I woke to a world of giants. At least, that's how it felt at first. Everything loomed high and distant, the ceiling rising like a cathedral dome above me. My body was small, weak, and oddly fragile. What the hell? I thought, panic rising. I tried to sit up, but my limbs responded slowly, uncoordinated. A soft blanket wrapped me, and when I reached out, I saw a chubby brown hand poke forth – a baby's hand.
That's when my memories flooded back: I Jasen Smith, 29 years old, American man from 2025… had died (somehow? It was hazy) and been reborn. Reborn as a baby.
A mix of disbelief and bemused horror rolled through me. I had read plenty of isekai novels and fanfiction in my day, but actually living it? That's a whole different story. This has to be a dream, I told myself. But the weight of the blanket, the distant sound of voices, and the sheer realness of my tiny body said otherwise. I clenched my little fist, feeling soft nails dig into palms that couldn't even fully close. Frustration bubbled inside me. I wanted to scream, to demand answers – but all that came out was a high-pitched babble: "Ma-ba… mmm!"
Footsteps approached. A face appeared above me – a beautiful dark-skinned woman with kind, almond-shaped eyes and a halo of tightly coiled hair. She smiled tenderly, and warmth spread through me. Mom? My new mom. Her name surfaced in my recovering memory: Ayana. Next to her stood a tall man, broad-shouldered and brown-skinned, with intelligent eyes and an air of quiet strength – Cain. My new father.
They had been talking softly; now they peered down at me in the crib. Ayana reached in and scooped me up effortlessly. I had to remind myself to relax my body like an infant, letting my head loll against her shoulder. It took conscious effort not to react too intelligently. Pretend to be a normal baby. Ayana cooed, "Awake now, my little Callum?" in a lilting accent. My name in this life is Callum.
Being cradled against her chest, I caught the soothing scent of Cinnamon and vanilla – The room itself carried these aromas, mixed with something like roasted coffee and parchment. Over Ayana's shoulder, I could see our home's living space. Ornate wooden shelves lined the walls, holding leather-bound books, jars of odd ingredients, and carved figurines.
There was a glimmering tapestry depicting a proud golden lion and a starry night sky. To my amazement, the lion on the tapestry flicked its tail and seemed to wink when I focused on it. 'Was that real like magic real magic. A thrill shot through me despite my predicament – I was in a magical household! I wounder what type of world I was in for it to have magic.
Ayana shifted me in her arms, humming under her breath. The tune was gentle and unfamiliar, words rolling in a language I didn't recognize at first. "Eshururu ruru, eshururu ruru…" she sang softly. The foreign words were Amharic, I think likely lullaby. I didn't know the exact meaning, but the melody was comforting.
Her voice was low and sweet, and I felt myself relax involuntarily. I even recognized a few words from some memory: "Enate" meaning mother, I think, in one of the lines. Perhaps she was singing about a mother coming home with bread and milk. The thought made me oddly emotional. Here I was, a grown man inside, being serenaded like an infant I technically I am one but that hasn't set in yet. It took all my willpower not to cry. Instead, I did what a normal however month-old might I am would do. I gurgled and pressed my face into her shoulder.
As Ayana carried me out of the nursery, I got a better look around. The house was bathed in warm morning light slanting through stained-glass windows. Dust motes in the air sparkled – or were those actually tiny winged creatures flitting about? One landed on the rim of a hanging planter and I squinted to see a minute sprite, glowing before darting away. My new world was alive with magic.
We passed the doorway, and above it I noticed a long parchment scroll affixed to the wall, covered in faded script and vibrant talismanic symbols. A tall scroll, covered in ancient text and designs, hung on the wall like a guardian. I recalled seeing something like this in a museum exhibit in my past life – Ethiopian I think probably a healing scrolls meant to ward off evil. Such scrolls are said to be imbued with protective prayers and magical symbols to purge evil spirits. So they've warded the house with traditional magic.
Down the hall, Cain my father was doing something in the kitchen area. I watched with wide eyes over Ayana's shoulder as my father stretched out a hand toward a high cabinet. Without a word a ceramic coffee pot floated out of the cupboard and gently landed on the counter. Cain made a small twirling gesture and the pot began cleaning itself, water and soap swirling inside as if by invisible hands. My heart pounded in excitement.
Cain casually levitated two cups from the sink to the drying rack with a mere flick of his fingers. The cups drifted through the air. One nearly collided with a floating wooden spoon (which was stirring a pot on the stove by itself), but Cain smoothly redirected it mid-air. All of this happened with such ease that it was clearly routine for him.
Ayana chuckled at the sight. "Darling, you're going to break our dishes one day, multitasking like that," she teased in a musical voice. She had switched to English now. Her accent was gentle but noticeable – the rolled r's and clipped t's of East Africa mingled with a British cadence. Cain turned and grinned. "No worries, love. Reparo works wonders, if it comes to that," he replied.
"Reparo" if he said that then that means I probably in the "Harry Potter" Universe. Which means my parents are wizards and apparently talented ones if they can do wandless magic. that explains the African and English mixed design of this home. Now I'm really trying not to freak out I love Harry Potter and the extended stuff minus the "Curse Child" which no one likes. I new majority of the lore and what happens now I wonder year I was born into before, during or after, the books story.
Cain stepped over and kissed Ayana's forehead, then ran a large hand over my curls. I found myself nestling into Ayana's arms, watching him. Cain Dawn – my father in this life – had a calm, grounded presence. At the touch of his hand on my head, I felt a surge of affection that caught me off guard. It wasn't just the residual instincts of a baby; it was me, Jasen, feeling safe with these people. A lump formed in my throat (at least that sensation carried over into a tiny body).
"Good morning, little man," he said softly to me. I babbled something incoherent back – part of my ongoing Oscar-worthy performance as Baby Callum. Inside, I was anything but calm. Awe, relief, confusion, and a lingering absurdity all tangled up within me. Here were my new parents, a powerful wizard and witch, and I was in their care. I had to act the part of their infant son, despite my mind screaming to ask a million questions.
Ayana handed me to Cain so she could tend to the pot on the stove. Cain cradled me in one arm, surprisingly gentle given his strong build. Over his shoulder I glimpsed the kitchen table where a newspaper lay open. I could just make out a moving photo on the front page – a black-and-white image of robed people crowded around something.
The headline was partially visible: "TRIAL OF DEATH EATERS CONTINUES…" before it got cut off. My breath hitched. This was likely the aftermath of Voldemort's fall. A date at the top read 1982. So, it was true – I was decades in the past, in the era shortly after baby Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort.
Before I could glean more, a knock sounded at what I assumed was the front door. Cain looked up, and Ayana, from the stove, said, "That must be Aster." Her tone held delight. I wonder who Aster is?