#the marauder can only fit two of them but they clamor in anyway

[dangerousstrawberrypie]

I love everything about this, but most of all, Echo being so very done. Bless his little hedgehog feeties.

Clown Force 99 🤡

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Baby clones in animal onesies are available as stickers, mugs, and other fun things on Redbubble!

[kohanayaki]

.:Time and Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 5

Harry confronts you with a familiar piece of suspiciously folded parchment, and you tell him the story of how you helped create it (mostly told through flashbacks taking place in the Marauders era).

LINKS:   CH 1   CH 2    CH 3   CH 4   CH 5   CH 6   CH 7   CH 8

___________________________________________________________

Ch 5 .:Narrow Spaces and New Alliances:. 

Your eyes drifted open slowly, the bright streams of sunlight coming in through your window strangely unbecoming of 12 Grimmauld Place. It took you a moment to get your bearings as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and remembered where you were. As you sat there, looking around Sirius' guest bedroom, last night's events all seemed to flood back to you at once. You groaned into the comforter, feeling your face burn as you recalled blatantly staring at his lips just minutes after crying into his shirt for at least half an hour.

Come on, get it together, you thought to yourself, you're here because Dumbledore summoned you, stay on task.

However, as soon as that memory left your head another replaced it, this one weighing heavier on your chest. You found yourself thinking back to your encounter with Severus. Well, as much as you could call it an 'encounter.' Even when you couldn't see him, you could feel him when you reached out to him with your mind. Severus was good at blocking legillemency— too good, in fact, because you would know the familiar force of his mental shield anywhere. You'd never felt it as powerful coming from anyone else. You almost laughed at the irony of it; the very thing he was trying to use to keep hidden was exactly what had given him away. That, and the smell of him, which took you back to the moment you'd first smelled that damn amortentia potion. . .

You tried to shake off the thought as you properly got out of bed and changed into some casual clothes. The next Order meeting wasn't until tomorrow afternoon, so you had the day mostly to yourself, but you knew the next time you were all in a room together you would have to address some things privately if you had any hope of working together efficiently. You gently padded down the wooden stairs, the door to Sirius' room still closed. He never was an early riser.

As you reached the kitchen you began to put a pot of coffee on when you heard someone approach the room, stalling in the kitchen entrance. You turned around to see Harry in the doorway.

“Morning,” you grinned, turning back to the counter and using your wand to bring some water to a boil, “Coffee? Tea?”

“Oh,” Harry said, a bit embarrassed you'd caught him in mid-thought, “no, I'm okay.”

“What's on your mind?” you asked.

“Um, I was wondering if you could tell me, I mean, if you have the time. . .” he trailed off, reaching for his back pocket, “well, the thing is, a few years ago I found—”

“Kreacher heard sounds coming from the kitchen and did not expect (Y/n)'s return,” Harry jumped at the house elf's sudden arrival, but you seemed unphased.  

“Though master's half mudblood godson remains here,” the elf muttered to himself, “How many more days must it be?”

“Hello, Kreacher,” you greeted him, “nothing nasty about Harry, now, alright? Don't forget he's my godson too.”

“Of course,” Kreacher said, thickly sarcastic but with respect for you in his tone nonetheless. His permanent frown seemed to deepen, however, when he saw you next to the coffee maker. “(Y/n) of house (L/n) should not have to be using the kitchen. Mistress Black would have wept to see a pureblood use muggle equipment. If (Y/n) requires refreshment Kreacher will have it ready.”

“There's no need for that,” you said, “Besides, it's done already, see? You can go on now.”

Kreacher squinted at the cup you poured for yourself. “Always peculiar,” he grumbled, stalking away at your request and muttering to himself all the while.

“He's oddly. . . nice to you,” Harry said, green eyes quizzical behind his round-framed glasses.

“He is,” you chuckled.

“But, well, you're—”

“A blood traitor?” you gave him an easy smile when you saw his expression, easing his fears that he'd actually offended you. “I know,” you said, “he's been through a lot, it's complicated. Trust me, he wasn't always like this to me. It takes time. And it doesn't hurt to be nice to him either.”

