I think some souls have a way of connecting without our knowledge. That's why you can meet someone for the first time, but inside you just know. You know it is not the first time you've felt them.

—JmStorm, Connected

Chapter 5:

31 July, 1991

Diagon Alley in Charing Cross Road, London, England

"Hello," said a boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

The boy was pale with a pointed face. He was standing on a footstool while Madam Malkin's assistant pinned up his long black robe. Harry stood on the stool next to him as Madam Malkin instructed, slipping a long robe over his head and began to pin it to the right length.

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands with my cousins," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry almost twitched. The boy strongly sounded like Dudley.

The boy hadn't noticed, though.

"Do you have your own broom?"

"No," Harry said.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.

"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

Again Harry said, "No."

He was feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, as will my cousins, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" Harry heard Madam Malkin make noise in the back of her throat, but if the boy had heard her he simply just ignored her. "I would bet that Pyxis would be in Hufflepuff if she wouldn't throw a fit; honestly, you would think the girl can't take a joke. But Nike is a true Slytherin. I can't see her in any other house—well maybe Ravenclaw, but she would be too smart for them."

"Mmm," said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting, and wondering who Pyxis and Nike were exactly.

The boy suddenly stopped talking, and gasped. "I say, look at that man!" He nodded towards the front window where Hagrid was standing, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams.

Harry was pleased that he finally knew something the boy didn't know. "That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy. Harry didn't like the way his face twisted. It reminded him of Aunt Petunia when the neighborhood kids would run amuck during the summer time. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," Harry corrected. The boy was reminding him more of the Dursley's with each passing minute.

"Yes, exactly," the boy said, like a servant and a gamekeeper were the same thing. "I heard he's a sort of savage—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

Harry finally looked directly at the boy, getting a good look at him and putting his face to memory. "I think he's brilliant," he said coldly.

The boy gave a slight sneer, and his tone was mocking. "Do you? Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," Harry said shortly. He discovered that giving up the blunt answer to that question in particular usually made people move onto a different subject quicker than anything else.

"Oh, sorry," said the boy. Harry was surprised that he actually sounded sorry, even if it was only slightly. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

Our kind?

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

Before Harry could answer, the shop's door swung open as a small mass with untamed curly hair came barreling in like a hurricane.

"Dracey!" The hurricane squealed at a pitch only dogs could hear; Harry was sure of that. The worker who had been putting the finishing touches on the other boy's robe barely moved out of the way as the hurricane crashed into the boy, pulling him into what looked like a bone crushing hug. "Look how cute you are! A right dapper young fellow you are!"

The boy struggled to get loose, but his fight was in vain.

"Pixie! Let go of me this instant!"

"Aw," the hurricane—which Harry could finally distinguish as female—cooed with a pout. She pinched the boy's cheeks like he was a baby. "Don't struggle. I hate it when they struggle too much."

Harry's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs.

The boy wasn't phased by the girl's unusual words, though.

"What are you doing here?" He asked when he was released. "You're supposed to be with mother."

"But I've already gotten my wand." She brandished a long stick from its case and waved it in the boy's face. "See, look! Eleven inches long, made from hazel wood and guess what—the core is made of unicorn hair! Mister Ollivander said the wood is very sensitive and fiercely loyal to the person it chooses. He also said something about it being temperamental like the owner, but I couldn't care! I've finally got my wand!"

"Don't point that thing at me, you idiot," the boy hissed. He moved out of the way like it was a gun. "Where's mother and Nike?"

"At the wandshop still," the girl said. She stroked the wand lovingly. "Nike isn't having the best time finding one. Mine chose me in less than five minutes."

The boy rolled his eyes. "That just means you're simple."

The girl pouted again. "Don't be mean, Dracey. It hurts my feelings."

Before they could start squabbling again, Madam Malkin said to Harry, "That's you done, my dear," and instructed the girl to take his place on the stool.

Harry was glad to have some sort of excuse to get away from the two of them.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," the boy drawled when Harry and the girl switched places.

"He's going to Hogwarts?" The girl asked, skeptically. "But he's so small!"

"Nike's small, you're small."

"For a boy, I mean!"

"Perhaps he hasn't had his growth spurt yet."

Harry felt the warmth of his cheeks. "I'm right here, you know?"

The girl turned her attention back to Harry. She smiled widely at him, showing all of her teeth. It made her look more manic than a little girl.

"I see you, but you can't see them."

Harry blinked, taken aback. "What?"

The girl nodded her head. "They've been watching you for a long time now."

