A/N: Thank you for your patience through the slower first few chapters. The story should start speeding up very soon!
Chapter 4: Freedom and Stability
The old bathroom door creaked ominously as Dudley nudged it open, his small, round face peering into the gloom. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, hiding just out of reach of the feeble light that struggled through a grimy window. The air was heavy with the scent of bleach, a cold, clinical smell that seemed to whisper of secrets scrubbed away too hastily.
Hesitantly, Dudley stepped inside, the chill of the floor tiles cold beneath his bare feet. This was a place transformed; no longer just a part of his home, but a silent witness to something unspeakable. The memory of his father, large and invincible, clashed violently with the stark, sanitized room where he had met an inexplicable end.
His eyes, round with a mix of fear and curiosity, scanned the room slowly. It was too clean, too empty. There should have been some loud dramatic music playing, or something on the floor to suggest that his father had been there. Surely something this big, this important, would not be scrubbed away with bleach and a body bag.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, darted around the room again, drawn inexorably to the ordinary-looking trash can by the sink. Peeking from beneath a discarded soap wrapper was a slip of paper, crumpled and forlorn, somehow missed in the exhaustive sweep of the police.
With a mixture of dread and an inexplicable pull of duty, Dudley approached. His fingers, chubby and uncertain, reached for the note, pulling it from its hiding spot. He unfolded it with care, the paper rustling loudly in the oppressive silence of the bathroom.
"I am innocent."
The words were scrawled in unfamiliar, fancy handwriting, so unlike the neat but cramped rows of letters he'd seen on Harry's many torn assignments. It couldn't be Harry's. He KNEW what Harry's handwriting looked like after enough time destroying those papers. So who had written it? WHY had they written it?
The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows growing thicker, more daring as they edged closer. The whisper of his father's stories, of battles fought and enemies bested with nothing but a cane and sheer bravado, echoed mockingly in his mind. Those stories had always made his father a hero, a giant among men. But now, standing in the chilling aftermath of his death, Dudley felt the first seeds of doubt take root.
Clutching the note, Dudley took shaky steps out of the bathroom and onto the balcony. He had to show this to Mum, he had to. The simple, comforting world he knew was unraveling, and with this note as his guide, he was stepping into a dark, twisting path that promised to reveal more than he could have ever imagined. He would find out who wrote this note, and why, and then he would punch that person, HARD!
Then he would find stupid Harry, and punch him even HARDER! He would punch him harder than anyone had ever punched ANYONE!
With a deep, shaky breath, he took a step down the stairs, and then another, the note held tightly in his grasp. Dudley could not understand what was happening to his life, but he knew that Mum would understand. She always gave him what he wanted, and this would be no different.
Harry Potter stood in the maintenance closet of an office building, Swiss Army knife clenched in his right hand, struggling to extricate the painful splinter that had burrowed into his wrist the previous day. It was swelling with pus, and he was determined to remove the splinter and treat it before it became severely infected. He was uncertain about his next steps should the infection worsen.
The angle was awkward, so he headed to the bathrooms, navigating through dark, unlit hallways—it was the dead of night. A full day had passed since he had stumbled upon the sandwiches and beverages on the third floor. He had spent the day brooding on top of the toilet, plotting his next moves and regretting his carelessness on the tree. The splinter really hurt!
Reaching the bathroom, Harry used the mirror to position the knife precisely and sliced gently at his skin. He carefully maneuvered some of the skin aside and nudged the splinter out.
A wave of relief washed over him as a sizable brown sliver of wood emerged from the inflamed, swollen tissue. He employed the Swiss tool to meticulously extract the wood completely.
Harry gasped, relief mingling with residual pain, and closed his eyes, resting his small hands on the sink.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and screamed in sheer terror when his eyes reached the mirror.
A single thought flitted through his horrified mind, "Monster!"
He whirled around, engulfed by an intense sense of déjà vu, and felt extremely light-headed.
There was nothing behind him.
Dropping to his knees, he felt faint.
He felt as if he was forgetting something, like a dream vanishing from his mind even as he tried to remember it. He had seen something, something terrifying. But even as he tried to grasp at the memory, it faded until he could not remember what he was even trying to remember.
