Darkness. Everywhere was darkness… and as Hermione had been yanked into the hillside and thrown forcefully onto stone, there was also pain. Shards of something littered the ground around and beneath her, some of it sharp, and some of it lumpy - all of it hard. As she lay there, winded by the impact, a piece of whatever-it-was crunched under her, digging painfully into her spine.

With a groan, she forced herself to sit upright. Her head hurt, and she had choked on a good bit of her hair, which had ended up in her mouth when she had screamed. Body aching, she pushed her hair from her face, only to realize that her hand had left a bloodied path where it touched. Readjusting, she staunched the flow of blood from her cut hand by pressing it against her sweatshirt; it was all she could manage while still trying to catch her breath. Meanwhile, the scattered objects on the floor clacked with her movement.

Light. I need light.

She reached for her wand, but discovered it missing. A feeling of dread swooped low into her stomach. Feeling grim at the loss of this essential tool, she closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain all over her body, and called on her inner vestiges of magic. "Lumos."

A ball of light stuttered into existence over her head, casting odd shadows around the area. After a brief moment, wherein she took in her surroundings - she screamed.

The floor was littered with bones. Human-looking bones.

With horror, she lifted her uninjured hand from the stone floor, where it had rested beside a fractured jawbone. She scrambled to her feet; not an easy task, as she nearly lost her balance when she accidentally slipped on a broken femur by her foot. Finding her bearing, she took deep steadying breaths, her sore body screaming resistance at her movement.

Trying to get a grip on herself, she murmured, "They're just bones. They can't hurt you…"

But there certainly were a lot of them… and she suspected they had not got there without cause. A troubling thought.

Steeling her nerves, she squinted down at her injured hand where she still had it pressed against her sweatshirt. It was leaving a crimson stain several inches long, and had not stopped bleeding. She glanced upward at the meager ball of light she had created. Having never become fully used to wandless magic, she quickly deemed it unlikely that she would be able to maintain both the light and a healing spell. Especially not in her present, injured state.

Creakily, she began to move around the small chamber, examining it to try finding an answer as to where she might be. After a few minutes of sleuthing, she froze when she thought she saw a familiar sight. Squinting through the pale light, she peered into a gaping ribcage that rested against the dirt wall.

"Oh, thank Merlin…" she gasped, sagging with relief as she extracted her wand from its gruesome container.

Releasing her wandless magic, she plunged the room briefly back into darkness before casting a lumos through her wand instead. The light was stronger this way, and maintaining the beam used less of her energy... energy she suspected she would need to get herself out of this place.

But where was she, exactly? On the interior of the hillside she had been studying, obviously... but what was this place?

It appeared to be an antechamber of sorts, because the room was bare of anything but for the collection of skeletons on the ground. She studied these a moment: there were probably about ten, and most were leaned up against the walls, as if the person they had once been, had died sitting there. The two she had toppled onto at her entry were mostly broken into pieces, at least in part because she had crushed them; these had been resting in the center of the room.

If they were flung in with as much force as I was, maybe that was what killed them…

She was suddenly grateful they had been there to break her fall, even if her hand was bleeding because of it. Without further ado, she cleansed and healed the gash as best she could, wiping the excess blood onto her jeans.

The most gruesome of the skeletons was one that appeared to have sprouted an additional head, its mouths wide open as if in surprise. It was sitting by the only opening that led out of the antechamber. Hermione paced slowly toward it, not in a hurry to experience the same dreadful fate as the late sufferer by the doorway.

Perhaps… perhaps passing through this arched way is how the skeleton came to have an additional head… Unconsciously, she rubbed at her aching neck, as if to be sure she, too, had not sprouted any additional appendages.

She was distracted by a silvery light that entered from the dirt wall to her left. Though her wand was raised at the intrusion in an instant, she nearly cried out with relief when she recognized Bill's patronus, which took the form of a peregrine falcon.

In that steady, reassuring voice of his, the falcon spoke, "Hermione, are you alright? Are you hurt? Is there danger? If you receive this message, we are seeking help."

The patronus disappeared once its message was conveyed. She wished it could have stayed; even this false presence of Bill had been heartening.

Not wanting her colleagues to worry, she immediately cast her own patronus to respond. "Expecto patronum."

