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Full title of this deviation is "How Rowling Could End the Series (but probably won’t)"

True predictions shall be bolded

~Use the room of requirement to get everything they need
     ~Ask for horocruxes, get a map
     ~Ask to kill Voldemort, get some sort of a weapon
     ~Etc.

~ A Magical Venus Fly Trap eats Voldemort on the battle field. It was tended lovingly by Hagrid and Neville

~Voldemort is defeated by cheering charms/any other happy type charms.

~We finally find out where conjured things come from.
     ~(Remember those socks you lost in the wash last week?)

~Dumbledore’s Army declares war on Laura Mallory.

~Have Harry wake up and realize it was all a dream, there never was a Voldemort.
~Have Voldemort wake up and realize it was all a dream, there never was a Harry Potter.
~Have Tom Riddle wake up and suddenly have new direction in his life.

~Have the entire series turn out to have been a lecture in Professor Binns’ class.
~ “And that,” said Professor Binns, “Was how You-Know-Who was defeated.  Any questions?”  He looked around.  As usual, the entire class was asleep.

~Voldemort pulls a Darth Vader at the last second:  “Harry, I am your father.”

~J.K. Rowling decides that she doesn’t have enough characters, and so introduces a new one she found in one of those fan fictions online.
~  The new student walked to the front of the classroom.  “Hello, my name is Mary Sue.  I have amazing long silver hair, and gorgeous sapphire eyes you can’t help but stare into.  For the rest of the year I will be the primary love interest of Harry, Draco, Ron, and any other character I deem even remotely attractive.  If you don’t like it, come you’d better come duel me now.  I promise that I’ll go easy on you since my magic is ten times stronger that Voldemort’s, and my brain power surpasses Hermione’s by a lot too.”

~ J.K. Rowling gets tired of her genre and switches to erotic fiction.
~ “Harry, kiss me now,” demanded Cho Chang, determined never to leave him again (Next three chapters censored for content).
~ J.K. Rowling gets tired of her genre and switches to Doctor Seuss rhymes.
~Harry’s wand fired,
Wazzam, Wazzum, Kazzap
But he missed and hit Ron
Who shouted, “Oh, snap!”
~ J.K. Rowling gets tired of her genre and switches to Shakespearian tragedy.
~Rocks fall, everyone dies.

~ Crookshanks attempts to eat Pigwidgeon, Ron's pet owl, but the bird turns out to be Cornelius Fudge in disguise.

~Hermione does the smart thing:  “Accio earmuffs!  Accio mandrakes!”

~Harry poses nude for photographs.
~Wait a minute…

~Lupin is caught without a collar and taken to the pound.
~Sirius Black returns as “Sirius the White.”
~Wormtail spreads the plague through the DE camp.  Everyone dies.
~James’s true resting place is revealed to be the wall of Voldemort’s big game trophy room.

~Harry decides to stop being emo and just get on with his life.
~Ron gets in touch with his feminine side (Ron in pink robes?)
~Hermione dumps Ron for Harry.
~Malfoy kills Harry.
~Crab and Goyle get into Oxford.
~We’ll let you decide whether or not there was magic involved with that one.
~Neville organizes the students into a rebellion and takes over as the main character of the book.
~Dumbledore really is the giant squid!
~*cricket cricket cricket*

~The Slytherines are deemed..how should we say this..too evil? And kicked out of Hogwarts.
(Need one for Gryffendore!)
~Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are revealed to have been pitting S&G against one another all along so that they could quietly take over the world in the mean time.
Full title of this deviation is "How Rowling Could End the Series (but probably won’t)"

So a friend and I are making a presentation for a club we are in. We have a fairly good start, but we wanted input from other people. So these are humorous things that could be in the seventh book. If you can think of anything to add to the list, please do so, or if you don't think something on the list is funny, tell me! I want this to be a good presentation. Also, if you add something, tell me if you want credit, I'll be happy to add your name to the end of the slide show.


Edit: Now that the book has come out, I look back on this and wonder how the heck we guessed everything we did. Anyways, as it said above, predictions prooved true are bolded.
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I havenít always been a cat.  I was, in fact, at one time a relatively happy human being.  Inside I still am one.  Thanks to that witch, though, Iím a cat to everyone else.  At least, I think it was the witch who changed me.  It might actually have been the cats themselves who transformed me to save me from the witchís curse.  A little known fact if you ever happen to be in a magical duel:  curses aimed at humans donít ďstickĒ to animals.  Regardless of how it happened, though, Iím still a cat.

