#1: The April Fool's Day Omake
A/N: This first offering was originally published as Chapter 15 of my story Magical Me, as an April Fool's Day gag for my readers. It was dark and depressing and utterly unlike anything I'd yet published. As I write this it's still listed as the latest chapter, but it'll be replaced once I publish the real Chapter 15. I'm posting it here to give it a home, along with any other shorts or future side-adventures I might be tempted to write in the future. With that, enjoy what might have been.
Previously on Magical Me...
I strolled toward the door and out the corridor, eyes flicking between the portraits of famous Healers that lined the walls. I was in Ward 48, near the end of the hall, far from the windowed double-doors that marked the beginning of the Fourth Floor: Spell Damage. I turned away, but was stopped short by the sign on the next door further down the hall.
Janus Thickey Ward: Long-Term Care
So, here it was: the Ward that in another future I might have called home. Within were the beds where the Longbottoms lay, their minds long since shredded by Lestrange's Cruciatus Curse; within was the bed where Unspeakable Bode would have one day been strangled to death.
I grimaced. Something about that story rubbed me the wrong way. Bode was in St. Mungo's to recover after a botched Death Eater Imperius made him believe himself to be a teapot. The summer before, however, a muggle Junior Minister named Herbert Chorley had been brought in to be treated for a failed Death Eater Imperius that made him think himself a duck. Yet Bode was dumped in the Long-Term Care Ward while Chorley was not, despite the clear signs of the Unspeakable's recovery. It didn't made sense.
Something was wrong; this Ward felt… off. Perhaps it was due to the oddities relating to Bode. Perhaps it was due to the sight of the doorway in front of me, locked and barred and warded so potently, I could almost feel the magic around it, even in my enfeebled state. Or perhaps it was due to the small handwritten card below the sign:
Healer-in Charge: Miriam Strout
Trainee Healer: Thorfinn Rowle
I made a beeline for my room.
This was bad. I knew that name – Thorfinn was a Death Eater, and not some low-level punk either. Thorfinn fought alongside Bellatrix in the first battle of Hogwarts, alongside Dolohov in Tottenham Court. He'd held the chain to keep Hagrid down, when Harry had walked into Voldemort's sights in the Forbidden Forest. And I'd bet a thousand portraits of my gallantly-posing self that it was Thorfinn who had smuggled in the Devil's Snare and killed the convalescing Unspeakable. He'd even gotten a promotion out of the deal – Miriam Strout was put on paid leave for failing to protect those in her care, placing her former Trainee in charge.
Was St. Mungo's just another pawn in the Death Eater's game? I doubt it'd be anything overt, but behind-the-scenes could be just as bad. Didn't Lucius Malfoy make a 'very generous donation' to St. Mungo's, that one time in Harry's Fourth Year? Malfoy père was no philanthropist – what other perks might he have accrued, besides the free seat with Minister Fudge at the Quidditch World Cup?
What if the entire Long-Term Care Ward was a front?
St. Mungo's was founded in the late 1600's. Janus Thickey was briefly famous for faking his death – but that was in 1973! So, was a pre-existing Ward simply given a new name, or had it only recently been brought into existence? If magic could cure almost anything short of death, why would there be a need for long-term care in the first place?
Janus was the Roman god of gates and time, but better known for being the two-faced god. Janus Thickey faked his death. The Janus Thickey Ward was jointly supervised by a Death Eater. Rowling was never particularly subtle with her names, and this looked to be no exception.
I didn't get much sleep that night.
Magical Me
Chapter 15
Published April 1, 2014
Of Horror and Hubris
Two mornings later...
"Up, up, time to wake up." Andromeda woke me early the next morning. "Sorry, in a bit of a rush, need to get back to a difficult case downstairs. You recovering well, nothing of concern?"
"No, I'll be fine." I nodded. "Feel free to return to your other patient."
"Thank you." She clasped my hands briefly before turning away. "I should be able to check up on you later this evening, but at the moment I haven't got the time. Have a good day," she called back as she disappeared through the door.
So, here I am. Besides the interview with Mauricio Carneirus from The Daily Prophet, the rest of my yesterday was really quite soporific – my time was spent perusing more exam paperwork and preparing my curriculum for the year.
