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Chapter 1
Reload
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Departing Is Such Sour Sorrow
From his dormitory window, Harry gazed out bitterly at the students wending their way through the snow towards Hogsmeade station. Ron and Hermione were among them yet far apart: he with Lavender Brown's lip smudges still betrayingly dark around his mouth, Hermione with only a sad smile for company as she waved back at Harry. Would it be the same after the next school year when they all went their separate ways forever? A new pain added itself to his distress.
"Stupid prat..." he muttered to himself, and his breath formed a brief drab cloud that condensed to weep slowly down the icy glass. "She's obviously hurt but all he does is ignore her more, else grumble and complain."
His last glimpse of that bushy hair now fully frosted over, he turned away, surprised by his own emotions. He'd never thought of missing her – not till that portent of separation. Yes, she'd mothered him, over-smothered him at times, but she'd always been there for him. That would no longer be true in less than two year's time...
Wearily he stared at the books bulging out of his schoolbag. Snape had really piled on the Dark Arts homework this term – as if making up for the years he'd been hankering for the job. And four detentions through the holidays! This was not supposed to happen! He was supposed to be spending Christmas at the Burrow! Even the Dursleys might have been preferable, but Vernon had written demanding he stay well away because they'd be holidaying with his sister, Marge.
"AAAAAAGGGH!" He yelled his frustration at the high vaulted ceiling and the room in general, but the bed chamber was empty, and only his cry echoed back at him. Five painful and dangerous years at Hogwarts ending in the needless death of Sirius – life couldn't get much worse.
An idea occurred to him. Couldn't get much worse...? What if he just went home now anyway and took the heat after Christmas? What could Snape do? More detentions?
The silence of the school around him was an encouragement. On impulse, he grabbed his bag and, using the very spell Snape had been drumming into him for a week, drew his trunk after him. Down the stairs he raced, the travel chest flying after him. He could see the brightness of snow through the front doorway. Would he make the train in time?
"Potter, where'd you think you're going?" It was Snape in the Entrance Hall, of course. Had he been lying in wait?
Urgency can confuse or inspire. Words tumbled from Harry's lips that seem to completely bypass his panic. "Aunt Marge."
"What?"
"My relatives are staying with my Aunt Marge most of the holiday. They wrote demanding I come home to... take care of the cat."
"Cat? I never knew your family had a cat. Potter, if you're–"
"I was as surprised as you, sir," said Harry, thinking quickly. "But they can't take it to Aunt Marge's – she has twelve bulldogs."
"An outrageous lie! Do you take me for a complete–"
"It's the absolute truth, Professor!" said Harry with genuine sincerity, and glad that his flimsy pretence had at least this one backbone of fact which might carry the imaginary cat along with it. "Why would I invent something so unbelievable?"
Snape paused. Time was passing. The train would not wait.
"Show me their letter."
"What?"
"The letter from your relatives, I wish to see it."
"It's at the bottom of my trunk, Professor!"
"Show me!"
"Professor – the Hogwarts Express...!" Through the open door, he imagined he could hear the train whistle across the lake.
"Show me, Potter, or face more detentions."
Unsure whether to hurry or delay, Harry began pulling clothing out of his trunk. There was a letter there sure enough, but not one he wished to show Snape.
Minutes passed as Harry pretended to struggle with trapped clothing. Snape waited with surprising patience. Now and again he'd insist that Harry unfold a shirt or pull out pockets on a pair of jeans. He's stalling me on purpose! thought Harry, all hope of making the train fading.
"What have you there, Potter?" He was pointing at a smelly, screwed-up paper. "Is that it?"
"Uuh... no, sir, that's a Christmas present from–"
"Unlikely! Let me see it."
"But, sir!"
"Now, Potter!"
Harry handed it over and it pulled apart quite easily between Snape's fingers. Maggots spilled out over the teacher's hands and down onto the floor. "Ugh! Explain, Potter! Why've you got–?"
"It's from Kreacher, Professor," explained Harry, stifling a snigger.
"Severus? What is this?" Dumbledore was descending the marble stairs.
