Leta sat, alone, atop her school trunk and fussed with her fingernails. Her unruly black hair had been braided into two relatively neat plaits that hung over her shoulders. She glanced around, a little nervously.

At half past ten O'clock, Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was crowded and raucous. Shouts of reunited friends rang out, along with bangs, whizzes, and pops from the windows of the Hogwarts Express as young wizards and witches, restricted from practicing magic during the summer months, were free to whip out their wands once more.

Wizarding families from throughout the country had gathered here to see off their children to Hogwarts. Leta glanced around darkly as mothers embraced their sons and daughters before the latter boarded the train.

Not far away, Leta's own father, along with Mrs. Lestrange, were bidding farewell to Rhea. One year Leta's senior, Rhea seemed to know everything about Hogwarts, and from what Leta could tell, Rhea was quite the star at the wizarding school. Leta hadn't heard the end of it all summer—how the sorting hat had been so quick to place Rhea in Slytherin, how good Rhea was at spells, how much her teachers favored her. Yes, Rhea was proving to be a powerful witch, indeed. Of course, that came as no surprise to Rhea's parents. Rhea was a Lestrange, after all. No less was expected of her.

The praise the Lestranges had showered upon Rhea did nothing to ease Leta's own trepidation about entering Hogwarts. She'd been taken to get her wand only a week ago, and still she was afraid to touch it. She knew she'd be called upon to cast a spell in class sooner of later. In front of people.

All week, she'd had the same nightmare. She would lift up her wand, say the incantation… then nothing would happen, and a horde of blurry, multiplying faces laughed at her, before transforming into a pack of dragons shooting jets of fire.

You got your Hogwarts letter, didn't you? Leta reminded herself as her heart quickened. And only witches and wizards get those.

Mr. Lestrange bent down to kiss the blond crown of Rhea's head, and Mrs. Lestrange, just as yellow-haired as Rhea, opened her arms and held onto her daughter for a long moment.

"Mum," said Rhea, obviously embarrassed.

"Oh, Rhea, stop that," scolded Mrs. Lestrange. "I'm allowed to say a proper farewell to my daughter, aren't I?"

Rhea rolled her eyes, but allowed her mother to hug her for a few more seconds.

"Now," said Mrs. Lestrange, looking her daughter in the eyes. "I don't need to remind you of who you are. You are a Lestrange. And you are my daughter. The Lestrange's have always been the most powerful and skilled wizards and witches. A true Lestrange will uphold that reputation. Always."

Mrs. Lestrange's eyes, for a quick half-second, glanced at Leta, still sitting on her trunk in the shadows, looking on. Leta looked away quickly, as though she'd been caught prying. She felt as though a knife had been twisted into her heart.

Then Rhea was boarding the train. She paused on the steps to wave back at her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange waved back. Then Rhea was gone.

A long, awkward silence hung between the two adult Lestranges. At long last, Mrs. Lestrange glanced at her husband.

"I take it you'll be a few moments?" said Mrs. Lestrange in an oddly formal, almost cold, voice.

"I will," said Mr. Lestrange, equally as formal, and not looking Mrs. Lestrange in the eye.

"I'll see you at home," said Mrs. Lestrange simply, and the blond witch Disapparated.

Mr. Lestrange stood alone, his back to Leta. His shoulders, square and upright only a moment ago, relaxed and sagged in his wife's absence. He took a deep breath, then turned on his heel to face his daughter.

"Come here, Leta," he commanded.

Dutifully, Leta rose from her trunk and approached her father. His face, handsome, and framed by a well-groomed, black beard, studied her. Leta stared at her feet.

"Look at me," he said.

Leta managed to settle her gaze somewhere around her father's tie, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"I said, look at me." Her father grabbed her roughly by chin and turned her face upwards. She looked into his icy eyes. Her heart was hammering.

"You're nervous," said Mr. Lestrange. It was a statement, not a question. Leta shrugged. "You know why you were given the name Lestrange?"

"No," said Leta, barely above a whisper. She had always felt like an imposter with that name, had always been made to feel like an imposter.

"Because you're my daughter," said Mr. Lestrange. "That makes you a Lestrange, whether or not others like it. Now remember, Leta. The name Lestrange is not thrown around lightly. We've kept that name proud and pure for centuries. It must be cared for. You understand?"

Leta understood. Her father was asking her not to embarrass the family. Fat chance. She wished she could make the Lestrange family proud, be a good witch, be sorted into Slytherin, just like Rhea. But her very existence was a bit of an embarrassment for the first place, and Leta had understood that from a young age—Rhea had always made her position abundantly clear.

