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May 13th, 1960

You realize you were reincarnated mere moments after you were born.

Someone had royally effed up here—you had memories from your past life, after all. As you thought about that, you wondered how the hell any of this had happened. You spent your entire life disbelieving of any higher power, yet something had to have existed to put your soul—is that how it worked?—into the body of a newborn baby. Yet here you were, a day old and wailing uncontrollably as you got your first wash.

"I've finally decided on her name, Thomas." Your mother, typically called Rosie, Rosamund, or Rose, spoke to your father.

The two of them rarely ever left the other's side, you learned. Rosamund had been ordered nothing but bed rest during her hospital stay, a result of the difficult labor she went through to bring you to this world. The only time Thomas strayed from the room was to fetch something for Rosamund or to harass the doctors and nurses with unnecessary questions about your health.

"Arden Tamasin Ramsay."

"It's perfect, Rose. I love it." You hear Thomas say.

It's almost as if you can hear the smile in Thomas' voice, which you're grateful for. You'd always heard of how terrible one's eyesight is as a baby, but you hadn't the slightest clue just how bad it was. You've been sensitive to bright lights, only preferring to open your eyes—as tiring as it was—when it was late enough that your mother only lit candles. Even when you did strain to raise your eyelids, everything was so hazy and blurry that you didn't even know Thomas and Rosamund's faces.

It made you a bit anxious, not knowing what they looked like, but when they'd speak and sing to you, you found your nerves settled by the smoothness of their voices.

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September 8th, 1960

You're nearly four months old when you realize something is off.

Your eyesight had been slowly improving, and you'd even begun to see a little bit of color. When they were close enough, you could see Thomas and Rosamund, enjoying the way their faces became clearer with every day that passed.

Better eyesight meant a better view of the world. When you were first brought home, you kept wondering what that dark object so many held in their hands was. Unable to make out the shape, you assumed it was a recent trend, to carry such a lengthy and thin item. It perplexed you, of course, but you didn't know how long it had been between your death and rebirth, so you tried to get with the program.

But you couldn't deny it now that you could make it out—all these adults around you?

They were carrying sticks, perfectly shaped and typically with pointed ends.

They were very familiar, you couldn't deny, not when Thomas giddily showed you his for the first time. You were quite amused with him when Thomas waved it around in your face like it was a new toy for you to play with. The high-pitched giggles that escaped you were uncontrollable and gleeful when Rosamund came into the room, fearfully shrieking when you grabbed the stick from Thomas and shouting at him to put it away before you were to hurt yourself.

When the stick was carefully put in his sleeve, Rosamund had swept you out of your father's arms, not giving him a second of reprieve before scolding and lecturing Thomas tenfold.

"Are you mad?!" Rosamund was frantic, waving her free arm around in a frantic gesture that perfectly matched the wild expression on her usually calm face. "What if something had happened? She's barely grown out of the newborn stage!"

"You honestly think she'd be capable of using it? C'mon, Rose. She was just having a gander. Now c'mere, little Ardie." Thomas pulled you out of Rosamund's arms and back into his. He grinned with mischief as he walked away with you, intent on more playing (only in your nursery this time), and ignoring Rosamund's lecturing and threats.

Still deep in denial, you wonder why Rosamund was so scared of you playing with a mere stick. At most, you'd poke your eye out or jam it up your nose—but you were no normal baby.

Surely your mother had seen that.

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February 14th, 1961

It's not until you're nine months old that you truly realize it.

"Darling," Rosamund sighs, holding you in her arms as she stares down at Thomas, who is lying under the kitchen sink, his top half hidden by the cabinet. "I don't understand why you don't just use your wand."

"Wa—?" You babble, thrashing your arms around frustratedly that you still can't form a cohesive word. You'd been overhearing mentions of wands and magic for the past couple of weeks now that your parents weren't entirely focused on your growing form. Assuming they were merely fantasy nerds, or possibly your state of denial was your strongest suit, so you never chalked it up to anything.

"That's right, love." Rosamund smiles at you and kisses your forehead. "Wand." She enunciates.

Thomas scoots out of his hidey hole, his shirt drenched in leaking water. When he shakes his head, you feel water droplets land on your arm.

"We live in a muggle neighborhood now, Rosie." Thomas spouts. "Don't you think we should at least try to act like them? Aren't you curious how they fix things—without using magic?"

Rosamund scrunches her nose and puckers her lip, distaste lingering in her tongue when she responds with a fast no. "Certainly not. I hold no disdain for muggles, but goodness. The last thing I'd do is try to live like one. Not when living in our world makes everything so much easier."

Thomas smiles helplessly and shakes his head at Rosamund before he leans under the kitchen sink once more. More clanking emitted from the space, and as much as you tried not to, the harsh sounds made you wail.

