Recap:

"Blood magic," she laughed, her eyes brimming with red tears. Already she could taste the evil in the blood. "Ancient magic. I put up a fight, I put on a show."

"You…" the leader gasped. "You surrendered to me?"

"And now I am free. Warn Malfoy and I will finish you all off," she hissed, then turned and fled.

She didn't stop running until she reached the safety of a former Light Side camp, which had only been abandoned days before. Crashing to her hands and knees, she tore fistfuls of mud and dirt from the ground, scattering it in her rage and despair.

"Ron!" she screamed, pounding the dirt as if it were the cause of her pain. "Oh Merlin, oh Merlin…Merlin…I love you…"

Chapter 17: The Dark Years

Hermione's eyes opened almost the instant the sun sank beyond the horizon, her senses alert. It had been nearly a month since she escaped her captors, since she had died. She had been moving from hideout to hideout each night, following the telltale signs of previous Death Eater camps as she went, following them (she hoped) back to Voldemort. She killed and fed on small creatures to sustain herself, but was painfully aware that such a diet would not be enough for much longer. She felt weaker with the coming of each new dawn. Even catching bunnies and rodents seemed a trying task now.

This was the first time she felt the presence of another human soul since her change. She was not alone.

She listened with her vampire ears, pushing aside useless sounds like owls and scurrying forest creatures, her preternatural hearing picking out the one out-of-place noise. It was the one new ability she had been able to hone in on immediately, training herself each night.

"Come a step closer and I will—" but her words fell from her mind as quickly as they did from her lips, her eyes unfocusing and refocusing as a ghost came hurtling towards her.

"Down!" they shouted, shoving her behind a nearby tree. Jets of light came shooting after him, his face streaked with soot and pinkish sweat. "Boy it sure is great to see a friendly face," he quipped, smiling wide despite the very real danger he (and now she) was in; his thick Irish accent snapped her into reality.

"Seamus!?" she cried, not believing her eyes or ears. It couldn't be! He had been killed by the vampires long ago. Everyone believed him to be dead. "What—How—When—" but again she was cut off by another hex crashing just beyond where they stood.

"Shite," he laughed, startling Hermione slightly; what was there to laugh about? They were clearly in danger. What was so funny? "Oh we're not in any danger," he said, reading her thoughts. "I'm just toying with them." She looked even more confused, if that were possible. "Just a moment," he said after a long pause, then stepped out from behind the tree and towards the group of angry Death Eaters.

"What—" but he was already gone. Moments later, when she got up the courage to look around the tree, she saw Seamus standing with half a dozen lifeless bodies scattered at his feet, with another one clutched to him, their head hanging back, eyes half-open, moaning.

"Come."

Hermione followed his command as if violently compelled to do so. Without being told what to do, she reached for the near-unconscious Death Eater (someone she had seen before, but did not know his name) and brought his neck to her lips. The largest vein beneath his taught flesh pulsed with hot, fresh blood; Hermione swore she could hear it rushing beneath the surface, the sound deafening.

When she sank her fangs into her first victim's neck, her arms instinctively tightened around him. He gave one final low gasp, his body gave an involuntary switch, then he was still. He crumpled to the ground, his limbs and head going in gruesomely unnatural directions; when she'd crushed him to her, she'd broken most of his bones.

They stood in silence for a long time. Had Hermione not known any better, she might have thought Seamus was a statue, so still and unbreathing was he. She realized he was giving her this moment and she was grateful for it.

She had taken a human life. She had taken them before, this was a war after all, but this was the first human being she had consumed as a meal, as a vampire. Her knees hit the dirt before she realized she'd dropped, her hands digging into the earth the way she did the first night she was turned, the night she was ripped from Ron and everyone else. The night she became a monster.

Her breath quickened and she felt her face grow warmer, her eyes brimming with bloody tears.

"Merlin," she breathed, sucking in small, frantic breaths.

"Breathe," Seamus instructed, kneeling beside her. One hand was on her back, the other on her cheek, turning her face towards him. "I know what you are feeling," he was saying, but he sounded miles away, his voice muted, distorted. "It's bloody terrible, I know, but it will pass. It will become…more comfortable."

Long, slow minutes went by. Hermione became aware of the subtle change in the wind, the smell of the corpses in her vicinity, the feel of Seamus's cold body against her.

"How do you do it?" she finally asked. "How do you endure?"

