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So far... The reborn Hermione has befriended Harry and his family (Sirius and Hestia Black,) and convinced them that she is a loyal, non-threatening bookworm, intellectually mature for her age, with the gift of insight but emotionally naïve at times. Now she has even darker duties to perform. Read on...
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Chapter 7
The Deep, The Departure, and the Déjà Vu
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The Bell Tower
Having only three mornings of tuition with Madam Gawtley at Harry's home, instead of five full days of Muggle school, provided Hermione with more free time. Even so, she decided to Apparate at night to the Hungarian caverns she'd discovered in her former life. It would be a long journey and the relay point her future self had used was an unused, bricked up bell tower in a small German village. But was the tower still open to the public here in 1987? Best to be safe, she told herself. It was getting late; A street off the village square should be safe enough...
An unexpected blaze of streetlights greeted her arrival, and the young witch scurried into a shop doorway. You fool, Hermione! There had been no power to waste on lighting streets once the world's gas and oil had been mostly frittered away by the second half of the twenty-first century.
A couple of young men had glanced her way as they came out of a bar, but now they walked off in the opposite direction. Hermione could see no one else but what about the village centre where the tower was located? A seven-year-old girl this late at night would attract too much attention, so she drew on her invisibility. She could easily hold this for half an hour or more without immateriality. She walked up to the end of the street.
And there it was, a floodlit monument to a bygone age, much cleaner-looking than she remembered, with a smartly-painted green door and brass fittings. Her lips formed a grim line. People have time to care still. And there were people about – several of them heading home or waiting on corners. As Hermione watched, a cab pulled up and an old couple climbed in. As the vehicle drove off, she studied the tower more carefully. Although maintained, it seemed unlikely that anyone would be inside at this time of night. Nevertheless, cautious as ever, she decided not to Apparate directly.
Her approach took her past a bus shelter where a couple of teens were locked in a squirming embrace. Hermione kept her distance. The sound of a distant car caught her attention ... footsteps ... someone laughed ... a fallen drink can rolled and clattered into the gutter. Nothing to worry about, but she was nervous just the same and rendered herself immaterial twenty paces from the tower. To be caught would take some explaining whether to Muggle police or to the German magical authorities, and she was anxious to avoid trouble.
Easing right through the old stones, she found the small hall she remembered was in total darkness and, knowing there were no windows, she chanced a wandlight. No grime, no cobwebs – a noticeboard declared the visiting hours were only by appointment. She shook her head. However rare the visitors, this hall was not really ideal for an emergency Apparition relay anymore.
Up above looked more promising. The black iron handrail of a former spiral stair was just as before, but whereas the upper floor had all rotted away on her future visits, it was now still intact. The timbers were grey but looked sturdy enough, so she decided to float cautiously up.
Soft, non-verbal magic moved her gently to those high boards. She grimaced as her face rose through an inch of pigeon poop inside the belfry proper. The deposits must be old, she reasoned, for the window apertures were heavily meshed and the roof tiles in good repair. The bell had long gone; there was space aplenty for her brief needs.
After checking that the trapdoor was thoroughly sealed, she scourgified and strengthened the floor then gazed around, fixing the location more precisely in her mind for future direct Apparitions. Pleased with what she had accomplished, Hermione braced herself for the longer haul, then, with a crack, she Disapparated to her final destination.
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No Way Out
No location on Earth could claim a deeper darkness; no place more still and silent – once the echo of Apparition had faded. Strange then, that a young child should willingly be alone in this void, blind and deaf for perhaps half a minute, holding her breath and drinking in the curious non-experience. Finally, she nonverbally cast...
Lumos Maxima!
It was testament to the grand volume of the cavern into which Hermione Granger had immersed herself, that even her outstanding mastery of wandless-magic was barely sufficient for the illumination spell to reach the furthest walls. There, just as she remembered them, hung those stony barriers: petrified curtains bent and twisted and contorted to form and enclose this low cathedral without a single supporting column. No stalactites stretched down within these granite folds; no crystals glistened on any surface.
