Chapter 3 - Hogwarts: My Classmate -Chapter 3: The Leaky Cauldron

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Tom Riddle didn't come looking for trouble. After getting his Hogwarts letter, he went quiet.

Hofa wasn't stupid enough to start something either. Three priorities: eat, train, scout the area.

A month later, he'd mapped the neighborhood. Even found the Leaky Cauldron's rough location.

Now he walked toward it, paper map in hand. Worker's cap, dirty socks over boots—looked like a newsboy.

1938 London wasn't the future's bustling city. Gray bricks paved uneven streets. Old canvas-topped cars puttered past, belching black smoke. Dull colors—nothing like later years.

Unemployed men wandered with job-wanted signs. Young guys smoked on corners, defeated. The '29 crash's aftermath. The Empire's decline after WWI showed everywhere.

At a corner, Hofa spotted workers pasting posters. He got closer. British Army recruitment—black and white.

His stomach dropped.

He'd forgotten something crucial. Not from the wizarding world. From the Muggle one.

World War II was coming.

Hitler was alive. Every demon-king-level figure of this era—alive.

Tojo. Mussolini.

Next to them, the not-yet-grown Voldemort was nothing. Their body counts made his look like practice.

Hofa didn't know much history, but he knew WWII started in 1939. One year away.

Staring at that poster, he froze.

Why this era? Any other time would've been better.

Beep beep beep!

A horn yanked him back.

An old motorcycle rolled up—sidecar type, straight out of war films.

Two soldiers in dark green stopped. The one in the sidecar, smoking, called out.

"Hofa Bach?"

Hofa stared. Didn't know these guys. Was his name tattooed on his face?

He nodded. "Yeah."

Sidecar guy pulled out bundled letters. Licked his finger, flipped through, handed one over.

"Your letter, kid. Don't lose it."

Driver kicked the pedal. They puttered off.

Hofa turned the letter over, amazed.

LondonCharing Cross Road532 meters west of the Leaky CauldronSecond cornerMr. Hofa Bach

Like the books—emerald ink, no stamp, thick as parchment.

He gaped after the vanished soldiers. Flipped it. Wax seal, shield emblem, "H" surrounded by lion, eagle, badger, snake.

Dumbledore said he'd get a letter. Never expected this delivery method.

He looked up, baffled.

How'd they track him so precisely?

He tore it open, excited. Past-life fantasy, now real.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Armando Dippet (Vice President, International Confederation of Wizards; Royal Honorary Magician; Chief Warlock, Wizengamot)

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 necessary books and equipment.

Term begins September 1. We await your owl by July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Adelberta Gosawk Deputy Headmistress

Hofa read it three times. Like the novel, but different.

Three things stood out. One: Headmaster wasn't Dumbledore—some guy named Armando Dippet. Two: Deputy wasn't McGonagall—someone named Adelberta Gosawk. Three: Muggle and wizard worlds weren't totally separate. At least the royals knew.

Those soldiers might be wizards. Otherwise they wouldn't calmly deliver weird mail. Could be spelled, though.

But Dippet's "Royal Honorary Magician" title made the first theory likelier.

Made sense. Top people always knew more. With this many wizards, the Ministry couldn't hide everything without high-level Muggle cooperation.

He mentally filed that and pulled out page two.

Ordinary—textbook and supply list. Similar to his past-life knowledge.

Reading through, he froze.

He'd remembered something important.

No money.

Zero.

Completely broke. Ate on orphanage charity.

No dead parents' inheritance. No clue about Hogwarts financial aid. Not even a Vernon-type relative.

Couldn't ask the orphanage for Hogwarts money. They were poor too. Raising him was hard enough.

Standing on a 1938 London street, reality hit cold.

"Seriously?" he muttered. "Give me hope then crush it?"

He sighed, pocketed the letter.

No choice. Hogwarts was happening. Childhood dream from his past life.

Beg or work—he'd scrape together tuition.

He headed for the Leaky Cauldron, jaw set.

Beg or work in the wizard world. Muggles didn't have Galleons.

Good news? The envelope gave him the exact location.

The Leaky Cauldron sat between a suit shop and umbrella shop. Muggles walked past blind to it. Hofa pocketed his map, stepped inside.

Dark, shabby, mixed crowd—just like the books. Wizards drinking, witches smoking, goblin-types playing cards in the corner. Money piled on their table.

One difference—the bartender wasn't ancient and hunched. Receding hairline showed his hair's doomed future, but he wasn't bald yet.

Grimy paintings lined the walls.

Every figure moved.

Hofa scanned them. At the end, an old woman's portrait. Wooden hair clip, smoking pipe—landlady vibes.

