Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, nor do I own Umineko no naku koro ni or anything else in the When They Cry series. They are the property of J.K. Rowling and Ryukishi07, respectively.

Number 4 Privet Drive, in the Middle of October, 1986

The day started off relatively normally, or rather, what passed for a given value of the term, "normally," in the life of a then-6-year-old Harry Potter. He was given a rude, albeit not unexpected, awakening from his Uncle Vernon, who ordered him to make brunch for the entire Dursley family, with just a little bit for himself. His spoiled cousin Dudley pestered him to make even more bacon than he usually made, leaving less for himself. Afterwards, his Aunt Petunia ordered him to clean all their dishes too. Vernon was urging him to return to his cupboard as soon as he could - he mentioned something about one of his important superiors at work coming to visit, but Harry never paid much attention to why he'd have to stay inside the cupboard that barely sufficed as his room, instead being secretly thankful at having a slight reprieve from Vernon and Petunia's chores as well as Dudley and his friends' bullying. All in all, an ordinary day for Harry Potter. As Harry worked on the dishes, scrubbing the stains out of a particularly expensive, albeit tasteless-looking, plate of fine china, he and the rest of the family heard a faint knock on the door. "I hope that's the postman; it doesn't usually take this long for the news to arrive," Vernon thought aloud as he walked over to the door. While no one was at the door, Vernon's musings proved correct as he looked down at the doorstep and found the latest copy of the Daily Mail.

Paying little to no mind, Harry continued to wipe the plate clean as Vernon rolled open the paper. It took approximately three seconds for Vernon's mind to process the cover story. "They wasted hours of my time for this sensationalist trash!," Vernon yelled to no one in particular, before angrily slamming his hands, as well as the newspaper, on the table. This sudden display of anger startled Harry, who dropped the china plate. It began to fall to the ground slowly but surely. It was as if Harry could see the plate falling in slow motion, looking on in horror as the plate touched the ground; the gaudy decorations lining the edge were the first victims, developing huge cracks before breaking off into large pieces. The sound of the plate shattering alerted the rest of the Dursley household to Harry's folly; he himself felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Vernon turned to Harry, looking even more irate than usual. Harry gulped audibly as his ire was turned towards him; Harry almost swore that the Dursley patriarch's face had turned into a shade of purple akin to that of a slightly unripe plum. "WHAT do you think you're doing, boy? We expect you to clean our dishes, not to throw them on the ground like a monkey! Do you know how much that china plate cost? It was worth more than you!," Vernon roared to his frightened nephew, who by now had fallen on his backside just next to the broken plate. Vernon, getting out of his seat, took off his belt, moving to whip the poor boy into blissful unconsciousness. Instinctively, Harry grabbed the nearest item he could find on the ground to defend himself. After holding it out in front of his face, he realized something…wasn't right. Didn't this get broken?, Harry thought to himself, still keeping the plate directly in front of him as a meager defense against the unreasonably angry man who seemed to hate his very existence.

Before he could whip the terrified 6-year-old into submission, Vernon also realized the same thing Harry did. Unfortunately, realizing that only made the man madder. Instead of whipping him as originally planned, Vernon wrested the repaired plate from Harry's shaking hands and put it in the sink, before dragging him to the cupboard, along with the newspaper from before, strangely enough. Harry, realizing something was very wrong with the situation, tried to force himself out of his uncle's grip, to no avail. He raised his free hand in a futile attempt to defend himself, as Vernon finally did as expected and started to whip the boy as hard as he could. His clothes, tattered hand-me-downs as they were, could not protect him from the onslaught of blows being rained down on his frail, slightly malnourished form. Bloody welts formed, especially among his left arm, which at least managed to protect his face from the worst of the inhumane punishment his supposed guardian was doling out. Each blow would be punctuated by an angry word or phrase:

"YOU! FREAKS! JUST! WON'T! LEAVE! US! ALONE! DON'T! LET! YOUR KIND! POLLUTE! MY! NEWSPAPER!" Harry's mind was just begging for the punishment to end; his body itself was already driven to tears. As a final insult to his estranged nephew, the Dursley patriarch took the few bed sheets that Harry slept on in the cupboard, threw the newspaper near his head, and said, "Sleep on this instead, you freak of nature." Vernon closed the door to the cupboard. Harry, being in no condition to get up, turned his head in horror as he heard his uncle lock the door from the outside. Turning back, he attempted to sob as quietly as possible, so as not to attract further attention to himself. He eventually went to sleep in that horrific state, his body stained with blood and his face stained with trails of tears.

