"I still don't understand why we couldn't stay in Florida," I whined, "England is so booooring."

Dad chuckled from the driver's seat, "You've never even been to England Joan, much less Europe."

I rolled my eyes and pressed my knees closer to my chest, and I muttered,"Still," like it would win me any argument. I glanced over at my dad, who seemed awfully pleased with himself for someone who had uprooted himself and his daughter to go like on another continent entirely, all the way to what I was sure was cold, lonely hell.

I popped my white headphones into my ears and turned up my sleek iPod, effectively blocking out the sound of everything I had ever known ending. I reached for the handle underneath my car seat and pulled, reclining into a deep sleep.

"Jo..Joan...Joan!" I woke up to Dad calling my name as we pulled up to our new London residence, Number 13 Grimmauld Place. Picking myself apart from my own sweaty limbs- ew, I piled my hair into a low, messy bun, and unbuckling my seat belt, I silently observed the angry red mark it had left on my arm from several hours of trying to get comfy in Dad's new but very, very old car. When I creaked the door open, I was instantly hit by the cool night breeze that made the hair on the nape of my neck stick to the damp skin and made goosebumps appear everywhere I could see.

I didn't look at Grimmauld Place much, because there was not much to look at, it was bleak and grey, and it looked like the home of the average British family from only every vampire/horror movie ever. Of course out of all the possible houses in England, Dad would find the one that looked like the devil's torture cave.

I went around to the spacious trunk of the car and grinned at the size and amount of duffle and luggage bags I had brought with me, and not one of them had wheels.

Sighing dramatically as I heaved about two ginormous luggage bags on each shoulder I cursed the day my dad actually started to do well in life and got transferred to a company position in Europe, despite the...benefits. I eyed my iPod, a gift from Dad so as to win me over from his betrayal when he took away my- albeit not very glamorous, life.

I dragged myself towards the looming building and glanced into the window of the house beside ours, and I judged the interior that I could see from where I stood. It seemed darker, and gloomier than what I expected, and I let out a short, incredulous laugh when I saw a huge cobweb with a big, fat spider on it. I bet that spider had lived there for a pretty long time, I mean, look at how fat he is! Jesus, and I thought British people were all OCD and pristine. Peh! That goes to show what happens when you stereotype people.

Shaking my head, I opened the door and let out a soft, surprised gasp. It was everything I had dreamed of and more! Just kidding. I'm not some young adult, teen romance novel character who splits her time between angsting over literally everything and having to choose between two (or more) incredibly hot guys who somehow find me super attractive even though I'm not actually that beautiful, in a sincere and endearing sort of way. NO. Ew.

The inside of Number 13 was actually pretty nice. The walls were a pasty, off white sort of color and the floor was a really nice, reddish hard wood. Dad told me that when he had gone with the realtor to find a place to stay, the floors had been a beige, dirty carpeting that he had obviously taken the liberty of pulling and ripping up when the realtor's (who's name I had honestly never bothered to learn) back was turned. And being the psychopath that he is, he decided then and there that the house was perfect and proceed to buy it without even have seen a single bathroom.

I walked down the hall, dragging my bags behind me and, finding the stairs, I dumped all but my duffle bag on the floor for Dad to get later, and I found several spacious bedrooms. I estimated about maybe six or seven in total, and I saw that two of them had a wooden plaque with my name on them, and I grimaced when I saw my full name. Next to my bedroom was one that had an unnamed plaque, and then the next room which read 'Guest' and then one that read 'Study' and finally the last one which had Dad's name. Smirking, I stepped into the largest room, mind you, they were all pretty big. And there I saw, waiting for me was the love of my life, the one who I had forced to part with for days and weeks. Bed.

I quick-walked (because running is for losers) toward my love and flung myself onto the three mattresses, two pillows, awesome duvet, and blankie that made up my bed. And yes, you might say three mattresses are kind of an exaggeration, but once you lie upon my bed and thou feels the awesomeness that is my bed, you will understand. I make no jokes when it comes to my bed.

Rolling over onto my back, and kicking off my sneakers (I may not run, but I like to be prepared) I glanced round appreciatively at my room, Dad had done a pretty good job in shipping all our stuff over to England and making sure that it was all set up. I am the last person you want to help you move in. I end up hiding out in a big box and playing on my phone or reading a book until the other person is done. And then I claim half the credit. My lavender and lilac walls were adorned with drawings I had done and little cards my friends had given me. Pictures I had printed out adorned my walls, and a poster of Marilyn Monroe glanced down at me from above my wooden vanity. I had a large wooden desk with a lamp and my stretch book and pencils strewn across it. A huge bookcase stood next to my desk where a collection of my babies stood proudly.

I had a couple of fluffy rugs on the floor and I groaned when I realized the bathrooms weren't in the rooms. Bantering with myself for a second, I pulled myself from my bed and walked out. Sure enough, in between my bedroom and the Guest room, was a bathroom. It was a nice bathroom, but it was unfair that if we had guests over, I would have to share my bathroom with them. Frustrated, I strode over to a room with a wooden plaque that read 'Clarence Love' and walked in.

