Preface: Stranger
Chapter Notes: Just a short intro, much shorter than most of the chapters will be. As I'm sure is evident, Wren's part takes place a few days after Albus's part. I think they have very similar voices, but different ways of telling their individual stories—Wren's much more internal, as verbal expression comes very difficult for her. I don't own Harry Potter, but I do happen to own most of the characters in this story. Review if it so pleases you.
Wren:
It began with a beautiful girl and a bad idea.
Doesn't it always?
I sit in the backseat of Fire Eagle's aged and rusted truck, forehead stuck to the misty window. The ragged crinoline under the skirt of my dress scratches at my legs. Hawk's back here with me, as far to my right as humanly possible with his body arched away from mine. It's not my fault this time but I still want to cry. Fire Eagle drives, his eyes half on the road and half on the mirrors—gazing at me; at my palpable defeat. At the line of worry and thought between my eyes.
Wait.
I may have given the wrong impression. This isn't the beginning.
Well… it is. It's the beginning of this particular story, the one that is somehow, oddly, mine. But it's not the beginning of the world, or the beginning of my life, or the beginning of yours, or the beginning I mentioned before—not the beginning involving the girl and the idea. In fact, this moment—me and Hawk and Fire Eagle in the truck, driving away like we always do—is sort of the end of a beautiful girl. As for the ideas… they're mine, which means they're not good.
I glance down at my palms, which are still caked in dirt. In a bizarre flash of anger, I wipe them on my dress, hoping to stain it. Nothing. The dry, cakey stuff just skids across the slick fabric.
"How much further?" Hawk snaps out of the blue. I'm shocked. Hawk's usually so… impenetrable. I want to take the opportunity to mock him—Are we there yet?—but the words would come out wrong and my tongue tastes sour and I'm just tired.
Fire Eagle clears his throat, clearly surprised at Hawk's outburst, like me. Taking his time with the answer, my godfather takes a long, luxurious pull from his cig and puffs out a few rings. Our lives reek of smoke; it's on our clothes our hair our truck. I cough all the time.
"Soon," Fire Eagle says, an answer but not really. It's a time instead of a distance; an empty word. I draw my legs to my chest and clamp my bony arms around them. Removing my forehead from the chilly window, I prop it instead on my knobs of knees and let my thick, tangled hair drench my shoulders. A shadow. A protective curtain.
My necklace thumps against my skin with every bump in the road, tough and cold on my skin.
Oh—in case you're wondering, there is a story behind the bird names. It's not a great one, but it's something and it's what we've got.
Falcon winks at me as we walk in, all still dressed in black and all thoroughly annoyed with one another. A tiny bell above the door dings, signaling our entry into his shop. I look around, calm countenance shielding the wonder that will never dissipate, no matter how many summers I spend here. Catching the sun, Falcon's creations rain down beams of lemon gold; crying-iris blue; crisp apple red. Large drawing tables—all lain with tools whose uses I can merely guess at—line the back of the cavernous room. The North wall is made entirely of shelves, each stacked with boxes labeled: Opal. Coral. Midnight.
On the days like today—the rare days when my eyes aren't aching and my sight isn't blurred around the edges—Falcon's stained glass masterpieces strike me dumb. I stand, mute, as he and Fire Eagle greet each other. Their English is too fast for me to catch more than a few phrases, but I can tell something is happening.
Something is different this time.
I try to catch Hawk's eye, but he expertly avoids my gaze. With a hollow little pang of loneliness, I remind myself that the past two months meant nothing. We're not allies anymore, Hawk and I. Our brief friendship was an accident, and now we can go back to peacefully hating each other.
But now I haven't got anyone.
Falcon and Fire Eagle finish their conversation, and Falcon directs his attention toward me.
"Little Maggie," he says, teasing me. I gaze at him stoically; steely. Falcon's and mine is not necessarily a friendly relationship. "You look more and more like your mother every time I see you."
Expression taut, I raise my eyes to his. "I am called Wren now," I say, even though this is not a new development. I've been Wren since I was ten. Since Atha. Since it all. Falcon and I eye each other with malice and resentment.
Fire Eagle grips my shoulder in warning, squeezing it tightly—too tight! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, biting back the pain, until he releases. I cough. Falcon smiles slightly and pretends not to notice the reason for the drop of my gaze. Hawk doesn't even react anymore. It's just silently understood—but never acknowledged.
