The Cold Night Arrival

It was a cold, bitter night, the kind where the wind seemed to bite right through your bones, and the dampness of the air made everything feel heavier. The streets of the small London neighbourhood were eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of a swinging sign or the rustle of wind through dead leaves.

At the edge of the dimly lit street sat an old orphanage, worn and weathered from decades of children passing through its doors. The only sign of life inside came from the faint glow of a single candle flickering in the front window, where Mrs. Jenson, the matron, sat in her rocking chair, knitting to pass the time.

She was an older woman, nearing her sixties, with greying hair pulled back into a tight bun and a face creased from years of stern glares and forced smiles. She wasn't unkind, but life had left her hardened, practical, and blunt.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the silent hallway, startling Mrs. Jenson out of her reverie. Frowning, she placed her knitting aside and slowly made her way to the front door. It was far too late for visitors, and the weather outside was too dreadful for anyone to be out. Whoever was knocking must have been in some kind of trouble.

Grumbling to herself, she swung open the door—and there, on the doorstep, was a small basket, barely visible in the shadow of the overhanging roof. The wind whipped past her, carrying a biting chill that made her shiver. She bent down, peering closer, her heart sinking at the sight.

"A baby?" she muttered, her voice laced with disbelief. "Good heavens, who in their right mind would leave a child out in this cold?"

She knelt down, pulling the basket closer into the light. Inside, wrapped in a thick, old-fashioned blanket, was a tiny infant with a shock of dark hair and wide, unfocused eyes that blinked up at her, seemingly unaffected by the bitter wind.

The matron's frown deepened as she lifted the child carefully, inspecting him for any signs of injury or distress. He was impossibly quiet, almost unnaturally so, as if sensing the strange world he had been abandoned into. With a sigh, Mrs. Jenson shifted him into her arms, feeling the slight weight of him against her chest.

"Well, you're a quiet little thing, aren't you?" she muttered, more to herself than to the baby, though his tiny hand reached up and curled around her finger instinctively.

But something caught her eye—a small folded note tucked into the corner of the basket. She grabbed it, unfolding the worn piece of paper with fingers that had seen too many of these over the years.

Her lips pressed together tightly as she read the words written in a delicate, slanted script:

'His name is Damian Black. Take care of him.'

The matron's brow furrowed. "Damian? The name sounds too outdated for today's time?"

She glanced down at the baby again, who remained still in her arms, only his tiny chest rising and falling gently. "Poor thing, they gave you a name that sounds like it belongs to some sort of villain from a fairy tale," she huffed, shaking her head. "Who nowadays gives such strange names to a baby?"

The child, of course, didn't answer, but something in his quiet, watchful demeanour made her uneasy, as if he understood more than a newborn should.

"And Black?" she muttered under her breath. "I've heard that name before…"

It rang a bell somewhere deep in her memory, though she couldn't quite place it. Some family of high repute, or maybe trouble? Either way, she didn't like the sound of it.

Mrs. Jenson carefully adjusted the blanket around the baby and took one last glance outside, searching the dark, empty street for any sign of the person who had left him there. The wind howled louder, but the street remained deserted.

"What kind of heartless soul leaves a baby in the dark like this?" she grumbled as she shut the door firmly against the cold. "In the middle of the night, no less. It's a wonder you weren't frozen stiff."

She carried the baby over to the fireplace, her steps heavy but sure. She settled him into a small cot she had prepared for situations like these—though it wasn't often someone would leave a baby right on the doorstep. Shaking her head, she grabbed a warm blanket from a nearby shelf and draped it over the child, making sure he was snug.

"You poor thing," she muttered again, her voice softening slightly. "I don't know what kind of people would do this, but don't you worry. We'll take care of you here."

—--------------------------------------

Damian blinked, the world around him slowly coming into focus, his thoughts swirling like a fog lifting after a heavy storm. Everything felt… off. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not like this. There was an odd heaviness in his limbs, and he couldn't shake the strange sensation that his body wasn't right.