When a person becomes a cat, they learn some new things.  For example, that scraggly old cat I used to know at Mr. Fluffybottom is really a cat elder, Blazing Dawn.  Heís much more impressive now that Iím a cat.  Thankfully he seems to be more amused than annoyed by the name I used to call him.  He was the one to teach me most of what I know about being a cat.  I know that sounds funny, but being a cat isnít as easy as it sounds.  I had to relearn everything Iíve ever known, from speaking to walking.  Hey, donít laugh!  The whole tail thing really throws things off!  Anyways it was Blazing Dawn who first told me cats donít operate on the same time continuum as humans.

To humans there is one day in a day.  Now while this may seem redundant and strange, it isnít, not just yet.  In one human twenty-four hour period there are three cat twenty-four hour periods.  These three days, the Day of Light, the Day of Shadows, and the Day of Darkness are basically the human morning, afternoon and night, only much longer.  Cats live at a much faster pace than humans, thatís why we age so much faster.  Weíre out of time.

This may seem crazy, or should I say crazier than what Iíve already told you, but for cats the first two days, the Day of Light and the Day of Shadows, are considered to be days of rest and relaxation.  Rest for what you ask?  Rest for the third day, the Day of Darkness.  That third day gets pretty crazy, and no one sleeps at all.  Thatís why cats seem to sleep most of the human day; theyíre recovering.

Itís only on the days off that you can people watch, and even with the need to catch up on sleep, most cats find some time to do it anyways.  The habits of people seem very strange to cats, especially the whole fake fur thing.  After I became a cat one of the first questions they asked me was why humans wear clothes.  Iíve thought about it for a long time and the only answer I can really come up with is the answer I gave them then: so they donít get cold.  Clothes seem so stupid now, and if I ever become human again I might just join a nudist colony.  Or maybe not.  Naked humans are just as funny looking as clothed ones, or so Iíve been told.  Yeah, people watching has an almost sport like quality of seeing who can find the weirdest looking human of the day.

Speaking of weird looking humans, if you happen across a woman with black hair thatís looks like its streaked white with age, and sheís wearing a black dress with a large pointy collar, stay away from her.  Sheís the witch that changed me into a cat.  Sheíll change you too, she told me she fights people for fun.  She has a collection of spells that she saves for fights like that.  I think I was lucky with only being turned into a cat.  As a human I was only a minor wizard, just barely old enough to leave his master for the first time.  I donít really remember much of what happened that day, and what I do remember is strange and scary.  That woman had me cornered, my back to a wall, my magic drained.  She was about to fire one of those special spells at me.  I braced myself, wishing I would disappear, but nothing seemed to happen.  Finally I opened my eyes.  Something definitely had changed about me.  The ground was a lot closer, the witch a lot bigger, and most importantly my allies a lot more numerous than I ever could have imagined.  While the witch moved slowly about cats jumped out of seeming mid air (some of them, hearing a summons, did.)  Now out numbered and defeated, the woman gave up and left me alone.  This was lucky for her as in the next several seconds more cats than I have ever seen in my entire life popped out of literally no where.  It took a few minutes to get everything straightened out.  The cats werenít angry that I was joining them; in fact they werenít even surprised.  This sort of thing evidently happens from time to time.  Blazing Dawn was appointed there in front of the Cat Council (who had shown up a few minutes after the warriors) to teach and protect me until he deemed that I could take care of myself.  I have the feeling that I am going to be with him for a good long while.  

I realize that I havenít told you what happens on the Day of Darkness.  I probably should tell you because very few of even the most learned mages know what really goes on.  The Feline Wars have been going on for hundreds, probably thousands of years.  It is a conflict that is carried on by tradition, and has become a necessary part of the cat culture.  Their whole system of life would come to an end if the Wars were to stop.  They know because theyíve tried peace, several times.  The wars are always revived, though, usually by mutual consent from the participants.  You see, the combatants donít hate each other, and usually no one gets hurt too badly.  Sure, thereís a nicked ear here and a crooked tail there, but those are more for show than anything.  Iíve even heard of combatants helping to heal one another if they accidentally get carried away.  Sometimes two cats of opposite sides will even live (relatively) peacefully, in the same house.  I asked Blazing Dawn how this could happen, and he told me that what I see now isnít the real conflict.  Itís just a practice for the day when the cats shall have to unite and fight a common enemy, or be destroyed.  He wouldnít say anything more about it though.

