Summary: (Sequel to "The Price of Wisdom". Harry Potter/APH crossover) As conflicts in the wizarding community come to a head, Voldemort will stop at nothing to have Kirkland in his clutches, just as Harry will stop at nothing to see the Dark Lord dead.

Once more, if you're looking for romance, this fanfiction isn't really the place (besides the brief mentions of some cannon HP pairings and PERHAPS a tad bit of Ukranada/Cankraine. Once more, if you're not a fan of this pairing, don't worry, it's doubtful if it'll show up more than once, and not for a loooonng ways into the fanfiction).

Rating: T. Pretty solid T.

Disclaimer: The characters and plot of Harry Potter and Hetalia belong to their respective owners. I only own the fanfiction.

Without further ado, here we go! (And I apologise that this isn't the most... engaging first chapter. Bear with me ^^; )

Harry

Harry James Potter sat slumped against his window, his left cheek pressed flat to the fogged glass. A mixture of moonlight and streetlight filtered through the window to play lightly across his face in pale shapes. Snores echoed throughout the room from the epicentre of his agape mouth, and a thin line of drool had leaked onto the pane of glass, leaving behind a snaky streak of saliva. The sedating effects of sleep and the lack of an audience abolished any shame the boy might've felt for his current state of unattractiveness, had he been awake.

The room itself was a mess, customary of any stereotypical teenage boy. Rubbish was strewn across the floor in the form of bits of parchment, sweet wrappers, open books, a bottle of broom-handle polish, and a set of robes that had grown much too small for him over this past summer. There were newspapers too, almost all of them issues from the Daily Prophet, with only a few muggle additions added to the chaos. Headlines reeking of chaos and calamity screamed from every corner of the bedroom.

"Scimgeour Succeeds Fudge." A fitting choice, it seemed, and the success of such a candidate was hardly remarkable. What could be more obvious than the former Head Auror from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Indeed, it was the obvious choice for these approaching war-like conditions, but was it the best one? Harry wouldn't know. He'd never personally met the man, or even heard of his name until now. For now, he was a wild card, and Harry didn't possess enough interest to decipher the new Minister too deeply. Muggle politics gave him a headache as it was, and he was completely incompetent with the intricacies of the magical-political spectrum.

"Muggle Football Stadium Collapses, Foul Play from Death Eaters Suspected." Sad... Luckily the survivors and the unscathed far outnumbered the casualties. Such tragedies only tightened Harry's resolve though. This had to stop.

"Harry Potter, The Chosen One?" Unfortunately, Ministry reporters were beginning to catch on to the significance of Voldemort's attempted raid in the Department of Mysteries. 'Just Harry's luck in action.

"Ministry Guarantees Hogwarts' Students' Safety." Well, let's hope... The Ministry didn't exactly have the greatest past of being genuine in their assorted claims and promises.

Near his open trunk a purple pamphlet lay on the floor, titled with bold, gold letters. "Issued on Behalf of the Ministry of Magic. PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES." The leaflet was a load of mostly useless instructions that wouldn't do anyone much good when coming face-to-face with a mob of Death Eaters, but Harry had kept it nonetheless.

It seemed that the British wizarding world had most definitely degenerated into a state brinking on the cusp of open warfare. Indeed these were troubled times, and so far it seemed to be set to worsen before there would be so much as a prayer of improvement. Voldemort's rise to power, crimes and disasters targeted against those associated with non-magical folk, the re-emergence of living anthropomorphic countries... So much had happened in the last school year alone, and thus far the summer was proving that the next year would be just as if not more eventful and violent.

The clutter in his room was only to be expected, but Harry had a bit more of a reason to be tidy today. Supposedly, Dumbledore would be dropping by tonight to pick him up and drop him off at the burrow. He'd received a letter from the Headmaster three days ago... And yet, Harry had abused the task of cleaning and packing. A part of him just couldn't believe it. Why cement his hopes only for them to come crashing down later when Dumbledore failed to show? And so, Harry had delayed.

He should've known that Dumbledore wasn't one to dally from set appointments.