Then, Leta plucked up the courage to ask the question she'd been mulling all morning as she nervously picked at her fingernails.

"Was my mother a Muggle?" she asked her father.

A barely-perceptible tightness passed across Mr. Lestrange's face. Leta could hardly blink. Everything depended on what her father said next. Her father looked at her curiously.

"It matters a great deal to you, doesn't it?"

"Rhea… Rhea said it matters to the Sorting Hat," mumbled Leta. "That… that Slytherin won't take me if my mother was a Muggle, or a Squib, or a half-breed…"

A rare and sudden gentleness softened Mr. Lestrange's face. He bent to a crouch so he could look Leta in the eye. He reached out a large hand and cupped her cheek. Leta couldn't help but lean into the rare show of physical affection.

"It's true that your mother had no magic," said Mr. Lestrange. Leta's stomach turned over at his words, and tears filled her eyes. "But you are a witch, Leta, and a Lestrange. You got all of that from me, understand? I won't lie to you girl, it's not going to be easy. You're going to have to work harder than any other witch or wizard. But even Salazar Slytherin recognized that greatness could, at times, come from… less desirable places."

There was a long silence between them. Leta wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her robes. She was embarrassed to have cried in front of her father. Yet, a strange sort of relief seemed to flood her. She'd been dreading for so long to hear that her mother had, in fact, been a Muggle. And now that she'd heard the truth, she felt… oddly calm.

"Now, you had better board the train before it leaves without you."

"Yes, father," said Leta.

She grabbed the handle of her trunk and dragged it across the platform. When she reached the steps, she turned back to look at her father, to give him a parting wave as Rhea had done, but he was already gone.

—

All around her on the train, fellow First Years shouted excitedly. One compartment she passed was full to the brim with no less than a dozen eleven-year-old witches and wizards in fresh, black Hogwarts robes, all eagerly exchanging names, sweets, and boasting about the spells they'd already learned.

Leta wanted to be alone. She didn't want to have to introduce herself to anyone as "Leta, the kind-of Lestrange, half-breed, embarrassment to one of the oldest wizarding families". Older students roamed the narrow corridor, knocking into Leta's shoulders and paying her no mind as she struggled with her trunk. She pushed through the raucous center of the train and found a compartment to herself by the end.

With tremendous effort, she shoved the trunk under the seat and morosely stared out the window as the Hogwarts Express pulled from the station. She rested her small chin in her hands as the scene before her changed from the smoggy, jagged inner-city of London to green pasture and farmland.

Occasionally, a little voice reminded her of what was to come that evening—the Sorting, and she would grow nervous again. She was doomed. She didn't believe her father. There was no way Slytherin House would accept a nervous-wreck half-breed like her.

The door to her compartment jiggled open, and a small, freckly First Year with messy ginger-brown hair toppled inside. He was dressed in a grubby brown overcoat that seemed several sizes too big for him. The hem scraped the floor, and the sleeves covered his finger tips.

"Sorry, are these seats taken?" asked the boy, nervously looking over his shoulder.

"Sit wherever you like," said Leta, a little annoyed that her solitude was interrupted.

"Oh. Thanks," said the boy, not registering the annoyance in Leta's voice.

He took a seat across from her. Leta regarded him. She couldn't have, in truth, told him the seats were occupied, but she was hoping this boy would take the hint that she wanted to be alone. However, the boy seemed to have other things on his mind, for he shifted and squirmed in his seat.

"Settle down, please," he whispered, tucking his head under the collar of the ridiculously oversized coat.

"Are you talking to me?" said Leta, perplexed.

"Er, n-no," said the boy. He smiled nervously, and looked around the compartment. He looked as though he were trying very hard to act casually. And he was doing a terrible job of it—his eyes darted around too much. Leta decided to ignore him and return to brooding out the window. But the boy spoke up.

"Are you a First Year as well?"

Leta nodded.

"Are you nervous about the Sorting?" asked the boy. "I was just up the train. It's all anyone's talking about…"

Leta's stomach flipped at the mention of the Sorting. Indeed, she'd thought of little else since parting from her father.

"My brother's a Gryffindor," said the boy, "so I might be as well. Everyone seems to think that's the best house."

Leta snorted at that.

"You sure it wasn't just a lot of Gryffindors saying that?" Leta shot back. Internally, she knew that if the Hat chose her for Gryffindor, she'd be finished.

The boy shrugged, and cracked a smile. "Ah, might've been. I'm Newt Scamander, by the way."

