Lost. Harry Potter's sister

prologue

The same eyes. The same hair. The same fates.

Different homes.

On that fateful night in Godric's Hollow, the Potter boy, Harry, was to become a legend, but his sister, Olivia, was to be kept a secret, to all but a handful of people. For something dangerous lurked within them. A connection so powerful it would send the entire wizarding world hurtling into the depths of war.

Over the years, her green eyes and black hair, her scar on her neck, and her funny little giggle were forgotten by the boy. She was left to be raised at an orphanage in London, where she would have no knowledge of her brother, parents or magic, in hopes to keep her and her brother protected from the dark curse that hung over them. A curse that nobody could break. These two children were to be forever connected by a bond. An unbreakable bond. A power rests on their shoulders that nobody else could possess.

These two children would go down in History.

When the time was right.

August 23rd 1994

Olivia's  P.O.V

My name's Olivia Pearson and I live here, at Wool's orphanage, though I wouldn't go as far as calling it my home. Home is where the heart is, apparently, but my heart was as far away from this place as possible.

My dark hair falls in loose curls around my face and my green eyes flicker in the sun. I am sat on my windowsill, pencil gripped tightly in my hands peering jealously down at the small group of children playing in the streets. My pencil leaves behind trails of graphite as it glides across the paper, adding the finishing touches to another one of my many sketches.

I lean against my wall and sigh, jealously wishing that I had a childhood like that. I was put in this orphanage when I was one years old because my parents were killed. The only thing I have to remind me of them is a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on my neck. I don't remember how I got it, but Sister Miller said that when I arrived here, it was open and gushing with blood. I've always assumed I got it after surviving whatever incident killed my parents. Sometimes I dream of them - they're merely faceless silhouettes, though, having no real memory of what they look like. Every dream ends with a blinding flash of green light.

I pick at the peeling paint of the rotting, wooden window frame, catching a glimpse of myself in the glass, dappled in old splashes from rain. My nose and cheeks are spread with freckles and my eyelashes clumped together by the mascara I used yesterday, and never took off. My pupils constrict as I look up at the sun.

I look down.

Imagine how amazing it would feel to be out of this place. I'd always had big dreams; do something to be proud of and become, not necessarily famous, but admired. Make friends and travel the world with them. Do something good. Make a mark. Be something other than a lonely orphan girl.

A knock on the door yanks me away from my thoughts.

"Come in," I beckon quietly, placing my notebook and pencils down on the rickety wooden desk in the corner of my room.

The door breaks open and Sister Miller, looks at me, two people by her side. A man with a long, silvery beard and half-moon glasses and a woman with a tight bun and spectacles steps into the room.

"Good afternoon, Olivia." The man greets, brightly. He, much like the woman, are dressed funnily, in long cloaks fastened at the neck. Not the typical London attire I'm used to seeing. "May we have a seat?" I nod and they both seat themselves on my old, wooden single bed, across from my desk chair. Sister Miller closes the door behind them, leaving me in total privacy with these two strangers.