Part of "The Aevum Series"
By Nenya Entwhistle

This is dedicated to my betas Ziasudra and Lesameschelle.

Chapter Fifteen
Swan Song

The robes Albus is wearing are a bland beige color. They don't suit the image Harry was expecting, something bright and startling. Harry vaguely remembers what Albus used to look like, not just from his recent memories but from the past. The beige doesn't suit him, making him look sallow and sickly. Then again, Albus is older now and he looks less than his best.

His face is pale and his eyes are dull. It's enough that Harry manages to rein in all the anger that he wanted to unleash. After all, what good would it do to lash out at an old, worn man past his prime? But once the door is closed and it's just the two of them, even this sickly Albus cannot stop Harry from demanding: "Why? Why did you do what you did?"

Albus slowly moves his hand and gestures to the chair opposite of his own. "Harry, please sit down."

Harry almost doesn't. What good has it been to listen to his former Headmaster? It has gotten him here, stuck on a crossroad, not sure of whether he should go one direction or the other. It would be easier to stay in the muggle world. But a part of him wants magic back in his life. Even though he hasn't known to think about it for four years, just learning about magic again makes him realize he yearns for it. He wants to relearn it. He wants to know how it feels to have powers to do things incredible and unbelievable. All he needs is his wand and that's why he's here.

So he sits down, crossing his arms across his chest, and stares into Albus' cloudy blue eyes. He wonders if he should be the first to speak, or if it would just be better to wait and hear whatever is on Albus' mind. He has so many questions, and he doesn't know where to go after the first—

"Were you unhappy?" Albus asks, his voice gentle though tired. "I never wanted to make you miserable." He sighs and rubs his chest as if there's an internal ache that he can't quite reach. "You've had enough of that in your life. I—I thought I knew what was best for you, but I was wrong. But I don't regret what I did, and if given a chance I would do the Abdo Animus spell again." He pauses, his chest rising and falling a bit too rapidly. Albus is winded, but he shouldn't be. Harry knows wizards live for a very long time, and Albus is not that old yet. He still has years to live, and yet Harry doesn't think this illness is ruse. This isn't the first time he's seen Albus look a little peaky.

"You weren't in control of yourself then," Albus continues. "You would have made serious mistakes to your life and your future if you had been allowed to run away. The anger and darkness would have consumed you, but this time—this time it's different. I don't sense the same darkness in you anymore." He rubs his chin and looks around. "What color is the room?"

Harry narrows his eyes slightly. Why is Albus asking him such a pointless question? "It's white, of course."

Albus chuckles a little and then coughs a fit. It is a good moment before he is able to speak. "It's not white for me."

Harry blinks and shifts his eyes to the walls, which are indeed white—a normal color for walls. The only thing a bit strange is how the floor is white as well. "It's definitely white," he states.

"For me," Albus says, "it's a crimson red, so dark it's almost black. I think if you ask Severus what color he saw the room as, it would be a murky green."

"I don't understand."

Albus smiles a little. "The darkness inside of you is mostly gone. Some of it will always remain though. I'm sure your white isn't as white as white should be, but the fact that it is any shade of white to you at all means you aren't the same Harry."

That's exactly what Severus had told him. That he isn't the same; that he is different, and yet he doesn't feel like he's different. The memories, the flashbacks he has had, he doesn't feel like he's watching someone else. It doesn't feel like it's someone else that he's remembering. It feels like him.

But if everyone says he's different—even if he feels the same—is he then?

"We're glad to have you back to the way you were suppose to be if Voldemort had never marked you as he had," Albus says. "If only there had been no prophecy, I wonder how things would have been."

"It does no good," Harry snaps. Merlin, how easy life would be if he could just hate Albus. Why shouldn't he? He has every right to. It doesn't matter that Albus is sick and frail. What he did, what he's still doing, it's unforgivable. "This," Harry says sharply. "What you're telling me. I don't want your excuses or your apologies, I just want your reason—your honest to god reason without all this bullshit winding around what you've been doing. Talking about colors and nonsense like that. I demand to know why."

"Because," Albus says softly, "I didn't want you to end up like me." The hand rubbing his chest drops to his lap, limply. "I just wanted you to be happy, because you never were."

But Harry had been happy before, hadn't he been?