A flicker from a streetlamp, a ring from the doorbell, and the bellow from his uncle's baritone vocal chords was enough to rouse Harry. After swiftly unsticking the skin of his cheek from the window, Harry feverishly began piling items into his trunk at random. His glasses had been knocked askew and were barely hanging on by the lobe of his right ear and the bridge of his nose, but he was in too much of a rush to bother adjusting them. In a display that was as equally regal as it was impatient, Hedwig fluttered her massive snow-speckled wings and clacked her beak at him from within her closed cage. Fortunately, Harry needed no reminders from his owl to know that he had to hurry; that bit was a given.

Uncle Vernon's booming demands of "who the hell would be calling at this hour?!", and "who the ruddy hell are you?!", came charging up the stairs to ring in Harry's eardrums. Dumbledore's calm and collected replies were barely audible in comparison. The sounds gave Harry pause, and he abandoned his last-minute attempt at packing in favour of listening, half-amused and half-panicked. ...Thinking back, he probably should've informed his relatives of the possibility of Dumbledore's arrival. It was a shame that he was realising this only now, when it was too little, too late. Perhaps it was best if he went down there to smooth things out, right now, before things turned too ugly. Yeah, that would be best.

Smiling whimsically, Harry charged down the stairs, ready to face the Dursleys' wrath.

/

As was expected, the Durlseys' did not react well to Dumbledore's unannounced visit, and their outrage was only accented by his blatant and unashamed 'wizard-ness' that had metaphorically smacked them in the face upon his arrival. If there was anything that the Dursleys hated as much as or more than Harry, it was anything remotely magical. All in all however, Harry decided that it could've doubtlessly gone way worse.

Part of why the Dursleys had been more-or-less passive had to have been attributed to Dumbledore's aura of intimidation. The old wizard, quirky as he was, had a pervading sense of intelligence and confidence that oozed off him wherever he went, sending many of those with whom he interacted into fits of awe. That plus his no-nonsense yet ever-cheerful and pleasant attitude had made it very strenuous for the Durlsey's to cope with him. For the entire time that Dumbledore was in the house, Uncle Vernon's purple forehead-vein had not disappeared once, pulsating dangerously and without relapse. And yet, even Vernon had not dared to yell as Harry suspected was his real desire, though it looked like he'd almost worked himself up to it a few times before Dumbledore's departure.

Luckily the entire encounter hadn't lasted long, and Harry was relieved beyond belief to finally set foot out of that house. His joy was marred by a new discovery however, one that his eyes had failed to catch earlier...

Only on the way out of 4 Privet Drive did Harry spot the withered condition of Dumbledore's right hand. It was black and charred looking, shrivelled up like some dead body part that had been mummified and preserved. It made Harry ill to look at it, and questions instantly raced through his head as to what the origin of this strange injury had been.

Despite his prying questions and expressions of his concern, Albus Dumbledore adamantly decided against revealing the cause of it to him, which didn't really surprise Harry. Sometimes, he felt as if the headmaster must get a kick out of leaving him in the dark. Although Harry couldn't wring so much as a hint out of him, his lack of success couldn't put a damper on his curiosity. If anything, Dumbledore's evasive, aloof attitude only fed the fire of Harry's intrigue, rather than stamping it out. Not to be cocky, but Harry knew that he'd eventually unearth the truth one way or another. He always did.

Instead of being taken to the burrow straight-away as he'd expected, Harry was first brought by Dumbledore to an empty-appearing muggle house. Before he could ask Dumbledore any questions about the nature of their business at this seemingly-random location, the sight of the house's splintered, broken-down door stunned Harry into silence. Even Dumbledore seemed somewhat alarmed by that brazen sign of a forced-entry.

Instantly a pit formed in Harry's stomach, and his heart dropped. The only source of comfort he could take from the ominous and dark hole that was the doorway was the absence of the dark mark above the house itself. At least the culprits hadn't been Death Eaters. Probably.

With only a mild "oh my" in place of explanations, Dumbledore lead him inside. The interior of the house was in even worse shape, and the scene was nothing short of horrific. Furniture was overturned or torn to shreds, cushions looking as though they'd been blown apart into mounds of feathers. Blood coated one of the walls in a grisly display, not quite dry enough to stop drips and dobs of it from pattering to the tarnished carpet. More than anything, the entire bottom floor, sitting room, kitchen, and all, struck Harry with its eerie emptiness...

It was the stuff of nightmares, the shit that cheap horror films could only hope to emulate, to desperately attempt to capture that same shock effect that was currently besetting Harry.

