purenerve | congratulations, it's a boy wonder!

congratulations, it's a boy wonder!

[ A boy of almost eleven lays on the floor of a drafty, creaking shack. He is small for his age, and very skinny, which is only exaggerated by the oversized castoffs that make up his wardrobe; he is pale and dark haired, with brilliant green eyes that peer out above a prominent nose. To those who don't know him, he appears exactly as normal as his aunt and uncle would insist he is.

In fact, the only thing that appears odd about Harry Potter is the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It aches a little tonight. He runs his fingers through his own messy fringe, rubbing over the raised mark idly as he waits.

His cousin Dudley's watch face is bright in the lightless room. While Harry isn’t exactly eager for the time to tick over to midnight, he has nothing better to do than to count down the minutes until his birthday.

He shivers as another strong gust from the storm outside creeps in through the gaps in the boarded walls.

11:54. 11:55.

If only he had one of those letters to read. Perhaps they were filled with birthday wishes. It seems unlikely, but it was nice to imagine.

11:56. 11:57.

Across the room, the cold, empty rectangle of the fireplace begins to glow. Harry, unsure if it’s simply a trick of his tired eyes, squints from where he is huddled at the foot of Dudley’s sagging couch.

11:58. 11:59.

The light, steadily growing, becomes a hearth filled with flickering flames. Harry knows this is impossible; he knows this is weird. Experience tells him that such strangeness can only be his fault. Logically, that means to call for help from his aunt or uncle would be to call down his own punishment, so he bites down harshly on his own tongue.

Watching, waiting. Hoping the strangeness will just end on its own, as it so rarely did.

Harry actually isn’t scared until the fire abruptly flares emerald, the same shade as his wide eyes.

Scrambling on all fours, he skitters away as a very tall figure takes shape through the flames. His back hits the wall the same moment it steps into the room.

On the couch, Dudley’s snoring stutters, but does not stop. Harry cannot find his voice to shout a warning. He croaks instead. ]

W-who – ?

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( He oscillates between fury, denial, and some incomprehensible slurry of emotions - sometimes several times a day. The conversation took place eight months ago.

"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You weren't ready. I think you know that."
"That isn't your decision to make. You haven't the right."
"I've done only what I truly believe is best. For both of you."

Some time after that, another.

"You're wrong."
"I often am, but not about this."
"The tests were faulty."
"Would you like to retake them?"
"I'll brew it myself this time."

A week after that, another.

"If you truly feel you can't do this, I won't force you."
"If you truly believe I can provide more to him than the family he already has, you've finally lost your mind. Dementia has begun to set in."
"I often think dementia might make for a nice reprieve, but I'm afraid it isn't as simple as that. He's coming, Severus. It's not strong enough. Not as strong as it would be with your blood. Even if it weren't, do you truly think he'd be safer under anyone's care but yours?"
"I'm going to ruin the boy if I agree to this."
"I very much doubt that."

After that, months of internal debate. The long wait before Potter-- no, he'll have to reevaluate that-- hit the age wherein wizarding law clearly takes precedent over muggle law when it comes to the welfare of a magically gifted child. It's almost universally indisputable (in court) that a magical guardian can better raise a magical child.

He nearly changes his mind a few days before he's scheduled to go.

And then the address on the letter changes.

On the floor.

He's positively incensed. The compulsion from his temperament alone, the sheer fury, would propel him through this decision.

A foreboding man steps quietly out of the flames, dark eyes narrowed, assessing the room and radiating a kind of darkness that might make a child of Harry's age afraid to say a single bloody word, let alone ask a question. His eyes had landed on the sleeping, pudgy boy on the couch at first - easy to do, he's breathing like a rhinocerous and taking up nearly as much room - and his impulse had been dear lord, are we certain-

The scrawny child with his back against the wall makes far more sense. It feels as though someone has speared him clean through the chest with a jagged lance, and for a few silent seconds he simply can't find words. He can only stare.

When he eventually recovers, he supposes it might be a good idea to confirm (he already knows, the second he sets eyes on the child he knows) that he's looking at the right one. )

Harry Potter?

[ Mouth slightly open, his heart stampeding in his chest, Harry stares back. It is no creature from his nightmares, as he had so briefly assumed. A pale, scowling face sits on top of a long, narrow, black-cloaked body; impossibly, it is a man just as human as Harry himself who has stepped out of the fireplace.

