Sweetly Drowning

Chapter 1

Draco/Astoria

DISCLAIMER: HP isn't mine.

I started this sucker months ago. However, between one thing and another….

For my To Wish fans, don't worry. We've got 5 chapters on stock, and most of this is finished. 6 chapters, just need a bit of editing.

Please enjoy and review!

_XXX_

When I hear the resolute footfalls echo down the aisle, I have to work at fighting back the urge to sigh. It would be a melodramatic one, for sure. This will have been the seventh customer to have interrupted my shelving in the last hour. Preparing my face for the demur - yet painfully fake - smile has now become an involuntary reflex. The footsteps halt. I wait. They came to me, they can trouble themselves to break my concentration.

Two-and-a-half years I've spent here, among the piles of silent stories. From a young age, I have adored books, all books. Nothing brought me greater joy than a new book, running my fingers along an uncracked spine, smelling fresh glue, sweet paper. Taking up a job as shopkeeping assistance at Flourish and Blotts seemed like a natural thing to do. I forgot, when applying, my aversion people. Still, the manager likes my enthusiasm, as well as my knowledge of literary history. My keen appreciation made me a quick favourite with the regular crowd — this suited me as well, for they were likable people.

Some days were lovely. Filled with laughter, tea, organization. Others were….

There is a cough. I grit my teeth, reaching out to the pile of texts beside me. There is nothing I loathe more than people clearing their throats to attract my attention. I am tempted to ignore the clout. Yet, my paycheck demands I snap to. For a moment, all I can see is a pair of legs-clad in a fine grey pinstripe — and two feet, house in hand-sewn, hand-polish Italian loafers. I open my mouth as I life my head.

It is the shock of white-blond hair that catches my eye first. It is longer, perhaps shoulder-length, and tied back with a French blue velvet ribbon. Slightly feminine. Parted neatly down the center. Almost ridiculously smooth, not a hair out of place over the entire round of his skull.

Next it is the eyes — cool, carefully grey, with blue tint. Narrowed, as hinted by the crinkled corners. Frightfully familiar. Familiar, though, not name comes to mind. I stare straight into them for several seconds before remembering my manners. He's a customer. A well-off customer, if judging by his shoes. Over a hundred gallons, those.

"Can I help you, sir?" I ask in my very best shopkeeper's assistant's voice. Two pale eyebrows rise.

"I was just about to ask you that very question." There is the barest trace of humor in his tone. My eyes drop back to the books. I am thankful I'm not a blusher. Though, around this fellow, I might quickly become one. I further noted, before I dropped my head, his manicured nails, cleanly-shaven, gaunt face, and that he holds a dark blue-grey cloak on one arm.

He continues, mercifully. "Yes, I believe you can. Duarte's Botanical Manual. 1904. I seek it. Do you possess a copy?"

The use of short, clipped sentences irritates me further. "Have you tried our section on botany and herbology, sir?" I ask quietly.

He gives me a "Oh-please-do-you-really-take-me-for-that-sort-of-dolt?" look before sighing.

"Very well, sir. Allow me to look."

I leave my teetering pile of tomes for the left corner of the shop, the man trailing behind. Several moments of searching turns up nothing. The man is impatient, pacing up and down the row. Occasionally another customer passes, then quickens their pace upon seeing the predatory shoulder swing. He stalks as I calmly pull on the spines of dusty texts.

"It is a rarer book," He sniffs. "I was certain you would have it. I have scoured all other stores —"

"Then, sir," I cut him off. "I shall send to have it ordered for you. If you will just come with me for the necessary paperwork."

He appears slightly startled, but followed nonetheless. It took only a few moments to fill out various boxes and lines on the small piece of bright yellow parchment. I rip off the pink underlying paper and hand it to him without ceremony.

"It will be here by Thursday," I tell the man as we watch the owl soar over the snow-topped roofs of Diagon Alley. "Coming in from Argentina, you understand—"

He waves me off. "That is fine. Shall I pay now, or when it arrives"

I hesitate. "I can personally deliver it, if you wish. You can pay me then."

This pleases him. I receive a scrap of a smile. "That will be acceptable. I may have another order, over the coming week, as well."

"I can bring that, too." We don't have a runner, as they are only employed in the summer months, for being in school during the rest of the year. The job will have fallen on me, regardless of my offering it.

