Having solved whatever it was that caused the explosion, two of the women came back. The explanation I received was nothing I ever thought would happen in my life. The TLDR is I am now in the Harry Potter world, but centuries before the main plot. How did I figure that out? Mostly by their speech and how, in my modern English ways, I was now treated as a 'slow-minded' child, the medieval equivalent of being severely on the spectrum. The long version was as follows:
I stood there for maybe thirty seconds after they left, my heart still hammering. The rational part of my brain, the engineer, the problem-solver, was trying to catalogue everything I'd learned so far and make sense of it.
Facts: I was in a child's body. I was in some kind of medieval setting. There were witches. Real witches. Flying on actual broomsticks. And I'd apparently been found in a pit of corpses, a pestilence pit, where they'd thrown bodies of people who died from sickness. Including, apparently, the original owner of this body.
I pushed that thought down hard. Not dealing with that right now.
Also: Hogsmeade. Hogwarts. Those were Harry Potter locations. Which meant either I'd somehow ended up in a fictional universe, or I was having the most elaborate, horrifying fever dream in human history.
The engineer in me wanted to reject the whole thing. Magic violated every law of physics I'd ever learned. Conservation of energy, thermodynamics, entropy, all of it just thrown out the window. But I'd seen people flying. I'd felt the warmth in this room despite no visible heating system. And unless I was completely insane, which was definitely still on the table, I had to accept that magic was real.
"Okay," I muttered to myself, starting to pace beside the bed. My feet were cold on the stone floor, but the movement helped me think. "Okay. Let's think this through. Harry Potter universe. 1600s based on the clothing and architecture. Pre-industrial, pre-electricity, pre... pretty much everything useful."
I looked around the infirmary again, really taking it in this time. The vaulted ceiling with its exposed beams. The iron cauldron looked like it belonged in a Renaissance fair. The shelves are full of ceramic jars and glass vials. The torches are burning on the walls with no visible smoke damage to the ceiling.
"Magic," I said to the empty room. "It's all magic. The ventilation, the temperature control, and probably the structural integrity of this whole place. Everything runs on magic here."
It was simultaneously the coolest and most terrifying thing I could imagine. As an electrical engineer, I'd spent years learning how to work with systems that followed predictable rules. Voltage, current, resistance all made sense. You could calculate it, measure it, and control it.
But magic? How did you even begin to understand a system that apparently didn't need to follow any rules? It kind of reminds me when my grandfather would take us to amusement parks only to point out flaws in coasters and make us think that if one little bolt got loose, the whole thing would collapse. Seriously, I get he was a mechanical engineer but having laughs at a child's newfound fear of structurally questionable roller coasters? Unconscionable! But now its a magic coaster where a sneeze from a puffskin could send you careening into the atmosphere. Snorting at that imagery, I return to the situation at hand.
I sat back down on the bed, my head spinning. "I need information. I need to figure out where, when, I am. What happened to me and what now?"
The transmigration thing was the biggest question mark. One moment I'd been... where? What had I been doing before I woke up in that pit? I tried to remember, but my last clear memory was just... normal life. Going to work. Coming home. Nothing special. Nothing that would explain waking up in a dead child's body in what appeared to be 17th-century magical England.
"Did I die?" I whispered. The thought made my stomach clench. "Is that what this is? Did I die and get... reincarnated? Transmigrated? Is there even a difference?"
And if I had died, what about my family? My friends? Did they think I was dead? Were they grieving for me while I was stuck here?
I felt tears prickling at my eyes and angrily wiped them away. "No. Not doing this. Not falling apart. I need to focus on what I can control."
What could I control? Not much, but something. I could observe. Learn. Adapt. That's what engineers did, we solved problems with the resources we had available.
"First priority: survival," I said out loud, finding comfort in breaking things down into manageable steps. "I'm in a safe place right now. Hogwarts. They're taking care of me. That's good."
"Second priority: information gathering. I need to understand this world. The time period. How magic works. What are the social rules? What's expected of me?"
"Third priority..." I paused. What was my third priority? Long-term planning? Finding a way home? Did I even want to go home if that was possible?
The thought surprised me. Part of me desperately wanted to go back to my old life. But another part... another part was already fascinated by the possibilities here. Magic was real. Actual, literal magic. As an engineer, as someone who'd always been curious about how things worked, how could I not want to learn everything about it?
