I rubbed my face into the depths of my pillow as the proud morning sun broke through my curtains; catching on specks of dust and making them appear celestial while warming my well rested but slightly aching body. Even on brisk English mornings, the sun was mighty and streamed through my bedroom window overlooking the hill down to the McLeans' cottage. If I could rely on any sort of consistency in my life, it was waking up to sunbeams or morning showers, and looking outside to see Oliver McLean tending to his precious vegetable garden or working on his art. It was usually the same landscape painting; our surrounding rolling hills dotted with cottages and the occasional sheep or gnarled willow tree.

I quickly became too warm for comfort (especially when factoring in the rotund cat curled between my knees). I maneuvered my legs from around the black feline and placed my feet solidly on the hardwood floor. I ripped my dark floral curtains further aside to see Oliver with one leg propped on a large squash, holding a paint palette on his knee with an easel and canvas planted in the soil. I knocked on my window and waved. The small but sturdy old man took off his tiny wool cap, freeing his white hair as a grin filled his face. He turned his canvas to show me the vibrant beginnings of an oil paint pumpkin; I raised my arms and clapped to show my enthusiasm. I grinned as our neighbor pulled out his wand, pointed it towards my window, and let off a stream of golden sparks that twinkled in the sun and fizzled before fading into the morning haze.

"Florence!" I heard my name called, accompanied by the sound of a spoon hitting the side of a mug. I snatched my drowsy cat and entered the narrow upstairs hallway.

"Another sunny morning, Uncle Edgar." I offered to the portrait outside of my bedroom door.

"I say, one week without rain. Do tell me, is the old neighbor still dabbling in portraiture or is he back to the same old?" The thin, bespectacled man asked.

"Neither. A pumpkin. There are twenty in the patch so we're in for an orange month."

The old playwright mumbled something while crossing his arms and closing his eyes again. He routinely stayed up late into the night, reading something off of the bookshelf painted behind his ornate chair or furiously scribbling on a thick script. I drifted down the stairs, sleepily greeting other family portraits.

"Honestly, Mum, I work with more clear-headed patients at Mungo's everyday."

"He's just eclectic, Graham." My mother was leaning up against the sink with a mug. There was flour speckled on her apron as she flicked her wand and sent a plate of fresh bread and cup of tea my way while she entertained my brother's dramatic ramblings.

"Who?" I asked with my head propped on my hand as I poured some milk.

"Bubbly Scaringer. Dad hired him on at the shop. He calls himself 'Bubbly' first of all, and half of the wizards in town swear he was the one that nailed all of those mushrooms to the side of the grocery store." I snorted as I smeared honey and butter on the still steaming bread. "Not only that," Graham said while shaking his finger and leaning over the table in my direction, lowering his voice, "but I'll tell you that I once saw him eating strawberries... Not an activity that's very easy to make seem suspicious one would think, yeah? But he was only eating the stems. As I walked behind him I saw all of these berries with hunks bitten out of the tops. If that's how he eats strawberries then I have some questions about how he spends the rest of his time."

"I worked with him yesterday," I said through a mouthful of oat bread, "Dad told him he could help himself to one of the bakes and he ate a raw cinnamon bun." Graham threw his hands in the air while looking at my mom, who laughed into her tea. "I'll agree with Mum on this one though; eclectic is the word. He did well yesterday, dough eating aside."

"Get ole Bubbly to make a mushroom quiche, mushroom focaccia, a mushroom tart perhaps, and we'll see what happens." Graham shrugged as he dumped what was left in his mug into the potted plant situated near his chair.

I had spent the summer working off and on at my father's bakery down the road to spend some time with him while I was home from school. As I was only a Hogwarts fourth year I stayed in the front of the shop kneading doughs, decorating cakes and assembling tarts for the muggles in our area to enjoy. Those that were of age to practice magic stayed in the back of the store, not visible to those of non magic blood. There were flying marzipan swans, bubbling chocolate plum cauldron cakes that sparked from the bottom and emitted furls of smoke that smelled of cinnamon and cocoa, fruit tarts that changed fruit depending on how the consumer was feeling, bread that stayed fresh and steaming for days, and biscuit violins that played songs upon request (to name a few items). It was tiring work but I gladly did it a few days a week.

"Do you need more coffee before you go, dear? I don't even think I was up late enough to hear you apparate home last night." Mum inquired, fussing with my brother's collar.

