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Third year began with the breakout of a prisoner. It was funny, really, how the book hidden in her trunk matched her life. Of course, it took her a while to figure that out.
The book of the year was The Count of Monte Cristo , translated and unabridged. As the year ticked to a close and Harry finally ripped the Time Turner out of her hand, the pieces fell into place.
Sirius, in a way, was their Dantes; he had been in the prime of his life before being thrown in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Caderousse, doing nothing, was the general public. Pettigrew, having come up with the idea, was Fernand. Dumbledore, having allowed events to proceed and done Pettigrew’s dirty work, was Danglars. The Wizengamot, having thrown him in jail to look good, was Villefort.
Sirius, sans a Faria-type character, had escaped his daunting Chateau d’If. He was now on his karma tour, minus the rewards. When she told him this, Sirius laughed hollowly. It was something Lily had mentioned, he said. She had loved Dumas, he added.
Sirius escaped. Dumbledore was nervous. Amelia Bones was angry. The Granger household swelled. It was finally looking like balance was coming; the good would balance out the bad. Maybe Hermione could believe in fairytales after all. The Princess Bride didn’t have a happy middle part. Why should her journey have one? She had her Wesley. She had her Fezzik. She had her Inigo. She had Reubens and Humperdinks aplenty.
It would be an interesting story when it was done.