Kind thanks to the 25 people who have added this story to their favorites, the 51 who have alerted it, and the 20 lovely people who reviewed the prologue. Thank you so very much for your time and patience with Nihil Sine Deus.

Before I begin, this story is going to be offensive to religion. I was even told maybe I should simply avoid writing it, as this is a kick in the face to a good portion of the fandom. Please, remember I am Agnostic, not shoving religion down your throat. I actually also want to make clear I am not going to make entire religions or cultures evil no matter how much it may seem at the beginning. Let's just say this certain sect is fucking insane, and so are their followers.

It's going to be hard making the world fight without insulting everyone. If this bothers you, please do not continue. I really wish to offend no one.

Also, yes Harry was raised as a Catholic (as his mother was) but honestly, this should be one of the least important things about his character once all the others Gods and Goddesses start showing up.

Harry's Biblical Quotes are taken from The New Jerusalem Bible. I am more accustomed to the New American Bible, but it is only taught in the US. The New Jerusalem Bible was published in 1985, making it the canon text closest to being relevant to Harry's childhood.

Other quotes will come from King James Bible.

'Do not be afraid; it is I, the First and the Last; I am the Living One,

I was dead and look - I am alive for ever and ever, and I hold the keys of death and of Hades.

Now write down all that you see of present happenings and what is still to come.'

-Revelation, 1. 17- 19

June 24th, 1995

Harry Potter knew that tonight he would die.

The stone against his back was cold and sharp, cutting into the back of his shirt and into his flesh. Harry could feel the name on the gravestone carving into his back like razorblades. Tom Riddle Senior's tomb would house another broken body by the end of this night, he was sure.

Harry did not fear death; no, not fear. In fact, the corner recesses of his mind welcomed it, waited for the embrace of Death like it was an old friend. It was the same part of him that was tainted with Voldemort's presence, the lingering scar engraved to his forehead. The expiration date on his soul was long gone and that infection in him was beginning to sour like curdled milk in the bottle. Death would be a blessing, a way of escaping the nastiness that Voldemort's coming reign would bring.

Cedric Diggory was the first casualty in the Second Wizarding War—but Harry would be the second.

Of course, he didn't really want to die on this night. On the contrary, Harry wanted more than anything to live, at least long enough to protect his friends, his godfather, the thousands of innocent people who would suffer if Voldemort was able to conquer the Wizarding World. But, the price was so very, very, steep and more than once, Harry wondered if sacrificing himself for the world was expected.

For some reason, a whisper in his mind haunted him: the Greater Good. Never had the words been spoken to him, read in a book, nor tucked away in his memories. But, like the headstone at his back, it was there.

There was blood on the ground before him, where Wormtail had flailed about, holding his pitiful stump of a wrist. Some of it was even his, from the deep, pink wound straight down to the bone in his arm. Macabre the scene may have been, with his sneakers squishing into the slippery, over saturated ground and a muddy paste of blood coating the hems of his pants, something was stirring inside of Harry's head. A plan, maybe, but a spark of an idea was closer to the truth. Like the niggling of unknown words in the back of his head, the blood spoke to him.

Rolling thunder cracked through the air like a whip, and a nearby tree shined for a minute as a bolt of lightning exploded in the sky behind it. For a moment, Harry could have swore the tree had eyes.

Wiggling his toes, hearing the squelching under his feet, Harry leaned forward against the bindings and felt their strength against his skin. There was no way he could break through the rope. He was weak from blood loss, his head spinning. The pain from the deep wound in his arm was beginning to make the stars in the sky spin and Voldemort's crimson slit eyes multiply. And even then, his leg was practically useless.

There would be no running.

"Now, untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."

Harry slumped to the ground when Wormtail slashed through the bindings with his new silver hand. The sniveling rat was looking down with glee.

"How the mighty have fallen," Wormtail whispered, stroking his new arm while his front teeth nipped at his bottom lip like vermin he was. The yellow of Wormtail's teeth clashed with the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. He pulled out Harry's wand and tossed it to the ground, the mud pulling the holly wand down.

"I never said I was mighty," Harry answered back as he reached forward, fingers digging through the bloody dirt in search of his only lifeline, only hope. He felt tree roots under his fingers, and he dug in, feeling the wood splinter under his fingers.

