"Harry drew out his wand and fixed Voldemort with a piercing stare. It would be over in a moment. In seconds, the Dark Lord would finally be dead. Or would he be? 'I'm not afraid of you, Riddle,' Harry murmured boldly, 'Not anymore.' But just as the words of the killing curse were about to come out of his mouth..."

"Jo!" 11-year-old Joanne Rowling's head shot up. Her eyes met the teacher's, and the anger in them made her heart sink. She had been mindlessly writing in class - again, and wasn't quite ready for the punishment her new professor would launch. But her story - her epic - was almost complete...Joanne promised herself that someday, perhaps, she could release her story to the world. But not yet. Not for a while yet.

"Joanne," Professor Potter looked across the room to the girl, but what she didn't not recognize that instead of anger, he was showing amusement. He stepped toward her desk, hiding a smile. "What are you at now, Jo? Writing?" He eased the story from her grasp as she cringed with the loss of her masterpiece. "I'm going to read this, Jo..." He flipped through the loosely paper-clipped pages curiously. "Just to make sure it's suitable for working on in valuable class time." Joanne looked up at the teacher wide-eyed. So she wasn't in trouble? The sweat welling on her forehead with fear went dry. She sat back, hoping she would have her story back soon.

And she did...Three weeks later, she found her story, now neatly stapled, sitting upon her desk. The teacher uttered a few words, too amazed to really speak. "Very good, Joanne...But you know it's only fantasy..." And as her professor turned away, from beneath his tousled jet-black hair, Joanne saw the hint of a familiar-shaped scar...