Capítulo 3: Chapter 3: The Leaky Cauldron
Tom Riddle didn't come looking for trouble with Hoffa. In fact, after receiving his Hogwarts invitation, Riddle behaved unusually low-key.
Hoffa, of course, had no intention of foolishly provoking him. His days consisted of just three things: eating, exercising, and familiarizing himself with his surroundings.
A month later, Hoffa had explored most of the area around the orphanage and even pinpointed the approximate location of the Leaky Cauldron.
At the moment, Hoffa was holding a paper map of London, making his way toward the Leaky Cauldron.
He wore a worker's cap and scuffed socks tucked into his dusty boots, looking every bit like a child laborer selling newspapers.
The streets of 1938 London weren't as bustling as in later years. The roads were paved with gray bricks, uneven and bumpy. Old cars sputtered by under simple canopies, belching black exhaust. Unlike the colorful cars of the future, these vehicles were drab and monotonous.
Many people, struggling to find work, carried signs advertising their services. At street corners, young men smoked cigarettes, radiating despair. These were the lingering effects of the 1929 economic crisis. The once-mighty British Empire had been in steady decline since World War I.
Around a corner, Hoffa saw a group of workers plastering the walls with glue, fixing up posters. Curious, he approached to see what they were doing. It turned out they were putting up black-and-white Royal Army recruitment posters.
The sight of the poster sent a chill down Hoffa's spine.
He had forgotten one crucial detail about this time period—not from the wizarding world but from the Muggle one.
World War II was about to break out.
Hitler was still alive! Alongside him were other infamous figures like Tojo Hideki and Mussolini...
Compared to the not-yet-mature Dark Wizard Voldemort, these men were true titans of chaos. The destruction and death wrought by Voldemort couldn't hold a candle to these historical giants.
Though Hoffa wasn't deeply knowledgeable about history, he did remember that the war started in 1939—just one year away.
Staring at the poster, Hoffa froze in place, map in hand, almost ready to cry.
Why this era of all times? Why a time of war and chaos?
…
A blaring horn snapped Hoffa out of his daze.
He turned to see an old-style motorcycle approaching, the kind he'd only seen in anti-Japanese war dramas—one person driving while another sat in the sidecar.
Two soldiers in olive-green uniforms stopped in front of him. The one smoking in the sidecar leaned over and called out loudly.
"Are you Hoffa Bach?"
Hoffa blinked, puzzled. He didn't know these men. Did his name somehow show on his face?
He nodded cautiously. "I am."
The soldier in the sidecar pulled out a bundle of letters from behind his back, licked a finger, flipped through them, and handed one to Hoffa.
"Your letter, kid. Don't lose it."
With that, the motorcycle rumbled off down the road.
Hoffa turned the envelope over, curious.
London
Bonnington Market Street
532 meters west of the Leaky Cauldron
Second corner
To Mr. Hoffa Bach
The text, written in emerald-green ink, had no postage stamp and was made of heavy parchment.
Hoffa's mouth fell open as he stared at the letter and the disappearing soldiers. Flipping the envelope again, he saw the wax seal: a shield bearing a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake encircling a large "H."
It was unmistakable—just like in the books.
Still stunned, Hoffa couldn't help but wonder how these people pinpointed his location so precisely.
Setting aside his questions, Hoffa eagerly tore open the envelope. All his childhood fantasies were coming true, and the excitement was overwhelming.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Armando Dippet
(Vice President of the International Confederation of Wizards,
Royal Honorary Wizard, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)
Dear Mr. Bach,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed, please find a list of necessary books and equipment.
The term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Deputy Headmaster
Adebe Gosak
Hoffa read the letter several times over. While it mirrored the letter from the novels, there were clear differences.
First, the headmaster wasn't Dumbledore but someone named Armando Dippet. Second, the deputy head wasn't McGonagall but someone called Adebe Gosak. Third, the Muggle and wizarding worlds weren't entirely separate. For instance, the soldiers delivering the letter were likely wizards themselves.
If they weren't, they had to have been enchanted in some way.
Noting these observations, Hoffa pulled out a second sheet of parchment.
It listed required books and supplies, much like in the books.
But as he scanned the list, a chilling realization struck him.
