Anthony snapped out of his horrified reverie just in time to notice that
his DADA teacher was several feet from him; he had moved away and was
walking back in the general direction of the forest with long, steady
strides. Anthony, after a few aborted attempts to sense any feeling in his
legs (or anywhere, for that matter), jogged after him with a numb,
stumbling gait.
It did not even occur to him, by now, that he was not welcome. Even if it had, he wouldn't have cared. He needed to know about this, there was no way he could stay away now! Not while the tale was incomplete.
If the professor noticed the boy's presence at his side at all, then he did not acknowledge it. After a while, however, he began to speak again. The faraway look remained in his eyes, which glittered like the distant stars above them. Anthony shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, and concentrated on the voice.
****
He only actually noticed that he had moved at all when a chill gust of night air rustled past his temples, giving him the curious sensation that the tips of his ears had just been dipped in cold water. It blew around the back of his neck, where the fine hairs stood on end, in some mockery of an attempt to retain body heat. He blinked his eyes, as if coming out of a trance, and then registered his legs, which seemed to be moving entirely of their own volition. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a hurrying shape. He was walking. wandering, really and plunged him simultaneously back into the past.
Spells rebounded off stone as all clattered noisily into the Great Hall. The watching boy (who wasn't currently watching anything except where his feet were going) was among the last to get inside; as soon as the Hall was filled, the doors swung shut, with a very final _bang_.
The space left in their wake was soon filled with adults trying desperately to seal the students off from the outside world as fast as possible. That done, a group of wizards and witches split off from the rest and huddled to one side, apparently arguing ferociously. The watching boy set down the stretcher he was levitating and struggled to push towards them through the milling crowd.
Draco found himself milling, actually, standing on tiptoe so that he might see any trustworthy Slytherins, because though he was big in the power sense, at seventeen he was still rather petite. He tried to call out to a third year - Baddock, yes? And then he sank back onto his heels as a nasty thought occurred to him - he wasn't a trustworthy Slytherin himself. He had made sure of that. On the Dark side, but with no proof, that was the Malfoy way, and he had upheld it to the last, and now.
Now his father was trying to kill the people in this hall, and Draco wasn't sure how he felt about that.
In the thick of the group were professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape; Black and Lupin, Moody, and the Wonder Trio. Snape seemed to be explaining something to the rest; he couldn't hear them yet, but could see them well enough to get an impression.
As Snape spoke, a curious metamorphosis occurred in everyone else's face. Their expressions started as exhausted and mildly confused, to comprehending and excited, and then, their eyes flickered to Snape's face.
The watching boy... watched.
It seemed something had occurred to them, and each was reacting in his or her own way. Black looked flabbergasted. Weasley looked disbelieving. Granger clapped her hands over her mouth, while her eyes filled with tears. Lupin looked surprised, and then sadly resigned. One by one, each face gained a look of shocked dismay, and then heavy acceptance. Snape, seeing this, looked irritated, and perhaps a little flustered.
The watching boy was now gripped with horrible curiosity and something which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be fear. This surprised him, and then only made him push harder. He was _almost_ within earshot...
McGonagall, who looked white and horrified, touched Snape's arm and said something that the watching boy _still_ couldn't hear over the noise. But whatever it was, it had not been the right thing to say. Snape drew himself up to his full, imposing height, glaring coldly at them all, and finally Draco was close enough to hear him say, with acid in his voice:
"-I don't know what you're all so upset about; you have the final means to kill him, and you all look as if someone's died." And he swept past them, an expression of furious annoyance on his face, though maybe there was just a flash of sadness there - but then it was gone.
Agape, the watching boy looked again at the faces of those he had left behind - Potter closed his eyes, looking stricken; McGonagall looked after her colleague's retreating back with a mixture of anger and terrible grief; and Dumbledore...
Dumbledore's head was bowed, and upon his face Draco saw for a moment an expression of pain and bitterness - a horrible, horrible bitterness, which looked so foreign upon such a countenance as his that he was almost unrecognisable. In that second, the watching boy quite forgot all that his father had ever said about the Headmaster.
And then the wizened head rose, and the blue eyes, which had always seemed to sparkle with an amused air of *I know something you don't know* seemed now hard as diamonds and cold as chips of ice. He exchanged a brief, terse look with McGonagall, and swept after his potions master. The watching boy followed, staying out of sight but within earshot.
