New York, New York

Overview: When Harry's classmates are asked to return for an 8th year of schooling in preparation for Ministry positions, there was little idea that it would take place in New York City. But not everyone is ready to face the post-war reality, and Draco must come to terms with his beliefs one way or another. HP/DM slash. Not explicit until later chapters. M for language and sexual content.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor am I affiliated in any way with JK Rowling and her creations.

Draco was too currently occupied with the manner of Potter's grip to keep a focus on where they were going. They'd already been frisked away to the town nearest school, side-alonged in an apparation Draco was certain he'd never want to experience again (hopefully, Potter's more focused and benign feelings made for better transportation; when he was upset he'd nearly managed to splinch the both of them), and paraded through the busy afternoon intersections near Chinatown. But other than that, he had no clue where they were, and no clue where they were headed. Potter's indignant leash of the occasional tug at Malfoy's shirt or pull at the elbow was all he had to go by, and it was really starting to get annoyingly ridiculous. He wasn't a dog, nor was he a child. No, he was much better than the way he was treated, and whether Potter realized it or not, he was a Malfoy, and didn't enjoy the effects of being ushered via grunting git.

They were currently stationed at a crosswalk, waiting for the opposing light to turn red so they could make the diagonal trek across to the other block. After a moment's wait (well, many, many moments), the muggle electronic device signaled a WALK and the horde of pedestrians began to make their way into the street. Harry made a motion to grab Draco's wrist, but the blonde curtly pulled back.

"Will you please stop grabbing me? I'm already compliant to the fact that I am utterly lost. I'm not going to up and run on you!" he shouted, a little louder than he would've liked. A few of the passing tourists gave them strange looks of disapproval, as if they were in the middle of some sort of relationship driven by sadism. Or a kidnapping. Potter was just maniacal enough at this point to be convincing at that role.

Harry glared for a second at Draco, and then let his arms fall to his side as they stepped off of the curb. "Fine. Whatever you want," he said flatly, though the words still caused Draco to give a slight double-take. "All I want is to grab something to eat."

Draco nearly scowled. "I thought you were after a drink. At least that's what you said a few minutes ago."

"Yes, I did. And now I've changed my mind. How hard is that for you to understand?"

"I'm just trying to keep up with you Potter! Excuse me for looking out for your earlier interests," Draco said, staring in the other direction at oncoming traffic.

When he didn't hear a response, he turned to look at Harry, who had an odd expression on his face. To Draco, it looked like he was mocking him. "I appreciate that. You're starting to become more tameable," Harry said, reaching out and ruffling through Draco's hair jokingly.

"Fuck off, Potter! I told you to stop touching me!"

Harry laughed. "I knew this would be a good idea."

The light conversation (as that was what this was now, since both of them had accepted the fact that this was simply how they talked to each other) continued until they reached the end of the block, and Harry appeared as though he too had no clue where they were headed. "I s'pose we could always just grab some fast food or something," he said, looking in both directions for any sort of familiar neon sign.

Draco furrowed his eyebrows. "Fast food? You expect me to stomach that filth?"

"I'm surprised you even know what fast food is, Malfoy. A little more muggle-friendly than I expected?"

"No," Draco retorted immediately, more to the fact that Harry was making fun of him than the sentence he'd just accidentally negated. He was trying to look the part of a functioning member of society here, and he'd just given an answer his father would've given. Damn it.

"No, I mean-" Draco restarted, "You have to realize I have Parkinson around at all free hours. She eats disgusting amounts of rubbage no matter where it comes from."

"So you have had fast food," Harry smiled.

"Unfortunately, yes, I have, and I don't plan on having any more. So if you'll please get that rotter out of your head, I'll hail a taxi and find us a real restaurant."

Apparently, this baffled Harry as well. It wasn't as though Draco knew these things inherently, of course. Not with the family he'd grown up in. But how hard could it possibly be to flag down an automobile? He stepped out toward the curb and began to wait, though all of the taxi cabs merely sped past. Okay, so he apparently had to do something to get their attention. He put up his right hand in a signal, and stepped further out onto the edge of the curb. Again, nothing happened, and looking over his shoulder, he noticed Harry's mixed look of concern and entertainment.

"What, Potter? Have a better method? If these drivers weren't such bloody sons of bitches I'd have already gotten us a ride!"

