Chapter 1


~The road of life leads ever on, but not always in the direction you want it to~

No one had ever accused Harry James Potter of being a level-headed individual.

Infact, they were far too often harping on about his Gryffindor-tendencies; that inescapable quirk of his which lead to him tripping head-first into plots upon plots of the malevolent inclination on a semi-regular basis, most of which involving breaking at least half of Britain's Wizarding Laws and snaking out of the mess by the skin of his teeth.

Or at least that was the drill until he had found himself quite outnumbered, quite captured and quite without a convenient back-door or allies in unexpected and often dubious places to get him out of it.

It had all started out fairly standard.

Just the run-of-the-mill mission; get a location, go in, blunder around, engage enemy, blow shit up, get into some kind of melodramatic hostage situation and be back and snugly inside Hogwarts Castle by lunchtime for Dobby's newest dread-inducing recipe. Well, it had been like that, if you took out the bit about 'escape' and confronting an approval-seeking two-sandwiches-short-of-a-picnic house-elf.

Not exactly the part he'd choose to stuff up; he'd prefer to skip the whole melodramatic bit, given an option.

But as he'd learned by now, his life was probably the big epic novel of the Gods (or whatever being(s) that had been high when the idea about his life was conceived) and apparently his daily quota of dramatic intrigue had yet to be satisfied.

Of course, the hostage situation had been a little iffy (the best hostage they'd had this time was some warty old Wizengamot member, and he hadn't been sold on risking his well-being for one of them) and he'd thought that he would have enough time to nip by McDonalds so he could deflect Dobby's well-meant but ill-conceived attempts to 'fatten him up' (like Poppy's nutrient potions hadn't worked like a… er, charm) when suddenly a cricket ball crashed through the window and beaned him on the head.

Yes, it would be some random kid that got him into this mess, wouldn't it? Not like he could go down defeating like a hundred and two Death Eaters in a rage-induced stupor fighting for the memory of his girlfriend who was just tragically killed in front of him by the Big Bad himself?

Of course not.

The only thing that saved the shards of his shattered pride was that it hadn't been the cricket ball itself that got him – it was the cricket bat that followed it. Or at least that's what he gathered from the snickering explanation of the guard to his obligatory dark/dank/gloomy/uncomfortable and lacking of hygienic appliances jail cell.

They must eat and breathe cliché's on the Dark Side – hell, he was probably right now in Lucius Malfoy's basement (although they assured him that the correct term was 'dungeon' he wasn't buying it) and they were waiting to finally kill him after they had all his closest friends lined up to go first.

Well, that had been what he'd assumed would happen, all those months ago when he was freshly landed in the snake pit of the opposite side of the war. Of course, he'd also thought he could pull a 'oh, look in that direction while I steal your keys and find an ingenious escape route and sneak past everyone in this place, would you?' moment.

Yeah, that plan was shot to hell when he had the epiphany that no, wizards didn't have keys, thankyou-very-much, and they were even less likely to open the door when food could be delivered via magic and cleaning was a matter of gesturing vaguely and stringing a few words in a funky language together.

Of course, he could argue that the torture had screwed up his proper thought processes, but well… he'd made it a habit not to lie to himself when he'd decided that everyone else was fair game – otherwise he'd never get the truth straightened out and where would he be then? So no, he couldn't blame his 'Goyle moment' on brain-twisting-pain, but he did blame it on his muggle raising and watching James Bond and other movies through the crack in his cupboard door. Was it his fault if none of them had taken magical hostages into account when thinking up witty capture-escape scenarios?

Of course, he had taken to introspection through liberal use of occlumency as his refuge from the pain – he could not do it all the time (unfortunately) or he'd end up trapped in his own mind much like Neville's parents – and that had resulted in at the very least a distraction from the cruciatus curse or (ironically enough) the absolutely foul potion that was designed to cure the effect of that Unforgivable (which he firmly believed was worse than the actual curse itself).

Other forms of torture to which he was exposed included curses that solely attacked his mind – it showed horrific sights of past or present Death Eater attacks, or whatever other sadistic thing they thought up which he would only realise wasn't real when he was released (at least until he figured out the trick of blocking them and confining them to a small space in his perceptions; kinda like a split-screen tv – he could see what they wanted him to see and react accordingly, but wouldn't actually be effected by it and know that it wasn't real.

