Somewhere I Have Never Traveled.

[Julia Darline Evans]

Hea (y)

[maia]

[shadow=red,left,300]Lahe! Väga Hea![/shadow]

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART IV: EVERYTHING I AM

It’s not like you to say sorry
I was waiting on a different story

But this time, I was mistaken

for handing you a heart worth breaking.

– Nickelback


Chapter 31; Resounding Repercussions

Harry awoke groggily the next morning to find himself in the Hospital Wing. All of the company from the night before had disappeared, save Hermione, who sat in the same wooden armchair as the night before. She seemed pale and half-alive; her eyes were rimmed red.

“Morning,” she told him heavily. Harry sat up in his bed a little too quickly and scrutinized her.

“Are you alright, Hermione?”

It wasn’t just her physical appearance; it was something else he couldn’t quite place. She looked as if she hadn’t slept at all.

She nodded curtly, trying for a smile but failing.

“No,” Harry told her, “you’re not okay at all. Hermione, come here.”

He beckoned for her to sit on the bed next to him, and like a zombie she moved at his command.

Harry examined her face closely. Her eyes looked terrible, like liquid pain hastily covered in cheap wallpaper. She seemed like she was about to fall apart.

He put a comforting hand on her wrist, but frowned as she winced. On closer examination, both of her wrists had dark, finger shaped bruises on them.

“What did he do to you, Hermione?” Harry asked in a ghastly voice. He knew Malfoy had given her those bruises. But he had looked into Draco’s eyes, and had been convinced that Draco didn’t have the capability or motivation for hurting Hermione. Harry was fairly skilled at Legilimency, but it scared him how wrong he had been about Draco.

Hermione swayed dangerously.

“You need a doctor,” Harry pronounced immediately, reaching to feel her forehead. She was cold and clammy.

“Madame Pomfrey already healed me,” she told him, shaking her head.

“Not these,” Harry pointed out, holding a wrist up to the light.

Hermione shrugged. “I forgot to tell her about those,” she said truthfully.

Harry searched for his wand on the bedside table as he said, “Tell me what happened, Hermione.”

“He’s engaged,” was all Hermione managed to choke out, now visibly holding back tears.

Harry paused, touching the wand to her wrist. “He is?”

“To Pansy Parkinson. He’s been betrothed to her for two months.”

Harry softly recited a healing spell, and the bruises on one of her wrists faded.

“But that’s . . . I thought you two . . . ”

Hermione nodded. “He said he was only stringing me along in order to . . . get closer to you, so he could lure you away from Hogwarts.”

Harry healed her other wrist, and then looked into her eyes. He couldn’t heal the bruises behind those. He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and the gesture reminded him in a searing, painful way of one he had made to Ginny.

In her expression, he saw something that was classically Hermione. He remembered that she hadn’t cried a tear the night before, that she had stood up to Malfoy like a true Gryffindor. She had been strong in the past twelve hours, decoding riddles and solving murder mysteries, but it had all been an act. Now he saw that the whole time she had been fighting tears, fighting falling apart.

“You don’t have to be strong anymore,” Harry told her. Her tightly set, determined face suddenly shattered. He wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed hugely, all the tension from the past twelve hours exploding into her tears. Harry, like most boys, was keenly uncomfortable when girls started to cry, but this was one of his best friends, and she needed him even if she was too stubborn to admit it.

“If I ever get the chance, I’m going to kill him,” Harry announced flatly, with a rueful laugh. “He thinks he can get away with hurting you like this, but he’s wrong, Hermione. I trusted him and now . . . there’s not gonna be any mercy.”

“Harry,” she gasped between sobs, “I hate him so much . . .”

“I know,” Harry whispered, “and I’m going to tear Malfoy to pieces. So would Ron if . . . he was here.”

Harry tried to keep his voice even on that one. If there was one thing he regretted about the night before , it was leaving Ron behind. How could he not have realized that his best friend had been someone else for the past month? True, he had been gone for three out of the four weeks, but that wasn’t an excuse. There was no excuse for how ignorant he had been.

He would ask Dumbledore about rescuing Ron later.

Ginny was another matter entirely. The one person he couldn’t rescue, the one person he wouldn’t be able to save with bravery or conviction, was the one person he wanted to talk to the most. How could she be a Death Eater? How could she be working for the man who was trying to murder him? It stung Harry worse than he thought possible. And she was with Blaise Zabini. How could she possibly be dating the boy who had Polyjuiced into her own brother?

Merlin, it was so twisted.

Bitterly, Harry wondered if Ginny had helped Blaise perfect his disguise as Ron, if she had taught him to adopt her brothers expressions and movements and idiosyncracies. That made him sick. That Ginny would betray her own family like that seemed unthinkable.

Had he actually liked that girl?Why did he still worry about her and hope she was not in over her head?

In any case, Harry’s work was cut out for him. Malfoy would give Voldemort the sword, and then Harry would have to find a way to defeat Voldemort and the sword. It was his own fault, really. Why had he trusted Malfoy, even for a minute? Things Malfoy had said to him ran through his head.

I’m not going to lie down and lick your boots just because you’re Harry Potter and you’re famous, got that?

Stop acting like a hero . . . you’re just a person.

You and I, Potter, we aren’t so different.

He had thought Malfoy had maybe, possibly changed from the spoiled coward of a few years ago. Now he knew that Malfoy was just the same.

Neither Draco nor Voldemort would receive his mercy now . . . as for Ginny, he wished he could say the same.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If Remus Lupin had known exactly what the below conversation would entail, he probably wouldn’t have gone to Dumbledore’s office at all.
“Yes, Albus, I think that Molly has a right to know that her son is being held captive. I’ll send an owl to her and tell her to come to Hogwarts straightaway.”

Dumbledore nodded. “There is nothing we can do about Ron for the time being, but I highly doubt that Voldemort will kill him until he gets a hold of Harry again. What we need to concentrate on at this point is a battle plan. I realize that you believe history is going to repeat itself, but we must at least prepare for the possibility that Draco will give the sword to Voldemort.”

“That’s true,” Lupin answered diplomatically. “However unlikely the situation is, we must have a plan. But what could possibly combat the power of Mordred’s sword? In Lord Voldemort’s hands, it will be the most deadly weapon the world has ever seen.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed, “we need, in that case, the one object that has opposed Mordred’s word in the past. It is the opposite, the antithesis . . .”

