After 5th year: Astrid Vanderhorn has been forced to move in with her godparents in England. Animals hate her, people don't trust her, and frankly she doesn't give a damn. RATED MOSTLY FOR SWEARING. LONG WAIT FOR UPDATES. BEWARE CONTENT CHANGE. (Warning: author suffers from a severe case of perfectionism)

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"How far will one engine take us?"

"All the way to the scene of the crash." -Blue Collar Comedy (Ron White)

Chapter 1

Tink. Tink. Tink.

The clouds outside were rolling in, covering the slate gray sky that was a reoccurring sight to Oregon inhabitants in late July. Rain was just beginning to fall; it bounced off car roofs and ran down the windows of a warmly lit bookstore. The scruffy shop was hardly noticeable as it was squashed between a second hand used clothing store and an antique gift shop. Window shoppers rarely peered in to the store's windows, their eyes sliding right over the unremarkable little shop and on to the next as if it didn't even exist.

The wind picked up, carrying leaves and discarded newspapers across the street. The sky darkened and a steady downpour pelted the muggles now walking swiftly towards their cars in order to escape the oncoming storm.

Inside the dingy little shop, rows of books lined the walls and tables were scattered here and there. A fireplace was merrily burning at the far wall under a musty bookshelf. I wriggled comfortably in a worn plush chair in front of the fire, trying to block out the thundering sound of the rain.

Casting a distracted glare outside, I scanned a magazine article titled, Interesting Facts Concerning the Wand by Wren Huballed.

…It is difficult for most people to find a wand that will prove to be compatible with them. It has been said that the wand chooses the witch or wizard, however, that is not necessarily true.

Members of the Wizard's Association of Notable Discoveries, other wise known as W.A.N.D., reiterate that, by way of rigorous experimentation that is then complied with centuries of data, there is no actual proof that this parable is true.

Richard Eberhardt, vice president of W.A.N.D., states that, "A wizard's 'magical essence' (that which allows them to have/perform magic) seeks out a wand that would be best suited for them; magical essences can be quite picky...it's a false assumption that the wand chooses the wizard. It is really the wizard's magical essence that chooses the wand! However...because wands come in so many different forms, it is often difficult for a witch or wizard to come across a wand that will allow that person to channel their magical energy effectively and efficiently."

Historians claim that despite this, ancient records have fleetingly mentioned witches or wizards that did not require wands for spell casting. They didn't need to say a spell or mutter an incantation, merely gesture with their hands. Today it is an extremely rare witch or wizard who can manage without a wand, most don't even bother to try…

"Boring." I sighed, idly flipping through the magazine. I watched the moving pictures for a while before carelessly tossing it on the table only to have it slide off and land on the floor along with some other reading material. Shrugging I checked the time.

"Making a mess I see." Roy's voice was hoarse and a tad wheezy as he tottered over. He'd spotted the mess I'd made and seem to shake his head in rueful amusement.

"This place is going to be a lot quieter without you here to make a nuisance of yourself." He said, rearranging the local newspaper, the Pacific Post, which I had torn apart earlier.

"I know. By the way, could you conjure up a cart for this stuff?" I waved towards three bulging bags and a battered trunk covered with faded stickers.

"Of course. Ah, there we go. That reminds me, I told Bridget I'd let you have a go at the shelves. Exciting I know, so try to contain yourself." He winked, his heart going out to the child. He and his wife would miss the girl when she left. She'd always spent a good portion of her time in here and that was before they'd taken her in.

His smile faded as she only nodded. Her father's death had been hard on her. She'd lost weight like a dog loses hair, and there were dark smudges beneath her dry eyes from nights spent staring into the fire. A naturally reserved person she'd rarely spoken of what went on at home. When they tried to talk to her about it she would change the subject or pointedly ignore the question. Over the years they'd become accustomed to her frequent visits and eventually thought of her as their own granddaughter

It was difficult seeing her like this and knowing that she would be leaving them to go live with strangers. The worst part was that there was nothing they could do about it.

"Thanks Roy." I said, seeing his worried face as I turned toward the shelves.

"You're welcome. Now don't waste any more time thanking me, get going." He said chuckling as he headed towards the counter. I tried to return the smile but it came out a more of a grimace.

I'd been sitting that chair for hours, not so much reading as thinking. I sighed, running a finger along the spines of books as I passed them.

Dad had died in June. We'd never been close, never gotten along, never talked about any of the things dad's and daughters are supposed to talk about...and it made me...angry. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd missed out on. I'd wasted all that time hating him when I could've said something, anything, that might have...I dunno. I can't count the number of times I wished he would just disappear, that I'd wake up one morning and he'd be gone. And now he was gone and he wasn't ever coming back. It was hard. It was hard waking up every morning knowing that my father, the man who had grudgingly raised me, but raised me nevertheless, was dead. Gone.

We'd had a fight the night before. I can't even remember what it was about, something stupid I'm sure. He'd left work late and then gone to bar. On his way home he'd crashed, a three-car pile up.

I shook my head as I walked between the shelves. They always say to be careful what you wish for.

Following that train of thought I turned my attention to the books. I was tall enough to reach most of the shelves and for the ones I couldn't reach a little climbing did the trick. I hummed to myself as I strolled around, looking for anything remotely interesting.