Harry decided against bringing up that the nicest person that he knew to the house elf was Hermione, who Kreacher regularly called a 'mudblood wench,' but decided to focus on the 'taking time' part of your statement, wondering  just how long this kind of progress took with the spiteful elf. Besides, you seemed to have some sort of history with him.

“Anyways, what was it you were saying?” you asked Harry.

“Oh, right,” he said, reaching back around him, “um, my friends Fred and George, you've met them?”

“Molly and Arthur's twins, of course,” you smiled, “little imps, they are. Those two could give your father and Sirius a run for their money.”

“Right!” Harry said, “well, that's sort of the point. They're the ones who gave me this.”

As you turned around to face him you stalled mid-stir, nearly dropping your mug as you did. Even as a piece of blank parchment you knew what it was, the distinctive accordion folds that met in the center giving it away.

“How in the world. . .” you trailed off as Harry handed it to you, “but Filch—”

“Didn't do a very good job of hiding it, apparently,” Harry finished, “I thought you might want to do the honors?”

You nodded wordlessly, a pang of unexpected emotion hitting you as you pressed your wand to the map's center.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The faded, brown ink showed itself as its protection charm was washed away, revealing the nostalgia-inducing inscription scrawled in your respective handwritings:

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, Prongs, and Fangs are proud to present: The Marauders Map

“Do Remus and Sirius know you have this?” you asked Harry, who nodded.

“Professor Lupin gave it back to me third year before he left Hogwarts,” he said, “but he never told me anything about it after that.” he seemed deep in thought for a moment before looking up at you. “If everyone else is who I think it is, you're Fangs, right?”

It was your turn to nod now.

“I always wondered, how did you do it?” Harry said, hardly containing his curiosity, and you couldn't help but think how much he looked like James in that moment. “How does it work? What sort of magic did you use? All the secret passageways, how did you find them?”

“Alright, slow down,” you laughed lightly, giving in, “I suppose there's no harm in telling you.”

Harry brightened at that, bounding into the living room and taking a seat on the couch as if to say 'we've got all day,' which you did. It warmed your heart to see him so excited, this was one of the only ways he could get to know his parents— through the stories that remained from the people who loved them. If you could help the picture of his family in his mind become a bit clearer, you would tell him any story he wanted to know. He deserved that much after everything he'd been through.

You took a seat opposite him, still nursing your cup of coffee.

“Well,” you said, “it's a long story, starting with how bad those lot were at keeping secrets. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   1974   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Run!” James half shouted half laughed as Filch hobbled after the four of them. Sirius nearly bit his tongue trying to keep in his laughter as the Caretaker slung insults and promises of punishment their way, cat ears and a tail freshly sprouted from his body.

“I can't believe we actually did that,” Sirius cackled, keeping easy pace with James.

“I can't believe you dragged me into this,” Remus panted, his current body not lending itself well to physical activity. For once he actually wished he was a werewolf right about now.

“I don't know if I can keep up,” Peter wheezed, falling behind.

“Oh come on,” James said, grabbing his sleeve and helping him run, “we can out run a gummy-legged old prat like him.”

“I don't know, he's faster than he looks,” Remus pointed out as Filch rounded the corner behind them.

“Damn,” James cursed under his breath, “we'll lose him if we can make it to the one-eyed-witch passageway.”

“We'll never activate it in time,” Remus countered.

“The hallway behind the third floor tapestry?” Peter suggested.

“No, Filch knows about that one now,” Sirius said.

“Why the hell didn't you bring your cloak?” Remus huffed.

“Well getting caught wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, but someone had to let out a laugh before we could get out!”

“Just save your air and sprint!” Sirius hissed.

The extended run time was starting to catch up to all of them now, and when they'd made a wrong turn to a blocked off corridor they thought they were done for.

“Hey, morons, over here!”

Four heads snapped towards the sound of your whisper, but you were nowhere to be found. Suddenly, one of the light pillars began to shift, revealing a large crack in the wall just big enough for them to fit sideways.

No questions were asked with no time to waste, and the four boys clamored after one another so they could fit inside. Your magic moved the pillar back in place just in time, and you watched from your hiding spot as Filch reached the walled-off passage in surprise, grumbling as he looked around for the culprits behind you. You had to stifle a snicker as his cat ears lowered; was that growling coming from the back of this throat or did you imagine that? Eventually he stumbled off in frustration and you sighed.

