17 July 1992
Azkaban Prison
Howling gales of wind buffeted the dreary, darkened prison throughout the night. The only light available to Sirius came from a single moonbeam flowing through the barred opening near the top of his cell. The prison itself contained no light, no heat, and definitely no comfort.
It was by unanimous, unspoken agreement that the prisoners would attempt to be quiet at the day's end—in as much as they could accurately gauge time in perpetual the fog and storm blanketing the island. The general consensus was that the death of torchlight signaled the end of day.
Not that Azkaban was ever truly quiet. As much as everyone tried to rest in peace, none had ever achieved more than a fitful slumber, interrupted as they were by violent weather, wrenching shrieks of fellow inmates awakened by their night terrors, and the harsh reality that the prisoners of Azkaban could not escape their demons even in sleep. If you were not the one waking others with your unconscious terror, then you were being forcibly kept awake by other's suffering.
Even the deranged, like Bellatrix, and the composed, like Rookwood, suffered from insomnia. Sirius had seen them, at numerous occasions, staring blank-faced and shivering in their cells, wrapped in shadow and hidden from the sight of all but him. Sirius had concluded in his first life that the constant exposure to dementors had permanently damaged all of their psyches. Not only had their wardens imposed life-numbing depression on them at all hours of the day, the foul creatures had also sucked out every measure of vitality and resistance that they could.
Sirius spent two years free from the reach of Azkaban. He never recovered. His mind remained in shambles, too feeble to protect itself from even his own destructive intent and too broken to ever suitably repair the rends left from his stay on the island. It was a defect Sirius had learned to live with, an illness that he accepted as his own. As absurd as it sounded, waking in a cold sweat had become so normal to him that he couldn't remember a time when he woke up any other way. To do so would fill him with an unease more prominent than any night terror could ever manage.
Sirius considered it a restful slumber on the days his trauma served solely as an alarm to wrench him from sleep. And that's not to mention the effects Azkaban had on his cognition and ability to stay focused.
Sure, he could rouse himself from his unconsciously induced stupors before the hours ticked by, but Azkaban had—and will continue to—left an enduring mark on the man for the rest of his life. Sirius was afraid that even the vaunted dreamless sleep potion would prove futile and would much rather torture himself with his burden of guilt than rely on something else to fight his depression.
'Better the pain you know than the one you don't.'
That was his pessimistic reasoning. If his haunting memories pierced through his ruined mind often enough, like pickaxes mining into once formidable and pristine marble stone, then maybe the edge would eventually dull or finally complete its reach and leave Sirius unable to feel it's sting, having paid his toll in sacrificed mindfulness. To try and forcibly expel his demons with the use of potions or other substances would only leave an empty space in his mind for more traumas to spawn and mingle with the demented squatters already residing there.
And so Sirius, between feverous minutes of paranoid dozing, lay huddled on his mattress. Planning. Scheming. Believing. He was lucky enough that his animagus form offered him enough protection from destructive influences that he could claim some clarity of mind, no matter how brief and wandering. Otherwise, he would have wasted away in this cell years earlier and became nothing more than a husk incapable of even the simplest human functions.
"Sirius." A soft voice hauntingly whispered on the wind.
He ignored it, tucking his snout deeper into his side and clenching his eyelids closed, suppressing a full-body tremor. Nights in Azkaban carried more than freezing breezes. They also brought with them the voices of ghosts. It was all too easy to hear the enticing phantoms of his past murmuring in his ears, bringing with them the bittersweet memories of friends lost and shattered dreams.
"Sirius." The voice repeated. "Stop ignoring me. I know you can hear me."
This time, the scuffling sound of cloth on stone reached his sensitive ears.
'That's odd.' Sirius absently noted. 'The hallucinations are getting stronger. I've only ever heard voices before.'
"Sirius." It rasped for a third time, now tinged with an edge of impatience. "Look up, you pitiful mutt."
His resolve broke. Craning his canine head up towards the source of sound, Sirius was momentarily stunned to see that, instead of a phantom, the pale face of Bellatrix stared back at him.
She had painstakingly crawled to the front of her cage, collapsing into the corner so that her shoulder pushed against the roughly hewn wall and her forehead touched the bars of her cell.
She looked fatigued, even more so than was usual for the inhabitants of Azkaban, yet her eyes held a purpose to them that, for once, wasn't shrouded in shades of mania.
