Everything in the universe has a rhythm, everything dances.

- Maya Angelou


December in Wales that year was grey and wet. The trees dripped with incessant rain, and the sky hardly seemed to leaven. And so, to stave off gloom after the perfect, though likely magical, snows around Hogwarts, Hermione threw herself into preparing for Christmas.

She decorated the castle, with free rein from Cerdic and the willing assistance of Buttons, the house elf. Festoons of foliage – yew, holly, ivy and even mistletoe – were cut from the surrounding woodland and hung on walls, wound through bannisters and balustrades and draped around candelabras. Golden streams and decorations set off the lush evergreens. She chose a beautiful tree for the hall, brought warmth into the castle with roaring fires and filled every dark corner with tiny golden lights and merriness and vibrancy.

And if she cried, once or twice, for Christmases past, it was at night and alone.

They weren't actually spending Christmas in Wales and that was another source of nervousness. She was meeting her family. Before they'd been an abstract idea: she'd been aware she would be spending the holidays with them but now it was almost time and on top of that it was no longer fake. She was actually related to them – albeit by very late adoption – and the prospect was terrifying.

Dearborn

I will be in Wales from the 28th, in and around the Valleys in South Wales. I'm coming from Cheshire, so you are on the way down. Would the 27th suit? I'll come back and pick you up on the 31st for the Malfoys' ridiculous party.

TR

P.S. Have you started Professor Wolfe's assignment yet? There's a book I can't get hold of here that's referenced in three other texts – Perfect Numbers by Malgrif Gosthard. Do you have it?

Hermione searched the attics and shopped for old toys and Wizarding children's books, and put signs all over the castle that a child had lived there, recently.

She redecorated her beautiful tower bedroom with warm pinkish reds and soft greys to counteract the dark panelling and the mullioned windows, and filled it with books and paintings and worked to create a home.

Because Tom Riddle was coming, and he couldn't suspect that she'd done anything but grow up there. She bought copies of every old textbook, potion making kits for all ages (all used), built herself a potions lab and prepared and over-prepared and left nothing uncovered that might give away her actual lack of presence there before that summer.

Riddle,

That's fine. Are you coming by train? If you let me know the times I will meet you at the station at Brecon. Fortunately, I'm told the Muggles don't think using a carriage is strange because of the war, something called petrol has been rationed.

I'd quite like a Muggle car, they seem efficient.

Anyway, yes I have the book – or rather, my Father does and you'll definitely want to read it. I'll put it out for you when you come.

HD

P.S. So – Cheshire? Is that where you live?

And she sat with Cerdic for hours, learning and revising her family's history, details of his work, hundred of anecdotes about his boyhood and past and she –

She prepared.

She was Hermione Granger, the girl who'd packed a library to fight the Dark Lord, the girl who had managed to keep Harry Potter alive against all the odds. She was an expert in covering every eventuality.

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.

Present shopping had always been a difficult thing for Hermione. Like anything else it was something you could fail at: you could buy something the person hated, or already had, or be boring. On the other hand, you could ace it and give someone a gift that brought them joy, reminded them of you, and represented how you felt about them.

Sophia, Ancha and Albus were the easiest and she picked up presents for them during her whirlwind preparations for Tom Riddle's visit after Christmas. Ancha got a bottle of perfume and Hermione booked a famous Wizarding portrait artist to photograph Sophia and Abraxas together – not something she personally would have wanted, but it was right up their street. Photography, a relatively new concept in the Wizarding world, was terribly chic and as personal cameras had not yet been adapted it was not yet available to the individual.

For Albus, she knitted several pairs of thick woollen socks (she'd never, ever forgotten when Harry had reported this conversation to her as a child), to go with a very rare book she knew he didn't have, two Muggle novels she thought he'd like and a lemon cake she'd baked herself.

Three days before she and Cerdic were due to leave for his brother's house, she went shopping with Sophia and Ancha. They'd agreed to meet at the Leaky Cauldron, and browse Diagon Alley on their way to the upmarket shopping district around Belenus Road to look for New Years' Eve robes for Hermione and Ancha. Sophia, of course, had chosen hers in the summer.