Falcon and Fire Eagle resume their conversation after a few tense seconds, and I wander away without either of them noticing or caring. I weave between the shelves and displays, enjoying the aurora borealis of reflected colors. Panes of dappled hues appear on my arms.
I love this moment; this rainbow of opportunity; this potential of light and non-being.
Fire Eagle class me out of it, beckoning me upstairs to unpack. We always stay in the tiny, cramped flat above Falcon's shop.
I don't have words enough to argue.
Much later, when the sky is the deepest of blacks and freckled here and there with street lamps, I'm perched on the window seat, gazing blankly at the low buildings around us. Nearly everything in this part of Fridge is abandoned. Graffiti is everywhere. The sidewalks are cracked and littered with pits. Faceless strangers lurk in back allies. I've lived in places like this my whole life, but I don't dare go walking around alone at night. Not without Fire Eagle's wand.
Speaking of my godfather. He appears behind me, soundlessly, and I stiffen. But his casual stance and calm expression are unthreatening. I do nothing as he sits next to me and studies my face.
Finally, he breaks the silence. "Vous l'air fatigué. You look tired."
I shrug. I am tired. We've been traveling for a solid day and a half, and whenever I close my eyes, I all I can see is her hair… spread over the cold stone floor like liquid gold… interwoven with blood… her face shockingly pale and not at all peaceful like they say…
Fire Eagle smiles, reading my face. "Les fantômes n'existent que dans l'esprit, Maggie."
I ignore him; ignore that awful nickname. He senses he's gotten under my skin, grins again, and stands. I feel his hand on my hair, petting it thoughtfully. His fingers work through a tangle. My hair's always knotty; always uncombed. I'd cut it all off if he'd let me, but my mother had long hair. And he wants to remember her.
He tucks a few snarled strands behind my ear, bends down, and whispers, "You should get ready for tonight. Life goes on. Un clou chasse l'autre."
Swallowing hard as he begins to walk away, I gather my meager courage and blurt out the question that's been on my mind since the funeral this morning. "Après cela, peut-on revenir en France? Pour Paris? S'il vous plaît? Please?"
Something I cannot name appears on Fire Eagle's face for the barest moment. It's not an unfamiliar something—I've seen it various times over the years, but never long enough to identify it. "Oui," he says once it has passed, "yes. After this, we can go back. We can go anywhere you want. Anywhere in the world."
And I feel fear clutch at my insides, because—though I'd give anything to be back in a place where I can understand the language—that wasn't the answer I wanted.
Les fantômes n'existent que dans l'esprit.
Ghosts exist only in spirit.
That night, when the others are all asleep, I climb out of bed and steal up to the roof. It's my favourite spot in Fridge; the most magnificent view. And, just for some context, I grew up in Paris.
I think it's the juxtaposition of it that really makes it so indescribably, scarily beautiful. The broken, crumbling streets of Fridge preceding the charmed boardwalks and bungalows of the Point. The things I feel inside but cannot express verbally.
The ocean.
Moon-dappled and silent, it seems to be the end of the world. I've read that the human eye can see for three miles. Lies. I can see forever.
A gust of warm summer breeze catches me, playing with my hair. It smells of sand and something faintly, comfortingly familiar.
It all washes over me, then, and suddenly I want to burst into tears.
Instead, I sit carefully on the very edge of the roof, dangling my feet over the side. Our building's a perfect rectangle. A light layer of grit and sand, blown in from the beach, coats its top surface. I stare at my shoes and think, They used to be white. They used to have tread. But that was two years ago. And now they're covered in muck and worn to pieces.
Same for my grungy t-shirt and cut-offs. I know Fire Eagle has money; his parents left him enough or a fortune to support our rootless, relentless life several times over. But she's never wasted a Knut of it on me.
My sight's okay tonight. But the view doesn't leave me breathlessly stunned as it used to. Guess I've changed over the year.
Wrong. I've changed overnight. I saw a girl die. There, it's said. I watched the very life leave her sparkling eyes and thought, God, I wish I was you.
And then I do burst into tears. Not burst, perhaps. Descend. Noiselessly; seamlessly. They begin to flow, and all the oceans in the world could not save me from the envy I feel when I remember how Madelia's face went slack and blank, the knowing half-smile perched upon her lips—like a secret; like a tide—never to shine again.