"I'm such a nerd," I muttered, but I was almost smiling. "Transmigrated to a magical world, and I'm already thinking about studying the magic system."
The door opened, interrupting my thoughts. I looked up to see Goodwife Ashford entering with a wooden tray. The smell hit me immediately, bread, maybe some kind of stew, and something that might have been cheese.
My stomach growled so loudly it echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
"Ah, thou art awake still," she said, looking relieved. "I did fear thou might have swooned again, what with Mistress Blackwood's questioning." She set the tray down on a small table beside my bed. "Mistress Blackwood did bid me bring thee sustenance. Thou must needs eat and regain thy strength."
I stared at the food. Real, actual food. My mouth started watering. "Thank you. I'm... yeah, I'm really hungry."
She smiled, though she still looked at me with a kind of worried concern. "Aye, I should think so. Thou hast not eaten in three days, poor lamb."
"Three days?!" I jerked my head up to stare at her. "I've been unconscious for three days?"
"Aye, child. We did fear for thee at first. Mistress Crowley did say thy body was most grievously weakened, and thy mind..." She made a vague gesture. "Thou wert in a bad way when the mistress and her sisters did bring thee hence."
Three days. I'd been out for three days. And before that... how long had the original child been sick? How long had I been lying in that pit before I woke up?
"Here, eat," Goodwife Ashford urged, pushing the tray closer. "Thou needest thy strength. The mistress shall return soon to speak with thee, and thou must needs be well for that."
I picked up what looked like a chunk of brown bread. It was coarse and dense, nothing like the soft white bread I was used to, but it smelled amazing. I took a bite and nearly moaned. It was slightly stale and had a distinctly earthy flavor, but it was food, and I was starving.
"Good, good," Goodwife Ashford nodded approvingly. "Eat slowly, mind. Thy stomach shall rebel if thou dost gorge thyself."
She was right. I forced myself to take small bites, even though I wanted to shovel the food into my mouth. The stew was some kind of vegetable pottage, thick and hearty, seasoned with herbs I didn't recognize. The cheese was sharp and crumbly.
While I ate, Goodwife Ashford busied herself around the infirmary, straightening beds and organizing supplies. She hummed quietly to herself, some tune I didn't recognize.
"Can I ask you something?" I said between bites.
She looked over at me. "Aye, child. What wouldst thou know?"
"Where... where did they find me? Exactly, I mean." I needed to hear it confirmed. Needed to know if what I remembered was real or just a nightmare.
Her face fell, and she pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, poor lamb. 'Twas a terrible thing."
"I remember waking up," I said carefully. "I remember the... the bodies. And the cold. And being so scared. It's all kind of blurry after that."
She came over and sat on the edge of the bed next to mine, her expression full of pity. "The pestilence pit," she said softly. "At the edge of the village. 'Tis where they do place those who die of sickness, the coughing fever that did sweep through the parish this winter past. Dozens died, child. Dozens. Most of them are little ones like yourself."
I swallowed hard. That made sense, I'm pretty sure most of humanity's deaths were due to sickness and health concerns. Heck, nobody knew the basic sanitation rules like washing your hands before eating or how to disinfect wounds. If it weren't for magic healing, I would have probably been opened up with rusty knives or bone saws. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought, praise the Lord that hasn't happened.
"But the mistress did say thou wert alive," Goodwife Ashford continued. "Barely, but alive. And there was such a strange thing that did happen."
"What do you mean?" I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.
"Mistress Blackwood was notified thy name were written in the Book of Admittance, a most strange occurrence for a youth so advanced in age" She paused, her eyes wide with the memory. "And the bodies in the pit, they were flung into the air, scattered about like leaves in a storm. And there thou wert in the center of it all, alive and screaming."
Ah yes, I do remember that. So a bout of accidental magic sent the corpses away from me. I set down my bread, suddenly not hungry anymore. The image of those bodies flying through the air, landing with wet thumps around me... yep, definitely not hungry anymore.
"So what happens to me now? And where exactly are we?" I asked trying to change the topic and gain a bit more information on the settings of this world.
