If being born again wasn't surreal enough, growing up in a magical home made it feel like I'd stepped into the pages of a storybook… only the pages smelled of parchment and cinnamon, and the story was now mine.
The first few weeks of life as Callum Dawn were filled with sounds, lights, and faces that grew familiar in ways that soothed my soul. My mother, had the voice of a lullaby and eyes like warm amber. She carried a scent of sandalwood and jasmine, and when she sang in Amharic while stroking my curls, I forgot I'd ever been anything but her son.
My father, had a presence like a hearth—steady, strong, and warm. When he held me, the world stilled. He was the kind of man who read aloud from old spell journals and wizarding newspapers while bouncing me on his knee, already introducing me to a life few Muggles could imagine.
Their home—our home—was nothing short of magical.
At first, I could only absorb its beauty in flashes between naps and bottle feeds, but once I could crawl, then toddle, I began to see it.
It was a great stone-and-wood manor nestled in the countryside just outside Bath, hidden away by protective enchantments I wouldn't understand until later. The architecture was a blend of sleek modern curves and old-world charm. There were high arched ceilings lined with floating candles, self-dusting corners, and enchanted windows that dimmed or brightened based on the sun.
The walls were alive. Paintings moved—really moved. They didn't just blink and wiggle like in the films I remembered—they stepped from frame to frame, muttered gossip, and sometimes watched me. One particularly cheeky portrait of a woman in emerald robes liked to quiz me when I passed by. She was the former head of the Dawn household, my great-grandmother Saphira, and she was very opinionated about proper posture even for a toddler.
There were books everywhere. Shelves upon shelves that stacked and rearranged themselves when you weren't looking. Some whispered. Some snored. I once reached for a big red tome and got gently slapped by the cover as it mumbled, "Not until you're older."
The magic in the house wasn't just background noise—it was woven into the air itself. Doors opened when you approached. Teapots refilled on command. My nursery ceiling changed scenes depending on my mood: clouds when I was sleepy, stars when I was curious, and once, dragons when I had a nightmare (not the best choice, as it turned out).
Despite all the wonder, my parents made sure I also had structure. They began homeschooling me as soon as I could speak clearly and follow instructions. At first, the focus was on basics—language, numbers, reading, writing. And they used Muggle methods on purpose.
"This is how non-magical children learn," my mother explained with a gentle smile one morning as I sat with a slate tablet and enchanted chalk. "You'll need to understand both worlds."
That made me respect them even more.
It also gave me the perfect excuse to leverage my past life's knowledge. I already knew how to read and do math, though I played along and slowly "picked things up" over time. I didn't want to raise suspicions, but even with my caution, my parents noticed something.
"He's sharp," my father said one night when he thought I was asleep. "Our son might be a future genius."
Samira chuckled softly. "Maybe so. He always seems like he's watching, like he's working out the rules of everything."
"Maybe our bloodline's are strong in him," Desmond mused. "Or maybe…" He trailed off, but I could feel the reverence in his voice.
I pretended not to hear, but a quiet pride settled into my chest. I wasn't a prodigy, no—but I was prepared. For the first time in both lives, I had time, support, and space to grow.
Time passed like wind through trees—sometimes loud, sometimes still.
By the time I turned five, my thoughts had grown faster than my body. I was tall for my age, with wiry limbs and dark curly hair that refused to stay down. I could read adult books with effort, write in two languages, and even recite wizarding history from the tapestry in the dining hall.
But most of all… I watched the magic.
My parents didn't let me learn actual spells yet, just a basic understanding of wand and wandless magic but I could feel the magic around me. Sometimes when I was alone, I whispered old Latin phrases I remembered from fantasy books or twisted my fingers the way I'd seen witches do in stories. Nothing happened. Not yet. But the feeling was there.
It lived in the walls, hummed in the air, and lately... it began to hum inside me.
I first noticed it when I got upset. A vase trembled once when I was frightened. The wind outside kicked up when I cried. Little things. Nothing anyone could call magic.
Until the night of the fire.
It was a quiet evening. Rain tapped the windows in steady rhythm, and the fireplace crackled warmly in the sitting room. My parents sat nearby—my father was reading a letter aloud from someone named Uncle Khalil, and my mother was gently weaving my hair into small braids while humming under her breath.
