Disclaimer: Right, well, I don't own anything by J. K. Rowling, but I do own M, N, Eir, Ward, A (who are six very annoying Ghost-like things), Faye Black, and many, many more characters including the Beast Changers who were inspired by the Old English tale, Beowulf, and the Norse Myths surrounding, the Monster, Fenrir and the god-giant hybrid, Loki.

Warnings:

There is blood, murder and insanity mentioned in this chapter.

Also my Norwegian is a little rusty, I haven't used it in about fourteen years, so if I get some grammar wrong, then again, I apologise. If anyone does spot any mistakes, please tell me and I'll fix it right away.

Plus, Mythology is a bit messed up, so don't scream at me if I get it wrong. There are many different versions.

Choice

"You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you re-enlist."

― Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

17th of August 1979

Truthfully, when later asked what sanity drove him to accomplish such madness, Regulus Arcturus Black blamed his family. Not because they relished in Dark Magic or were somewhat overjoyed when he joined the Death Eaters, but because deep in the roots of their soul, running through their blood and curling around their hearts like thorns, insanity lurked. Pure, underlining lunacy which caused their very existence to slug along and to be sucked into a black hole of mentality until there was nothing left.

The curse's origins were unknown, however, since the 9th century, when the Black family were officially classified as 'Purebloods', the curse had lurked. Whether a hag had cursed them in disguise or if it was because of themselves, nobody knew, however, the curse was powerful and as far as Regulus knew, was the reason for the creation of the Three Unforgivable Curses. Each evil, when created, had taken the life of a Black, and whether they be murder or torture, the three very psychotic children who created them, were a force to be reckoned with and who their little sister Carina chose to duel with only in fear of her life. It wasn't until the reign of the Muggle king, William the Conquer in 1066, did the real insanity unfold.

The murder of Lord Leopold Black the X had caused a total uproar in the magical community when his sons and daughter, Masters Betelgeuse and Thule and Mistress Amalthea Black came forth and announced that the revolution of the wizarding world had begun, nobody knew what to do. Their younger sister Carina had immediately stepped forward, her wand in tow and after a lengthy argument, the youngest child of Leopold and Malda Black had battled her siblings to the death. The duel had apparently been spectacular. Spells, of eminence darkness and power, had been flung this way and that. Blood had been shed that night, and by the time the battle was over, and Carina faced her elder brother, two of the three Unforgivables had been born. However, it would be Carina's death that set forth the fear of the Black family.

Betelgeuse had won the battle, but not without consequences. The curse he had created in a sheer panic — the 'Killing Curse' he called it — had not only ripped his family apart but was now one of the darkest pieces of magic anyone had ever made. Unfortunately, for his children — for Galatea, for Wolf — the two were faced with discrimination and fear, and so, the Black families 'perfect' reputation was tarnished, and the people grew afraid. The Blacks kept to themselves; marrying family; distant relatives until incest and one solid bloodline of absolute crazy was born that by the time Azkaban came along, many scions of the Black family had stained the inside of its walls.

Regulus was only ten when he witnessed the madness of the Blacks for the first time. It had happened, one summer's day when the body of his twin was found hanging from their bedroom window in their family home.

He's only hurried up to their room to escape from their brother, to hide underneath his bed. But as the son of Orion Black burst through the door, his winded lungs struggling to breathe, he noticed the spindly figure of his Great-Aunt Cassiopeia, pulling a tightly wrapped tasselled curtain tie back around his sister's thin neck. He had stood, stunned, watching in horror as Great-Aunt Cassie pulled and pulled and pulled. His sister's eyes were closed, and she apparently was not breathing, but, by the time his Great-Aunt realised that she had company, she had dropped Regulus' sister to the floor. At first, the young boy could only stare into his sister's frightened face and the horrific length of rope that sat wrapped around her neck. She had only been ten when she died — old enough to know that there was something wrong with the world, but still far too young to do anything about it.

But then he'd looked into his Great-Aunt's eyes and flung his tiny body at her, fists flying and accidental magic fluttering out of control. For whatever reason, although Regulus would never know, (but he suspected that she had a mental breakdown), their Great-Aunt Cassie had thrown his sister out of their bedroom window; wrapped a tasselled cord around her neck and left her there to hang. His Great-Aunt, of course, denied it, despite Kreacher's mother's — Rosmy — constant pestering; the Black family wrote it off as another 'incident'; Rosmy's head was soon decapitated and placed on the wall. But Sirius and Regulus would never back down, not ever. Every time they saw their Aunt, they accused her of murder and every time she saw them, she accused them of lying.

Looking back, if Regulus could have described Faye Erela Black in one word, he would have described her as free. Free, because she died before chaos turned to war. She was their father's favourite; their mother's torment and her brothers' pride. Faye was free because she never met the prejudice of the outside world; her head was never sorted; her first kiss was never stolen, and in return, her heart remained as pure and bright as the summer's rain.

Hunting for Horcruxes had never been on the agenda at aged ten, yet somehow, eight years later, it was at the top of Regulus' list. If Faye had been alive, watching her younger brother with her large grey eyes, she might have joined him, or she may have sat back and watched him die. His sister was a mystery, even to himself and so, as Regulus sat in his room, several feet from where his sister died, a flash of silver light exploded throughout his vision. At first, the Black Heir thought that the Ghost had come to play, after all, the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black held a fabulous collection of angry and determined Shades. But they were all hidden and trapped by a serious number of dark enchantments, down in the dark, damp depths of the Blacks cellar.

Regulus' eyes narrowed, a small frown etched on his face. If it wasn't a Ghost then what was it? A beautiful woman stood before him; her strawberry blonde, waist-length hair pulled out of her narrow face by a small bow. She was dressed in the strangest clothes Regulus had ever seen, a cross between magical robes and Muggle. A wand lay tucked in the woman's pocket; an envelope placed in the other. Regulus blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the phantom had disappeared, leaving the letter in her wake.

'Kreacher!' the heir of Black cried, his lips open in silent awe, throwing himself out of his bed and catapulting to the floor. 'KREACHER!'

The crack of Apparition exploded throughout his room, and a bloodshot eyed house-elf suddenly appeared out of nowhere, his bat-like ears quivering in fear. When the elf's blueish eyes landed on his young master, lying on the floor, his feet tangled in is emerald bed sheets, he let loose an ear-splitting shriek and immediately ran over to help his master, his eyes wide.

