A Treacherous Existence at Hogwarts

London, 1988 The late autumn wind slipped through the cracks of the window, biting sharply into Thea’s exposed arm outside the blanket. Finally, it stirred her awake. The first thing she noticed was the room itself: clean and comfortable, with khaki-patterned wallpaper adorning the walls. Here and there, a child’s scribbles had been hastily wiped away with a cloth, leaving only faint smudges behind. The bedside cabinet was worn but spotless, and the faint scent of disinfectant hanging in the air told Thea she was in an infirmary. She shifted slightly, feeling the thick mattress beneath her—not the finest quality, but warm enough. All in all, her current situation could have been worse. The environment seemed safe, and aside from a slight dizziness, she felt no major discomfort. But then it hit her: “I’ve time-traveled!!!” Before the shock could fully settle, instinct pulled her back into sleep. “…Thea’s temperature seems to have dropped. Thank goodness—the fever’s finally broken.” It was a woman’s voice. When Thea opened her eyes, she saw her: a tall, slender woman with sharp cheekbones that gave her a stern appearance. Her dark hair was pulled tightly into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She held a basin of water, apparently intending to wash Thea’s face. Noticing Thea was awake, the woman’s expression softened considerably. Setting the basin aside, she skillfully brought over a cup of water, waited for Thea to drink, then dampened a cloth and gently wiped her face. Once finished, she seemed about to speak when a commotion erupted outside the room. Her face darkened instantly, and without another word, she hurried out. Alone again, Thea began sifting through the memories left by the body’s original owner. The little girl’s memories revealed her name: Dorothea. She was seven years old, and the reason she lay in the infirmary was a fever brought on by chills days earlier. Poor little thing had fallen ill in the middle of the night—had it not been for Wintha checking the blankets, she might not have been discovered in time and brought to the infirmary. The girl had lived in this orphanage for as long as she could remember. Every day, the children squabbled over the pettiest of things. Voices would rise, then be harshly silenced by furious adults. The shrill cries of children and the scolding of grown-ups were never-ending in this place. Orphans meant no parents to protect them, no steady source of support. They relied entirely on the charity of others for food, clothing, and shelter. While society was still somewhat tolerant of them now, while they were young—what would become of them when they grew up? What could these children possibly do? It was a quagmire, without a doubt. And outside the orphanage lay an even deeper swamp. Orphans were at the very bottom of society. Those slightly luckier might find work in factories or become shop apprentices, barely scraping by. Those less fortunate, or those with disabilities, faced futures almost entirely bleak. Unless incredibly lucky—adopted by a truly kind family—they could never truly escape. But such cases were few and far between. Realizing this, Thea had only one thought: I have to get out of here. But before that, there was a small problem to deal with. From the original Thea’s memories, this fever wasn’t just an ordinary chill. The noise outside grew louder, footsteps approaching. Several figures passed by the door; a few small faces peered through the c***k, only to be quickly pulled away. Faint, childish voices lingered: “Is the little freak dead yet? She’s been in the infirmary forever.” “Guess not. I overheard Wintha say the little freak’s fever broke.” “What a pity. If only she’d died…” The voices faded, likely as they were dragged farther away. Lying half-propped in bed, Thea allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. “Just as I thought. This fever wasn’t accidental.” As she pondered, silence returned outside. Some time later, the door burst open. Wintha had returned, bustling in with a tray. Thea glanced at it: a small cup of milk and a bowl of something resembling porridge. The woman set the tray down, pressed a hand to Thea’s forehead, studied her complexion, and finally smiled. “Eat your breakfast now.” Faced with such kindness, Thea couldn’t refuse—even without an appetite, she forced down a few mouthfuls. To her surprise, the milk wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Warm and soothing, it slid down her throat and into her stomach, awakening her hunger. The porridge, however, tasted exactly as it looked: mashed potatoes mixed into hot broth, lightly salted, barely palatable. Wintha raised an eyebrow slightly when she saw Thea had finished the bowl but said nothing as she gathered the dishes to leave. Quickly, Thea tugged at Wintha’s sleeve, putting on her most pitiful expression. Before Wintha could frown, she whispered, “Wintha… where are my mum and dad? I feel so awful. Why haven’t they come to see me?” Wintha’s face shifted from impatience to tenderness. She gently stroked the girl’s head, hesitating. “They… simply haven’t found you yet, dear. But don’t you worry… this is your home now…” As she spoke, though, Wintha seemed to remember something. Her brow furrowed slightly, and her tone stiffened. “Thea, your job right now is to rest. So be a good girl and go back to sleep.” Thea lowered her head silently. She knew she wouldn’t get more from Wintha now and didn’t press further. Instead, she mustered a bright smile. “All right. But when will you come see me again? It’s so lonely here all by myself.” Wintha’s heart softened at the sight of Thea’s smile, the tears glistening in her eyes. Guilt tugged at her. She looked conflicted but finally said, “Every child is their parents’ treasure… Your mum and dad must just be a bit foolish… to have misplaced their precious girl here with us…” Just then, another commotion arose outside. Grateful for the interruption, Wintha hastily tidied up and hurried out. Thea didn’t try to stop her. She’d learned what she needed: the original Thea had likely been left at the orphanage by someone who claimed her parents would return for her—but for whatever reason, they never had. Or perhaps they’d abandoned her outright. Truth be told, Thea held no great expectations for parents. To her, parenthood was a social contract: parents raised and educated their children, and in turn, children cared for them in old age. A cycle, simple as that. She’d never seen anything wrong with it—but rights and responsibilities went hand in hand. If you never raised me, what right do you have to expect my care? Her reason for asking Wintha today stemmed more from a deep-seated panic. She desperately needed to understand herself and her surroundings, to fill the void of insecurity within. Now, with a basic grasp of her situation, Thea slowly shifted toward the window and looked out. The infirmary was on the second floor. Below, a neatly trimmed lawn stretched out, where several children played—laughing, shouting, clapping. They looked to be seven or eight years old, each with rosy cheeks, clearly well cared for. “What are you looking at, Thea?” A clear, young voice came from the doorway.