When he hears his own name, wide green eyes somehow grow larger. With a heavy swallow, he tries again to find his own voice, but he finds that he can’t force himself to speak any louder than that first question, so he nods as well. ]

Yes.

[ Something niggles at Harry from beyond the fear. He straightens a little, chin tipping up with a bravery beyond his years, and his next whisper sounds entirely too hopeful. ]

Are… are you the one who has been sending the letters?

( Having seen many a first year student react to first meeting him, he's aware the variety can be quite wide. He hasn't the strict schoolmarm feeling that Minerva carries that children inherently comfortably understand. He hasn't the welcoming grandfatherly appeal of Albus. Not the kindly, reassuring aura of Flitwick, nor the maternal ease of Sprout. Any child not raised with the same expectations of calculated composure that Slytherin children often are typically don't react well. Most are frightened. Some are obnoxiously Gryffindor.

This one is unusually reasonable. He hasn't the time or space to think about that too hard right now. He'd like to begone of this filthy hovel as soon as humanly possible, preferably before the muggles wake up. )

Not. Exactly.

( He answers slowly, voice neutral, eyeing the boy perhaps too intently. )

The letters come from a school. I work for the school. It seems you haven't managed to squirrel a letter away from your aunt.

( It's a statement, not a question. Rather than waiting for an answer, he withdraws from his robes a letter - opened, as the address line said on the floor and he couldn't help himself. He offers it over expectantly. )

School?

[ But it was all too obvious that the only answers he wanted would be found in the letter itself.

Like someone who has had things offered and yanked away too many times, Harry reaches across the distance between them slowly, distrustfully. At first he keeps his eyes on the man’s face, but that familiar envelope is too tantalizing not to steal his attention.

Thick, yellowish parchment; his name on the front in green ink. It looks exactly like the others, though this one has been delivered with a broken seal. Harry doesn’t care a whit.

His fingers close around the edge and he snatches it away from the stranger's unprotesting grip, bringing the letter to his chest as his eyes flick back up to his dark gaze.

An instant later has Harry tearing into the thick parchment, a little wild in his desperation to finally read.

And read he does. Enthralled but struggling to see in the flickering firelight, at first the words make no sense. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He rereads the letter a second time, and then a third, but finally Harry shakes his head. ]

I don’t understand. [ He finally looks back up to the letter’s deliverer entire minutes after he had begun to read, utterly confused. ] I think… I think you have the wrong person.

( He says nothing when the boy yanks the paper away. Only presses his lips into a small, displeased line. It's the countenance of a child used to having things they want held over their heads and then immediately taken away again. Comparing this child to the one on the couch only reaffirms the impression.

This isn't exactly what he suspected the initial reaction would be, either.

He raises a singular eyebrow. Drawls: )

I can assure you, Mister Potter, I'm quite certain I have the right person.

[ There’s a mountain of evidence to back up what he is being told. Unexplained, impossible happenings are a common part of his life; this letter, like all the others, is unmistakably addressed to Harry; and perhaps most reassuringly of all, the man crouched on the dirt floor in front of him does seem very certain.

It takes another few seconds to think it over. Harry skims the letter again without taking the words in, his fingers so tightly gripping the parchment that his sharp, bony knuckles have gone white.

Term begins on 1 September. It was soon – but not soon enough. A month still to go, he thinks with a burst of hopelessness. Even though he knows how much adults hate being asked anything, he can’t help himself. ] Are you here to take me with you to Hogwarts? Who... who are you?

Not to Hogwarts. Not yet.

( He answers, straightening his shoulders and absently passing a hand across his sleeves as though wiping away nonexistent dust. Purely psychological, it's just the atmosphere of this shack. )

This is neither the time nor the place for your questions. I'll answer them all in somewhere with distinctly less... asbestos. What I can tell you is that in the near future, you'll have the ability to make a choice. Specifically with regards to your... Living. Situation.

( He adds the last two words with a sneer, wholly and clearly directed at the building itself, as he casts a muted but disgusted look around the room again. )

Until that time, you'll be staying somewhere else. Do you have any personal effects you wish to gather before we go?

