Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Unsettled
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Much to his surprise, Harry was actually making progress with his training. In the weeks that followed his first training session, he was finding that Summoning Charms, at least, were coming more easily to him. As he and Professor McGonagall soon discovered, his wandless magic was at its best when Harry was feeling a particularly strong emotion.
To be sure of this, McGonagall thought it best to conduct an experiment. Harry didn't see the point. It was quite obvious that this was the case, through and through.
Still, he was forced to comply with her wishes. She asked him to close his eyes and fill his mind with memories of Professor Sprout. Thinking this was extremely unusual, he did so, and when asked to Summon, one by one, half a dozen heavy books (taken from the Restricted section of the library) all lined up in a row on the table, he was barely able to move the first two toward him before his magic died out. He was then asked to think of Hagrid and his mind immediately conjured up the image of him pointing his pink umbrella at Dudley and giving his cousin a pig's tail. He was able to Summon five of the six books this time. And then, when asked to think of Professor Snape, all six books flew at him with such force that the last (and heaviest) one nearly knocked him over.
Finally deciding that Harry had practiced Summoning Charms enough for now, Professor McGonagall informed him that they would be moving on and trying other spells. When she said this, Harry's mind went to human transfigurations, one of the last units they had done in sixth year. He wondered how in the world he would be able to do this, but forced himself to believe that he would be able to. After all, once he got the hang of it, it wouldn't be too hard to change his eyebrows to different colours, right?
McGonagall, of course, was thinking something a little bit different.
'You want me to do what?' Harry asked. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.
'Take this match and turn it into a needle,' McGonagall said. 'Honestly, what were you expecting we would start with? Human transfigurations?' she asked with an amused tone.
'I – no, of course not,' said Harry lamely. 'But … this was our very first lesson at Hogwarts … ever!'
'I am pleased that you remember your first Transfiguration lesson,' she said briskly. 'But yes, just as you had to begin at the bottom then, you must do so now – however unnecessary it may seem to you.'
Harry sighed but nodded. As he soon learned, though, this turning-a-match-into-a-needle business was harder than he'd remembered it being.
Somehow, miraculously, he got through it. And he got through the handful of other spells he was instructed to do. McGonagall was so pleased with his improvements that she worked with him tirelessly through the day and sometimes well past dinner and into the night, so not to lose any momentum. Though he never told her, he attributed any and all progress to the fact that he could close his eyes and replay certain things, awful things – he could see Snape kill Dumbledore, see Hermione lying perfectly still on the grass after Ginny had been taken, see Ginny in that dungeon, see Ron disappearing in Malfoy Manor – and use it as his motivation.
As to be expected, replaying the most disturbing moments in his life was rather draining. And, unfortunately, he was spending more time at Hogwarts doing just that than anything else.
McGonagall had informed him last week that he was to begin other aspects of his training. Each morning, Harry would work on his wandless magic with McGonagall. After midday, however, his schedule varied. Mondays were Occlumency lessons with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who, it turned out, was rather skilled at Occlumency and Legilimency. Tuesdays and Wednesdays included practicing armed combat and physical training with Tonks. On Thursdays and Fridays, he had NEWT-level Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons with Lupin.
Harry wanted to ask when – no, if – this workload would ever lighten, but he held his tongue. McGonagall would probably find some way to take offence to his words and give him a nice, long lecture about how he should be grateful that everyone was willing to help him. And although he was grateful, there was the small voice in the back of his mind whispering that he shouldn't be wasting his time on this.
He was rather disheartened to realize that this voice was Hermione's, and that it was whispering to quit training so much because he needed to find Ron.
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'Ginny.'
Ginny looked up to see Hermione standing in the doorway of her bedroom.
'Yes?'
'I, um, I think I left one of my books in here,' Hermione said.
Ginny stared at her, wondering what she was supposed to do about that.
'Would it be okay if I looked around for it?'
'Do whatever you want,' Ginny said, knowing she was being miserable and rude.
Really, though, why couldn't she be rude to Hermione? Wasn't Hermione the one who came up to Ginny and Mrs Weasley and starting saying crazy, untrue things that only made Ron's death hurt so much more? And wasn't Hermione the reason for the awkwardness between them?
Ginny had every right to yell at Hermione that day.