"Potter claims his relatives have a cat and insist he return for Christmas to take care of it."
"Is this true, Harry?"
"Absolutely, Headmaster," he replied, fingers crossed beneath a pair of used underpants.
"Then, Severus, I see no reason to delay the boy." Dumbledore swept on towards the Great hall where the smell of breakfast still lingered promisingly.
"Thank you, sir!"
Snape scowled and watched as Harry made a long sweeping movement with his wand. "PACK! And hurry!" The moment the lid shut he used the Locomotor spell once more and raced off towards the front doors.
"I see you have a rudimentary grasp of the basic spell, Potter. I expect you to demonstrate all the variations on your return of course."
Harry froze in the doorway. "Sir? You surely can't expect me to still finish all that homework at erm... home?"
"Naturally, after all, that is the purpose of home, is it not? You will, of course, have to serve the four detentions in the new year."
Once outside, Harry rushed breathlessly towards the station, every glimpse of his watch telling him he was already too late. His arrival on the empty platform confirmed it. Miserably he stood there in the cold, thinking of Snape sneering back in his room at Hogwarts. He'd known of course. I bet he's already planning my detention for tonight...
Unable to bear the thought of returning to be gloated at, Harry sat in the empty waiting room wondering what to do. What little money he carried might buy him a meal at The Three Broomsticks but not a bed for the night – let alone for the entire holiday. By mid-afternoon, that hot meal seemed more attractive and he walked into the village, mentally counting the Knuts in his pocket.
The tavern was busy with celebrating locals so there was no time for questions from Rosmerta. He ate slowly, resigning himself to the inevitable. Once finished, he waited as long as he dared hog one of the in-demand seats before leaving.
Slowly, Harry trudged back through the snow drifts in the late afternoon gloom, his trunk floating a few inches above the footprints he left behind him in the road that passed from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts.
Road!
Quick as the thought, he stuck out his wand. There was a deafening BANG and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in a spray of white slurry.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is–"
"Am I glad to see you!"
"What 'choo doing 'ere? Miss the train? Wait a mo'. Aren't you that...? Ern! Ern! Guess 'oo we got 'ere again! 'E's 'Arry Potter as was Neville!" He turned his attention back to Harry. "You are still 'im ain' choo?"
"Erm, yes, I think so."
"'E finks so! 'ear that one, eh, Ern? Where to then? Leaky Cauldron, is it?"
"No, home actually – better make that Magnolia Crescent in Little Whinging."
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A Step Backwards
Four, Privet Drive was in complete darkness when Harry arrived somewhat annoyed at no longer daring to use magic to carry his heavy trunk. There was no answer to his knock on the door and he'd never been allowed a key of his own. The car was gone. Had the Dursleys departed for Aunt Marge's two days early? He sank down onto his chest in a black mood, thinking through his options. He'd hardly any Muggle money. The Underage trace denied him the use of a simple unlocking spell to gain entry into his own home! No windows had been left open and he was becoming hungry and cold. The ground here was still bare but the snow had followed the bus from Scotland, and occasional flakes drifted on the air, caught in the light from the street. By morning it was likely to be thick on the ground.
Feeling rather sorry for himself, he took refuge in the garden shed, whose inner door latch he'd long since mastered with the aid of a wire coat hanger he kept buried near the hedge. A sigh escaped his lips. There was no power, no lighting, no heat, and no food. Slug slime glistened on the wooden stool next to the bench and he rubbed it off with his sleeve before sitting down. Oh, for illumination! Instinctively he reached for his wand... then sagged back in despair. Without magic he was worse than useless.
A glitter of light near the window caught his eye. An aluminium ladder hung there on the wall; should he break an upstairs window to get into the house? He found a sack of something rather smelly, tipped out the contents, and a few minutes later had scaled the ladder up to his bedroom window. Pressing the sackcloth against the pane to muffle the sound, he hit it hard with a half-brick from the shrubbery.
KER-ACK!
He waited in the following silence, expecting neighbours to pour out of their houses to investigate, but they must have all been huddled around their noisy TV sets to be bothered. Perhaps his own guilty conscience had made the break-in seem louder than it had really been.
