Author's Note: I originally posted this story on HPFF in like 2009 or 2010 or something like that. The chapter titles are all song titles and I originally had song lyrics to go with them, but I think that goes against the community guidelines of this website, so I've decided to retain the chapter titles and remove the song lyrics. Anyway, this is my attempt at a Marauders-era romantic comedy-type fic that is set in the 70s and is more or less historically accurate (we'll see how that goes). The Marauders all smoke weed and listen to muggle music, so it's kind of a magical mystical musical journey through 1975 and it's also going to have some lgbt+ and feminist themes that I'm attempting to make fit the era, so bear that in mind.

CHAPTER 1

You're a Big Girl Now

DAISY

"Daisy, Daisy!" my mother scowled as she attempted to run a comb through my hair. "Do tell me what it is you do to your hair that gets it in such a state!"

"Ow! Mother, stop!" I winced as I felt her jerking my head back.

"Do not order me around! I am the one who puts a roof over your head and feeds you," she snapped at me. "The least you could do to repay me would be to take control over your appearance. At least for an occasion such as this."

Blah, blah, blah. I began to tune her out. Everything she said usually had the same basic gist to it. Ah, "an occasion such as this", you ask? Yes, that would be our semi-annual family reunion, or gathering, or soirée, or whatever you want to call it. That would be my muggle family. Although, come to think of it, I don't have any biological wizarding family, just my friends at Hogwarts. I'm a muggleborn, of course. Oh, and in case you didn't pick it up by my mother's repetitious scolding of me, my name is Daisy. Daisy Orlov; yes, very distantly Russian. Of course, I never get to see my intriguing Russian relatives (who knows, perhaps I'm half-blood after all, and my father's just a Squib). No, I get to see my dreadful English family twice a year. At least. The horror.

I truly can't stand it at home. We live in a fairly large, fairly luxurious house, being quite well-off. My mother likes to think of herself as a high-class Dame from the late 19th century or whatnot. Hence, her forcing me to learn etiquette (you know the sort: "sit up straight, no elbows on the table, do not speak unless spoken to, curtsey while you're thinking, it saves time...") dreadful, dreadful. It is a good thing my mother cannot hear my thoughts. She hates it when I am repetitious, when I curse and when I use conjunctions. Nevertheless, despite my severe revulsion towards her arcane culture, a bit of it seems to have stuck.

Oh, speaking of the 19th century, would you like to know why my mother named me Daisy? Ever heard of that "bicycle built for two" song? Yes, that would be "Daisy Bell", a song composed by Harry Dacre in 1892. And every day I regret that fact, as I have to hear people singing it at me. Oh, and you know what else is comical? My initials are DO. As in, Give me your answer, do. I shall now change the subject to something slightly less depressing. Oh yes, that would be returning to the sad venture of my mother wishing she could shave all my hair off and turn me into a boy.

"This will have to do," she sighed, taking out a tin of pomade. I began to protest, knowing exactly how difficult it is to wash pomade out of one's hair, but it didn't quite feel worth it. So, I allowed her to glob on the gooey substance until she had pulled my blonde hair back into an oddly smooth updo, with the aid of hairpins. She finished it off with a cream pillbox hat adorned with a bow. She selected a pair of white kid gloves to entrap my fingers as well.

We were soon off in my father's car to a hall where I had to sit stiffly in a far-too-fancy dress with a load of boring, old people and their haughty children and drooling grandchildren. Being one of the oldest of the grandchildren who was still yet a child, I was the one who had to watch over the babies and the scoundrel youngsters. And I couldn't stop thinking that, in just two short years, I would be 17, finally of age in the wizarding world.

"Daisy!" my mother hissed, leaning out of her seat and craning her long neck around to look at me. "Do not crumple that skirt, do you know how much it cost?" I scowled.

"May I inquire as to how you expect me to not crumple it while I am sitting? Shall I stand on the roof of the car instead?" I asked her with daggers in my eyes.

