Sparkle

Harry rarely paid attention to where he was walking these days, but it didn't matter as most people usually moved out of his way. However, that afternoon, he ran over a young girl and knocked her to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry apologised, bending over to help her to her feet.

The girl just looked at him fearfully. She had round steel glasses, sleek dark brown hair, and wide dark blue eyes.

Concerned, Harry asked her, "Are you okay?"

The girl nodded, still not saying anything, just looking at him suspiciously.

"Do you ever talk?" Harry asked her.

The girl nodded, taking a step backwards. It hit Harry suddenly why she wouldn't say anything to him. Fighting back a smile, he held out his hand again. "I'm Harry, by the way. I live down the street." Somehow he'd stopped telling people his last name, as though that would make it harder for Voldemort to find him.

A sunny smile split the girl's face. "Oh, then you're a neighbour. I'm Regan. We just moved into that house right there." She pointed to Number Thirteen.

"Nice to meet you, Regan," Harry said kindly. "How old are you?"

"Twelve," Regan answered shyly. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen. I know I don't look it, but..."

Regan smiled. "Oh, you're my big sister's age. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope. I have a cousin, though," Harry said regretfully, thinking of Dudley. "He's my age."

Regan twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "Oh. Is he special?"

The question caught Harry off-guard. "Yes, I suppose so. He's the heavyweight boxing champion at his school."

"Are you special?"

"I guess." He was special, in a lot of different ways, but he never really thought of it as special--just different. "Why do you ask?"

Regan looked a little downcast. "Because all my brothers and sisters are special, but I'm not."

"Now what makes you say that?"

Regan sighed and sat down on the curb. "'Cause it's true."

Harry sat down next to her. "Okay, let's try this a different way. How are they special?"

Regan scuffed at the pavement with her toe. "My oldest brother Cory--he's eighteen--is really good at sports. He's going to college on a full rugby scholarship. Then my big sister gets to go to a special school. You can't apply for that school--you have to be invited. She's really special. Then my big brother Duncan, who's fourteen, is really smart--he's good at making things. Mama says he'll be an engineer someday. My little brother Sebastian is ten, and he's a really good painter. He doesn't talk about it very much, but he's spectacular. Then there's my seven-year-old brother Nicholas...he's good at karate, and I mean really good. He'll be a black belt before very much longer. And my baby sister Jessica--she's five--is super good at ballet, even if she's only a little kid."

"Well, what about you?" Harry asked her. "What do you do?"

"Nothing. I'm not good at anything," Regan said despondently.

"Who told you that you aren't any good?" Harry pressed.

"Mama and Daddy."

Harry frowned in bemusement. He thought of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, so proud of their sons even if they were acting stupid or irresponsible or reckless, and wondered what kind of parent would tell their child they weren't good at anything. Aloud he said, "Well, I'm sure you're good at something."

"Maybe. I just haven't tried it yet."

"Regan!" called someone from Number Thirteen. "Lunch!"

Regan pushed herself up. "I gotta go. Nice to meet you, Harry...I'll see you later." She scuttled off.