Hermione commenced breathing again and listened to herself do so – the first living entity to draw breath here since the Creation. The alien air was not exactly that of modern Earth, having been trapped before the surface atmosphere stabilised billions of years earlier – preceding the dawn of life itself. In this sterile environment, no creatures crept; naught slithered; not even microorganisms yet stirred the chemistry of these ancient surfaces.
With a sweep of her arms and a chant on her lips, the witch drew upon a short but powerful ritual, then stood back to watch. An impressive rock seam – a mere mineral variation that striped diagonally across much of the ceiling – became majestically irradiant, a glassy glowing rainbow adding soft colour and warmth to the pale rocks. The daylight charm would endure longer than any human lifetime, and render the cave more bearable. NEVER Azkaban! Hermione vowed to herself, then added, At least not forcibly. Perhaps the open splendour that the light fully revealed would save MacNair from going stir-crazy this time.
After dousing her temporary wandlight, the girl turned to regard the enclosed space under this new sky. The chamber's shape might have been regarded as an overturned gigantic hollow pear, resting on, and flattened down on its side. At its apex, where one might have expected a stalk, was a gaping maw into a smaller, crushed apple-shape region. This she would leave unillumined, save for the light which spilled in from the main living area, because even the confined inhabitant might wish for occasional relief from the endless brightness overhead, and the annex would make a better sleeping area.
There at the junction was where Macnair had ended his life a century hence – but there was no gore now nor raving ghost; it had never happened. Hermione's mouth set in a drear line. She had no regrets for incarcerating the leader of the brutes who had mutilated Charlie and mistreated Luna so unspeakably.
With that horrific recollection, Hermione clutched at her tightening stomach and winced her eyes into a knot of remembered vicarious pain. Poor Luna! The loathsome Macnair would pay double for his former atrocities, even though she would never let him commit those particular ones again.
From her charm-extended bag she wrestled out one long-life mattress, one near-indestructible, enchanted book that provided millions of articles and stories, one all-purpose drain with an ongoing water charm, one table and chair, and finally, one focus charm to receive a lifetime of food; fresh, temperate air; and other necessities. Compared to Azkaban, the dungeon was a luxurious palace – but far more secure, being unknown, unknowable, and unreachable without future knowledge. In her former lifetime, there had only been time for this single prison cell – too little, too late. How many more would be needed in this lifetime, she wondered.
Satisfied for the moment, Hermione surveyed the fruits of her efforts. There was ample distance for a captive to rest his eyes or to exercise cramped limbs. And that, apart from an exit, was the one thing the cell lacked: an occupant. A prisoner would have to come much later because she had years of preparatory work to do first, if she was to help save mankind from its own folly.
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Farrimond's Quest
"No, Farrimond!" laughed Hermione. "Not today!"
The owl dropped the toy picture block into the girl's lap where she sat on the Granger lawn. The end of April had been blessed with warm, dry weather, and the young girl was teaching the bird an improved way of communicating while picnicking with Harry in the sunshine.
"What's he say, Hermione?" giggled the boy, leaning over his sandwich to peer at the block.
"Scroll icon – ever eager to fly errands and carry messages, aren't you Farri!"
The owl flew onto her shoulder and nibbled an ear affectionately.
"Now, you know that won't get you–" Hermione paused; she had been putting off this moment. "Actually... perhaps it is time..." Again she hesitated, looking at Harry, who returned her inquisitive gaze full on.
"Secrets, Harry, remember what I've been explaining to you? You and I? Things only you and I should know?"
Harry nodded eagerly, his eyes widening in anticipation to hear more from the friend who seemed to have so much knowledge.
"Very well," said Hermione firmly, for she was now resolved. "Farrimond, I have for you a great quest. It will be a challenge of many weeks' duration." She paused. "Farri, are you willing to fly to the ends of the Earth? To seek out one I knew and return with him? Only the very best of owls should undertake this task."
Farrimond fluttered eagerly to perch proudly upon a plastic garden chairback, lifted his chest and held his head high. The large eyes gazed adoringly into those of his mistress. No picture block was needed to convey his joy.