He had no money.
Not a single coin.
He was utterly destitute. The orphanage provided his meals, but there was no inheritance, no family, no magical trust fund waiting for him.
He couldn't possibly ask the orphanage for tuition—they were struggling enough as it was.
Standing on a cold London street in 1938, Hoffa shivered, feeling the biting chill of reality.
Not even a time-traveling soul could escape the limitations of poverty.
"No way..." Hoffa muttered to himself, sighing. "Giving hope, only to take it away—really?"
But there was no turning back. Hogwarts was his childhood dream.
Even if it meant begging or working odd jobs, he would find a way to scrape together the money.
Gritting his teeth, Hoffa continued toward the Leaky Cauldron.
If he was going to beg or work, it had to be in the wizarding world. After all, Muggle currency wouldn't get him any Galleons.
The only good news was that he now knew the exact location of the Leaky Cauldron.
The Leaky Cauldron now sat snugly between a suit shop and an umbrella store. Muggles bustled past it without sparing it a glance. Hofu stuffed the map into his pocket and stepped inside.
The legendary pub looked exactly as described in books—dark, shabby, and a mishmash of characters. Male wizards were drinking, female witches puffed on pipes, and a few goblin-like creatures sat in a corner playing cards. The table was stacked with coins of various shapes and colors.
The only difference from the books was the bartender. While still showing signs of baldness, the man was younger, not as hunched or aged as described. For now, at least, he still had some hair clinging to his scalp.
The walls of the pub were lined with rows of blackened paintings, and every figure in the portraits moved.
Hofu's gaze roamed across the paintings, stopping at one at the end of the row. It was an elderly woman with a wooden hairpin, smoking a pipe, looking every bit like a stereotypical landlord. She glared at Hofu and blew a puff of smoke.
"What are you looking at, you little pauper?!" she snapped.
Hofu frowned and rolled his eyes. Beneath the painting was a plaque:
The Leaky Cauldron - Established by Daisy Dodderidge
(1467-1555)
Deciding it wasn't worth arguing with a painting, Hofu approached the bar where Tom, the young bartender, was polishing glasses. When Hofu entered, Tom had merely glanced up briefly before returning to his task.
Hofu thought about Harry Potter's grand entrance to the Leaky Cauldron in the future, where everyone greeted him warmly. Comparing that to his own unnoticed arrival, he couldn't help but sigh. Clearly, he lacked the protagonist's aura.
He glanced longingly at the galleons on the goblins' card table before steeling himself and approaching the bar.
The bar was tall, forcing Hofu to stand on tiptoe. Clearing his throat, he said, "Hello!"
"Hello," Tom replied, neither warm nor cold—just neutral.
"I wanted to ask… Are you hiring?" Hofu ventured.
Tom paused mid-polish and gave Hofu a puzzled look. "What did you say?"
"I'd like a job—a short-term one, if possible," Hofu explained earnestly.
"Merlin's beard," Tom muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "Kids these days… You're a wizard child, aren't you? And already looking for work?"
Hofu held back his frustration and sighed. "Times are tough with the economic crisis, you know."
Tom let out a chuckle and shook his head. "Sorry, kid, but we don't hire child labor here." With that, he moved to the other side of the counter, resuming his polishing.
Unwilling to give up, Hofu followed him. "Wait! Do you know if there's anywhere in Diagon Alley that's hiring?"
Tom scowled, slamming his cloth on the counter.
"Hey, kid! Shouldn't you be heading to Hogwarts like other children your age? Do you think finding work is that simple?"
Hofu suppressed the urge to snap back. Do you think I wouldn't go if I could? If I had money, I wouldn't be begging you right now!
Tom's raised voice drew the attention of several patrons. A tall, hunched witch smoking a pipe turned and grinned mischievously.
"Short on money, are you, little one? Want to come to Knockturn Alley with me?"
"No thanks!" Hofu replied hastily. "I'd rather try Diagon Alley."
The witch snickered, blowing a puff of smoke in his direction before turning away.
Swallowing his pride, Hofu said to Tom, "I just need to get to Diagon Alley. Could you open the entrance for me?"
This, at least, was part of Tom's job. He didn't refuse, muttering, "Follow me."
