Chapter I: Growing Up Black
Grimmauld Place, 1965
He had woken up early. What child wouldn't, when it was his birthday? The party would be boring, but the food would be delicious! And the presents! Presents! With that thought, he jumped out of bed. He wanted to wake them all up. Little Reggie, and his father, and even his mother! But he had learned that he shouldn't. He would have to wait, his father had said. But Reggie wouldn't mind, right? But his mother and father would. And Reggie liked his sleep. Hmmm...
Oh! He could go wash himself! That would make his mother and father proud, and it would mean he'd get his presents faster! Young Sirius Black, just turned six years old, climbed out of bed.
And there he stood, in his father's room. Fully washed, fully clothed, the perfect example of a pureblood heir apparent. He was rather proud of himself; he had made no mess, hadn't unduly awoken anyone, and most importantly of all, his mother had approved! She had found nothing to complain about, at least. And his father had smiled and nodded! He had carefully eaten breakfast too, trying his hardest to remember proper etiquette. He thought he had succeeded though!
He was slightly envious of Regulus; he didn't have any trouble with dull adult stuff such as etiquette, and his parents loved him for it. Secretly, he wondered if Regulus truly was a child. What child didn't like to play pranks, to have fun, to play with toys? Well, come to think of it, most children he knew... All of them were dull and boring, pretending to be old adults, talking about boring topics, reading boring stuff, and finding the proper way to drink tea more important than the latest broom; a Cloudcatcher 7, specifically made for children by a company from New Zealand. It wasn't the seventh broom though, so he wondered why it had a seven in its name. Maybe because seven was a powerful number. Oh, how he hoped he would get the broom! Even Regulus had been excited - to promptly inform everyone around that seven was a powerful number, which caused all the adults to glower in praise. Sirius had known that too though, but that was seen as stealing Regulus' moment of fame. Of course. Regulus could never do anything wrong, and Sirius could never do anything right.
Still, it was fun flying around with Regulus, and they loved each other. Maybe they'd both get the broom? That'd be awesome! Regulus was perhaps the only one who somewhat understood him, although Regulus always encouraged him to become boring and dull too. Was he really that weird, that he liked playing and joking and making noise and all that? From the stories he had read, that seemed like how children should behave... But the stories were fictional of course, so they could be wrong. Well, he didn't like his parents' lack of attention, and it would be nice to be praised like Regulus was, so he supposed Regulus had a point. Perhaps he should try to curtail his 'weirdness'. Which is why he had tried his hardest the last few days. And it clearly had paid off!
Instilled with pride, he was shaken out of his thoughts by his father's voice.
"Son. You know we have been disappointed in you. You're a brat, uncaring for your betters, completely ignoring proper pureblood behaviour, always running around and making a mess of everything - ..."
Well. That was one way to utterly destroy his newfound pride...
"... - But you have changed. We have seen you trying the past few days. We have seen you remembering your lessons on etiquette and proper behaviour."
And that was one way for his pride to reach new heights. He was being praised!
"Your mother says you are acting, purely to get presents. Which would be fitting of a Slytherin. None the less, she acquiesced to reward you."
Was it the broom? Could it be?
"You, as our oldest son, are by right entitled to be our heir. However, I, as both your father and paterfamilias, can remove this privilege, should I so desire. Your mother and I have discussed the matter, and have decided to confirm your heirship. You, Sirius Orion Black, are now formally and officially heir to our family."
It was nice, of course, that his parents finally favoured him over Regulus... But on the other hand, his parents always adhered to tradition, so this wasn't really unexpected.
"As heir, you will have a great responsibility to our family. You will have to uphold its good name, manage our acquisitions and finances, arrange marriages, and much more. Of course, with these responsibilities come privileges as well; you will be educated in the complete arsenal of our family's magic, and, as heir of the main branch of the Black family, you will be first in line for paterfamilias of the whole Black pedigree. This, in turn, will award you even greater benefits, as well as even greater responsibilities."
His father smiled softly, probably thinking him to be overwhelmed by the information. But he wasn't, he understood everything! He wasn't confused, he was disappointed. He smiled back weakly, but felt tears welling up in his eyes. There was no broom. Why had he even expected it? Since when did his parents know the word 'fun' after all?
"But we have another gift for you, son."
... Had they... Really?
"This, -"
His father unveiled something from underneath his cloak.