Harry woke up in the middle of the evening. His stomach grumbled fiercely, but it was to no avail; Harry's foster parents often saw fit to deprive him of meals for every perceived slight against them, and this day's punishment was no exception, even with the exceedingly cruel lashing he had taken. Feeling a spider crawling up his leg, Harry looked at it briefly, before swatting it away with his left hand, but did a double take when he realized something…was off. His left arm had taken the most damage out of his entire body; it should've been covered in welts and gashes, and yet it wasn't even remotely red… Giving his body a closer inspection, he noticed that not even his clothes had any blemishes beyond the normal wear and tear the young pariah had come to expect from Dudley's old clothing. He didn't even feel any lingering pain anymore. Was that all just a nightmare…?, Harry mused. He looked around for evidence of his theory. Instead he found evidence to the contrary, from his clock (It read 18:30), to his "bed" (None of the bedding or the blankets were there - Vernon still hadn't apparently seen fit to forgive him, even though he miraculously hadn't broken that expensive plate after all), to his door (It was still locked), to even the newspaper which had started the whole mess. "What's going on?," Harry whispered to himself, as he examined the newspaper, which had been hastily rolled back into its original position by Vernon and his unreasonable rage. Harry wondered why something like a simple newspaper article could provoke Vernon so easily, turning to the cover page. He blanched as he saw the title of the article:

"Prominent Japanese Family Slaughtered; Could Witches Be Involved?"

?, Some time in 1998

"…You're into fantasy novels, as well?," a curious voice asked a mysterious woman holding what appeared to be one of those aforementioned fantasy novels; her appearance, which was that of a moderately attractive woman who could not have been much older than 30, seemed to belie her true age. The voice belonged to one Ange Ushiromiya, the only member of her family left after the horrible massacre known worldwide as "The Witch's Legend Serial Murders Incident". Her pretty face and cute hair decorations were offset by the expression on her face, seemingly fixed in a permanent scowl, or maybe a piercing glance. "Why, of course, my cute little miko. To one who knows everything, everything is boring, so mystery alone often cannot satiate my boredom. It takes so many different works and so many different genres written by the children of man, to satisfy my tastes for even a simple year!," the woman replied condescendingly. Even her speech patterns sounded old and archaic. Ange gazed sternly at the woman, but her calm smile never faltered for a second. The cat at her side gave Ange a look of boredom, imitating a yawn before she climbed the sofa across from the one Ange was sitting in, and curled up to sleep - or, perhaps, to feign sleep.

"Enough playing around with things that have nothing to do with my situation. When will you show me this "truth" you've found about my family? Quit playing around and give me a straight answer, Featherine." Ange folded her arms in a futile attempt to intimidate the now-identified Featherine Augustus Aurora, Witch of Theatergoing, an attempt which Featherine shrugged off as if it were a light breeze trying to knock down a mountain. "I already showed you the cover. Was that not enough?," She responded placidly. Ange gave the coldest glare she could muster in response. Featherine, being dissatisfied with this, let her calm smile fade away into something resembling a mild frown for the first time Ange could remember. "To be honest, "Dawn" is not quite finished, and I've come up with a mild case of writer's block. That's why I'm refreshing my mind with something new right now. Why don't you join me? It's become something sensational in the West." Featherine, her small spiel finished, handed the strange book she was examining to Ange.

Ange herself, who had not seen the title, was intrigued by this creation. From what she saw of the cover, it seemed to be a children's book, but it also seemed to have the weight and gravity of a small tome; she knew just by the feel of this novel, that it was big, big enough to potentially fill at least two average-length novels. The amount of words and pages gradually grew as Ange turned the book on its sides during her examination. She could feel it becoming slightly heavier by the second, though Ange could not determine the exact significance of a second in the immediate vicinity; In this witch's sphere of influence, a second could easily equate to a day, a week, a month, or even a millisecond, in the "real world". The most peculiar thing Ange noticed was easily the cover, which shifted its appearance several times in a particular pattern. The first cover she saw, which implied to her its nature as a children's novel, showed a young boy with a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, riding a broom as if he was some kind of magician. After a few seconds, it changed to depict that same boy, but holding on to the tail of a brilliant crimson bird which oddly brought to mind Ange's beloved older brother Battler. Doing a double take at this, she kept a close eye on the front. It shifted to one last front cover, which initially seemed to be a rough outline of the boy on the back of a large bird-like creature, but was being slowly added to, much like the pages within. A few seconds later, the cycle appeared to begin anew, the only thing staying the same on the front being the title. She could not make out the exact title, but a large portion of it remained the same as the cover continually shifted, similar to how Featherine's forgeries always ended with the phrase "of the Golden Witch" : Harry Potter and the…

