Nothing you recognise in this story is mine; it all belongs to JKR and various other people who still most definitely aren't me. No lawsuits.
xxx
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
Mad World by Tears for Fears
xxx
Diary of Severus Snape, 1997-1998
Monday, September 1st 1997
Another Sorting Ceremony, another bunch of dunderheads to attempt to educate and yet another year that I have managed to survive relatively unscathed. For years it gave me great pleasure that I managed to endure living on the knife-edge working as both Death Eater and spy. I used to see every passing summer as an occasion to be marked – my cunning had got me through yet another year. Now I see the end of every summer as the start of yet another year of torment, of living inside myself in my very own self-made prison; a prison that, if infiltrated, will result in my incredibly painful demise. If I survive this year it will be a miracle and it should terrify me that that thought gives me comfort.
I never expected to be able to redeem myself for the crimes I have committed in my past, nor the ones that I commit in the present to keep my cover hiding among a group of true Death Eaters. Redemption was not what I was looking for when I put myself at the mercy of Albus Dumbledore that Halloween night all those years ago; I wanted punishing, breaking and even killing for the crimes I had committed in the pursuit of power and recognition, which I no longer wanted or cared about.
Instead of carting me off to Azkaban or cursing me where I stood, which is what I had fully expected when I had decided in my grief and guilt to come to him that night, I was given a task with a very clear purpose. Only the destruction of the Dark Lord will set me free and it will signal the time when I can finally end my life. I have lived too many years, and more than I ever deserved to.
However, until the time that the Dark Lord is safely six hundred feet under, I have a life that I must lead. Along with the deception and intrigue of part of my life, it is necessary that the more mundane part of my life go on. I have yet another group of students to attempt to teach, and although this is a decidedly less deadly part of my life (barring those classes where Neville Longbottom is present), it is still a part that needs constant attention and consideration.
This year's group of first year Slytherins are exactly what I had expected and I am already preparing for trouble. The patented first year speech I gave them won't have made a difference and the subtle speech I gave the Seventh Years will only make a difference if they want it to, and few of them do. The children who do want a way out of this hell are the ones who have no way out, mostly due to the pressure of their parents and the other people around them, and when fighting for their lives, soldiers that are forced to fight are just as deadly as those who choose to.
Over cups of Minerva's nauseatingly weak tea, she complains to me every year that her Gryffindors are the most difficult to take care of out of the four houses. They are headstrong, impulsive and disregard the rules at whim. She claims to want to borrow a certain magical appendage from Mad Eye Moody to keep them all in line, and assures me that she has by far the most gruelling job.
While I have to admit that I wouldn't want to be charged with the safety of one solitary Gryffindor, let alone a whole House full of them, it is only because I'd likely curse half of them into submission and probably murder the other half in a fit of temper. I have no patience for people who don't think and Gryffindors in general are, as Minerva says, impulsive and rash. And to add to that, they are wholly irritating. Minerva, being annoyingly Gryffindor herself and being an astoundingly powerful witch, could handle them all with her hands tied behind her back and she knows it.
Ravenclaws as a group are intelligent and shrewd, but despite their brains they lack the ambition to give Filius even one troubled nights sleep. The Hufflepuffs start off withdrawn, scared and lost, but direct mothering from Pomona works every time, with a support network quickly assembled for them.
My students are just as scared, withdrawn and lost, but how do you comfort them when they spurn your efforts unless they are perfectly disguised? They hide their insecurities and pain under a struggle for power which started long before the Sorting Hat sent them to Salazar's table.
Their drive – a need above all others to prove themselves, a need to shine; a need that nearly always comes from emotional scarring. Power in anyone's hands is a dangerous thing but when the people searching for power are people who are broken, therein lies the danger. I have seven years to clandestinely steer their ambition in the right direction and prevent them from making my mistakes over and over again.
If you add to that the fact that Seventh Year students from every house are going to come to me at some point this year to hint to me about joining the Dark Lord, then I'd say the rest of the staff have it easy. Sherbet Lemons do not make up for it all quite as well as a very significant raise would, and I am going to be sure to point this fact out to Albus next time he offers me yet another of his infernal sweets this year. I won't get the raise, but at least he may stop offering me those god awful confections.
