Disclaimer: Still haven't woken up to find myself in J.K.'s body.
Thank you once again to my wonderful Beta Wolfman217 for pushing through all my spelling and grammar errors!
THE CYNICS
Chapter Two
Of Holiday Plans and Broken Promises
An uneventful month later found Hermione's breakfast being interrupted by a flutter of wings.
"Post!" an older Gryffindor sitting five seats down from her exclaimed as the first owl flew in. Immediately, the few Gryffindors at the scarlet-and-gold table scrambled to shield their food, and Hermione quickly hid her bowl of steaming honey-topped porridge with practiced speed. Thursday was the day Annelie McKinnon, the little First Year with big blonde hair that could rival Hermione's, got her mail. Unfortunately, her owl had incontinence issues, and they never knew when it was going to let loose. Neville had been a previous victim, as had Ronald and the Weasley twins - at the same time - and the experiences had kept the rest of the House vigilant. As her House-mates moved to cover their breakfast, the owner of said owl blushed deeply, looking mortified.
Hermione scanned the incoming barrage of feathers. She was expecting her parents' spotted owl, Cordelia, and she wasn't disappointed. A familiar-sounding screech filled the air, and a second later, a rolled up newspaper dropped into her lap, along with an envelope. Cordelia swooped down to perch on the table, nipping Hermione's fingers affectionately.
"Hungry?" she asked, offering the owl some bread crusts. As Cordelia ate, Hermione took the envelope first and ripped it open. A letter, written on lined Muggle paper in her father's messy scribble, fell out.
Hermione
We hope your school year is going well so far. Still top of the class, last I heard from that strict Deputy woman - McGonagar? McGleeson? Good work, honey. Mum and I are very proud of you (although if keeping on top of schoolwork is what's making you so skinny, please remember that we're not pressuring you and that we love you no matter what grades you're getting).
Here's the Thursday post, as per our darling daughter's request. As usual, those awful kidnappings are still making the front page - five years and they still haven't found the culprits. We're a bit worried because Tabitha Crowley's daughter from three blocks down almost got taken - she isn't an orphan, of course, which makes it strange considering they're all they've been taking - but you should be safe in that isolated magical castle of yours. Still, we're parents and we're made to worry. Don't do anything impulsive, Hermione, and stay safe.
We'll keep you posted if you keep us posted - we're expecting a reply back, missy. You ignored us last week, you little bugger.
Love, Mum and Dad
Hermione smiled at the letter, although it turned a bit guilty at that last part. She hadn't been ignoring them - she just kept forgetting to send them a reply. Making a mental note to do so after classes that afternoon, she sent Cordelia to the Owlery and patiently looked up, waiting for one of the Daily Prophet barn owls to arrive.
While she only had her parents send the Muggle paper twice a week, she got the Prophet everyday aside from Mondays. Both were her ways of keeping in touch with the two worlds she had a foot in; she read the Muggle paper for leisure as a way of keeping her close to her non-magical roots, while the Prophet helped her in her neverending quest to learn all she could about the Wizarding World. Neville's mum thought the Prophet was trash, but Hermione found it rather informative.
Another owl's screech came from above her, announcing the arrival of the second newspaper. A barn owl landed in the place Cordelia had left not a minute ago, and Hermione offered it another crust. It gave her a hard nip, and Hermione hissed. "Ouch!" So it had no time for a quick food break; did it need to make her bleed? Muttering a curse under her breath, she quickly untied the paper and placed a knut in it's pouch before sending it off.
"Anything good in there?" a tired voice asked. Hermione looked up at the sound of a scraping bench to see Neville plopping into one of the two empty seats on either side of her, nodding at the rolled up bundles. She took one look at him and sighed; he looked like he had been steamrollered.
Well, she thought, he has been up since four finishing that Potions essay. Her mouth was already open, ready to berate him, when he shot her a look. "Don't even try, Hermione; I'd pick a sleep deficit over facing down the Greasy Bat anyday." He gave a shudder which didn't look feigned. Neville had been terrified of Severus Snape ever since First Year, when Seamus Finnigan had convinced him that the spleens kept in the dungeons' cupboards were those of past Firsties who had never made it through their first detention with the Potions professor.
Hermione shut her mouth and rolled her eyes. "His name is Professor Snape. Here." She tossed him the wizarding paper, which he caught with two hands.