"I signed up for this war to defeat Voldemort," he said fearlessly. Hermione took note of this; he was no longer afraid to say his name. His years as a vampire had changed him, somewhat for the better. He was stronger, wiser, more daring. "I endure because I must."

"Now what?" she asked, truly at a loss. Yes she had read all about vampires, yes she understood in theory what it was all about – but to be such a creature? To hover between life and death, taking lives to sustain?

"I have a shelter not far from here. Temporary, but sufficient. And I can tell you whatever you wish to know."

"No!" Hermione cried, beating Seamus's chest, clawing at his face and hair. He allowed this, holding her tightly around the waist. "No. How? No! It can't—He can't—What happened!?"

Seamus waited until her breathing had calmed some before he spoke.

"I don't know exactly," he admitted, bowing his head slightly. "I was not there. All I know is the war's over…Voldemort won and…and…and Harry's…dead."

"I have to go to Ginny! I have to—"

"You will not," he told her and she somehow knew he would personally prevent her from going if he needed to. "You're dead, Hermione. So am I. And Voldemort's the victor. I have little hope that we will ever be able to see anyone again. It would be far too dangerous, for ourselves, but more importantly for them."

"This can't be how it ends!" she cried, pointing a shaky finger at him. "How? How can he have won? H-how can Harry be gone? How…" But she had no more energy. She had not fed in many days, a rule that Seamus followed religiously. His change had been forced and until his master was killed some two years later, he had been commanded to do unspeakable crimes, take countless innocent lives. He only fed when his body absolutely need to, when the taking of life was inevitable.

She collapsed into his arms, her breathing low and steady. Seamus sighed and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He wondered if she would ever be able to accept her fate, be able to move on.

Five months, four days, and a handful of hours. That's how long she had been a vampire.

Hermione glanced up at the nearly full moon, her sight focusing in on all of its craters and shadows. Had she ever really seen the moon before she was changed? Had she really seen anything?

"Are you certain I can't change your mind?" Seamus asked, a nice healthy color gracing his fair Irish complexion. They had fed that evening, taking down a two-person murderous duo and, thankfully, saving the next intended victim in the process.

"I can't stay here, Seamus," she sighed, unable to fully meet his gaze. "I…" but she didn't really have anything more prepared to say.

He nodded and didn't try again to convince her otherwise. He had been a vampire long enough to know that certain impulses one must succumb to, lest you go mad.

"You remember how I instructed you to reach me?" he asked, for what seemed like the twentieth time.

She smiled, a small sad smile, but genuine all the same. It was the first real smile she had allowed since her change. She gave him a look as if to say, "Seamus, I will be fine," then pulled him close and held him there for a long while. "I'm going to miss you."

"And I you." He kissed her forehead, then allowed her to step away and into the night.

He wouldn't see her again for more than a few years.

Hermione knew she was a vampire the moment their eyes met across the bustling courtyard. She was tall and beautiful, her cloak surrounding her like a waterfall of deep blue silk. They drifted towards one another, not saying a word, not coming within more than a few yards, a throng of warm blood-filled mortals between them. Hermione noted her olive skin, her deep dark eyes, the hint of dark hair beneath her cloak's hood.

Hermione Granger, the slightly younger (in human years) woman projected to Hermione's mind. She was taken aback for a moment, having been wandering and away from "her kind" for such a long time she had nearly forgotten the unnatural and jarring sensation of hearing another's thoughts in your own mind. Seamus had taught her about this and many, many other truly incredible abilities she now possessed due to her vampiric curse. If only she could properly control them. I do apologize, and Hermione swore she could hear her voice aloud. For startling you. I mean no harm.

Hermione just continued to look at her, unable to project her own thoughts.

Ahh, you cannot mind-speak. And then, "Forgive again my rudeness and assumptions."

"Who are you?" Hermione asked bluntly.

"My name is Sauda. And I have heard so much about you, though I did not realize you had…come over." Hermione flinched at these words, her back stiffening. "Because you are presumed deceased."

"Focus," Sauda commanded, her face showing signs of annoyance. They had been standing in the empty clearing for hours now and the sun was due to rise in a few more.

"I am," Hermione hissed, memories of Divination class flashing in her mind. She did not understand why she was having such difficulty with this one ability, having nearly mastered the others in the last eight or so months (she had stopped counting).

