Death
The first time the past life flashes began for Astraea, she was no older than six months.
The dream came like a phantom in the dead of night, threading itself into the stillness of the Moonglass household. Astraea, barely able to control her newborn limbs, twitched violently in her crib as her consciousness russian rouletted her two lives. In the darkness of her sleep, she saw a younger version of herself — no older than twenty two — hunched over a hospital bed, clutching her sister’s trembling hand.
"I-I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know it would hurt you," the girl sobbed, her voice thick with guilt. Her sister, pale and weak, tried to smile through the pain. “What can I do— Amaris please don’t leave us!”
The world around her cracked, and the dream shifted.
She was now on a bridge. The sky was heavy with rain, the world a blur of gray and ash. Astraea’s dream self was backing away, panic seizing her chest. A faceless figure, drunk and stumbling, lunged toward her, and then—Impact.
Astraea awoke with a sharp intake of air, her tiny infant body shuddering. Tears streamed down her face, though she could not understand why. Her fingers instinctively curled into the crib’s blanket, her heartbeat hammering as remnants of pain — both physical and emotional — faded into the back of her mind.
In the dim moonlight, her mother stirred. "Oh, darling..." murmured Selene Moonglass as she scooped Astraea up, gently cradling her in her arms. Selene was a very gentle soul, one that Astraea was grateful for when these moments happened.
"Another bad dream, sweet girl?"
Astraea did not respond. She obviously couldn’t. But something deep within her felt profoundly unsettled, as though she had glimpsed into a part of herself she was not meant to remember. Her mother, unaware of the storm brooding in her daughter’s soul, hummed softly and swayed her.
As much as she loved the lullaby and the stillness in the room, Astraea was not and could not be soothed. Her subconscious screamed you’ve died before. Something is wrong. You do not belong here. And yet she couldn’t make sense of it.
The dreams continued.
By the time Astraea was three, she began recognizing the faces in her dreams. Her mother from her past life — the occult professor — often appeared, her voice filled with frantic warnings. "Don’t touch the books, Amaris," she would say, her voice thick with desperation. "Some stories should never touch your skin." In those dreams, Astraea could feel the old resentment she once carried toward her past mother, dismissing her as a superstitious academic. She could feel the heavy weight of her power in those glimpses — the ability to see two roads laid out before people. It was always a burden she wished she never had; which is why she sought the world in solitude, and in wanderlust.
And yet, no matter how much she tried to understand these visions, they would slip away upon waking.
What troubled her the most, however, were the visions of her death.
A black, well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Her hands touching the bindings before falling off that crossing bridge where her sister had waited for her.
Astraea’s blood turned cold every time the image came to her. It felt too pointed. Too intentional. Why would she have held that book? The memory of her mother’s frantic warning in her past life now haunted her more than ever. Don’t touch it, Amaris. Some stories can alter fate. You’ve touched the supernatural. It will not bode you well.
But she was no longer Amaris. She was Astraea Moonglass, the daughter of Selene and Lyall Moonglass, and she was supposed to have a clean slate.
Except she didn’t.
By the time she was speaking, the magic began to stir within her.
At first, it was subtle. Astraea would wander through the house, her tiny hands brushing against walls, only to feel them pulse beneath her touch — as though ancient magic still slept beneath the Moonglass family home. Her mother would often find her staring out the window, wide-eyed and silent, as though she were watching something invisible.
The dreams never stopped. They only worsened.
She had begun to dream of him. Always faceless, always distant — but a figure who seemed to command a blur of emotions that made her feel death itself. She would see herself standing before him, her heart breaking as he walked away. And the strangest part? Her mind always supplied his name.
Harry.
She did not know who he was. She had no reason to know of him. But his presence haunted her regardless. The dreams always ended the same — with her dying or watching him die. She would wake up crying every time.
Her parents, of course, thought it was nothing more than childhood nightmares. But her father — Lyall — watched her with a quiet, haunted air. One night after seeking her mother for a bedtime story and some water, she overheard him speaking to Selene when they thought she was asleep.
"It’s the bloodline," Lyall murmured grimly. "The Moonglass gift. She feels it. It’s waking up."
Selene, ever the optimist, scoffed. "You’re overthinking it. She’s a child, Lyall. Let her be one."
"I’ve seen it before," he countered. "The way she looks at things she shouldn’t understand. She’s touched death. I’m sure of it."
Astraea did not know what the Moonglass bloodline was. All she knew was her family were a part of the merchant trades and had good business out in the parts of England where no city or smoke touched the fresh air. She knew her family lived humbly and well, never mentioning any other existing family. Asking for more on it would make her look wrong. But she felt it in her bones — heavy and cold, like something ancient clinging to her. And the worst part?
She felt like she’d done this before. Like death was always waiting for her — no matter what life she lived.
And somewhere in the pit of her soul, she knew that whoever the boy in her dream was — Harry — she would find him. Or he would find her. Somewhere along the way in one of the two paths she had in life. But no matter how many dreams of how many scenarios she would or could prepare, she only knew one thing could come.
Death would always follow.