Sunshine and Lemondrops

Chapter Three: What to Expect When You're Expecting (Trouble)

"The only sure weapon against bad ideas is better ideas"

Alfred Griswold

As grateful as Harry was for the wool cap, scarf and thin coat that Doctor Shamal, as his shiny name tag denoted, had given him it did not mean that he appreciated wandering about in nothing but those and a breezy hospital gown for the rest of the day.

So, after ducking into the nearest dark alley he could – apparation laws be damned, dusk was settling, and Hermione was going to murder him – he immediately disapparated to Grimmauld Place for a change of clothes.

"Would Master be wanting to keep this," Kreacher stands in the doorway of Sirius', now Harry's, bedroom, hunched over and bat like ears drooping from the side of his head, tufts of white hair poking out from the inside. In his knobby hand is clasped the mortuary tag that had been formerly attached to Harry's big toe.

That Kreacher had removed it just a few minutes previously - calmly and without a hint of disgust or curiosity - made Harry both wonder and dread what he might have done in his previous service to the Black family that the elf wasn't put off in the least taking something like that out of his foot.

Harry's smile is more of a grimace as he tries to not feel sick. "No thanks, Kreacher. Please throw it away. Or burn it. Just burn it, please."

The house elf sniffs in acknowledgement, large glassy eyes roving over Harry's form before turning to leave, muttering backhanded compliments and insults at Harry and the world at large respectively. Harry watches the empty doorway for a moment.

He is, even now, still amazed that Kreacher has stayed with him all these years. Immediately after the war had ended, and left with nowhere to go, Harry moved into Grimmauld Place for lack of a better option. The Weasley's were in mourning, they didn't need to put up with him, and the Dursley's were off who knows where in whatever situation the Order had decided was the equivalent of Muggle Witness Protection.

And there he had stood in the dark, dusty living room, the portrait of Mrs. Black wailing and screeching from the hallway, for a full minute before a large crack had startled him into firing a blasting hex at the wall behind him.

It only missed the intruding house elf by virtue of him being a little too short for a death eater.

Kreacher had taken one glance at Harry, one long, foul glare at the new hole in the wall, before muttering audibly, "More work for Kreacher. Never gets a rest, Kreacher does, before Master begins tearing down mistress' house. Poor mistress, what would she say about this." Then he moved on, beginning to sweep up the plaster and splintered wood on the ground, ignoring the dumbly gaping wizard in his wake.

He then proceeded to insult Harry into the master bathroom for a good wash. "Master Regulus would be ashamed to see such filth stomping about, so ashamed. Dirt all over Kreacher's clean floors," were the mutters as he pushed him up the stairs, Harry eyeing a spot of mold in the corner on his way up. After which the house elf immediately guilted him into eating a surprisingly edible soup. "Gone to waste this will. No one cares if Kreacher slaves away over food. No, too good for the Master this must be, so ungrateful for Kreacher's work".

The next two days had gone on in a similar fashion, a mix between snide comments and meticulous care to the house and regular meals. It took that much time for Hermione and Ron, the former red in the eyes and the latter red in his ears, to track him down and scold him thoroughly for taking off without warning or a letter to let them know where he was.

Kreacher stood in the background, all the while, cleaning and muttering.

Weeks later, after the world had settled down a bit more, funerals had been attended and families reunited, Harry approached Kreacher about leaving. He knew that there was no love lost between them and likely the elf had no wish to serve Harry as he was - a mutual desire to be sure - but he also knew that Kreacher feared nothing more than being a free house elf.

So, he offered to give him to Narcissa Malfoy, formally of the Black family that Kreacher so dearly loved.

Kreacher's glassy eyes had stared up at him from another mess Dung had left in his hasty theft of the property, unnervingly blank save for his perpetual scowl. Then his mouth twisted even further, and he returned to his work, mummering scathingly, "Master thinks Kreacher is not good enough for him, must be. The great Master must think himself above nasty house elf. What would Master Regulus say, forcing Kreacher to leave his home. Kreacher must ignore stupid Master. Master too stupid to know better."

The elf said nothing more on the subject ever again, though his thoughts were clear enough. For the next week Harry heard an assortment of words meaning stupid in direct connection with his name, his left socks were constantly going missing, and had to fend for himself for morning and afternoon meals (Mrs. Weasley, as always, had been happy to accommodate him).

To this day Harry was unsure if Kreacher simply didn't wish to leave Grimmauld Place or if it was something more. If it was something else, Kreacher would not deign to give a reason and Harry didn't much care to ask.