It is the first day of term and already I am being tormented by the Gryffindors that Minerva insists so fervently that, against all odds, she has well in hand. A large part of my summer was spent at Grimmauld Place, which is in general a hellish enough experience on its own. This summer I had the added joy of having the ever grating presence of two out of three of the Unspeakable Trio.
Potter and Weasley spent their days at that house attempting to half-arsedly spy on me, only succeeding in annoying me to the point where I could have gladly disobeyed Albus' orders and cursed them both until they were unrecognisable as the humans that the Headmaster frequently assures me they are. A meagre challenge admittedly, but it is still an indescribably happy thought and is even now bringing a satisfied smirk to my face.
The small fact that the brains of the trio was missing for the entire summer was not a fact that I dwelt on, but if I had I am certain I would have found myself wholly grateful for the blessing. But now, three hours into term, she is making up for her brief absence by turning up at my Office door and handing in long rolls of parchment, which have nothing to do with the homework the Seventh Years have been set, and everything to do with the fact that the girl cannot just be.
While people who want to learn are rare and to be valued, people who constantly think they know better are to be squashed. For years I have had that girl's arm waving in the air, her eager face practically puce as she tried desperately to stop the answer from falling from her lips before she was called upon. Sometime in her fifth year this all stopped and she became almost bearable to have in my class; she was quiet, competent in her brewing and she completed her tasks without question. It seems that I am now being punished for letting myself be lulled into a false sense of security.
Miss Granger has a project that she would like me to look over. A project, she tells me, which the Headmaster had already cleared and has given her full permission to work on it in my private laboratory, using any of the school supplies she might need. She tried and failed not to look smug as she informed me of all this from the doorway of my office.
It takes me about thirty seconds to wipe the smug half smile from her face.
"This project is not viable," I tell her as I flick quickly through her extensive notes and almost immediately see what potion it is that she plans to create. Is she delusional or just so conceited that she thinks she is actually this good?
Her face falls. "Not viable?"
"Do you really think that if this were even remotely possible that I wouldn't already have created it myself? That hundreds of other Wizards, Witches and Aurors haven't tried to accomplish the exact same thing year after year?"
The apprehensive expression on her face relaxes and she dares to smile at me.
"Oh, that," she says offhandedly, clearly relieved. "I know – I've been researching for over six months now and Professor Dumbledore agrees with my findings. I wrote to…"
"But a Potions Master's word that it won't work isn't enough for you?" I interrupt, furious at her for being so inexcusably superior. I loom over her, expecting her to flinch back, hopefully far enough back so that she is out of my office that I can slam the door behind her.
"If you read my theories, Sir," Miss Granger said calmly, meeting my eyes steadily in a way I don't recall any other student ever having dared. "All of my theories, and you still think in your professional opinion that I am wasting my time and the schools ingredients, then I will abandon the project."
"That, Miss Granger," I murmur, taking hold of the edge of the door in my hand. "I will hold you to."
When I slam the door behind her, all thoughts of a quiet and relaxing evening before classes start the next day are damned. I have to read her incredibly long supposition so I can find the gaping flaws in it and keep the infuriating girl out of my private rooms and my carefully measured and stocked stores.
It takes me two whole hours to see the flaw in my plan – there isn't one in hers. She has got around the purity factor that everyone else stumbles on by deliberating that modified human bodily fluids could be used instead of the Unicorn Blood that everyone else wishes to use, but can't due to the obvious drawbacks. Forty-seven inches of inexplicably concise (given the length) arguments make me suddenly feel very stupid. She could be right – a student who has yet to even take her N.E.W.T.s has stumbled upon something that I and every other Potions Master who attempted to brew this potion failed to see.
For a moment I contemplate drowning myself in the lake.
It takes a further two hours for me to take each suggested replacement for the Unicorns blood in my mind and subject it to rigorous mental testing. From what I can see without actively working on this project myself, the ingredients she wants to try are still not perfect. It has a chance of working, but less so than I had first thought.
Curiously I am deflated. I had hoped to dash the child's hopes and send her sulking to Potter and Weasley, put firmly in her place once more, never again to darken my door, but her theories had been sound and obviously painstakingly well thought out. I am suddenly reluctant to tell her of the imperfections I see.
xxx
Diary of Severus Snape, 1997-1998
Tuesday, September 2nd 1997
Any reluctance I had to squash Miss Granger was driven away when she had the cheek to beam at me this morning. She evidently thought she was going to force me to eat my words and perhaps grovel at her Gryffindor feet. All lesson I had the urge to wipe the smile off her face as she and Potter exchanged glances until I had the urge to deposit them both, head first, into the nearest steaming cauldron. It would have been Granger's own fault – it was her project that had kept me up until five o'clock in the morning.
