Chapter 13: An Inconvenient Invasion
Disclaimer: For the last twenty minutes, I've been in my kitchen. This is not unusual; I enjoy both cooking and baking. What is unusual is that, for the last twenty minutes, I've been completely failing. I'm not used to failure. I'm not good at failure. But for the last twenty minutes, I've been trying to make whipped cream out of half and half, and anyone with a shred of whipping experience will tell you it's just not possible. They're right. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I hope and pray and rail against having to go to the grocery store to pick up heavy cream, I will never make whipped cream out of my sad, sad foamy mixture (which includes a teaspoon of wasted vanilla). You know what else I'll never do? I'll never claim to be J.K. Rowling. Because, you know, I'm not. I didn't write Harry Potter, folks, I just like playing in Rowling's garden. So that's that. And now, I'm headed out to go pick up some gosh darned heavy cream so I can eat the cake I've been staring at for two hours.
"It's not Voldemort," Uncle Harry said.
"Are you sure?" Rose itched to ask, but the look on her mother's face stilled her tongue. Silence stretched across the table.
"It's not Voldemort," Uncle Harry repeated. His hand went to his fringe. "I would know if it were," he added softly.
"But I can see where you could get that idea," Rose's mother said.
"It was Al's idea," Rose muttered.
"Just because it was wrong doesn't mean it was a bad idea," Hermione said to Al, but it was Rose's hair that she patted.
Rose rolled her eyes. Her fingers involuntarily beat blues scales up and down her leg. She looked at the pie sitting on the table and thought seriously about whether or not she wanted another slice. How many hours had it been since dinner? Six?
She and Al had planned this not-so-carefully before returning home for Easter holidays. Cornering parents late at night was a tried-and-true Weasley technique for getting attention that was otherwise distracted. And Rose could tell that her parents, at least, were distracted. Both sported dark shadows under their eyes that spoke of late nights. Hermione's study held even more books than usual, crowded into unexpected corners and tottering in towers on the shelves. Rose suspected strongly that her mother had expanded the space in her study to accommodate the extra tomes. Such expansions were rather common practice in wizarding homes, but Rose was a bit surprised: her mother had usually opposed such magical adjustments in the past. ("I just don't want to, all right, Ron?" "But, Hermione dear, everyone does it. Just a couple meters here or there wouldn't hurt!" "No, Ron." "Don't you want to be able to fit more books in your study? Why can't we just –" "For the last time, Ron, no." "But why?" "Because bigger on the inside is such a cliché.") Rose's father was mystified, but he let his wife have her way and made quiet adjustments to the broom shed that Rose was never, ever to tell her mother about.
But no, the study was definitely bigger than it had been the last time Rose was at home. When Rose perused the titles of the books, she was somewhat surprised to see that most of the ones her mother was reading now them dealt with the Hallows. They were on the top of every stack. They were closest to her mother's desk. They were clearly the priority. And they were crumblingly ancient, but it was no wonder; it had been a long time since anyone other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Xenophilius Lovegood had taken the old legends seriously.
Clearly, her parents were as preoccupied by the Stone letters as she and Al were.
So in the end it hadn't been very difficult at all for Rose to convince her parents that they should have the Potters Floo over for a late-night discussion during which the term "re-zombified" was, to Al's credit, never uttered. They just had to wait until James tired himself out attempting to combust his Charms homework (Hugo, strange child that he was, had a completely self-imposed bedtime of nine-thirty pm, and would cry if forced to stay awake later). And now, here they were, at two o'clock in the morning, in the Weasley kitchen. The six of them huddled around the table where Rose had eaten dinner nearly every night of her childhood, discussing Voldemort.
Aunt Ginny sat ramrod straight next to Al, her hand protectively resting on the back of his chair, a fierce glint in her eyes. Uncle Harry sat a little apart from his wife, rubbing his forehead as though he could make sense of everything if he could just commune with the past through his scar. Rose's mother sat across from him, staring deep into the nothing over her husband's shoulder, brow wrinkled and fingers tense on the table. And Ron slumped in his chair, clutching his coffee and staring straight ahead with an ugly look that threatened nothing pleasant for whomever was daring to threaten his daughter. Rose looked at each of them and wondered if this is what it had been like, back when Voldemort had returned and the fate of Wizarding Britain rested on the shoulders of a few teenagers, an old man, and an extraordinarily bitter Potions professor.