Harry stepped toward Draco. "No, you've got to-"

A loud car horn blared. "- FUCK YOU TOO, YOU RIGHT PIECE OF SHI-"

"Oy, Draco, no-"

Draco had already mechanically reached for his wand in the pocket of his coat and was ready to throw a hex at the next taxi that passed, but Harry reached out and shoved his arm back down. "God, Malfoy, will you let me do it?"

Draco finished glaring at the cab that had intentionally passed them up, and turned to get a look at Harry.

"Damn, Malfoy, I wasn't aware you had such a colorful vocabulary," Harry commented, now looking up the street.

Draco continued to watch. "You called me Draco."

Harry waved down the next cab with ease, and it was already pulling up to the curb where they stood. He glanced at Draco, who didn't look amused. "What? No I didn't."

"Yes you did, you lying bastard," he answered in a swinging intonation. "For your information," he started, sliding into the back seat as Harry scooted down, "I don't fancy how lightly you're taking my complaints."

"Okay, sure, but tell the man where we're going. Since this was your idea, after all." Draco's eyes narrowed before he turned to the driver and obliged him with an address.

Draco felt the need to continue before Potter could change the subject. "First, you drag me out of my work to take me to this wreck of a city, and then you shove me along and treat me like I'm your pretty little house elf just to satiate whatever whim you may currently have."

"Pretty much, yeah." Harry showed little interest in the topic. He'd even had the bollocks to yawn in front of Draco before he was finished. "So, Malfoy, where are we going? I thought you didn't know your way around."

"Sod off, Potter. I wasn't done."

Harry exhaled long and deep before rubbing his eyes. "Look, Malfoy. I was upset, and I do things when I'm upset. You just happened to be the thing I grabbed first without thinking about it, and this just happened to be the place I wanted to come to." The cab driver visibly raised an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror, but quickly averted his sight when Draco glared back.

"Well, I don't exactly want to be a part of your temper tantrum, Potter."

"Too late for that. And maybe I wanted you here. Ever think about that?" Harry asked.

Draco began to say something, but lost track of his thoughts as soon as Harry finished. He stared, halfway defeated in conversation, halfway shocked at what Harry had just said, before he'd managed to get anything out. "No. No I didn't."

There was an awkward silence that fell in suit. Draco stared out his window, but felt the need to keep stealing glances at Potter. What was his damage? Between what he'd just said, and all the personal contact earlier, Draco would've wagered that he was out to drive him bloody insane. He couldn't keep up with every last Potter-ism that kept popping up, and with the constant fickle manners and lasseiz-faire decisions, he was sure he was going to break Potter in half the next chance he got. But still, somehow, the Gryffindor managed to get the upper hand in every damn situation they'd been through today. Or maybe, just maybe, Draco was getting soft. No way.

"So, I'll ask again," Harry said, finally breaking the dead air. "Where are we going?"

Draco leaned back in his seat. "To a restaurant."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I already know that, you git. Where are we going?"

"My father's usual."

Again, Harry didn't seem too convinced. "I thought you've never been out of the UK."

"I haven't. My father has. Easy, isn't it, when you use your brain?"

"Yes, but you knew the address by heart."

Draco sighed. "When you're as organized as the rest of the world, you know all your important contacts by heart."

"155 West 58th," the driver interrupted, suddenly and loudly, and with a thick accent. It seemed as though he was getting extremely tired of his passengers, and was thankful to have reached their destination. "Sixty-five eighty-eight, cash or card?"

Draco turned to Harry. "Well? You heard the man. Pay him."

"Me? You're the one who wanted to take a taxi!"

"Do I look like I carry muggle money? Come on, Potter."

Now visibly annoyed, Harry reached for his wallet and shoved out four twenty-dollar bills. "Keep the rest," he said quickly, slamming his door as he got out. "I don't suppose you'll have me pay for dinner too?" he asked Draco, his voice raised.

"No. I've got that covered."

"But you just said you didn't have any mugg-"

The taxi driver finished counting his money and got back into his seat. "You know," he shouted out the passenger window, "You'll enjoy your date a lot more if you stop arguing." And then a more quiet "God, homosexuals these days . . ."