"- is titled 'De Sanguis Antiquissimorum Purissimorumque'; 'About the Blood of the Most Ancient and the Most Pure'. It is a self-updating book detailing all the ancient families. Therefore, over the centuries, it has come to contain almost all British families, as well as quite many foreign ones. This is an artefact beyond price, son, so I expect you to treat it well. It is a great honour, but worthy of an heir."
His father smiled more openly now, and expectantly held the book out to him.
"Happy birthday, son."
But he didn't take the book, and he didn't smile. Instead, he let his tears flow freely and ran away to his room, leaving a dumbfounded father behind.
"YOU'RE STUPID! I HATE YOU!"
A scream full of anguish, a door slamming shut, and then silence.
Grimmauld Place, 1970, the second day of Christmas holidays
"NO! I do not care, mother! You can rot in hell with your pureblood crap! I -"
To say that the Christmas holiday was unpleasant for young Sirius Black was a gross understatement. Eleven years of enduring etiquette, tradition, manners, social parties, and worst of all, pureblood rhetoric. Eleven years of no freedom at all. Eleven years of grooming and moulding, so that Sirius Orion Black would be ready to uphold the proud name of Black in school. So that he could seek out useful acquaintances, powerful allies, and, perhaps, a worthy wife.
But Sirius' spirit was hard to break. Indeed, eleven years he had fought a battle of wills with his family, and so far, he had won. Oh, his first friend had been acceptable enough; the House of Potter was powerful - and had Druella Black not married Charlus Potter, James Charlus Potter's father? - but the rest... The Lupin family was apparently 'an isolated band of half-bloods and muggle filth reproducing through incest alone' - ironic and improbable, to say the least - while the Pettigrew family was 'a host of roaches polluting Britain's finest with their French roots, their weaknesses, and their failure as part of mankind'.
Truly Walburga Black was a lovely woman. And then there were the so-called mudbloods; 'poisonous pigs fit for slaughter'. Of course, the fact that he was in Gryffindor - not Slytherin - merely compounded the problems; this was 'an eternal stain upon the House of Black, yet not one entirely unexpected, given your naiveness and foolish idealism'.
Yes, to Walburga Black, Sirius had failed in his duties to the House of Black. He should be seeking out powerful allies and a good wife, worthy enough to ensure the continual of the House of Black. Connections are everything, as the upstart Malfoys know well. With Sirius in Gryffindor, it would come down to the other members of the Black family to counteract the influence and deceit of House Malfoy. Because, instead of doing all that, Sirius, immature and childish as he was, was pranking and joking and treating Hogwarts as a theme park. Where he should be learning, he slacked. Where he should be socialising, he confined himself to Gryffindor rabble. Where he should be building alliances, he pranked anyone and needlessly antagonised everyone.
Orion said he had changed for the better. That he was less rebellious, less childish, and less immature. That he took his studies just a bit more serious, and that he had cultivated cordial relations with respected young purebloods. But she didn't see it. And this attitude was not acceptable. This was not how he had been raised - Regulus was a perfect example of proper pureblood upbringing - and this most certainly was not becoming of a Black - let alone of the heir ascendant! The impudent brat, the immature child, needed to be taught a lesson he wouldn't forget.
"... - Never be - ..."
"Crucio."
She coldly intoned, interrupting Sirius' rant. It was as if the world had frozen. Everything was silent, tranquil. The red beam of light could be mistaken for a warm source of light. But then it hit the eleven year old child. And he screamed. The world ended. A devastated wasteland of excruciating fire. And he screamed some more.
Grimmauld Place, 1970, the third day of Christmas holidays
"... - Heir! Not an enemy! Thi - ..."
"Eleven years Orion, eleven years! And still no true Black! The rascal needed to be taught a lesson before he defiles our name further - and not an enemy? He may as well be! The child was sorted in Gryffindor - GRYFFINDOR! By Thor, with that Ridd - "
The screeching sound of his mother's voice suddenly stopped. A deadly silence hung into the house. Sirius' mind screamed at him to run away; he was eavesdropping on a heated argument between his parents. An argument, apparently, about him. About yesterday. About his torture. And this foreboding silence could only mean one thing.
"SIRIUS ORION BLACK! YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO OUR NAME, YOU - ..."
She started talking - no, screeching - before she even threw open the door. But his father interfered.
"No, Walburga, this is not the time."