"Thanks. Have you seen Padma, by the way? She's usually here before both of us."
"She's sick," Hermione informed him, a small frown crossing her face. "Lisa Turpin told me this morning. I wasn't allowed to visit her since she's in Ravenclaw Tower, but apparently she's okay. She's just in bed, resting with the flu."
"Jeez," Neville replied, "she has the worst immune system. She gets sick every time the season changes!"
"It has been rather chilly," Hermione pointed out dryly. "I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but I've always thought winter generally comes with cold weather and enough viruses to down every computer in the country."
"What's a virus?" Neville asked with raised eyebrows. "And a commuter?"
"A computer, Neville. It's a- you know what?" Now was not the best time to delve into science or technology with a Pureblood. "Nevermind. They're Muggle things."
Neville shrugged. "I guess it's just you and me this afternoon at the Greenhouses, then? Maybe afterwards, I can bring Padma a bloom of Blue Rooster Lace, to- to cheer her up, you know?" His cheeks suddenly pinked, and he looked confused. Hermione watched as his fingers began tapping on the table in the way they always did when he was unsure of himself.
"I think she'd like that," Hermione said sincerely, smothering a sudden smile. Oh, Neville was too obvious… With a soft chuckle, one she was sure was too quiet for him to hear, she turned from him and began skimming through the Muggle paper.
There were a few pages on the latest of the "orphan-nappings", as the media had dubbed them, and an article on the first successful cloning of human embryos, which was apparently a huge breakthrough in the scientific world. Hermione read that one before putting the paper away, disappointed. She had been hoping for more news on the amazing practical technology that Muggles had been creating - the ways they were able to duplicate feats that happened on a daily basis in the Wizarding World, with not a drop of magic in them. The stuff Muggles came up with were pure genius, in her opinion; so much so that she had even taken technology classes the previous summer. She had spent that summer brainstorming all the ways magic could be combined with science, and it had been fascinating, to say the least, if not a bit too ambitious.
"The Prophet is really going to the dumps, isn't it?" Neville said, interrupting her thoughts. Hermione was amused to see that his soft, rounded features were twisted in such a look of disgust as he looked at the paper that he almost resembled Malfoy. "They dedicated a whole double page spread to the new Minister's 'hot and steamy' love life!"
"What did you expect from Rita Skeeter?" Hermione snorted. It was well-known that the woman was the biggest gossipmonger in the entire Wizarding World, ready to turn even the smallest rumour into a scandal. Hermione herself hadn't had an encounter with her, but the normally composed Harry Potter had kicked up a huge fuss about the stories she wrote about his family back in First Year. He hated the woman, and had made sure the entire school knew what kind of a person she really was.
"I don't understand why you still get this thing," Neville said with a frown. "My mum says she's turned it into a gossip rag! You might as well be reading Witch Weekly!"
"Be that as it may," Hermione shrugged, "it's still very useful for learning about the Wizarding World. Muggleborn, remember? There are all sorts of tidbits you people probably wouldn't think to mention." She grinned cheekily. "So, what has Minister Black been up to?"
"Not much, considering she's married and has a kid here at Hogwa-"
"Miss Granger! Mister Longbottom!"
Hermione jumped at the sudden interruption, and turned to see her Head of House, a clipboard in her hand as she approached the pair.
"Miss Granger, Mister Longbottom," McGonagall repeated in her strict Scottish tone as she reached them, "I'm taking down the names of those students who wish to stay at the school over the Christmas holidays. The Headmaster and I have been tasked with supervising this coming break. Will either of you be joining Professor Dumbledore and I?"
Neville shook his head, but Hermione nodded. "My parents will be on a business trip to Australia."
"I see," Professor McGonagall said. "You will be joined in Gryffindor by the Weasley family, then. Their parents are also taking a trip."
Great, more time with the Redheaded Slug, Hermione thought morosely. The rest of the Weasleys were fine, but Ronald Weasley was a pest if ever she saw one. Neville sent her a sympathetic glance.
As the Transfiguration professor wrote her name down, Hermione discreetly glanced at the list in McGonagall's hands. It was a short one, to say the least - no one ever really stayed for Christmas. She scanned it until she came upon the Third Years, wondering if any of the other Gryffindors were staying.
Hannah Abbott…
Lisa Turpin…
Terry Boot...
Ronald Weasley….
