I woke to the sound of movement and the flickering of torches being lit. My eyes cracked open slowly, reluctant to leave whatever dreamless sleep I'd fallen into. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was; then it all came rushing back. The pit. The bodies. Magic. Hogwarts.
I was still here. Still in this child's body. Still in the 1600s.
I turned over with a groan, my muscles stiff and sore. Through the dim light, I could see Mistress Crowley moving quietly around the infirmary, checking on the other occupied beds and organizing supplies on the wooden tables. The early morning routine of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
I stretched my arms above my head, feeling my joints pop and crack. My hands came up to my face automatically, rubbing my eyes and picking out the crusty bits that had accumulated overnight. Eye boogers, some fancy science term, whatever you wanted to call them.
As I became more awake, a more pressing concern made itself known. I really, really needed to use the bathroom. "Ma'am?" I called out, my voice still rough with sleep. "Could you show me where the toilet is?"
Mistress Crowley turned, looking puzzled. "The toilet? Whatever dost thou mean by toilet?"
Right. Modern term. I mentally kicked myself. "Uh, where one can relieve oneself? I need to urinate and do not know where the facilities are."
She continued to look confused, and I realized that even "facilities" was probably too modern. I racked my brain for period-appropriate terms. "Perhaps the... latrines... or privy?"
"Ah, the privy!" Her face cleared with understanding. "Aye, child. Most houses in Hogsmeade have not such conveniences, save for the inn and a few wealthy homes. There be public latrines just outside the healing ward. When thou art taken to the tower, there shall be privies aplenty. If thou shouldst follow me, I shall show thee where the latrines be."
She made a follow-me gesture and started toward the door. I quickly scrambled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold stone floor. At the foot of the bed, I noticed for the first time that someone had laid out clothes for me - a black robe, long socks that went past my knees, and a pair of shoes that looked like they were halfway between slippers and actual footwear, open at the sides.
I pulled my arms through the sleeves of the robe, grateful for the extra layer of warmth, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull on the socks and shoes. The fabric was rough and scratchy against my skin, but it was better than being barefoot on this freezing floor.
Once dressed, I hurried to the door where Mistress Crowley waited.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and I stepped into a small foyer. Another set of doors stood at the far end, and through the gaps around them, I could see early morning light, gray and cold and utterly uninviting.
"Make haste, child," Mistress Crowley said, pulling open the outer door. "The cold doth bite fierce this morn."
She wasn't kidding.
The moment I stepped outside, the cold hit me like a physical blow. A gust of wind threw snow directly into my face, the icy crystals stinging my cheeks and making my eyes water. I gasped, sucking in air so cold it hurt my lungs, and immediately started shivering. My teeth began chattering so hard I thought they might crack.
"Come, come!" Mistress Crowley called, already moving down a path through the snow. Her footprints from earlier trips had packed down the worst of it, creating a narrow trail I could follow.
I hurried after her, my arms wrapped around myself, the thin robe doing almost nothing to keep out the cold. As we walked, I finally got my first real look at Hogsmeade in daylight.
The village was smaller than I'd expected, maybe thirty or forty buildings scattered across the snowy landscape. The architecture was distinctly medieval, a mixture of timber framing filled with wattle and daub, stone walls, and brick construction. The roofs were varied, some thatched, some tiled, some made of wooden shingles. Snow covered everything, giving the whole place a storybook quality that might have been charming if I wasn't freezing my ass off.
Most of the buildings were dark and silent, their occupants still asleep. But one tall building, probably an inn or tavern, had a few windows glowing with firelights. Early risers, or maybe people who'd never gone to bed.
Beyond the village, I could see the dark mass of forest in the distance, and rising above it all -
My breath caught.
Hogwarts.
I'd been too out of it yesterday to really appreciate it, but now, in the cold morning light, the castle was breathtaking. A true fortress, with outer walls and turrets and towers that rose impossibly high into the gray sky. Some of the towers seemed to defy physics, leaning at angles that should have sent them toppling over. It was magnificent and terrifying and completely impossible.