Hermione nodded. "As I thought, brave Farrimond." She paused for a few moments, wondering where to begin. "Far, far to the south, beyond the continents, beyond even Australia, lies Tasmania. Close by, and part of that nation, is a smaller island known as King Island. All this is well-recognised, but to the east lies another location, an unknowable, unnamed land. There, in the untamed forests, you must risk the ravens. These particular mystic creatures are a small species, and utterly black – black plumage, black-clawed, and black of eye. As if that were not enough, they are able to melt into invisibility, blending with their surroundings, silent as the dark mystic moon. At such times only other magical creatures like yourself can detect them or at least hope they will reveal themselves. If that happens, do not directly meet their gaze until you are accepted."
Farrimond ruffled up his feathers, and half spread his wings as if in alarm, but otherwise, he hid his fear well.
Hermione continued, "Amongst or between those flocks, you must seek out a young bird known as Aculus. Tell him who sent you and that I beg to ask if he is yet called to me. If the answer is no then your mission is over and you must return alone. Do not attempt to persuade an uncalled raven, Farrimond, for they know their place well."
As the bird flapped its wings in preparation for the first leg of its long journey, Hermione choked up a little, and turned aside.
Harry called out, " 'Bye, Farrimond! Please take care!"
With glistening eyes, Hermione rushed to her faithful owl. The young witch kissed the top of his head and wished him good luck and godspeed. She watched as he sped away to the south until he disappeared over the rooftops with Harry chasing down the garden as far as the back fence would allow.
A surge of regret hit Hermione so badly in that moment, she staggered, feeling immensely weak and dizzy, and dropped to one knee. Immediately she pulled out her adult wand to cast a reviving charm upon herself, but let it drop in astonishment. The wand was a mere stick, her magic dead, and there ahead of her was Farrimond, perched upon the chairback still, and flapping his wings ready to spring away once more.
Off to one side was Harry, calling out yet again, " 'Bye, Farrimond! Please take care!"
The owl flew south over the roofs with Harry running down the garden, half-excited, half-tearful, and Hermione staring blankly, utterly baffled as to what had just taken place.
Harry was trudging back to her. "That's curious, Hermione," he said, "you knowing about a wild bird so far away. Was it a holiday when you saw the raven?" Then, noticing her crouching low, he added, "Are you alright?"
Hermione rose unsteadily to her feet, confused and unwilling to frighten the boy unnecessarily. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I wondered if you saw Aculus on holiday," said Harry, frowning. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I see Aculus in my old memories, Harry – you know, I've mentioned them from time to time? One of our secrets?"
Harry nodded, still looking doubtful. He picked up Hermione's wand and handed it to her. She sensed magic was resurging within her so the girl took it and tried to cast a few sparks – successfully. A sigh of relief she smothered with a hurried, "I'm alright!" almost to herself. She produced more sparks then a brief wandlight – but she knew she could do more already if she wished. "Yes!" Seeing Harry's expression, she added, "I just felt very sad when Farrimond left. It's a dangerous undertaking I've sent him on. I hope he'll be okay."
Harry silently gathered up the toy blocks while Hermione sat on the chair, feeling her strength rapidly return, but worrying. What on Earth happened to me? Would she be susceptible to further periods of weakness? Was there some conflict between her advanced magic and her youth? Who could she ask? St. Mungo's was out of the question. What a professional healer might uncover about her ability to use adult magic was not something she wanted to risk.
A hand was resting on hers. "Hermione?" There was concern in Harry's eyes.
She softened then, and hugged him for her own comfort.
"Are you poorly, Hermione?"
Her head shook against him.
"Secrets?" he said mournfully. "You told me I was one of the few you'd be able to trust."
"You're right, I'm sorry. ... I was a bit woozy for a minute – but don't tell anyone. My magic faded but it's almost normal again – you know, when you exhaust your magic for a few moments doing lots of big spells and have to rest?"
"But you've not done any big magic this morning, have you?" When she did not answer, he added, "Please don't die, Hermione." She became aware that Harry was crying and she pulled away a little to look at his face.
"It's nothing, honestly! Just part of growing up, I guess."
"Mummy can kiss it better. Shall I ask her?"
"I suppose it's a bit like accidental magic only the other way round, Yes, that's probably... what did you say? You've mentioned that before, haven't you? Is your mum a mediwitch?"
"Yes, she nursed Daddy after my first mum and dad were killed. They were his best friends. He was very sad for a long, long time, she said."