What really concerned me was my sneaking suspicion that Neville Longbottom's parents were just as much in need of a jailbreak as Sirius Black. If a Death Eater ran the Thickey Ward, it's entirely too plausible that they used the Cruciatus damage as an excuse to keep them locked up, unable to fight the Blood Purist movement either by wand or Wizengamot vote. And if magical hospitals bore any resemblance to the non-magical ones I'd seen, the Longbottoms were probably paying through the nose just for the privilege of being held hostage here.
But all this was speculation. "Data, data, data!" I smiled fondly even as I spoke the words of that beloved character. "I cannot make bricks without clay!"
Perhaps that was the solution for this latest impasse. Suppose I were to put on the cape, to play the amateur detective and uncover the crime.
I rose and called my elf, first for breakfast, then for my favorite forget-me-not blue robes. Eating with care and curling my hair with my wand – so hard to look your best without magic – I prepared for what lay ahead.
I hesitated as I rose and departed my room, briefly torn by self-doubt. Was I really ready for this, was it really worth the risk? I didn't even have my magic. But then I thought again of the Longbottoms, and knew this was the right path. And really, what could go wrong? It's me!
I stopped outside the well-warded doors of the Thickey Ward and knocked – once, twice, thrice.
A half-minute later the door cracked open. "Yes, who is it?" It was a woman's voice, kind but timorous.
"It is I, Gilderoy Lockhart!"
"Oh? And?"
I smiled charmingly. "I would like to visit with some of the patients, if at all possible."
"I'm sorry, visiting hours are posted in the reception area on the ground floor." The voice responded firmly. "It's wonderful you're here – most of our patients don't receive many visitors – but we have to be strict about such things."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. It's challenging enough keeping tabs on all our patients, especially since some of them can't take care of themselves. It'd be quite impossible if we had an open-door policy for visitors. Too impractical."
"Even if I only wanted to pay my respects?"
"Even then."
"I promise I would be no burden whatsoever."
"Sorry, but it's not an option."
"What is your name?"
"I am Healer Miriam Strout." If her voice had a backbone, it would have straightened.
"Ms. Strout—"
"Healer Strout."
"I'm sorry: Healer Strout. As you know I was recently selected to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for the upcoming year at Hogwarts."
"Yes, I heard, my sincere congratulations."
"Well, earlier this week I found myself recovering in a neighboring ward, after I over-exerted myself in preparing for the classes I must teach."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Lockhart, but I must ask what—"
"Even now on my sick-bed, my time is consumed with curriculum and class-planning. Now that I have a brief moment to myself, I realized where I was, and thought to pay my respects to two of the heroes of the last war, whose example in defending against the dark arts inspired me and I hope will inspire my students."
"Yes, very nice, but what is your point?"
"Only this, Madam; that surely you would not begrudge me a few brief moments to honor my fondest heroes? Surely it could not be such an inconvenience?"
Strout spoke even more firmly then before. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lockhart, but it is not possible. Now, if you're quite finished, I have patients to be caring for." And she went to close the door.
I jammed my foot in the space by the doorpost. "Please, Healer Strout."
"Mr. Lockhart."
"Really, you will hardly even notice I was there."
"Mr. Lockhart."
"If you want, I'll sign anything you want, to show my sincere gratitude for your help."
She said nothing, but her stern expression seemed to waver, and for a moment the pressure of the door on my foot relented.
I pushed the door inward, a second before she came to her senses. "Mr. Lockhart!" But I was already within the Ward, striding confidently toward the rear. The matronly Healer trailed after me, protesting impotently. "Visitors are only permitted 10 to noon weekends. Hours are posted in the ground floor. I tell you, Mr. Lockhart, you cannot be here!"
I continued apace, noting as I passed the bedridden patients along both walls of the Ward, arranged as if to display their medical oddities. There was a curtained area in the back of the Ward, and I wagered that would be where I'd find Frank and Alice Longbottom.
"Mr. Lockhart!" I distantly heard from behind me.
"Ah. And here we are." I paused briefly outside the curtain before roughly thrusting it aside.
And for a moment, the world paused.
A man was sitting off to the side – Frank Longbottom, no doubt. His head was turned that our eyes could meet, and I saw his face was stained with the tracks of freely-fallen tears.