This isn't perfect, what they have is pretty dysfunctional, but Harry doesn't care. It just feels right to be with Severus, next to him with those thin, elbow-sharp arms wrapped around him. His head is resting on that bony chest, his lips scraping against a peaked nipple. Harry flicks his tongue out like a snake and licks the pinkish-brown spot. He senses Severus' eyes open. He just knows when the older man looks at him. It's all intuitive. Maybe it's their connection. Or maybe it's just their love.

Because he knows Severus loves him. The stubborn man might never admit it, but he does. He has to, to have allowed Harry into his bed. It was different before. They did fuck, but they never made love. Now all they do is make love. And he loves it, loves that. It makes him happy in a different way than he expected. It's not encompassing or glowing. It's something else, something calmer and gentler.

Who would have thought that it's been four years? Five actually, since Severus became his mentor, master. But they're together, have been for a good while, and Harry wants people to know though he knows Severus doesn't. What is he afraid of? Voldemort finding out? Harry trusts his friends, trusts that they would never tell and he's tired of having to hide his happiness. Having to hide his love.

He's just tired of hiding, period.

Harry is jolted with something akin to a shock when Albus' old, wrinkled hand touches his. He snaps back to the present and his eyes only take in the sight of Albus' worried, concerned face. It's such a contrast than what he expects. He wants more manipulation; it'd be so much easier to hate the man. But this—this middle ground is harder—and he just wants to hate him. And Harry does, a little bit of him does, but unfortunately he also understands. The eye can only peer so far. No one knows but the one under.

"But I was happy," Harry whispers. "I was."

Albus blinks and Harry notices a bit of liquid gathering at the corners, though it doesn't fall. It's stuck there and Harry doesn't want it to fall. He just knows he's never seen Albus cry before and if the old man cries, he wouldn't know what to do. It would be like Severus crying. It's simply not done.

"You had nothing to worry about," Harry says.

Albus reaches up with his hand and brushes away whatever piece of tear that was there. "I didn't know that."

"You shouldn't have."

"I still should have," he says.

A part of Harry wants to burst out laughing at anyone professing to know something that would have made that person hate him. Especially since that someone was Albus, who destroyed his happiness and took away the life he would have been content living.

It doesn't matter, Harry suddenly realizes, if Severus said he loved him or not. It was just enough to know that he does. But then if Harry thinks about it, he knows he cannot expect Albus to know everything. Albus might be the commander, and everyone probably thought he was all-knowing, but he isn't infallible. He's human and can make mistakes. This is one of them. The real problem is that Albus failed to recognize it sooner.

It's easier now not to be upset with Hermione and Ron. They probably just went along with Albus because—because if he knows everything about everyone, shouldn't he know what's best? But that's still not a good enough reason. No one should control his life, not even someone who thinks he might know him this well.

"You shouldn't have done what you did," Harry whispers fiercely. "You should have left me alone."

"You don't understand—"

But Harry understands perfectly what's going on. "You didn't know! You couldn't understand what was best for me! If you had known everything, then maybe you could have made a more informed choice…"

"Harry," Albus says gently and wearily, "I thought you were like me, but I was wrong. You're more resilient than I could ever be."

"What do you mean?" Harry blurts out, feeling like a child but too curious to hide it.

"After all that's happened to you in your life," Albus remarks, "your childhood, the Dursleys…" A cupboard underneath the stairs, cobwebs, and dusk—feeling unwanted and unloved. "…then Hogwarts, Voldemort, the subsequent war…" He never leaves Hogwarts, staying—always staying because that's the safest place for him. "…then defeating him, losing your memories and magic, my decision…" Burning rage at the thought of his memories and magic being suppressed. "…which was wrong." Albus sighs. "It was wrong for me to do what I wish someone would have done for me." He pauses. "I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"I know," Severus snaps, waving his hand impatiently and bending his head back down to his task. "Now can you leave me alone? I must grade these infernal papers if you expect me to join you in bed later tonight."

"I really love you."

"Harry…" he growls.

Harry knows he's going too far, but he cannot stop what's happening. It's like he feels alive again. All the burdens, even the darkness in him, cannot stop the life he feels. "I don't want to hide this anymore."

For a moment there's a deep silence and Harry's hopeful—but he should know better—life's never been great for him. "Leave, Harry."