It was the sort of girly day out Hermione had rarely been able to enjoy, having few female friends except Ginny and Luna in the Magical world and while Ginny had excellent taste, she'd never had any money to spare for frivolous things.

She'd tried meeting Parvati and Lavender once in the holidays after Second years, but it had been utterly boring because they were so close to each other - a pity invite, really, and the seal on what was never to be a true friendship.

Hermione apparated to the Leaky, slightly early as usual and warmed herself by the fire. It was strange to think that one side of the pub's wall were scenes of hardship, entire streets bombed to rubble, rationed food and clothing, telegrams bringing news of lost fathers and sons and brothers, and all the while on the other side, on their side it was Christmas as usual.

Shaking off her maudlin thoughts, as Sophia appeared in a swirl of grey velvet Hermione walked over and embraced her friend.

"We match!" Sophia exclaimed, stroking Hermione's dove-grey velvet robes.

"How dreadful," Hermione teased. "You should go home and change."

Sophia laughed. She looked radiant, her grey eyes were glowing with laugher, dark blonde hair piled on her head, pearls gleaming in her ears.

"You can change," Sophia said, waving her wand and turning Hermione's robes fuschia.

"Gorgeous," Ancha said coming up behind them and promptly collapsed into giggles. "Actually, I think you could pull that off – in the summer, maybe. How about…"

Lime green this time and Hermione retaliated, flicking a mild hex to send both her friends' eyebrows growing past their nostrils.

"We surrender!" Ancha said, gasping with laugher.

"Finite," Hermione commanded, and then gave her friend a hug.

"Where are we going first?"

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.

It was fun. The sort of silly, friendly, stress free fun she'd been missing, and if she occasionally saw something and thought Harry would love that, or That would be perfect for Ginny, she'd learnt not to let those thoughts take over. She bought them anyway – she could save them, after all, and there was no harm in it.

She managed to find appropriate presents for her as-yet unknown family, and the rest of her friends at Hogwarts, and a collection of things including a beautiful new pipe for Cerdic.

They had lunch at Sigil, a restaurant in the smarter end of the Wizarding shopping district, and when she'd finished her meal Hermione raised something that had been worrying her.

"Do you think I should get Marcus something?" she asked. "Or is that inappropriate?"

"Difficult," Ancha said. "Probably not."

"I think you should," Sophia said. "Just send it as a peace-maker. Something small, though. A book, or some nice chocolates."

And it was quite by accident, when they were in an old bookshop filled with the sort of rare tomes she'd never been able to quite afford before that Hermione saw a book about the Founders.

She opened it, curious to see if any of the stories she'd heard from Mr. Ollivander were in there and although they weren't, it was a beautiful thing, artistic and quite lovely, filled with details about the castle's complex magic and anecdotes about the lives of the four Founders.

Tom would love this, she thought, and hesitated.

It was admittedly stupid to buy him something when she'd spent the past week trying to think of ways to undermine his interest in her. And yet –

And yet, she couldn't help wondering if he'd ever had much in the way of Christmas presents. She thought of the clever, lonely boy, in the empty house where he'd killed his only family and she felt that inconvenient stab of pity and understanding and no one should be alone on Christmas.

She bought the book.

"I wonder who that's for," Sophia commented quietly. Hermione ignored her.

She could always keep it.

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"That one," Ancha said, nodding. "Definitely, definitely that one."

"I preferred the silver one," Sophia countered.

"You just don't like Gryffindors. She looks amazing in the red one."

The dress robe was cut very fashionably, with a jewel encrusted chest, and a cinched in waist and billowing translucent sleeves that reached the floor and it was red red red and beautiful.

"I'm with Ancha," Hermione said, eyeing herself in the mirror.

That one, the mirror agreed.

"Would you like it sent to your home, Miss Dearborn?" the assistant asked, helping Hermione unfasten the dress.

"Thank you. To Bronllys Castle, please."

Was this how the Pureblood girls lived in her time? Hermione wondered. If so, perhaps their arrogance was more understandable. Growing up with this as normality would certainly limit your worldview.