A short distance away, a woman lay prone on a table, arms and legs extended as if by invisible chains. Beside her was an array of metal implements. No doubt most had some medical purpose or other, but the immediate impression was of a torture chamber.
Alice Longbottom sobbed, and time resumed.
"Help-uh!" Frank Longbottom cried, "Please hell!"
And from behind me came the word that spelled my doom. "Immobulus."
My limbs seized. I teetered. I fell. And from above, through the haze of pain from my now-bloodied nose, I heard the same stern but kindly voice. "Now you've gone and made a mess of things." Something buzzed, and she spoke again. "Healer Rowle to the Thickey Ward, Healer Rowle to Thickey. All right, Mr. Lockhart, you got your wish, you'll have a moment to enjoy with your heroes. But as I was telling you earlier, you can't be a visitor, if you don't come during visiting hours. But if you're here, and not a visitor, that means – oh! That makes you our newest resident." And then she left, with an almost audible smirk, her footsteps fading in the distance behind me.
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could barely breath – my mouth wouldn't open and my nose felt broken. I could move my eyes, but from my position, I could only see legs – of the table, of the chair, of the man.
"You named – Lockbart?" Mr. Longbottom spoke.
I don't know how he expected me to respond.
After a moment he continued with the same odd cadence, words twisted through the haze of mental damage. "Prank. My name. Wife-love Alice." And then he spoke again, and as if to prove only a single thought could penetrate the trauma they had long been suffering, these words were clean and precise. "You're going to die here, you know."
Eternities passed.
At last I heard the door open. "Hello." It was a man's voice, almost bored-sounding. "Mobilicorpus." My unresponsive limbs were jerked up and I was lifted over to a table that was even then assembling itself. "Distendo." I'd have cried out if I could have drawn the breath, as my limbs were stretched to their breaking point. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, Mr. Lockhart, but later today you're going to collapse of something incurable and will have to be remanded to our care. Now, let's figure out what that something will be." He pried my lips apart and poured a tasteless liquid down my throat. My mind entered a haze, and I almost cried in relief now that I no longer felt every pang and protest from my abused muscles. I tried to defend myself, to order my mind, but the magic did not respond to me, no matter how urgently I pled.
Soon, far too soon, the interrogation was over, and I returned to my senses and to the still-present pain.
The male voice was speaking. "—fortunate he hadn't shared his conclusions with anyone else."
"With that many oaths, do you think one of them might have to do with us?"
"No, he wouldn't have been able to speak as freely in that case. It was a lucky guess, that was all. And it was quite charitable of him to place himself in our power before he could do anything with it."
"Should we change our visiting policy, do you think?"
"No, we don't want to admit too many residents. Though if anyone is particularly insistent on visiting…"
"Then I suppose we could make an exception. So what story will we tell for this one?"
"He mentioned he was recently targeted by a love potion and took up Occlumency to defend himself. I don't recall there being a case where someone with magical exhaustion tried dive into their own minds, and unique cases are our specialty. Shouldn't be any trouble at all to get him admitted. Just a matter of keeping him quiet until then. Imperio!"
I awoke in a pile of paper and puddle of drool. Someone was shaking my shoulder. "What happened, what happened?"
I looked. My neck protested. It was a woman. I thought I recognized her. "Who are –" oh, my head.
Speaking hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt. I couldn't focus. The woman was saying something. How did I get here? She pulled on my arm, and I looked at her hand. What was it doing?
The woman left. I stayed. What happened? Time passed. The woman returned. A man was with her. The man spoke. I didn't remember what he asked. I looked at his lips as they moved.
"What is your name?"
The words echoed dully in my mind. Thinking hurt, but at least now I could remember the question. "I –" Thinking hurt, but I didn't know the answer anyway. I looked up helplessly. I think they understood. A hand pushed me down. I sat. The bed was beneath me. The man and woman spoke. I think they were talking to each other. I hoped they weren't talking to me.
Soon another person came in, and another. More questions. I rested. More talking. Listening hurt. Then I started moving, though my legs were still. Was I even touching the floor? I looked down. I couldn't tell. A door opened. I heard a kind voice speaking. I trusted the voice.
I was brought to another bed. This one was softer than the first one. The kind voice was asking me something. I knew how to answer. "Mind. Empty?" Speaking didn't hurt this time. I smiled. The kind voice spoke to the others. Time passed. This bed was soft. The others left. The kind voice returned.