Her little field mouse appeared, and though she was grateful that her magic had not been dampened (it was not difficult to recall a dryad temple they had studied two years ago, where magic had barely worked at all), Hermione missed her otter. Especially now. It had been playful and strong, and she had loved watching it twist through the air. There was nothing wrong with a field mouse, she supposed: despite their small size, their senses were sharp and they had speed on their side. It was more that her patronus had changed at all, that made her resentful. But that had happened over three years ago now, and she had begun to get used to the change.

If only…

No. Now was not the time to dwell.

She took a deep breath. "I'm okay," she spoke into the tip of her lightly-glowing wand. "I'm in an antechamber of some sort, with skeletons - one of them seems to have been cursed, as it has two heads. There's a pathway that leads out of the room, which appears to be the only way in or out." The silvery field mouse swiftly scurried through the dirt wall with her message.

Barely a minute later, in trotted Oona's Irish wolfhound patronus with another message, spoken in her clipped, no-nonsense tone: "Hold tight and don't panic. Finnegan is translating your Irish. We are trying to find a way to get you out of there."

Hermione experienced a pang of jealousy for a moment that the runic inscriptions she had been slaving over for the past five days were now being translated without her. Still, she supposed that on the flip side, she was now the one inside the tomb-or-temple instead of Bill or Oona. Perhaps it was only fair. Not that there was anything noteworthy here, except that two-headed skeleton by the door...

Trying to keep herself occupied, she paced the room, respectfully stepping over the skeletons wherever she encountered their scattered remains. It was cold in there; she pulled her bloodied sweatshirt's sleeves down and hugged herself a bit. The walls and ceiling were made of the same dirt of the hillside, but the floor was stone - a kind of slate, or so it looked like.

When she came to the archway leading from the chamber, her wandlight shone into the passageway. It looked to be more of the same surroundings, though it shortly appeared to split off into two directions. The air, she noticed, smelled less stagnant through there than the room she was in - though it also smelled old.

Bill said his echolocation spells hinted at an underground labyrinth, she recalled with curiosity.

Squinting into the diminishing light in the distance, she tried to angle her lumos so that she could see as far down the path as possible without leaving the antechamber. She must have reached further than she thought, because she stepped back in surprise when two torches flamed into illumination on the pathway.

Peering intently down the beckoning torchlight passage, Hermione's curiosity began to get the better of her. Her gaze flickered to the two-headed skeleton for a moment before swiveling back to the tunnel beyond. Wishing there was someone else with her, even just to keep her company, she turned her full attention to the point of entry and began casting basic diagnostic spells.

The first spell gave her no feedback.

She cast another: nothing. A third revealed nothing either.

Casting a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth, she continued to receive no concerning responses from any of her spells. In fact, the only response she got at all, were traces of the same sort of Dark magic that had emanated in waves from the tree on the hilltop. While that might once have concerned her teenaged self, the intervening years had taught her that while it was prudent to be wary of Dark magic, it was not necessarily to be inherently distrusted.

When still more diagnostics came up relatively clean, she cast a long look down the passageway. Compared to the dark and heavy antechamber laden with human remains, it looked practically inviting with its flickering torches. She knew the spells she had cast would not cover every sort of curse she might encounter here - there was still a risk. Nonetheless, she made the decision to chance it.

With a bit of dark humor lacing her voice, she turned to the two-headed skeleton and said, "Maybe I'll be joining you in a bit."

She stepped into the narrow tunnel, wand at the ready. The torches only continued to dance lazily, but the weight of the air she breathed in seemed immediately lighter. Shoulders relaxing, she was reassured with the thought that she had not tripped a curse.

Yet, she mentally corrected herself.

It took her awhile to make her way to the fork in the passage, given that she came to a halt every few steps to cast more diagnostic spells; the added fact that her body still ached from her initial fall, only slowed her more. When she finally came to the break, she peered first down the left way, then the right. The moment she stuck her head into the latter's territory, more torches kindled to light her path. A short distance away, there appeared to be an entryway into another chamber.

Suspicious. Do I take the way it wants me to go, possibly leading me into a trap? Or do I go the opposite way and feasibly risk the displeasure of whatever the magic wants me to do?

