CHAPTER SIX
Halloween, 1996
(the present)
Hermione wanted her homework to be perfect. Professor Snape was coming tonight – later than usual, he said, due to the Halloween feast – and he would be checking her Ancient Runes work carefully. As far as she could tell, he did everything carefully. Thoughtfully. Purposefully.
She respected that.
And she looked forward to every lesson, unsurprisingly, even though he was, for the most part, just as surly in the cellar as he was in a classroom.
Every now and then, though, she'd manage to engage him in an interesting academic discussion, maybe even a debate, and the sneer would fade, the indifferent façade would drop, and he would become fascinating, engaging, and animated, speaking to her like a peer instead of like a student.
She lived for those conversations.
Tonight, as had become the custom two or three nights per week, she was permitted upstairs for dinner. They always ate in the formal dining room, she and the woman, Aunt Narcissa, and, on occasion, the Dark Lord.
He made surprisingly pleasant conversation, and there were brief moments during which she'd almost – almost – forget who he was, that he was a murderer, that he was anti-Muggle and out to kill one of her best friends, that he'd already started one long, deadly war and was gearing up to commence another. There were times during which she would almost - almost - see him like a teacher, mentor, or older, wiser relative, though not quite a father. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
He told her a bit about his own school days, the classes he took, the awards he won. He told tales of narrowly won Quidditch matches and unimaginably difficult N.E.W.T. practicals, of boyhood antics, and funny stories about his favorite professors (Dumbeldore was not among them).
He told her about being part of something called the Slug Club, for only the best and brightest students Hogwarts had to offer.
"If you were there now, there is no doubt in my mind you would be invited to join, brilliant and talented as you are," he said, and a tiny jolt of something like pride flared up inside her, quickly quashed by the mental reminder of who this man really was.
The woman had beamed.
"Severus is impressed by her, my Lord. Without an entire classroom of less-intelligent students to hold her back, she's moving through the curriculum twice as fast as other sixth years, despite only having her tutoring sessions two or three times per week. Soon, my Lord, I'd like to teach her some of what I know, to make her more like... me." She sent him a shaky smile, and breathed a sigh of relief when he inclined his head ever-so-slightly.
"The current schedule shall hold through the Christmas holiday. After Draco returns to Hogwarts, we shall see about expanding this one's curriculum."
Hermione hardly dared to hope… did this mean she'd be able to hold a wand again? To study Charms and Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts? Only two more months. She could hold out two more months, couldn't she? It had already been four. What was two more? Her hand twitched at the very idea of it. She'd missed her wand like one would an amputated extremity, could feel it like a phantom limb at times, and she felt lost without it.
"Draco…" started Narcissa, her voice quivering. "Draco will be coming home for Christmas, then? I wrote to ask him, but he hasn't replied."
No one answered her. She focused on her Beef Wellington, her lower lip trembling. Hermione could tell she was doing everything in her power not to cry. She decided to change the subject, hoping it wouldn't upset her aunt just as much.
"Will my grandfather come for Christmas?"
"No," answered Narcissa and Bellatrix in unison.
"Cygnus rarely leaves the cottage house," explained the Dark Lord. "I went to school with your grandfather, Hermione. He was a good friend, a good man, and, for many years, a good Death Eater. Unfortunately, time has not been kind to him."
"Dementia," whispered Narcissa. "Exacerbated by melancholy, brought on by our mother's passing. I am sure you noticed it last month, at your dinner… He's not right in the head. Not anymore. Two house-elves and a Squib girl care for him full-time, and a Healer comes twice weekly to give him potions and check for signs of further mental deterioration or poor physical health."
"I'm sorry." It was the truth. While she knew little of the man beyond his talent for chess, she couldn't imagine being as he was now, having lost his grasp on reality, asking about a dead wife and trying to eat roses for lack of knowing what else to do.