I wasn't paying attention to the letter. Something else had my focus.
The fire.
It called to me—not with words, not with sound, but with a feeling. It pulsed in my chest, like a heartbeat. I stared at the white-hot center of the flame, mesmerized. My heart thumped once, then again. The air around me seemed to thicken.
I stood up without thinking.
"Callum?" my mother said, but I didn't respond. I walked barefoot toward the hearth. My small hand lifted, drawn toward the fire as if it knew me—wanted me.
My parents shouted then. Chairs scraped. My father lunged to grab me.
Too late.
My fingers touched the flame.
And it exploded.
But not with heat or pain.
It burst outward in a soft, rushing bloom of white fire—not red, not orange, but pure white, like glowing feathers. The flames swirled around me, licking my arms and face, but I felt no pain. Instead, it was comforting, like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a winter night.
I stood there, hand still out, eyes wide. I should've been afraid. But all I felt… was peace.
My parents froze, unable to move or speak for a moment.
Then the fire receded, as suddenly as it had burst. The hearth returned to normal, and the room fell still. Smoke curled lazily upward, but there was no damage. Nothing was burned.
Just me… standing unscathed in front of a fire I had touched—and changed.
My mother rushed forward and fell to her knees, clutching my arms and checking every inch of me.
"You're not hurt?" she asked, voice trembling.
I shook my head, dazed. "It… it felt nice."
My father crouched beside us, eyes narrowed in thought.
"This is no ordinary display of accidental magic," he murmured.
Samira looked up at him, alarm and awe mixing on her face.
"I think," Desmond said slowly, "it's time we told him the truth."
My heart thudded.
I knew it.
The way they looked at me. The way they whispered when they thought I couldn't hear. The hints of something deeper in my bloodline—my lineage.
Something powerful. Maybe even dangerous.
I straightened my back as best a five-year-old could, looking them both in the eye.
That was the night my parents finally sat me down and told me the truth—not just about my magic, but about everything.
Even though I had known. I'd always known. I wasn't just some precocious little wizard with good instincts—I was a grown man in a child's body, reborn into a world I once thought fictional. I'd read the books, watched the films, even suffered through Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Continuity. But I chose—consciously chose—not to act like some know-it-all from the beginning.
Instead, I played my role: a bright, inquisitive child. Curious, yes. Gifted, maybe. But not suspicious. Not all-knowing. Not… unnatural.
Until that moment.
Until the fire.
Until I felt the truth brushing my fingertips.
Now, the mask could drop—just a little.
My parents led me to the library, a massive room with curved windows and charmed bookshelves that reshuffled themselves based on what you were reading. A fire crackled in the hearth—a normal one this time—and several old tomes, photographs, and shimmering scrolls floated around the room, suspended by gentle hovering spells.
Desmond and Samira sat across from me. My father conjured a warm mug of hot chocolate. My mother tucked a blanket around my legs like I was five again. Which, technically, I was.
And then it began.
"You're old enough to understand a bit more," my father said, his voice low and calm. "And you've always bee bright. So tonight, we'll give you what we can."
They started with the basics—things I already knew. The Statute of Secrecy. The Ministry of Magic. The way the Muggle world coexisted beside the magical one without knowing it. But then they went deeper.
With a snap of her finger, my mother conjured moving images in the air—memories, projections, magical reenactments of history. A dragon coiled around a floating island. Merlin speaking to a crowd. Witches in Ethiopian highlands forming spell circles beneath a blood-red moon.
My father followed with family trees, photos, and enchanted scrolls that opened themselves. I saw names older than the Tudor line—wizards from his side of the family who had helped build the foundations of magical law in Britain. Some were scholars. Others, duelists. One was even a codebreaker during World War II, using spell-encoded runes to intercept dark artifacts trafficked by Grindelwald's network.
Then came the mind-touches.
My mother sat beside me, touched her wand gently to my temple, and said a soft word in her native tongue. Magic flowed in—not in thoughts or voices, but in images. Scenes. Emotions. Whole stories packed into seconds and planted inside my awareness. I blinked as whole genealogies, snippets of spells, and traditions unique to her lineage bloomed behind my eyes.
