Liquorice Honey (Rewritten Version)

Chapter I

Though it stood solitary on a dreary moor that seemed to stretch on over the bounds of the horizon, the Silverlie estate was one to behold.

A lonely behemoth of icy brick, towering above the dwarf trees that littered the grounds; it seemed to shimmer as silvery as their name as it sat alone between the hills, just begging to be explored.

If you dared to step further along the delicately pebbled paths, you'd see the wreck of an old treehouse that sat in one of the tiny trees, a mere four foot or so from the ground. Though its roof had caved in over the years, tearing the menagerie of scribbled drawings of phantasmal creatures that once hung on its shoddy walls, the marks of love stood true within.

That was, perhaps, the only hint of joy the eye could see in that place.

Past the trees stood a well-cared for hedge, standing like a proud knight around the cool building; though the buds nestled sleepily amongst the leaves, not even they felt the warmth to spring into blossom.

The door stood firm, protecting the husk's occupants diligently; a stark white paint covered its entirety, without a blemish in sight, bar the snowdrop-shaped knocker that sat tiredly there, fatigued from lack of use.

Three beings lived within the house; a father, a mother, and a daughter, at least in writing.

In truth, it was rare for the girl's parents to come home of an evening, or even on those warm mornings where the sunlight dyed the horizons a pastel pink; not once had she seen her parents' silhouettes on even the days she dreamt of, the days she'd seen be so utterly perfect in her books.

She sat inside the lonely building, with few to talk to but herself; though her room was comfortable, with stacks of pillows as high as her tiny body and bookshelves towering over even that, sitting quietly on her faded old green bedsheets was far from how she wanted to spend her days.

Her only constant companion was her catlike creature, a Kneazle she'd acquired from some unloving relative many, many years ago; they'd often venture out into the moor together when her parents had whisked themselves away through the fireplace, with their heads filled with dreams of finding dragons amongst the familiar twisty, swirly braches of the trees.

Mulberry trees. Their fruit wasn't edible—she'd learnt that on many occasions when she was younger—but she liked to believe that their fruit would one day bring her an adventure. She longed to see the magical creatures she's heard whimsical whispers of over the years, but she was forever sentenced to live upon this moor, alone.

Sometimes, she'd say incantations before bed to see if she could lure some mystical beast to come and play, but she never got lucky enough; and as the years went by, she began to realise that they probably didn't want to rot away in this dreary prison, either. She understood their reasoning, but her selfishly needy mind would still cry for something, someone to visit her with every day that passed.

Today was August the ninth. It was her birthday, and yet, nothing felt different.

Her parents were working diligently in the Ministry, and she could hear her house elf making the same eggy bread she made every morning; was this truly a day where something special was supposed to occur?

With a sigh, she pulled her most beloved diary from her bedside, deciding that perhaps she would have to simply wish herself happy birthday today.

"Good morning, future Hyacinth," she wrote, her quill smudging as she struggled to work out what she was actually writing without the glasses she'd misplaced late last night, "today, it is my birthday. I am eleven years and twenty-two minutes old now, exactly; mother and father are away once more. I suppose I can't just beg them to return if they're busy, but...is it so bad to wish to see your kin on such a monumental day? Today should be the day that—"