Run, verb. To move with haste, to hurry.

She was just a shop girl, nothing special. Had never been anything special, just typically outcast at school save for her two best friends. Her looks were average, her natural dentistry typical and enhanced with years of retainer use, her hair a boring shade of brown, her… well, you get the idea.

She lived in an average house, saving up for university because while she exceeded at academics, she never did quite exceed in paperwork, and had missed out on grants and scholarships, and split duties with her parents. She had a typical love life with one of her best friends seeking her affections. An average life, with average prospects.

She hated average. She loved Ron, she really did, but she didn't love him in the way that he deserved (that she deserved). She didn't love him through everything, like Ginny loved Harry. She didn't love him regardless of how similar to his brother he was, nor how dissimilar to himself that he'd become following Fred's death in Afghanistan, like Angelina loved George. She didn't love how he'd lived up to his potential after a rather unremarkable start, like Hannah love Neville. She didn't love that she'd found her perfect complement, the one who never belittled her beliefs, only sought to understand them, like Luna loved Rolf. Simply put, she didn't love him the right way.

Though she'd never tell them, she loved to watch the people around her, those in her shop and those walking by on the street. She liked to make up lives for them, fantastical adventures they went on, loves had and loves lost. She liked to imagine those lives for herself, but nothing would ever, could ever live up to what she was doing now.

Running down the street, being dragged by a mysterious stranger who she'd caught shooting coloured bolts of light from a thin stick in his hand, aiming at the mannequins of all things, she couldn't resist the grin that wanted to break out across her face. If her friends could see her now, they'd hardly recognize her. True, she still wore her sensible work clothes, with the sensible low pumps, but gone was the sensible hairstyle, the sensible look of polite disinterest. Her hair was a wild nest of tangled curls, her eyes alit in a way not seen since she'd first discovered the public library.

She didn't stop grinning, even as the blond man dragged her into a pub that hadn't been there a moment before, through the dimly lit room, and into the fireplace, where he then threw green dust and called out "Flamel Heights." She didn't stop grinning as he turned to her, as if realizing she was still there, twirling that strange stick between his fingers, grinning just as big.

That was the start of her own fantastical adventure, and she would never look back.