The owlery was fast becoming Harry's haven. Sure, throwing up a series of wards only to have to rip them down again was a pain in the arse, but he had done worse for a little peace. In fact, he had killed the 'Darkest Wizard of Our Age' for a little peace. He hadn't found any, in the end, but it was the thought that counted.

Harry grimaced, his desire for a Firewhiskey spiking. There was that mess to consider, too. Coming back in time meant reliving his entire life, including the Second Wizarding War. Harry would have to kill Voldemort again. From the moment he had realized what had happened on the train, the fact had niggled at him. He'd tried to only think on it lightly, but Harry could feel the timeline biting at his heels. Today was the day they'd discovered Fluffy in his last life. If there were ever a day for the countdown to start, he'd reached it.

Running a hand through his hair, still playfully green-streaked by Daphne, Harry sighed. Honestly, of all the unpleasant shit. Wasn't there a way to avoid battling Voldemort? Could he not, just this once, ditch the prophecy before disaster struck?

Harry sucked a breath in between his teeth. Uncurling from his place on the window ledge, he found Hedwig and let his eyes focus on her. "What do you think, girl?" Harry asked, "How far would we get before anyone went looking?"

Hedwig hooted at him sharply. With an angry flap, she left her perch and landed on the arm Harry offered her, nipping his ear for his trouble. Chuckling at her antics, Harry gently stroked her ruffled feathers. After a bit of good-natured grumbling, she acquiesced to perching on his knee, content to let her idiot human pay her some affection.

With her soft mothering to keep him tethered, Harry let his eyes drift to the letter that had sent him into hiding in the first place. Harry, who had spent the night before battling a fresh episode of insomnia, had been the only one up to receive it. The owl, an inky black creature obviously trained to wait quietly to be acknowledged, had flown off without waiting for a reply. Bloody miracle he had a habit of staring out the window, honestly. Harry would have never noticed the bird otherwise.

Feeling sickeningly reminiscent of the War, where such owl post measures had originated, Harry had secluded himself behind his bed curtains. After casting his usual mail-checking charms, he had taken a breath and cracked the poison-green seal. Inside had been an advanced addition of Monday morning's star article and a letter from Rita Skeeter. Within, she had summarized the paper, explained her logic, apologized for the hell it would wreak on his life, and wished him luck.

Harry had taken away two points from her letter: Sirius Black was a free man and had been since Friday. Not that anyone but Rita Skeeter—Merlin bless her—had thought that Harry should know.

Harry had left to go hide in the owlery within minutes of finishing her letter. Excepting the Chamber of Secrets (which was still full of Basilisk), it was the only place he could think of where no one would look for him. Ordinarily, his dorm served him well enough. He trusted everyone inside with his life. His own control, however…

That Sunday night, Harry had felt a familiar rage bubbling under his skin. Confusion, wariness, and tinges of betrayal had swarmed in his veins, not quite drowned out by his crashing relief. His hands had trembled with the opposing forces. There were too many questions that stirred in his mind, too many emotions running amuck. Harry could feel his magic snapping at its chain. Dangerous, for a wizard whose wild magic still broke the odd window at the age of twenty-one.

After casting a last lingering glance as his sleeping husbands, Harry had made his escape. His disappearance might worry them, but he trusted them to understand. There were only so many ways Harry could sort out his head. With a lack of Firewhiskey, solitude was the best of them. Neville's attentive hands, Ron's observant eyes, they would be too much. It was like back in fifth year, when he had lost his temper in that cramped room in Number 12. The difference was that now, Harry knew to find himself some breathing room before he blew up at the people he cared about.

His thoughts swam madly as he crept into his haven, cloaked in war-grade disillusionments. Sirius was free, away from Azkaban, and safe. Alive. It was more than Harry had any right to ask for. Truly, he should be singing the praises of Amelia Bones, the new Minister for Magic. She had exposed Fudge and Crouch, was obviously a returned, and was Susan's aunt, for fuck's sake.

She had freed Sirius.

However, questions ate at Harry. Why was he only finding out now, and from Rita Skeeter? In addition, when, exactly, had Pettigrew been apprehended? As far as Harry knew, the rat was still in Ron's possession. Was Sirius returned? Was Remus with him? Did Severus, Sirius' husband, know any of this?