Oh dear me, I realize that Iíve neglected to tell you my name.  Actually itís only a temporary name, but its all I have, unless you count my human name.  My original name was Iukif Kosa.  I know, weird, but I didnít exactly get to choose it.  My temporary cat name is no less weird.  I am currently formally known as Little Oncehuman, though most cats just call me Oncey.  Some day I will have a more respectful name, but for now the cats think Little Oncehuman is most appropriate.  You see, cats are given their names during their first battle on the Day of Darkness.  The name they receive directly reflects how they perform in combat.  Until they have fought, however, they are called by the name given to them by humans, or a human like name given by their mother.  Because I never had any of these and my human name was deemed unsuitable by the Cat Council, I think it was actually deemed too hard to say, I am now Little Oncehuman until my first battle.  They say they add the Little because I have a slight figure, but I think they add it because I am thought of as just as annoying in my question asking as a kitten.  Those little guys never shut up unless theyíre eating or sleeping, and even then there is the possibility that they will talk.  I personally ask many questions just because I have always been naturally curious.  In cat society, though, obvious curiosity is the mark of a kitten, or someone who canít control themselves.  While in the future I might care about my social status as such, right now I care far too much about understanding my new world to bother with ridged, out dated customs (supposedly cat traditions havenít changed in the past six thousand years.)  I need to know as much as I can about my new life before the day that will almost certainly change my life forever.
Well, you all have waitd for it, so here it is, the completed first chapter of Out of Time. So sorry that it took me this long to complete, its been a hectic summer. More chapters of Raging Water are on the way, though I probably won't upload any tonight.
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Have you forgotten what happened that day?
How we all screamed and ran and covered our eyes
How death ended so many precious lives
How children cried for moms and dads
Who would never come to comfort them again.

Have you forgotten the images we saw?
How the smoke filled the screen
How the screams filled our ears
How perfect strangers huddled together
The rich and the poor trying to comfort one another

Have you forgotten the brave sacrifice?
How people ran in when everyone else ran out
How they battled the flames and the smoke
How they went back again and again
And went back one last time, and won't go home again.

Have you forgotten our fervent prayers?
How we hoped for survivors
How we poured out donations
How we came together for one cause
Even as our hopes were dashed time and again

Have you forgotten the horrible tragedy?
How thousands died without reason
How each day children are parentless
How loved ones made that one last call
Before crashing a plane to save us all

Have you forgotten the value of life?
How we swore we would avenge them
How we said we would bring killers to justice
How we promised that we would make the world
A safer place for all children

Have you forgotten the day that changed our lives?
So I realise I haven't written any poetry in a while, and I'm sorry, I just haven't been depressed. I'm not particularly depressed now, just angry about the people who want us to pull out of Iraq imediately. Its stupid. Period, end of story. What you would get would be far worse than the Taliban ever were. No we need to see it through. Even if you don't agree with this, at least read the poem, there's something else.

Style notes: Don't tell me that you don't like my punctuation, I have it like it is for a reason. Other than that there are a few end rhymns, but nothing throughout the entire poem.








Yeah, if you can't tell what this is about think back to September four years ago.
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Walls


I’ve built walls around myself. A strong but simple fortress of four walls. They’ve weathered brutal assaults, hurricanes of emotion – painstakingly sorting the waters of mine and foreign emotions, and keeping them separate. Now one by one, they’re being torn down.


It all started as a normal day at work. My office was blissfully silent, its four walls mirroring my own. Form after form is skimmed, filled out, tossed aside. Numbers, names, data, I’m only paid to analyze them. I barely glance at the names as I review employee evaluations. That’s someone else’s concern; I’m not responsible for breaking the news to the unlucky ones. All I have to do is analyze, and sort into three piles – good, needs improvement, and detrimental to the company. Every name, every person behind every name, they all live outside my walls – that’s why I’m the best at what I do.
There’s no sound but the scratching of pen on paper. Then suddenly there’s more. A shrill, insistent siren cuts through my singular concentration. Lockdown. A familiar drill that mirrors my constant psychological state. No one goes in, no one goes out. It doesn’t bother me that this time it’s not a drill.

