AN: Hi! So I don't know what I'm doing, this is just a fic I'm writing over the summer for fun.

Chapter One - Mercy

It's some unfortunate circumstance that puts me in England. My parents died. In a motor accident, right before I turned 13. Now I'm being transferred to Hogwarts because the only relative I have lives in Scotland, and somehow I'd rather live alone in America than be away from the only home I know. Even though being in America was not the all star experience that some think it to be.

I come in late in the year, and as I sit up in the dorm room, I feel absolutely and completely alone, looking out the window at the other kids dotted around the fields surrounding the lake and the Whomping Willow. It's not that I wouldn't have made any friends, it's that it feels almost like I'm betraying whatever it is I'm holding on to from my old home when I make friends with someone else.

I've been sorted into Gryffindor, which had seemed by far the friendliest house of them all, at first - besides the Hufflepuffs - but I'm late to the party and hadn't come by train, so I never really made it into a group of at least friendly acquaintances. They always say that Hogwarts would be quick to become your home, but Hogwarts has just succeeded in making me miss a home I never really had.

I got the last room in the hallway, which is the one closest to the staircase, and the loudest, with two other girls who I've rarely spoken to, simply because I wake up late and sneak around to the library at night. One's named Aurora, and the other's named Romany, and I don't know anything else about them except that Aurora hates her name.

Walking down from the dormitories and towards the library, someone calls me name. I keep walking, dearly hoping that it isn't someone else come to tease me about being an American and an orphan. If there's one thing that I've learned, is that there's a lot of standoffish and xenophobic people in the general wizarding community. Exhibit A, Lucius Malfoy the seventh year.

"Mercy! Wait!" Peter Pettigrew, of all people, runs up to me and I slow, taking pity on his panting and heaving shoulders. "I... need... help..."

"What?" I ask, temporarily afraid that he'd been hurt, looking him over for any injuries and then finding none.

"With the... transfiguration homework..." he explains breathlessly. "Merlin, I'm so out of shape- but you were walking really quickly."

"You're asking me to help you?" I clarify, wondering where his entourage is.

"Remus isn't here," he tells me, regaining his breath. "And no one else would help me, anyway."

"Oh, um," I look around to check to see that no one's watching, hoping not to further detract from my dignity, but also feeling sorry for him, oddly relating to his lack of friends he feels comfortable asking for help.

I usually get upset when no one helps me, because I'm too proud to ask for help. Peter, however, has no qualms talking to me, which I appreciate, despite Peter's slight character flaw, in which he blindly follows people around and does whatever they want. Still, Gryffindor is for the brave at heart, and Their daring, nerve, and chivalry set them apart, so I smile, and nod. "Sure," I agree, and Peter smiles, almost wider than his narrow face.

"Great!" he says. "You don't mind being in the library, do you? I just... don't want James and Sirius to see." He looks uncomfortable for a moment, but I agree, also not wanting anyone to see.

I learn, unfortunately, that Peter is, maybe, not dumb, but definitely a little slow on the uptake. He catches on pretty well, though, it being only second year work, but as we wind to a close, and Peter finally finishes his essay, Sirius and James appear in the library. Peter squeaks and goes to dive behind a bookshelf, but they arrive anyway, looking not really at me, because since when have teenagers ever looked directly at each other when they don't have to?

"Have you seen Peter anywhere-" James asks me vaguely, looking around, "oh, look, there you are. Whatcha doing behind there, huh?" Peter straightens, and frowns a little, embarrassed.

I stand up unobtrusively, almost managing to make it away from the situation, but Sirius reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder, more gently than I'd expect him to, but his expression is still the same insouciant, almost benevolent, smirk, like he's the ruler of the world and one shoulder touch can stop the end of the world.

"Who're you?" he asks, and for a moment I feel flustered. Then I feel annoyed that I feel flustered, and shakes his hand off of my shoulder. He thinks he can go around being the one everyone answers to.

"Mercy Gaffery," I say, cringing at his expression when he hears how American my accent is.

"Ooh, you're the American," he says, excited to find a new point of entertainment, and I flush, turning away to leave, reading for some joke or another.

"Wait! We're sorry. Sheesh," James stops me, "don't be so sensitive."

"I'm not," I retort, "I just don't want to be made fun of."