All that was soon forgotten once the heat was switched on and, with feet up before the Dursleys' own TV set, toasty warm, he was slurping hot soup and dunking biscuits in a mugful of tea. Satiated, he dozed off on the couch soon after with potato crisp packets and empty plates and dishes lying about the floor around him.
Reality did not set in until the morning when he looked at the mess he'd made and thought of the broken window upstairs, as well as the bagful of homework that Snape had assigned him. Even the sour teacher had conceded that Harry had managed the basic Locomotor spell, but only a few months ago, Dumbledore had used that same charm to animate the statues at the Ministry to protect Harry from Voldemort. Might Harry become so advanced one day?
Spurred on by the memory, he decided to leave any tidying up until after Christmas, grabbed a pottery donkey off the mantelshelf, then went up to his bedroom. An icy wind was blowing particles of snow in the window. Harry shivered, pulled on a sweater, then taped cardboard over the hole in the glass where he'd reached in to open the window. If it were not for the stupid Underage Trace he could have repaired it easily. That's when it occurred to him: how was he to master the different forms of the Locomotor spell if he couldn't practise wand magic outside of Hogwarts!
For an hour he studied the theory behind the Locomotion charm: Locomotor animates spatial matter by varying static time in accordance with... blah, blah, blah... Harry waved his wand at the pot donkey to memorise all the moves without the incantation, but the empty house became more oppressive as the day wore on. Was this any way to spend the day before Christmas? All alone and trying to learn defensive magic homework without the use of a wand? Whatever he did, at home or school, his life was not getting any better. At least he had a life, he thought morosely, as painful memories of Sirius falling through the veil rose once more within him.
He divided up the morning between homework, eating, and television – mostly the latter – but by the afternoon his interest had flagged and he sank back on the couch feeling even more down in the dumps. What was he to do? If he owled Ron it would seem cheeky to beg an invitation to The Burrow at short notice, especially since he'd have to take with him so much homework.
Dragging himself back to his bedroom he resumed his efforts. It was becoming a nightmare. He knew the wand movements perfectly but what use was it if he daren't cast the spells!
He tried to shake off his melancholy and, stuffing his wand into the side pocket of his jeans, decided to raid Dudley's room where his eyes immediately fell on his cousin's PlayStation. Harry had never been allowed near it, but had occasionally watched from the open door when Dudley was completely absorbed in slaying monsters.
Most of the CDs were littering the low table around Dudley's own TV set, grubby with fingermarks and scratches. Harry picked out one of the few games still in its case and in good condition called Kick Ass Supreme Sorcerer and began to play, but within half an hour he began to realise why Dudley had left it alone: it was frustratingly difficult.
Determined to do better than his cousin, Harry angrily struggled on, spraying goblins and demons with spells that crackled and sparked from his virtual on-screen fingertips, but always being defeated by the endless waves of monsters that kept attacking him. Now he understood Dudley's rages, for he felt it too. The game seemed unfair; as fast as he made progress in one direction, or gained a new spell, the enemy seemed to increase in ferocity and power! Why couldn't he be supreme and kick ass like in the title? It didn't help that his repeated homework practice was still trying to go around in his head like a steam train around a circular track: Locomotor, Locomotor, Locomotor...
"AAAGGGHHH!" In a fury he flung down the controller for the dozenth time, and for the thirteenth time he picked it up again.
"Just one more go..."
Provoked almost to breaking point, he didn't notice that as he sat cross-legged on Dudley's bed with the controller in his lap, his right hand was resting on his wand...
"Must break through... Must break through..."
GAME OVER!
THE HOBGOBLINS ARE TOO STRONG!
YOU ARE DEAD, PATHETIC NOVICE!
TRY AGAIN? Y/N?
Harry screamed his frustration, "PIERTOTUM LOCOMOTOR!" and flung the controller directly at the PlayStation. There was a blinding flash of many colours, the TV exploded and disappeared, the PlayStation along with it. For a moment, Harry thought he felt his knuckles graze his wand as it slipped out his pocket. Where was it?
