A/N (MUSTARDGIRL1128): This is an idea that lalababee came up with and allowed me to help her with! This is for you, Emily!

A/N (LALABABEE): I wanted to write a story with the fabulous Lola, so when this idea popped in my head and I couldn't do it myself, I thought it was the perfect time to write it with her. She, of course, wrote this chapter, so it will be WAY better than the next one that I wrote. Just thought you should know that.

Just so you know, we're writing this together. So I write a chapter, she does, I do, etc. Enjoy!

PROLOGUE I

Alright, well, I suppose this is where I introduce myself.

My name is Joanne.

I have a bit of a story to share with you before you'll really know who I am…

I was eleven years old, and destined for a life full of odd moments and excitement…

Even at eleven, I was an attractor of the oddest things…and, more importantly, I was one of those odd things…

I was really your average pre-teen...except I'd begun a book about magicians and someone named Voldemort; and most importantly, Harry Potter.

And then, if possible, I was made less normal...I got a letter from the very school I was writing about. 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'.

When I saw the seal, I panicked. But who could possibly know about my little project? I thought.

I went to Hogwarts, and every single thing I wrote in those books is true...but minus me. I should have been in those books, but how could I say that?

Now, here is the true story. The total, complete truth...including me.

PROLOGUE II--August 1st

"Jo, dear!"

"Mum?"

"Would you get the mail?"

"I'm writing, Mum!"

"And I'd like you to get the mail!"

"Yes, Mum…"

With a prolonged sigh, I stood up from my desk and stretched. I added the last word of the sentence and threw down my pen. Then I pushed in my chair and rushed downstairs, and outside.

Once obtaining the mail, I hurried back in and threw the mail haphazardly in front of my mother, who was baking. Then I ran for the stairs, longing to be in front of my novel again.

"Joanne!"

"What, Mum?" I asked with another sigh, turning around.

"Don't be like that, Jo."

"Like what?" I asked innocently.

Again, she barked at me my full name, and then added, "Don't you dare be so cheeky, Joanne Rowling!"

"Yes, Mum," I said, casting down my eyes. I then reached for the mail and flipped through it, reciting what each was. "Bills, bills, a Home and Garden magazine, something to do with the library--an overdue book, I think--a note for Daddy, something for 'The Parents of Diane Rowling', and--oh, God."

"What is it, Jo?" my mother had gone back to putting her pancakes into the oven, but she looked up quickly as I spoke.

"I--can I tell you later, Mum? I want to see this."

She smiled her knowing smile--she can get just about anything from me, if she wants to--and allowed me to leave the rest of the mail and run upstairs to my room, where I collapsed on the bed.

Then, immediately, I thought back…

A little blonde toddler--about six-- is on the floor.

"Jo? Where did you get to?" asks a woman's voice, presumably little Jo's mother.

Jo is staring at her blocks, frustrated. She squints, and concentrates on the top one. She looks as though she'd like the next one to stack itself on top of the rest of them…

Then, they do. The top one stacks itself. She rears back in surprise, upsetting the whole thing.

"Mummy, I think I did something bad!" she says, running to her mother, fear in her tiny, young voice.

"What? Run away from me?" her mother jokes, hoisting the girl to balance on her hip.

"No, Mummy--I made that block stack itself."

"What?" shrieks 'Mummy', her eyes wide.

"I--I don't know how…it just happened."

"Do it again, baby."

"I--I can't," says the girl, sheepish.

"Oh, well, let's forget about it, then, Jo," her mother says, clearly thinking Jo is lying.

The baby never forgets the incident…

I wondered if that was why I'd begun to write about people with magical tendencies. Maybe me six-year-old mind had made it up.

But perhaps not, for the letter in my hand clearly states that I didn't make it up.

I didn't come up with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

I am, however, accepted.

Accepted in the very school I fancied had come from the depths of my own mind.

But no.

I--Joanne Rowling, age eleven as of yesterday--am going to be--and, I suppose, am--a witch.

A witch.

A magical witch.

Yes, indeed--I was odd.