"Do not take that tone with me, young lady! It is undignified for you to show your temper at any time. A lady must always be pleasant and blithe."

I rolled my eyes and carefully smoothed the full, baby pink skirt of my tea dress. It was a light, summery frock that went just a little past my knees, and certainly took up space. The bodice was fitted and sleeveless with lace going down the front. It went up to my neck. That's my mother; always, always conservative. Square with a capital S.

Oh, and that's another thing; my mother absolutely despises all the new mannerisms and slang of the kids these days. So, if she were to hear me say, for example "groovy" or "far out" she would surely wring my neck. Most likely, she would give me a good spanking, like she used to when I was a bratty child. Most of the time, though, she opted to slap my hands with a ruler. But my old friend, Barb, from my muggle school, told me that her mother was a lot more severe with her, and that I was lucky. But then again, Barb was a complete dunce, so she was probably asking for it.

It was an excruciatingly long car ride, in which I had to listen to my parents' classical music and talk radio and the like. If it was up to me, I would instantly tune the wireless to a station that played the Beatles (do not ask how horrified I was at their breakup. I was ten, and avidly in love with them, John especially, though my parents tried to keep me as far away from them as possible). Also, though I cannot deny that there is some incredible music being made in my generation, I doubt that I will love anything as much as that good old music of the 1920s. Oh, how I love the '20s and the '30s. Where my mother would most likely choose to start life anew in the Victorian period, I would definitely choose the roaring '20s. I could be such a fantastic flapper. And who is my heroine? Why, Ginger Rogers of course. Bette Davis pulls in a close second.

"Daisy May," my father crooned as he opened my door. He called me by my two given names whenever he was in a good mood. The funny thing was, he did precisely the same thing when he was livid. When my mother was angry, or rather, angrier than usual, she called me by my full name. I stepped gracefully out of the car (and by gracefully, I mean stumbled due to my short legs, and my dress got caught on the door, baring my behind to the whole backseat of the car). I walked with my mother and father through the shiny doors into the fancy hall that we rented for every reunion.

"Oh, Daisy, dear!" an insufferable voice cooed sweetly.

"Aunt Ida, what a delight to see you again," I gushed and did a silly little curtsey. What lies I find myself spewing at these gatherings. I wanted to cringe as I saw that massive mouth zeroing in on my cheek. But there was no time for evasive action as I felt a sloppy smack.

"You've grown so much since I last saw you!" she continued gaily as she brought out a handkerchief and wiped madly at my face, keeping my head in place by clutching my chin and smooshing my lips into an odd shape. When she took the cloth away, I just knew my cheek was the hue of a tomato. It certainly felt like it had burst into flames. I wouldn't be surprised if Ida had taken away a portion of my skin along with her sickeningly pink lipstick. When she smiled at me again, I could see some of that vivid lipstick on her crooked, yellow teeth. And this was just the beginning.

After multitudes of greetings from aunts, uncles, grandma and grandpa, cousins, second cousins, and possibly even third cousins, I was finally able to be seated. What I really wanted was to curl up in a closet somewhere and sleep until the whole thing was over. However, the reality of it was that I had to sit at a large mahogany table with curly golden designs, surrounded by about ten children, all younger than me. Yes, gentle friends, this is the horror of the kiddy table. It appeared that anyone above the age of 15 (my age), had the privilege of being seated at the magnificently long main table. Well, sure, I supposed I could stand the smell of diapers as opposed to being suffocated by each of the adults' individual colognes and perfumes. No, on second thought, I believe those scents had permeated the room already.

I was the only one at my table with one of the bone china cups with Early Grey in it (milk and sugar, please). All the other occupants of my table had juice or fizzy drinks. I couldn't believe they were allowed to drink coke and I never was. Not that I was complaining; I couldn't stand the stuff. Coffee was my drug, though my mother forbade me from drinking that too. She told me it would stunt my growth. I retorted by standing beside a tape measure. I drank it at Hogwarts though, as much as I could get.

