Ashes of Another World
The room smelled like mothballs and stale dreams.
Samaira Sachdeva opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the cold grey light filtering in through cracked blinds. She was lying on a narrow cot, a scratchy wool blanket draped over her legs, and the ceiling above her was stained with age. For a moment, there was silence in her head—a strange, suspended stillness that came before the storm.
Then it hit.
Her breath caught.
She sat up sharply, heart racing, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. There were six beds lined up in neat rows, their frames rusted and paint-chipped. On one of the walls, a poster with peeling edges bore the words “St. Elara’s Home for Orphaned Girls”. It was the kind of place you’d expect Dickensian ghosts to wander.
She didn’t know how she’d gotten here.
She didn’t know when she’d gotten here.
Panic bloomed like wildfire, curling in her chest, but even as it rose, another voice surfaced—steady, rational, terrifyingly calm.
This isn’t a dream.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the nightstand beside her. A pair of glasses sat there, round and familiar, as if they belonged to her. She put them on and saw a worn envelope tucked beneath a book she didn’t remember owning.
The envelope was thick. Creamy. Heavy. A wax seal in crimson red stamped it shut: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
She stared at it, blood roaring in her ears.
“I know that seal,” she whispered. “But that’s… fiction.”
Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.
Her fingers broke the wax and pulled out the parchment. Everything was written just as she remembered from the books—green ink, formal tone, the list of required materials. It was addressed to her, specifically:
Miss Samaira Sachdeva
St. Elara’s Home for Orphaned Girls
Northumberland, England
It said she was to report to Hogwarts for her sixth year, effective immediately, and that arrangements had already been made. There was no explanation of how she could possibly join a school halfway through the term. Only that her belongings were ready. That she had permission.
None of it made sense. But then again, nothing had made sense since the moment she woke up.
Her head ached—no, burned—with unanswered questions. She remembered her name. She remembered being sixteen. But the rest… the rest was fog. There were shards, images: pages turning beneath her hands, late nights reading under blankets, debates on Reddit, movie marathons, midnight rereads of Prisoner of Azkaban—
That was it.
Harry Potter.
She remembered reading it, loving it, in another life.
Except now… she was in it.
The next few hours passed in a blur. A stern woman named Matron Elkins handed her a battered suitcase and muttered something about “the nice people from the Ministry” who’d arranged her departure. Samaira asked questions—so many questions—but the Matron only looked at her like she was a porcelain doll someone had forgotten how to handle.
By the time Samaira stepped outside the orphanage, the sun was beginning to set. A Ministry official in deep violet robes was waiting for her. He offered her a tight smile and a Portkey shaped like a compass.
“It’s been calibrated to take you to Hogsmeade,” he said. “Professor McGonagall will meet you at the gates.”
Before she could protest, the world turned upside down.
Hogsmeade hit her senses like a spell. The moment her boots landed on the cobbled path, her breath caught again—but this time, in awe.
The air smelled like butterbeer and autumn leaves. Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its windows aglow with golden firelight. Pumpkins lined the path. Bats circled overhead. Halloween, her mind whispered.
A tall figure stood waiting.
“Miss Sachdeva?” Professor McGonagall’s voice was exactly as she imagined—brisk and clipped, yet not unkind. “You’re later than expected.”
“Sorry,” Samaira croaked. “I—um—got a bit lost.”
Professor McGonagall’s eyes flicked over her, but she didn’t comment. “Let’s get you Sorted.”
“Sorted?” she echoed. “But… I’m sixteen.”
“At Hogwarts, every student gets Sorted. Even transfers.”
The castle was even more magnificent up close. Candles floated. Ghosts drifted through stone arches. Suits of armor whispered as they passed. Samaira tried not to gawk, but her inner fangirl was screaming.
She followed McGonagall into the Great Hall.
It was packed with students. The ceiling glittered with enchanted starlight. Conversations fell silent as they entered. Samaira felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on her. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure it was audible.
A battered hat sat on a stool.
“The Sorting Hat,” McGonagall said, gesturing. “Take a seat.”
Samaira stepped forward on shaky legs and sat. The hat was dropped onto her head—and at once, a voice filled her ears.
“Well, well… what have we here?” it mused. “Curious… you burn with knowledge, but also with fire. Oh, you’re a puzzle, you are.”
Samaira swallowed.
“You’re not quite like the others. You know things you shouldn’t. And yet… the courage it took to come here, the will to endure… you’d do well in—”
“Gryffindor!” the hat shouted aloud.
Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor table. Samaira blinked in stunned silence before someone—a redhead with bright green eyes—grinned and waved her over.
“Come on, then!” Lily Evans called.
Later, after pumpkin pasties and bonfires in the common room, Samaira sat on the edge of her new four-poster bed. Her new roommates—Lily, Mary, and Marlene—were already in their pajamas, laughing about some Transfiguration mishap involving a ferret.
“So, Samaira,” Marlene said, brushing her curls back as she climbed into bed, “where did you transfer from? You don’t sound like you’re from here.”
Samaira hesitated, forcing a small smile. “India. I just… moved recently.”
“That’s so cool,” Mary said, yawning. “Must’ve been quite the culture shock, coming to Hogwarts like this.”
Lily tilted her head, studying her with kind but curious eyes. “It’s a strange time to join, but I’m glad you’re here. Sixth year can be rough. At least now we have another Gryffindor to survive it with.”
Samaira gave a small laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
The girls exchanged a few more sleepy jokes before crawling into their beds. Marlene was the last to speak, her voice soft as the firelight dimmed.
“You’ve got good energy, Samaira. Feels like you were always meant to be here.”
Samaira blinked up at the velvet canopy overhead.
If only you knew, she thought.
Her hand slipped beneath her pillow, curling around the smooth, sturdy wood of her wand — twelve and three-quarter inches, blackthorn with a phoenix feather core. Unyielding. Fiercely loyal. It had been with her since the moment she woke in that strange orphanage, nestled beside the letter that would change everything.
She clutched it now like a lifeline, grounding her in this new-old world. The wand hummed in her hand, familiar and foreign at once. She remembered everything about it — and nothing about when or how she’d gotten it.
You’re not supposed to be here, a voice whispered in her mind.
But here you are.
That night, Samaira dreamed of fire and feathers. Of books and boys who turned into wolves and stags. Of a life unlived, and a story half-told.
She wasn’t supposed to exist in this world.
But something had pulled her here. Something had left her just enough memory to survive.
And she was going to find out what.
Even if it killed her.