“Such an object exists?”

“Of course. It is Excalibur, Remus, the very sword that clashed with Mordred’s in the last battle.”

Lupin laughed. “You are proposing we find Excalibur, Albus? It has probably been destroyed.”

“No,” Dumbledore corrected. “I am proposing that you find Excalibur. After all, you solved the last riddle more thoroughly than I had believed possible.”

“Yes,” Lupin agreed, “by luck, Albus. By pure chance and guesswork. You cannot expect me to find another long lost sword in the same way.”

“I do not expect it,” Dumbledore answered calmly, “but I ask it of you . . . because right now, it is our only hope. If we can give Harry Excalibur, he may have a chance against Voldemort.”

“Understood,” Lupin said heavily.

How did I get twisted up in this sort of thing? He thought wearily, before exiting the Headmaster’s office.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A week had passed since the incident at Stonehenge, and Draco Malfoy was driving himself up the wall.
Lucius had welcomed Draco back into the Manor, of course, the morning after he had come in from the confrontation. He had spent a long time on Salisbury Plain that night, silent and wrenched, unsure of what to do with the sword or with himself.

Being a “loving father,” (also a greedy and conniving one, admittedly), Lucius had welcomedDraco and the sword warmly into the Manor, in hopes that Draco would come around and give the sword to his father.

Draco’s life had commenced as planned, though he had not gone back to Hogwarts since. His father forbadeit. Lucius claimed that Dumbledore would be lurking there, waiting to pounce on Draco and Mordred’s blade.

The bloody sword.

He hated it. Word had gotten out everywhere (d**n Krum, d**n Fleur and her big mouth), and even the Muggles had noticed something was wrong. After all, they had awoken one morning to find that a tomb and stone had appeared miraculously in the center of Stonehenge. Global tension ensued.

In any case, Witch Weekly, The Daily Prophet, and other disrespectablesources had sent conspiracy theories flying every which way. No one, admittedly, knew that Draco actually possessed the sword. Thank Merlin for that. Life had returned to normal, for Draco. Sure, he didn’t know what to do with the sword yet, but that was in his control. Everything else was completely normal.

One small and slightly problematic complication was that he could not stop thinking– no, obsessing– over Hermione bloody Granger. Filthy mudblood. Stupid pregnant dog.

He was driving himself crazy.

Because he had developed some kind of d**n guilty conscience.

Breaking it off with Hermione had been unavoidable. For God’s sake, he was engaged, he couldn’t go flouncing around with another girl. It was immoral. Especially when that girl was a low-class Mudblood Gryffindor.

Draco sure as hell didn’t want the engagement to Pansy. He didn’t like it, but what had Granger expected him to do? Throw away his entire life to elope with her? It was romantic and roguish, certainly, but not logical at all. Draco didn’t follow impulses like a Gryffindor. Cold, clear logic ruled his life.

He also had a duty to his family. There was no other Malfoy heir to take care of the estate, tend to the finances. He would marry a Pureblood wife and raise a Pureblood heir if it killed him, because that was what his father had done.

His father had sucked it up. Had Lucius ever really loved Narcissa? He doubted it. But his father had married the girl, done what his father expected him to do, whether he wanted it or not. Draco could not defy a thousand years of tradition for one girl. He could not abandon his family for one girl.

But God, he missed her so bad.

He missed the way she bit her lip, the way she brushed her hair away from her face, the way she kissed . . . he missed the sound of her voice most of all. He missed little, mundane things about her he had never even known he liked.

He missed her artless grace, so different from Pansy’s measured sashay. He missed the way she was sexy without even knowing it, without even trying.

The pregnant dog.

But he even missed her bitchiness, her sharp tongue, her scathing remarks.

He missed everything about her, when it came right down to it. A week of not seeing her face had caused her to appear in his dreams, slippery and hot and . . .

How could a girl do this to him?

He banged his fist angrily against the window. A storm brewed outside . . .

Draco hadn’t counted on missing her so badly. He had justified breaking up with Hermione to himself. My duty is to my family, he thought. And besides, if anyone ever found out about our relationship, I’d be punished severely, but it would be nothing compared to what they would do to Granger if they got their hands on her.

He couldn’t put her in danger like that. It was downright selfish. Breaking up with her hadn’t been a choice; it had been a necessity.

And yet there was a part of his newfound conscience (d**n that conscience, d**n it straight to hell), that screamed that what he had handled it all wrong. The things he had said, the way he had treated her played through his head like a bad dream. He had gone too far and he knew that he had hurt her permanently, maybe irreversibly.

Sometimes he could almost hear her crying.

He had hurt her to ensure that she would hate him, that she would never come near him again.

Also, he admitted, to ensure that I would never go near her again.

None of what he had said had been true. He hadn’t been using her just to get to Harry, he hadn’t been engaged to Pansy for two months, the Veritaserum had been all too real.

He didn’t want her just for sex, as much as he had tried to convince himself of that fact. He wanted her, all of her, her laugh and her eyes and her body and why was he still thinking about that idiot girl?

Why?

Because Draco, you blew your chance, he told himself. You shot yourself in the foot purposely. It’s better for both of you if you just leave her alone . . . never go near her again.

With a resigned sigh, Draco realized that he would get over her. It would just take time.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A week after Harry had been released from the hospital wing, Hermione glanced outside to see a storm cloud on the horizon. The clouds were black and menacing, and thunder crashed in the distance.
She felt trapped in her stuffy Head Girl dormitory, and decided to take a walk despite the ominous warning signs. Maybe she wanted to get drenched. Maybe the rain would wash away her thoughts. Maybe she was too preoccupied to think about the oncoming rainstorm at all. In any case, she found herself slowly making her way outside and onto the grounds.

The greyness of mid-November had begun to seep into the threadwork of the landscape, and the leaves hung silently, reproachfully, from the bony trees. The lake had taken on a spectacularly blue-gray pigment, laced with the silver of the clouds above. Lightning flashed, but did little to brighten the irreversibly mundane scenery that seemed to blend together seamlessly before Hermione’s eyes.

The past few days, quite similar to the present scenery, had blended together drearily, had dragged on slowly and painfully for her. She still raised her hand in class, laughed when Harry told a joke (he told so few these days that it was a wonder she laughed at all), bossed around the younger students, and performed her Head Girl duties.