'Master!' the elf cried, carefully helping Regulus to his feet. 'Is Master feeling—.'

'I'm all right, Kreacher,' Regulus grumbled, pulling at his robes, 'no harm done,'

'Oh what would Mistress say if she found out that Kreacher let his Master fall,' the elf whispered, pulling at his ears. 'What would she do to poor Kreacher,'

Regulus sighed, gently placing a hand on Kreacher's bald head. Ever since the elf had returned from Voldemort's mission, he had unnervingly begun whispering his thoughts allowed and punishing himself more than Regulus would have liked to admit.

'You won't tell my mother, none of this was your fault. Now,' Regulus whispered, his eyes narrowed, 'have any Ghosts escaped from the cellar?'

'No Master,' Kreacher cried, pulling at his ears. 'No Ghost has left the basement in over nine hundred years, not since Kreacher's great-great-great grandmother was alive,'

'And my sister?' Regulus asked. The elf stiffened.

'Miss Faye had long since moved on from thi—.'

'Don't lie,' snapped Regulus, his eyes flashing. 'I know my sister's down there!'

Kreacher recoiled from Regulus' tone, immediately bowing low and tucking his scraggly hand behind his back.

'Kreacher is sorry for offending Master. Kreacher will now go and punish himself,'

The elf turned as if waiting to be allowed to run into the wall.

'No,' Regulus commanded, making sure to produce enough power in his voice. 'You will not punish yourself. In fact, you will never, while I live, discipline yourself ever again. Do you understand?'

The elf's head nodded.

'Good, now turn around,' said Regulus, 'and read the letter aloud,'

The elf complied. Quickly, Kreacher hurried over to his Master's desk, pulling the thick envelope off the table and bringing it to Regulus, who sat, back against his bed, eyes fixed on the gilded ceiling above. Kreacher cleared his throat; ripped open the letter and in a calm voice, began to read. However, the elf hadn't got past the first line, before Regulus snatched the letter out of his grip. His dark grey eyes peeled over the curled calligraphy and severe warning. The message was only for him, the signal was clear, that by the time Regulus died, the letter lay carved into his eyelids.

'Dear Regulus,

Don't go hunting for Horcruxes.

— M.'

That was what the message had said — in short, it was warning him not to die. Regulus was still a boy, but a boy with a closed mind. So no matter how many times this 'Ghost' appeared, no matter how many times this 'M' tried to stop him, he would never listen. Not now, — not ever! He had discovered a way to kill a Dark Lord, and although he was maybe young, unqualified and rash, Regulus Arcturus Black was going to do it — he was going to steal a Horcrux.

'Regulus,' his mother cried, her shrill voice echoing around the green and silver wallpaper, 'come down here, I have someone who would like to talk to you,'

Regulus sighed, and closed is eyes. For once, he was grateful for his father's death as it would make his far more bearable for his mother.

'Coming,' the boy shouted, rising to his feet. But, instead of descending the flight of stairs to the hallway where his mother likely stood, the Black heir wrapped a thick cloak around his body; pulling the hood up and over his aristocratic features, ensuring his face was hidden. Carefully, Regulus slipped a pair of dragon hide boots over his sock covered feet and before his mother could question his lateness; Regulus slipped his locket over his head, where it lay beside his heart.

The necklace had originally belonged to his sister — to Faye, and now, the old object would be the success in the biggest theft that anyone would ever hear. The amber-encrusted necklace held dark secrets and had been the downfall of many a scion of Black. Carefully, Regulus opened the locket, making sure not to set off any curses and pressed the note firmly inside. With a snap, Regulus closed the locket and passed Kreacher, his hand gently guiding the elf towards the middle of the room.

How many Horcruxes, Lord Voldemort had made, Regulus had no idea, however, even if he destroyed one, the Order had a chance of defeating him. The Lord of Darkness had to fall. This was his choice. And so, as Regulus turned to face the fire, his mind slipping away, he never noticed the figure who lay concealed in the shadow of his bedroom door.

The Ghost was young, maybe twenty, with a tangle of strawberry blonde curls. And so as Regulus turned back around to face his room for the last time — an explosion of emerald and silver and a collection of newspaper cuttings about Voldemort — he couldn't help but smile. If any Death Eaters stormed into his room, they'd find substantial evidence that he still believed in he-who-must-not-be-named and would come to the conclusion that he died fighting an Auror, not trying to bring their Master down.

The eighteen-year-old never heard the cry; nor the shout, because when M had let loose a scream, the heir of Black had Disapparated, leaving the girl to stare at the place where Regulus had stood.

Later that night, Regulus Black died. Nobody knew what he had done, what he had tried to do. It would be another eighteen years before Kreacher finally worked up the courage to tell people his master's story. That a boy, barely into adulthood, had figured out a way to kill a Dark Lord, far greater than Gellert Grindelwald or Herpo the Foul. That night, Regulus Arcturus Black had intended to walk to his death. He had planned it, right down to the last detail. However, there was one thing the Heir of Black failed to do. M had been right; he should never have gone hunting for Horcruxes, however, if he hadn't, he would never have met her.

Seventy-six years before Regulus set out to kill Voldemort, a girl of immense power turned eighteen. Like Regulus, she too was supposed to have died, but four years previously and she had planned it. But just like Regulus, she had received a letter. They had begged her to change; begged her to unleash her powers, because if there was one thing that history chose to forget, was that Ariana Kendra Dumbledore was a fighter. A warrior who would turn the lives of Tom Marvolo Riddle and Gellert Grindelwald upside down. A girl who would change the meaning of life and death and turn it inside out, until there was nothing left.

5th of July 1993

At a time when Muggles thought they knew everything and wizards secretly ruled the land, a lone building sat snug on a rocky island. For nearly five centuries Azkaban had sat deep in the island's foundations, watching the coastlines of Scotland; England; Norway; Denmark; the Frisian Islands; Germany; the Netherlands; Belgium and France. Built in the fifteenth century, Azkaban was originally not a prison, but a home — a fortress — to the insane and evil wizard, Ekrizdis. With a serious collection of concealment charms, Azkaban was the first building, however, not the last, to never appear on a Muggle or wizarding map.