Snape was checking his wand, looking for imperfections. When it passed inspection, he put it back in his pocket and started checking his less sophisticated weapons - the two long knives he used most often for cutting up ingredients for his potions. He wiped the blood off of one of them, and reached for the other-
It was handed to him, quite polished and clean, by Dumbledore.
Snape looked at him blankly for a moment, and then slowly reached forth and took the knife.
"Do you blame them?" Dumbledore asked quietly. Draco leaned forward, straining to hear.
Snape turned the knife over in his hands, frowning at it. "I would... prefer... to have done with it as quickly as possible," he muttered. "Preferably before he gets to me..."
"We all owe you too much, Severus, for any of us to accept this quite so readily." He rested a hand briefly on Snape's thin shoulder. "We will not, of course, let you go alone."
A small, sardonic smile graced Snape's sallow face. "You're trying to make this a meaningful and dramatic last conversation, aren't you?"
"It's been a long day. Allow an old man his cliches."
Snape snorted inelegantly.
Dumbledore brightened. "Besides, sometimes convention is a good thing."
"Hah!" Snape barked, but it seemed an almost fey mood had taken him, and a madly cheerful look crossed his haggard face. He rammed the last knife into his belt and, Dumbledore by his side, turned on his heel and strode towards the door, head high and eyes hard. McGonagall looked at them and then, with the care and deliberation of some kamikaze warrior checking her weapons, pulled her steel-grey hair back, wound it into an iron-hard bun, rammed her hairpins into place, and walked after them, wand in hand.
Black and Lupin exchanged a look, and strode after her, their steps in perfect sync. Moody muttered disparagingly and set of after them. Potter sighed, picked up his sword (Draco would have dearly loved to know where he'd got the thing) and followed all, his friends trailing after him.
The watching boy stood dumb in confusion and no little horror as the three teachers threw open the doors and rushed out towards the Dark. What were they doing? They would die, they would be crushed, and the school would fall. They would be killed!
A little voice at the back of his head reminded him that in the interim, his father would most likely be killed. To his mild disconcertion, he found he didn't actually care that much.
What were they _doing_ out there?
Some dormant cognitive functions began to stir, and random snatches of overheard conversation began to float back to him, like pieces of one of those infernal jigsaw puzzles (it may be noted that Draco was never very good at them) - all there, but not assembled yet. Which, as everyone who has ever even contemplated a jigsaw knows, is the hardest part...
*"Their eyes! What happened to their eyes?!"...*
*"...He's riding their minds..."*
Something from a half-forgotten DADA lesson floated back to his mind, like an iron leviathan sliding through the half-frozen arctic sea... something about some ancient method of magic... Borrowing... riding the mind of another creature...
It was only something achieved by the most powerful of mages. To put one's mind completely inside the head of another, usually an animal. Apparently one was supposed to ride it only, not steer it, but he'd never seen the logic of that. Why have that kind of power at your disposal and not use it? And then he'd realised, oh, yes, this was what the _good_ guys did... And it occurred to him that he had never actually wondered about what measures the dark lord had taken to preserve his life, and that even if he had, the Marks would not have actually occurred to him as one.
****
There was a sharp gasp from next to him, which might have made a lesser wizard start, but not one so cool and calm as he. This in mind, he willed his hammering heart to calm.
He forced the blank look from his face and a caustic one in its place, glaring at the student by his side. The boy's eyes were huge; his hands over his mouth, looking at his teacher like a child hearing a particularly scary bedtime story. Upon this thought, the professor narrowed his eyes; this was no flippant tale, no make-believe, and he cursed whatever had possessed him to recount it. Thin-lipped and quite angry at himself, he cast his eyes on his surroundings to find some innocent object to focus on while he collected himself, and realised that they were once again near the... thicket...
Oh, those damned trees... how such simple, blameless things could make him so angry and upset and yet fill him with such awe would forever be beyond him. He gazed at the strong, thick roots that snaked soothingly into the earth, to the smooth trunk with its shining white bark, to the tapering branches that stretched and spread contentedly; and so upwards, to the silver leaves, to the delicate golden flowers crowning all. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air that always seemed subtly fresher around them, somehow more healing, and try as he might, it was quelling his anger. He mustered a rueful glare at the idyll, and turned his grey eyes to the rough, almost non-existent path that lead to a calm glade full of soft moss and carved stone and swirling memories. For you and you alone I will do this, he thought. And just this once.