"Stop it," the boy hissed a little too loudly. "What did mother say about doing that out in public?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, not to do it—but I couldn't help. Besides, he doesn't understand. He looks like niffler in a treasure chest." She smiled pleasantly this time at Harry, making herself look completely different from before. "We do hope that we'll see you at Hogwarts. Maybe we'll even be in the same house! Wouldn't that be great?!"

Harry hadn't responded, but the boy and girl had left him with much to ponder on as he quietly ate ice cream Hagrid had bought him—which was chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts.

Hagrid took notice to his demeanor.

"What's up?" He asked.

"Nothing," Harry said quickly.

Hagrid obviously knew it was a lie, but didn't question him as they stopped to pay for parchment and quills. Harry thought it was neat when he found a bottle of ink that changes colors as you wrote.

"Hagrid," Harry asked when they left the shop, "what's Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know—not knowin' about Quidditch!"

"Don't make me feel worse!" Harry all but pouted, though he wouldn't admit to it. He explained his encounter with the pale boy in Madam Malkin's. "...and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in."

"Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were—he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles—look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

Harry didn't want to think about Aunt Petunia. So instead he asked, "What is Quidditch?"

"It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like—like soccer in the Muggle world—everyone follows Quidditch—played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls—sorta hard ter explain the rules."

"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but—"

Harry's eyes widened.

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," he said gloomily.

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," Hagrid said darkly, even seriously. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

"Vol—sorry—You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"

Hagrid nodded. "Years an' years ago."

Harry wanted to press for more, but he decided to keep quiet. Everyone seemed scared to even speak of Voldemort even when his name wasn't mentioned.

"What's a niffler?" Harry asked when the silence got a little thick.

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Hagrid hadn't even paid attention to what books he had been grabbing; he was too busy chatting excitedly about nifflers. They were magical beasts who liked shiny things, which made them wonderful for locating treasure.

Harry had tuned Hagrid out for a bit—not that he was trying to be rude, but because he got distracted by the Curses and Countercurses section. One title in particular caught his attention: Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue- Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

Just as he was about to reach for it, Hagrid had pulled him away.

Harry sheepishly said, "I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley."

Hagrid pressed his lips together tightly.

"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances," Hagrid said. "An' anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level."

Harry bit back an exasperated sigh, and followed Hagrid around for the rest of the time. He had wanted the solid gold cauldron, but Hagrid refused because "it says pewter on yer list." He did end up with a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Harry was intrigued by the Apothecary shop, even though the smell that permitted the air was a mixture of bad eggs and rotten cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes which were five Knuts a scoop.

He made a mental note to have Hagrid go over wizarding currency again.

They stopped to take a break once they left the Apothecary, and Hagrid looked over Harry's list.

"Just yer wand left—A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

Harry felt his cheeks redden.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at—an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Twenty minutes later, Harry left Eeylops Owl Emporium with a smile on his face. He now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with

her head under her wing. He didn't think that it was possible for his smile to disappear anytime soon.

"Don' mention it," Hagrid repeated as Harry stammered out his thanks more than once, sounding like Professor Quirrell. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now—only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

Harry was buzzing with excitement. A real magic wand. This was the part he had been anxiously waiting for.

They stopped in front of a narrow and shabby looking shack with peeling gold letters over the door; Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

Someone was coming out of the shop, the tinkling bell notifying their departure. A tall, slim woman wearing expensive clothing stepped through the door, a donning expression on her face. Harry thought that she was nice looking while possessing arrogant good looks.

He heard her say, "Merry meet," in a clear, cold voice.

The woman would certainly give Aunt Petunia a run for her money, that was for sure.

Harry was too busy admiring the older woman that he had almost ran into someone else.

"Oh—I'm sorry," Harry said when he took notice of a girl who looked to be the same age as him, but much shorter.

"Pardon me," the girl said well mannerly. "I should have been paying more attention to where I was walking. Do forgive me."

Harry's eyes widened. He had never heard someone their age speak so sophisticatedly.

"It's alright," Harry assured her. He subconsciously ran his fingers through his hair, feeling self conscious as the girl fixed her sparkling grey eyes on him. "It was my fault."

The girl furrowed her brows, seemingly taking note of his face. Her eyes lingered on his scar, but for less than a second, and she didn't comment on it.

"It was still thoughtless of me." The girl's voice was clear, too, but it lacked the coldness of the older woman's. She almost sounded bored, though.

"Nike," the older woman called. The girl glanced over her shoulders. "Come along. You still have to get fitted for your robes."

The girl, Nike—Harry put her face and name to memory, remembering the pale boy and the hurricane personified as the other girl had been talking about her—looked back once more at him.

"Be of good cheer," she said before she walked over to the woman.