By the time Ekrizdis died, and the charms faded, the Ministry of Magic not only discovered the island but the hundreds of bodies that lay scattered there. Most were the corpses of Muggle Sailors, tempted by the secrets of gold and jewels, but some were the defiled and broken bodies of children and woman — both Muggle and magical. Although the bodies may have saddened the Ministry officials, nothing could have prepared them for the Dementors. Creatures of such depression and power should never exist, yet, there they were, watching everyone and everything with spindly hands and blackened souls.

And so, because of the un-killable Dementors and their thriving colony, the Ministry of Magic took it upon themselves to leave the fortress alone, hoping that it would crumble and decay on its own. However, as the years passed, and stories turned to legend, Azkaban prevailed, forever strung by ancient dark magic it had collected. By the time Damocles Rowle became Minister for Magic in 1718, many magical communities had gone into hiding and hidden among thousands of paperwork, the plans for Azkaban sat. Eventually, after several years of negotiation, Rowle's plans were excepted, and within a week, Azkaban became the most influential and feared prison in the entire world — all because of the Dementors. No one ever suspected that someone would ever escape, the possibilities outweighed the impossible. However, on the 5th of July 1993, one such prisoner did just that.

Sirius Orion Black, murderer; Lord and Death Eater never had a trial. No one ever suspected that the man was innocent, not even his mother who had died thinking that her lost children would never see her again. The only person who knew that Sirius Black was innocent, was technically and legally classed as dead and so, as Sirius stared up at the bars that imprisoned him, he caught sight of a little raven watching him with large, blackened eyes.

The bird was creepy, Sirius admitted. With its unnaturally smooth feathers and sharp gaze, the animagus often wondered if the bird was dead. Unfortunately, it wasn't, and as long as he could remember, the bird had watched him with a look that Sirius would have called hunger — the bird called it pity. For twelve long years, that tiny bird had sat on his windowsill, watching and waiting for him to die.

In the early hours of June the 4th 1993, a letter arrived. The wizard had been sitting in his cell; his head pressed into his hands. How it came through an array of magical defences and layers upon layers of depression and sadness, Sirius had no idea but one-second, his cell was empty and the next, a sharp light exploded around him.

For several crucial seconds, Sirius thought he was staring at his dead friend, after all, it wouldn't be the first time James Potter had appeared in his cell, watching him with a sad gaze. But, as Sirius rubbed at his eyes, his calloused hands scrubbing harshly at his skin, he noticed that the figure was far too tall to be James. For one, the figure was slightly transparent, as if he were a Ghost and his hair was as thick and tangled as the bent branches of a willow tree. Sirius' nostrils flared. Who was this man? What was he doing in Azkaban?

But the man only grinned, and with an unnerving smile and a mild salute, the Ghost dropped a yellowed envelope onto the greasy floor and disappeared, as if the very fabric of time beckoned to his call. Scrambling to his feet, the scion of Black hurried forward, ripping the letter open with his trembling fingers. Whoever had written it, obviously didn't have the skill, nor the knowledge of penmanship because the message was thick; scribbly and written in an almost unreadable text, but still, it would be a message that he would carry with him until the end of his days.

'To Sirius,

I hope you like to swim.

— N,'

Sirius frowned, his lips thinning as he placed the note into the pocket of his moth-eaten robes. If this was some form of a practical joke, it wasn't funny. A cold breeze echoed through the prison, chilling the prisoners' bones as the overwhelming desire to hang himself exploded through Sirius' mind. Sirius pulled his threadbare robes further around his shoulders as the three meters tall; humanoid shape approached his cell. The Dementor looked around; it's hooded head nodding in his direction, and Sirius' eyes widened as the creature of Azkaban flew towards him. The Prisoner scrambled backwards, his eyes wide. Swimming wasn't a happy thought! Swimming wasn't a happy thought... But escaping was!

Breathing slowly, the scion of Black looked up into the empty, scabbed covered eye sockets and a gaping hole which was supposedly a mouth. His head rolled back, and he was just about to let loose a horrific scream when an explosion of silver light erupted through his cell. The Dementor shrieked a horrible twisted scream and with something Sirius could only describe as fear, turned and flew away as fast as it could. Breathing slowly, the son of Orion Black pressed a hand to his forehead, peeking through his fingers. There, watching him with flickering ears and a pointed beak, a snowy owl sat. Sirius blinked… Who the fuck had saved him?

'Black,' a voice hissed, and Sirius turned away as the patronus flickered away, and his eyes widened as he took in the spindly, shadowy figure of a woman. She stood before him, her hands in pockets, and although she was small, her body looked slightly stretched, as if a lengthening charm pulled at her body. Her eyes were dark as if unnaturally sewn together in pearls of earth and her hair, was long and as black as his own.

'Who are you?' Sirius snarled, his lips pursed. The woman smiled, her long fingers twisting a silver wedding ring around and around her ring finger.

'Isn't that the question of the century?' the woman smiled, her lips pursed. But for some strange reason, Sirius thought that her laughter, her joy was fake, hidden behind a layer of madness and decay.

Carefully, the woman approached the cell, her black hair collapsing over her nimble shoulders and long blue robes — and then, almost as if she were a different person, the woman frowned. Quickly, she reached forward, her arms outstretched and snatched Sirius by his robes, pressing her stretched face close to the cell.

'Now,' she hissed, her tongue trailing over her lips, 'we have exactly twenty seconds before Cornelius Fudge rounds the corner. You will listen to me, or we'll both be sitting in this fucking hell hole for all eternity!'

'Why should I do as you say?' asked Sirius, licking his lips as his grey, haunted eyes stared up into the woman's equal and cruel gaze.

'Because right now,' she hissed, 'I'm the only one who will get you out.'

For several, long, heartbreaking seconds the two stared at each other, and then with a wicked smile, the woman pulled away, melting into the shadows like a shadowing charm. Cautiously, Sirius turned to face the raven, who had flown away the second the woman had appeared as if he was afraid.

It was the sound of hollow footsteps that caused Sirius to back away from the prison door, his eyes wide — and just as he managed to throw himself onto his ragged mattress, the Minister for Magic turned around the corner. Although the man before him was four years younger than he, Fudge was still the portly little man who's rumpled hair clung to his fleshy face. A green bowler hat sat on his head, covering his grey hair and beady eyes that if Sirius hadn't known the wizard, he would have thought that the man standing in a green pinstriped cloak wasn't the Minister for Magic.

'Hello,' Sirius whispered, his dark eyes peering through a layer of tangled hair, a bored expression playing on his cold face. Fudge bristled as if unsure what to make of the supposed murderer, and with pursed lips, he turned to face the Auror who stood beside him.