In the midst of this devastation stood a solitary armchair, looking strangely out-of-place given its surroundings. For one, it was upright, intact, and appeared to be completely untouched in contrast to the rest of the space. Harry's eyes were instantly drawn to it because of this, as were Dumbledore's.

Cautiously, the headmaster approached the chair in a manner that was almost comical. After all, it was only a chair, right? He even drew his wand, holding it in front of him and extending it... until the tip touched, hitting hard into the chair's back. At the prod, the padded chair startled Harry by literally leaping to life. Only, it wasn't really a chair after all. Out of its cushions popped a human head, then a body...

"No need to jab me Albus! Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

And that was how Harry came to meet Horace Slughorn, the man that he would forever remember as being flawlessly disguised as an armchair.

Dumbfounded, Harry could only stand and listen for more insight as the large chair-man and Dumbledore began to converse. Apparently the threatening state of the house had only been a farce, a set-up hastily constructed by Slughorn in order to deter any prying eyes or Death Eaters. The blood had been dragon, not human, and the damage to the room was easily repaired with a few flicks of Dumbledore and Slughorn's wands. The reversal was rather drastic, revealing a pleasant little muggle home with none of the previous malice present.

It turned out that this Slughorn had once been a Professor at Hogwarts, some fifteen years ago. Harry wasn't fully sure what subject he'd taught then, but he could only assume that Dumbledore was trying to recruit him again so as to fill the now-vacant position of DADA professor. At first the man was adamantly opposed to the whole idea, with paranoia of Death Eaters knowing his whereabouts being the main concern preying on his mind. However, after Harry was introduced to him by Dumbledore, and as time wore on, Harry sensed that Slughorn's conviction was starting to waver, his stubborn frontage softening. It became increasingly clear to Harry that Dumbledore had brought him along to meet Slughorn for a very specific reason; that he was using him to get to the ex-Professor...

In appearance and outward temperament, Horace Slughorn had been a rotund, middle-aged man with a personality that wavered somewhere between the boundary of dull and bizarre. Harry had found him a bit odd, what with his fixation of having favourite former students from years past, but the visit hadn't entirely been unpleasant. The source of his small respite from awkwardness had laid in Slughorn's extensive collection of photographs, which Harry had stumbled upon at some point during his time there.

Slughorn had a mobile shrine of sorts, dedicated to the accomplishments of his most prized students, and amidst that lovingly organised mass of photos and trinkets had been the moving semblances of Lily Potter and Regulus Black. His mother and his late Godfather's deceased brother... Feeling surreal as he gazed upon those faces that he had never seen in life and flesh, and yet that were so familiar, Harry had listened with interest as Horace prattled on about Lily's talents in the art of potion-brewing and Regulus' abilities on the Quidditch field. He'd been a seeker, much like Harry himself, and looking at his slim physique it wasn't hard to gauge why he'd played that particular position. Harry's mother on the other hand... well, Harry certainly hadn't taken after her when it came to potions, but Horace would hear none of that that.

After all of this, Harry's final verdict on Slughorn had been a very mixed one. During the entire encounter, he'd been torn between edging away, flat-out running, or drawing closer to hear him better.

Even if Harry was not entirely pleased with Slughorn, the same could not be said for the man's opinion of Harry. In the end, the deciding factor to prompt Slughorn into taking up the title of "Professor" had been Harry himself, or so Dumbledore had informed him upon their leaving. His presence had supposedly been "essential". Overall though, Harry did not appreciate being unknowingly used as bait by an underhanded Dumbledore. He felt like a worm being dangled on a hook over a wide expanse of featureless water, and Horace Slughorn was some massive, ravenous pike. No, a catfish, what with those whiskers of his that passed for a mustache... Wait, better yet, a walrus. Yes, that fit his image perfectly. A tad humorous, but appropriate.

If Harry was being honest with himself, then he had to admit that he'd left Slughorn's temporary hide-away more-than-eagerly after the man had finally agreed to take the job. At that point, and with Slughorn firmly behind him, Harry felt more than ready to head to the burrow and see the Weasley clan. He'd especially missed his best mate, Ron... But once again, Dumbledore sensed his mood and surprised him with ulterior plans.

"Not yet. I'm afraid we have one more man to meet with tonight, Harry. With any luck an application of your remarkable talent for persuasion will convince him to return to Hogwarts as well."

