The only reason my father acknowledged that hers existed was, well partly it was because he was a rather adored celebrity, and also because he had saved my father's life on more than one occasion. Not that Father emphasizes this point. I heard about it from Mum over Christmas holidays during first year. She told me in response to my questions about what exactly had happened on the platform as I was preparing to leave. A crowd of red heads, blondes, and brunettes had entered, creating quite the commotion, and Father had spared them hardly a glance, even though everyone else was talking to them, greeting them, and making quite the fuss over their presence. What made me wonder at this, as Father snubbing anyone he thought beneath him was not uncommon, was that when he caught the eye of one man he gave him a nod of acknowledgement. It didn't occur to me until later that this man was Harry Potter; the most celebrated celebrity of the wizarding world, most specifically Great Britain.

I had not grown up stupid, so I waited until Father was away at work before asking Mum about it. She refused to go into detail, saying that if he wished to, Father would tell me someday. What she did tell me was enough to draw rather accurate conjectures. Harry Potter had, more than once, saved his life. No one ever got the whole and true story, only Father, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Weasley knew what had really happened. Though, long after I was married, Father did tell me at least the circumstances. At eleven though, I had to be satisfied with the vague answer of school grudges, differing political positions, and life debts.

Even long after, when I stopped to try and remember, I was not sure which was the first time I ever saw her. It may have been on the platform when I was eleven, but I can't be sure. She was a red head among many and hardly stood out to me. I do remember the first time I noticed her though. She was eleven, entering her first year, and I was thirteen, in my third. Predictably, I had been sorted into Slytherin, just like my father, though certainly without the same slimy, stuck up airs about me. Mother saw to that. Wherever I was sitting though, she caught my eye as soon as she walked in. Flaming hair swung down her back, and green eyes flashed across the crowd, grinning at her older brothers and assorted cousins, scattered throughout the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. I couldn't stop watching her.

Potter, Lily was near the bottom of the list, but all the while she waited I watched her. What little girl possessed such fire? She had already shot a young boy she seemed to know a stern look, which I later learned she inherited from both of her grandmothers, and gave the professor holding the hat a familiar smile.

"Gryffindor!" I couldn't help feeling the slightest bit disappointed that, once again, a Potter was sorted to the house of Gryffindor. They all cheered quite raucously and few noticed as the next student was sorted. Their name and house I cannot recall, for I was as enchanted by her as her new housemates. She was the sort, of course, whose fate had been decided years before, the first time she walked, the first time she stood up to her brothers, the first time she established the control she held quite neatly over every male member of her family; and quite a few outside it. In her fire and courage, in her compassion and open friendliness, she was every bit the Gryffindor her parents and grandparents had been. Following an elbow from my housemate, Vince Draper, I returned to reality. The reality that put me on one side of the hall and her on the other. If that was not worlds apart, I do not know what is.