The woman was tall, with a strange mane of bright pink hair that adorned her heart shaped face, and although her dark eyes watched Sirius with a sour look, the man of thirty-three couldn't but help but feel he'd seen her before. Her robes hung off her narrow frame in a strange manner, reminding the Prisoner all too well of his cousin Andromeda. A wand lay hidden in the folds of her cloak, clutched in her pale hand, waiting for Sirius to lunge forwards and attack the Minister. But the Prisoner stayed on his bed, and the wand lay strapped in her hand.

'He is safe? Isn't he?' Fudge asked. When the Auror didn't answer, her dark eyes staring at Sirius with pity and horror, the Minister's face grew a dark purple.

'AUROR TONKS!' he roared, pulling the woman out of her dazed expression. 'IS HE SAFE!'

'Of course not,' Auror Tonks hissed, her lips curled. 'He murdered thirteen people with one fucking curse!'

However, Sirius was lost for words, not because the woman in front of him was an Auror, but because the last time he had seen Nymphadora Tonks, she had been a little girl, running around her mother's heels, forever crashing into things like the little spitfire she was. But now, years later, the daughter of Andromeda and Edward Tonks stood before him, her arms crossed across her narrow waist and broad hips, her hair slowly changing to that of a blazing red.

'Excuse me,' Sirius whispered, looking between the two with a mild expression, 'but I was wondering if you had finished with your newspaper, I do miss doing crosswords,'

The question was so normal, so boring that it took the two by surprise. The Minister for Magic turned, his eyes wide as Sirius pointed to the newspaper that sat tucked under his arm. Cautiously, the Minister nodded, and with a shove to Tonks, the Auror slipped the paper out from under Fudge's arm and pushed it through the bars.

'Thank you,' Sirius said. With a small grin, the son of Lord Black rose to his feet, his dirty boots sliding over the ground like sharpened blades that as he picked the paper off the floor, he saw Tonk pressing her wand ever so slightly in front of him. But Sirius ignored his cousin, forgetting all about the Minister when his dark, tortured eyes fixed on the front cover. There, under a large title, (MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE), was the large flickering image of the Weasley family.

Sirius recognised the family almost instantly, not because of Arthur's balding head, nor Molly's kind face, but because there, standing behind a lanky boy, stood two identical teens. Sirius' heart tugged as two men suddenly flashed through his mind as the bodies of Gideon and Fabian Prewett shot through him like an electric current. Fred and George Weasley, (or at least that was what the photograph named them), although probably different to their late uncles in mind and manner, looked almost eerily like the spitting image of the Prewett twins.

It was, as Sirius' eyes trickled back over the lean boy, did he finally notice the rat who sat on his shoulders. His back tensed; his nose flared, and his hair exploded around his gaunt face, that if it weren't for the ripples of magic that hung in his cell, an explosion of accidental magic would have erupted from his exhausted body. He snarled, sounding like a furious dog — and then, with closed eyes, he took a shuddering breath.

'Thank you, Minster,' he whispered, tucking the paper into his robes, as he turned to look up at the disturbed man, a large, unnatural grin placed rather madly on his thin lips. 'Thank you very much indeed,'

Before Fudge could open his mouth, Tonks had grabbed his robes, pulling him down the hall as Bellatrix Lestrange let loose a maddened laugh and rattled her chains. The smile dropped from Sirius' lips as the two disappeared through a door and hurried down a flight of stairs. Quickly, the Prisoner of Azkaban turned to look at the shadow where the woman had hidden, and as if the ground was tissue paper, the strange woman stepped out of the darkness, a small smirk on her pale lips.

'Well,' she whispered over Bellatrix's mad cackles, 'that was interesting,'

Sirius frowned, his eyes narrowed. Did she, this strange woman, know anything about Pettigrew?

'Well, I'd love to spend the remainder of my life outside this dingy little cell, but right now, I'd like to leave,' the woman said, clasping her hands together, her eyebrows raised. 'What do you think, Lord Black, do you wish to leave too?'

The Heir of Black stared at her, his lips wide. What if it was a trap? What if she was here to kill him? What if — so many 'what if's' whispered around his mind, pulling at his thoughts that Sirius didn't know what to think. However, as he studied the woman's cold face and cradled hands, she looked almost pretty, beautiful even. But there was something odd in her dark eyes. The way she looked at him, her mind battling between familiarity and lust, he saw more a mysterious, much less trustworthy woman.

With crippling courage and a numb mind, Sirius licked his lips and asked,

'Before we go I'd like to know your name?'

The woman grinned as if it was the first time someone ever bothered to ask. She pressed her hand to her waist in a comfortable fashion, revealing a thin ruby red stone. The necklace, although small and pointed like a knife reflected her face and sapphire robes like crystal bouncing off metal.

'My name,' she whispered, grinning creepily, 'is Mer,'

17th of December 1981

Snow danced merrily around Mavis' head, catching delicately in her dark hair as a steady, but very slow ferry swam across the darkened sea. As the bow dipped up and over a calming wave, Mavis could just see, through the thick fog, a small island where her fiancé lurked. Svalbard, (or as it was once known Spitsbergen), was a rather strange place to live. Hidden off the Norwegian coast, nearly four hundred and seventy-one miles from Nordkapp, the icy island stood. Inhabited by polar bears; reindeer; several species of birds and of course humans, the tiny island, was usually forgotten, but now, as Mavis clutched the metal rails that surrounded the ship's deck, the soaring mountains and ice capped cliffs took her breath away.

Although Mavis may have been twenty-three, her dark hair held streaks of grey; her long legs, although muscular and wrapped tightly in a pair of red corduroy trousers, were littered with scars and there, peeking from under a faded yellow and black scarf, a horrific bite mark streaked across her neck. For the werewolf, it was the first time she had ever sailed on a boat, and although she had been born in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, the young woman had never stepped outside her cave, let alone travelled abroad.

Her mother was only fourteen when she died and gave birth to Mavis, one December morning back in 1958. Jenny Davids had apparently been a kind girl, with a bright personality and an incredible mind, or at least, that was what Jenny's missing papers had told her daughter. Jenny was only ten when she was kidnapped by Fenrir Greyback and his pack, that when her Muggle's parents had tried to uncover their daughter's kidnapping, she had been raped and now held Mavis' elder brother, Matthew, in her arms. Although Matthew was the product of a werewolf and a Muggle, he showed no magical tendencies.