Hofu followed him to the brick wall, thinking that with so many shops in Diagon Alley, surely one would offer him work.
Standing before the wall, Tom explained, "Count up three bricks, then two across. Tap it three times. If you ever get a wand, remember to use a bit of magic while tapping."
Hofu nodded earnestly, though inwardly, he thought of another obstacle: I don't even have a wand. Will Ollivander let me buy one on credit?
Seeing Hofu's attentiveness, Tom asked, "What's your name, kid? And why are you looking for work?"
Sensing a glimmer of opportunity, Hofu quickly replied, "My name's Hofu. I'm trying to earn money for school supplies."
At that moment, one of the goblins playing cards suddenly perked up, his long ears twitching as he turned to look at Hofu.
Tom, however, frowned. "If you're short on money, write to Hogwarts and apply for financial aid. They won't mind. But if you're thinking of finding work in Diagon Alley, forget it. Those shops are registered with the Ministry of Magic and can't hire anyone under sixteen."
Hofu's heart sank, the tiny spark of hope extinguished. Write to Hogwarts? Sure, they're waiting for my owl reply… except I don't have an owl. And without money, I can't buy one, either.
Just as Hoffa was sinking into despair, a goblin playing cards hopped off his stool, squeezing past a group of chatting wizards.
The goblin waved at him. "Wait a moment, young wizard. What's your name?"
Hoffa turned, curious. He saw a goblin wearing a leather jacket, polished shoes, and with a suit jacket slung over his arm. He was about half the height of a regular person—about Hoffa's height. His slick golden hair formed a small tuft on his forehead, his ears adorned with two earrings. Compared to the portly, gruff-looking goblins at the card table, this one appeared surprisingly approachable.
"I'm Hoffa," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
The goblin nodded, adjusting his monocle with a practiced gesture.
"Bach, is it?"
"Yes." Hoffa blinked in surprise.
"Why are you so late? I've been waiting for you for three days," the goblin complained, sounding a little exasperated. "My name is Indor. Nice to meet you."
He extended his hand with the polished ease of a salesman.
Hoffa shook the goblin's hand cautiously, his mind racing. Why would a goblin wait for him for three days? These creatures were notoriously frugal and efficient. Could it be that he owed this goblin money?
Indor quickly dispelled Hoffa's confusion. "A wizard asked me to handle something for him recently and instructed me to wait here for a boy named Hoffa."
With that, Indor coughed, rummaged through the pocket of his slacks, and retrieved a crumpled note from amidst a pile of greenish coins. He handed the note to Hoffa.
"This is the letter that wizard left for you."
Hoffa took the note eagerly and unfolded it. There was no signature, only a few loops and squiggles of English handwriting:
Last time, I didn't prepare two grants.
I've arranged for Indor to take you to Gringotts to retrieve it.
He's a decent goblin.
Be polite.
See you at school.
The letter was concise, but Hoffa instantly recognized the writer: Dumbledore. So, he hadn't forgotten him after all. Warmth filled Hoffa's chest, and he exhaled in relief.
At least someone still cared about him. Finally, he wouldn't have to scrape by looking for work.
After reading the letter, Hoffa glanced back at Indor, who suddenly seemed far less obnoxious.
Wait a second—why was Indor rubbing his hands together and smiling in such a peculiar, calculating way?
Hoffa narrowed his eyes. "Why are you grinning like that?"
Indor adjusted his monocle again and offered a sheepish smile. "Well, there's been a bit of… a situation."
"What situation?" Hoffa's unease grew stronger.
"It's just that," Tom, the bar owner, interjected with a snide chuckle, folding his arms as he leaned against the counter, "this fellow here has been sitting at my card table for three days straight. And he's been losing every single game."
With that, Tom turned and walked away, leaving Hoffa frozen in place.
He stared at Indor, then at Tom's retreating figure, and finally at the goblins at the card table, who were gleefully counting their winnings.
It felt like several Dementors were circling him, slowly sucking the life out of him.
"You're telling me…" Hoffa's voice cracked, barely audible. "My school grant?"
Indor adjusted his monocle yet again, looking both sheepish and guilty. "That's correct. I lost it all."
(End of Chapter)
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