It's just too much, sometimes.
Albus:
Every time I get to a point where I think I understand what it means to be Harry Potter's kid, something like this happens. And I'm left with my head in my hands wondering how I could ever be so stupid.
Caoimhe pokes her head into my dorm. I'm the last one in here, sitting on my trunk and staring at the floor. At my shoes. "Al," she says brusquely. Not even the tragedy of last night could put an ounce of gentleness into Caoimhe's tone. "Al, the train's going to leave in half an hour. We'll barely make it as it is. Come on… please, Al, just come."
I hear her only on the most superficial level. Every bit of me is bottled inside, concentrating, begging to remember.
On that same insignificant level, I hear Caoimhe sigh and make her way over to me. I think: Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe she's going to say something comforting and make this all go away. Maybe there's a bit of her that cares about feelings and people and Madel—no, I will not think her name. I will not remember her yet, because she can't be dead.
She doesn't, though. Caoimhe. She doesn't say a word. Just perches herself on my trunk next to me and stares at my face as if she's looking for something very important. If I were more myself, I'd probably ask how she got into our dormitories—of my three best friends, Caoimhe's the token 'Claw. But who the hell even cares when the most beautiful girl I've ever known is—no, she's not dead. She cannot be dead.
"Albus." The use of my full name does not fully eradicate me from my state of shock, but it nudges me into a higher awareness. "Albus, please. There was nothing you could have done."
I look into her wide hazel eyes and try to believe that. Caoimhe saw her, too. Caoimhe remembers. She remembers what my mind has shut out.
Whatever Caoimhe sees in my own eyes must unnerve her, because she stands, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet without looking at me. "Grab your trunk and follow me," she orders, still crisp but undeniably shaken. I do as she says, watching her twists a strand of shiny brown hair around her index finger. It's kind of her nervous tick, see. She's not a vain girl, our Caoimhe, but she plays with her hair all the time. We walk from my dorm, down the stairs, and I resist the urge to delve into memories of another girl's hair. Light golden hair, curled under and smelling strongly of crushed berries…
"Fitz raided the kitchens," Caoimhe reports as we exit the castle and begin to make out way across the grounds. Neither of us says anything about the Aurors walking around busily, beginning the investigation. Merlin. An investigation. A few nod to me in solemn greeting, but I don't see my dad or uncle.
I should probably get it out of the way now: Caoimhe's name is pronounced KEE-va. Call her COW-im-huh or anything similar, and you'll get a reminder that not all Ravenclaws are sweet-tempered and rule-abiding. Also, Fitz's real name isn't Fitz. It's Greg. But his three best mates are called Albus, Scorpius, and Caoimhe, so we're not about to let him get off with 'Greg', are we? Naw. He's Fitzwilliam for now—we change it every couple of months. He's the only Muggleborn among us, and the only 'Puff.
I'm not telling what House Scorpius and I are in, yet, because it's kind of important to the general flow of things, yeah? Yeah.
Caoimhe and I make it to the station without much conversation. Scorp's holding our compartment for us, apparently, and her luggage was packed and loaded hours ago. Just as we're about to board the train that will take us home, Caoimhe stops me and looks pleadingly into my eyes.
"We're going to be okay, Al," she says. "I know how you felt about her. I know how horrible it must have been for you to see… to see what happened to her. But we're all going to be fine. We're going to get on this train and eat ourselves sick with whatever Fitz nicked from the elves, and we're going to play Exploding Snap, and you're going to claim I'm cheating, but, really, I'm just better than you. We're going to have our summer, and it'll be spectacularly uneventful, and then we'll come back here and I'll make sure the three of you don't fail your OWLs. Yes?"
I smile bleakly and nod. She grins smoothly and helps me lift my trunk on the train.
Sometimes, I really don't know what we'd do without Caoimhe. She's our damage control, and—as she hinted—my marks wouldn't be nearly as good as they are without her. But she was wrong about one thing.
Well, not wrong. Just… possibly inaccurate.
Who knows if it was horrible for me to see what happened to her? Who even knows what I saw?
Madelia Gollihur was murdered last night, and I don't remember anything.
"You guys go ahead," I say when the train reaches platform nine and three-quarters and students begin to collect their things and spill out of the train. My friends look at me questioningly, but Caoimhe understands after a moment and steers the other two out of our compartment. I just need a minute to myself after the long train ride.