That didn't mean, one summer's moon; thirteen wolves attacked the two siblings. The maddened werewolves ripped them to shreds; pulling at their flesh and destroying their minds. Ten-year-old, Matthew had died that night, and if it weren't for Mavis' suddenly explosion of accidental magic, she too would most likely be dead. It had been Fenrir's Beta, Woodrow Nickles who had somewhat taken her under his wing and taught her everything she knew. Over the seventeen years Mavis was shaped; moulded and tugged into a monster that followed a Dark Lord's commands. It wasn't until she met Remus John Lupin did the adopted daughter of Woodrow Nickles begin to have seconds thoughts. The young man of twenty was an awful spy, or at least that was what Mavis thought when he suddenly turned up, his green eyes watching everyone with curious, petrified eyes.

The new werewolf was rather strange, Mavis had thought, as she stepped forward when Greyback had called her name. For one, his clothes were pressed and clean and were by far more comfortable than her ragged collection of animal skins sewn loosely together to make a rough and very grubby set of robes. Lupin was tall, settling just above her lanky form of five foot eleven by several inches; his dark hair, like her's, was speckled grey and his eyes, although a light green, did a little more to unnerve her.

'Yes?' Mavis had asked, her electric blue eyes nervously watching the person who stood before her. But Greyback had neither answered nor indicated to his Beta's adopted daughter and instead he'd turned, running his hands along his mate's back.

Mavis had shivered; grabbed Lupin's arm with a claw-like hand and dragged him over to her small tent. As soon as his green eyes settled on the rotting animal meat and bloody clothes, the wizard's face had paled, and he had to sit down. Mavis had snorted, called him a rather rude word and ripped a piece of deer meat from the animal's belly. Lupin's face paled as the young woman had sunk her teeth into the flesh, all the while grinning as she watched him with a sadistic gaze. Mavis had kicked a small bowl in front of him; licked her fingers and then proceeded to comb her tangled hair with her blood stained fingers. She had grinned when Lupin had to get up to vomit.

For the next week, Mavis taught Lupin the ways of a 'real' werewolf. When he'd asked if she had a wand, Mavis had looked at him like he was mad before explaining to him, that because she was a girl, Greyback expected her to 'comfort' the other wolves. Lupin's face had paled once more and after several seconds had asked how she felt about being used for sex.

'I don't know,' Mavis had shrugged, pulling her robes further around her shoulders, 'it's all I've known. If I were human — like my mother — I'd be dead the second I gave birth to cubs,'

'Have you?' Lupin asked, eyes wide. 'Had children I mean?'

Mavis nodded, her lips pursed.

'Greyback killed them of course,' she whispered, her voice cracking. 'Says that "only he, the "Alpha" can have cubs," no one else,'

'How did you live?' Lupin had asked. Mavis' eyes had watered slightly, and she had quickly wiped them away.

'I survived,' she hissed, pressing her hair close to her lips. Lupin stayed for six months, and Greyback was just beginning to loosen up to him when a group of armed wizards had exploded through the camp.

Mavis had been sitting in her tent; her legs drawn up her chest, when one of the scouts, Oscar, had burst into her tent and told her to grab a weapon. The only weapon she owned was an old hunting knife, and so, the werewolf had burst out of the tent, the Upsilon following closely behind her. But the woman only got three feet before a tangle of blond hair suddenly pushed her to the floor, as a gigantic wolf, far bigger than her werewolf form, glared at her, its bright blue eyes watching her with disdain.

The werewolf had growled, bringing her arms up to grip the wolf's snout and with a tremendous effort, she kicked. If any average human had tried to push a wolf the size of a bus, off their body, they would have most likely ended up with a pair of jaws ripping their throat out. However, a werewolf was far stronger than humans. Lupin had skidded to a halt as a large wolf suddenly whipped in his direction, as the wolf's body changed, lengthening into a muscular man with broad shoulders and a long, long beard. Mavis' eyes widened to the size of a large bowl, and with a curse, she turned and ran. But once again, the werewolf only made it three feet before the Beast Changer pounced on her, pinning her to the ground as the wolf transformed into the hauntingly handsome human that was Åsmund Eriksen, the Chieftain of the Spitsbergen Beast Changers.

As several Aurors tied her fellow werewolves up, waiting for Hit Wizards to take them to Azkaban, Mavis hung in the Beast Changer's arms, her head downcast. Only when Lupin stepped forward, explaining her kindness towards him, did the Order of the Phoenix realise that maybe, just maybe they had acted a little too harshly. Along with two other female werewolves and several children, Mavis was set free, however, unlike her fellow pack members, the werewolf was taken to the Order's secret hideout.

She met Albus Dumbledore that night. The werewolf had sat, in what Lupin had called a 'chair' whatever that was and clutched a cup of 'tea'. Mavis sniffed the strange concoction and recoiled her stomach churning. Surprisingly, the greatest wizard who ever lived did not live up to the sickly profile Fenrir had portrayed. Albus Dumbledore stood proud and tall; his white hair streaked with traces of red, and his twinkling blue eyes watched her behind a pair of moon-shaped glasses.

He'd offered her a 'Sherbet Lemon' and Mavis had reluctantly taken one, running the strange object in her hand before placing the yellow thing in her mouth. Her eyes widened as an explosion of fuzzy goodness exploded, causing the young woman of twenty, (almost twenty-one), to stare up at the old man in utter shock. A man with curly black hair, who supposedly went by the name of Sirius Black, had laughed at her expression but was immediately silenced by a dark haired woman who had introduced herself as Dorcas Meadowes.

'What?' Mavis whispered, touching her lips as the bubbly feeling melted into a strange citric taste. 'What was that?'

'That was a sweet,' Dumbledore had explained, his blue eyes searching her scarred face. 'Surely you've had one before?'

Mavis had shaken her head, her lips pursed.

'Greyback never let any of us touch any food until he and the others got their fair share,'

She had said this as if it were the most normal thing in the world and Dumbledore fixed her with a saddened expression as he noticed her undernourished form.

'When you turned, how old were you?' he asked as he handed Mavis another sweet.

'Six,'

Dumbledore shared a look with Lupin who's face had paled.

'Remus has told me that you've had several children,' Dumbledore continued, pressing his hand on her bony shoulder. 'Could you please tell me where they are so I can reunite you?'