"I should be all right." Graham stretched and sighed, "There was a Gringotts break-in last night- well, attempted. Someone actually made it all the way down to the dragon. The most severe burns we've ever seen, plus factor in all the time it took for him to get back to ground level... Excruciating stuff. Obviously the goblins weren't in the greatest or most concerned rush to get him to the top."

"There really is a dragon down there?" I asked excitedly, wide eyed as I ignored our cat, Figaro, licking excess honey from my plate.

"Dear, sweet, innocent Florence. You would be surprised," My brother chuckled while shaking his head, throwing a vest on and running his hands through his dark hair that my mother was getting desperate for him to cut, "Some of the most complex injuries, bizarre body morphs and hexes I've seen have come from Gringotts. We're not given many details on how they've happened, we're just left dumbfounded by the extra limbs, unhealing lacerations and putrid sores. Anyway, love you both. I will see you before you leave tomorrow, I promise." My brother put a hand on my shoulder and smiled before running out of the door, waving at Oliver McLean before flicking his wand and disappearing into the breeze.

"Now, I hope you're ready to spend your last day of summer doing some serious errand running." My mother sighed as she wiped down the counter. "We were so on top of these things with your brother and sister. Now I don't even know if your father remembers that you're going back tomorrow." She finished, throwing her hands in the air. Being the youngest by seven years my parents weren't nearly as uptight as they had been in raising my brother and sister.

Graham and Rosalyn had excelled in their studies, still as academic as ever with Graham being popular at Saint Mungo's and Rosalyn finding great acclaim in The Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry. My brother had been a proud Gryffindor, my sister an obvious Ravenclaw, and I an enthusiastic Gryffindor as well (taking after both of my parents). Though I was very studious myself, taking great pleasure in expanding my knowledge of the wizarding world, I was also highly interested in expanding my knowledge of Hogwarts itself - arguing that exploring the castle grounds and sweeping corridors (especially after hours) was an education in and of itself.

I opened my mouth to inquire about the errands we had to run when our family owl came bursting through the window; a tawny called Greg (I had asserted this as his name in my youth). I excitedly snatched up the letter and ran my hand down the owl's smooth back feathers in appreciation. I was slightly disappointed to see that the letter was only from Rosalyn, extending an arm to hand it to my mum. I loved my sister, but there was no novelty in a letter home from her.

"She wants to meet up when we're in London today. We'll go straight to her flat instead of Diagon Alley." My mother finished reading, holding the letter over a large plant that opened its leaves in anticipation as she dropped the letter inside. "Do your robes still fit?" She inquired with a raised brow.

I comically grimaced as I looked at her, realizing that I hadn't tried them on since last term. "Er- fingers crossed?"

She shook her head and laughed, motioning up the stairs for me to get ready and also see if we had to make a pitstop at Madam Malkin's.

I walked briskly up to my room, excited about heading into the city and being fully immersed in the wizarding world once again. My village had a condensed magical population, though it was much suppressed and of course hidden away from the gaze of local muggles.

I opened the lid of the trunk next to my bed and dug through stray parchment and books for my robes, sucking air through my teeth as I realized how wrinkled they had become over the summer months. I threw them on and looked in the mirror, tilting my head as I inspected everything. I held my arms out in front of me and my eyes widened as the fabric pulled up my forearms. My wrists and then some were far more exposed than they had been the previous year.

I opened my bedroom door and walked until I was able to stick my head downstairs.

"Mum!" I called.

She was quick to step out of the kitchen, glancing up expectantly. I extended an arm and inquired, "How bad is it?"

She pointed a finger in the air and simply stated, "Add robes to the list."

"Roger that." I mumbled whilst pivoting around, once again running into my room and changing; this time chucking on a dark orange knit jumper and some black jeans, opting for my old boots. I ran a brush through my hair and pulled it into a low ponytail. I opened the trunk once more and grabbed my letter that listed necessary supplies and reading materials.

I made my way to the sitting room and propped my feet up on our wooden coffee table, slouching into the plush velvet couch as I scrutinized the letter I had forgotten the contents of since its initial arrival. I scrunched my brows together as I noticed something I hadn't anticipated.

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 by Miranda Goshawk

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Dress Robes

"Mum?" I said loudly once again. She proceeded to acknowledge me from the bedroom off of the kitchen.