"Very good, Mr. Lockhart. Somnus."
"Welcome back, Mr. Lockhart. Remember us?"
Oh God.
I was going to die here.
It only took a week for me to learn the most important rules. Don't speak to outsiders. Don't speak to other patients. Don't speak unless asked a direct question by the Ward staff. Just… don't speak. Or bad things would happen.
Talking hurt.
But nothing kept me from listening. There were only a few permanent residents on the Ward, and I learned what I could. Across from me was a woman whose upper body was entirely covered in fur. The name on her bed said 'Agnes,' but I knew that wasn't the case. The Healers were not shy about taunting any of us, but they were particularly vicious to her, saying that her friends and family would never learn what had happened to her. And they were right: her features were concealed beneath the fur, and she could only communicate by barking. For her, as for the rest of us, there was no escape.
Why had I done it? What prompted me to enter the Ward alone and without support, without telling anyone where I was going? In a moment of clarity I noticed the date on the Daily Prophet on Healer Strout's desk. It was already mid-November.
I should have recovered my magic by now, though my wand was still locked away somewhere. I settled into the bed and dove into my mind. It was shredded, almost as badly as I imagined the Longbottom's had been when they were first committed. But I could read the pieces of my mind as readily as a detective could read blood spatter on cement.
I had forgotten. That moment one night, after meeting Father Dewi, I had forgotten that my memory's and Lockhart's were integrating. Without my magic, I had been powerless to keep the two personalities apart, or to keep myself from being influenced by Lockhart's less helpful instincts – like the desire to go it alone, to secure the glory for himself, and above all to think himself more competent than he actually was.
And now I was trapped.
But still… if ever I had a chance to escape, better for my mind to be my own.
I got to work.
The ward was full of visitors. I smiled blankly. I thought I recognized one of them. I wasn't sure.
"Here you are, Agnes: a letter for you." The kind voice spoke brightly. "See, not forgotten, are you? And your son's sent an owl to say he's visiting tonight, so that's nice, isn't it?"
Agnes barked in response.
I was confused. Agnes didn't have family, did she? At least, none that knew she was here, right?
Oh.
The Ward was filled with the sound of barks, growls, whimpers and yips. Only the last two came from Agnes. Healer Strout had brought in a wolf-hound, riled it up, cast a spell that did something to Agnes to make the animal snarl even more menacingly, and locked the two of them in the curtained room together.
Now a grim smile played over her features as she sat at her desk. The only sounds that echoed down the wards were those of her softly shuffled papers, and Agnes' cries of torment.
I was going to die here.
During my rare moments of clarity I worked on my Occlumency. It didn't totally counter either of the drugs they used – the one for weekdays to keep us pliant or the one for visiting hours to keep us numb. But over time I could sense some minor improvement, my mind beginning to penetrate the ever-present haze. Then the moment was gone and before I knew it, I was being dosed again.
Time passed.
By the time I had improved my Occlumency enough to concentrate on anything other than improving my concentration, the Triwizard Tournament had come and gone. I didn't pay the news much attention, but it had been in the headlines for a while. My true focus lay with more important matters. I wanted to live, damn it, and thanks to my mental discipline I had the beginnings of a plan.
I'd taken to picking at my sheets with my fingers, just an odd quirk if you weren't looking carefully. The frayed edges were meant to give me cover for something else entirely.
The Healer's knew when we spoke, probably some sort of customized alarm wards. So the only way I'd get practice is by not speaking.
I pointed my finger at the sheet. Diffindo, I thought. Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo.
Then came the drugs.
…Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo...
After a few such sessions, I thought to spend my time of clarity checking on my Occlumency. I was appalled to find it had deteriorated. Not entirely, but enough to be noticeable, enough to have an impact. I set to work bringing it back up to standard.
"No, no, no, please, don't, stop, it hurts, don't, stop, you're hurting me, stop, PLEASE!"
These days I alternated: two sessions of wandless magic, one session of Occlumency, then one of each before repeating the sequence again. I didn't know what to expect or how to train in wandless magic, so there was a long time with nothing to show for it but finger-frayed sheets.