"Thou art in the healing ward in Hogsmeade Village, tis a village of witches and wizards. Thou art a child born of muggles so thou shalt be put in the muggleborn tower here in Hogsmeade. The tower tis for those who have no family in the wizarding world to teach them or protect them." She hesitated. "Thou didst have family, didst thou not?"
I thought fast. I couldn't claim to remember a family I'd never had. But claiming total amnesia would be suspicious and draw too much attention. "It's... fuzzy," I said carefully. "Like a dream I can't quite remember. The sickness, and being so cold and scared, and then... everything's just confused after that."
It wasn't quite a lie. Everything *was* confused. Just not in the way she thought.
Her face crumpled with sympathy. "The fever doth oft addle the mind, poor lamb. And the shock of what thou didst endure... 'tis no wonder thy memories are unclear. Mayhap they shall return with time." She paused. "The mistress did send word to the village, to see if any did survive who might know of thy family. But the sickness and witch hunts..."
She trailed off, and I understood. There probably wasn't anyone left who knew the original child or at the very least wanted to be associated with me. Which meant no one to contradict whatever story I told.
"Finish thy meal," she said gently. "I shall return shortly to collect the tray. If thou dost need aught, there is a bell upon the table. Ring it, and someone shall come."
She left me alone with my thoughts and the remainder of my food.
I ate slowly, mechanically, while my mind raced. Muggleborn Tower. That made sense, in the Harry Potter books, muggleborns were witches and wizards born to non-magical parents. But there hadn't been any special tower for them at Hogwarts in the books. Then again, this was the 1600s. Things were different here. There would have to have been a place for children too young to attend the school but could not remain among magic hating muggles.
I finished the food and set the empty bowl back on the tray. My stomach felt better, fuller, more settled. The warmth of the meal was spreading through me, making me drowsy, like after a good Sunday supper.
I lay back against the pillow, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The torches cast dancing shadows across the beams.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "So I'm in the Harry Potter universe, apparently. Seventeenth-century version. I have magic. Apparently, strong enough magic if I can throw bodies around without even trying. I'm going to live in something called the Muggleborn Tower until I'm old enough to be sorted into a house." Actually, given my introvertedness, I am looking forward to the possibilities in magic. I was always disappointed with the wasted potential of what could have been done with magic, at least technologically. I mean, you have a nearly endless energy source that is readily available and can transform matter and other energy types freely! Heck, you could probably even make a true perpetual motion machine or create truly ideal environments in the real world. But I digress, we'll have to see whether the fanfictions or imagination actually match up to the real magic system.
"God," I murmured, the prayer instinctive. "I don't know why I'm here or what you want me to do, but... help me figure this out. Please. I'm so lost."
The room offered no answers. Just the crackle of torches and the distant sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond. I had always been a devout Baptist, even considering being a pastor believe it or not. But not really being a people person, I just could not see it coming to fruition. That being said, I really don't know what to make of magic or even transmigration. The Bible was pretty clear on the afterlife and the central fact that mankind was made in the Garden of Eden. Even the sabbath was a testament to the fact the God stopped creating, well creation. I may be able to come to terms with magic being similar to electricity, just another energy in creation, but this whole soul crossing into another world? Yeah, that's gonna take time and a whole lot of prayer and meditation.
So like any child or teen facing an existential crisis of identity and sheer existence itself, I decided to shove it down and sleep. So I closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling at me despite the three-day sleep I'd apparently just had. My mind was tired from trying to process everything. My body was tired from the trauma of... whatever had happened to bring me here.
Just as I was starting to drift off, the door opened again. Dagummit! Why can't I just have a little peace , is it so hard! I just want to sleep and forget my troubles.
I opened my eyes reluctantly, and with a little indignance, to see Mistress Blackwood entering, her black robes sweeping behind her. She looked less severe than before, tired, maybe, with lines of worry around her eyes. "Thou art awake," she said, coming to stand beside my bed. "Good. We must needs speak, child. There are things thou must know, and questions I must needs ask."
I pushed myself up to sitting, trying to look more alert than I felt. "Okay. I'm listening."
She studied me for a long moment, her dark eyes shrewd. "Goodwife Ashford doth say the fever hath left thy memories muddled. That thou dost recall the pestilence pit but little else before it."
I nodded slowly, choosing my words carefully. "It's all blurry. Like trying to remember a dream. I remember being cold and scared, and the sickness making everything hurt. But before that..." I shrugged helplessly. "It's just... foggy."