"Apparently I need dress robes."

"Dress robes?" She asked incredulously, walking out of the bedroom in a change of clothes and removing her wand from her hair, giving it a final coif. I envied that she always managed to look perfectly made up and put together.

"Why?" I asked myself as I read over the listed item a few times.

"I'm sure Rosalyn has an assortment." Mum shrugged, joining me on the couch and putting an arm around my shoulders after scooting my feet off of the table. "Much shorter list this year, isn't it?" She remarked wistfully, reading the list herself and resting her head next to mine. "Excited?" She asked, giving me a squeeze.

"Of course." I instantly smiled to myself as I thought about everything I was homesick for, thankful I went to a school that felt like as much of a home to me as where I grew up. I had a few muggle acquaintances in the village that I met in the bakery and they always complained about their studies. I would complain in return, making up the excuse of whatever "homeschool" was per my parents' suggestion.

I missed my friends. I was relatively close with nearly every Gryffindor, especially those in my year, though my classmates were constantly evolving. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were, at this point, the same person, and I'd find myself sleeping with a pillow over my head to drown out their whispered, eye roll inducing late night gossip. Hermione Granger and I had always been close. With my last name of Goldwyn we were sorted nearly one after the other, and I had given her an enthusiastic one armed hug as she joined me at the Gryffindor table. I remembered beaming from ear to ear, in near tears as I was overwhelmed with comfort and excitement in my school.

Our first year we had spent nearly all of our time together, though recently she had begun to spend her days with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. I had spent my fair share of time with them over the years as well, and though I hadn't tagged along on any of their much gossiped about escapades, I had been privy to a few sensitive discussions and conversations as we all grew closer. This summer we had all exchanged letters- Ron would send the frequent message venting about his brother Percy's insufferable attitude since being hired on in my sister's department at The Ministry. Harry was having an especially grim summer as his cousin was on a new diet, which meant Harry was deprived of decent meals. In response, my parents and I had put together a parcel filled to the brim with an assortment of pastries and breads from the bakery.

"I will miss home, you know." I offered, which was true. "And you." I added in a jokingly reluctant tone.

"I know," Mum smiled lightly, aiming her wand towards the fireplace across from us and slowly letting flames flicker and crackle to life, "but I'm excited for you, if you're just saying that to make me feel better. Hogwarts is such a special time in your life, and it goes by in the blink of an eye." I opened my mouth to protest, having heard this spiel before, instantly thinking about droll afternoons in History of Magic before she cut me off, "Believe you me… and I also had Professor Binns." She maintained, reading my mind. One would think the idea of having a ghost professor would be a wildly fascinating thrill, but the novelty wears thin shockingly quickly.

I watched as she got up and grabbed a dark cloak off of the rack next to the front door, proceeding to walk over to the mantle to grab our old jar of floo powder. She scooped a scant fistful and threw it into the flames, getting down onto the floor to stick her head in. I yawned and stretched as I assumed she chatted with Rosalyn to seek clearance before we slid onto her floor. On a floo trip years ago we had shown up unexpectedly, Graham the first to make the journey only to tumble into the legs of a few surprised coworkers that had joined my sister at her flat for some Firewhisky after work.

Mum stood and brushed herself off, remarking "Come on then, Florence." I slowly stood, watching her step into the fire before clearly stating, "Rosalyn Goldwyn's flat, London," and swirling off to the city.

I grabbed a thin jacket off of the rack and made sure that my supply list was secured inside one of my pockets. I hurried upstairs, fetching my ill fitting robes and deciding to grab a tiny satchel filled with a few stray galleons from my summer employment.

"I do say. In a rush?" Uncle Edgar drawled as I slipped on my rug.

"Off to London," I said quickly as I scrambled towards the stairs, "Enjoy your reading and wish me luck."

I collected myself and my thoughts and stood in the comfort of the flames that gently tickled my legs through my jeans.

"Rosalyn Goldwyn's flat, London." I said firmly, careful not to breathe in too deeply to avoid inhaling any ash. I watched as my sitting room disappeared from sight, then admired the fleeting views of various kitchens and sitting rooms within the floo network that flashed before my eyes. I always equated floo journeys to laying outside in the warm sun on a windy day, though it felt as though there was wind coming at you from every conceivable direction. The feeling didn't last long as I found myself sliding across Rosalyn's old hardwood floor.