The members of the table adjacent to mine all chortled together, then they made a toast. I turned back to my table where young Wesley had begun to pick his nose intently.

"If you continue to do that, your finger will fall off," I whispered to him in a sinister voice. His dim eyes focused on me for a moment as his finger stopped, then he continued to do it just as enthusiastically as before. I shook my head and sat back in my chair. No sooner had I done this, I heard a sharp hiss. I looked up to see my mother glaring at me, her lips pursed so tightly they were hardly visible. I snapped back up into a stiff position and she looked away.

"How old are you?" the girl beside me asked, looking at me curiously.

"Fifteen," I replied and she giggled. "What's so funny?"

"You're so old. And you have a stupid nose."

"What? I do not!" I gasped.

"You do too! It looks like a marionette's nose!"

"No it doesn't, you little punk!" I growled, bringing my fist level with my shoulder and glaring at her threateningly.

"You wouldn't hit a lady!" she sneered at me, then she stuck her tongue out and waggled her hands beside her head.

"Lady? More like gargoyle," I muttered, tensing up my fist.

"You're a fat-nosed raggedy Martian!" she laughed. I lunged at her, but she quickly ducked out of the way, leaving me to bang into her now empty chair. She stood a couple steps away from me, pointing and laughing her little head off. I weighed my options: chase the girl and beat her to a pulp, or be the refined, sophisticated lady my mother always wished to have. The one whose hair stays flat without the use of magic or liberal amounts of pomade. I sat myself back down in my chair, smoothing my skirt and straightening my hat. The girl looked disappointed as she settled back down in her seat.

We all tucked into lunch then. Most of the other occupants of my table ate things such as sandwiches or pasta. I decided to try lamb, since it was on the menu. The first bite I took, I almost started gagging out loud. I quickly grabbed my napkin and brought it to my mouth, spitting the gob of partially chewed meat into it. This sent the children at the table into such powerful fits of laughter that I almost threw my entire plate of food at them. And what's more, I have all this lamb to which I have just discovered I am not quite partial. What to do with it?

After a while of pondering, I figured the safest thing to do would be to subtly slip it off the plate and onto the floor under the table. No one would find it until long after we'd departed. Of course, I hadn't reckoned on the keen eyes and black soul of the she-devil beside me. No sooner had the bulk of my meal made a sickening splat on the polished floor beneath the table, then she jumped up and ran over to the other table yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Good golly, Miss Molly," I breathed in dismay, quickly scrambling to my feet and following her.

"She threw her dinner on the floor!" the girl was shrieking at her mother, while pointing at me.

"I did not! She's lying!" I protested. That's when I heard a sound similar to that of steadily approaching thunder. I saw my mother slowly rising, her long fingers forming tents on the surface of the table. Her lips had now formed a very thin line.

"Daisy May Orlov, what do you have to say for yourself?" she asked in a deadly low voice.

"Mother, I cannot believe you are going to believe this conniving little horror over your own daughter!"

"Well, I cannot believe what an outright liar you are, young lady, as well as a disgrace to this family," she replied venomously. My mouth fell open slightly as she stamped around the table to me, wrapping her fingers around my wrist tightly. "Could you explain this?" she hissed, gesturing to my skirt. I glanced down and groaned as I saw a brown smear of meaty juice on it. "This is unacceptable." She shook her head in disappointment, then gestured for my father to join us. She handed me over to him, who held my wrist just as firmly. He took me back to the car as my mother excused my indecent behaviour.

When we got home my parents sat me down at the table and scolded me harshly. I hung my head, trying to tune them out, but every time I looked away from them, my mother lunged forward and snatched my chin, forcing my head up. Then my mother pulled me onto her lap.

