Disclaimer- I don't own Harry Potter… no really- I'm supposed to let you know that.

AN: Thank You so much to xenocanaan and scoug for the positive reviews. And Thanks to every one who's Favoring/Following this story. I'm pretty sure you can tell this is my first time writing a story- ever. And I know I make careless mistakes some times. But I'm trying my best. And we've finally...almost... got to the part where the story REALLY starts. Enjoy .

Chapter 8- Purpose

Surrey-January-1991
Age 11

Lyra's POV

I was more powerful than most witches and wizards my age. This isn't arrogance talking, its a fact. My mother may not have had magic of her own, but she had grown up in a magical household. She knew the number of times I had managed to do accidental magic was… abnormal. Most children only ever had two or at most three outburst before they began training their magic at 11. After the first time I had done it, I had one every week… and eventually it became every five days, then three and so on, until I was doing something supernatural every other hour.

It had thrilled me at first… Of course it did. I mean come ON; I was doing MAGIC, as in altering reality in ways that most people could only dream off. But it was strong… too strong, and it responded only to my emotions. I could do nothing to control it. If I was angry or afraid, it took on a life of its own. It scared me. And then like a vicious cycle, every time I felt fear it would start again.

Eventually, Mum realized my focus (or rather the lack of it) was the problem. She forced me to go through her yoga exercises with her… and surprisingly it helped. Dad decided to get in on the action. He figured making me repeat some of the things he had seen me do with my magic might help my control (that, and he enjoyed watching me use magic like a little kid would enjoy a circus performance- he even clapped at all the right moments). Eventually, after a few false starts, I could levitate things toward me or away from me, open the door without touching it, change the color of my hair (On an interesting and totally unrelated topic-I also learned how to set my hair on fire). And the more I used my magic consciously, the less need it felt to spill over. It still acted out every now and then (that cake incident in particular is something I don't think my parents are ever going to let me forget). But I could rein it now.

The thing was- I shouldn't have been able to do that. As much faith as my mother wanted to have in my abilities, I could see the pride mix with shock and confusion on her face when I succeeded in wandlessly controlling my magic before I was even 8 years old. She was raised to believe that it was impossible. I of course had known otherwise. There was one other who had managed to do what I had.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Difference was, he was born a genius, and I was born with cheat codes. But leaving aside the fact that he was ten times the natural genius I could never be (book smarts didn't count). I couldn't deny the similarity between our levels of power. I had my theories about that of course.

The first and most obvious reason was that my magic was different because I was different. My soul was older than my body. That could have had repercussions on my magic.

The other theory was one I really didn't want to believe- Pureblood propaganda really did get something right. Parentage could affect a witch or wizard's power- just not the way they thought it did. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't deny this theory had merit. Both Voldemort's father and mine were non-magical. His mother was a near Squib born into a long legacy of pureblood wizards. So was mine. And as much as I wanted to hate myself for even thinking it- I couldn't help but muse on the fact that maybe we were more powerful because we were born with the magic that was ours AND the magic that was meant to be our mother's.

I had always hated reading those fanfictions where Voldemort was given a touching back story that supposedly justified his evil way, and then finally he is given a chance to redeem himself. I don't care what you say, nothing justifies what he did. There are some things you just can't come back from. But even as I acknowledged the fact that he was an irredeemable creature with no shred of remorse, a part of me wondered what it would have been like, to go through what I had with my magic without knowing what was happening to me. Without the love and guidance of my parents. Without knowing there were others like me. During the Second World War. In a Catholic home- where my powers would not only be looked at with fear, but outright scorn- the work of the devil. If you were called evil enough times, would you start to believe it?

Ultimately, I had to accept that even though I couldn't forgive him for his actions. I could understand him. Even now I could feel the temptation to believe I was special. That I was chosen for some reason to be stronger, smarter more powerful than everyone else. The fact that I knew the fates of almost every important player in the story, probably didn't help with the superiority complex that was trying to grab on to me. Every time I bent the world to my will, I felt such a rush of power. I could totally sympathize with what the young Tom Riddle was so high on. But unlike the insane Dark Lord, I had my family to keep me grounded. And of course, there was Harry. Sweet innocent Harry, who made sure once and for all that I wouldn't stray from the straight and narrow.

