"Lance."

I heard my name through someone else's voice. Where was it coming from? The voice was shrill, as if it contained an urgent message, and it seeped throughout the house as if it were searching. Quietly, I put down my toast. It seemed toast was all I ate those days, for it was easy to make and not too fatty, as long as you used wholemeat bread. My mother always said have breakfast like a King, but when awakening later than I should have (late for work, uh oh) there really was no time to cook myself up a full English breakfast.

The sound seemed to come from the door. If it were not for my anxious state, I wouldn't have dared opened it hastily like I did, the sharp wind chilling my ears. I would've peered through the peep hole. Those things were so convienient!

No one was at the door.

My eyebrows furrowed, but then I noticed a small package on the doorstep. Curiously, I picked it up, weighing it tentatively in my left hand. It was small, and light. I hadn't ordered any parcels. Even if I had, it would need to be signed. Therefore, I was confused, intruiged and rather worried.

It was wrapped up quickly and efficiently, as if the maker delivered mysterious packages every day. The radio blared on behind me - something about an escaped prisoner. Things like that happened everyday; it seemed I had become immune to it - as I tore through the material.

A scrappy piece of paper fell to the floor, and I bent over to pick it up. The handwriting was scrawled messily - some sentences hardly made sense. My eyes flickered upwards for a second to see an owl fly past the window, and then it was gone.

Video inside show death. Save Sirius Black. He is innocent. Hogwarts. Dumbledore needs know. Dobby can't help you now. He is on run from- Good luck.

Dobby? What a strange name. The name Sirius Black was vaguely familiar to me. I shoved the disk that was in the parcel in my pocket. I'd watch it when I got to the office; half the time I was only waiting for telephone calls anyway. Shrugging at the perculiar nature of that morning, I took another bite of my toast and on my way out of the house shoved the wrapper in the recycling bin. The note was crumped up in my jeans pocket.

*

I inserted the disk, and leaned in closely as it began to play, the office filled with a murmer of voices.

A street. Two men are arguing. One man has dark, messy hair, covering his face, but you can see the sad rage in his eyes for miles; another terrified, a rat-looking sort of guy. The camera flickers; the footage is from a CCTV video.

With a faint gasp, my stomach dropped. Next to them, I recognised my mother, her face as young and as sweet as it had always been. People called her soft for being so kind. I called her good.

The messy one takes out a long, brown stick. He points it at the rat-man. People look on in confusion. The video flickers to another camera, this time showing the scene from behind. The rat-man also takes out a stick, but it is hidden, and a look of amusement passes over his features.

Before anyone can react, there is a blast. People fall to the floor, and the mouse-man literally disappears, and a bloody rat appears where he used to be. It escapes before anyone knew it was there. The messy man starts to laugh. There is no sound, but even if there was you would be able to tell that the laugh was not one of humour.

Quietly, I put a hand to my mouth, a tear slipping down my cheek at the sight of my motionless mother. I rewound the video and watched again, and this time I was confused.

What was that? There was no doubt that that was not a gas explosion. It was far from it. The rat-man had somehow made it look like the other was a killer. But how? If you looked closely, you could see a remaining toe, and a shot of light coming from the rat-man's stick.

My heart was racing in my chest; I had absolutely no idea what was happening. Something came over me and I yanked the note from my pocket. It merged into a newspaper. The daily prophet. I saw it change before my eyes, but my mind refused to believe it. Underneath the heading was a picture of an old man with a long, silky beard, whose eyes twinkled when they met mine. Images can't move...

Hogwarts to return, says Professor Dumbledore! The title read. My eyes - wide with shock - ran over the article, almost not taking in the information I was reading.

After the incident of petrified muggle-borns last year, it has been wondered if Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry would close. An interview with Albus Dumbledore reveals that yes, Hogwarts would be returning in September, despite the recent escape of Sirius Black.

"There are to be dementors placed around the school." The Headmaster commented, when asked how he would avoid the horrors of last year, which were fortunately resolved by none other than Harry Potter - the boy who lived. He refused to comment on any opinion he may have of this.

Everything seems to be resolved, and there is even a new Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor to be making an appearance: Remus Lupin. So grab your textbooks ladies and gents, I'll see you at platform 9 3/4 at Kings Cross at 11 tomorrow, because your beloved school isn't closed yet.

My mind buzzed as I sat back in my chair. I was confused, surprised and - most importantly - extremely curious. There was no doubt that I needed answers. I shoved the disk in my pocket, rolled up the newspaper, and answered a call from a client, all the while certain that yes, I would be at Kings Cross Station tomorrow, no matter what happened.

It seemed extremely convienient that it was only a ten minute walk from my house. After all, I still lived in my mother's house, and the station had always been only a few minutes away.