"No, no! I am fifteen years old; I do not require a spanking!" I shrieked, trying to struggle away, but she had already begun. Oh god. I couldn't help but think how lucky my brother was. He had escaped our parents two years earlier and moved to the U.S.A. He was going to university there. He had escaped the semi-annual reunions and his parents were proud of him. I wonder whether they'd like me more if I had been born a boy. That's how it always was for Kings and Queens; perhaps that's what my parents thought they were.

I kicked the post of my bed as soon as I got inside my bedroom. I hated that I had to return to this hellhole every year for three months. I despised the fact that I still had a whole week until I would be able to return to Hogwarts, that blissful haven of a school. Another week until I would be able to see my real family again. But, then again, no family is perfect.

I was a member of the notorious Marauders of Hogwarts. How this happened, I could never quite figure out. The group had formed in our first year at school when Sirius Black, James Potter, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew had first met on the Hogwarts Express. Apparently, they had hit it off instantly. I had yet to be inducted into their ranks until a year later, after they had already gained plenty of fame and a penchant for mischief.

I was a bit of an outcast in my first year. I was fresh out of my high-society home, where the values of always being sophisticated and ladylike had been pounded into my head for the past 11 years of my life. So, when I first went to Hogwarts (after much shunning from my parents who believed that, being a witch, I was a spawn of Satan or something), I felt quite displaced and lost. I had felt like I'd stepped into a fairy-tale. Many of the students there were quite vulgar as well, which disconcerted me. I definitely wasn't used to being looked down on. I learned that muggleborns were subject to much discrimination, especially by Slytherins.

So, in my early Hogwarts career, I was a bit of a wallflower. Of course, I did make friends with a couple of my dorm mates. Lily Evans was also a muggleborn, so we shared that in common. Alice Wood was very sweet, though pureblood. Tracy Jennings, on the other hand, was from a proud, pureblood family (her being the only non-Slytherin member in many generations) and from the very beginning she was snobbish and unkind.

It was on the Hogwarts Express on our way to second year that I shared a compartment with the Marauders. They had inquired as to who I was, all the while with cheeky remarks and sneering jokes. I had handled them the only way I knew how; using relatively undeveloped (compared to now, that is) witty sarcasm veiled with refined politeness. Apparently, this tactic had impressed them, especially when a greasy-headed Slytherin known as Severus Snape (or, as the Marauders called him, Snivellus) had slid the door open, looking for Lily. He had been quite nasty to me, to which I gladly responded with just as much zeal. Little did they know, my mind was feverishly searching for clever insults, and when this happens, I draw on my fairly vast vocabulary, therefore my retorts tend to be quite verbose. Nevertheless, this does serve to perplex many people, and enough of the words sound derisive enough to do the trick.

When Snape had finally slunk out of the compartment, and my mind was able to rest at last, the four boys opposite me quickly huddled together, whispering frantically among themselves (most of it sounding exactly like "pssssstt" "shhhsshshiisssss," you know, those noises that people make to make it sound like they're whispering). Anyway, they quickly broke apart and each of them regarded me with a business-like air. This made me quite nervous, and for a moment I thought I had offended them by being rude to the Slytherin. But then, all of a sudden, they jumped forward, surrounding me (Pete was standing on the seat to cover my rear, and he was basically shoving his foot up my behind), and they all enveloped me in an awkward (for me, at least), very strange group hug. It lasted quite a lot longer than I would have liked, but when they all drew away, they stood in front of me, laughing at my bewildered face and (if possible) even messier hair. Then James stuck his arm out for me to shake his hand, which I did, and he proudly announced that I had become a member of the Marauders.

I didn't know what to do with that piece of information, so I figured I would just carry on as usual. What I didn't count on was that they would begin to follow me everywhere or drag me everywhere they went. And I inevitably learned to love them. To death, bruv.