Scorpius claps me on the shoulder as he passes and says, "Meet you outside, mate." I nod silently.
I remain sitting until silence falls on the train. Fitz left the door open a crack, but I get up and slide it closed. The seamless silence hits me, and something deep inside me breaks.
The disbelieving numbness in which I have lived for the past twelve hours shatters, and I slam my fist into the wall. Pain is instant, and I recoil, flexing my fingers to check for broken bones. Nothing. I can't even punch a wall hard enough to crack a knuckle or two? Pathetic.
Disgruntled with myself and still not sure what I'm feeling, I collect my trunk and slide open the door.
No. I do not slide open the door. I freeze, my heart thundering in my throat.
In the thirty seconds it took me to turn away from the compartment door, punch the wall, and get mad at myself for not punching the wall hard enough, someone has taped an envelope to the sliding glass surface.
From the inside.
But there's no one here but me. I'd know; these compartments aren't big. I'd have sensed it.
Fear stiffening my every movement, I approach the compartment door and remove the envelope, breaking the seal with my index finger. A small piece of parchment is inside.
Adrenaline gushes through me, and my stomach turns. I read it.
Albus:
It unlocks more than my heart. Expect further correspondence.
Love always,
MCG
Now, I know it's not her handwriting. I know she's gone—as fervently as I try to deny it, I still know it. But that doesn't stop me from collapsing back into my seat, head spinning. The envelope slips through my fingers and drops to the floor…too quickly, as if weighted. Though I think I may be in the middle of a stroke, I bend over and investigate.
Along with the note that, yes, just took a good five years off my life, a dainty pin is wedged in the envelope, the kind girls pin to the fronts of their shirts and things. An ornate Victorian-esque key, tarnished silver and garnished with an evergreen ribbon. At first, I don't recognise it. But then… then…
I'm standing in the Slytherin Common Room, skin reflecting the ghostly green glow of the ceiling above. Scorp and Fitz are here, but not Caoimhe. I hold a cup of something strong-smelling and amber in one hand; the other hangs awkwardly at my side. I'm always horrible about knowing what to do with my hands.
There's music. Screeching violins and angry tenor wails. Can't believe the Professors haven't broken this up yet. Maybe they can't hear. Maybe James used that Charm again…
James. He's here? He's here. He's with Norah Jacobi, a Hufflepuff from his year. I can see them, dancing passionately, erotically close. I sweep my gaze across the room and see a handful of my cousins (little known fact: one in ten Hogwarts student is related to the Weasleys by marriage or birth), all looking slightly tipsy.
It's a party, and the room is on fire. We're alive with excitement. Something has happened, something to bring students from every House and bloodline into Slytherin's neck of the woods. I seem to be the only one standing motionless; the very air has a current and direction. Sweat flies; drinks splash passing bodies and no one cares. An ocean of celebration. An orgy of excitement.
But, for me, it all freezes when she walks in. When she slips through the portrait hole with all the regality of a queen. She wears white, her golden hair curled and pinned intricately around her violently elegant face. I can't stand it—can't stand how perfect she is; how untouchably flawless. It causes me physical pain. It's a stronger toxin than whatever I've been drinking.
No one else appears to have noticed her arrival, but that does not trouble Madelia Gollihur. She stands—shoulders back, one eyebrow arched meaningfully—at the small gap of space between door and dancers.
"Al?" Fitz says, finally noticing the absence in my expression. He follows my gaze and says nothing more.
She gets what she's obviously been waiting for. A boy—older than me by maybe a year and a half—slips out of the crowd and approaches her. I can't see his face, only his sandy hair and self-important stance. He must say something, for she smiles. Merlin. Her smile. It was like she was giving you a gift, and she knew it.
She holds out her hand, and the boy takes it. He leads her into the fray of movement, and I realise I'm breathing heavily.
Just as she disappears, the light glints off the brooch she wears just above her heart. A small silver key.
…
…
I feel like now's the time to say something deep and meaningful but all that's going through my mind is, Oh Merlin, oh my Godric, Merlin Merlin Merlin.
It's hers. Even if the handwriting isn't, the pin is. Which means that whoever left me this letter was the last person to see her alive. A spark of envy for this person appears in my chest. The last person to hear her voice; to glimpse the mysterious flash of her dark eyes; to receive one of her smiles.