"Excellent. Very well, next Thursday." He tips his head, and makes to leave. The cloak is swung around his shoulders.

"Ah, sir." I stop him before he reaches the door. Straining my arm, I reach over the ledge of the counter to snag the notepad kept to write down things such as-"I did not catch your name, sir. And I will need your address."

He pauses. The cold eyes flicker with irritation, as though I am at fault for not know who, precisely, he is. The purse lips twitch. Again, I get the sense that I missing something. There is something about this man that is painfully familiar. I bite my lip.

"Malfoy," he says shortly "You will find my residence in Wiltshire. Malfoy Manor."

I blink, failing to write any of this down. There is no need, now. Mr. Malfoy sneers. Without a word, he exits the shop, leaving only the faint tingle from the bell above the door in his wake.

-XXX-

Without any preamble, he states, "Get out."

I ignore the pale boy to instead cross the room to the nearest window, gazing out upon the field of white, broken only by the occasional pine, or manicured bush. There, in the center—a marble fountain. Unlike muggle versions, this one flows even in the months of cold. I watch the sparkling water trickle from the mouth of a swan, and sigh.

Draco, from where he sits by the fire, kicking his legs, rolls his eyes. "Why are you even here?"

"Aunt Cissy told me to come see you."

"She's not your aunt."

I do not respond.

"I'm not lonely." He growled. "The party was merely dull. I am fine. You can tell my mother she need not send an infant to entertain me, I am perfectly capable of doing so myself. Go away now."

"No," I say stubbornly.

Glaring, he rises. "If you do not leave this instant—" He begins, stepping forward threatening.

But he doesn't get to finish, for I have fled. Later, sitting on the polished steps of the grand staircase, listening to the laughter of the adults in the ballroom below, I wonder why he so naturally assumed it was his loneliness I had come to sooth.

-XXX-

The next couple days, the meeting remains my primary focus. Not his behavior, nor mine. Not my upcoming visit to his manor. Not even my own shyness. To be honest, none of that compares my inability to recognize Draco Malfoy. Has he really changed so much? Has it been so long since I had seen him? How long…years?

The answer does not readily come to me. Long, then.

It is Thursday. Mr. Malfoy's book arrived just over hour ago — along with an owl from Malfoy Manor, including a list of five additional books he feels assured are in our stocks. Drew, my manager, tells me to find the volumes, package them, then deliver them following the end of my shift. I return Master Malfoy's eagle owl with a note, promising to deliver all six at approximately six o'clock.

Wrapping books is something I genuinely enjoy doing. Customers do not always appreciate the care I take with their books, but that doesn't matter. Smoothing the brown paper over the soft leather, creasing at the corners, folding, taping, tying…it is like a well-rehearsed dance my fingers thrive on. I double knot the bow prettily, and before I know it, six is here. Drew is shutting down the shop.

"Don't forget the Duarte book," he chimes as I wind my wool scarf 'round my neck. I nod, mind already muddled.

I apparate a few feet in front of the high iron gates. Upon seeing those oh-so familiar white walls, I swallow back bile. My feet hesitate, shuffling against the pearly gravel, sending the tiny rocks flying every which way.

Before the war, before I was even in Hogwarts, my parents were great friends with the Malfoy family. Cissy was practically my auntie, I was virtually the daughter she never had —or, perhaps, the niece she never accepted. My father got on well with the elder master; the hunted together regularly, and often retired to the study for Firewhiskey after our numerous dinner. We were always attending their social gathering — the summer solstice galas, fall festivals, and their annual New Year's ball.

But then something happened. I was in my second year when my parents began to withdraw from the social circle the Malfoys dominated.

Draco, who was a great prat even then, was nearly fifteen. We saw each other regularly, but hardly acknowledged one another. For whatever reason, we had some initial repulsion of the other. Unspoken, it was agreed between us to be cool, polite when necessary.

Soon being cool was not even required, for we hardly saw the Malfoys. Once, while out shopping, we ran across Cissy and a bored Draco. Cissy was clearly thrilled to see me, and seized me tightly. My mother and father stood back. Mother had a restrained smile plastered on her face while Narcissa cooed over me. I had hugged my auntie just as tightly as she held me, wondering over the reserved exchange. Draco hung back as my parents did, face unreadable. I was thirteen. Cedric Diggory had passed on four months before. Rumors were sparking everywhere of the Dark Lord's rising.