"The coughing fever doth oft do this," she said, though she still watched me intently. "It burneth hot and leaveth the mind confused. And the shock of thy magical awakening besides..." She paused. "Dost thou remember thy name at least?"
This was it. The moment when I had to commit to an identity. The original child's name was lost, I had no memory of it because it wasn't my memory. But I needed something believable. "Nick," I said. It was a good name as any, I guess. "I remember being called Nicholas."
"Nicholas," she said with a nod. "A good name. And thy family name? Thy father's trade?"
I shook my head. "I... I don't know. I'm sorry. I just remember Nick." She was silent for a long moment, just watching me. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through me, that she knew I was hiding something.
Finally, she sighed. "The fever hath taken much from thee, it seems. But 'tis not uncommon, especially in one so young who hath suffered so greatly." She pulled a stool over and sat down. "Nicholas, then. I am Mistress Blackwood, as thou dost know. I am a professor here at Hogwarts, and I did bring thee hence after we found thee in the pestilence pit."
"Thank you," I said sincerely. "For saving me. I... I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come."
"Thou wouldst have died, most like," she said bluntly. "The cold alone would have killed thee, and thou wert already weak from the fever. If that had not had taken thee first, a pit of fire twas in thy future."
"Goodwife Ashford said... she said I threw the bodies. With magic." I looked down at my small hands. "Is that true?"
"Aye, and that is what we call accidental magic. 'Tis common in young magical children, especially when they are afraid or in danger. But the strength of what thou didst work..." She leaned forward slightly. "Tell me true, Nicholas. Hast thou ever done such things before? Made objects move? Changed things without meaning to?"
I thought about it. The original child must have shown some signs of magic before, right? That's how it worked in Harry Potter. "I... maybe?" I said carefully. "Sometimes things happened when I was upset. But I never understood what it was. I thought I was imagining it."
She nodded, seeming satisfied with that answer. "Many Muggleborn children do think thus. They have no knowledge of magic, and so they convince themselves 'twas their imagination or a coincidence. But thou art a magical child, Nicholas. And a powerful one, from what I have seen."
"What does that mean?" I asked. "For me, I mean."
"It means thou shalt need careful instruction. Control is the first lesson all magical children must learn. Without it, thy magic shall continue to burst forth at unexpected times, and thou couldst harm thyself or others." She stood up. "But fear not. Thou shalt be taught. The Muggleborn Tower is where we house children like those with magical gifts but no magical family to guide them. Thou shalt live there until thou art eleven years of age, at which time thou shalt be sorted into one of the four houses and begin thy formal education."
"And until then?"
"Until then, thou shalt learn to read and write, if thou canst not already, though tis obvious thou cant speak verily. Thou shalt study numbers and history and the basics of our world. Thou shalt learn to control thy gifts, so that thou dost not accidentally harm thyself or others." Getting up and giving me a curt nod, she left, closing the door behind her.
I sat there for a long moment, processing everything she'd told me. I was stuck here. Not just in this time period, not just in this body, but stuck at Hogwarts because going back to the village would probably get me killed. Not that I had anywhere to go back to. The original child's family was probably dead from the same fever that killed him. And even if they weren't, I couldn't exactly show up and pretend to be their son when I had no memories of them.
"Well," I said to the empty room. "At least I'm somewhere safe. That's something." It could actually be a whole lot worse. From the little I knew from world history, the middle ages and Renaissance era were rife with serfdom, poverty, and if you weren't a noble, a lifetime of farming. Life expectancy was only a handful of decades due to wars, sickness, really everything was pretty bad. Truly, America in the 20th and 21st century was the pinnacle of humanity. The luxuries we enjoyed, heck we even had more people die of obesity than malnutrition. Sure there was a lot wrong in society and globally, but when has there not been? In fact, with America as the world's policeman, most warring periods ended, though I guess you still had some in the middle eastern countries and mainly Africa.
I lay back down, pulling the rough blankets up to my chin. The exhaustion was pulling at me again, my body demanding rest even though I'd apparently been unconscious for three days. As I closed my eyes, one thought kept circling through my mind: I'd thrown corpses through the air with my mind. Without even trying. Without even meaning to. What else could I do?