****
Anthony recovered from his shock in time to register the anger in the professor's eyes, and flinched, unsure of where this new rage had come from. The flash of anger in his eyes as they had trained on him had startled Anthony greatly, but now they turned away, and, following his gaze, he realised with surprise that their feet had lead them back to the magnificent trees. By the time he could bring himself to pull his eyes away, the anger had faded from the professor's face, and he was looking at Anthony with a sort of impatient expectation in his eyes.
Anthony hoped he didn't look _too_ pleading.
****
Ah, the puppy-dog look. Never a favourite of his old head of house's. The professor felt his lips twist into a bitter little smile and let the painful memories flood back.
They had to kill them *all*.
That was their plan. That was their stupid, awful, simple bloody plan. The Dark Marks connected the bearers to Voldemort by body and mind, and Voldemort would use the latter to survive, even if his body was once again dust in the wind. Therefore, Voldemort would not be dead until all those who bore the Marks were dead.
Even if the bearer was on the other side.
They had a new task now, a terrible one, a damning one, not to defend but to attack, to let no Death Eater escape. In the middle of the fray, fighting like he had nothing left to lose (and to be honest, he didn't) was Snape.
And when the firewall fell, when the last protection was taken away, all of them, even the little ones who could hardly turn a matchstick into a needle, surged forth.
He turned to them in the silence of a lull, the flames behind him, separated from his Slytherins by a stretch of trampled ground. From the exhausted half-crouch of before, he straightened, unfolded, like a dormant dragon, like a figure carved from stone finding movement, and he towered before them. His robes were sodden with gore; his hair was swept across his face, damp with sweat and rain and blood. His thin frame heaving with exhaustion, black against the firelight, he should have been a sight to scare hell out of anyone, not least a ragged band of jittery children.
But as he looked on them, his eyes burned and seemed almost to dance with a fire that had nothing to do with the flames behind and everything to do with the fact that _his_ children, every one, stood forward now with wands outstretched and eyes aflame.
And then the moment broke; their injuries began to register, and the noise of battle returned. Snape turned away, to return to the battle-
"Avada Kedavra!"
There was a roar of green light that suffused the thin figure. Snape lifted his eyes to them, *To me, oh gods...* and then crumpled slowly to the ground.
Behind him was Lucius Malfoy
****
Briefly, with a surprising amount of amusement as well as concern, the storyteller recognised the sound of a boy being sick.
*I wholeheartedly agree with you, boy.*
*****
Looking triumphant, Malfoy the senior met his son's eyes. There was expectation there, a pride and anticipation.
Whatever he was expecting, he didn't get it.
Draco didn't move.
When someone took advantage of the man's momentary surprise and shouted "Expelliarmus!" Draco still didn't move.
When practically every child from Slytherin, even the little innocent ones, piled on top of Lucius and ripped him apart (quite literally, he later learned), Draco just stood and watched, impassively.
And then it was over.
****
There was silence.
"How many people are buried back there, sir?"
Draco stirred, and looked at the boy.
"There are many children buried in that clearing. The ones who didn't have family left to bury them," he amended. "There are five adults: Percy Weasley, may he regret his initial vacillation. Hagrid, the half-giant. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin are buried together. And Severus Snape, my old head of house."
He looked appraisingly at the young man in front of him. "Mister Creevey, while not the least bit interested in the affairs of my students, I am not blind to what is directly in front of my face. I therefore give you my full permission to give as good as you get. At least attempt to find some decent friends; it never hurts to have support, and there's no shame in it. They don't even," he added generously, "have to be from Slytherin."
Anthony Creevey straightened, fully intending to use his teacher's advice. "Thank you, Professor Malfoy, sir!"
"Now go back to your dormitory, it's long past curfew. And don't tell a soul about this meeting!"
"Yes sir!"
Draco Malfoy turned on his heel and strode back to the teachers' wing, feeling inexplicably light-hearted.
The End.
A.N: FINISHED! By God, I actually finished it. I never intended to do that. I apologise, no, grovel on bended knee to my unfortunate reviewers. You lot were wonderful. I was going to abandon this, but for some reason I came back to it today and thought, 'hang on, this only needs a few more paragraphs and it's done!' and so it was completed. Go me!
