Tom was fairly certain that he had never experienced anything as bizarre as standing a few yards away from Voldemort. That was really saying a lot coming from somebody who had lived in a diary for fifty years, been rather thoroughly buggered by another version of himself, and sat in a room full of Molly Weasley's knitting. Maybe it would have been easier to handle had Voldemort been in somebody other than Crabbe, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

The need to touch Voldemort, to curl around him and crawl inside of him, was a persistent itch beneath Tom's skin. He'd thought that it had been intoxicating to be around the Gaunt ring for the first time, but that didn't hold a candle to this.

He felt absurd.

He hoped that Voldemort felt something like the same way, but if he did then the man was incredibly able to conceal it.

Without warning, Voldemort took a step further into the room. Tom definitely did not jump in surprise like a first-year Hufflepuff.

"Dumbledore's popularity has taken a nosedive of late," Tom said abruptly, fulfilling Voldemort's request for information and hopefully distracting them both from his ridiculous reaction. "No doubt the public is still reeling from what happened during the last school year when I reopened Salazar's Chamber. Four students were petrified by the basilisk, and I killed two more plus a professor."

Voldemort never took his eyes off of Tom's face as he flicked the fingers of one of Crabbe's hands behind him to close the door. The Dark Lord's magical presence was palpable enough that Tom could sense even that simple thread of magic from across the room. He wanted to shudder in response, but he managed to suppress his reaction so that the only outward sign of it was a slight flaring of his nostrils.

The feelings he was experiencing were very nearly overwhelming, but Tom Riddle did not let anything overwhelm him. Not even the presence of Lord Voldemort.

The entire interaction had taken mere seconds, and Tom went on with barely a pause.

"But truly we owe the headmaster's downfall to Lucius Malfoy and how terribly he's indulged his son. The boy is a spoiled little thing who has virtually no concept of boundaries, and he managed to insult a hippogriff and get attacked. Lucius, of course, has been instrumental in turning public opinion against Hagrid and, by extension, the headmaster who hired him to teach."

"Hagrid?" echoed Voldemort. "Dumbledore hired Hagrid to replace Kettleburn?"

Tom was too fraught to laugh, but he managed a smirk.

Other than that brief moment of surprise, Voldemort did not seem at all amused or otherwise bothered by any emotion whatsoever. He continued to stare intensely at Tom's face with an unreadable expression.

Tom was acutely aware of the way they were both just standing there awkwardly. He didn't think he had ever felt particularly awkward in his life—he had always been self-assured and managed to control nearly every situation he'd encountered, or adapt and make the situation work for him even if he wasn't able to control it—but he'd felt nothing but awkward while in the presence of his older self, his master soul. It made him blabber like an idiot and feel unsure of himself. He decidedly hated it.

He glanced down, just for a moment, to gather his thoughts again.

When he looked back up, he realized at once that he had played right into Voldemort's hands. Tom only barely had time to think "Of course!" before Voldemort slammed into his mind.

Tom's body screamed, a raw, tormented thing that tore at his throat and made his toes curl, but his soul submitted with a whimper as Voldemort curled around and in and through every single part of him until there was no telling what was Tom and what was Voldemort. It was endless pleasure and unfathomable pain, and they shattered into a million pieces and reformed into a single whole a thousand times over.

Then he felt the sensation of being ripped out of his body, and he panicked and clawed at the thin tether that held his mutilated soul to his mortal vessel like a wild creature of pure instinct and no thought. He was being brutally torn away from himself and shoved into the diary, alone alone he was alone and trapped. The thing holding his soul into his body had been severed by his own Killing Curse and he was expelled formlessly into the ether and he couldn't touch or see or smell anything and his magic was gone and Oh, Salazar, no, no, nonono please no anything else he would do anything, give anything, please God no….

He was staring at the unchanging shelves of the Hogwarts library, which by now (however long "now" had been since he'd been shoved into the diary) had faded to a dreary sort of gray scale in his memory, and then he was screaming and throwing himself uselessly against the boundaries of his memories, because there was nothing else, just him and his own illusions. He would have screamed had he been able, but he could only drift in silence, unheard and unseen by anything or anyone, and he wasn't even sure he really existed anymore and maybe Horcruxes didn't really keep you alive but kept you both from living and from moving on.