"Come closer." She coaxed, her voice faint and trembling from strain.
Sirius obliged her, pushing himself to his feet and cautiously padding towards his own barred opening, though he was wary of getting too close to the entrance of his own cell lest she realize the plausibility of his current form slipping out into the corridor between them. Coming to a stop a few meters away, he lay down again in an effort to hide his true mass beneath his shaggy fur.
"Turn back, you imbecile." She demanded. "I don't speak mongrel."
Sirius only tilted his head, a gleam of amusement present in his eyes as he remained unchanged.
"It's about the House." She huffed, exasperated at his refusal. "I want to know. Where do you get your pride from? You, the disgraced heir blasted from the family tree by your own mother! Can you not see that the Dark Lord could have elevated us to heights never before seen in history? How can you call yourself a Black and not see the wasted chance, the future prosperity that you scorned?"
'Bellatrix wants to talk about the Blacks and their, once prospective, future? Since when did she care about words and public reputation?'
Initially, Sirius wanted to refuse her, to turn his back and ignore the woman that had killed him. Yet, his curiosity prevented him from doing so. He too had something to gain from their exchange and, if Bellatrix was as open as she currently seemed, perhaps he could learn more about how Voldemort had ensnared so many prominent witches and wizards during his time. It was obvious that the man still held her enamored devotion, but Sirius knew there had to be some substance behind Voldemort's claims or else he would have never achieved such great success among the purebloods. Not all of them were as demented or fanatical as Bellatrix. What promises, what enticing words, did Voldemort use to not only gain the ear of the wizarding elite but make them bend the knee to one without any dynastic standing in their society?
Soundlessly, his canine form shifted back into the familiar shape he was born with. Then, taking a moment to similarly position himself across from Bellatrix, he began to speak to his estranged cousin.
"Voldemort," he scowled at her reactionary flinch but didn't otherwise comment on it, "would never have elevated our House. He cares about nothing other than himself. His minions are just that—living tools to do his dirty work."
It was so obviously the case to Sirius and his fellow order members. Masked followers dancing to the tune of Voldemort offered no chance for recognition. They were throwing away their pride, the chief characteristic of the purebloods, for nothing but momentary, redundant amusement.
"You know nothing of the rewards he bestowed us." She countered. "The honor he's given to his elect. When he triumphs over Britain, the House of Black, through me, will be the greatest family in the nation!"
"No, Bellatrix, should he ever attain victory, his rule will have the opposite effect." Sirius admonished with the patience of a parent scolding their child. "There will be no more Houses, no Wizengamot to parade the affluents' wealth and reputation. His whole operation relies on anonymity and the collective efforts of others to espouse his notoriety.
"Look around you!" Sirius waved his arm around their surroundings, conscious to keep his voice down as to keep others from waking and overhearing their debate. "When you go to fight for his ideals, everyone here is the same. Masked and branded, you can only be identified by your relation to him. House means nothing; blood means nothing. His favorites earn no more glory than his reluctant and fearful followers. You have no identity among the rest. The House of Black is no different than any other family under your lord.
"Even I can be counted among the Death Eaters," he said with a chuckle dripping with irony, "and I actively opposed them! What does that speak to your ability to achieve recognition under Voldemort?"
"It is a necessary sacrifice." Bellatrix responded emphatically. "The ministry is fearful of our Lord. They would punish any sympathetic ear within reach. That is why we wear the mask in public. Make no mistake, the Dark Lord is well aware of who his faithful are and who listens to him purely out of fear and cowardice. He is a generous master, and we benefit greatly from him. When the time comes and he ascends to rule Britain, our time in the sun will not be far behind."
"I'd rather prove myself under my own merits." He rebuffed. "What happened to the infamous Black pride, the disdain our family held for everyone below us and unworthy of our attention? You asked about how I can be so confident in my assertions; I know that there is more to our House than a dingy tapestry to be ogled at by sycophants too demented to ever make notable contributions themselves. Magic itself flows through our veins; we are the descendants of gods! No piece of fabric, no matter how idealized it's become, can take my inheritance from me or separate me from my ancestors. Only the higher powers of Magic can revoke that right."