*sheepish look* And let's try to forget that it took me something like six months to update.
It did not even occur to him, by now, that he was not welcome. Even if it had, he wouldn't have cared. He needed to know about this, there was no way he could stay away now! Not while the tale was incomplete.
If the professor noticed the boy's presence at his side at all, then he did not acknowledge it. After a while, however, he began to speak again. The faraway look remained in his eyes, which glittered like the distant stars above them. Anthony shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, and concentrated on the voice.
****
He only actually noticed that he had moved at all when a chill gust of night air rustled past his temples, giving him the curious sensation that the tips of his ears had just been dipped in cold water. It blew around the back of his neck, where the fine hairs stood on end, in some mockery of an attempt to retain body heat. He blinked his eyes, as if coming out of a trance, and then registered his legs, which seemed to be moving entirely of their own volition. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a hurrying shape. He was walking. wandering, really and plunged him simultaneously back into the past.
Spells rebounded off stone as all clattered noisily into the Great Hall. The watching boy (who wasn't currently watching anything except where his feet were going) was among the last to get inside; as soon as the Hall was filled, the doors swung shut, with a very final _bang_.
The space left in their wake was soon filled with adults trying desperately to seal the students off from the outside world as fast as possible. That done, a group of wizards and witches split off from the rest and huddled to one side, apparently arguing ferociously. The watching boy set down the stretcher he was levitating and struggled to push towards them through the milling crowd.
Draco found himself milling, actually, standing on tiptoe so that he might see any trustworthy Slytherins, because though he was big in the power sense, at seventeen he was still rather petite. He tried to call out to a third year - Baddock, yes? And then he sank back onto his heels as a nasty thought occurred to him - he wasn't a trustworthy Slytherin himself. He had made sure of that. On the Dark side, but with no proof, that was the Malfoy way, and he had upheld it to the last, and now.
Now his father was trying to kill the people in this hall, and Draco wasn't sure how he felt about that.
In the thick of the group were professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape; Black and Lupin, Moody, and the Wonder Trio. Snape seemed to be explaining something to the rest; he couldn't hear them yet, but could see them well enough to get an impression.
As Snape spoke, a curious metamorphosis occurred in everyone else's face. Their expressions started as exhausted and mildly confused, to comprehending and excited, and then, their eyes flickered to Snape's face.
The watching boy... watched.
It seemed something had occurred to them, and each was reacting in his or her own way. Black looked flabbergasted. Weasley looked disbelieving. Granger clapped her hands over her mouth, while her eyes filled with tears. Lupin looked surprised, and then sadly resigned. One by one, each face gained a look of shocked dismay, and then heavy acceptance. Snape, seeing this, looked irritated, and perhaps a little flustered.
The watching boy was now gripped with horrible curiosity and something which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be fear. This surprised him, and then only made him push harder. He was _almost_ within earshot...
McGonagall, who looked white and horrified, touched Snape's arm and said something that the watching boy _still_ couldn't hear over the noise. But whatever it was, it had not been the right thing to say. Snape drew himself up to his full, imposing height, glaring coldly at them all, and finally Draco was close enough to hear him say, with acid in his voice:
"-I don't know what you're all so upset about; you have the final means to kill him, and you all look as if someone's died." And he swept past them, an expression of furious annoyance on his face, though maybe there was just a flash of sadness there - but then it was gone.
Agape, the watching boy looked again at the faces of those he had left behind - Potter closed his eyes, looking stricken; McGonagall looked after her colleague's retreating back with a mixture of anger and terrible grief; and Dumbledore...
Dumbledore's head was bowed, and upon his face Draco saw for a moment an expression of pain and bitterness - a horrible, horrible bitterness, which looked so foreign upon such a countenance as his that he was almost unrecognisable. In that second, the watching boy quite forgot all that his father had ever said about the Headmaster.
And then the wizened head rose, and the blue eyes, which had always seemed to sparkle with an amused air of *I know something you don't know* seemed now hard as diamonds and cold as chips of ice. He exchanged a brief, terse look with McGonagall, and swept after his potions master. The watching boy followed, staying out of sight but within earshot.
