Chapter One: Evading capture

Hermione knew the gentleman would be the perfect victim by the time; he had descended from the dusted his lapels once, before tucking the silk blue hankerchied back into the sleeve of his coat.

"Perfect," Hermione whispered as he crossed the busy street; standing by the curb to let a carriage rattle past, before briskly walking along.

Everybody knew he didn't belong. The morning's excrement still fresh upon the cobbles. The marketplace, with the vendor as dirty as it's owner. Everything about him screamed outsider; even to the finely polished shoes that leapt over the filth with ease.

She knew she had to move fast. She could already spot at least three vagrants paying him an unhealthy amount of attention. If she let this one get away; and went home empty handed---she might as well as wave goodbye to one of her limbs. Her father was a cruel, unsatisfied man like that.

Making sure to keep away at least three feet; she began tailing him. Leaping over the exact spots he did; and mirroring his every stride.

More people were beginning to pay attention now; peering over their rotten apples or glaring from the dirt that had been their bed, just hours cursed; knowing that it would only be a matter of minutes before someone reached out and swiped him easy; before her very nose. She re-doubled her efforts; skirting around a small legless boy as he made a grab for her ankle. "Please miss!"

The cry made her snort in disbelief; but made her smile all the same. She had always wondered what it felt like to be refered to as miss, since the very day she had set eyes on one.

Hermione had been six; her hand held tight in her mothers; as she gaped at the magnificent horse charging down the street. And then, a coachman had appeared out of nowhere- opening the carriage door with ease and out had stepped the most loveliest woman Hermione had seen in her short life.

Oh, how her hair had gleamed in the mid-day sun! Rosy pearl-bud lips set in a dead-panned scowl as her glorious green eyes scanned the distance.

Hermione's mother had stopped as well; her hand holding Hermione even tighter as the lady, so young in years, and so prime in blood, set eyes upon her daughter.

Eveline Granger had known that Hermione was a beauty from the moment; she had pushed her out of her womb.

If Hermione had been born a high-ranking lady; then she needn't have worried. But she hadn't. Hermione had been born a low commoner. And beauty amongst the dirt and scum of the city was a very bad thing. It attracted attention---Attention that a low commoner could not afford to dabble with.

Sometimes even when she glanced into her husband's eyes; she had caught him staring at their daughter. Wondering---always wondering---that with Hermione's beauty she could easily become the most well-paid harlot in London. Soon her reputation would proceed so much further- and she would not have to cater scoundrels any longer. She could move up in the world; serving barons, dukes, and even Lords or the Kings servicemen.

Eveline knew that his heart was in the right place; in order of wanting to see his daughter succeed. But Eveline did not wish to see her pride and joy; whore herself to desperate men.

To let her legs be thrown up in the air; as a different man, each night, decided to pump his seed into her furthermore. And so Eveline, very carefully began her plan. She actively encouraged Hermione to go and play in the mud; with her friends as much possible.

Every day, Hermione would return a mess; muddied and caked in dirt. Her dress ripped and torn as she beamed innocently up at her parents.

Her husband did not question the dirt-- it was expected for a commoner to be covered in it, night and day. But as the days passed into months and the months passed into years- he began to forget that Hermione was a beauty. Instead all he saw, was a pale skinny little thing, dressed in rags and always with two streaks of mud across her face.

Eveline manged to convince herself, that Hermione was a beauty no longer, as childhood wove into adolescence and her dear daughter shot up in height.

To any passing person, she was skin and bones, with matted hair and deep soulful eyes. Nothing special. The boys stopped looking. Ladies that happened to catch glimpse of her; stopped looking envious and her husband ceased talks of letting their daughter whore herself.

"No-one would want to bed a bony, ugly little thing!" he had barked, and Eveline had breathed a sigh of relief from her bed.

Over the years Eveline's health had deterioated; and the bouts of resting in bed had only grown longer and longer. She had resented her disability; knowing that it would only put pressure on Hermione to find more food, more money, more clothes and like a true commoner; she had never complained. Setting out to work, long before dawn and arriving well past sunset.

Hermione had never looked more gaunt or pale. Deep waxwork shadows eclipsing her lower eyes and her hair more matted than ever.

Hermione, her sweet, precious life.

"Please miss!"

The shout of the young boy had attracted the attention of the wealthy businessman; and he swung around at once; dubiously searching for the "miss" being shouted for. Hermione cursed yet again; and sqautted behind a box of rotting merchandise littering the street at once.

Every Tuesday, the ships at the port nearby docked; letting all it goods be unloaded upon English soil if they had survived any Piracy hijacks on sea. Most of the silk, was full of holes; the rats making mince meat of the soft cashmere substance. The fruit didn't fare any better; maggots worming holes into the juicy core.

After one last suspicious look around; the man swivelled and was on his way again, weaving his way through the bumbling, foul smelling people.

Hermione frowned; her quick eyes and clever brain working out that he was headed in the direction of the port. Once there; she would have no chance to rob him, that much was clear. The pickpockets whom strolled the docks were terrortorial, and did not appreciate girls or newcomers from stealing their quarry.

Hermione had to act fast, if she had any chance of acquiring plunder at all. She darted out from behind the crates; running full pelt. "Sir! Sir!" she cried desperately.

As if on autopilot; he slowly swivelled around, his eyes wide in mock surprise as he saw a skinny girl with wayward brown hair pelt towards him. He placed two arms before his person; but in the end; it did nothing to stop the collision. They both went down in a jumble of arms and legs.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir, " she breathed on top of him and did the upmost bizarre thing. She hugged him! She actually placed her filthy arms around him- and hugged him!

"Get off me!" he growled; shoving her away before standing up; and dusting himself off.

To his surprise; the little rascal did not explode into expletives as he expected. Instead she bowed low to the ground; thick strands of her nearly touching the cobbles as she whispered- "So sorry for that sir-- I thought you to be my pa! Well, have a jolly good day sir--so sorry to ruin your morning-"

And with that, she was off. Cantering down the long winding alleys and darkened streets as she ran to greet her mother. Leaving the gentlemen rather perplexed to why a ill-dressed girl; with the whiff of death about her, thought him to be her father. Could she not see the fine linen that he wore?

And had she not refered to him as sir when she first called? Believeing him to be her pa? Now that was oddly curious.

The nagging suspicion to why she had thrown herself upon him was confirmed, when he patted his breast pocket. His wallet was no longer there! The blasted girl had taken it! Why, there was enough valuables in there to feed a starving army!

"STOP!" he bellowed. "IN THE NAME OF THE LORD- STOP THAT GIRL! SHE HAS TAKEN MY WALLET!"

The three boys, ranging from six to sixteen, and all part of the same begging troupe were only too happy to oblige and give chase. Although perhaps their motive was ulterior then to see a villian brought to justice. They were villians too-- but playing the hero was just as nice.

Especially if it meant a substantional amount of reward money at the end of it.

Jack, the oldest of the three looked down upon the youngest, whom had managed to halt Hermione earlier by her ankle but hadn't been strong enough to hold on.

"Stay here," he said, flicking the younger boy's page hat before he set off again; the third boy--although a bit dim-witted, more than made up for in brawns---followed him.

There was a girl's face, that their fists were just itching to meet this glorious morning.

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