Just to be sure, she stuck her arm into the left-hand passage. There was no light there to welcome her, and from her experience with curse-breaking, that was generally not a good thing. How many times had Bill told her to account for what she could see? The magic of this place clearly did not want her to see something off to the left...

Right it is.

She was about to continue when a recollection of her curse-breaking safety training from years ago, dampened her reckless curiosity: communication is key. She called back her little field mouse with a message for Bill and Oona: "I'm moving out of the first chamber. There's a passage leading away from it, which forks. I've taken the right-hand passage. There appears to be a second chamber up ahead, so I'm going to investigate."

She started down the way; more torches flickered awake, further down. Some time and several more diagnostic spells later, she finally came to the chamber's entrance. Her arm ached from holding her wand aloft for so lengthy a period, so that it was nearly a relief when she reached the arch. It was just tall enough for her to not have to duck, trimmed all around with what appeared to be pewter carved with symbols that meant nothing to her.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but she cast every diagnostic spell she knew of, twice.

It was dark inside: a gaping blackness like the one that had sucked her in, in the first place. Swallowing heavily, she turned her wandlight into it… and like they had in the passages leading there, more torches lit all around the vast room.

Her mouth fell open in wonder; even so, she could not stifle the sharp intake of breath at what met her eyes.

The room was large enough that it probably could have fit the entire Leaky Cauldron inside. Its focal point was the center of the chamber, where a stone slab was laden with a woven cloth, its granite corners peeking out beneath the fabric. The walls, floor, and ceiling were sprawling with intricate carvings.

"It's an altar room," she breathed aloud.

Slowly, she moved closer to inspect an arrangement of large, brass bells like one might have found in a church belfry, which were arranged in a semi-circle on one side of the center altar's dais. There were twenty-six of them, the largest nearly the size of a cauldron, to the smallest, which was no bigger than her thumb.

Still periodically checking for hexes, Hermione only confirmed that she had been at the front of the altar when she moved to the side to find two steps up to the dais. Peering at the back, she noticed that one end featured an enormous cauldron, while the other had a long, wooden chest about the size of her old Hogwarts trunk.

Despite everything - being trapped, sore from her fall, and alone in a potentially dangerous place - the part of her that thrilled from exploration was exulting in the potential of her discovery. This was followed shortly by a spike of guilt; she knew her colleagues on the outside must be worrying about her.

Feeling somehow both giddy and resolute, she paused to send another patronus, "You aren't going to believe what I've found in here."

The simple truth was, this was a fantastic magical discovery... the likes of which had probably never been discovered in Ireland before - or, indeed, on the isles at all.

Oona's wolfhound appeared a minute later, and in a terse, restrained voice, only admonished, "Don't tease, Granger."

Hermione smiled, despite her circumstances.

"I've found an altar room," she sent back with another patronus. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before… and beautifully preserved."

It was probably like nothing Oona, herself, had ever seen before either, she privately thought - even with all her decades of experience. Though, on the other hand, if a woman of Oona's age had been thrown against the bone-laden stonework like Hermione had been earlier, she might not have survived. Despite her indomitable spirit, the witch was pushing 100...

Instead of a response from either Oona or Bill however, a silvery fox trotted next into the altar room toward her. It took her a second to place it, until she recalled from her time in Dumbledore's Army all those years ago, that Seamus's patronus was a fox. How lucky for him not to have changed so drastically at his core. She could not help the tang of bitterness that colored her thoughts.

The fox paced around her a moment, just like a real one might have if it had happened upon her in the wild, before speaking in that familiar lilt, "I've translated your Irish... at least the stuff you got to. The whole first bit says: An Teaghlach Uí Dhuibh - is uasal agus ársa - féadfaidh siad siúl go saor anseo." After a pause, the fox continued, "What that roughly translates to is: the House of Black - most noble and ancient - they may walk freely here."

Hermione's mouth had barely formed into an O of surprise, when Bill's peregrine flapped into the room just as the silver fox dissipated, "If this is an ancient altar belonging to the Black family, and the magic allows them to walk freely here, it is likely this means that a member of the Black family has to be the one to get you out."

A jagged shard of fear pierced Hermione's heart, leaving a hyperventilating hole in its wake. The Black family had once been one of the largest pureblood clans in England, but had since diminished. There were not many heirs left to its legacy - only a select few. One person in particular sprang into mind, but she had not seen him since…

No. She firmly put him back into the furthest compartment of her mind, where she kept most of her unpleasant truths in deep storage.