Harry doesn't know what to say, do, or think. Somehow he had programmed his brain to not even consider the idea that Albus would apologize. That the old wizard was doing so was… more than surprising—shocking, unbelievable—sheer disaster. How can he hate Albus for doing what he wanted himself? Unless… this is all an elaborate manipulation. But sneaking glances, seeing Albus' dull eyes and pale face, do little to erase the fact that it was the truth.

"I don't think I can make you understand," Albus says, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a miniature bowl. "I don't know if you remember what this is anymore, but it's a pensieve. It contains all that I could not keep inside me. But sometimes I dip into it to remember again why I chose to purge them from my mind." Albus extends the pensieve to Harry. "You may want to have this for your own use. I have no need for it anymore. And…"


Albus places the pensieve into Harry's open palm. "You might want to understand the reason why."

But he doesn't want to, he doesn't. It'd be so much easier just to hate, to wallow in it, and yet he accepts the pensieve. He even stares down at the miniature thing, searching his memory for some trace of this bowl, trying to see if he does remember it. Vaguely he can remember dipping into one much larger than this one. Has this been shrunk then? They could just come in different sizes.

"Thank you," Harry whispers.

Albus nods and reaches into his other pocket and withdraws a wand—Harry's wand. Even before Albus hands it to him, Harry knows this is the right wand for him. He immediately feels the throbbing of magic residing in his fingertips. It's like he's been missing a connection and this is it.

"You're welcome, Harry."

"You stupid, stupid Gryffindor," Severus screams, his fists curling around the fabric of Harry's robes and dragging Harry's limp body toward him. This is odd, Harry thinks, looking as he is at this angle from over Severus' head. It's like he's a ghost. Actually, he looks down at himself—he is. "I love you, I love you…"

"You can't be dead, you can't, you can't," Severus cries hoarsely, his eyes a blazing red. "You weren't supposed to die. The protection spell—my protection spell—was supposed to keep you safe, alive." Severus bends his head down and presses his face against Harry's. "I can still feel you breathing, my Harry." His hands, long fingers, stroke Harry's chest. "Your heart's still beating, but it's not, it's not. It's not."

But it is. Thank god, he's not yet dead.

Severus is waiting for him when Harry leaves the Room of Requirement. The older man stands next to the wall, but not leaning against it. His arms folded across his chest, and his eyes as fierce as they ever were. Harry doesn't know what to say, but he lifts his hand to show that he got his wand back.

"So he did keep his word," Severus remarks.

"Did you think he wouldn't?" Harry asks, glad there's something to say.

"I have no idea what to expect from Albus anymore. Attempting to understand him does little good."

Harry bites his tongue. "I know you loved me."

Severus' eyes are hooded. "I never thought that was in doubt."

Harry digs his nails into his palm. "I heard you say you love me."

Severus' eyes flare open. "You couldn't."

"But I did."

"You couldn't," he insists. "You were dead."

"Then why am I still here?"

Severus lowers his eyes. "You should be dead."

"But I'm not."

"No," he agrees, "you're not."

Harry feels pulled to his body, but not strongly enough. He gets closer, can see Severus hovering and holding him, though he's not seeing from above anymore. He's below. No, he's in Severus' arms. But how? He was above before. Over Severus' head. Is this how he's still alive? Was he really dead?

God, oh god, the pain! It's excruciating. He feels ripped, torn, and shattered. He's broken. He knows he is. He cannot—he cannot be whole again. It's impossible. If his mind connects to his body, he'll die. He cannot take this pain. It would destroy him. And so, he shuts down.

His mind closes and the world goes black.


"I don't understand."

"No one does."

"But you brought me back," Harry whispers. "You had to understand, understand enough to know how to reconnect me. Pull my spirit, my soul, back into being again. I was drifting, I could feel myself wandering and I didn't know where I was. There was only darkness."

"I assumed your soul was separated when the Killing Curse struck you," Severus says. "That is how the curse kills a person, by severing the soul from the body. But your body, since you were still alive, somehow must have latched onto your soul before it could depart, enough that you weren't going to die, but that didn't mean you were ever going to wake up. All I did was reconnect you, and doing that destroyed your magic and memories because the curse was still in affect. It still had to sever something. And so it chose your mind."

"But you saved me."

"And I lost you."

Harry reaches out with his hand, but Severus backs away. "Don't. You're not the same."

"Does it matter?"

Severus lets out a harsh sigh. "Yes."


"Because you understood me before, and now you do not."

Harry fidgets with his hands. "So this is it?"