She wondered if it had ever felt as completely unclear to them as it did to her now – what did all of it mean? And how could they fight someone they couldn't even find? In the dim candlelight the whole situation felt surreal. They had eaten with Grandma and Grandpa Weasley at this table six hours before . . .
And it was only Monday. Both Rose and Al felt strongly that these sorts of conversations should happen on a Monday. Mondays were exactly the kind of day when you'd figure out the true, terrifying intentions of the potential madman (or woman) who was potentially (well, almost definitely at this point) after you. Unfortunately, the conversation held in low voices around the Weasley's supper table did not accomplish that goal. Or any others, for that matter.
Well, all right. Uncle Harry said it wasn't Voldemort. And with the whole Horcrux thing, Rose was fairly inclined to take his word on that. It seemed that everyone was pretty well convinced that "Stone" referred to the Resurrection Stone, not a person. And when Rose asked if that had given them any leads, all of the adults went completely shifty, which meant that they'd likely found the bit about Inferi as well. It was probably her mother that'd done that, Rose thought with pride, conveniently forgetting that Scorpius, and not she, had actually found the bit about the Stone in the Hogwarts Library. But with all the time they'd had, it seemed odd that hers and Al's parents hadn't been able to come up with more than a trio of eleven-year-olds with no Invisibility Cloak, no experience fighting Dark wizards or witches known or unknown, and twenty-one months of magical training put together. Which made her think that there was definitely something that the adults were hiding. Which made her frustrated.
"What's the point in having secret late-night meetings with four of the great heroes from the Wizarding War if you can't even get anything done?" she'd asked Al the next morning, after huffing over it all night. Al, however, hadn't eaten yet, and so was completely nonverbal in his response. Useless. Al and Mondays were absolutely useless.
It turned out the rest of the week wasn't much better.
Mostly, there were quiet days. It was strange, Rose thought. Normally the holidays brought to her mind the smells of the Burrow, the sounds of heartfelt and somewhat chaotic family greetings and reunions, the best of the madness that her family embodied. But this year, this Easter, was different. The family crowd was smaller than it was at Christmas, when everyone came home or faced Grandma Weasley's wrath. Many of Rose's cousins had elected to stay at school to study for exams, or at least that's the story they told their parents. The glint in Fred's eyes told a different story; Rose suspected he planned to spend more than a little time troublemaking. Rose, James, and Al had returned home, as had Victoire and Roxy. Rose suspected that Victoire came home more to see Teddy than to be with her parents, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She couldn't help but giggle, though, when she saw how avidly James avoided even looking at Victoire when they happened to be in the same room.
The result of the decreased family size was that Al and Rose had a good deal of time to themselves, at least for a couple days. They spent it primarily slogging through the inordinately large amount of homework the professors had set for them ("Well, you do have your final exams coming up, dear," Hermione reminded her daughter, smiling reminiscently. "Only you," Ron grumbled, "Could wear that face and talk about exams."). Rose and Al agreed that it would be completely mad to spend all of their precious holidays in studying, though, and so they took frequent breaks.
The breaks often ended in chaos. Lily was going through an "accidental-on-purpose" magic phase. As she was only nine years old, her latent magical abilities were manifest only under times of extreme emotional duress – occasions readily supplied by her older brothers. The advantage of her specific brand of magic was that it wasn't particularly strong, though it was markedly weird. The disadvantage was that Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny couldn't take her wand away to prevent it, as she didn't have one yet. Rose left the house with a sparking rash, a tattoo that Aunt Ginny swore would wear off eventually, and a newfound appreciation for Hugo and his stick-in-the-mud ways.
"It's ok," Al assured her, "James said last time his hands were crumpets for only a few hours. I'm sure it will wear off soon." This was less than reassuring coming from someone sprouting a gourd from each ear. "Just try to stay away from things that can burn, right?"
But then, a red-faced James chased Al through the house at 2:07 pm on Wednesday, as Al had stolen a draft of an unsent love letter to Kimberly Ashfield. Lily, her skin colored a ferocious purple, tumbled out from under their worktable at 3:24 pm on Thursday ("I swear, I've no idea how she got there," Al said with an almost straight face). And, as usual, Hugo ended up Spellotaped to the wall at one point. On both Wednesday and Thursday. But Thursday he'd totally deserved it.
