Disclaimer: The magical world of Harry Potter and all of its people, places and things belong to JK Rowling, I borrow them for mere entertainment.

Description: Morgan Reid is an American witch sent to Scotland to live with her elderly grandfather. Navigating a new school, a rocky relationship with Hogwarts favorite quidditch fanatic Oliver Wood, and the traumatic deaths of her father and brother, can Morgan overcome her past to make something of her future? Oliver/OC Animagus

Chapter One: Celidon Hamlet

"Last call for U.S. Airways Flight 187 Logan to Heathrow Airport. Last call." The man at the ticket counter said over the intercom system as he ushered Morgana Reid through the wide metal door towards the plane. A small hope filled her and she turned to look back just once at her mother's petite frame, eager to see just a sheen of apprehension, but the glance only confirmed the truth.

Though she was physically standing behind the glass, waving despondently at her daughter, Angela Reid was gone. The sad frown plastered over her mother's face might have fooled others, but Morgan knew better than to interpret it as either regret or grief. There was no emotion behind her mother's hollow eyes; just a vast emptiness. Morgan was being sent away and though she didn't want to leave her mother alone, in the long run it was the best for them both. Her mother wanted to forget. Forget her husband, her son, magic, their lives together; everything that had been taken from them. It been months since the accident and though Morgan begged for her mother's tears to end, once they had all that remained was the silence between them. She'd hated that even more.

Morgan bit her lip, holding back the resentment that filled her thoughts. If her mother could forget, she could too. She must. Morgan snapped her head back towards the gray corridor and walked decidedly down the ramp towards a blank slate...

The shuttle bus roared way from the curb in puff of exhaust, leaving Morgan standing contemplatively on the sidewalk with her backpack and two suitcases. There'd been no greeting at the airport. Her grandfather was far too old to make the long trip to London so instead Morgan was grumpily making her way towards the nearest floo network. She looked up at the ragged emblem of a grimy pub. The Leaky Cauldron was a dirty Tudor, aged and rough around the edges. It surprised her that her grandfather had described this to her as one of the busiest gateways between muggle London and the wizarding world. Really? This is it? Morgan pondered to herself as she pulled out the parchment from her grandfather's letter to confirm the address. She scanned skeptically at her directions but '107 Charing Cross Road' was written in perfectly looped penmanship. This was the correct address. Rattling forward with her luggage Morgan entered unknowingly.

The inside was dark and dingy; numerous oil lamps on tables and ceiling chandeliers provided minimal lighting. The tired grey walls were littered with moving photos and pictures that stared out at the small number of customers huddled over their meals at long wooden tables. Dressed in muggle clothes, the owner glanced at her warily quizzically until Morgan pointed towards the empty fireplace and he nodded politely. Morgan's eyes searched around the edges of the great stone hearth before they settled on small terracotta pot filled with powder. Reaching in, she cupped a handful of floo powder in her hands before stepping into the fireplace. She turned around and threw the powder forcefully onto the stone. Instantly, a cool emerald shade of flames enveloped her. She loudly pronounced her final destination. "Eideard Reid, Celidon Hamlet, Scotland."

Morgan was spat out into a small kitchen in a gust of soot. With a suffocating cough she tried to wave away the black chimney ash hanging in the air around her. "Dreadful sorry, love," came a thick Scottish accent and a helping hand as Eideard Reid, Morgan's grandfather, came scuttling over. Waving away the dust from the air with a thin wrinkled hand, he leant forward to brush the dust from Morgan's shoulder.

"I'm nae used tae company. Ah don't think that chimney's bin cleaned in years. Ah should've had ye come by wey o' th' neighbors next door. Nae muckle ta ye noo is it?" Her grandfather jabbered incessantly in his low gruff voice. "Let's have a keek at ye." Eideard commanded.

Morgan coughed once more, before swinging her face upwards shifting her bangs up out of her face with a flick. Standing up a little straighter for inspection her grandfather brushed the dirt of the edge of her nose.