"Harry Potter, the mighty boy who destroyed the Dark Lord..." Voldemort laughed as he spoke with his followers as if he hadn't tortured several of them for their disobedience just moments before. "Here he is, kneeling and digging through the dirt like a pathetic muggle. Your Pure-blood ancestors would be ashamed. Your blood is not worthy of the Potter line—and neither was your father, for that matter. Consorting with a filthy mudblood; I can only imagine what Dorea must have thought of their unholy union."

Harry stopped looking for his wand for a second to pause and look up at Voldemort with a hint of confusion before continuing his search.

"Your paternal grandmother was quite the Black. Always pure." There was a sneer to his words. She had not been a fan of Tom Riddle while she was in school, of that Harry was sure. Mixed-blood Slytherins must have been at the bottom of the barrel, and if what Voldemort said prior was true, he had been considered a poor, uncultured Muggle-born. Violence against Muggle-borns in other Houses by Slytherins was already so high... to think of what they would do to one of their own Housemates...

"But that is no matter, Potter," Voldemort continued as he waved his wand. Harry snapped up, like he were on puppet strings. Thankfully, he had clutched his wand just as he was hit with the spell and so when he was lifted off the ground, feet dangling and body lax, he was not left completely without some form of defense.

Don't kid yourself, his mind whispered, you're as defenseless as a baby kitten. What could you possibly do to prevent the strongest, darkest wizard of your time from ripping out your innards and stringing them up like streamers? It was the same voice whispering for his to lay himself down and accept death with his arms stretched open. It was the morbid voice telling him that one death would save the world, for the Greater Good.

Always the Greater Good.

Blood pumped through Harry's ears as he defied the thought, pushing it back and away from the forefront of his mind. There was no time to listen to the niggling voice; there was never time to listen to the voice. It was such a small part of him (though so very loud...) he could ignore it if truly needed.

He couldn't die yet. Voldemort had to die before he could even think of death. It was his responsibility.

Always his responsibility.

The smell of blood reminded Harry of something in his childhood, during one of the Sunday Masses Aunt Petunia would bring him to once or twice a month. She would dress him in his best, a plain white shirt that hung off his body and black pants five sizes too large, but with pleated legs and only a little wear in the knees. While the Dursleys would sit up front and watch as Dudley acted as a sweet alter boy, Harry would sit upstairs with the choir children, hiding in the shadows of the organ and the plaster statues of marble angels and the Mother Mary and Jesus.

He never knew why he chose that particular pew, but it brought a comfort to him to look at the marble and feel the comfort of a mother's love.

What would Lily have said to his thoughts? She gave her life, only for Harry to throw away his?

The priest had known his mother when she was a child, and spoke of only kind things when he was permitted to see Harry. Aunt Petunia had limited his time spent in the Church after one particular conversation where Monsignor Nicolai spoke almost reverently of Lily. Harry, who knew so little of her, clung to every word until his aunt grabbed him by the collar and dragged him off. The first bit of kindness ever shown to him, ripped away by his family.

But Monsignor Nicolai spoke of something that day. Without much thought, the words dusted across his mind.

This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Whenever you drink it, do this as a memorial of me. Harry ran a bloody hand over his lips, remembering the faint presence of bitter wine. He only tasted it once, blessed by God, and he never wanted to taste again.

But if Harry lived to see the sun rise, he would travel to the Church if only as a reminder he was alive.

And so, with temperance, Harry lifted his wand to face the Dark Lord Voldemort.

June 25th, 1995

Mallory Residence

Whitchurch, Shropshire, England

To Mister Albus Dumbledore,

My name is Victoria Mallory, the mother of Jessica Mallory. This morning, I received a letter from your institution offering a place for my daughter at your 'Magic School.' As an upstanding member of the Christian community, I refuse to allow my child to consort with devil worshipers, magicians, and unsavory individuals who deserve nothing more than to burn at the stake.

Let me begin my letter by stating that your letter was deeply offensive to me and my child's religion. Witchcraft is a tool used by the Devil to sway Christians away from the light of His glorious domain and into the fiery pits of Hell. My child will not be condemned by your kind. I have spoken with my husband and plan to cleanse our child of any filth she may have been cursed with after opening your letter.

She is a bright young girl; it is for her own safety, forthou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

I have also contacted the local parish families to warn of your traitorous filth, should you contact any other children of good Christian households.