The castle was surrounded by enormous trees, ancient things that reminded me of redwoods or old-growth pine forests, massive and gnarled and probably hundreds of years old. They extended in all directions, creating a dark green backdrop against the snow.
Between the village and the forest was a wide clearing, maybe a mile of open ground. I could see movement in the underbrush at the forest's edge, small creatures or maybe magical beings going about their business.
The whole scene was like something out of a painting. Rolling hills covered in snow, high rocky outcrops in the distance (not quite mountains, but substantial), all arranged around this valley where people had decided to build. It was beautiful and alien and so different from anything I'd ever known.
"Here we are, child," Mistress Crowley said, pulling me from my thoughts. She gestured to a long, low building with multiple doors. "The latrines. I shall wait for thee here."
I looked at the building and felt my stomach sink.
Oh Lord, save me.
The "privy" might sound like some highbrow English bathroom but let me tell you, it was nothing like that romantic image. These weren't quaint little outhouses from some period drama. These were straight-up medieval Shrek outhouses. Actually, given the time period, I was pretty sure Shrek's outhouse was probably more hygienic than these things.
I mean, come on! We had magic! Why were people still using these disgusting holes in the ground? It would probably be safer to find a bush and risk freezing my junk off than to enter one of these porta-potties that probably hadn't been cleaned in ages, if ever.
But I really, really had to go.
Holding my breath and bracing myself for the worst, I grabbed the wooden door handle and pulled it open.
The sight hit me first. Questionable stains on the walls and floor. Evidence that previous users had serious aiming issues. The wooden seat, if you could call it that, was dark with age and who knows what else.
Then my eyes landed on the wiping situation, and I felt my dinner from last night crawl up my throat.
A rag. Not just any rag, one that had clearly been used before. Multiple times. By multiple people. Even if someone washed it between uses (and I seriously doubted anyone did), there was no way in hell I was using that thing.
Thankfully, I spotted a pile of straw in the corner. It wasn't much better, but at least it was single-use.
I pulled down my pants and positioned myself over the seat, hovering carefully to avoid actually touching the wood. My thighs immediately started to burn from the awkward position, but I'd rather die than sit down on that thing.
I started to relieve myself, and that's when I made my fatal error.
I forgot to hold my breath.
The smell hit me like a truck, the stench of festering manure and urine, with a sickly scent of ammonia so strong I could taste it in the back of my throat. It made me lightheaded. My vision swam. I wobbled, trying to steady myself while still maintaining my hover.
In my attempt to adjust, I bumped into the set of rags hanging on the wall to my left.
I launched myself away before they could touch my face, but my right arm gave out and -
Thud!
My bare butt hit the wooden seat.
I could feel liquid. Something wet and cold and definitely not water touching my skin where it met the cut-out hole.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to burn this entire building to the ground and salt the earth where it stood.
Instead, I pushed as hard as I could, forcing everything out as fast as possible. I didn't even bother wiping, I just yanked up my undergarments and pants, gathered my robe around me, and staggered out of that hellhole like the devil himself was on my heels.
Mistress Crowley was waiting outside, and when she saw my face - pale, eyes wide with horror, my soul successfully drained from my body - she gave me a look that was equal parts pity and confusion.
"Art thou well, child?" she asked carefully.
I stared at her like a lost puppy abandoned by the world. No words. Just a hollow, broken stare.
She seemed to decide that ignoring whatever had just happened was the best course of action. "Come. Let us return to the warmth of the healing ward. Thou art like to catch thy death in this cold."
I followed her in a daze, my mind still trying to process the trauma I'd just experienced.
As we turned the corner back toward the healing ward, I finally got my first proper look at Hogwarts Castle.
It was even more impressive up close. The outer walls were massive, thick stone that rose at least twenty feet high, with turrets positioned at regular intervals. Beyond the walls, the towers and spires of the castle proper rose into the sky, some of them so tall they disappeared into the low-hanging clouds.