Snape was checking his wand, looking for imperfections. When it passed inspection, he put it back in his pocket and started checking his less sophisticated weapons - the two long knives he used most often for cutting up ingredients for his potions. He wiped the blood off of one of them, and reached for the other-
It was handed to him, quite polished and clean, by Dumbledore.
Snape looked at him blankly for a moment, and then slowly reached forth and took the knife.
"Do you blame them?" Dumbledore asked quietly. Draco leaned forward, straining to hear.
Snape turned the knife over in his hands, frowning at it. "I would... prefer... to have done with it as quickly as possible," he muttered. "Preferably before he gets to me..."
"We all owe you too much, Severus, for any of us to accept this quite so readily." He rested a hand briefly on Snape's thin shoulder. "We will not, of course, let you go alone."
A small, sardonic smile graced Snape's sallow face. "You're trying to make this a meaningful and dramatic last conversation, aren't you?"
"It's been a long day. Allow an old man his cliches."
Snape snorted inelegantly.
Dumbledore brightened. "Besides, sometimes convention is a good thing."
"Hah!" Snape barked, but it seemed an almost fey mood had taken him, and a madly cheerful look crossed his haggard face. He rammed the last knife into his belt and, Dumbledore by his side, turned on his heel and strode towards the door, head high and eyes hard. McGonagall looked at them and then, with the care and deliberation of some kamikaze warrior checking her weapons, pulled her steel-grey hair back, wound it into an iron-hard bun, rammed her hairpins into place, and walked after them, wand in hand.
Black and Lupin exchanged a look, and strode after her, their steps in perfect sync. Moody muttered disparagingly and set of after them. Potter sighed, picked up his sword (Draco would have dearly loved to know where he'd got the thing) and followed all, his friends trailing after him.
The watching boy stood dumb in confusion and no little horror as the three teachers threw open the doors and rushed out towards the Dark. What were they doing? They would die, they would be crushed, and the school would fall. They would be killed!
A little voice at the back of his head reminded him that in the interim, his father would most likely be killed. To his mild disconcertion, he found he didn't actually care that much.
What were they _doing_ out there?
Some dormant cognitive functions began to stir, and random snatches of overheard conversation began to float back to him, like pieces of one of those infernal jigsaw puzzles (it may be noted that Draco was never very good at them) - all there, but not assembled yet. Which, as everyone who has ever even contemplated a jigsaw knows, is the hardest part...
*"Their eyes! What happened to their eyes?!"...*
*"...He's riding their minds..."*
Something from a half-forgotten DADA lesson floated back to his mind, like an iron leviathan sliding through the half-frozen arctic sea... something about some ancient method of magic... Borrowing... riding the mind of another creature...
It was only something achieved by the most powerful of mages. To put one's mind completely inside the head of another, usually an animal. Apparently one was supposed to ride it only, not steer it, but he'd never seen the logic of that. Why have that kind of power at your disposal and not use it? And then he'd realised, oh, yes, this was what the _good_ guys did... And it occurred to him that he had never actually wondered about what measures the dark lord had taken to preserve his life, and that even if he had, the Marks would not have actually occurred to him as one.
****
There was a sharp gasp from next to him, which might have made a lesser wizard start, but not one so cool and calm as he. This in mind, he willed his hammering heart to calm.
He forced the blank look from his face and a caustic one in its place, glaring at the student by his side. The boy's eyes were huge; his hands over his mouth, looking at his teacher like a child hearing a particularly scary bedtime story. Upon this thought, the professor narrowed his eyes; this was no flippant tale, no make-believe, and he cursed whatever had possessed him to recount it. Thin-lipped and quite angry at himself, he cast his eyes on his surroundings to find some innocent object to focus on while he collected himself, and realised that they were once again near the... thicket...
Oh, those damned trees... how such simple, blameless things could make him so angry and upset and yet fill him with such awe would forever be beyond him. He gazed at the strong, thick roots that snaked soothingly into the earth, to the smooth trunk with its shining white bark, to the tapering branches that stretched and spread contentedly; and so upwards, to the silver leaves, to the delicate golden flowers crowning all. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air that always seemed subtly fresher around them, somehow more healing, and try as he might, it was quelling his anger. He mustered a rueful glare at the idyll, and turned his grey eyes to the rough, almost non-existent path that lead to a calm glade full of soft moss and carved stone and swirling memories. For you and you alone I will do this, he thought. And just this once.