“Alright, the coast is clear,” you said.

“Why did you help us?” James rose a brow, that signature shit-eating grin back on his face like it never left, “you haven't fallen in love with me since our truce, have you?”

“Dream on, Potter,” you rolled your eyes, pushing him out of the crevice and smirking as he tumbled to the floor.

“It seems like I'm always saving you nowadays,” you said, stepping out of the wall yourself with the rest of the boys following.

Remus was thoroughly confused, looking pointedly between you and Sirius. He knew you and James were pretty much friends now, but he also noticed that the hostile air that always seemed to be present with you and the elder Black had diminished. He'd even seen you two talking in the halls lately. Sirius gave him a look; he would explain what happened in the forest with Lucius to Remus later. Mostly he didn't want to admit that Remus was right about you not being so bad if he gave you a chance; you had actually been getting on pretty well since that night.

“You do realize it's no fun winning the house cup when you four practically make Gryffindor ineligible every year with all the shit you get up to, right?” you chuckled, “some competition would be nice for a change.”

“We'll see if you're singing the same tune when Quidditch season rolls around,” James said smugly.

“You're right,” you said, squaring up against him, “guess that's a new competition we've got going for us.”

It had recently been announced that you and James had both been selected to play Seeker for your respective houses next year. It was an arrangement that had the whole school talking, your rivalry turned (mostly) friendship now infamous, even if it was a recent occurrence.

“Hold on, how did you know that was there?” Peter asked you, pointing to the moving column, “even we didn't know about it.”

“Oh?” you crossed your arms, “and are you four supposedly some kind of all-knowing secret masters? Because clearly there's things you don't know about yet.”

Sirius slapped a hand over Peter's mouth before he could retaliate and give away what they've been working on.

“Yes, well, apparently,” he said, ignoring Peter's muffled protests.

You looked at them curiously, all four boys looking suspiciously nervous.

The next day at breakfast, James had brought up the idea of 'hiring' you to help them finish the map.

“I'm telling you, I think we can really make progress with their help,” he pitched, “they clearly know what they're talking about, and we know they can pull a hell of a prank from all the times they've gotten me.”

“How do we know they won't tell anyone?” Peter countered, “I don't know what's up with you, but you're trusting them too fast, James.”

“They're not the type that would tell,” Remus admitted.

“Oh, not you too!” Peter whined.

“I'm just saying, they'll likely appreciate what we've gathered so far and have a fair bit to add,” Lupin insisted, “it could be worth a try if you really want to finish it before we graduate—”

“Finish what?”

The four boys jolted upright, turning to see you and Lily.

“Are you guys okay?” Lily asked, concern written across her features.

“Of course!”

“Never better!”

“Why wouldn't we be?”

Remus just groaned at his friends' panicked answers. This was hopeless.

You and Lily shared a knowing look off the the side.

“Alright, whatever you say. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry laughed heartily,

“Wow, I mean, I know you said they were bad, but that bad?”

“For being expert pranksters who hardly ever managed to get caught, they were remarkably terrible at hiding things,” you said, chuckling along with him, “It didn't take us long to figure out they were up to something, although they seemed to think they were brilliant at covering it up, Remus had to burst their bubble eventually.”

Harry shook his head, smiling fondly and imagining all the scenes in his head as you continued your tale.

“So that was when they were first starting to put the map together,” you continued, “but that wasn't even the biggest secret they were hiding. Of course, I wouldn't find out about that for another year, but we'll get to that part of the story later. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   1975   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This tastes awful,” Sirius complained, trying to ignore the plant prodding the under-side of his tongue.

“Well if you were expecting treacle toffee I'm sorry to disappoint,” James rolled his eyes, equally nauseated by the bitter tinge of the Mandrake leaf in his mouth.

“There's no way someone can do this for an entire month,” Peter said, “How do you brush your teeth? What if you accidentally swallow it when you're eating?”

“You three have fun with that,” Remus chuckled, flipping through an old library book and his mouth gratefully leafless.

“How about some gratitude, Moony?” James said, “We're doing this for you.”

“Please, you just want to see if you can turn into a dragon or something,” Lupin chortled, “and you don't actually have to go through with all this. Who knows if this animagus stuff will actually work.”

