Thanks to everyone who's read this so far, and I'm glad you've all enjoyed it. I have a bit better idea of where the plot is going, so you can expect more frequent updates and all that jazz. C:

Vanishing Snow - I AM GLAD YOU ARE STILL ENJOYING IT! And thank you I was worried about the characterization but it has ~your approval~ so I am happy now! And yes, half the reason I put that blood in was for the potential problems, ehehehehe

Simsen - I am glad that you enjoyed this enough to subscribe to it! Buy ten of these magazine subscriptions today for a 20% discount.

MEETY – I will do everything I can to keep this love.

Shenkkazoo – I AM GLAD THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY HORRIBLE REGRETS FOR READING THIS STORY! Sometimes my writing has the potential to make people's eyes bleed, and that leads to lawsuits and other nasty stuff.

On to the story!

As much as Eridan was getting accustomed to this house, as much as he was thankful that he was allowed to stay here after arriving as a corpse, and yes, as much as this place was beginning to radiate some semblance of the human concept of 'home'-

Well, despite all this, he still experienced the human concept of 'homesick'.

It was stupid. He told himself this over and over again. It was stupid that he looked back on that stupid hellhole Alternia (he wouldn't admit that he had liked it there) and even that stupid asteroid (he wouldn't admit that he had a few good memories there) with the slightest bit of nostalgia. He was a prince. Princes didn't need regrets or emotions.

He had trouble proving this to himself when he would curl up in some obscure corner of the house and reminisce on his life. Or past life. He wasn't sure what to call it after having technically died.

He wasn't going to admit that he missed anyone or anything. They all treated him like crap and called him a huge tool and rejected him and why on Earth would he miss them. That would just be nonsense.

He tried to tell himself that his favorite parts were when the memories rang out and his mind reached this blank level where all he heard were the far off whispers of horrorterrors and occasional glimpses of horrorterrors. Ignore the fact that he quickly went back to the memories.

He was simply reflecting and figuring out how his past experience would prepare him for the use of WHITE SCIENCE. He skipped around the parts where people died because…

Fun fact: Eridan isn't good at rationalizing away his thoughts.

These mental excursions were often interrupted, though, since so much had been happening around this house recently. The Potter Kid (Eridan didn't have enough respect for him to call him by name) had apparently gone to the Legislacerators. At least he assumed it was Legislacerators. Knowing humans, they probably had some stupid, not as good equivalent. That seemed to be a continuing pattern with humans – he still barely got any sleep in those idiotic beds. He was fine mentally, sure, but he swore that if he stopped taking the potion and allowed his body to revert back to its original troll form, it would be dry and pallid from lack of sopor.

Stupid lowbloods and their stupid household utensils and their stupid interruptions. Eridan had been mildly pleased when he found out that wizards had their own terms for lowbloods – muggles. Mudbloods. He wasn't sure what they meant, but he liked the sound of it on his tongue.

The first time he had used it was during one of the millions of housecleaning sessions. While searching the kitchen with Mr. Weasley, some possessed toaster had shocked him – later, it turned out it had been caused by Mr. Weasley's fascination with enchanting artifacts rather than any residue magic from the house.

"Stupid, glubbing, mudblood human bread desecrator," Eridan cursed to himself, bashing it with the broom he had improvised as a weapon due to his current lack of a wand. "Lowblooded, hemospectrum tainter-"

"Eridan?"

Eridan glanced back, and was a bit stuck by how severe the father looked.

"I don't want to hear any of those slurs coming from your mouth again. Blood has nothing to do with talent. Nothing at all."

Eridan was a bit chilled with a tone, and was about to make an argument in his defense, but then the toaster sputtered back to life.

Then the Owls dashed through the window, supply lists and all.

It was a pretty chaotic scene amongst all the broom-whacking and owl flapping.

Choosing a wand had been surprisingly easy.

Well, maybe not easy, because it took about twenty wands until they obtained the right one, but the whole trial had desperately failed Eridan's expectations. Trolls often went through several near-accidents and accidental hive damages before they found the proper strifekind that worked for them; wands were just a process of flick and dazzle.

Ollivander mumbled something about olivewood and mermaid hair.

Flick and some red shocks come out.

Oh no, that's the wrong kind of result, Ollivander mumbles as he grabs the wand and thrusts it back. Magic coming out of a wand obviously doesn't make sense! It has to represent you, and trust me, I know those things! I have experience!

And Eridan growled and he probably would've engaged him in blackrom, that's how spiteful he was, except he was an old man so…no.

And another wand was thrust into his hand and something akin to mist came out; Eridan figured he was a seadweller, so the misty one had to be the right one, but no, Ollivander took the wand back and shuffled through the back, and mades 'ahs' and 'ohs' fit for a bad x-rated film in the back of the room, and Eridan wondered who the crap made those sorts of noises while looking for wands.

Eridan sensed that the next wand was the right one, as opposed to find it out. Just the kind of aura it made –it was something a bit familiar. At first Eridan marked it up to the resemblance to the aura Doctor Scratch had, and figured that it simply reminded him of those strange conversations where he made overly cryptic remarks intended to 'help him' or some such thing.

Then no, that wasn't it. Doctor Scratch's aura still had the slightest amount of class. With this one, the aura was practically screaming.

Then Eridan remembered the screeching bestial angels, the bizarre twangs of their prophecies, and suddenly he can place it.

The wand is white and polished, and Ollivander mutters something about the rarity of these types of wands among wizards and something else about savants, but really, Eridan doesn't want those thoughts dripping into his think pan.

He just looks at the wand and it is too familiar, and it doesn't belong in this new life of his, he thinks. Ollivander describes it as 'springy, light Maplewood with a threstal hair core', but it's familiar in an entirely different way to Eridan.

The wand releases a flourish of white light as Eridan waves it, and Ollivander lets out an approaching 'That's the one, yes.'

But Lupin and Tonks have already paid for it and well-

-well, there's plenty of time to forget, Eridan figures.