As you can probably tell, I am new here and this is my first story. ; WOO! Please, be gentle! Regrettably, I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters other than Willow. So don't sue me.

-------------------------------------------

The day dawned miserable and grey as Willow McKenzie boarded the last plane that was to make the excruciatingly long trek to London, England. The young and exceedingly cynical 17 year old American witch was anything but pleased with her present location. With a drawn out sigh, she looked to her left where a freakish 20 year old muggle with florescent hair stared straight ahead, transfixed on something that her ominous mind had manifested before her sight alone. The dark make-up that encircled her eyes coupled with the ghostly white flesh the clung to her youthful face made her appear as a corpse. Without a flinch, the youth turned her eyes to Willow, irises hidden behind onyx contacts. Scary.

She met the eerie gaze and refused to back down, her own lupine eyes glaring maliciously. She had half a mind to snarl at the witch...no, that was not a very accurate title. Switch the first letter and you will inevitably find a more suitable word. With a roll of her eyes, Willow averted her gaze and followed the row of generic chairs to the front of the plane where meticulous stewardesses stood in their pristine uniforms, smiling like dolls with makeup to match. The petite blonde's voice was a sugary sweet tone as she went over the in-flight procedures.

Rubbish. Your chances of surviving a crash are slim so you might as well just blare your music and enjoy the last hellish rollercoaster you'll ever experience. Go down in flames, as the muggles called it. Terrible phrase for a witch to use and highly inaccurate at that. Witches have spells that stop that from happening, but not for the hard impact that inevitably follows. So a crash would be most undesired.

The dishwater blonde examined the sentiment with care, mulling over the pros and cons on a magical interference that would send the plane and herself plummeting to a most certain death. At least she wouldn't have to attend the dreadfully foreign wizarding school that the magical population of jolly ol' England boasted of. Hogstooth? Hogsbeard? What was it called again? Oh, what does it matter? If I have to sit through even one snotty Brit-Brat's bragging about his or her pureblood family, I'd kill myself and take that particular individual down with me. As you will come to find out, an upstanding wizarding bloodline to an American is a family which consists of a father and or mother that has not been thrown behind bars, albeit magical bars (muggle jails are as flimsy as their cops), for the past 3 years. There you have it, pureblood. There was, in fact, only a trace of water in Willow's veins. Her mother had been arrested for Misconduct in a Muggle Agency. Does charming all the plants in the local courthouse so that they attack the most esteemed Judge Ballister count as "misconduct"? Willow was still debating that.

Her mother. Merlin, she would miss that woman. Jo McKenzie, a shortening of her full Joanne, was a most capable witch in her own right. The 41 year old with slightly blonder hair than her daughter had a temper to match the reddest of redheads and her sharp emerald eyes did little to belie her spirited nature. She was more of a sister than a mother. A kind mentor as well as a knowledgeable peer. With no American School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Willow had learned all she knew from her mother. Sure, there were several learning institutes that cleverly called themselves private "Religious" schools, but the McKenzie's had had little funds for such an endeavor.

Was it true that they made you wear uniforms? Willow had never so much as looked at a uniform (apart from those that belonged to an authoritative figure) and didn't fancy the idea of donning one of her own. Stiff and formal was the way of the English. 'I give it a week.' she sneered mentally, referring to her sanity. The teachers had beating sticks too, she supposed. Such joy.

The large chunk of scrap metal chugged to the end of the runway with the power and grace of a nearly dead plow horse and to tell you the truth, she highly doubted that the muggle invention would lift at all. It jerked sporadically before leaping into air with one last back-wrenching spasm.

She was up, up and away in a manner of seconds; soaring through the air with only the large chunk of iron between her and the wind that she so loved to feel upon her face. Damn muggles; leave it to them to suck the fun out of everything! It was these words that lead Willow to ask, was there a straw for such an occasion?

---------------------------------------

I know that it is kinda descriptive right now, but the next chapter will be better, I swear...and longer.