Another of their favourites was having whichever snake they had found lately with a new type of sadistic venom that it produced bite him to see what effect on him it would have (due to the Basilisk-bite incident, he had found that he couldn't actually die from most poisons, but that didn't mean he didn't get sick or harmed) which usually meant endless days spent in delirious fever or arctic freezes, or anything in between.

Discarding the types of torture they subjected him to, and the long periods of unconsciousness, delirium, pain, weakness, bone-weariness, and pretty much everything else of the spectrum; Harry had at first still held hope to find his way out – he had friends, right? He had allies too – hell, even some inside Voldie's camp! If it were Ron or Hermione captured, he'd be breaking down the door and storming to place, screw anything else! But weeks passed, and then months, and he'd lost that naivety that he'd allowed himself for perhaps too long a time.

Going over memories with this newly-gained perspective had shaken him up and made it easier to ignore the torture for a good few weeks, due to his emotional turbulence taking up all conscious thought – how had he not seen that Ron was a jealous kid to a fault and had really only stuck by him for the fame and notoriety? How had he missed how condescending and frankly demanding Hermione had acted towards him? For that matter, how had he not realised that pretty much all the messes in his life could be traced back to Dumbledore? Er, three-headed-dog, guarding a world-renown stone in a freaking school? That it was a headmaster's duty to ensure the well-being of his students, and he surely would have noticed, oh, the really dark magic that would no doubt emanate off something as dark as a horcrux-spirit-thing that just happened to be in the back of the DADA professor's head! Not very subtle, is it? And for that matter, any proper educator would have had the students evacuate a school the second someone wrote on the walls in blood proclaiming that they would be killing half the student population! They also wouldn't just pat a student on the back and send him on his merry way after seeing a fellow student murdered in front of their eyes! Think of the psychological car crash that could cause?

Of course, the blinding anger was levelled by the reality of the fact that ok, he was being tortured at the moment and no, he didn't have any new ideas about slipping away even if it would be to storm Hogwarts to cut a bloody swathe towards a certain expert-legilimency-using Headmaster.

Although his torture sessions now gave him… ideas on what to do if he ever found himself in an opportune situation.

And don't think he missed out on the fact that his thoughts seemed to be pushed in different directions after meetings with said bearded decrepit man, nor had he skipped over the fact that there were pretty little strings that had stopped him thinking about certain things – like, oh, the fact he had murdered when he was an eleven year old! He couldn't believe that he had pretty much forgotten that, but now those little strings were out of the way… well. He was finding more and more little delicate strings, 'guiding' his thoughts in certain directions – like away from the fact that Dumbledore, as head of the Wizengamot, had a Duty to see that all suspected criminals got trials – funny how Sirius Black, the man that had been a likely candidate for legitimate guardianship for Harry, had just been locked away and forgotten about until his escape.

Not suspicious at all – as if!

But as all things, his burning anger had been guttered out through the torture; removed and relaxed while his thoughts turned to more practical things – survival – which had demanded that he come to terms with the current state of his life. In order to perform occlumency, he had to understand his feelings, accept them, and use them to his advantage – his potent and turbulent emotions were leant to the formidable barriers surrounding his mind, as he had found them to be his solution to the 'clear your mind' issue with occlumency lessons with Snape. When he finally cracked, broke into Snape's office and stole away with books on Occlumency, (and the snarky git had said that it 'couldn't be learned from a book' – utter bullshit) he had been in an almost blind rage to discover that there were perhaps hundreds of different ways of learning occlumency, and Snape had chosen the hardest one; the one that would cause the learner immense pain – and that was without someone already on the inside of your mind 24/7!

But enough of his road to Occlumency-aptness; the thing that he had been originally aiming towards was getting across the fact that he'd experienced pain. He'd lived in it; basked in it – all types and forms of it – for the last few months (possibly six, possibly nine) and he'd built up a formidable tolerance to it. He didn't have any heroic reasons for still being tortured – they hadn't even questioned him in any comprehensible way – their goal was clean cut, and it was obviously to make him suffer as much or more than humanly possible, to beg for death and more.

Which he had done.

He would defy anyone to go through what he went through and not wish for an end; not wish for release from a fleshy prison of stinging nerves, crushed and splintered bones, dislocated and ripped joints, vanished bones and burning poisons directed at confusing and harming the senses, melting limbs. Only to have it all fixed in the most painful and complete way possible (one sadistic muggle-wary pureblood had cackled gleefully while muttering something like 'putting Humpty-Dumpty together again') and be left with one day of reprieve; one day of exhaustion, one day free from the insane gazes of the Torture Division (as frightening as it was to discover Voldemort even had divisions) and gazing at skin that had been grown back inch-by-agonising-inch, free from any blemish that betrayed his experiences.