We did not see them for a long time after that. The war came that year, though it avoided my family for the most part. I was a fifth year by the time the Battle of Hogwarts occurred.

-XXX-

"You may go," Professor Sinistra tells me softly as the rotating images of planets and stars fade throughout the room. I begin to pack my things. Since we have been barred from leaving the castle in the evenings, not even for lessons, Sinistra has offered practical lessons to the handful of Advanced Astronomy students the Carrows did not have chained in the dungeons. Only five us of remain, though I was the only one present tonight — two were hidden with the crowd DA, and the others probably too scared to wander the corridors past nightfall. I cannot rightly blame them.

"Thank you, Professor." I bow my head.

She looks on me with gentle eyes. "Would like an escort? I can summon a prefect, if you wish to take you to your dormitory?"

"Oh, no thank you. I'm sure I won't be troubled," I assure her. "The Carrows will surely be…otherwise occupied."

Our eyes met, and we both winced for the poor souls trapped below our very feet.

I take my leave, walking quickly through the corridors. With a sigh, I check my watch. Eleven-thirty. I am about to start up one of the spiral staircases, the one that will get me to Ravenclaw's entrance within ten minutes, when the voice consumes my mind.

"Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed," a serpentine voice hissed. "Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded. You have until midnight."

I gasp, falling into the wall, blindly reaching for the railing. "Oh, oh my."

I run up the stairs, two steps at a time. The Tower. I have to warn someone. My friends, the first years…anybody! It has to be Voldemort. It simply must be. No one else would dare attack the castle, no one - Oh, gods, why — Harry Potter isn't here? Everyone knew he hadn't returned to school after the battle last year. It was common knowledge the New Ministry was searching for him, had put a bounty on his head. Him being here is preposterous. This is sheer madness!

Then again, when was the Dark Lord ever known for actions of sanity?

I reach the Tower in just under four minutes. Without a thought, I demand entry. The eagle allows me in without refute. I dart inside to find—

The Carrows, dangling from a silver rope, attached to the ceiling. I shriek, rushing from the room, slamming the door behind me. Back to the stairs.

-XXX-

"Astoria Greengrass," I tell the imposing gates. "Delivering books for Master Malfoy."

They swing back with a loud creek equivalent in annoyance to the dying shriek of a rabbit. I cringe, clutching the books to my chest. Their brown paper coverings crackle with the motion. Evening has fallen, bringing twilight mists with it. The whole walk is given an ominous tone. A peacock's cry breaks. Then, just the sound of my suede flats crunching against the fine gravel can be heard.

The door is flung open as soon as my feet touch the stone steps. A tiny elf with wide ears stands in the threshold, wearing a grungy sort of grey tunic, tied at the waist. It squeaks shrilly. "This way, Miss!"

I follow. The elf offers to take my outerwear, a fitted purple coat and long white scarf, as well as a red velvet cap. I do not expect to stay necessarily that long-removing them would only give me the trouble of replacing the articles when I leave, which ought to be mere seconds.

Tripe — the elf informs me that this is their name — shows me up the grand staircase of the foyer, and down a maze of hallways. We end up in a room entirely unfamiliar to me —partly an office, parlor, and study. Malfoy sits behind a massive desk quill in hand. He must be writing a business letter, for he finishes with a flourish only appropriate for formal signatures. He looks up. I turn my eyes away quickly. Tones of a piano —jazz— is being emitted by a small radio on one of the built-in shelves behind the desk. I pass the books over without a sound.

Malfoy accepts hem, eyes flickering over the brown wrappings, my hands. His fingers brush my palm, and I shift backwards. Those pale brows rise. Then—

"Tripe, tea, I think." He has turned his gaze upon the elf, who bows promptly. "Unless you would prefer something stronger, perhaps?"

I am mortified. "Oh, ah, no. I really have to go."

"One cup can't hold you up too terribly. Besides, I still have to pay you - which I will not do until I've examined these." He lifts up the stack, extracting himself from behind his desk. I stand back, frowning as he looks over each and every tome, cover-to-cover, caressing the coloured leather, completely expressionless. Long fingers run across the texts of snowy pages. I wait.

"Very good," he finally proclaims. "Thank you. You are a credit to Flourish and Blott's."

I decline my head. "Thank you."