Ange was very curious of this shifting tome, though she would not care to admit it, especially when a new fragment of the twisted game her family had gotten itself wrapped up in was so close to her. "W-Why should I believe your explanation? If you really have found the truth behind my family's murder, then why would you have writer's block? Isn't it just a simple matter of presenting what you know? For all I know, you could just be stalling and wasting my time!" This was the most irate Featherine had seen Ange, at least in person. Featherine just smiled back and wagged her finger back at Ange slowly and condescendingly. "Tut tut tut. I expected better of you. As the forger Itouikukuro, I have to stick as close to the original letters by "Ushiromiya Maria" as possible. I'm different from all those children of man because not only have I reached the truth, but also have I known the heart of "Maria". The key is presentation, my dear miko. And I can present it exactly like the originals only because I have time and effort put into each forgery." While Ange silently conceded this point, she was still put off by how much the capricious woman across from her seemed to look down on her. Honestly, did she have to begin her speech like that? She didn't even make a clicking noise, she just began by saying the phrase, "Tut tut tut!"

"You need to learn to relax, my precious, invaluable miko. All of that stress is likely to give you cancer~!" Featherine showed Ange an odd new face, this one seeming to be a combination of a pleasantly surprised look and a look that showed that a person was happy… because she was about to intellectually rape someone. Ange withheld a shiver at the inappropriate joke made with a face that just screamed, "rapist!" She turned away and shuffled awkwardly, saying reluctantly, "O-Okay. Say I go along with your suggestion and read this book for you. Are you sure something like this can help you finish "Dawn"? Promise me that you'll finish it after this so I can find out about my family." Ange, having regained her confidence, stood up, resolute in the face of the enigmatic and powerful being serving as her current "benefactor". This gesture was able to turn Featherine's expression back into her more normal smile, although even that was still garnished with a certain variety of smugness that only old and powerful witches could truly add. "But of course. In fact, why don't I sweeten the deal, and alleviate your boredom as well as mine? I'll have you read this tale as if it's one of those fragments you've played in," Featherine responded to Ange, gently petting her cat, which was still apparently napping to her right, all the while. Ange was "mildly" surprised by this statement. "Can you really do that for things other than your own forgeries?" "I am the Witch of Theatergoing, Drama, and Spectating. I can do anything that pertains to the act of observation, among other things~," Featherine said with a smug smirk. With a final sigh, as if Ange was resigned to going along with the witch's strange new idea, she opened the book and began to read aloud, the scenery around them quickly twisting and distorting to go along with Ange's words…

Number 4 Privet Drive, still in the Middle of October, 1986

The phrase "Witches" struck a chord in Harry as soon as he read it. Once his mind processed the word, it felt as if time had completely stopped for the boy; he seemed to hear what might have been a terrifying cackle, resounding within his memory for an uncomfortably long moment that felt like an eternity. Time resumed, and Harry looked around in a panic, as if to ask, "What just happened?". Even with that dreadful noise stuck in his head, the boy's interest was piqued. He still did not quite know why his uncle had become so violently upset, but knew in his heart that witches had something, no, EVERYTHING, to do with it. Steeling himself, he began to read further:

This morning, the investigation into the murder of the entire Ushiromiya family, as well as their entire staff of servants, from the island of Rokkenjima, was completed. The head of the family, Kinzo Ushiromiya, was the owner of a wealthy conglomerate, known for his love of Western culture, his love of the occult, and his general eccentricity. While he allegedly remained on Rokkenjima until the beginning of this month, all of his children and grandchildren were last seen on the morning of October 4th by a Captain Kawabata, who was hired by Kinzo to ferry his family to and from the island for their annual conference. He had this to say, when questioned about the whereabouts of the family: "Nothing seemed out of the ordinary that day. The Ushiromiyas hired me to ferry them to and from that island every year. I don't know what happened, but a big storm rolled in that night, and a few days later, when I headed back to bring everyone home, no one was around!" After a few days of searching, Eva Ushiromiya was found in a hidden mansion on the other side of the island. As the only known survivor of whatever happened on the island, authorities tried questioning her, but she has currently refused to make any statements on the matter. A few days after that, local fishermen found two letters, both of which were signed by Maria Ushiromiya, the only one whose remains could be found and identified. A piece of her jaw was the only body part that could be identified and placed with any of the family; dental records confirmed it to belong to Maria, who was 9 around the time of the incident. Her letters both make cryptic references to a supposed "Golden Witch", and are still being thoroughly examined. Various other body parts were found, forcing the police to conclude the deaths of the entire Ushiromiya family, save Eva and her niece Ange, who was too ill to go to the conference this year. They are both currently living together, with the former having inherited the entire Ushiromiya family's fortune. The Ushiromiya family in total was one of the richest and most influential families in the past decade; the massive corporate restructuring that has had to occur due to this tragedy features massive implications for the state of the Japanese economy, as well as that of the entire world.

The article continued for longer than Harry cared for, going more deeply into the other members of the family and what would happen to whatever companies each of them lead. None of the financial matters interested him much; his attention was drawn back to the part mentioning Maria's letters. "A Golden Witch, huh…? What's wrong with witches?" As soon as Harry finished this sentence, time seemed to freeze again. This time, the cackling increased to an unbearable volume; if Harry wasn't so unnerved by it, he would've immediately covered his ears. As it stood, Harry settled for sweating profusely. He could almost swear he could hear the laughter directly behind him. No, that wasn't right - someone actually WAS laughing directly behind him, sealed cupboard be damned! "(Cackle), how nice, how nice! Word of my game board has even spread to the West, huh? Now, who could've summoned me? Surely not this scrawny little boy in front of me…" Somewhat offended, Harry turned around to give the mysterious lady a retort. "Look, I don't know who you are or how you got in here, but I'm not that-!"

As soon as his mind processed what he was looking at, Harry's response was cut off in favor of a look of pure slack-jawed awe. Instead of being in a dinky old cupboard beneath the stairs, both he and the cackling lady were in a lavishly furnished tea room, tinged purple by whatever was making the glow outside. The woman in front of Harry was even more amazing. Her attire looked expensive enough to put that plate of china Harry dropped look cheap and tawdry, as though it should be ashamed to even call itself luxurious. She wore a dark brown dress decorated with gold all over, except for the deep red of the dress's chest area, which seemed designed solely to accent her unrealistically large breasts. In her hand was a fancy golden pipe, which she routinely smoked as she looked Harry over. She had golden hair tied up in a bun, and her eyes were a deep blue that Harry felt could pierce his soul like some divine lance. Her face seemed permanently set in an expression that could be described as an amused smile, the smile of a Cheshire cat. "You were saying something, boyaaa~?," the mysterious woman asked, elongating the last word in an apparent attempt to get a petty rise out of him. "I-I was saying, I'm not that scrawny, a-and I think it was very rude to call me that!," Harry said, in a laughable attempt to stand his ground against this intimidating and enigmatic lady. "How nice. I apologize for the insult, mister Sorcerer," she said, although Harry couldn't help but think she sounded slightly condescending even in apology. Not that Harry even knew what the word "condescending" meant at this point, but he's only 6. Give him time. Going back to her last word, Harry was startled at her accusation. "S-Sorcerer? Whatever do you mean, Miss-" "Beatrice." "Whatever do you mean, Miss Beatrice?" At this comment, the now-named Beatrice gave him an odd look, as if to say she was not amused by his ignorance. "You are a Sorcerer, are you not? You summoned me just now, so that implies that you can use magic. Isn't that right?," she asked him. This completely startled the boy. "M-M-Magic! Magic is real?"