Ordinarily, Harry would explain the blackout away with the need for security. It would be horrific if the general public had information like this leaked to them. However, hadn't Rita just proven how easy it was to pass along a letter?

The entire situation reminded him too much of Dumbledore's tactics. Quick, clean manipulations behind the scenes, leaving his followers lost in chaos and faith. Harry wasn't being fair, assuming that Amelia Bones worked that way, but he didn't have much reference for her character. He had taken orders from her briefly when she was still head of the DMLE, but he had never met her directly. Being one of the first casualties of the Light Purges, he had never had much of a chance. He had no reason to trust her.

After finishing his wards on the owlery door, Harry had scourgify'd a sufficient spot and curled up. Frustrated with his circle of thought, he had turned to the newspaper. Already preoccupied with what Rita had written him, he should have held off. Being Harry Potter, he hadn't.

The entire edition was a literary alter to Sirius Black. The entire front page was consumed by a juxtaposition of a young Sirius, stunning in auror robes, and what must have been a photo snapped post-Azkaban. "Sirius Black: innocent, never even proven guilty!" wailed the headline. Standard columns (sports, advice, the funnies, etc.) seemed to exist just to shame their readers for not paying attention to the front page.

Harry's first thought was that he hadn't even known so many pictures of Sirius had existed. Let alone one where Sirius was holding him. His second thought was, fuck, was I ever smart not to read this in the dorms. He'd barely made it past the first paragraph before the tears had started. He couldn't recall having cried so hard since—well, since Sirius had died.

A good, logical person would have called it in at that point. He would have recognized that he wasn't thinking so much as self-destructing. He would have woken his husbands and had a nice, long chat about his feelings. Such a person would have then contacted his extremely powerful new guardian and buggered off for the next few days of school. Gone to see the godfather he was reading about, perhaps. However, Harry had never much considered himself logical. That had been Hermione's domain and, when that relationship turned out to be shit, Ron had taken over. Harry was a creature of emotion and quick decisions. Rational plans were not his strong point.

As for being good, well. Good people didn't have quite so much blood on their hands, he thought. Harry closed his eyes, age-old guilt clawing at his skin. Wherever he went, there was always so much blood.

Sirius had been—or rather, was—a good person. When Harry had killed Voldemort, Sirius had taken him aside and comforted him. He had explained that, sometimes, the only option was the lethal one. Sirius had looked him in the eye and made the distinction between soldier and murderer. Then Sirius had died, and Severus had died, and with them their unborn child.

Harry had demanded revenge for that. He'd joined to post-War effort to fight the remnants of Voldemort's forces, who the Ministry had singled out for Sirius and Severus' murders. No one had wanted to admit that the aurors just weren't trained enough to manage, so anyone who had wanted to fight was encouraged to. Harry's fighters, the Dumbledore's Army members—DAMs—were in especially high-demand. Having fought with 'distinction' during the War, the hard cases were often sent their way. They had used to joke about how they were really the DAM-ned. They had won the Light the War, and still they were responsible for the shittiest jobs. Fred and George had even made up t-shirts. Harry thought he might have died wearing his.

With a bit of distance, Harry could recognize that serving in the auror camps had changed him. His first mission after the funerals, their target had raised her wand to Ron's throat. Harry had slit hers before she'd had the chance to issue her threat. He was never reprimanded. Dwalish had given him a grim nod and moved their unit onto the next target. When Dwalish died in a raid and Harry took over command, he was no different. Harry couldn't help but wonder what Sirius would see now when he looked in Harry's eyes: the soldier or the murderer. More importantly, would he be able to forgive what he found?

During the Light Purges, when the aurors had become enemies, one had cornered Harry. He, Ron, and Neville had been defending a safe house the Ministry was determined to exterminate. It had been the third in that week. By the time Harry had arrived, Katie Bell was dead and six others were most of the way to joining her.

The auror was spewing the usual drivel—"You're a disgrace, Potter, you don't deserve the air you breathe"—Harry had mostly tuned him out, truth be told. Aurors had all become the same to him, just as Death Eaters had once been all the same. They even seemed to use the same insults. Yet this one had differed—"Your parents were Light! They might not have liked the Ministry, but they sure wouldn't have killed for the Dark!"

In the end, Neville had wound up killing the man; took his head off with Gryffindor's sword. Harry was still covered in the man's blood when he'd felt the first hysterical chuckle break over him. Neither Ron nor Neville had let him out of their sight for days afterward.