Ron was her brother. He was dead. And it might have even been because of Ginny's foolishness.
Just because Hermione and Ron had been … whatever they had been … that didn't give Hermione the right to blatantly lie and refuse to accept the fact that Ron was dead. And Hermione pretended that she really believed it. What rubbish. Hermione was the smartest, most logical person that Ginny'd ever met. There was no way she really believed that Ron was walking around somewhere, perfectly alive and well.
And how dare she say those things to Ginny's mum? Mrs Weasley was a mess. Maybe Harry and Hermione didn't realize the severity of her mum's grief, but Ginny did. Her brothers did, too. They had all grown up with her. They grew up with her tough-love tactics. And the fact that their mum hadn't raised her voice since Ron's death, weeks ago, was cause for concern. The house wasn't as tidy as it used to be. Nobody had been ordered into the backyard to de-gnome the garden since the wedding. Although it seemed stupid, the real clincher was that Mrs Weasley's cooking was a little … off.
Telling someone in that sort of state that their son wasn't dead (when he clearly was) just didn't fly for Ginny.
She watched as Hermione came into her bedroom and looked around awkwardly. Ginny considered telling Hermione that her book was on the desk, but then Hermione spotted it for herself. She smiled, and as she crossed the room to the small desk, Ginny wondered if Hermione actually tried to be a complete bookworm, or if it just came naturally. Either way, even though Ginny was still angry, she loved Hermione for it.
But when Hermione did not make to pick up her book, and simply stood there, instead, Ginny craned her neck to see what the girl was doing. She was holding something else in her hand.
Oh. The picture, she realized. She'd forgotten about it.
Colin had taken it just before everything went from bad to worse. It was of Ginny, Harry, Hermione and Ron. They were at Hogwarts in the picture – down by the lake, in fact. She remembered Colin walking by and saying that they looked so happy, the four of them, and then he'd insisted on taking their picture. They had all smiled and waved at the camera, except for Ron, who'd made stupid faces, as always. Hermione had elbowed him in the ribs and told him that his immaturity was ruining the picture, so he'd mussed up her hair and when she went to yell at him, he'd told her that her disgruntled appearance wasn't making the picture any nicer than his faces were.
Hermione turned so Ginny could see her face. She was smiling. It was a sad, wistful sort of smile, and it made Ginny's mouth feel too dry.
She really thinks that Ron is alive.
Hermione looked up at Ginny then, and Ginny couldn't get past the thought that Hermione was perhaps the saddest person she'd ever known.
'I remember taking this,' said Hermione. 'It turned out nice.'
Ginny smiled, because "nice" was exactly the opposite of what Hermione had said the picture would be when they were posing for it.
Really, though, the picture was perfect.
It captured all of their personalities perfectly. Ron was being silly and he and Hermione were bickering, just as they always did. Harry had his arm slung around Ginny's shoulder in a protective, yet casual way, one that made Ginny smile.
'Yeah,' said Ginny. 'Yeah, it did.'
Hermione set the picture back down and picked up her book. 'Thanks,' she said, and then turned to leave.
Ginny knew that she had to say something now. But what could she say?
'Wait,' she called. Hermione stopped and turned back around. 'I …'
Shite, she was no good at this.
'I'm sorry.'
There. She said it.
Hermione just looked at her. 'You – you're sorry?' she asked.
Ginny forced herself to nod. 'Yeah. I mean … I am. I'm sorry that I snapped at you before.' She sighed and shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under Hermione's gaze. 'But … you've got to understand how insane you seemed.' How insane you still seem. 'You … you can't just come downstairs and start saying stuff like that. Especially to Mum.'
Hermione looked down. 'I didn't mean to upset her.'
'I know,' said Ginny. 'But you did.'
'I feel really bad about that,' Hermione said sincerely, looking back up.
Ginny nodded. 'And I feel really bad about yelling at you. I … I don't know what came over me.'
But Ginny did know.
And every time she thought back to the conversation in the kitchen, she felt her angry building up again.
'It's fine,' said Hermione. 'I'll try to think before I say things like that from now on. I promise.'
Ginny smiled. 'Okay.'
'Okay,' said Hermione. 'Come on. Dinner should be ready by now.'
'Yeah, I'll be right there,' said Ginny. Hermione smiled and left.
