Hi…! Welcome if you've never clicked on this story before, or welcome back if you have. Now to those of you who know the previous chapters to this story, and how it's been a year and a half since I updated, well… let's just say reality finally caught up with me. Now that's a bad excuse, I know, but… not much I can do about it now.

Okay, onto different matters. I'm in the process of rewriting this… ehm, quite badly written excuse of a story. I started this almost two years ago, and when you're a teenager, you change quite a lot over such an amount of time. It took me posting four chapters (now deleted) to finally discover how bad it was, and my other story is just as stupidly written, if not worse, so… yeah. I'm definitely rewriting. Both of them.

So, here is the first chapter of this one. It's more of an introduction to the characters that we'll be seeing the most of, rather than the common prologue. And just a warning to those of you who read any of the previous chapters belonging to this story… make yourself forget most of, if not all that you remember, 'cause I'm starting entirely from scratch.

Note: English is not my first language, that place will always belong to Norwegian (surprise), and as for my updating schedule… if you've not guessed already, I don't have one. I write because I want to, not because I feel obligated to. That means next update can be in two days, or six months, and if that bothers you a lot, you are hereby warned, so don't go complaining about it.

Now… disclaimer. I don't own anything Harry Potter related that you recognize. And I make no profit whatsoever off of this story, unless you count writing experience. However, I do own my part of the plot, all my OCs, and most of the Norwegian Wizarding World, so no stealing allowed. I might let some things be borrowed, though. If asked first.

Oh, I almost forgot. There is plenty of dialogue in Norwegian in this story. The English translation to what is being said is written in cursive right behind. For example: "Hei, velkommen. Hi, welcome," she said.

Norwegian words not in dialogue are written in cursive. They will be listed and translated/explained right under the disclaimer per chapter, together with names for things or places (not people), or other words that has no translation, for example things belonging to folklore, myths and tales.

Words for this chapter:

Trollmannspapiret – This is the main paper in the Norwegian Wizarding World. In English it'd be 'The Wizarding Paper'

Sportsidiot – This is a somewhat common expression in Norwegian. If you break up the words and pretend they're English you'd get the gist of it. It basically means someone who only cares for sport(s), and is used mostly in reference to school. Kind of like if you think the stereotype of an American high school jock.

Hagen – This is a place, but to refrain from spoiling I won't say anything other than that it translates to 'The Garden'.

Huldra – The huldra is a mythical creature from Norwegian folklore. In some stories they use apples to lure male travellers of the forest into their lair. Norway's answer to the sirens, except, again, the forest. The huldra is described as a beautiful female creature, quite like a veela, except they don't turn into bird-like creatures or throw fireballs. You'd recognize a huldra by her cow tail.

Chapter I

Monday morning the first of September year nineteen-nighty-one in a mountain range somewhere in inland Norway, dawned bright and early with a cloudless, blue, summer sky, much like the previous days. The air was pleasantly warm by the time an old grandfather clock chimed seven and the first sounds of life could be heard in a tall, medieval-like house.

Its wooden structure stood proudly at almost sixty feet on a grassy plain jutting out from the side of a steep, evergreen mountain towering over a large, shimmering lake. Covering the grounds around the house a smattering of tall, crooked apple trees could be seen, the ripe, red and green fruits glinting in the sunlight.

The first one up out of the house's many occupants was a man in his mid-forties, whose chestnut brown hair was sticking up in every direction courtesy of a night's sleep.

He wandered down the four flights of sturdy, wooden stairs from the top floor and into the rather large, light-blue painted kitchen on the south-eastern side of the house, where he sat about making himself a cup of tea.

Sometime later, when the elegant clock on the kitchen wall neared seven thirty and the man had long since finished his warm drink, the soft thumps of a child's bare feet could be heard descending the stairs from the second floor.

The man smiled to himself as he continued reading through yesterday's issue of a paper called Trollmannspapiret. He knew exactly whose footsteps that was.

Every morning the child would skip down the stairs at half past seven, and every morning the man would greet the boy from where he sat by the head of the kitchen table, his nose stuck in the paper. This morning was no exception.

"God morgen, Tommy. Good morning, Tommy," the man greeted with a slight English accent on the r, as the boy stepped into the kitchen.

The five-year-old padded over the spruce floorboards towards the large, grey kitchen table and plucked one of the apples from the garden out of the fruit bowl.

"Go' mor'n. Good mornin'," Tommy answered with his Northern-Norwegian accent and smiled toothily at the man, his dimples prominent and two front teeth missing.

Mike smiled back and lifted his gaze from the paper as Tommy took his usual seat in the blue chair by the end of the long, wooden table.

"Sovet godt? Sleep well?" he asked the five-year-old.

Tommy nodded his blonde head, having just taken a rather limited bite out of the apple in his hands, and scratched a bit at his freckled nose. He swallowed quickly and grinned at the man.

"Jepp, ka med dæ? Yup, wha' 'bout yeh?"

