Zia sat across from the principal of Wakefield High School. She kept her hands in her lap in order to stop herself from fidgeting with them, and sat straight. The principal cleared his throat. She already knew what was coming, but she waited for him to say it out loud.

"Ms. Rookralle, you are a good history teacher. I want you to know that your abilities have nothing to do with the administration's decision, and I hope that this won't affect your desire to teach in the future. You are our newest and least experienced teacher. Cuts had to be made. I would be happy to write you a letter of recommendation to help in your job search," Principal Devere said. He was smiling an uncomfortable smile down at her. She sighed.

"So, you're laying me off?" she asked, to clarify for him. He hadn't come out and said it exactly.

"Unfortunately, that is the case," he replied, looking away from her and up at the corner of the ceiling. She nodded slowly.

"I understand," she said and nodded again. She stood up stiffly and shook his proffered hand. "I'll just go clear out my classroom then," she said. She edged out of the Principal's office and slunk through the hallways of the school to her classroom. She opened the door and stared around at all the posters on the walls made by her students. She closed the door behind herself and locked it, then walked up to her desk and sat in the chair numbly. The photograph of her mother smiled back at her. Back when mom still had hair. Back when mom was still alive and neither of them had a clue that she'd be joining dad just a year later.

"I'm sorry mom. I tried really hard. I graduated early. Got a job. And now...I don't know how long my savings will last. If you're watching from somewhere, I miss you. And dad. Keep an eye out for teaching jobs for me," she whispered. It was unlikely a new job would open up anytime soon. Summer break was officially on, and very few schools were hiring. Even fewer were hiring for history teachers. Fewer still wanted one who was still 20 years old and looked young enough to be a student herself. Zia reached forward and turned the photograph face down and looked up at the ceiling to try to blink away the tears that burned in her eyes. A knock came at the door. Then a few loud thumps as someone tugged vigorously on the handle. She ignored it, and stayed sitting in the dark. After several minutes of contemplation, she stood back up and began taking down everything in the room. As she dragged the final box of her things out to her car, Ms. Winters from down the hall caught up to her.

"Need a hand?" the other woman asked. Ms. Winters was in her late 30s and was the second youngest teacher on the staff aside from Zia. They were sort of friends.

"I got it, it's okay," Zia responded. Ms. Winters rolled her eyes and bent down to hoist up one side of the box.

"I don't mind. You don't need to do everything yourself," she said as together they stuffed the box into Zia's passenger seat. They crushed the door shut. Zia sighed and walked over to the driver's side door.

"Well I guess I'll see you around maybe," she said finally to Ms. Winters. The physics teacher gave her a salute and a wave.

"I've got your number, I'll text you sometime," she called as Zia swung into her car and turned it on. Zia nodded and waved back, then pulled her car out and headed home. She got back to her tiny apartment much later than she expected. She stumbled in and looked over at the stove, then the microwave. Then she walked away from her tiny kitchenette and threw herself down onto her bed. She let herself cry then. She'd worked hard in the three years since her mom died. She'd been seventeen and just graduated high school. She'd gone to the hospital in her cap and gown to show her mom. Those were the last moments of her mom's life.

She'd spent every spare minute she had since then trying to make things work. She'd used grants and scholarships to pay for her education, and lived off of the small amount left to her by her mom. She'd been so determined to just survive during those years that once she'd got a job she'd relaxed. Now everything she worked for was gone again. She had no family to fall back on. Few friends. She looked around the room, searching for some way out of her feelings. Her eyes landed on her collection of Harry Potter books stacked on the floor.

Her mom had once read them aloud while she and her dad listened raptly every night. After dad died, they'd continued reading them together as a way to remember him and bond. She walked over and grabbed the stack. Starting with the first book, she spent the next three days reading. She allowed herself to be consumed by the story. She hardly slept and didn't bother to change out of her pajamas or brush her hair. On the fourth day, she finally fell asleep.

Zia had gone to sleep with books in her bed before, somehow it never bothered her when they were under her pillow, or tucked down the sides of the bed by the wall. If they poked her during the night she never knew. Tonight her bed was strewn with all seven Harry Potter books, except the sixth, which was spread open slightly over her face, but mostly over her neck. It was four in the morning. She was sound asleep. Dreams of horcruxes, of Tom Riddle's past, and the question of what Tom may have been like if his mother had been alive to raise him invaded her dreams, and when she woke up, it felt like she was still in the dream.

The air was thick with the sounds of old car horns, and as she opened her eyes she saw that she was surrounded by a crowd of people. Men in suits and what appeared to be newsboy hats, women in dresses with nylons, kitten heels, and light coats, all peered curiously down as she blinked up into the sunlight. It was a moment before she was sufficiently alert to hear what they were saying.

"She's okay!" "Must have just passed out." "How did she get here?" "Is she from the circus?" "Look at those clothes!" "And that hair…"

Zia sat up, and reached one hand up to touch her hair surreptitiously. "Where am I?" Some of the crowd laughed nervously, others walked away, seemingly satisfied that she was at least alive, if not completely present of mind. A man walked up, holding out a hand to help her up. She took it.

"London," He said simply, pulling her to her feet.

"London?" She looked around, now taking in the carefully combed and parted hair of the men, and the expertly coiffed women, the pearls and handbags. She was pretty sure even Londoners didn't dress like this. At least, not anymore. "What year exactly?" she questioned uneasily, looking beyond the crowd to the old-fashioned cars and busses flooding the street beyond.

"1927!" the man replied with a chuckle. Zia froze. That couldn't be possible. This had to be some kind of prank played on her because she was a history teacher. She decided maybe it would be best to play along for now. Her mind scanned through her knowledge of history.

