I stood, frozen, in front of the door in Mrs Cole's office, one hand resting on the door handle. A rational part of me knew that it was locked, but having a hand on the handle comforted me as I felt I had a potential escape route. I could feel myself trembling slightly, and I took deep breaths to calm myself. The man, who by now had pretty much convinced me that he really was Albus Dumbledore, pointed his wand – yes, I did say wand – at the desk he currently had in flames. I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding as the flames evaporated and the desk remained unharmed. He's telling the truth, I thought.

The past half an hour had consisted of Dumbledore repeatedly trying to tell me that I was not going mad, I was not in a loony bin for crazed Harry Potter fans, and I most definitely was not in 2013 anymore. I was in 1942, and he really was Albus Dumbledore, and the pub I had seen really was the Leaky Cauldron, Mrs Cole really was the old cow who had ran Wools Orphanage in the Harry Potter books, and – now this was the most important one – that prat upstairs really was the future Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore had, after me spending a full thirty minutes interrupting his every sentence with some rational explanation – I was in a loony bin, I had hit my head too hard, I was dreaming, this was a prank – pulled out this bit of wood (his wand!) and promptly set Mrs Cole's desk on fire. That was when I went running for the hills. Well, more accurately, door.

"Please, calm down, Miss Harrows. I know this is a lot to take in, but I promise that you are in no danger, no harm will come to you," Dumbledore said calmly. "If you would please come and sit-"

"How do you know my name?!" I practically shouted, interrupting him.

"I know a great deal about you, Jessica Harrows. You were born on 1st January 1993 in County Durham, to Robert and Miranda Harrows. Miranda Harrows, incidentally, in your time is a powerful Seer, albeit a Squib. Now, if you would please come and sit down, I shall explain everything, including what I can tell you about how you are here. Although, that object you have around your neck may be able to provide that answer for you," his voice was gently and his blue eyes twinkled. I saw no immediate danger, and although my mind was vehemently denying that it was impossible to be in this situation, I was beginning to see no other explanation. I pulled the charm on the chain from beneath my shirt and looked at it closely. The little hourglass caught the light. I gasped.

"A Time Turner?" I asked, my voice held disbelief, more so at the question I had actually just asked than the uniqueness of the object in my hand.

"Indeed." Slowly, I walked back over to my chair.

"Ah, shall we sit in something more comfortable? These chairs are ghastly contraptions," he gestured to the wooden tall-backed chair, and waved his wand. Two plush armchairs suddenly appeared; one right in front of me. I must have jumped back about ten feet. Upon seeing my wide eyes and pale face, Dumbledore gave a little laugh.

"A little too soon?" he asked, although I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes. "Please, take a seat." I did so and he did the same, clasping his hands and leaning back in the chair. I stayed perched on the edge of my seat.

"Now, I believe you want to know why you are here?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not so much the first question on my mind," I said, sharply. "I'm more interested in how you are real? How is magic real?"

"Magic, our world, has always been real. The books you adored so much as a child were mere fiction to you, and other muggles alike. To us, however, they are – or will be, in the future – a series of books chronicling the life of The Boy Who Lived," Dumbledore said calmly. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but he held up a hand. "Before this conversation progresses any further, I would like to say that I do not know who The Boy Who Lived is, or what these books are called. I will pretend I did not hear you call me a 'Harry Potter lunatic' earlier. I must not know about the future, or what information lies in these books. I was only given certain information to relay to you, and that is all I wish to know." He cleared his throat and continued his explanation.

"I was visited some months ago by someone, whose identity must remain a secret to you, and told that on the 10th August 1942, a girl would be arriving in London. A girl from the future, 2013 to be exact. She would be tricked into picking up a charmed Time Turner, which had been set to go off upon her touch, and transport her back in time, to Charing Cross Road. I arranged someone to be in Charing Cross Road last night, to see that you were safe and unharmed. Agnes really outdid herself, I must say. I discovered where you were this morning, and I intercepted the police official coming to speak to you. He is in the sitting room, having a lie down," the old man looked thoroughly amused. I most certainly was not.

"Someone sent me here?" I screeched, enraged, "this was done on purpose! Why? And that batty old woman was a witch?" I had been well and truly set up. And there was an unconscious police official in the room next door. Oh my.

"All my visitor told me was that you believed the magical world to be fiction, out of a series of books. They gave me some information regarding your background, so I might be able to convince you in believing that this is all reality, as you would believe yourself to be a muggle. They said that the future needed to be changed for the greater good, but would not say any more. You are meant to change the future, Jessica," Dumbledore finished, looking me straight in the eyes. I gaped at him. Crazy old man.

"And just how am I meant to change the future, if you don't mind my asking? And why do I look fifteen? I'm nineteen! And adult, not some bratty schoolgirl, been there done that, thanks." I crossed my arms over my chest, crossing my legs (although I quickly realised I may have just flashed my knickers at Dumbledore, so hurriedly uncrossed them).

"That, my dear, is for you to figure out. I was instructed to give you this, you must not open it until I have left," he handed me a parchment envelope with my name written in elegant looping handwriting on the front. "As for your age, I can only guess. But I would assume that you needed to be the correct age to attend Hogwarts, and to do the task set out for you. A nineteen year old cannot go to school."

"Now, do you believe me?" Dumbledore implored, and I just stared at him, hands clasped tightly around the envelope. I had seen him set a desk on fire with a wand, I had a Time Turner around my neck, everyone spoke and dressed like the 1940s, and they were all characters – no, people – out of Harry Potter.

"Yes," I breathed. There was no other possible explanation. Dumbledore gave me a friendly smile.

