First – gah! Sorry for the wait. I have put all my excuses at the bottom of the chapter. Also, ha – sorry if I didn't review reply. I usually try to reply to most of my reviews. I'll probably get on that now…
NOTE: Yes, I know about Hermione's birthday! I'm just a control freak and decided to change it!
SHOUTOUTS: FIRST TO ALL MY REVIEWS, ESPECIALLY MY REGUALRS. Yes, I do keep track of you and I know which ones of you have been reviewing the entire story. Screw muses, I got you guys. I WAS SO CLOSE TO BREAKING MY RECOND – 2 reviews away?! 2 reviews!! Uhh, it broke my heart. Also, special shoutout:
LN1991 – I laughed when I read your review; which, by the way, was rather awkward considering I was sitting in an empty room…
The-G-Factor – I'll be blunt (I'm very good at that). I was flattered – very much so, actually. Thank you.
GiggleGinny – As you wish. 'M' rating is dedicated to GiggleGinny. Good suggestion, hope you enjoy!
And my usual thanks to you people who have followed me around since I started writing (you know who you are) this chapter is dedicated to you.
WARNING: Torture.
CHAPTER ELEVEN --
Snape stood silent and waiting as the crescent moon rose high in the chilly winter sky. The Dark Lord had switched meetings spots once again and Snape found himself Apparating to a small, hidden alcove that lay deserted along some barren coastline. He didn't know which coast, nor even which ocean for that matter, but he could only assume the Dark Lord was slowly making his way towards Thorn Castle.
Earlier that week, Snape had followed Dumbledore's instruction and begun researching everything there was to know about the Dark Lord's new mysterious home. In reality, the mighty Thorn Castle was actually more of a highly fortified Keep which lay on the isolated and unplottable island of Velitine. The Keep had been the ancestral home of a certain Bevausee family for generations but had fallen into disuse after a freak storm ravaged the island – effectively dismantling much of the building structure and leaving the tower in disrepair. Snape could only guess that the Dark Lord planned on restoring the Keep to its former glory and continuing his campaign from behind its thick, stone walls.
Snape shifted his stance and then scowled as the sand beneath his feet caused his boots to sink into the soft ground; Merlin, how he hated the beach. He could hear the faint sound of waves breaking in the distance and the rustle of heavy cloaks in the wind but beyond that, there was only silence. The sudden sharp sound of a wolf howl abruptly cut through the shroud of darkness and Snape felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.They've arrived…
Dark figures slowly emerged from the surrounding dunes; the hunched, crouching bodies of the werewolf packs becoming visible in the moonlight. Snape tighten his grip on his wand as the lumbering creatures neared, but before he had reason to draw, the majority of the pack stopped to allow three lone figures entrance to the circle. These walked on two feet…
"Fenrir," came the purring voice of the Dark Lord from his place in the center of the circle and Snape watched as the tallest of the men dropped rather ungracefully to his knees to kiss the hem of his master's robes.
"Master, it has been so long."
The serpentine man raised a pale hand and wordlessly gestured for the lower ranking Death Eaters to light the circle. Immediately, the barren landscape was bathed in a haunting orange and crimson glow – the shadows cast by the torches dancing chillingly in the cold sand.
"Indeed it has," the Dark Lord replied, his slit-like eyes flaring up in delight.
This must be the 'guest' the Dark Lord spoke of, Snape realized, taking in the hulking beast of a man that knelt submissively before his master. True to his reputation, Fenrir Greyback sported a mane of shaggy silver hair that gleamed in the light and his teeth seemed bared even when he spoke. Snape knew that, if they did so choose, werewolves could morph into their beast form at any given time; only during the full moon was the change involuntary. Judging from Greyback's obvious discomfort in his body and the awkward jerks of his movements, Snape was willing to bet galleons the alpha male had been spending more time as beast than man.
"As you instructed, the majority of my pack has moved just north of the Forbidden Forest, my Lord," Greyback said, his voice gruff with disuse, "They only await your command."
Snape felt some of the pieces of the puzzle fall into place at the man's words. So Dumbledore's suspicions were correct, he mused, his observant eyes taking in everything, the werewolves have joined with the Dark Lord, just as they did twenty years ago… perhaps the old man did have some forethought – who better to fight a werewolf than its natural enemy – the vampires. But taking up residence in the Forbidden Forest? It's madness for another clan to embark on centaur territory and clan war is nothing pretty. What is the Dark Lord up to?