"Chill," James says, and he, Sirius, and Peter both look at me, waiting for a reaction.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I need to go... do something."

"It's Saturday!" James calls after me, but I make a break for it and manage to get away, preferring not to be involved with the noisy kids. It's a good break, because as I walk out of the library I encounter Carter Natsworthy, Slytherin, and he gives me a breathtaking smile, dusky honey colored skin crinkling at the corners of his blue eyes.

"Hi, Mercy," he says, and every detail of him melts my brain into fuzzy happiness.

"Hi, Carter," I say, and his smile grows a little. He self consciously combs his hair away from his face, and my hand involuntarily moves to touch my own hair as well, but I stop myself.

"You've finished all your homework, I'm guessing?" he asks me, politely starting up a conversation.

"Yeah, just now."

"I wish I could get my homework done that quickly," he sighs. "It takes me the whole weekend to finish. They always assign the most work on Fridays."

"I can help you, if you want," I blurt out, before I can stop myself. He doesn't even seem to notice my chagrin, and nods, as if the suggestion is a good one.

"Good idea, actually. You don't mind, do you?"

"No," I assure him.

"Thanks. I might try to tackle the potions homework tomorrow. Around ten, maybe?"

"Sounds good," I say, almost stammering.

He grins again and walks into the library, nodding a farewell to me. I stand there, right next to the door, feeling kind of stupid for feeling so starstruck, but feeling starstruck all the same.

"I wouldn't get to comfy with him," someone says, with disgust. "Slytherins."

I glare over at Sirius, who leans against the wall beside me, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes.

"What? I would know. My whole family's Slytherin."

"I don't think I believe in stereotyping," I say, stubbornly.

"Yes, but the Sorting Hat puts them into Slytherin for a reason."

"Not all Slytherins are sorted there because they're bad," I insist. "It's just people like you that reinforce unfair class roles. Like house elves. You think you can classify people. Like you classify other living things to be your servants. You of all people should know. Didn't they all think you'd be Slytherin, just because your family is?"

He shakes his head, but doesn't say anything to argue with me. "Are they all like that in America, or is it just you?"

"Considering that my parents were killed because of their beliefs, I'd say it's just me, now," I say.

"So that's why you're here?"

"Yes," I admit, uneasy under his curious stare. "I'd rather not talk about it. My family's more of a mess than you can imagine."

"Believe me, I can imagine," he tells me, unusually serious. (No pun intended)

"No you can't," I snap, stubbornly. "And I don't need you to understand, anyway." And then I just walk away, frowning, with all the self righteousness that a 13 year old can muster.

Chapter One - Katica

My alarm rings.

Not saying that I've never woken up to the sound of my alarm ringing - I've had to get up early for music recitals, I've had to get up to travel. But this is the first time, in my entire life, that I've gotten up to an alarm clock for school.

My alarm plays a rendition of the news, and then some Aretha Franklin song comes on. I sit up in bed, catching a glimpse of my trunk in the corner of my room as I do, struck by the sunlight. I'm such a packrat - I've put a lot of junk in it, like lucky quills and pieces of string and marbles and paper clips, and...

my wand

I rocket out of bed, and stand in the middle of my attic room, looking around. I keep losing my wand. I'll leave it somewhere and it'll roll away, or I'll drop it out of my sleeve and I wouldn't be able to find it.

I see it sitting on the windowsill, and sigh in relief as I pick it up.

"Kat!" Carter calls up the stairs. "You're not going to be late, are you?"

"I'm coming!" I yell back, yanking an oversized red jumper over my head, jamming my glasses onto my face (You know, the type they wore in the 80s) and clattering down the stairs. As I rush to get ready, a slow accumulation of random paraphernalia begins to gather behind me, rattling and floating into the air.

"Go away," I tell them, and they all drop to the ground. I have this weird propensity for wandless magic, and it's not only a bother, it's sometimes dangerous.

I manage to get down stairs and eat breakfast with my parents, Remus, and my little brother, who is throwing a tantrum over maple syrup. Remus, who is a family friend and usually crashes over at our house when he doesn't want to be a bum and sleep at his parents house.

Carter's reading the Daily Prophet, hair long and tied up so that his hair drifts down to brush his chin. He drinks black coffee, which smells delicious but tastes terrible, and looks at me over the edge of his paper, eyes blue and teasing.