"Now, my dear, I have some money here, both muggle and wizarding," he handed me two heavy leather bags. "I will create false memories in Mr Pinket's mind before I apparate out – he is the police official. He will inform Mrs Cole that you are to stay here, and be treated like any other resident. She will be told to allow you into London to purchase clothes and necessities. In two weeks time you will receive a letter from Hogwarts, informing you that you have a place there for your fifth year. A letter will be sent to Mr Tom Riddle, who also lives here. He attends Hogwarts also, and as well as his school letter he will be told to accompany you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school things. How's your French?" Dumbledore asked me out of the blue, at the end of his well thought out explanation.

"Er, o-ok. I got a B in it at A-Level," I stammered out, trying to take in all this information.

"Good. You are English, but your parent's homeschooled you in magic because of the threat of Grindelwald, as your mother has always been very overprotective. When the muggle war started, they moved you to the French countryside, to a small muggle village near to the Alpes, as they believed that the bombs in London were too dangerous. You continued your homeschooling there, and that is why you can speak French relatively well," Dumbledore finished. Oh, this was my cover story! He had really thought this out. God, this was really happening.

"But why am I here now then, if I'm meant to be in the France?" I asked. I wanted to know everything; this cover story might just stop me getting thrown into an asylum for claiming to be a time traveller.

"Your mother and father took a trip to London and died in a bomb attack. You took their emergency portkey to London after the news of their deaths, meaning to go and stay with your grandmother. She, unfortunately, proved to be dead upon your arrival to her house - she had been very ill. You wandered around the streets looking for help, very upset of course, when you fell and hit you head. That explains why you look such a mess. You know the story from there," Dumbledore smiled, and I felt myself nodding. That was a reasonable plan. At least until I could find a way home. "Of course, to the muggles your parents merely died in a bombing and you had nowhere else to go upon discovering your deceased grandmother."

"Ok," I nodded. I was nowhere near believing that I wasn't going mad, but there was no denying that this was actually happening. He had set a desk on fire, and it didn't burn! I was either a raving lunatic with hallucinations, or this was happening. I'd quite like to think the latter. Dumbledore was grabbing has bowler hat and cane, obviously ready to leave, and I stood up, too.

"Professor, what did you mean when you said my mother was a Squib, and a Seer?" He'd better not be suggesting my mother was as batty as Trelawney.

"I suggest you do some research on your family history. How are you magical? You have been accepted into Hogwarts, after all," Dumbledore winked. "Now, you go on back up to your room and tell Mrs Cole that Mr Pinket wishes to speak with her," Dumbledore told me. I shook his hand and thanked him (for what I'm not sure) and headed towards the door, which clicked open at a flick of his wand.

"Oh, and Miss Harrows," Dumbledore stopped me, "Mr Riddle must not know of your magical ability until he gets his letter. Until then you are both just muggles to each other, understand?"

"Yes," of course, how would I know Riddle for a wizard if we weren't allowed to use magic underage?

"Very well then, Miss Harrows," Dumbledore tipped his hat towards me, "I shall look forward to seeing you in September."

That evening, I was sat on the bed in the room I had been delegated. My hair had been washed and piled into a messy bun on my head, and I was wearing a white nightdress. After her conversation with Mr Pinket, Mrs Cole had shown me to the wash room and given me a drab grey dress to wear. It was knee length and so ugly and old fashioned that I felt like my grandma wearing it. I had smiled when I had undressed and had seen that the scars on my stomach, which I had got from the accident, had vanished. Yet, my naval piercing was still there - I had got that on fifteenth birthday, a secret from my parents at the time. My body had obviously reverted back to its fifteen year old self, but I had no idea why.

After I had dressed my wounds, revelled in the glory of a bath, and done some laundry (by hand, no washing machine in 1942!) for Mrs Cole (I had to pull my weight, apparently) I had eaten a tea of watery stew and bread, ignoring the children who kept glancing at me. Tom Riddle had seemed to be studying me like he would a text book. Then, I had retired to my room, feigning tiredness from my injuries. Although unhappy, Mrs Cole would not refuse when I was injured.

So, I had put on my nightdress, again like something out of my grandma's wardrobe, and had sat on my bed, going over my conversation with Dumbledore. At one point, my mind had suddenly gone Holy shit, this is real! I had hidden the money under the mattress, as the bedroom doors here did not lock, and I was turning the envelope over and over in my hands. Taking a deep breath, I opened it, pulling out the thick parchment. I unfolded it and, with shaking hands, began to read.

Jessica,

I only have one thing to say to you: The Prologue was fiction. Harry Potter has done his part. Now, you must, too. The ability to stop Him rests with you; it is in your blood. You must do this.

To save the future you must change the past.

You know what you have to do.

M

A/N – So, what do you think? I worked really hard on this chapter, as I wanted to get the explanation over with so the story makes a bit more sense, and so I can devote the next few chapters to Jessica/Riddle interaction – I am just dying to start writing that! Hope I've not disappointed with the way things have turned out! I didn't want this fic to be one where the OC is flung into the past by accident; I have tried to make the story as unique as possible. As you can see from this chapter, Jess has a purpose, and there is a bigger, more complicated plot here.

geekyassangie –your review covered a lot of the questions I was aiming for this story to raise, and I'm so pleased that Jess is a likeable character. Thanks for the review!

Theta-McBride – thank you for your review, glad you're enjoying it, as you can see from this chapter she was expected, and I hope it was explained well enough. But who sent her into the past?

I noticed that a few people have followed this story or added it to their favourites. It would be really useful to me, as a writer, to know why. What are you enjoying? Is there anything I haven't been clear on or isn't really working? Please review and let me know!

Thanks for reading