PROLOGUE
The church of Godric's Hollow struck 8 o'clock. Residents were settling down for what they anticipated to be yet another uneventful evening. It was the night of Halloween and all was quiet in the community. Rain drizzled on the worn cobbles and lightly bounced off windows, almost musically.
Local pensioner and witch, Bathilda Bagshot, was enjoying a well deserved tumbler of fire whisky, when suddenly an eerie silence overcame her home. Bathilda cleared her throat and paced over toward her window sill, twitching her tattered, checked curtains. She gazed out cautiously, just as the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. The horizon had slowly and unexpectedly darkened with jet black clouds engulfing the sky. This was no British weather, she thought. Faster than in normal circumstances, she tore her curtains shut, donned her purple anorak and swiftly made her way towards the great fireplace which stood as the main attraction in the small and cluttered lounge.
With a trembling hand, she scraped a handful of nearby floo powder out of a bronze pot and hovered in the bricked alcove.
"The Hogs Head!" Bathilda throatily exclaimed, throwing down the contents in her grasp. With a mighty crack and flurry of green smoke, she was gone.