Author's Note:

After reading Goblet of Fire, most of us should be used to first chapters that are almost completely unrelated. So, this chapter is strictly for entertainment, hence the "Prelude" in front of it's name. Ingenious, huh? By the way, this story has three random preludes before the plot actually starts. But fear not - it will stay random.

Also, this was written in response to the comments prior to the release of HBP that the opening chapter had been "brewing for many years." Let's just say I kind of misinterpreted that.

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Prelude 1: Brewing For Many Years

It was, amazingly, a city. With roaring cars and smoggy skies, covered with clouds that blocked the sun until only the faintest glow shone through. It was enough, however, to illuminate the enormous mansions below that stretched as far as the eye could see. This city was none other than Edinburgh, Scotland, and it was perfectly normal, thank-you-very-much. Most of the citizens of this picturesque neighborhood were grateful for the seeming normality. All, that is, except one.

This person was not normal in any way. Well, besides the obvious.

But moving away from basic human anatomy, this person was unique in that she did not look forward to getting mail from admirers, had created a main character that was annoyingly idiotic, sold millions of books, and, oh yeah, was probably the richest woman in the world. But all of these seemingly huge differences paled in comparison to the one thing that separated her from the rest of humanity. She got free coffee in the morning. In fact, she didn't only get free coffee in the morning, she got it around the clock, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

At the moment, surprisingly, she was not drinking coffee, although she would certainly have enjoyed a cup or two. Sadly, much to her bewildered dismay, the coffee machine happened to have broken after around forty thousand cups, all of which had been consumed in the past ten hours. For the esteemed author-who-must-not-be-named-because -of-website-policies was answering fan-mail, and a more stressful activity had never been invented.

In fact, fifty years ago to the day, a man named Frankly Useless had been brought into a police station for the very mention of fan mail. It was still a popular topic of discussion when items of gossip were scarce in Little Elephant, for what happened on that fateful day was etched into the mind of everyone who had ever passed through.

The town had woken up as one, gazed out their windows as one, and, as one, seen the words "FAN MAIL" written in large green letters on a nearby hill. Immediately, police were called to the scene, for the words "FAN MAIL" do not paint themselves onto a hillside. The scenic route through the hills had never been more crowded as every member in the town rushed to their car to drive past what would become a historical site. Soon, however, the mass outpouring was halted as the area was cordoned off for inspection by the most well-trained medical professionals available.

Meanwhile, in a little cottage at the base of a hill, Frankly Useless awoke to the sound of an officer rapping on his door.

"I am here to arrest you!" proclaimed the policeman dramatically.

"Is that legal?" said Frankly suspiciously.

"I will make it legal."

So, Frankly Useless was escorted to the police station in Upper Elephant. On the way, however, he was able to convince the officer to stop by Toys 'R' Us and pick up a stuffed teddy bear. Immediately, Frankly felt braver. It was always that way in World of Warcraft. He might be scared out of his wits during the fighting, but when he sat on his bed and hugged Teddy, he felt like he could take on whatever virtual reality threw at him.

Back in the town, Dat was telling everybody in the bar that Frankly had been arrested.

"Frankly? Surely not! Why, I knew him when he was a boy. He would never climb a hill and write FAN MAIL on it!" exclaimed the barman in astonishment. There was a great rush to buy Dat drinks. This proved to be a waste of money, since Dat ended up becoming drunk and puking all over the floor. Still, the discussion went on.

"Frankly would never do something like that."

"Oh yeah? And who else has access to green paint? You know he's been dying to paint that door of his for years."

"But still, Frankly is a good man."

"Yes, I know he is, but would you like to volunteer to go to the police station and take his place? Someone has to go to prison, and better Frankly than me, I say."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

Needless to say, the entire bar was convinced that Frankly was indeed guilty by noon. Convenient, too, since the conversation had started at 11:55 am.

In the police station, Frankly was stubbornly repeating that he had no idea who painted the letters, as it most certainly wasn't him. He did, however, recall seeing a tall, black-haired, pale youth with a long stick in his hand walking in that area, but since the police was too scared to arrest the beloved actor of the most famous fiction character in the world who also must not be named, they dismissed this as ludicrous. Frankly's argument wasn't helped by the fact that he insisted on animatedly conversing every point with his fluffy bear and squeaking out its reply before making a statement to the police.

Despite his questionable mental health, Frankly seemed to be almost out of trouble, until the medical report came in. The report started on a positive note, as it appeared that the paint was non-toxic and posed no threat to the environment. They could, in fact, find no reason why any sane person would bother walking all the way up the hill to laboriously paint the words on in the dead of night when, for about a thousand dollars, the same effect could be accomplished through a billboard. The doctors had therefore come to the correct conclusion: the perpetrator of this crime was mentally unstable.

Unfortunately for Frankly, he fit this bill perfectly, so he was promptly sentenced to life in prison.

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Now, fifty years later, in a stunning turn of fate, the author-who-must-not-be-named was sitting at a huge walnut table answering fan mail. It wasn't fair! After all, it hadn't been any of them who had to deal with the pressure of writing seven spectacular novels, a task made doubly difficult by the fact that, no matter what she published, it would be hailed as the Greatest Story Ever to Touch Paper. Yes, she thought, she had had to do more than any of them would ever deal with. And now here they were, making her task even harder by writing pointless messages.

After all, she already knew that she was a wonderful author, already knew that everybody loved her, and already knew that she had millions of potential pen pals. She understood that after the first ten letters she received. And yet, over seven years later, thousands of people still insisted on sending her detailed commentaries on how much they loved Harry Potter, how they read her books to Spot and Rover, how they made pointless rhyming couplets just for her. Did they think that she really cared about their dogs?

But this was just the start. What she really hated was the fan mail that tried to offer advice, saying 'Since I know that you have no clue what should happen next, I think that...' Sure, she didn't know what should happen next, but that was no reason for random strangers to rub it in.

Still, the very worse were those aggravating letters that pleaded "Please write faster! I can't wait for your next book!"

Had it ever, even once, occurred to them that she just might write faster if she wasn't besieged daily with countless cards that spoke of how great she was?

Then, technology came along. Instead of making things easier, the rise of the Internet and email had only made replying to fan mail more difficult. Now, she was forced to slog through countless messages in her inbox that read, "U rULe aNd i REalLy lyK uR bOOkS aND i CAnt w8 4 tHE nEXt OnE 2 COme OuT!!!!" Add to that all of the idiotic chain emails that people insisted on sending her, and it was a full time job just keeping up with her fans. No wonder she had less time to write these days.

Thousands of miles away, while the author-who-must-not-be-named was struggling through her fan mail, a boy named Ronald Weasley awoke.

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Author's Note:

Begging for reviews is for masochists. So... make my day.