Nobody else made a mistake. Yes, father Ricardo's flogging does a great job of refreshing the memory.

In class, as I had planned, I hid my level of knowledge, while at the same time being disgusted by the nonsense that the priest poured into the orphans' ears. Literally every five minutes they read out another lecture on the Lord God. The fact that this was a math class, I realized only in the middle of the lesson. After I quickly solved the task, I did not raise my hand, but instead quietly at our class and my classmates.

What can I say... poor. Apparently, at this time churches were not so actively ripping people off, or I do not know something.

I solved the next two tasks in my head, but looking through my notebook and remembering my previous "lessons" I made a couple of mistakes, smeared ink and scribbled part of the paper with slips of the pen. Conspiracy!

Past me was good, but he wasn't exactly a great student. So let's not get out of line.

The lesson ended with another educational story, mixed with a good portion of religious propaganda. I tried to keep a straight face, without smirking at such unskilled brainwashing, which, however, still seemed to be working, judging by the looks on my classmate`s faces. Somebody really believes in this...

There were no breaks, the classes were non-stop. It wasn't much, and they were the same every day. Math, English, literature and theology. The last one was also tacitly present in all the previous classes. If a task, it was with saints and apostles. English: the Bible as an example. Literature - I think I don't need to explain. Theology - just brainwashing on the topic of God, the greatness of the church and the future prospect of the afterlife. Just the dream, damn it.

After math the next class was English, which gave me a little hope of learning something I didn't know. However... if the lesson was as informative as the last one, it would be easier to read the books myself. If only they were still available, those books, and if someone would decide to give them to me. Things were tight with books at this time. Should I look for a library? Who's going to let me in there? They are now respected learning centers.

Now all I could hope for was a shabby bible for class, one for both me and my desk mate. At least it's not Larry. Dennis Butler. He's as bad as the rest of us, but he doesn't seem completely lost. I even talked to him a little bit last year. No more than I did in class, but still.

But with my education... I could barely keep my hands off my head, my body reactions were too childish, and my emotions were getting out of hand. I am going to be ignorant until Hogwarts, aren't I? There's got to be a way out of this! Should I cast a spell on the librarians or something? Well, I'd have to learn that first, and then I'd have to do some experiments, then I'd have to check the timing... Yeah, I'd have something by the start of Hogwarts, at the very best. Or not.

Sigh. Trying to remember the canon, that very poorly covered this. Did young Tom Riddle come to Hogwarts already having some level of knowledge? Or was he consumed by his exclusivity and only at a school full of wizards, he realize that he was just one of the many? Well, let's put it to the test.