The Healers would never know how proud I was the first time they had to dispose of one of my sheets that hadn't been frayed by hand. My wandless skills were still weak, too weak to even sever a single string, but it was better than nothing.
Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo. Diffindo.
The first time I severed a piece of fabric, I almost spoiled my whole plan by whooping with joy. I caught myself first, and quickly calmed myself down, hasty fingers shredding what I'd cut even as I tried to calm my racing heart.
I was not going to die here.
Healer Rowle had been gone for many years, and St. Mungo's hadn't found a permanent replacement – Strout always found some excuse or other to dismiss them as unsatisfactory. That meant that she was the only one in the Ward that evening.
When clarity came, I checked my mind, focused on the plan, and silently practiced on the sheet. I only needed the once to confirm that everything was in order.
Then I arose and shambled across the Ward, hand loosely grasping a cup. I'd done this a few times over the years, and I knew it shouldn't raise her suspicion.
I lifted the cup as I approached the desk.
Strout spoke in the same kindly voice as she'd ever had. "You want some water, then? Fine. I suppose it's time for your medicine anyway."
She moved around the desk, wand already in motion as she summoned the cups and vials from various beds around the ward. "Aguamenti," she cast, and handed me the cup once it had filled.
I drained it with relish.
"That better? Now let's get your medicine." She turned to get it from her desk.
I licked my lips. Now or never.
I raised my hand to touch her shoulder, and she spun, face stern. "No touching, Mr. Lockhart. You know better than to break one of the rules. I'm going to have to punish— Mr. Lockhart!"
But it was too late. Her wand was sent clattering to the floor as I spun my left arm to strike her right one. My muscles felt weak, and I hadn't tried to move quickly in years, but it was still enough to catch her off guard. I closed in, raising my hand toward her throat.
"What are you doing?" She shrieked as she backed up into her desk. "Mr. Lockhart, you can't—"
I cut her off, interrupting her with the first words I'd spoken aloud in years. "Diffindo," I croaked.
After so much practice on the same wordless, wandless spell, speaking the incantation aloud meant the curse came out severely overpowered. At first it only looked like a papercut, a thin red line across her throat. Then something spurted — her eyes widened — blood gushed from her neck. She collapsed, striking her head on the desk and nearly separating it from her body entirely.
Nearly-Headless Nick would have some company after all.
Blood pooled at my feet. I numbly stepped away, this final numbness not due to potions. I'd never killed anyone before, never even seen someone die. Now someone had been beheaded not two feet in front of me, and it was my hands that had done it.
I didn't exactly regret it, but still.
My feet moved automatically; I stopped in front of a mirror. My face, hands, clothes – everything was spattered with blood. I grabbed a towel and wiped it once across my face. It felt good, so I did it again, and again, and again. I scrubbed with more friction, feeling as though I could wipe away the experiences of my years in this hellish Ward.
Finally I stopped, and stared at the person I saw in the mirror. My hands rose to touch my face. I was old, so old, my face lined and my hair sparse. I tore off my bloodied clothes, finding another hospital robe without the stains. I looked and saw Strout's wand where it had rolled. I pointed my hand. I hadn't tried this spell before, so who knows if it'll work. "Accio," I said, voice cracking, willing it to my hand. It rolled toward me. Close, but not enough. "Accio!" It flew to my hand.
It was a poor fit, no surprise, but in that moment I felt a stronger connection to my magic than I'd felt in years. I moved over to the desk, ignoring the corpse in front of it. "Aloha. Mora." Despite the broken incantation, it was still enough to unlock the first drawer. I grabbed a cup. "Aguamenti." I drained it dry. "Aguamenti." I drained that one too. Finally, my mouth was not so dry as to keep me from speaking. I unlocked the remaining drawers.
At last. I spotted my wand and pulled it out, my magic singing as I grasped it. They'd stored it with the other 'unsafe' personal materials in the drawer. I pulled out the rest, then the files.
By the time the other residents of the Ward had begun to regain awareness I had found the papers I'd been searching for. I strode toward the bed of 'Agnes,' the eyes of the others in the Ward now following my every move, their silence deafening.