The ordeal of extracting the splinter must have taken a severe toll on him. He coughed once, his throat constricted, and mopped sweat from his brow. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he wondered if he might be suffering from a more serious infection. He wished he had more knowledge about infections to assess the severity of his situation.
His wrist looked dreadful, though it was not the worst injury he had encountered. Once, a harsh fall had left his knees badly scraped and infected. Aunt Petunia had rushed him to the emergency room after a strange green film had formed over his right knee.
He splashed his face with cold water and scrutinized his reflection in the mirror. She had not been pleased with him, to say the least. She had whined about how it would not do for a child to die of infection in their home, and that Harry ought to be exceedingly grateful for her kindness and compassion.
Just then, a man entered the bathroom.
"You shouldn't be in here," the janitor declared, his voice firm and his expression grave.
David Fletcher had known that something was off. He had seen the boy wander off into the distance, and he had known deep down that something was wrong.
The realization hadn't struck him immediately. At first, he had dismissed his concerns. However, the following day, he had been accused by the Levine Corporation on the third floor of pilfering four sandwiches, several Colas, and half a carton of milk!
David had immediately connected the boy to these accusations. It was the only thing that made any sense, though how the boy had entered the building, he did not yet know.
Something else had bothered him as well. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but there was something strikingly familiar about that boy.
That evening, while cleaning, he detected an odd odor emanating from one of the bathroom stalls. It smelled like unwashed clothing, reminding him of when his son would come home after a hard sports game. Curious, he investigated and found the scent was strongest above the toilet. The pieces hadn't yet fallen into place, but he suspected the boy's involvement.
Later, he discovered that his tools had been tampered with. No one ever touched his tools; he was the sole person who accessed that closet, and he was particular about their arrangement.
It was clear then—the boy had found his way back inside. Somehow, he was lingering after hours and wreaking havoc.
David contemplated that the boy might be in trouble, but he couldn't jeopardize his job over it. He needed to safeguard his remaining trust within the building first. He had to prevent the boy from further theft or trouble.
That night, after his wife had retired to bed, he had lingered awake. He had explained that he needed to attend to something urgent, and she had trusted him to take action and explain at a later date.
David had deliberately waited until late at night, hoping to either find the boy asleep or on the move in the open.
He parked a considerable distance from the office and stealthily approached the rear entrance, listening closely as he entered.
Inside, he found the boy in his maintenance closet, fiddling with his Swiss Army knife, apparently trying to remove a painful-looking infected splinter.
A surge of empathy washed over him. He watched as the boy headed for the bathroom, and for a moment, he considered leaving him be. He thought of his own son, Mark, at that tender age, forced to sneak into buildings just to scrape by.
The thought was heart-wrenching.
But then a scream—a horrifying, blood-curdling scream of terror—echoed from the bathrooms.
He bolted toward the sound, reaching the door just as the scream cut off abruptly.
Overwhelmed, David realized this situation was beyond what he could handle alone. This boy needed help—professional help. It was clear he had deep-seated issues that couldn't be ignored, and it wasn't safe to let him roam the office unattended.
Harry once again pretended to wander off in the direction the janitor had pointed, this time pretending to go towards the car that was supposedly parked on the other side of the building. He had no intentions of getting into this janitor's car, nor was he willing to lose the food source he had discovered!
Once out of sight, with the janitor still locking up the front door and watching him, he bolted.
He ran as fast as he could, curving in a wide circle, hoping he was quick enough that the janitor wouldn't see him dart into the trees. He pushed himself as hard as he could, stumbling occasionally over fallen tree trunks and large stones.
Eventually, Harry tired and glanced back through the forest in the direction he had come, but saw no sign of the janitor following.
He walked as quickly as he could for what felt like an hour, venturing deeper and trying his best not to trip in the dark forest. He had no light, and could barely see where he was going, but the moonlight provided just enough illumination to guide him.
Eventually, he felt he was far enough away to take a break and rest. He decided not to go back to the office building for a few days, and when he did, he knew he needed to be more cautious.
Harry formulated a plan. The office was probably closed on the weekends, giving him plenty of time to figure things out if he could get inside then.
David Fletcher had anticipated that the boy might flee. He knew the boy wouldn't just trust him and walk to the car. Still, something inexplicable had made David lock the front door while pointing the boy in that direction.