The architecture was insane. Some of the towers leaned at impossible angles. Others seemed to float, with no visible support structure. There were bridges connecting different sections, arches and buttresses that defied every law of physics I'd ever learned. It would make any architect shout for joy and every engineer curse up a storm.
The whole thing was surrounded by those massive ancient trees tall as redwoods, thick as houses, their branches heavy with snow. They extended in every direction, creating a dark forest that seemed to go on forever.
I could see movement in the underbrush, small animals or magical creatures going about their morning routines. Birds that might not have been entirely normal. Shapes that were too large to be squirrels.
The landscape itself was picturesque. Rolling hills covered in white, high rocky formations in the distance that weren't quite mountains but were definitely substantial. It looked like the village had been built in a valley of some kind, though I couldn't tell the exact topography from where I stood.
It was beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.
Mistress Crowley led me back inside the healing ward, and the warmth hit me like a blessing. I immediately moved toward the fireplace, practically throwing myself at it, desperate to feel warm again.
"Sit thyself down at the table, child," Mistress Crowley said. "Food shall be brought to thee shortly."
I did as I was told, settling onto a wooden bench at one of the long tables. My body was still shivering, though whether from cold or residual horror from the latrine experience, I couldn't tell.
Now alone with nothing but my thoughts, I let my eyes wander around the infirmary. I noticed for the first time that there were several empty portrait frames on the walls. The paintings must have moved on to other frames elsewhere in the castle. I'd read about that in the Harry Potter books, magical portraits could travel between their different painted versions.
My mind drifted back to the privy, and I felt a fresh wave of disgust wash over me.
I swear I cannot get over it. With magic, actual, literal magic, is sanitation really that hard? What about simple plumbing? Basic hygiene?
I was not going to suffer through that experience more than absolutely necessary. As soon as I could, I was going to learn runes and charms. Surely those could be used to create an actual toilet, right? Something that didn't involve sitting on a communal wooden board covered in other people's... nope. Not thinking about it.
That also raised another question: why didn't people use magic to warm themselves? Mistress Crowley hadn't cast any warming charm on me when we went outside. Did they just not think of it? Was there some cultural reason they didn't use magic for everyday convenience?
Sitting by the fire in the chimney, I kept wondering about all these absurdities. Maybe the fanfiction writers had been onto something. Maybe wizards really did lack common sense. They definitely didn't have any engineers in the Harry Potter series, so I guess it would make sense that they never thought about practical applications of magic. Though that might just be bias on my part.
Suddenly, a plate of food appeared in the corner of my eye.
I jumped slightly, not having heard anyone approach. But when I looked, no one was there. The plate had just... appeared.
House elves. Had to be.
I got up from my spot by the fire and moved to sit properly at the table. The food was simple but welcome: a wooden goblet filled with water, some potatoes and what I hoped was beef (though it was hard to tell with the plain seasoning), a loaf of dark bread, and a cloth napkin. The cutlery was wooden, a spoon and a knife, no fork.
The seasoning was indeed plain, just salt, maybe some herbs, but it was warm and filling, and after the morning I'd had, I wasn't going to complain. The beef (if it was beef) was tough and chewy, nothing like the good Texas steaks I'd grown up with. I was in Scotland, or at least somewhere in Britain. I wasn't going to get the good stuff here.
I was about halfway through my meal when the door opened and Mistress Blackwood swept in. She was dressed in the same severe black robes as yesterday, her hair pulled back in that tight bun.
"Good morrow, Nicholas," she said, and I nearly choked on my potato, not having noticed her presence.
"Good morning," I managed, my voice a little rough.
She studied me for a moment, those sharp dark eyes taking in every detail. "Thou hast eaten. Good. We have much to do this day. When thou art finished with thy meal, I shall take thee to the Muggleborn Tower."
"Right. Okay." I took another bite of bread, suddenly nervous. This was it. I was being moved to where I'd actually be living. With other kids. For years, potentially.
