The wind blew strongly outside as she rushed in the front door of her London flat. Shaking out her long, perfectly straight brown hair, bits of snow showered the owl that was waiting at her feet. She bent down to retrieve the letter clutched in his beak, and fished in her pockets for several bronze Knuts to pay him with. She continued to walk though the hallway; not noticing whom the letter was from. Kicking her shoes off, fixing a butterbeer, and finally relaxing in a chair, she looked at the signature handwriting on the envelope that could only mean one thing...