Yes, all was as it had always been for Hermione. Calm, controlled, measured to the point of obsession. She had been acting so normal, actually, that even Harry hadn’t noticed anything was out of place.

Because in all honesty, there wasn’t.

Thunder crashed more loudly, and Hermione felt the first drops of rain touch her bare arms, stinging the life back into her.

There was nothing wrong. Yes, Ron was being held prisoner at the Malfoy Manor, the Ambassadors had been detained for questioning inside Hogwarts, Ginny had gone over to the dark side, and it was becoming increasingly evident that the final battle between Harry and Voldemort was approaching.

But besides that.

Those things were all wrong, but she could deal with them logically. Harry already had a plan to rescue Ron. The Ambassadors would be sent home as soon as the whole murder mess was cleaned up. Ginny would come around eventually. And Harry would defeat Voldemort. Anything else was unthinkable.

So everybody’s problems would all be cleared up in no time. Nothing to worry about.

Rain fell down harder now, and erratic ripples dodged across the lake. The trees swayed hypnotically, beckoning to the storm.

Cold water burned Hermione, washing away the layers of lies she had been telling herself since that night.

She was better. Clearly, she had overreacted the night that One Guy had broken up with her. Clearly, she had let feelings get in the way of what was important. Logically, she never wanted to talk to that One Engaged Guy ever again. Rationally, there was no point in dwelling on anything that had happened between them.

She had never really loved him anyway. She just didn’t know what love was yet. Obviously, someday she would find someone kinder, smarter, richer (was that possible?), more charming (was that possible either?), with blonder hair, with greyer eyes,with a better smirk, and a more heart-melting smile, who was a better dancer, and a better kisser.

She ignored the tightening in her chest. Of course she would find someone better. Someone who loved her, someone who didn’t push her around like he did, insult her like he did, kiss her like he did, make her knees go weak and her mouth go dry like he did . . .

She cut off that chain of thought abruptly. Rain poured down into the thirsty ground in earnest now, and drenched her to the bone.

A sudden flashback seared behind her eyes, of pouring rain and hot kisses and drenched bodies intertwining.

Last time it had poured like this, she had shared her first kiss with that One Guy. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel his lips on hers all over again.

Almost, but not quite.

And then it hit her, like an earth-shattering bludgeon, as the scene played over and over in her mind, a heartbreaking film with no sound.

Everything was okay, and this was the problem.

She hated it.

She hated being in control, she hated the average life she was living, she hated herself and everyone else.

She hated Draco Malfoy most of all.

Sometimes, when she least expected it, the feeling would sear through her like a hot fire poker, this roiling, sickening feeling of absolute hate for how badly he had hurt her, for how easily he had played her, for how much she had loved him.

She wasn’t better. She was completely broken up inside. Hermione had barely been able to sleep for the past couple of nights. It was amazing that she hadn’t broken down before this, actually. She had been a mess all week.

Yes, broken down. It was happening to her now. She dropped to her knees in the pouring rain, shaking so bad from cold and emotion that she doubted she would be able to stand up.

What had happened to strong, capable Hermione? Why was she sobbing her eyes out–again– over some boy? What had happened to unbreakable, passionate Hermione? Had he taken that away too? What had happened to cool, logical, in-control Hermione? Why couldn’t she stop crying?

Anger at her own weakness merely made her more hysterical. She gazed up at the passionless sky and wished desperately, searingly, persistently, that she had never known him at all.

She looked back down at the saturated earth, sobbing hugely. And suddenly a pale something flickered into her vision. It was a hand.

A pale, immaculately groomed hand was proffered to her as she looked up.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Draco made his way to the balcony as it started to sprinkle lightly.
Did that bint even realize what she had done to him? Draco realized that he had been wrong.

Yes, wrong! He had misjudged his feelings for her. Never in a million years had he believed he could miss her this badly. It had been hard to let her go, but he told himself he’d get over her, just like he had gotten over every other girl he had ever dated. Give it a week and he’d forget Hermione Granger ever existed.

What it came down to was that he couldn’t let her go. He tried his hardest, so hard that he had overdone it to ensure she would never speak to him again.

But it had been a week, and he missed her so much that it burned the back of his throat sometimes.

Outrageously. That’s the perfect word. I miss her outrageously.

Draco made a split second decision– he had to see her and apologize. He didn’t expect her to forgive him, but if he didn’t lay his eyes on the girl soon, he felt as if he would explode.

The rain pounded down around him, grey and relentless and single-minded.

Hermione was not his fiancé. Hermione was a Gryffindor. Hermione was Harry’s best friend, but he couldn’t have cared less.

He had tried to care, tried to push her away, but it hadn’t worked. Now he found himself crawling back to her, heedless of pride and blood and family.

God, look what she’d done now.

He reached out a pale hand into the rain, as he had seen her do the day in Beauxbatons when he had first kissed her, and was surprised as someone grasped it.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Without thinking, Hermione grasped the hand in front of her, and as she was pulled up she took in blond hair, pale eyes, expensive clothing.
It was Jaime.

Disappointment flooded through her, quickly clipped away.

Disappointment, and then relief.

Because Hermione never wanted to see his face again.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Draco, not daring to hope, whirled around.
Pansy stood there, pretty in the grey light, his perfect Pureblood fiancé.

“Pansy– what are you doing here?”

“Don’t look so upset,” Pansy chided mildly, “there were no classes today, so I decided to come see you. Now come inside, you’re going to get sick.”

She kissed his forehead lightly, and a shiver of guilt ran down his spine. It was obvious that Pansy was really trying to make their relationship work, even though it had been forced upon them both.

“How would you like some hot chocolate?” she asked him, and squeezed his hand.

Draco appreciated her in that moment, more than he ever had.

“I would love some hot chocolate,” he answered with a small but genuine smile.

Not quite as much, however, as he would have liked to see a pair of chocolate brown eyes . . .

[Marilyn Morgan]

Hea hea ..
Edasi !

[Kathreen Granger]

väga hea!