I quickly changed out of my now ruined dress and hung it over the back of a chair, not knowing quite what to do with it and certainly not wanting to go back downstairs and talk to my parents. I took a shower, scrubbing my hair and using copious amounts of shampoo and conditioner (infused with tropical botanicals and whatnot, mmm). By the time I had finished towel drying it furiously, I had a bird's nest to rival even that of Hagrid, the new groundskeeper. When this was finished, I proceeded to lie face down on my bed, wrapped up in a cosy housecoat.

It was then that I heard a tapping at the window. For a moment I thought it was my mother coming to yell at me some more, but then I realized that my mother has never in her lifetime been known to tap on first-floor windows. So, I looked up. Hovering level with my window was not my mother, but a familiar tawny owl. It used its beak to tap on the glass and get my attention. I jumped up eagerly and unlatched the window. Dr. Zaius flew in through the window, did a lap around the room, and then came to rest on my bed, preening his feathers. Dr. Zaius was James's pet owl. He named it so after I had (perhaps over-excitedly) explained in excruciating detail all about Planet of the Apes; one of my favourite movies to date. Of course, James had found the name "Dr. Zaius" to be absolutely hilarious and he recalled it when the time came for him to get an owl.

I petted the Doctor's head as I unfastened the letter from his foot, then I reached into my half-packed trunk and took out a small bag of owl treats, and gave him one. I sat back on the bed and opened the letter.

"Daisy, my dear..." it read, making my heart swoop only a little. "I'm wondering whether you're still alive. I know it's extremely difficult to live without the rest of the Marauders. For the past couple of months, Sirius has been staying at my house, because he says that it would mean certain death for him to be trapped at home with those pureblood, Slytherin prats. Anyway, as I know about how awful your family is, I was wondering whether you'd pitched yourself off the top of the Tower of London by now or not. Do send us a letter if you are still with us. If not, our wishes are with you, and have a nice afterlife.

Sincerely, James Horatio Potter."

I never knew why he always signed his letters that way, since his middle name was assuredly not Horatio. But he had an admiration for odd, longwinded, goofy names. I smiled to myself as I read over the letter again, then Dr. Zaius hooted gently at me.

"Oh, do be patient," I murmured, scratching his head. He looked up at me with wise eyes. "Cut that out. I know just as well as you do that there's no way in hell he'd ever fancy me. Not as much as Lily, anyway."

It was well known throughout the school that, ever since he had first laid eyes on her, James Potter had been well taken with Lily Evans. So much so that he would flirt with her and ask her out and show off for her every chance he got. But that's just the way he is. It's dead weird; even at the age of eleven he was girl crazy. And when I say "girl crazy" I mean insane. Before puberty, his main objective was to kiss girls and woo them in any pre-teen way possible. After puberty it became a different story. A story about manic, hormonal, sex-crazed James Potter chasing skirts left, right and centre.

But the thing about Lily Evans was that she was the one and only girl at Hogwarts that would not succumb to James's charm and power. And that was why he became so fixated on her. He always saw her as his "greatest conquest". She was like the forbidden princess in the tower, or the fruit, or anything forbidden really. He was determined to make her want him. Because that's what he did best. He wasn't just about sex. James Potter wanted girls to want him. Wonder where that stems from.

I've been best mates with him for three years. I've known exactly how cruel and twisted he can be sometimes. I know just how far he'd go for a laugh sometimes. I know how much he loves to feel power and chaos. Yet I still can't seem to get him off my mind.

And why, you wonder, would this be? Because my dears, little does anyone, save the kind Doctor, here, know, I am far too infatuated with the boy. Yes. I like his hazel eyes; his Buddy Holly glasses. I love his dark hair that he always ruffles up to impress girls. I love the cheeky look he gives all the ladies. I love how daft he can be sometimes. I love how cocky he gets. I adore his laugh. I've got it bad. Like wally wally, blood and dolly.

