Note: First HP fanfic, dedicated to my friend. Post-HP series (I don't really know the conclusion, so let's let our imaginations do the works, shall we?)
Summary: Voldemort has fallen and the Death Eaters have scattered. In a time where order is being pieced back together, an Auror and an ex-Death Eater have a reunion underneath a shelter against a violent rainstorm. Draco x Hermione.
An umbrella hits the stone pavement and water droplets scatter only to coalesce back into the muddy puddles. A few ripples, in reaction, temporarily distort a reflection of a pouting face. If not for the disruption of the image by the constant rain, the image would be of the epitome of youthful beauty, lingering on womanhood --- but only lingering.
The beauty buries her face into her hands and muffles a cry of frustration. She's cold, and she blows warm breaths into her cupped palms in a futile effort to keep warm. Such brutal weather is not something expected during summer; a stormy grey colors the sky.
Her breath is visible against the cold, soft puffs seen only for a fraction of a second before melting back into the invisible. She shivers.
The umbrella sits there in silent abandonment.
She cursed. Herminone Granger was not one to curse without a valid reason. This situation, she had decided a moment ago, provided a perfectly valid reason to let out a small curse. Dammit.
Ah, but one curse word didn't seem to satisfy her frustration.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit…" she took a deep breath, her next word a mutt between a sigh and a groan, "damn,"
With each word, she shook her head, the brown ringlets pasted onto her scalp breaking free of their bond to fall about her face. She lifted her chin, only to analyze her situation once more. She eyed the grey skies and the constant rain with a scowl on her lips.
She considered herself intelligent. Yes, by society's standards –both wizard and muggle- she was considered an elite in almost every subject. So, why…why was it that she had decided to leave her home to run a minor errand when there were obvious signs of rain?
'The news said rain, not a bloody storm,' she leaned against the wall, banging her head against the walls of a foreign apartment, wallowing in frustration.
A figure runs within the downpour. His steps are frantic and he seems perhaps a bit lost. He is becoming increasingly agitated as he takes each step further into the rain. His fingers, turned blue from the unforgiving cold, draw the heavy cloak sitting upon his shoulders closer to his body. He spots a sanctuary from the battering of the rain, and runs towards it; he is no longer lost.
The man removes the cloak, intent upon wringing out whatever liquid absorbed during his run towards his shelter. His figure is lean, and he is tall; yet more a boy than a man. He growls, struggling to keep the ends of the cloak above the puddles upon the pavement. Giving up, he throws his cloak on top of an umbrella.
The cloak sits there in silent abandonment.
He looked. Draco Malfoy let out a curse. He was not happy with his current situation.
"…Malfoy," the woman hissed and she ceased the banging of her head to shift as far away from him as possible.
"…Granger," he was a Slytherin; he could hiss with far more venom than a mere Gryffindor.
She narrows her eyes and he glares back, a similar scowl reflects upon each of their faces. Simultaneously, they decide to ignore each other presence, for that is far easier than to initiate a battle of words during this miserable situation. Malfoy leans against the wall, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He attempts to suppress the shivers threatening to overtake him. After all, a Malfoy never shows weaknesses in the presence of an enemy. He bites his lip to keep his chin from quivering, but God it's so damn cold.
The silent Gryffindor watches the snake shudder. She muses to herself. What would she do if the snake, being the cold-blooded animal it is, keels over and succumbs to the spiral of death in its hibernation? Would she, the honorable and kind Gryffindor let down her wings in an attempt to save an enemy whom forsakes her? Herminone closes her eyes; she already knows the answer.
"If you rubs your hands together and then place them on your face, you'll feel a lot warmer," she speaks, opting to save the poor Slytherine, at the cost of her own humiliation.
The snake reels, whipping its blond matted head around to glare viciously at its winged rescuer, "Shut your mouth, Mudblood, I don't need your sympathy," his eyes reflect the melancholy color of the sky.
Herminone bites her lip, scowling as she turns her back on the ungrateful wizard. Minutes later, she hears the faint sounds of hands rubbing against each other amidst the splashes of the rain.
Hours pass by, and Herminone glances up at the sky again. The rain shows no sign of letting up and releases a sudden powerful rush of downpour as if to laugh at the two house members' cold misery. She notes that the puddles from before are no longer puddles, but rivers, gathering even more comrades of water within its violent trenched currents.