[Liz-Miia Parker]

Okei mu armsad lugejad, lõpp läheneb või noh see lõpp kus autor on pausi teinud ja jälgin seda lehte koguaeg, et teada milla ta uue peatükki on pannud - siiani mitte midagi. Kuid loodame, et see peatselt tuleb.
Asi on keeruliseks läinud nagu aru saate. Loeks nagu teist raamatut ainult HP raamatu tegeleste nimedega? Tõsiselt meeldib see jutt nagu ka võta mu süda. Kui ma selle lõpetan lisaksin ma siia uue fici , kuid samuti ingliskeelse ja loodan, et saan ka siis kommentaare. Kuid jätkame siis looga, kurb peatükk natuke, kuid Draco tundeline pool tuleb välja.

PART IV: EVERYTHING I AM

There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.

- Josh Billings

Chapter 32; Settling the Score

Two nights later, Draco stood resolutely outside of the Head Girl dormitory at Hogwarts. He had gotten into the school without much trouble, in spite of having a sword strung through his belt. The defense mechanisms of Hogwarts had been created to identify staff and students. Draco was, no matter what else, still a student of Hogwarts.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Coming to apologize? He didn’t know if he could do it . . . it might be anatomically impossible for a Malfoy to say he was sorry.

He knocked hard on the portrait hole, and opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it. His heart pounded incessantly . . . no girl had ever made him this nervous.

And then suddenly it had happened. The portrait swung open and Hermione stood there, dressed in a white night shirt and matching cords, her hair damp and freshly washed. Draco just stared; she was even better than he remembered.

When she realized who it was, she looked dangerously close to fainting for a moment. All the color drained out of her features. Then anger flared in her eyes and she slammed the door in his face.

He had expected this. He heard her mutter every locking charm she could think of on the other side of the door.

He knocked again. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, open the door.”

No answer.

“I want to . . . I need to talk to you. C’mon!”

No movement. No answer.

“Please let me in. I’m not going to hurt you, Granger. I just want to talk. Please.”

Dead silence.

He leaned his head against the door, already exhausted by his own emotions. She really wasn’t going to let him in.

He tried her old password, but obviously she had been smart enough to change it since he had last been in her room.

It only left him one choice, really.

“Accio Firebolt,” he said with a wave of his wand.

After a few excruciating minutes, the Firebolt slapped into his hand. He then made his way quickly to the balcony of the Astronomy Tower. Mounting the broom, he soared around the castle until he came to the window of Hermione’s Head Girl dormitory. He peered inside. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, back facing the window. She didn’t appear to be crying, but her head was in her hands and she was bent almost double.

Before he could second guess himself, Draco backed up his broom and aimed it directly at the window. He slammed into it with full force, throwing his arm over his face as it shattered inward.

He landed ungracefully on the floor of her room, thankful that he had worn mostly thick clothing. Hermione screamed and backed away in shock.

Draco stood up nonchalantly and brushed broken glass off of himself. He proceeded to ‘reparo’ the window, and then turned to Hermione.

“You should’ve just opened the door,” he chastised softly. “You’re too d**n stubborn sometimes, Granger.”

Her eyes glowed with anger. “Get out,” she hissed, drawing her wand in a flash and advancing on him.

“I just want you to listen to me,” Draco said in an appeasing manner, holding his hands up.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Hermione snapped, her voice tight and controlled. “Get out of here, Draco. I’m not afraid to hex you.”

“It wouldn’t hurt me if you did,” Draco told her softly. “The sword has made me almost invincible.”

Her eyes flickered with uncertainty at this, but anger quickly overtook her features. “You have no right to be in my room like this. I don’t want you here. How dare you think . . . after what you did . . .?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Draco started reasonably.

“Get out now or I’ll just start screaming and not stop until someone comes!” she cried dangerously.

“Look,” Draco began, “I just wanted to say that I’m . . .”

She about-faced abruptly, speaking in a loud voice, “I’m not listening . . . go home to your fucking Pureblood fiancee.”

“Granger!” Draco cried rawly, fed up. Why was she being so hard-headed? He crossed the room in less than a moment and whirled her around by the shoulders. “Shut up for five seconds and just listen to me! I mean it!”

She was absolutely trembling with rage and hysteria and maybe even fear. “Let. Go.”

He let go of her, but seeing no other choice, he whipped out his wand and yelled, “Impedimentia!”

Hermione froze on the spot, glaring heatedly at him. There was pure loathing in that glare, and he wished he could say it didn’t hurt him.

“Sorry about having to do that,” he said softly, “but there’s no other way to get you to listen to me. I need you to hold still for just a few minutes.”

He surveyed her silently for a moment before beginning.

“I’ll start off by informing you that you’ve utterly ruined my life,” he said, quietly, anger evident behind his voice. “It’s your fault, Granger, that I’m not home right now with my . . . fucking Pureblood fiancee, as you so eloquently put it.”

It was weird that Hermione didn’t talk back like she usually did.

“I came all the way to Hogwarts against my father’s wishes just to talk to you and then you slam the door in my face. You’re such a jerk,” he told her, and shook his head.

He paced back and forth, ignoring the look of pure disdain she was directing at him.

“You’re probably mad at me . . .” he trailed off with a bitter laugh. “God, what am I saying? You’re furious, and you have every right to be. You’re probably wondering why I’m here. I didn’t . . . you know, plan on coming here. Actually, talking to you is the last thing I ever thought I’d do. But the hell with it, Granger, here I am.”

He stopped and looked at her, but the black, heated glare hadn’t softened.

“I know you’re probably not going to believe this, but . . . none of the things I said to you that night were true. Pansy and I . . . we are engaged, but I only found out a few days ago. Yeah, my relationship with you started off as a way to get closer to Potter, or so I told myself . . . but then everything got real. I actually liked you, wanted to spend time with you . . . God, it almost killed me to admit that to myself. It scared me. Then came my betrothal to Pansy. I had no choice in that, Granger. No choice. I’m not using that as an excuse for what I did to you, but I just wanted you to know.”

He fiddled nervously with the sword at his belt now. It had become a habit.

“I decided I had to stop spending time with you. Anything else would have been unfair to you and Pansy. I have a duty to my family, Granger . . . can you understand how important that is to me? I’m my father’s only son . . . if I don’t raise a Pureblood heir and take care of the Manor, no one else will. I have a legacy to live up to, and . . . whatever anyone says, I owe it to my family to do what they have always expected of me. You’re an only child. Do you get that, sort of?”

He ran a hand through his hair, and pressed an open palm to his forehead.

