A voice spoke directly into my mind.
"Well, well, well. What have we here?"
As I walked toward the hat, I couldn't help but worry about what it would see. I mean, I came from a different world, time, and was fundamentally a different person than the previous person in the body, from how I saw it. I briskly walked to the stool and sat down. Immediately, the hat was placed on my head, my vision going dark as the hat was far too large for my small cranium.
"Well, what do we have here? Hmm, ah a special case then. I see you have memories of another life. Quite a time you lived in wasn't it?"
Ah, yes I guess. I was worried you would see that far back.
"Well, fear not young lad, I was made to keep secrets of each wizard to be sorted. You've nothing to fear from me in that regard. Now, let us see what you've got going on in that mind of yours, yes?"
Well if you insist, though I am curious on what you'll make of the Harry Potter memories? It may affect future sortings, no?
"You would think so and I can tell from what I'm seeing some may not have been the best fit for their house, but every child who is sorted does get to give their own input as you well know. Now, let's see. Hmmmm.... Ahhhhh.... Well you certainly have the wit and desire of knowledge for Ravenclaw to want you.... Yes, and there is a bit of courage and ambition as well but you desire for an easy life yes?"
Well, isn't the best ideal a peaceful life, fulfilled with calm and satisfying days? I was always a fan of slice of life novels because I want the feel good days where there is not a lot of stress. Adventures are fine and all, but I'm not so conceited to think I would be a ruler. I'd rather not be one of those power hungry protagonists who never have rest.
"Yes, Hufflepuff could be a good fit, though you are, in your own words, a bit of a loner no? So how about Ravenclaw?"
Do they have their own rooms?
"Well, no. Since every house has had at least one other male sorted into the house, you are guaranteed to have a shared room."
Ah, in that case, Hufflepuff please. I would greatly enjoy the relaxed atmosphere, though yellow isn't really my color. Also, feel free to take some memories of the movies I've seen. It'd be funny to see you do a Yoda impression. Oh, or the songs! A Rick Roll for a sorting song would be hilarious!
"Well, I will certainly consider this, though I have a feeling only you would understand and find it funny. Very well, I think it must be HUFFLEPUFF!"
The hat shouted the last word aloud, and suddenly I could see again as Professor Malyn lifted it from my head. The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers and applause. I stood on slightly shaky legs and made my way across the Great Hall, weaving between the other house tables.
Students at the Hufflepuff table were clapping, some standing to welcome me. I spotted Margaret near the middle of the table, beaming and waving me over. I slid onto the bench beside her, and she immediately squeezed my arm.
"We be housemates!" she said, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Yeah," I said, grinning back. "We are."
Across from us sat Thomas Blackwell, the small boy who'd been first sorted from the tower, and beside him was a girl with mousy brown hair tied back with a ribbon. I vaguely remembered her being sorted but hadn't caught her name during the ceremony.
"Howdy, uh, I mean greetings, my name is Nicholas."
"We know," Margaret said with a small laugh. "The whole hall just heard thy name called."
"Right. Of course." I felt my face heat up slightly.
"I am Eleanor Pritchard," the mousy-haired girl said shyly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Well met, Nicholas."
"And I be Thomas, though thou didst already know that from the sorting," Thomas added with a grin.
The sorting continued as more names were called. Other students went to different houses. Ravenclaw gained several new members. Slytherin got a few. Gryffindor cheered loudly for each of theirs. But no more came to Hufflepuff.
By the time the last student was sorted, a tiny girl who looked no more than eight and went to Ravenclaw, there were only four of us first years at the Hufflepuff table. Just us, the four from the Muggleborn Tower. The older Hufflepuffs didn't seem bothered by the small number, welcoming us warmly anyway.
Finally, Headmaster Gamp stood up from the center of the staff table. The hall fell silent immediately, hundreds of students quieting to listen.
"Welcome," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall despite not being particularly loud. Magic, probably. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. To our returning students, I bid thee good morrow and hope thy summer was restful. To our new students, I welcome thee to what shall become thy home for the next seven years."