On Friday, Grandma and Grandpa Granger came over for dinner. That meant that most of the day was spend removing all of the magical wards around the house so they could get in, cleaning the house, and hiding anything that Grandma and Grandpa Granger might accidentally set off, ingest, or shatter. It was only nights when they were coming over that Rose realized exactly how much magical paraphernalia was in her house. She wondered exactly how they'd managed all the years that her mother had been attending Hogwarts. Grandma and Grandpa Granger always just seemed so . . . terrified around anything magical. And these were the people that raised one of the smartest witches alive today?
Rose didn't have long to wonder, though, since her mother set her to work rubbing Stasis Solvent on all of the paintings in the house.
"But Mum, the paintings are harmless!"
"Your grandparents don't like it when they move, Rosie," Hermione said. Rose almost argued, but her mother's hair was in an abnormally frizzy bun on top of her head, and she was holding a bucket full of PermiSharp knives, neither of which boded well for the next person to cross her. Rose grudgingly grabbed a sponge and got to work. She hated going through this routine every time Grandma and Grandpa Granger came over.
It wasn't as though she didn't like her mother's parents. They were always very kind. Rose just wished that they weren't so scared of anything related to the magical world; it wasn't a fear she could share, or even understand. They winced when Hermione or Ron talked about work; they shuddered when the Potters were mentioned; they twitched a little whenever Hogwarts came up, though, really, Rose thought anyone sensible might have a similar reaction. She just never knew what to talk about when they were around. Dinners were always filled with awkward silences. And they insisted on asking her how school was going, but were only interested in hearing about subjects like maths or reading, which were hardly worth mentioning when she went to a Muggle primary school, and not even worth thinking about now. Grandma and Grandpa Granger were most comfortable talking about teeth; sometimes Rose thought the only thing they liked about the wizarding world were Toothflossing Stringmints.
Still, at least once they were done with dinner, Al came over. Rose finished her homework for the week while Al played Exploding Snap against her father – something he claimed to need after every dinner with Grandma and Grandpa Granger. That, and a smoking glass of Firewhiskey.
Rose, Al, and James were set to leave for Hogwarts early Sunday morning, so they were meant to spend their Saturday packing, eating one last home-cooked meal with the whole clan, and sleeping. Rose was to sleep at the Potters' house that night, allegedly as a way to separate she and Hugo ("They've been unbearable all week," she overheard her father telling Uncle Harry. She couldn't see the look Uncle Harry was giving Ron in response, but she imagined that it involved an arched eyebrow, a tilted mouth, and the clear subtext have-you-ever-seen-my-sons-together? "Hugo got Spellotaped to the wall twice," said Rose's father. "My sons sprouted edible body parts whenever Lily got hungry, Ron."). She was also meant to be helping Al finish up his homework; he'd lost Exploding Snap so spectacularly to Rose's father the night before that he'd been too depressed to work on his Potions essay.
The packing, writing, and eating went fine; the part where they were supposed to sleep was a disaster. Still, Rose thought in retrospect, the week had been far too boring, and she ought to have expected it.
She woke up slowly, blinking through the last shreds of a strange dream, to knocks on the door. Her door? Too far. The front door. What?
It was not yet light outside. Who could be knocking at this hour? Whoever it was, they were very insistent. The knocks came in a repeated staccato rhythm – knockknockknockknock . . . knockknockknockknock – punctuated every so often by what sounded like someone leaning heavily on the doorbell. Rose wondered briefly why Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny even had a doorbell; it wasn't at all common in Wizarding families, and its presence had caused a fair share of trouble in earlier years. Very few of their fully-magical cousins could seem to get the hang of it. Perhaps one of them – but no, they'd just have Apparated, or used the Floo, if it was really that important to wake the Potters up at this hour. Rose swung her feet off the bed and looked around in puzzlement. Neither Uncle Harry nor Aunt Ginny had answered the door yet. She poked Al awake.
"Whassahapppawakeeewhyyyyy?"
"Shhhhh! Someone's at your door, Al."
"Huh?"
Rose heard footsteps rush down the stairs. She heard a muttered curse (the non-magical kind), a muttered Muffliato!, and then Uncle Harry's voice carried up the stairs. "Ginny! It's the police!"
"The what?"
"The . . . the Muggle Aurors!"
"What are they doing here?"
"How should I know?"
"How did they find us? We're supposed to have wards all around the house!"
"I've no idea, Ginny."
And then, from Harry and Ginny simultaneously, " . . . JAMES!"