He held out a hand for her to shake. A little distrustfully, Leta took it. She frowned. His palm was clutching a sandpapery owl treat.

"Oh, sorry," said Newt Scamander, blushing. He shoved his hand into the front breast pocket of his coat, and Leta could have sworn she heard a cooing and then a loud crunching noise from inside the boy's coat. "Forgot I was holding that. What's your name?"

"Leta… Leta Lestrange," she told him, wincing a little on her surname.

"Lestrange?" said the boy, his eyes widening. His mouth opened and closed several times. She got the sense there was a lot the boy could have said. Thankfully he held his tongue.

"What have you got in there?" said Leta, nodding at the Newt's coat, eager to break the awkward silence. "An owl?"

"Yes," Newt said, a little to slowly to be convincing. "Just my owl."

"Well," said Leta. "I'm just hoping it'll be Slytherin for me."

"Is… is all your family in Slytherin?" asked Newt.

"Yes," said Leta. "Well, at least nobody talks about the ones who weren't. They'll probably disown me if I'm not."

"It's that important to your family that you're in Slytherin?" asked Newt, flabbergasted. "That they'll stop talking to you if you're not? That seems ridiculous."

Leta stared at him.

"Sorry," said Newt. The boy looked around, embarrassed. He stared out the window, unblinking.

Leta suddenly burst out laughing.

"No, it is ridiculous. You're right."

Newt whipped his head back at her, surprised. He chanced a smile.

"Well, everyone makes fun of Hufflepuff, but my mum was a Hufflepuff, and she knows everything there is to know about Hippogriffs. I don't think Hufflepuff would be too bad—"

The door to the compartment opened again, and a blond Second Year with a rather heavy jaw glared inside. Rhea.

"Oh, there you are, Leta," said Rhea, sounding bored. "Father said I had to make sure you found a seat. So here I am. Though the toilet would suit you better."

Newt's eyes swiveled curiously between Rhea and Leta.

"Making friends?" said Rhea. Her voice bordered on a sneer. "You'll want to watch out for this one," said Rhea, speaking to Newt rather than Leta. "She's nothing but trouble. And she's probably a Squib. Don't get too attached—they'll be sending her back on the train tonight when they find out she hasn't got any magic."

Leta glowered back at her older half-sister. Her face was on fire. Newt's eyebrows drew together.

"They don't accept Squibs to Hogwarts," said Newt matter-of-factly. "What would be the point of that?"

Rhea's lip curled in answer. She looked at Newt and Leta haughtily before slamming the door shut behind her.

Leta looked back at the boy in a new light. He hadn't recoiled when Rhea had appeared and called her a Squib. In fact, he'd stood up for her. Despite his messy hair, wild eyes, and oversized coat, she felt a sudden warmth for the boy seated across from her.

"Sister?" asked Newt.

"Yes," said Leta in a pained voice. Noticing the confusion in Newt's face, she continued. "Well, half-sister really, and that's why we look nothing alike."

Leta winced. It always had to be so painfully obvious. She was as dark as Rhea was light. Though there may be a trace of her father somewhere in her features, it was always obvious to everyone that Leta was no true daughter of Mrs. Lestrange. Her birth had been quite a scandal and had been Leta's lifelong burden.

Newt had pulled a wand from his sleeve. He waved it back and forth, mouthing an incantation under his breath.

"What are you doing?" asked Leta.

"Practicing," said Newt.

"We haven't even had our first class yet," said Leta.

"I know…" said Newt, "But well, my older brother taught me a few spells over the summer, right after I got my wand. Figured it couldn't hurt to get a head start."

"I thought we weren't supposed to practice magic outside of school!" said Leta, scandalized.

She thought nervously to her own untouched wand. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd be the only First Year to start school without knowing any spells… Maybe she was a Squib after all. Her mother had been a Muggle, after all. What if she got to the Sorting, and they figured out it was all some big mistake? She was never meant to get a letter… Rhea was right. They'd be sending her right back on the train.

Newt shrugged. He seemed not to notice Leta's ruminating.

"The Levitation Charm," he said. "It's supposed to be one of the most basic spells. Most other locomotive charms are built on the same theory, so if you can master Levitation, you can do almost anything. Look…"

He eagerly reached into his oversized coat and extracted a heavy tomb which proclaimed The Care and Feeding of Hippogriffs by Lawrence Addlebury in large gold letters. He placed it on the seat next to him, cleared his throat.

"Wingardium leviosa!" he proclaimed, waving his wand in a calculated loop.