"First day of school, huh? Excited?"

I nod, mouth stuffed with food, and my plate rattles with excitement. I slam my hand down on it to keep it from moving, cursing my wandless magic. I've broken more plates than you can imagine. I've broken more things in general than the usual eleven year old does.

My dad - Carter - is an auror, and my mum - Mercy - who, by the way, is from America, doesn't work. She's been sort of sick lately, but she's been to the doctor and will get better soon.

And Remus is a werewolf, but according to mum, he's living proof that we shouldn't have to be afraid of someone because of what they physically are, just what their values are and how much they fight for the right things.

Sooner or later we make it in to King's Cross station, with Remus, where we fly through the barrier and load my stuff onto the train, and I'm pretty excited to be away from home. Remus looks around with that sort of grim, sad smile that adults sometimes get, looking over at my mum, and they all bade me goodbye as I get on the train. I barely remember the whole thing; I only remember that as I wave out of the window I realize that maybe I'll miss home a tiny bit.

"Hey," someone says, appearing in my compartment.

"Hey," I say, and we stare at each other, as if we forgot what we were saying. He stands there, clutching onto the door frame to keep from toppling over as the train rattles on. After a long silence, I speak again. "Forget your line?"

"Um," he swallows hard, turning red enough to hide his freckles, "can I sit here?"

"Sure," I say, and he darts into the compartment and sits down across from me, the collar beneath his grey jumper rumpled and only halfway folded.

"D'you know when we're supposed to change into our robes?" he asks me anxiously, voice infused with a thick Scottish accent. "Do you know when we get to try out for Quidditch? I want to be keeper."

"Quidditch?"

"Yeah, you know, the game? D'you like Quidditch?"

"I s'pose," I say, shrugging. "My mum likes the Chudley Cannons and my dad likes the Holyhead Harpies."

"I don't know about the Cannons," he says, wrinkling his nose. "I like Puddlemere United. Do you play?"

"Me? I've only flown around on a broomstick some."

"Well, I love Quidditch - say, what's your name, anyway?"

"Katica Natsworthy."

"Oliver Wood."

He holds out his hand stiffly, and the two of us shake hands solemnly. Then he breaks out into a grin, a tiny gap between his rounded front teeth. "I'm really excited, you know?"

"To start school?" I ask skeptically.

"No, to play Quidditch," he says, like this should be obvious.

"I think you're only allowed to try out in your second year."

"Really? My older brother wouldn't tell me, and he's already out of school. He's a jerk, honestly."

"Can I sit here?" someone asks, interrupting our conversation, slamming open the compartment with more force than necessary. From his expression, I can tell that he also thinks that he'd slammed the door open too hard.

The noise startles me as well, and I can hear something crack behind me. I turn to see a thin web etching itself into the window, and then turn away from it quickly, hoping no one noticed, which no one has.

"Sure," Oliver says, and the boy sits down beside him, hair fiery red, glasses sliding down his nose, and paper white skin splayed with freckles. His glasses are much thicker than mine, and he's already in his robes, which look second hand and already have Gryffindor colors on them.

"I'm Percy," he says. "Percy Weasley." He doesn't shake hands like Oliver did, but exchanges smiles with us, beaming a wide, excited grin at Oliver, then me. We introduce ourselves, returning the grins, and he nods after hearing each name, as if he's studiously committing our names to memory.

"Hang on," Oliver says. "Do I know the Weasleys?"

"Maybe," Percy says. "We're a pretty big family." Then he changes the subject abruptly, as if he doesn't really like talking about his family. "Are you from here?" he asks me. "I mean, you don't sound like it."

"My mum's American," I say, "and I thought her accent was cool, so I use it too."

"Have you ever been there?" he asks me. "I've heard that they have this bloke called Michael Jackson."

"Is he a singer?" Oliver asks. "I think I've heard of him."

"Yep," Percy says. "Bill likes him."

"I think he's pretty great," I say. "My mum likes him, too."

"My mum thinks he sounds worse than what Charlie raises in the back yard," Percy says, with an air of superiority, which annoys me a bit.

"Have you heard him before?" I demand, and Percy hesitates, eyebrows furrowing.