Tom Riddle...
Abruptly, the breath left her chest, and she choked on air as she stared at the last name.
"Miss Granger, are you alright?" Professor McGonagall asked, peering at the Third Year over her glasses. Her firm expression softened just the slightest in concern as Hermione spluttered.
"Ye- Yes," she coughed. "I- I just- my breath just- just got caught-"
"Do try not to hurt yourself, Miss Granger," the Transfiguration professor said, not unkindly. "You're much too valuable a student to lose over something as ridiculous as choking."
As Hermione flushed, the woman said briskly, "Now, I believe that's all I have to ask you. You two had better be off to your first class, now." Her eyes drifted to Neville's Potions textbook on the table. "From what I hear, Professor Snape is not very accommodating to late students."
Although her mouth was stern, her eyes twinkled in amusement as she left.
"Hello, Mudblood," a snooty voice said. From the sound of heeled shoes clicking, Hermione knew that her esteemed Potions partner had just shown up. Someone slipped daintily into the seat beside her, causing her to heave a sigh. And so arrives Little Miss Prissy Pureblood.
"Pug-Faced Parkinson," she said saccharinely, not bothering to turn her head fully to look at the newcomer. She felt a rather perverse sense of satisfaction when she saw the girl flush red in anger out of the corner of her eye. "Ready for another wonderful lesson of Potions, in which I do all the work while you file your nails and try to take the credit?"
"Don't talk to me," Parkinson snapped, flipping long black hair over her shoulder. "I'm above associating with filth like you!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You talked to me first." The other girl glared at her, unable to come up with a retort, and eventually settled for giving an indignant huff. Hermione chose to ignore her, and turned her full attention to the front as they waited for Professor Snape to come.
There was at least ten minutes until the start of class, but nearly everyone was already there. If the snarky Potions professor could be congratulated on one thing, it was that he had cowed almost every student in the school into a near clean tardiness record, at least for his own class. While Professor Black kept them in line with good humour and fun, Professor Snape did so with whip-smart wittiness and cutting remarks, and Hermione found she enjoyed his classes thoroughly, even if he did think she was an "insufferable know-it-all."
She looked around the classroom. The Gryffindors were more subdued than usual, chattering quietly amongst themselves. Professor Snape's point-deduction sprees were the stuff of legend. Her gaze flickered over the Slytherins, where Crabbe and Goyle were trying to beat each other down in an arm wrestle. She noted that both Malfoy and Riddle were absent; the seats beside Dean and Lavender were curiously empty. Strange, she thought. Suspicio-
Suddenly, she grew conscious of exactly what she was thinking, and slammed the idea out of her mind.
One and a half months, she berated herself. Padma wanted you to leave it alone for one and a half months. Jesus Christ, can't you even do that?
"Misters Crabbe and Goyle, please refrain from behaving like overgrown baboons whilst confined within the bounds of my classroom," a sharp voice echoed around the dungeon's walls, and the two Slytherins froze. Severus Snape swept into the room, and Hermione swore the temperature dropped five degrees.
"We will be continuing on our Swelling Solutions today," he announced, without beating around the bush. He waved his wand, and the potions they had begun last lesson lined up on the teacher's desk."Use 'Finite Incantatem' to remove the stasis charms on your potions, and begin the second stage of brewing. Now."
Immediately, the entire class scrambled to get out of their seats.
"I'll get the ingredients," Hermione said, standing up, "and you can set up the cauldron." If you can even manage that, she thought, feeling a prick of familiar anger as Parkinson inspected her nails.
"I don't take orders from people below me," was the Slytherin's only reply.
Breathe in, breathe out. The brunette Gryffindor blew air through her nose, trying to calm down. You can't become a Potions or Charms or Ancient Runes Mistress if you murder her and get expelled before even taking your O. !
"Whatever," she muttered, and she moved off to collect their potion and supplies.
The class went by achingly slowly. Yes, Hermione enjoyed it, but only when they were actually learning Potions theory from the professor himself. Completely practical lessons didn't hold the same appeal to her, and she boredly waved her wand, lowering the temperature of the fire under her cauldron.
