Tom Riddle didn't come looking for trouble. In fact, after receiving his Hogwarts acceptance letter, he went disturbingly quiet.
Hofa wasn't stupid enough to poke the bear. He stuck to a simple routine: eat, exercise, scout the terrain.
A month passed. Hofa had mapped out the area around the orphanage and pinned down the general location of the Leaky Cauldron.
Now, he was on his way.
He looked like a chimney sweep's apprentice: a flat cap pulled low, dirty socks peeking out of scuffed Doc Martens. He fit right into 1938 London.
The city wasn't the colorful metropolis of the future. It was gray. The streets were paved with uneven cobblestones. Old-fashioned cars, black and boxy, chugged past, coughing out soot.
People were hungry. Men held signs begging for work. Young men slumped on corners, smoking cheap tobacco. The Great Depression hadn't fully released its grip, and the British Empire, battered by the First World War, was showing its cracks.
At a street corner, Hofa saw a group of workers pasting posters onto a brick wall. He squinted.
YOUR KING AND COUNTRY NEED YOU.
Recruitment posters.
Hofa froze. A cold bucket of reality dumped over his head.
He had forgotten the most important thing about this timeline. Not Voldemort. Not magic.
World War II was coming.
Hitler was alive. Mussolini. Tojo. The Axis of Evil was gearing up.
Compared to the fledgling Dark Lord in the orphanage basement, these were the real monsters. Voldemort's body count was a rounding error compared to what was about to happen.
The war would start in 1939. One year.
Hofa stood there, map in hand, staring at the poster.
Goddammit. Why 1938? Why couldn't I transmigrate to the 90s?
HONK! HONK!
Hofa jumped.
An olive-green motorcycle with a sidecar rumbled up to the curb. It looked like a prop from a war movie.
Two soldiers sat on it. The one in the sidecar, a cigarette dangling from his lip, shouted over the engine.
"Are you Hofa Bach?"
Hofa blinked. Do I have my name tattooed on my forehead?
"That's me."
The soldier reached into a pouch, licked his thumb, and riffled through a stack of thick, yellowish envelopes. He pulled one out and flicked it at Hofa.
"Your mail, kid. Don't lose it."
The driver gunned the engine, and they roared off into the smog.
Hofa turned the envelope over.
Mr. H. Bach
The Second Corner
532 Meters West of The Leaky Cauldron
Bonnington Market Street
London
Green ink. No stamp. Heavy parchment.
He flipped it again. A purple wax seal. A lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.
He looked up at the gray sky. How do they track me so accurately? Magic GPS?
Excitement bubbled up, pushing aside the dread of impending war. He tore it open.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(International Confed. of Wizards, Order of Merlin First Class, Chief Warlock)
Dear Mr. Bach,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Adalbert Goshawk
Deputy Headmaster
Hofa read it three times.
Different names. No Dumbledore as Headmaster. No McGonagall.
But the soldiers... they delivered it. That meant the British government knew. At the highest levels, the Muggle and Magical worlds weren't as separated as he thought.
He pulled out the second sheet. The shopping list.
Standard stuff. Robes, cauldron, telescope...
Hofa stopped. A cold realization hit him.
Money.
He was broke. Destitute. He lived on orphanage charity. No parents, no inheritance, no Uncle Vernon to grudgingly pay for things.
He couldn't ask Mrs. Cole. The orphanage was barely scraping by as it was.
The cold wind of 1938 London bit through his thin clothes.
"Seriously?" Hofa muttered to the sky. "You give me magic, but you make me beg for it?"
He gritted his teeth and stuffed the letter into his pocket.
He was going to Hogwarts. Even if he had to wash dishes in Diagon Alley to pay for it.
He checked the map again. The Leaky Cauldron was close.
The pub was sandwiched between a tailor and an umbrella shop. Muggles hurried past, eyes sliding off the dingy storefront as if it didn't exist.
Hofa pushed the door open.
It was exactly as described. Dark, shabby, smelling of sherry and old tobacco.
Wizards drank in shadows. Witches smoked pipes. In a corner, a group of goblins played cards, a pile of gold coins glittering on the table.
The barman wasn't the toothless, hunchbacked Tom from Harry's time. This Tom was younger, though his hairline was already retreating in a losing battle.
