Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I would be vacationing somewhere warm, rather than shivering in a chilly classroom thinking up Fanfiction.

Summary: We have all read the whole 'Harry/Malfoy/Hermione has a sister, yada, yada, yada.' Idea, but what if the afore-mentioned sister was not a Potter/Malfoy/Granger? What if she was a Dursley? Meet Roisin Dursley. Witch of the family.

PROLOGUE

It had all started when Dudley and Roisin Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, had been settling down for their pre-dinner nap.

Listening to the classical dance music that their mother often played to get them to sleep, Roisin had been awoken rather sharply when two of the dolls that slept in the crib with her had started waltzing, prompting a loud wail from her brother.

Her 19-month-old mind unable to comprehend the term 'impossible', Roisin really didn't know what all the fuss was about, but the end result had been Dudley throwing her dolls out the window and screaming for Mummy.

Roisin's 19-month-old mind was able to comprehend the opinion that, honestly, her brother was taking things way out of proportion.

Mummy had thought that it was just a half-asleep dream from the limitless mind of an infant, but it hadn't stopped her from fussing over Dudley for the rest of the afternoon and evening, mostly ignoring Roisin.

Roisin had sulked about this for a while, but her mind was too young to focus on anything for a long amount of time, so she had eventually become bored with sulking.

Letting Dudley be fussed over, Roisin occupied herself by curling up in a corner, looking through her picture books and playing with her dolls, seeing if any of the others would dance as well.

Sadly, they wouldn't, and the novelty of this activity eventually wore off, and Roisin's eyes began to wander for something else to do.

Mummy fed them slowly that night, largely because of Dudley testing out a new word (shan't) and refusing to eat, and then Daddy was home.

Daddy had read her a book, and then taken her upstairs to join Dudley in sleep while Mummy made tea.

Aside from the dolls, it had been a normal day at the Dursley residence.

Roisin had always been the type of child who slept lightly, but seldom woke during the night, and went back to sleep with minimal fussing. Her parents were very relieved, as one fussy twin was more than enough.

Tonight was the exception. The comforting glow of the streetlamps suddenly went out, prompting Mrs Next Door's multitude of cats, who were on the nocternat side, to send up yowls of protest. While most people would sleep through it, in was enough out of the ordinary to wake Roisin.

With her cot next to the window, Roisin could see a glimpse of the unusual gathering of an old man with a very strange beard (Daddy would throw a fit if he saw the length of it!), and a cat who turned into a woman. They spoke for a while, the woman looking upset, and then angry about something.

At 19-months old, Roisin was perfectly capable of climbing out of her crib onto the window-seat directly beside it, to get a better look as the sound of a motorcycle, almost unheard of in Privet Drive, shattered the quiet. A large motorbike, ridden by an even larger man, dropped out of the sky. Roisin puzzled over this momentarily, and then dismissed it. After all, many things that grown-ups did were silly, in her eyes. Flying motorcycles were sillier than usual, but oh well.

The three adults talked again, before the big man handed something to the old man, who placed it on the doorstep. Roisin frowned; the milkman wouldn't come for several hours, and you could always tell because Mr End Of The Street's dogs could be heard all the way at Number 4. Eventually, the strange gathering separated and left, and things returned to normal.

Normality would be shattered the next day, however, with Petunia Dursley's ear-splitting scream, and the unwanted arrival of her cousin, Harry Potter.

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OK, Prologue is done. What did people think? Reviews are appreciated, Flames are laughed at, and anyone interested in playing beta can contact me at the e-mail in my profile.

Thanks for reading,

Nat.