Professor Snape walked around, idly inspecting their work. Hermione had realised this year that one of the main reasons he despised First and Second Years - and was so nasty to them - was because they were incapable of appreciating the subject. They were still too enamoured with the idea of the Wizarding World's wonders - even the Purebloods - that the "subtle art of potion-making", as Snape called it, flew right over their heads. Once they hit Third Year, some (if not most) began to take the subject more seriously, and the professor's attitude became less abrasive and more, for lack of a better word, teacher-y. He could still be an arse (Hermione could freely admit that, despite her admiration for him) but at least he was helpful.
He offered some snide, but constructive, criticism for each pair he stopped at. Hermione's potion received a short nod of approval, while Lavender's was quickly vanished as it became clear it was becoming much too unstable to continue working on. When he stopped at the workstation where Potter was working with Neville, he peered into their cauldron with narrowed eyes.
"What class do you think you're in, Potter? Cooking class?" he sneered. "Your potion looks more like a soup than a solution. It is far too runny, and would be ineffective at best. Dispose of it immediately." He towered over the boy menacingly with his arms crossed.
"I made a minor adjustment to the recipe, sir," Potter replied calmly.
"Without consulting myself?" Snape asked in a scathing tone.
Potter looked him in the eye. "The potion will remain runny for exactly forty-three seconds more," he explained, "after which time I'll add armadillo bile. This will allow it to thicken, and cause the puffer-fish eyes, and therefore the potion, to become more potent, whilst also counteracting their explosive nature." As if to prove his point, he picked up the vial of bile at his side and poured it into his cauldron. Judging from the small self-satisfied grin he gave a second later, he had gotten the expected results.
There was a silence as Professor Snape regarded the black-haired boy so intently that Neville shrank back, not wanting to be under his scrutiny. The rest of the class held their breath in anticipation.
"Well done," he finally said in a cool tone. "It seems you are not so hopeless in this subject as you would have me believe, Potter."
"I learned from the best," Potter said without looking up from his cauldron, his voice neutral.
Another short silence. "Indeed." While he didn't smile, one corner of his mouth lifted in acknowledgement, and he moved on. Neville visibly deflated in relief while Potter finally allowed a smirk to grace his face, looking immensely pleased with himself.
At the workstation beside Hermione's, Ronald grumbled to himself. "Longbottom's a lucky bastard," he whined to his partner Theodore Nott. "I wanted Potter for a partner, but no! He chose him instead." The tall, reserved Slytherin didn't bother replying, but Parkinson overhead and scoffed.
"Longbottom needs all the help he can get," she commented nastily, watching as Hermione turned from the small classroom drama to stir the solution exactly five times widdershins, as the textbook dictated. "If he wasn't with Professor Snape's step-son, he'd be blowing things up left, right and centre! He's such an utter waste of space."
"Shut up, Parkinson!" Hermione snapped furiously. With a wave of her wand, the finished potion sealed itself into a bottle and flew to Snape's desk. She turned an icy glare onto the black-haired Slytherin.
"Did I touch a nerve, Granger?" Parkinson asked smugly. "Have a crush, do you? Hoping to become the next wife of the Ancient and Noble House of Longbottom? You might be dreaming a bit too big; even that House is above you."
"Oh, grow up and think of some new insults," Hermione growled. Merlin, if there was anyone she hated more than Malfoy himself, it was the girl in front of her. Without thinking, her fingers inched towards her wand. "You could at least try for some originality. Too bad your precious pure blood doesn't come with a brain."
Like the Neanderthal he was, Ronald began whispering, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" Parkinson's eyes became slits.
"You ought to be more polite, Mudblood," she hissed. "My 'precious pure blood' comes with a lot of privileges, like connections. All I have to do is put in the word, and you'll find yourself homeless and jobless as soon as you step foot out of this castle after graduation."
"Are you threatening me?" Hermione gritted her teeth. You can't curse her, you can't curse her, you can't curse her...
"Make of it what you will," Pansy said, looking superior. "I just thought you should know; I don't take well to being shown disrespect."
Hermione fumed as Parkinson turned away from her, suddenly bored. She began whispering to Nott, and the Gryffindor turned her face to hide the hot tears which were threatening to spill over.
It was true. She knew it, and the Purebloods knew it, and the whole damn Wizarding World knew it. As long as she stayed weak and powerless, she and everyone like her would always remain helpless under the thumbs of the Pureblooded elite.
"Finally a moment to myself," Hermione moaned, with her eyes closed and her back against a bookshelf.