"Well, no," he mumbles. "Not really." Then he stands, the smile crossing his face again. "I'll ask Bill, then. He's a sixth year. You want to help me find him?"

The three of us end up venturing out of the compartment, staggering a little under the train's motion. I walk behind Percy, and Oliver walks behind me, as we walk past compartment after compartment of other students, some of them already in robes, others still in Muggle clothes.

"He's got really long hair that's red like mine." Percy describes, "Oh- there he is... Bill!"

An older student, before us in the aisle, turns, his hair, true to Percy's description, down to his shoulders. He grins when he sees Percy, his face broader and stronger than Percy's- attractively so, eyes dark and expressive with amusement.

"Hi," he says. "Whatcha doing out here?"

"What does Michael Jackson sound like?" Percy demands, and Bill laughs, bemused.

"You want to hear?" he asks, and we all nod. "Give me your wand."

Percy holds his wand out trustingly (something he won't be doing as often when the twins arrive at Hogwarts), and Bill taps his wand point to Percy's. A song begins to play, not loud, but still hearable, and I can recognize the song as "Black or White". Oliver and Percy, on the other hand, look near enraptured. Bill grins, then looks at me.

"Heard it before?" he asks.

"Yeah," I manage to say, not sure how to talk to some older, handsome figure like Percy's brother. He nods sagely.

"The prince of pop," he says seriously, although he looks like he feels like laughing. "Good for you. You must have good tastes in music."

"My mum likes him," I tell him, and he smiles, before straightening.

"That good enough for you?" he asks Percy and Oliver, and they nod. Bill shuts off the music some way or another, and we return to the compartment.

"Maybe he's not that bad," Percy admits. "But still a bit weird."

The lunch lady comes by, a little later, but only Oliver buys anything- I don't have any money on me, because my money always seems to vanish, and Percy dolefully holds up a peanut and butter jelly sandwich. When Oliver sees that we don't buy anything, he buys more things, so that we can split the mounds of candy and food between the three of us.

"Thanks," I say, finishing Percy's sandwich- peanut butter and jelly being both my and my dad's favorite- and Oliver catches a chocolate frog before it leaps out of the compartment. The three of us sit there, eating candy and talking.

Mostly arguing. Mostly Percy and Oliver arguing, about the Sorting or whatever. I can join in with that, because I've been taught that not all Slytherins are sorted in because they're bad. It's just other people that reinforce unfair class roles. My dad's a Slytherin, after all.

"Hang on," Oliver says, changing the subject back to Quidditch again, which is his obvious first love. "Your brother's the captain of the Quidditch team, isn't he?"

"Charlie? Yeah. He's pretty good," Percy says off handedly. "All my brothers have done something or another. Except the twins and Ronald, but that's because they're all under 9. I'm going to do something greater than that. I want to work for the ministry or something."

"Since is when the Ministry better than Quidditch?" Oliver wrinkles his nose, a gesture that becomes familiar to Percy and I soon enough.

"Quidditch is just a game," Percy says offhandedly, and Oliver looks affronted, eyebrows rising high on his forehead.

"Just a game? You think Quidditch is just a game?"

"We all have our own ideas," I cut in, before Percy can retort. After a few moments of silence, Oliver grins easily at us.

"It's no big deal," he agrees. "Quidditch or... or the Ministry." He resists the urge to wrinkle his nose again. "Anyway, you said before that you don't mind being in Slytherin, Katica?"

"No," I say adamantly. "My dad was a Slytherin,"

"Really?" Oliver asks. "You never struck me as a Slytherin."

"Well, my mum was Gryffindor," I say with slight pride.

"I'm probably going to be Gryffindor, too," Percy says gloomily. "My whole family's Gryffindor, you know."

"I don't know if the red hair would fit anywhere else," I tease, but Percy bristles slightly. "Don't worry," I say hastily. "I think your hair's magnificent."

Percy has this weird thing about his family. He wants to be better than them, because he wants them to be proud. He wants everyone to see him being great, so he tells people what to do all the time so that they'll pay attention to him and think that he knows more than they do.

But he also really doesn't like sticking out, or rocking the boat, or being something my mother always called "being a freethinker", and my dad calls "being left wing". And Oliver, he just really likes Quidditch. I can foresee he and Percy arguing a lot. I don't really mind- I was afraid that I wouldn't make any friends on the train.