She spotted him, blew smoke viciously. "What're you staring at, you little pauper?"

Hofa frowned.

Below the painting:

The Leaky Cauldron—Founded by Daisy Dodderidge (1467-1555)

He ignored the painting. Walked to the bar.

Young Tom wiped glasses. Glanced at Hofa. Went back to wiping.

Hofa thought of Harry's grand future entrance versus his own invisibility. No protagonist halo here.

He eyed the Galleons at the goblins' card table. Approached the bar.

Counter was high. He stood on tiptoe, cleared his throat. "Hello."

"Hello." Tom's tone—neither warm nor cold. Just there.

"You hiring?"

Tom stopped wiping. Looked at him, surprised. "What?"

"I'm looking for work. Short-term."

Tom blinked. "Merlin's beard. Wizard kids work this young now?"

Hofa felt frustrated but desperate. "Economic crisis outside. Can't help it."

Tom grimaced, shook his head. "Sorry. No child labor." Moved to the counter's other side, kept wiping.

Hofa followed. "Wait. Any Diagon Alley shops hiring?"

Tom got annoyed. Frowned, slammed his cloth down.

"Hey! You should be going to Hogwarts, not job-hunting like an adult. Think work's that easy?"

Damn. Hofa cursed internally. Think I don't want to go? If I had money, why would I be here getting rejected?

Guy was so different with Harry—warm, friendly. Treated Hofa like plague.

Tom's voice drew attention. A tall hunched witch turned, smoking, smiling. "Need money, little guy? Come to Knockturn Alley with me—"

"No thanks," Hofa cut in. "Appreciate it. I'll stick to Diagon Alley."

Not happening. Woman could be his grandma but called herself "sister." Obviously sketchy.

The witch pouted, blew smoke at him.

Hofa swallowed his pride. "I want to go to Diagon Alley. Can you open the door?"

Opening doors was Tom's job. His pub, his gate.

He didn't refuse. "Follow me."

Hofa thought maybe one Diagon Alley shop would hire him.

At the wall, Tom said, "Three up, two across, tap three times. Use magic when you tap—if you get a wand."

Hofa nodded, thinking Ollivander wouldn't give credit.

Seeing decent attitude, Tom added, "What's your name? Why work?"

Hofa sensed opportunity. "I'm Hofa. Need book money."

At the card table, a goblin's ear swiveled. Eyes drifted over.

Tom frowned. "No money? Write Hogwarts for aid. They've got it. And Diagon Alley work? Forget it. Ministry-registered shops. Can't hire under sixteen."

Hope died. Balloon popping, air hissing out.

Write Hogwarts? He wanted to.

Letter said they awaited his owl. Problem was...

No owl.

Could buy one in Diagon Alley. But also no money.

Not one coin.

As despair set in, a card-playing goblin jumped off his stool. Squeezed past chatting wizards.

Waved. "Wait, young wizard. Your name?"

Hofa turned. Goblin in monocle, leather jacket, dress shoes walked over, suit draped on arm. Half normal height—Hofa's height. Blond tuft on forehead, two earrings. Compared to pot-bellied old goblins, looked decent.

"Hofa. What?"

Goblin adjusted monocle.

"Bach?"

"Yes." Surprised.

"What took you? I waited three days." Goblin complained. "I'm Indor. Pleased to meet you."

Extended hand smoothly, salesman-style.

Hofa shook it, nervous. Looked him over. What'd he do to make a goblin wait three days? These creatures were stingy. Did he owe money?

Indor said quickly, "A wizard asked me to handle something. Wait here for a kid named Hofa."

Coughed, rummaged his pocket. From bronze coins, pulled a crumpled letter. Handed it over.

"Letter from that wizard."

Hofa grabbed it. No signature. Looping English.

Didn't prepare two aid packages last timeHad Indor take you to GringottsHe's decentGet alongSee you at school

Brief. But Hofa knew who wrote it. Dumbledore. Hadn't forgotten. Heart warmed. Relaxed.

Someone remembered him. Wouldn't have to work.

After reading, looked at goblin more favorably...

Wait. Why the hand-rubbing merchant smile?

"Why're you smiling?"

Goblin adjusted glasses, smiled. "That's the situation. Small accident though."

"What accident?" Bad feeling.

"Accident is—this guy played cards in my shop three days. Lost three days." Tom answered, arms crossed, smirking. Turned, left.

Looking at ashamed goblin, Tom's back, goblins collecting money...

Hofa felt Dementors kissing him. Soul drifting out.

"You mean... my aid money..."

Indor: "Correct. Lost it all."

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