She was so tired. After classes (in which she thankfully did not have to endure anymore Slytherins), she had gone to the Owlery and sent a letter to her parents, then gone to the greenhouses to help Neville with his exotic plants. That had taken a good two hours, and afterwards, she had visited Padma in Ravenclaw, after convincing Lisa Turpin to let her in. Now, she just wanted to be alone, and she had never been more grateful for the lack of studiousness in the general Hogwarts population. It meant they stayed far, far away from the library, especially since it was a little after dinner, which suited her just fine.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, listening to the rain. Normally she hated rain - she found it distracting and noisy - but now, she could feel herself becoming drowsy. How had she never realised that it was so relaxing?
She stayed like that for what seemed like hours, until she realised that it was becoming very dark. A quick Tempus revealed that it was nearing eight - curfew for the younger students - and so she quietly picked herself up and stumbled through the stacks.
"Lumos," she whispered, realising that there was barely any light around. Madam Pince must have thought no one was around, and had started closing early.
She had never realised how eerie the library could be at night. Of course, she had fallen asleep there many times reading or finishing long assignments, but she had never had to actually walk around while it was silent and empty.
The tall bookshelves, rather than comforting her with the abundant knowledge they contained, made her feel claustrophobic, as if they were walls that were trying to close her in. Ever since the incident in the bathroom, she hadn't taken well to being in dark, empty places alone. She turned into one aisle of books, and not knowing where she was going, had to pause and look around. She was in Wizarding History, which meant she was somewhat near the entrance. Once more, she turned, and-
"Miss Granger!"
She almost gave a cry in fright when she spun around and bumped into a tall, hard body - finding herself face to face with the person she had tried to avoid thinking about and having contact with for the past month.
"Merlin, Riddle!" Hermione snapped, quickly recovering. "Don't sneak up on me like that ever again, unless you want your arse pinned to a wall!"
He was standing at one of the bookshelves, one hand in the middle of retrieving a book from the second shelf from the top. She realised she must have missed him as she ran through the aisles. His wand was stuck between two books, illuminating him with a Lumos in the same way her wand was illuminating her, and he looked even paler than he usually did in it's soft glow. As the memory of him hissing to the snake was brought unbidden to the forefront of her mind, she shuddered and hurriedly pushed it away.
"Sorry," he said quietly, his head tilted the slightest bit in question as he looked at her. "What are you doing here?"
Hermione lowered her wand and raised her eyebrows. "Well, I was under the impression that the library was free for everyone."
A small flash of irritation crept into his eyes, but he only gave her an exasperated, friendly look. "You know what I mean. You don't usually find people in the library this close to curfew."
"I just-" needed a place to calm down, "was browsing. What about you?"
He shrugged. "Same as you."
Her eyes darted to the books at his side, and despite her apprehension about him, she couldn't help but feel incredulous at his answer. The books he was looking at looked as dreary as Professor Binns. "Really? You find Wizarding Genealogy an interesting enough topic for light reading?"
"It's quite fascinating," he said in a clipped tone that made her flush. Maybe it was a bit hypocritical of her to question him - it wasn't like anyone else found Wizarding-Goblin Wars or Arithmancy as interesting as she did.
"What could be so great about tracing pig-headed Purebloods to their perfectly pure roots?" she huffed defensively.
"A lot, it would seem," he said in a low, mysterious tone that he didn't seem to realise practically screamed 'I know a secret!'
"Oh?"
"You probably wouldn't be interested, though," he said, sounding slightly teasing. "After all, what's so great about tracing pig-headed Purebloods to their perfectly pure roo-"
"Okay, okay," Hermione interrupted him, hands on her hips. Her curiosity was peaked now. What had he found out? "I get the point. Go on and tell me now; I'm dying of curiosity, and all that."
A sly smile adorned his face, although it was directed more at the thought of what he was going to say next than at her. "Did you know that the Lestrange family branched off from the Hecre line? That particular line is descended from Queen Joan of Navarre-" Great, Hermione thought sarcastically, they're pure and royal, "-and her affair with a Muggle courtier, during the time of her imprisonment."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "No! Seriously?" Merlin… a vicious sense of vindication rushed through her - if only Aquila and her horrid older brother Cepheus knew! Always spouting Pureblood propaganda, when they weren't so pure themselves! Unbeknownst to her, her mouth had twisted into a grin at the thought.
Riddle sent her a knowing look, before turning and walking away. Hermione immediately snapped out of her reverie.
