Ok, so I thought I'd try my hand at some humor. If you're laughing, please make sure it's because you actually find it funny, not because my jokes are pathetic.

This story is to be followed by the rest of the seven books (rewritten and summarised) and my version of what happens in the Next Generation (in which Ginny becomes the New Dark Lord and Draco and Neville team up to save the universe).

Enjoy!

Our story starts on a dull, grey Tuesday in September.

It was drizzling when Vernon Dursley awoke. The kind of monotonous, persistent drizzle that bedraggles sheep and makes you uncomfortably damp because you thought you didn't need an umbrella just to walk to the station.

Vernon hummed contentedly as he picked out a tie for work. Stripes? Polka dots? In the end, he settled for tartan. There was no better way to cheer up a boring Tuesday morning than wearing an exciting tie.

"Good morning, Petunia," he said as he made his way downstairs for breakfast.

"Oh Vernon, darling, won't you finish giving Dudley his breakfast? The Mayor of London called to place a last minute order and I simply must be there on time."

Petunia was the founder of Petunia's Flower Emporium, the most successful florist chain in Britain, which provided flower arrangements for the likes of celebrity weddings and the Queen of England's garden parties.

"Thank you so much, dear," she gushed, pressing Dudley's Beef Casserole baby food into Vernon's hands and pecking him on the cheek.

She wobbled out of the room on patent four-inch heels. Vernon heard the car remote bleep, and a few moments later, the powerful roar of the Maserati's engine.

After scraping the last of the pre-digested beef casserole off Dudley's chin, Vernon scooped the boy into the baby seat in the back of his car and dashed back into the house to get his briefcase. As he returned, he noticed something strange.

A cat sitting on the wall, studying a British Roadmap. Wondering who would have left a roadmap on the garden wall of his expensive London townhouse, Vernon absentmindedly patted the cat on the head as he passed and murmured, "Good kitty."

The cat gave him a glare worthy of an early morning commuter on a packed underground train when the lady on the intercom has just announced there will be serious delays and you will probably be late for work.

Disturbed, Vernon hastily retreated to his car and started the engine.

After dropping a disgruntled Dudley at his daycare centre, Vernon parked his car on the very top level of the parking complex and inconspicuously stretched his hamstrings before he tackled the stairs.

One of the less desirable aspects of Petunia's wealth was that she was now obsessed with keeping fit. That was fine with Vernon. It was when she began to try and include him in her nightmare regime of health that he objected. The objections had duly been squashed, and Vernon had (hypothetically) begun to adhere to a brand new fitness routine, designed especially by Petunia herself.

Vernon managed three out of seventeen flights of stairs, before checking that no-one was watching and taking the lift the rest of the way.

As he crossed the street to the orthodontist practise where he worked, he noticed some rather comically dressed people. Vernon smiled at the ingenuity of the young people of today in their charity fundraising schemes, and made a mental note to give them a generous donation on his way out.

He spent the morning happily advising customers on which colour braces would most complement their eyes, and marketing his new range of multicoloured ultra-flexible PVC toothbrushes ("for all those hard-to-reach corners!").

At lunchtime, Vernon left the building and headed for the nearest salad bar. Then, depressed by all the greenery, he made a sudden dart behind a pillar in case any of Petunia's colleagues were nearby, and shuffled surreptitiously into the baker's next door.

He bought two heavenly piping hot sugar coated custard doughnuts and a Danish pastry and crammed them into his suit pockets, then began to make his way back to the office.

Without warning, someone grabbed his arm. "Oh sir!"

Vernon started wildly. "No! No I tell you!" he cried, "It's just a salad! It's healthy!"

But the person wasn't listening. "You Know Who is gone! We are free! Rejoice!"

Vernon had heard of lunatics like this. Fearing for his life (and his doughnuts), he struggled to remain calm. "That's … wonderful," he said in a trembling voice. "Erm … go! Be free! Spread the good news!"

Before the lunatic could say anything else, Vernon pulled himself free and dashed for the safety of the orthodontist's.

He was so disturbed by the encounter, that he hardly noticed the owls swooping past in broad daylight. He merely commented to his secretary that there were an awful lot of pigeons around today, and pretended to write a few more prescriptions.

On his way home, he sent Petunia a message on his BlackBerry, asking how her meeting with the Mayor had gone. The message was not sent out of any particular desire to actually know how her meeting had gone, but rather to show off his new messaging skills. His pride was quashed approximately thirty seconds later, when he received her reply. After realising that it went on for four pages, he decided not to read it.

It was almost dark when he arrived home. He put Dudley to bed and peered nervously out of the window. That cat was still there.

Beginning to feel slightly fearful, he drew the curtains tightly and went and had a hot bath. The bubbles soothed him, and he fell asleep almost immediately that night. He was sure Petunia would never find out about the doughnuts.

Meanwhile, outside on the wall, the cat came to life.

In a distinctly businesslike manner, it folded up the roadmap and began to pace up and down on the wall. If it had had a watch to look impatiently at, it probably would have.

It stared through narrowed eyes at the street corner. Hours passed.

Then, quite suddenly, there was a loud bang and a cry of "Tally ho!"

Some dustbins fell over with a crash, and a muffled voice said "Damn!"

The man straightened up and strode forwards. He was very tall, with a long white beard and even longer white hair. He wore a sweeping turquoise cloak, fluffy grey sealskin boots and a bright yellow woolly hat, embellished with a purple pompom. His glasses were crooked, and he had a teabag stuck to his sleeve.

"Terribly sorry I'm late, Minerva," he said breezily.

He glanced at the cat, but it was gone. Instead, an austere-looking woman in emerald robes and a pointed hat glared up at him from the wall.

"You do realise it's past midnight, Dumbledore?" she said snappily.

Dumbledore shrugged unconcernedly and withdrew a Union Jack cigarette lighter from his pocket. "I was just up in the Alps doing some celebratory snowboarding, myself. How long have you been waiting?"

"All day actually," she sniffed. "And do put that lighter away, this is no time for smoking!"

Dumbledore ignored her and clicked the lighter. Immediately, all the streetlights went out. "Ah, much better," he said in satisfaction. "So. Where were we?"

Minerva sniffed. "You were explaining why you've been frittering away your time in the Alps while I've been sitting on this brick wall all day."

"Well, I didn't ask you to sit here all day. I'm only here to drop off the boy."

"Ah, the boy." Minerva looked at him expectantly. "Well? Where is he?"

"I've got him here."

Dumbledore began rummaging in his Adidas holdall. He muttered to himself as he tossed out a broken ski pole, half a banana, a bag of dog biscuits and a book entitled "Charming the Tibetan Yeti: a Taxidermist's Guide". Finally, he exclaimed "Aha!", and pulled out something small and rumpled, wrapped in a blanket. He presented it to Minerva.

The bundle was a baby. There was a livid lighting-shaped scar on his forehead and a tuft of ginger hair sprouted from under the cloth. His sleeping face was set in an ill-tempered scowl.

"Ah, what a pity about his parents," said Minerva sadly. "Such lovely people. Everyone is expecting great things of this little boy."

She smiled fondly. Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Yes, well if you've quite finished, I've got important things to do, so you won't mind if I just sally forth and get this over with."

He strode up to the Dursley's front door and attempted to post the baby through the mailbox. When this failed, he resorted to placing the baby on the doormat and putting a letter on top of it.

"There we go," he said cheerfully, dusting his hands off. "Hopefully the foxes won't get him and these charming people will have a new son tomorrow morning!"

So please review and tell me whether I should continue this!