Disclaimer: I own none of these characters - that would be Pittacus Lore and Jo Rowling - and I used some of the general dialogue from the books and other canon sources.

A/N: Hello everybody and anybody who decides to read this, thank you :) I will keep this updated as I keep ahead of it. Now, let's get into it!

The events in this book are real.

Names and places have been changed to protect the Loric, who remain in hiding.

Other civilisations do exist.

Some of them seek to destroy you.

I am Number Four. The fourth of nine kids sent to Earth, fleeing a war on Lorien against the Mogadorians. Each of us had a keeper, a Cêpan, to guide us and mentor us. On Earth, we have hidden from the Mogadorians, who hunt us down, in order. That was part of the charm put on us kids; we could only be killed in order. We each have our symbols branded around our right ankles, and on our left leg we get scars of the other's symbols when they die. Currently there is only one, and now it is almost two years old.

I was nine when it came. I woke screaming in pain in the middle of the night. Everything was shaking. I remember Henri, how he had looked so scared but also, hidden behind the horror, relieved. It was the first sign the Mogs were here on Earth, and now we knew it. I think that was where the relief came from; there was no longer the question of the unknown – are they here? Are they coming after us? And then we knew. I was terrified. It proved everything Henri said about Lorien was real, and not just some ghostly bedtime story I had almost convinced myself it was.

We were gone within the hour, leaving the state, leaving the country. We've been moving around Europe for a year since, and now we're in the UK. We arrived in Essex a week ago.

It's a lazy Saturday. The sun lolls in the sky. It's a mild day, perfect July weather. The stray short-haired caramel tabby cat we've unofficially adopted while we've been here is lounging around the base of the bird bath in the front yard, lying in the sun. You wouldn't know by looking at him that he was living on the streets; his fur shone with health and he was very friendly.

Henri was in the large cellar, using all his computers to scan the news around the world. But that was only on one wall. The rest of the space had been cleared of normal cellar stuff and replaced with training equipment. Resting against the edge of the gym mats laid out were body pads for Henri that he wore when we were sparring. Even though he was a good fighter, he lacked the strength I had simply by being a member of the Garde – sometime in the next couple of years I would get my Legacies, my powers to help me fight the Mogs hunting me down. But for now I just had super strength and speed.

I'm not complaining though. Not about my Legacies, at least. If I have to live in constant fear, I deserve at least that. Yet, it's a normal life I want. No more running, no more hiding. No more training, no new schools, to be able to make actual friends.

I trudge down into the gloom of the cellar, resenting having to leave the warmth and sunshine of the weekend behind me. Henri's sitting in front of the monitors, a mug of coffee in front of him.

"How're you going, kiddo?" He greets me without turning, his words distorted slightly through his Loric accent. People often think that he's French because of it. We've picked up some of the language passing through Europe the last two years, which certainly helps.

"Missing the sun. Anything in the news?" I ask. Henri shakes his head with a sigh and spins in the chair to face me. His brown hair is greying though he's only 46, which is still young amongst the Loric, as our average lifespan is about 200 years. He's tired, his eyes rimmed with red. I wonder how many cups of coffee he's had.

"It's like all the weird in the world has gone on hiatus. There's been nothing even with the slightest possibility of being superhuman in the news or online for days. I haven't seen a silence quite like this since we got here." He sighs again and stands up, stretching. "Ready for some training?"

"Body or brain? 'Cos if it's brain, I vote we do it outside," I reply with a bit of a grin. Henri smiles back with a raised eyebrow.

"You're cheery today," he states, amusement in his voice. "Okay, we'll leave the sparring for tomorrow. And you're not getting out of that no matter how nice the weather is," he says with false sternness. I run upstairs while he drains his coffee and take the comfy chair on the porch, leaving the faded wooden seat for Henri. I stick my tongue out at him when he arrives, my legs tucked up to my chest.

"Kids these days. No respect," he chuckles, pulling the stool forwards into the sunlight. For a few minutes we are silent, just enjoying the uncommon warmth of the day and the life of the yard. The cat, dubbed Hadley by me, meanders over to greet us with a yawn and a stretch, toes splaying wide. Henri watches him in deep thought.

"Why did you name him Hadley?" He doesn't look up from the cat.