"Wha- hey Riddle! Wait!"
He didn't slow down, and she had to hurry to match her petite strides to his long ones. When she finally caught up, slightly out of breath, she asked,"Why did you tell me that? Why would you want me to know something like that about your friends?"
He looked down at her from the corner of his eye, and gave a minute shrug. Hermione wondered how he could make the most casual of movements look so elegant. "Just a little secret, Muggleborn to Muggleborn." For some unfathomable reason, he seemed to caress the word 'secret', causing her to shiver unconsciously.
"Right..." Hermione's voice trailed off as she filed that interesting fact away. He hadn't really answered her question, but it was still useful information, and she was sure she'd be able to use it sometime in the near future.
They walked in silence for a few moments. It wasn't uncomfortable, but there was something about Riddle that made her feel like she should be asking him questions constantly, trying to get things out of him. She broke the silence. "So...you weren't in Potions this morning."
"I didn't feel too well."
"It's been going around." She peered at him. "You and Malfoy both, though? What were you doing, feeding each other chicken soup?"
"It's contagious," was his reply, and it sounded like he was suddenly annoyed at her curiosity. He rubbed the inside of his left wrist absently, drawing Hermione's eyes to it, and when the robe sleeve fell away, they widened. There was a huge scar, looking as if it had been newly healed and was meant to be fading, judging by the redness. It was round, with at least a five centimetre diameter - as if he had been punctured by something.
Remember what Padma said, remember what Padma said, remember what Padma said… oh, stop trying to fool yourself. You can't not investigate that. "You're staying over the winter hols, right?" she blurted out, tearing her eyes - but not her mind - away from his wrist. She was furiously conjuring up ideas of what he could have possibly been doing to get a gouge like that.
"How did you know that?" He sounded slightly suspicious. "And why do you want to know?"
"I saw your name on the list," she answered flippantly, ignoring his second question. "I'm staying too. My parents will be overseas and I have nowhere better to go."
His eyes darkened for some inexplicable reason at that. "Yes, I am staying."
Suddenly, there was light everywhere and Hermione realised they were outside of the library. She looked around, bewildered that it was so quiet. Why- she abruptly cut off, smacking herself internally. Right. Curfew. If Filch caught her out after eight, she could say goodbye to her perfect record and hello to cleaning the girls' bathroom by hand. "Merlin! What time is it?"
"7:55," Riddle responded lazily, and she cursed. While there were shortcuts to get to the dungeons from here, she couldn't say the same for Gryffindor Tower.
"Right, I've got to go." She looked at him, suddenly hesitant. Her hands began to twitch in nervousness, so she shoved them into her pocket. "Maybe...maybe we could meet in the library during the hols, then? You can tell me more about how fascinating Wizarding Genealogy is, or something."
There was a pause. "As you wish, Miss Granger." He inclined his head towards her, his mouth playing into a small smirk.
"Okay. Um...bye." Despite the blush on her face due to her clumsy speech - and in front of Mr. I-Speak-Proper, no less - she couldn't help but feel victorious. And you're in! Winter Snake Hunt is on! If she was going to find anymore evidence to connect Riddle to the Heir, she was going to find it in the two weeks of Christmas, and she couldn't help feeling accomplished at that.
She missed Riddle's identical triumphant expression as he watched her turn and flee for the Gryffindor Common Room.
A/N: Dun, dun, dunnnn! I wonder what Tommy boy is up to? ;)
Chapter Two is out and let me just say I am glad that the ball is going to start rolling very soon! This chapter was a bit hard to get out, and shorter than I would have liked, but I'm very happy with the finished product. I've finally got an idea as to how I'm going to fit all their Hogwarts years in this fic, and I've decided that this year's (Third Year's) arc will be shorter than the others. Next year's when the action really starts, so I want to get to that as soon as possible and get all the plot set up out of the way.
Thank you so, so much for the response I've gotten so far! Over 500 views, 12 favourites and 21 follows, not to mention the reviews... all for my first upload! I wasn't expecting much since Tomione isn't as popular as some of the other ships around (and this is my first multi-chap to boot) so basically, I'm stoked! I really do appreciate and am grateful for any and all feedback you give me.
Alright, I'm going to wrap it up before this becomes a speech. Expect another update in a week or so since my school holidays have begun!
~ Philaria