He then turned towards him; Sirius.
"Son. You know about - ..."
He paused momentarily, as if tasting his next word, and finding it particularly disgusting.
"... - Riddle, do you not?"
Sirius meekly nodded. His father kept staring intently at him, while his mother could barely control herself. He suddenly realised what they were expecting. Always speak, and do so with two words.
"Yes, father."
"What do you think of it?"
The 'it' was stressed, as if saying 'him' would be a gross insult to the human race. Sirius was both relieved and worried. Relieved, because, for once, he could do the right thing - he could please them. They seemed to be worried about his loyalty, well, they could be assured he would never follow such an evil madman as Riddle. But worried, too, for he did agree with Riddle's views. Just not with his methods.
"Well, he does have his good points - ..."
That was the wrong thing to say, as Sirius himself had realised too. He really could do with some more tact and diplomacy. And earmuffs.
"YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE! TRAITOR! FIL - ..."
"Let him finish, Walburga."
The cold and calm voice of his father brought an end to the ear-shattering screeches of his mother. But his father wasn't amused, and certainly not pleased, at Sirius' response.
"No, that's not what I meant, I'll never join him! Or follow him, or support him! I - ..."
He took a deep breath and tried to appear more composed, as his parents liked him to be. Not a blubbering fool who rushes words, but a calm and collected man who thinks about every word before speaking. Of course, he was eleven, and besides, it was a load of crap in his opinion anyway.
"... - I know we have our differences. I do disagree with certain views and opinions sometimes expressed. But I disagree even more with killing, torturing, kidnapping... I will support Riddle's demise. I won't join him."
There. A nice speech to please his parents. His mother harrumphed, while his father nodded his head.
"Good."
His father said, before being interrupted by his mother.
"Yes. Very well. But clearly, you have much to learn yet, petulant child; eavesdropping on us, associating with undesirables, and defiling our family name at every opportunity - why, in my time, I would have been flogged, I would have been lucky to escape with both of my hands, you should respect your bett - ..."
"Come now Walburga. Today proved there is still hope for him. Let him have his peace, for now."
Luckily, his father interrupted his mother's rant. He wondered if his father really meant what he said; privately, he thought his father was just agreeing with his mother to prevent further rages and stop her outbursts. His father was a nice enough man, most of the time. He appeared as cold, calm, and calculating, but that was just his way of being nice. He had seen that the typical pureblood way of raising him wasn't working, and so he had opted for a 'wait and see' approach. Which meant that his father, unlike his mother, didn't constantly berate him. Although, he certainly had the ability to make anyone feel like a worthless fly whose only goal is to serve the Black family. He demanded power and respect by merely existing, and if anyone could lead the war against Riddle, it would be him. He wasn't a father, he was Father. There was no man more begetting of capitalisation and epithets than him.
Unlike his mother; an overgrown child throwing tantrums the moment even the slightest thing didn't go exactly her way. It really was a wonder that her vocal chords hadn't yet violently exploded. Had his mother suffered brain damage? Was it the inbreeding? A trauma? He had no answer for her behaviour. But it was pleasingly ironic; here was a woman always ranting about manners and etiquette, about 'conducting oneself with the proper decorum as is befitting of a noble pureblood and scion of the House of Black'. Obviously, her rage was none of that.
For now, his parents would probably let him be. His father would probably tell his mother to be more accepting, to tone down the rhetoric, so as to not push him towards Riddle. They didn't need to worry about that at all, but he'd gladly let them worry about it, if it meant this house would be a more tolerable place for him. If his father wouldn't intervene and stop his mother's rants, he strongly suspected he wouldn't be able to keep living here until his graduation.
Grimmauld Place, 1971, the first day of Christmas holidays
"Sirius." His father nodded in greeting, inviting him to enter his father's room. Why, he didn't know; as far as he knew, he had done nothing wrong. He had curtailed his rebellious act a bit; less pranks, more politeness towards various acquaintances, and all in all, he was well on his way of becoming an examplary pureblood.
He didn't like it at all, of course, but he couldn't risk being seen as a supporter of Riddle. He was a Gryffindor and had muggleborn friends - that alone was enough for most people to treat him as a stranger at best, a traitor at worst. On the other hand, he had made efforts to reach out to the other houses, to make friends with prominent members of society. Regulus had also introduced him to quite a few important people. He had tried - and succeeded, he thought - getting good grades and taking his study seriously. He still had fun with his friends - of course! - but he had reduced the amount of pranks or borderline bullying.