August 19, 1992. Dear diary… It had been fifty years. Fifty years. Five decades. The first human he was aware of encountering was a poacher who stumbled across the dank little patch of forest that he'd made his own, and he wasn't strong enough to possess the man no matter how much he hoped otherwise, but he did at least brush the man's mind closely enough to find out that it was 1988. Seven years, he'd been without a body for seven years…

He had never felt true fear before until the moment when Harry Potter brought the basilisk fang down towards his diary. He was intimately acquainted with the sick feeling of fear that permeated his mind as he was cast out of Quirrell's crumbling body in almost the same way he'd been cast out of his own a decade prior, and both times were because of Harry Potter.

He was staring at Crabbe, who was really his older self, with equal parts fascination and nausea. He was at once fascinated and sickened to see his young body standing before him, the very image of himself at sixteen.

He was suddenly in his body again, and his throat hurt and his ears hurt and everything hurt. Tom closed his mouth and stopped screaming and breathing and moving at all.

Voldemort hovered against him, half encompassing his body for several seconds longer, until the amorphous spirit finally lurched and stuttered across the floor to where Crabbe was moaning faintly and beginning to stir. It was Crabbe who screamed then, but only for a moment before his master took full control of his body again.

Tom could hear Crabbe's body taking faltering, rattling breaths. He stared up at the pattern on the ceiling and focused on the sound of the arrhythmic panting, using it to ground himself as he felt his burst eardrums heal and the blood flowing out of his nose slow to a trickle.

It could have been worse, much worse. Tom hadn't even had time to slip the ring off of his finger, which he'd always planned to do before Voldemort inevitably tried to possess him, but fortunately the Horcrux hadn't tried anything. Tom had feared he would. Further, the experience seemed to have functioned something like an extreme version of immersion therapy, so that although Tom could still feel the Dark Lord's magic and soul both calling to his own, the awareness was no longer accompanied by a desperate need to be one with him. That was something greater than a small victory, at least.

Finally, when he felt completely recovered (at least physically), Tom let out the unnecessary breath he'd been holding inside his lungs.

"Have you got that out of your system?"

"Quite." Voldemort wheezed. It seemed to take a lot out of him to speak, but he took another rattling breath and asked on a shaky exhalation, "How?"

Tom propped himself up on his elbows and looked over at the other man, who was still laying prone, half on and half off the thick rug. The brief melding of their minds and bodies had obviously taken as much out of him as it had Tom, although Tom, being a Horcrux, was much better equipped to heal afterward.

"If it were possible to inhabit a Horcrux's vessel, I would've just shoved you into the diadem and let you spend eternity with that lunatic instead of with my excellent company."

Voldemort turned his head to shoot Tom a baleful glare, but he made no other move.

Tom was distantly worried that he wasn't actually able to do anything further. It was disgusting what Voldemort had allowed himself to become. He was a shade of his former self, a shade of a man at all. But whatever he was, he was still the Dark Lord and Tom's older self, and if he was this overwhelming when he was little more than a spirit, then Tom could scarcely imagine what he would be like once he was restored to full strength.

With a great sigh, Tom levered himself up to his knees and shuffled across the parquet floor of Abraxas's office until he was looking down at Crabbe's broad, ugly face. Voldemort continued to glare up at him through Crabbe's eyes. Tom could imagine how distasteful it must be to be so weak in front of someone else, even if that someone else was, well, yourself.

Tom curled his tongue up against the back of his front teeth and said in Parseltongue, "You should rest."

There weren't exactly curse words in Parseltongue—most snakes simply avoided offending one another, and, in the first place, most snakes never had any reason to discuss anything beyond hunting and mating—but the intent behind Voldemort's answering hisses was quite clear. Tom had apparently been correct in his judgment that it was easier for Voldemort to hiss than to form English words in his weakened state, although communicating complex ideas in the serpents' language required rather a lot of ingenuity and liberal interpretation.

Despite Voldemort's angry hissing, there was no real heat behind it. They had experienced the best and worst of each other during their brief time rejoined as one soul and one mind, so there was no real reason to hide anything from each other. Other than out of sheer pride. Voldemort knew it too, and after another indistinct hiss, he deigned to reply.

"This body will break down in two or three days," he said. "I had hoped that your body would be compatible with my soul and magic, but it seems that I will need another form."