Rose heard James's voice from the top of the stairs. "I swear, it wasn't me this time."
"You said that last time the Department of Magical Law Enforcement showed up."
"I'm innocent!" James maintained.
"Harry, can we Confund him?"
" . . . There are five of them."
"Harry, can we Confund them?"
"We can't just Confund every Muggle that shows up here accidentally."
"That's what my brother does!"
"I'll be sure to mention that to Hermione."
Rose poked her head out of the room in time to see Ginny stride by, cinching a robe around her waist. "Plan M on my signal."
"Plan M?" Rose asked Al as Aunt Ginny walked downstairs.
"Contingency plan for 'Unavoidable Muggle,'" Al recited.
"You have a contingency plan for this?"
"My Dad's the Head Auror. We have a contingency plan for everything," Al said.
"I'll go get the Skiving Snackboxes," James said resignedly.
Uncle Harry opened the door. Rose could see at least three pairs of shoes from her admittedly poor vantage point. "Hello, officers. Can I help you?"
"What took you so long?"
"Pardon?"
"Why did it take you so long to answer the door?"
"It's three o'clock in the morning, officer."
"And?"
"And my family was asleep. Is there a problem here?"
"We've received a complaint about this address."
"This address?"
"This is 37 Pever Elm Lane, correct?"
" . . .Yes."
"And you are Mr. Harry Potter, I presume?"
" . . .Yes."
"This is the house, boys!" There seemed to be a brief scuffle. "Sir, might I ask you to step aside. We're going to have to search the house."
"Search the . . .why do you need to search my house?" Rose could almost hear Uncle Harry force himself to remain calm. Contingency plan or no, there was a lot of clearly non-Muggle paraphernalia around the house. She thought about the Mimblus Mimbletonia in the kitchen, the charmed coffee mugs in the sitting room, hers and Al's Hogwarts textbooks and parchment all over the table, and nearly swore. If they found any of it, Uncle Harry would have to memory-wipe the lot of them. And the Ministry had gotten a lot less forgiving about that kind of thing since Rose's mother joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Rose beckoned to Al to follow her. She opened the door silently, and they met James at the top of the steps. From here, they Rose could see that the man in the uniform with the most shiny attachments at the front seemed to be favoring his arm in a way that Rose was certain he hadn't been before the scuffle she'd heard with Uncle Harry.
"We have a warrant, sir. You'll find it's all in order," he said, handing Uncle Harry several sheets of paper. Uncle Harry barely glanced at it. He and Ginny shared a look.
Rose, Al, James, and Lily stood at the top of the steps, trying to draw as little attention to themselves as possible while at the same time watching the scene below unfold. Aunt Ginny's hand twitched oddly in her robe pocket, and red sparks flew from the lamp closest to the doorway. The policemen ducked; James went into motion.
"All right," he said, clearly relishing the situation in a way that was probably unhealthy, "Lily and I will eat these, Rose and Al will hide everything. Good? Good. Now go." He clambered noisily down the stairs, looking for all the world like a scared thirteen-year-old boy. If scared thirteen-year-old boys tried and failed to hide their maniacal grins and the magic wand shoved up their sleeve.
Rose's mind whirred into overactive motion. They had to get downstairs and hide . . . well, practically everything. What if the policemen suspected what they were doing? What if they couldn't hide their things in time? Wasn't this illegal? She looked at Al, whose eyes were wide. They looked at the blur that was James.
"He's really excited," Al observed quietly. "He's always wanted to meet a politeman."
"Policeman," Rose corrected automatically.
Lily squinted at the unwrapped sweet James had placed in her palm, then shrugged and darted downstairs after her brother. What else was there to do? Rose squared her shoulders and followed.
Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry stood in the doorway. Rose saw Al's parents as an impenetrable barrier to the policemen waiting in a quiet huddle outside; the policemen probably thought they had control of the situation. James tugged on his mother's robe.
"Mummy, what are the men doing outside?" Ginny patted his head absently. "Mummy," James said, flashing Al and Rose a brief grin and putting something orange in his mouth, "I think I'm going to be sick."
Rose and Al backpedaled quickly, almost bowling Lily over in their hurry to get out of range. Everyone in the Weasley clan grew up knowing exactly what a Puking Pastille looked like. Brilliant, Rose thought appreciatively. Lily pulled out her purple piece of candy and placed herself strategically.
"Mummy," she wailed. "I think I'm going to –" and she fainted, blocking off the entrance to the kitchen.