“Well, a dragon would suit me,” James mused, “but of course we're going to see this through, mate. You know we'd do anything for you.”

Remus smiled to himself, not responding and not needing to. He knew.

“Hey guys,” you grinned, walking up to the Gryffindor table.

Peter gulped suddenly in surprise as you came up behind him, and his eyes widened in horror.

“Shit!” he coughed out, “I-I swallowed it!”

“Your. . . food?” you questioned, glancing over at the boys who all had that same, vaguely panicked look about them.

“Okay, it was funny at first, but you guys have been acting weird since last year and now it's worrying,” you admitted.

The four looked between themselves and came to a sort of silent conclusion. Maybe in this scenario it was better to tell one secret to keep the other. And so, later that night, they told you to meet them after lights out so they could tell you what was really going on. You snuck out of your dorm room and made your way through the secret tunnel to the Gryffindor common room, a route you'd taken plenty of times to mess with James.

You pushed a loose panel of wood open, coming into the warmly lit space through one of the cabinets. You pushed an armchair that was half blocking your path out of the way as you crawled through the space.

“Blimey!” Sirius jumped, “give us a heads up, would you?”

“Sush,” Remus scolded him, “you really don't understand the concept of an inside voice, do you?”

“Alright, well I'm here,” you said, brushing off your robes, “now what's this big secret? This better not be a trick because I've been working on a new hex.”

“Nothing like that,” James assured you, “we've been working on something we think you might be interested in, if you're willing to contribute.”

He stepped to the side so you could see the floor where they'd been huddled around and your eyes widened.

“Merlin,” you said. The red and gold carpet was covered in at least forty different pieces of parchment. Pages upon pages overlapped with each other, each messily detailing a different part and level of the castle in scribbles of smudged ink. “This is. . .”

“The entirety of the Hogwarts castle and surrounding land,” Sirius said proudly, “complete with secret passageways.”

“This is our lives' work, (Y/n),” James said, “be impressed!”

“What impresses me most is how none of you have any sense of scale,” you said, sifting through the papers, “you should really condense this. Kind of hard to make any use of a map if you have to flip to page thirty-three to find the kitchens.”

“Point taken,” Remus said, “it could do with some reorganization.”

“And probably a bigger piece of paper,” you mentioned.

“Right, that. . .”

“That's not all there is to it, though,” Peter said, “Sirius?”

The curly haired boy stepped forward, pressing his wand to the center of the floor.

“Revelare Popularis,”

You watched in wonder as hundreds of names suddenly appeared across the pieces of paper, all students and faculty you recognized. They were scrawled in Sirius' handwriting, as if he'd written them himself.

“This spell shows where everyone in any location on this map is at this very moment,” he said, “It's not exact, and we've been working on variations.”

“So you can plan ahead without getting caught,” you mused, “how'd you learn something as advanced as this, Black?”

“I get around,” Sirius shrugged, unabashedly showing off. Peter rolled his eyes.

“So, the only drawback, of course, is that the spell doesn't work in real time,” Remus said, “so by the time you get where you need to go. . .”

“People will have moved,” James finished, “we're willing to share this little trove of knowledge with you if you're willing to give up all the secret rooms, passages, and hiding places you know.”

“And we thought you may have a solution to our timing problem,” Remus said, “I could tell from our study sessions you quite enjoy learning ahead of your year.”

Your eyes scanned the pages, and you were admittedly impressed. There was ton of stuff on here you had no idea about, but you knew a fair amount was missing as well. It seemed like a fair trade.

“I'm in,” you said.

“What?” Peter blinked, “it was that easy?”

“This is a useful tool you've got,” you said, “I think we can all benefit from it being improved. And now that you mention it, I actually do think I've read about a similar spell to that paper charm. It was in some Gaelic tome in the restricted section on ancient magic. I'm not even sure it used a wand. It was called the Homunculus charm. From what I read it sounded like it acted as a live feed for people in any given location, clan leaders used it to plan ambushes and keep track of citizens. If we could link it to the entire castle. . .”

“We'd be able to see where everyone is—”

“And what they're doing—”

“—At every hour of every day!”