He paused, his eyes sweeping across the four tables. In the torchlight, his white beard seemed to glow.
"Before we begin our feast, I must needs remind all students of certain rules. The Forbidden Forest remains forbidden to all students without express permission from a professor. No magic is to be cast in the corridors between lessons. And I must stress most particularly that dueling between students is strictly prohibited unless supervised by a professor."
His expression grew more serious. "These are dangerous times we live in. The world beyond these walls knows not the peace we enjoy here. Beyond our wards, wizards and witches are hunted, persecuted, and killed for their gifts. It is my hope, my fervent prayer, that within these walls, we might show what is possible when magical folk set aside their differences and work together in harmony."
A heavy silence fell over the hall. Even the youngest students seemed to feel the weight of his words.
He smiled then, the seriousness lifting like clouds parting. "But enough of such grave matters. We are here to celebrate the beginning of a new year, to welcome new students, and to reunite old friends. Let us eat! Let the feast begin!"
He clapped his hands once, and suddenly the tables were laden with food.
And a feast it was. So many different dishes and casseroles that I only recognized a turkey that had been stuffed. There were platters of roasted meats I couldn't identify, probably venison and mutton and maybe pork. Bowls of vegetables swimming in butter and herbs. Crusty loaves of bread still steaming. Wheels of cheese, both soft and hard. Meat pies with golden crusts that flaked when you cut into them. Fish, whole and filleted. And desserts. Sweet pastries, fruit tarts, cakes, puddings, candied fruits, honeycomb.
My stomach growled audibly.
I reached for the nearest goblet without thinking and took a large gulp.
Mistake. Big mistake.
I had made the mistake of taking a sip of my goblet, forgetting the abhorrent culture surrounding pumpkin juice. Seriously, who looks at a pumpkin and thinks, you know what, I wonder if you can juice that? And apparently the answer was a resounding yes, because if it wasn't, I really do not want to know where they get this crap. Oh, I miss my sweet tea and soda. But I'm centuries away from the latter and the former I don't even know how to get.
"Art thou well?" Margaret asked, noticing my expression of disgust.
"Fine," I managed, setting the goblet down with more force than necessary. "Just... not a fan of pumpkin juice."
"Pumpkin juice?" Thomas looked at his own goblet with suspicion. "What manner of drink is that?"
"A terrible one," I said flatly. "Water. I want water."
I thought the request clearly, and a new goblet appeared in front of me, filled with clear, chilled water. Magic. Right. Of course. Still getting used to that.
I drank deeply, washing away the taste of vegetable juice masquerading as a beverage.
"The pumpkin juice is quite good," Eleanor said quietly, taking a small sip from her own cup. "Sweet and smooth."
"You can have mine," I said, pushing my abandoned goblet toward her.
As we ate, I listened to the conversations happening around us. The older students were loud and boisterous, talking over each other about their summers and what they'd done.
"Did thou hear about the goblin raid near Bristol?" a fifth year boy was saying to his friend. "They say three villages were burned."
"Aye, my father did write me about it," his friend replied grimly. "Said the goblins are growing bolder. The Ministry, or what passes for it, doth nothing to stop them."
That was concerning. Goblin raids. I'd have to remember that this wasn't the relatively peaceful wizarding world from the books. This was the 1600s. Violent, chaotic, dangerous.
"Professor Ashford doth teach Charms," an older girl was saying to a second year further down the table. "He is most patient and kind, though his tests be quite difficult. Thou must needs study hard."
"What about Transfiguration?" the second year asked nervously.
"Professor Blackwood," another older student answered. "She is stern and doth not suffer fools gladly. But if thou dost apply thyself and follow her instructions, thou shalt do well."
I filed the information away. Professor Ashford for Charms. Professor Blackwood for Transfiguration. The same Mistress Blackwood who'd saved me from the pestilence pit.
"Who doth teach Potions?" Thomas asked an older boy sitting nearby, a fourth year with red hair and freckles.