"Dear Jim," I start the letter. I once called him "Jim" by accident sometime in third year, due to my perhaps unhealthy obsession with the television program "Star Trek." In fact, it was a moment where Pete was passed out on the floor and I bent down to check whether he was still breathing. When I stood up again, I turned to James and said, automatically: "he's dead, Jim". Laughter abounded and it stuck. I have been known to quote Star Trek. My mother is dumbfounded by my taste in, well, everything.

"Funny that you mention it; a few times this summer I actually found myself poised on the edge of London Bridge. It was a brilliant view and cheered me up a bit. I also did not feel like tarnishing the bridge's reputation by being the first person to jump off it only a few short years after its construction. So I'm still alive. But I do appreciate the wish for a pleasant afterlife and hope I may stockpile that until the time comes. Yes, though, these past few months with my family have been quite unbearable.

Send my regards to Sirius, would you?

Yours truly, Daisy."

Yes, that didn't sound too desperate at all. I folded the letter up, slid it into an envelope, sealed it, then retied it to Dr. Zaius's leg. With one last treat, and another petting, I set him free into the late afternoon heat. The reply came back almost instantly, but when I opened it, I found only one short sentence in James's messy scrawl. It read: "Be there in five." I stared at it for a couple minutes, then began to write a baffled response, when I heard a scream from the parlour. Yes, we have a parlour. That's where our fireplace is located. Oh dear.

I practically threw myself down the stairs. And when I got there, I found exactly what I had been dreading. My mother and father had been taking tea in the parlour, despite the fact that the parlour is the room where all company should be received, and the drawing room or the living room is the room where one should have casual tea— or something like that. Anyway, it seems that they received company, whether they were expecting it or not.

Pulling themselves up from the now filthy rug, were two boys, rather filthy and sooty themselves. The slightly shorter one removed his glasses to rub them clean on the shirt beneath his blackened one. Then he looked around.

"James Potter, what do you think you are doing?" I asked in a harsh tone, almost resembling my mother's. When I looked at her and my father, they each looked as though someone had reached into their chests and removed their still-beating hearts. They were frozen to the spot with their mouths open in shock and their eyes the size of saucers. "I apologize..." I began, but my voice trailed away, and I decided that I had better take my conversation with the two Marauders elsewhere. It would, of course, be unfit for them to enter my bedroom, therefore I took them into the living room.

"Were those your parents, Daisy-do?" Sirius asked with a laugh.

"Yes," I replied shortly, rolling my eyes. Speaking of short, I always had to look up while speaking to these boys; all but Pete, that is. "Now, listen! What on earth are you two doing here! May I remind you that you were quite uninvited?"

"Take a chill pill, Daze," James said calmly, putting his hands up and giving his hair a good shaking out. A cloud of ash rose from his head. "You sounded like a damsel in distress. We're the knights in shining armour coming to rescue you, you dig?" He gestured to Sirius and himself, the latter flashing me a toothy grin. I placed my hands on my hips in an unimpressed pose.

"Do you ever think before you do anything?" I asked them, raising an eyebrow. They exchanged a glance. "Do you know how much trouble this will get me in?" My teeth were clenched at this point and I felt the need to yell. And now, would it be superfluous to mention that I sometimes have a short temper. And things such as children making fun of me, as well as best mates of mine incurring my parents' wrath after a few near-deadly blows to my behind, well, they can wind me up just a tad. "If you were not already aware, my mother would love any excuse to lay her hands on me and this is not going to slip by her unnoticed! And you do not know how much that rug in there cost! So if you hair-brained, scheming, idiotic, vociferous, burgeoning bassoons could use your teeny brains for just one measly minute, it might occur to you that the whole world is not at your beck and call and will not bow down before you just so you can appear big and important and...and...pompous!" I paused for breath after spitting at them loudly and fervently. The only thing I couldn't quite work out was why they appeared to be less frightened and rather, amused. Perhaps they figured out that some of those insults I had yelled at them were not altogether relevant.