"Counsellor? She was a counsellor? That's how your parents met?"
"Healings as well! Mummy is still on day call for St. Mungo's if they have big emergencies – that was mostly during the war though, before I was born."
"Part time? As needed?"
Harry nodded. "And she makes me better if I'm sick or bang my knee."
"Well, I'm okay now." She noted his ongoing concern. "But perhaps it wouldn't hurt if I mentioned my exhaustion to her..."
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A Consultation
In the Blacks' drawing room, Hestia Black was listening attentively as Hermione described the temporary lapse of her magic.
"I felt a bit physically weak too. But within a couple of minutes I was normal again."
Hestia frowned. "Was there any sense of icy chill in the air? Bad memories? Or as if everything worthwhile was being sucked away from you?"
"You mean Dementors?"
"Oh, you know about those foul creatures, do you?"
"I read about them, yes. No, this was nothing like that. I was just magically and physically weak for a little while – but until it ended, I was frightened it might be permanent."
"Oh, don't worry, Hermione! There's no way for a witch to permanently lose her magic!"
Oh yes, there is, thought Hermione, and I'm the only person living soul who knows how, thank goodness.
"Apart from mental or curse impairment, of course," continued Hestia. "But even then, those born with magical power never lose it – they simply are unable to use that ability."
"Like the Longbottoms," said Hermione, mournfully. "But still, it was disturbing even to feel my magic drained for a short time."
"The Longbottoms? What do you mean, Hermione?" said Hestia.
Instantly, Hermione realised her likely mistake. Since it was known that Voldemort was definitely dead, the Lestranges would not have tortured Alice and Frank to find their master's whereabouts. "Langburtons, I meant," said Hermione, reacting quickly, "I think that was the name. I read about them in a very old Daily Prophet. Nasty potion or something they drank in the nineteen-fifties. How are the Longbottoms by the way, now that you've mentioned them?"
"I didn't ... you did." Hestia gave her a strange look. "Do you know them?"
"No, no, no," laughed Hermione with an odd gaiety, "I only read about them. Their son – Nigel or something, I think his name is – was born on the same day as Harry. That's what stuck in my mind."
"The day before," said Hestia, looking at Hermione rather thoughtfully, "and his name is Neville. He was born one day before Harry. Why did you–?"
"Temperature!" said Hermione quickly, and rather too emphatically. "Did you take my temperature? Muggle doctors always take their patients' temperatures." She gushed on with her distraction, hoping Hestia would forget the Longbottoms had ever been mentioned, "Oh, and blood pressure. Don't magical healers bother with those?"
Hestia smiled and shook her head. "Those are mere side-effects of illness and injury; our spells directly reveal the true causes."
The young woman began spinning a web of diagnostic charms around Hermione, but detected nothing unusual. "And no after-effects?"
Hermione shook her head.
"Show me."
With a wave of her junior wand, Hermione cast a small light then doused it.
"Everything seems to be in order. My only concern is trainer wands shouldn't normally exhaust the user. They are designed to be fairly harmless to you and everyone around you – that's the whole point. What were you doing, trying spells not in the junior manual? They won't work with a training wand; maybe that was the problem?"
"I don't think I used my wand at all – well, I might have stirred the tea, but that's all. We were teaching my owl Farrimond to use toy picture blocks – no magic."
"Mmm... I'm inclined to believe it was a massive surge of accidental magic then. You can't always see the results, you realise? You might have broken a few windows in the next street for all we know. Were you feeling emotional at the time? Angry or...?"
"I was really sorry I'd sent Farrimond with a message to a friend overseas, and I was worried about him."
"Aha! There you are then. The thing is, Hermione, you are quite advanced for your age and very mature. You're probably bursting with magic. I recommend you use the trainer wand more every day to give your power controlled expression. When you're eleven you'll find these attacks of uncontrolled magic will disappear."
Mrs Black stood up and smiled. "No other symptoms?"
"Well... I did have a strong sense of déjà vu. It was as if I'd already seen Farrimond fly away a minute before."
"Yes, sometimes we spontaneously visualise so strongly what we desire or fear that it registers as a false memory. When the reality happens we are puzzled that we remember it already happening. That illusion can seem very vivid, I know."