I barely look up from my work. My door is already locked; I had my window boarded up long ago. I vaguely register that people must be panicking, but it’s a fleeting thought. Whatever is going on surely doesn’t concern me. I’m safe behind my walls.

A gunshot sounds in the hallway. Someone screams. I mentally remind myself to get the room soundproofed.

Booms begin to resonate from my door and it starts to buckle inward. My pen skids on the paper, turning an ‘a’ into a ‘d.’ Another bout of thunderous booming is accompanied by a sickening crack of wood splitting. I’m forced to stop writing as my pen slips from my grip. With a loud bang the door burst off its hinges. Suddenly a switch is flicked and I can practically taste the panic in the air. The screams aren’t so distant now. They’re indistinguishable from my own. My head aches and it’s all a blur as a masked man in black forcibly grabs me and drags me into the hall, into the chaos, into the see of emotions. That’s when my first wall crumbles, my north wall, the wall that separated my calm little island from the bodies of emotion surrounding me. It was not so much a wall as a dam, and as it is lowered, I become swept away in a sudden rush of emotions. Fear, panic, anger, all mixing and crashing around me, upon me.


We’re brought to the cafeteria. The cafeteria – the place I’d spent so many lunches, alone. Always with a paper in hand – something to read, work to do. I was never a very good conversationalist, to say the least. It was never a quiet place, but to me the conversations were all jumbled, like overlapping radio stations. All I heard was white noise. Now it’s still not quiet, but I can’t tune out. A full-blown SOS is being constantly sent and received – short wave between concerned coworkers, and long wave on cell phones smuggled out of view of our captors. It’s cacophonic. Too much noise, too much fear to tune out, but too much to comprehend, to focus on, to analyze.  

I pick out a strange sound from among it all. It sounds like a baby crying. I scan the crowd for the source, and I spot them in a corner. Mother and daughter. I try to remember if it’s one of those bring-your-child to work days. More likely she just was forced to bring her along or leaver her home alone. I try to place a name with her face. Susan, maybe? No longer are these people just faceless names scrawled on an impersonal form. What’s happening to them – to us – is very real. I wish I’d realized this before.

“Susan” catches me looking at her. I smile awkwardly, and then mentally slap myself. Do you smile in a situation like this? I feel like I should comfort her, but I don’t know how. Experimentally, I walk over. Her daughter shies away and hides behind her. Is my manner really that scary? Now that I’m closer I can tell that their faces are tear-streaked. I try to talk to the woman, to comfort her. All the while a voice at the back of my head keeps nagging about not even knowing her name. Somehow, though, I feel like that would be the wrong question to ask right now.

She’s babbling incoherently between sobs. I pat her awkwardly on the shoulder. Her daughter is still hiding, but I finally catch her eye. I wish I hadn’t. No one had ever told me how expressive a child’s eyes can be. No, that’s not right. It shouldn’t be other people’s responsibilities to tell me these things. I should know them. Looking into those fearful, desolate eyes, I feel separate from them, and yet all the more attached. I’m just beginning to learn sympathy, but I still know nothing of empathy.
For now, sympathy is enough to break down my next two walls. My east wall and west wall were precariously connected. If one fell, the next was sure to follow. They were the walls that kept me from choosing sides. They kept me from striving, and from backing down – running away. That these unknown captors would make a child so terrified was enough to turn me against them.


Despite the power I held over my coworkers, it dawns on me that I never really knew them. I never knew that the man with the plaid tie spoke German. Now he’s babbling away in distress on his cell phone. One of our captors strides over to him and swipes it away. The plaid-man flinches away as if struck. A few seconds later, he is.

Names flood into my head abruptly. The faces are no longer nameless. I notice the tiny, seemingly inconsequential things. Mark parts his hair distinctively to the right. Terry appears to be hyperventilating. Was Todd always that tall? In a corner, Nora, an accountant, is hastily scribbling numbers on a clipboard. Perhaps she finds solace in them, their simplicity, and their anonymity. She reminds me of myself. Separate, analytical, cut off from the others. Why didn’t I ever notice her before? In another corner, Brian’s struggling against the masked men. Was he always so defiant?