I saw her as a young girl on the volcanic plains near Lalibela, drawing fire from stone. I saw her sister—my Aunt Aster—walking barefoot through a forest in Kyoto, her hands glowing with blue flames. I saw entire schools of magic unknown to European traditions.
It was overwhelming.
Hours passed. Maybe more. Time became meaningless.
When the last projection faded and the scrolls gently rolled shut, I sat back, breathless. My eyes were wide. Not just from the visuals—but from the sheer depth of it all.
To me, it was lore. World-building on a scale no writer could ever fully capture. This world—the real magical world—was deeper, more layered, more alive than the sanitized Hogwarts I'd grown up reading about. There were truths here. Complexities. Cultures that had existed long before Dumbledore's lineage, long before Britain even had a Ministry of Magic.
And I was part of it. Not just a footnote, but a woven thread in this ancient, magical fabric.
My mind buzzed with thoughts.
Then, Desmond smiled and said something that knocked the wind out of me all over again.
"You're five now, Callum. We've still got time—but eventually, you'll have to choose where you want to learn magic formally."
My ears perked up. "Hogwarts?"
"That's one option," Samira said, her fingers gently lacing with his. "The one I chose. The one most British-born witches and wizards go to."
"But it's not the only option," Desmond added, leaning forward. "You could study abroad—Ilvermorny in the States, like I did. Or..." He hesitated and looked at my mother.
Samira nodded with a wistful smile. "Or you could go with Aster. To Mahoutokoro. The school in Japan. You're the first in our family to be born with ties to all three schools." There is a student exchange program and you can qualify for a transfer if you change your mind but your grades need to be on point son. My father said.
My jaw dropped.
I had known this was a possibility, intellectually. But hearing it confirmed was something else entirely.
Three worlds. Three magical traditions. Three choices for my future.
"I… I didn't know I had that many options," I whispered. My voice came out higher than I meant, more five-year-old than adult, but it was real. "What's the difference between them?"
My parents exchanged a look. It was the kind of look adults give when they're about to talk to a child—but don't want to overwhelm them. I saw it instantly. I raised a hand before they could speak.
"No. Please don't sugarcoat it," I said. "I want the whole story. Even if it's complicated. I can handle it."
They paused.
Then smiled.
So they told me.
Hogwarts was old, prestigious, but rigid. Bound by tradition. Biased toward its own history. Safe and known, but slow to change.
Ilvermorny was younger. More open. More experimental. But still a place with shadows—echoes of Puritanism, buried bigotry, and Ministry interference across the ocean.
Mahoutokoro… was strict. Disciplinary. But balanced by deep magical harmony. It blended spellcraft with philosophy. Training there was as much about restraint and self-mastery as it was about power.
By the time they finished, I was stunned.
Three paths. Each one complex. None perfect. None easy.
"Do I have to decide now?" I asked.
Samira shook her head. "Not yet. Not until you're eleven. But we wanted you to know—to start thinking."
I nodded, biting my lower lip. "Then I'll wait. I'll think seriously when I'm ten."
They nodded. The conversation began to settle. The fire burned low. But something else tugged at the edge of my thoughts—something I had to ask.
I turned toward them slowly. "Can I… ask about someone?"
"Of course," Desmond said.
I hesitated. Then said it.
"What about the Potters? And… a boy named Harry?"
The air shifted.
It was subtle, but I felt it. Like a gust of wind under closed doors. My parents didn't move right away. When they did, they didn't speak—at first.
Then Desmond sighed, running a hand over his beard. "That's… complicated."
"Where did you hear that name Callum" My mother asked. I couldn't tell them I knew about them before hand but it was a good thing I heard them talk about the Potters a month ago and how Harry was doing with his family.
"I heard you say something about Harry should have come you for safety since he was technically your responsibility after your friend was unjustly sent to prison." My dad rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"We need to be more mindful of what we say with our son around." My mother nodded and agreed.
"I'm sorry honey I got to caught up in my feelings". My father patted her back saying its fine, you want Harry to be safe and not to let Lilly down.