"Professor Thorne," the boy replied, loading his plate with more meat. "Master Cornelius Thorne. A stern man, but fair. He doth expect excellence in thy measurements and timing. Follow the instructions exactly, or thou shalt find thyself in detention cleaning cauldrons until thy hands bleed."
Cheerful.
"And Curses and Countercurses?" I asked. That was the class that would eventually become Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"Professor Helena Crane," a girl across from us answered. She was a sixth year with dark skin and her hair wrapped in a colorful cloth. "She is brilliant, truly gifted with defensive magic. But she doth push her students hard. Expect practical examinations and dueling practice."
More names. More information.
"What be that fifth table at the back?" I asked, gesturing toward the table behind the staff table where several adults sat who clearly weren't professors.
"Ah, that be the staff table," the red-haired fourth year explained. "The groundskeeper, Owen Thatcher. The Keeper of Keys, Wilfred Hawkins. The guards who do patrol the walls and grounds. And professors who teach electives like Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, or who do research when they are not teaching their primary subjects."
"They do not always eat in the Great Hall," the dark-skinned girl added. "But when they do, they sit there. 'Tis separate from the main staff table to distinguish between required professors and auxiliary staff."
That made sense. A castle this size would need dozens of people to maintain it. Guards, groundskeepers, cooks, cleaners. Though I supposed the house elves did most of the cleaning.
I loaded my plate with food, carefully avoiding anything I couldn't identify. Turkey, definitely. Potatoes, roasted and buttered. Bread. Some vegetables that looked like carrots. A slice of meat pie that smelled amazing.
The food was good. Simple, heavily seasoned with salt and herbs, but filling and warm. Nothing like the complex flavors I'd been used to in my previous life, but after months of plain fare at the tower, it was practically gourmet.
Margaret ate delicately, cutting everything into small pieces. Thomas ate like he was afraid someone would take his plate away. Eleanor barely touched her food, too nervous. I found myself eating steadily, enjoying the various flavors.
After an hour and a half of feasting and socializing, the noise in the hall had reached a dull roar. Every table was full of animated conversation and laughter. Then Headmaster Gamp stood again, and silence fell like a blanket.
"A few final announcements before thou dost retire to thy dormitories," he said. "First years should note that the third floor corridor on the eastern wing is closed to all students. There are renovations being done to the structure, and it is not safe. Additionally, the western tower is undergoing repairs to its staircase and is likewise forbidden."
He paused, his expression becoming stern. "Any student found in these areas without permission shall face severe punishment. I do not make idle threats. The castle is ancient and can be dangerous when structures fail."
That was fair, I supposed. Though in Harry Potter, restricted corridors usually meant something more interesting than repairs.
"Prefects, please escort the first years to their dormitories," Gamp continued. "All students should be in their common rooms within the hour. Curfew is ten of the clock on weeknights, eleven on Friday and Saturday. Good night, and may thy dreams be pleasant."
With that, he sat down, and the hall erupted into the sound of benches scraping and hundreds of students standing at once.
"First years! Hufflepuff first years, to me!" A tall girl with blonde hair pulled back in a severe braid was standing at the end of our table, waving to get our attention. She wore a silver badge on her yellow and black robes that marked her as a prefect. Sixth year, based on her age.
The four of us gathered around her. The hall was chaos around us as older students streamed toward the exits.
"I am Beatrice Yaxley, sixth year prefect," the blonde girl announced once we were assembled. Her voice was crisp and authoritative. "Follow me, and stay together. The castle can be most confusing for new students, and I should not like to lose any of thee on thy first night. Keep thy eyes on the person in front of thee."
She turned and began walking, and we hurried to follow.
We left the Great Hall through a side door I hadn't noticed before, one that led to a corridor with rougher stone walls and a lower ceiling than the grand entrance hall. The torches here were spaced further apart, casting longer shadows.
"The Hufflepuff dormitories are in the basement," Beatrice explained as we walked, not looking back but clearly expecting us to keep up. "Below the ground level. 'Tis quite cozy, though, and warm year round thanks to the castle's heating charms and our proximity to the kitchens."
