There came a day when the unthinkable happened. Lord Voldemort, otherwise known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was defeated by a year-old child named Hairy Potter. The entire world was shocked. Unfortunately, young Harry Potter failed to save his parents, his nihilistic tendencies making him instead opt to stay out of the whole affair until Voldemort attacked him personally. Harry Potter quickly struck down the evil villain and became known as The Boy Who Lived. And thus, our story starts.

Dumbledore, the wise old man who invented Lucky Charms, spoke seriously. "This is bad. Harry Potter needs a home, but his parents are dead. Whatever shall we do?"

"I know!" said the ghost of Voldemort. "Lets stick him with some magic-haters!"

And so they did that.

When Petunia Dursley opened her door that evening in response to an odd scratching noise, she saw an old man and a ghost skulking away as quickly as such things do. "Drat!" she said, spotting the old man. "It's Dumbledore! I hate that guy! Stupid wizard!" She quickly shut the door, slamming it as hard as she could in her anger.

However, the door did not shut.

She slammed it again, and then again, and again, and again, but still the door would not shut. Finally, in a flumox, she looked at the doorway to see what the problem was. She screamed in horror at what she saw. There, in the doorway, was a little baby.

Harry Potter, bashed to a bloody pulp by the fierce door-closing tendencies of his aunt, crawled forward and slobbered on Petunia's shoe.

And so it was that Harry Potter came to live with the Dursleys.