"Sit."

Gritting my teeth, I take a seat on the black couch in the sitting area. Malfoy settles across from me in a matching armchair. The wings sit, imposing, above him. The effect is quite menacing, though he has a look of mild comfort about his narrow features.

"There wasn't any trouble?"

I hesitate. "The third one on the list, Bordin's Book of Beasts, I had to Floo myself to our Edenborough branch. We sold our last copy Monday."

"Ah. Thank you again."

Tripe enters, carrying a fully laden tray. Narcissa's black patterned Avalon china sits on the polished silver. I recognize it. It's the set used during my childhood visits, always. Draco surely couldn'tve remembered this detail; they've probably hosted hundreds of people since we stopped visiting. I suddenly can't breathe.

-XXX-

People were rushing everywhere around me. Young students being hustled out of the castle, Older students go to their battlement, wands drawn and faces peaked. I walk with my head down, until I find myself standing alone in a secluded section of hall. It's on the western side, just behind a Harold-the-Eye tapestry.

I cross to the line of gracefully arched windows, peering out to the dark wilderness beyond. There is the courtyard, the bridge, then the lake. And beyond — the forest. Where, from what I hear whispered in the corridor, the Dark Lord waits. A sparkling barrier begins to form, liquid over a black sea above.

I am frightened.

While in the halls I managed to catch sight of several of my housemates. From what I could gather, all younger students had been removed to a safer destination.

And I?

"I am no fighter," I whisper to myself.

I turn to move, unwilling to see the battle commence. I need to do something. Go somewhere. I—I don't know….

My nose makes contact first, hitting something soft, yet unyielding. Then the rest of me tumbles from the window's ledge against whatever invisible force stands before me. A muffle squeak slips out while a maniacal-like grip instills itself around my forearms.

"Shhhhh," A soft sound comes from the shadows. I struggle against the invisible being. "Astoria, you are fine. Calm yourself, woman."

My wriggling stops with the voice. "Who's there?"

"Please," the voice says quietly. "You're fine."

The hands slide down to meet my fingers, squeezing them lightly. I wring one of my hands from the stranger's, whipping out my wand. "Deletrius!"

He swore as the spell melted from him. The hair seems to illuminate his entire being; it is pure moonlight. Angry eyes of iron meet mine. "You should not be here, Snodgrass."

I stumble away from the Malfoy heir, ignoring the tease. He allows the distance.

"Malfoy, I don't think you ought to be here either," I retort. "What are you doing here, sneaking around?"

"I protest. I am not sneaking."

"Disillusionment Charm? Snatching at young women? Sneak. Why aren't you with the rest of the Slytherins?"

"I'm no longer in school, you dolt," ge sneers. "Besides, even if I was, I wouldn't have left."

"Why?" I demand.

"Shhh," h,e reminds me again. "Because, I'm not about to let you stay behind."

I open my mouth, confused, but he cuts over me.

"Mother would kill me if any harm befell you," he explains. "I'm to get you out, before..."

He drifts off, eyes sliding to the window.

"And then?"

"I've got to come back. Goyle, and Crabbe. They've wandered off."

Without a word, he takes me by the arm, leading me out of the hall. We reach the Great Hall in several minutes. For once, I am cursing the anti-apparation spells instilled on this place.

"Can't go out there." He nods to the tall oak doors. "That'll have us facing the forest."

"Right in front of them."

-XXX-

Tea is served, and I find myself asking, "Your mother, how is she?"

If the question is too forward, he doesn't openly reveal so. His eyes never stray from his teacup as he tells me, "She is well. Visiting some cousins in France. She still speaks of you. Less often, but occasionally."

I nod, focusing on the sugar tongs. They're patterned with peonies.

"You didn't recognize me, that day in the shop," he accuses softly.

"No," I sigh. "I'm sorry. It's been years, sir…I was fifteen when we last met, after all."

He freezes. "Oh, yes?"

"The private quidditch match, at Gibbon's in Surray?"

"Right," he says, vaguely faint. "Travis won." Malfoy sighs now. "How old must you be? That was years ago…"

"Twenty-three. Nearly nine years, now."

"A wonder we have not met till now."

"My family has reduced their social circle since the war. And I have never been one for parties," I admit.

"You still live with your parents, then?"

"As if you are one to talk!" I snort. "You're running a business out here."