And as the cab turned its wheels and re-entered traffic, Harry and Draco both stood identically aghast at what was just said. "Homosexuals? Did . . . did you just hear-"

Harry nodded his head and spoke into Draco's sentence. "You know, he's right. We'll enjoy this date a lot more if you quit being an arse."

Draco looked positively knocked off his grounding. "You're still going along with that ruddy joke?" Harry looked at him with a faint smile and waited for the insult to kick in. Sure enough- "Wait, me? I'm an arse? You're one to talk!"

Harry turned to face Draco, closer than he'd expected. "So we're on the same terms then. Good." He began to walk inside the restaurant, which was wrapped in golds and silvers. "This is a date, after all." And with that, he grabbed the large door handle and held it open for Draco.

The blonde hesitated, surveying Harry's actions and holding back his body's natural reaction to grow hot in the face. He did this for quite some time. And then, rolling his eyes, he held his breath and walked through the door. "You're going to be the death of me, Potter, I swear."

"Say it again."

"Mar-meet-un in cokilles saint jock."

"No, stop looking at the name and repeat what I say."

"Okay then, say it already."

"Marmiton en coquilles St. Jacques."

"Mah-meat-in-"

"Nope."

Draco lifted his glass for another taste as Harry attempted to work out the name of his entrée. They were seated in the back of the restaurant, in a private booth that was cut off from the rest of the customers in an effort to remain under the radar. An older yet regal looking witch in muggle corporate clothing from them eyed them occasionally, but made no comment about their recognition. Other than her, their seating was in a good enough location. After all, Harry had no idea this was going to be a restaurant that catered to muggles and wizarding folk alike. "How else are they supposed to bring in as much revenue as they do?" Draco had said in an obvious manner when they walked in. "Do you seriously think their benefactors are all muggle?"

So now, it wasn't as hard for Harry to picture Lucius Malfoy enjoying a lavish night out with the restaurant's manager (also a wizard) than he did when he thought the place was, well, as normal as could be. He vaguely wondered if one of the "benefactors" Malfoy was talking about was none other than his father. How else were they enjoying a courtesy meal?

Harry set down his fork in protest. He was getting full, and there was no way he was going to be able to finish the plate that Draco had ordered for him (as it was painfully obvious Harry couldn't speak a word of French- he was lucky enough he could pronounce Fleur's name on a daily basis). Though he hadn't seen much of the Malfoy grandeur since their trip began, he was certainly seeing it now. Draco looked perfectly at home, swirling a glass of wine absentmindedly and staring at Harry.

Staring at Harry?

"What?" Harry said in an I-Didn't-Do-It-And-You-Can't-Blame-Me-For-Anything kind of tone.

"You're not going to finish that?" Draco said, accusatorily.

Harry looked down at his plate with finality. "No, I'm definitely done."

"Oh." Draco had said it so passively that Harry didn't notice at first. He looked up and noticed that the blonde was taking another distracted sip of his Bordeaux.

"Erhm . . . should I take some of it back for later? Or?"

"Oh, no," Draco said immediately, setting the glass down. "I mean, if you don't like it, you don't have to force yourself to finish it. It's really no problem."

Harry almost picked up on the sense that Draco was disappointed. "What? No way, I loved it. I've never had anything like this before," Harry said. "I'm just full. Between hors d'oeuvres and this, I'm not sure I could stomach much else," he explained.

"Really?" It was almost immediately that Draco's demeanor snapped back into place. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. I mean, it's no surprise, I do have amazing judgement when it comes to ordering."

"And not much else?" Harry laughed, picking up on the opportunity to expand upon his sentence. Draco merely shoved him sideways in acknowledgement.

"I advise you'd shut up. I've got dessert on the way, and I might think twice about sharing."

Harry thunked his head backwards against the booth in protest. "More food, Malfoy? Don't you ever reach a limit?"

Draco smiled. "It's just the way I was raised. It's a three-course sort of lifestyle."

Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye. It was weird, having dinner outside of the context of the Great Hall in Hogwarts. There, everyone was an equal. Perhaps not socially, of course, but when it came down to the bare bones of it all, everyone was eating the same food at the same tables in the same uniforms. To imagine that Malfoy had grown up in an environment that was starkly different than his own made sense, but didn't quite register. It never really hit Harry that Draco was unbelievably coddled as a youth. Yes, it was evident in his attitude, but to imagine that the entire family (of three) had so much room in their living arrangements and so much food to enjoy merely for the lavishness of it all was a concept Harry had trouble grasping. Let alone having to dine with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy every day. That was an idea all on its own.