Mavis had glanced up into Dumbledore's blue eyes, and then without wanting her body began to shake as big, uncontrollable tears ran down her pointed face like a waterfall. Thankfully Dumbledore had asked no more questions and turned to look at the Beast Changer, his face drawn in a tight line. It was then decided, through a series of secret glances, that Åsmund would take care of her, not because he wanted to, but because out of everyone in the room, he knew what it was like to lose an entire family, including children.

Truthfully, in his human form, Mavis found Åsmund Eriksen, (or as he was known to humans Åsmund Wolff), rather attractive. With his long blond hair and tattooed arms, the descended of Beowulf certainly lived up to his ancestor's name, as he was the first one in generations to look like the Geat King. To Greyback, Beast Changers were one of his worst enemies as he saw them as unnatural. To Mavis, they fascinated her. She'd always found the werewolf's distant cousins to be strange, but unusual creatures who were the very essence of a wolf. Unlike the werewolf who only revealed their inner monster every full moon, a Beast Changer could transform into a wolf whenever he or she desired.

Åsmund was a quiet man, with an open mind and a collection of icy glares clutched in his grasp. When he, (along with everyone else), had discovered that Mavis was a witch, but didn't have a wand, the Beast Changer had taken her hand and Apparated to Ollivander's. Mavis, like many witches and wizards several years her joiner, was immediately unnerved by the spindly man with a white mane of wiry hair.

'Ah,' the man had cried when Mavis, (now dressed in respectable purple robes), and Åsmund had entered the shop. 'I was wondering when I'd get another werewolf in my shop.'

Mavis had stiffened, her eyes watching the man with curious eyes. But instead of snapping at her and demanding that she get out of his shop, the old wandmaker smiled at her, before turning to face Åsmund.

'Well, I never,' he gasped, his smile somehow growing impossibly wider, 'Åsmund Eriksen, last time I saw you I was merely a boy!'

'Yes,' Åsmund whispered, 'last I saw you Mr Ollivander you must have been…four?'

'Three,' Ollivander corrected. 'You were here for your ninth wand if I remember correctly. Your daughter and wife were with you. How are Áshildr and Dagrún? Oh, and I can't forget little Flóki? How is the lad now? He'd nearly be seventy now.'

Åsmund's face paled, and he glanced at his hands, as if ashamed of their deaths. Mavis nervously stared at the floor; she knew Beast Changers could live for thousands of years, but if that was true, then Åsmund could nearly be a hundred, possibly even older.

'They're dead,' Åsmund said, looking up, tears glistening across his tanned face.

'Ah,' Ollivander had whispered and stepped forward, his wand in tow. Several minutes later, which was full of exploding curtains and missing eyebrows, Mavis walked out of Ollivander's, a twelve inch, aspen, phoenix core wand clutched in her hand.

With this wand, Mavis had learnt in six months, under the guidance of Åsmund, how to duel with her eyes shut. She'd been tutored seven years of Wizarding and Muggle schooling by a stern woman with black hair, (who Mavis soon learnt was a woman named Minerva McGonagall), in only two years.

As the years progressed, and the young lady and the Beast Changer fell in love, Mavis eventually began to warm to humans, befriending Lily and James Potter until, one heartbreaking day on the 31st of October 1981, they died. It was at this time when Mavis left her home. Suddenly her entire world had fallen apart. Her two friends were dead; Remus wouldn't talk to her; Sirius was in Azkaban; Petunia Dursley gained custody of her nephew; her banished fiancé left Britain, and she was once again an outcast. The life of a werewolf was a cruel and harsh one, and so, as the wizarding boat pulled into the secret port at Longyearbyen, Mavis' heart stopped. What if Åsmund didn't love her anymore, it had been two months since she had last seen him.

A loud squawking sound echoed loudly around the deck, indicating that someone had just let loose a baby dragon — or maybe a dying cow. With a deep breath, Mavis snatched up her battered suitcase; tugged at her grandmother's old Hufflepuff scarf and hurried down the ship's steps, her booted feet clanging against the metal floor. A cold, wind blasted the young woman's hair out of her diamond-shaped face, revealing her sharp cheekbones and scarred face as the daughter of Jenny Davids stepped off the creaky boat and onto the snow covered the land of Svalbard.

Chaos rained around her that at first, Mavis didn't know where to look. Wizards, witches and some magical creatures clouded her vision, bringing forth a new sense of the word 'mad' to the woman. The delicious smell of hot chocolate exploded through her nostrils, causing her mouth to water. A loud shout of rapid Norwegian echoed loudly around the square, as a young boy who stood beside her, holding a large newspaper yelled around the plaza. Judging by his worried face and photograph of Sirius Black, Mavis guessed that Norway had finally caught up with Sirius' incarceration.

As the werewolf allowed a wizard dressed in woollen robes to step past her, his head covered by a pointed reindeer hat, a pair of strong, tattooed arms wrapped around her spindly form. The adopted daughter of Woodrow Nickles smiled, her eyes narrowing in surprise. Before Åsmund could even say, 'Hello' Mavis had turned, standing on her tiptoes as she pulled her fiancé into a great kiss. The Beast Changer froze, as if unsure what to do, and then he pressed his large hands to Mavis' face, cradling her as if she were the last creature in existence. When the two finally pulled away, their breath curdling in the freezing air, Åsmund placed an arm around his fiancée's shoulders.

'Come,' he said, indicating to an old lady with white hair and caucasian skin. 'Meet my Mor,'

With a mixture between with what Mavis could only describe as a blush and a grin, the daughter of Jenny Davids took Åsmund Eriksen's hand as the two walked in the direction of his mother, Anna Álisdatter.

'Do you have a sister by the name of Eir?' Mavis asked as they approached the old woman. Åsmund frowned, his blue eyes narrowed.

'No, my sister's name is Jannicke,' he said, stopping. 'Why do you ask?'

Cautiously, Mavis dipped her hand into her jacket, pulling out a wrinkled piece of parchment. There, written in old Norse, scribbled in a rather complicated hand, were the word:

'Good luck and have fun in Svalbard!

Love from,

Eir.'

'Unless the Goddess of Healing has managed to contact you,' Åsmund stated, taking the note and slipping it into his pocket. 'I'd say someone was playing a joke on you,'

Mavis shrugged, her eyes wide.