I do not bother in correcting him of my living situation; I had been out of the house for just over three-and-a-half years. A glorious three-and-a-half years.

"You are mistaken. I am simply here for the holidays, tending to business while Mother is out."

"Congratulations."

"Still a brat, I see. "

"Still a giant git."

"Always." He flashes me a smile.

I'm getting hot, and stand to remove my coat and scarf. Draco is on his feet soon, helping. Frowning, he asks, "Did Tripe not offer to take this?"

"Oh, no, they did," I assure him. "I kept it. Didn't expect to stay so long, you see." I've turned out of my coat now, and face him fully. Silent, he plucks the hat off my crown. My left wrist has been pressed to his palm. We freeze. The moment is liquid. For seconds, we are left to stare, wide-eyed.

I pull away after regaining my senses, sweeping my hair behind my ear, biting my lip. Draco appears troubled, lips set. Then, as if nothing occurred, we sit. My jacket is left draped across the arm of the couch.

"So, a bookshop."

"A bookshop," I confirm.

"Do you like working there?"

"Most of the time. The pay is good. I like the others, and my hours are flexible. Customers can be…" I drift off, making a face. He smiles for the second time.

"I didn't realize it was you for a moment. When I did, I planned on surprising you. Then, when you started calling me 'sir,' I knew you didn't know me. And I saw no point in…disrupting you."

The way he says it strikes me. Almost as though "disrupt" wasn't quite what he meant to imply.

"It would not have been a disruption. I was —- I am —- glad to see you."

"Miss me, did you?" He teases,

"I miss the Malfoys as a whole. It is truly disappointing our families have drifted. Your parents were like second parents to me."

"Does that make you my little sister?" His eyes are bright. Amused.

I snort. "Sure, if you'd like that."

He is quieted. "Then I am honored."

For a while we are quiet, musing over our tea. I interrupt without much thought.

"And you, the successful business man? You name is always in The Prophet. Malfoy Markets Dragon Pox Vaccine - Draco Malfoy Introduces New Disallusionment Mixture - Caldron Cleaning Concoction, New by Draco Malfoy. You've done well." And yet he wasn't a media darling. Though the British papers were decent about keeping the slander and discourteous comments in regards to the Malfoys from their pages, foreign rags weren't nearly so kind. Regardless of his contributions, he would always be a Malfoy. The worst (or perhaps best) thing was that he clearly knew it.

He quirks his lips. "I've had no choice but to. 'Remarkable,' they say. I'm doing nothing new. Any other man—"

He stops. The Ministry had frozen most Malfoy assets after the war. From what the papers had told me, Draco was determined to not let his family's wealth go to the wayside as their reputation had. He sold their stocks, then turned to his most marketable skill: potion-making. He began improving or inventing potions for the masses. In five years, he had produced over 30 new brews and improved over 100 old recipes. I'd heard in the shop that he was in the midst of compiling these into a new textbook, suited to wizarding students. Now, even after the Malfoy accounts were returned, Draco was close to doubling the family's fortune The Daily Prophet speculated. And he was showing no sign of slowing down.

"You've done amazing things. Everyone says you're going to outdo the legacy of the last five generations. Even better your great-uncle Alabastor, and that one cousin…Klazara, was it?"

"No point, I'm just protecting my inheritance."

"Even so."

"Do you remember the battle?" He asks abruptly.

I frown. "Vaguely. Why?"

"Just curious."

-XXX-

"Oy, Malfoy!"

The person in question turns, taking me with him. I do a sort of graceless three-point-turn, stumbling into his unyielding stance. Neville Longbottom stands at the foot of the grand staircase, looking a little worse for wear and scowling magnificently.

"Why aren't you with the other Slytherins, slinking off?" he demands. I admire the boy's pluck; this is not the Longbottom I knew from chess club. All evident meekness is gone. He's standing tall, not even second guessing himself against the pureblood brat clinging to me.

"Taking her out." Malfoy pulls on the sleeve of my robes.

Longbottom eyes me. "What for? Why didn't she go out with the others?"

"Oh, she intended on staying. But I won't stand for it - far too young - and you shouldn't either, regardless of what side you're playing for."

It strikes me that Draco is being civil, legitimately civil, to Neville Longbottom.

"We're all too young," Neville agrees wearily. "Is he telling the truth, Astoria?"