Half the shops they'd visited recognised Sophia or Ancha or both on sight, and when her own surname was mentioned they fell over themselves to help – much as they'd started to do in her own time, actually, but she'd earned that.

The power of a name, she supposed. It was uncomfortable, albeit convenient.

"There's just one last problem I have," she said when they'd left Madame Rochard's Finest Robes. "What do I buy for Claire?"

"You're sure she's the one who's been playing tricks on you?" Ancha asked, frowning.

"A dungbomb?" Sophia suggested at the same time.

"Yes, almost certain. But I want to be the gracious one. Keep up appearances and all that. If it was her then she's rotten and I'll get my revenge - but in due time you know?"

"You were definitely sorted into the wrong house," Sophia said gleefully.

"You're a fine one to talk," Hermione said playfully. "Both of you, I suspect. Sneaky Slytherins hiding as Ravenclaws so no one would guess… don't think you have me fooled for a moment."

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"We'll see you on New Year's Eve," Hermione said, kissing Ancha goodbye. Sophia was returning to Wales with her, but Ancha had to visit her ghastly-sounding Great-Aunt.

"If I'm still in one piece," Ancha said gloomily. "She likes to give us all a few rounds of curses before dinner to test how tough were are… She says it's good for the constitution, honestly she's such an old bag."

"When my aunt's – Marcus's – family come and stay, my father makes us duel for our supper, and the loser can't use magic for the rest of the day and gets called 'Muggle'. And the Selwyns are always supposed to beat the Blishwicks."

"Really?" Hermione asked, shocked. "That's awful."

Sophia shrugged. "It's 'character building' apparently."

Even after nine years in the Wizarding World, its casual brutality could still shock Hermione.

A stark reminder that magic – and the subsequent ability to fix or undo most harm caused with a potion or a spell – made the world crueller.

It put a lot of Fred and George's high jinks in perspective.

"That makes me even more grateful to be an only child whose never met her cousins," she told them.

"Your family is full of bleeding hearted Gryffindors, I shouldn't think you have quite the same traditions."

"Well that's a relief."

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"Well," Sophia said, as they landed outside the house, Hermione staggering with the effort of side-along apparating someone all the way from London. "This is nice. Very romantic, isn't it? With the moat and that tower – please tell me that's my room?"

"Don't be silly," Hermione said. "That's obviously my room. Come on, I'm absolutely starving. I'll show you around after I've had something to eat. You're harder to Apparate that you look…"

"Hag!"

.

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Dearborn,

Thank you.

Cheshire. Indeed, that's where my house is. Not a hard deduction – but I have your address so we're even.

TR

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Hermione waved Sophia off on the morning of the 23rd. They'd spent two wonderful days walking in the hills and along the river, playing cards, practising spells and duelling for when Hermione would face the other house champions, riding Cerdic's horses, wrapping presents and sending them across the country from the tiny Owl Post Office in Brecon, and revelling in each others' company.

Now, though, it was time to meet her family. When Sophia was gone, Hermione went to her room and collected the travelling case she'd packed, and pulled on her thick Winter cloak.

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Cadwgan Dearborn lived in a grand, slightly rambling pile in West Sussex, set in rolling green hills with a large stream running nearby, and acres of woodland and smoke pluming up out of all eight chimneys. It was idyllic and utterly, completely English – the sort of house people would put on chocolate boxes and postcards and Hermione loved it the moment she set eyes on it.

Cerdic had landed the carriage rather expertly on the lawn, the Abraxans' hooves tearing up the grass with the impact, and even before Hermione had climbed out of the carriage she could hear loud voices and exclamations and raucous laughter.

"You're late!" a voice, just as plumming and booming as Cerdic's announced and she looked up to see a younger, leaner, laughing version of her adopted father. The same thick, dark hair and warm eyes and a face weathered with laughter and a life lived outside. Her immediate impression was of a great similarity to Cerdic, but with the vital energy of someone who preferred Quidditch to books.

"We are not," Cerdic said. "In fact, I'm sure we're early. We made excellent time."

"Twenty years late, you arse. Let's look at her then!"