Fearfully, he scrabbled around on the bed and then on the floor, searching for it. Perhaps he'd left it in his room? Yes, that was it, he'd been doing his homework practising the spells and left it there, hadn't he? Only as his shoulders relaxed did he begin to notice how odd he felt physically: sort of frail and light and... shrunken. As he was crossing the landing, he froze. Voices! Downstairs! The Dursleys had returned! Had they yet discovered the mess in the lounge?
"Boy! Get down here!" bellowed Uncle Vernon.
Harry sighed and descended the steps.
His uncle was stood in the hall waggling an envelope in the air. "NO MORE RUDDY LETTERS!" he bellowed and, seizing Harry by the arm, he dragged him towards the cupboard under the stair. Only then did Harry realise how huge his uncle was. He flung him as easily as a puppy into the cupboard and slammed the door.
In a daze, Harry stared around him. It was like a replay of his earlier life: the old mattress, his toy soldiers on the little shelf, even the old rock which had been his only friend when he'd been four years old! Incredulous, he picked it up. He'd first discovered its curious shape while weeding in the garden, crying pitifully from the painful scratches on his hands and knees. He'd hidden the precious stone from the Dursleys, kept it like a pet in his cupboard. Now it looked as ridiculous as fossilised dragon poo. Hadn't he finally thrown it away when he was about to start a new life at Hogwarts?
"He's not going and that's final!"
Vernon was still ranting in the kitchen about letters and owls and... Harry stared at his little hands as realisation dawned. Cupboard! Toy soldiers! No PlayStation – because it hadn't been invented yet! He ran his hands over his face, feeling how young he was. Everything was the same as in 1991 – except one thing: his scar was gone. How could that be?
With a struggle, he recalled the past half an hour. He'd been angry – no, in a furious rage! There'd been a burst of accidental magic the power of which he'd never expressed before – but he'd been touching his wand. Instinctively he reached for his pocket. He had no wand yet! And all of his sorry life's frustrations had been released in one moment – at the PlayStation! And he'd shouted something: the most powerful animating form of the Locomotor charm!
Had he somehow fallen into the game? Or animated it into reality? Was it still playing and his personal life mixed within it? Or had something of the game affected reality? Locomotor something, something stupid matter something static time, blah, blah... Was he really back in 1991 and had to live his miserable years all over again? To suffer those agonies as if once wasn't enough!
"NNNNOOOOOOO!" Sparks crackled from his fingertips. The cupboard door burst open and was flung across the hall. His little body was sizzling with enormous energy.
"What the hell do think you're doing, boy!" Vernon stomped into the hall, blustering and turning puce in the face with anger.
"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" roared Harry, rolling out of the cupboard and swerving to avoid the big man. But he hadn't needed to. Uncle Vernon was stood staring in confusion. His mouth was moving but not a word came out. Harry recognised some of the profanity being mouthed but could hear nothing. For once, Vernon Dursley really had shut up.
Harry stared at his fingers. The vibrant power could still be felt within. Had he really brought his own life inside the Supreme Sorcerer? Would his troubles never cease! Was he doomed to repeat five years of misery in a pointless video game?
He pushed past Vernon into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia and Dudley were sitting at the table staring at him, mouths agape – but he could see Petunia's annoyance building in her expression. He shouted the first spell that came into his head: "Stupefy!"
His aunt and cousin were thrown from their seats onto the floor where they lay motionless. Vernon strode silently by him, mouth quivering with rage.
"Stupefy!"
Vernon joined his wife and son on the floor.
For several minutes, Harry stood and gaped at what he'd done without even a wand, yet no underage warning had been delivered. Either the Trace only applied to wands or perhaps it added his sixteen years to his ten. Who cares! A smile appeared on his face. The sun was shining. It was summer. If this was just a game, then he was going to damned well enjoy it!
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Put In Their Place
For the next hour, Harry experimented with the magic available to him. He was entirely limited to the spells he'd already learnt, but now could use them more fluently, more powerfully, and he could perform them with his hands. He was free of magical restrictions!