"The matron there is Goodwife Agnes Fletcher," Mistress Blackwood continued. "She is a kind woman, though firm when she must needs be. Thou shalt obey her as thou wouldst obey me. Is that understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"There are fourteen children in the tower presently. Thou shalt be the fifteenth." She paused. "Most are younger than thee. Only one is close to thy age, a girl of ten years, name of Margaret. The others range from babes in arms to children of eight or nine."
I nodded, trying to process this information. Fourteen other kids. Mostly younger. So I'd be one of the oldest ones there.
"Finish thy meal," Mistress Blackwood said. "I shall wait."
I ate quickly, not wanting to keep her waiting but also not wanting to seem too eager. The food sat heavy in my stomach, mixing with my nervousness about what came next.
When I'd finished, Mistress Blackwood gestured for me to follow her. We left the healing ward and stepped out into the cold again, though this time we didn't go far. The Muggleborn Tower was apparently connected to the main castle, accessible through a covered walkway that at least protected us from the worst of the wind.
The tower itself was impressive, five stories of gray stone with narrow windows and a pointed roof. It stood a bit apart from the main castle, connected but separate. Like it was part of Hogwarts but also deliberately isolated from it.
Mistress Blackwood pushed open a heavy wooden door, and we stepped into a warmth that was immediately welcoming. The first floor was a large common room with a fireplace crackling merrily in one corner. There were several tables and chairs scattered about, a small bookshelf with maybe nine or ten books, and animal skins carpeting the stone floor. Candles and torches provided additional light beyond the fireplace.
A plump woman in her forties looked up from where she'd been stirring something in a pot over the fire. She had a kind face, rounded and ruddy, with graying brown hair tucked under a cap.
"Mistress Blackwood!" she said, setting down her ladle and hurrying over. "And this must be the boy. Young Nicholas, aye?"
"Aye, Goodwife Fletcher. Nicholas, this is Goodwife Agnes Fletcher. She shall be thy guardian whilst thou dost reside in the tower."
Goodwife Fletcher smiled at me, and it transformed her whole face. "Welcome, child. Welcome indeed. Thou art most fortunate to be here, safe and sound. Come, come. Let me show thee thy quarters."
She led us to a narrow stone staircase that spiraled upward through the center of the tower. As we climbed, she kept up a steady stream of chatter.
"The first floor, as thou hast seen, is for eating and living. We take our meals together at the long table, and the children do play here when the weather is too foul for going outside. The second floor doth house the younger children, those aged six and below. The third floor is for children aged seven and eight. The fourth floor for those aged nine and ten."
We passed each landing as she spoke, and I caught glimpses of small rooms branching off from the central staircase.
"And the fifth floor," Goodwife Fletcher continued as we climbed higher, "is for those who shall soon be going to Hogwarts proper. Those aged ten and eleven. Thou shalt be quartered there, along with young Margaret."
We finally reached the top floor, and I was breathing hard from the climb. These spiral staircases were no joke.
The fifth floor had eight doors arranged around the central stairwell, four on each side. Goodwife Fletcher led me to one of them and pushed it open.
"This shall be thy room, Nicholas."
It was small, maybe eight feet by ten feet, but it was mine. A bed with a straw mattress and rough blankets took up most of one wall. At the foot of the bed was a wooden chest for storage. A small dresser stood against another wall, and a single chair sat beneath a narrow window.
I moved to the window and looked out. The view was of Hogsmeade and the surrounding countryside, with a cliff face visible in the distance. Snow covered everything, making it look like something out of a fairy tale.
"And here," Goodwife Fletcher said, opening a small door I hadn't noticed, "is thy privy."
I turned, hope surging in my chest. An indoor bathroom? Please let it be better than that horror show outside.
It was a simple room with a hole in the floor that presumably dropped down to... somewhere I didn't want to think about. There was also a wooden tub for bathing, large enough for a child to sit in.
"The house-elves do take care of the waste," Goodwife Fletcher explained. "And they do heat the water for bathing and provide it when thou dost need it. 'Tis far more convenient than the public latrines, aye?"
"Yes," I said fervently. Anything was better than those public latrines. "Much more convenient."