The ragged man soon rose from his kneeling position and, with a final bow of respect, moved to take his place in the circle next to Snape. The second Greyback came within seven feet of the Potions Master, Snape could smell the scent of blood, carnage, and dirt on the werewolf and it took all of Snape's willpower not to wrinkle his nose in distain.
"Severus," a cool voice suddenly called and Snape raised his eyes to meet the crimson ones of his master. Snape could feel the dark, creeping tendril of the Dark Lord's magic rapidly shoot through his mind – tearing through memories and thoughts alike for anything of use. Snape stilled the urge to wrench his eyes away, to fight back against the rape of his subconscious, but instead focused on the things he knew were safe; classes, potions, lectures, detention…the list went on.
It was a familiar process - one Snape suffered through at the start of every new school year. Voldemort would sort through his mind; familiarizing himself with the new teachers and different classes, the fresh meat of the tiny first years and the potential usefulness of the seventh years, the faces Snape saw and the voices he heard – all were information for the Dark Lord. Know thy enemy; the Slytherin had learned that particular proverb all too well.
Carefully shielding Miss Granger's visit from the Dark Lord's prying eyes, Snape gave free rein over the rest of his first day of classes; the commencing of the Sorting, the welcome feast, his traditional first year speech and dramatic entrance, Mr. Still's incompetence in Potions – all replayed in Snape's mind. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Snape felt the violating presence of his master leave his mind and the Potion Master let out an invisible breath of relief. Voldemort had seen nothing – or at least nothing important.
"Very good," the Dark Lord hissed, his voice like icy tentacles down Snape's spine. "You have done well, Severus, Dumbledore suspects nothing. I commend you. I have something to discuss with you later, Severus, but for now, enjoy the evening." Turning away with a flourish of his robes, the Dark Lord moved to the center of the circle and addressed the congregation of hooded figures.
"Welcome, my children," he began softly, his voice carrying eerily in the breeze, "Our brothers from the North have journeyed far to honor us here tonight with their presence" – he gestured to the three werewolves positioned around the circle, who in turn, each bowed respectively – "for tonight we celebrate the beginning of an alliance that is sure to assist us in our endeavors. I bid you to welcome our new comrades, for though they may be of tainted blood, they have proven themselves both loyal and capable in the eyes of your master. I accept them as my own."
To Snape's left, a dignified figure stepped forward into the light and the orange glow shimmered brilliantly off his flowing mane of nearly white hair.
"Let me be the first to welcome you to our ranks, Death Eater Greyback," Lucius said smoothly, though Snape could see the tell-tale twitch of his right cheek that signaled the wizard was lying through his teeth. Of course Lucius would be the first to kiss up to the master's new pet, Snape thought as he watched the werewolf accept Lucius's welcome with a vague nod of his head.
Soon, the occupants of the circle were exchanging nods and greetings – some more warmly than others, and Snape watched curiously as Greyback beckoned the two werewolves he had brought with him to his side.
"This is Razorclaw, my second in command," he said, gesturing to the much smaller man who had his curling black mane pulled back by a simple leather thong. "He took his Mark at the same time as I, but Wetblood here—" Greyback grunted towards a strapping youth in his early twenties with long, tanned muscular arms and an excitement in his eyes – "has not yet had the privilege. I told his it was much too soon but—"
"Well, we shall have to see, shan't we?" the Dark Lord interrupted, his crimson eyes eagerly devouring the youth with an unveiled lust that made Snape's stomach turn. With each Horcrux they destroyed, it seemed the Dark Lord gained more and more of his human qualities – the growing pigment of his once translucent skin, the open displays of sudden emotion, and as the months passed on, an increasing interest in his more…sadistic pleasures.
"I have waited for months, Master," the youth cried, falling to the ground to prostrate himself before the Dark Lord, "I only ask for a chance, my Lord, to show my strength – my loyalty. I beseech you, Master; please allow me the chance to earn the right to bear your Mark. I would not fail you…"
The Dark Lord's hand rose to slowly caress the bronze locks of Wetblood's bowed head as he considered the request. Snape could almost see the twisted delight the Dark Lord took in having such control over another human – or nonhuman – being; the power, the control, it was sick…and seductive – a feeling of euphoria that fed even the blackest of hearts. Voldemort thrived on it.