Hermione sipped her wine. It was red, elf-made, and imported, according to her aunt Narcissa, but that didn't make it taste good; she would have much rather been drinking butterbeer or pumpkin juice or even a nice Muggle Coke. Her dentist parents rarely allowed Coke.
She felt her own eyes go watery.
Her parents.
The Grangers.
She missed them.
-0-0-0-
Halloween, 1981
(15 years ago)
Mr. and Mrs. Granger of Hamstead Village spent nine years trying to conceive a child the natural way before accepting it wouldn't happen. Then they spent four years doing fertility treatments, which cost a fortune and failed to take. They then had a long, frank discussion about the future, and decided adoption was a better route anyway - give a good home to a child in need. Once the decision was made, they spent another three years going through the process, during which they were twice chosen by birth mothers who inevitably decided to keep their babies, and during which they cared for a foster child for seven months with the intention of making her part of their lives forever only for a biological grandmother to be found and take custody before the final papers were signed.
Dejected and too depressed to start again, they got a dog, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, named him Hamlet, and decided they'd be the type of people to treat their pet as if he were a child, accepting that their family would not be expanding in other ways. Just when they had given up hope (and shortly after Hamlet had finally stopped piddling on the kitchen floor), an anonymous letter arrived on their kitchen counter. No postage, no fingerprints, no sign of forced entry.
It was as if it had been left there by magic.
It read,
Mr. & Mrs. Granger,
Some six weeks ago, on 19 September, a baby was born. A girl.
She is in need of a family; you are in need of a child to complete yours.
The girl's mother died in prison while serving a life sentence. She was not a bad person, not inherently, but she had been brainwashed into committing a crime by a masterful manipulator. She had no issues with drugs, alcohol, or mental illness, and the child was born healthy despite coming into this world on the cold floor of a cell. Her father is one who'd never see himself saddled down with a child; he does not know of her existence, nor would he care to.
The newborn currently resides in a children's home in London, where no one has yet attempted to adopt her, perhaps on account of a distinct Port-Wine Stain marking on the back of her leg, stretching from just below her bum to the curve of her ankle. This mark has caused her no health-related issues, nor should it. It is merely an aesthetic difference, one that should not prevent her from finding a forever family to love and be loved by.
She is slightly underweight, but should sufficiently plump up with regular feedings. She is also alert, attentive, wide-eyed, curious, and destined for greatness – her mother, despite the mistakes made in her life, was brilliant, academically inclined, and talented in a multitude of ways. There is no reason to believe she wouldn't have passed these traits on to the child.
At six weeks old now, she has not yet smiled but rarely cries. She sleeps well and longs to be held.
She needs a name.
Below is the address and the name of the orphanage matron. She will be expecting you tomorrow at 2.
-A friend
Of course, given they oddness of the anonymous letter and the fact that they were were dealing with a nameless baby left by someone other than the parents, the children's home had to do their due diligence, the law had to be involved, and the process took longer than the Grangers would have liked, but when that little girl with the wide eyes and the Port-Wine Stain was four months old, they were finally able to take her home. They gave her a name.
Hermione Jean Granger.
And she was perfect.
The letter had come two years ago, Halloween 1979, and now they were celebrating their second Halloween with their precious, precocious, perfect toddler.
She had indeed plumped up once they took her in, and she loved to be held, and she especially loved to be read to. She would point to the pictures in each book and identify every color, shape, animal. She started stringing words together months before other children, and she adored adjectives.
"Big blue cat, Mumma! Round circle! Tall tree! Small squirrel! Gray tail! Eats acorns! Nibble, nibble, nibble! Squirrel dinner all done!"
"That's right, Hermione!" Mrs. Granger would say, hugging her little bug. "Who's my brilliant girl?"
"Her-my-nin-nee!"
(Intelligent as she was, it took awhile before she could correctly pronounce her own name.)
They never lied to her about being adopted.
"We chose you," said Mr. Granger, tucking her into her very first 'big girl bed,' which was very small and close to the floor with side rails, so she wouldn't fall out, but it was an independent step away from her crib. "We could have chosen any baby but we saw you and knew you were our Hermione."