Half an hour later, when the grandfather clock by the stairs chimed eight, the tall house was bustling with life. Children of all ages two to fourteen ran up and down the stairs, the three bathrooms in the house were all occupied and had at least one tripping child standing beside the door, waiting, and in the kitchen, Mike, with the help of a few of the older kids, was busy preparing breakfast for the whole house.

"Mike!" A woman's shout echoed down the stairs from the second floor.

Mike abandoned the homemade bread he was slicing and crossed the room to the kitchen door covered in colourful, childish drawings.

"Yes, dear?" he answered, his British accent seeping through the English words.

"Er frokosten klar? Is breakfast ready?"

The question drifted from the bottom of the sturdy staircase as a petite, black-haired woman in her early forties walked down the last few steps. In her arms a child of about two squirmed, ready to be put down on the floor to walk by himself, and behind her legs an older boy of four or five skipped easily down the steps.

"Nesten. Almost," answered Mike and smiled at his wife and the two boys. "Pia, Karoline og Alina hjelper til med å gjøre i stand. Pia, Karoline and Alina are helping out."

"Er bordet dekket? Is the table set?" his wife asked as she placed the squirming boy in her arms down on the wooden floor, but before she managed to take a hold of his hand the boy slipped away and ran quickly into the living room.

"Ole!" She let loose an annoyed sigh and rushed after the little boy as Mike chuckled.

"Nei, ikke ennå! No, not yet!" Mike shouted after his now absent wife.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a rather small, redheaded girl slip soundlessly down the last steps of the staircase, a thick tome clutched to her chest. She was no doubt attempting to make it to the living room unnoticed just so she would be able to read a few pages before breakfast.

"Men Selja kan ordne det. But Selja can do it," he added rather loudly as his wife, Ole firmly in her arms again, stepped back out of the living room.

"Hm?" Selja looked up from her book. "Hva? What?" she asked curiously and way too innocently.

Eavesdropping little bugger, Mike thought good naturedly to himself and smiled at the redhead.

"Kan du dekke bordet? Alina har allerede satt frem eplejuice, melk og pålegg, men vi trenger tallerkener, bestikk og glass. Can you set the table? Alina has already brought out apple juice, milk and topping for the bread, but we need plates, cutlery and cups."

Selja nodded slowly, almost a bit resigned, and ran back up the stairs to hide her precious book away from the younger kids, her long, red plait swishing behind her.

"Og, Selja? And, Selja?" Mike shouted up the stairs after her retreating figure.

The eleven-year-old screeched to a halt at the first-floor landing and her golden-green eyes peered questioningly over the dark wooden railing and down at Mike.

"Vekk Sindre, gidder du? Dra ham ut av senga hvis du må. Wake Sindre, d' you mind? Drag him out of bed if you have to." Mike grinned at her. "Si han skal hjelpe deg dekke på, hvis ikke truer Tanja med oppvask for hånd. Say he's gonna help you set the table, if not, Tanja threatens with dish washing by hand."

He snickered a bit as his wife slapped his arm. Tanja and her threats of non-magical housekeeping chores was the only thing that could make Sindre Swifter, renown sportsidiot, do what he was told.

Selja grinned and nodded quickly, before she disappeared around the corner.

King's Cross Station, London, was a busy place. A flurry of colour, movement and noise. Even at half past ten, long after the pressing rush of the morning traffic, people crowded the building. Adults walking briskly, some even running, to and from every platform. Young children grasping the hands of their parents as they were forced to keep up with the longer strides of the adults, and elders traveling at a slightly more leisurely pace. Trollies were being pushed around, luggage dragged, and tickets rustling as they exchanged hands, were tucked into pockets, or desperately gripped as people ran back and forth.

One such person desperately clinging to a ticket, though he was not by any means running, was a boy who couldn't be more than twelve, if not younger. He was a sight to behold, what with his raven black hair sticking up in all directions, quite resembling a hedgehog, round, cracked glasses hiding a pair of strikingly green eyes, and a faded blue t-shirt looking three sizes too big for him mis-matched with an orange hoodie. He could be called quite scrawny, definitely skinny, and was certainly not the tallest for his age. His face was pale, as if he didn't go out much, with sharp features.

However, while the oversized t-shirt and hoodie, worn out, almost falling apart at the seams converse shoes, and the uncombed head of black hair drew some wondering glances, it was the trolley the boy had standing beside him that made heads turn. There was the big, old-fashioned, wooden trunk, and then there was the snowy owl sleeping contently in its cage.

The boy was standing, frowning at the ticket in his right hand, trying his best to ignore the stares. In the other hand he held a letter and an envelope made from yellowish parchment.

His worried gaze shifted to the platform numbered with a big plastic nine, and then over to the one numbered ten. He frowned once again, before looking around slightly panicked.

A passing station worker glanced weirdly at the young boy, and, jumping at the chance to ask for directions, the boy approached him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man frowned at him and gave his clothing a disdainful glance.

"Yes?"

The boy looked at his ticket and wrestled with his thoughts for a moment. Turning his gaze to the sour man, he dared not ask about the weird platform number on his ticket. So, he went with the second-best option.