“Besides, if anyone found out that I was with you, they wouldn’t punish me, Granger . . . it would be you they would make an example of. And I . . .caredtoo much about you to let that happen. I realized it was selfish to be with you, and that it would be better for both of us if I just left you alone.”

He sat down on her bed before he realized she probably didn’t want him doing that.

“And so I was terrible to you that night. At the time, I justified it by telling myself it was the only way to ensure I wouldn’t be able to come back to you. To ensure that you’d hate me forever, that you’d never let me near you again.”

She gave him a ‘well-look-where-you-are-now’ sort of glare. He almost laughed.

He stepped closer to her motionless form, and saw, for a moment, the glimmer of fear she tried so hard to hide. It almost physically hurt him, to see that fear.

“Why are you afraid of me, Granger?” he asked, and for a split second his whole face had opened up with vulnerability. He realized that she had every reason to be afraid of him.

He reached out and brushed his thumb, feather-soft, across her cheek, across the exact place where he had struck her. “I still see a shadow of a bruise there,” his voice had dropped to a whisper. “I don’t ever think it will go away . . . at least not for me.”

Her eyes did not hold any sadness or shame or understanding; on the contrary, they looked quite blank.

“I realize that what I did was wrong, even if it was to protect you. How I treated you . . . was awful. So, in any case, my plan worked for a week. I stayed away from you, the engagement went as planned, you stayed away from me, and everything was okay. Expect for the tiny, minuscule fact that I almost clawed my own eyes out from missing you so bad.”

She looked slightly taken aback at that, but he plowed on.

“I realized that despite everything I’d done, I was wrong. I care about you too much to let you go. Now it doesn’t matter to me that it’s selfish, that it’s illogical. I’ve been so stupid, Granger. I do care about you. It just isn’t . . . you know . . . it’s not like in the fairy tales, where the prince realizes he loves the princess in one bright, blinding realization. It took me not having you to realize I couldn’t . . . live without you. That’s right, I can’t live without you. Do you have any idea how hard that is for me to admit? This is reality, Granger, and I’m not perfect and I didn’t know what I wanted, but now . . . now I do. I still think you’re a stuck-up pregnant dog– don’t look at me like that, Granger!– and a hypocritical know-it-all, but right now there’s nothing in this world I want more. I need you to yell at me, because if that’s the only way you’ll let me hear your voice, I’ll take it.”

He had been talking rapidly and halted for a moment to take a breath.

“I’m not here to ask your forgiveness, because I know I don’t deserve it and I know I’m not going to get it. I can see it in your eyes, Granger . . . I hurt you badly and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

At last, he lifted the enchantment from her. He was surprised when the first thing that came out of her mouth was a light laugh.

“What a touching speech,” she sneered apathetically, “but let me get this straight. You make me fall for you harder than I’ve ever fallen for anyone in my life, and then you dump me for some . . . noble reason like duty or my protection or somesuch, and then you . . . what?” She laughed again here, and Draco’s heart sank. “You come back a week later to profess your undying love for me?” The next part was quiet, venomous. “And you really, honestly expect me to believe you?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah . . . yeah, I do.”

He saw her hand coming before it happened, but he didn’t stop it. She smacked him across the face, and Hermione Granger hardly qualified as a weak girl. It hurt.

“Let me translate your utter . . . bullshit . . . into the truth,” she continued softly. “You knew a war between Muggles and Wizards was coming, you knew the outcome of the war, you knew that Muggle-borns like me would be enslaved or killed. And guess what, Draco Malfoy? You were afraid. You were afraid of becoming attached to a Muggle-born, because you knew I would have to die. So you know what you did? You gave it all away before you could lose it. You got rid of me like a dog that you might one day have to put to sleep. And meanwhile, you wanted to conform– mindlessly, might I add– to the life you’d always been expected to live. You didn’t want to disappoint your father, you didn’t want to cry when I died, so you pushed me as far away as you could. You try to make it sound noble and chivalrous that you broke my heart, but I can see the real reasons in your eyes. You’re pathetically weak.”

“No, Granger, that’s not–”

“Yes it is,” she snapped ruthlessly. “Don’t you dare think I can’t see it when you lie, Draco Malfoy.”

“It was wrong of me, then,” he conceded softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

She seemed to be trembling from head to toe with anger, but now all the fierceness went out of her. Very suddenly, as if a light had come on, she smiled.

“You know what, Draco?” she said softly. “I forgive you.”

Relief.

Blinding, crippling, white-hot waves of relief crashed down upon him. He honestly hadn’t expected her forgiveness. There was nothing in the world, he realized, that he wanted more. Draco moved toward her to sweep her into his arms, but frowned as she backed away.

“Don’t touch me,” she admonished, voice low and passionless. Hermione pointed toward the door. “Get out.”

“But Granger, you said . . .”

“I said that I’ll forgive you for everything you’ve done to me. That’s right, I won’t hold it against you. But God, Draco . . . do you think I’ll ever forget? Just because I forgive you doesn’t mean I’ll love you again.”

Her words seared through him. Anything, he thought desperately. She could have said anything but that.

“What do you want me to say, Granger? What do you want me to do? I’ll give the sword to Dumbledore– anything–”

“Draco, look at me,” Hermione said softly. Their eyes met, desperation behind his, apathetic ruthlessness behind hers. She spoke. “It’s not like you can do something to change my mind. I’ve forgiven you, but I still hate you, because forgetting is impossible. I don’t love you. I’m sorry . . . honestly, I am. I wish things had worked out differently between us.”

Was it possible to die from a mere succession of syllables?

“You loved me, once,” Draco told her desperately. “It hasn’t gone away.”

“No,” Hermione corrected sadly, shaking her head. “I loved what I thought I saw in you. The boy I loved was just a phantom, an illusion. You shattered that illusion yourself. The boy I loved . . . he was just a lie.”

Her words were not tearful or nostalgic; they were cutting and passionless.

“Do you want to know why I lied to you?” Draco started, soft and direct. “I lied because the thought of you is the only thing that allows me to sleep at night. I lied to you because the sound of your voice is the only thing that clears the impenetrable fog from my head.” His voice was strong and clear as it rose. “I lied to you because out of all the people of I have ever met, you are the only one who can dance the cha-cha just as well as me! I lied to you because sometimes . . .” his voice got soft and almost broke at this point, “sometimes when I kiss you, you make this silly sound somewhere between a squeak and a groan and there is nothing in the whole world I like to hear more. I lied to you because when you’re in danger I can’t relax and because I shiver when I hear your name and because you drive me crazy with the way you bite your lip and because when I was home and I looked up at the stars at night I prayed you were looking at them too! I miss you so bad, Granger. I do play around with girls, okay? I am a Death Eater, alright? Yeah, I lied to you, but only because I couldn’t stand the thought of you hating me! And I hurt you for your own protection . . . I hope you realize that someday.”