Merlin, she thinks, only a miracle could help me now.
Herminone glances at Malfoy, and realizes that he is thinking the exact same thing. Now, a little conversation seemed all too welcome; a time catalyst in their misery.
"So…what are you doing here?" she scolds herself for accidentally sounding acidic in her attempt to make polite conversation.
Malfoy snaps to look at her, a bit of anger in his expression. Then, his countenance softens and a small smirk spreads over his lips.
"Oh, none of your business, Granger, but I must say that your Muggle-world is as unpleasant as I had expected it to be…"
Wrath flashes past her eyes are her censures evaporate, much like the small puffs of breath barely seen escaping from Malfoy's lips.
"You're the only unpleasant thing around here, Malfoy,"
Draco glares, meeting the Gryffindor's eye with equal wrath in his eyes. He finds her lips pushed together in a pout, and occasionally she nibbles at her bottom lip and a small warm breath escapes her. Small water droplets cling to her long lashes and refuse to fall away under the intense heat of her glare upon Malfoy. Draco finds his eyes roaming her image, the way her hair clings to her long neck, the way her skin illuminates under the dull lighting of the lamp stuck onto the wall they leaned against. If not for her ancestry, Draco would have considered her attractive.
Herminone, uncomfortable under his gaze, takes her chance to search him. His blond locks disheveled and free from the gel usually pasting his pale golden locks to his scalp, he looks much better with his bangs framing his handsome face, occasionally hiding the eyes that glint with quick wit and intelligence. His complexion is of a light, healthy tan from his constant training on the Quidditch field. If not for his asshole-attitude, Hermione would have considered him attractive.
Draco considers Hermione's heritage, and Hermione considers his personality. An icy wind blows and the two break their silent battle. If the wind hadn't blown, perhaps there would have been a chance for a small friendship between them.
Perhaps.
The rain doesn't seem to be thinking of letting up. The clouds blink with occasional lightning, and the wind is becoming unbelievably chilly. A car drives by and the water sloshes underneath the tires.
Herminone hears a shudder. She turns her head, to see the Slytherin nearly dying of the cold. His hands are rubbing furiously together.
"God damn it, Granger, your bloody technique isn't working…" he manages to breathe out before shivering violently.
He feels arms wrap around him, and for that instant, warmth floods him. His eyes close in silent appreciation for the Gryffindor's wings, protecting him from the violent cold. His hand wrap around her thin arms hidden by her thick coat, and he allows himself to lean back against her; to let his head cradle in the crook of her slender neck. Hermione responds, tilting her chin down to rest upon his shoulder, she gently lets out a nervous breath she hadn't been aware of.
For that moment, the two enemies seem content with each other, too exhausted to find an alternate route to end their misery within the bone chilling cold.
Time passes, and Draco can feel that he is more at ease with the Gryffindor. He shifts against her, much more closely, letting that radiant heat pass through him; that heat from the passionate, impossibly intelligent girl he despised during his Hogwart years; the same girl that had possessed enough gull to punch him; the same girl that he had pushed to tears with his mockery. Perhaps he had been jealous of her, because no matter what he did, he would never satisfy his father while the mudblood would more than satisfy everyone surrounding her. His pale fingers reach out to grab onto a lock of her auburn hair, curled so exquisitely against the breast of her coat. Silently, he wonders, as he lets out a shuddering breath, what is it that makes her so perfect and warm right now?
Hermione feels the gentle tug of her hair, and she quickly glances down to see Malfoy's long, slender fingers curled around her wet lock; long, slender fingers that had never seen labor. Suddenly, she is aware of his warm breaths against her neck. She is nervous. Warmth floods her cheek and she briefly feels a bit too warm. His weight against her bosom makes her sensitive; she draws a shuddering breath. Nevertheless, her want to protect him from the biting cold is much stronger and she hugs him even closer.
From far away, they look like lovers enjoying each other's company.
Draco realizes their closeness. It's painfully obvious now. He acts on a sudden impulse. For that moment, he doesn't feel like a Slytherin and she doesn't seem like a Gryffindor. His fingers tighten around her locks, and his hand moves swiftly up her graceful neck. His body shifts upwards.
His lips meet hers.