The elf was a silent, if mulish and bitter companion to have, but a companion nonetheless. The only sentiment Harry had seen from the creature to suggest anything deeper in five years was a photo written in Regulus' handwriting. Sirius and his brother, not yet of age for Hogwarts, were dirty and grinning, waving madly from the picture from what looked like a quidditch pitch. It had been left on his bed the evening of his birthday last year.

Now, as Harry stands alone in his room, toe newly devoid of identification and still throbbing with pain, he is even more grateful for the elf. He doesn't think that Hermione could have helped with as much cool professionalism as the house elf had. Not without a good explanation that Harry really doesn't have to give.

He still can't decide if he even wants to tell Hermione or Ron anything about what had happened.

A creak from the hallway alerts him to Kreacher's presence, the faint smell of smoke trailing after him making Harry grin weakly. "Will Master be wanting his supper this evening, or is he going to the blood traitors' for food - nasty food no doubt, poor Kreacher, who knows what they put in it, what Kreacher will have to fix later..." the elf trails of in a mutter.

Long since used to the elf's vocabulary as more a facet of his personality than any real insult, Harry opens his mouth only to pause, unsure.

He's almost late anyway. His absence could easily be blamed on his case - in fact, it wouldn't even be a lie. Between doubling back to make sure any trace of his...visitation to the hospital was gone, picking up the work for Whitley, and asking that Doctor about twenty questions that were not entirely appropriate to ask a muggle - though how the bloody hell a muggle could look at a walking corpse and barely bat an eye-

"Is Master feeling unwell?" The muffled question interrupts his thoughts and Harry realizes that he did not actually give an answer, " Master must not be right in the head, though Master is never very right in the head. Poor Kreacher, all the work he must do for his stupid Master," Kreacher shuffles out the door before Harry can call him back.

"Well, Kreacher, you're not wrong," Harry smiles wryly, watching his expression in the mirror.

As per usual, as usual at it can be in this case, he looks completely normal. There are no blemishes on his face or body, aside from those that were already there. His scar is still a faint impression on his forehead, the words on his hands rough and harsh against the smooth skin around it. With a new pair of glasses (he has about seven of them, his work is a hazard to his vision, among other things) he looks completely, utterly normal.

Doesn't look dead in the least.

Third time, Harry muses, is not, in fact, the charm. And though he is grateful to still be alive, there are deeper concerns to what has happened, concerns he has yet to share wholly with anyone.

Hermione and Ron were both made aware and completely horrified by what had happened in the forbidden forest. It wasn't like he really had a choice but to tell them. Hermione had as many theories as Ron did curses, neither of which were helpful. At the time Harry was just glad to be alive and wanted to put the whole experience behind him.

Until it had happened again.

Taking one long last look at his reflection, he let his eyes rove across the picture of Sirius and Regulus and, next to them in a separate frame, Teddy and Rosie smiling with wide cheeks and missing teeth up at him.

He sighs, then shouts, "Kreacher - I'm heading out. Don't bother with dinner!" There is a crash from what sounds like the downstairs kitchen, probably purposefully inflicted, and louder, half shouted intelligible muttering.

Turning on his heels before he can change his mind, with a twist in his navel and crack in his ears, the next thing he sees are the wooden doors of a modest cottage.

"Harry!" Harry only had a single moment to blink before he is brought to his knees under the combined weight of Rose, Teddy, George and Ron, of all people, as they come tumbling out from the flung-open doorway of the Weasley-Granger household. Beyond the flailing limbs and bright faces, he sees Hermione and Andromeda standing back and grinning just as broadly.

His shoulders relax, warmth seeping into limbs that still felt cold and weighty, disconnected in some strange way even now. But he shakes his head and puts the thought (and worries, Merlin the theories) to rest. At least for now.

"Hey Ron," he smiles, "didn't realize you'd missed me that much. It's only been a couple of days!"

Ron, who had since detached himself from the mob, holding little Rosie up and out of reach from Teddy's enthusiasm, sheepishly smiles back, ears burning just the slightest bit of red. "Well, you know how it is," he stammers, "hard not to get caught up in all the kiddos' excitement."

Harry laughs and turns to George, "So what's your excuse then?"

"Who says I'm not a kid," is all he gets in response.

"You'll hear no argument from me otherwise," Angelina Weasley nee Johnson says as she rounds the corner to her husband's side.

"Hey Angelina," Harry greets in surprise. Both she and George had just returned from their own honeymoon – having been married over a year prior, but unable to get the time off that they needed until Ron joined George at the shop. "Great to see you."