Bellatrix had nothing on those guys.

They had to be insane – he got the feeling that they did a lot of experiments on him just for the fun of it – painful experiments. The one that stood out in harsh reality in his mind to this day was the one that they had done to 'avoid another incident' as they had put it. That 'incident' may have involved his use of wildly uncontrolled and undirected wandless magic, which may have resulted in the explosion of three separate rooms, a library of books (all very valuable and unique), two dark artifacts stolen from the goblins at Gringotts and seven or eight stupid Death Eaters that had gotten in the way.

Would now be a good time to mention that he was extremely satisfied with that result?

Anyway, wandless magic had never been his forte – it was hard, it required the proper amount of motivation, and it was simple to just pick up a wand (or steal one) to get a better and more controlled result. Which is not to say he was incapable of it – 'proficient' would be a good term.

…Or at least proficient in using it to blow stuff up and acting like a person capable of telekinesis.

He had laughed and laughed, even through the vicious torture that had gone up a notch since the incident – until they decided to take precautions against it happening again.

Now, he'd already been in a cell that sucked out magic – ironically using his own magic to power the wards that kept him in – but they now had him in magic-sucking cuffs whenever he was to be dragged to the next torture chamber. Even so, he managed another explosion, although on a smaller scale, a few weeks afterwards.

That led to the experiment that still made his skin crawl and had him rubbing his eyes.

They called it 'taking precautions'. He called it 'refined sadism'. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened or how, but after that whenever he moulded magic, they would know. He knew it had something to do with his eyes – they would watch his eyes, and would know about any legilimency probes the second they were sent when before they hadn't even had occlumency shields.

They would watch his eyes and suddenly they were electrocuting him whenever he started moulding magic – something that still baffled him to this day, although he had stopped his blowing-things-up kick simply because the shocks would get stronger and stronger the more he tried – the last had him unconscious and electrocuting people on contact (something that he secretly enjoyed).

The reason he knew it had something to do with his eyes was also because that was where they had used the potions and focused a lot of magic on – magic that had his eyes bleeding and the corneas shifting and changing. Hurt like hell. In the end, he'd ended up with vastly improved eyesight (something he knew was not their intention) and apparently some kind of thing to tell them when he was doing magic.

He flinched as an icy hand rested against his forehead, and forced open his eyes to reacquaint himself with reality.

The same dank cell, the same metal bars, the same feeling of dirty magic hung in the air, the same feeling of depression and hopelessness that he had come to associate with a spell that had been threaded into the wards containing him.

Harry could feel the crust around his eyes, the dirt in the folds of his clothing, the dry blood under his fingernails, the desert-worthy temperature that had been the chosen torture device of the past twelve or so days.

His eyes slid groggily open, only to be met with oily black hair, a sneer worthy of a TD (Torture Department) goon and that sick little glint in the eyes that sent those unaccustomed into shivers of terror, flinching backwards and away with the instinctive predator/psychopath feeling of impending horror.

You could always tell a TD crony from the others by that telling light of madness in their eyes.

The man was muttering to himself, but there was nothing comprehensible to Harry in it. Suddenly, oily was grabbing his arms and pulling them together and clipping on the pitch-black magic-sucking cuffs. They had been raised up a notch, if the absolute and instant feeling of his magic draining out of his core like a bucket without a bottom was to judge by. They did that every once in a while – he wasn't sure whether it was his magic getting resistant to the affect or if it was growing, but they were now increasing the intensity of them every second week, by his count.

Harry could only wonder what they used his magic to do.

There were the four large and hulking guards that had been relegated the task of making damn sure he couldn't get away through physical efforts – kick a TD in the groin and run off a few times (only to be captured about a corridor away) and they decide they need 'muscle'. Or at least what counted as muscle in the wizarding world, which was really no comparison to weight lifters in the mundane world.

It was a dark corridor, the same corridor that he had been led down countless times before, still with the blood stains that had been the result of a rather zealous group of Goyle-guards before this one – would it surprise anybody to learn that the actual Goyle was a part of this? He thought not.

But there was something strange about this time.

Usually, the Goyle-guards and TD groupie would be throwing taunts at him and explaining in minute detail just what the TD guys had come up with this time to use on him.