But this pin was meant for me, and I know it. Something happened last night—something so strong I've blocked it out. Something that linked Madelia and I in a way I can't begin to imagine.
I told Caoimhe I wasn't going to go, but I do. How can I not? Whatever this is, it involves me now. I don't tell my parents or friends about the note and key. It's mine for now; something of her I don't have to admit to or give away.
The place is packed. 'Round a hundred people, I reckon, some I recognise from school. We're at this large, luxurious funeral home just south of London.
I don't really have much to say about this place, other than she's a part of it now.
When I watch them lower her casket into the damp, unforgiving Earth, I remember all those years I spent loving her and imagining her and loving my imaginings. I think: I did not really know you at all, but you're someone and I'm someone and we might be in the same story for now. And that's enough for me to shred a manly tear. Manly tear. Yeah?
The sky is overcast, the day damp and grey. It's just begging to rain. I talked my parents into accompanying me to this, her funeral, saying I wanted to pay some last respects to a classmate. And, yeah, I did, but I've got my own motives. Dad always says there's no better place to investigate a murder than a funeral. I guess this is the kind of stuff he did at school, but it's all fairly new to me. Maybe I should get Caoimhe involved. Dad also always says he wouldn't have made it anywhere without Aunt Hermione.
There's a priest saying some stuff, which I don't understand—because if there's one thing wizards aren't, it's religious. We can light stuff on fire just by waving a stick and saying a few nonsensical words. We can call the motherfracking wind. My little sister has a talking ferret for a pet. You think we're going to pray for miracles? We eat miracles for breakfast and shit out dreams.
But anyway.
I tune out the priest's rant and glance around. Any one of these people could know something—any one of these people could have killed her. The hunched old witch with a velvet cape and furry handbag. The pale, sobbing wizard with the monocle and tight waistcoat. The young girl standing across from me, wearing the ugliest, most unflattering black dress you can imagine.
I look at her.
I look some more.
I can't decide if this girl is attractive or not. I mean, she's really, really thin, but I kind of go for that. Her cheekbones could cut granite, and her legs are longer than time. But her skin has this draped, sickly look and her hair—her long, thick, dark hair— is one big non-decision. Some bits are braided, some dreaded (I've never seen a white girl with dreads before), and some simply clumped into knots and snarls. The greyish light doesn't do her sallow complexion any favours, but it doesn't entirely wreck the undeniable beauty of her doll-like face. Perhaps sensing my stare, the girl glances up and meets my eyes. I do a double take. Hers are a mottled grey at first glance, but another, less natural colour seems to lurk underneath. She looks past me, somehow, as if she's not really seeing me. I get the bizarre notion she doesn't see too well.
Her eyes flick back down to the ground. Her face is respectful, but not openly mournful. I wonder how she knew Madelia.
"…dust to dust. And so it shall be. Amen."
Madelia C. Gollihur
Jan. 6, 2006—June 29, 2021
"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it."
A short indoor reception follows the service, and I make up my mind to talk to the strange, skinny girl with the discoloured eyes. She's my first lead—yeah. My first clue.
I really haven't got a clue how to do this.
The funeral parlour is large and elegantly furnished, like a rich widow's sitting room. The mourners seem even more numerous indoors than they were out, but I know I'll be able to find her. She sticks out a bit with that dress. Ducking away from my parents the first chance I get, I weave through the crowd, trying to be nonchalant, until I spot her. She lingers by the refreshment table, nursing a cup of water, eyeing the food and grimacing. Still attempting—and failing—to appear casual and relaxed, I slide up next to her as if from coincidence.
I open my mouth, and all coherent through vanishes from my mind. "Er. Hi," I finally say.
She jumps as if she hadn't noticed me standing there. Her eye blink rapidly, and up close I see they're somewhat clouded. "'ello," she manages in breathy, heavily-accented English. Her face is guarded, anxious.
"I was just wondering…" I break off, knowing I must seem like a complete idiot. "Well, I guess I wasn't wondering anything specific… I just saw you—you're very interesting-looking, yeah?—and I thought… maybe you knew Madelia? You look like someone she would have liked. We went to school together. You know what? Never mind. I don't really remember why I came over here. I'll stop rambling now. I'm Al, by the way. You?"