"Look around you, boya. We aren't in a stuffy cupboard, are we?" As if to punctuate her question, Beatrice waved her pipe around, letting Harry's eyes follow it across the corners of the tea room. Taking a closer look only made the tea room look even more elegant and mysterious. At Beatrice's urging, Harry looked at the ceiling, and was nearly blinded by the illumination of a chandelier decorated and seemingly powered by softly glowing crystals. With another wave of her pipe, Harry's attention was drawn to one of the windows, where he finally saw what was giving off that violently violet tinge. Crystals not dissimilar to what he had seen in the chandelier were floating outside of the room; they decorated the "sky" and seemed to outnumber and overpower the stars themselves. Harry also paid faint attention to the furniture near that window. The chair looked as though it had been made with the finest leather available, and was painfully tantalizing, seemingly begging the young boy to take a seat. The small tables set nearby were apparently made of a fine quality wood, and treated and polished to the point that the surface was entirely smooth. One last flick of Beatrice's pipe drew Harry's eyes to the floor, whose black and white pattern nearly mesmerized him. The material itself was high quality marble, though Harry didn't realize this due to being a child with burdens that superseded any potential curiosity about building materials. No, Harry was instead fascinated by how clean the floor itself was. He couldn't help but be amazed by how he could see his own reflection clearly in the tiles. Stepping back briefly, Harry noticed how his socks didn't even leave a mark where they were formerly positioned!

When she drew his attention back to her, he noticed a floating cup of tea in front of him, along with a croissant. "You're thirsty and hungry, right? Feel free to have them, if you like." Still looking warily between Beatrice and the magically conjured refreshments, he took a tentative bite of the pastry. His eyes lit up in joy; this pastry alone was the best piece of food he had ever eaten! When he grew thirsty, he took a sip of the tea, which was also fantastic. "Thank you so much, Miss Beatrice!," Harry almost shouted to her. Unused to such gratitude, she gave him an uneasy smile back, waiting for him to finish his impromptu meal. Once both the tea and the croissant were no more, she waved her pipe again, banishing the empty cup in a burst of golden butterflies.

Getting back on topic, Harry addressed her once more. "So, you called me a Sorcerer, right? Does that mean I can make tea and bread, and get away from home, like you did just now?" These questions induced a brief chuckle from Beatrice. "I am The Golden Witch, a witch who has lived a thousand years, boya. Right now, as you are, it's impossible. But maybe, if you learned magic properly, you could do all of this and more," Beatrice responded. At this statement, Harry got considerably less cheery, realizing that magic and witches set his aunt and uncle off very badly. "I-I don't think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would like me to study magic. They might call me a freak…", Harry stated, clearly on the verge of tears. Beatrice's mood considerably darkened at the mention of Harry's family. Before his tears could begin to fall, Beatrice kneeled to his level and grabbed him on both shoulders. "Listen to me, boya. Your family does not like Magic because they do not understand it. Their disbelief is a potent anti-magic toxin that can kill Witches and Sorcerers. Don't ever let their insults get to you; if you start believing in their hatred, your power will fail you. Promise me you won't give in to their influence!" This time, even a small boy such as Harry could see that Beatrice was being completely and utterly serious; her mask of amused condescension was gone, replaced by a will that was tougher than the hardest diamond and hotter than the flames of hell. "I-I promise." "You promise what?" "I promise not to let my family break my spirits." "That's not good enough. Say it in Red!," Beatrice ordered. Although Harry couldn't even begin to know what she was talking about, he endeavored to give his promise as earnestly and honestly as possible. This certain determination laced his words with an incredible power of undeniable truth. "I promise not to let my family break my spirits!," Harry declared, his words coming out of his mouth with a crimson hue. As Harry watched his words float around the two of them, Beatrice stopped gripping his shoulders, and got up. She gave him the most genuine smile he had seen from her so far.

"How nice, how nice! Now then, do you want to learn magic from me, boyaaa~?," Beatrice addressed him once more, this time in a more endearing fashion. "…Harry Potter." "Hahhh?" Beatrice tilted her head at his declaration. "My name is Harry Potter, Miss Beatrice. Not "boya"," Harry proclaimed to her. The witch paused for a moment, seeming stunned at his cheek, before cackling loudly. "Hari Pota, huuu~h? How nice. Maybe you can earn the right to have me call you that, boyaaa!", Beatrice responded playfully. "It's Harry, not - oh, never mind. So when do we start, Miss Beatrice?," Harry asked, clearly exasperated by her teasing, but not willing to argue on it further. "Now, now. You're my apprentice now, so "Miss Beatrice" won't do! Call me "Oshishou-sama"!," Beatrice exclaimed. "O-O-what now?," Harry asked, puzzled at her request. "O - Shishou - sama. It means "Teacher."" Harry was even more puzzled by this. "C-Can't I just call you Teacher, then?" "I'd prefer it if you called me Oshishou-sama, boyaaa; it's how I used to address my Teacher, after all!," Beatrice retorted. "Anyway, we can start right now, if you like…"

