Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters or concepts, blah blah blah – those belong to JK Rowling kthx (lucky bitch . ). I do, however, own Xanadu Severina.

Sarafina Radcliff is (c) Kiara Rae ), and Sanuya Kynnata is (c) Cy ). Any other characters belonging to people other than me will be duly credited. Thus far, every fan-created character I use and will use I have strict permission to use directly from their creator, so don't bust my ass about copyright infringements.

Enjoy!

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A rather unclean but still blazing red Subaru Forester sped off down the surprisingly open highway clocked at about 80 mph, a mere red blur to those who were standing still. The man driving the car seemed ordinary enough. His thin, ruffled black hair was balding in the back, and the skin around his tired black eyes was wrinkled and creased from years of overwork and hardships. One hand placed loosely on the wheel, the other picking French fries from a brown paper bag wedged between hi seat and the parking break, years of experience had allowed him the luxury of having very little to worry about when it came to the road ahead. The woman in the passenger seat would have looked much more normal if it hadn't been for the black pointed hair perched atop her head, crooked near the top where the roof of the car had bent it to one side. Her hazel eyes were sparkling and full of life, and her dirty blonde hair was graying at the roots, betraying her lively nature. She was talking adamantly about something, gesticulating wildly so that you would expect one of her hands to collide with something on the inside of the car at any moment. They were Nicki and Daevon Severina, respectively, parents of Xanadu Severina, their Hogwarts pride and joy.

"I'm telling you, Nick, there are some muggles out there who just aren't ready to accept those from the wizarding world," Daevon declared in a tone that was a mixture of irritation and pity. "They're not all like you; many of them are very close-minded. I mean, look at the way they treat people who are different in their own world – look at how stigmatized people of different sexualities and races are treated!"

"Well, there are some witches and wizards who are the same way about people in the wizarding world, as well," her husband replied, waving a hand half-heartedly in the air, a French fry wedged loosely between his fingers. "Not that they're anyone we associate with, mind you, but still..."

Xanadu, who was seated in the backseat, was hardly listening to her parents' discussion. Her liquid brown eyes stared blankly at the window, though they didn't see the scenery whirring by. A million thoughts were running through her head, and she felt the music pulsing through her headphones was the only thing keeping her sane. She had been in America so long that she had almost forgotten England, the place she was born and raised. She remembered with a pang in her side the reason for her nervousness.

Four years ago, her family had moved from their comfortable flat at 543 Comrade Court when her mother's father had fallen ill, diagnosed with cancer and with a life expectancy of a mere three months. However, the old man had more strength left in him than any of them had expected, and for two years they had stayed with him, living in his lush California home while he was forced into intensive care (which he intermittently got out of one way or another – one time he even escaped from the hospital and was at home for three hours before the people at the hospital caught up with him).

Xanadu remembered those years well. At first she had been so filled with fear, praying to whoever would listen to sustain her beloved grandfather's life, but after the first couple months her fear had been quelled by her grandfather's resilience, and she slipped into a realm of ethereal wanderings and strange dreams. In the time she spent with him everyday, she grew very close to her grandfather, for which she was very grateful. She felt a great connection to the old man, and he inspired her to be stronger somehow, lifted her spirits despite her own fear of the process.

"You're shaping out to be a great woman," he would tell her, his pale blue eyes sparkling and so vibrant that you would never suspect he was expected to die at any moment. "You have very powerful magick running through your veins, you know, and one day you'll see just how powerful you really are." He would then grin at her, and she would smile and ruffle his hair. What she would give just to regain those few moments of understanding they shared, just to hear those words once more and feel his comforting touch.

Of course Xanadu knew she was a witch; she had known since the day she was born, though she couldn't quite explain why. When she asked her mother about it for the first time, her mother had told her of her bloodline: while her father was a muggle, a non-magick person, her mother came from a long line of powerful witches. There had been a powerful witch from each generation in her mother's family, and Xanadu was destined to be the next generation witch. So naturally, she grew up with magick all around her, and with the promise of going to Hogwarts someday, the very same school of witchcraft and wizardry that her mother had attended.

Two years came and went, a bit too quickly for Xanadu's taste, and at last her grandfather's strength gave out. Xanadu was heartbroken. It was he who had inspired her to be something better, to become stronger, to develop her magick, to take up Wicca, and there was such a great pain in his absence. But he wasn't completely gone; his presence still lingered on in the estate they had inherited, and she swore that she would never leave the house as long as his spirit remained there and she could still speak with him and be with him, even if he was a ghost. All thoughts of Hogwarts had flitted from her mind like a thousand butterflies; this world she had come to love seemed all the magick she would ever need.

When she turned fourteen, however, Xanadu's parents received a latter from Nicki's sister in Bristol which held something which was apparently very important to the both of them, for they sat their daughter down that very evening to tell her something that was of life-altering importance: she was to go to Hogwarts after all. One part of her was aching to finally go to the famed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the same school that had helped make her mother the wonderful witch that she had become, but the other half of her didn't want to part ways with her grandfather's ghost. However, when her parents told her that he could come as well, she was up and packing within minutes.

As Xanadu went over all of this in her mind for the thousandth time, she was filled with both extreme nervousness and great excitement. Most of everything she owned was still lying encased in boxes strewn about their new old house at 543 Comrade Court; everything that wasn't there was piled into the trunk of her parents' car, and all of it was magickal, so its mere presence was causing the skin on the back of her neck to tingle with anticipation. She was leaving her relatively mundane life, as well as her grandfather's ghost, behind, but she was headed towards an almost entirely different world that she was bound to either loathe vehemently or love ardently. She was about to be schooled at Hogwarts, the greatest wizarding school in the magickal world; even her father was excited for her. But she couldn't help wondering why they had waited so long to her enroll her if they had known of her witch-hood since she the day she was born; it had to be connected to whatever was written in that letter her aunt had sent, but she had not a clue what secrets lay within its scrawling text, and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to know.

She sighed, turning up the volume on her CD player. She could see the familiar outline of King's Cross becoming clearer through the morning fog as they neared it. Her mother had told her that the great Harry Potter would be entering his fifth year as well; she sneered at the thought. Perhaps it was in envy, but she couldn't understand what was so great about a little boy surviving an attack from lord Voldemort – and no, she wasn't afraid to say his name – without even doing anything. Still, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him; he was probably faced with that kind of ridicule a lot.

Unfortunately, that thought only drove her to another, more nerve-wracking one. She was about to enter her first year at the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the magickal world, to be thrust into a class where everyone else would have four years of schooling on her, and she hardly had any knowledge or anything they would probably be teaching. How could she possible hope to keep up with the other fifth years? What if she failed? Or worse, what if they expelled her for lack of experience, or threw her back to her first year? She would be 15 in October, and she couldn't even imagine being in a class with all 11-year-olds.

Don't worry so much, dear, a comforting voice spoke inside her mind, and she instinctively looked down at her beloved cat, Oreo, who was seated peaceably on her lap, gazing up at her with bright green eyes filled with adoration. You'll be the most powerful witch there. She winked up at her with a grin that only a cat could pull off, and Xanadu grinned back with a cat-like grin of her own.

"I 'ighly doubt that, Oreo," she replied out loud, speaking for the first time since that morning. "'arry Pottah's going ta be there, and Dumbledore's tha headmastah; I'll be surrounded by brillian' witches and wizerds!"

And you'll do wonderfully, because you're a mighty powerful witch yourself, Oreo replied, nuzzling her chest lovingly.