"Her-my-nin-nee."
"Yes."
Two bedtime stories, two kisses goodnight, and two new stuffed animals to sleep with: a fluffy cat and a stuffed snake.
"She loved that reptile house," Mrs. Granger whispered to Mr. Granger from the doorway to their daughter's room. They'd taken her to the zoo for the first time today as a belated second birthday gift, and while she enjoyed waving to the monkeys and roaring at the lions and gasping with awe at the pure white polar bear, it was the dark, dank, creepy reptile house that had her shouting, "More, Mumma! More, Daddy!"
So when they went to the souvenir shop and she chose a forest-and-lime green stuffed snake that could coil around her wrist when not being cuddled, they didn't try too hard to talk her into an adorable three-toed sloth instead.
She had a happy Halloween. After the zoo, they'd gone to a party with friends where she, being much younger than anyone else's children, was doted on. She then sat in a big chair and looked at books by herself like a little Matilda while the adults enjoyed wine and crackers with fancy cheeses before dinner. She ate neatly, much more so than most two-year-olds would, and tried to make polite conversation with those around her.
"Pretty red dress," she said to Mrs. Miller.
"You like books?" she asked Mr. Jameson.
Later, the adults sat around the sitting room telling ghost stories while Hermione dozed on the chaise, tuckered out from bobbing for apples and chasing around the older kids, who'd played football in the yard at dusk. She sucked her thumb, which worried her dentist parents, who feared it would ruin her front teeth, but tonight they let her give into the habit.
"Always so sweet when they're sleeping!" cooed Mrs. Miller.
"Bright little girl you've got there," complimented Mr. Jameson.
The Grangers eventually bid their friends goodnight, returned home, and put her to bed, as usual.
Sometime before midnight, she awoke, screaming.
"Hermione?" Mrs. Granger reached the bedroom first, but with Mr. Granger fast on her heels.
"STOP STOP STOP!" she was shrieking, clawing at her throat. The stuffed snake had someone become wrapped around her neck in her sleep.
"Hermione!" They rushed to her, kneeling beside her tiny bed. Mr. Granger removed the snake, tossing it directly into the rubbish bin, where it could do them no more harm. Mrs. Granger cradled tiny Hermione in her arms, stroking her untamable tangled curls and brushing the tears from her ruddy cheeks, speaking in soothing tones.
"Bad dream!" wailed Hermione, clutching the front of Mrs. Granger's pajama top. "Bad man!"
"You had a bad dream about a bad man?" asked Mrs. Granger. She and Mr. Granger exchanged a glance.
"What happened in your dream?" asked Mr. Granger. "Can you tell us?"
"Bad man, green light, sad baby."
"Yes, we know you're sad, baby," said Mrs. Granger comfortingly. "You dreamt of a bad man and green light?"
"Want Mumma," said Hermione.
"I'm right here," said Mrs. Granger. She pressed her lips to Hermione's sweaty forehead, where flyaway hairs stuck to the skin.
The toddler shook her head.
"I think she must have been listening to some of those ghost stories tonight," said Mr. Granger, wincing. "When we thought she was asleep. Our poor girl."
Hermione shook her head again and shut her eyes tight. She tried to forget the terrifying white face of the bad man with the long stick and the green light. She tried to forget the cries of the sad baby in his crib, the crumpled form of a woman on the floor in front of him. She wanted her mumma, her mother. She wanted the woman who smelled of roses. She buried her face into Mrs. Granger's bosom and breathed deeply, seeking that scent, but all she found was cotton and coconut. No roses.
She'd never had a bad dream before. She rarely dreamt at all, and when she did, she was usually flying.
Later that night, she had another bad dream, this time about a woman. She was sobbing so hard when her parents came in to check on her, she couldn't tell them what it had been about.
"Mumma," she cried over and over, practically choking on tears. "Want Mumma!"