We descended a stone staircase, our footsteps echoing. The walls here were lined with portraits, and I could see the painted figures watching us with interest.
"Good evening, young badgers!" a portrait of a plump witch called out. "Welcome to Hogwarts!"
"Keep moving," Beatrice said firmly. "The portraits do like to chat, but we have not the time this evening."
We turned left at the bottom of the stairs into another corridor, this one with a slightly curved ceiling. We passed more portraits. A knight in armor saluted us as we went by. A group of witches playing cards paused their game to wave. An old wizard with a long beard shouted something about watching out for pixies, which seemed random.
Down another staircase. This one spiraled, the steps worn smooth in the centers from centuries of feet. I kept one hand on the wall to steady myself. Margaret was right behind me, and I could hear her breathing hard from the exertion.
At the bottom, we entered a corridor that felt distinctly different from the rest of the castle. The stone here was a warmer color, almost golden in the torchlight. The ceiling was lower, more intimate. And there were plants everywhere. Hanging baskets with trailing ivy. Potted ferns sitting in alcoves. Even some flowers that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
"We are now in the Hufflepuff section of the castle," Beatrice announced. "As thou canst see, we do take pride in making our space welcoming and alive. Each student is encouraged to contribute to the care of our plants. 'Tis good practice for Herbology and makes our home more pleasant."
We came to a wider section of corridor where a large painting of a fruit bowl dominated one wall. The bowl overflowed with painted apples, pears, grapes, and other fruits. Wooden barrels were stacked along both sides of the corridor, creating an almost maze-like effect with narrow passages between them.
"This painting here," Beatrice said, stopping and gesturing to the fruit bowl, "is the entrance to the kitchens. If thou shouldst desire a snack at any time, day or night, simply tickle the pear."
She demonstrated, reaching out and tickling the painted pear with one finger. The pear giggled, actually giggled like a living thing, and transformed into a green door handle. She pulled it open.
Beyond was a massive kitchen, easily the size of the Great Hall above it. Enormous fireplaces lined one wall, though only a few were lit now. Long wooden tables filled the center of the space. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling. And everywhere, house elves.
Dozens of them, maybe even a hundred, were cleaning up from the feast. They moved with incredible speed and efficiency, washing dishes with magic, scrubbing tables, putting away food. Several of them looked up as we appeared and immediately bowed.
"Can Nipsy be helping the young masters and mistresses?" one asked, hurrying over. She barely came up to my knee.
"We are simply passing through, showing the first years," Beatrice said kindly. "But thank you, Nipsy."
"The kitchens are available to all Hogwarts students at any time," Beatrice continued, closing the door. It became a painting again, the pear settling back into its spot among the other fruits. "The elves are most happy to prepare food if thou dost ask politely. A late night snack, something to take to the library, whatever thou dost need. But," her voice became stern, "do not abuse this privilege. Do not treat the elves poorly. Do not demand unreasonable things. And do not waste food. If thou dost break these rules, the privilege shall be revoked for all Hufflepuffs. Understand?"
We all nodded.
"Good. Now, follow me to the common room."
We continued down the corridor, turned a corner to the right, walked perhaps twenty more feet, and suddenly faced a dead end. Stacks of barrels lined every wall from floor to ceiling. There had to be a hundred of them, all identical, arranged in careful rows.
Beatrice approached a particular barrel in the middle of the second row from the bottom. It looked exactly like all the others. No marking, no sign.
She knocked on it in a specific rhythm. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap.
"The rhythm is the same as 'Helga Hufflepuff,'" Beatrice explained. "Hel-ga Huff-le-puff. Tap it out in thy mind as thou dost knock. Seven taps total."
The barrel swung open like a door, revealing a passage beyond lit by warm light.
"And mind thee," Beatrice added, her voice taking on a warning tone, "if thou dost knock the wrong rhythm or on the wrong barrel, thou shalt be doused in vinegar from above. 'Tis a security measure to prevent unauthorized entry. The vinegar is most unpleasant and the smell doth linger for days."
