John and Marilyn Crapsley were as normal as any other Brit. Apparently, British people are all enourmous dicks. Well, they DID make Gordon Ramsay and Simon Cowell, so this assumption is kind of fair.
They have a completely bratty child named Doolittle. I assume they got the name from a film, and that the film is a timeless classic, but I have not seen it, due to the fact that I live underneath freakin' stairs. What was I saying? Well, the general point of this is to establish that the Crapsleys are huge dicks.
One day, John went to work. It seemed like a completely normal day. Except for the small fact that owls were everywhere, and that there were hundreds of people dressed like wizards. But other than that, completely normal.
About a week later, a beautiful, amazing, beauti-mazing baby with a kickass lightning scar showed up on the Crapsley's doorstep. That baby was... Get ready for a mind blowing twist... THE CHOSEN ONE! Yes, it was me, Harrison Motter. Aren't I an awesome story teller?
Yes, I am. You're just too bloody stupid to realize it. MOTTER YEAH!