And Hermione was embraced and inspected and proclaimed to be "much prettier than I expected, old thing," and "quite the young lady, however did my brother produce you?"

And then more people were pouring out onto the lawn, taking the horses to the stables, elves collecting their luggage and she was being introduced and kissed and –

It felt like being a Weasley, suddenly, surrounded by warm and welcoming family. There was Cadwgan, his wife Hestia, their son Caradoc and then Hestia's brother Freddie Mckinnon and his wife and two children – one of them a Second year at Hogwarts, in fact. The other, Iris, was Hermione's age, and Hestia's sister Marlene Jones and her husband and three children.

"Come on, cousin," Caradoc said. "I'll show you your room."

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.

He reminded her most of Bill Weasley, or perhaps Sirius when he'd been talking about his youth and not haunted by sadness and regret. Caradoc was the consummate Gryffindor; handsome and loud and full of energy, and confident and she felt –

She felt kinship with him, like she had so easily with Harry and she didn't know if it was a result of the spell that had made her truly a part of this family but she felt like she belonged.

And with that belonging, she felt the pang of slight regret that she hadn't grown up with a huge Magical family, who teased and understood each other. She'd always stood out, always been different but here she was just another brown haired witch, quieter perhaps than Caradoc and Iris who were as close as siblings, and peppered her with a hundred-and-forty-seven questions while they showed her to her room.

"I can't believe you're the secret daughter, you're so normal. We've been just fascinated – we thought you must be mad or hideous or a Squib or something!" Iris said.

"I can't believe you're in Ravenclaw," Caradoc said mournfully. "I can see a glimmer of hope in you though… Listen don't tell the olds but we've got a plan for tonight – have you got any Muggle clothes?"

"Yes, I packed a dress in case. Why?"

"Well, we thought we'd go and have a dance in Muggle London when they're all asleep. Normally I'd tell them, but Ivy's father ticked us off something terrible last time we went – he's worried about the bombs but it'll be fine, I think they've stopped that now anyway. Are you in?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, grinning suddenly. She hadn't had an adventure in too long… "I'm in."

"Great! Ivy's boyfriend's a Muggleborn – don't we're meeting him and some of his friends, they don't know about magic though so, you know, be careful."

A house-elf popped up beside them and told them lunch was ready.

"Cracking!" Caradoc exclaimed, throwing an arm around Hermione's shoulder. "I'm absolutely ravenous."

Lunch was great steaming piles of roast chicken, and perfect gravy and mountains of crispy roast potatoes and pumpkin pie and gallons of wine and merriment, and Hermione managed to eat a decent amount despite the endless questions everyone had for her.

Then they showed her around the house and gardens and then there was more food, tea and dark, moist fruit cake and then they played board games and cards in front of the roaring fire and Hermione forgot to be nervous and she played hide and seek and laughed until her stomach hurt and she was happy.

Cadwgan had been an Auror, like his son, and when she mentioned that she was House Champion he got very excited and started giving her tips and teasing Cerdic.

"Ah, so she gets her good genes from me then," he told his elder brother.

"I taught you everything you know," Cerdic disagreed and they went off, bantering as though they were boys again and the day passed in a happy haze of firelight and warmth and good food and company.

Indeed, it was such tremendous fun Hermione couldn't help wondering what had caused Cerdic to remove himself from such welcoming happiness, but he was so terribly eccentric, capable of withdrawing completely into himself even in good company if a particular intellectual problem gripped him suddenly.

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Hermione's first moment alone was when she went to change for dinner, choosing velvet robes that might need a cooling charm in the warm house. As she was tidying her hair, there was a knock at her door.

"Come in," she said and Caradoc peered in.

"I was bored," he explained. "Everyone takes so long to get ready, it's so silly."

She smiled, pleased.

"As you can see I'm almost finished."

"Very presentable. I bet all the boys have been chasing after you at Hogwarts – pretty new girl like you," he winked, and she remembered Albus telling her he'd had quite a reputation Hogwarts.

"Oh – no, just one or two."

He sprawled on the chaise longue by her window and gestured invitingly.

"Do tell, I love hearing gossip about Hogwarts."