His mother thought she held the power of the Black family purely because her temerity was too bothersome for Arcturus, the actual Lord, to actively countermand. She never had any power. Any family could use a tapestry to track their lineage; that did not give it power over the Houses' magic. Walburga could have struck every name from her beloved tree; the destruction would have been completely superficial.
That did not mean, however, that the act was without significance. He may have retained his Black inheritance, but after decades of Blacks viewing the tapestry as official, such pruning gained, at least in the minds of the Blacks, as sure an expulsion from the family as any formal decree. Sirius was sure that, if his mother still lived, she'd have refused him entry into the house and challenged his claim to the title despite him being the rightful lord.
"You don't understand his might." Bellatrix reverently whispered. "He is the greatest sorcerer to ever step foot on this isle. Not even the entirety of the House of Black could amount to his prowess and skill."
"Yet he was vanquished by a toddler and his followers left to dry." Sirius was careful not to stray into too accusatory a tone, wishing to continue the, so far, coherent dialogue with his cousin—and didn't that surprise him. Here he was, speaking cordially Voldemort's most devout follower and one responsible for the most deplorable acts against magicals in the last century. "How do you explain that?"
"A fluke of magic." She immediately responded, dismissing the only stain on Voldemort's otherwise immaculate reputation. "The Fates of the world dictate our lives. Not even he is immune to their whims… but he still lives!" Her voice threatened to rise into a fervent exclamation as mania leaked into her words. "I can feel it in his mark. Not even Death can prevent his rise!
"And when he returns, he will free me and reward me for my loyalty. I will be the first among his followers. His most devout. His most trusted. His most deserving."
"You're insane, Bella." Sirius resolutely claimed, shaking his head in resignation. "It's been over a decade since his fall. If he wanted to save you, he would have already."
"L-Lies!" She croaked in denial and Sirius saw the serenity of her eyes shatter into millions of pieces. "He must be coming! Soon! The Dark Lord will rise, and I will be freed!"
Sirius had never seen such open vulnerability in Bellatrix.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Her faith. Her impassioned rants. Her worship. They weren't declarations borne from belief and loyalty but obsession and helplessness. Bellatrix was a witch trapped in a society that would refuse her greatest desires and inner foundations. Since birth, she was a being doomed to censure. Joining Voldemort had nothing to do with her view on blood purity or tradition. It was self-serving. Bellatrix placed herself under Voldemort so that she could unabatedly express her own ambitions on an otherwise restrictive world.
Despite the atrocities she had committed—his murder among them—Sirius felt pity.
Bellatrix had never been the sanest of individuals, but her time in Azkaban had warped her into something inhuman. It had broken her—she just had a convenient façade to cover the true extent of her fracturing. Cautiously, Sirius extended his senses to ensure that everyone around them was still slumbering. Bellatrix was being surprisingly forthcoming, and Sirius would hate to have this rare moment broken up by an external intrusion.
"You know he's not of nobility, yeah? He's a—"
"A dirty half-blood. Of course, I know!" She snapped irritably. "But he knows the traditions. He entered into our world and left his muddled birth behind. That is what matters. He has the lineage to be among us and he has the ability to shape the world. We do not turn away those willing to join us."
"Why do you follow him, then?" Sirius asked. "If it's not for blood supremacy, why do you fight and wreak mayhem against the Wizarding World, the very world you claim to be protecting?"
Her eyes sparkled in a way unique to a kaleidoscope as an errant strand of moonlight illuminated her face, framed as it was by the stygian bars whose shade differed from her skin only in their luster. "Some undeniably want to use him for their conservative views. The Old Families will push that he expel as many mudbloods as he can and, for those that get through, that they can never climb the social order." She briefly cackled. "It would be a shame if they expelled all of them, however. Mudbloods do have some uses, you know. We need something to do the undesirable jobs, after all.
"For me, personally?" She delicately placed a hand on her chest and adopted a faux innocent expression. "The Dark Lord offers freedom. He brings with him the power to do as I please without reproach. My Lord is perfect because he will never intrude on my whims! So long as we faithfully serve him, he rewards us with freedom and the power to do what we wish. Ostentatious aristos like Lucius or Avery will no doubt try to ply him for favor and enact whatever inane legislative business they want. Maybe they'll even target the expulsion of half-bloods, immigrants, and blood-traitors along with the mudbloods…
"But me? I don't care about the Dark Lord's identity. He represents a new age full of wonderful opportunity, a symbol for true power!"