"Dost thou have questions about the plumbing, child?" Goodwife Fletcher asked, noticing my interest. "Most children do not care for such things, but thou seemest curious."
"I'm just... surprised there's indoor plumbing at all," I said carefully. "It seems advanced for... for this time."
She smiled. "Aye, Hogwarts is most modern in that regard. Salazar Slytherin himself did design much of the castle's waterworks, based upon Roman aqueducts and ancient city systems. He was a man of great learning, whatever else might be said of him."
Now that was something I could get behind. At least one of the Founders had thought about practical matters like plumbing and sanitation.
"Young Margaret doth live two doors down," Goodwife Fletcher continued, leading me back to the main room. "Thou shalt meet her shortly. She is a good girl, though quiet. The other children on this floor, well, there be none others presently. 'Tis just thee and Margaret at the top."
"What about you?" I asked. "Where's your room?"
"The second floor, near the younger ones. They do need more tending in the night." She moved to the dresser and pulled open one of the drawers. "Here be thy clothing. Three sets in all, shirt, breeches, hose, and smallclothes. Thou shalt keep thy robe as well, as 'tis the only one provided."
Three sets of clothes. That was it. No variety, no options. Just three identical outfits to rotate through.
Well, I supposed that was better than nothing.
"Come," Mistress Blackwood said from the doorway. "Let us go down and introduce thee to the other children."
We descended the spiral staircase back to the first floor. As we entered the common room, I could hear the sound of children's voices, high and bright and full of energy.
There were kids everywhere. A toddler sitting on the floor playing with wooden blocks. A baby in a wooden cradle near the fireplace. Several children of various ages clustered around one of the tables, working on what looked like lessons or maybe just drawing.
They all looked up when we entered, their conversation dying away as they stared at me with open curiosity.
"Children," Goodwife Fletcher called out. "We have a new brother to welcome. This is Nicholas. He shall be living with us now."
"How old art thou?" a boy of maybe seven asked immediately.
"I'm... ten," I said, going with what Mistress Blackwood had told me earlier.
"I am ten as well!" A girl stood up from one of the tables. She had brown hair pulled back in a braid and sharp green eyes that studied me carefully. "I am Margaret. Margaret Whitmore."
"Nice to meet you," I said.
She tilted her head, frowning slightly. "Thou dost speak most strangely. Art thou from far away?"
"Something like that," I hedged.
"Where art thou from?" another child asked, a girl of maybe eight.
"Yorkshire," I said, remembering what Mistress Blackwood had told me about where I'd been found. "A village near Yorkshire."
"What was it called?" the same girl pressed.
"I... I don't remember." That was at least partially true. "I was sick. The fever made everything confused."
"Oh." The girl's face fell with sympathy. "That is most sad."
"Did thy whole family die?" the seven-year-old boy asked with the blunt curiosity of children.
"Thomas!" Goodwife Fletcher scolded. "That is not a proper question!"
"But I want to know~"
"Enough. Nicholas hath been through much. We shall not plague him with questions." She turned to me with a kind smile. "Go on, child. Sit thyself down by the fire. Thou must needs warm thyself."
I gratefully moved toward the fireplace, away from all the staring eyes. Margaret followed me, settling onto the floor nearby.
"Pay Thomas no mind," she said quietly. "He doth ask questions without thinking. Most of us here have lost our families. 'Tis how we came to be in the tower."
"What about you?" I asked. "Your family...?"
"Dead. The plague took them two years past." She said it matter-of-factly, without emotion. Like it was just a fact she'd accepted. "My mother, my father, my two brothers. I was the only one who lived."
"I'm sorry."
She shrugged. "It was God's will. That is what the priest did say, ere I was taken away."
Before I could respond, Goodwife Fletcher called out, "Children! 'Tis time for luncheon! Wash thy hands and sit thyselves down!"
There was immediate chaos as children scrambled to obey. They formed a line at a basin near the kitchen area, taking turns washing their hands under the watchful eye of Goodwife Fletcher. I joined the line, glad for the distraction.