He shudders, his body no longer frozen. Her lips spread warmth to him; her mouth ambrosia to his starved body. He dominates, his height taking advantage of hers as he properly traps her between the stone wall and him. She makes a startled noise, but it doesn't matter anymore. He is, for a moment, everywhere; holding her, cradling her, pressing himself against her warmth craving more ---- more. She is perfect to him. Her scent, her lips, her hair – suddenly they're everything he's ever wanted as he molds himself against her.
The young witch realizes too late –when she is already within the serpent's grasp and her wings pinned. Draco's other hand is already at her wrist and his chest so close to her own. Her eyes flutter shut and the teen relishes in the temporary warmth of him. She kisses back, albeit reluctantly, but soon melts within his passion. Her cheeks flush with heat, her mouth parting slightly in an effort to take in some air between the smaller, lighter kisses. The serpent is squeezing the life out of her and she struggles to breathe.
Their breaths solidify in the air, a myriad of white mist traveling about their faces, curling around their hair and brushing against their flushed skin…
Hermione is the first to part, but she had held onto him as long as her lungs had allowed. Her eyes drift behind him, past his sun-kissed locks.
Raindrops are no longer falling, and the puddles have stopped distorting an upside down view of her world.
She doesn't think, she can't even see – she runs away from the wizard, her steps a mad flurry as she runs across the puddles, soaking her shoes. Where is she going? She doesn't know.
"Hermione!" his voice rings after her, chasing her.
The witch doesn't look back. Her figure disappears as her warmth fades from the serpent's starved body.
Her umbrella sits there in silent abandonment, next to his cloak.
She is crying. She doesn't know why. Her hands find her eyes, furiously wiping away tears falling angrily down her pale cheeks. It's childish, she thinks, before stopping to crouch nearby a wall, not caring if her shoes are soaked. She seems utterly defeated, and she doesn't know why. Sobs escape her; she no longer knows where she is or why she is crying.
It's all a big blur.
His face is a blur. Those soft locks of hair, the stormy eyes – all blurred with his fair, creamy complexion. His voice…his voice is ringing in her ears.
"Hermione!"
She cries even harder. Her hands do not know what to do; one moment they are in her thick hair in a gesture of frustration, the next they grip the small shoulders shaking so uncontrollably. Hermione reasons that she is just cold.
She regains her footing, teetering a bit before walking away from her misery with increasingly bold steps. She was Hermione Granger, an auror of the Ministry of Magic, and one of the most brilliant witches of the age.
And she would never be afraid of some Death Eater.
Draco can only stare. She had run from him in a terrified frenzy. All he could remember is her expression. Tears clinging to her thick lashes while pushing him away. Immediately, he becomes angry. Of course, a Gryffindor would never want to associate with the likes of him…no one really came near the Slytherins any more. Years of shame follows him still, the fall of Voldemort has left him utterly vulnerable. Only his father's inheritance supports him now.
He thinks back to Hermione's warmth, her acceptance; her arms wrapping around him, providing a hospice within a world so against him. He feels as if he is suffocating beneath her, her kindness and her concern---- all for him in that one moment.
He slaps himself mentally; never, ever would he allow himself to think of her. He feels his mind drifting towards her once more.
Get a grip, Draco.
He seeks to return to his home, and searches for his coat. Beneath the black, he spots the fiery shade of an umbrella. He thinks to leave it there, and torture the little witch for her actions.
But what had she done wrong?
He cannot answer. Sighing, he grabs the umbrella and walks off, gently avoiding the puddles in fear of soaking his shoes.
The ministry was overflowing with life as usual. Papers everywhere, creatures to the left and to the right; it felt like home. Hermione walked in through the familiar doors, wet shoes and all, with a tall, confident posture, greeting her fellow workers with a smile on her face despite the earlier events of the day. A pixie of a dark-blue hue immediately flew up to her, a familiar giggle ringing in the air. She flew around Hermione's figure until the witch sighed and waved her hand to stop her informant.
"What is it now, Shive?" after all, she was in no mood to entertain today.
The pixie stopped after a final turn in the air, fluttering her wings vehemently in annoyance at Hermione, "You know, it'd be nice if you would say my full name for once," her voice was deeper than the normal pixie's which made it easier for Hermione to understand her. Shive had been with her ever since her first year at the Ministry, assigned to be the young auror's informant and guide through the hidden mazes of the building.