My gaze falls back to Susan, huddled with her daughter. Susan – the name falls into place now. A spark of defiance is sparked within me as well. Why is no one standing up for these people? Surely they can’t all be as detached as I was. A familiar part of my brain makes a side note that if we get out of this, we need serious group counseling to increase our productivity. I shake the thought away like a wet dog shakes off water. If I don’t focus on the current situation, none of us will have jobs to come back to.

Gathering up my courage, I stand up. The enemy spots me and shouts gruffly, impersonally. I stand my ground, walk toward him. I demand to know what’s going on. I can see his eyes beneath his mask. They’re cruel and unforgiving. I’m just a pawn, a statistic to him. A part of me is angry – angry at what’s happening, and that I was ever like this. But it doesn’t show through. That part of me is still suppressed.
He tells me to sit down. I refuse. He pulls out a gun.

I hear sirens in the distance. They don’t really register. Not until there’s pounding and shouts at the door. I imagine I hear the letters, “FBI!” I feel relieved. These people will be safe. The same can’t be said for me.

The gunman becomes visibly nervous. He keeps his gun centered on me. There’s a desperation and fear in his eyes now.

The pounding becomes more insistent, and a finger begins to put pressure on the trigger. The gun shakes, but he steadies his hands. I can see him try to weigh his options, but he loses to fear, and anger. He makes an illogical choice; I can see it in his eyes. There’s nothing he can gain by shooting me, it will just increase the severity of his sentence. But if there’s anything I’ve learned today, it’s that humans aren’t logical, emotions aren’t logical. They aren’t supposed to be. What I’m doing isn’t very logical either. Now that help is on the way, I have no reason not to sit down and save myself. Yet I still feel as if I owe it to these people to stand up for them, for once. I’m not sure if it’s really doing anything to protect him, except maybe distracting the gunman, and giving him an easier target, but I am compelled to do it.

There is a creaking and a cracking now at the door. I can tell our rescuers are almost through. Eyes behind a black mask harden, and I know he’s made his final resolution.


The south wall is the last to fall. It’s the strongest wall; the first one that was constructed, and the one that’s weathered the most. It’s the wall that locks away my own emotions, keeping me as outwardly stoic and impersonal as the walls themselves. It takes a bullet to crack that wall. A bullet that causes me true fear for the first time since I was a child. Somehow I find the concept funny. The whole situation in fact. It’s so deliciously ironic, that I of all people would give my life for others. Right as the bullet hits, I laugh, and the sound feels strange in my throat. The door breaks open, and the trigger is pulled. Then my last wall collapses, and I collapse with it.
Story I randomly wrote a while ago. I'm gonna be editing a lot in English, so I realize it's still really rough.
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(*off topic* WTF?! Where the hell did the anime catagory go?! Either there's a glitch in my computer or something's goin' on.)


Dude! I finished a pic in less then two days!! That a miracle for my lazy ass! Go me! :w00t:

Anyway, 'tis a pic of ~Havoc892 's kick ass character Skye, I must say I had fun drawing her. ^^ I got slightly lazy with the coloring, and I'm not exactly pleased with it, but I'll do. :nod: I've been trying to work on my poses also.

Hope ya like!

Skye (c)
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Kass, please correct me if I'm wrong.

This is :iconfaraith: Lord Celonce from her novel "Prince of the Universe". Her husband laughed at this drawing because I "put him in a skirt". I was working with a waist up[ shot I had to make something up for the bottom half.

REAL MEN WEAR KILTS!!!!

At Faire.
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... I do not like her shoulders. Nope, not one bit. >.< But other than that it's fine. I just decided to do a pic of Skye randomly the other night, so yeah. Here she is, was working with face styles a bit and perspective, I was trying to make it seem like we were looking up at her or something, but I guess that didn't work out to well. ^^;
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This is Our Moment... And It will last forever in Our Hearts

That little thingy that You just read didn't actually happen.. I just thought it sounded good at the moment.. ^^;

Anyways.. Tis Skye (the Girl) and Veryl (the guy) gettin' all lovey dovey... *squee*

Tis a Payment of Sorts for ~Havoc892 for Merquise's Vengeance.