"Remain after class, Miss Granger," I instruct sharply, leaving her happily and obliviously clearing her unused ingredients away and bottling her potion as the bell tolls to signal the end of class.
She heaves her heavy book bag onto her shoulder, making me wonder why she hasn't the sense to use a levitation charm to make the load lighter on her shoulders. Apparently intelligence comes in many forms and to possess one kind doesn't automatically mean you possess them all.
She looks at me expectantly.
"You may proceed with the experiment," I inform her, watching the smile spread over her face. Out of the corner of my eye I see Potter lurking in the corridor just outside the door to my classroom. I point my wand in his direction making the door slam loudly. The noise echoes around the classroom as the door narrowly misses smacking Potter in the face.
"Thank you, Sir," she says, beaming with unconcealed joy which just serves to irritate me further. "I was so worried – I mean Professor Dumbledore isn't a Potions Master, and he's always so positive about everything. I…"
"Don't thank me," I interrupt her mid-prattle, before she can get into her stride. "The ingredients you have specified in your plan are admittedly better than I would have hoped for from a student." I fail to add that they are also better than I had managed to come up with myself. "But each and every one of the ingredients have possibly critical flaws – it is very likely that this entire project may be a complete waste of your time and the schools valuable resources."
I had expected dejection, arguments, even tears. What I didn't expect was a slow nod and a small smile.
"Would you have the time to talk me through the errors you've found?" she asks, her voice soft as if she's expecting me to take house points and throw her out, which, come to think of it, is probably exactly what she's expecting.
"I will see."
She smiles yet again. She knows I'll do it and before I can take the half hearted concurrence back, she turns on her heel, casting a quick levitation charm over her shoulder, making her bag suddenly appear as light as a feather and she walks serenely to the door.
"Thank you, Professor Snape," she says. She pulls the heavy door open and links arms with Potter, who is still waiting outside. They continue up the stairs and out of sight.
I start to relax – I have a free period and I am planning on catching up on my lost sleep before facing the next class of the day, which is a hellish mix of Slytherin/Gryffindor second years.
"Sir?"
I look up from my desk to see a Seventh Year Hufflepuff that I am absolutely sure left my classes at the end of her fifth year and I barely remember catching sight of her since.
"Yes…" I rack my brain for her name. "Miss Jones. What is it?"
"I know you, erm… I mean, I want to… everyone says you're a…"
"Out with it girl before I die of old age," I snap, irritated and thinking longingly of my soft bed and its cool sheets.
"I want to join you," she says quickly, holding her breath the second the words are out.
"Join me?"
"No, not y-you. The D-death Eaters," she stammers.
I sigh. And so it begins.
xxx
Draycott Hotel, London
"Megan Jones?" Ginny murmured, wide-eyed. "But she fought against the Death Eaters. I saw her fighting along with Susan Bones, she and Susan worked together to stun loads of them. They really made a difference until Susan got hit with that Avada."
"She just wanted recognition," Hermione said softly. "Severus scared the life out of her with Death Eater talk and then made sure Susan was there to steer her on the right path after. She was one of the easy ones."
"He talked to you about it?" Ginny screwed up her nose and Hermione fought the urge to explain to her that yes, she could admit that Severus wasn't her biggest fan at first, but things changed.
"Eventually, he talked to me about a lot of things," Hermione said. "It took a while, but I doubt he's ever met anyone quite as persistent as me."
"No, I very much doubt he has," Ginny muttered under her breath, smiling innocently when Hermione directed a distracted glare in her direction.
"Love you too, Gin," Hermione murmured. "Now stop distracting me."
xxx
Diary of Severus Snape, 1997-1998
Saturday, October 4th 1997
Just over a month into term and I am already close to regaining my personal space. Miss Granger, with her theory already worked out and her plans already drawn up, has come to the conclusion in record time that none of her proposed ingredients are working, or will ever work.