"No," the turn-of-the century vampire shot back, true anger now in her voice, "you're not. You're trying too hard to hear my thoughts—" Sauda held up her hand to silence Hermione, who had been about to interrupt and ask what the bloody hell else she should be doing. "—you need to feel them." Her voice lowered to barely above a whisper, her tone calm. "The way you can block out every sound—no matter how loud, how close—but the subtle rhythm of your next victim's pulse."

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed. She thought about her first mortal victim, his body a fountain of energy in Seamus's arms, the low thrum of his life force just beneath the flesh. She knew Seamus was there, knew corpses lay at his feet, the stench of their evil hanging in the air. All of her senses seemed to come together at once and her instincts took over, something that Hermione Granger was not accustomed to doing; her life had always been about study, order, logic. But there was no logic in the way her own limbs moved, her motions precise.

It was only her and her victim, and she felt the rushing sensation that was his fear, his sorrow, his confusion. How could this be his end? How could Voldemort allow his demise? Was he not to be saved? To be felled by a mudblood? The enemy?

She had heard his thoughts. Jumbled and overlapping, jagged and unintentional.

It was only her, her victim's thoughts, and the roar of his blood as she sank her fangs into his neck.

H-h-h-how? Was his final, nearly incoherent thought.

Then blankness. Broadcast over.

Present Hermione opened her eyes, looking deeply into her mentor's. She noticed small things she had never bothered to notice before; the way one iris was slightly darker than the other, the way her lips gently pressed together. Hermione could almost see her tongue clenched between her teeth behind those lips.

The way her breathing was even and calculated, controlled. Always controlled.

She listened to the rhythm of her surroundings. She shut out the excess.

Like this? Hermione thought, having felt the gentle vibrations of Sauda's brain waves, of the vampiric blood that coursed through her.

Sauda smiled. Like that.

Hermione quickly learned that there were two separate Saudas, two completely different souls trapped within the same monstrous form. Most of the time she was the mild mannered, sweet smiling woman she'd encountered in the courtyard; when the situation called for it, however, she was ruthless, manipulative, and could be downright cruel.

She also learned that Sauda had a very strong band of vampire fledglings under her control, most of which were bad men and women in life who now did Sauda's bidding without question. She took sick pleasure in sending them off to certain death, collecting Dark-leaning vampires to bring back to her current hideaway. Most of the time they did not return, their life force flickering out and sending a sharp jolt to their master.

"Cora is lost," she would say with a satisfied smile; she did not truly care whether they returned or not.

But returning did come with a bonus, because sometimes…sometimes they struck gold.

"Desmond is returning," Sauda said with a satisfied smile.

Hermione looked up from the text she had been reading, an ancient vampire text Sauda had managed to get her hands on many decades ago. It was an invaluable reference, but Hermione strongly suspected that there was still much more for her to learn.

What happens now? she asked, preferring to communicate through her mind. The more she did, the more natural it became. If she was going to be a monster, if she was going to use her powers to do good as she vowed, then she was going to be the best bloody monster there was.

"You feed."

Desmond—a middle-aged Scandinavian vampire who in life used to terrorize his village by raping and "ruining" all of the young women he could find—came slowly into the abandoned country home and stopped in front of Sauda, bowing his head respectfully.

"He's in the back yard," Desmond said in a low voice, gesturing towards the doorway from which he'd just entered. "I must warn you, his mind is powerful. I had to reopen the wound many, many times to keep him from regaining strength. And even then, had I not had your potion he would have been able to overpower me."

Sauda scoffed at his warning, gesturing for Hermione to follow her outside.

Hermione could feel the rage he was giving off before he came into view, his limbs bound tight, his neck slit from ear to ear, looking very much the same way Hermione's would-be master had the last time she saw him. She attempted to step closer, but was compelled to stop.

His mind is powerful.

He looked like an old hippie, his matted dreadlocks framing a blocky, primitive face. He wore loose, baggy cotton pants, a dingy tie-dyed t-shirt, and no shoes. His eyes were piercingly blue, two crystalline orbs that grew smaller as they approached his prone form. The word "ancient" came to mind and when Sauda next said his name, Hermione wondered if he actually was as old as the Aztecs.

"Xiutecuhtli," Sauda laughed, her eyes brightening in a way Hermione had never seen before. "And here I thought the rumors were false. I'm so glad I sent dear Desmond to discover for sure."

