Rowena Crescent.
The deafening roar of a motorbike tore an elderly fellow, a Mr Hopkins to be exact, from his peaceful dreams of imminent death and a rather ... erm ... personal encounter with a delightful girl he had courted in his youth. She had been a charming young lady, exotic looking, with olive skin and mesmerising dark eyes, and she still danced into his subconsciousness occasionally, more so in recent weeks as he contemplated his impending departure from the natural world. Incurable case of Dragon Pox, you see - not that Dragon Pox were exceptionally deadly, in fact, it was one of the more pleasant magical maladies one could suffer - however, at the not so tender age of one hundred and thirty-four, Mr Hopkins could feel that his ticker was going to stop ticking soon.
Unfortunately for Mr Hopkins, and many people who he had encountered him in his lifetime, he had an insatiably nosey personality and a horrible beaky sort of nose, that made everything just nosier, it really was terrible. Said nosy personality led Mr Hopkins to drag his exceptionally poxed body up into a sitting position and manoeuvre his aching legs over the edge of his bed so that he could press his face up against the cool glass of the window pain when the need arose. Only last week did he have his eldest grandchild, Henry (or maybe his name was Herbert ... or Gus ... he could never really remember, it was the hairy one though, he knew that!), move his bed closer to the window so that he could more easily spy on his neighbours in Rowena Crescent, a small magical community that backs unto the fringes of Godrics Hollow, a much larger, and in Mr Hopkins opinion, a rather too pleasant place to live, no descent gossip or quarrels there!
Although, apparently that Bathilda Bagshot was a bit of a nutter nowadays. The neighbours must get driven up the walls! Never mind that though, Mr Hopkins had more pressing matters at hand.
Peering out the window with his nose pressed right up agains the glass, his shaky breath rattling against it, Mr Hopkins could see the tail lights of a motorbike disappearing down the lane.
Hm, how odd, a Motortricyclist, or whatever it was called. It was not very often that muggles had any business around Rowena Crescent, and Mr Hopkins knew certainly that no wizard would willingly ride on one of those ridiculous contraptions, so it could only be a muggle, albeit a confounded one. Mr Hopkins wondered a moment longer what could have brought the lost soul out on such a magical night, for muggles at least, Halloween.
Deciding that it was of really no importance Mr Hopkins pulled his legs back up, taking only a few seconds to notice they had turned a lovely puce shade and seemed to have begun developing some scales along his shins, and settled them back under the covers of his bed, wriggled back down into the sheets and laid his head down on the pillow, asleep in 54 seconds.
Little did Mr Hopkins know that it was not a lost muggle tearing through Rowena Crescent, but it was in actual fact a young wizard by the name of Sirius Black. Little did he know that something had indeed happened at Godrics Hollow, something that would forever change the Wizarding World - Lord Voldemort had been defeated by none other than little Harry Potter! Little did he know that this would be the night would change the lives of two young men and a newly orphaned child forever.