A month doesn't seem like a long time – in my thirty-seven years on this planet, the longest month I have ever had was spent locked in Lucius Malfoy's dungeons. Even at an incredibly young age, our power struggles were evident. I graduated from Hogwarts without bowing to the pressure to join his Master and my talent in the field of Potions and my knowledge of the Dark Arts quickly turned me from the prize he wanted to take to the Dark Lord to his immediate rival, despite the six years he had on me which should have made him wiser and much more confident.
During the month I spent as Lucius' guest, I was tortured both physically and mentally at Lucius' whim. I was raped, whipped, cursed and ridiculed, then left alone in the darkness for days at a time. The noises around me terrified me even as the rational part of my mind that was left told me that the rats were harmless if left alone, and that the screams echoing around my cell were coming from people who wouldn't and couldn't hurt me – they were just as terrified as I.
I had thought that I would die in that cold, dark room. I imagined my mother sobbing over my death and my father feeling guilty for all the beatings and all the times he has broken me with words alone. I imagined my funeral, attended by the handful of people who almost counted as my friends; and when I was at my lowest, I imagined Lily there, tears pouring down her pale cheeks as she mourned my passing. Potter, of course, was nowhere to be seen, having very possibly run off to start a loving and romantic relationship with Black.
When I was released by a House Elf I was filthy, bleeding and broken. I stumbled and crawled my way from the grounds of Malfoy Manor, trying to find somewhere, anywhere I could feel safe. I had won; I had survived Lucius' punishment for not falling at his feet and joining the people who promised me power and recognition. I was finally free and I felt more alive than I ever had before. I had plans, I was going to become a Potions Master and become powerful in my own right. I would show everyone who doubted and ridiculed me that I was better than them.
When I finally returned home, barely conscious, to find the rotting corpse of my mother, a Muggle kitchen knife still embedded in her chest, and my father drunk, triumphant and threatening to do the same to me, I performed my very first killing curse. Lucius Malfoy was waiting for me at his door with literal open arms.
A month and three days I had been in that godforsaken place; the darkest month and three days of my life. Hermione Granger has been using my private laboratory for a month and a day, yet somehow it seems longer than that entire month spent as Lucius' most valued Guest; considerably longer. I'm almost tempted to seek her out and inform her of this.
She comes in every evening at seven on the dot and works until midnight, which is when I habitually throw her out. She always has this dazed look in her eyes when I interrupt her, like I have just woken her up from an especially good dream and she's vaguely resentful about it.
One evening a week I have a reprieve, as on Saturdays she seems to give herself an evening off, which I am assuming is when she somehow crams an entire weeks worth of homework into her schedule. The problem is that I am so used to her being in the room that the one night I have without her grating presence, I am at a loss as to what to do with myself.
This Saturday I had decided to get thoroughly drunk as a premature celebration over getting my life back (to some extent at least – the ever darkening mark on my arm bears witness to the fact that my life is still not my own and may never be).
I am sitting back in my most comfortable chair, cool glass in my hand, my head resting against the cushions, when I hear a loud thump followed by some muttering. I sigh loudly and open the door to my chambers and stick my head out.
"Sodding thing! Change colour! What's wrong with you? You should work! Look! It says it here! You should be turning a nice pale lilac colour about now! Oh for Heaven sake!"
There is a hissing and spitting noise, followed by a yelp and a loud bang.
"Fuck."
"I'll second that," I comment dryly from the doorway. The room is covered in a bright green substance that reminds me quite painfully of the time I was forced to fetch Albus from Minerva's quarters one Saturday night. No man can carry off lime-green underwear, even the Greatest Wizard of All Time himself.
Miss Granger cringed and closed her eyes, opened them again and looked around the room hopefully, apparently hoping that by some miracle I, and the explosion of slime around her would have magically disappeared.
"The blood didn't work then?" I observe, trying not to sound as amused as I obviously am, although why I am amused when it's my lab she has bathed in mucus is beyond me.
She gives me a look which says plainly, 'You bastard.'
I smile back at her. I have discovered over the past month that the quiet, studious, perfect Miss Granger has the most god-awful temper I have ever encountered, and I am acquainted with the Dark Lord.
"You would be bloody happy, you're getting your space back," she grumbles, getting to her feet, slipping and landing on her arse with an unpleasant squelching noise as she hits the floor. She opts to Evanesco the entire room from where she is sitting on the floor. In an instant her clothes are no-longer slimy, but they are still very much green.