"I came looking for you," he whispered hoarsely, gobs of gooey black blood seeping from his neck wound with each syllable. "You always were my…my…greatest accomplishment."

He's your maker! Hermione asked Sauda telepathically.

Yes, young witch, Xiutecuhtli responded, causing Hermione to actually recoil.

"I thought—"

"Forget all I've taught you," Sauda cut her off, "much of it is useless against him. He is, as far as I know, the oldest living vampire on this planet. Aside from his sister, who gave me the recipe for the potion I supplied to Desmond."

Xiutecuhtli's eyes changed ever so slightly, a change no mortal could have detected, at the mention of his sister and her betrayal against him. Of course he knew of her potion, perfected over the millennia and used to bring countless vampires to their knees, no matter their strength. She had always kept it well hidden from him, somehow, locked within her small pretty head. He had not seen or spoken to her since before the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, but always knew she lived on, hating him more with each sunset.

"Oh, no, you forget—"

"He is a myth."

"He is my maker," Xiutecuhtli reminded her.

"Enough," Sauda seethed through her teeth, taking the dagger from Desmond's belt holster and slicing a fresh cut into Xiutecuhtli's already bloody and mangled throat. He seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, then smiled up at Sauda, his eyes much dimmer than before.

Don't you wish to know why I sought you out? He wanted to know.

Sauda laughed, the iciest, cruelest sound Hermione had ever heard.

"No," she said aloud. "And Tlachinolli doesn't either. We never cared for your reasons or don't you remember the old arguments?"

Is she…is she…here? he asked, and Hermione could have sworn she heard regret in his voice.

"She's here," Sauda said softly, her fingers grazing his cheek. "But she does not wish to see you."

Xiutecuhtli closed his eyes and sighed, then nodded ever so slowly.

Sauda beckoned Hermione to them, placing his marble-solid form against her and commanded her to drink. When her fangs pierced his skin she almost dropped him, her mind blinded with a barrage of thoughts and images, thousands of years of supposed immortality, and then a pretty squarish face and fiery green eyes—his sister, his twin—Tlachinolli.

Hermione gasped and Xiutecuhtli's body fell to the ground. She clutched the sides of her head, bloody spit flying at all angles, her fangs sinking so far into her bottom lip that it was barely holding on. Sauda was by her side immediately and held her hand firmly against Hermione's chin, pressing the skin back together. She bit a small wound into her other hand, allowing the blood to drip onto Hermione's face, suturing the self-inflicted, but unintentional injury.

What was that? Hermione asked, feeling as if she could faint. What, what did I do?

"He and his sister are some of the most ancient vampires ever to have existed. The power they hold individually, let alone collectively, is far too enormous to comprehend. Tlachinolli has been planning his demise for many, many millennia. When she learned he was trying to seek me out, to bring her out, she decided that the time had come."

Over the course of the next few weeks Hermione would learn that Tlachinolli was indebted to Sauda, though Sauda would not say why, and that was the reason she allowed Sauda to give him to Hermione as a "power meal", as they called it.

Hermione learned immediately what that meant, for the moment Xiutecuhtli's blood touched her lips she was changed, again. Every preternatural fiber in her being pulsed and strained with new strength, old blood. Tlachinolli and Sauda had taken many such "power meals" in their time, which had the ability to significantly boost one's vampiric senses and abilities, much the way steroids worked in athletes. It could work well enough with a willing donor, a strong vampire who allows a weaker one to feed on them; but the true surge in power is comes from extinguishing their life, their soul, which almost always comes by force.

Except with Xiutecuhtli, Hermione thought. He had given himself over to her willingly. Had she imagined the fatigue she felt coming from him? Had he simply been too tired to endure another moment, knowing the hatred his sister would always harbor for him? Hermione would never know and only now did his death seem like a tragedy, a missed opportunity. She could have learned so much from someone so old.

"He would have told you everything," Sauda said, coming into view, "but truly revealed nothing. He was…broken in life. He used his gift of immortality with such…such…hate." She lowered her eyes and Hermione could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Xiutecuhtli and Sauda in an embrace, could have sworn she heard her whisper a faint Goodbye in her thoughts. "Now that he is gone," she said, her voice brightening, her thoughts closing, "we are all much safer, our kind is much safer."

She never did set eyes on Tlachinolli, but somehow knew she had been there that night, watching as Hermione took her twin's last breath. Tlachinolli has spent another two days in the area; Sauda would go out with her to feed, leaving Hermione to her thoughts, her presumptions.