It was setting off alarm bells in Harry's mind that they were silent. He could detect that they seemed to be wearing their 'masks', but underneath that they were practically vibrating with suppressed anticipation, although – and this worried him the most – there was also anxiety there.

They turned left, now moving into the heart of the Torture Division, easily divined by the blood stains that nobody had even bothered to clean off the floor – the whole corridor smelt of blood, pain, death. The blood of the victims of the TD coated the floor and in some cases the walls, left over from victims being dragged out of their sessions with the sadists.

Alarm and panic now wound itself through his head – this was bad. They were taking him… there.

There was a place of the most gruesome history in even the TD. Amongst sadists, there was only one willing to work in that room; only one. The screams that came from whatever happened in that room echoed, sent shivers through even the torturer's spines. Anyone who went in did not come out. Period.

Harry could see the door at the very end of the corridor.

It was a pristine white – the only such door that stood out starkly from the other blood coated and black-ish grey doors and walls.

Harry struggled, kicking the oily TD that held him in the shin only to be converged on by the four Goyle-guards. He dropped to the ground, refusing to move, scrabbling backwards.

The guards each grabbed a limb; lifting him bodily from the ground and ignoring his wild attempts at removing his legs and arms from their grips.

And suddenly the door opened, and there were two faces staring out at him.

One was a man with grey hair and a straggly beard, yellow teeth and eyes in which held only madness – nothing else. The other was a creature that Harry knew on sight – Lord Voldemort, red eyes glinting in eagerness and triumph, white features holding sadism that easily matched that of the man standing next to him that could only be the head of the TD.

Icy-cold fear – the likes of which he hadn't felt since the beginning of his months in hell – settled around his mind and slid down his spinal cord.

Whatever they had in store for him, he could only hope that it would end in death.


Harry found himself roughly strapped onto what could be compared to a flat operating table in a blindingly white room, harnesses coated in magic-sucking runes and all done up too tight and biting into his skin uncomfortably.

Voldemort, he knew, had retreated to a seat that was just out of his sight range, but even so Harry could feel the blood-red gaze fixed on him.

His clothes had been vanished (a regular process, so not all that problematic) and the grey-haired man had used an array of cleansing spells on his body. The air was thick with what he could tell was an enclosing ward, as well as an electric ward – aimed towards electrocuting any who would step past it without some form of pass that had been keyed into it.

He was desperately trying to ignore the absolute fear this situation had plunged him into – he could clearly remember the other times that so much extensive warding had been used, and they were the bad times – the times when some experimental potion for enhancement of some sort was being forced down his throat and felt like it was tearing at his insides. His eyes had been 'fixed' in a situation like this one.

The TD bastard's face appeared in his line of vision, centimetres away from his nose, an unholy grin upon his features, holding up what Harry had feared – a deep-green and glowing potion in a bottle, quite similar to the colour of the Avada Kedavra curse.

"Ah, my pretty, you have done very well these last few months!" The mad man crooned at him, as if he were telling lullabies to an infant.

Harry stiffened when one of the man's bony fingers ran over his jaw. He felt like some kind of insect was crawling over his skin – something dirty and unnatural, and he realised quickly that that was the feeling of this man's tainted magic, festering like a deadly disease as it coasted near his own depleted reserves before it retracted as the man withdrew his limb.

The man continued in his baby-voice and it struck Harry that Bellatrix had most probably moulded her own act upon this abomination of a human. "Ah, yes, you, my boy, have survived where none have before, and tonight will be the last step of making you the perfect disciple of My Lord, won't it? Yes, you'll know no other thing, and when they see you in a few years, they will break, and we will finally win against those incompetent baby-kissers."

He was chatting almost absentmindedly, appearing to be talking to himself more than the man he had strapped to the table. Harry's fear solidified as he stared in horror up at the mad man, revolted at the very idea and he spat out vehemently, "You psychopath! As if I'd ever work under Tommie Riddle! Never in a million years – I'd prefer to redo all this torture before I'd work for Riddle, and I want to do that much less than I want to die!"

A strange manic grin lit the man's face up as he blinked, his previously unfocused eyes refocusing on Harry and studying him like one would a piece of furniture or maybe a hunter would a deer, judging if it was worth the bullet that it would take to kill the animal. He crooned again, "Ah, but my pretty – that would depend on your idea of you – are you still you if you don't have your precious memories?"

Harry flinched and he felt himself go rigid at the implication that he would lose his memory at the end of this night.