Harry, not really knowing how to respond to the girl, watched feebly as she rounded the corner of the building and out of his sight. He had been memorized by her eyes. He felt like he had seen them before, but from where, he couldn't remember. But he knew that he had met her once before.

Hagrid's large hand clapping gently on his shoulder made him jump, bringing him out of his musings. The man had a grim expression on his face as he watched the females leave.

"Come on, let's go get yer wand," Hagrid said. He led Harry into the shop.

It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," a voice said somewhere in the depth of the shop.

Harry jumped.

Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he quickly got off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

Harry gulped.

"Hello."

The man leaned forward to get a better look at him.

"Ah, yes. Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter," said the man matter of factly. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Harry inhaled, but forgot to exhale. He clung to any new information about his parents, and he could listen to people talk about them all day, but right now Harry wished Mr. Ollivander would blink. He had never seen eyes that looked exactly like molten silver; and as they peered upon him so steadily, it made Harry feel like the wandmaker saw something about him that no one else ever could.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

That information was nice and all, and Harry would most certainly thank the older man later on, but he was far too concerned with his personal space—something he was very protective of—being invaded. Mr. Ollivander was standing so close to him that Harry swore he could see a reflection of himself in those most unusual, unsettling eyes.

Without warning, Mr. Ollivander raised his hand and traced the lightning scar on Harry's forehead.

"And that's where…." The man trailed off, suddenly uninterested in the scar. His silvery eyes appeared to have hardened. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands….well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…."

He stopped his talking, and to Harry's relief, he spotted Hagrid.

"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again. Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," Hagrid said.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?"

Mr. Ollivander sounded put out with the notion, but all Harry could think about was that Hagrid had gotten expelled.

He glanced at the giant man. Despite what people might think of his size, Hagrid was just like a teddy bear.

So what did he do?

Hagrid looked down at his shuffling feet. "Er, um—yes, yes they did. I've still got the pieces, though."

Mr. Ollivander's head moved to the side, looking at the umbrella held tightly in Hagrid's hand. "But you don't use them?"

"Oh, no, sir," Hagrid said quickly.

Mr. Ollivander hummed, but turned back to Harry.

"Let me see." He pulled out a long measuring tape out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

Harry scratched the back of his head. "I'm right handed."

"Hold out your arm." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry was barely able to give it a wave (which made him feel foolish) when Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hands.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—"

It was again snatched from his hand before he could give it a try.

"No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And he tried again. Again, and again, and again. He didn't know what Mr. Ollivander was waiting to happen. The pile of wands was starting to grow higher and higher, and Harry's excitement started to dwindle. He found it odd that as the pile continued to grow, so did the pleased look on Mr. Ollivander's face.

"Another tricky customer, eh? That's two in a day. Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand, and he instantly knew that he liked it. Whatever Mr. Ollivander has been looking for, Harry had just found it in the wand. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped.

"Oh, bravo!" Mr. Ollivander cheered. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well….how curious….how very curious…."

He kept mumbling to himself as he wrapped Harry's wand in a brown paper.

"Sorry," Harry said, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed his pale gaze upon Harry.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother, why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry swallowed. He didn't like the sound of that.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember….I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry decided then and there that he didn't like Mr. Ollivander and his unusual eyes.

He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed at them from his shop.

Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour

North Side, Diagon Alley

Lucius and Narcissa weren't prone to giving the children sweets; especially since Pixie was born naturally hyper, or so Narcissa claimed. But since it was a special occasion that would only happen once, the adults had decided to treat them.

They sat in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour—sticking out like sore thumbs in Nike's opinion.

People whispered around them, trying to be discreet with their stares, but Nike had caught some onlookers eyes a few times and stared until they had looked away. She then went back to picking at her ice cream in a bowl—chocolate drizzled with melted marshmallows—and took baby bites. She didn't feel like eating ice cream, honestly; she didn't feel like eating anything at all. Her stomach was twisted so tightly that she was sure the food wasn't settling.

Pixie already had some of her cherry flavored ice cream smeared on her face, and Narcissa sighed each time she had to tell her to clean her face. Draco sat up straight like they had all been taught, and ate his vanilla ice cream in moderation, savoring the taste.

"Drackey looked so cute in his robes," Pixie said. Over the past year the pitch of her voice had gotten higher, and at times it sounded almost baby-ish. She had also taken to calling Draco by an insufferable nickname, only because she knew he hated it.

"Don't call me that," Draco grumbled. He much preferred to be called Dragon or Drac.

Narcissa let her mask slip as she appraised her son with a hint of a smile. "Yes, Draco is turning into a fine young man." Her smile dropped when she saw ice cream smeared over Pixie's face again. "And you, young lady, look like you've been raised by werewolves."