'It was strange,' she admitted, 'it just appeared when I awoke this morning,'

Åsmund grinned, pressing his lips to Mavis' temple.

'Well, then, if it was the Goddess of Healing,' he said, 'then only good can come from it. Now, Mavis, we'd better hurry up because the others are waiting,'

'Others?' Mavis asked. Åsmund grinned.

'Our family,' he said as the two reached his mother, who pulled her to be daughter-in-law into a bone crushing hug. And so, began the long and complicated life of a Beast Changer and a werewolf.

For the next thirteen years, the two would live in perfect harmony, and it would only be when Albus Dumbledore appeared on their doorstep, an old friend in tow, would the secret and dark mysteries of Mavis were revealed to not only her husband but to the entire the wizarding community.

31st of August 1993

Although Regulus was technically and legally dead, the son of Orion Black was still very much alive. Fourteen years had passed since his horrific encounter with the inferi, and although the scars healed, turning into silvery spider-like threads across his body, the young man had been dead for nine minutes. As the Heir of Black turned sharply around a corner and into Knockturn Alley, he couldn't help but feel nervous. Mer, although mostly mad, had taken an unusual liking to visiting Borgin and Burkes, as if she was searching for something. However, as the crazy woman had stumbled into the shop, her eyes wide, she had spotted something rather…odd.

Once, Regulus' father had patrolled these streets, walking stick in hand and collected the debts of many a witch or wizard who owned a shop, racking up his tenant's charges until their ears fell out. Back then, the street had been mildly pleasant, with brightly coloured shops selling dark things and unusual objects, but now, many years later, the cobbled street had fallen into disrepair and forgotten magic. Hags; homeless people and dark creatures roamed the shopping district, watching anyone with beady eyes and lost voices. Some begged. Others stole.

Borgin and Burkes, although not the most interesting antique shop, was one of the darkest. With its dark green painted walls and dimly lit windows, it was not a place Regulus' father would have approved of when he was a small boy, but now, with his scarred hands and forgotten life, the son of Orion, could just about blend into the background without anyone noticing.

As Regulus stepped through the doorframe, closing the rusted door with the heel of his dragon hide boots, he saw Mer standing in front of a small counter, pressing her hands to the table as she talked in a hushed tone to the wizard who stood before her. The shop was still as dingy and dusty when the ex-Death Eater had stepped through its hallowed halls all those years ago. From the rotting Hand of Glory that sat on a plump cushion to leering Death Eater masks that hung on the wall, number 13B Knockturn Alley had it all.

Mr Borgin stooped over Mer, his oily hair dripping onto the desk below as he stared down at her with a pair of unusual eyes, taking in her spindly form and the blood red shard that hung around her neck, as a stream of orange-golden light glittered playfully against Mer's violet robes.

'Are you sure you don't have it anymore?' she asked, her eyes wide as she leant forward. 'It's just that necklace belonged to my Great-Aunt, and it's vital that I—.'

'Last time I saw that locket,' Mr Borgin hissed, pushing his round glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose. 'It was bought by Madame Smith. But I have no idea where that sad thing went after that! Now, as you can see, I am rather busy, so if you're not going to buy anything get out!'

With a hiss, Mer turned, her long hair thumping Mr Borgin in the face. The wizard winced as if appalled that a woman had dared to attack him, and he reached out, snatching her hair in his gnarled grip. Mer's eyes widened, reminding Regulus of several massive galleons, as she shot backwards, her hands reaching behind to steady herself. Borgin was about to hiss something in Mer's ear and probably thump her for her insolence when the son of Orion Black coughed. Mr Borgin looked up, his eyes wide and with a small grunt, he released Mer.

'Mr Noir,' he hissed, bowing low, 'your sister was just telling me—.'

'I heard what she said,' Regulus hissed, stepping over a fallen chair that had a pair of beady eyes and a snatching charm embedded into the wood. The young man approached the shopkeeper, his eyes narrowed. 'And if you ever touch her again, I'll make sure that a blinding green light is the last thing you ever see,'

Borgin gulped, his eyes wide, face pale. With a nod of his head, the elderly man took in Regulus' lanky form and the glittering scars that sliced through his cheeks. Although the threat may have seemed empty, the shopkeeper, unfortunately, knew who hid behind a layer of black hair and charmed blue eyes.

'So, now that we've cleared that up,' Regulus said leaning on the table beside Mer. 'Morgause has told me that you have a set of Preserving Boxes hidden away in your care.'

Borgin nodded, pulling his oily white hair out of his face. For a split second, his dark eyes lingered on the black stone signet ring that resided on Regulus' index finger and once again Borgin's face paled.

'Yes m'Lord,' the man hissed, indicating to a long curtain that fluttered rather dangerously behind him, 'they're through here,'

With a flutter of his robe and a shaky step, Regulus found himself standing in the back room of Borgin and Burkes. Unlike the front of the shop, the back was rather strange, with larger, far more dangerous objects piled around him. In the corner, standing next to a proud window that peered out into the back alleys of Knockturn Alley, a triangular Vanishing Cabinet sat. Beside it, hidden under a long cloak, Regulus could just see the decaying hand of a dead man. However, it was neither the Vanishing Cabinet, nor the missing body of Alexander Leigh that frightened him, but rather it was the two, elongated coffins that sat in front of him.

Far more dangerous than the Killing Curse, yet just as lethal, the art of creating Preserving Boxes were long since banned, however, if one knew the right carpenter anyone could buy one. Unfortunately, although the boxes managed to preserve someone for any length of time, the sleeper may sometimes never wake up. Created by the Dark Witch and Queen of Avalon, Morgan or Morgana Le Fay, the original design was supposed to trap and incarnate her most deadly enemy — Merlin.

Although the box dripped with dark magic, Merlin had somehow managed to swap the magic around, allowing the box only to cause its capture into a deep, dreamless sleep. When Morgan had pushed Merlin, back first into her coffin, she had been mildly surprised to find her mortal enemy not choking on his breath. With a furious roar, the Queen of Avalon had tried and failed to open the coffin which contained the Prince of Enchanters. With an angry sigh, the witch had turned away, never expecting Merlin to appear, nine years later, his face as youthful and bright as the day he had first met her.

'So,' Mer whispered, running her finger down the length of the gold encrusted wood, 'how old are they?'

Borgin grunted as if offended that she did not know.