"Well," she said, wondering how to explain. "I just broke up with someone – Marcus Blishwick. He was very nice, lovely really, but a bit – a bit keen to settle down."

"Blishwick – I know his elder brother. Nice family, bit dull. So you've got a wandering spirit have you? You really are a Dearborn. I'd wondered…"

"Yes," she said, honestly. She hadn't, before, but now she was on this great adventure in the past the thought of setting anywhere for too long was both impractical and strangely disquieting. "When I leave Hogwarts I'm going to try and travel a lot – Professor Dumbledore has kindly offered to send me to some of his acquaintances all over the world to learn…"

"Dumbledore?" Caradoc asked, surprised. "You must be something special.

She blushed slightly because it wasn't as though he'd chosen her, more had her thrust upon him by his future self, but even so…

"I suppose so. He's a bit lonely, I think. He's been mentoring me since last summer – it's why I finally went to Hogwarts, actually."

"Ah, that makes sense. Granny Dearborn believed in home education too, you know. Well, yes you probably do. I'm glad you're finally here, Hermione. It's strange, feels like I've known you my whole life."

"Same," she admitted. "I was really nervous, actually, but everyone's been so kind."

"Why haven't we met you before? Father said Cerdic's just like that, but I haven't seen him since I was about three so I wouldn't know."

"He is, really. He's just… he's very happy to be alone with his books and research and it's not a lack on interest in the outside world or that he doesn't like people or anything – actually he loves a good party. I don't really know. He just lives completely in what he's doing at any one time, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if something happened – I've never really asked though."

"Ah well. Families are funny things," he said. "Come on let's go down and have a drink. I hope you've inherited the family constitution as well as a thirst for travel and you know… the hair."

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After dinner, she, Ivy and Caradoc bade the adults goodnight, saying they were going to stay up and play some more cards. After about half an hour, they snuck upstairs and changed, Hermione magically altering her one Muggle dress to fit the evening, coiling her hair into as close to a 1940s style as she could remember from television.

Thanking whatever whim had inspired her to bring some Muggle money, she transfigured a small handbag and some gloves. A coat would require tailoring charms she didn't know, so she took her cloak, hoping it would just look eccentric.

A soft double tap on her door informed her it was time to go.

It was exciting. She'd been so curious about the reality of wartime London since she'd been in the past, the urge to see history happening itching at her.

"Very convincing," Ivy said, eyeing her outfit as she opened the door. "Well done."

"Right we'll apparate from outside," Caradoc whispered, looking surprisingly stern and handsome in a Muggle uniform. "So as not to wake anyone. Come on. Ivy can you side-along both of us? Or shall we go to the Leaky and get a taxi?"

"I'll take us," she said. "I know somewhere close we can go to."

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.

London was darker than she'd ever seen it at night, the enforced 'dim-out' mimicking moonlight and it gave the city and eerie, almost romantic feel.

They'd landed in the ruins of a bombed building, and even Hermione, a native Londoner, couldn't quite recognise the area – so different to the London of the eighties and nineties that she knew so well.

"Come on, this way. We're meeting them at Piccadilly." Ivy switched on a small torch, and Hermione admired her foresight.

As they walked, Hermione gazed around in awe; the buildings were great dark monoliths etched against the smoggy night sky, the streets like canyons, different and terrifying and unnatural, like walking in a forest made of stone and brick. The air was clogged with fumes and coal-dust and it felt dirty and almost post-apocalyptic.

Their breath flumed out into the freezing air, a harsh frost glittering on the pavements.

"Where are we going?" she whispered to Ivy, her voice automatically hushing in the strange, dim light.

"The Ritz," Ivy whispered, "and then probably Soho or the a dance hall. Maybe Tottenham, it's supposed to be wild."

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The Ritz was jarringly glamorous, after the dingy ruined streets they'd walked through. The pale blue sign the only indication of life inside until they were inside the bar, and suddenly there was music and lights and laughter, groups of clean, uniformed important looking men in corners, smartly dressed, arrogant waiters and a haze of cigarette smoke and Ivy was greeting a terribly handsome young man at a table, the three other uniformed officers standing up to greet them.