"Dad why don't I have my own bathroom?" Dad glanced up at me from where he was folding his clothing. He moved forward as if to block something from my view, but he wasn't quick enough.

"You have your own bathroom!?" I screeched. Dad winced sheepishly, "It came like that?"

I rolled my eyes, "Ugh, fine. But I expect waffles tomorrow morning." He nodded and put two finger up in salute.

"Yes ma'm!"

I smiled at Dad.

"Good."

I stared at myself in the full body mirror by my closed bedroom door and sighed. I was in a pretty light apricot sundress, with watercolor poppies adorning the skirt. My wavy shoulder length brown hair was combed neatly, and a pair of white strappy sandals adorned my feet. Now, don't get me wrong, I like wearing dresses and getting all dolled up, but what I don't like, is 'meeting the neighbors'. I hate having to do the whole, 'oh hi, we're new, please enjoy our homemade chocolate chip muffins and awkwardly accept us into your home so you can judge us as you please.' That sucks.

"Joan!"

I sighed and running a hand through my hair and ruffling it up a bit, I throw on a white cardigan and thunder down the stairs. Dad looks at me as I jump down from the last step, and hands me the muffins I made earlier.

"You look beautiful." I grin and flip my hair.

"Yeah, yeah, let's go."

We open the door and walk out, and I shiver at the biting cold. I missed Florida already and I wished I could see palm trees instead of, whatever those were called. We walked down the steps into the sidewalk, and we turned to the first house on our hit list. Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

I glided ahead of Dad, already anxious to get inside. I walked up to the door and took hold of the knocker, hitting it on the wood three times. I turned to Dad, fidgeting like I did as we waited for them to open up. I glanced into the window and could have sworn I had seen a girl with red hair scurry away.

We waited for a rude amount of time (in my book at least) until we finally heard a man's rough voice shout out in a thick accent, "Coming!"

Dad smiled at me like a child on Christmas morning, he loved meeting new people. So did I, most of the time.

Finally I heard the locks clicking open and I looked at the knob of the door turn open. The door opened and I was met with the sight a bustling red-haired woman, who looked more than a little ruffled. Her eyes were kind and her words were warm, though, as she hurried us into her slightly messy, and oddly gloomy looking home.

"Welcome! Welcome! So sorry to have left you out there in the cold my dears, but we weren't expecting company is all."

She ushered us down the hall and towards what I assumed was the dining room from the loud voices all clashing together. I could hear their accents jumping out at me and I took them in with a foreigner's interest.

"No problem..." I muttered, my eyes wide and trying to take it all in. We passed by a huge painting with a drape over it and I could have sworn I heard it say something. How weird.

The red-haired woman, who introduced herself as Molly Weasley, was walking a pace a little too quick for my enjoyment, and before Dad could even respond to anything she was saying, she pushed the door open to a room full of people open, and it went deadly silent in seconds.

I could feel on me the eyes of probably more than twenty people and I tightened my grip on the plate of muffins I was holding, and could somehow only think of how lucky it was that I always baked a batch of about forty. The room was peppered with red hair and I could have sworn I had seen a knife chopping a carrot by itself. Shaking my head, I pull at my dress lightly and wait for Dad to say something. I look at him and almost slap my forehead at his dopey expression.

So much for making a good first impression, I wonder what the Brits think of the awkward Americans, they probably think-

Oh shut up.

Make me.

Fine.

In a strikingly different accent from this entire room of people's, I glanced at Dad and uttered a casual,

"Hi."

Ooh nice, I bet they were impressed with that, wanna take a bow now?

Can you not?

Can you try to make us seem intelligent for once, or do you want a repeat of the mall incident?

Whatever. And besides that wasn't even my fault, okay? I didn't notice he was standing there, and it's not like he tried to make himself known or anything-

Shush, they're finally talking.

Oh so now you tell me to shush. Well-

Shush! And you might want to introduce yourself now.

I look up from my hands, where I had been entwining my fingers as I ranted with myself to find the entire room looking at me. I look to Dad helplessly, "Say your name," he mouths not-so-discreetly.

"Right. Well, hi again, or wait, well I already said that. Shut up. Um, yeah hi I'm Joan Love."

I could hear a pair of redheaded twins sitting in the back snickering to themselves, and a pretty brown-haired girl smacking them on the shoulder and giving me an apologetic smile. My eyes narrowed for a second and I wrote down the imaginary names I had made for them on my hit list.

Hit list? Who do you think you are, some kind of mafia boss?

Shut up, and I'm not going to kill them. I'll just get back at them later and make them regret they ever decided to laugh at us.

Well, you.

Shut up. I'm awesome and they better watch their backs.

Excellent. Now we're talking. What's the plan?