"Very well," the Dark Lord finally hissed, his thin, bloodless lips twisting into a gruesome representation of a smile. Without warning, his alabaster hand suddenly grasped a thick handful of the young man's tangled hair and jerked the werewolf's head up till their eyes met. Madness met fear, and Snape could have sworn he heard the frantic beating of the youth's panicking heart. How touching, the boy didn't know what the Dark Lord did to his initiates…
"Crucio."
Ripping screams suddenly filled the cold air, the night now heavy with the tainted sound as it echoed into the nothingness. It's probably his first Crucio, Snape thought dispassionately, watching as the youthful body jerked desperately in the dark master's ruthless grip. A few Death Eaters started cheering around the circle, some calling out to the Dark Lord to go harder – for it was obvious he was holding back – other taunting the boy as his muscle structure was mangled from the inside out.
The unbidden image of Miss Granger suddenly filled his eyes – sobbing heedlessly, bucking in pain, begging – and Snape brutally tried to push the thought out of his head. He had been trying the entire meeting to keep his nagging apprehension at bay, but now, as the evening silence was broken in choked sobs and hoarse gasps, Snape had to swallow hastily to loosen the sudden tightness in his throat.
There's always a chance he won't curse you tonight, the little-used optimistic part of his mind said, and Snape immediately crushed that hope. He knew what the Dark Lord would want to discuss – Potter's Occulmency lessons, or rather, the lack of them. Snape knew he could tell him that they weren't due to start till next Thursday, but that wouldn't matter. He would be displeased, and pain was always a compliment to his displeasure.
Eventually, the cries died down and Snape found himself studying the young man closer than he had before, unconsciously wondering if Miss Granger's reaction would be similar. He didn't even use his full power, a voice reminded him, and Snape felt another stone drop in his gut, he wouldn't want to damage his little boy toys…but you, no, you are durable, you have a high tolerance for pain, and he knows it. He will not hold back for you, he never does…
Wetblood, as fit his namesake, was currently vomiting red onto the white sand; his heaving gasps the only sound as the jeering died down.
"Now, Wetblood, you have had a taste of what it means to be called a Death Eater – do you still yearn for my Mark?" The Dark Lord slowly circled the shaking youth, his walk every bit that of the predator toying wit his prey. "Answer me boy, do you still want it?"
"Yes," the crippled figure gasped, his voice barely more than a harsh whisper as his raw throat scratched and pulsed in pain, "Always."
The circle was now dead silent; this was a ritual they had all been through. The Dark Lord would test their pain, and by association, their alliance – if you tried to fight back, you died. If you tried to protest, you died. If you tried to run, you died. You could beg, scream, cry, curse, faint, even piss yourself – but as long as you took it, you earned your Mark. The werewolf had earned his Mark.
With a graceful hand, Voldemort raised the ebony wood of his wand and then, with abrupt strength and speed, brought it down with enough force to puncture the skin of the werewolf's left forearm. Wetblood's choked scream went unnoticed as the ring of Death Eaters saw the black poison of the Dark Lord's ink slowly spread beneath the skin. Ink and blood, black and crimson, master and servant; they were tied. Breathing rather unevenly, Snape watched as the Dark Lord released the youth – his body slumping to the ground, too weak to even hold himself in a kneeling position as the Cruciatus spasms began.
The Dark Lord chuckled softly, a booted foot appearing from beneath his robes to kick the young man's body onto his back.
"Welcome, my child."
Wetblood's whimper was his only response.
The rest of the meeting went by in a blur for Snape, sweat dripping unnoticed down his back in anticipation of the 'lesson' he was sure to come. On one level, he wished he could have claimed to have only been worried for himself, but the truth of it was, Miss Granger's eyes flashed through his mind more often than not.
Little twit, he thought, mentally cursing her once again as the meeting drew to a close, of all the bull-headed, crackpot, mindless, ignorant, hair-brain, Gryffindor schemes—
"Severus."
The Potions Master looked up at the breathy tone, his depthless eyes of ebony locking with scarlet slits.
"Come, Severus, I have much to discuss with you."
Merlin, help her… The words echoed in Snape's subconscious as he obediently stepped forward.