"I'm right here," Mrs. Granger whispered, rocking her until she was calm. "I'm right here, my little bug, and I'm not going anywhere."
Eventually the dreams stopped – all of them. About the bad man, about the woman who smelled of roses, even the ones about flying. They were eventually replaced by new nightmares: failing a test, being laughed at by her peers, showing up to school in only her underwear…
But Mr. and Mrs. Granger did not forget, and for the next several Halloweens, they were much more careful.
"No scary stories for this one!" they'd say, leaving before their friends' parties reached that portion of the evening. "They give our darling girl bad dreams."
-0-0-0-
Halloween, 1975
(21 years ago)
"You Summoned me, my Lord?"
It was again the middle of the night. He'd taken to doing this on a semi-regular basis over the last four years. Perhaps it was stress-release, or amusement, or done to torture her. She wasn't sure, but no matter the reason, she was happy to answer his call.
"I did indeed, Bellatrix. It took you longer to arrive than usual. Were you asleep?"
"It's nearly midnight, my Lord." In truth, she'd been in the parlor of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange, her in-laws. The couple had long ago gone to bed, but their sons and the friends they'd invited over for the evening intended to continue the party well into the early morning. When her Dark Mark had burned, she'd kissed her husband on the cheek, apologized to their friends, and said she was turning in early, blaming a headache. Only Rodolphus seemed to suspect this was a lie.
She'd hurried instead to the room in which she and her husband were spending the week (as their home was set to be raided by Aurors) and reached for an article of clothing she'd purchased just for this (possible) occasion. She quickly fixed her hair and face before apparating, hoping he'd forgive her tardiness.
"That doesn't answer my question, Bellatrix." He leaned back in the chair. He wore an open wizard's robe over Muggle attire, a white button-down collared shirt and grey trousers. She knew he must have had business in the Muggle world tonight, or he'd never choose to be seen this way. Not that she was complaining. He looked good like this.
She wanted him.
She made no secret of this when they were alone together, though she continued to behave with the utmost professionalism when in the presence of other Death Eaters – in particular, her parents, who wouldn't approve.
But fuck... she wanted him.
"You wore that to bed tonight?" the Dark Lord asked, one eyebrow cocked.
She glanced down as if she'd forgotten what she'd worn and had to take stock. She donned a black negligee, tight and revealing in the bodice, barely long enough to cover her arse, under a knee-length sheer robe, open, with cap sleeves, and strappy high-heeled shoes. She lifted her head, tossed back her hair, and tried to remain nonchalant.
"It's Wednesday, my Lord."
"Wednesday, Bellatrix?"
She smiled, wondering how he felt about her dark burgundy lipstick, a new color given up by Narcissa, who thought it too dark for her complexion.
"Yes, sir. And I always wear my best to bed on Wednesdays."
He threw back his head and laughed.
"Such spirit, Bellatrix Lestrange. Such fire. Such an incredible figure."
"I wasn't aware you ever noticed my figure, my Lord." She put on an exaggerated pout. "You make mention of it so infrequently."
He'd never fucked her, never even kissed her, but with every little meeting like this they came closer and closer to committing a sin - and she loved it. Sometimes, like the first time, there were only looks and talk and a palpable sexual tension never alleviated, but sometimes he touched her, gently stroked her cheek or caressed the back of her thigh or smacked her ass, and he'd twice bitten her shoulder. For the first time, over the summer, he'd run his tongue along the line of her cleavage, delving under the cups of her bra, flicking the tip over her hardened nipples.
Sometimes he just wanted to look at her in various stages of undress (though he'd not yet seen her completely naked). Sometimes he asked her to slowly remove her attire. Sometimes he wanted to watch her touch herself.
And once he'd even used his mouth on her, bringing her to the point of ecstasy, leaving her trembling and throbbing and sated. She wanted this to be another night like that one – or, better still, she wanted this to be the night he let her touch him.
He never let her be the one to touch him.
"Come," he said, beckoning her.