"My cousins Caradoc and Hermione," she said, and Hermione was greeted and handed champagne and it was like a film.

The boys were all officers, aristocratic and torn away from the lives of leisure and Oxbridge they would have had in peacetime, and they were charming and high-spirited and older than their years, home on leave for Christmas (a privilege, she imagined, that came with their names).

They drank champagne and pink gin and Hermione was allowed into a world she'd barely even read about, a world of grand hotels and black market booze and exiled royalty brushing shoulders with spies and cabinet ministers and officers and prostitutes. It was fascinating.

They piled into a taxi to go down to Tottenham, and while the haze of cigarettes remained, everything else was different; the great dance hall was nothing like any Hermione had been to.

Despite the stiff surroundings and the conventional glamour of many of the women the spirit of the place was unmistakably bohemian, quite unlike anything she'd expected – visions of stiff dances and Englishness vanishing in the face of the jitterbugging dancers, the loud, laughing GIs in their collar-and-tie uniforms, the black faces among the white. The women, red-lipped and hair rolled and glamorous, were so like those she'd seen in films and at the same time they weren't. These were the reality, their faces both plainer and more interesting than the actresses who would play them later, their hair simpler, their laughs more throaty, their eyes glowing with a fragile form of liberation that had come hard-bought.

It was sexual somehow, erotic, but not the sort of eroticism fashionable in her time, this was a naïve and joyous freedom, where young women could dance with foreign soldiers, kiss them, go home with them.

"Bloody Americans," Roger, one of Ivy's boyfriend's friends muttered. "Can I buy you a drink, ladies?"

"I'm fine for the moment, thank you," she said, feet itching as she gazed at the dance floor, carefully watching the steps of the half-familiar dance.

They found a table at the side, and gin was bought, and when a GI called Kenneth came over and asked her to dance she said and when a GI called Kenneth came over and asked her to dance she said yes, yes alright, and spun and was lifted and she was laughing and this was adrenaline and adventure and history.

"You sure are pretty," Kenneth said. "Can I buy you another drink Hermione?"

"I should go back to my friends," she said, and she could tell his eye had already started to scan the room for another girl.

As she was walking back to the table, a handsome black soldier passed her and stopped.

"Good evening, Miss," he said.

"Hello," Hermione replied, smiling nervously, because he was easily the best-looking man she'd seen that evening.

They stared at each other for a moment, heat flickering.

"I'm John," he said, deep, slightly Southern drawl melting her.

"Hermione," she replied. "Would you like a drink?"

He grinned, "Aint that my line?"

"I'm a liberated woman," she said.

"You're the prettiest thing I ever saw, but if those boys see you buying me a drink there could be trouble. I just thought I'd say hello. Have a good evening."

"Wait –" she said as he moved to carry on walking. What sort of trouble? And then she realised – stupid, obvious – that this was about race, and how absurd to forget but she was Hermione Granger and while she had to bite her tongue at Wizarding bigotry she didn't have to put up with it in the Muggle world as well.

"I don't care," she said. "You're the most handsome man here, and I'd like to dance with you. They are, after all," she pointed to a couple on the dance floor, and he paused then nodded.

"I guess it'd be worth it," he muttered.

And indeed although there were scowls, no one stopped them and eventually he relaxed and it was, if not as charged as dancing with Tom Riddle, by far the most fun she'd ever had out dancing. Nearby Ivy was dancing with James, her boyfriend, and Caradoc with a pretty girl in some sort of uniform.

Breathless and sweating, she eventually cried off with sore feet, and they sat for a while, and he told her how fucking ghastly the war had been for them, how London was an extraordinary refuge, how amazed they'd been at the open-mindedness of many British women, of the beatings the white Americans – and some white British – gave them when they became romantically involved with white British girls, and he was open and unassuming and kind, and the bitter reminder that prejudice and hatred weren't limited to people like her, but existed in different forms all over the world.

At last though it was time to go home, and when she was there, she fell into bed exhausted and exhilarated and sad and angry all at the same time.

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Thank you for your reviews, you are a joy and you keep me writing this mad thing