Later, Harry had rationalized the man's words away neatly. They would have understood, Harry had told himself. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for stunners when the other side had gallows up in Diagon Alley. Now that he was being faced with seeing Sirius again, though, Harry couldn't help but doubt. After all, back in the day the Order had only stunned. Wouldn't it be awful if, in some terrible twist of fate, Harry really had succeeded the Dark Lord's reign of terror?

How could anyone, let alone Sirius, ever forgive him?

Eyes closed, Harry focused on his breathing instead of the ever-brightening sky. No one could be more grateful to have Sirius back than he was, but a guilty part of him still acknowledged how justifications were easier made to ghosts. The thought of seeing Sirius again left him shaking, elation at war with anxiety.

Please, Harry thought desperately. Don't let me have lost this second chance before it's even started.

Opening his eyes, Harry grimaced. From the motion below the owlery window, Harry knew that breakfast had already ended. No Pepper-Up for him, then. Not without enduring fifteen minutes of being a sideshow freak on the way to get it. Pulling on his balled-up robes, he spelled out the wrinkles and took a breath. From experience, he knew that most classes were the home-free mark for avoiding gossip. He just needed to make sure he appeared the minute before and disappeared the minute after class. Mealtimes would be a no-go. He would have to get the house elves to make him something.

Already Harry could feel the beginnings of a migraine brewing from his headache. Resignation settled into his bones, as familiar as his wand. Par for the course, that. Shouldering his bag, Harry said his goodbyes to Hedwig and dodged into the first secret passageway he came across. He would manage this, he swore. Deal with Voldemort, the new Minister Bones, Dumbledore—even find a way to think of Sirius without his heart jumping into his throat.

In the end, he had done harder things for the sake of a little peace.

The moment Monday's Daily Prophet landed in his eggs, Ron Weasley knew that his day was going to be, irrevocably, a shit day. The front page, boldly entitled 'Sirius Black: innocent, never even proven guilty!', had at least explained why Harry was missing.

Right bit of panic that had caused, Ron thought wryly. Dean and Seamus had sought out Daphne and nearly had a rescue mission in progress before the other returned were even fully aware of what was going on. Draco, Susan, and Ron had settled everyone down, but not before a right bit of havoc took root.

Following their early morning disaster, the first year court had adjusted accordingly. It was almost soothing, the way they fell into step on the way to the Great Hall. Ron found himself reminded fondly of the DAMs, and later, the Resistance. As if that were some kind of home to think back kindly on, he snorted.

But maybe Ron had grown used to war. Battles were a hellish cacophony of noise and blood, but the times between... there was predictability. You bandaged your injuries, spread any new intelligence, checked on your loved ones, and rehashed the next plan. They'd had no time for any of that, yet.

No one knew all the returned. And even the returned they knew of had all died at different times. They weren't all functioning on the same book, let alone the same page. Just yesterday, Amelia Bones had become Minister! Susan had been over the moon for her aunt, but Ron had only felt wariness. His concern was made worse by the weight of Pettigrew in his pocket. The paper said he'd be Kissed tomorrow, but no one had even been by to apprehend the rodent yet.

This confusion was a dangerous way to be living. Daphne and Parvati had nearly dueled this morning. Parvati hadn't understood the urgency of the former-Resistance members and reacted badly to being woken up at "The crack of fucking dawn because Potter took a walk." Thank Merlin for silencing charms or a very awkward conversation with the upper year courts would have followed.

Neville had spent most of the morning looking on disapprovingly, but Ron could spot the worry in his eyes. Ron had given him a quick hand-squeeze, delighting in the blush that stole across Neville's cheeks. Personally, Ron had expected something like this morning to happen since they had come off the train. It was only logical, with so many personalities operating in close quarters without the same information. Even Harry's morning wander had seemed predictable in that light.

Confessing his thoughts had eased the tension in Neville's shoulders. The tightness in his expression had fallen away, distracted by the goings on of the court. The past was good for Neville. He laughed more. He spent every spare minute in the greenhouses, and he brimmed with confidence Ron had never seen before. His peace was contagious.