"Oh, so she gets a warm welcome and I get called childish," Ron moans from the side, "how's that for being best friends, Hermione? Harry's gone on and replaced me already."

"Ron," Harry says, "I saw you a few days ago. I haven't seen Angelina for over a month!"

"Oh, he knows," Hermione quips from where still she stands half in the kitchen, next to Andromeda, both wielding spatulas like scepters, "I'm pretty sure he has a pocket calendar that he uses to keep track of the next time he gets to see you. Honestly, you'd think I was the interloper on your relationship."

Now Ron's ears are truly a violent shade of crimson and the whole group laughs uproariously at his expense. He merely groans and shifts the almost toddler from one hip to the other, before ushering everyone back inside.

Teddy, still clinging to Harry's leg as he trudges through the doors, has been chanting happy birthday since he latched on, hair immediately flowing from his usual turquoise to Harry's own jet black, and back again. Reaching down to unlatch the octopus, Harry lets the last of the tension leave his shoulders with a soft smile. "Hello there, pup. Haven't seen you for, well," he pauses and sets his face in a dramatic pose of contemplation, "maybe fifteen years it seems!"

Teddy giggles hysterically and mashes his hand, and the questionable substance sticking to it, in Harry's face, "I'm only four Harry! It wasn't fifteen ago!"

"No," says Andromeda approaching with, bless her heart, a damp washcloth for his face as they trade goods, "He saw you last week when he came to babysit, remember? And did a fine job of working you up into a right state for me when I got back to," she shoots him a mock glare.

"Always here if you need me Andromeda," Harry chirps in reply, wiping down the mess of what he hopes is either brownie or cake mix from his face.

"Though never on time," Hermione comes and grips him in a tight hug, mindful of the growing bulge in her belly, but no less tight for it. "Where were you? We were expecting you an hour ago, or to at least have heard from you by then?" She lightly rebukes with a small frown.

"Told her not to worry," George says, "Always the diva, you were – should've expected you to arrive fashionably late, as usual."

Ron scoffs, "You would know."

George gasps, horrified, and clutching at his heart as if in mortal agony. "Why Ronniekins! How dare you! I'll have you know that I have impeccable timing. A wizard such as myself, after all, is never late-" From his side Angelina groans loudly, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "nor am I early, I arrive precisely when I mean to."

"Not this again," his wife mutters.

"Was that…was that Lord of the Rings?" Hermione asks, voice low and incredulous.

Ron looks confused, "Lord of the what now?"

Shaking her head and whacking her husband on the arms while she's at it, Angelina sighs, "Yeah. Ever since my mum got that blasted series for him for his birthday, he's done nothing but quote the thing every chance he gets. For all that is holy never tell him a good morning. Ever."

Hermione's eyes light in understanding and amusement while everyone else looks vaguely confused and suspicious – as is the usual reaction when anything involving Angelina's husband is mentioned. George continues to smile blithely.

"Enough of that," Andromeda has since put Teddy down and now gestures everyone into the dining room, which had been expanded into the living area with an extra table and several odd assortments of chairs from around the house. "We've been kept waiting long enough regardless of whatever timetable Harry has been keeping. To the dinner table all of you – fly you fools!"

George barks out a laugh and a holler of triumph while Angelina just groans once more.

Soon, dinner is set, and everyone digs in. Harry learns that Molly and Arthur are still in Romania with Charlie ("No doubt trying to find him a wife," Ron mutters through his potatoes) while Ginny is off visiting Bill and Fleur's family at their cottage while on a brief break from her time with the Hollyhead Harpies ("Also probably trying to avoid Charlie's fate," George adds with a wicked grin, "she quite likes being single from what I hear").

Conversation is kept light, though Harry can see Hermione's knee bouncing impatiently, the quick and meaningful glances she sends him out of the corner of her eye occasionally distracting him. For once, it is Ron who lightly elbows Hermione, smiling broadly as he scoops her up another helping of Green Bean Casserole (the witch had the strangest cravings - that casserole had been at attendance in almost every meal he's had with the family for the past few months, and after the first taste he has since politely declined it each time it is offered - the children pouting mulishly and jealously at him as it is piled onto their plates).

Teddy and Rosie are wild with glee when the treacle tart is brought out after the 'horrid, slimy green stuff' is cleaned from their plates.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," Andromeda squeezes him tightly around the shoulder's as she finishes serving everyone up - the children chorusing the same.