For some reason, you hated loud sounds—they almost always made you cry out like this. It irked you, to cry so uncontrollably for so many reasons. When it came to a nappy change or your hunger, you understood, but not having the ability to keep yourself from crying over loud sounds or boredom?

Honestly.

You thought you had more class than that.

After she scolded Thomas for being the cause of your most recent tears, Rosamund carries you to your nursery. You still can't make out every corner of the room, but since you started crawling, your parents have allowed for mild exploration.

Hard wooden flooring was covered with a large, plush, light beige rug; which you found so soft you had fallen asleep in the middle of it on countless occasions. The walls were painted a rather pale shade of yellow, with matching white furniture. The only furnishing that wasn't white was a rocking chair that sat between the changing table and your crib, but it matched the color of the painted walls (it seemed your mother was genuinely fond of the coloring). The footstool was fluffy and white, and you wondered how it'd feel to sit on it—once you had the strength to sit on your own without falling, of course.

After placing you on the soft mattress in your crib, Rosamund hums a song for you. Any other day and you'd have given into the throes of sleep—you desperately wanted to doze the days away until you could move and speak properly—but you were a girl on a mission. You internally declared that it was the hardest thing in existence, to close your eyes and pretend Rosamund's melody had worked, and you almost fell victim to that blasted naptime.

Still, you persisted. When Rosamund snuck away, closing your door as carefully as possible, your eyes shot open. You couldn't possibly sleep—incoming crankiness be damned—there was just too much to think about now that you've finally realized the truth of your second life.

You couldn't deny it. Honestly, the thought came to your mind when you first saw all these silly adults always holding a long and skinny wooden stick in their hands, but it simply wasn't possible.

Until it was.

Words of wands and magic and muggles rang through your head, and you felt fortunate that you were just a babe because you were liable to freeze and faint back in the kitchen.

There was a desperate need for you to remain in denial, for it was one thing to reincarnate with memories and not find yourself feeling completely insane. It was something else entirely to realize you were reborn into the made-up wizarding world of Harry Potter.

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July 17th, 1961

You had always been a serene baby, exuding nothing but quiet and calm, from the very moment you were born. There was even a point in time where it was so excessive that Rosamund and Thomas were worried enough to send owls to all sorts of doctors, even stopping in to see those of the nonmagical caliber, for surely it couldn't have been normal.

Even for a witch.

Sure, you had cried when in need, but it wasn't at all what their friends' children did when they were babies, nor were your sobs as loud as they'd expected. They were more akin to warning sounds, and when your parents paid enough attention, they noticed you'd wordlessly alert them when on the verge of sounding off. In small ways of course—like how you'd smack their arms when flinging yours around, or when you had the strength, you'd grabbed their shirts.

You were simply a peaceful little thing. Rosamund and Thomas found you weren't easy to smile or laugh, and when you did, it was always in a way that showed you were more amused by their actions than anything else. Especially when you'd snort at them and shake your head (yes, you, a mere babe, shook your head at your parents).

Yes, Rosamund and Thomas had a quiet child, it was no doubt, but lately you were even more withdrawn than usual.

You gave them those amused smiles, snorts, and laughs less and less, and you scarcely played with the toys they'd hand you. All in all, you'd become a mere shell of yourself, if that were even possible. Your parents were sure most babies at fourteen months (or a year and two months if you're that sort) played, cried, and filled the house with incessant babbles. You just... Existed.

If they didn't know any better, they'd have said you were in a grumpy phase.

On one particular summer day, you were in the middle of fuming while your parents sat at the table, sipping on their morning beverages; black coffee for Rosamund and Thomas drinking his usual overly sweetened tea. They watched you, sitting on a small rug while you held a building block—although it was obvious you weren't actively playing with it. It merely served as a contraption for your hands to fiddle with as you stared into space.

"It's almost like she's deep in thought." Rosamund muses, cradling her mug as worry flashes through her green eyes. "She's so young, Thom. What could she possibly spend so much time thinking about?"

Thomas smiles, although it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Maybe she's an old woman reborn into a baby's body." He jokes, as dry as it was. Laughter and humor were his coping mechanisms, after all. "Deeply thinking about how horrible her grandchildren were."

Fortunately, you were too in your head to hear Thomas' words, or you'd have likely flinched at his words and how they were so close to the real reason. You never got old enough to have grandchildren though—some of your memories were foggy, but you knew you hadn't even started college before you passed.

All in all, you'd been spending the last handful of months raging after your revelation. While it was technically...Cool...That you'd been reincarnated into a fictitious world, you kept asking yourself one thing.

Why on Earth, on everything good, did you have to be born within the universe of Harry Potter?

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