Chapter One
On an unusually balmy day in late September, twenty-six year old Harry Potter threw down the sheaf of parchment he was
reading and rubbed his eyes wearily. His weariness could be blamed on the combination of the hot, sticky weather
they'd been having lately and the fact that it was almost ten o'clock that night. He'd been up since five
that morning, responding to the frantic owls that he'd gotten from various people.
Why frantic? Well, you see, a rumor had recently erupted that Harry Potter was quitting Quidditch! Anybody familiar with Harry's story (who isn't?) knows that he's a natural at the game. And now he's quitting?! Oh, they couldn't have that! So Harry was bombarded with messages from Ron Weasley, his longtime best friend (Harry, I just heard the best joke in a long while. You're quitting Quidditch! Haha! What a joke! Right??), Oliver Wood, his Captain at Puddlemere United where Harry was currently Seeker (Harry! What the bloody hell is going on? You're quitting? Why am I hearing about this from the Daily Prophet? Owl me as soon as you get this - and I mean yesterday!). His other best friend, Hermione Granger, owled asking if everything was OK and to brace himself for an infestation of owls.
Harry groaned.
Infestation was an understatement. He'd been startled awake by Hedwig's indigent squawk as a volley of owls clamored at his kitchen window. When he opened the window, they'd all swooped in and fought, trying to be the first to deliver their scrap of parchment. To his dismay, there were not one, not two, but three Howlers from people he'd never heard of yelling at him for being an ungrateful brat and what the hell kind of team player was he? And what about England being in the running for the World Cup for the first time in four years? (Harry was Seeker for England too). Didn't he even care?! Vol- Ah, dangit, I still can't say his name! You-Know-Who should have finished you off!
Poor Harry had no idea what they were screaming about until he managed to open Hermione's letter, which included a clipping of the blasted article. There was a picture of him soaring and diving on his broom in his Puddlemere uniform, beneath a headline which boldly proclaimed:
Harry had cursed quite heartily. He'd never said anything remotely like that! Not that the Prophet had ever cared for getting stuff right. Especially where he was concerned.
So he'd brewed himself some coffee and set about replying to the most important owls and the day had gone downhill from there. So many more owls arrived that he'd taken to yelling at them to go back where they'd come from. It worked, if he ignored the numerous cuffs the disgruntled owls gave him as they flew back out the window. In the end, he wrote a tersely-worded letter to the Prophet, denying that he was quitting Quidditch and not-so-politely suggesting that they get their damn facts straight before they printed stuff.
'Not that that's likely to happen,' he thought bitterly as he ran a hand through his untidy hair. All he wanted now was a long, hot shower and some dreamless sleep. With that in mind, he got up and stumbled toward his bedroom but just as he reached it, his doorbell rang.
"What now?!" he yelled to the room and stalked toward the door. Against his better judgement (he'd had problems with groupies), he yanked the door open and glared out into the empty hallway. Empty? What the flippin' flip!
"Great," Harry muttered. "Now I'm getting cranksters."
He started to slam the door but something on the ground caught his eye. It was what appeared to be a doll carrier with a black-haired doll in it. The doll was wrapped in a strangely-patterned woven blanket in vivid reds and golds.
Harry squatted and stared in confusion at the doll, which gave a soft sigh. It took a full minute for it to register in Harry's addled brain that dolls - magical or otherwise - do not sigh.