The book shot up like a cork and stuck to the ceiling as if glued.

"Oh dear," said Newt.

"Was it supposed to do that?" asked Leta, concerned.

"Um… yes? Except, I think it worked a little too well…"

"Is it ever going to come down?" asked Leta with trepidation. The book was now sliding along the ceiling overhead, like some odd rat searching for food. Instinctively, Leta covered her head, lest the book should fall on her.

Newt stowed his wand and climbed up on the seat. He strained, and tried to peel the book from the ceiling, but the book, having been granted it's first taste of life without gravity, seemed to have decided that it much preferred this new arrangement. Newt hung from the book by his hands, his legs kicking freely into the air as the book roamed along the ceiling. Leta ducked to avoid him.

The compartment door once more slid open.

"Newt!"

"Er, hello, Theseus."

A handsome fifth year with a shiny Prefect badge stood in the threshold. He wore a shocked expression on his face.

"What have you done now?"

"Just practicing!" said Newt innocently, still dangling from the ceiling. The book jerked him around, trying to shake him off.

Theseus shook his head, exasperated.

"Finite incantetum," said Theseus, waving his own wand. The book and Newt alike dropped heavily to the floor.

"Ouch," said Newt, rubbing the back of his head where it had collided with the seat. He struggled to disentangle himself from his oversized coat where he had fallen on the floor.

Theseus pulled him up by the scruff of his neck. Newt looked guilty.

"This is mum's work coat," said Theseus, pulling at the brown fabric draping the boy's small shoulders.

"She said I could have it for Herbology," said Newt defensively.

Theseus pinched the bridge of his nose. He was the very picture of exasperation.

"Alright. Pockets out. Who've you brought?"

"No one," said Newt.

"It's the Fwooper, isn't it?"

Newt opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"He's sick, Theseus! I had to bring him! It'll only be a few more weeks before the bone heals. Then I'll send him home. Please, he won't let anyone but me get close to him to change the bandage—"

Theseus shook his head. Without warning, the Prefect's hand shot into the front of Newt's coat and emerged with a spindly silver cage containing the most brilliant turquoise bird Leta had ever seen. The younger boy looked quite terrified.

"A Fwooper is not allowed as a pet at Hogwarts!" said Theseus. "You know how dangerous these things are!"

"Yes, but I've learned the silencing charm—it won't harm anyone!" argued Newt. "Look I'll show you—"

Newt whipped out his wand, but Theseus snatched the wand from his brother's hand before Newt could do any more damage with charms.

"I'll have to send for mother as soon as we get to Hogwarts," said Theseus. "She won't like this. Honestly, Newt, your first day. You're lucky it was me, or you'd be getting detention before even getting to Hogwarts!"

There was quite a lot more arguing, but in the end, Theseus won, and he left the compartment with Newt's coat, wand, and Fwooper.

"So sorry about all this," said Theseus on his way out. He flashed a friendly smile to Leta. "Welcome to Hogwarts, by the way! I hope my brother's not a bother to you."

"Not at all," said Leta shyly.

Theseus left.

Newt looked very downcast. Leta realized, with some embarrassment, that the boy was crying. She was overtaken by a sudden urge to make him feel better. She couldn't explain it.

"That's more magic than I can do," said Leta softly. "I haven't done a single spell."

"Why not?" asked the boy, wiping his eyes. He looked a little embarrassed to be crying in front of her.

"Well," said Leta downcast. "I'm frightened to find out that Rhea's right. That I'm a Squib after all."

"You can't be a Squib, or you wouldn't have gotten your Hogwarts letter. Haven't you ever done magic without meaning to? I thought all magical children did," said Newt. "I mean, I certainly did." This new problem to solve seemed to have taken his mind off Theseus and the Swooper.

Leta stared at her hands. All she could remember was a teacup being hurled at Rhea's head one time, when Rhea had tormented her. But in truth, Leta could not remember if she'd thrown the teacup with magic… or her own hands.

"I don't really know."

"Well. Levitation is really easy. I can show you, if you like."

Nervously, Leta nodded, and extracted her wand from her pocket and held it like it was going to bite her.

"It's best to start with something light," said Newt. "That's what my brother said." He pulled a loose Fwooper feather from his pocket. He looked at it sadly, as if remembering the bird Theseus had claimed, and set it down before Leta. "You can use that. The spell is wingardium leviosa. And it's important to say it exactly like that."

"Wingardium leviosa," repeated Leta with an unsure flick of her wand.

The feather flipped over feebly, but did not levitate.