Hermione looked up at him with equal measures of shock and profound sadness. They were both silent for a moment, and Draco was breathing heavily.

“It’s not that you lied to me, Draco,” she told him after a moment. “It’s that I no longer want to believe you.”

He felt as if he’d been bludgeoned in the head. She doesn’t care about me anymore, he realized. She really doesn’t care. He hadn’t considered that possibility at all. Now, hurt sank in.

And suddenly, very suddenly, Draco Malfoy discovered what it felt like to be rejected.

Sensing Draco’s realization (Hermione was a perceptive girl, after all), she put her hand on his wrist and drew him closer. She still had a score to settle.

Hope surged within Draco. Perhaps she had changed her mind.

She placed her lips on his mouth and kissed him thoroughly and expertly. Hermione knew exactly what he liked, and it was probably the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. When Hermione had had enough, she pulled away.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at her. She seemed totally unaffected, and with a shock he realized she hadn’t even meant the kiss, hadn’t even wanted it.

And he realized how she must have felt when he had kissed her that night and not meant it.

Angry. Foolish. Embarrassed.

“Did you like that, Draco?” Hermione asked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“I wish more than anything that I hadn’t,” he told her, despair evident in his voice. “Granger. . .”

He spoke to her in a voice she’d never heard. It was almost desperate and pitiful. Hermione only smiled softly.

“Don’t beg, Draco,” she sneered. “It’s beneath you.”

The mockery of his words worked just like it was supposed to. Draco had never cried over a girl in his life, but this was the closest he had ever come.

She raised her eyebrows imperiously and pointed toward the door. “Now please get out of my room.”

Unquestionable hurt flashed through Draco’s eyes. That she had talked to him like that, kissed him like that . . . and he had thought she meant it! That pregnant dog. Hurt quickly crystallized into anger. He whirled around and headed for the door. He stopped, back to her. “If this is how it’s going to be, Granger, then I’m sorry. Potter is going to die. I’m giving the sword to Voldemort, and that will be the end of the war. Voldemort will kill him.”

He didn’t see Hermione’s shocked expression.

“I have some advice for you. When Voldemort takes over, stick with Dumbledore or Weasley, and then Apparate to the most obscure location you can think of. They will be looking for you. If they catch you . . .they’ll make you into a slave, which for a girl is probably worse than getting killed.”

He said this all very dispassionately.

“Don’t get caught, Granger. Contact your parents to warn them if you can. Muggles will be killed on sight. I’m sorry you’re not a Pureblood.”

That sounded sincere. He didn’t see the tears sting her eyes at those words.

“I don’t need your advice,” she snarled. “I don’t need any help at all.”

“Good,” Draco answered sadly, “because after tonight, I’m not going to help you any more. You’re on your own, Granger, and I doubt anyone else on my side will spare you a second thought.”

His voice lacked the usual cruelty. It sounded, by contrast, hollow and defeated.

“Nunc scio quit sit amor,” he told her softly as he opened the door.

“What?” she asked, unschooled in Latin.

His last words were so quiet that she could barely hear them.

“Means, ‘Now I know what love is.’”

[Marilyn Morgan]

Jeerum. Lõpp oli eriti hea !

[Julia Darline Evans]

JJeep. Lõpp on hea (y)

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART IV: EVERYTHING I AM

And by the water’s side, the tall grass where we lied
The nights we cried ourselves to sleep

In your world somewhere, do memories rip and tear

The ones that always keep you hanging on to all that might have been

And I love you now

And I hate you now

And I miss you most of all . . .

Fuel



Chapter 33; Probably Pointless and Predominantly Precarious Power Plays

Harry was on his way to Transfigurations (it was amazing that normal classes continued while the world outside was steadily crumbling), when he saw it. An unmistakable flash of red.

“Ginny!” he cried, whirling after her and around the corner. She had been doing a very good job of avoiding him. “Gin!”

She didn’t turn around, only continued walking faster.

He caught up with her quickly, made to grab her wrist, thought better of it.

“I want to talk to you,” he said breathlessly, hurrying to keep up with her.

“I have nothing to say,” she told him simply. Her stride was determinedly unbroken.

“Gin, how could you . . .” he had thought about what he was going to say before this, but now the words stuck in his throat. “How could you . . . go over to his side when Voldemort wants to kill your whole family?”

“Harry,” she whirled around at last, obviously trying to maintain composure. She was so fiercely Ginny, standing defiantly in the empty corridor in her school robes, exuding almost as much power as Harry himself. “Just leave me alone. Maybe someday I’ll be able to explain this whole complicated mess to you, but right now . . . I just can’t do it, okay?”

He dropped his hand and stared at her in shock. Waves of hysteria came off of the girl, and yet she still looked ready to hex him.

“Can you understand that, Harry?” she continued weakly. “I just need you to leave me alone.”

And with that she turned and strode down the hall, never looking back.

Harry almost let her go. Almost.

“Gin!” he lunged after her and blocked her path. “I can’t leave you alone! Don’t you get it? You’re in over your head with Zabini and Lucius and Voldemort. You have no idea what they’re capable of!”

She blanched at that one, somewhere between a scornful laugh and a sob. “Oh, you’re right, Mr. Hero. I have no idea what Voldemort is capable of . . . he only invaded my every thought, possessed me completely, for three and a half bloody months! Get off your high horse, Harry! I know exactly what they’re all capable of, thank you very much, and I can take care of myself!”

“No you can’t,” Harry realized in a soft voice.

She looked ready to smack him.

“That day on the train back to Hogwarts,” Harry deduced, “the bruise on your cheek that Hermione healed . . . that was from Blaise, wasn’t it?”

Ginny gasped; her whole face contorted in pain. “How dare you! Do you honestly think . . . do you really think I would put up with an abusive boyfriend? Do you think I’m that pathetic . . . that desperate? My bruise that day was from some stranger in the crowd, Harry. Blaise and I are nothing like that. It’s so like you to assume that he would treat me badly just because he’s a Slytherin.”