Ron found himself often with Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and Susan, sequestered in private library corners, heads together as they plotted their domination of Slytherin House. Lavender, Theo, and Parvati had made a personal mission of getting the Hogwarts newspaper put together with the upper years, including Percy and Lee Jordan. Seamus and Dean had already set up a new Hogsmead smuggling ring with the twins, and Oliver was, of course, absorbed in co-captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team with Marcus.

Harry… Ron bit his lip. Harry fluttered. He spent afternoons in the library with Ron, streaked with mud from helping Neville in the morning. In the evenings he would sit in the common room, often with some tome, content to join whoever called out to him first. However, there were nights he disappeared—sometimes with his fighters, sometimes not—and Ron knew that if he went looking, he would find Harry in the Room of Requirement.

Ron hadn't dared to follow him, yet. He wasn't quite sure what that said about his character, and Ron was content not to figure it out. He just wanted some peace. A minute of normalcy, of just being a regular kid. Harry, with his clandestine training bouts and never-ending stack of books from the Hogwarts library (Merlin, how many times had they wished for access to that library when they were on the run?) was preparing.

Smothering a sigh, Ron swallowed his worries. He'd mentally given the returned two months before they would have to think seriously. Ron was already working with Severus to develop a loose plan for the winter holidays. They would need to gather the returned somewhere safe. Hogwarts was too risky, what with Dumbledore in residence. While he trusted their wards for things like Harry's training routines and their Slytherin House schemes, the time-traveling and the dawning war were too high-profile. They had to wait.

And if the thought of making that next step towards war any quicker gave Ron cold sweats, well, then that was private, wasn't it? Ron breathed deeply, trying to calm his heart. He just wanted to cling to this strange peace a little bit longer. Just the thought of his father's situation was enough to make him feel sick, still. He couldn't handle anymore.

Letters sent by Arthur Weasley were strange. Everything about them was just slightly off. Word choice, paragraph length, even the handwriting was just slightly more formal. They were still kind, still affectionate, and still something his father would write, but it was as if they were corrected by an editor before they were sent. They were wittier, too. Sarcastic. And sometimes they included drawings. Little goofy cartoons of political figures or people his family knew.

There had been one letter about how atrociously boring Lucius Malfoy's political lectures were. The doodle had featured a tiny Lucius atop a stack of books, a long, curling peacock feather behind one ear, eyes closed in mid-oration. Just behind him was an Arthur Weasley doodle, tip-toeing away. The drawing was charmed so that Arthur would turn every so often to shush the viewer before continuing to creep away.

Ron had never thought of his dad as an artist, let alone a funny one. Too clumsy, for one, and too easily distracted. With a guilty twinge, Ron supposed that was the Amortentia in action. Looking at the twins, Ron guessed it at least now made sense where their personalities came from.

He should be eager to know more about these quirks, Ron thought. Relieved, even. The twins certainly were, and Percy said that these new sides of their father's character were all signs of his fast recovery. You couldn't imagine how happy Ron was about that. Yet… he felt guilty, alright?

Ever since he had met Harry, Ron had become accustomed to helping people. To foiling bad guys and, at the very least, noticing when something was fucked up. However, not once did he see how badly his father was suffering. Fuck, they studied Amortentia in Potions! Why hadn't he noticed? Why hadn't he helped? Voldemort couldn't steal a lolly without the fucking "Golden Trio" figuring it out, but Ron's own father could be poisoned for twenty years with Ron ignorant until after his father died.

Arthur Weasley had died in his last life, still falsely obsessed with his murderer. And Ron hadn't known until his mother taunted him with the knowledge more than a year later.

Idly, Ron wondered if this was, perhaps, how a man began to hate himself.

As the newspapers made their way through the school, Ron resigned himself to spending the rest of breakfast scaring nosy gossips into submission. But after an hour passed with no sign of Harry, he snuck out with Neville to go hunt down their future-husband.

Harry, of course, popped into existence exactly where he should have been: outside the Charms classroom, waiting for the door to open. If Ron heard 'I'm fine, just tired' one more time, he might actually scream. Harry was so obviously not fine. His face was pale as death, dark circles hanging under his eyes. The smile he shot at Ron and Neville was paper-thin. But he was completely composed, his voice even and calm. It was his mission face. Stupidly, Ron had hoped to go longer before seeing it again.

Fighting down his worry, Ron put his head down and trudged through the day. He'd thought that maybe he and Neville would be able to corner Harry at lunch, but no luck. Now the late-afternoon sun shone down on him balefully as the first year Slytherins hurried onto the grounds for their first flying lesson.

