The Potters were a very generic wizarding family. A long line of Gryffindors, they were. Mr. and Mrs. Potter had one son, James, who would be beginning his journey in only a few hours.
A special breakfast wafted through the house and tickled his nose. A crisp morning breeze from the slightly cracked window brushed along his cheek. The warm sun kissed his head. The Gryffindor banner that was pinned messily to the ceiling fell and glided onto the boy, finally waking him. James scrambled and yelped before falling out of bed. His mother came rushing, but just stopped and crossed her arms when she saw her eleven year old son, on the floor, covered with the banner she had warned him to pin properly. He smiled sweetly and stood up, then followed his mother down for breakfast.
"James! Big day, son," Mr. Potter greeted. James smiled and sat down. The bacon started floating to his plate, but he grabbed it before it reached it's destination. His mother scolded him, but his father convinced her to leave him be.
Once he had finished and thanked his parents, he quickly trotted up to his room to get ready. He spent fifteen minutes deciding what to wear. Quidditch sweater? No. Dress clothes? Too formal. He finally settled on just a plain t-shirt and worn jeans. Another fifteen minutes were spent on his hair. Straight back? No. Pompadour? Goodness, no. He eventually gave up and just let it dry into the natural curly mess that grew like a forest on his head. Once finally dressed, he grabbed his rectangular glasses and streamer trunk, then headed out the door with his parents on pursuit of King's Cross Station. What would happen if the other children didn't like him?