Lunch was a quiet affair, bread, cheese, and some kind of vegetable soup. The children ate with the focused attention of people who'd learned not to waste food. The only interruption came from the baby starting to cry, prompting Goodwife Fletcher to excuse herself to take care of it.
After lunch, most of the children scattered. Some went outside to play in the snow, bundled up in whatever warm clothes they had. Others stayed inside, returning to their games or lessons.
I found myself drawn to the small bookshelf. Nine books. That was it. I pulled one down and cracked it open, settling into the chair by the fireplace.
The text was dense and difficult, written in Early Modern English that made my brain hurt. It was like trying to read Shakespeare or the King James Bible for the first time. Every sentence required concentration to parse, and half the words were spelled in ways that made no sense to my modern eyes.
But I persevered. What else was I going to do?
"What art thou reading?" Margaret had appeared beside me, looking at the book with interest.
"Uh..." I checked the title page. "It's a... a history of England? I think?"
"Canst thou read?" She sounded surprised.
"Yeah. Yes. I can read."
"Most children here cannot. Goodwife Fletcher doth teach us our letters, but 'tis hard work." She leaned closer. "Thou dost read well for one so young. Where didst thou learn?"
"My... my parents taught me, I think. Before they died."
"Ah." She nodded, accepting this. "Thou art fortunate, then. Reading is a most useful skill."
Before we could continue the conversation, several of the younger children came rushing over, their faces bright with curiosity. They peppered me with innocent questions: where was I from, what was my favorite game, did I know any good stories, had I ever seen a unicorn?
I did my best to answer without revealing too much. It was harder than I expected. Kids asked the kind of direct questions that adults learned not to ask, and they didn't accept vague non-answers.
After about half an hour of this, most of them got bored and ran off to play in the snow, leaving me alone by the fire. I went back to my book, struggling through the archaic text and trying to learn something about this world I'd found myself in.
The afternoon drifted by slowly. The light from the windows gradually shifted as the sun moved across the sky. The fire crackled. Children's voices echoed from outside and from the other floors.
I was starting to doze off, the warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of the day catching up with me, when Goodwife Fletcher appeared beside my chair.
"Nicholas," she said softly. "Might I ask a favor of thee?"
I blinked up at her. "Sure. I mean, yes, ma'am."
"I must needs eat my luncheon, I have not yet had time. Couldst thou hold the babe whilst I do so? Just for a short while."
She held out the baby, a tiny thing, maybe three or four months old, wrapped in soft blankets.
I'd never held a baby before. Not in my old life, and certainly not in this one. But I couldn't exactly say no.
"Uh, okay. How do I...?"
She showed me how to support the head, how to cradle the small body against my chest. The baby was surprisingly heavy and warm.
"There," Goodwife Fletcher said with approval. "Thou art a natural. I shall return shortly."
She bustled off toward the kitchen area, leaving me alone with this tiny human.
The baby stirred slightly, making a small sound, then settled back into sleep. I could feel the gentle rise and fall of its breathing, the warmth of its small body through the blankets.
Time slowed down. The crackling of the fire seemed distant. The sounds of children playing faded into background noise.
I looked down at the sleeping infant in my arms and felt something shift in my chest. This tiny person, completely helpless, completely dependent on others for everything. So vulnerable. So innocent.
I couldn't help smiling. Despite everything, the trauma of the transmigration, the horror of waking in a pit of corpses, the confusion and fear and uncertainty of the past few days, there was something peaceful about this moment.
Just me and a sleeping baby. The warmth of the fire. The quiet afternoon light filtering through the windows. For the first time since I'd woken up in this world, I felt something like peace. My eyes started to drift closed. The baby was so warm. The fire was so comfortable. The exhaustion of the past few days was catching up with me all at once.
I let myself relax, my head leaning back against the chair. The baby slept on, safe and secure in my arms. And slowly, gently, I drifted off to sleep.
When Goodwife Fletcher returned to collect the baby, she found us both sleeping, me and the infant, peaceful in the warm afternoon light, the fire crackling softly beside them.