"So..are you naked under there?" Sirius asked. I glanced down and realized, with sudden panic, that I was. I was wearing nothing but a fuzzy yellow housecoat. Bollocks. I glared at them both threateningly.

"Are you two going to scarper off now or do I need to fight you first?"

"Oh, please do fight us," Sirius winked, eyeing the housecoat. I groaned.

"Wait here and do not move an inch," I pointed a warning finger at them, then I hurried back up the stairs. I threw on a pair of dark blue, high waisted hot pants and a red, short-sleeved knit top. I also threw on a pair of shiny red, platform sandals, because my mother absolutely insists that shoes be worn in the house at all times. It's not like she washes the floors anyway, we have a housekeeper for that. I quickly hurried down the stairs again, almost losing my shoes in the process. They also happen to make quite loud clapping noises as I walk, because the only thing keeping them attached to my feet is a wide strip of vinyl. Sirius whistled as I stepped into the living room again. "Oh, zip it!" I snapped at him. I took a breath, trying to pick up where I left off in my angry scolding.

"Now listen, Daisy," James started, actually beginning to sound reasonable, which I knew could only be a setup for some form of joke. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"Do what?" I asked.

"Kidnap you, you div!" he chuckled.

"Now, just you wait here! I am not going to be kidnapped!" I said.

"Okay then, go pack your bags."

"What?"

"Before your parents find out, go on!"

"James Potter, I am not running away!"

"Why not?"

"Because I am a responsible adult."

"Yeah right."

"I am so!"

"Are not."

"Am so!"

"Are not!"

At last I grew too vexed to utter anything more than a frustrated growling noise while stamping my foot on the floor. This seemed to amuse James and Sirius to no end. I never understood how those two could wind me up so.

"Okay then, missy, march 1, 2, 3! March 1, 2, 3, 4, 5..." Sirius started shouted, turning me around and pushing me by the shoulders. He marched me right past my parents, who now stood in the foyer with looks of complete and utter disappointment. And they looked at me as if they could communicate all the ways in which I had let them down over the course of my life in their dark eyes. As if they were asking me how I could take up with such horrendous company. As if they were asking me how I could stray so far from the path of goodness. And I knew that they didn't want me there anymore, so I allowed James and Sirius to lead me up the stairs (after saluting to my parents and speaking in hoity-toity Errol Flynn voices to them). I finally stopped them before they got to my room, telling them I would shove garlic in their ears if they so much as touched the door.

I packed everything as quickly as I could, shoving all of the clothes I could, as well as all of my school supplies and any sort of necessities I had. After four years of packing this same trunk full to bursting, I hardly needed to think about it. But I did think about the fact that I was hardly even welcome in my own home anymore, and this pushed me to cram as much as I could in there. Even things I wouldn't normally take, such as my first stuffed animal, a handmade pink and blue duck which I named Birdy or Ducky or something equally creative. And if anyone who knows me would think that I'd leave behind my collection of records, the one that had taken me years to compile, they would be dead, dead wrong.

And then it was done, and my room looked like it had been ransacked by a strange breed of robbers interested in clothes, makeup, toiletries and shoes, rather than money and valuables.

"Well, let's go then," I said as I dragged my trunk out, with a rucksack slung over my shoulder. James and Sirius high-fived triumphantly, then they linked arms with me (which was quite awkward, taking into account my belongings) and we made our way back into the parlour. My parents were now nowhere in sight, probably waiting with baited breath for the three of us to be gone for good.

"Ladies first!" James and Sirius said together as the latter threw a handful of green dust into the bottom for bright emerald flames to leap up. The boys took my rucksack and trunk and ushered me into the not very large fireplace. James gave me the address to shout and I repeated it, feeling myself being sucked into a spiral of ashes and flames. Thinking back on the goofy grins that my two friends had had, I was now clutched by a sudden dread that they had sent me to somewhere awful, like Siberia or the Amazon.

And anyone who has travelled by floo powder knows that panic is not helpful in the least.