Pixie playfully bared her teeth and curled her fingers to make them look like claws, pretending to growl and swipe at Narcissa.

But the older woman wasn't amused. "Pyxis, at least act like you have some manners."

Pixie just ignored her, though.

"And there was another boy—he was cute, too! And so small! I was taller than him."

"No, you weren't," Draco said.

"Yes, I was! Nike was probably taller than him."

"Impossible. Everyone's taller than Nike."

Nike looked up from her ice cream, glaring.

"I resent that statement," she said. She couldn't help that she was short and petite.

She hoped she had Narcissa's figure when she was older. She didn't want to look like a stick for the rest of her life.

"Who was this boy?" Lucius asked.

To the public, Narcissa was the picturesque trophy, house wife; being seen and not heard. She always looked her best, and it seemed like she was just made for this life. She especially shined with motherhood. But in truth, when they were secured behind the closed doors of their home, Lucius was the quiet one. He kept his thoughts to himself, dedicating his time to his work and then spending the rest of his day to his family. Narcissa most certainly ran the household—and her marriage. Lucius was a firm believer in the "happy wife, happy life" notion.

"I don't know," Draco said. He wiped his face clean of any excess ice cream. "Pixie came barreling in like a mad woman before he could say."

Pixie made a sound in the back of her throat. She looked betrayed.

"Pyxis," Narcissa scowled through her teeth. "I swear to Merlin…."

"I've never seen him before," Draco said to his father. He looked smug as Pixie got berated. "He was dark, though—maybe even a shade darker than Blaise. His hair was an absolute mess."

"He had pretty eyes!" Pixie added. "They were big, and bright, and green! I've never seen eyes that color before."

Nike remembered the boy she had accidentally bumped into at Ollivander's.

"Green, you say?"

Pixie nodded her head, and Draco said, "They were an unusual coloring of green."

"Did he have a peculiar scar?" Nike asked.

"I didn't see any kind of scar," Draco said. Pixie said the same. "Why?"

"I think I saw the same boy," Nike admitted. "He had a scar, though, underneath all that hair. On his forehead."

It had looked like lightning coming from a rip in the inky night, as if behind the dark canvass that was his skin complexion was a brilliant light just waiting to flood through any crack, no matter how small. The scar itself had the appearance of multiple cuts; a crazy zig-zag of jagged bolts endlessly protruding like pure white crackling.

She herself had never seen eyes so green either. They had appeared so bright, and Nike wondered if they were purely green—the rarest eye color.

Lucius looked particularly paler than usual. "A scar on his forehead?"

"Yes. You saw it, too. Right, Cissy?"

"It resembled a lightning bolt," Narcissa simply said.

The adults shared a look that only Nike saw.

"I hope he's in the same house as us," Pixie prattled on. She swung her feet since they didn't touch the floor, and Nike was sure that she was purposely kicking Draco. "He was cute, wasn't he, Reggie?"

Pixie had also started calling Nike Reggie. She claimed that Nike needed a nickname as well, and since the name itself didn't leave much room for one, Pixie had decided to butcher her middle name. It was kind of sweet, not that Nike would ever admit it out loud. Pixie only gave nicknames to the things and people she truly cared for.

"I suppose," Nike said, "if you like kicked, lost puppies."

"Well, I thought he was adorable," Pixie snipped.

She always had a liking for quiet, shy things. It was part of the reason she followed Nike everywhere she went.

"Mother goddess, help me," Nike heard Narcissa mumble.

The last thing they needed was for Pixie to go through a boy-crazy phase. May all the gods and goddesses have mercy on the boy who Pixie would ultimately set her sights on. She would not be merciful in her pursuit.

They spoke no more of the green eyed boy with a lightning bolt mark on his forehead, but Nike couldn't get him out of her mind.

She didn't necessarily think he was cute—she wasn't interested in boys yet—but he wasn't as bad looking as some boys. She supposed that if he would shape up his hair, and didn't wear clothing that looked to be a size too big and hand-me-downs then, yes, he would be—as Pixie put it—cute.

She wondered about his scar, too, and why Lucius would have such a reaction to it. She and every child alike had obviously heard of Harry Potter—the boy who had vanquished the Dark Lord as a baby—but no one knew him. According to Severus Snape, a frequent face at Malfoy Manor and Draco's godfather, The-Boy-Who-Lived lived lavishly with his maternal relatives; a real spoiled brat where his exact words, but Nike didn't think he had room to talk. He was the godfather of Draco Abraxas Malfoy. Nike loved her cousin dearly, and she would do anything for him, but he was most definitely the runner up for most spoiled brat in all of wizarding Europe. She couldn't imagine anyone worse than Draco in that aspect.

