Miranda surveys the Gryffindor common room closely, taking in the crackling fire and the overwhelming amount of red and gold accents.

    "Hello!" Two voices speak from behind her.

Miranda turns around to the identical faces of a pair of gangly red headed boys. They look suspiciously like the one from the Great Hall, and the stuffy fellow who'd led them through the portrait hole.

    Except, these two thrum with mischief and energy. Their brown eyes spark, crackling with an untamable fire.

    Miranda has to admit, they're sort of cute. In a roguish, troublemaker sort of way. Freckles and a confident air about them as they fold their arms, leaning against the wall in that specific devil may care manner.

    "I'm Fred," one says animatedly, pumping her hand up and down

    "I'm George," just as the eager, the other one barely lets his twin finish his own introduction.

    "Although I could be George," Fred ponders. At least, Miranda thinks it's Fred.

    "And I could be Fred."

    "There's really no way to know, is there?" Fred, or maybe George, smirks mischievously.

    "You're new." George— or maybe Fred... says to her.

    "Welcome!" They say in perfect sync.

    Miranda's eyebrows shoot up, mouth quirking. "Do you always talk at the same time?" she asks.

    "No," the twins answer in unison.

    A girl with equally vibrant red hair approaches, "Are these two bothering you? God knows they're good at it."

    "Some would say it's our most attractive characteristic," Fred winks.

    The fiery haired girl punches him in the shoulder, hard. "I'm Ginny Weasley, and Git One And Git Two are my older brothers."

    "Weasley," Miranda peers at them closely, "so you're related to Ron then?'

    George replies quickly, "Git Number Three."

    "Excuse them please," Ginny waves the boys away. "You've already met Ron, then?"

    "Yes, and Hermione and Harry," Miranda informs her, wondering how old she is.

    "Ah, the Golden Trio," Ginny snorts wryly, shaking her head, "good luck with that."

    "Sorry, did you just call them the 'Golden Trio'? And— what do you mean good luck?" Miranda's forehead knits together in confusion. They'd all seemed perfectly friendly to her.

    "Let's just say if there's trouble, those three are bound to be in the thick of it, and god forbid you try to join in," Ginny mulls sourly, more to herself than Miranda. "Trust me, I've tried. They're a secretive little bunch."

    "Practically impenetrable," Fred and George appear on either side of Miranda.

    We'll see about that. Miranda thinks to herself, intrigued. She loves a good challenge, and there was something about the way Harry had looked at her earlier that made her want to know more.

    She makes her way over to where the three are sitting, talking in hushed voices, heads bent close. Miranda can make out the words "Sirius" and "hiding" before they abruptly stop talking when they notice her.

    "Oh no," Miranda pouts mockingly, "please don't stop on my account. Are you talking about how Sirius Black escaped?"

    Hermione, Harry, and Ron freeze, all trying to stammer an explanation out.

    "Relax, Miranda drops her voice to a whisper, "I know he's innocent, my mom was friends with him, and I know he's your godfather too." She gestures to Harry. They all stare at her, stunned.

    "I do believe this is the first time since I met you three, that no one is talking," Miranda smirks, more than a little pleased with herself.

    Harry is the first one to break the silence, with a surprised chuckle he proclaims, "I like this one."

    A deliciously warm tingle of triumph spreads through Miranda, heat blooming in her abdomen. She settles herself in the cushy armchair opposite Harry, folding her arms across her chest.

    Draco would be so proud of her, making friends. It isn't that Miranda was shy, no, quite the opposite, really. She had almost no shame. A striking, and often dangerous quality. It's just— she's been begging her mom to come here for years. They had a life back in America, friends.  She had to succeed here, otherwise she uprooted them for nothing.

    Miranda feels a powerful longing for her two friends back at Ilvermorny, Isabel and Henry. They'd been thick as thieves in their youth. In fact, Miranda wonders if that is why she's so attracted to this group. Hermione is eerily similar to Isabel, and Ron reminds her  of Henry's lightheartedness.

    "So," Miranda sighs, folding her hands in her lap, "I've heard that you guys are a very exclusive group around here. The so called 'Golden Trio'."

    Harry snickers, while Hermione chews on her lower lip, "Oh godric,  is that really what people are saying about us?" Hermione insists, "We're really very nice, you know."

    "You know what? I quite like it," Ron announces. "It gives us a distinct air of mystery. Wicked." He nods his head approvingly. "I actually have a question for you, McGonagall, Hermione told me it was rude to ask, but I don't think you'll mind."

    Hermione buries her face in her hands, shooting Ron a withering glare, "I'm so sorry Miranda, he has such horrible manners. I mean..."

    Miranda shakes her head, "No, it's okay." She leans back, waiting, "Hit me ,Weasley."

    "What's up with your eyes?" The boy gestures to her multicolored irises.

    Hermione groans, "Seriously, Ronald, you couldn't have phrased that in a different way?"