"I'd love to," she said, knowing he'd catch the double-meaning. She moved quickly to him, but with grace. He was seated in his favorite leather wing-backed chair, his favorite place from which to observe her.
He reached under her sheer robe, under the short fabric of the negligee, and grasped the back of her right thigh firmly, just under her the curve of her arse. He guided her leg up until her knee was resting on the chair against his left hip. Her other knee was trapped between his.
"Do you have any idea how you torment me, Bellatrixx?" He hissed her first name, bringing the tiny hairs on her arms to attention, and causing a flood of warmth between her legs.
"With all due respect, my Lord, I believe it is you who torments me."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"How so?"
She tilted her head down, letting wild curls create a curtain around their faces.
"I believe you know, sir."
He guided her chin until their lips were barely touching, not quite enough to be considered a kiss.
"I seek to eschew the pleasures of the flesh, that which have been the downfall of many a man."
He'd told her this many times, far too many times.
"But you apparate to my chambers dressed like a hundred-galleon whore, reeking of your arousal, wanton and wanting… What am I to do?"
"Let me make you happy, my Lord. Let me…"
"I have no need for a mistress."
"No, sir, but…"
"Shhh." His lips tickled hers as he spoke. "I have no need for a mistress, and you're married."
"Yes."
"But I cannot deny that I want you. And Lord Voldemort gets what he wants. He takes what he wants."
"Take me, my Lord. Please."
"Don't beg, Bellatrix." He flicked his tongue against her bottom lip, eliciting from her a quiet whimper. "Begging is unbecoming. I expect better from you. Understand?"
She didn't quite, but she responded as she knew she should:
"Yes, sir."
He squeezed the back of her thigh, nearly making her leg buckle and landing her in his lap.
"I have always loved Halloween, Bellatrix. I feel… lucky… on Halloween."
"Would you like to get 'lucky' on Halloween, my Lord?"
There was a long pause, so long she worried she'd angered him with her cheek, and then he laughed. He laughed, and pulled at her other thigh so she was straddling him, and buried his face in her hair, and then laughed some more.
"You are nothing if not bold. Fifty points to Slytherin." He held firmly to her hips, grinding her against his crotch. He was hard; she'd never known whether she made him hard before. He typically hid himself under billowing robes when he summoned her like this, leaving her wondering whether the effect she had on him was anything like the one he had on her.
"Perhaps this year we'll win the House Cup," she whispered. She twerked forward, letting the tent in his trousers rub at her clit, loving the way it felt, loving know she'd had this effect on him. He stopped her before it could go too far.
"Remove this… ensemble… and get on the bed, Bellatrix. Keep the shoes."
"Yes, my Lord." She slipped off his lap, let the robe drop from her shoulders, and slowly lowered the thin straps of the negligee, never taking her eyes off his.
He smiled.
He loved Halloween.
Halloween, 1996
(the present)
Severus Snape was in a foul fucking mood.
Not only was it Halloween, his least favorite day of the whole damn year, but he was supposed to be tutoring Hermione Granger in the cellar dungeon of Malfoy Manor tonight, and he was already three hours late thanks to a nosy Dumbledore and a daft Draco.
Only hour earlier, he'd tried to speak to his godson, to reason with the boy.
"I have nothing to say to you," the blond had said, jutting up his pointed chin with an air of undeserved self-importance. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Severus had sneered. "You knew what you were doing when you Impriused Rosemerta into giving Katie Bell that cursed necklace to deliver to Dumbledore? You knew what you were doing? You knew there was a hole in her glove, that she would open the package, that she could potentially die?"
"I had no idea you cared so much for that great ugly Gryffindor." Draco was sneering too. Their eyes locked, and, were they both stags, their horns would be locked as well. "All cut up about her little injury, are you?"