"Impressive," I comment dryly, leaning against the door, my arms folded. Her hair is green too, I notice. This is far better than sitting alone in my rooms, drinking. Miss Granger in a temper is almost as delightful as Minerva in one – sometimes Gryffindors unwittingly make for marvellous entertainment.
"The blood wasn't pure enough," I observe casually, looking over her now green notes. "Who's was it?"
"It was freshly taken from a virgin – it should have been fine," she mutters, trying to de-green her notes with every spell she can think of. She catches sight of herself in the unbreakable glass of one of the cupboard doors and goes still.
"Fuck," she says again, looking wide eyed at her reflection. Really, such language from the Head Girl…
"Five points from Gryffindor for inappropriate language," I say, highly amused with myself and showing it. "And another five for inappropriate dress and for trying to impersonate a Slytherin," I add as an afterthought.
This is the second time in the past month that I have seen her lose her carefully controlled temper and I have been trying to provoke her since that very first time I witnessed it. Irritant she may be, but she is spectacular when she is furious, and incredibly amusing when she is trying to reign it in.
"It's not my fault I'm currently green!" she exclaims furiously. "I knew I should have stayed in the common room tonight instead of coming down here."
"It's entirely your own fault that you're green," I inform her. "And what are you doing here on a Saturday evening? What on earth would make the inflexible Hermione Granger break her schedule?"
She ignores me to cast an assortment of spells at the green-tinted room and at her own clothing. I take pity on her; I gather a handful of ingredients, find a desk that isn't green and start slicing. Well, it's not to my advantage to have a bright green room to work in once she has gone, is it?
"They're all up there playing juvenile games that involve removing each other's clothing and drinking vast amounts of doctored Butterbeer," she finally tells me, as she quickly realises what I'm brewing and starts helping me by taking half the ingredients to another only slightly green table.
I am tempted to use the information she has given me to go and cease the Gryffindor's fun before it gets out of hand and I am left to clean up their mess. Then I remember that I am off-duty this evening and it is Minerva who will be called to pull their heads from the toilets and shrink body parts to the correct size.
"Even Harry is joining in," she informs me irritably.
When will she and the Wizarding world in general stop thinking that Harry sodding Potter is any better than the rest of us? I have been made highly aware of the fact that Granger and Potter have a circumspect relationship blooming between them, as Minerva has informed us all that Potter has been sleeping in her quarters, and of course The Boy Who Lived To Annoy Me is not like the rest of the students, and is allowed to carry on with this on school grounds.
Minerva, closely backed by Albus, has decided that this liaison is good for the boy, no matter that Potter, at least, is not of age. Apparently, this will give him something to fight for in the coming confrontation with the Dark Lord, as if his immense ego isn't enough. How the Potter men manage to get women so much better than themselves is a mystery that even the Unspeakables would have trouble solving.
I am jolted into self awareness by the sudden thought that my subconscious seems to have the idea that Miss Granger is somehow in a higher class than the other students. I narrowly miss slicing my own finger and I swear under my breath. A desk away from me, Miss Granger looks up at me and blushes, quickly looking away. I'd be intrigued by what could have affected her so, if I wasn't trying to wrack my brains for when I had stopped thinking of Miss Granger as wholly insufferable.
"There's one last ingredient I haven't tried, sir," she says, nervously looking up at me again, making me scowl at her.
"Then try it," I advise shortly. What is wrong with the girl? She doesn't usually need baby-stepping through everything; in fact it had surprised me how independent she had been working on her project, only consulting me when she wanted permission to use the rarer of the ingredients in my stores.
"You don't have it in your stores," she points out softly, never pausing in her chopping.
"Then tell me what it is and I will order it," I snap again, annoyed by her being so tentative and indirect.
"First Blood."
My hands automatically stop chopping and I set down my knife for safety's sake.
"No."
"I know it's difficult to get," Miss Granger points out, stopping her slicing too. She pushes a lock of green hair behind her ear and slides off her stool to walk over to the desk I am still sitting at. "I've tried everything. I even resorted to asking Fred and George Weasley if they could get hold of it for me."
"It is illegal, Miss Granger," I point out needlessly. She surely knows this already.