"Being in the air will help," Ron murmured to Neville as they neared the field. "It has since we were kids."

Neville snorted. "The last time we were on a broom we were flying towards our deaths."

Ron laughed. "Yeah, well, it's not like we died on the brooms."

Neville snickered and moved to poke Ron in the side. Ron laughed again, a bit more honestly this time, and made to return the favour when he saw—

Hermione Granger. Of fucking course. Ron nearly groaned aloud.

All the Slytherin first years had taken to avoiding Hermione Granger. Once she had discovered her deficiency in Potions, she had become whiny and even more arrogant in all her other classes. Even the first year Hufflepuffs, who she was commonly lumped with now that the Slytherins had moved on to more advanced work, were all but ready to rally against having her included in their classes.

Maybe that's why we got stuck with her for flying, Ron thought petulantly.

Hermione stood, reading, beside two neat lines of broomsticks. When she caught sight of the Slytherins, she walked over and smiled sweetly—at Ron.

And here I thought this day couldn't get any worse, Ron thought, stupefied.

"Hello, Ronald," Granger cooed, tossing her great mass of hair over her shoulder.

The first thing that came to Parvati's mind was, what the hell? From the reactions around her, she wasn't the only one, either. Tracy Davis' eyes bulged out of her head, Dean blinked owlishly, and Daphne had her nose scrunched up as though she'd smelt something rotten.

Before anyone had a chance to react, Madam Hooch strutted onto the field. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick."

Parvati glanced down at her broom. The poor thing looked like someone had been using it to sweep up the Great Hall after dinner.

Madam Hooch rattled off some instructions and before long they were all calling for their brooms. Parvati's broom jumped into her hand at once, as did all the other Slytherins' brooms. She smiled poison at Hermione, who stood directly in front of her. The girl had tried to stand in front of Ron but he had all but run away, leaving Parvati in his place.

Parvati stared at Granger. It was so hard to imagined that this eleven-year-old girl would grow up to drug Ron with love potions—and murder people, too, Parvati remembered. When she'd died the love potions stuff was all known, and Ron, Neville, and Harry had fled to the tropics. But then Lucius Malfoy was murdered and Parvati's whole attention was absorbed with providing legal protection for his werewolf husband and son. But Draco had clued her and the others in on the murder stuff, so even if she didn't have all the details she at least knew enough.

Granger's broom had barely twitched. After a few more frustrated attempts, Granger's broom finally meandered into her hand. Upon contact, Granger shot Parvati a smug look. On a fluke that did, in Parvati's opinion, prove the existence of several deities, they locked eyes.

Grinning, Parvati drew upon her skills at Legilimency. Within the next second, she was buried deep in Hermione Granger's mind. What she found enraged her.

Granger was thinking about Ron or rather, how to use Ron to become Lady Prewett. The idea had been put in place by Molly No-Name. The bitch had sent fudge to congratulate Granger on being the only new Gryffindor. After that, Hermione and Molly began talking about the future.

Hermione Granger wanted to be treated as she believed she always should have been: specially. Becoming a witch had only increased her belief, and Ron Weasley Prewett was just her ticket. His mother had even said so! Her future mother-in-law had then suggested a potion to help her along the way…

Horrified, Parvati pulled out of Granger's mind. The things this girl wanted to do to their world—they made Parvati ill. Hiding a snarl behind a challenging smile, Parvati watched Granger from the corner of her eye. If Parvati had her way, Hermione Granger wasn't going to make it off the pitch.

Madam Hooch was rambling again, but Parvati wasn't listening. As Granger climbed onto her broom, Parvati glared ferociously at it. Before long, she could feel her magic weaving into a curse around the broom.

"What are you doing?" Daphne hissed beside her.

"Fixing a problem," Parvati growled back.

Suddenly, Hermione's broom pushed off the ground. "Come back, girl!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Hermione didn't. She was rising up, making scared noises louder and louder as she hit ten feet, twenty.

"Oh no," Parvati moaned sarcastically.

The Slytherins gaped as Granger's scared white face looked down at them. With a gasp, she slipped sideways off the broom and—

WHAM!

With a thud and a nasty crack, Granger lay face down on the grass in a heap. In an instant, Madam Hooch was bending over Hermione, her face as white as Hermione's.