"You're family is brilliant, Al," Rose whispered. "Mad, but brilliant."
"Appreciate later, Rosie."
"No, seriously, how many times has your dad made you practice this?"
With the distraction of projectile vomiting and dramatic swooning, Rose and Al moved practically unnoticed. In the confusion, they dashed first into the living room and grabbed armfuls of anything that looked like it didn't belong in a Muggle movie. Orders of Merlin, first class. Floating tea mugs ("Won't leave stains on your tables!"). An overly friendly blanket.
"What do we do with it all?" Rose whispered.
"Oh bollocks," Al said, arms bulging around the blanket, "I can't remember this part!" It probably didn't help that the blanket was actively trying to snuggle him.
Rose looked around the room quickly, her eyes lighting on the mantle over the fireplace. "Floo it to my parents'!" They shoved everything they could into the fireplace, and Rose tossed the powder in.
"The Holt!" Rose called as quietly as she could, and green flames burst into being.
"Oh, officer, I'm so sorry about your shoes!" Rose heard Aunt Ginny say loudly. "Why don't you clean them off before you check the kitchen?"
"The kitchen, Al! The kitchen!"
Self-cleaning pots and pans, self-searching cookbooks, and every candy they could find from WWW went into the Ever-Expanding pot. Al and Rose lugged it as best they could over to the Floo and sent it on.
It felt as though they were moving at a frustratingly snail-like pace, but Rose knew that just five minutes had passed. Still, she wondered just how much more food James had in his stomach, and just how much longer Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry could keep the policemen distracted before they'd insist on completing (well, starting) their search.
"Is she . . . Are those leaves?" Rose heard one of the policemen ask.
But the only space left to clear downstairs was the dining room, and now they truly were pressed for time, as Rose heard James being shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. Rose and Al's books were scattered along the table, parchment and quills strewn haphazardly. Al had completed his essay at the end of the night and declared himself too tired to clean up. His solution would be obvious to any eleven-year-old boy: he left everything where it was – his and Rose's notes strewn haphazardly, ink-spots dotting the table like he'd been finger-painting, books opened and closed and halfway in between. Rose and Al gathered everything they could, made one last, mad dash back to the Floo, and sent it through. They were about to creep back up the stairs and into their beds, to await innocently the impending invasion once the police had finished downstairs, when Rose remembered.
"Al! Your Potions book!"
"What about it?"
"You threw it against the wall earlier!"
Al swore quietly. They rushed back into the room. The Potions book was lying on a chair; Aunt Ginny must have picked it up. But there was no time to Floo it to the Holt – the policemen were searching the sitting room. Rose grabbed her schoolbag and shoved Al's Potions book in. The half-folded tablecloth it was sitting on went with it, but they'd just have to deal with that later. The state of Aunt Ginny's linens definitely took a backseat to the International Statute of Secrecy.
"You have more children?" a very bedraggled policeman asked as he rounded the corner into the dining room. Rose shoved the book further into her bag with her foot and smiled at him as innocently she could.
"Hello, Orricer," she said.
"Officer," Al corrected quietly.
"My son, Al," Uncle Harry said quietly, "And my niece, Rose. Do you need to investigate them as well, or may I send them back to bed?"
"Sir, we want this to be over just as much as you do," the policeman said, "Trust me." His eyes flicked into the corners of the room. Rose saw Uncle Harry give a couple of the paintings distinct warning glares before they could start complaining about the intruder. Rose dug her nails into her palms. Don't check the bag, don't check the bag, don't check the bag. She yearned to perform a Disillusionment charm on the bag, on Al's Potions book, on herself, but performing underage magic in the direct presence of a Muggle was most definitely forbidden, and the last time she'd attempted the charm, Katie'd had to wear scarves for days to hide the reptilian markings on her neck.
"Young miss."
Rose could swear that every one of her muscles stopped functioning. Including her jaw. "Er?"
"I have to check the chair behind you."
"Er." Rose shuffled herself and her bag out of his way.
"Lots of homework, eh? I remember those days."
Rose made a noise that might have been, "Eep," and tried really hard not to be noticed.
An hour later, the police had finished searching the house. They stood, shuffling scuffed shoes and dabbing at various stains on their uniform. The one with the shiniest badges on his uniform was shaking his head. "We apologize again for the inconvenience, Mr. Potter. Our information – "
"May I ask what you were searching for?" Uncle Harry interrupted.