Severus closes his eyes. "Must I answer?"

"Yes," Harry says. "Yes, you do."

"Then listen carefully," Severus says, opening his eyes. "It's been over."

"And you don't love me anymore."

Severus doesn't answer.

Harry turns away and looks down the long hallway that leads to the front of the school. "Draco's waiting for me," he says. "I should go."

"Good day, Harry."

Severus hands him a portkey and in a minute he's sucked away. It's only after he's gone that he notices there was no good-bye.

He rocks back and forth. There was no good-bye for Remus. He never got to say good-bye. But he wants to. God, he wants to. If only, Merlin, if only he could go back and just do everything over again. See Remus one more time. Tell him how much he loved him: like a father, brother, family he never had.

Harry weeps in the quiet solitude of some secluded hallway. He cries because he doesn't know what to do, and letting the grief take over is just easier than trying to fight it. He's tired of fighting, of trying, of living.

Maybe he could just end it—but Remus—Remus wouldn't like that.


On the way home, some strangers asked him if he was all right. He just nodded and wiped his eyes. And he does it again, standing in front of his flat, rubbing his eyes and knowing that it won't do much good. His eyes will still be red, probably even more so. But he doesn't want Draco to worry. He's already worried enough.

Harry hesitates before he knocks on the door. He almost thinks Draco's been standing by it the entire time and it makes his heart feel both heavy and light when the door quickly opens. Harry smiles—and doesn't even have to try. He's actually glad to see Draco.

"You waited," Harry says.

Draco smiles and rolls his eyes, gesturing for him to enter. "I said I would." Harry nods sheepishly, feeling a tad bit embarrassed but not really knowing why. "So," Draco remarks dryly, "are you going to come in?"

Harry blushes and hurries in, stumbling over the edge of the doorway and Draco steadies him by grabbing his arm. "You're such a klutz," Draco says, but his tone sounds affectionate and so Harry doesn't mind. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am."

"How did it go?" Draco asks, almost tentatively for him. "With Dumbledore?"

"Not bad." Harry pulls out his wand. "I got what I wanted."

"Wonderful!" Draco exclaims and he positively beams. "Do you want to try a few spells then?"

Harry glances down at his wand, feeling the magic at his fingertips, glowing and warming his being. It wouldn't be hard for him to do spells. He just knows it in his gut. It's instinct that has him pointing the wand at a random object in the room—a book—and saying: "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The book flies and Draco claps. It feels good to have his magic back.

"Concentrate!" Severus snaps.

Harry is though, and he doesn't bother to regard Severus' words because he knows his lover is just anxious. This ancient ritual can be dangerous, but Harry feels the old magic accepting him, bending to grant his will. Just one more incantation and he'll have done it, conjured a serpent familiar of his own.


A dark green, blackish wisp of magic springs from the very Earth, summoning one to bind his magic to. Slowly, the power dissipates and clears until Harry sees a dark, midnight colored snake, long and slim, in the middle of the field. Harry almost hesitates when he sees his familiar. It is not as large as Nagini, so he only hopes that it is stronger.

He calls to his familiar since he has already conjured it and there is no going back: I call you, serpent of the dark, to help me learn the old ways, to bind my magic to yours, to become your wizard.

The serpent lifts his head and he seems to suddenly expand in size until he is much larger than Nagini. From behind him, Harry can hear Severus' harsh intakes and outtakes of air. Harry too feels his heart slamming against his chest. What has he gotten himself into?

Wizard the serpent hisses, slithering closer, none has ever called me and lived.

None has ever needed you as much as I have! Harry notices the ancient runes decorating the snake's spine, his name. Gwrtheyrn, let me serve you as your wizard. You will not regret this.

The serpent draws near enough to raise itself to Harry's eye level. What is it that you want, human? To call one such as I? For I can sense a light in you that is not yet tainted enough to do the magic that I would do. What did you call me for? To kill thousands at your command? Devastate cities? Or do you just want the old ways that have long been lost? Tell me!

I want you as a guide, an equal in partner, just as the old ways. I do not ask you to serve me to murder, to destroy, to do any such thing. All I ask is for you to teach me all that you know.

There are others you could have called, young man.

But I chose you.

Very well then, Harry Potter. The serpent snakes around Harry's neck in a restricting way that almost cuts off his ability to breath. You will be my wizard.