We all looked up nervously at the barrels above.
"The correct barrel is always second row from bottom, middle of the wall directly facing thee when thou dost turn the corner," Beatrice said. "And the rhythm never changes. Memorize both, and thou shalt be fine."
She ducked through the opening, and we followed one by one.
The passage was short, maybe ten feet long and just tall enough that I didn't have to duck. The walls were smooth, rounded, like the inside of an actual barrel. At the far end was an opening, and beyond it...
The Hufflepuff common room was the most welcoming space I'd seen since arriving in this time period.
It was circular, or nearly so, with a low ceiling supported by heavy wooden beams that had been carved with intricate patterns of leaves and vines. The walls were painted a warm yellow, almost golden, and the stone floor was covered with thick rugs in shades of yellow, black, and brown.
But what really made the room special were the plants. They were everywhere. Hanging baskets suspended from the ceiling overflowed with trailing ivy and ferns. Potted plants sat on every available surface. Window boxes, shelves built into the walls, standing planters. Some were flowering, filling the air with a gentle, sweet scent. Others were purely green, creating a sense of life and growth.
The furniture was equally inviting. Comfortable-looking chairs and couches upholstered in yellow and black fabric were arranged in small clusters, perfect for conversation or studying. There were low tables scattered about, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. A large fireplace took up one section of the curved wall, and despite it being summer, a fire burned merrily in it. The heat was pleasant rather than oppressive.
But the most unique feature were the windows. Small, round windows were set into the walls near the ceiling, and through them I could see... grass. Flowers. The outdoors at ground level. We were underground, so the windows were at the level of the grounds outside.
As I watched, a pair of feet in worn boots walked past one of the windows. Then another pair. Students heading back to wherever they were going.
Sunlight, dappled and green-filtered, streamed through the windows even though it was evening. Wait, no. I looked closer. The light was coming from globes mounted above the windows, charmed to mimic natural daylight. Clever.
"This is thy common room," Beatrice said, and her voice was warmer now, filled with pride. "All Hufflepuffs are welcome here at any time, day or night. We have no restriction on common room hours, though thou must be in thy dormitories by ten of the clock each night, save for weekends when it is eleven."
She led us to a clear area near the fireplace where we could all stand together.
"A few rules before I show thee to thy dormitories," she said. "First and most important: Hufflepuffs stick together. We are loyal to one another above all else. If thou seest a fellow Hufflepuff in need, thou dost help them. No exceptions. Whether they be first year or seventh, whether thou dost like them personally or not, they are thy housemate and thy responsibility."
She looked at each of us in turn, making sure we understood.
"Second, we value hard work and diligence. Slacking is not tolerated. Thou art expected to complete thy assignments on time and attend all thy classes. If thou dost struggle with a subject, there are older students who can tutor thee. Simply ask a prefect, and we shall arrange it. But thou must put in the effort."
Thomas shifted nervously beside me.
"Third, we do not tolerate bullying or cruelty of any kind. Not to other Hufflepuffs, not to students of other houses, and especially not to those who cannot defend themselves. If thou hast a problem with another student, thou dost speak to a prefect or to Professor Blackwood, our Head of House. We resolve our conflicts with words, not wands."
She smiled then, and it transformed her stern face into something much softer. "And lastly, remember to enjoy thyself. Hogwarts should be a home, not a prison. Explore the castle, make friends, discover what thou dost love to learn. But do so safely and within the rules. We want thee to thrive here, not merely survive."
She gestured toward a staircase at the far end of the common room. Unlike the stone staircases we'd descended to get here, this one was made of wood and carpeted with a yellow runner.
"The dormitories are down that way. Each year has its own floor. First years on the first level, second years on the second, and so forth up to seventh year on the seventh. Boys' dormitories are on the left, girls' on the right. Given there be only four of thee, the boys shall share one room and the girls another."