Two hours later, Severus stumbled through his private entryway into his parlor; the pounding in his head only comparable to the dread in his gut. Clenching his hand into a fist as a small yet effective spasm quaked through him, Snape stepped unceremoniously up to the fire and tossed an impatient handful of floo powder into the flame.
"The Head Girl's room," he said clearly, grinding his teeth in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over his body. He felt dehydrated and dizzy, achy and throbbing in pain, his eyes begging to simply slide close and slip unhindered into welcome sleep. And yet he couldn't; not without first checking in on his involuntary charge.
Maybe she's sleeping… a voice mused as Snape entered the darkened quarters of the Head Girl rooms, your spasms are nearly gone…perhaps she has a higher threshold for pain that you give her credit for. But Snape shook his head inwardly at the thought; she was a young woman, barely grown into her wand yet. The worst pain she'd ever experienced had probably been that little knick from Lucius at Potter's coming-of-age party…and even then she'd been unconscious from blood loss half the time. No, she was in pain, and, if Snape's intuition was right, not coping with it well at all…
Snape abruptly caught the faint glow of light shining from underneath an arching doorway and quickly headed towards it, muttering hastily under his breath in rapid succession as he ruthlessly unraveled the heavily interlaced wards that guarded the door. He'd have to find a way to bypass those in the future…
Finally safe to approach, Snape anxiously opened the door and quickly swept through, the swish of his heavy robes stirring the stale air. As always, the first thing that registered in Snape's mind was the smell; vomit, sweat, blood, and something subtly fruity in scent. He'd been right; they did not mix well.
The sound of fast, erratic breathing echoed softly off the marble fixtures of the bathroom, and Snape quickly spied the huddled figure of Miss Granger slumped boneless against the opposite side of the toilet; her arms wrapped in a death grip around her rib cage and her eyes closed in near-delirious exhaustion. Steeping closer, Snape realized it must be worse than it seemed, she hadn't so much as flutter an eyelash at his deliberately loud steps.
Bending down beside her, Snape did a quick analysis of the witch's condition; her night clothes were damp with sweat, her hair a hopeless mass of tangles, the violent shivering of her shoulders even as drips of perspiration slid down her cheek. No, she did not handle it well at all; how could she?
"Miss Granger," Snape said tightly, resisting the urge to simply grab the self-sacrificing little twit and shake her till she regained some sense. "Miss Granger, open your eyes this instant."
There was a sudden tensing of the girl's face as she jerked in surprise, shortly followed by the delicate fluttering of eyelashes as they flickered open. Snape stayed silent as her almond eyes took in his crouched position, the signature black robes of his Death Eater attire pooled heavily around him, and the smell of blood and sand in the air. Wetblood had not been the only entertainment that night…the Werewolves had brought gifts.
"How can you stand it?" the witch managed to whisper, her voice raw – Snape didn't want to think about how it got that way.
Probably screaming, the impassionate part of him supplied and Snape hid a grimace.
"I have to," the Potion Master responded emptily.
The witch looked like she was about to ask another question – for she was forever asking questions – when a small sound escaped her lips moments before she clamped them tight and turned her head away, her body curling inward unto itself as a spasm worked its way down her spine. Snape forced himself to watch as a tear ran unnoticed down her cheek – one of many, he was sure – and her arms tightened into an almost impossible grip around her midsection.
"Let it go," Snape said, his monotone voice never betraying the slow unraveling of his nerves as he cursed himself for not finding a way to spare her this; there had to be a better way. The dark man paused for a moment, waiting for the loosening of her muscles that would allow the spasm to pass through. It didn't come.
"Miss Granger," he said, louder this time, "You must let the spasm run its course, tensing your muscles will only serve to make the process much more painful and lengthy than it need be. Now, let go."
A ragged breath sobbed out of the young woman in front of Snape, and he suddenly realized her spasms seemed to be much more violent than his own dying tremors.
Perhaps these spasms are her own body's reaction to the curse and not a product of my own pain, he thought, his mind working fast as it broke down all the information he had on the Cruciatus. The spasms were not a result of the curse – that much he knew – but instead they were rather the body's compensation to the pain.
She's bearing both my reaction to the pain, and her own, he realized, feeling sick as he watched the narrow shoulders of the witch's smaller frame shake and tremble, the tremors must be agony…
"Miss Granger!" Snape hissed, not bothering to keep the intensity out of his voice, "Listen to me! I know you're in pain but you need to regain the control over your muscles or the spasms may become too much for your body. Listen, you foolish little girl, control you reaction and let the pain move through you!"
