Harry Potter was a perfectly ordinary boy, living a perfectly normal, if not boring, life. Or, at least he tried to convince himself of that. When it came down to it, it was never that simple. He was an orphan, firstly, who lived with his aunt and uncle since infancy, since his parents had died in an accident that he was only informed of in quick, indifferent terms. He never quite fit in with his aunt and uncle; he stuck out like a sore thumb against the perfect blond family that had more than enough bulk to go around. Harry was gaunt and lanky, even from a young age, and his dark hair was so unmanageable that his Aunt Petunia stopped trying to fix it many years ago.

And it wasn't just his looks that made Harry rather remarkable. Strange happenings seemed to follow him, from infancy to childhood to his teenage years. Things like this only occurred when emotions ran high, though- lights would short out when he was angry, pipes would spontaneously burst, and the occasional fire was even started. For his aunt and uncle, it was easy to pass things off as simply coincidence but Harry knew they occurred far too often for it to really be a coincidence.

So no, Harry was not an ordinary boy. And after all, not many sixteen year old boys had run away from home, living off wages from a downtown London coffee shop. But, he had.

Tube stations, Harry decided, were the antithesis of all things good and pure in the world, and the bane of his existence to boot. He just had to get out of work late and catch the 11:05, didn't he? The whole place gave him the creeps, with almost no one around but maybe a few bums and the occasional other passenger milling around. The middle of the night was bad enough, but throw in a creepy urban atmosphere and you've got the perfect recipe to make anyone jumpy.

Harry looked around and shifted awkwardly, rather antsy all alone in the station. His gaze caught on another passenger a few yards away, though he could've sworn the girl wasn't there just a minute ago. His eyes must've been playing tricks on him though, otherwise he would've heard her walking onto the platform. In the flickering electric light, it was hard to get a good look at her, but curiosity got the better of him, and Harry casually took a step closer. She was decidedly pretty, not exactly gorgeous, but she reminded Harry of the types of girls that were always very popular in school. Long red hair trickled down her back in messy, disheveled waves, and thick, dark lashes framed her brown eyes. Although she wore a deep frown, Harry imagined that she must've been very pretty when she smiled.

"Can I help you?" Her voice startled Harry, as if he didn't realize she was speaking until a moment later. The red haired girl looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, and her face remained a mask of indifference. Realizing he had been staring, Harry looked away in embarrassment, hands shoved in his pockets.

He spoke quickly. "No, no sorry. Didn't mean to stare." He cleared his throat and looked in the opposite direction. "What's your name?"

"Ginny." She answered so quickly and quietly that Harry almost didn't realize she had replied.

Until now, Harry hadn't realized just how fascinating the dirty brick walls of a tube station could be. "My name? It's, uh, Harry."

"Nice to meet you, uh, Harry," Ginny replied in a way that should've been funny, but her voice betrayed no humor.

"Yeah," was all Harry could think to say. He scrambled for something to say, not wanting to leave the conversation there. "Oh, it's nice to meet you too."

"Mhmm. Well anyway, how'd you get that scar?" Ginny asked, and he assumed she was referring to the lightning shaped fissure on his forehead. It was a question he was asked often, but every time it caught Harry off guard.

"This?" He asked, pointing to his forehead. Ginny nodded. "Oh, I got it in a car crash. I was only a baby, but it stuck around." The very same car crash that had killed his parents, but that didn't seem relevant to mention.

Ginny looked beyond Harry for a second, and turned back to him. She opened her mouth to say something, but before any sound could come out, a cold, sweaty hand clamped itself over Harry's mouth. His vision started swimming, and he was out.