"That was an asinine plan and you're lucky I managed to wipe Rosemerta's memory clean before Aurors arrived! She may not have known she was under the Imperius Curse, but they could have easily gotten the information from her with the help of a Pensieve or Veritaserum! I am expected to believe you're afraid if you fail, he'll kill your mother, which should be an excellent motivator, and yet you're behaving as carelessly-"
"I know what he might do to her, and I don't need your reminders, Snape!" Draco tried to push past him, but Severus blocked the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door. "I said I know what I'm doing. Let me go."
"Let me in on your plans, Draco. Let me help you."
"You don't want to help, you want to take over! To steal my glory, to carry out the task the Dark Lord entrusted to me, because he thinks I show promise-"
"He thinks you're going to fail! He set you up to fail. Let me help you."
"I said, I do not need your help." Draco tried again to shove by, but Severus knocked him back into the room and waved his wand, slamming the door shut again.
Severus grabbed the boy by the chin and tried to see into his thoughts, but found a barrier he could not easily penetrate. Clearly, Bellatrix had spent some quality time with her nephew over the summer. Draco slapped his hand away impertinently.
"Quit giving me detentions I won't serve, quit asking me questions I won't answer, and quit visiting my mother. Don't think I don't know about what happened in August, Professor." Draco spit out the title as if it were dirty.
"About what that happened in August?" Severus kept his face impassive, his voice calm, his mind clear. Surely, the boy couldn't know about the Unbreakable Vow. There was no way.
"I know you fucked my mother, you disgusting old pervert."
"What?" Severus couldn't help but laugh. The sound was one of derision, but the emotion behind it was intense relief. "I had a very busy summer, Draco, but not that busy."
"Stay away from me, and stay away from my mother."
"I have no interest in your mother, Draco, and if you continue along this path, I'll have even less interest in helping you."
"Good."
This time, Severus let the boy charge by. He watched as Draco threw open the door, shooting him a look of disdain over his shoulder, and stalked from the room.
Stupid fucking teenager. They were all dunderheads, fucking teenagers. Not a one of them had any sense. Not Draco Malfoy, not Harry Potter, not even Hermione Granger.
Black.
Hermione Black.
Severus snorted.
Hermione Riddle. Hermione Voldemort?
As much as he disliked having a second job on top of the one he could barely manage at the moment, what with directives from both masters being fired at him in rapid succession, he found himself looking forward to their sessions. One on one she was much less intolerable than in a classroom. For one, she had no one to show off for when it was just the two of them locked in the cellar. He gave lessons and assignments and homework, she completed them and asked only pertinent questions, and sometimes this led to fascinating discussions. Not that he would ever let on that he didn't mind tutoring her. Let her think it nothing but a chore, one he was forced to undertake.
Let her think he hated her.
Let her think he never once went home and replayed a lesson in his mind.
Let her think he never once went home and played out an entirely different scenario in his mind.
"Old pervert indeed," he muttered. He set to straightening up the classroom. He had ten minutes to kill before a last-minute meeting with Dumbledore he hoped would not run long.
He'd hoped in vain.
"The boy still refuses to tell you anything?"
"The boy thinks he has things under control."
Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles. "Despite the incident with Katie Bell?"
"He maintains he knew what he was doing." Severus curled his lip. "At this age, they're all false bravado and no sense. He's no better than Potter at the moment."
"And Miss Granger, how is she?"
Severus tried to look surprised by the question. "Still dead, I presume."
"I don't think so." Dumbledore scratched his chin – or, more accurately, scratched over the thick white beard covering it. "I believe Mr. Potter is quite right in thinking she's alive. I cannot see why Tom and Bellatrix would have taken her if their intention was to kill – they could have killed her there in the Ministry. And no body has turned up." He shook his head thoughtfully. "No, they have other plans for the girl, of that I am certain. Haven't you been working on-"
"I've done the best I can," snapped Severus. "I can't exactly sit down for tea with the Dark Lord and strike up a conversation about the well-being of a girl reported dead. He'll either think I've gone mad, or he'll think I believe him to be a liar. Either way, it will lessen whatever use to him he believes me to be. He doesn't want me barmy or doubting him, and I don't want to die, thank you."