He watched the boy's movements and saw the wary calculations in his eyes. The boy was a poor liar; it was clear to David he was planning to run.
Perhaps he had subconsciously allowed him to escape. If so, it wasn't a conscious decision. Perhaps, deep down, David had let him go because the thought of his own son in such a situation was too painful.
"He will be back," David thought with a shake of his head. "I accomplished nothing here. It was foolish to let him go. The boy needs help."
Harry had figured out that the weekend was in two days, giving him plenty of time in the office building to sort things out and find a better hiding spot. The problem was accessing the building; it would likely be locked all weekend, and trying to get in now might lead to him getting caught.
He decided to sneak in the usual way by wedging his stick in the door following one of the employee's distracted entrances to the building. He would then unlock a couple of windows on the first floor. By simply unlocking them without opening them, he hoped they would remain unnoticed and unlocked until he needed to use them.
That Friday, just after midnight, a small child emerged from the forest and surveyed the empty parking lot. Not a single car was in sight.
Harry grinned to himself and sprinted to the first window he had unlocked on the left side of the building. As he had hoped, it was still unlocked!
He slid the window open and climbed inside. The office was cool and dark, and he quickly made his way to the lobby.
Over the next two hours, Harry searched for potential hiding spots. There was no basement, only a maintenance closet and an electrical closet housing a large metal box—likely an air conditioning unit.
He considered the electrical closet as a possible hiding place, but he reasoned that if anyone suspected he was in the building, it would likely be one of the first places they'd check.
Then, his thoughts turned to the roof. There was a ladder on the third floor, leaning against the exterior near the far right window. His main concern was being seen while using the ladder.
Deciding to take the risk, he cautiously opened the window, stepped onto the ledge, and gripped the rusty ladder with both hands, pulling himself up. He quickly climbed onto the roof's edge, and then onto the roof itself.
The roof was large, flat, and white, with a raised edge encircling its expansive perimeter. The area was dotted with several large fans within box-like structures, their purpose unclear to him. The surface was unexpectedly soft and foam-like, making it surprisingly comfortable to walk on or even sleep on if he wished.
After considering his options, he retreated to the third-floor office. While it was more secure than a tree, it was still not ideal.
He spent the entire weekend scouring every open office desk, searching desperately for anything useful.
Towards the end of his search, he struck gold. Two offices on the second floor had been left carelessly unlocked. In the furthest of the open offices on the right side, he discovered a large wooden desk filled with drawers. It was clearly a secretary's desk, cluttered and surprisingly disorganized. One of the bottom drawers had been full of trinkets, staplers, pens, paper clips, and ink cartridges. In the very bottom of the drawer underneath the junk, Harry had found not one, but four spare key cards! Harry had tested two of the keycards, and they had worked perfectly.
He had opened, explored, and then locked the rest of the offices, looking for anything else of interest. He hadn't found much else of use to him.
Now, Harry had the freedom to spend his days elsewhere and return at night to eat and sleep.
The relief he felt was immense.
He had then proceeded to wash his body as well as he could in the sink in the first floor bathroom. The hand soap he had used smelled strange when used on his entire body, but Harry hadn't minded. He smelled clean, and although he still had a little soap in his hair, Harry could not have predicted in advance how good it would feel to be clean and smell fresh again.
The weekend passed in a blur of exploring, eating, thinking, and playing. He had created a game using the items he had found in the secretary's desk drawers. He had imagined the stapler as a giant war machine, and the ink cartridges as tanks. He had spent over an hour moving his pawns around the floor, imagining a great battle between two armies.
The rest of the weekend passed in a whirl of exploration, feasting, and planning. By Monday morning, he was equipped with a plan and a renewed sense of hope.
If Harry had looked more carefully, he might have discovered an old photograph in one of the closets on the third floor of the large office, a closet filled with boxes of old documents. He had been in that very closet, searching for useful "stuff," but he hadn't sifted through the documents. Had he examined the photograph closely, he might have noticed a smiling couple shaking hands with a few businessmen and women, all radiating joy. The woman had vibrant red hair and bright, emerald green eyes, holding a smiling child on her hip. The man beside her had messy black hair and hazel eyes. Next to the young couple in the image was another man with a notably odd left eye and a grizzled, rough appearance, wearing a strange, worn cloak and looking alarmed and wary.