I implore that you travel to the nearest Church and speak to a minister and attempt to save your soul. Even then, acceptance by God after committing the mortal sins of witchcraft and heresy should not be expected. These sins are not to be taken lightly; God casts heretics and witches into the deepest pits of Hell, where there is no light. And pursuing young children for corruption with witchcraft, blasphemy, and sodomy in all forms will gain you no leniency in His eyes.

Please do not contact my family again.

Signed,

Victoria Mallory
Wife of Deacon Matthew Mallory,
Member of the Sardis Congregation,
St. Alkmund's Church

"It is time to call in some old friends, Minerva," Albus Dumbledore said as he ran a hand through his white beard, fingers twiddling and plaiting the white hair with little thought. The sparkle in his pale blue eyes was gone now, when it would return a mystery to him. These trying times would be a weight against his back, pulling him to the ground with little energy.

The First Wizarding War had left the generation jaded by death, disease, famine, but more importantly, fear. Witches and witches of all calibers refused to say Voldemort's name aloud. Some used the logical response of breaking Taboo—who, after all, would want a Dark Lord popping in on their evening tea, just because they read an article out loud? However, Albus knew deep down that it was not logic that prevented the name from escaping the masses mouths.

Fear.

Albus remembered another boy who wished for fear. He bled children out in front of their screaming parents, killed indiscriminately in hopes to hold the Hallows in his hand, to declare himself above death, above mortal weakness. There was something in a Dark Lord's eyes that reached inside of Albus, past the sherbet lemons, the socks, the twinkling blue eyes and into the raging storm. As a lonely teenager, he could have very well become another Dark Lord just to make sure he would always have his closest friend, his confidant, his Liebhaber.

Once upon a time, when Voldemort had been but a child, Albus had known somewhere deep in his weary heart that the boy did not need love, did not crave the warm touch of a mother or the kiss of a lover. In its place, Tom wanted fear. Fear was easier for the little orphan child to understand.

At first, when Albus found out the facts surrounding Tom's birth, he felt pity. He was conceived under the affects of the love potion Merope Gaunt fed the attractive muggle, Tom Riddle. It was not Tom's fault that because of this tainted, one-sided obsession, he could not feel love. He was a child, an innocent victim of one witch's need for attention and affection, false as it was. There was no hope for him; nothing could help save him from the path the boy would find himself traveling.

Difficult as it was to admit, Albus knew Tom would lose his humanity. From the moment he lit the boy's chest of drawers on fire and inside were the trophies of the child's victims, he knew it would be only a matter of time before he was required to yet again contain the empty child of a mother's sin.

For a fleeting moment, Albus thought of what he could have become, had he the ability to love another. Hard working, he would have been a glorious professor, teaching his students and preparing them thoroughly for a life outside of Hogwarts. There would be children; a beautiful boy and girl, with blue eyes deeper than the ocean and blond hair like honey... A partner, holding him through the night whispering sweet nothings as a comfort—

Albus shook his head, erasing his wandering thoughts. Tom Riddle could have never had a normal life and beautiful family, just as Gellert Grindelwald had not.

They were cursed children.

"Headmaster, do you believe Fudge will deny the return of You-Know-Who?" Minerva asked, her hands tucked under the desk, chin defiantly proud and angled.

"His name is Lord Voldemort," he began, and the woman's chin trembled, "and I believe, though it pains me to admit, that we will be alone in this war. We should not expect any help from The Ministry of Magic, nor the Minister for Magic. We must, unfortunately, begin this war with all our cards laid out on the table." Cornelius Fudge would make defeating Tom so much more difficult than it should have been; having the Wizarding World stuck between believing in the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Minister for Magic was a tricky predicament. There were no right answered in regards to which way to go, which family to depend on, which Ministry worker to induct into the Order of the Phoenix.