The witch laughed, "Well, it'd be nice if your full name was even remotely pronounceable," she flung a bit of water at the blue creature in a friendly gesture, "but I know that's not the reason you flew up to me with such urgency," that little pixie never did anything outside her job description.
"Ah, as perceptive as always Miss Granger," Shive immediately grew serious, the rhythm of her wings growing steady, "We've located the whereabouts of Crabbe and Goyle – well, Crabbe at least. Goyle was ambushed by a team of our aurors…he didn't want to be taken into custody; too afraid of Azkaban, I guess," her color dulled in reflex to her melancholy mood. Although the Death Eaters had terrified even the race of pixies, Shive didn't find their deaths amusing unlike her other companions. After all, these boys were children…
Voldemort had fallen after a long, grueling war. The Death Eaters were scattered and the Ministry was back in power. It was now up to the aurors to capture the remaining followers of the Dark Lord and bring them into custody – to damn them to the ultimate fate of Azkaban. The pixie settled her eyes upon Hermione, who seemed to be deep in thought. Hermione had become an auror at the age of 23, along with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasely. They didn't need to pass exams; after all, they had been saving both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds from Voldemort since they were 13. The Order of the Phoenix made it clear that they were more than capable of being aurors. They even lead their own separate teams, scanning the two worlds for any remaining Death Eaters.
But the point was, they were still children.
"Was anyone on our team seriously injured?" Hermione broke the pixie out of thought, and Shive tried her best to hide her morose thoughts.
"Ron Weasly took a shot to the shoulder, but he isn't anything even close to critical," the pixie laughed, "in fact, he's goofing off in Potter's office, acting out a story of how he bravely rescued Miss Lovegood from a deadly curse," Hermione could imagine him now, waving around his bandaged arm and shoulder while posing once in a while for effect. Shive took this chance to leave the young witch to her musings, intent upon finishing her own job at the Ministry as an informant.
Hermione rolled her eyes before leaving for her office. She was in no mood today to deal with Ron's idiotic fantasies, although he was an excellent actor.
Perhaps he should've pursued a career in acting, Hermione grinned at the thought, entering her office. She hung her coat, grabbing the wand out of the pocket to cast a small spell into the fireplace.
"Incendio," immediately, warmth flooded the room, coating the office with an amber hue and magnifying the contours of her paperwork and her little muggle trinkets spread throughout.
She took off her shoes, sighing in relief as the cold, suffocating feeling on her feet gradually disappeared. She left the shoes by the fireside. Sometimes, she preferred to dry things the muggle way – especially if it meant that she could return her feet to a warm toasty feeling when leaving the Ministry later in the day. Her socks, too, went to dry by the fire.
Quick flicks of her wand immediately got her ready for work; her hair was dried, her blouse was no longer clinging to her shivering body, and all her paperwork was neatly organized onto small, separately categorized stacks. Soon, she would bend over her desk in concentration, scribbling furiously away at seemingly important documents.
That is, if someone hadn't come into her office without permission.
She turned to the sound of her door clicking shut to see one of her most cherished friends by the door. Harry Potter stood back against her door, a mischievous smirk on his lips as he quirked a brow at her. Hermione felt herself cringe at his expression. It was never good when Harry had such a countenance this early a work day.
"Hermione," he approached her with slow, calculated steps, as if he was afraid that she'd lash out at him with one of her infamous shin kicks, "Guess what?" his smirk broadened.
She eyed him, crossing her arms in front of her, perhaps for comfort, "What, Harry?"
He had grown. Perhaps seeing Malfoy this morning made her realize how much everyone had grown. Harry was now pretty tall, his dark hair messy as ever, framing his piercing blue eyes glinting with humor behind his glasses. His scar had faded along with Voldemort's death, but he didn't need the scar to be identified as the Boy-Who-Lived anymore. After all, his success at defeating the Dark Lord had put his face on every newspaper known in the wizarding world. He had even given the opening speech for the Quidditch World Cup.
"She said, 'Yes'!" he suddenly yelled, breaking the young witch out of her reminiscence.
"What?" Hermione blinked a few times in confusion, and realized what her friend meant, "Oh…oh! When?" she grew giddy, but this was perfectly acceptable when a wedding was involved.