Forcing herself to think of other things, she reviewed what she knew pertained to this new information. Long-since dead, Sirius had been the last heir of the House of Black, leaving none of that name in existence any longer. It was a stark fact, and she had never felt more mouse-like than when she next summoned her patronus. "But, the Blacks - they're extinct."

She experienced a brief mental struggle over what she hoped the answer to her predicament might be. Her self-preservation warred with her always-latent fear of having to delve through the recent past. It seemed to take an eternity for either of her colleagues' patronuses to return with a message, though it probably had not been longer than usual.

"I have Black blood through my mother's side," Bill's peregrin informed her when next it appeared. "There are other descendants of the family also, even if they don't carry the surname. We're thinking it should be enough."

Silence followed. Hermione knew Bill well from her years of working alongside him - so it was not difficult to detect the uncertainty in his voice when the patronus had repeated that he thought it would be enough. Her lowly simmering disquietude began to form into full-on dread.

"I could be stuck here forever." Saying it aloud made it real, and therefore, easier to accept. Mentally however, her morbidly logical side corrected, I could be stuck here until I starve to death.

She thought back to the collection of skeletons in the first antechamber she had been in, and could not suppress a shudder. Trying to remain optimistic, she searched her sweatshirt's deep pockets and came up with a squashed granola bar. At least that was something - she was quite hungry by this point - but she still had no water. Perhaps eating it would only make her thirst worse.

Stuffing it back into her pocket, she decided to wait, just in case it had to sustain her for a few days. With a dry sniff, she resumed her initial task of casting diagnostic spells onto the dais before she stepped onto it, intent on distracting herself by examining the objects sitting on top of the altar.

Many of the traditional tools for witchcraft were artfully arranged on top. Hermione was not foolish enough to touch anything, especially with the two-headed skeleton still occupying her thoughts. There was an enormous bowl of what appeared to be salt chips, along with two chalices, a dagger inset with emeralds and pearls, and a set of runes that appeared to be made of bone. At the center of the table was a crystal ball, surrounded by amethyst points. Interspersed throughout, were more crystals, shells, and even a few long feathers. None of it looked as if it had been touched recently, but a lack of dust or spiderwebs had her already thinking about stasis spells and how long one could be maintained.

She took careful note of everything, wishing she had a journal with her to begin making a report. It would have made it seem like it was normal for her to be there - like she were merely in a museum, or at an archaeological dig site, and not like her life depended on the interpretation of an ancient magic.

As she approached the long, wooden chest by the side of the altar, the lid flung open. Her wand was at the ready with a protego, but this was apparently unnecessary. Nothing else had happened.

Releasing the shield spell, she hovered over the chest to peer at its contents from a safe distance. Inside, she discovered a wooden compass marked with runes instead of directions, plus some dried herbs and stoppered containers that appeared to hold potions.

There has to be a preservative spell on them, just like the room, she decided, thinking the herbs looked awfully fresh for something that should have disintegrated into dust centuries ago. But how is the spell maintained?

She glanced around again, as if the source might obligingly reveal itself, but nothing happened. Turning back to look into the chest, her eyes were drawn to a deck of tarot cards that appeared to be made of a strange material. Squinting suspiciously at them, she took in the stitching on the sides, which pulled at the material in a strange, but vaguely familiar way. Almost like that time Dad was bitten by one of his patients and had to get stitches in his hand… She immediately recoiled.

Bill's peregrine flapped back into the room, "Seamus has finished the rest of your translations. It looks like Oona was right: the moon is important. As far as we can tell, you can only leave this place when moonlight is shining on the entrance, and in the company of a blood relative of the Black family."

Hermione quickly ran through her memory banks, calculating what cycle of the moon they were currently in. If the full was last week… she sighed with relief, at least that means it isn't a new.

Her stomach rumbled, echoing ominously in the altar room. Somehow, this only seemed to exacerbate her bodily soreness from that initial fall. She wished there was time to rest, but she had no idea what time it even was, given how dark it was underground.

"Tempus," she cast, checking the time. Nightfall should be any minute now...