A few drops of the blood that had flowed from Tom's nose during their earlier encounter dripped down onto Voldemort's face as Tom leaned over him. The older wizard darted out his tongue to taste it.

Tom was not at all enthusiastic about Voldemort's announcement. He could only imagine that the other man planned to attach himself to the first wizard he encountered and drink gallons of unicorn blood to keep the poor sod viable. That wouldn't do at all. It was too unstable an arrangement, and anyway he couldn't allow the idiot to curse himself even further by spilling more blessed blood. Besides, the Mudblood girl's secondhand descriptions of Voldemort sticking out of the back of the professor's head were quite revolting just to think of, and Tom had no desire to witness it for himself.

He frowned and wiped away the droplets of blood that tickled his upper lip. "I hope you aren't planning to slaughter anymore unicorns."

Crabbe's lips twitched unpleasantly.

"No. That was only an option because it was Quirrell who drank the blood, not I," Voldemorted hissed, and Tom understood immediately that it had been Quirrell who had needed the unicorn blood in order to sustain his body while Voldemort inhabited it. "I will not be a parasite again."

That was understandable. Tom supposed that it wouldn't be overly difficult to supply Voldemort with a constant supply of hapless victims who wouldn't be missed, as long as he wasn't too picky and didn't insist that his vessels be wizards.

"Fine," he replied, "but in the meantime you apparently need rest."

Voldemort was reluctant to let Tom levitate him down the hallways of the manor, but he was apparently even more reluctant to forego the pleasure of a luxurious bed in favor of the floor of Abraxas's office. It would have been impossible to transfigure anything quite as comfortable as the real thing. Fortunately, it seemed that the other inhabitants of the manor had seen fit to run as far away as possible, so only Tom witnessed the indignity.

Tom had never actually visited Little Hangleton or its cemetery during the day before. What looked sinister and a bit spooky at night was revealed by the mid-morning sun to be merely rundown and overgrown. The thatched roofs of some of the cottages were seriously thinning in places, and the cobblestones along the main street were in dire need of repairs. Tom didn't see anything worthy of his notice in the three minutes it took him to walk from one end of the village to the other, but he certainly drew attention from the inhabitants.

He'd known he would, of course—strange, attractive young men couldn't show up in tiny rural villages without drawing some attention. One woman, who looked like she would turn to dust and blow away if anyone sneezed near her, had probably the first clear thought she'd had in years when she thought for a moment that she was seeing Tom's father again. But she quickly put it down to having lost herself in memories of her youth, which she was doing more and more lately.

Tom offered her a smile just before he rounded the corner of the local bakery and headed down the road towards the church and the cemetery behind it. There was a risk that Dumbledore would eventually investigate Little Hangleton and discover that Tom had been there, of course, but at this point it would be delicious to watch the wizarding world at large accuse the man of making things up in order to stay relevant. Who would believe that an apparently sixteen-year-old Lord Voldemort had strutted down the center of a Muggle village in broad daylight?

And Lucius had already done a fantastic job of discrediting anything Dumbledore or Harry might say about the diary.

The important thing was that Tom hadn't seen any memories of Dumbledore having visited the village. It was possible that he had and Tom just hadn't encountered anyone who had seen him. Or that he had but Tom hadn't been able to access the relevant memories. Or that he had and had then modified the memories of anyone who had seen him. But Tom doubted it.

So Dumbledore probably didn't know about the other Horcruxes yet, or else he didn't know enough that he'd started searching for them.

The Little Hangleton graveyard was situated behind the church, running down the side of the gently sloping hill on which the village sat and spreading across the valley below. On its other side, Riddle House loomed over them both from the top of a taller hill. Although he'd only ever seen it at night, Tom could tell that the ring Horcrux's graveyard was still quite a nice place to be buried, at least in the wealthier sections. The present-day version, however, had clearly been without a dedicated groundskeeper for some time, and even the Riddles' elaborate statues and mausoleums were overgrown and starting to look a bit rickety.

Perhaps at one point Tom would have been interested in the graves of his father and grandparents, but he'd had enough of them by now. He'd been shagged on them by now, pressing his face into the grass and dirt of his father's grave and later scraping his knees and elbows on the rough patches of his grandfather's sarcophagus. He bypassed them now with barely a glance and carefully picked his way up the increasingly steep hill towards the crumbling stone wall that separated the cemetery from the grounds of the Riddles' manor.