As his vision cleared, he caught sight of an old woman hovering above him, her face lined with age, concern, and a no-nonsense demeanour. Her expression was stern, yet soft, as she tucked a thick blanket around him with all the care of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

'Wait—why was she towering over him like that?'

He blinked again. 'Oh, no.'

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He was a baby. A literal, helpless baby.

Damian took a sharp breath—well, as sharp as he could with these tiny lungs. The memories flooded back all at once. Rob. The wishes. The promise of a life filled with magic, power, and legacy. And now, here he was, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, lying in a cot that was far too big for him.

'Are you kidding me?' he thought furiously, though no words escaped his tiny mouth. 'Why didn't I ask to be five or something? Or ten! Being a baby is the worst!'

He tried to move, but his chubby little arms flailed uselessly in the air, his legs kicking weakly as if to mock his frustration. He could feel a whine bubbling up in his chest, and he had to mentally slap himself to keep from screaming. Not because he was upset, but because 'babies' cry. And he was not going to be reduced to a wailing, drooling infant.

Except… apparently, he didn't have much of a choice. His body decided for him, and he let out a small, involuntary wail. His tiny fists balled up in pure frustration.

'I'm having a tantrum,' he realised in horror. 'I'm literally having a tantrum. This sucks!'

The old woman—Mrs. Jenson, he remembered hearing her name—looked down at him with an expression that was half sympathetic, half irritated, like she'd seen this before. Of course she had. He was a baby. Babies cry for no reason all the time. But he had a reason, a perfectly valid one! He was supposed to be a powerful magical being, not this helpless blob!

'Oh, for the love of Merlin, why didn't I think this through?' he mentally groaned, his little body twitching with useless energy. 'I could've been a fully grown wizard by now! I could've been casting spells or, I dunno, learning something useful instead of… this.'

Mrs. Jenson made a tutting sound, misunderstanding his squirming. "Oh, you poor thing," she murmured, her voice far gentler than he'd expected as she reached down to adjust the blanket again. "Must be hungry or cold. Always something with little ones."

'Hungry? Cold? No, lady! I'm frustrated because I'm stuck in this puny, squishy baby body! How does anyone live like this?'

He flailed his arms again, but this time, it wasn't out of hunger or discomfort. No, this was pure, unadulterated rage at the injustice of his situation. His hands were tiny. His legs couldn't even support his weight. And don't even get him started on how hard it was to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds. I mean, who designs a body like this?

'Great,' he thought as he blinked slowly, his vision getting fuzzy again. 'I'm too tired to even be mad properly.'

He could feel his eyelids getting heavier with every passing second, despite his absolute refusal to accept it. But what could he do? His baby body was working against him, and sleep was already pulling him under like a spell.

'I swear,' he mumbled internally, 'if I could just go back and ask for something else… anything else. Maybe five years old, or heck, even four. At least I could walk, maybe say a few words… His thoughts trailed off, and a deep yawn escaped him, despite his best efforts to stay awake.

But as he drifted into the inevitable abyss of sleep, one last thought surfaced in his fading consciousness:

'Rob, you sneaky son of a…'

And then, darkness.

---

In the corner of the room, Mrs. Jenson watched as the tiny baby finally quieted down, his brief outburst settling into the soft, steady rhythm of sleep. She shook her head with a mixture of pity and exasperation, not entirely sure why this particular child seemed to have such a fierce, almost grown-up stubbornness in his little fits.

The baby had blinked up at her again, his Amber eyes wide and curious, and for a moment, Mrs. Jenson felt an odd chill pass over her, as if the child was far more aware of his surroundings than he should be.

"Damian Black," she muttered under her breath again, still frowning at the name. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"

She sighed, blowing out the candle before retreating to her own quarters, leaving the mysterious child wrapped snugly in his blanket, the storm still howling outside.