Hope ya like it, Hav! ^^

Enjoy!
-------------------
Skye and Veryl (c) :iconhavoc892:
Base - [link]
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Ulgh . . . *flopps down onto the floor* Not feelin' so great right now. *ish sick; head feels like its about to explode* -_-

Annnyway. 'Tis Skye again. Another one for She has her pheonix wings out this time. ^^ By the way that's supposed to be a cut on her cheek. Didn't turn out the way I wanted, but I feel too sluggish to do anything about it right now.

Skye (c)
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Darkness, darker than the darkest night, deeper than the depths of the ocean was nothing and everything.  Darkness was, and reigned.  Darkness was Ambrosio’s every conscious notion.  Eternity had come and gone, or so it seemed, and still He languished.  His tormentors had left him only after six days and seven nights, He knew the passage of time only from the Demons that did attend him.  In the day the demons touch burned like fire.  In the night, their rotten limbs froze him to the core.  For those long days and nights they had tortured him to his limits and beyond, pulling, stretching, twisting, and morphing his malleable Soul so that his appearance might match that of his wickedness.  Only on the seventh day did they finally leave him.  When they were gone, he was utterly alone.

To one who has spent their life cloistered away from most of their fellow men, going days at a time without speaking to their fellow monk, this should not seem so awful a fate.  Ambrosio especially should have been prepared for it, being set apart as holier than his brethren, never truly in congress with them when they met, always alone in his own purity.  But no, this was different.  Never before had He felt so alone, for the love of his Creator was now denied to him completely, irrevocably, eternally.  While still living he had never realized how much a soul without the love of it’s creator writhes in agony.  He had been too new at the black arts to feel the pain and torments of a soul withering inside its body.  Now he felt it, though, and it was all the worse for the knowledge that because of his own oath, the love could never be returned to him and the pain in his bosom would never be eased.

The darkness seemed to grow more intense the longer Ambrosio lingered in it.  He floated in a blackness so absolute that it constricted in, pressed in upon his eyes until he thought that they would burst from his skull.  If eyelids had been left to him, he was sure that they would not have made a difference in his sight.  The darkness seemed to be eating at him, slowly wearing away at his very existence as stone is worn away by the rushing wave.  When he could no longer stand it he cried out for light, any light.  And in answer to his pleas, light he did receive.  A hideous speck of red appeared in the distance, repugnant in its dimness.  Instead of being a comfort, a warmth to bask in, it was cold and distant.  The pinprick of light grew, getting closer, its detestable radiance illuminating things that Ambrosio would rather not have seen.  His hands had been stretched and mangled so that they were barely recognizable as the limbs of his previous self.  That there was no mirror about that he might inspect the rest of the horrors that his tormentors had wrought to his features was the only blessing Ambrosio had received in this place.  Yet it was not truly a blessing.  Even though he did not realize it as such, not knowing what had been done to him was so much worse that knowing.  His over eager mind could play tricks on his unwariness.  He thought himself to be a hundred times worse than he could ever actually be, and that was all a part of the plan of his tormentors.

“Poor Ambrosio, poor, poor Ambrosio.”

The familiar voice came from the red light, just as repulsive as the glow itself.  He knew that voice, though he could not remember where from.  Memories of life had deserted him during his torture.  All that he could remember were his crimes, the reasons for which he was being so severely punished.  Yet he knew the voice that called out to him from the light, and even though it made him quiver inside—with hate or fear he knew not—the sense that he might know something or someone in this God forsaken place made his heart leap with the slightest measure of hope.  That fragile hope was swiftly crushed as the light that had been approaching took on a more human form, and the familiar voice started to laugh.

“Think you that I am here to comfort you, damned Ambrosio?”  The voice called, light and airy for all its horrific words, “No, never shall you find solace in such a place as this.  From the moment you sold yourself at so cheap a price, you condemned yourself to an eternity of torture.  I could describe them to you, drive you into a despair so deep that the agonies your mind portrayed for you would madden you for a hundred years.  But I do not wish to wait so long to show you what I can.  Yes, I have things to show you, Ambrosio that shall make you quake in fear and despair, for they were what you could have had, but rejected.”

The voice was maddeningly familiar, but he could not place to whom it belonged.

“What, speak you not?” The voice taunted, “Have you nothing to say to me after all this time?”

“Who are you?” Though he instantly regretted uttering such syllables, not knowing plagued upon what was left of his mind so that he could not help but ask.