Edited 2021-09-01 06:59 (UTC)

[ The more the man speaks, the more strangely Harry looks at him. It’s just like the letter: the words themselves make sense, but the meaning behind them is… well, it’s impossible. Choices? Magic? Being away from the Dursleys? Any one of these would have been enough to sell Harry on leaving with this severe, strange man, but all three are enough to make his head spin.

He laughs, once, like he thinks the question is stupid. ] No. Let’s go.

[ Where? How? Why? He holds onto his questions, lest this opportunity slip from his hands. With a little noise of effort, Harry pushes himself away from the wall, onto his knees, then up onto his feet, clumsy with eagerness. ]

Let’s go now.

( The sudden, enthusiastic insistence is a bizarre thing to behold, considering the circumstances. That a veritable stranger who looks like - to use the words of others - a great nightmare bat from the dungeons of hell strolls in through his fireplace, informs him that magic exists, and then decides to take him away from his family.

It takes less than two minutes for the boy to emphatically agree.

This is troubling for a number of reasons, not the least of which is what it screams about the child's home life. Clearly a very serious discussion about not doing something as stupid as this ever again in the future is warranted, but perhaps it isn't the highest priority on their ever-growing list.

He hasn't a single item to bring with him.

Appallingly, he isn't surprised. )

You're an unusual child, aren't you, Potter?

( He mutters rhetorically under his breath, while offering out his hand expectantly.

(and he isn't really a Potter at all, is he? in name and legal documentation only, and perhaps that's actually for the best - from a strategic point of view.)

If he takes it, a second later and with a loud pop that startles Dudley so badly he rolls off the couch into the floor, they depart the rickety shack and appear instead in the center of a small kitchen. )

[ The change is unsubtle: his shoulders tighten a little defensively, the quality of his tone suddenly prim. ]

I’m pretty normal, actually.

[ They both know he’s lying, but unlike his family, this man seems to be just as unusual as Harry. Somehow, that single fact – the only fact Harry knows about him – makes him much easier to trust. Reaching out bravely, he takes the offered hand in a small but secure hold.

Between one moment and the next, everything changes.

The pop of apparation is initially disconcerting, and for a moment he doesn’t realize they’ve gone anywhere. The clues filter in over the next seconds: instead of lashing rain against a tin roof and the accompaniment of his cousin’s sawing snores, the only sound Harry hears is distant patter of raindrops. It’s warm and well-lit, and it smells a little musty, like old papers – not at all like seawater and old fish. ]

Wow… [ He stares around openly, wonderingly. He stands at the center of a clean but very old fashioned kitchen; a scrubbed wooden table and chairs to one side, a fireplace brimming with normal, amber flames to the other. Harry releases the stranger’s hand and goes right to the window above the sink.

It’s black as midnight outside, but when he raises himself up to his toes and squints, Harry can make out the shadowy sketch of a wet street lined with brick houses.

No ocean, no rock, no shack. No Dursleys.

Harry laughs again, smiling even wider now, so wide it threatens to split his face in two when he spins back around to face his host. Another room juts up against the kitchen, and he doesn’t know where to look first: walls of books wrap the entire interior, interrupted only by a few other small, dark windows.

Harry couldn’t be happier to not know where he is. ]

You’re a wizard, too!

( At that prim correction, Severus raises a single lofty eyebrow. Says nothing, just stares down at the child with cool skepticism clearly written in his features. Far be it from him to argue the point with an eleven year old clearly grappling with the navigation of an abusive household. They have far more important things to focus on anyway.

Obliviously reaffirming Severus's point, the child immediately starts laughing. It's with an unfiltered genuine pleasure, and it's as baffling to him as neurosurgery. He watches, bemused and not wholly certain how he should be reacting to it, grappling with an unexpected surge of feeling he can't put a name to.

Best not acknowledge it, then.

He clears his throat to get the excitable boy's attention. )

Take a seat, Mr. Potter.

( Firmly, but not unkindly. Should he listen, Snape will wordlessly go about gathering a couple of things to set before him: a glass of milk, and a saucer of biscuits.

He gets the distinct impression the child may not have been given a particularly decent meal today. It's too late for that, but providing some caloric content to his stomach is the least his conscience can allow. He knows nothing of fatherhood - less than nothing - but feeding your offspring is an easy staple to hit. )

As you're no doubt aware, it's after midnight. You may ask two questions, should you have any that are burning away at your mind, and then afterward I expect you to retire to sleep. We've a busy day tomorrow.

