Prologue.
The fire crackled loudly in the grate, the dusk gathering outside. He scratched the quill on the parchment, making yet another note on the old book he was reading. The book in question was yellowed so severely that the ink and paper were almost the same colour. The pages almost cracked with age every time he turned over a page, sending up a small cloud of dust. He blew it away in irritation, his finger following the lines of ink.
A clap of thunder sounded outside, making him get up, carefully putting the book on the table. Looking outside the window he saw a dark shadow getting steadily bigger.
Another flash of lightening cracked the sky open and he saw his first impression had been right. An owl was approaching. He watched the dark spot, throwing the window open as the soaking wet bird came in. The bird shook himself, water droplets spraying the room, much to his irritation, then held out the leg with the parchment roll on it. The roll was surprisingly dry and his annoyance with the wet bird vanished instantly. The letter contained only three words. Tomorrow. It's time.
He smiled and poked the parchment with his wand, setting light to it. The curled ashes dropped to the threadbare carpet and he abandoned them. It was time to leave. He had things to do.