“What?  Know me not?”  The voice was indignant now as the light started to solidify into a human like shape.  “Know you not the one who’s virtue you took with glee before throwing away such a gift with equal vehemence?  Know you not she who willingly sold herself into eternal suffering so that she might be able to spend a single day more with you in that retched place called Earth?” Her form became clear then, and golden locks tumbled down her frame, hiding nothing of her charms, but truly only making them more visible to all those who looked.  The only change that had taken place in her was that Her once fair skin no longer glowed with white loveliness.  A hue of red akin to blood now covered her once fair skin.  And yet it made her no less lovely to behold, for no mortal man alive would be able to look upon her and think that she was not the most beautiful creature to have ever seen the face of the earth.

“Matilda,” He breathed out the name with a reverence that one might use when witnessing a miracle, for indeed it seemed to him to be so.  That Matilda appeared before him now, whole and without such blights as his time in Hell had left to him, seemed miracle indeed.

The laugh that issued for was anything but mirthful.  “Finally you do remember, Ambrosio, she who willingly ruined herself for your sake.  I have not come to remind you about all of your crimes against me, however, for you shall pay for those equally in due time.  Instead I come to tell you that your family wishes to see you one last time, though I know not why.”

At this Ambrosio started violently.  His sister and mother wished to see him?  This was the only family that he could think of though he had known them not until it was too late.  “They wish to see me?”

“Indeed they do, enough that they would risk their eternal souls in Hell that they would come down from Heaven to see you,” replied she, “And though Lucifer be no friend of the Creator, he cannot deny a direct commandment from the One who made him from nothingness.  And so those of Eternal Life shall for the first time descend to be among us here in Hell.  Be glad, not everyone gets to divine a privilege, though I suspect that it be not for you that this favor was granted.”

As she spake there was once again in the distance a light.  Unlike before this light did not immediately make the fallen monk quiver with utter disgust.  No, this light made his wounded soul leap for gladness.  White, shining and pure, this light provided in its very presence all that Ambrosio had been longing for whilst lingering in the depths of Hell.  The light drew closer, and as before with Matilda gained human countenance, but this time in three shapes it did become.  The Holiness of Heaven poured off of two of them, angels they were, untouched by the blackness of the Fall.  Too bright to be see, they stood guard over the figure that stood between the two.  Whereas those that were beside her were too glorious to be seen, Antonia was visible to all, restored and whole once more.  She wore a shining white robe of the finest of silks, but that was dulled in comparison her own resplended beauty.  Like it had been in life, hers was a different sort of beauty than that which Matilda held.  Matilda’s was a weak beauty that inflamed the senses and made one wish to satisfy the cravings of the body.  Antonia’s was the beauty of purity and innocence, and made Matilda look homely and repugnant in comparison.  She smiled at her Brother, and Ambrosio thought that if it had been possible, he would have died all over again then in shame.  Seeming to read the thoughts from his mangled face, Antonia shook her head.

“Dear brother, I have come to tell you that I forgive you.  While you were at fault, the love that our Creator has shown to me in spite of all my faults (and there were faults to be sure, despite what I thought upon my death) has made me realize that I cannot hold anything against you, or indeed, could not let you wait for eternity here in Hell without knowing that I did indeed forgive you.  To do so would be a sin for me, and to sin now would have horrific consequences.”

Her words seemed to sooth a part of him that he hadn’t even known was hurting.  He clenched his fist, then looked down, startled, when he found that one of his hands had been made whole again.  He looked back up, tears in his eyes.  There was nothing he could say, for it seemed he would not be allow.  Even as he watched, the Glory of the Angels once again covered the redeemed Beauty and their light fled back into the darkness, leaving Ambrosio emptier than he had been before.  Before he could despair, once again a light of purest white shone towards him, illuminating his Soul.  Three shapes once more appeared before him in the void.  Elvira, the woman at whose bedside he’d once staid, the woman he’d later murdered stood before him.  He realized that she must indeed be his mother.  But who was this standing tall beside her?  The man spoke not, but he was most certainly human, unlike the angel that stood to Elvira’s other side.  Might this have been his father?  Ambrosio longed to ask, but his tongue seemed stuck fast to the top of his mouth.  Guilt poured out of him as he gazed upon the woman who’s life he had so cruelly stolen.