"Go through Bellatrix, then. Or Narcissa. She may have confessed the truth to her sister, and Narcissa is not the strong Occlumens or Legilimens her elder sister is."
"Narcissa knows nothing; I've tried. Either the girl really is dead-"
"She's not."
"Or Narcissa genuinely believes her to be."
"This is important, Severus." Dumbledore's voice was quiet, calm. He leaned forward, resting his chin on tented fingers, studying the sallow-skinned, dark-eyed man across the desk. "I need to know where they're keeping Miss Granger… and why."
"Why would they?" challenged Severus. "What good could she possibly be to them?"
Dumbledore sat back and reached for his tin of sherbet lemons. There was a long silence before he spoke again.
"I suspect only time will answer that."
A/N:
old-timey TV show announcer voice:
What's going on with Dumbledore?
Is Severus having impure thoughts about his student?
When did Voldemort actually shag Bella for the first time?
Can Hermione and Draco learn to get along over Christmas?
Will fragile Narcissa fall completely apart?
Find out next time, on…
The Dark Lord's Daughter, or, the Corruption of Hermione Granger!
(Kidding! Mostly…)
Coming up in Chapter Seven: a row between two main characters leads to uncomfortable admissions.
Coming up in Chapter Eight: sweet and sour lemons (aka, a sprinkling of smut). So… fair warning. :)
To LotusAivy's point about the number of OWLs Hermione earned, I made the mistake of using two different sites for fact checking, which is why I had 11 in one chapter and 12 in another (even though some later sources say ten). Going to stick with eleven, as I like the notion that she still took the Muggle Studies exam. :)
Thank you so much for all of your reviews, for reading, for following, and for adding to faves! With other fics I've done review responses every few chapters, so starting with the next chapter I'm going to do that with this one, too, so if you have any Qs be sure to check the A/Ns for replies! In the meantime, I want to give a grateful shout-out to everyone who has shared their reactions thus far: Lilikaco, Guest(s), Martionmanswife, Gajevyaddict, HGKE, HopelesslyEmotional, The Gryffindor Hatstall, emrldapplejuice, Alexa SixT, Francis-Rose, LotusAivy, AnotherAlderbaran, RhodaBush, fallenangle 36910, chibichanga, kalilje, miss quirky bookworm, Sparky She-Demon, IShouldBeWritingSomethingElse, sasu-hina94, zillawisp, ArdentlyAdmired, elleaeterna, malugargula, sassanech, Kat, bacrawford, TheLadyBookworm, Silver Lestrange, kmplease, FrancineHibiscus, skyeryder 01, DBV, FatalRomance, bibikitten224, meldz, ladiefury, clarasnotlikely, voldyismyfatehr, RAV3N R1PP3R, , carmynsorena, pgoodrichboggs, littlesleepingbird, Chelsea always, Nova 5261, decadenceofmysoul, articcat 621, KateKat 1992, aliasmel 1, LK-HoGwArTs-hEaDgIrL, Cecily Mitchell, loves to read 234, thewinnowingwind, Jay, CinderSpire 793, Harry Hobbit, Sassyluv, Banglabou, Silver Orbed Lioness, Lianore, PopularCats, Black Banshee, brookie 88, Jessie, DBV, meldz, Francesca, Shnazy, Smngrfl 88, angel 897, littleneko 1923, Mashiro 09, trickstersink, KmyD, kiarcheo, pineappleforever, SarahF, randomfan 17, yourwheezy, wonderful 99, MarciKyle, Lucyole, Bananniejones, hule, Aisti, ForsakenKalika, Natsumegf, AngelAzazel 88, Elizabethrose 1974, & LFA.
(Sorry for any typos. Especially if you have numbers in your name, sometimes ffnet distorts it for no good reason. If I missed anyone, I am profoundly apologetic, let me know and I'll fix it!)
-AL