"You could achieve that without Vol—him." Sirius hedged, conscious that any perceived insult would sever their conversation. "You don't need to be a follower. Where is the Black arrogance? Why degrade yourself to a simple follower when you could have had individual glory?"
Bellatrix bared her teeth in a tired, broken smile that spoke of her awareness in regard to her own ability. "We can't compare to him." She said simply. "Look around you, Sirius. We're simply pawns in a power struggle between two giants. At least my lord is forgiving enough to grant me autonomy. We, Britain's foundation, need a figurehead to unite the rabble and form a cause. Otherwise, the masses, too large for the few in power to ever control completely, would turn upon us and crush us underfoot the instant we tried to act so blatantly and take the necessary actions to preserve our culture and history. Only three wizards of our time have ever proven successful in curbing the collective might of nations."
"He's tricked you." Sirius scoffed. "Led you astray and perverted your mind. Of all the famous wizards to be born, he is the most hypocritical. All you have to do is translate his name to see his true intent. I know you can read it's meaning.
"Flight from Death." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Or maybe you prefer Theft from Death. Either way, he can't even choose an admirable title. What self-respecting wizard would label himself a thief? And what dark wizard would flee from Death? He didn't adopt a name befitting nobility; he arrived declaring his nature as a coward!
"Bella," Sirius reigned in his brief chuckles to refocus on the meaning behind his words, "if there's one thing you have to know about Voldemort, it's that he's terrified of death to the point that he's based his entire identity around it. You claim that he's still alive and I believe that too, if only because that slimy bastard wouldn't risk his own life so carelessly without some safety measure. He's out there somewhere, and yet you're trapped here, discarded and useless to him. Your lord will never acknowledge you and you will never gain acclaim in the histories. If Voldemort succeeds, he's going to rule over Britain forever; not even the old gods and Fate will be able to tear his black soul from the husk of his body.
"You remember Regulus?" Sirius tried a different route, applying to Bellatrix's own inclination towards tradition. "He, the presumed heir of Black, died a forgotten death in Voldemort's service. Neither his faith nor his prestige offered him any protection against the machinations of that cretin. He'll use and discard his followers without a second thought so long as he can gain from their deaths. Even the most miniscule of profit on his part is worth more to him than any benefit towards his followers or the weight of their heritage.
"You, on the other hand, will have the sole legacy of a demented witch that mindlessly followed him, a minor footnote in his illustrious and singular journey to immortal tyranny."
The moon still shone on Bellatrix and cast her face into a wan pallor. The muscles of her jaw were slack and absent of any tightness while her eyes had widened and stared blankly at him. For a moment, he thought that she had fallen unconscious, or perhaps even died, as her forehead rested against the bars of her cell, but she quickly stuttered back to life and responded waspishly to him.
"And you'll be forever known for the betrayal of your friend, Sirius!" Suddenly, a wide, mocking smile bloomed on her face, all signs of their previous civility melting under the surface of her gaunt flesh. Sirius knew his words might have this reaction. What was he to do, though? He certainly wasn't going to be gentle or considerate in stating Voldemort's true feelings towards his followers. Sirius would never be able to make Bellatrix see her lord negatively; only she had the power to come to that conclusion for herself. That he was able to garner such a response meant that she had at least confronted the value of his claims, if only to reject them.
"Oh, how proud you must be to know that your name will be synonymous with backstabbing and traitorous deceit for centuries." Bellatrix continued unabated. Sirius feared that, if she continued as she was, her modulating voice would wake everyone around them, drawing even more unnecessary attention to him. "Perhaps in generations to come, the Malfoys will look back at you with pride for your ability to play the field and count themselves lucky to claim inheritance from your line. You'll join me in the histories as the lieutenant of our Lord! The irony." She cackled in delight. "It's too perfect that you, the worst of our generation, will be praised for your ability at subterfuge and sacrifice for the cause!"
Maybe that would have gotten a rise out of Sirius in the past. Maybe if the dementors' constant torture and their forceful injection of the memories of his failure never ended and Sirius went without that brief reprieve of their presence for two years, finding a definitive hope worth fighting for he would have succumbed to such blatant aggravations. It certainly stung, even now when Sirius knew those that mattered had believed him, that she was likely right. His sentence to Azkaban was vital to his role in Wizarding Britain.