"Hey Malfoy."

Draco looked up after a moment's concentration on his fabric napkin. "Yes?"

"What was it like in your place? Growing up, I mean." Harry was unsure why he was bold enough to put the question out there, but there was little that didn't piss Malfoy off nowadays, so he saw no risk.

Draco looked confused by the question. Or by the fact that Harry had posed it at all. Still, he surprisingly obliged. "Well," he decided, "I suppose it wasn't any different than the way you grew up. You learn the basics when you're young from a tutor and the rest is all breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

Harry had an ironic look on his face. "I went to a muggle elementary school, not a tutor. And then I was shoved in a cupboard for a while."

"Oh well, not too much difference there, I was always stuck up in my room for one reason or another-"

Harry tried not to smile out of spite. "No, I mean, literally. A cupboard."

Draco's placid expression turned into something of mockery, as if he thought Harry was pulling his leg, but then changed into disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. You're Harry Potter. No one in their right mind would think of putting you in a cupboard."

"Yeah, well, try telling that to my uncle."

Draco nearly squinted. "And here I was under the impression that you slept on guilded sheets for the eleven years you spent prior to Hogwarts."

Harry chuckled. "No, that would be you."

Draco leaned back comfortably and swirled his glass again. Harry didn't know what the purpose of that was, but he'd sure seen a lot of people do it. It looked more like a nervous tic than anything else, but he doubted there was anything Malfoy had to be nervous about right now. Not surrounded by all this food.

"Yes, I suppose. Mother always did like to spoil me." Harry tried not to laugh at his inside comment of I couldn't tell. "What, Potter? Did I say something amusing?"

"No, no, I'm just being a git again. Go on."

Draco refilled his glass with the wine bottle on the table. "'Go on' what? I wasn't aware I had anything else to say about the matter."

"No, really," Harry said, now interested in getting Malfoy to talk. When did that ever happen? "I want to know about you. Since we're not intent on killing one another, and you obviously wanted to be friends."

Draco's face turned a shade darker. Hopefully it would appear as though it was from the alcohol. "Well, I guess." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "What do you want to know about?"

Harry launched into a crossfire of shallow questions, all of which dealt with anything from being an only child (how great would it have been to have Dudley out of the picture?) to having pets to learning from a pureblood point of view. He didn't ask about the bias, of course, nor did he even dare venture into the rough stuff yet. In the meantime, the waiter had dropped off a very large crème brulee that Draco dug into with ease.

"So you really never had a birthday party?" Harry asked, watching Draco take another bite, and slip the spoon out of his mouth clean again.

"No, I didn't. Mmmn, but I got plenty of gifts, of course." Another bite, another slip of the spoon. "Potter, you really should have some of this. I had it made for us by the executive chef."

"No, trust me, I'm fine," Harry said, feeling slightly guilty for refusing. "I never had a birthday either. It never really mattered until Hogwarts. Even then, it's in the middle of summer, so I never had the chance to particularly celebrate it."

"God, as if I didn't hear enough about your birthday. Seventh month this, seventh month that. That's all you ever heard around Death Ea-" he caught himself "- my house."

Harry felt as though Draco had just dug up a dark spot in the conversation. Still, his curiosity got the better of him. "You knew about the prophecy?"

"The what? Oh, I don't know what the bloody hell they were talking about. A prophecy sounds about right," he said, taking another bite. It was very clear to Harry that he was trying to keep the conversation as lighthearted as possible, because Draco's tone was becoming slightly more distant.

Harry had to think. Though he'd known Draco to be stuck in the middle of a very prominent ring of Death Eaters, he'd never really considered what it must've been like. At least now that he realized Draco wanted little to do with it all. How was it, to have killers walk in and have tea? How was it to share a parlor with Voldemort? To watch it all fail, and to watch your father be sent to prison?

" . . . Can I see it?" Harry asked plainly, because in all honesty, there was no other to go about asking.

Draco looked up from his dessert. "Excuse me?"

"Your arm."