She gestured toward the staircase. "Thy trunks have already been brought to thy rooms by the house elves. Any questions?"
Eleanor raised her hand shyly. "What if we do get lost in the castle?"
"Ask a portrait for directions to the nearest prefect or to the Hufflepuff common room," Beatrice said. "Most portraits are quite helpful, though some do like to joke and might send thee on a merry chase. If that happens, find a different portrait. Also, thy schedules will include a map marking where each of thy classes shall be held. Study it."
Thomas raised his hand. "When do we get our books?"
"They should be in thy dormitories already with thy trunks. Lessons begin tomorrow morning after breakfast. Thy schedules shall be delivered at breakfast by Professor Blackwood."
No more questions came.
"Very well. Boys to the left, girls to the right. Sleep well, and I shall see thee at breakfast tomorrow. Welcome to Hufflepuff."
With that, she headed back toward the entrance, probably to return to whatever she'd been doing before escort duty.
We made our way down the wooden staircase, which spiraled gently downward. The walls here were also painted yellow, and more plants lined the way. The staircase opened onto a small landing with two doors, one on each side. Brass plaques on each door read "First Year Boys" and "First Year Girls."
"Well," Margaret said, looking at the girls' door nervously. "I suppose this is where we part ways for the evening."
"Yeah," I said. "Good night, Margaret. Eleanor."
"Good night, Nicholas," Margaret replied, giving me a small smile. "Sleep well."
"Good night," Eleanor whispered, still shy.
The girls disappeared through their door, and Thomas and I pushed through ours.
The dormitory was more spacious than I'd expected given there were only two of us. The room was roughly circular, following the curve of the basement level. There were two beds, proper queen-sized beds with thick mattresses and multiple pillows. Heavy yellow curtains hung from frames around each bed, currently tied back but clearly able to be drawn for privacy.
Each bed had a small table beside it with a candle already lit. At the foot of each bed was a trunk. I could see my name written on one in neat script, and Thomas's name on the other.
Between the beds were two tall wardrobes made of warm wood, and there was even a comfortable-looking armchair and small table near a window that showed the ground level outside.
But the best part, the absolute best part, was the door at the far end. I walked over and pushed it open, and I could have cried with relief.
A bathroom. An actual, proper bathroom.
There was a large tub, easily big enough for me to lie down in, with brass faucets and taps. I could see runes etched into the porcelain, probably warming charms. Next to it was a shower area enclosed with a curtain, and I could see the showerhead mounted above. Running water. Actual running water. A toilet, separated by a partial wall for privacy. A counter with a sink and a mirror above it. Shelves stocked with towels, soap, and what looked like tooth powder in jars.
Truly, Salazar Slytherin had been a blessing to this school, solely for the fact he allowed me to enjoy hot running water. The man might have been a blood purist and generally terrible person according to history, but he'd understood the importance of plumbing.
I returned to the main room where Thomas was already exploring his trunk. "This is much nicer than the tower," he said, running his hand over the smooth bedding. "So much softer."
"Yeah," I agreed, finding my trunk. "It really is."
I knelt down and opened it. Everything was there. My three sets of clothes, neatly folded. My school robes, also folded. My textbooks, stacked carefully. My personal runes book, still wrapped in an extra shirt where I'd packed it. I stood and turned toward the mirror in the bathroom doorway. Time to get a proper look at myself.
I finally got a good look at my face in the mirror and saw myself for the first time in this world. Honestly, it was kind of a let down. I barely looked different, just younger with longer hair than I'd been used to. The greatest change was my eyes were a hazel brown instead of chocolate brown, but I still had my same hair color, straight brown hair. No sign of facial hair and I had plenty of baby fat left in my cheeks.
I looked... generic. Average. Nothing special. Just a ten year old boy with brown hair and hazel eyes. The kind of face that would blend into a crowd and be forgotten five minutes later. Well, at least I wasn't ugly. That would have sucked.
"Art thou well?" Thomas asked, noticing me staring at the mirror.
