Dear Voldemort... Dark Lord? Mr. Riddle? Sir You-Know-Who? What would you prefer? I mean, no offense, I assure you, but all these names get so confusing. I am writing to you because seem to be struggling to get your hands on my ex-best friend, Harry Potter, his cheating bastard lover/best friend, Ronald Weasley, and, of course, the brains of the bunch, me, Hermione Granger, mudblood extraordinaire. I'd like for us to compete in a wager... if I win, you teach me all the dark magic you know and swear on your magic not to harm or kill me, either directly, indirectly, or through inaction allow me to come to harm. If you win, I will join your ranks, give you all the information I know on every member of the Order of Phoenix, and any other interesting little tidbit you can find when you go rummaging through my mind. Now, for the rules: you are to set a competition for your followers which will run until 2nd May 1998. I am the target. The first Death Eater to catch me and bring me to you for your winnings can do anything he, or she wants to me. If by 3rd May 1998, I have avoided capture, I win. I will await details of when our lessons shall begin. Something you need to know before you decide for or against this little game: I am no longer allied with Harry Potter, the Order of Phoenix, or Gryffindor House, for that matter. I am a rebel without a cause. Do you get that reference, Mr. Whatever I'm supposed to call you? I am sure, Prof Snape would. The parchment on which I write this correspondence is charmed to open for you only, although you probably know that by now. In fact, I'd be surprised if you've gotten this far without trying to turn it to ash. Ha, ha! You tried, didn't you? I charmed it to be resistant to all the elements and magic, itself. Your acceptance of the wager makes the parameters and rewards legally binding for both of us. If you read the postscript aloud, then you have accepted my wager and the game is afoot. Until we meet, Hermione Granger