"Och haven't ye grown. I've nae seen ye since ye wur a wee bit o' a thing. Merlin ye've gaen 'n sprouted on me." He said as Morgan tried desperately to follow his pronunciation.

Morgan had not seen her grandfather since she was five and barely even recognized him at first glance. Grandpa Eideard had never approved of her muggle mother and after they moved to America, feeling slighted, he'd refused to see the family. Morgan's parents rarely spoke of the Reids. The only contact she'd had with her grandparents had been yearly Christmas cards and even those had stopped when her grandmother had died three years earlier. Now at sixteen Morgan would be living with Eideard. A man she barely awkward under his gaze, she just nodded numbly to his observations.

"Ye've git yer Grandma's eyes. Aye Morvyn woulda bin right proud tae see it." With a quick spell her grandfather finally whisked away the dust so that Morgan could in finally see the room clearly.

She'd landed in the cottage's small kitchen. White stone walls met grey blue county cabinets and open shelves cluttered with mismatched dishes, kitchen wares, and knickknacks. The only cooktop was small metal wood stove that stood directly next to the fireplace. It gave off a steady heat that filled the small area with a cozy feeling. Now that the dust had been whisked away, Morgan recognized the faint scent of floral herbs wafting from the drying tea bunches hung by the panned glass window. A small table with two tea cups sat in the center taking up the majority of room in the space. Behind them a small tea kettle whistled.

"Juist in time." Grandpa Reid said with a swish and a flick of his wand, lifting the kettle off the stove.

"Hand me those tea cups, lass." Morgan let go of her tight grip on her luggage and turned behind to the shelf above the hearth. She nabbed two floral patterned porcelain cups and handed them over. Her grandfather put two tea infusers in the cups and poured in the steaming hot water. "Now let's let that steep awhile 'n ah show ye ta yer room."

Morgan followed him awkwardly, trying to navigate her luggage through the cramped and cluttered cottage. The kitchen gave way to a living room with a narrow hand painted spiral staircase. "Now mah room is in the back o' th' hoose. Ye'll be sleeping up 'ere in yer gran's study." Grandfather Reid mentioned towards the stairs.

"Oh let me hulp ye wi' those lass." The bags suddenly lifted into the air following Grandpa's slow trudge up the tight spiral stair case. "Now this used tae be yer da's room. Yer grandma stairted usin' it as a study whin he up 'n left us. It's nae been touched since she passed on. I've hadn't had th' time ta clean it up yit." Her grandfather walked over to the windows and a cloud of dust was visible as he pulled back some yellow curtains to allow the fading sunlight of the day to peek through the dusty windows.

Nana Morvyn had been a naturalist, studying herbology and magizoology most of her life. Her office reflected that dedication. The off-white grey stone room, was chock full of bookshelves that ran along the rooms few walls that were not eaved. The furniture was sparse. A small desk took up the only space next to the rooms windows; stacked with yellowed papers and files filled with charts and etchings of plant life. A lumpy white iron twin bed was in the corner along with some other sparse furniture. Morgan wondered if that was the same bed her father had slept on as boy. Judging by its looks, it wouldn't have surprised her.

"Ah know it's nae much, bit ye won't be 'ere lang afore ye'll be aff ta school. Ye're welcome tae chuck out whit ye don't need. In th' front thare ye'll find a bath. Th' trunk there's bin emptied oot fur a' ye things." He mentioned pointing around the small scattered space. "Why don't ye settle in, I'll be back in few wi a cuppa of valerian, freshly dried, it'll hulp ye relax."

Feeling out-of-place, Morgan looked around the attic grimly as she placed her backpack on the floor next to her bed. As she sat down, the worn springs of the mattress creaked their displeasure. She sighed, even the bed was telling her she didn't belong there.