I nod. "Yes. I—-I tried to stay, to, er, fight."

"You're an idiot," he tells me flatly. "Go, then, Malfoy, get her out. I'm trusting you."

Strong words I would have never expected to hear from Neville. Something akin to relief flutters across Malfoy's features. We exit quickly, Draco still dragging me. We go through the greenhouses, practically running past rows and rows of sleeping plants, vivid green, purples, and reddish leaves passing our vision. I am quickly breathless.

Then we're outside, crossing the lawn. Draco drops my sleeve to take my hand instead. I squeeze it tightly. I can see the shimmer of the barrier one hundred yards ahead. This will pose a problem. "How are we getting past that?"

"Know a spell," he says shortly, abandoning personal pronouns to save precious breath.

"Okay." We shrug on.

When we're mere feet from the boarder, a loud, epic crash sounds. I stop, turning back. Hundreds upon hundreds of lights are coming from the castles—reds, blue, bright, blinding white, and…greens. The barrier has been impacted. A cry sounds, and it's several seconds before I realize it's me. Draco yanks me to him, clutching my waist, whispering.

"C'mere. Can't stop. We've got to go, Astoria."

"Draco, there are people dying," I gasp. "We have to—"

"No, you don't," he says firmly. "You'll only get yourself kill." I am pulled forcefully forward. We've met the barrier.

Malfoy releases me then, stepping up with his wand out and at the ready. Under his breath, he begins a long and complex chant. It sounds vaguely Latin. I do not beg to go back again, for fear of interrupting his concentration. Several minutes pass. With each "boom" Draco's brow furrows briefly, then smoothes as he regains focus. At last, a section of the glimmering field dissolves. Draco steps away. Clearly drained, he leans against my shoulder for precious seconds of support.

"Go," he manages. "Run till you get to the village. A group should be waiting there, other students. It's a neutral ground. No one should bother you there. Stay until…until it's safe."

I stare. "You're not coming with me?"

"No. I can't."

I press closer to him. Draco doesn't pull away, but hesitates before tightening his grip on my shoulder.

"You're a coward," I whisper, burning tears welding in the corners of my eyes. "Be a coward now, come with me."

He smiles. In the darkness, I can barely make it out. Our only illumination is the clashing of spells in the distance. "Not today, no. It'll be worse for me if I don't go."

"But you'll —"

"Not if I'm on the winning side."

"You think he'll win?"

For a moment, he is silent. "I don't know. But whichever side that is…I intend to be on it."

"Even the winners have fatalities"

"I won't be one. Promise, Astoria." He presses his forehead to mine. "Go, now."

I untangle myself, starting toward the broken barrier. But then he pulls me back. Frantic lips seek mine in the darkness. A bruising pressure upon my mouth, crushing and warm and trembling. I respond with little hesitation. If this is going to be Draco's last kiss, it may as well be a good one.

Leaving, I knew it wasn't hidden passions that made him kiss me; it was fear, desperation, worry, frustration. A mixture of heavy emotions, with a dash of apprehension and unknown circumstances to be faced in the near future. Even my fluffier teenaged-tendency could discern this. I did not doubt my conclusion.

At least, I didn't until hearing the whispered words, several seconds after crossing through the broken field.

"Obliviate."

-XXX-

"It's all a blur, getting out, and the sounds and -" I stop. My wristwatch, glinting in the firelight has caught my eye to remind me of the time. It's almost a quarter pass seven.

"Oh, Merlin, I've got to go." I stand up, snagging my jacket as I make a beeline for the door. Only Draco steps in my path, effectively stopping me.

"Can't you stay, just for a while? It's been so long. Mother's due back in a day, or so, she would love to see you."

I stare, open-mouthed. "Are you asking me to stay the weekend?"

He shakes his head. "It would be nothing like that."

Unnerved, I shift my weight from foot to foot. "Regardless, people would…talk. And it's a little short notice. I've got plans."

"We've only just found one another—" he begins.

Holding up a hand, I stop him. Honestly, he's got to get used to not getting his way all the damn time. "Sir, I am sorry, but it's not really an option. You know where I work. If you'd like to chat…ring the shop."

With that I flee, racing down the stairs and across the manicured drive, wondering how this situation might've felt oh-so-familiar.

-XXX-

What did you think? Please review!

Edited Jan 28th 2013