A/N: I know this chapter is ridiculously short… infact it can't really be called a chapter, it's just a sort of link between the prologue and the rest of the story. I have just finished working on the plan so hopefully I can start updating faster.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter… and I don't own Beauty and the Beast either for that matter.
Hermione stared out of her bedroom window, looking up at the night sky in awe; every start was shining like a diamond in the sky. Whenever she missed her father she could just look out of the window, up at the night sky, and feel that little bit closer to him. For she knew that wherever he was, he would be looking up at that very same sky, and that thought comforted her.
She had grown into a fine lady over the years; her beauty was rumoured to have come from her mother… and her love of reading from her father.
She was in her final year of Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry, and as each day passed she wondered when it would be her turn to meet her prince and fall in love. She sighed impatiently as she slipped on her nightdress and crawled into bed.
Of course it had come as a shock to her when she received a letter, its emerald green ink telling her that she was a witch. She had almost ignored it. Almost. But something inside her made her think. Ever since she was a little girl, sat on her fathers lap listening to stories of enchanted castles, princes and magical lands, she had longed for her life to be like the ones in the stories she was so fond of. This was her chance, and she knew she'd be foolish to give it up.
A small smile rested on her lips as she drifted off into the world of dreams, her escape into her own magical land.
Somewhere far away a creature watched helplessly as another petal fell off a certain rose, which held his destiny. He roared in frustration, and in a moment of blind anger he slashed at a painting of a certain prince on the wall. A painting of what he once was. He snarled angrily before fleeing the room, a feeling of despair having settled in his stomach as he remembered that fateful night all those years ago.
The rose stood alone on the table, its magic silently at work.