Just because she wanted her brother dead, didn't mean she wanted to know the person who ultimately made that happen.

One warm summer evening Hermione went to find Sauda in her study and the look on her face told Hermione that she already knew.

When do you leave? she asked, not looking up.

A fortnight. I wanted to thank—But Sauda held up a hand to silence her.

You've been a remarkable student, though I cannot say I am surprised. "I will miss you," she said suddenly aloud, looking up. "But I knew you would never be here forever."

Hermione nodded, then walked out without another word or thought.

The air felt different here.

She hadn't noticed when she left that there was anything different about the air in all the countries she'd wandered, with and without Sauda.

Here, the air was hers. It was home.

She found Seamus within the week, his charming grin beaming back at her in the moonlight. He looked almost exactly the same, but she knew he and all those still on this earth she loved were forever changed by the events of the end of the war.

Wizard newspapers throughout Europe plastered their headlines with stories of Voldemort's victory, Harry's defeat. For a few short days, that is. And then no news at all and much of the continent was cast into darkness. Voldemort's reach was wide, but he never did learn that Hermione was still animate.

Hello. She smiled softly at him.

He smiled back. You've been practicing, he remarked. You're also…stronger. There's something familiar…

Hermione stepped closer to him, fully revealing herself in the moon's bathing light. She looked younger, if that were possible, yet older at the same time.

"Who?" he asked aloud, squinting a little at her.

"His name was—" But Seamus picked it from her mind before she said it and his face darkened slightly, his eyes and stance projecting alarm. "He allowed me to…" she trailed off; she was going to say "end his life" but surmised that Seamus understood what she meant.

"So you've met Sauda." It was not a question. This time his face was unreadable, his mind closed. Sauda had never mentioned Seamus or any others outside of her circle of unwilling devotees. She wondered briefly at the secrecy, the silence, then opted not to press him. We all had our secrets.

Hermione did not stay with Seamus for more than a day. Having lived with Sauda for so long, she had learned that what she truly needed now was space. She'd had her time, nearly five years of it.

Though the air that first night had smelled and felt the same, she quickly found out that her home was a sad shadow of a reminder of its former self. Even the landscape seemed to have dimmed, the world cast into a dingy gray hue.

She took down three evil-doers her second night back, feeling emptier with each fresh gulp of blood coursing down her throat. She was barely able to dig a hole fast enough and pull the dank earth back over herself before the sun rose and consciousness left her.

Spitting dirt from her mouth – she always hated sleeping in the ground, though both Seamus and Sauda had insisted it was an invaluable trait for their kind to possess when alternative shelter wasn't available – Hermione crawled from her tomb and into the night.

It didn't take her long to find her, having followed Seamus's directions precisely. He'd warned her against it, but in the end knew he could never stop her. Since she was believed dead, there was little he could have done to convince her anyway; she was not being looked for, therefore she was free to roam as he was not. She promised to come back and help brew his masking potion to keep him hidden from Voldemort's all-seeing eyes; she promised she would always do this.

She found her sitting on her back porch, her nose buried in a tattered Quidditch magazine. The animated cover had long since glitched, leaving the Seeker permanently looking as though he were about to blow up a balloon, then decided not to; over and over. Hermione found herself staring at the image, wondering if Quidditch would ever be played world-wide again. Not that it mattered to her, of course, but it meant normality, comfort, joy. Entertainment was not a luxury afforded to anyone in Voldemort's world.

Approaching slowly, Hermione allowed herself to come into view, her hair still caked with soot, her jeans tattered, her face blank.

"H-H-Hermione?"

The sound of Ginny's clear, mortal voice sent such a shock through her that Hermione actually felt weakened. She started to come closer, then found she could not compel herself to continue. What was she doing!? Ginny was mortal; she was alive and fragile and full of blood. Not that Hermione ever took an innocent life, ever craved to do so – she just felt so inappropriate suddenly just being here.

"I'm sorry," Hermione offered, "for just showing up." She was apologizing for a lapse in social etiquette? She shook her head and wouldn't meet Ginny's eyes.

Ginny, however, did not seem to notice Hermione's internal struggle, did not seem to register her discomfort, her guilt. Before she knew it, the smaller red-haired woman had her wrapped in her arms, squeezing her with all her might. Hermione barely felt her touch; she was so far from a human now.