The man was watching him with those sickly yellow eyes – but Hell No would he just let that bastard take away his memories! Who did the madman think he was? He was Harry-bloody-Potter, the Luckiest-Man-Alive (and lucky to be alive) – he'd lived and survived through too much shit now to just let this maniac come along and take his memories and life away from him! Who cares that he'd had a shitty life? Who cares that he had no idea what he would do if he ever escaped from Riddle's clutches? HE wasn't gonna roll over and let that arsehole take away his life!

He wordlessly snarled at the man, too angry for words and was rewarded with picking out the slight flinch that it caused in that man – that mad man that should not have been remotely capable of feeling anything any more, much less fear of a man that was thoroughly restrained and just about to become his next experiment.

Harry took that dark satisfaction and added it to his already formidable fog of mental defence – which had lately changed almost singly to types of pain.

The bastard mad man's eyes flicked over to where Harry knew Voldemort had positioned himself – in a front row seat to whatever was about to be inflicted upon Harry – and whatever Riddle had done, it caused the man to move forwards and uncork the bottle that held the glowing green substance.

Harry didn't even bother locking shut his mouth – it would happen eventually, and there were numerous easy and extremely painful (for Harry) ways to force him to take that damn substance, and the man also had all the time in the world – it wasn't like his allies would choose the next few seconds to show up after all the unbroken months of torture.

But there was one thing he could do – he had already used occlumency to draw his mind as far back from the surface as he dared, leaving only the most important connecting points. Whatever this was going to be, it would hurt like a bitch – that much he knew.

The moment the liquid hit his tongue, it burned. It burned what seemed like a hole through his throat and down into his digestive track, spreading through into his bloodstream and in turn around his body.

He was screaming from the very start.

This was the worst so far; this pain was to everything he had experienced before now as the cruciatus is to a paper cut – simply no comparison.

Liquid fire burnt into his veins, into his skin, into his very bones; tearing them and melting them and shrinking them.

The two in the room, as evil and desensitized to their own methods as they were, had to squash a reaction to the blood-curdling scream that was released as the effect of the potion started up.

Voldemort watched in fascination as the Potter's skin bubbled and blistered, moved and bones splintered and shrunk down, seemingly bending into themselves over and over again, reforming smaller than it was before.

The process certainly appeared excruciating, and he knew that this was the farthest they had ever attempted to de-age a person – anything more than ten years had ended up as almost husks of themselves, never with any memory of how their lives had been beyond the age to which they had receded – it was for the pure agonising pain, results of madness and loss of memory had this potion been classified as 'Black', and even in the time in which this had been registered was there nary a whisper of opposition – both sides had agreed that it was better left untouched.

Until Voldemort had found a use for it – find a strong wizard, no matter the side, de-age him, and you suddenly have a future fanatically devoted recruit to be moulded to your service and ideals. Of course, only he and Larov knew of this project; it would not do to have the Light made aware of what had happened to some of those wizards that had disappeared before he had even started his campaign. The individuals turned out of this method had been truly the perfect soldiers.

And now he had gotten his hands on Potter.

What better way to win than to make your enemy into the perfect warrior for your side? What better way to crush rebellion?

So he had had his Experimental Department give potions and whisper ideas into the minds of his Torturers, aimed at enhancing Potter while at the same time causing immense pain (there really was no other way, and he may as well enjoy it while he could, right?) and when it came time to de-age the brat, all those enhancements would stick with him, cleanly avoiding the possible rebellion that the child might have if he had had to force the painful treatments on him at that age.

Potter had even managed to keep his sanity – that had impressed him, he hated to admit. That he should be capable of coherent thought, despite the pain that radiated from his mind – so much that it obscured all thought from even his legilimens probes – and still be capable of replying to Larov? Simply marvellous.

Because of this, Potter was being de-aged far more than any of the previous subjects – he had always had a stubborn streak, and Voldemort feared that should he be over eleven that he would remember Hogwarts and all that he had no doubt been told to poison him against Voldemort in that first contact with the wizarding world. This child would not know that his parents had not died in a car crash – it would be likely he would even think Voldemort was saving him from his abusive muggle guardians, if his source was to be believed.

Potter was to be de-aged 16 years. He would be a mere child of six when he awoke from the potion's effects, and easily suggestible.

And before that happened, he would just have to enjoy his rival's pain one last time.

Ah, such is the demanding life of a Dark Lord.


Apparently, there was a limit as to how long one could enjoy watching as someone experienced their body melt and reform into that of a child's before becoming extremely bored with the whole situation.