"Albus, the memories of the First War are still so fresh. I am not sure the Wizarding World would be willing to admit to itself there is another war on the horizon." Minerva's pallor was beginning to look sickly, and a sheen of sweat glittered on her brow. "It took almost ten years for Britain to accept You-Know—fine, Voldemort— existed at all! It only became obvious when he began to attack powerful Pure-blood Light families, such as the Potters. And remember, so few were willing to fight in the beginning because they believed the Dark deserved the rights to their culture and traditions."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "There are no doubts that the Dark has a deep influence on the Wizarding World, and I do not ask for the destruction of their ways. However, the abuse of those seen as inferior and seclusion of magical bloodlines is dangerous to the Wizarding World. The population of Pure-bloods is dwindling, Minerva." Pulling his glasses off, Albus placed them on the table and rubbed his nose between thumb and pointer finger. "You know of the dangers of inbreeding and the current policies on childbearing."

Minerva nodded. "The book has only written down thirteen names this year, thus far."

Deep worry showed on his face. "A year with only thirteen children... how many of them Muggle-born?"

Minerva snorted. "All but three. And, considering how many Muggle-borns refuse entry to Hogwarts, we may have only a handful of students."

It seemed like fate, for at that moment a rather affronted school owl swooped into the Headmaster's office, feathers ruffled and what could only be ascertained as a scowl. It dropped a letter onto the table, scratched its talons into the other papers on his desk, and sped off again, back out the window and undoubtedly toward the Owlery.

Albus placed his eyeglasses back on his crooked nose and opened the letter, eyes skimming the handwriting before putting the letter down onto his desk. It was quickly snatched up by the Deputy Headmistress.

"'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'! Albus, aren't Muggle-born children supposed to be given their letter by a member of staff to prevent matters such as these?" Minerva ran a finger over the words. "Perhaps being the child of a Presbyterian Minister who accepted my mother's magic has led me to be a bit more blindsided than most, but I always hoped that as I aged, no child would refuse acceptance to our school based on the preconceived notions of a religious order!"

Dumbledore could understand his friend's anger; as a Half-blood from a prominent family, he never experienced Muggle religion, nor the prejudices which came with it. Minerva, on the other hand, had not known of her magic, nor her mother's magic, until she was nearly of Hogwarts age. She had grown up as the first child and only daughter of the Reverend Robert McGonagall, who for being of such strict faith and upbringing, accepted his wife and child's magic. Despite this, growing up in a religion where magic was considered an abomination worthy of burning, it had left its mark.

Snapping his fingers, the book and quill responsible for recording the names of all magical children in Britain appeared with a plop, the pages flipping backward toward the list of children born in 1984.

Peculiar.

"It seems Miss Jessica Mallory is not a Muggle-born," Dumbledore said, his aged hands running across the scrolling words. "She is listed as the child of a Muggle-born and a muggle, though there does not seem to be indication from which side she receives her magical abilities from." Albus closed the book and with a pop it disappeared again. "It seems we missed a child."

"Or her parent refused admission."

"Minerva," he started, but the woman held up her hand and stood, pulling out her wand and transfiguring her clothing from the green tartan robes she so adored, into a rather plain muggle dress.

"I will deal with this, Albus," she answered shortly. "You have far too much on your plate to deal with one errant family." She smiled then, and swished her wand again to pull her dark hair into a more strict bun. Minerva's lips pursed, and Albus barely held in a chuckle.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I must begin letters to those of great import to those who may be willing to turn a cheek from the Ministry. There is so much work and so very little time to complete it all."

Minerva paused for a moment. "Albus, the boy..." she began, but he lifted up his hand to silence her.

"He will stay in the Hospital Wing with our dear friend Snuffles for the time being," he said, a twinkle returning to his eye. "These will be trying times for him, Minerva. He will need all the attention he can get."

"Will you be sending him back to those horrible Muggles for the holiday?"

Albus could not look into the woman's stern glare. "Minerva, I have feared and dreaded your glares since you were but a Third-Year student, fighting with me over the Exceeds Expectations you received on a Transfiguration essay." His words did not chill the woman's glare, and he sighed dispassionately. "I do not know what would be better for Mister Potter. At his relatives, there is the safety of his mother's bloodline—"

"Which very well may no longer exist, Albus!" she almost yelled, and Albus watched as her jaw clenched, "you heard Potter just as well as I did, Headmaster. He took the boy's blood; you know how precious blood is, particularly to wards we have little understanding of! Lily Evans was a brilliant witch and I mourn the loss of such a great mind before its time, and her love for her child was absolute, but we simply cannot know the extent of her knowledge! I have seen the wards, Albus. You know better than I that what Lily performed was not a magical fluke like you've told others. It was not love which saved Harry Potter at Godric's Hollow."