Harry hasn't seen anyone in a while. He sent Draco as his proxy three weeks ago, asking Draco to tell them to stay out of his life until he was ready to go back—if he'd ever be. It feels good to settle into his old routine, waking up early in the morning and scrambling toward the children's shelter. It is a little different though. He doesn't make his breakfast anymore.

Draco sends him something he makes every morning by floo. It's rather sweet of him. Harry often wonders what is going on between him and Draco, but it's easier just to think that they're really, really good friends than to even consider the alternative. Regardless, Harry sees a lovely spread of scrambled eggs and bacon sitting next to his fireplace with a protective shield around it.

He whispers: "Finite Incantantem."

The orb disappears and he picks up the plate. There are some things that he prefers to do by hand even though magic is back in his life. He still washes his own dishes and clothes, much to Draco's dismay. Harry can't believe that Draco cooks if he thinks manual labor is so beneath him. He shakes his head and digs in.

When he starts to clear his plate, he notices some strange inkings on the white surface of the ceramic. He pushes aside the eggs and bacon that he still hasn't eaten to read what it says: Dinner tonight at 7:00. My place.

Of course it is no request. It never is with Draco. It's always show up here at this time. But Harry doesn't mind. It's just who Draco is. If Draco wasn't a bossy, obsessively in control person—he wouldn't be him. And despite this—Draco can take no for an answer.

Harry dumps the rest of the food into the rubbish bin and starts cleaning. He checks his watch and he has 20 minutes to get to the shelter. He grabs his coat and starts running. Why is he always, always late?

"You're late," Draco says, sitting on the couch with his hands folded primly over his lap. "The parents came late to pick the children up again?"

"Yeah," Harry says, plopping himself down next to Draco and turning his head to the kitchen where he smells some wonderful food. "What did you cook for me tonight?"

"What makes you think I cooked it for you?"

"Because," Hary murmurs, leaning forward and smiling, "you're here in my flat and you have an apron on and I can smell the food."

Draco rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders carelessly. "So what if I just cooked for myself?"

"Then that would be very selfish of you." Draco raises an eyebrow and Harry laughs. "And that would be totally Slytherin of you."


"But I don't think you're that cruel," Harry remarks. "I am quite hungry and it is a Friday night… after such a long week."

Draco snorts. "I would think my job and my week have been more wearisome than yours. So don't even bother trying to put on a poor puppy face. You'll lose in any and every comparison."

Harry shrugs. "So did you cook for me?'

"Yes, you pesky Gryffindor, I did."


Harry likes Wednesdays, not because it means he's sliding closer to the end of the week or anything. He likes it just because it's Wednesday. There's no frantic attempt to start or end a week, it simply is the middle ground. He guesses he's comfortable with the between because it's where he always remembers being. When he was lost he remembers feeling shiftless, like a wanderer in his own mind. Then when he found his old self locked inside of him, he realized the true meaning of being aimless. And he's still stuck at the center.

And he's been living like this for three weeks later—

"Potter, don't you ever look where you're going?"

Harry snaps his head back the instant he recognizes the voice at the first word. What is Severus doing here in muggle clothes outside of the shelter? It can't be a random stroll down the street, can it? But if he is here on purpose, what could it be for? Either way, the circumstance is odd.

"I guess not," Harry mutters, looking down at his shoes because it's easier.

Severus narrows his eyes and cross his arms over his chest. "Obviously not."

Harry digs the ball of his sole into the pavement. "Is there a reason why you're here?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Severus declares.

Harry sucks his breath in. "About what?"

"About you and me."

But he already made it clear weeks before that there was nothing left. "But you said…"

"I know what I said!" Severus snaps. "You don't need to remind me. I've been playing the bloody scene over again and again in my head until it's driving me crazy enough to seek you out!"

"But you're the one that walked away!" Harry shouts, not feeling like he should be the one at fault—the one blamed for Severus' idiocy. "Not me! I wanted to try, but you said I was different and that I couldn't understand you anymore. You were the one who didn't want to try again, you wanted to move on."

Severus' nostrils flare and his eyes narrow into slits. "What was I suppose to do?"

"You could have stayed, like Draco did!"

"Unlike that creature, I have no need to cling to you for salvation and worth," Severus sneers. "If I wanted you, I would want you for you and only you."

"But you don't, do you?"

