Her home is comfortably middle class with a sturdy iron gate and a pleasant garden patio. The outside stucco is a nice beige, the shingles blue-black and the front door a happy red.
After removing your shoes in the foyer, the space opens up to an airy living room, adjacent to an equally uncluttered, well-lit kitchen. Through a doorway to the right of said kitchen is a small room with a washer and dryer that connects to the one car garage, which makes up the right bottom half of the house.
Directly across from the front door is a stair case, which leads to three bedrooms, the master suite and a bathroom.
Harry's room is the last door on the right. It is bright with sunlight and in the spring she has a clear view of the sakura trees that bloom in her neighbors yard. She likes the open, clean air that waifs in from the window above her desk, the plush western-style bed next to her haphazardly filled bookcase, and her full closet.
(She hides there, on the really bad days; curling into a shivering ball under a mountain of clothes, trying to forget.)
Her father, an English Civil Engineer by the name of Charles "Charlie" Potter, fell in love with Inoue Aimi, the quick witted foreign exchange student from Japan. They dated until she graduated with honors, after which she left, returning home. And Charlie, love sick fool that he was, followed her, courted her, and eventually convinced her to marry him.
Twenty years later finds them still hopelessly in love (the sorry sods), with three children ranging from mid-teens to early twenties, the middle of which is one Harry Potter.
Now eighteen, Harry stands at a respectable 1.7 meters (5'7"), towering over most girls her age, but given her ancestry, it's to be expected. Fair skinned, with equally fair features, Harry stands out in a society of short, dark haired people.
Her eyes, a vivid emerald green, have always shone with a keen light (soul weary, her mother calls them, the sign of a restless spirit).
She practices fencing, a touch based sport involving formal combat with a choice of one of three rapiers, of which, she uses the sabre. She started at a young age, her determination to master the foreign sport spawned by a theatrical performance she attended with her mother and siblings when she was five.
(But really, it reminded her of a Duel, the swish and pull of her sabre, the flick of her wrist and bend of her arm; it was almost like holding her wand again.)
She got into To Oh University through a rare, almost defunct Athletic Scholarship, catering to specialized European sports. She was expected (and required) to do well in her competitions, and represent with pride. A small fencing class is now offered to students because of her petition to the school, the numbers of which have swelled to a nice healthy dozen, which will hopefully triple in the next semester. Her instructor is a hard, no-nonsense Italian who demands much and expects more (as if she would have it any other way).
She is majoring in Human Biology, after her mother, and confesses a certain fascination with the scientific process (what with it being science-based rather than magical theory).
Harry's life is full and vibrant, busy and complex. Which is one of the many reasons why she despises complications.
So when she wakes from a dead sleep in the middle of the night, the air in her room cold enough to see wisps of white breath streaming from her mouth and a dark looming shadow hanging over her prone form; is it really any wonder she reacted with extreme prejudice?
The spell left her lips before she remembered her significant lack of magic, right hand reaching for her sabre even as she flung her blanket away and rolled from the bed.
"Expecto patronum!" Her voice snapped like a whip in the still silence, the sound alone enough to send one reeling. That it was accompanied by a bright burst of white light shocked Harry to a stand still, the tangy, warm thrum of magic pounding through her blood like a heartbeat, rushing in her ears from the top of her head, to the soles of her feet, then back to the tips of her fingers.
The serge of power flung her red hair up like a tempest, eyes glowing green from the influx of magic. It spread outward with a pulse of unseen vibrations, her stag patronus all the brighter for it.
The dark Thing hurled into her bookcase with a pained and slightly surprised yelp, sliding into an undignified, shadowy heap along the far wall. Harry's patronus, unbelievably large in such a small space, pawed at the ground before lifting its antlered head in a protective rear.
Harry, still high from the sudden reappearance of her magic, had the inexplicable urge to cry.
And this is how she found herself confronting the Thing in her bedroom: fiery hair aloft, tears shining in the white ethereal glow, sabre in hand.
The next morning, there is a parcel on her desk, wrapped in black velvet and tied with red silk.
When Harry finally dregs up her old Gryffindor courage to slowly peel the fabric back, she is met with a thin, square jewelry case of the blackest of leathers.
Inside sits an unassuming set of earrings; a set of three. Two jeweled studs, one of black stone, the other of shimmering silver. Then last, a dangling shard of wood, elder wood, shaped to the likeness of something Harry once broke and threw into a chasm.
The Girl Who Lived shivers at an unseen wind, staring at the symbols etched upon each.
She swallows.
And then gently closes the case.
Tomorrow, she will get her ears properly pierced.