I shrug. "I wanted to give him a name that reminded me of Lorien. I don't remember hearing it or anything, it just came to me and seemed to fit. When I called him Hadley he seemed happy with it." I shrug again. Henri chuckles as though there's some kind of inside joke that I'm missing. I continue, "There were other names too, but none of them seemed to fit." Henri nods, encouraging me onwards. "Liren and Brandon." I stop when I see his eyebrows shoot up his forehead in amused surprise. "Who are they?"

"Liren was your father," he explains. "Your mother's name was Lara. Your father spent a lot more time with you than was normal for a parent, and that's probably why you remember his name…" he trails off, gazing thoughtfully into the yard. "Right then, scenarios," he prompts, snapping himself back to the present.

We spent most of the day on the porch enjoying the sun and theorising strategies to scenarios, taking breaks here and there for snacks and drinks. The sun is almost below the tree line when a steady beeping starts in the cellar. We both stare for a few seconds before we get up and hurry down to the computers. A few of the screens are blinking out warnings for news reports and web articles that have fallen into the criteria specified by Henri's search. On the right-most monitor, an antivirus program trills out a warning. Henri swears, sits, and starts typing furiously to counter whatever threat is looming. If it's not fixed in the next three hours I know we'll be packing up and leaving again.

I go back upstairs. With Henri working downstairs, I'll be ordering take-out for dinner. I grab a book and make use of the last rays of sunlight. When the light becomes unreadable, I gather the mail from the last three days. It's not a habit because we don't get personal mail, just advertisements and general junk mail.

Near the bottom of the pile, a 'Thursday' letter, I find a letter, handwritten and addressed to my current alias, John Smith. I'm immediately suspicious. There is a wax stamp on the back, sealing the letter shut. We're no longer in America, but I still have my accent, so why not exploit it in the most stereotypical way possible? I'm incredibly wary of it, and lay it aside on the table. I order pizza and wait for it to be delivered, skimming through the catalogues. My eyes keep darting to the mysterious letter beside me.

The doorbell rings. I pay the delivery man and take the pizza and the letter down to Henri. Giving him the letter, he raises an eyebrow.

"Well, Mr J. Smith, I think you have mail." He turns it over and sees the stamp. I refill his coffee. He still hasn't slept. "I think this one's safe to open. No Mogs hiding away in there waiting to jump out and slaughter you." He returns to frowning over his computers. "Well, are you going to open it or not?"

I shove some pizza in my mouth and sit silently looking at the letter for a few minutes. My stomach is almost cramping with nerves. Henri seems to know what this is, I tell myself, it can't be anything that bad. He's not scared it's the Mogs so I shouldn't be. Anyway, if it were the Mogs, they wouldn't send a letter. I'd be dead already. I slide my finger under the seal and open the envelope.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Smith,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress

"Magic?" I ask Henri. He looks troubled, working over his computers. I hold the letter out to him as he turns his attention back to me. He takes it and gives me a glance before he reads it. He takes a deep breath, then releases it.

"Do you want to go?" He asks when he's finished.

"It sounds good, but magic?" I reiterate. "And won't that mean staying in the same place?" I pull out a second piece of paper from the envelope. It's a list of items; uniform, books and equipment.

"Come on, John. What do you think this magic is? I've told you before that the Loric have visited Earth many times. What's your theory?"

"Some of the Greek gods, you said they were descendants of the Loric and they had powers. Is that what it is? The wizards and witches have some of Lorien in them?" I answer carefully.

"Good. You have been paying attention," he says. "Now, are you going or not? It's up to you. I don't think the Mogs will be able to find you there, there're some powerful spells hiding that school."

"Wait, if I'm getting this letter because I'm a Garde, won't that mean the others will too?"

"Possibly. I think Hogwarts only caters to the United Kingdom though, and some of the others are different ages, which really reduces the risk of you meeting them. Then again, you may already be vulnerable."

"What about you?" I suddenly realise Henri won't go with me.

"I'll stick around the UK, move maybe once or twice. I won't be hunted without you, so it'll be easier to stay put. You should go, kiddo. Without your Legacies yet, this will be a great way to learn to protect yourself and blend in. Don't worry about me, I'll send you my address for the holidays, and we can always write to each other." I feel bad for him, guilty. If it weren't for me, he'd be able to live a proper life here. He wouldn't be hunted, doomed to be slaughtered at the hands of the Mogadorians. I glance back down at the letter in my hands.