Nor did he need to actually move his hands except for the most powerful of efforts. Even Imperio on his aunt and uncle needed barely a flicker of his fingers.
"You and Aunt Petunia will sleep in Dudley's second bedroom," he instructed his uncle under the Imperious curse, "and put Dudley in the cupboard. I'll take the master bedroom and Dudley's old room including all his toys."
Obediently, Uncle Vernon set to, moving the contents of one room to another, while Dudley wailed. "Why can't Harry stay in the cupboard? Why should I have to–?"
Harry said, "Because you're a fat ignorant, stupid prat, Dudley."
As Dudley advanced with clenched fists, Harry cast a weakening charm to slow his cousin down. It was not a fair fight. Ten-year-old Harry's blows were not powerful, but so many landed on the enfeebled Dudley that he backed off in confusion.
"Well done, Harry," Aunt Petunia heard herself saying, "the flabby pig deserved a good thrashing."
Harry left them to it; he had a lot of thinking and planning to do. If the game was to be played yet again, he was determined it would not be so frustrating as last time.
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Hagrid Arrives
On the afternoon before his eleventh birthday, Harry was lazing back in a hammock on the lawn with Vernon fanning him and Petunia holding a tray of iced drinks and biscuits. Surrounding him were fifty beautifully-wrapped but as yet unopened presents. Dudley was pruning the hedge in the background, frequently glancing towards his cousin, his eyes seething with jealousy.
"More grapes please, Auntie," said Harry, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers.
With a wooden grimace upon her face, Petunia obliged – she had no choice.
"When are you going to open your presents, Harry?" whined Dudley, as he checked his chores list then began scraping paving stones with an old toothbrush.
"Dunno, maybe later, maybe tomorrow, who knows? It's the anticipation that's so enjoyable don't you think, wondering what's in each one? For instance, that big one might be a new television for my king-size bedroom, and that hamper is probably full of doughnuts and chocolate cake."
Dudley groaned and scrubbed harder; he'd been compelled to skip both breakfast and lunch and his only drinks had been the sweat off his brow.
But at dawn the next day, Hagrid arrived to find Harry apparently fallen asleep exhausted upon a wide sweep of sharp stones. His hands were black and bloody as if he'd been gathering them by hand and collapsed there.
"Harry? Is that you?"
Harry moaned dramatically as he tried to get up on his hands and knees. Right on cue, Vernon blustered out of the house. "What are you doing, boy! Back to work or I'll thrash you within an inch of your–"
With two great strides, Hagrid stepped forward, blocking the way. "You lay one hand on Harry an' I'll knock the teeth out of the back of yer throat and into the next garden – an' you after 'em!"
"But the freak deserves a lesson!"
Harry cringed and whimpered. "Please don't lock me up in that dark cupboard again, Uncle. Look, I've scrubbed the path with a toothbrush like you told me and–"
"Now listen 'ere, Dursley, yeh great prune," thundered the half-giant. "From now on you'll treat young Harry better if you know what's good for yeh!"
His glare was enough to drive Vernon back inside the house. Hagrid turned his attention back to Harry.
"You tell me if he tries anythin' like that again', Harry," said the giant.
"Anyway, a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here – I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."
From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.
Harry looked up at the giant. "Erm... not wishing to be rude but... who are you?"
The giant chuckled. "True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."
He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.
"Yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course," Hagrid added.
"Hogwarts? No, Auntie never told me anything about that."
Hagrid roared with annoyance. "It's an outrage!" But eventually he settled down and explained that Harry was a wizard. He gave him the acceptance letter, and Harry asked where he could buy all the items listed on it.
"Ah, tha's why I'm 'ere yeh see? Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."
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Grin Got at Gringotts
The rest of the day was much as Harry remembered it in his real life. At Gringotts, Hagrid looked positively green as their cart rattled precariously down the rails to get Harry's money, and he was actually groaning when they proceeded to Vault seven hundred and thirteen. "I think I'm gonna be sick," was all he could mutter.
"Stand back," said Griphook, their goblin escort. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.
"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.
"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked.