However, Sirius had grown. He'd learned that there was joy in the world and that he didn't need someone else's opinion to view his life with satisfaction and fulfillment. 'And if not for me personally, then seeing Harry go through the Triwizard Tournament certainly opened my mind to the true value of other's opinions. At fourteen he faced the wrath of the public without flinching; I can survive a few lazy insults from Bellatrix.'
Moreover, Sirius was content in the fact that, while the world would always tie Azkaban to him, Bellatrix was wrong when she said they'd remember him solely as the betrayer of the Potters.
Chuckling and unaffected by her goading, he answered her. "No, Bellatrix, I'm too complex and multifaceted for the public to label me simply as James and Lily's betrayer. They'll write something even more outrageous about me eventually, I'm sure."
'Like being the first person to ever escape Azkaban.'
"Now, I'm tired." He stretched his arms in emphasis and let out an exaggerated yawn. "This has been a wonderful heart to heart, Bella, but this old dog needs his beauty sleep. Oh, and I'd get away from those bars if I were you. Who knows if our caretakers have the restraint to keep from kissing such a pretty face?"
With that, Sirius transformed into Padfoot and clambered back to the corner of his cell, where he quickly tried to fall back into sleep. Bellatrix's newest personality shift and the impressions her frank admissions left swirling around in his head, however inhibited him from achieving his desired rest. If the rest of Voldemort's followers mirrored her lunacy even fractionally… there would be no convincing them of the obvious folly in Voldemort's methods.
'But maybe it's not that bleak.' He tried to console himself. 'Bellatrix was obviously curious enough to start a conversation. Perhaps, in time, there will be an opportunity for the more cautious followers to question their standing in this war.'
26 July 1992
Azkaban Prison
The time for Sirius's grand escape was approaching. Granted, he didn't have an exact time of when he'd depart, but he could feel it. His anxiety and impatience were warring against his rationale and every day proved a new struggle. He'd tried to recall all that he could about the state of the Wizarding World, but his mind had come up worryingly blank. Nor had he yet figured out just how he was going to introduce himself to Harry.
'It's not like I can just walk up to him and claim I'm his long-lost godfather.' Sirius bitterly reflected. 'Worse yet is how I break the news that I'm not the one responsible for his parents' death. I could likely make it to Surrey before the Daily Prophet begins printing the news of my escape, but then what? Expect him to believe me, a stranger covered in filth and garbed in prison robes, at face value?'
It was terribly frustrating. If he waits, Harry learns about him as Voldemort's right hand and his parents' betrayer. If he approaches him, Sirius has to explain himself without scaring the kid away.
'It would be so much simpler if I had a middle-man to bring us together, someone I could trust to convince Harry of my innocence and fight against the words of the ministry.'
Where was he going to find one, though? Besides the fact that Dumbledore seemingly had no issue believing Sirius last time, he also hadn't raised a finger to get Sirius out of Azkaban legally. That meant he either wasn't sure Sirius was innocent, or he didn't want Sirius roaming free and liable to mess up any of the headmaster's inscrutable plans. Neither made Sirius want to lay himself at the headmaster's feet and pray for amnesty.
Remus was as much a stranger to Harry as Sirius himself was, so that option was out before Sirius even began to consider the likelihood of his former friend believing him over everyone else in the world.
'Who else could work?' He continued his attempts to dredge up a suitable candidate. 'C'mon Sirius, think! Who's connected to Harry that wouldn't mind introducing him to a convict with personal motives?'
None of the Weasleys knew Sirius.
McGonagall might be an option, he acknowledged. She had always harbored a soft spot for him and his fellow Marauders. 'But I could only reach her in Hogwarts. I don't imagine she'd take kindly to me breaking into her office to approach her, especially if it's during the school term and we're surrounded by students.' He shuddered at the explosive confrontation that would no doubt take place.
Hermione was naturally out of his reach. She'd either not know anything about him or have already read up on his complete history, not to mention, again, the issue of a complete stranger approaching her and her family.
Harry hadn't met Tonks yet. Sirius hadn't even met Tonks yet this time around! Another potential option down the drain.
Snape? Sirius discarded that thought without hesitation. 'I don't know who he'd rather kill: me or Harry.
'… who else does Harry know?' Sirius took a moment to actually think about what Harry might have told him about his friends at Hogwarts. 'Was there anyone else that could connect me with Harry?' Sirius's memory came up blank.