Hestia took a packet from her cupboard and gave it to Hermione. "This is chocolate laced with a mild dose of Pepper-up Potion. Keep it with you and eat a couple of pieces if you have any further trouble – and let me know, won't you?"
Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Aunt Hestia."
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Slipping into Madness
Through the weeks of May, Hermione scanned the skies many times a day, hoping for Farrimond's return, but she did not become anxious until the start of June. Over a month had now elapsed. During quiet moments, wild thoughts took over her mind. If she had imagined his departure once so vividly, perhaps she had imagined it twice? At such time she dashed to the larch and scanned his favourite branch but without reward.
Several times she visited Diagon and Knockturn Alley – alone but Polyjuice-disguised as a tall, broad-shouldered man from whom she had obtained thousands of hairs at his barbers – searching for books on states of mind and false memories. Ever more frenzied ideas now racked her troubled thinking. Was her entire former lifetime – the Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Triwizard Tournament, the Horcrux hunt and Voldemort's final death – were they all merely an endless sense of déjà vu? Had the Fates been imaginary? Or worse, did she, an old crone, still lie dying in Rathgate Asylum, having gone quite, quite mad?
Hermione shook herself from this ridiculous indulgence of self-pity. She must keep busy else she would go crazy. There was still plenty of work to be done...
One more prison cell she prepared at the Hungarian subterranean caverns, then another that she had been putting off. In this cave she laboured the rocks into small subdivisions to resemble a few of the dungeon-like cells at Azkaban, dark, gloomy, and forbidding – just as she remembered them, but with one difference. She wrought sturdy pillars of stone from the surrounding rocks to form a central cage with no door. Her simulation was now almost complete.
She had visited the vile Azkaban but once when the Longbottoms had been incarcerated there in the twenties by one of a succession of dark Ministries. Hannah had not recognised Hermione at all during the time she was with her, but stared vacantly, eyes red-rimmed and clutching her dead child. Hearing daily her husband's tortured groans, she'd lost the will to live, and had diminished to bones, and skin, and rags. Soon after Hermione left, Hannah and Neville were decapitated by the Carrows personally.
Am I wrong to re-create such undiluted horror? Hermione thought. She reassured herself that for a time it would be necessary to offer the convicted that choice; to reproduce the Ministry system – cut-down but with fairer justice and the added option to serve their term in a more humane, Dementor-free environment. Besides, who would ever not take that option?
But one thing more was needed to make the impression convincing, and for that, Hermione would have to condemn herself to the worst place on Earth...
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Anguish in Azkaban
Hermione Granger was badly frightened. Everyone in Azkaban was, including the mumbling wretch who shared both her dungeon and her cold, cold fear.
Although the summer heat did not penetrate to this depth, it had been easy for one of Hermione's abilities to move invisibly through the stone-blocked walls of the prison – but getting out was quite another matter.
Many who knew her supposed she was an independent, solitary bookworm – nothing could be further from the truth. Friendship was everything to her, and yes, she had plans in that direction, but, apart from Harry, those objectives had needed to be held in painful abeyance until a more suitable time. Right now though, she was friendless and very scared, craving the comfort and caring support of others.
Shakily pointing her wand, she unlocked the door of the chamber, braced herself for a few moments, then, unable to summon enough courage, quietly locked it again to fall back trembling in the dark.
Come on, Hermione, you have to do this! Apparition won't work here and a Patronus will drive away my prey!
Twice more she tried to overcome her fear. Only on the third attempt did she manage to force herself out in full view of several Dementors. A chilling howl resounded in waves down the passage towards her but she didn't look back. Away through the corridor she sprinted, thankful the Daily Prophet's report about the east wing's lack of wards had been accurate for once.
But it seemed considerably further while running ahead of fiendish pursuers than it had when she had safely measured it earlier at a slower pace. Hermione had exhausted herself, and the creatures were almost upon her, when she finally scrambled into an empty cell. She charm-locked the door then curled up in a corner, shaking with terror. The closer they approached, the more she could hear Harry shrieking – her Harry from the future. The man was even visible to her mind's eye now, his arms reaching through the stone wall of the next cell, reaching out to her. His old, pale face, his blank, staring expression, protruding through from hell.