It was true. Blaise had never even raised his voice to her. He seemed to genuinely like her.

She found that Harry’s eyes were locked on her. He looked remorseful.

“I’m sorry, Gin. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion. But I dunno, it was just, that night . . . the way he held you. It was like he owned you or something, like he didn’t even want you to look at me. It was just this feeling I got.”

“Well, you were wrong,” she said tightly, although the words troubled her a little.

“You know I’m not, though,” Harry read her expression flawlessly.

“How dare you try to tell me who I can and can’t date?” she gasped indignantly. “I’m tired of you trying to control me, Harry Potter. Blaise is . . . he’s so much more than you could be.”

Harry couldn’t remember ever being told that.

“d**n it, Ginny,” he swore loudly. “I already had one of my best friends hurt by some Slytherin bastard . . . I don’t want it happening again.”

“I guess you’ve been tuning me out this whole time,” she announced loudly, “because I told you that I could take care of myself.”

“How do you think Ron would feel about this?” Harry asked swiftly. “His little sister, dating the boy who has been Polyjuicing into him for the past few months?”

Ginny whirled around so violently that she almost stumbled. Instinctively, Harry reached out a hand to steady her, but she smacked it away and took off down the corridor.

This time, he let her go.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Draco shut the door to Hermione’s room, and was alone in the hallway.
Something was wrong with his chest.

It was tightening like a balloon being blown up, tighter and tighter until any moment he was sure it would ‘pop’.

Something was happening to his eyes as well. He found himself blinking furiously to keep his vision from blurring. Would he need glasses like Potter?

He strode down the corridor, faster, faster, his mind whirling in time with his feet.

There was a crash, and Draco found himself toppled to the ground. Someone groaned. He looked up to find Harry Potter leaning heavily against the wall. As Harry’s vision cleared, his eyes narrowed.

“Malfoy.”

It was a hiss of deepest loathing.

Draco scrabbled up. Harry’s eyes were burning into his, fiery and unrelenting and scary as hell.

Before Draco could react, Harry whipped out his wand and yelled, “Crucio!”

The spell flew at him, but a hot blue orb of light surrounded Draco momentarily. Harry’s spell did nothing.

The grey-eyed boy unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Harry. The black blade seemed to quiver in anticipation.

“Don’t you dare,” Draco breathed dangerously, “try that again. Because all I have to do is think it– that’s right, Potter– all I have to do is think it, and you’re dead.”

“You not a very nice person,” Harry growled softly, “do you have any idea how bad you hurt Hermione?”

Draco responded with a harsh laugh. “She didn’t seem all that upset when I went into her room, Potter. Actually, she told me to ‘sod off’ in not so many words.”

“You . . . what?” Harry asked. “Went in her room?”

“Yeah, I did. Apologized and all that rot– profusely, mind you– but it didn’t do any good. She hates me and now I hate her too.”

Harry did a mental double-take. “You? Apologized? I don’t believe it.”

“Well, start believing it,” Draco growled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some important business to attend to that involves your impending doom.”

Draco dropped the sword to his side and walked away.

“Malfoy,” Harry called. It was sharp, commanding. Draco stopped. It was a moment before Harry spoke.

“Watch . . . watch out for Ginny, will you?”

Draco laughed. “And why would you want me to watch out for that stupid girl?”

“Because I can’t do it myself,” Harry told him truthfully. “Because I love her.”

Draco turned around slowly to face Harry, his eyes shining dark, dark grey. They seemed blank and heedless as he whispered, “I don’t believe in love.”

And for the first time ever, Harry was truly scared of Draco Malfoy.

As Draco strode down the corridor and away from Harry, a sensation like ice water washed over him.

That pregnant dog.

He had come to her room, spilled his soul to her, apologized with every ounce of conscience and morality he had, and she had pushed him aside like a limp rag doll.

No one– no one– treated a Malfoy like that and got away with it. He wasn’t just someone to be rejected.

Frigid autumn air hit his face as he exited the castle.

I hate her.

He couldn’t care less if she died in the war with Potter and all her self-righteous friends. If he met her somewhere along the way, he wasn’t going to give her mercy.

In all honesty, Draco would have handed the sword to Dumbledore if it had made Hermione come back to him. But without her, there was nothing for him on that side.

He would give the sword to Voldemort. He would marry Pansy. He would become influential. He would watch the Muggle world burn to the ground without one shred of remorse.

Yes. That was his plan. It would reap maximum benefits and did not require any work at all on his part.

He completely and absolutely refused to acknowledge the roiling, blackened feeling bubbling just under the surface, that would no doubt overtake him when he realized that his plan entailed living an entire life without Hermione Granger.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry slammed the door of Dumbledore’s office shut so violently that the paintings nearby cried out in alarm.
“Watch it, boy!”

“What are you thinking?!”

Hermione, who had been leaning dejectedly against the wall, straightened up. It was mid-November, two days since Draco had visited Hogwarts.

“What did he say?” Hermione asked tentatively.

Harry slammed his hand against the wall and swore profusely at the floor.

“Harry,” she admonished sharply.

Visibly bringing himself under control, Harry sighed and looked up at her.

“Dumbledore told me that rescuing Ron is not on the top of our priority list. Since Malfoy is going to give the sword to Voldemort, we must focus all our attention on getting the counter weapon and preparing for a defensive battle.”

“You can’t be serious,” Hermione interjected at last. “You’re saying that Dumbledore doesn’t want to put the time into rescuing Ron? He’s just going to leave Ron . . . sitting there . . . in the Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes,” Harry assured her, “and he says that even if we did have the time to rescue Ron, there’s no way we’d have the manpower to infiltrate the Malfoy Manor, which has become Voldemort’s new home base.”

“We could just sneak in!” Hermione cried indignantly. “It wouldn’t be that hard. Don’t look at me like that, Harry. Have you learned nothing from Defense Against the Dark Arts in the past seven years? I could break the wards around the Manor easily if I only knew what they were!”

“Well, how are we supposed to figure that out?”

Hermione leaned back against the wall as her eyes fogged over. She was silent for almost a minute, but Harry knew better than to say anything while she was thinking.