"I don't have a talent for persuasion..." Harry mumbled sheepishly, heating up.

Praise from the Headmaster was almost always welcome, but at the same time Harry took no pride from the way Horace had been coaxed back into teaching. If anything it shamed him, what with him having been the unwitting compensation presented to Slughorn, nothing but a new ornament to add to his collection. The 'Slug Club'. Ugh, just thinking about it made him want to shudder.

"I beg to differ," said Dumbledore calmly. "Getting Horace to budge on anything is no easy task, even with a great deal of bribery."

"Who is it that you want me to speak with this time then?" Surely not someone as eccentric as Slughorn had been. Harry might not survive the night if this new individual was only a repeat of him.

"Someone you know. For now he's in hiding, and doing a decent job of it to his credit. It's taken me quite the stretch of time and effort to track him down."

No names, of course. Always so bloody vague. Harry admired and often adored Dumbledore, but damn it did he wish that he would give him a straight answer every once in a while.

Faintly smiling, Dumbledore extended an arm to Harry, which the teenage-boy took almost reluctantly. The process of apparition began immediately after the contact was established, and only seconds later it was over.

Apparition always left Harry a little woozy and straining to keep his stomach under control, so it took him a brief breath or too to give him the time to regain his wits. Dumbledore was patient at least, and let him have his break. Reeling a little in his skull, his eyes automatically lifted up to take a look at their new surroundings, and what they found surprised him to say the last. Lying in front of them... was an ordinary pub.

It was a squat and solid sort of place, with an exterior that was simple and modest. Golden light merrily leaked out of its windows, as if beckoning to possible patrons. Overall, it was a welcoming sort of place, but that first impression was ruined by the awful racket that went a-roaring from the bar and onto the streets in one great thunderstorm of sound.

The name of the muggle establishment was declared by a massive sign of polished wood to be the "Hound's House". In two separate spots the word "OPEN" screamed at Harry's eyeballs from bright, obnoxious neon. Judging by the excess of noise bursting from the building's very cracks and seams, Harry accurately deemed that the advertisement was hardly necessary. Even from its outside, "Hound's House" was a rowdy spot. Hoots, hollers, curses, and the occasional merry and often off-tune song alerted Harry to its bustling interior. This haven for drinkers must've been keeping the entire neighbourhood block and the area outwards wide-awake tonight.

"You're not about to take me in there are you? I'm a minor," weakly protested Harry.

Just as an echoing smash came from inside, Dumbledore replied, "I am sorry Harry, but I must insist. We'll be quick, in and out before you know it."

Said the actress to the bishop. Harry barely stopped himself from saying such a horribly bawdy thing aloud. The headmaster was an easy-going enough fellow, but Harry was not so sure that a wizard of his respect and character would be amused by such a vulgar remark. He'd better save such jokes for Ron, just to be safe.

"Does this at least mean that I get to try a drink?" he joked, not-at-all seriously.

"A valiant effort my boy, but no. In the muggle community, you have two more years to go. Be a little patient~. Now, I'm going to cast a spell so that the occupants of this fine... gathering place, will pay little-to-none mind to us."

"Sounds good?" I guess?

In-between warm chuckles directed at the boy, Dumbledore said, "Shall we then Harry? An old acquaintance awaits our audience."

/

An overwhelming horde of sights, sounds, and smells hit Harry from the second he and Dumbledore stepped onto the threshold, and most of these senses were of the repugnant breed.

The odours of alcohol, vomit, and bad breath dominated Harry's nostrils, although freshly-scented candles and hot-cooked meals mingled strangely with these unsavoury fragrances in a gallant attempt to keep them at bay.

Fights seemed to be a common theme, and the bar attendant looked like he was quite at a loss of what to do. The slight resignation in his face told Harry that these physical squabbles were not entirely a rare occurrence here. He'd obviously became used to them. At present, the altercations ranged from the verbal variety, with voices hoarse and harsh bickering back and forth, from minor scuffles, to full-out brawls and fist-fights. Harry did his best to edge around the tables where these confrontations were in full-swing as he and Dumbledore determinedly carved their way through the various occupants.

Not all of those in the pub were quite so excited. The other half seemed to ignore the chaos around them, sipping at their drinks or else watching the television in peace. One such man sitting on a stool caught Harry's eye in particular, as he was in the general direction that Dumbledore was leading him. Wearing a white button-up shirt that was partially un-tucked from his pants, the man lifted up a shot glass to his lips, swearing as he spilt some down his front.