Newt's eyes brightened.

"See, that's a start!" he exclaimed.

"It was just the wind," said Leta.

"The window's closed," said Newt flatly. "Look, it's a bit tricky. Took me days to work out. But you just did magic, Leta! I mean, it wasn't very good. But you're definitely not a Squib."

"No," said Leta, feeling her face grow warm. A huge grin overtook her, and she couldn't stop smiling at Newt. "No, I suppose I'm not!"

—

Leta and Newt passed the hours easily together. Newt told her all about his family. His brother, the Prefect, well-liked, a Gryffindor, and a Beater on the Quidditch team. His mother, a Hippogriff breeder, who now and again took in other magical creatures in need of respite. And his father, a quiet man with a fondness for Muggle contraptions. Newt had spent his childhood roaming around his family's land, getting up to his knees in muck as he collected Horklump samples. He had a tendency to ramble, but Leta hung on to every word.

It occurred to her: she had never talked at such great length with anyone. No one had ever seemed interested in listening to her before. Words pent up over years welled out at her, and Newt was patient. He listened.

Leta told him about her childhood, which had been quiet and isolated on her family's estate. The older Lestrange siblings were all grown by the time Leta and Rhea had been brought up; the two girls, so close in age, had spent their childhoods at odds with each other. Rhea was the golden child, and Leta, the illegitimate Lestrange, cast aside, hidden, and usually ignored.

Leta told Newt how she often took to herself in the woods on her family's property. She knew the woods well, and Rhea could never find her there. She liked the quiet, and she liked to hear the birdsongs. Newt asked her if any of the birds in the woods were magical, and Leta told him that she had never thought to investigate.

Their arrival at Hogwarts went by in a blur. For a few hours on the train, Leta forgot her worries about the impending sorting, but as the boats crossed the lake towards Hogwarts castle, a knot formed in her stomach. Newt, however, seemed entirely relaxed about the whole situation.

"What do you think's down there?" Newt asked Leta with wonder, leaning over the side of the boat, staring into the inky-black surface of the lake.

"Not anything of your concern," said a Prefect who had joined the boat escort, hauling Newt by the collar from the edge of the boat.

The first years were lined up in the Great Hall, and names were called one by one. Leta stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Newt as First Years were called to the Hat.

"Leta Lestrange!"

A hush seemed to go through the hall at Leta's name. Leta should have expected it. The Lestranges were a well known family, and the circumstances of Leta's birth were rather scandalous and not exactly a secret.

Newt elbowed her, and she realized she'd frozen. Nervously, she crossed the hall. She could feel hundreds of eyes watch her. With each step, however, she felt herself gain power, and held her head higher and higher until she reached the stool at the front of the Great Hall.

Professor Wrench, the Deputy Headmaster, dropped the Sorting Hat over her head and plunged her into darkness.

"Well, well, well," said a sly little voice in her ear. "Quite the bundle of nerves you are. Are you sure Slytherin is the place for you?"

All Lestranges go to Slytherin, she thought.

"You seek acceptance," said the Hat. "You won't find that in Slytherin, I can promise you that…"

Acceptance? What'll my father do if I'm not in Slytherin! He'll throw me out!

"Hm… Let's see. You have within you… compassion. Yes, quite a lot of compassion. You would do well in Hufflepuff, you know. And if it's acceptance you seek, I daresay you'll find it there."

Not Hufflepuff! Never Hufflepuff!

"Not Hufflepuff? It'll be a hard road for you in Slytherin. Are you sure it's worth it?"

Slytherin, thought Leta, near panic. I have to be in Slytherin.

"Are you sure?" said the Hat. "There's no backsies, you know. Truly? Well, so be it. SLYTHERIN!"

Leta could have laughed out loud as Professor Wrench pulled the hat from her head. There was some applause, but more murmuring. Leta held her head high as she crossed to the Slytherin table and took a seat. People could talk all they wanted… her place had been secured.

Leta's eyes locked with Rhea's for a moment. Rhea looked at her coldly, then whispered in the ear of the girl next to her. The whispers passed down the Slytherin table, and soon, no one at the table was looking at Leta. The two students on either side of her shifted a little further down the bench.

Newt Scamander's name was called, and the small boy stumbled out of line. The hat took a few seconds with him before crying "HUFFLEPUFF!".

There was a lukewarm applause as Newt made his way to the Hufflepuff table. On his way, he caught Leta's eye and smiled slightly.

Leta's elation evaporated. She stared at the table before her… wondering suddenly if she'd made a mistake.