Sirius reluctantly gave up his brainstorming for the moment. Maybe a better idea or solution would strike him later. For now, he realized the fruitlessness of any endeavor relying on his ability to accurately remember details of his past life.
Glancing up as a round of loud cajoles and jeers bounced around the corridor, Sirius had to reluctantly acknowledge Bellatrix's statement that Voldemort, at least, didn't have an issue with giving his minions autonomy. They were free to cause wanton destruction while Dumbledore consistently left the Order in the dark, sometimes not even allowing them knowledge of why they were acting as they were or what their end goal was. His methods had even induced paranoia and mistrust among the members, with none being able to know what their comrades were doing or if they were truly working for the same goal.
A wave of cynicism washed through him at the disastrous conclusions such thoughts had brought him to in the past that, upon reflection, could have been remedied had anyone actually taken the time to share their duties and objectives with each other.
'But that's a matter for another time.'
In addition to finding a way to reunite with his godson, Sirius also had the strenuous task of deducing how exactly he was reliving his life. He had nothing more than blurry, foreign sensations to identify the transition between his past life and this one. None of it made sense and Sirius highly doubted that the Veil of Death, as the Unspeakables labelled it, acted as some sort of temporal device. 'The name would be mighty misleading if it were.' He thought sardonically.
'Of course, it can't be as simple as asking them either.' What would he say? 'Hi, in four years I passed through that nifty tablecloth of yours and wound up in my younger body?' They'd throw him back into Azkaban for that alone, not to mention the very likely possibility that they ignore him and start firing spells before he'd even get a word in. He'd be lucky to even leave the department in one piece, much less breathing!
'Because we all know my last jaunt down there ended swimmingly…'
Another potential snag for Sirius would be his residence. Grimmauld wasn't an option due both to its dilapidated condition and the fact that aurors would swarm and monitor the location the moment his escape reached the ministry. He'd rather get out of Britain sooner than later but the execution of that was much harder in practice. Hell, he could hardly walk in his human form without stumbling at the moment! How in the world was he going to pilot himself to safety?
When Sirius claimed that his escape was drawing near, it wasn't because he had finally reached the end of his planning; it was because he reached the end of his rope. His ceaseless thoughts had drawn enough anxiety-inducing thoughts to hang himself with and, if he stayed within range of the dementors for much longer, Sirius feared that he may do just that.
So, yes, the time for escape was approaching. For his peace of mind, if nothing else.
A/N:
Bit of a shorter chapter, but I felt that the resultant fleshing out of characters was necessary. As you may deduce, next chapter will finally have Sirius making a break for it.
We also finally get to see a bit deeper into Bellatrix. It's always been a personal gripe of mine that most fanfics treat her either as an Andromeda clone (mostly time travel fics where Harry 'saves' her from becoming her canon self) or a pitiable child in a woman's body that Voldemort took advantage of and is 'fixed' by Harry's intervention. My version of Bellatrix is crazy, manic, and twisted—but not mindless. She is unrepentant and unpredictable. And she most certainly doesn't want anyone to fix her. Bellatrix will never be a good person and I make no attempt to force her into that role. If you want a story about a morally good Black sister with knowledge of the dark arts, just use Andromeda; every sister is unique and interesting in their own way. Please stop conflating them.
On the topic of Death Eaters knowing Voldemort's actual name, I can only assume it's as much an open secret as it is for the Order of the Phoenix. The generation before Sirius and Bellatrix went to school with Tom Riddle. They knew his face and, likely, his blood status. There is no reason to treat the Death Eaters as too dumb to do even the most basic of research, especially when someone comes claiming an inexistent lordship. As such, it becomes less about blood status and more about tradition and culture.
Hermione, for example, is contemptible to the purebloods because she uses the logic and morals of the muggle world and applies it to the wizarding world as if they were the same thing. S.P.E.W. is a prime example of this. The two worlds are separate and shouldn't be reconciled. I can even agree with the Death Eaters to an extent. Foreigners have no right entering into a culture and demanding the world change to suit the needs of outsiders. If Hermione got her way in everything she campaigned for, tradition and culture would be destroyed in her ignorant march for progression.
All criticism welcome. Remember to favorite and follow, etc.
Beta position still available if interested.