"Alright then, freak! My boss has already left, so get out and clean the dishes. And don't break any of them this time!," Vernon yelled loudly to Harry, before unlocking and opening the cupboard. When he opened the door, he was startled by Harry's face, which was giving him a big, goofy grin. "Quit daydreaming, boy, and clean the dishes. You're still not getting any dinner for the next week," Vernon grumbled, walking away and heading to the bedroom. A few minutes later, Vernon went back to the kitchen, grumbling this time about getting a late snack. Harry passed by him, heading back to his cupboard. Vernon turned around to yell, "Hey, I told you to clean the dishes! Get back there and finish cleaning!," but Harry simply pointed in the direction of the kitchen. Vernon turned back, only to find that not only were all of the dishes sparkling clean, but they were also neatly arranged in their proper places, the drawers all open, as if to show that fact off. "Well, close all of the drawers, next time," Vernon ordered indignantly to Harry, who he could have sworn did not stop smiling for even a second.

Eva Ushiromiya's House, October, 1986

Ange Ushiromiya opened her eyes, but found that she still could not see anything. It felt warm, and soft; she realized that she was being hugged by someone. She could feel some sort of wetness in the back of her shirt. She tried breaking free, but whoever this was had a strong grip; all she could do was wait for the person hugging her to stop holding on to her so tightly. It felt uncomfortably long to her, but when whoever it was finally let go, Ange ironically felt even more awkward than she had before. "E-Eva-oba-san!," she squeaked out. Wait, squeaked? That's right; Ange had noticed she felt much weaker than she should as soon as she tried to escape Eva's grasp. Looking at herself, she gasped at her body, which was the tiny frame of her 6-year-old self. Eva, seemingly convinced that she was still in shock as to the state of her recently deceased family, kept firmly gripping Ange's shoulders as she talked. Ange noticed that Eva's eyes were red and puffy, and surmised that the wetness she felt at her back came from her tears. "I would never have wanted this to happen to you, Ange, but don't worry - I'll protect you and raise you with all of my heart, just like Rudolf and Kyrie would've wanted!," Eva exclaimed. Ange, overwhelmed at what seemed to be an uncharacteristic display of affection from her aunt, shook her head. "N-No - Why are you - I-I need to go!," she blurted out, before breaking from Eva's hold and running away to the bedroom she remembered staying in. As she turned around and ran, she heard her aunt's muffled sobs, urging her to run even faster.

?, Some time in 1998

Ange shook her head free of the disorienting feeling of being back in Featherine's place, before closing the book and glaring at the aforementioned witch. "What was that?," Ange demanded to know. "What was what?," Featherine responded, feigning ignorance. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. What. Was that?," Ange asked again, clearly not in the mood for her games. "I told you that I would let you experience it like one of Beato's fragments, correct?," Featherine asked rhetorically. "I have nothing to do with this book. So why was I playing my piece? Why were mine and Eva-oba-san's pieces on the game board in the first place?," Ange yelled at her. "A correction, my wonderful and insightful miko: you had nothing to do with the story. I changed things around a little, by incorporating the events of Rokkenjima into the timeline - with a few things I added a, shall we say, personal, touch to. You're sure to like the changes I made," Featherine stated matter-of-factly. This information did nothing to placate Ange. "Why would you do that? I'm sure I could've enjoyed the book as it was originally!," she said to the meddling witch sitting in front of her. Her expression remained as implacable as ever, to Ange's increasing ire. "I disagree. It would've been boring if you just saw the events and couldn't interact with them in any way, and since you were not originally a part of this tale, that's what would've happened. You can truly experience this world more if you are honestly able to interact with it; I just ensured that interaction was possible, Ohohohohoho~," she chuckled. Ange's right eye twitched at the sound of this infuriating woman's "dignified" laughter. "In any case, continue at once, my miko. I insist," the witch ordered her. Muttering a string of profanities under her breath, Ange opened the book once more, and turned the page…

To be continued...