Chapter 1

I was naught more than a wee schoolgirl of nine years at the time of my first trip to the library, which, as I recall it, was during my fifth year.

As we were still so very new to this palace of books, my fellow pupils and I, we were allowed to take home one book every two weeks, with instruction to care well for these most precious tomes.

Every little lass in my class asked for books on fairies and princesses, the lads for books on dinosaurs and dragons. Thin picture books all.

It was I, one and only, who took interest in the larger volumes. The first that caught my eye was, naturally, Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone.

It was then, there, with this book in hand, that my love of the written word took seed. As weeks passed and I read on, that seed flourished and bloomed.

At this point only the first four books in the series by J.K. Rowling were published. The fifth would come to print a year later coinciding with my own fifth year.

The first two books I finished eagerly, all within the allotted two week period. This, I am told was quite the feat for a child of my years.

The third book, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, I did not manage to finish on time. In fact, if I recall correctly, I had some twenty-five pages left of the book.

We queued up, as was the rule, my fellow pupils and I, to see the librarian. I'd have stayed last were it not for the ridiculous rule that we must queue up in alphabetical order by family name. I was in front with the B's.

My eyes scanned over the pages quickly as they could. I had to finish before it was my turn to see the librarian.

As we were so young, we were entrusted with one book at a time. I'd have to check out the same book again and wait another two weeks to be able to continue the story.

I flipped through another page. Thankfully the A's were a large bunch in my class and I was towards the end of the B's. I just might finish in time.

Our librarian was named Irma Prince, not to be confused with Madame Irma Pince of the Hogwarts library. If you take care, you'll notice the addition of the R; though as a child I believed them to be one and the same.

The esteemed Madam Irma Prince was a witch, this I swear, as she always seemed to know when one of the pupils young were set to cause mischief. She was highly possessive and protective of the school's books and was deemed most unpleasant by most of the student body, myself included. You can see now why I thought her to be one and the same with the witch in the book.

I found a note, hand written, once in a book I had later chosen not to read; it was a carbon copy of a note the fictional librarian had written. It reads as follows:

A warning: If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, deface, disfigure, smear, smudge, throw, drop, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them.

— Pince's note in a library book

As fate would have it, I reached the front of the queue with one page left to turn. Madame Prince leered down at me, holding out a clawed hand for the book I clutched to my chest.

I beseeched her, "Let me sit at the table in your sight-line to finish this last page. I cannot wait two weeks to continue the story."

She denied my request. I told you she was a witch.

So it was that I spent another two weeks with Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in my care. I did the only thing I could; I finished the remaining page and set out to read the book once more, hoping to beat my time. This time round, I had it finished in ten days.

An adult now, having read all seven books, this, the third book, remains a favourite above all.

T'was Sirius and Remus who captured my heart, and Pettigrew whom I despised, and through it all, it was not Harry James Potter with whom I connected; rather, it was his friend, Hermione Jean Granger. The swottiest swot who ever swotted.

Other than myself, of course.