He privately congratulated himself on it. But was it worth it? That question had always been on his mind. Was it worth it, to curtail his natural character and innate traits, for acceptance by his family and pureblood society at large? To not be seen as a supporter of Riddle? Well... It probably was worth it. Maybe.
"Normally, an heir's training starts during the Yuletide holidays of one's first year at Hogwarts. Training in the art of duelling is then conducted under Odin's watch, culminating in one's introduction to the family's magic. Being held under the Cruciatus curse is no part of this training, as you are undoubtedly aware."
His father smiled softly in an apologetic manner. Had his father actually attempted to make a joke? It may have been in bad taste, but he hadn't expected his father to be capable of joking. He shivered and chose not to comment on it.
"Therefore, your training had to commence a year later; now. We will begin tomorrow. This will not be easy, and you will come to hate this holiday; you have missed your first Yuletide training, which will make this even harder for you. For now, I want you to study this."
His father pointed at a book on his desk, titled 'The Heir's Heritage'. After a moment of silence, thinking himself dismissed, he picked up the book and walked towards the door.
"Two more things, son."
Only the fact that he had lived with his parents for twelve year allowed him to detect the faintest trace of humour in his father's voice.
"Your mother made it quite clear to me that she doesn't expect you to succeed. She hopes you won't, hoping that I will make your brother our heir. Prove her wrong, son."
His father was really acting strange now. He almost seemed normal. Almost. He nodded, and displayed a brief smile.
"Oh, and Sirius?"
He opened a drawer under his desk and grabbed a long and thin package out of it.
"Your reward, if you succeed."
He blinked. And suddenly, he saw writing on the package. 'Domini Caeli', a renowned and exclusive company producing unique, specialised brooms, fine-tuned for its customers; the rich and pureblooded elite.
He was six years old again. And he did something nobody, none at all, could have ever predicted; he hugged his father. But even stranger was how his father reacted; he hugged back. And that moment would live on forever in both of their memories. A moment of happiness, a father with his son, a child with his parent. A life-changing moment for both of them. A smile and a hug. A broom, even. But most importantly; acceptance. Trust. Peace. Happiness.
Grimmauld Place, 31 October 1981
"Krea - Father, you - The traitorous wolf, he - The Potters! Dead! Riddle is -"
A distraught man ran into a room, throwing the door wide open. Noble and cold, with its high walls made of cold, dark grey bricks, and its unlit chandelier up high. But also cosy and friendly, with its fireplace of dancing fire, casting cheery shadows across the room, and the luxurious chairs made from the finest dark wood, sporting a comfy cushion. A man of noble stature sat in this room, no doubt writing something important, with a quill in his hand and a scroll in front of him. A man, married, and father to two sons.
"Calm down, my son. We have raised you better than this. Do you gain anything by evocating incoherent statements, instead of waiting three seconds to gather your thoughts and speak calmly, in an orderly fashion?"
He spoke without looking up, the distraught man - his son, apparently - gasping for breath. After a few moments, having caught his breath, the son told his tale.
"Father, Jame - the Potters, they are dead! Riddle killed them, he must have, but - Lupin betrayed them! Us! They are dead! Murdered!"
The father looked up and slowly put his quill away. He stared at his son for a moment, in quiet acceptance of his ramblings. Then, abruptly, he stood up.
"We leave now. To Horace. Kreacher!"
An ugly creature - a house elf - appeared with a pop.
"Tell the family that we will depart. To Horace."
He added as an after thought, not even looking at the house elf, but instead, opening a drawer.
"Yes, master."
The house elf bowed and disappeared with another pop. The father pulled a small jar out of the drawer, and took some kind of black powder out of it. He threw it in the fire, which, oddly enough, turned green, instead of the usual red-yellow. Without looking back, he stepped into the fire and disappeared. His son hurried after him, saying words unhearable through the roaring fire.