Unable to muster either optimism or enthusiasm, she retreated to one of the corners of the room, where she sat on the cold stone floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. Allowing her head to fall back against the carved stone wall, she opted to take a few minutes to rest, and simply stared at the ornate wall opposite her. It was not a particularly productive use of her time, just waiting for something to happen, but the aching of her body made it feel necessary.

Hours passed. She had not moved, feeling more and more like a wraith in the darkness the longer she sat there. Once, she nearly got up to try exploring again, but her heart simply was not into it. Occasionally, Hermione would receive a patronus from Bill or Oona - and even another time, from Seamus - updating her on their progress, but with no conclusions.

Eventually, it was conceded by the aboveground crew that whatever Bill was doing to get inside was either not correct, or that he was not a close enough blood relative to the House of Black, being two generations removed.

"Weasley has gone to fetch an up-to-date Black family tree from the Ministry," Oona's next patronus told her. "Our department is aware of the situation and are doing what they can to help, but seeing as they'd normally have sent the three of us to a situation like this in the first place, they're overconfident we'll find the answer." There was a pause, where Oona sighed. Hermione thought the older woman sounded tired, and wondered what the hour was now. She was, however, so exhausted from casting numerous patronuses, that she could not muster enough energy to cast another tempus. "Meantime, Finnegan's got a plan…"

Seamus's silvery fox danced into the chamber, where Hermione was still huddled against the wall, feeling just a little bit dizzy, but attempting to remain vigilant. Nothing bad had happened to her so far - beyond getting sucked into there in the first place. But you could not be too careful.

"Have you got anything there to write with, Hermione?" Seamus was asking. "Your translations stop with only a phrase left. I'm going to give you the runes verbally and hope you can translate them back. Maybe that's the key…"

Hermione scanned the area. The altar room was filled with many things, but none of them were writing instruments. Even if she had felt inclined to sharpen down one of the feathers on the altartop - and she didn't, lest it trigger an unfavorable event - she had nothing to use as ink and nothing to write on…

Her memory flicked momentarily back to fifth year when Dolores Umbridge had forced Harry to use a blood quill during his detentions with her. She was just thinking that something like that would be handy to have now, when she paused, horrified at her own train of thought.

It's stress, she tried to reason. You're just stressed. It's put off your perspective.

But the idea had shaken her, no matter how she tried to justify it. She had been trapped for only a handful of hours - if they could not get her out now and had to wait until the following night's moon to attempt again, what sort of state would she be in by then?

Focus.

She could not simply conjure a quill and ink from nothing, she knew… and while there was the scrivenus charm that would allow her to write letters in the air, it faded relatively quickly. If she were going to be doing runic translations, she would need far longer than they would last, especially if she would then have to attempt reading Irish back to Seamus.

It would have to be transfiguration.

Hermione was loath to transfigure her granola bar into parchment; it was the only food she had in there. Unluckily, she had worn no jewelry that day - which left only her hair tie, and articles of her clothing. She did not want to sacrifice her sweatshirt, as the air was chilly when she was not moving about.

I might not need my shoes, she conceded dubiously.

She shucked them off, then took ahold of her wand to begin the process. It took less than a minute, but she felt drained afterward. Idly, she wondered if there were not magic-dampening spells on this place, after all…

"I'm ready," she told Seamus through her field mouse by proxy. "I transfigured my shoes into a pen and parchment. Please go slowly - I haven't got a lot of energy left to keep sending patronuses."

So began the painstaking process of Seamus sending patronus after patronus to relay the runes inscripted in the aboveground granite dolmen she had spent the last five days studying. Only occasionally did she have to ask him to go back to a certain character and try to describe it to her.

Once they had done and Hermione had a short slew of runes to translate, she sent a final patronus back, "I think I have everything I need. I can't thank you enough, Seamus."

His response made the corner of her mouth tilt up into something resembling a smile. "It's nothing, love. You'd have done the same for me. I just hope it means something useful."

This was followed shortly up by a message from Oona, "Weasley and I have had no luck trying to get that gate to open. It looks like you can only get in once - unless you're a Black family member. The Weasleys don't appear to be closely related enough, so your potential rescuers are limited."

Hermione's heart began to pound, and she tried not to think of him.

No, she internally chided. But it was harder now to listen to the voice of reason.

The wolfhound brusquely continued, "We've found exactly three people that can help, according to the family tree: Neville Longbottom, Narcissa Black Malfoy, or Draco Malfoy."