"As you said, Minerva: How are we to know what Lily Potter did on that fateful night?"

"If you truly believe that, Albus, you are more of a fool than I could have ever imagined."

With that, the witch bobbed her head and excused herself from the Headmaster's Office.

Minerva McGonagall arrived on the doorstep of St. Alkmund's Church after a brisk walk from the alleyway of a barely-lit pub across the way. The air was dense and though the sun was shining above the treetops, a cloying sense of darkness wafted through the town, from the almost garishly beautiful Church.

It was a beacon of Whitchurch, Minerva had no doubt. From the intricate black and gold clock tower, with black, tan and brown stones coloring the too-blue sky, to the crest of St. Alkmund just below the clock that was carved with gentle, loving hands—this was a place of worship, yes, but so much more. It was in the windows, their colors glittering off the sun's rays, even the dead tree by the rectory which stood as silent guard.

There was something off about this town.

Minerva felt a wisp of wind against her back and she shivered. The door was large and imposing; she hadn't felt this way since she received her Hogwarts letter. The first step inside her father's church left her breath cold; not from fear of God, nor her father, but of the congregation. What would they have said to the Reverend's daughter being a witch?

Though it had been many, many years ago and the fear left by the age of twelve, for some reason it trickled down into her stomach and out her pores.

Reaching forward, Minerva put her weight against the door and felt it ease open. For brief moment, Minerva wondered whether or not she entered the right place; the smoke hit her cheeks and the smell reminded her of the pork loin she accidentally lit on fire the first time she cooked without her mother's supervision. There was a soft sound in the air, the voices of choir children singing and the cackling of a fire. The smoke-tears stung up and the aging witch covered her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sight.

The colored glass was tinted black from the smoke and the only light came from the burning mass in the center of the church. Pulling on her reserved magic, she cast a small gust to blow the wind toward the domed ceiling, clearing her view.

There must have been half the parish inside; young children, women, and the elderly sat in the pews while men stood statuesque to the sides. In the front, near the blaze, dozens of children stood, stoic faced and singing, their childish voices echoing through the church. The whites of their choir gowns were black, the whites of their eyes and the pinks of their tongues the only color against the smoke. Their voices rose higher and higher, crescendoing as another child screamed in the background.

"Glacialis incendia!" she screeched toward the pyre and burning child. The fires froze and the child chained to down like a beast slumped forward, still screaming. The congregation seemed to awaken from their prayers and chants, a few standing to point their fingers at her, faces purple and black with the soot of the burning child. With the diligence of a warrior, for Minerva McGonagall was named after the Goddess of Wisdom and War, she sent stunners toward the ones who dared move against her. There was little time for her to waste, stunning all the Muggles. A child needed her.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

"Witch!" a man in papal robes screamed, holding out a Bible in one hand, the other clasping a cross. "You dare enter my church?" There was a woman sitting with the choir, holding a small child back from the burning girl, who stood immediately and pushed the child across the expanse of the floor toward the other children.

The choir stopped singing.

With a slash of her wand the woman flew into the alter though the man in his gaudy robes held his position, despite the sure fact that the spell should have sent him through the plate glass windows.

"Heathen, whore! You have no claim to the sorceress-child—let her burn!"

No time, Minerva reminded herself as she broke the chains on the girl and gently accioed the burned child to her. Slowing the girl down and catching her with a feather-light charm, the witch grabbed the band from her hair and with a swift motion snapped the band in half.

She held the child as they were both portkeyed into Hogwarts.

Harry's head throbbed. He had been awake for an hour or so, prompted by Madam Pomfrey to 'Sit still or so help me, Potter' and from the glare in her eyes, Harry knew better than to cross the medi-witch. So, he kept in his bed, Snuffles cuddling to his side and licking his hand and nosing him whenever he began to shake (the cold, it's just the cold, he would say, despite the warmth of the room and the continuing tremors down his arms and legs.) What else was he supposed to do?

Get out of bed, he thought with savageness, and kill Voldemort.

And yet, every time he attempted to wobble out of his bed, for whichever reason he told Pomfrey and Sirius, he ended up stuck to the mattress and unable to breathe, let alone move. He would stay like this for a brief moment, long enough for his lungs to ache with needed air but short enough not to cause him to faint, and when released, he had no desire to move. At first, Harry thought it a special medical spell to keep rowdy and noncomplying patients in their beds until he felt the whisper against his cheek.