"Mum and dad were planning on being home by now to come too," George adds with a shrug, "but Charlie ended up a little more singed after a particularly nasty hatching two days ago that sent mum into a tizzy." If one had thought Mrs. Weasley to be a fierce matriarch before the war, the aftermath produced a whole different sort of beast. No one in the family had yet to put her off it though, they all accepted it with good natured ribbing and an occasion sad gleam in their eyes.

"But you're not getting off that easy," said Ron, "Their planning on throwing you another birthday party when they get back. One that Bill and Fleur and everyone else can attend as well."

"How are they anyways," Harry asks.

Hermione beams, eyes shining with a motherly glow, "Fleur and the Hugo are doing wonderful. I'm sure having Ginny there is a huge help too - I know I really appreciated it."

"Tis the season of babies," George chortles, wiggling his eyebrows at Angelina.

She snorts and rolls her eyes, but blushes furiously, "Come off it," she whacks his arm again.

Hermione's eyes snap between the two, like observing a particularly fast-paced Quidditch match, "Angelina?"

Ron, just a tad oblivious, raises an eyebrow to his wife at her excited near whisper.

The woman in question blushes a brighter red, ears burning near as much as her husband's hair, jabbing his side with a finger, "Why I ever trust your word on anything anymore, I'll never know."

"You are!" Hermione squeals and Ron winces.

"Congratulations," Harry says warmly, joy filling him with warmth at the news.

"Congratulations?" Ron asks, still slightly dazed, "On what?"

"They're having a baby, Ronald," Hermione is too excited to sit still reaching over and clasping hands with Angelina. "How far along are you?"

"Not far," the other witch replies, "we found out just after getting back."

Andromeda chuckles, cleaning up the chaos of chocolate and green beans that paint the plate and table surrounding both Teddy and Rosie - the elder acting as muse for the younger's budding artistry it seemed, "Then I suppose I shouldn't break out the fire whiskey, better be the Butterbeer for us tonight. Come on you two, up you get." She bundles the two children up and out of their chairs to go get clean.

Though Angelina's announcement seemed enough to distract Hermione well enough as soon as the children were out of the room Ron's eyes were glued to Harry's and he sighed.

"Ron you know I technically shouldn't be discussing an ongoing case with you," Harry weakly protests.

Ron snorts and Hermione breaks of her low conversation with Angelina, "Right. Course." And continues to stare, expectantly.

Angelina stands, dragging her husband up with her, "I think Andromeda might need some help with the kids, come on George."

As George's protests fade into the hallway, Hermione asks, "Were you able to find out more from Kingsley, Harry?"

"No," Harry sighs heavily, "I wasn't able to learn much more than I told you before. Everything else you really already know."

"This is about that Whitley bloke, right," Run frowns.

"Yeah," Harry nods, "we found him dead in his apartment this morning. Well, the housekeeper was the one who found him. Gave Whitley's guest sleeping in the bedroom the heart attack of a lifetime, I'm sure."

"Blimey," Ron grimaces, "what a way to start the day, huh?"

Harry snorts in response, "For the both of us. What's more is that there isn't anything to indicate that this was done by a witch or wizard. Like you said," he nods towards Hermione, "he was far removed from the wizarding world. The only contacts he kept in touch with were Kingsley and the others on the new Muggle Law committee. Kingsley said as much himself. Speaking of, how did you know so much about that anyway?" He questions.

Biting her lip and rubbing her hands down the legs of her trousers, Hermione glances wearily between both of her oldest friends. "I'm really not supposed to say, Cresswell was very adamant about it, but since you're already involved, if not in the strictest sense-"

Harry huffs, more surprised that he hadn't made the connection beforehand, "I should've guessed that they would bring you on board as soon as they could. Kingsley hinted at it enough that I should've known sooner."

Ron gapes at his wife, "Blimey, Hermione! I knew there was something going on with the muggles, but you didn't tell me you were working with the Minister!"

"That was the whole point, Ron," she says, wryly, but glowing with faint pride, "it was supposed to be kept very secret. It's barely begun and there is still so much more that we need to accomplish before this becomes public. We've only just scratched the surface of the integration we're working towards."

"You might have to cut the secrecy sooner than you'd like, Hermione," Harry gravely states, bringing out the plain folded parchment with 'Amanda Higgins' scrawled neatly along the upper boarder.

Hermione's face pales, eyes wide with a wet sheen already gathering in the corners as they fixate on the name written. "Oh no, y-you don't mean-"

He only nods. She swallows. "This might be a lot bigger mess than just Whitley's death. Amanda Higgins was found two weeks prior at her summer home in Wales. They said that the cause of death was an overdose of her prescribed medication-" Hermione makes a brief, choked sound, "but Kingsley isn't willing to rule anything out."