"I thought I didn't," Severus says softly. "But it's hard to forget about you. I've certainly tried. You are like an insistent pest that I cannot do without and… I do want you in my life. Though in what capacity remains to be seen."

"And you think I'll just open my arms to you again?"

"I know you will," he states. "You're Harry."

"And that means what?"

Severus' eyes flutter open. "You take in strays."

"Can you tell me more about magic?" Teddy asks in a soft whisper. "I want to know more, but I don't know who to ask. I'm afraid if I try to ask Aunt Pat, Uncle Victor won't like it. He'll call me a freak, I just know he will."

"My Uncle Vernon did the same thing," Harry confesses. "Don't worry about it. Ignore what the man says, I know and you must know too, that you aren't."

Teddy's bright, big eyes stare at his. "Really?"

"Really," Harry says.

Teddy sidles closer to him. "So will you tell me more about magic?"

"What do you want to know?"

"When do I get a wand?" Teddy asks, staring pointedly at the sleeve where Harry has hidden his. "And when do I get to learn magic? Will you teach me?"

Harry can feel the magic throbbing from Teddy. It's a wonderful sensation that he has never been able to feel before. But then he doesn't have anything to compare with his feeling of warmth he gets whenever he's with Teddy. It's kind of like the feeling Dumbedore gives him, and Severus and Draco to a much lesser degree. It almost scares Harry to think of how powerful Teddy could be, if Teddy is already as strong magically as he is.

But this Teddy, his Teddy would never, ever be like Tom Riddle.

"I think wizards born in the muggle world are restricted from owning a wand until they've received their Hogwarts letter," Harry says. "I have no doubt you will receive it. Your magic is so powerful, I can feel it."

"Does it feel like a drumming in your veins?" Teddy asks.

Harry blinks. "How do you know?"

"That's how I feel around you. Always have. It feels… nice," Teddy murmurs. "It's why I've always liked being around you."

"Not because of my charming personality?" Harry teases. "Or my atrocious chess skills?"

Teddy laughs. "You know what I mean!"

Harry grins. "But no one has to know if you use my wand to perform magic. I don't think the Ministry can trace a specific signature to wand usage. It's difficult magic, to pinpoint a wizard's aura, and the Ministry is full of incompetents." He withdraws his wand. "And I have no problem teaching you magic. I think it's better to learn how to use it so it doesn't get out of control."

Teddy smiles so brightly it illuminates his face. "Can I learn to fly too, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry says, "you can."


"Are you sure you're ready?" Draco asks.

Harry taps his wand to each spot at the entrance of Diagon Alley with a surety of motion. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

"It's only been a month."

Harry stops before his wand lands on the brick, which will open the floodgates. "Are you not ready?"

"What?" Draco says, his mouth almost hanging open. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you sound uncertain."

"I'm just asking you to make sure that you're sure."

Harry turns his head around. "We can wait another day."

"I'm fine," Draco states stiffly. "I'm just concerned about you."

"You don't need to worry about me," Harry remarks, his eyes drifting over the ancient lines that divide the muggle and wizarding worlds. "I'll be fine. I'm more worried about you."


Harry shrugs a little. "Because I care, and I know how difficult it is when people think they know you but they really don't."

"Harry, I…"

"You're different Draco, from what you used to show, but I think you've always been like this in your own way. Maybe you were just too busy trying to be Lucius Malfoy's son that you forgot to be yourself," Harry says. "But regardless, I think it's time they know who you are. Don't you?"

"Yes," Draco whispers in agreement. "I'd like that."

Harry smiles and extends his hand. "Ready?"

"I am." Draco threads his fingers through Harry's.

Harry touches the last brick with his wand and the walls vanish—and they step in.


A/N: Well it's over so those lurking (and reading) would you like to finally give me your opinions of how this effort went? And those that have along for the entire ride, thank you so much for being there for me! This has been a great experience in writing and I've definitely gotten some great feedback. There's a lot to say in this chapter, and I'd appreciate thoughts on details of this chapter as well as the story as a whole (just so I don't make the same mistakes twice in my next WIP).

There will be no sequel to this. There is a prequel (Snarry) which I'm working on, but it won't be released until after it's completed. My word count estimation is 50 of this length. However, I'm working on another story which will be release sometime soon as WIP like this one. So not really sure when the prequel serial will be completed. But eventually everything will get done.

Final word count: 71k started November 29, 2004.