****
Anthony recovered from his shock in time to register the anger in the professor's eyes, and flinched, unsure of where this new rage had come from. The flash of anger in his eyes as they had trained on him had startled Anthony greatly, but now they turned away, and, following his gaze, he realised with surprise that their feet had lead them back to the magnificent trees. By the time he could bring himself to pull his eyes away, the anger had faded from the professor's face, and he was looking at Anthony with a sort of impatient expectation in his eyes.
Anthony hoped he didn't look _too_ pleading.
****
Ah, the puppy-dog look. Never a favourite of his old head of house's. The professor felt his lips twist into a bitter little smile and let the painful memories flood back.
They had to kill them *all*.
That was their plan. That was their stupid, awful, simple bloody plan. The Dark Marks connected the bearers to Voldemort by body and mind, and Voldemort would use the latter to survive, even if his body was once again dust in the wind. Therefore, Voldemort would not be dead until all those who bore the Marks were dead.
Even if the bearer was on the other side.
They had a new task now, a terrible one, a damning one, not to defend but to attack, to let no Death Eater escape. In the middle of the fray, fighting like he had nothing left to lose (and to be honest, he didn't) was Snape.
And when the firewall fell, when the last protection was taken away, all of them, even the little ones who could hardly turn a matchstick into a needle, surged forth.
He turned to them in the silence of a lull, the flames behind him, separated from his Slytherins by a stretch of trampled ground. From the exhausted half-crouch of before, he straightened, unfolded, like a dormant dragon, like a figure carved from stone finding movement, and he towered before them. His robes were sodden with gore; his hair was swept across his face, damp with sweat and rain and blood. His thin frame heaving with exhaustion, black against the firelight, he should have been a sight to scare hell out of anyone, not least a ragged band of jittery children.
But as he looked on them, his eyes burned and seemed almost to dance with a fire that had nothing to do with the flames behind and everything to do with the fact that _his_ children, every one, stood forward now with wands outstretched and eyes aflame.
And then the moment broke; their injuries began to register, and the noise of battle returned. Snape turned away, to return to the battle-
"Avada Kedavra!"
There was a roar of green light that suffused the thin figure. Snape lifted his eyes to them, *To me, oh gods...* and then crumpled slowly to the ground.
Behind him was Lucius Malfoy
****
Briefly, with a surprising amount of amusement as well as concern, the storyteller recognised the sound of a boy being sick.
*I wholeheartedly agree with you, boy.*
*****
Looking triumphant, Malfoy the senior met his son's eyes. There was expectation there, a pride and anticipation.
Whatever he was expecting, he didn't get it.
Draco didn't move.
When someone took advantage of the man's momentary surprise and shouted "Expelliarmus!" Draco still didn't move.
When practically every child from Slytherin, even the little innocent ones, piled on top of Lucius and ripped him apart (quite literally, he later learned), Draco just stood and watched, impassively.
And then it was over.
****
There was silence.
"How many people are buried back there, sir?"
Draco stirred, and looked at the boy.
"There are many children buried in that clearing. The ones who didn't have family left to bury them," he amended. "There are five adults: Percy Weasley, may he regret his initial vacillation. Hagrid, the half-giant. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin are buried together. And Severus Snape, my old head of house."
He looked appraisingly at the young man in front of him. "Mister Creevey, while not the least bit interested in the affairs of my students, I am not blind to what is directly in front of my face. I therefore give you my full permission to give as good as you get. At least attempt to find some decent friends; it never hurts to have support, and there's no shame in it. They don't even," he added generously, "have to be from Slytherin."
Anthony Creevey straightened, fully intending to use his teacher's advice. "Thank you, Professor Malfoy, sir!"
"Now go back to your dormitory, it's long past curfew. And don't tell a soul about this meeting!"
"Yes sir!"
Draco Malfoy turned on his heel and strode back to the teachers' wing, feeling inexplicably light-hearted.
The End.
A.N: FINISHED! By God, I actually finished it. I never intended to do that. I apologise, no, grovel on bended knee to my unfortunate reviewers. You lot were wonderful. I was going to abandon this, but for some reason I came back to it today and thought, 'hang on, this only needs a few more paragraphs and it's done!' and so it was completed. Go me!
*sheepish look* And let's try to forget that it took me something like six months to update.