It felt good to have cleared the air with Hermione. With Harry at training everyday, Hermione really was her only source of human contact other than her family – and even theyweren't always available to chat.
Still, though, Ginny couldn't help but dwell on the fact that Hermione hadn't directly apologized for saying such crazy things about Ron, or even bothered to explain why she had said them.
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'I almost forgot. A letter came for you, Ginny.'
Ginny looked up from her dinner.
'What?' she asked.
'A letter came for you. Just before you came down,' said Mrs Weasley. 'Here.'
Ginny reached her hand out and accepted the letter, feeling her heart drop upon reading the front.
Ginny, it said, in what was undoubtedly Dean's messy scrawl.
A part of her had been expecting this letter for several days. Upon hearing the news of Ron's death, Dean (and many others) had sent letters of condolences. He had said nice things, like, Ron was one of the best blokes I've ever met,and I'm here for you.
Her family hadn't responded to most of the letters (there had been an overwhelming amount, really), but Ginny felt she should reply to Dean's letter. She was polite, saying things like, Thank you … that means a lot, and Hope you're doing well.
She knew, back when she had sent the reply, that she was sort of letting Dean back into her life. But what could she do? She couldn't not write him back.
After they had broken up at Hogwarts, they hadn't spoken. Well … he hadn't spoken to her, and since she had been the one to end things, she sort of had to respect his wishes and, in turn, not speak to him.
She opened the letter and read it through once, then twice, unable to keep the frown off her face when she read Give my best to Hermione and Harry. The word "Harry" was in darker ink, as if Dean had pressed his quill harder into the parchment while writing it.
She did not like the way he said that he missed her, nor did she like the way he signed his letter Love, Dean.
It wasn't as if Dean really loved her, though. Or … did he? They had dated for nearly a year, after all. They'd never said the words, of course, and although she had liked Dean quite a bit, she certainly hadn't loved him …
Oh, Merlin. What if Dean still had feelings for her?
She told herself she was being silly. If the situations had been reversed, Ginny would have sent Dean a letter of condolences. And she might have even signed it Love, Ginny.
She was overreacting. And even if she wasn't, it didn't really matter.
'Are you okay?' asked Hermione.
Ginny shrugged. 'It's from Dean,' she said.
Hermione just looked at her. 'So?'
'So,' said Ginny. 'He's writing me. We're writing each other, apparently,' she corrected herself, her finger pointing to the spot on the page where Dean wrote Hope to hear from you again soon.
'Would it be so horrible to keep in contact with him?' inquired Hermione. 'It's not as if we'll be seeing our old friends at Hogwarts this year. It would be good for us all to keep in touch, if you ask me.'
Ginny sighed. 'I know. I write Luna and Neville a lot,' she said. 'But Dean is different. I … I don't want him to become some sort of … Viktor Krum.'
Hermione smiled. 'Harry is not going to get jealous if you get a letter or two from Dean.'
'You never know.'
'He isn't like that,' said Hermione reasonably.
'He's different when it's just the two of us,' said Ginny. 'I mean, he –'
Mrs Weasley cleared her throat.
Ginny felt her cheeks flush and she looked down at the letter again.
Her mum was still a bit upset with Ginny and Harry. On the first morning of Harry's training, she had gone to wake him up and found him in Ginny's bed. While Harry had been off training that day, Ginny and her mum had "The Talk" (something that they'd had once before, when Ginny was fourteen, but this more recent one had been far more detailed) and Ginny had promised her mum that she and Harry would sleep in separate rooms from then on. Hermione was still staying in Ron's old bedroom, so Harry was set up in Bill's old room.
Mrs Weasley hadn't known – not until two mornings ago, when she had found Harry in Ginny's bed, yet again – that Harry waited until everyone was asleep before Apparating down to Ginny's room each night.
Ginny promised her mum that it would not happen again. Of course, she was referring to the fact that they would not be caught again. But her mum didn't know that, and Ginny didn't feel the need to bring it to her attention.
She didn't care. It wasn't as if she could sleep without Harry, anyway. It was almost as if he had the ability to chase away her nightmares.
And that was a good thing, because Ginny hadn't had nightmares since the summer after her first year at Hogwarts, and the feelings of helplessness that accompanied them were not something she cared to repeat night after night.
