Long before Harris Wells remembered his past life or even knew the word "magic," he was just a quiet, observant boy growing up in a sleepy little village of Elderfield. To the villagers, he was peculiar, not in a bad way, but in the way children sometimes are when they seem older than they should be.
Harris didn't cry much as a baby. In fact, he was unnervingly calm. He would stare at the sky for hours, watching clouds roll past like he was searching for something hidden within them. His silver eyes, rare and striking, often caught the attention of passersby, who whispered that he had an "old soul."
He lived with his foster parents, a simple couple, kind but clueless about what lay beneath Harris's quiet nature. They named him Harris after an ancestor and Wells after the nearby old wishing well where he was found as a baby wrapped in a blanket with no note, just a strange symbol stitched into the fabric: a circle within a triangle, surrounded by ancient runes.
Even as a toddler, strange things happened around Harris.
Once, when he was three, a bully pushed him in the mud during playtime. The next second, the boy slipped and fell face-first into a pile of horse dung despite standing nowhere near it. The adults called it "karma." Harris just blinked, feeling something twist deep inside his chest like invisible strings pulling at reality.
Another time, he cried quietly under the bed when he was scared of a storm. The candle on the shelf lit by itself, casting gentle shadows that danced like they were trying to cheer him up.
No one taught him these things. He didn't understand them. They just… happened.
The older he got, the more these "coincidences" increased.
By the age of five, Harris would instinctively know when someone was lying. By six, he could feel when someone was watching him even if they were behind walls. He once asked a neighbor why she was sad, even though she hadn't said a word. The woman burst into tears.
But all of it was foggy, distant. Like instincts, not memories.
Then came the dreams.
Strange dreams.
Flying brooms, talking hats, a boy with a lightning scar, a castle with shifting staircases, green flashes of light, and voices whispering in a language he had never heard but somehow understood.
Sometimes, he'd wake up with tears on his cheeks. Other times, he would be gripping the bedsheet like it was a lifeline, breathing hard like he had just escaped danger.
His foster mother worried. "Just dreams, love," she would whisper, holding his trembling hands.
But Harris knew better. Somewhere deep down..… they weren't just dreams.
They were pieces.
Pieces of something bigger.
Of someone he used to be.
And soon, he would remember everything.