There was a small grouping of trees along the boundary. Tom made his way towards an enormous tree at the center of the small wood, situated just on the other side of the boundary. It had a trunk at least five feet in diameter, from which grew a mass of curving, tangled branches that would have formed a beautiful canopy had the tree not been bare of leaves.

It was a yew tree. And it was perfect.

After a moment spent contemplating the best way to go about things, Tom climbed over the short stone wall and clambered up into the branches with as much grace as he could muster, which wasn't much. This was the first tree he'd ever climbed; he'd never been invited to join the other children, and he wouldn't have joined them even if they had ever asked. He got his shirt caught in the branches and tore it when he pulled free, and he kept scratching his skin against the bark, but eventually Tom reached the top, where the branches were thinnest.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he experimentally ran his hand across the wood and wrapped his fingers around some pieces, carefully freeing the parts that felt right to him.

"What are you doing up there?" demanded a gruff voice.

Tom had been so focused on his task that the sudden intrusion startled him, and he had to tighten his legs around the narrow limb, on which he was perched rather precariously, to keep himself from tumbling off it.

There was an old Muggle man standing several yards up the hill towards the house, one hand gripping a cane and the other curled into an angry fist at his side, craning his neck to glare up at the boy trespassing in the branches of his yew tree.

"I've told you lot time and again, I have!" he continued without waiting for a response. "You're to stay off this property!"

When Tom turned his focus to the old man, he got flashes of Muggle teenagers tearing up the lawns with their bicycles and throwing rocks through the windows of the manor house. Although the gardener—Frank, his mind supplied—couldn't imagine what new mischief was to be had by climbing trees, he was sure there was some. Behind the recent memories of petty vandalism lurked a far more sinister memory from a time long past, but still very much a constant part of the man's thoughts, of another teenager—tall, dark-haired, and pale—walking briskly and confidently up the drive towards the large front door of house on the night that the Riddles had been murdered just as they were about to sit down to a late Sunday supper.

Tom sucked a hiss in through his bottom teeth.

"Hold a moment and I will come down."

He wrenched the last of his sticks until it came free and added it to the bundle in the bag he wore across his body. Then he brought his leg over the branch and to the other side and, without a pause, leaped from the uppermost limbs. The Muggle hardly had the time to yell out in alarm before Tom landed at the base of the tree with barely a sound of exertion.

Had the ground seemed to sink slightly and spring back up under the boy's feet, as if he were a child jumping on a bed? The Muggle blinked and brought his free hand up to rub his eyes.

Tom allowed himself a brief smile of amusement as he stepped out of the shadows cast by the branches and fully into the autumn sun, where the Muggle gaped at him in still more astonishment, for he was the spitting image of the old master's son when he had been a young man. Tom caught the gardener's gaze with his own and pressed his own memories of that night fifty years ago into the Muggle's mind. The pinched, furious expression on his face as he stalked towards the house, filling in all of the details of his features that the Muggle's brief glimpse through his cottage window had not allowed him to discern; the unlocking spell he used to let himself inside without alerting any of the inhabitants or staff; the mixed shock and anger on the faces of his father and grandparents at the sight of him, which turned to incredulity and confusion when Tom raised his wand but quickly settled into unmitigated terror when he cast the first Cruciatus Curse of the evening.

When he released the Muggle's mind, Frank staggered backwards several steps and lost his footing. He landed on his ass in the overgrown grass, his arms and legs flailing briefly and his cane flying several feet away.

He stared up at the handsome trespasser with bulging eyes and stammered, "What—you—but—!"

Tom smiled again, the full grin with gleaming white teeth, which lately had sent the Granger girl into fits, and raised his wand for a practical demonstration.

That night, the inhabitants of Little Hangleton would be deeply amazed when a group of teenagers, who had gathered in the cemetery to smoke and snog among the gravestones, all came tearing up the hill together screaming in much the same way as the Riddles' maid had done just after dawn some five decades before.

The police from Great Hangleton would be all the more astonished when the medical examiner's report contradicted their original supposition that Frank Bryce, who would have turned seventy-six had he lived three more days, had suffered a heart attack or stroke while tending the grounds. No, the doctor insisted in her report, Mr. Bryce was as healthy as a man of his years could expect to be, aside from the arthritis afflicting his leg (and, of course, aside from the fact that he was dead). There was absolutely no sign of a heart attack or stroke or any other natural cause of death. The police discussed in hushed, nervous tones how the condition of the groundskeeper's body matched the condition of the three bodies at the center of the area's only unsolved murder case, in which the dead man had been the only suspect fifty years ago, right down to the expressions of abject terror on the Riddles' and Bryce's faces.