Not that I had contemplated going evil before I met Harry… well maybe once… or twice. Don't give me that Look, the idea was really temping okay! The freedom that comes with power is intoxicating. Knowing you can do anything you want without having to think twice about the repercussions… there was a part of me that had lived with so long in constant fear. The little girl that cowered in the corners of her own home, hoping, praying that she would be ignored. Because the alternative was always mind-numbing pain. How many times had I wished for this? The power to defend myself. The freedom to choose what to do with myself. But once I had that freedom, I had lost my purpose. My life had always been about pleasing my parent. Pushing myself to excel at everything so that I could keep myself safe from my fathers rage. It had been about surviving from the one day to the next.

Here, reborn into a life where I didn't need to do any of that, I was lost. I didn't know what to do with myself… until I found Harry. And then I had a purpose again.

Chapter 9- The Letter

Surrey-July-1991
Age 11

Harry's POV

When we were 9, I turned my math teacher's hair blue. I didn't know how it had happened, all I can remember was that she was screaming at me for not doing my home work (that Dudley had ripped to shreds). And I remember her calling me names and saying how sorry she was that the Dursley's had to put up with me. (She was a part of Aunt Petunia's book club… I can only imagine the things she must have heard about me). And I remember getting angrier and angrier… until suddenly her hair was blue. Just like that.

I didn't go back the Dursley's straight away. I knew what would be waiting for me there, especially once Petunia got to hear of what had happened. So I went over to the only place I could go.

Lyra took one look at my face and asked "What's wrong?"

Of course she knew I was upset. She always knew.

I didn't quite know what to tell her though. So I said the first words that came to my mind, "I turned Mrs. Henderson's hair blue".

When I said it out loud it sounded so…Stupid. Idiot… why did I have to say that… that was the most moronic thing ever… I couldn't change people's hair colors. Had I even been awake? Was that just a vivid fantasy? Before I could open my mouth and ask her to forget I ever said that- she burst out laughing.

That I did not expect… I'd had a lot of people laugh at me over the years. In my over-sized hand me downs and large ugly glasses, I was an easy target for school yard bullies. Even more so when Dudley was the one leading them. But Lyra had never laughed at me… never. No matter what I did or what I said. This was surprisingly hurtful.

Before I could turn and leave, she grabbed onto my arm and dragged me to her room.

"So? What did you get mad at her for?"

Okay… now I was confused.

"Who said I was mad at her?"

"Well you turned her hair blue didn't you? It must've been for a reason" She said so casually, she could've been discussing the weather.

"You…you believe me?" I asked surprised… I didn't even believe me.

"Of course!" She looked genuinely surprised, like she didn't know why I would think otherwise.

"She said she was sorry the Dursley's had to put up with an ungrateful boy like me…" I tried to hide the pain saying those words brought to me, but when I saw that dark expression cross her face, I knew I had failed. "That flea-ridden, bag of Hippogriff waste! How dare she!"

I knew there was a reason I didn't want to tell her about this. (What's a Hippogriff?)

"Can we skip to the part where you explain how you knew I changed her hair color because I was angry"

"Oh, that…" She looked at me considering something, and then nodded to herself.

"You're a wizard Harry"

…Come Again?

After a really long discussion on the state of her sanity (which ended rather abruptly when she started making random objects float around the room). She told me about her mother's past. She told me about a hidden world. She told me about a school of magic.

She told me about the letter that would come.

… I wanted so badly to believe her. But I couldn't. Oh I knew she was magic. She had always been special. But me?

So even when I escaped Dudley's gang by somehow teleporting to the roof, I pretended it was the wind that carried me up. Even when the glass window in the reptile house vanished, I screamed to the Dursleys that I didn't know what had happened. I didn't do it! Because it was easier to have no expectations, that way you would never be disappointed. But I didn't have to pretend anymore. Because it was finally here.

To Mr. H. Potter
The Smallest Bedroom,
No 4, Privet Drive,
Little Whinging, Surrey.