    Miranda thinks she better answer before Hermione and Ron start arguing again, "Well, I was born with blue eyes, but when I was a baby Voldemort attempted to kill my mother and I," she pauses to gauge their reactions. Ron and Hermione seem discomforted at the use of the name, Voldemort. Most people are. Not Harry, though. He's listening intently. "It didn't work obviously, but I was left with," she points to it, "one green eye. All curses leave their mark."

    Harry is astonished, he's never met another person, let alone someone his age, who survived a killing curse as he did.

    "Bloody hell," Ron mutters, "there's two of 'em."

    "Why haven't I heard about you, or read about you somewhere?'' Hermione inquires, stunned.

    "Well, I'm not as famous as Mr. Lightning Scar over there," Miranda jabs a thumb at Harry with a wry smile, "and right after it happened my mom took me to America, where we lived up until...now."

    "And with that shocking revelation, I am going to bed," Ron yawns, stretching like a cat.

    "I think I'll retire as well." Hermione agrees, rising from her perch on the carpeted floor. "It's been a long day," she turns back for a moment, "you coming Harry?"

    "In a minute," Harry glances at Miranda, "I think I'll stay out here for  a while longer."

    Miranda exhales. Harry's eyes have been locked on her since she sat down at the Gryffindor table, and she's doing her best not to get self conscious. She arches an eyebrow, "So..."

    "So...?" Harry replies, cocking his head.

    "I don't know dude, you're the one who keeps staring at me."

Harry blushes, ducking his head. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, embarrassed as he mumbles, "Sorry, it's just I've never met someone like me. I've always felt so..."

    "Alone." Miranda says softly.

    "Yeah, I mean Ron and Hermione are brilliant, but— there are some things they just don't—can't understand.

    Miranda giggles in spite of herself, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle it. Harry's brow furrows, puzzled, "Was something I said funny?"

    She bites her lip to keep from letting another gale of laughter slip out, clearing her throat, "Um— no, sorry— it was just the way you said brilliant—your accent—" Miranda trails off, still laughing.

    Harry looks bemused, a devilish glint in his eye, "You're making fun of my accent, Miss America? You're in Britain now."

    Miranda, never one to back down from a challenge, retorts, "I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that. All I could hear was 'Spit spot! Cheerio! Tea!"

    "So in your head, I'm Mary Poppins?" Harry asks, grinning.

    "The resemblance is uncanny," Miranda deadpans, before breaking into a bright smile.

    Harry gazes at her a moment, leaning in, "If you don't mind me asking, what happened, you know when Voldemort— you know..."

    Miranda nods, steeling herself. She doesn't remember it of course, having only been an infant, but she hates the story anyhow. It fills her with the sort of  dread you can't escape, can't forget.

    "Well thirteen days before Voldemort and you had your first little encounter, he came to my house," she explained. "Like you, I was only a baby, and my mom was with me, putting me to bed. First, he killed my dad and my sister," Miranda inhales sharply, a pang in her heart. "Oh— I had a sister, by the way. She was five. Then he went to kill my mom, and me, but failed."

    "Why?" Harry whispers, features soft and plain.

    "I'll tell you why," Miranda answers cautiously, "but you have to promise me that you won't judge my mom. She's a good person, she has a kind heart, and she is my world."

    Quietly, Harry admires Miranda's fierceness to protect her mother. "I promise."

    "My mom's name is Juniper Nott McGonagall. She went Hogwarts just like us, except she was in Slytherin. There was a boy, a couple years older than she was, also in Slytherin... Tom Riddle." Recognition flashes across Harry's face.

    Miranda soldiers on, "You may know him as Lord Voldemort, but before he was the Dark Lord, he was Tom. A handsome, slightly damaged, powerful boy. And my mom fell in love with him, and he fell in love with her. Trust me, I know how it sounds, but he wasn't always so evil, at least according to my mom. As time went on, however, Tom started to become more obsessed with power, he let his dark side consume him, and he wanted to rule the wizarding world with my mom by his side. She said no." Miranda rushes through this part, wanting to get it over with, "And then she met my father, Matthias, and they had my sister and I. Voldemort never forgave her, and he hated my father, which is why he came to slaughter my family. But he couldn't kill my mom, some part of him still loved her. When he tried to kill us, the curse didn't work because he didn't mean it. So that's my story. It's not as thrilling as yours, and certainly not as well known, but there it is. I'm not the Chosen One, just lucky. Lucky my mom was there, and lucky she's still here."

    "The Lucky One" Harry muses.

    "I suppose so, " she smiles lightly.

    "I'm sorry," he murmurs,  placing his hand over hers. Harry's hand feels warm as they lock eyes, not breaking eye contact, something passing between the two of them. Finally, Miranda says, "Well, I really should be going to bed." She rises, "Goodnight, Harry Potter."

    "Goodnight, Miranda McGonagall."