I transmigrated.
Yup. That old chestnut. The classic narrative kickoff where some schmuck—usually a guy—gets yeeted into another dimension, is gifted an all-knowing System that might as well be called 'Plot Convenience: The App,' becomes ludicrously overpowered, suffers a few token setbacks for ~drama~, slaps around a bunch of arrogant young masters with egos the size of planets, and inevitably accumulates a harem of devastatingly beautiful women who for some reason find his basic human decency (and plot armor) irresistibly sexy. Cue the happily ever after.
Except my story seems to have skipped the instruction manual.
First, there's no System. No glowing screens, no cheery ding! sounds, no quest to 'Slap Local Bully: Reward: 100 Cool Points.' Radio silence.
Second, and perhaps more critically, I am not a guy. I know, I know, ladies can have harems too, whatever. But the point is, I don't want one. Any sane adult—especially a woman—understands that one relationship is a full-time emotional job. A harem isn't a fantasy; it's a logistical nightmare of scheduling conflicts and remembering which partner prefers which tea. It's about sharing your life, your brainspace, and your last chocolate biscuit, and choosing to not strangle them every single day, especially after they've said something utterly bitchy because they're hangry.
But I digress. The point is: I transmigrated. And not into some cool, high-fantasy realm where I could be an elven queen sipping ambrosia for a thousand years. Not into one of those smelly A/B/O worlds that seem weirdly popular back in my old internet life. And tragically, not into a world where I could harness chakra, wear a forehead protector, and commit to a ninja way. A real shame, that. I'd have rocked a headband.
But no. I transmigrated to a parallel Earth. And if you're thinking, "Oh, that sounds mild," then buckle up, buttercup, because you are wrong. It is emphatically, spectacularly not fine.
Why? Because I woke up in London. Not cool, swinging-sixties London. Not modern, cosmopolitan London. But 1980s London. And I didn't just pop into existence as myself; I was unceremoniously stuffed into the tiny, writhing body of a baby girl named Stella Maeve Black.
Black.
Now, hold on. Don't give me that look. I'm not racist. It's just… London? The 1980s? The surname Black??
The universe isn't just messing with me; it's playing a full-blown cosmic joke, and I am the unwilling punchline.
And as if the existential dread wasn't enough, I now have an audience. Perched on my windowsill, with the judgmental stillness only owls can master, is a feathered courier currently tilting its head at me. In its beak is a thick, yellowish envelope. I don't need to see the address to know it. The owl's very presence, the weight of that parchment… it all screams one thing: "Your peaceful life is canceled. Trouble is coming, and you can't escape it."
A fucking letter. Delivered by a fucking owl.
We all know where this is headed, right?
Just brilliant. Absolutely spectacular. Out of all the fictional worlds teeming with adventure and romance, I had to land in the one with a noseless, homicidal maniac with a penchant for snake-themed decor and murdering teenagers. I just had to transmigrate into the world of Harry Potter.
God, why couldn't you have just made me a squib? A nice, normal, magic-adjacent nobody. Was that too much to ask?
---
Sorry for that spiral. I just needed to rant my way through the sheer absurdity of today. The owl, thankfully, is gone. The moment I untied the letter from its leg, it gave a indignant hoot—as if profoundly offended by the entire concept of this delivery errand—and flew off into the overcast London sky.
I almost felt bad for it. Does the owl union get proper benefits for this? Are they paid in mice? Who coordinates this avian postal service? The questions are endless and profoundly stupid.
With a sigh that came from the very depths of my soul, I slumped onto my creaky orphanage bed and stared at the envelope. I didn't feel the thrill I'm sure I was supposed to. I just felt a deep, profound sense of exasperation. Who actually wants this? To discover your world is secretly way more complicated and dangerous than you thought? Hard pass.
Grimacing, I tore the thing open. No point in delaying the inevitable. Let's get this over with.
---
Ms. S. M. Black
Second-Floor Bedroom, Adjacent to the Garden
St. Agnes' Orphanage
14 Lisson Grove LONDON
NW1 6PS
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Ms Black,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Please note that, given your circumstances, a member of the Hogwarts staff will visit you on Saturday, 31 July, to escort you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies and explain all necessary particulars to the matron of your establishment.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress
---
I let the parchment fall onto my lap and stared blankly at the opposite wall. It's patched up painting stinging my eyes ever so slightly. Who the heck decided that it would be good to have my room painted a glaring green? Are they mentally ill for Go- Merlin's sake? Rubbish I tell 'ya.
....
A squib. That's all I wanted. The quiet life of a magical-world dropout. But no. I had to be a witch. A witch with the last name Black, in a magical orphanage, which probably has 'tragic backstory' written all over it in glitter pen.
I flopped backward onto the thin mattress, the letter crinkling beneath me. A groan escaped my lips, long and suffering.
"Why," I asked the water-stained ceiling, my voice flat with despair, "why couldn't I just be a fucking squib?!"