"After World War…the Great War?"

"Yes," he said with a nod. She nearly sank back down to the ground, but instead looked around at the other women, although the crowd was rapidly dissipating. She studied their outfits and hair more thoroughly. It all seemed very historically accurate. Nobody would pay this much money just to kidnap and prank a laid-off high school teacher. She looked down at herself, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized t-shirt. It was severely out of place amidst all the smartly dressed women around her. She was sure she was dreaming, but decided to pinch herself anyways, surreptitiously squeezing a fold of skin on the back of her arm. It hurt. Impossible. The man looked down at her. He was also wearing a suit, but no cap, and he looked more like a kindly grandfather than anything else.

"Are you alright?" the old gentleman asked gently.

"I'm not…quite sure."

"Well, why don't I take you home to my wife? I'm sure she'll fix you up with a good meal. You don't look like you're from here. My name is Charlie Dawkins." The old man looked at her expectantly, apparently waiting for an acceptance of the invitation, his hand held out in a friendly manner. She studied his face suspiciously at first, searching for any sign of nefarious intentions. He seemed genuine.

"I'm Zia, nice to meet you Mr. Dawkins. I would love to meet your wife, thank you for the offer." She shook his hand. He nodded, and led her through the streets, him winding through the crowds and her following, making sure to avoid things on the ground with her bare feet. It must have been an odd sight, an old man being followed by a girl who looked so very bizarre, and she tried to ignore the stares from others passing by. The more her feet hurt, the more she realized this wasn't a dream. But nor was she entirely sure that it was a prank either. To pull off something this elaborate, the pranksters would have needed to kidnap her. Then they would have needed to hire a bunch of British actors, crafted an elaborate large-scale set, then top it all off by outfitting them all properly. Who would go that far?

"I rather enjoy walking, although I do take the bus to get home. It isn't too far, but it's far enough that walking wouldn't be advisable. Especially with your bare feet there," he explained, not looking back at her, intent on weaving his way through the crowds. She turned a little red, embarrassed, but unsure how she could have done anything differently decided that it was what it was and let it go. Mr. Dawkins didn't seem to mind, so neither would she. "My wife's name is Mary; she will be so excited to have a young person in the house. She loves an excuse to cook more food than we need." Zia nodded, although he probably couldn't see it, and continued to follow him. "She will fuss over you a lot I'm sure, so you'd best be prepared for that." They walked past an imposing building, and as she read the name on the plaque, she stopped dead in front of it. She knew what orphanage this was. This was the place where Tom Riddle had been born. Suddenly, she was seized by a sudden impulse and started for the gate. Mr. Dawkins looked at her.

"Where are you going, Zia?" he asked.

"There may be a child here that I need to see," she replied. He looked at her in surprise.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Not mine, but I think this is what she said. I think this is the place." Mr. Dawkins, who appeared to be surprisingly flexible in his plans, as well as kindly, if the events of the past few minutes were any reflection of his character, followed her in. She moved to the front desk.

"Excuse me, but do you have a child here by the name of Tom Riddle?" she asked the woman at the front desk. As in the book description, the place was very clean, and the children she could see playing looked well fed and well taken care of, but the place was a little austere. The woman looked at her curiously.

"Yes, we have a child with just that name. Would you like to see him?" she asked.

"Please." The woman disappeared for a moment, then brought out an adorable, but somehow serious looking one year old.

"This is Tom." Zia gazed at the child, who just stared at her, unsmiling. And she knew. Somehow, she was in the world of Harry Potter. Well, not quite. Before Harry Potter. Somehow, she'd stumbled into the Wizarding World. Or at least the muggle side of it. She stared at the small child who stared right back. Tom Riddle, future Voldemort, as a baby. She stepped back.

If she interfered it could change the timeline. She was a history teacher. It wasn't the first time she'd thought about how one change in one person's life might mess up an entire future.

But.

It might also make a better future. She stepped forward. The small boy was still staring at her. His face was cherubic, despite the expressionlessness of it. He was just a child. And maybe, just maybe, if someone cared about him enough, good things could come from it. She had to at least try.

"I would like to adopt him." Both the woman and Mr. Dawkins looked to her, faces clearly registering their shock, but Mr. Dawkins seemed more adept at dealing with unexpected situations, and quickly recovered. The woman looked at her.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Twenty."

"Are you married?"

"I am not." The woman nodded as if this settled the matter.

"We do not adopt out children to women who are unmarried, much less a woman so young." The woman stared at her, apparently taking in her outfit for the first time, and Zia saw the resolve deepen in the lady's eyes. "The only exceptions would be for family." Zia looked evenly into the woman's eyes, and told the biggest lie she had ever spoken in her entire life.

"I am his aunt. My sister was his mother." The woman stared at her, dumbfounded. Zia continued. "My sister, Merope, mentioned the name of a street near here in her last letter to me, and that she was going to have a baby soon. Our father Marvolo is gone. This is my nephew." The woman blinked, apparently unable to counter this information. Zia was prepared with more information if the situation became difficult, but Mr. Dawkins stepped forward now, tears apparent in his eyes.

"Any fees that need to be paid, I will take care of," he said. Zia looked at him. "The reuniting of a family is worth any cost. My wife and I lost a son in the war. What we wouldn't have given to have him come home," he explained, his eyes still teary. Zia put her hand on his shoulder, patting it a little awkwardly.

"Mr. Dawkins, I can't let you do that," she said.

"You will let me do this; I want to. And call me Papa Charlie."