There is no such thing as good or bad. The world was not meant to be looked upon with black or white eyes. Every action, every thought, every being has shades; shades that in the course of our lives get moulded and twisted until we perceive only an overall image. But if you look closely you will find a trace of kindness in every deluded criminal, a touch of cruelty in even the most righteous of minds. We are not spared the pangs and thorns of our complexity; one might go as far as to say we are burdened by it.

The sky shook with immense power; a tremble shivered its way down the spine of the world as the clouds grew darker and darker. The air rippled with the silence that was to precede the violent storms of years not yet passed. It was that sort of loud quietness that unnerved most humans. Muggles would cower inside brightly lit rooms, near carefully attended fires, while most wizards would take comfort in the proximity of their wands, lovingly stroking the wood, as they would caress their beloved. You could sense something was brewing behind the fabric of the Universe...

Wool's Orphanage was fast asleep behind grey walls. The rain started pouring from the skies, hitting dirty roof tiles and squealing windows, giving the depressing building an even dirtier look. Children were snoring lightly inside, whimpering occasionally and curling underneath damp sheets, searching for some spot of warmth and finding none. One laid still, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. His skin prickled with the static in the air, his ears twitched ever so slightly in anticipation. His whole body was waiting for something, something of which his mind was not yet aware. A warm, sweet breeze crept into the room and Tom Riddle shot his eyes open. He searched the darkness of his detested bedroom with caution. Nothing. He let his mind slither around the edges of his bed, down onto the floorboard and up, across the cold walls, until, finally, it reached the door. Again, nothing. The breeze, however, persisted in existence and it riled him. It smelled of cakes and fresh pastries, lemon tarts and cinnamon pancakes; delights one would find in a welcoming kitchen or, at Hogwarts. Perhaps a memory, he thought... Yes... Soon, I'll be rid of this vile place. A few more days and I get back there. Yes… that's it. A memory. He closed his eyes once more and let his mind go back to Hogwarts, his home.

The castle stood like a giant shadow against the pouring rain. The storm was washing away the last remains of summer and heat, bringing instead the chill of barren trees and misty mornings. Drops were rushing down turrets and statues, coming together at the stone's edges, falling farther down towards the muddy ground. A tall figure was coming down a distant path, approaching the gates to the castle. He stopped for a moment, looked around and kneeled in front of a shivering wet lump of dark clothes. He took his cloak from around his shoulders and covered the trembling shape which he then picked up as fast as he could manage. The gates opened with a squeak and Albus Dumbledore entered the grounds of Hogwarts cradling a body in his arms. He rushed to the entrance as if he were merely carrying a basket full of flowers, all the time the figure sinking further and further into the dark cloak, concealing itself from the world.

'Albus! Returned so soon? 'Madam Creavey was returning from her desk when Dumbledore entered the Hospital Wing.

'Have you…' she was about to ask him about the packages she had sent him in Hogsmeade for, when she noticed the shivering body he had wrapped his cloak around. She hurried the man towards the nearest bed and produced her wand from under her white apron. She flicked it towards the body and removed Dumbledore's blue cloak. Her eyes darkened with pain almost at once; she had been matron at Hogwarts for many years, yet even to this day, it was still hard for her to see a child hurt.

Dumbledore watched as the nurse in charge took care of the girl's soaked clothes with quick wand movements. He had the kindest of regards for Lena Creavey. She was one of the most talented Healers in Britain and she had been Matron of Hogwarts' Hospital Wing since before he had studied there himself. No one truly knew how old Madam Creavey was for the simple fact that, whenever she was needed, her tiny, bony body would cease to look fragile and, suddenly, she would become as imposing as the Minister of Magic himself. Her wrinkles and pale green eyes, worn out by the weight of all she'd seen were testimony enough of her long years in the service of the school. She was a kind, capable witch, and Albus Dumbledore had all the respect for her, as well as an important amount of gratitude which came with her healing his bones after some unsuccessful escapades on broomsticks in forth year at Hogwarts.

Madam Creavey tucked the girl in bed after magically replacing her clothes with clean, warm, pyjamas, but not before searching her thoroughly for any wounds or lacerations. There were none.

'Where did you find her, Albus?' she asked thoughtful.

'Just outside the gates. There were no signs of an attack of any kind, or of how she got there for that matter. She can't be a Muggle, the charms would've kept her at bay and you can sense even now the magic pouring out of her. But she had no wand on her, Lena, or any other possession for that matter.' Dumbledore was looking at the girl with intrigued fascination. Madam Creavey, however, was concerned. Something was amiss…

'I checked her. She was in hypothermic shock. I gave her a potion for that, she should be fine. But there's something…' she shook her head. Perhaps it was the weather, but the girl gave her a sense of uneasiness.

'Yes?' Albus looked at Madam Creavey curious.

'It's nothing. Just a feeling. But I think that girl might've suffered something more than a hypothermic shock. Look at her, Albus.' They were both looking. There was a shadow of pain on the girl's face. She didn't look older than sixteen, yet there truly was something… odd about her. Maybe it was the wave of magic pulsating from her. Or maybe it was the way she laid there still, as if some memory of an old pain lingered beneath the surface of her pale skin, threatening to burst out, yet freezing her body in that unnatural calmness. It was the quietness of a shock, one any bystander would be uncertain whether it would ever surface or not. She was slender and, by the looks of it, a bit taller than some other girls of sixteen when standing. Wet locks of light hazel hair rested on her shoulders and framed her face. She looks pretty, he guessed. Normal, even, yet… not quite.

'Hm...' Dumbledore was frowning at the bed.

'Who might she be?' wondered Madam Creavey before turning slowly towards her desk. 'You must inform Dippet, Dumbledore.'

'Yes… I suppose I must.' Nevertheless, he did not leave. He pulled a chair near the bed and sat down looking out the window, at the pouring rain. After a while, he smiled. The room smelled of cakes and freshly baked pastries, lemon tarts and cinnamon pancakes.