Thus departed Orion Arcturus Black and his son; Sirus Orion Black.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 31 October 1981
They were in a dark, tiny room, in one of the many dungeons underneath Hogwarts. It was dark, dusty, smelly, and obviously, long since abandoned. When the two Blacks had floo'ed to Hogwarts, they had arrived in the elegant hall of white marble, where all eighteen floo points were located, as well as three portkey circles and a tiny spot not covered in anti-apparition wards. This was the only place where non-staff members could gain entrance to Hogwarts, excluding the main gate. But nobody who didn't inhabit the castle would enter it through the main gate; the trek towards it would take an hour or so, through unstable and arduous terrain, slowly losing its structural integrity thanks to an attack by Riddle in the past. Still, the land close to the main gate was prime ground for the students to entertain themselves.
The Blacks, in the Entrance Hall, called for Horace Slughorn. Moments later, his head appeared in one of the floo-fires, clearly annoyed at the late hour. It was, after all, night, and Horace liked to use the night time to brew potions, experiment, or research. As it turned out, he had been trying to 'dissipate the magic of a Stupefy spell, allowing it to cover a large area, but keeping its power just as focused and concentrated as a normal Stupefy spell - like a muggle bomb but less barbaric'.
Upon noticing the distressed look of Sirius and the intense gaze of Orion, his annoyance was quickly replaced by a sense of foreboding and, of course, curiosity. After a short greeting, the Blacks demanded to come over, and immediately walked into the floo-fire. Horace was forced to retract his head in haste. Upon arriving in Horace's office, the Blacks were shoved into the next room available - which turned out to be this cold and dusty room, resembling the hideout of a convict.
There, Orion told Horace about the death of the Potter family. While all purebloods liked to talk in speeches, Orion could be surprisingly to the point if the situation demanded it. This explanation, therefore, lasted less than a minute, and left Horace cowering in fear.
"But if even the Potter wards were broken - Tell me, Orion, what will we do now?"
The tall, aristocratic man - Orion - looked like a visionary, a born leader. Firm and steadfast, powerful and mighty, he was a nobleman, or even a king. A man with charisma and the innate ability to make others do whatever he wanted them to. He was, as such, a perfect example of a Black. Horace, meanwhile, had fallen into disarray and despair. Sirius sat in a corner, listening, too upset to properly comprehend what was being said.
"Riddle is strong. But the Black properties are safe. Consider, Horace. The Potters were alone, in a safe house - not in their ancestral home. Potter Castle is as good as impenetrable, especially with the aid of their family magic, but this manor wasn't. It relied almost solely on the Fidelius. On a traitorous werewolf"
He spat the last word.
"You are safe Horace. We are safe. Not only were the Potters brought down by treachery, it is my belief that, while not gone, Riddle is vastly weakened. The world will enjoy a decade of peace, more or less. But we mustn't grow complacent. You must assure this, Horace."
He continued, his tone becoming both warning and threatening. Horace merely nodded. Then, the full meaning of Orion's speech struck him.
"Wait, Orion, you mean to say... Riddle is gone?"
Hope shone in his eyes.
"Perhaps - I doubt it. But for now, yes. Something changed. I cannot pinpoint what exactly, but Pollux and Cassiopeia agree. The threat of Riddle is gone, for now, rest assured."
"What about Ja - The Potters?"
Sirius spoke his first words, still in apparent slumber.
"They, too, are gone. Forever. Pollux and Cygnus went to the Potters. Nothing is left but ash and scorch marks. The street is blown up, and quite some muggles are dead. And the residue magic - Pollux assures me Riddle is gone, albeit not forever."
"This is..."
Horace couldn't find the words to express his relief and gratitude. Sirius merely sighed, and sank back into his self.
The Potters, his friends - gone. His best friend, James. The sweet girl, Lily. And their cute son - his godson - Harry. Gone. He would have brought them back in an instant, if he could. Even if it meant resurrecting Riddle, too. What did he care? He wanted his friends. His first, true, proper friends. His only friends - the sole people with whom he could be his self. Gone. And with them, Lupin. Another one of his friends. A werewolf. They protected him, helped him, even. Everyone would have shunned him, bullied him - perhaps killed him. But not them. They, the Marauders, took him in. They were brothers. And this is how he repaid them? By betraying their trust? Truly werewolves are all dark and evil creatures. On some level, Sirius knew they weren't - but the wolf had just confirmed the stereotype. Luckily, he should have been carted off to Azkaban by now. The traitor. May he rot and die. His friend. Former friend. Gone.
And then there was Peter, poor Peter, his little brother. Wormtail, always so enthusiastic and adoring. Oh, he was a bit of a coward, but not in a bad way. He just preferred a stable, safe, and good life. And from time to time, he was a true genius, with extraordinary insights and ideas. Peter. The only thing left of the Marauders. He'd visit him tomorrow. His last true friend.
