The small amount of steam that had billowed from the engine of the Hogwarts Express was as welcoming as the chatter of the first years students dragging their parents behind them as they careened toward the train.
The brick stonework that made up the magnificent arches of King’s Cross Station were, whimsically almost, decorated with a banner of each of the Hogwarts houses, the respective animal dancing around the material.
“6th year,” your mum, voice shaking and emotionally driven, spoke behind you, “our baby girl is growing up.”
You rolled your eyes while your back was to your mum, adjusting the black strap of your bag as it rest against your hip. Every year, from the start of year one when your mum was dropping you off at the station, she would become a ball of unfettered emotions.
Your dad on the other hand would console your mum, whisper gently in her ear like any good alpha would do for their omega.
It was sweet, it was what you aspired to be with your own alpha. You wanted a relationship as sweet as your parents, as endearing and as cute.
What you got instead of sweet, was the aggravating, grating, irritating, never-ending-jokes, James Potter.
James. Potter. Was. Your. Alpha.