Voldemort believed that it had happened sometime after the third hour, when Potter's throat had apparently been too ripped from continuous screaming that it gave out, and the only signs of his distress was the brilliantly excruciated expression, and the twitching of his receding limbs – having apparently ran out of the energy that had had him tearing at the restraints for the first hour or so. Which was probably just as well, as Potter was now too small even for the automatically adjusting restraints.

Of course, he wasn't about to wait around watching the pathetic thing that his rival had descended to when it had gotten boring, so he'd exited the room, gotten something to eat and drink, scared a few minions and enjoyed messing with Lucius' head for a few hours before the ward that he'd set up to alert him when the potion had finished its work activated.

He quickly made his way back to the Room, enjoying the respect and terror shown towards him by his followers along the way. Opening the door, he felt almost… exhilarated to have achieved this; this victory over his only true rival and opposition would be the turning point in this war. He would soon be able to crush over the rebellion. With no 'Chosen One' to lead them, the idiots of Britain would no doubt descend into chaos, making it all the more simple to rule them.

The door opened silently, and Voldemort was pleased beyond words at the small little boy with glassy green eyes sitting on the hard table, dressed in a simple robe that Larov had no doubt conjured.

Squaring his gaze to the child's, he was immeasurably pleased to sense the cloud of pain that covered his thoughts – this was exactly what the other patients had shown; the pain had wound through their mind, destroying memories and experiences as the mental strove to match the physical.

"Child." He purred, advancing in the most non-threatening way he knew how.

Flat green eyes blinked at him, and a funny expression passed over the boy's features. Voldemort moved towards the little boy, strides long and measured.

The child said nothing as his expression settled into confusion, just as Voldemort had known it would. The child's flat green eyes turned towards the ground, seeming to draw into himself.

This would not do. By this time, Voldemort was directly in front of the boy, and he reached out to place a hand underneath his chin.

There was no warning; no sign that would clue the Dark Lord into the fact that something had escaped him; that yet another of his plans had been destroyed by Harry Potter.

By the time that Voldemort was staring in horror at those eyes, it was too late to realise that in his arrogance he had only seen what he had been looking for.

By this point, the magic was loudly sparking and crackling through the room, finally unfettered by any kind of draining influences for just enough time for this impossible specimen to regain sufficient magic to prove a threat.

The warning that he had had carved into those avada-coloured eyes was staring him in the face, and it was the last thing that he would ever see.

For a split second, the whole universe seemed to narrow down to two people; one, a creature-like once-human who had attempted to cheat death itself; the other, a twenty-two year old in a child's body.

Someone behind Voldemort shouted out a curse, which brushed past the man but was unsuccessful in halting what they two in the room knew was to happen.

The explosion lit up the Malfoy estate, leaving it as a burning crater in the country-side.

No one was found alive when the Aurors showed up with a large strike force in reaction to the veritable explosion of magic.

The Wizards of Britain would celebrate, and the Mystery of the Dark Lord's Second Fall would tease many a generation.


Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I have neither the Time Machine or Writing/Drawing Skillz that would enable me to ever own the rights to either of these stories... :( Don't think its gonna change anytime soon.

WAAH! Admin ate my story, my baby! For something silly that I woulda changed!

So I will repost. *Snort*. So much for my 'I'm not gonna post again for a long while' resolution. Problem is I love my story too much to keep it to myself to hold any kind of resolution like that :(

To people who read my first version, I kinda... misplaced a chapter, or three, and you all know that chapters were too short etcetera, so the whole story is gonna be new(ish), cos I'm gonna be adding more details and changing some and generally improving (when I can be bothered). Yes, I'm mad (ANGRY FACE!) but I was kind considering taking the later ones and fixing stuff up anyway so... eh, what can ya do?

Old readers that have stumbled across my problem, I ain't changed a single thing about my first chappie, because it was the one I loved the most – but next chapter will be different. (wah ha ha) Ha, can ya tell I'm on the tail end of 11hours straight working on an assignment that I posted in by email at 4:35am? It's due in at 4:30pm, so SAFE! I only started yesterday too! And I'm either going to fail spectacularly or pass amazingly with my closing statement! Creative risks, yes – 50 points! Backhandedly insulting lecturers, and the format of the assignment on the whole, 100 points!

...Worth 60% of the mark for my unit... huh, big risk... maybe I should take a look back over it when I'm not suffering from over-exhaustion. You know, that happy place you get trapped in after you get too tired to sleep? That's where I am, right now.