"About once every ten years if the customer doesn't access it during that time," said Griphook, with a rather nasty grin.
The goblin turned his back and stood aside while Hagrid stepped into the vault to pick up the grubby little package that lay on the floor and tucked it deep inside his coat. He didn't notice the little pottery donkey that walked in behind him and headed for the shadows.
After Hagrid came out again, the goblin turned to wait for the door to close, which it did within the minute – leaving the pottery figure inside, much to Harry's relief.
"We always check they close themselves properly, Griphook sneered. "Security is priority. Nothing is left to chance."
Hagrid said to Harry, "Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me while we go up again, it's best if I keep me mouth shut,"
Harry kept quiet and hung close to the giant's arm to express what little sympathy he could. It also made it easier to pick his pocket and swap the packages. The petrifying curse on the little donkey in the vault would complete the other part of this quest, he grinned to himself.
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A Stealthy Visit to The Burrow
On returning home, Harry got Vernon to convert the guest room into his own personal storeroom for books, potion ingredients and the like.
His uncle breathed, "No need for Marge to visit ever again. Magic is far more important," but there was a glazed, faraway look in his eyes as he did so.
Harry soon had him scraping bats' eyes and chopping up frog intestines while he prepared a new variant of an old potion. The quest to be solved was not only how to stop Ron arguing with Hermione but to lessen his abrasiveness to others too – such as Ginny whenever he saw her with a boyfriend. Harry realised he had the perfect solution.
He'd always considered that love potions were way over the top. Their effects were far too obvious to a bystander, and short-lived as well; a decent dose of Amortentia might last only twenty-four hours or so. What the potion lacked was subtlety and endurance. Wizards needed to learn from Muggles about slow-release medicines.
Within the first few days of August he allowed his potion to harden to a thick sludge. With a silver knife he cut out three pellet-sized globs, gave them a hard coating, then wrapped them in greaseproof paper. Time to pay Ron a visit.
The Disillusionment spell he cast upon himself was as good as the invisibility cloak, and far more freeing. A silencing charm enabled him to slip into The Burrow, and soon he was searching Ron's room. A tiny sound alerted him: Scabbers was sniffing the air! He'd forgotten about the rat.
After putting Wormtail into a long sleep and bundling him up in his pocket, Harry resumed his investigation of Ron's personal effects and it wasn't long before he found the gift brought for Ginny's birthday the next day: it was a box of sugar candies. He knew it was for her because Ron had only eaten one and replaced it with the screwed up silver paper wrapping in the vain hope she wouldn't notice. What a prat!
The next part could have been tricky but he'd practised the Imperious curse on the Dursleys while they were asleep in case anything went horribly wrong, so he was quite confident. With a smile he raised his magic fingers and pointed them at the snoring Ron...
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Sirius Freed
A few days later, the Daily Prophet announced the release of Sirius Black. Apparently someone had owled a heavily-Stupefied rat to the Ministry with a note informing them that it was Peter Pettigrew. He'd had a lot to explain but none of his excuses prevented him receiving the Dementor's Kiss. Harry decided to let Sirius finish his long convalescence in St. Mungo's before seeing him. It would be an emotional meeting for both of them and Sirius needed to be strong.
Another article also held Harry's interest. Several cursed patients who had been bed-ridden since the first war, had suddenly recovered. Had all of Voldemort's curses been broken when his mind became petrified? It was certainly a kind of deathly condition that gripped the Dark Lord. What other dark magic might have been broken?
By the end of the month, Harry was content. The game was playing out with him in control, not some stupid developer for the PlayStation! This is how video games ought to be!
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
This fic is three chapters, done, dusted, and only needing a little polish, so will be posted weekly. Don't take it too seriously, it's just some lighthearted fun I dashed off in a few days while inspired by playing a brilliant but annoying video game with designed-in irritations. Why do they make games like that? I mean, life can be annoying so we play games to escape everyday limitations, right? Games are for enjoyment not annoyment! And that's how life should be. So, anyway, we got a free fic out of the ideas thrashing through my mind, so – in your face, Rockstar! :D
Many thanks for all comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults — I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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