'Harry!'
Ginny looked up.
'You're home,' Mrs Weasley said.
'I – yeah,' said Harry. 'Tonks let me come home early. She said … hmm. Well, she said something. And here I am.'
He sighed and dropped down in the seat next to Ginny. She smiled in greeting but frowned when she really looked at him.
'Are you all right?' she asked.
'Huh?' he asked. 'Oh. Yeah. I'm good.'
She and Hermione exchanged worried looks. 'Harry,' said Hermione. 'You don't look good.'
'Thanks,' Harry said lightly, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.
Mrs Weasley rushed over to him and put her hand on his forehead. 'Why don't you go upstairs and rest? You're exhausted.'
Harry shook his head. 'No, I'm not,' he said.
'You're falling asleep in your chair,' said Ginny.
'I'm just resting my eyes,' said Harry.
'That's it,' said Mrs Weasley. 'I'm going to have a word with Minerva first thing in the morning! This is ridiculous.'
'No,' said Harry. 'It's … please, Mrs Weasley. I appreciate it, but … I'm fine. I'm just a little tired. Tonks had me running laps around the Quidditch pitch.'
'How many?'
He shrugged. 'I lost count.'
Hermione made a noise between a horrified gasp and an outraged cry. 'They can't do this!' she cried. 'Why are they doing this? To see how much you can take before you crack?'
Before she could go off into a rant, though, Harry sat up straight and reached out his hand. Ginny watched, awestruck, as the letter grasped tightly in her hand flew to Harry and he caught it.
'That's why they're doing this,' Harry said. 'So I can learn how to control all these … things …that I can do. And I'm damn lucky that they're even bothering to invest their time in me.' He looked down at the letter. 'What's this?'
Mrs Weasley began clearing the dishes and Hermione stood up to help. Ginny did not miss the look that passed between the two of them, nor did she miss the way Hermione began washing the dishes the Muggle way, making an effort to make quite a bit of noise in the process.
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Mrs Weasley had been right: Harry was exhausted. But what was he supposed to do? Tell Tonks, Thank you, but no, I don't think I'm too keen on training today?
He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that.
He was annoyed by the way nobody at The Burrow seemed to understand that he had to train or else he probably wouldn't even survive to the final showdown with Voldemort.
And he was also annoyed by the way Ginny was avoiding his question.
'What's what?' asked Ginny.
'This,' Harry said, holding up the letter in his hand.
'Oh,' she said. 'That.'
'Yeah,' said Harry. 'What is it?'
'It's a letter,' she said.
Obviously.
'Who's it from, through?' he asked, hoping she would say Luna or Neville or another one of their friends. He had been meaning to write them for weeks, but hadn't gotten around to it. He knew that Ginny kept up correspondence with many of their friends, and if he actually thought about it, he was rather curious as to how they were doing. Sometimes, he forgot that there was a world outside of The Burrow, Headquarters and the Great Hall of Hogwarts. 'Luna?'
'No,' said Ginny. 'This one's from, um, Dean, actually.'
'Oh,' Harry said, but his voice sounded a little too controlled, even to his ears.
He didn't want Dean writing to Ginny. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ginny – hell, it wasn't even that he thought Dean would try to make a move on her – but, for some reason, a part of him just wasn't comfortable with the idea. A bloke had noright sending letters to an ex-girlfriend if she was in another relationship. That was reasonable. He wasn't being overbearing or jealous. Right?
'He wanted to tell us that he was sorry about Ron,' said Ginny, giving him a measured glance. 'And he told me to say hello to you.'
Harry didn't quite believe this. But, really, did it matter what Dean had put in his letter? Harry was the one Ginny loved. Not Dean.
He told himself not to say anything stupid. He didn't want to fight with Ginny – not about something stupid, like letters from Dean – and he certainly didn't want to sound as foolish as Ron had whenever Hermione spoke about her letters from Viktor Krum.
'Make sure you tell him I say hello back,' Harry said, pretending he gave a rat's arse about anything they were currently discussing.
'Okay,' said Ginny, and Harry knew that she wasn't really going to include it in her next letter, but he didn't really care. She smiled at him. 'He's being very nice,' she said. 'And I don't really want to write him, but I can't be rude and not reply to his letters.'
