About a week later Windsor returned with reply from Aileen. I love receiving mail, whether muggle or owl post. She seemed more excited than I was about my acceptance and congratulated me at least 3 times. It was odd to think that in a month and a half I would be starting my last year of high school in a situation no different from a sixth grader: friendless and alone. School was always so easy, because I was so accustom to having all of my friends and knowing all the teachers, now I was diving into the unknown. I wrote a quick response, hoping I could schedule meeting up with my friends before my quick summer ended.

Apparate to one of our houses for an evening or so? I'd like to definitely hang out before term starts. Have you herd from Emileigh?

Christine.

I folded the letter and tied it to Windsor's leg, sending him off with my reply. It was late afternoon in the middle of July. Today, I went to the beach with Andy and we explored some rocky shorelines by the lighthouse. We were never ones to regard rules, but we had to make sure we weren't caught. Our mission ended up being successful and we made it home with minimal scratches.

By the end of the month I had met up with both Aileen and Emileigh and gotten in contact with Islewood. My teachers were upset to hear I wouldn't be graduating there, but at the same time they were ecstatic I was selected for the program. I will definitely be missing my History of Magic teacher, she always has a witty story about her life to insert into our lessons, making what could be a dull topic quite exciting. At Islewood at least, I was up for potions again, and I desperately hoped that the teachers at Hogwarts would make it a somewhat enjoyable experience.

Another letter came from Hogwarts with a list of spell books and supplies I would need for the coming term. Inside the materials came a sort of orientation day letter, stating that a current student and his or her family would meet my family at the Leaky Cauldron on August 28 to introduce me to the school. Robes on the materials list shocked me, I was used to wearing a uniform which consisted of a white shirt and maroon and white plaid kilt. Weekends were uniform free and I wore what any muggle teen would. There was no logical way I could get all of these materials here and take them on a plane. My father came up with the idea of using a portkey to transport us to London, and I would take only my trunk, broom, wand, owl and family.

Before I knew it, it was August 28, the day I leave the United States for ten months to spend my senior year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My stomach was in quite a few knots when we approached the portkey that was set up for our journey. Windsor hooted gently from his cage which I dragged along behind me in a field just outside of a vineyard. I felt so nervous because I had never taken the time to think about what my future would be. Senior year just seemed like a right of passage that would go by uneventful like any other year. I wasn't sure if this nervousness was also mixed with a bit of excitement to try out a new place.

"Are you nervous?" Andy asked as he kept pace with me.

"Not at all," I lied, hopefully convincingly. The portkey was an old tire, something no muggle would approach if they came across it while walking. It emanated an aura that sounded like a high frequency, and this didn't bode well with my already uneasy feeling. I preferred apparation, but Dad said it would be much too risky for a transatlantic endeavor.

"How do we do this Andrew?" my Mom inquired almost scornfully. She was never big on traveling magically, and I doubt she would enjoy this.

"Oh it's quite simple Julie," my father answered with a wild grin, "Just grab on and don't let go until you stop spinning."

"One. Two. THREE!"

I lunged forward, desperately trying to cling to my possessions and my Mom, and put one arm on the tire. My body jerked and swiveled for about six-seconds and as soon as my head stopped spinning I reoriented myself. We were standing behind a sort of pub, where a dark boy with matching chestnut hair and eyes stood awaiting our arrival. I mumbled something incoherent as I tried to make sense of my surroundings, and of the person who was staring at us.

"Ah, I am so sorry for being rude," he quickly stated, with a smooth British accent, "My name is Potter, James Potter."