CHAPTER ONE
o.o0o.o
1 September 1837 H.E.
Royal Castle, Hogwarts
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Dearest Ginny,
No, your eyes are not deceiving you, and I, as you know, do not lie (...except, of course, under extenuating and thus entirely justifiable circumstances). I am indeed at Hogwarts Castle, and have, in the course of forty-eight hours, come a hair's width from being attacked, single-handedly set fire to a deserving lout, and apprenticed (read: sold into slavery) to Archmage Snape, the Regent's own Potionsmaster, and the singularly most intimidating man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.
But perhaps I should start at the beginning...
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o.o0o.o
The rusty bell over the door at Flourish and Blotts tinkled merrily as the slender figure of a young woman of about three-and-twenty stumbled out. With a brown-paper package tucked under one arm, and her nose buried in a newly acquired tome, the girl stepped back into the smoggy streets of Diagon Alley, weaving past the late afternoon crowds and clanking trams with a distracted eye.
Two lefts. Right, and then another left.
Sensible brown leather boots clattered over the worn cobblestones as she hurried back to the apothecary's shop where her father was waiting - and, given the lateness of the hour, no doubt tapping his foot impatiently at her tardiness. Jonathan Granger, a respectable county doctor with a particular interest in operations of the tooth, rarely ventured far from his home and patients in Devonshire, There were times, however, where business inevitably called him to London - an event that his bookish daughter, Hermione, looked forward with great anticipation, if only to peruse the latest scholarly publications the city had to offer. This year was no different. In her enthusiasm, however, it appeared that time had, once again, run away from her.
At the next intersection, Hermione skittered to a stop, confusion marring her brow. She could have sworn that the apothecary was down this lane, but other than the ubiquitous presence of the creeping vines that crawled up the crumbling plaster and old brick walls, the labyrinthine narrow passages were distressingly unfamiliar.
A sudden gust of wind whistled through the alley, stirring the litter and dead leaves in a lazy whirlwind. Hermione shivered, slamming her bonnet more firmly over riotous chestnut curls, ready to retrace her steps.
To her utmost dismay, heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Two men turned the corner, stopping abruptly when they spied Hermione. At the sight of the slight, primly dressed brunette, a lopsided leer spread over across the doughy, mustached face of the shorter man.
"Well, well, what have we here?" he wheezed, eyeing her up and down in a way that made the hair at the back of her neck prickle in alarm.
His dark-haired companion leaned against the wall. "Looks like a little mouse has lost its way."
"Pardon me, sirs," Hermione stammered, heartbeat racing. "I must have taken a wrong turn. I shall- I shall take my leave now."
The mustached man simply smiled wider as he stepped closer to her, effectively blocking her way. "Going so soon without sampling the delights of Knockturn? My dear, that would be practically… criminal."
Hermione's white-knuckled grip tightened on her parcels as she flinched away from the man. The odd, prickling heat that had been afflicting her hands the past few months suddenly returned in full force. Her palms itched, throbbing in time with her thundering pulse. "My father is expecting me."
The other man straightened up from his position against the wall, moving to stand closer to his friend. "Your mustache always scares the ladies, Carrow," he remarked with a smirk. There was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.
"So? I think fear is rather becoming on her." A hand shot forward, yanking Hermione towards him by the arm. "Wouldn't you agree, little mouse?"
Hermione shrieked in alarm, her books falling to the ground with a thud.
"Unhand me!" she cried. Her own voice sounded strangely distant, muffled by the blood pounding in her ears. The peculiar burning in her hands swelled like a tidal wave, until Hermione felt as though she had both arms plunged into a raging furnace. Lightheaded with panic and pain, she squeezed her eyes tightly, thrusting her palms forward and shoving with all the strength she could muster. When her hands made contact with her assailant, something in her snapped, like a bottle of expensive champagne that had been shaken so vigorously the cork could no longer hold the bottle's contents back.
The iron grip on her arm instantly slackened, giving way to shocked, angry roars. Hermione staggered backwards, almost tripping over her feet before her shoulder rammed into rough, unyielding brick.
Wide brown eyes flew open, and then widened even further.
Inexplicably, the man was on fire.
o.o0o.o
A/N: The plot for this story is based loosely on a letter-writing game with a friend, written many moons ago. Events of the first chapter are inspired heavily by a scene in Hiyao Miyazaki's gorgeous animated film, 'Howl's Moving Castle'.