Harry's reply was cut short when a certain Ron Weasly walked into the room, his bright red hair merging into the warm atmosphere of Hermione's office. He was no longer the goofy looking child the witch had known when she was attending Hogwarts, instead, he stood a bit taller than Harry, his fiery mane grown long enough to be tied into a small ponytail at the base of his neck.
Hermione grabbed his arm, "Did you know?"
Ron gave a knowing smile, "Yup," for once, he knew something she didn't.
"And you didn't tell me?"
"Thought Harry might want to tell you,"
Hermione repeated her long-lost question, "When!?"
The two wizards laughed, Ron slapping Harry's back, "Well, go on mate, tell her,"
"Yesterday," Harry grinned, pride oozing from every pore of his body, "I asked her in a really awkward way, really," a small blush crept up his pale cheeks in memory.
Hermione frowned, "Oh?" Harry could not have ruined the most important day in a girl's life! Yet Harry's blush told her a different story.
Ron suddenly laughed, cutting into the conversation, "You wouldn't believe it Hermione –Ginny said that it was actually amusing now that she's thought about it – but Harry…you see what happened was, Harry was out patrolling his area for the night with his team, which happened to be where Ginny was at the time, although everyone was warned not to leave the house during those hours…" his face became immediately animated, a flush settling onto his cheeks, his wounded shoulder shifting about as he attempted to make exaggerating gesticulations.
"Ron!" Harry shoved his friend, his expression somewhat between a plea not to tell his embarrassing story and extreme humiliation. Whatever Harry was hiding, it had to be good. Hermione allowed herself a small smirk, eyes fixed on Ron to encourage him to finish his story. This would decide Harry's fate: a good kick to the shin for ruining the happiest moment of a girl's life, or a congratulatory hug for the groom-to-be.
Ron, seeing Hermione's support, raised a hand to calm his best friend down, "Hold up, Harry, I'm trying to tell a story here, mate," Ron crossed his arms, his expression too similar to that of the Weasley twins before mischief, "As I was saying, 'Mione, a false alarm about a Death Eater sighting instantly put Harry into a run after the nearest stranger he saw—."
"Silencio!" Ron's voice abruptly stopped, and the redhead looked towards his friend in righteous indignation. His mouth, however, never stopped moving as he commanded Harry to remove the spell to no avail. The brunette merely laughed, pocketing his wand before grabbing Ron by the shoulders to lead him out of Hermione's office.
Ron's mouth never ceased moving, his ears turning a slight shade of red in humorous anger, glaring at the dark-haired auror.
Hermione, in turn, was missing a huge, climactic point of the story. She, too, glared at Harry, "Harry James Potter," her voice took a sharp tone, her hands on her hips, "You return his voice right now," Ron nodded furiously in agreement.
"I'll tell you the story later, Hermione," Harry grinned, "way later," he closed the door behind him, the young witch running to stop him from leaving until he blockaded her door from the other side. Her fingers gripped the doorknob rattling the poor thing and yelling promises of jinxes to last him until next year; until a nearby portrait on the wall kindly asked her to stop (he had been napping).
"Fine, then, I'll just ask Ginny myself!" she yelled a final time, her shoulders heaving and her lips gathered into a small pout. The most important story of the year and she had been cut short! Harry Potter was an absolute --- "He's impossible, anyway," she stomped towards her desk, plopping herself down to start working on the ever-growing pile of paper on her desk. They towered over her easily (or at least, they seemed to tower over her in her point of view).
Hermione sighed. She supposed she would have to get started someday. Her fingers carelessly reached for the top-most item, a thick manila folder, and placed the contents of it before her. Her eyes scanned the documents restlessly, brows furrowing once in a while in confusion.
Gregory Goyle's picture moved in front of her, twisting around the corner of a dark alley before firing haphazardly into a team of aurors. She saw Ron, falling back after a hit to the shoulder, and Luna Lovegood dropping the chase to check on Ron's injuries. She had grown too; long, blond hair (now curled) framing her small face, her silver-grey eyes lit up under the moonlight. She was no longer the simple-minded, gullible girl of the past. During the war, she immediately volunteered her services and joined the Order of the Phoenix, just like how she had joined Dumbledore's Army long ago. Despite all that, she still retained some of her dazed moments, and often found herself lost and found, conveniently, by Ron Weasely.