However, he had not seen the picture, and even if he had, he probably would not have grasped its significance.
The man in the image had that strange eye staring directly at the camera, and it almost seemed to pierce through the photograph itself.
Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody marched purposefully through the imposing corridors of Gringotts, headed for the office of Krelnok, the goblin in charge of his vaults. Krelnok was a goblin of slight stature and sharp intellect, known for his disdain towards humans—a trait all too common among his kin, yet in him, it seemed more pronounced. Despite this, those few humans who had managed to earn his trust found his counsel invaluable.
Krelnok was ancient, even by goblin standards. Rumor had it that he'd lived through the last goblin rebellion, though he'd never confirmed such tales to Moody. Nonetheless, Moody trusted him—not out of naivety, but because he held a secret over Krelnok that ensured mutual cooperation.
Reaching the solid stone door of Krelnok's office, Moody knocked softly, his knock barely audible. Yet, the door swung open promptly, revealing Krelnok standing there, his sharp, predatory smile greeting the grizzled auror.
"Come in, old friend. A drink perhaps?" Krelnok offered in a voice smooth as silk, his teeth glinting like knives.
Moody, his magical eye whirring, entered without a word, scanning the room with a wary alertness. "I need to open a new vault," he declared, his tone brooking no argument. "I've got a substantial shipment coming, and it needs to be kept separate."
Krelnok, perched in an oversized chair, steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing. "Two percent, my friend?"
Moody's scoff filled the room. "One percent, Krelnok. Remember, I could take my business elsewhere, even to the muggles. They don't charge me, and I even earn a handsome amount if I put it into the right muggle places"
A hiss escaped Krelnok, his voice cold as ice. "Muggle wealth is ephemeral, built on sand! Every last bit of their wealth is unstable, unbacked, and unsafe! But if you insist on discounting, so be it."
Their negotiation was cut short by a sudden, distant echo, as if the very walls of Gringotts whispered of unrest. Krelnok's demeanor shifted as he stamped a scroll which opened an account for the grizzled man. Krelnok looked around, his eyes darkening. "Since the break-in, our esteemed bank's reputation has bled like gold dust through human fingers. I cannot let this slide, Moody. What would it cost to have you hunt down these thieves?"
Moody's eye continued its vigilant sweep, paranoid at the strange clang that had echoed through the walls of the bank. The silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke, "What's the bounty?"
Krelnok leaned forward, intensity burning in his gaze. "Two hundred thousand galleons, should you bring them to justice."
Calculating swiftly, Moody knew it wasn't enough—not for the risks involved, not for the distraction from the project he'd been pouring every Knut he earned into. It would take time and energy, which he needed in order to finish in the next decade. But before he could respond, a sudden, sharp shrill sliced through the tense air. Reaching into his robe, Moody pulled out a small, worn leather book. Its pages, seemingly blank, flickered under his thumb as he pressed it onto the center of the page, and secrets written in minuscule script revealed themselves to his enchanted eye.
Krelnok watched Moody, trying to read what was now on the small pages, but he knew better than to think that Moody would slip up. It was obviously written using a method that only his magical eye could grasp.
After absorbing the contents, Moody snapped the book shut and met Krelnok's gaze with a firm resolve. "I have bigger and better things to attend to at the moment. I can't commit to this bounty right now."
Krelnok reacted with a look of anger, dark eyes flashing with an inner rage. "What could be more important than finding the only thieves to ever break into the most secure magical bank in the world?! Do you not understand the implications here?!"
"I understand well, Krelnok. But you underestimate the games that I am playing. There are other exciting jobs I can take on, with much less risk" Moody was watching Krelnok carefully as he spoke, as if measuring the goblin.
"I gotta go, I have an urgent matter to attend to. You know how to reach me, old friend"
With that, Moody twisted and disappeared with a sharp pop, leaving Krelnok to stew in his own frustration and desperation. The goblin knew Moody's abrupt departure was a strategic move, meant to force a sweeter deal upon their next negotiation. Krelnok sighed, resigned to the chess game they played, his mind racing through the "Dark Book of Wizards and Witches For Hire" for another capable, yet trustworthy candidate. No easy task, considering the caliber of those listed.