Hermione wanted to scream at him that she was trying but all she could focus on was the pain – it hurt more than she'd ever imagined, ever could have imagined. It robbed her of her breath and made her gasping pants echo in her clouded mind. She could vaguely feel the cold of the icy, stone floor seeping through her thin pajamas and the soft light emitted from a single floating candle, but beyond that, there was only the searing white hot pain that she had cried through for Merlin knows how long.
She could her Snape's voice rising and unconsciously shied away from it; she didn't want to be yelled at, or told how hopelessly stupid this plan was, she just wanted him to leave – let her lick her wounds in private away form prying eyes that saw too much. Just go.
Turning her head resolutely away from the increasingly irate man before her, Hermione tried to forcefully loosen the tightly knotted muscles of her shoulders; inch by inch, working to match her breathing with her heartbeat.
Breathe in…and out…breathe in…and out, the mantra played over and over in her head and, for a bit, the muscles of her body slowly unraveled. Hermione marveled at how disgustingly weak her body felt after she'd loosened the muscles up but then realized that she'd been clenching them almost nonstop for the past few hours…it was no wonder it felt as though someone had taken her body and stretched it like putty.
"Keep going," a familiar voice growled from next to her, and Hermione gathered her energy just enough to peek her eyes open and look at the stony Potions Master. He looks the same; Hermione's first thought was, strangely furious that he seemed completely unaffected by what ever pain was ravaging her body. Doesn't he feel this…? Merlin, how can he stand it…every week…sometimes more…how does he still manage to possess his sanity? I-I'm not sure I can do this…
But you have to! Another voice in Hermione's mind piped up, what of Harry? There's no other way. He'd always been there for you, Hermione, you know he had – sometimes he was the only one. What kind of friend would you be if you were not willing to protect him? What kind of Gryffindor? You should be ashamed for even considering giving up…
And Hermione was. Shame that she was sitting curled up and weak, shame that she couldn't seem to handle the pain like Professor Snape did, shame that she felt so fragile and sick and scared – all of it rushed through her. She hated it.
"You're not concentrating!" a sharp voice suddenly snapped, interrupting Hermione's thoughts.
"I'm trying!" she managed to resort heatedly, another unidentifiable sound escaping her lips as her muscle structure was brutally mangled.
"Well then try harder!"
Hermione tightened her grip around her middle, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip in an attempt not to cry…or scream. She could almost feel the curse as it twisted through her – neck, shoulders, back, thighs, calves, all the way down to her toes. For Hermione, the pain seemed to center in her upper extremities rather than her lower ones, and she hissed in pain as agony pooled in the delicate muscles of her forearm and then palm. She balled her hand into a fist.
Hermione didn't know how long into the night her spasms lasted, only that Snape's comments seemed to lose more and more patience with each phrase – if he had any patience to begin with, that is. He didn't touch her, though part of Hermione screamed for something – someone – anyone to hang onto, and after a while, he silently moved form his crouched position to stand over her; reeking of superiority and dominance. Damn it, she didn't need an instructor! She needed a…comrade, a partner, an ally, a companion, a friend! Snape had made it quite clear that he filled none of those positions.
After a particularly biting comment about her lack of self control, Hermione found herself screaming at him – all her hurt and anger and fear incarnating itself in the only form she knew how.
"That's it!" she yelled, pushing herself to her feet through sheer will power and adrenaline. "I've had enough of being yelled at! Being insulted! Leave! Just get the hell out! I wish I'd never come to you for your help! You obviously don't know what the word 'comfort' or 'reassurance' means, much less simple kindness! I want you to get out! Just forget I even spoke to you! Just go!"
Snape was taken aback at the sudden verbal attack; this little slip of a witch actually possessed the audacity to try and order him to leave? Had it been another time and place, Snape would have sneered, but for now he could only watch with veiled awe as the young witch yelled at him – her body braced unsteadily against the wall, her simple, red satin pajamas wrinkled beyond belief, her mass of riotous curls that fell in front of glaring, yet not completely focused, eyes. Snape knew he'd been goading her the last hour – little insults and pricks to make her try harder, to focus, but it had worked hadn't it? She'd gotten to the point where she could control her muscles for about three out of every ten seconds – it wasn't much, but it would have to do, for now.