"It must have been important for you to wake our whole family up at this hour," Aunt Ginny noted mildly, though if she'd been aiming that tone at Rose, Rose would be running as quickly as possible in the opposite direction. Aunt Ginny got polite right before she threw the term "polite" entirely out of her vocabulary and replaced it with things like "snarling," "merciless," and "most creative use of that hex I've ever seen."
"Confidential, I'm afraid," said the man with the shiny badges and the shinier forehead. "But it's not here, so we'll be on our way."
"And if I were to call on your superior tomorrow, would it still be confidential?" Uncle Harry asked.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter, but you try that if you'd like."
"Please leave our house now."
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Rose's mother and father turned up very confused via the Floo not long afterward. It turned out that Hermione had wakened to some thuds in their house, only to find Hugo staring wide-eyed and silent as the Potters' belongings appeared en masse in his living room. "I just wanted a glass of water," he kept whispering, holding his mother's hand as she and Rose's father talked with the Potters. They eventually sent the children to bed, but Rose could hear the faint sounds of their continued conversation in the kitchen downstairs long after she had resigned herself to sleep. One question burned in her mind. But how did they find the house?
Luckily, it seemed as though Al and James were having the same thought, because James turned up not long afterward with three sets of Extendable Ears and a remarkably clear conscience for someone who stole them from his uncle.
" . . . absolutely think this is related to the Hey Diddle Diddle Letters," Rose's father was saying, "And everything else that's been happening with Rose and Al this year."
"Hard to believe it's not," Uncle Harry said, "But the policemen were all definitely Muggles."
"What do they – whomever they are, because I'm not convinced you have the right of it, Harry – what do they gain from having Muggles search your house?" Rose's mother asked.
"It's a classic stakeout technique," Uncle Harry said immediately.
"But they know the kids will be going back to Hogwarts," Aunt Ginny said, "So –"
"And they've made it clear they know where their rooms are," Ron added.
"Right. So what good does a 'stakeout' of our house do?"
"I don't know," said Uncle Harry, and Rose thought she had never heard him sound so young. "I don't know, and I don't understand. Half the time I think we're dealing with someone completely off their rocker."
"But the intricacy of the Charms they must have placed on all of the letters, and everything else so far," Hermione said, "If it's beyond the capacity of my entire department to trace –"
"It's not your fault, Hermione," Aunt Ginny said.
"My question," Rose's father said, "Is how did they even get past your wards, Harry?" There was a long pause.
"The wards are still intact."
"I thought you had a set of Muggle redirection wards?"
"We do. It's all still intact." Another long pause.
"This house is Unplottable still – "
"Yes."
"So how . . .?"
"I'm going to go check on the children," said Aunt Ginny abruptly, and James was out of the room in two seconds flat, trails of Extendable Ears behind him like streamers.
It took Rose a long time to truly fall asleep. She could hear the rise and fall of voices continue downstairs, and she yearned to hear what they were saying. But James didn't come back to Al's room, and Rose thought that her parents' heightened state of anxiety might lead to some overreaction if she were caught eavesdropping.
Her internal monolog was a relentless drumming in her head, just one question, over and over and over. It wasn't How did they get in?, though she'd spent a fair amount of time on that one too. No, it was why? Why did they get in?
Author's Note: In the time since the last chapter was published, I have spent a summer out of my home country; moved to a new city; started what some people call a "new chapter" in my life, but I call mostly "refusal to grow up;" purchased and attempted to play a new instrument; successfully baked a cake; and unsuccessfully attempted to make whipped cream. I list these things not as an excuse – I've mostly given up on excuses for why each chapter takes me so long – but because I'm pretty excited about my life right now, and I clearly have a complex about sharing things with random strangers on the internet. Hi, random strangers! Oh, also, one more thing that may actually interest y'all: I've started writing more. Every night, actually, I make a point of at least looking over this story. It is still very much in progress in my brain space.
Anywho, I know I've said before that I write all the time, but this is only the second time I've actually posted my writing . . . well, anyplace. I write mostly for myself because in the end I'm pretty selfish, but I love hearing what you all think! Reviewing is, of course, a fantastic way to do that, and I greatly appreciate all of your reviews. You can also favorite or follow this story, in which case I'll just assume you liked it, and that makes me happy too! I wish you all the loveliest of lovely days, and thank you so much for reading this all the way to the end!
-bbh