“True, albeit a bit stalkerish,” you quipped, “you let me in on this if I add in what I know, and you got yourself a deal.”

James put out his hand, and as tempted as you were to turn it green or make all the bones in it disappear, you reached out and shook it.

“I do believe this puts us in a formal alliance, Potter,” you said cheekily.

“I believe so,” James smirked.

“Terrifying,” Remus chuckled, “This school won't even know what hit it.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” James said with a cheshire grin, “let's steal ourselves a book, shall we?”

Read chapter 6 here!

Taglist:  @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi @nxstalgicnxbxdy @calaryssia @aleksanderwh0r3 @mialupin1

[just-watch-me-hachiko]

Without Anesthesia - Chapter Ten -  Cookie and the Wingman Back at Base

Read it on AO3, DeviantArt, or FanFiction.net  Author: Pawpels 

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir English, Rated: PG (ish) Slice of Life/Romance/WWII AU Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug, Adrien/ Chat Noir Chapters: 10/?, Words: 22572, Status: In-Progress __________________________________________________________ Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng works as a field nurse for the French army during World War II, and Adrien Agreste winds up her patient after a battle. Notes: This work contains less descriptions of death, injury, and other wartime discomforts than many of the previous chapters, and may, perhaps, actually be not as upsetting as most of its predecessors.  __________________________________________________________

Early one Saturday, only a few months since she had arrived in England, Marinette finally took it upon herself to become acquainted with the rest of the air force base on which her present workplace resided. In truth, she had no idea whether or not this was something she was allowed to do, but as she seemed to be the only soul around who spoke modern French instead of the Queen's English, she trusted any transgressions would likely be overlooked on account of her perceived ignorance.

That being settled, though, Marinette was quick to note that there didn't seem to be anyone about to accuse her of anything in particular. She had risen at the crack of dawn—and on a weekend no less—so the number of bodies currently roaming about the base could be counted on one hand. She'd passed several serious looking chaps who wore the grey jumpsuits of janitors, and bid them good morning. They responded with only a sleepy grunt before resuming their required tasks and paying her no more mind.

After making rounds through several very exciting, florescent-lit hallways filled with shelves filled with boxes filled with who knows what, Marinette finally arrived at her location of interest: the airplane hanger.

The space was large, and open, and felt vaguely agoraphobic when compared to the cramped and narrow hallways of the hospital. It had a yellowish glow caused by the sunlight streaming in through the upper windows and skylights that seemed to make it stand out from the rest of the base, as though this were the place where the action happened, and everything else was little more than an afterthought.

Marinette wound her way between planes and boxes, stepping carefully over electrical wires, and swerving quickly to avoid beams and wings and ladders leftover from the previous nights repairs. As she perused the base, she kept her hands tightly clasped behind her, as though she were browsing a store in which she could never afford a single item, yet knew a simple touch could bring about an army of salespersons, clamoring to secure a purchase.

When she passed under the wing of a B-26 Marauder, she half expected to see such an associate, but recoiled in surprise when she found instead the hunched back of a soldier, working diligently to repair some part of an engine.

"Oh! Excusez-moi—" she began, and then quickly remembered her location. "Excuse me," she corrected.

"You speak French?" The soldier turned to look at her, and then a toothy, familiar grin spread across his face. "Hey Cookie! Fancy meeting you here." He extended his arm for a shake, and then furrowed his brow. "No, hey, that's not right. What was it again? Marta? Mari? Marinette? Marinette, right? I'm just kidding. I'd never forget a name and a face like yours."

Marinette found herself infinitely flustered by the sudden stream of compliments, but accepted the handshake anyways.

"So you're with the RAF now?" he asked, "Well, of course you are. I knew that. Alya's been asking about you in all of her letters, but I didn't know where to find you."

"Alya's been writing to you?" Marinette asked in shock. In all her time on the base, Marinette had not received a single note from anyone, much less her best friend.

"Sure," Nino replied, with some concern. "Haven't you been getting them?"

"Not a word," Marinette responded, relief and anxiety flooding through her simultaneously. Had Alya really been writing to her nuevo beau, and not her best friend? Certainly there must be some other explanation.

"Well, let's see," Nino mused, "We get our mail handed out to us at supper. Anything like that back in Medical?"