The room was hardly what one might call spacious. The wooden slanted ceilings provided a few too many awkward curves that seemed to drag the ceiling down upon her. Yet, as small as it was, Morgan had to admit (rather reluctantly) that it was cozier than the rest of the house and at least it is well-lit. Morgan looked out the window at her first view of Scotland. Outside was a lush green yard that stood out brightly from the hazy sky. Though it wasn't grey out, the sun was still hidden behind a thin layer of clouds. In the distance she could see rolling hills and jagged peaks pushing up from a varied landscape. Her grandfathers house was attached to a larger one that he rented out. From the toys littering the yard they shared, it was clear that the neighbors must have children. "It's not what it looks likes in pictures." Morgan grumbled to herself.

The mood was quiet as she looked out. Overall the neighborhood seemed that way, shut off, quiet, and totally lifeless. Morgan turned and looked at the small night table beside the bed. Her grandfather had placed a small framed photo there. A chubby smile waved back as it floated on a broomstick against a grey Scottish sky. As she recognized the face, the air began to feel tight and thin. Morgan's breath was haggard. Unwilling to stand the pressure pushing in on her chest, she heaved the baggage on to the bed ran down the stairs making as much noise as possible to accompany her as she outran the silence that lingered in her memory.

The valerian oil her grandfather added made the tea weak and bitter to Morgan's distaste. Sitting with her grandfather in the kitchen, she swallowed in polite gulps as her grandfather described the village. Thankfully, Morgan was surprised to feel the effects of the tea slowly weaning the anxious pressure pressing down upon her lungs.

"This stretch o' road on th' loch 'ere that the cottage is on what we call Celidon Hamlet. Doon tae th' peninsula is a' wizarding folk, though maist o' us are getting on in years. A' th' young folk left fur Inverness lang ago." Grandpa Reid said before taking a sip. Thare are a few children around. A lad aboot yer age lives next door. Ye'll catch up wi' him th'morra, I've awready promised th' family we'd sup wi' thaim efter ye'd gotten settled. Thair guid fowk if ye need anythin' be sure tae ask thaim.

Now ta set a few rules. I'm nae yer pa 'n I'm nae aff tae to try tae be. Ye're sixteen, mair than auld enough tae know right from wrong 'n tak' th' consequences fur those actions. However, thare are still a few things ah won't abide. Na flooing around th' country. Yer da used tae juist go popping aroond the whole isle whenever th' mood struck 'em. Bade wi' th' village less ye've asked expressed permission. Git it?"

He chided looking for a response. Morgan gave a quick nod.

'Second na moping aboot. There's nay worse than an idle heart. If ye don't hae anythin' to do I'll recruit ye tae hulp me in th' herb gardens or wi' mah patients."

"There's not even anything to do-"

"Och teens are a' th' identical. Ye ain't even bin oot th' front door! How kin ye complain aboot not having anythin' to do? Go fur a walk! There's a community center doon th' muggle village ye can go tae, or ye tak' a boat oot on th' loch. Th' launch is doon th' path there. There's even an auld broom of yer da's in th' shed, 'n glory if yer rooms na filled ta th' brim with books. Ah even put the radio up there-"

Moran nodded exasperated, her eyes rolled quietly to the floor. Reading was not her idea of summer activities.

"Third, dinner's at six every day. Don't be late."

"Yes sir."

"Good that's settled. Noow it's a'most seven. How aboot a quick sandwich afore bed? Ye must be exhausted."

Morgan nodded once more despondently.

How had this become her life?

A/N: Please, please, please Read and then more importantly Review. I welcome criticism or feedback. If Grandpa's scottish accent is too much, let me know and I'll go back and edit it out.

I'm trying to write close to the books, so there will be the 90's references in the story. Historically authenticity is important right?! Yeah I know whatever.

ps. If your personally offended by my lack of decent grammar, I'm looking for a Beta Reader ::hint hint wink wink nudge nudge::