"And he shouldn't," Hermione bursts, angry and fists clenched, "I knew Amanda, I even met with her outside of work a few times. She was so careful with her medication – she would never have overdosed, everything was kept so meticulously! W-we were supposed to meet for lunch," she whimpers, covering her face as tears begin to fall, "after she got back. She was going to lend me a few of her books…"

Ron is there, wrapping his arms around her and silent as she begins to cry. Harry knows his friend, knows how hard it is for him to say the right thing to help even someone he loves as much as Hermione in moments like this. So, he sits there and holds her instead as Harry watches on, gut twisting with pain for his friend's loss.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Harry apologizes, softly, "I didn't realize you were friends."

She shakes her head, "We – we weren't. Not really. Not y-yet."

What she doesn't say is that they would have been. She doesn't need to.

"I hate to do this," Harry continues, "but is there anything else you can tell me about her."

She shakes her head a little harshly, bushy hair flying, "Not if you've already spoken with Kingsly about her. She liked him, you know? Thought that he was really nice and respectful even though she was a squib."

"A squib?" Ron questions, "Didn't know there was another person who had died."

"That's because you're not an Auror anymore Ron - and it doesn't help that she was a squib. It's one of the reasons our case isn't well known yet. Either way, so far there's only been two," Harry says, "but considering that they were both involved with the discussions of the new positions and how they died - Kingsley is worried."

"S-so how did Whitley die then," Hermione sniffs past her tears, rubbing them away with a rough hand, gripping Ron's own with her other, "You said this morning that you weren't completely sure."

Harry grimaces at the reminder of his ill-fated trip, "Still don't know. Nothing overt. He had a glass of alcohol with him, but until I get the medical records back from the muggle hospital he was transferred too we won't really know."

"Hang on, why wasn't he taken to Saint Mungo's?" Ron asks.

"The muggle hospitals are better at detecting if there were any harmful drugs in his system and how they might've interacted with anything else to cause his death," Harry explains. "Especially if it was muggle medicine, like with Amanda. With nothing overtly magical to show a cause of death, nothing that we could detect anyway, and add to that how far removed he was from the magical world it just made more sense to pass him on and collect the information later."

Hermione is biting her lip now, the knuckles of her hand white from griping Ron's, "Have - have you considered the Unforgivables?"

Ron blinks at his wife in astonishment.

"I mean," she starts to babble nervously, "The Avada curse wouldn't leave any trace that you could find without the wand that cast it. No one would want to think of it being used, all things considered, but it does make sense. It leaves the body without a mark - like they went in their sleep."

Yellow robes and a young face flash green before Harry's eyes and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "You might be right, Hermione. More so than any of us realize."

"Seriously?" Ron near whispers, horrified.

Harry just nods. "Before I finished with Shacklebolt, he told me to keep an eye out. You know, for anyone with the 'right sort of connections and the wrong sort of ideas'".

He can see by the paling of her face that Hermione immediately understands what he means.

"Of course," she mumbles lowly, "I suppose - well it would make a sick sort of sense, wouldn't it?"

Ron huffs, "I think I might be a bit lost - who exactly is Kingsly telling you to look out for?"

It's his wife that answers, quietly, "Death Eaters."

A heavy silence descends in the kitchen – the joy and warmth of the previous atmosphere fled in face of a cold and dark possibility.

"But," Ron stammers, "why? We haven't heard anything from them since the end of the war? They were all rounded up!"

"We can't possibly find everyone Ron, as hard as we try," Hermione says, still quiet, almost thoughtful if not for the tremor in her voice. "Even if we did find everyone active back then, there's always a chance of new people popping up with similar ideas who might decide that we've, you know...gone too far."

"Gone too far?" He says, aghast, "In what?"

"With muggles," Hermione says, still worrying her lip. "Think about it, we are introducing an entirely new branch in the ministry, dedicated solely to understanding and immersing themselves in the muggle world - well their government in any case. I know normal witches and wizards who don't think it's a good idea - now imagine how the more traditional, darker families might feel?"

Ron's grimaces in what Harry thinks is understanding.

"We don't know that's the case yet," Harry reminds them, "it's just a vague theory, one of the more drastic ones too. So far, all the deaths point to being more mundane than magical - and I don't know any witch or wizard with the right combination of brains, connections, or ideals that could think of putting a conspiracy like this together."