"Broken wrist," Parvati heard Hooch mutter. Too bad it wasn't her neck, Parvati thought peevishly. "Come on, girl—it's all right, up you get."

Hooch turned to the rest of the class. "I will be taking Miss Granger to the hospital wing. No one move."

Granger, her face tear-streaked, hobbled off with Madam Hooch. As soon as they were out of earshot, Parvati burst into laughter.

"What was that about?" Daphne asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Parvati smirked at her. Ever since their early morning tiff, Parvati had found that she rather liked pushing Daphne's buttons. She sort of hoped Daphne enjoyed pushing hers right back.

"You cursed her broom!" Tracy Davis squawked, breaking the tension Parvati had been enjoying. "I saw you!"

The other first years huddled around Parvati, awaiting an explanation. Tilting her chin up, Parvati sneered. "My father taught me Legilimency before coming here," she said. "On a lark, I thought I'd take a little look-see through Granger's head. See if I couldn't find what made her such a pain in the arse. Instead, I found out she's planning on using a love potion on Ron."

The words were enough to knock the breath out of the assembled Slytherins. Even Parkinson gasped, a hand over her mouth. Even if it meant getting her way with Draco, Pansy would never have done something so ghastly.

"Horrible," Pansy whispered quietly, though everyone heard her. "That's horrible."

The group exchanged nods. Neville had his arm tight around Ron's shoulders and Harry had gone still with rage. "She could fucking try," Harry snarled, and let himself be tucked against Ron's side for the first time that day.

"What are we going to do about it, then?" Parvati asked. Her smirk returned as she saw the bloodlust in the eyes of her year-mates.

After dinner, the Elite once again gathered in the Slytherin common room. Nestled in the best privacy wards they could conjure, Parvati informed the older Elite of what had happened during flying class. Slack jaws and boiling rage surged around the room.

"That filthy little mudblood!" Celeste Yaxley snarled. She paused in he rage and arched a brow at Parvati. "Wait, did you mean to kill her?"

All eyes swiveled to Parvati, who arched a brow back. "I wouldn't say so," she murmured delicately. The elder Elite traded considering glances.

Murder wasn't uncommon in Dark families, especially over such a hefty threat. But a first year from a neutral family striking so coldly—it was admirable. A brilliant way to claim notice in Dark society, particularly as the girl had struck in the name of one of her court leaders. Loyalty was highly valued in the shadows.

Celeste smiled. Her father had been right to hold to the Dark, if this generation of firsties was anything to go by.

"Regardless of Patil's intent, Granger can't get away with this," Percy Weasley hissed, bringing a swift death the contemplative silence that had descended on the room. "I won't have an active threat to my family freely roaming the halls."

Not again, Percy thought darkly. He couldn't remember ever being so angry before. He was just so fucking done with being attacked constantly. Percy itched to be the one doing the damage.

When he cast them a glance, he found that Adrien and Graham both looked taken aback by the venom in his voice. However, they returned the tired smile he sent them as discussion broke out. Percy wasn't entirely sure why, but that soothed some of his rage.

The sight of his baby brother, sandwiched safely between his two deadly future-husbands, was reassuring in its own right.

"Do we tell Professor Snape?" Millicent queried cautiously. She was still unused to being considered one of the Elite. Beside her, Susan gave her an approving look.

"Yes," Draco smiled slyly. His eyes fell to his stone-faced best friend, his bloodthirsty cousin, and the white-knuckled Neville. To the glittering, interested eyes of the elder Elite. "We'll tell him that we will handle it ourselves."

A flickering of dark smiles slid around the room, the message ringing loud and clear. The Slytherin Elite were taking this personally. Hermione Granger was currently living her final month.

Well, I didn't think a chapter could be harder than the last one, but, Hell, I was proven wrong. Sorry, my darlings. I was really hoping to give a little more emotional reference with this chapter, and also show how the students are trying to settle in. A little timeline clarification and world building was chucked in, too. I've recently edited this over (8/13/2022) to convey that better. Hopefully that came across enjoyably and coherently. Anyway, if you have questions, don't be afraid to drop me a message! I love your reviews and I do my best to answer everything thrown my way! I love hearing from you guys! It's what keeps me going!

Also, thank you to the Guests who review but I can't answer to! You guys are just as amazing!

Sincerely,

BlackRoseGirl666