Harry felt like a git then, because Dean wasn't writing poetry and romantic verses to Ginny, professing his undying love for her. He was writing to say he was sorry that Ron was dead. And even if he did have ulterior motives …so what? It wasn't as if Ginny was going to ditch him and run off with Dean.
And – if in some strange, alternate universe – it did happen … well, Harry wasn't practicing physical and armed combat for nothing.
'Yeah,' Harry said. 'I know.' He yawned. It was barely dark out, but he was too tired to keep his eyes open any longer. 'I'm going up to bed.'
He kissed her goodnight and went up to bed, where he had a fitful sleep, dreaming of Quidditch and Dean and a strange man with black hair who lived across the ocean, all the while, Hermione's voice echoing in his head, saying: Look closer …
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The man was sleeping. It was a nice, deep sleep. Most importantly, it was absolutely dreamless. Thank Merlin for that. All week he had been having nightmares.
Well, they weren't really nightmares. He wished they could be nightmares. But they weren't frightening. They didn't cause him to wake up in a cold sweat or reach out for someone to calm his nerves.
No, if anything, these dreams were pleasant. That was the most unsettling thing. Each night, he awoke to a foggy mind but a clear mental picture of a pretty girl with brown hair and chocolate eyes.
Who was this girl? She —
'I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?' she says, looking down at him with a snooty smile.
He feels like an idiot, because he hadn't meant for her to see him attempt to turn his rat yellow. He shouldn't have trusted George. He should have known that spell wouldn't work. He just made an arse of himself in front of Harry Potter and this stupid, obnoxious, annoying girl.
Of course, she isn't stupid, if she can learn ALL those books off by heart, AND get spells to work for her. She just might be brilliant. She sure seems like the bookworm type, at any rate.
This is just the sort of thing that would happen to him, too. It is just his luck that on his first day of Hogwarts, he ends up seated between The Boy Who Lived and this girl, Hermione, who is looking at him as though she thinks he is a freak, and, well, she wouldn't be completely incorrect with that assumption, would she?
What's next? Will he be sorted into Slytherin, or something dreadful like that? As if this day isn't kicking his arse already.
Maybe things will be okay, though. Once Hermione gets out of their compartment, he and Harry can go back to eating their Every Flavour Beans and talking about stupid, unimportant things.
He wants her to leave, but she does not seem to be going anywhere, and it confuses him. It doesn't bother him, but it does confuse him. Hermione Granger is going to throw him for a loop, he can tell.
What kind of a name is Hermione, anyway? It's not like anything he has ever heard before. It's awfully strange. Even his sister, Ginevra, has a better name than that.
He hates the look that crosses her face when Harry introduces himself. He wonders if it is the same look that was on his just moments ago, when he first stumbled into the compartment and sat down.
He hadn't expected Harry Potter to be so … completely unaware of himself, or of the magical world, the one he saved years and years ago, before he could walk or talk or read or write or even do much of anything.
Honestly, when his older brothers had speculated, on the way to King's Cross, that Harry Potter would probably be on the train, he hadn't cared all that much. He was expecting Harry to be self-involved and cocky, probably a master at all sorts of spells, ones his brother Percy, in fifth year, hadn't even learned yet.
Instead, Harry is nice and funny and just a bit awkward, what with the fact that he says You-Know-Who's name as easily as he says his own – neither of which, really, should be uttered with such a loose tongue.
As the girl goes on and on about all the books Harry is in, he wonders how one person could possibly retain such information. The facts just roll off her tongue with ease, and he wonders if she spent her entire summer holed up inside her bedroom, studying things that they wouldn't need to know for ages. He feels a bit inadequate, because he hasn't even bothered opening his schoolbooks yet. Judging by the look on Harry's face, though, he isn't the only one who will be unprepared.
This girl is bossy and self-assured, and she holds her chin just a little too high for his liking. And when she tells them to get into their robes because they'll be at Hogwarts shortly, he is reminded of Percy.
Finally, she leaves, and although it is what he wanted, there is a voice in the back of his mind whispering that he should have moved over a bit, that he should have made room for her to sit down with him and Harry.
'Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it,' he says, and maybe it's the truth, or maybe it's a dirty lie. —
The man whimpered, but did not wake. In the morning, he would do as he always did: examine his dreams, hoping to rouse his subconscious, until he finally conceded to the fact that he could remember nothing and no one.