“Maybe . . .” she started, “maybe we don’t need to know what the wards are. Maybe all we need to know is how vain the Malfoys are.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a plan for breaking into the Manor. It’s going to take some designing, but . . . let’s just say that the Malfoys will never see it coming.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twilight had fallen.
The Malfoy Manor stood grey and foreboding in the dim evening afterglow. It was artless and bereft of any passion. The turrets rose up into the bluish-grey span of sky, sucking the very spontaneity out of the air around them.

Why was it that the Manor appeared so lifeless?

Perhaps the animals and plants had become aware of the new presence emanating from the building, sickly and icy as midnight dew.

Despite evidence to the contrary, the Manor bustled quietly with life. A dark undercurrent shivered through the stones, because Lord Voldemort had arrived. He planned to make Malfoy Manor his new base of operation. After all, he had to begin somewhere, and what better place to start than at the residence of his right-hand man?

Hence, the Manor was alive with movement.

Draco Malfoy sat, unnoticed by all, on the roof. He had always climbed up onto the turrets as a child, trying to get away from his father.

Now, at age seventeen, he was more accurately trying to get away from his life.

He held up the sword in his hand, examining the piece of metal in the eerily starless twilight. The deep onyx luster of the blade reminded him of the pearl he had purchased for Hermione in France a hundred million years ago.

Everything reminded him of Hermione.

He examined the runic engravings on the side of the blade. The language was indecipherable, but Draco knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what the words meant.

For everything I could not be.

How did he know? It had come to him once in a vision and once in a dream.

He knew it had been Slytherin’s sword. What did the engraving mean? Was he, Draco Malfoy, everything Slytherin was not?

Slytherin (or Mordred, if you like), had betrayed his father, his country, and his kingdom.

Draco would not, ultimately, make the same mistake. History would not repeat itself, because Draco would be loyal to his father and his kingdom.

The sword had been good to him for the few weeks he had possessed it. He had killed a bird in flight merely by thinking about it, and was curious as to whether this power extended to humans as well. It protected him unfailingly, and when he wielded the blade, he felt an electric undercurrent jolt him to life. But there was always this voice in his head (he could swear the sword had a mind of its own), urging him to give the sword to Voldemort.

He wanted to. Or did the sword want him to? Did Slytherin live on, somehow, in the sword?

Handing to sword over to Voldemort would no doubt improve his rank and trustworthiness. He would even, perhaps, surpass his father in the long run. Yes, giving the sword to the Dark Lord seemed to be the best option. His move would sway the war.

But what about all the people he’s going to kill with the sword? What about them? came Hermione’s voice in his head. He immediately shut off that train of thought. He had to.

So he stood up, gazing down upon all that was his, or at least all that he would own someday. He would soon have a mansion, a wife, and high-ranking position in Voldemort’s court. His eyes looked nearly black as he stared out at the faceless twilight that threatened to recede into darkness.

Draco did something he had never even believed possible.

He let her go.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hermione leaned her head wearily on the table in front of her. “I wish Ron were here to help us plan this,” she said, somewhat amused at the irony.
Harry, across the table from her in the common room, took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. It was past midnight and they still worked on the plan to sneak into the Malfoy Manor.

“Malfoy’s really going to do it,” Harry spoke up suddenly. His voice sounded hoarse and weary. “He is really going to give Voldemort the sword.”

“I don’t believe that,” Hermione intoned evenly. “Draco’s not st–”

“Why do you still call him Draco?”

“He’s not stupid. He knows the consequences of giving the sword to Voldemort. He knows that Voldemort will use the power of the sword to kill every Muggle he can get his hands on. I don’t think Draco is willing to condemn thousands of Muggles to death.”

“You called him Draco again.”

“Harry, listen to me.”

“You don’t think Malfoy is capable of that sort of cruelty? Well I’m sorry to break it to you, Hermione, but he is. Everything he has done– to you, to me, it all suggests that has no sense of morality. That’s the difference between us and him, Hermione. He’s got something important, some moral compass, missing inside of him . . . can’t you see that?”

“No. I can’t.”

“Hermione–”

“I hate him more than you hate him, Harry. And yet I can still see that he’s not completely heartless.”

Harry sighed and glanced out the window. “I hope you’re right. At the same time, I know you’re wrong.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Why the sudden change of heart, Draco?”
Draco knelt silently in front of the Dark Lord. When he spoke, it was with calculated deference and awe.

“I was never in doubt of who the sword rightfully belonged to. You, of course, my Lord. However, I did not want to anger my father, who also pressed me to give him the sword.”

“Lucius asked for the sword also?”

“No doubt so that he could give it to you immediately, my Lord.”

“Perhaps this is true. What bothers me, Draco, is that you seem to have had trouble deciding who the sword would go to; your father or myself. Who are you really loyal to?”

“I will not lie to you, my Lord. I am as loyal to the Malfoy name as I am to you.”

“It is wise of you not to lie to me. Several fools attempt it every day, and they find themselves under Crucio until they spit out the truth. You are a powerful wizard, Draco, perhaps more talented than your father. You are also intelligent, far more than I have given you credit for. However, you need to decide where your loyalties lie. Because once you are in my service, nothing can or will get in the way.”

“I understand.”

“Can you fathom the amount of power I will give you, for the mere price of that sword? Hand me the sword now, and you will have everything. Anything.”

If only that were true, Draco couldn’t help but think.

He unsheathed the sword, which shone black in the firelight and seemed to suck away the light around it.

Then he handed it, hilt first, to Voldemort.

Later that evening, Dumbledore received an urgent message from Professor Severus Snape.

Draco Malfoy has presented Lord Voldemort with the sword. The Dark Lord is going to attack London tomorrow. The war is on, Albus. Alert the Order.

-SS

[Julia Darline Evans]

(y) Hea

[Lissandra Sylvania]

See läheb huvitavaks.

[abigail]

Seda kindlasti
Mulle meeldib see jutt igatahes, ootan huviga järge.

[Marilyn Morgan]

Jehaaa .
Hea ..

[Hanna Mia Sunrose]

oh, ma jõudsin ka lõpuks läbi loetud.
hetkel on veidi liiga palju emotsioone, et midagi öelda.
ja ma kahtlen, kas ma isegi tahan teada, mis edasi juhtub ...
aga mõeldes "võta mu süda" jutu peale, siis midagi saab siiski lõpust ära arvata.[/color]

[Kathreen Granger]

loodan et uus osa saab varsti valmis!