"Oh and before I forget...Bridget wanted me to give these to you." Roy said, placing four thick books with tattered cloth covers on the counter as I passed.

"Tell her I said thank you. I'll pick them up on the way out." Roy nodded and said he'd have to say his goodbyes now because he and Bridget, his wife, had a dinner engagement. He was lying of course but I was relieved and grateful for his forethought. I wanted to be alone when it happened.

"That's fine, I can mosey on out through the back."

Roy smiled kindly at me, his tone wistful. "I knew we couldn't keep you here forever. I just want you to know, Astrid, that I couldn't have asked for a better granddaughter. I know, I know, but regardless that's what you've become to Bridget and I. You be good now. I don't want to send you a howler if I get any word that you've been causing your usual mischief." He said, pulling me into a hug.

I pursed my lips and blinked hard. I'd met Bridget and Roy the day after I found out I was a witch. I'd never known my mom, she'd died after giving birth to me. I didn't have any relatives on that side of the family with her being an orphan an' all. Now that everything in the house had been sold or given away I was leaving. Supposedly I had some third cousins or some such in London, my mother's birthplace. I'd never known her seeing as she'd died after giving birth to me, and seeing her home was the only reason I was going along with any of this.

"Thanks for everything. I won't forget you during Christmas. I hear they have really good tea."

He laughed and patted my back before pulling away.

"I'm sure Bridget would like that. Be safe." I watched him go with growing distress, for somehow it seemed all too real now that I was leaving behind everything I'd ever known. My home, my school, my country, all of it would be left behind because of some stupid ministry idiot.

Looking down at my watch I realized that I only had fifteen minutes left to browse.

"Books, books okay, lets go with you, you, and you. Perfect, that should just about do it. Hold on, what's this?" I had pulled out two books resting side by side. Behind them there appeared to be a slim volume stuck flat against the back of the shelf. It had a plain dusty black cover with small, faded gold letters across the front. Dropped Your Wand? By Cynthia Oaks.

"Huh. I'll take you too. Two minutes to go. Damn I'm good."

I walked over to the cart and shoved the other books in there. I hooked up the straps to make sure nothing came loose. As I left I locked the door behind me before slowly making my way around back.

As I pushed the cart in front of me, I scowled. Rain hammered at me from all sides, dripping into my eyes and down my back. I pulled a face at the thought of showing up at my godparents' house looking like a drowned rat but there was little I could do about it. Thinking along those lines I felt my pockets.

"Where in the hell did I put...there it is!" From my back jeans pocket I yanked out a crumpled brochure sporting London's Top Ten Hotels. The ministry moron had forced the portkey, a transportation device designed to teleport people to a certain location, upon me before I'd left his office. At the time leaving here had been the last thing I wanted to do, but the idea had grown on me and it wasn't like I had a real choice.

I came to a halt next to a dumpster situated against the alley wall. A collage of various signatures and gang symbols had been spray-painted on it. My lips quirked as I noticed that my own slap-dash attempt at rattling the bottle could still be seen under all the grim it had collected over the years. A loud shot from an exhaust pipe out front drew my attention.

I closed my eyes and let the everyday inner city sounds of life filled my head: sirens, the reoccurring whoosh of passing vehicles, and the occasional squeal of tires. The smell of car exhaust and the other unique odors city streets emit when it rains filled my nose. I vaguely realized I had precisely twenty seconds left until the portkey was activated.

It felt like I had the entire migrating flock of monarch butterflies inside my stomach as I followed the count down.

"Four, three, two..." A gut wrenching feeling, similar to when a roller coaster flips over and then takes a nosedive, gripped me. I was jerked bodily from the ground along with my cart.

A dizzying display of colors and a deafening roar of wind pounded harshly against my eyes and eardrums. With my hand stuck fast to the brochure, and the cart, there was no way in hell that I could have let go. I let out an exhilarated scream of both terror and excitement. This was so much better than muggle amusement parks!

And then it was over. Without warning, I slammed into the ground. I pushed the cart off me and groaned. After a few seconds I pried open my eyes, trying to focus. I could smell dirt, dewy grass, and the air was strangely sharp. A drastic change from what I'd just left. Hearing a few gasps, a couple curses, and a scream I sighed softly. At least I'd arrived with a bang.

Turning toward the quickly approaching footsteps, I spied vivid red hair, and concerned freckled faces. I managed to smile and get out a smart-ass remark before shamefully passing out.

(A/N)

Okay this is how it's goin'g down. I have revised, and re-revised this story. I'm sorry for those of you who liked the original, but I felt this change was necessary. This is what I've been doing and why I have not updated lately.

Between school work, sports, and gasp, my social life, I've had very little time to write. When I do write, I try my best to ensure that I've corrected and rechecked my spelling and grammar. I think I've worked out the kinks and fixed some issues I had with the direction the story was going.

When I'm not satisfied, I know my readers aren't satisfied; thus I'm trying to doctor this baby up.

If you feel the need to air your grievances, register a complaint, or express your discontent and resentment about what I've done with this story, well too bad.

Pardon me if you've mistaken me for someone who gives a damn. Write a review about it.

Highly amused, the author.