I sat beside the fur-covered woman and, for the first time, spoke to her. "Your name—" My voice broke, so I began again. "Your name is Catherine MacMillen. You were born on March 29th, 1961. Is this correct?" She nodded and her eyes began to water. "You were admitted to St. Mungo's in December 1981 under the name 'Agnes,' supposedly after you mixed and consumed a batch of Polyjuice with certain other illegal potions. This is a lie. Your file states that you were attacked by a band of Death Eaters looking to revenge their Lord. One of the curses struck you as you were escaping in your animagus state. You survived, but couldn't get out of your animal form, and so came here for treatment. But the Death Eaters were waiting, and had bribed the intake nurse to bring you here. They couldn't kill you without revealing your true identity and bringing public scrutiny on this place, but it was easy enough to keep you locked away. They did have to keep you alive, which means they fixed the curse and reversed the animagus transformation shortly after you were admitted. If you discount the drugs, which are even now being flushed from your system, your only real ailment will be an overpowered human-to-animal transfiguration and a slightly modified babbling charm. If you'd like, I can fix those for you now."
She nodded frantically. I coughed – my throat was already dry again, but that wouldn't interfere with what I needed to do. "Finite Incantatem," I fixed my mind on removing the charm that had for so long converted her words into barking, then turned to the transfiguration. I summoned as firm an intention as I dared. "Homorphus."
Within moments it took affect, some of the fur receding into her skin, other parts falling off in clumps, still more vanishing entirely. Her cheeks – now pink, recognizably human cheeks – were already stained with tears. "Thank you," her voice was so weak it barely qualified as a whisper. She lunged at me and my arms went around her, but we were both too frail to maintain anything but the weakest grip. "Thank you. Thank you. My God. Thank you."
"Can you stand?"
She tried, but stumbled before she could lift herself off the bed. She shook her head. "I can't, I— how long has it been? What year is it?"
I paused for a second – I hadn't thought to check – then called out. "Accio Prophet." A number of newspapers came flying at me, including one from beside my bed. I grabbed that one as the others landed in a pile nearby. The pages were already turning yellow, and I knew this was many years old. "LOCKHART'S LAST INTERVIEW" blared the headline, and I turned away at the sight of my much younger self. I pointed my wand again. "Accio yesterday's Prophet." One paper flew at me from the pile.
I smoothed it on the bed, searching for the date. Then I found it, and read aloud: "August 18th… 2011." I calculated in my head. She was admitted in 1981, so… oh God. "30 years; you've been here 30 years."
She trembled, her shoulders shaking at the immensity of it all, but she soldiered on. "And you – how long has it been for you?"
More mental calculation. I had been preparing to teach at Hogwarts, so that was 1992, which means…
Oh. Oh no, no, you can't be serious, you can't be bloody serious, that's not—
I shook my head and looked at her, the former fire in my eyes now quite dim. "It's been almost 20 years. No, that's not right. It's been 19 years – 19 years exactly. 19 bloody years, to the bloody day!"
"I don't understand." Her voice was filled with concern, as well it might, for I was ranting quite insanely.
"No, it's nothing. It's bloody nothing. It's just some sick joke, by some sick bastard sitting somewhere in the universe looking for ways to make my life hell." I shook my head. "19 bloody years later, of course it was. And all was bloody well."
THE END
A/N: And as I warned you from the beginning...
HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY
Damn that was depressing to write. I wrote it mostly on a whim – I hadn't played a prank or practical joke for at least a decade, so I considered it long overdue. My other (more considered) reason was to explore an aspect of self-insert fics that most people don't consider: namely, just how incredibly delicate it can be, to make changes without too soon running afoul of forces too powerful to oppose. That's especially true of the Harry Potter universe, where horrors are practically a dime a dozen. Once you widen your gaze beyond Rowling's self-imposed myopia, it's easy to see how a single misstep in this world can truly ruin everything.
Naturally, it was only after posting this as a prank chapter that I considered (and several reviewers argued for) using the set-up for part of the real story-line. It would certainly fit with Lockhart's personality meshing issues, and it would skip over the month-long 'no magic' period that will be a bear to work around. It would also provide an instant ramp-up for Lockhart's efforts to reform wizarding society. Unfortunately, doing so would mean I'd miss out on a number of plot elements I'd already counted on and outlined since the beginning of the fic. So, while there will be elements here that I'll recycle in the real story, you'll have to be content with this glimpse of what might have been.
My thanks to Preier (id:2836130) for beta-reading.