A Story in Five Parts: Part One
1997, the year in which these letters are written, was a year solely filled with pain. It is nothing but ironic to look back, recalling the sun smiling carlessly at the muddy faces of the downbeat puppets, raising themselves out of the imminent darkness at that final battle. Oh, the shallow warmth, penetrating through to their chilled bones! Giving them a false sense of victory, of glory, of immortality. Their puppet master: gone.
Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived. Celebrated since his infanthood. Subejcted to agonising torture throughout his teenage years. Young, too young yet to realise the significance of his achievements! Orneriest, lion hearted, impulsive. Yes, that is him - a member of Gryffindor. The muppet master: the boy who lived.
However these letters shall not dwell on his applauded existence. No: a theatre cannot function without stagehands; a clock without its clockworks; a hero without his friends. He had found these in a braggart and a bluestocking, neither of which allegiant until eternity, yet present at that final battle: there to stand with him, chivalrous and daring like true Gryffindors.
Oh, the battle! Death met life; tears met smiles; sadness met happiness. A moment branded into memory. It was the day that history was turned upside down, where old ties were broken and new ones created. A day when the motto All for one and one for all! reigned the earth and the sky. Lead by the puppet master, preparing for the culmination: Hand in hand stepped friends and family forward, their wands raised; their mouths open - ready to ejaculate jinxes and spells! Together they met the antagonist. Ready to give their lives for the freedom of others. Ready to-
Stop! Not yet - slow down! Too fast. Rewind: Back to the beginning. To a day when Harry, when Ron and Hermione felt safe. When the terrain of the final battle was a school swarmed with peace, light, and the soft harmony of bird song and the lake's waves hitting against the port. A day which had no expectations weighting it down apart from the assumption that it would lift the spirit of all people inhabiting the school. Perhaps, with some likelihood, even the squid in the lake.
With that wishful feeling Hermione Granger, just turned 13 years of age, sat down in the Great Hall to enjoy that Saturday's breakfast. In time to witness the daily ordeal of the owls delivering their mail. In time to receive, against all expectations, a letter calling her to the headmaster's office.