"No," she answered, "I've been checking the boxes, but there's been nothing."

"Well, there's your problem, Doll," he chuckled, "They've probably been sending your stuff our way, since you're company. Let me talk to my constituents, and I'll get back to you with the goods," he winked.

"T-thank you!" she stuttered, wondering what allies he might have in the way of mail services, and whether or not he could really deliver.

"Hey, no problem, Sweetheart. Anything for my best-friend's girl."

Marinette floundered. In truth, the news of the camps dissolution had come so suddenly after her evening with Private Agreste, that she wasn't exactly sure on what kind of terms their relationship stood. Still, she felt that a better question to ask him, than the person who was now offering her a favor.

"How is he?" she asked carefully, hoping that Nino's cheery demeanor indicated good news, but fearing that Adrien's tendency towards injury signaled the worst.

"Aces! A real top-notch pilot, but I guess you've been pretty out of the loop." She nodded, and hung on to his every word. "Got him flying around… Well, I don't know if I'm allowed to say this, but who am I kidding? If we can't trust each other, who can we trust? They got him on his way to Berlin. Going to hit the Germs where it hurts. A little bit of payback for all they've been giving us."

Marinette knew what he meant. The ground had been shaking since she'd arrived. Most of the targets had been factories that had been supplying the war effort, but there was news that civilians had been hit. Whether they were errant bombers, or an intentional change in tactic, she didn't know, but they spelled bad news for the rest of the war. An indiscriminate attack on Berlin would only cement the idea that the battlefield should be extended into the private sector.

Still, she articulated none of this, and chose instead to wish him a speedy return—uninjured, dare she pray.

"And what about you?" she asked, politely. "I recall hearing you'd always wanted to be a pilot." In truth, the rumor had been passed to her on the winds that blew through the mess hall, as it was called, as two soldiers debated the correlation between Nino's career ambitions, and his status as the camp's best wingman.

"They've got me on the ground," he smiled, but with a sadness that indicated he wasn't at all pleased with his answer. "Vertigo. I get dizzy up in the air. Can't have someone like that at the controls, I guess…. Though I still say others here got it worse, and they must be over Berlin by now."

"You don't think…" Marinette began, but he cut her off.

"Hey now. No reason to get a long face. I'll find my way to the sky some day. We've got plenty of war left for me yet." He took a long, hard look at her. "Say, Cookie… Why don't you get yourself a doctor's degree so you can declare me fit to fly?"

"You really think it will last that long?"

"I think you're smart," he winked, "I think you really know your stuff, and I think we're in good hands so long as you're here. As to how long the war will last, I don't know, so maybe hurry up with that, ya hear?"

Marinette smiled—wide, and for the first time in months.

"I will."

That night, a pile of envelopes materialized in Marinette's quarters. Letters from her mother, father, and Alya all came with large chunks of blacked out text, as though the army thought her too delicate to read about the life in Vichy France, or perhaps the lines had been defiled before they had even crossed boarders. She wasn't sure.

Alya spoke about Narvik with such candor that the censorship seemed entirely necessary. She described the movements of the camp in such detail that Marinette was quite sure one of her letters passing into enemy hands would mean the undoing of the entire Allied Forces. Still, she laughed at her friend's observations, and felt a twang of guilt when it became obvious to Alya that despite reading each and every one of Marinette's posts, her letters weren't being received.

Lastly, at the bottom of the stack, were a collection of small, colorful envelopes without an address. It seemed as though—despite traveling the same route, and existing in the same base—no one in the British Company knew the location of the little nurse who had accompanied them from East of Dunkirk. Thus, the letters from Private Agreste had sat unaddressed for as long as they had been in existence.

At first, she poured over each one with the careful attention one might give to a Shakespearian sonnet, checking each line for rhyme and meter and secret meaning, but soon discovered that the letters were little more than ordinary. Some of them contained hints of carefully abated passion, but so much was crossed out, crossed through, or otherwise unsaid that it was hard to tell exactly what was meant by the rest. Many seemed to allude to another set of correspondences, which most certainly had never been delivered. She wondered if those letters might get closer to the heart of the matter, but as she lacked any definite proof, she resolved to ask him about it in person, should they ever chance to meet again.