[ Harry has only a single point of reference for his behavior in this strange house: Mrs. Figg, his kind but cat-obsessed neighbor, had watched him a few times, but otherwise he has never been a guest. Aunt Petunia had always drilled it into his head that he was to be polite, to listen, and to do as he is told by the adults around him, and that seems like good advice to follow now.

Of course, it’s always easier when he wants to do as he is told. His stomach clenches to see the snack being laid out, and at once Harry’s mouth is watering.

When it is set in front of the place at the table he has been assigned, the plate of treats look much more appealing than the stale, store-bought biscuits Mrs. Figg had always plied him with. He picks one up and it disappears in three quick bites, leaving Harry to chew through an overfull mouthful of crumbs. ]

Thanks.

[ His manners aren’t terrible; he swallows before speaking, careful not to spray. The milk is cold when Harry washes down the first biscuit with a long, loud swallow.

Two questions. He chews over his options at the same time he chews on the corner of another biscuit in silence, and an entire minute passes in silence.

Where am I? What’s going on tomorrow? Am I really a wizard? Am I really going to Hogwarts? ]

Who are you?

( When his mouth flattens in displeasure over the display, it isn't because of subpar manners but rather the voracity of his appetite being so clearly demonstrated. Heat burns through his chest again, a fire he can't put out that unsubtly suggests he kindly educate Petunia on the error of her ways.

It's only been an hour. There may be elements to this he doesn't yet understand. He'll hold his tongue.

For now.

The first question isn't unexpected, and it's one Severus has had the opportunity to consider in the months leading up to this. He has a strategy in mind, a plan, one that involves that decision he'd mentioned earlier. Not yet. )

Severus Snape. I'm the potions master at Hogwarts, you'll be attending my classes come the start of term. For the next two weeks you'll be under my care.

( One step at a time. )

Really?

[ It’s a lot of information when he had just been expecting a name. Severus Snape, a teacher of potions? And he’d be staying here for two weeks? His heel scuffs excitedly against the kitchen floor as Harry swings his leg. It stills suddenly, his eyes narrowing. ]

That’s not my question.

[ He picks up the second to last biscuit, then breaks it in half, then breaks that half in half, all the while watching his new teacher’s face carefully. There’s no rush to eat when Dudley isn’t lurking within grabbing reach of Harry’s food, and he suddenly realizes that as soon as he’s finished, he will have to wait until morning to see more this man.

He does finally think of his question, though. ]

Is there anyone else staying here?

( Perhaps imperceptible to an eleven-year-old -- or perhaps not, if he's particularly keen -- his lips twitch up ever so slightly in a fleeting micro-expression of amusement.

That's not my question.

Clever or absurd, he can't decide which.

The second question isn't one he would've imagined, and he narrows his eyes a little discerningly, trying to parse out the motivation behind it. )

No. Your only company will be me for the time being, I'm afraid, save the events of tomorrow or any other outing we might take.

( A beat, and... he can't help it- )

Why do you ask?

Cool. [ Harry doesn’t look at all disappointed to hear that they will be keeping each other company. One corner of his mouth lifts as he chews and nods.

Now that he has spent his questions, the room becomes much more interesting again. His eyes bounce from wall to wall, finding everything mundane and enthralling all at once. He politely turns his gaze back to Snape when the man surprises Harry by asking something, too.

The idea that this whole situation – the letters and this man's magical arrival and everything else – that it could all be for his benefit alone seems fanciful. ]

Beause… because if I get something, or go somewhere, Dudley does, too.

[ The opposite is far less true, but he doesn’t bring it up – the last thing Harry wants is for Snape to think him ungrateful, or selfish. With a shrug, he tries to change the subject. ]

You can ask another question. I had two, so it seems fair that you should as well.

Edited 2021-09-01 20:12 (UTC)

( He bites his tongue so as not to say, I'd imagine he does twice at the very least. Better to keep himself focused on the one at his dining table for now, and not allow his temper to flair.

He considers the offer, unexpected as it is, and thinks initially to say no. Decline, and usher him to bed. Something stops him.

Absurdly, and he cannot explain why, it seems like the only right thing to do in this situation is humor it.

He takes a surprising handful of seconds to think, churning through questions that seem too impersonal and then too personal, unable to decide on what seems to appropriately hit the middle ground.