'I found them,' he said, pressing his steepled fingers to his lips, 'inside the castle of King Arthur, containing the two bodies of Merlin and his wife, Nimue,'

Regulus' eyes widened, and he turned in surprise.

'You mean to tell me that, — that these are the two caskets in which Merlin and his wife slept?'

Borgin's head bobbed.

'The very same,' he said, smiling sickly.

'Are they for sale?' asked Mer, her voice breathless. Borgin sighed, his eyes closed.

'No,' he snapped, pulling out a small note and inspecting its contents, 'it was already bought by a Mrs and Mr Lupus, for nine thousand galleons… Although, they did say that they would not be able to procure the two items until May the third, nineteen-nintey eight,'

'Why?' Regulus asked. Borgin frowned.

'I don't know. Now! As I've told your sister if you're not buying anything,' he raised his hand, and his eyes bulged. 'THEN GET OUT!'

With a sharp snap of his crooked wand, the door opened, and Borgin pushed the two out onto Knockturn Alley, slamming the door behind Mer and Regulus with a loud bang.

'Well,' Mer gasped, 'that man was just, — he was, — that was just plain rude!'

'Oh well,' said Regulus, smiling, 'I bet we can cheer ourselves up by going to the Three Broomsticks. What do you think, Mer? I pint of Firewisky on me?'

With a broad smile, Mer excepted Regulus' outstretched hand and stepped out of the dark and mysterious alleyway and into the bustling street of Diagon Alley. But the two had only stepped out of Knockturn Alley when a gangly boy with a flood of red hair bumped head first into Mer. The nineteen-year-old woman stumbled, her eyes were wide with fear, but before she could topple to the ground and make an utter fool of herself, Regulus snatched her hand, pulling her back to his side.

'Oh, Morgause!' Regulus cried, his eyes wide in feigned surprise. 'How are you, dear sister?'

'I'm fine Rigel,' Mer breathed, her hand pressing against her heart as she looked at the boy with red hair, who now stood before her, his face red with embarrassment. Carefully, Mer fixed a dark eye on the boy, her eyebrows raised in a questioning look. 'But I'm more worried about this young man. How are you? I didn't hurt you did I?'

The boy blushed, his face turning the same colour as his fiery red hair and freckled skin, his ears also turning a beautiful red shade. He had blue eyes and a long nose that peered up into Mer's dark eyes, watching her with a look of curiosity and wonder.

'No,' he said, eying Mer, 'I'm all right,'

'Good, good,' said Mer, smiling widely. Her dark eyes lingered over their children, taking in the girl's explosion of dark hair and the untidy jet-black hair of a boy with startlingly green, almond-shaped eyes. For a split second, Mer's eyes flickered up to his forehead to where a lightning bolt scar lay, but then, just as quickly, she looked away from Harry Potter, turning her attention to the girl.

She was small with a mane of bushy brown hair, and a pair dark eyes stared back. Her clothes were a mixture of Muggle and magical, but it wasn't her clothes nor her hair that had caught Mer's eye. There sitting with a fed expression on its squashed face, a cat sat in the girl's arms — a huge, very ginger-coloured cat with a bottle brush tail and a pair of yellow eyes.

'Ohh!' Mer cried, reaching forward and stroking the cat's head. 'You got a cat! How wonderful! Wasn't I just saying Rig, how that poor thing had been locked up in Magical Menagerie for far too long!'

'You know him?' the girl asked.

'Her,' Mer corrected, 'and yes, we do. Our old friend, Ari, had her, but she, unfortunately, couldn't look after her anymore — something to do with too many galleons spent on one cat but who am I to say?'

She kneaded the cat's head grinning wickedly.

'Isn't that right Crookshanks,' she cooed. 'Isn't that right?'

The cat hissed, swiping Mer's hand with its paw, but the woman just laughed, pulling her hand away, sucking the blood.

'Yup,' said Regulus, grinning, 'she's still a little spitfire,'

The cat turned and raised its furry eyebrows raised. Regulus snorted.

'We better go,' Regulus said, pretending to look at his pocket watch. 'Come on sister; I did offer you that drink didn't I?'

With a smirk, Mer rubbed the cat's head one last time and turned, clutching Regulus' arm as the two walked down the street. When Regulus was sure the three children could no longer hear them, he pressed his mouth close to Mer's ear.

'That was a terrible act you played,' he hissed. 'You didn't care about the boy at all. Did you?'

Mer grinned a wicked smile.

'Well,' she said, shrugging her shoulders, 'what did you want me to act like, a spoilt brat?'

Regulus chuckled.

'Merlin no!' he cried tugging at his hair as the two turned and hurried down a quiet street. 'But I think Ari is not very happy with you,'

Mer rolled her eyes.

'She's always been touchy!' Mer snapped, relieving her grip around Regulus' arm. 'Always has been. I have no idea how you managed to work up the courage to marry her?'

'Well, I suspect it as something to do with the fact that you have pretty firm grip,'

Mer grinned as Regulus winced and rubbed his hand.

'You know,' she said. 'You still owe me a drink,'

With a groan, Regulus rolled his eyes; carefully looked back, making sure that no one was following them and with a snap the two Disapparated.

A second later, a young man suddenly appeared; his dark green robes billowing wildly as his red-brown hair fell carelessly over a pair of twisted eyes. He looked around as if searching for something. When it became apparent that Mer and Regulus had gone, the boy cursed and pressed a letter into his pocket. A triangle ring sparkled, and with a flash of purple light, he disappeared back into the dirty world of whence he came, ready to tell his friends, that his mission had failed.

Norwegian Translations:

Mor - Mother

Dear Readers,

First of, no I'm not dead, neither have I stopped writing. My delayed upload is thanks to a terrible internet connection and a whole lot of homework. I am in my second last year of schooling and as suspected, Higher, (my second last year of Schooling) is as stressful and complicated as a wasp's nest, trust me, I've had one of those things dangling from my parent's office window before! I will be unable, (partly because of the bad internet and with the mountain load of work), to upload as frequently as I used to, but don't worry, I am still writing and continue to write new stories and try to upload.

Secondly, life got in the way. It happens to the best of us, but between going home to Norway and returning back to school, my life has been a jumble of chaotic madness. I am also writing my own book, which is thankfully in the final rewrite!

Thirdly, I had the shameful writer's block! Ahhhhh! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the revised chapter and didn't forget to ask me questions, live, favourite and review!

From,

Lily.