A/N: I've taken a break from my other story, Colours of Light, to bring this story to life. This started picking at my brain a day or so ago, the words seem to be flowing from my fingers at the moment, so I am writing them out.

Disclaimer: Not mine... Never will be. I have to start accepting that.

Chapter One

I have always known that I am rather different from everyone else. Ever since I was a small child, my father and mother had both instilled in me the knowledge of the importance of being myself. My mother was by far the most influential person on my journey through life. I can still sense her presence in me and always strive to let the light that she has shone onto others shine once again through me, even though she has moved on from here.

She was different. I am different. My father was an encouraging source to her, as he is to me. Never wanting to stifle my creative and unique gifts, as a child they allowed me to dress and act as I pleased, as long as it was never harmful to others, or to myself. I was raised with a firm guidance yet with a lenient hand to my differences.

I know that people don't really like me; they never really took a liking to me anyway. I think they are afraid of my differences, though they seem reluctantly tolerant of my behaviours. I like being different. It is my lifeblood, my passion. Take away the right for a person to be who they really are and you take away their soul. Everyone is different, some people group together and on the whole it may seem like they are only imitating each other for friendship sake, but they are really only trying to be themselves with others they can relate to.

I have no one to relate to really. My father is now the most accepting of me.

No, it goes further than that. At the moment I can't find the words to describe it, but I am sure I will come back to the matter later.

My father is the editor of The Quibbler. He's been running this magazine since before I was born, and the stories he has found have been my bedtime stories growing up. I never doubt the tales he tells me are true, if someone sees a crumple-horned snorkack that must mean that they exist. Sometimes you just have to accept someone's word for what it is.

The best issue of The Quibbler we've ever sold was the one last year with the article about Harry Potter telling everyone what really happened at the Triwizard Tournament.

That has been reprinted four times already in the past couple of years, and I suppose Dad will want to reprint it again soon, people still talk about it, "Did you get a copy yet?" "No, I do hope the Quibbler will have another issue with it soon."

Often I am kept busy in the summer holidays and at Christmas time by helping Dad with the magazine. Organizing articles, updating the subscriber list and so forth. When I return home from school, it's usually up to me to cook meals for us. That's fine with me; I rather enjoy inventing new dishes for Dad to test out. Of course there have been a few times where he's had to suddenly excuse himself from the table to run to the toilet, but he always seemed to return in good enough spirits.

Today is the seventeenth day of August; it's very warm and humid outside. I'm lying on my stomach on the front porch, my chin on my hands between the bottom of the porch railing and the floorboards, watching the plants grow. Many people don't realise they would be able to see plants growing if they watched them very carefully. I love to see the petals slowly emerge from hiding in the centre of the flowers, or the leaves unfurl and spring to life with a gentle confidence.

I reach my fingers over the side of the porch and lovingly brush them over the bright orange and brown marigold heads. I love the smell of blooming marigolds. I think this is another trait I've inherited from my mother; she loved planting marigolds all over our yard, in the gardens, potted on the porch, potted inside the house. That was something else I really admired about her, she never wanted to kill the plants by picking them and putting them in vases. I like to do this as well, and besides, it's far more rewarding to watch them grow and come to life than it is to watch them die.

As I lay and enjoy the flowers and the sweet smell of the trees I watch a fat and fuzzy bumblebee drift lazily over the marigolds and regard my fingers before continuing his busy work.

"Good time for a kip." I think sleepily and my eyelids start to feel quite leaden. I drift off in the subdued sunlight, the sound of cicadas buzzing as my lullaby.

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"Luna! Luna, where are you?"

I start at the sound of Dad's voice and accidentally bump my head on the lower rail. Rubbing my head as I sit up I notice how much cooler it's gotten. The cicadas are quiet now and the stars are starting to wink at me, one by one from their lofty and rapidly dimming perches.

"Luna!"

"I'm out here Dad!"

He barrels through the door.

"I've been searching high and low for you! I've just got an owl from a man in Barking and he says he's seen a talking horklump! He says he's got at least three other witnesses who can back him up!"

I grin up at him and his excitement.

"That's great Dad! When are we going to print it?"

"As soon as we can, duckie! As soon as we can! First though, what do you want for supper?"

"Oh, I don't know, I suppose I could put something together for us, if you want to get started on that article."

"Thanks sweetheart." He says before tugging me in for a hug and a kiss on my forehead and dodging to the rooms at the back of our house, which work as his office. Our house doesn't look very big from the outside, but the inside is quite expansive due to the miracle of magic.

That's the last time I see Dad.

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A/N: How's that for a first chapter? Sorry if it's short, I'm still getting my "writers legs" and trying to gauge the amount I have to write on Word and on Notepad to get a substantial chapter on This bunny is still hopping rampantly in my head, so no worries about writers block for a little while at least. Please review, your feedback is so important to me. It propels me forward.