This time the sighting of a stranger—a pale, dark-haired youth—that everybody had believed Bryce had made up during the original investigation was corroborated by nearly a dozen residents of Little Hangleton, who all separately claimed to have seen such a person strolling casually down the main street of the village that morning.

The police were still quite sure that nobody could simply die of fright, and they were also quite sure that it couldn't have been the same teenager that Frank Bryce had insisted killed the Riddles in the summer of 1943, but the situation clearly warranted further investigation.

Dot, a lifelong resident of Little Hangleton who was nearing her ninety-eighth birthday, insisted that the stranger had looked so similar to Tom Riddle that they must have been directly related. She told one newly minted and slightly nervous member of the police force, who had not yet learned how to extract himself from over-eager witnesses, all about that business with Riddle and the tramp's daughter and the rumors of a pregnancy, but everybody dismissed her theories. Dot was prone to calling the baker's son by his grandfather's name and the curate by his predecessor's name, even though the baker's grandfather had been dead for forty years and the curate wasn't even related to the man who had held the position sixty years (and three curates) ago.

For their part, the other residents of Little Hangleton spent several evenings and nights at the village's only pub, the Hanged Man, discussing the events. They ended up split nearly evenly down the middle between those who thought that a whole lot of ado was being made out of Frank's clearly natural death, and those who thought that the only reasonable explanation was that the vengeful spirit of Tom Riddle had given the gardener his comeuppance for the triple murder he'd committed fifty years before.

Tom was more than a little miffed to find Voldemort's bedroom empty when he returned to the manor. He briefly checked his own room, just in case the older man had decided that he ought to have the best guest bedroom, before giving in to the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation and heading back down the stairs to search for the erstwhile Dark Lord.

He eventually picked up on a sharp feeling of disgust and horror, which he followed to a parlor on the first floor with overstated furnishings and an ornate gold-leaf ceiling. Voldemort was there, sitting straight-backed in a chair and casually reading a book. So too were Lucius and Narcissa, who were both doing a poor job of pretending to do anything other than watch Voldemort out of the corners of their eyes.

The horror was obviously coming from Narcissa, who had never been much in the presence of her husband's master during the last war. The disgust was coming from Lucius, because Voldemort was wearing his father's body.

Tom clenched his jaw for a moment. Then he deliberately relaxed his muscles and strode fully into the room.

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're up and about," he announced, only just keeping his annoyance from infiltrating his tone.

Voldemort glanced up from his book and arched one of Abraxas's well shaped brows. "I am sure that you aren't."

Neither of the Malfoys dared look up. Lucius pretended to be completely engrossed in his newspaper and Narcissa wrote her letter so diligently that Tom was sure her script would be perfect, but Tom could vividly hear their terrified thoughts at the exchange. He ignored them and settled himself comfortably into the chair across from his older self's, allowing himself to adopt a much more relaxed posture than Voldemort.

"You are mistaken." Tom took a moment to pick a bit of bark off his trousers and then folded his hands over his knee. "I care a great deal about your health, in fact. That is why I am so concerned to see you wearing Abraxas."

Voldemort placed his open book face down across his lap and stared at Tom silently for a few moments. Finally, he said, "I saw no reason why I should not use his body. He is older than I would prefer, but his form has been meticulously well preserved. Since you have not seen fit to kill him for his betrayal, he has just been gathering dust in your… playroom."

"Well, I had planned to use him in your resurrection ritual, but if you would prefer to possess him until he wears out instead, then I am sure we can find some other true pure blood who won't be missed." Tom offered his other self a placid smile. "Perhaps one of the Weasleys? There are more than enough of them left, and the girl did well enough for my ritual."

Although his wife maintained her admirable stoicism, Lucius could not quite repress the startled noise that worked its way up from his throat.

The sound caused Voldemort's head to swivel towards the pair.

"Leave us," he ordered quietly.

