Disclaimer: You know the drill; everything except the plot is J.K. Rowling's.
Prologue:
At around four in the afternoon a lithe young man whose hair was beginning to prematurely gray sits in his cottage in rural Wales, on the outskirts of a small village, quietly reading a book in his living room.
At the same time, far away and across the North Sea, a man in ragged gray robes sits and shivers in a bleak stone cell. He is thin, almost emaciated looking, with a long tangle of black matted hair falling past his shoulders. He sits in the torturous pit known as Azkaban, guarded by those most fearful of creatures, Dementors. He sits with arms wrapped around his knees, staring with blank eyes at something only he can see, and softly whispers a single word…"Harry…"
And hundreds of miles away in the small town of Little Whinging in Surrey, a small and skinny boy with messy black hair and brilliant green eyes, dressed in large, baggy clothes, plays listlessly with some cheap and broken toys in the tiny cupboard he has called home for the past ten years.
All three continue their activities, not knowing that their lives would all be irrevocably changed within three months.
Again.