I’ll admit, dying as a twenty-four year old in 2015 then waking up as a newborn baby in the year 1978 was rather shocking. On the one hand, I’m Buddhist, so I feel vindicated knowing that samsara is real and my karma was good enough not to have been reborn as a bug and immediately squashed. Or, at least I was raised Buddhist in my first life, which is chronologically after my second life… Which leads to the other hand: I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to remember your past lives, much less that technically your past life is in the future.
So, no, I suppose the actual reincarnation wasn’t surprising to me; I was just getting caught on those fiddly little details for no reason. Or perhaps I just wanted to distract myself from my grief. Because even though I’m the one who died, I still lost my life–my family, my friends, my history, my identity–I have a valid reason to mourn.
It only took me a little while to get over it–give or take a few years. My new parents always seemed thankful that I was a quiet, solemn toddler. It was a little worrying to them, true, but better than having a shrieking, ill-mannered child like most other parents. But, eventually, I moved on. This life isn’t so bad. And in all honesty, it was pretty fun to be a kid again.
It’s pretty much the same as last time–I guess I wasn’t so good as to be reborn as royalty–if a decade or so earlier than my memories. Sure I kind of missed Pokemon and some of the cartoons from the 90s, but the 80s weren’t so different. Less reliant on video games and television, sure, but I had always been more of a reader than a gamer. Luckily, most of my favorite children’s books had been published before the 90s.
Well, my absolute favorite children’s books wouldn’t be published until the late 90s, but I had other activities to keep me occupied. It was enough that I still held the series dear in my memories; and I suppose I could be patient enough to wait until 1997 for the first book. But perhaps I spoke too soon.
In July of 1989, just a few months after my second eleventh birthday, my mum opened the door to an particularly interesting man bearing an even more particularly interesting letter. The man, shorter than my average eleven-year-old height, introduced himself as Filius Flitwick, Professor of Hogwarts. One of my future teachers. My parents took some convincing–by way of Professor Flitwick charming the coffee table to canter around the room, the tea set levitating around it in a whimsical orbit–but eventually they believed. I didn’t even need that much.
I suppose I wouldn’t have to wait so long for the Harry Potter series if I was already in it.
A/N: Prequel for this brainstorm, aka the Hufflepuff OC. Yes, I know Flitwick is Ravenclaw’s Head of House, but I figured multiple staff members help deliver letters to muggleborns and it’s not like they know which House they’ll end up in pre-Sorting. And Flitwick is cool.
If I’m going to be completely honest, the title is a reference to “The Crazy Nastyass Honey Badger (original narration by Randall),” and although I was tempted greatly… calling it Honey Badger Don’t Give A Shit would probably give readers the wrong idea.