Later. In the lair.

Is that what you're calling your room now?

Yes.

Meh. I like it.

The woman who had welcomed us into her home (apparently it actually wasn't her home, it was some rando guy in back with shaggy black hair's house, but they were all staying together because I dunno they're weird or something. I think it's pretty cool.) introduced herself as Mrs. Weasley and her husband as Mr. Weasley. All of the other red heads were her kids and they each piped out their names.

The twins, it seemed, were named Fred and George, and not Dingleplum and Bumblewort.

Why would you think those were their names?

It seemed plausible.

So is your stupidity.

Gee, thanks.

I didn't hear the rest of the names, except for brown-haired girl's who had a clear, ringing voice I was instantly jealous of. She motions for me to sit by her and a boy with messy black hair, and I awkwardly clamber over to them, the huge plastic tin of muffins still firmly in my hands. I sit and she smiles.

"So, Joan is it?" I nod and she continues. "Well it's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Hermione Granger and this," she gestures to the boy beside her,"is Harry Potter." Harry Otter (It's Potter, stupid.) looks up at me with by far the prettiest eyes I had ever seen. They were emerald green and they looked sad and happy at the same time, and I almost felt a blush coming on. I played with a string that had come loose on my dress and glanced down at my shoes, before meeting his stare.

"Hey. How goes it?"

Harry blinks. Hermione looks between us awkwardly for a second or two, and then prattles on about something or other, I think it was British. I dunno.

I puff up my cheeks, filling them with air, and let it out quickly again. I look over to where my dad is animatedly talking about the wonders of baseball to the man who owns the house, Mr. Weasley, and a man who looks like the first man's best friend. Or secret lover, I honestly don't know. Mr. Weasley and Guy #1 look really interested, while Guy #2 is just nodding his head politely and asking an occasional question. I grin at the thought of the huge backyard and the box full of all my baseball stuff in my room.

Feeling bored, I open the tin of muffins in my lap, setting the top on the dining table next to me. My nostrils instantly flood with the mouth-watering smell of chocolate, blueberry, and strawberry muffins all piled neatly on top of one another, and I don't notice how the room goes silent.

One of the boys who had introduced himself as Run (weird name) was by my side before I could fully register, and was introducing himself to me very nicely. I notice how his eyes are trained solely on my muffins, and grin.

"Want one?" I ask laughing at his practically love-struck expression. It's the first time I laugh in this house.

"Oh God yes." I tilt the tin toward him and he grabs like five muffins and shoves another in his mouth for good measure, and I break out laughing when I see his mom's face.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!"

I guess his name isn't Run, then.

How stupid can you get?

Despite Mrs. Weasley being all embarrassed because of Ron (Finally got it right, stupid) soon enough the entire room was crowding around me and introducing themselves much more nicely, not that they hadn't being polite before, and taking all the muffins they could grab. Even Harry Otter grabbed a few, and I smiled proudly when I heard the collective moan of everyone in the room, gosh that sounds weird, and Hermione turned bright red. The twins had also grabbed their fare share of muffins and were dying in the corner, okay not really dying, but I mean, come on. My muffins were pretty damn good.

The tin was emptied in a matter of minutes and the Hermione and co. seemed much more willing to talk to me, even though Harry Otter still had this weird look that he would shoot me and I could tell that they were all choosing their words carefully.

I thought it was weird how all of the people in the room, despite my awesome muffins, looked slightly on edge. I listen in on a conversation Dad is having with Mrs. Weasley as she bustles around, cleaning and tidying up. How unlike Mom.

"So, Molly, where is it your kids go to school?" Dad asks and I flinch when I hear a plate break. Mrs. Weasley grabbed a broom and nervously swept up the broken pieces.

"Oh, well, uh- Arthur, you don't remember the name do you? Oh I'm sorry, my dear, getting old and all that. One tends to begin to loose their memory, but, ah, when I do remember I'll tell you. But, ah, how about young Joan? You all just moved here, do you have any idea where she may be going?"

Dad and I share a look, and I can tell what he's thinking and I shrug uncaringly. Doesn't really matter if they know or not.

"Well, Joan's going to a boarding school here in the UK, don't remember where it is specifically but I heard it's one of the best."

Mrs. Weasley is fidgeting now and I smirk when I hear her ask, "Oh really, where?"

Dad smiles. "I think you may have heard of it, it's called Hogwarts. Weird name, right?"

I hear another plate break.

A/N:

So there you guys have it! This is my new story and I've had the idea for some time now and finally decided to get it started. For any of my old readers, I want you to know I'm not abandoning Ally Hopewell, and I fully plan on continuing her story. But for now, I would like to focus on writing this one, because I really like this idea. Let me know if you guys like Joan and her dad and if you have any suggestions or anything. I love you guys and plas review and follow and favorite this story it let's me know if I'm doing well. Sorry if there's any spelling or grammar errors, and I hope you love it.

~Vera