They did not need to be told twice. They barely managed to offer proper bows in both Voldemort's and Tom's directions before they rushed out the door with as much dignity as they could manage. It was obvious that they would have sprinted out of the room if Malfoys did such things.

Voldemort turned Abraxas's flinty gaze back on Tom. However, Tom had taken all of that day and the previous night to compose himself and steel his mind, so he did not let his older self affect him nearly as much as he had during their first meeting. He put his uncharacteristic reactions the previous evening up to his complete shock at Voldemort's abrupt arrival.

Now, he merely stared back.

Eventually Voldemort's lips twitched, though Tom couldn't tell whether it was in anger or amusement, and he asked, "Are you going to elaborate on this ritual you have planned?"

"Certainly, since you were kind enough to ask. I have learned through my experiments that the method I used to create my body in fact created a new vessel for me. I have been effectively transferred from my diary to the body you see now—"

"Which is why you feel the need to protect your body by keeping all of the other Horcruxes on your person," Voldemort interrupted.

"Quite," Tom replied in a clipped tone, his mind flashing briefly to how he'd had to temporarily stash the diadem in the Gaunt shack before he'd gone into Little Hangleton, just in case Voldemort woke up while he was gone. "I have further confirmed, through more experiments and an examination of my memories, that until the very moment that Ginny Weasley's life force was destroyed, the diary was still my vessel."

There was no need for him to elaborate further, as Voldemort immediately caught on and interjected again. "You want to use one of the Horcruxes to create a body in the same way that you did."

"And for you to take possession of the body just before the moment of completion, yes," confirmed Tom.

Voldemort leaned back in his chair and brought his fingers up to steeple in front of his mouth. He stared straight ahead, seemingly at nothing, as Tom counted the ticks of the antique clock that stood in one corner of the parlor. When he blinked and refocused his eyes on Tom, their natural gray was swirling with red.

"How do you know that such a thing is possible? I might not be any more able to take over the vessel just before the ritual is complete than I was able to possess your vessel. And I must point out that, although I do not often make mistakes—"

"Except in matters relating to Dumbledore. And creating Horcruxes. And hiding them. And Harry Potter," Tom felt behooved to say.

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed vibrantly red for a moment before the color receded partially back into Abraxas's gray.

"Although I do not often make mistakes," he repeated, sharply enunciating each word, "there remains the possibility that I will wait a moment too long, and the Horcrux will claim its vessel before I can."

"I don't know with certainty that it is possible, which is why I sent Crabbe for you now rather than later. Although I am good—well, I don't have to tell you how good I am—I am not a master in arithmancy, ancient runes, or ritualistic Dark magic. Yet," he added, because he knew that he would be eventually. "In any case, I don't see the harm in trying. Certainly nothing we can do could relegate you to a worse state than you're in now. If it doesn't work, then we will simply regroup and find another way. And if the Horcrux manages to inhabit its vessel, then I will be there waiting to destroy it."

"You are serious," said Voldemort. His tone was bland, but nonetheless it was clear that he could hardly believe it.

Tom met his eyes, direct and unflinching. "I am serious. I want to work with you, not against you. I want to learn from you."

Voldemort regarded him curiously for a moment before he asked, "What do you propose that I would get out of such an arrangement?"

The answer was incredibly easy. In fact, it had all but been confirmed during their conversation, when Voldemort had been able to keep his cool, for the most part, despite Tom intentionally provoking him. And if he was this much improved after less than a day in proximity to his Horcruxes, then hopefully prolonged exposure would allow him to reach the same level of clarity that Tom himself had reached after he'd found the others.

Tom allowed his mouth to stretch into a grin and leaned forward in his chair.

"You get your sanity."

Citations: Some of the details and language in the second section of this chapter is taken from Goblet of Fire, Chapter 1, "The Riddle House."

Author's Notes: I hope that you were all able to figure out what was going on with the mind-melding sequence. I intended it to be confusing at first but to eventually become clearer for readers that it was going back and forth between Tom's and Voldemort's parallel memories.

I greatly appreciate all of the reviews, favorites, and follows. I felt terribly guilty every time I saw a new one in my inbox and still didn't have this chapter ready. I struggled massively with the first section and must have fiddled with it and entirely scrapped it and started over and then repeated the whole cycle a couple dozen times before I was happy with it. So if you enjoy it, please leave a review and let me know, so that I will feel guiltier the longer it takes me to update again.