Two hundred years after the time of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, there was almost nothing left of the world of magic.

Hogwarts lay in ruins, and wizards and witches everywhere were in hiding.

The Muggle government imposed strict guidelines on the ways of living, and being different was definitely not acceptable.

In a series of underground tunnels hidden by charms not known to most, were the homes of five thousand magical people, existing by mere luck and faith that the line of the famous Harry Potter would be continued, and soon they would be strong enough to take on the corrupt Muggle government.

However, what was not known to them was the fact that it would be a long time before the next person in that line was ready to take on anything at all.

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It seemed as if everyone in my small community knew each other.

And it seemed as if everyone knew me.

I haven't done a lot in life, but it's enough so that everyone knows me as the one to look at when something is wrong.

Not because I can fix it, but because I probably caused the trouble in the first place.

Yes, me, Lexi Golden, the most famous face of our community.

I always wondered why I never saw sunlight.

I asked my mum, she said she'd tell me one day. T

he marketplace was my favorite place; the sunlight came through holes sometimes, filtered, but sunlight all the same.

Usually though, they covered up the holes the very next day, almost like they wanted to live in the dark.

Besides, they always told me my red hair looked best in the sun, with little touches of gold in it.

At the marketplace, everyone stares when I walk in, like they want to say hello.

I don't know what's wrong with the people, why they are too scared to speak.

I dream about a place where there is sunlight all the time, and where the people talk, and there is nothing to worry about.

In that dream, I always am happy, but always, every time, I wake up.

I heard footsteps one day, and thought nothing of it.

But then I realized that the footsteps were coming from the ceiling.

We only had a one storey house, so I knew there was something wrong.

And I was right, a minute later, I heard the hushed voices of my parents, coming from the kitchen.

My parents never whispered, anything they had to say was said loud enough for the world to hear.

So of course, I went straight to the door, and put my ear in the keyhole.

Tricks of the trade of course, never listen through the crack underneath the door; if the door opens you can't get away fast enough.

If you use the keyhole though, you have just enough time to get away, and you can hear pretty well too.

But this time, something made me pull away from the door. It was the sound of my name, and then I heard the words, next in line.

I didn't really care what they were talking about.

All I knew was that they were planning to do something with me, and I didn't like the sound of that.

Nobody does anything with me except myself.

It doesn't matter if they are my parents, if they are going to talk behind closed doors about me, they don't deserve my ear.

I have a rule with myself and others, anything about me is said to me, or it is not said at all.

Slamming the door behind me, I went to my paper and pencils.

The only thing that keeps me in this underground torture chamber is the fact that I can draw.

And I don't mean just draw, I mean I can really draw.

The pictures can jump off the page at me, and the tigers roar into my face.

I can feel the blood rush to my head as soon as the lead of the pencil touches the smooth sheet of paper.

After that, I'm gone, and nothing can bring me back until I hear the voice of my mother shouting at me to come downstairs.

This time, when I put down my pencil, I saw on the once blank page a cheetah, that was in mid-run.

The legs were mere streaks, and the sleek animal ran so fast that soon all I could see was a blur.

There is something special about the way I draw.

I don't start with something in mind.

I just draw and see what comes out.

It helps me sort out the way I'm thinking.

I don't really recognize my thoughts until I see them on a paper as a picture.

I've only met one other person who can do this the way I do.

But he doesn't do it with drawings.

He does it with music.

I met him once in the marketplace, he was playing the guitar and singing.

I didn't ask his name, he had an air of someone who had been asked too many questions in his life.

His guitar was black, with a silver rose on it, the picture of elegance.

But the rest of the image didn't seem to fit.

He had bushy eyebrows, and a sort of rugged, weary look.

But what drew me to him the most was a long stick that he took out secretively.

He pointed it at his throat, muttered something I didn't catch, and then when he sang it seemed like he had a microphone inside of him.

His voice carried throughout the marketplace, with a melodious quality I have never heard in anyone before.

I wanted to talk to him, but he left soon afterwards, it was almost as if he vanished.

I could have sworn I heard a small pop.

I managed to slip a coin into his hat though, before he was gone, without a trace.

I ran to the marketplace, where the footsteps thundered louder than ever.

The whole place was deserted, with a sort of eeriness in their place.

And then I saw him.

I immediately knew it was the same man, because of the way his lopsided smile shown through a weary mouth.

I ran towards him, tripped on an abandoned shopping bag, and went sprawling on the ground, with my wrist painfully twisted underneath me.

He walked over, and held out his arm.

I knew he was motioning for me to get up, but I was in too much pain.

I screwed up my eyes, and indicated my wrist. He nodded, and took out that strange long stick.

Waving it, he muttered another something that didn't sound like any language I had ever heard.

Instantly, the pain vanished, and I got up.

There was a little twinkle in his eyes, and I immediately trusted him.

He motioned for me to grab his arm. I did so, and suddenly felt the strangest sensation in my stomach.

There was a pop, and suddenly, we were gone.