Our wizard actually belongs to Jim Butcher and I suppose the stupid SciFi channel had some input as well... but they obviously didn't realise the significance of an actual decent idea... maybe another channel wouldn't have cancelled.

Spoilers for the entire TV series (set sometime after Second City) and references the first book, 'Storm Front'.

"Harry?" came Bob's voice from downstairs, "Ah, Harry…we have a slight situation down here."

I groaned; as one would after being woken up at nine on a Sunday morning, especially when you had spent the last three days chasing down a rampaging madman with a little bit of magic at his fingertips. It had been rather messy and rather exhausting, so I was actually rather relishing the idea of sleeping in until, well, noon at the very least would have been nice.

"Seriously, Harry. Situation, a rather big situation." Bob tried again, bless him.

I, for one, was having none of it, "Unless it's Ancient Mai carrying a pick-axe flanked by Morgan with a giant big sword then I don't really want to know." I called back, sitting up anyway and rubbing my eyes. Sleep was apparently going to continue eluding me for a while yet because the truth of the matter was that if Bob called it a situation then it definitely was a situation.

"Murphy's not threatening to kick down the door, is she?" I called down the stairs, as I shoved on a pair of pants.

"Harry, I really do think you should come down here.", was Bob's only response.

What worried me and immediately ended the debate as to whether I should have a shower first before answering to Bob's beck and call was the slight change of tone in his voice.

Now, I have no clue whether it's because he's dead or not, but Bob can be very monotonous. In fact, he usually is monotonous, so when he's quite suddenly not, my spidey sense does more than just tingle.

So, without another moment's hesitation I grabbed my hockey stick and bolted down the stairs, "What! What!…..oh." I lowered the hockey stick and gazed out my kitchen windows at a total loss for words.

"They're out by the shop front too." Bob said calmly, arms crossed beside me.

I blinked, staring from the windows and back to Bob, "Well, what are you doing out here, then?" I asked him equally, absolutely transfixed by the twenty or so people trying to see through my windows and into my apartment.

"Luckily I actually walked in here, rather than through the wall so they are none the wiser. Shall I just disappearing into a puff of smoke then? Return to whence I came?"

I did not appreciate sarcastic ghosts in times like this, "Who the hell are they?"

Bob gave a patronizing look, "Well, Harry, my calculated guess, noting of course the large cameras and little notebooks; is that they are reporters."

"Yes, well spotted Bob, but why are they here?"

As luck would have it, I had pulled the screens down over the windows of the front door the night before. the lab had been a mess and Bob had staged a rebellion and refused to work down there until I cleaned it up, which led to him trying to solve the meaning of life (or something most probably of equal importance) in my living room, glowing numbers hanging limply in the air. So in a roundabout sort of way, the fact that I lacked in any sort of organisational skills, something that drove Bob insane, had actually given us a slight bit of cover, the kitchen windows now the only vantage point for what was indeed a pack of reporters trying to peer inside.

A loud rap came at the door, and an immediately recognisable voice followed not too long after, "Harry! Damnit Harry, I swear to god if you don't open the door this instant these idiotic reporters will be the very least of your problems!"

Murphy sounded slightly pissed; which wasn't all that unusual, actually. Murphy had a tendency to be forever slightly pissed at me; it was simply how our little relationship worked. I scared the begezus out of her, and instead of admitting to it, in true Murphy style, she threw up a wall and instead threatened to arrest me.

"Dresden, I have handcuffs and a gun on me and quite frankly, I'm willing to use either at the moment. Open your stupid door!"

I gave Bob a significant look, "And walk." I added quickly.

He sighed and trooped off down the hall looking thoroughly disgruntled as I braced myself and pulled open my front door. Thousands of cameras clicked in my face and many Susan-type women began calling my name, "Mr. Dresden, Mr. Dresden…..Harry, care to comment on……"

"What the hell is going on?" I asked the gaggle at large, completely ignoring Murphy who grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me back inside, "Don't say a word." She hissed as she stepped inside and slammed the door after her.

A lot of weird stuff happens in my line of work but this was another type of weird altogether. It's not often Murphy knows more about what's going on than me but today the look on her face blatantly told me otherwise.

"Care to tell me what's happening, Murphy?" I asked again, looking from the silhouettes of the reporters dancing against the screens down to the scowl on Murphy's face.

"My name isn't Karrin!" She snapped.

I blinked at her for a moment, "Yes, I realised that, Murph, what's up?"

"It's Connie. My name is Connie." She continued, furiously pulling a paperback book from the insides of her jacket, a book which looked like it had been stuffed in there without redemption, its pages curling and the spine bent. She flick forward a few pages, found what she was looking for and began to read aloud, "Karrin Murphy was waiting for me outside the Madison. Karrin and I are a study in contrasts. Where I am tall and lean, she's short and stocky. Where I have dark hair and dark eyes, she's got Shirley Temple blond locks….what the hell Dresden! Since when did I have Shirley Temple locks!"

I just stared at her, totally bewildered to what the hell she was talking about. Usually it's the other way around, but with the tables turned I now suddenly understood why she was always so frustrated at me.

Whoa Murph, you lost me. You lost me completely and utterly. Why don't you sit down and actually calmly and lucidly explain to me what…."

She slammed the book down on the kitchen table to show just how utterly un-calm she really was, "Pick it up." She demanded.

I raised my eyebrows at her, "Seriously Murphy, you're beginning to worry me slightly here, what's going…."

"Pick it up," she repeated, "and read the back."

Best not to argue with a woman's scorn, I picked it up, noting the title, 'Storm Front' and warily read the back of the book,

"Harry Dresden is the best at what he does. Well, technically, he's the only at what he does. So when the Chicago P.D. has a case that transcends mortal creativity or capability, they come to him for answers. For the "everyday" world is actually full of strange and magical things -- and most of them don't play well with humans. That's where Harry comes in. Takes a wizard to catch a -- well, whatever.

There's just one problem. Business, to put it mildly, stinks. So when the police bring him in to consult on a grisly double murder committed with black magic, Harry's seeing dollar signs. But where there's black magic, there's a black mage behind it. And now that mage knows Harry's name. And that's when things start to get... interesting.

Magic. It can get a guy killed"

There was complete silence apart from the slight muffled sound of the reporters outside.

I finally looked up at Murphy to see something truly dangerous in her eyes, "So," she finally asked, "How much does a biography rake in these days?"

Let me know if your confused or want something explained...or if you like where this is going. I have part of the next chapter written which will include more Bob and then Murphy meeting Morgan.