He ultimately settles on something mild, fueled by his own curiosity about who this child is, exactly. )

How often do you read?

[ He gives the question serious consideration. ]

I do at school. The librarian used to let me read and eat my lunch but –

[ His cousin had put a stop to that one afternoon, showing up just to make trouble and getting Harry, Dudley, and Dudley’s whole group of friends banned; but of course none of that gang had any use for books, so it had really only been Harry to suffer the consequences.

This story is not impressive in the least, so he does not share it. He has half a cookie left, and he gives it a disappointed look, wishing very much it would somehow become a full plate again. Harry finds himself not tired at all. ]

But I read before bed, too. It helps me sleep. [ Bright green eyes look up again, no longer glaring but instead… studying. Measuring. Trying to decide just how much push Snape might allow before he shuts Harry down. ] Can I borrow one of your books?

[ It’s not a question, after all: it’s a request. ]

( But-

Curious.

Something in him is deeply satisfied with the answer, ridiculous since it should hardly matter one way or another. Perhaps it's because it can officially be said he has at least one point of commonality with this boy he might find himself raising, which is precisely one more than he had with his own father.

If nothing else, he's already an improvement compared to that. )

You'll find a collection has already been assembled for you in your room.

( Because he'd hoped, and because some were necessary, and because he spent perhaps far too much time thinking about what in the bloody hell to stock an eleven-year-old's room with. The bed was a given, as was the dresser - though in hindsight, perhaps he should have considered the child wouldn't have come with clothes. In addition, he's added a small bookshelf. First and second year texts. Some basics. Hogwarts: A History. The second shelf is all fiction, and only half of it written by wizards. The rest are classics he remembers from his own childhood, hunted down and purchased while insulting himself the entire time.

A few other things have been added, just to satisfy his own overthinking. A set of Wizard's Chess, already set up on a small side table beside the writing desk, the pieces occasionally reaching out to shove each other. Quills and parchment, pens and paper. A set of self-shuffling cards. Small tokens he'd haphazardly guessed might occupy a child of his age.

Who knows how far off the mark he is? Suppose he'll find out in the long run. )

[ Your room: meaning his room. Harry’s room.

It’s not something he’s ever considered, and it’s significantly more than a borrowed book. ]

Oh. [ A small noise made in a small voice; he looks a little shocked, because he’s had a lot of really bizarre but exciting news so far tonight, yet that he might have a proper, private place to sleep in seems to fall out of the realm of easy believably.

Still. He’s been told that there is something new to see, something more to this magical place, so Harry finishes his snack without any additional delay. He requires no coaxing to stand up and clear away the crumbs, or to walk over to the sink to rinse his glass and plate, where he leaves both to drain on the sideboard before he readily turns to Snape.

When he’s shown the door and narrow staircase that lead up to the place Harry will be staying for the next two weeks, he finally remembers his manners. ]

Thanks, Mr. Snape. [ Harry offers a slightly awkward but entirely genuine smile to the man before he gamely heads up. In an afterthought, he looks back over his shoulder. ] Goodnight!

[ Should Severus linger at the foot of the stairs and listen, he’ll be able to hear Harry’s awed “wicked!”, then the telltale sound of excited footsteps – which predictably last for at least another half hour as he explores.

He does settle eventually, two books on his bedside and one cracked open on his pillow, but before he can absorb a single word, Harry falls asleep listening to the sounds of his chess set arguing with itself. ]

( His lips part immediately at Mr. Snape, but he finds he has nothing to say. No correction he can think to make, because professor doesn't yet apply - and a voice in his head asks him if it should, given the context at play. Severus would be incredibly bizarre to hear coming from someone his age, such a thing might be unexpected and jarring. His mouth closes again, and he leaves it be.

He stands there for a while, listening to the sounds of exploration, casting his eyes over at the sink with the neatly placed dishes, feeling...

Something.

Decidedly something.

He stands there for perhaps a little too long, before finally breaking away and retiring himself.

The next morning comes, and he considers waking the boy up - but one flickering thought to the floor of that shack and how little sleep he's likely been getting, and Severus changes his mind. Allows him to wake up once his excitable brain has had what it needs, because he hardly suspects the child will dawdle alone upstairs after he wakes up.