Krelnok sank back, his mind racing. He had scoured the "Dark Book of Wizards and Witches For Hire," yet found no suitable candidates unmarred by darkness or deceit. Whoever he chose needed to be capable of retrieving what was lost without succumbing to the temptation of Gringotts' hidden secrets, which Moody would definitely discover if he hunted the thieves.
Krelnok knew how Moody worked, and it was likely that Moody would be a liability when he discovered what the thieves knew. Yet it mattered little if the thieves were not found. He would exact a magical promise from the retired auror in the end, and all would go back to relative normalcy. It would take time to trust Gringotts fully again, but time was something Goblins had a lot of.
As he pondered his dwindling options, a knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie. "Enter," he called, his voice calm and emotionless as always.
The door opened to reveal a figure cloaked in dark blue, an aura of formidable power radiating from his presence.
Krelnok did not want to get him involved, but if Moody was not willing to be reasonable, maybe this could work instead.
On the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole in Devon, England, a large home called The Burrow stood defiantly against the encroaching chill of winter, its appearance as charming as it was chaotic. Originally a large stone pigpen, the structure had morphed over the years through the whimsical addition of rooms that jutted out at odd angles. It now reached several stories high, each level slightly more askew than the last, looking as though it were held up by magic—which, of course, it was. Atop the mismatched construction, four or five chimneys perched precariously on the sloping red roof, puffing out warm, fragrant smoke that mingled with the frosty air.
Near the entrance, a lopsided wooden sign, inscribed with the words "THE BURROW," wobbled slightly in the icy wind. Around the front door, a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron lay scattered, evidencing the busy, bustling life within. Several fat brown chickens pecked at the frozen ground, occasionally darting away as a gust of wind scattered frost from the nearby bushes.
The land around the Weasley's home braced itself against the inevitable deep freeze, the air growing sharper with the bite of the approaching cold season.
In stark contrast, the Burrow itself exuded an aura of warmth and lively chaos. Its walls, though worn and weathered, glowed with welcoming light from within, the windows casting pools of golden warmth onto the frosty ground outside. Inside, the air was rich with the comforting scents of Mrs. Weasley's cooking—freshly baked muffins and the rich, spiced aroma of a hot supper drifted through the air, weaving a spell of domestic warmth that seemed to hold the harshness of the winter at bay. Inside, laughter and conversation filled the cozy, cluttered space, where every nook was stuffed with homemade trinkets and the walls were lined with pictures that moved and murmured in a comforting drone.
As the house settled into the quiet of the night, the family slept, tucked under knitted blankets that smelled faintly of lavender and chocolate.
However, as the clock chimed deeply into the night, a sinister undercurrent disrupted the peace. Scabbers, the family's aging rat with a shabby, patchy coat, moved stealthily through the shadows and wriggled out of his cage, which sat in a dimly lit corner of a cluttered third-floor bedroom. He jumped to the floor without any sound, and darted to the corner, head watching the snoring children, ensuring that nobody had seen him leave the cage. His tiny, gnarled paws padded softly against the wooden floor as he navigated through a maze of scattered toys, clothes, and books that cluttered the third-floor bedroom, making his way toward the door. His movements were cautious and deliberate as he darted through the shadows, creeping silently across the wooden floorboards.
Scabbers made his way to the staircase, his tiny claws barely making any sound as he descended the creaky steps by leaping onto the worn wooden railing. He hopped deftly down the banister to the bottom, pausing occasionally to swivel his ears and ensure the coast was clear. Reaching the ground floor, he scurried along the wall until he reached a small, nearly imperceptible hole by the main floor banister—a secret passage known only to him.
Slipping through the gap, Scabbers entered the narrow, cramped space between the floorboards. Here, the atmosphere shifted; the air was cooler and musty, filled with the smell of old earth and the faint, lingering scent of magic that seemed to permeate the very foundation of the home. He maneuvered through this hidden labyrinth with ease, passing under the messy kitchen area where the remnants of dinner still hung in the air above.
Scabbers paused for a moment and took a deep snuffling gulp of air, relishing the smell of delicious food. He desired to climb back up and grab a quick bite for the road, but a moment later he shook his little head and darted forward.