Hermione's heart skidded to a halt, sputtering and skipping before she gasped at the name - his name - being said aloud. She sent back a hasty patronus, "Please, please try to get Neville."

Bill's peregrine patiently answered, "Though I don't doubt he'd do it, he's away in Brazil, studying herbology on an exchange with that professor from Castelbruxo. They value their privacy there, so he's virtually unreachable from here, even by magical means. We've sent a missive, but it could be days before anyone can get ahold of him."

"Andromeda then," she pleaded, feeling her energy fading fast. "Why couldn't it be her?"

"We thought of her, too," Bill admitted, "but when you're magically disowned, all connections are cut, even when it comes to magic recognizing blood. I'm sorry, Hermione. No one much cares for dealing with the Malfoys, I know… but we've already sent them both a request for help. If it gets you out of there, it's worth it."

Energy now spent, she slumped back against the dirt wall; she could only stare straight forward again, unseeing, and her mouth dry. Bill's concern for her comfort might have been endearing under other circumstances. But, if there was one thing… one task she was not equal to… it was seeing Draco Malfoy again, in the flesh.

Despair began to set into her heart, seizing her brain and invading the deep places of her mind where she had stored away the things she did not care to think about. The past - the wretched past - so long buried and shunned, reared its ugly head...

At the age of nineteen, a fresh graduate in a burgeoning, new wizarding Britain, Hermione Granger's eyes had shone with determination and opportunity. She had been ready to take on the world, and decided to start with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. After rattling the proverbial bars with her impassioned advocations for the rights of house elves, she achieved a quick victory in the form of abolishment.

But there were other under-privileged creatures to represent, and she proudly picked up the mantle for one magical creature to the next, starting with werewolves, and then giants. It seemed as if nothing could stand in her way; she was invincible.

After the centaurs, however, all hell broke loose.

With so many new regulations changing their established way of life, coupled with a new desire for land, the centaurs had declared war on the giants... and a massacre had ensued. The brutality of the giants against the centaurs' thirst for blood and their booming population, had quickly gotten far beyond the control of wizardkind. Hermione could only watch in horror, unable to do a thing until the fiery conflict had burnt itself out.

In the end, the centaurs had been pushed back to their appropriated lands - but the new giant population of the isles had been reduced from eighty-eight... to five.

Five. The number haunted Hermione nearly as much as the gruesome battlefield she'd had to help clean up. And it was all her fault.

If only… if only… if only...

She had resigned her position, and no one at the Ministry had been sad to see the back of her. A deep depression had set in shortly thereafter, and while the Weasleys had tried to help, they had been largely unsuccessful. Through her own actions, she had reduced herself into something like obscurity, while wallowing in a cesspool of self-loathing. Yes, she had always craved a vocation full of meaning… but not one that ended in carnage. Hermione was sure that because of Voldemort, she'd had enough of bloodshed to last a lifetime.

Now, she had earned herself a place in the history of wizarding Britain - not just as one of they that had helped Harry vanquish Voldemort - but as the witch that had brought on the near-extinction of giants in western Europe.

It was not until three years ago, when Bill had scooped her up for his and Oona's team, that she began to slowly peek out from under her proverbial rock. She had been a husk of her former self, purposely sabotaging her health; she was not eating properly, or taking care of herself. But at least with them, she was being useful in some quiet way. Bill, and eventually Oona, had looked after her, as if she were some kind of child.

Until a year ago...

Fourteen months, she mentally corrected herself. She thought back to what the current date was, and mentally recited, fourteen months, one week, and three days.

Because the thing was, the reclamation of Hermione Granger, was in large part due to a chance encounter with Draco Malfoy… and even more importantly than that, it hinged on never seeing him again.

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Author's Note: Whew! This chapter got away from me a little bit. I apologize for not responding to all the wonderful people who left reviews and encouragement. Please accept Chapter 2 as an apology for being remiss. I truly loved reading what you had to say! Thank you so much.

More thanks is due to both Witches-Britches and sarenia for their meticulous alpha work, and for allowing me to ramble at them about this story. Ladies, your friendship is a treasure. I also have the lovely and talented LaBelladoneX to credit for her Irish translations.

So, what do you think so far? Let me know!