Instead, he begins to cook breakfast. )

[ Muted sunlight streams in from the little window inside the attic room. He can feel it, a bright band creeping steadily up his jaw, his cheek, across his eyes. Eyebrows furrowing, his fingers gripping the edges of his soft blanket, Harry staunchly refuses to wake.

It might have been a dream. Should he open his eyes, the soft mattress beneath him could very well morph back into the hard dirt floor; the ticking of the bedside clock might reveal itself to be the steady drip of water through the leaking roof of the shack; the faint birdcall outside becoming the cawing of gulls.

Despite his best efforts, little by little Harry stirs. His eyes crack open narrowly, sneaking a quick look before they shut tight again.

He is still in his very own bed, in his very own room. Delighted, he sits up and stares around, excitement renewed. Everything looks even better in the daylight.

While the biscuits from a few hours ago had been satisfying in the moment, Harry finds that he is ravenous after a quick washing up. The smell of cooking meat wafts tantalizingly up the stairs from below, and Harry speeds through his dressing.

"Such a rush! Come now! No time for a quick game?" calls the black knight when Harry passes. Later, Harry promises.

Breakfast is only mostly finished when he shyly peeks out from the doorway. Barefoot, his messy hair still a little damp, he is overwhelmed with another burst of giddy relief to see Snape again. Harry shuts the door behind himself and pads closer.

Through a yawn: ] Can I help?

Edited (i do what i want) 2021-09-02 04:07 (UTC)

( He could - and one day might - use a simple charm to silence the sound of floorboards overhead. He doesn't yet, because the subtle shifts and quiet sounds allow him to track the stirring and movement of his home's newest inhabitant. It satisfies the itch in him to watch, as though staring at the boy long enough will reveal the answer to some great mystery he doesn't even know the question to yet.

At any rate, it's that nearly imperceptible noise behind the reason why Snape doesn't seem remotely surprised that Harry's in the room. He only casts a curious look over at the offer to help, turns his eyes to the stove that must be incredibly awkward for him to navigate at his height, and he pulls two oranges from a bowl of fruit on the counter. )

Peel these, if you like.

( It wouldn't take more than a second for him to do, even without his wand, but it's not about that. It's curiosity, and three or four related questions he'll receive answers to based on what comes next.

Followed by a carefully neutral, probing: )

Did you help your aunt cook?

[ Harry fits himself beside Snape at the counter. He picks up the saucer leftover from last night and pulls it close; as he peels, he piles spirals and chunks of rind neatly onto it, but his eyes are mostly on what the other man is doing.

His questions from last night have multiplied exponentially, but he patiently resigns himself to talking about his aunt. ]

Yeah, all the time. I finally got tall enough to reach the back burners without a stool last year.

[ He sounds proud.

Cooking isn’t a chore Harry dislikes. It’s inside, for one, and sometimes the opportunity presents itself to sneak a few extra bites before the food reaches Dudley at the table. Harry looks pleased when he sets both oranges, peeled, onto the clean countertop. ]

( There they stand, Snape at over six feet tall and dressed wholly in black like a walking omen, Harry at least a foot and a half shorter by his estimation, such a slight figure by comparison the contrast is almost comical. He looks down at the boy, the boy looks back up at him, and the entire exchange feels...

Strange.

Not bad, just something completely foreign to him. Something he has absolutely no frame of reference for. Even the time he spends with his godson lacks any such domesticity, all visits are deliberate and with a designated purpose propelling the momentum.

This is... slower.

Potter's-- Merlin, he needs to stop thinking of him by that-- Harry's hands aren't clumsy, they don't fumble despite his attention being directed elsewhere. He demonstrates a pride in his aptitude at a task Snape is hardly convinced was monitored with the appropriate amount of concern, and the chore is something that could potentially be translated into potion-making with the right kind of guidance. It's an experiment he decides he'll employ later in the week. )

Have a seat.

( He says, and makes a plate for either of them. It's perhaps a sense of annoyed overcompensation that drives the size of the portions he offers the child, but he's hazarding a guess Harry won't be the type to ask if the amount he's given isn't sufficient. It's better to overestimate. )

I suspect you're eager to begin your question assault, and so I'll lay down this rule first: you must eat a portion of your plate between each answer.

if u rather them find out together lmk i'll do some quick swapskies

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