His path led him under a large block of stone that formed part of the house's quirky foundation, the space around him dusty and filled with the forgotten detritus of years past. Spiderwebs clung to the joists, and the dirt was packed hard from time and neglect. Pressing forward, Scabbers squeezed through a patch of old, torn insulation, the fibers brushing against his whiskers as he pushed on.
Finally, he emerged from the confines of the Burrow, popping out into the cold night air, where the contrast between the warmth he had left behind and the biting chill of the outside world was immediate and stark. The house, with its lights and laughter, seemed a world away as he stood there, poised on the edge of a darker journey.
The transformation from Scabbers to Peter Pettigrew was grotesque under the cold moon. Fur melding into pale, grimy skin, limbs stretching, and bones cracking. In the dim moonlight, he emerged, his appearance gaunt and unsettling. His yellow teeth, particularly the large, protruding front teeth, shone eerily in the night, and his eyes, quick and shifty, scanned the surroundings with paranoia. Clutching his wand, he muttered an incantation and vanished with a sinister crack.
As Peter Pettigrew reappeared, he found himself on the edge of a desolate, jagged cliff edge above dark ocean water. The ocean before him was a tumultuous expanse of dark, roiling waves that crashed violently against the jagged cliff face. Each wave surged with relentless force, throwing up sprays of cold, salty water that tasted of the ocean's deep, unforgiving nature. The sound was overwhelming—a constant, thunderous din that mirrored the turmoil in Peter's own heart.
Above, the night sky was clear, revealing a canvas of cold, twinkling stars. For a fleeting moment, Peter's eyes lifted to meet the celestial spectacle, his gaze momentarily lost in the vast, unending universe. The stars shimmered coldly, tiny white diamonds against the black expanse of space. Peter hated the stars, for the stars meant freedom, and he had not yet found a way to make himself free.
Turning his attention back to his mission, he faced the cave that loomed ominously before him. Its entrance was framed by jagged rocks, overgrown with thick moss and tangled vines that clung stubbornly to the damp stone surfaces. The cave mouth was like the maw of some great beast, wide and gaping, ready to swallow any warmth or light from the world outside. As he approached, the sound of the ocean seemed to grow even more oppressive, the waves' crash resonating deep within the cavernous opening as if the sea itself was breathing—inhaling the cold night air and exhaling a mist of sea spray and despair.
With each step towards the cave, he felt the temperature drop, the air growing damper, and the scent of moss and wet earth becoming more pronounced. The vines brushed against his robes, leaving damp streaks on the fabric, their touch cold and slightly clinging.
Stepping inside, the cave's atmosphere was damp and oppressive, the air thick with the scent of brine and decay. Stalactites hung from the low ceiling like the fangs of some great beast, dripping cold, salty water that pooled on the uneven ground. His footsteps echoed, small splashes punctuating the eerie silence as he approached the center of the cave. Here, a cauldron sat bubbling over a fire that blazed with an unnatural purple hue, casting ghastly shadows that danced along the moist walls.
The potion within the cauldron was a vile concoction, a swirling abyss of decay and death. Old bones, stolen from graves, floated to the surface, wrapped in tendrils of a thick, murky substance that seemed almost alive. Peter, humming a discordant tune, reached into the depths of his robes to withdraw items he had collected for this purpose. Each object—a twisted bit of root, a shard of bone, a lock of hair—was dropped into the bubbling stew, sending ripples through the concoction.
As he stirred the potion, his voice, raspy and low, sang a mantra of perfection and patience. "It must be done perfectly," he would whisper every few minutes to the shadows, "I must take my time, he said to take my time to do it PERFECTLY." Leaning over to inhale the potion's noxious fumes, he recoiled slightly, a grimace of disgust fleeting across his face before it settled into a look of grim satisfaction. "Getting closer," he muttered to himself, his voice a blend of determination and fear as the ocean continued to rage outside, the sound of waves crashing in the darkness like the drumbeats of an ancient, endless war.
He was getting closer to freedom, he could feel it.
A/N: This should be one of the last slower chapters, and I should be speeding things up a little from here. Keep in mind that I like stories that build, and I am hoping to make this a long one. If you have any suggestions, tips, corrections, or even wishes, definitely let me know! I can't promise I will listen, but I still appreciate every comment!
Also, I will be posting on my profile when updates are delayed, when they are almost done, and when things are coming out, so feel free to check there if you are waiting a while.