As it turned out, Peter, too, was gone. Where or why, nobody knew. But his house was empty, devoid of anything indicating someone living there. Perhaps he feared that Riddle would come for him too, after murdering the Potters. Perhaps he feared Lupin coming after him, the backstabbing wolf that he was. Whatever the case, Peter had disappeared without leaving a single trace. And so, in one single night, the Marauders had died. Some literally, others figuratively. But the Marauders were gone. The inseparable band of brothers, separated and on their own. The end of an era. And Sirius wept.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1991
In the headmaster's office, Horace Slughorn was busy filling out some paperwork, mostly about funding and materials necessary for the various courses Hogwarts had to offer. It was a pleasant afternoon on a calm, if boring day. After more than a decade of hard work, Hogwarts had turned into an unrecognisable school. And a much better place too, if the majority was to be believed. Of course, these reforms had happened gradually over many years, and it had happened years ago. But still, Horace Slughorn was proud of what he had accomplished. Well, the Black family, mostly, but Horace was the figurehead and headmaster of Hogwarts, so the public would look to Horace, and not to the Black family. He could survive without the Blacks backing him; he had lots of carefully cultivated contacts and influence, after all, but the Blacks had made his life so much easier, so much better... He liked to think of himself as an honorary Black. He was invited to most family gatherings, and was treated as an important human being - he wasn't a tool, certainly. But he recognised that his life could take a drastic turn for the worse if he ended up alienating the Blacks. Well, so long as he had his comfort, his stature, and his luxurity, who was he to complain?
Then, however, a loud 'BANG' made him almost fall out of his chair.
"Come in already. And keep the noise down, will you?" He grumbled, his peaceful musings rudely interrupted. He glanced at the door - ah, Regulus, the deputy headmaster - while lowering his head again, to file some more papers. Always the papers. You'd be surprised how busy the life of a headmaster could be, especially if that headmaster was Horace Slughorn.
"Sorry Horace..." He at least had the decency to sound a bit ashamed, Horace thought. "But, sir!" Regulus' former excitement came rushing back tenfold. And he only called him 'sir' if something was amiss. Horace sat up straight and tore his gaze away from the paperwork. "Look, here, this letter, the name!" He waved a letter in Horace's face.
"Now calm down please, Regulus. What is this hubbub about?" He catched hold of the letter Regulus was still frantically waving in his face. It was an ordinary letter, to be sent to the upcoming first years, informing them about Hogwarts - the school which they would probably attend, now that they had gotten their letter - about the necessary supplies they would have to buy, and a few other technicalities.
"Yes, I see, an ordi - ..." He froze. He had just caught sight of the intended recipient of this particular letter. Instantly, his grumbly, mildly annoyed demeanour were gone. Replaced by ice cold seriousity.
"Does Orion know?" He demanded.
"N - ..."
"Or Sirius?" He interrupted Regulus. Before he could talk again - he subconsciously noticed Regulus opening his mouth - he continued. "Have you informed ANYONE?" He spat out the last word, nearly roaring.
"No sir!" Regulus hasted to inform him. Good. He was sitting on a wild-hot dragon egg, as the saying went. It would hatch any second now. But he, of course, had the moral obligation to inform Orion, and especially Sirius. And this wasn't about to become his problem to worry about, oh no, that responsibility would go to the Black family. He sighed in relief, and sagged back in his chair.
"Come with me, Regulus. Use my floo. Orion must be informed. And Sirius. Poor, poor Sirius."
Life as a proverbial tool had its benefits - and while he wasn't a tool, he certainly thanked the gods for these benefits now. Let the others worry about the boy. Harry Potter. The boy, who apparently, was still alive.
Author's note:
As always, thank you for reading! I wonder what to say here, actually? I could explain a bit about the story and the direction I'm taking it into, if you want me to. But maybe people would regard that as spoilers. Funny thing is, it took me years to realise people didn't like spoilers. Personally, I do not play games or watch movies without knowing exactly what happens how and why.
But if you want more information or have a question, feel free to ask of course! Any criticism for improvement would be appreciated too - in fact, anything would be appreciated. And remember, updates will be slow. Glacially slow. Perhaps never, even.
Merry Christmas and a happy new year, too!