"Do you know where the train to Hogwarts departs from?"

"Sindre!"

A boy, aged almost eleven, was running across the grassy plain dotted with apple trees. His purple hair was dancing in the wind, and his arms where swinging wildly at his sides.

"Sindre!" he called again and waved his hands around.

On the edge of the grassy plain, where the ground suddenly dropped in a steep dive towards the large, shimmering lake, a blonde boy with a fair complexion was leaning against the wooden fence, throwing pebbles down over the edge, and watching them fall till he could no longer see them.

As the purple-haired boy neared, the blonde looked up and groaned, before he turned back to the fence.

"Sindre!"

The purple-haired boy pushed away one of the long branches belonging to a large, evergreen spruce tree, and came to a stop clutching his knees.

"Hva? What?" the blonde questioned, not even looking at the other boy as he threw another pebble over the edge.

"Tanja ba mæ finne deg. Tanja asked meh to find you," the purple-haired boy started explaining. "Hu' vi' vi skal gå opp til Hagen for å plukke huldra epler ti' festen. She wan's us te go up te Hagen te pick Huldra's apples fo' the feast."

"Må vi? Do we have to?"

"Jepp. Yep." The purple-haired boy nodded his head vigorously.

The blonde groaned again and picked up another pebble.

"Kan'ke de andre gjøre det? Can't the others do it?"

All he got in response was a shrug.

"Kom igjen'a, Sindre. Vi bare gjør det. Com' on, Sindre. We'll just do it."

The blonde, Sindre, glared at the purple-haired boy, who just blinked his dark blue eyes at him.

Sindre turned around and looked out towards the mountains in the distance. Picking a half-developed acorn from the nearest spruce tree to his right, he threw it out over the fence.

"Greit. Fine," he told the other boy rather harshly, as the two of them watched the acorn fly through the air and down, down, down… Until they lost sight of it, long before it hit the water.

The purple-haired boy grinned, and turned around to run back to the tall, medieval-like house across the grassy plain.

"Neville, really."

A stern looking older woman wearing an outrageous dark green, pointed hat, with a wide brim and a freakishly weird looking, stuffed vulture sown onto it, was stood before an ornate fireplace, watching a sandy-haired, eleven-year-old boy scramble around the room.

"Sorry, Gran," the boy squeaked and dived for the old-fashioned burgundy sofa, where a mud-coloured toad was hopping around. He clasped his slightly pudgy hands around the animal and sat up on his knees.

"Trevor!" the boy chastised the toad, and the animal croaked grumpily.

The slightly pudgy boy stood, blowing his fringe out of his hazel coloured eyes, and turned towards the older woman.

"Sorry, Gran," he repeated sheepishly.

The older woman with the vulture hat scowled, and turned away, grabbing an intricately designed silver jar with lion's feet.

"See to it that you get that toad under control before you reach Hogwarts."

"Yes, Gran." The boy ducked his head, cheeks tinged red.

His grandmother nodded her head briskly, her big vulture hat swinging dangerously, and gestured to a cream coloured, stuffy chair in the corner. A piece of fine, dark cloth was hanging over the tall back-piece, and an old, wooden trunk stood beside it, its golden clasps shining in the light from the fireplace.

"Now get your cloak and trunk."

"Yes, Gran," the boy repeated, and scurried over to the chair, his toad in hand. Lifting the piece of cloth, he awkwardly threw it over his shoulders, before picking up his heavy trunk.

He waddled over to the older woman, the trunk scrubbing against the polished, wooden floor.

The stern woman frowned at her grandson, placed the ornate, silver jar back on the mantle again, and reached forward, tying the boy's cloak closed tightly with the thin, silver chain hanging from its collar.

"There. Now come along, or we'll be late."

The stern woman grabbed the silver jar from the mantle, lifted the lid and presented it to the boy.

"I will take your trunk," she told her grandson, who had no hands free, with a frown.

The boy nodded, placed the heavy, wooden case on the floor and reached a slightly trebling hand into the jar. Grabbing a pinch of glittering powder, he gulped and stepped closer to the ornate fireplace.

The older woman gave him one last stern look when he hesitated.

Closing his eyes, he threw the powder into the lightly crackling fire.

With a roar that had the nervous boy leaning backwards so far he might as well have tipped over, the flames turned a blazing emerald green and rose as tall as his grandmother.

The boy stared wide eyed at the flames for a few seconds, before, remembering they would turn back to normal after a few seconds, he scurried forward, the toad in his hand croaking nervously.

Almost knocking his head into the white painted mantle of the fireplace, the boy stepped into the dimming emerald green flames.

"Platform nine and three quarters!" he squeaked loudly, and with a mighty swoosh he was gone, leaving behind only a whirlwind of ash as the flames returned to normal.

His grandmother shook her head, and, with an exasperated sigh and her own pinch of glittering powder, followed her grandson. With his trunk in one hand, and the other securing her vulture hat, the old woman repeated the words of the boy, and disappeared in a shower of green sparks, leaving the well-furnished room empty.