'Bravely rescued Miss Lovegood from a deadly curse, my ass, Ron Weasley,' Hermione grinned.
Luna's and Ron's image faded, replaced with the conclusion of the chase. Goyle finally fell, his small and dull eyes closing in rest, taken down by a team of aurors and spells. He looked the exact opposite of what he was in his youth; dirty and sickly, with dark circles underneath his eyes. His hair was no longer a clean, short cut from her memories, but a shaggy mop, hanging near his ears in large, dirty chunks. The only thing even remotely resembling his younger self was his double-chin lumbering about his neck.
'We never meant harm, Goyle...but you chose this path,' Hermione found herself feeling pity for the boy. Although he was manipulated by his ancestry and his friends, Goyle had had a chance to back down when he was cornered. The dead man's face reminded her of his "friends" during his years in Hogwarts. It reminded her of Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy.
His creamy complexion no longer blurred his features, his cold, steely eyes coming into focus within her mind. His pale, blond hair stood in sharp contrast to his dark clothes as he lay bundled in her arms.
She scowled, violently turning the pages of the documents; anything, anything, to get rid of his image. Various pictures flew at her; Vincent Crabbe, Carrows, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott – all Death Eaters caught or deceased. It still unnerved her that such young students (they hadn't even finished their Seventh Year) had become killers…murderers of families and fellow students…
His face…his face kept dancing in front of all of the others'. His face when she had punched him during her third year, his face when he had attempted to murder Professor Dumbledore…his face as he shivered in her arms before he kissed her. His kiss broke his way through her mental barrier now, and a slight flush came to her cheeks. His hands upon her wrists…his body pressing against hers in a desperate attempt to be warm…
"Go away,"she waved her hand in an effort to dissipate his image. Now, Hermione knew she had to stop. She couldn't work anymore. He would drive her insane at this rate. A quick glance at her clock and her diminished stack of work told her exactly what time it was: time to go home.
She moved quickly. Draco Malfoy's memory had no time to catch up with her as long as she kept herself moving at maximum speed. Her feet slid into her toasty socks and then her warm shoes before she grabbed her coat and some other documents as she left her office. She walked down the long corridors, where pictures of recently deceased Ministry members hung. She stiffly turned her face straight forward, not even glancing at the plaques adorning the otherwise dull walls of the building.
Hermione never turned her head to look at the pictures. Too many painful memories and the faces of her passed friends haunted her still. She knew she'd cry if she looked at them. Tears blurred her vision and her eyes stung as she resisted the grief that threatened to overtake her.
After all, Hermione wasn't really fond of crying.
She walked on, her lips tight with a smile that hid her emotions with practiced ease as she left the building, bidding everyone a good night. The brown-haired girl found the streets still riddled with puddles and the sky dark with another cloud of rain.
Hermione Granger continued her trek towards her home, this time making sure to avoid puddles.
Draco Malfoy, sitting on his sofa, stared at the vibrant red umbrella propped up on the auburn antique table before him. His handsome face was scrunched up with contemplation. Why did she have to pick such a Gryffindor color for an umbrella, anyway? Why the hell had he brought it home? He let out an agonized sigh, leaning against the dark cushions of his seat, running a hand through his recently-showered hair.
He couldn't see her again. His business had been deftly completed and he'd be damned if he stepped into the muggle world again. Did she even live in that horrible place?
The umbrella continued to burn into his eyes.
"I don't want to see her again," Draco spoke softly to himself, lips drawn into a fierce scowl he had been practicing since his childhood, "damn Mudblood,"
But he still tasted her lingering presence upon his lips…
He still felt those dark locks of hair intertwined between his fingers.
Her warmth flooded him even now.
Draco closed his eyes, opened them, and then closed them again. In a sudden fury, he stood up from his place and paced around the room. Once in a while, he glanced at the red pile of waterproof cloth sitting upon his table. His internal battle was won, and he came to a conclusion he had reasoned himself into.
The blond picked up the umbrella, dragging it up towards his room, "…I suppose it would be rude of me to not return such an important item, anyways"
Author's Note: Well, there you have it, my first HP fic. I thought this was going to be a one-shot at first, but I guess not. After all, Draco will eventually have to see her again for all of our sick fantasies to work out, right? I love to read reviews, so if you like it, please feel free to tell me so I may find the motivation to continue this piece. Until then, bye bye.