It wasn't for another few moments that Ginny suddenly realized something was horribly wrong with her friend, a friend she had mourned so long ago. First it was the hardness of Hermione's form, then the coldness of her skin. Then, finally stepping back and releasing her, Ginny looked into Hermione's eyes and knew that it had been right to mourn her friend, for the being who stood before her was most certainly not living.

"A vampire," Ginny said after eons of silence.

"A vampire," Hermione repeated, biting her lip as she used to do as a human.

Slowly, over the next year, Hermione revealed herself to her former friends and family. Her reunion with her mother had been the hardest, knowing that she could never forgive herself for being unable to save her father's life, long before becoming a vampire. Mrs. Granger did not shame her daughter for not telling her she was alive, she could plainly see that she very much was not. She only held her tightly, thanking whoever she could that she had something of her daughter back.

Mrs. Weasley had been just as difficult, though for other reasons. She cried and cursed and sometimes could not look at her, the girl who should have been her daughter-in-law, the girl who should have been able to give her grandchildren. Both she and Ginny pled with her constantly to see Ron, to let him know she was still with them in some form.

"It's unfair, Hermione," Ginny was saying for the hundredth time. "He deserves—"

Hermione's icy glare silenced her. She sighed at her friend, then shook her head. "Yes, he deserves the truth, but he does not deserve this." She gestured disgustedly to herself, her white skin, her unbeating heart. Of course it did still move in such a way as to pump her blood throughout her undead body, but no one could call what happened beneath her ribcage a heartbeat.

"Please, let him decide."

It was the last she said on the matter.

The very next night Hermione penned a lengthy scroll to her former love, explaining everything, in careful code, of course. But, upon seeing her pathetic afterlife scrawled in black and white, she tore the offending parchment in two and set it ablaze.

Dipping her quill in fresh ink, she began to write.

Ron,

I am sorry, for so many things. But I am sorry the most for these last years, for the pain that I have brought you and so many others with my absence.

I cannot see you now, not until I am certain of your safety. I cannot risk it.

I will let you know when the time is right.

I am alive.

I love you.

She couldn't bring herself to sign her name, even in the Order's coded language. She settled on a simple letter "H", then sealed the letter and sent it into the night.

The next night she got a response. The script was hasty, the parchment torn.

Merlin, I knew you were still alive.

I will wait.

I love you.

For the next several months Hermione argued with Ginny and many others. Ron sent a letter every single day. When she finally agreed to see him, she knew it was the wrong decision, a selfish decision.

When he left her hideout, she broke into a million little pieces on the dusty wooden floor. She wouldn't allow him to see her again for a long time, and in that time, she came upon more Death Eaters than she felt her luck warranted, killing or changing them to suit her needs, her vengeance.

And then, one cool autumn night, she saw the ghost of Harry Potter looking at her.

"I thought you were dead," they said, almost in unison, then burst out laughing. Hermione could not remember laughing so hard and at nothing at all.

They fell into each other's arms, both of them realizing there was something off about the other immediately.

"You are dead," Harry finally said, having figured it out. He had seen his fair share of vampires in his wanderings; he knew what she was. He always, always came home, always hovered around his wife, his family. But seeing them was inevitably too hard and so he would move on for a time. He was only just returning now.

"And you're alive." Hermione smiled, despite her friend's sadness for her. Harry Potter was alive. All was not yet lost.

Hi everyone! I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! It's been a VERY long hiatus and I am for certain rusty. I have been rereading my own stories and my reviews, looking for the right place to try and ease back in. My only excuse is that life happened; in the time since I have been active on this website (2010, I believe) a lot has occurred. Long story short, I've had a lot of distance from Fanfiction so if I've backed myself into an incredible plot hole, please do let me know!

When I stopped posting this was the last story I had updated, and one that I did have various ideas and outlines for the remaining chapters. I've moved, changed computers, and lost passwords – but now that I've been able to get back onto the website (with this account at least), it has refueled my passion for writing – and for Harry Potter fanfics specifically.

I hope that my fresh chapter, after all this time, is worthy of the whole story. I have the next chapter started, which will likely be the last – or second to last, depending on how my ideas play out. But I am wrapping up, then plan to move onto other stories to finish those. Then a brand new one I've been thinking of and have had passages written for since before I stopped logging onto this website.

If you feel inclined, let me know what you think