Hofa scanned the room. Moving portraits lined the walls.
One portrait, an old woman with a severe bun and a pipe, glared down at him.
"What are you staring at, you little pauper?" she snapped, blowing smoke into the frame.
Below her, a brass plaque read:
The Leaky Cauldron — Founded by Daisy Dodderidge (1467-1555)
Hofa ignored her and marched to the bar.
The counter was high. He had to stand on his tiptoes.
"Hello!"
Tom the barman glanced up from wiping a glass. "Hello."
Flat. Uninterested.
"I was wondering if you were hiring?"
Tom paused. "Say again?"
"I need a job," Hofa said, trying to sound professional. "Short term. I'm a hard worker."
"Merlin's beard," Tom muttered. "Starting young, aren't we?"
"Times are tough. Economic crisis and all that."
Tom shook his head. "Sorry, kid. No child labor here." He went back to polishing.
"Wait! Do you know any shops in Diagon Alley that are hiring?"
Tom slammed the rag down. "Hey! You're a student, aren't you? Go to school. Stop trying to act like a grown-up. You think working is a game?"
Listen here, you bald git, Hofa thought furiously. I don't want to work! I want to be rich!
The commotion drew attention. A tall, hunchbacked witch turned on her stool, grinning through a cloud of green smoke.
"Short on galleons, sweetie? Why don't you come with me to Knockturn Alley? I've got some work..."
"No thanks!" Hofa said quickly. "I'll stick to the main street."
She definitely wants to turn me into soup ingredients.
He turned back to Tom. "Can you just open the entrance to Diagon Alley for me, please?"
Tom sighed. "Fine. Follow me."
They walked to the small walled courtyard in the back.
"Three up... two across," Tom tapped the brick with his wand. "Remember that. You'll need to tap it with your own wand eventually."
Hofa nodded, thinking, If I can ever afford one.
"What's your name, anyway?" Tom asked. "Why so desperate for cash?"
"Hofa. Hofa Bach. And I need money for my books."
Behind them, back in the bar, one of the card-playing goblins perked up. His long ears twitched.
Tom sneered. "If you're broke, write to Hogwarts for the orphan fund. They don't let students go without. And don't bother looking for work in the Alley. Ministry regulations. No one hires under sixteen."
Hofa felt his soul leave his body.
Write to Hogwarts? With what owl?
Buy an owl? With what money?
It was a catch-22 from hell.
Just as despair was settling in, a voice piped up from waist-height.
"Wait a moment, young wizard. Did you say your name is Hofa?"
Hofa turned.
A goblin was squeezing through the crowd.
He wasn't like the others. He wore a leather jacket over a dress shirt, polished shoes, and a monocle. He had a tuft of trendy blonde hair and two earrings. He looked like a goblin used car salesman.
"I'm Hofa. Yeah."
The goblin adjusted his monocle. "Bach?"
"Yes."
"Finally!" The goblin threw his hands up. "I've been waiting here for three days! I'm Indor. Pleasure."
He extended a hand.
Hofa shook it, confused. "Waiting for me? Why? Do I owe you money?"
Indor chuckled. "No, no. A wizard asked me to wait for you."
He dug into his pocket, fishing through loose bronze Knuts, and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment.
"Here."
Hofa unfolded it. No signature, but the handwriting was looped and elegant.
...I realized I didn't prepare two sets of funds last time.
I asked Indor to take you to Gringotts to retrieve it.
He is a decent goblin.
Get along.
See you at school.
Dumbledore.
Hofa felt a warm glow in his chest. The old man hadn't forgotten him. He was saved. No dishwashing required.
"He's a decent goblin," Hofa read aloud, smiling at Indor.
Indor rubbed his hands together. He was grinning. A wide, sharp-toothed, very nervous grin.
Hofa's smile faltered. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Well," Indor said, sweating slightly. "The situation is... complicated."
"What kind of complicated?"
"The kind where he's been playing cards in my bar for three days," Tom the barman cut in, leaning against the doorframe with a cruel smirk. "And losing for three days."
Hofa froze.
He looked at Indor. He looked at the pile of gold on the card table behind him.
He looked back at Indor.
"You mean...?"
"Yes," Indor admitted, his voice shrinking. "Your scholarship fund... I may have... bet it."
"And?"
"And lost it."