Augur *Harry Potter*

Chapter 2

"Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?"

Amelie rolls her eyes at her mother's comment, and swats Isabelle's hand away from her head.

"You're just trying to distract yourself from how much you're going to miss me." The quick-witted eleven year old smirks up at her role model, and Isabelle feigns heartache, lifting a pale hand to her forehead.

"Oh, my darling daughter, whatever will I do without your constant sarcasm and tendency to mock?" She sweeps Amelie into her strong arms, pressing her to her torso. "But maybe I will miss you. Just a bit."

Platform 9 3/4 is crowded with witches and wizards of all ages; timid First Years, confident Seven Years, and parents who have been at this for far too many years. If Amelie squints she can see a few Muggles too, the ones who are as new to this as their children are.

The train is due to leave in six minutes, and Amelie grasps onto her trunk and her owl tightly, nerves coiling in her stomach for the first time this morning. This was it. She would be away from home, from her mum, until June. This was it. She was about to board the train, about to bound head-first into this life she's been waiting for since Isabelle whispered the words, "You're going to be the most beautiful witch Hogwarts has ever seen, Ame." This was it.

Four and a half minutes she had to say her last goodbye.

"Hey, baby," Isabelle says, squatting down to Amelie's height and cupping her face in her hands. "Your father would be so proud of you, do you know that?"

Isabelle's lilac eyes are shiny, and tears threaten to spill from Amelie's eyes as well. Hugh Aguirre hasn't been able to be proud of Amelie for eight years and counting, ever since he lost his life to someone Isabelle refuses to talk about to this day. She took her mother's word for it; she could barely remember anything about her father. She guessed, if she thought hard enough, that his eyes were once a enchanting forest green. She guessed that he had a crooked tooth, right at the front of his mouth, but that didn't stop him from smiling at anything and everything. She guessed that sometimes she'd remember a lilting Welsh accent in her dreams, calling her name or muttering a 'sweetheart'.

She can only truly remember him through the stories her mother tells. He was a musician; he could draw the bow long and sweet against the strings of a violin; he could tango his fingers across a piano and create life; he could strum a guitar and the world would crumble at his feet. He sang Beatles songs to her to get her to fall asleep-Penny Lane, she's almost positive-and he danced with her on his feet.

These memories are better at creating the father she wants then her broken mind could ever be.

"I know, Mum." Amelie's voice sounds cracked and dry, in need of water, but she knows it's because she's on the verge of breaking down.

"He would've stood here, just as I am now, with his arm around your shoulder and pride in his heart. He would've brought out the Gryffindor in you, I'm sure. He did in me."

"Promise you'll write to me lots, okay? I don't care how many letters I get from home." Amelie's afraid her desperate subject change saddens her mother further, but Isabelle gives her an understanding nod. Amelie wraps her arms around her mother's middle, squeezes like she doesn't want to let go, but is forced to as the train whistles. The standard 'you have two minutes to pour your heart out before we leave your helpless parent stranded' warning.

"I'll write everyday if you want." Isabelle's voice is soft, and loving. "I'll write about our boring old house and our boring old town. If that ludicrous cat Frankie comes along I'll write about him too."