"Yeah, fine. Just... hadn't seen myself properly since I woke up after the fever." True enough. I'd seen my reflection in passing, in windows and water, but never clearly like this.
"The fever did change thee?"
"No, I... I don't think so. I just couldn't remember what I looked like very clearly. The memories were foggy." Also true, in a way.
We settled into an awkward silence, the two of us not quite sure what to do with ourselves. It was still relatively early, maybe eight in the evening, but the day had been long and exhausting.
"I am going to wash," I announced, grabbing some clothes from my trunk. "Been a long day."
"Aye, good idea," Thomas agreed.
I headed into the bathroom and closed the door. There was even a lock, which I engaged. Privacy. Wonderful.
I stripped out of my robes and undergarments, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then I approached the shower area with something like religious anticipation.
The controls were simple. Two taps, one marked with a red rune for hot, one with a blue rune for cold. I turned the hot tap, and after a moment, water began to spray from the showerhead above.
I adjusted the temperature until it was just short of scalding, then stepped under the spray.
Oh. Oh, that was good.
After that anticlimactic reveal of my face, I showered for half an hour, enjoying the feeling of hot water raining on my head and back. I hadn't had a proper hot shower since my transmigration. The tower had only had the tubs, and while those were fine, there was something about standing under running water that was just better.
I scrubbed myself thoroughly with the provided soap, which smelled like herbs and lye but got me clean. I washed my hair twice, working out all the dirt and oils that had accumulated over the past few days of travel.
By the time I finally turned off the water, my skin was pink from the heat and my fingers were pruned. I dried off with one of the towels from the shelf, rough wool that was scratchy but absorbent, and got dressed in the clean nightshirt I'd brought. It came down to my knees, simple and comfortable.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Thomas was waiting for his turn. I gestured that it was free, and he grabbed his things and headed in.
I went to my trunk and pulled out my runes book. Might as well do some reading before bed.
I climbed into my bed, and let me tell you, after months of straw mattresses at the tower, this was luxury. The mattress was thick and comfortable, actually cushioned. The pillows were soft, stuffed with down or feathers. The blankets were heavy wool, perfect for staying warm.
I settled against the headboard, my runes book open on my lap, and read by the light of the candle on my bedside table.
The chapter I was on was rather dull, covering the different runic languages and their histories. The author went into exhaustive detail about the differences between Elder Futhark, Younger Futhark, Anglo-Saxon Futhorc, and various other systems. Then there was a section on Solomonic runes, which were apparently completely different and based on old Hebrew traditions.
It was dry material, but I forced myself to pay attention. This could be entertainment later, sure, but more importantly, I might want to know the difference between these systems if I was going to use them practically. Different runes for different purposes. Some better for preservation, others for transformation, others for binding.
Thomas came out of the bathroom after about twenty minutes, his hair damp and his face scrubbed clean. He climbed into his own bed with a satisfied sigh.
"That water was amazing," he said. "Hot and plentiful. We are most fortunate."
"Yeah," I agreed, not looking up from my book. "We really are."
The room grew quiet except for the rustle of pages and the occasional creak of bed frames as Thomas got comfortable. After half an hour of reading, my eyes were starting to droop. The words on the page were blurring together. I marked my place with a scrap of parchment and closed the book.
"Good night, Thomas," I called out.
"Good night, Nicholas," he replied, his voice already heavy with drowsiness. "Sleep well."
I set the book on my bedside table, blew out the candle, and pulled the curtains around my bed closed. The fabric blocked out the light from Thomas's candle, creating a cozy, private darkness.
I burrowed under the blankets and let my body relax. The mattress was comfortable, the blankets were warm, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Actually safe, not just surviving.
I dreamed of Hogwarts and Harry Potter, strange jumbled visions of the castle as I'd seen it tonight mixed with memories of the movies. Stone corridors morphed into CGI effects. Professor Blackwood's stern face became Maggie Smith's Professor McGonagall. The Sorting Hat sang in Alan Rickman's voice for some reason, which was deeply unnerving to say the least.