Face suddenly dark, Ron mutters, "I can think of one."

Hermione immediately scowls, "Not this again Ron. You and Malfoy are not going to become a repeat performance of your fathers in this. I don't want to see you two brawling it out in Flourish and Blotts. Especially since-"

"Since what," Ron cuts her off angrily, "Since he has the right connections, brains, and ideals-"

"Not anymore, Ronald!"

Harry sits in a abruptly uncomfortable silence across from the couple, a flashback to younger days. Only back then it was a cat and a rat, instead of Death Eaters and a Malfoy; simpler times, he supposed.

"It's the same that happened with his father, and everyone knows it-"

"Only because people keep hearing those sorts of comments! If you would just let it go and give him a chance-"

"After what happened to us," Ron is growing louder by the second, "After what he did to you-"

"Ron."

He isn't sure whether it was the fact that Harry had moved to close the door to the hallway, or maybe even the way he said it, but the red head stopped cold at his name, face still burning with anger.

"I know you don't like Malfoy, Ron," Harry continues, taking his seat once more, "I'm not particularly fond of him either, but I have to agree with Hermione on this. Malfoy didn't do those things to us. In a way he was as much a victim as anybody-" he ignores the disbelieving snort, "either way, this is an old hat and doesn't much help anyone."

Hermione give a weak, but grateful smile as Ron continues to glower, the red fading from his face.

It was a strange sort of friendship Harry had with the Malfoys now - not so much the younger. No, he and Draco Malfoy still didn't see eye to eye, and Harry doubted they ever would. Too much history and misguided hatred between the two.

It was Narcissa who he'd come to an uneasy friendship with. How could he not? The woman had lied straight to Voldemort's face to save his life, daring and risking everything in a way that no one really knew or could even truly understand. And when the Malfoys went to trial...well, it was complicated.

But for all that he had played a part in helping the Malfoy family be pardoned, the Senior Malfoy notwithstanding, Ron had a point.

"Ron...might be right about something though, Hermione - hear me out," He quickly adds as now Hermione's face begins to grow a faint red and her hair almost seems to bristle. "I obviously don't think the Malfoys would be involved in this, but like it or not they do - or did have connections with that particular crowd."

Hermione doesn't immediately contradict him, though Ron snorts at this, instead furrowing her eyebrows in a way Harry knows mean that she is considering what he has to say, but she doesn't have to like it.

"It couldn't hurt to drop by Narcissa's and at least ask," he continues. "I need to head out tomorrow to check in with Kingsley again anyway and pick up those medical files for Whitley. And I think Kreacher found some old Black family jewelry that won't do anything but gather dust in his cupboard, so I might as well drop it off while I'm there."

He's not really asking for permission either way, doesn't need to. This is a thin lead to a distressing theory, but it's one of few avenues he has to take at the moment. He's got a job to do.

Harry just hopes Narcissa won't throw him out before he can explain himself. Perhaps bringing the jewelry along is a good idea after all.

A/N: Thank you for everyone's patience and encouragement as I trudge along in this story. I really and truly enjoy writing it and, as juvenile as I still feel my writing may be, I still feel like I gain a lot of valuable experience with each chapter I produce. First of all I want to thank a few reviewers:

mabidiso: I love that you enjoy the 'whodunit' aspect of the story. Originally it was never there, but I found a lot of enjoyment and inspiration from my thoughts on a completely separate idea that just seemed to mesh so well with what I already had going.

nhihilist: Thanks for your positive support despite my typos! I'm going to be doing my best to catch more of them, but I know I'm still absolute rubbish at editing my own stories. Other peoples'? I examine everything with a microscope. Mine - I dunno, those little buggers are sneaky. Also, I'm glad that you feel I was in character for Shamal - writing perspectives and trying to keep them with the same flavor of character that is experiencing what is happening is incredibly difficult.

liankitty: Glad you find the dialogue amusing! Next to my one-shot/two-shot OCs the back and forth banter is some of my favorite to write.

Diamondia: Heh heh heh... oh Reborn. There's really only one way I can possibly imagine bringing Reborn into this story - I've had his entrance planned for a while, before almost anything else really.

sympatheticassassin: Don't count your chickens just yet - who knows what the heck Harry is! He might be a cloud, or he could even be a lightening. Nobody knows ~

I'll try to respond to at least a few of the reviews each chapter that is posted. Feel free to tell me your thoughts and ideas for what is going on. Also - I am still looking for a Beta reader for this story.

I will love you for life,

All the best,

BeIntrospective