"HELP ME! Hermione! WHAT DO I DO!"
And she, not knowing then, nor now, how to respond, remained silent as the cold grew colder and the fear grew stronger.
The howling and scraping in the passageway grew quite distinct as the leading Dementor clawed its way along, testing the cell doors, rattling them, searching, sniffing, ever nearer...
Steady, Hermione, steady... Her wand, she clutched tightly, but the hallucinating girl was way past the point of casting a Patronus. Did she still have the self-control and, more importantly, the bravery to carry out her idea?
The cold was now unbearable; her fear at its most intense. The barred metal door rattled – but the lock held. Through the gloom she beheld a towering, cloaked figure. Its face was completely hidden beneath a dark hood, but protruding from the ragged robes was a hand; it was glistening, greyish, slimy-looking and scabbed, like something that had decayed in water.
The creature could only reach so far through the bars then it paused, sniffing the air. Could it sense her? Detect the very fear it thrived upon?
And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it was trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings. At this moment, Hermione forced herself to do the one thing her sensible self insisted she must not do – she waved her wand...
"Alohomora."
Her voice was no more than a low croak but the door clicked and swung open. Perhaps the creature was surprised, for it hesitated before gliding in towards the girl cowering in the corner.
She waited... waited...
Bony fingers grasped her ankle and Hermione screamed as she scrabbled at Harry's wall, over his broken imaginary expression, over those green, bewildered eyes, trying to pull herself to a standing position...
Half upright, she managed the turn, Disapparated in one unendurably-long step directly into the stone trap at the centre of her Azkaban cavern, dragging the Dementor with her, and with old Harry shrieking in her head all the way.
Hermione instantly dematerialised – leaving the Dementor clutching at nothing but the air in its cage – then Apparated to the next cavern, her chest heaving with relief. The brute was a material creature and there was no physical exit from these subterranean hollows below the mountains.
She leaned against the cave wall, panting, cold sweat streaming down her face, and drinking in the delicious silence. Apart from the emotional drain, the extra-long Apparition journey had weakened her for many minutes. Only then did she recall Aunt Hestia's Pepper-up chocolate. The shaking girl fumbled out a couple of squares and popped one in her mouth, quickly savouring the smooth sweet bite on her tongue, and the welcome heat surging through her.
The remedy was faster than normal chocolate so the second piece was not needed; Hermione slipped it back into the packet. As soon as she had recovered, she Apparated back home – this time via the bell tower in Germany – then enjoyed the luxury of a warm shower before going to bed.
She slept soundly.
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—oOo—
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Author's Notes
Is Hermione dark? I'd say no. To me, a dark Hermione would be one using evil against good. The Hermione in my story will bend the rules and even break the law – but she did so in the original books and nobody would have called her dark. Imagine an extension of the changes her character went through during the years of the original work then add to that many years where she saw horrors I shall only hint at in my story. Plus the stakes are very, very high as you will learn, so she has to take a firm line.
Lisping: There is a misconception among some readers that lisps are exclusively a cute anomaly in very young children. Not so. Many do not grow out of it and many adults lisp. I used to work for a guy with a pronounced lisp. Drew Barrymore still has a trace of a lisp last time I heard her, and Mike Tyson has a strong lisp. Jonathan Ross has a different kind of lisp where the letter 'R' is comes out as 'Hawwy' instead of 'Harry'. So, although other children might poke fun at Hermione if she occasionally lapses lopsidedly into a lisp, they won't think it unbelievable. That said, I shall make great efforts to reduce it, soften it, and fade it out earlier, probably during Year 1 at Hogwarts. It is critical to the story to show absolutely clearly to the reader very quickly when she is withdrawing into feigned nervous immaturity. Telling it exclusively in the narrative is weak storytelling; showing is always stronger. But it's near-impossible to represent a faint lisp. It'sth a full lithsp or nothing! All I can do is use less 'S's in her speech to reduce your pain!
Thanks also to everyone for comments and reviews. These are most welcome and very encouraging. Let me know of any weaknesses or faults – I'm always trying to improve my writing so feedback is really useful. :)
- Hippothestrowl
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