“Ambrosio,” Elvira’s voice cut through his self-pity, “My son I have come to you because if I didn’t, I would sin.  I must forgive you in order for me to be able to enter heaven with my husband, your father.”  She looked up at the man beside her.  “So my son, know that I have forgiven you.  And we beg for your forgiveness as well.  We thought that you would be safe, but we were wrong, and you have paid mightily for our mistake in judgment.  Please, if you can find it somewhere within yourself, would you please forgive us?”  She bowed, then, lowering herself before him.  Beside her the man did likewise, prostrating himself before the son he never knew.

Her words cut through his soul like a knife, tearing at his Heartstrings.  “Mother.”  He whispered the word with a reverence he had never been able to find during his life, “Mother, father, please, get up, don’t do this.”  He felt as if time had regressed and he was five years old once more.  This had been the most secret of his childhood dreams, that his parents would come for him, would beg his forgiveness for abandoning him, and would take him away from the abbey and the horrible old men that kept him there.  Now, though, now that it was actually happening, he realized that this wasn’t what he wanted at all.  He didn’t want them to beg, to plead for his forgiveness.  What he wanted was their love, their affection, their touch.  “Mother.  Father.”  He stretched out his hand, not noticing that it was no longer the grotesque thing that had been there only moments before.  “Please, get up, I forgive you.  I swear by—”  He found suddenly that he could no longer speak his Creator’s name, but he didn’t let that hinder him, it seemed so unimportant at the moment.  “I swear that I forgive you.  Please get up.  Please.”

Even as he reached for his parents to raise them up from where they lay, the Sword of the Angel, blazing with the radiance of Heaven fell between he and them.  “You must not touch them,” quoth the angel, “For you, one of the Damned, endanger them by your very presence.  If you were to touch them, they would be condemned to Hell forever.”

Ambrosio shrank back, a wounded child.  As the scene before had been the stuff of his dreams, this had been the stuff of his nightmares.  To be able to see his parent, hear his parent, but not to touch them, not to be loved by them, that was the cruelest thing that could happen to him.  The two prostrated figures stood, and smiled at him.  “Mother, father.” Tears were falling down his cheeks, the first he had cried since death had come and taken him.  His parents could not stay, the forms becoming light once more and disappearing into the darkness just as Antonia had.  Left all alone in the darkness of Hell, Ambrosio sobbed, a broken man.

“Poor Ambrosio, poor, poor Ambrosio.”

Matilda.  He’d forgotten that she was there.  That she’d born witness to everything that had just transpired.  In that moment of realization, he hated her.  And yet he couldn’t pull away when she ran her fingers lightly over his arm and down to his hand.  “Well well, it looks like the other one has healed up nicely as well.”  He looked down in surprise to find that she was indeed right.  Both of his hands were now whole once more.  “In fact,” She continued, “It looks as if you are almost totally healed.  If you were redeemable, I would think that you would be on your way to Heaven right now.”  He looked up at her, something akin to hope, alight in his once dull eyes.  Matilda shrugged her bare shoulders, “But, you did make a contract with the Prince of Darkness.  You sold your soul, and nothing can save you now.”  She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to someone speaking.  “Ah, well, I am needed elsewhere, I will be back to check on you when I can.”  She smiled, “Do not worry about being lonely.  You will not be unaccompanied for long.”  She became a red ball of light and flew off into the darkness.

She was correct about his solitude.  A short while he heard them.  His tormentors were returning.  He screamed as they came closer; his cries increasing in volume as they laid hold to him.  He knew what was to come, what he was to endure for all eternity, and he dreaded with all his being.  It was too late to do anything about it.  He no longer had any hope.
So, I thought that you all might want to see what has been keeping me from writing the next chapter of Raging Water. Put simply, this is a quarter of one of my class grades.

You most likely won't know "The Monk" the gothic story this is a 'sequal' to. All you all need to know is that Ambrosio was a monk. He broke his vows of chastity with Matilda (who was really a demon in disquise). He then dumps Matilda for Antonia, who is his unknowing sister. He kills her mother (and his) to get to her, and ends up raping and killing her. He's taken in by the Spanish inquisition and makes a bargain with Lucifer to escape. Unfortunately he bargains stupidly and after Lucifer saves him, he emediately gloats, then shoves Ambrosio off a cliff. And this is where our story stars.
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