My eyes open with the moisture and fresh air

beaming from the high ceilings of London’s King Cross.

With the deep winter winds of February, brings

the luscious scents of 

milk and dark chocolates

with hints of green menthe 

rise from the frogs 

that drill and travel into my nostrils,

then down my chest to  warm my heart. 

My father's soft palm leads me

to the end of the whole train.

The tawny tiny bird of Minerva

whispers and murmurs to me

from my brother's wide shoulders. 

At the train door, the station head

flings his chatter at me, his

thoughts on The Daily Prophet,

attacking my blank undisciplined brain,

I won’t hear anymore, but

my eyes gaze afar at the free and countless stars, 

"Ginny!" With flying waist-length straight blond hair,

her silvery, misty and protuberant eyes see me.

 "We have to go," said Luna.