This horrible, heartbreakingly confused look appears on her face, just for a moment. Her every expression is fleeting, her sharply apprehensive countenance interrupted for only seconds . "Je suis désolé," she says. "Mon anglais est très pauvre."
And my embarrassment worsens. Way to look for clues, Al. You picked the clueless French girl who doesn't understand a word you just said. Ruddy brilliant. "Oh," I say, feeling awful. "No English."
She tilts one hand back and forth, a universal 'a little bit' gesture.
"Um, your name?" I say again, enunciating and speaking a little slower. "My name is Albus. I asked yours."
This she understands. "I am called Wren," she says, somewhat reluctantly. I can tell she doesn't want to talk to me. Everything about her is frightened and hostile. It's like I'm about to slap her or something, instead of just having a friendly conversation.
This close, and in better lighting, she really is pretty. I mean, she looks like she hasn't eaten in three days, and her skin is so pale I can see the crossword puzzle of veins in her neck and arms, but she has soft eyes and a scared, shy hunch to her shoulders that I find bizarrely endearing.
"So, how did you know Madelia?" I ask, but I don't get to find out. Her cold expression suddenly flashes to one of terror, and then back. "Je suis désolé," she says again, and I take this to be some kind of apology. "I have… I must to go."
I blink. "Eh?"
But she's gone, hurrying through the crowd, oblivious to the stares she receives as she pushes people aside.
I'm too shocked and too stupid to physically follow her, but I turn around and study what she would have seen standing in front of me. A lone figure, lurking in the shadows by the door, catches my eye. It's him she's rushing toward. When she reaches him, he seizes her arm in a grip so tight I can feel it twenty meters away. He leans in close to her face and says something sharply. Wren replies in what I assume is rapid French and gestures fervently with her free hand. Stone-faced, with a muscle in his neck throbbing dangerously, he pulls her out the door. Only then do I snap from my stunned reverie and follow.
It's finally started to rain—the needle-sharp, spitting kind of rain. I linger on the steps on the funeral home as Wren and the man still holding her by the arm trip down the sidewalk toward an idling truck. Free from the shadows of the entrance hall, I get my first good look at the man's face. Handsome. Fierce. Maybe ten years younger than my father. Away from the crowd, they argue more loudly.
Well. Perhaps 'argue' isn't the best word. He shouts furiously in French and she stutters out feeble, whispered responses. I pull out my wand, thanking Merlin there are seventy qualified wizards inside.
"Narratus," I whisper.
I hear her small voice choking out a few hurried words. "Je ne le connais pas! Je vous promets, je n'ai même pas le comprendre."
They stop moving.
"He asked you about Madelia!"
At the sudden switch to English and the mention of her name, I jolt in surprise and drop my recording wand. She shakes her head, eyes pleading. I wish he'd let go of her arm. Fumbling for my wand, I snatch it from the ground and try to reposition it. Too late, though. I've missed what he says next.
He's in her face, screaming. She tries to turn away, but he jerks her around to face him. "Ne mentez pas! Il était là le soir où elle mourut. Que voulait-il vous demander?"
Where's your Potter bravery, Al? There's a freaking damsel in distress right in front of you, and you're recording their French so you can try to understand it later? Pathetic. But what can I do? I'm a skinny fifteen-year-old kid who completely missed out on my father's 'act before think' gene.
"Tu me fais mal," she says quietly, and I don't need to speak French to understand.
You're hurting me.
He assesses her timid expression, grunts disdainfully, and finally lets go of her arm. She clutches at it automatically, loses her balance, and falls to the ground, catching herself with her palms. He looks morbidly pleased, but I still don't move. A tiny part of me argues he didn't make her fall; didn't push her. But she's breathing heavily and stumbling back into a standing position as he strides away, into the driver's seat of the truck.
Wren picks herself up, shakes her damp hair out of her eyes, and brushes some dirt off her leg. She clutches for a tiny bauble she wears around her neck, and sighs as if relieved it's still there.
The horn sounds.
She crawls into the backseat of the truck, and it disappears into the misty evening.
"Finite," I say.
And—once again—I know I should having something good to say here, but all I can think is, What the hell have I gotten myself into?
End Notes: Well? Thoughts? Too much French? Tell me in a review! (Also, I recommend not using Google Translator. Anything you need to know I've translated within the text, and anything kept un-translated might be important later.) ~*Eva*~