As they drew ever closer, Harry's eyes started to widen in recognition. Messy blond hair... No, it couldn't be. From only the back of the man's head, it was difficult to tell for certain who he was, but that problem was solved when Dumbledore took a seat at the bar right next to the man, motioning for Harry to do the same. As Harry obeyed, he finally got a full-on look of the man's face, a face that stunned him into dumb-struck silence and tied his tongue into a knot.

It was Kirkland.

The last time Harry had seen Arthur Kirkland had been in King's Cross station, not too long ago. He'd looked to be in pretty bad shape then, but now he was arguably worse. What was even more worrying was that this degenerating transformation had taken place under the course of only a few weeks...

The white shirt he wore was partially unbuttoned from the front, exposing his throat and collar-bone, and it was sprinkled with the potent smell of hard-alcohol. His already dishevelled hair was misbehaving more than usual, and Harry could've sworn that gray-tinged strands and small grayish-clumps were hiding in that light-coloured heap of tumbling locks. The former-Professor's movements were sluggish and disoriented, Harry noted, a sign that he was not on his first drink. Unthinkingly, Harry's gaze drifted up to Kirkland's green eyes. They were glazed over, signalling that he was also not at his usual peak of intelligence.

"What are you doing here. What the hell d'you want," he blurted brashly to them both, and Harry was taken aback by his informality. It wasn't that Kirkland couldn't be rather impolite every once in a while, especially to people like Dolores Umbridge, but Harry just found that Kirkland was rarely one to direct such rudeness to him, let alone in Dumbledore's presence. It had happened in the past, but not all that often.

Well, at least he could still speak. The alcohol must not have fully set-in yet, as Harry knew all-too-well how incomprehensible and down-right insane Kirkland could be when wholly drunk, which didn't take much anyways. The Halloween party at Hogwarts and Kirkland's legendary episode therein assured that Harry would never, ever forget the state that Kirkland could descend into with merely the promptings of some playfully-spiked-punch.

In the same instant that Dumbledore opened his mouth, the bar-tender brought over two new amber-coloured drinks, announcing one to be brandy and the other to be beer, "Just as you requested sir". As the employee took his leave, Dumbledore started speaking as if he hadn't been interrupted in the first place.

"I would like for you to take up a teaching position once more, to resume full employment."

"Is that so?" Kirkland drawled, obviously more interested in the freshly-served brandy than in what Dumbledore was saying to him.

"Yes. It would make me much happier and at ease to have you in a spot where you can be watched over. There's fewer places as secure as Hogwarts, as you probably know."

"So what, I'm a little lad that needs looking after, I'm I?"

"I don't recall saying that."

"Y'were thinking it. The answer is no."

"I'll have to insist you reconsider."

"You insist now?" Kirkland's drunken voice had a dangerous lilt to it now, a tone that Harry had rarely heard from him. It sent small shivers down his spine, activating some ancient buried instinct to flee and find a shielding shelter.

Dumbledore's response was entirely unaffected. "I do, actually."

"Listen here you man-tart, no one orders me around except for my boss, and you're not my boss. I don't have many things left in this god damn world, but one of them is my freedom of choice. If I want to stay away from snot-nosed kids, I will. If I want to dodge You-know-who and his bitches in any damn-fooled way I want, I will, and if I want to drink my guts out until they burst, I will. Ey, we clear?"

Unperturbed by this passionate rant, Dumbledore went on saying, "I'd give you body guards if I could spare them-"

"I don't need-"

"-But I can't, so Hogwarts is the next best option. It's the perfect place for you to be protected, and Minerva misses you, not to mention the children-"

Without much warning, Kirkland lurched off the stool to stand on his unsteady legs. His ensuing, garbled bellow would've likely grabbed the ears of everyone in the room if not for the already existing clamour. Fortunately, their chaotic surroundings effectively masked the scene that Kirkland was about to create.

"I am NOT going back there, not where he'll know where I am, where I'll be a sitting duck, where he'll be waiting for the chance to strike, where the students will see me after what happened last year, and think- just- NO. And that's the end of it, sir." Seemingly spent by that slurred speech, Kirkland slouched heavily back onto his rickety stool, nearly tipping the already-unstable thing in the process.