Snape stayed perfectly silent as the little witch eventually ran out of stream, her breaths coming once again in uneven pants and her eyes going in and out of focus with each breath.
"P-please," she nearly begged, her head falling back to lean against the cold stone wall as a hot bead of sweat slid down her slim neck. "Just go. I-I don't feel very well."
The understatement of the century, no doubt.
Without another sign, the young witch's knees buckled and Snape barely managed to catch the witch around the middle before she crashed to the ground. Knowing the signs, the Potion Master hastily lowered the young Gryffindor down next to the toilet moments before she retched into the bowl; the sounds and smells of vomit once again coating the bathroom air. As dispassionately as he could, Snape reached up and gathered the sick girl's hair out of her face, his other arm slipping unconsciously around her ribcage to support her.
"Easy, Miss Granger," he said lowly, his voice sounding like warm silk to Hermione's drugged mind. He should talk like that more often…
Snape waited patiently for the witch's heaves to slowly die down to soft trembles; her body still twitching occasionally from the aftershocks of the curse. There is a damn good reason that curse was Unforgivable…
"You're hurting me," Hermione mumbled softly, her eyes closing and her body simply giving into exhaustion as she leaned back against the Professor's chest. She could feel one of his heavily robes arms wrapped tightly around her middle, the supporting arm rubbing up against her sore ribs. She probably shouldn't have held herself so hard… the utterly appalled shock that would have regularly swept through her was effectively dulled as her physical, mental, and emotional capacities shut down.
Snape sighed as he felt the young woman go limp in his arms; at least she'd managed to wait until the spasms were done working their way through her body before she collapsed. If she'd fainted while she'd been here alone…Snape shivered; the effects could have been disastrous. Some people thought blacking out from pain was merciful, a natural escape from reality's tortures – but nothing escapes the Cruciatus. If you were unfortunate to black out during a bout of Cruciatus…your body becomes an instrument of the curse while your mind is virtually useless in its unconscious state. The body instinctively tries to fight back against the pain, run away from it, anything to stop it. Even tear it out.
A shame the curse originates from the inside of a person's body…
Without an active mind working, the body can do horrible things to itself. Snape didn't think Moody ever forgave himself for his eye…
Shaking himself from his memories, Snape tiredly rose from the floor, the little know-it-all curled snuggly into the curve of his chest as his weary muscles protested with every minute movement. Oh, how he longed for sleep… Walking back into the darkened bedroom, Snape navigated himself blindly to the side of the bed; briefly considering changing the sleeping witch's stiff pajamas for a fresh pair before he dismissed the idea. He'd be lucky if he could manage a proper Lumos with his state of fatigue.
Awkwardly tucking her in, Snape allowed himself an unhurried look at the stubborn witch who had plagued his thoughts all evening. She really is a brave little thing, he admitted grudgingly, though I can't see how Potter ensues such a sense of loyalty in people. She really would do anything for the boy…not that he deserves it, of course. Snape wondered what it was like to have someone care that much about you, but then he caught himself and scowled; not that he would ever know.
Rising to his feet, Snape quickly scribbled a short letter to Miss Granger before heading towards the fireplace. This arrangement of her hiding out in her bathroom every time he was summoned wasn't going to work, it was time to switch to more…Slytherin tactics – after all, those were the best kind. With a final glance to the slumbering witch, Snape disappeared into the Floo; he would have a surprise for Miss Granger in the morning – hopefully one that would suit both their needs…
This chapter was written to 'Why Don't You and I' by Santana and 'Take On Me' by Ah Ha. God…I swear I was born out of my decade (century?).
MY EXCUSES:
In other news, my birthday was this week. I was kidnapped - no laptop - no writing.
In more interesting news (for me) I have a new beau. I'm infatuated; he has a roman numeral in his name. What can I say? I'm a sucker for the roman numerals, those premature grey streaks, and men who will write me a letter instead of an e-mail. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that my weekends may be filled with a little more than fanfiction so…sorry?
THANKS FOR ALL THE WONDERFULLY ENCOURAGING WORDS AND I REALLY HOPE YOU CONTINUE TO KEPP UP WITH THE STORY! I'm still trying to beat that pesky record…seriously, it's been standing for like 3 months?! It's going down…
Review damn you, I know you're there… hey, it worked last time……-