This... feeling (for no other word sounded right nor felt like a suitable explanation to what he felt when the cold air would push against his cheek and a set of lips press against the shell of his ear) had been happening since he was a small child; his first memory was of the voice whispering kind words in the darkness of his cupboard after a particularly long day where he was deprived of meals and his nappy was disgusting. It had been a companion, a friend during his troubled youth. It hadn't disappeared after his acceptance into Hogwarts, but lurked in the background. It always felt as if there were a hand on his shoulder.

When he arrived at Hogwarts, having an imaginary friend wasn't acceptable; the other children would have thought him mad. Already an outsider with no real friends and no family, he tried to pretend that the voice in his head was nothing but a gust of air. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to pretend there was nothing in the darkness, it always stayed by his side.

Last night, in the graveyard with Tom Riddle, there had been no comforting hand or whispered word. Instead, he was left to the darkness of his wandering mind, the terrifyingly seductive whisper of death being the eternal bliss, to let himself go free for the Greater Good.

In short, he had been...

Alone.

Maybe he deserved it. Having pretended for so long that the voice was nothing but the wind, not having it when he needed his friend the most was a punishment worthy of his crime.

And now it was back, though Harry did not want it with him. The feeling of comfort was gone. Even if the voice and press of an invisible hand was all in his head (which was the most reasonable explanation for a what? Ghost with a disappearing act?) it had betrayed him. In his time of need, in the moment when death had tasted Harry Potter, he was alone.

Don't be foolish, the voice whispered, there were offerings to me and I have yearned for so very long...

Harry didn't understand; offerings? What offerings? The hand brushed against his forehead and rested on the hollow of his throat.

Harry placed his hand on Snuffle's muzzle, petting it with two fingers. "Do you think I'm going crazy?"

Of course, Sirius couldn't give a vocal answer, instead choosing to slobber all over his cheeks instead.

"Yeah, thought so—"

"Poppy! Poppy!"

Harry pulled the curtains to his bed quickly, holding a hand out to the grim on his bed. "Shhh," he said as he pulled the white curtain farther, quickly taking in the scene before him.

Professor McGonagall stood in the center of the Hospital Wing, gray-streaked black hair billowing out from all angles, glasses skewed to the side. There was red across her cheeks and a black smudge on her nose. She wasn't wearing her normal robes, instead wearing something he was sure Aunt Petunia had in at least three different shades.

Then she turned to the side.

Harry barely held the contents of his stomach in when he caught sight of the burned mass of flesh.

"My word, Minerva—what are you going on about?" he heard Madam Pomfrey say out of his sight, "you would think—" an abrupt scream from the burned figure silenced whatever the woman had to say.

Harry clapped his hands over his ears. The screams were so loud.

The hand on his throat disappeared as the voice whispered something, a word Harry did not hear over the sound of the dying child.

The white-wash curtain around his bed pulled tight and the child's screams disappeared just as quickly as they had come.

(1) This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Whenever you drink it, do this as a memorial of me. 1 Corinthians, 11-25

(2) Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus, 22-18

(3) St. Alkmund's Church is a real place—quite beautiful, actually. Though, it does not have anything to do with the Sardis Congregation—I expect someone does know where it comes from.

(4) 'Liebhaber' is the German word for Lover. Dumbledore has been canonized as having been in love with Gellert Grindelwald, though it has been said it was a one-sided relationship. Personally, I believe they were together—at least at one point.

(5) According to Pottermore, Minerva McGonagall's father, Robert McGonagall, was a Presbyterian Minister. She was very obviously raised in the Muggle world, despite her mother having been a witch or squib.

I should start giving out prizes for every time someone guesses something right with this story; really, I shove a lot into each chapter so picking up some kind of pop culture reference or religious reference should be easy. So, first order of business—properly explain what footnote 3 is and you'll get a shout-out and a preview for the next chapter?

Also, I am in the market for a BETA-READER. One that could, preferably, Brit-pick the story. However, anyone who has a good grasp of English and is willing to read the story a few days prior to publication would be fabulous. If you are interested in betaing, please send me a PM and I will get back to you instantly (literally. I have no life...)

Please Review!