So Nike found it hard to believe that the boy she had ran into was the Harry Potter. He had been too thin, and he looked like no one cared for his outer appearance. Surely someone who was lavished for such an incredible victory wouldn't willingly wear such clothing.

And he had been so bashful. If Snape was right about his assessment of The-Boy-Who-Lived, then wouldn't he have been boastful—shouting his arrival in typical Gryffindor fashion?

So the boy couldn't have been Harry Potter. But the scar on his forehead had told her differently.

Harry Potter or not, the boy did have beautiful eyes. They had been bright and soft all at once, like the grass when Spring bloomed. The lightness of them resembled the sun's rays warming everything in its path. But they had also glimmered unlike any emerald gemstone she had ever seen, and when the light had caught his eyes they just screamed beauty. She started to wonder if they could change colors, too. That would make them even more beautiful than they already were.

She had seen eyes like his once, she realized suddenly, in the deepest memories of her dreams.

"Reggie!" Pixie yanked on her arm. "You didn't tell us what wand you got."

"Aspen wood with a Dragon heartstring. Twelve three fourths of an inch," Nike said in an aloof tone.

She didn't want to think about Hogwarts, not really. The thought of it left a bad taste in the back of her mouth and her stomach started to feel iffy again. She didn't want to think about all the pressure placed upon her shoulders—wishing that she could be placed in whichever house actually suited her instead of following family tradition out of fear of disownment.

"Nike," Narcissa said, brushing her fingers through her black hair. "What's wrong?"

She blinked and focused on the scenery behind her cousin. It was overcast, still raining that thin, dismal drizzle that would last for days.

"Nothing." She tried to sound nonchalant again, but it even sounded force to her ears.

"You don't look so good. Are you feeling alright?"

Nike wanted to nod her head and assure Narcissa that she was perfectly fine, but she couldn't shrug her emotions off. "I'm nervous, Cissy."

Narcissa sat quietly in her seat and Nike knew that she was going to wait for her to speak. Even though her cousin most likely knew what was eating at her.

Nike took a deep breath. "What if I'm not put in Slytherin?"

Narcissa just laughed. "Is that what you're so worried about? You'll be perfectly fine. There's nothing to worry about, I promise."

Pixie's screeching voice drew Narcissa's attention away from Nike, and she was glad.

She still didn't feel better as they left the ice cream parlour. Nike pulled her robe tighter against her body and stared at her feet, thinking.

But what if I don't get placed into Slytherin?

What would Great-Grandfather do?

She shuddered at the thought, unaware that she was rubbing the words that had been cut onto the back of her right hand when she had been forced to write a hundred lines as a form of punishment months back.

One thing was certain: Nike needed to do whatever it took to uphold her family's image. The rain continued to drizzle and the air was clean and damp, letting her see her breath. Maybe things were bad, but they could've been worse. She was used to that. She just couldn't ignore the feeling that life was going to become more complicated.

Responses:

gr8rockstarrox: Thank you for reviewing! I haven't read Circe yet, but just from the summary it sounds like it's a good read. I'm glad you liked Harry's POV; I'm trying to incorporate other characters' viewpoints as well. As for how long the story will be, I'm not entirely too sure. I have the events written down and outlined so I can stay on track, and from that alone you're probably looking at more than thirty chapters. And yes—Hercules and Lyra were brother and sister who were forced to marry due to young magical children dying so early. There will be a Delphini Riddle, but she'll be first introduced towards the end of the story, and I have a different future planned for her.

Information/Credits/Disclaimers:

—All characters and events belong to J. K. Rowling and to the publisher(s) Bloomsbury Publishing (UK), Scholastic (US), and Pottermore (e-books; all languages). Events from the movie(s) belong to the production and distribution companies.

—Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour was a shop that sold ice cream. Located in North Side, Diagon Alley, next to the Second-Hand Bookshop, the Parlour was owned and operated by Florean Fortescue before he disappeared in 1996.

—DescriptionA mother goddess is a goddess who represents, or is a personification of nature, motherhood, fertility, creation, destruction or who embodies the bounty of the Earth. When equated with the Earth or the natural world such goddesses are sometimes referred to as Mother Earth or as the Earth Mother.

—This chapter was not overlooked by a beta.

—If there is ever any error within my story pertaining to the Pagan religions/ceremonies, or to the mythology (unless stated otherwise) then please let me know.

—This photo was the inspiration behind Harry's scar. All rights belong to the original owner: pin . it / twr4lvekf62vzk (remove the spaces)