Harry and Dumbledore went silent, neither one of them really knowing what to say in response to that tirade. As usual, Dumbledore was the first to regain his composure. Clasping his gnarled hands in front of himself, and gazing overtop the rims of his glasses, the old man spoke in utter sorrow, "Is there really nothing I can say to convince you...?"

"Nothing," the country confirmed curtly, finishing the brandy only to immediately move on to the beer. "Now, while you're here, you might as well buy me another drink." A drunk Kirkland apparently abandoned all of his manners in one go, Harry noted.

"I hope you can forgive me, but we won't be doing that. It's an unhealthy, destructive habit... We'll be going now, but if you ever have a change of heart when you're more... sober, er, rational, you know how to contact me."

Quiet and contemplative for another moment, Dumbledore eventually added, "Just a year ago you were in my office asking for a job. Now I'm in a pub of all places, begging you to come back. Strange how these sorts of things turn out eh...?"

Kirkland grunted once, drowning his mouth in another downed gulp of beer. There was a lull then, as if Dumbledore was giving him one more chance to say something more before he left. Unfortunately, that moment never came, and the chance was squandered. Kirkland was resolute and would say no more.

As he got up, Dumbledore's elbow very gently, very unobtrusively bumped against Harry. He jolted, realising that that little knock must've been his cue to speak, as a last ditch effort. He'd been rendered speechless by this new, hopeless Kirkland, but the time had come to push that aside and say his piece. Not that Harry personally thought it would do any good...

"Please, Professor..." he pleaded.

It was only two words, but he poured his heart and soul into those four simple syllables. As much as Kirkland... unnerved him, the last thing Harry would want was to see him bleeding out in a gutter somewhere after a night of heavy drinking, or worse, captured. If a death eater or two waltzed in right now, who was to say that Kirkland would be able to stop them, as uncoordinated as he was?

Kirkland looked firmly away, his jaw stubbornly set and locked. A sigh escaped Harry, the boy knowing that there would be no further reasoning with him tonight. It was pointless to try.

At the same time, something purple on the bar-top caught his eye. An envelope, and one he dimly recognised. An official Ministry envelope, with the matching stationery and everything. Instantly Harry's mind went blank, whirling in confusion. How had a letter from the Ministry of Magic came to be in Kirkland's possession? Had they been corresponding...? There were so many questions and not enough answers.

Dumbledore's eyes darkened as Kirkland hastily snatched up the opened-letter, partially crumpled it, and stuffed it into his pocket before any questions could be presented. His stiff body-language sent a clear signal that they would not be spilling any information out of him regarding the piece of paper. 'It's none of your bloody business', the country's eyes seemed to snarl. Whether out of a pre-existing knowledge regarding what the letter entailed, or out of a sense of futility, Dumbledore didn't bother to interrogate him.

Pausing before he moved another step, Dumbledore murmured, "...You really shouldn't keep doing this to yourself, Arthur. I hope you know that."

Still standoffish and mute, Kirkland made a point of raising his glass to his lips, drinking deeply until he had his full. When it came away from his mouth, Harry was frightened to see a red substance lazily sinking and swirling at the surface of the liquor. Blood.

"Come on Harry, let's get going..."

Harry couldn't recall his legs moving, or if he had said anything in reply. He was numb as he left, just trusting Dumbledore not to lead him into a wall, or worse, a belligerent barfly. The image that wouldn't leave his head, that lingered like a tough mold behind his eyeballs, was the sight of bloody-brandy in a glass, comfortably enclosed in Kirkland's curled fingers.

Author's Note:

(Some of you may notice that the whole chapter isn't very true to the book, as usual. This is because I went off my own memories/interpretations of events and only referred to the original book or more accurate settings/descriptions of locations. This is to avoid outright plagiarism for the most part, and to make the fic sort of my own, y'know? This is not different to the way TPoW was written. Just a heads up! : ) )

Sorry this was a bit boring eep. I'm also feeling a little rusty with writing. Not a very exciting first chapter, I agree, but rest assured the rest of the fic is going to have some... interesting twists and turns ;V; Hohoho~ I'm hoping to keep you guys on the edges of your seats C;

Please review? It'll let me know if anyone likes this enough for me to continue! And remember, reviews directly correlate with my writing-rate!