"I know," she confirms. "But it's the purest and most powerful human fluid you can get. It's the only thing that could possibly work, as all the others failed."
"Then I wish you luck in finding it," I say.
I rise from my own stool and turn to leave. She can make her own cleaning potion to sort herself and the room out; suddenly I have had enough of her presence.
"I have tapped every resource I have," she says despairingly. "I thought you might have a few more resources open to you than I have."
"Being a Death Eater?" I snap in question, turning on her. I am well aware that she and her two comrades know what I am, and that apparently means I should risk spending six years in Azkaban for her ridiculous project that was doomed from the start.
"Being a Potions Master," she counters, not backing down. A month of being in my presence has made her even more immune than she seemed before.
"Yes. Being a Potions Master would mean that I would have unlimited access to illegal ingredients that warrant at least six years in Azkaban, Miss Granger. How could I have forgotten?"
A faint colouring of her cheeks tells me that I finally got past her carefully erected barriers. Maybe she isn't as unaffected by my presence as she pretends.
"Being a Potions Master means that you have the ability to collect it," she tells me quietly.
Yes, once, on the Dark Lords orders, I did indeed collect First Blood from a virgin girl. Fifteen, innocent, young and afraid, she was raped mercilessly by Lucius, and instead of saving her, or at the very least comforting her, I drew the First Blood from her, making her scream and beg for death.
I walk out of the room, the slamming of the door echoing around the halls of the dungeon I am forced to live in. I pick up the bottle of Firewhisky from where it lays discarded on the floor and I take a swig straight from the bottle before I have even sat down. When I have drunk enough, Oblivion will once again take me and I will be at peace for a few hours.
xxx
Draycott Hotel, London
"Not all of this seems relevant," Ginny commented, her nose wrinkling in distaste as her eyes scanned over a page which looked to her like it was a discussion the Professor had had with himself about some article printed in Potions Today.
Hermione looked up from the diary and sighed resignedly. She had a few hours to read through years' worth of Severus' thoughts, but the important part right now was finding out how he felt about her and she could always read the rest at her leisure later. She flicked through the pages, skimming them quickly.
"I kept out of his way for a while after that night," Hermione told her friend as she ran her finger over each of the pages as she quickly searched for any mention of her name. "I tried to forget about the potion, all those months of work, all those sleepless nights followed by days where I could barely manage to grunt at people over the breakfast table. I almost gave up completely."
"Good job you didn't. It definitely gave us the edge, you know."
Without looking up from Severus' diary, Hermione pointed her wand at the dresser and floated the room service menu into Ginny's hands.
"Here, pick something expensive and chocolatey for us both. Sod your diet Ginny – support me in my hour of need."
"It's going to take more than an hour to read these," Ginny pointed out, gesturing at the pile of diaries on the bedside, before getting back to scanning the menu for something suitably full of calories. "Death By Chocolate – that isn't literal, is it?"
"It's a Muggle dessert," Hermione told her. "And it's perfect. Sinfully bad for you."
"You'd think you'd have learned your lesson," Ginny commented dryly, looking at Hermione out of the corner of her eye. She threw the menu down and grabbed the phone from the bedside to pass it to her. "Order us some wine or something too?"
"Will alcohol stop the sarcastic commentary, or at least slow it down a little?"
"It depends how much wine you're planning on giving me," Ginny replied with a grin.
"Hello? This is Miss Granger in the Honeymoon suite," Hermione spoke into the phone. "I'd like to order two large portions of Death By Chocolate, hot, with cream, and three bottles of whatever your best medium white wine is, please."
"You really must be desperate to shut me up," Ginny muttered, re-arranging her pillows behind her to make herself more comfortable. "Or kill me."
The enigmatic smile on Hermione's face was one that she could only have learned from the Potions Master himself. Ginny sighed and leaned back against the pillows. Maybe this was going to be a little harder than she thought.
xxx
Author's Notes: If by a very slim chance you have stayed at Draycott Hotel (in Chelsea, London), I am aware that it has nowhere near as many floors as stated in Chapter One. When I was searching for five star hotels that Hermione could be staying in, I fell for that one, partly because it has a really cosy looking library :oD
Thank you to everyone who took the time to review – feed me more!
A special thank you to both my betas, Twice1203 and DeathStarring, for all their patience and help.