This was terrible and frustrating and made him want to scream. In his dreams, he knew who she was. He knew who he was. But then, he would wake up, and all he had to remind him of his dream were the uncomfortable feelings in the pit of his stomach and the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.
He hated this; he hated how he was so bloody torn. He wanted these dreams to end; he wanted them to keep going. He wanted to get to the bottom of them; he wanted to forget all about them.
On the plus side, though, he'd stopped having flashes during the day. He had finally broken down and told Joe about them, and his friend gave him a small potion, saying it would help put a lid on whatever was bothering him. He had taken the potion hesitantly at first, unsure of whether or not it would work – unsure of whether or not he wanted it to work.
Sweet relief came, eventually, when he realized that he was no longer bombarded with images of people he had never met. He now took the potion every morning and —
Hermione is twelve, lying in the Hospital Wing. He hates himself for not being able to wake her up. He hates himself because everything seems to be turning to shite lately, and he can do nothing to stop it. He hates himself because it should have been him, not her
He does not want to think about the very real fact that he could lose her. Sure, she may wake up from her current state, but she is still a Muggle, and it is still dangerous for her to be around while this whole Chamber of Secrets business is going on.
She probably won't speak to him for days after she wakes up, anyway. She'll know, just as he knows, that he should have protected her better, that it is his fault she is Petrified. He won't blame her for hating him.
And even if she doesn't hate him forever – although he isn't getting his hopes up – he might not see her again. Unless this situation is resolved, Hogwarts will have to close. Harry will come to The Burrow for the summer … but what will she do? She'll go back to her house and probably forget all about him. An owl might come with word from her every few weeks, but it will probably be letters for Harry.
Sometimes, he thinks that Hermione likes Harry more than him. She must. She doesn't argue with Harry. Harry never gets on her nerves. Harry hadn't laughed at her tail.
Other times, though, he thinks that she enjoys their arguing just as much as he does. Sure, Hermione can drive him up the wall, but it wouldn't feel the same if she didn't nag him to do his homework or yell at him for having his uniform shirt untucked.
He has done his homework every single night since Hermione was hurt. And he's tried really hard not to curse or talk with his mouth full or be late for class.
And when that doesn't help, he goes to visit her in the Hospital Wing. He wants to yell at her, to scream that she has to get up because he and Harry need her too much, but, instead, he sits there with Harry and stares at her, trying to figure out why this had to happen and what he can do about it.
It's up to him, after all. Harry has other things on his mind. He's accused of being the heir of Slytherin. But how can he be the heir? He's in Gryffindor! Harry is his best mate, and if Harry swears that he didn't know he could speak Parseltongue, that he really isn't involved in this at all, then that is the truth. Besides, Harry would never hurt Hermione like that. Why can't the other kids realize that? Justin Finch-Fletchley, the great sod … this is his fault. If he hadn't accused Harry of setting that snake on him …
And then, on top of all this, there's his sister. Ginny has been acting a little weird lately. Well, not really. She was acting this way during the summer, sort of. And she's always been a little strange, really. Maybe she's just acting odd because of Harry. She's got a huge crush on Harry, after all. He feels bad for Ginny because he knows that Harry will never see her as anything more than the youngest Weasley, his best mate's baby sister. But maybe it's for the best, because Harry tends to attract trouble wherever he goes, and Ginny doesn't need to be mixed up in that sort of thing.
Everything is such a mess. He wonders how much longer this will continue for. He doesn't think he'll be able to take it if things don't get better soon. But things will. They have to. Harry will figure something out. He always does. Right? —
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Alas, my exams are over! French, Religion, Science, Math, History and English – six exams in five days makes my head spin.
Okay, this means I can dedicate myself to writing this again. I can't express how frustrated I was, knowing that I hadn't updated in weeks but not being able to sit down and write. This story has been all over the place lately, and the updates have been few and far between, and I'm terribly sorry, but I want to thank everyone who hasn't given up on me! I haven't forgotten about this, and I have every intention of finishing it. I've just been too busy studying to do much about anything concerning this story. There's still a ton in store for you all. To that end, check out my profile page, because I've got a ton of H/G one-shots up that I'd love for you all to read.