A look of sheer horror flashed across Draco's face, but it quickly disappeared into a guarded sort of mistrust. "You don't need to see that, Potter."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and offered a small empathetic smile which faded after only a second. Instead, for whatever reason, and probably the same reason that guided him through his toughest times (and got him into them in the first place), he placed his hand around Draco's wrist and gently lifted it off the table. Surprisingly enough, there was no protest, but Draco looked like he was going through an excruciating amount of inner discomfort. Harry slowly pushed the sleeve of Draco's blazer up his forearm, taking his undershirt along with it, and rotated his now nearly-shaking limb around to face upward.

"There's nothing there, Draco."

The blonde offered a weak smile. "Got you all worked up for nothing, did I?" His humor quickly dissipated, however, as he became content with staring at his still-full wine. It was hard to hear, but Harry caught him saying it. " . . . Glamour charms really are quite useful . . . "

Harry studied Draco for a moment's time, and though he looked as though he was dreading what was about to happen next, he didn't pull away. What was it that kept his arm in Harry's grip?

But somehow, Harry felt as though he already knew the answer. Somehow, between the two of them right now, there was trust. Enough to keep Draco from receding back into his safety vault.

Making sure that there was no audience (the woman who'd been previously seated near them had already paid and left), Harry held his wand low, and softly murmured the counter charm. It happened at a near-lightning speed; the creamy color of Draco's natural skin began wiping away and disintegrating outwards around the Mark, revealing a black and gray darker than ink staining the entire length of his forearm. It was a perfect copy of the Dark Mark that Harry had seen at the World Cup during his fourth year, only instead of brilliantly displayed, or even faded like Igor Karkaroff's was during Voldemort's bodily hiatus, Draco's rendition was horribly smudged out as if it was covered in soot. What the hell?

" . . . It did that after you killed him," Draco explained quietly, looking incredibly ashamed as though there was anything he could do about it in the first place. "I think everyone's did."

"But it didn't go away?" Harry asked, still studying it up close. Here he was, peering into the symbol of the man that haunted him for seventeen years of his life. In the end, that's all he really was. Just a man.

"If it 'went away', do you think I'd have to cast a ruddy charm on it all the time?" Draco asked, a twinge of discontent with the question in his inflection.

"No, I s'pose not," Harry said, running the edge of his fingertip along what was left of the design. He looked up, and realized that this was still Draco's arm, not a canvas, and immediately stopped. "Sorry," he offered.

Draco stared at Harry in a calculating sort of way. "Looking at this now, you must think me stupid."

"What? No way. It's . . . fascinating, for lack of a better word."

"Fascinating, maybe, but incriminating, moreover. It's not as though you've got a mark on you to remind you of him for the rest of your life."

But it was then that Harry furrowed his eyebrows in a bit of an exasperated smile. It made Draco give a look of disgust, that Harry would be even attempting to find humour in what he just said, but it was wiped off his face when Harry moved his disheveled fringe out of the way.

"No. I don't have anything like that, do I," Harry said, calmly displaying his forehead.

Both boys stared at each other before a mutual sort of grin spread out on their faces. It didn't match the mood at all. No, it changed the mood.

And change was good.

It was late by the time they'd left the restaurant, and considering they'd both had their fair share of dinner (and everything else that went along with it), traveling back to the school didn't seem like a very grand idea. Instead, Harry's decisions and Draco's prowess for knowing exactly the right people granted them both a night's suite at the Ritz-Carlton. It wasn't exactly the motel Harry had suggested, but it would work fine in the meantime.

"Hey look, Potter, two beds. Can't find those in your discount lodging, can you," Draco scoffed, falling backwards onto the one closest to the veranda.

"Oy, Malfoy. Two beds. Which means fall asleep on your own this time, got it?"

Draco tried to happily shove the thought out of his mind, but the embarrassment that accompanied the memory was a little too much to keep from surfacing. "Yeah, I got it. You still owe me for that paper, by the way. What's that I hear you got on it? An O? As in, 'Oh Malfoy, I couldn't have done it without your superior wit and grace?'"

"An O, as in, Oh Malfoy, bugger off before I throw this pillow at your face." Harry looked as though he was quite enjoying himself. "'Superior wit and grace' my bleeding arse."

"You've got to hand it to me, Potter," Draco continued, dodging the pillow as it careened toward a lamp. That was one reason Harry was never a chaser, at least, Draco mused. His broom may have been fast and his eye may have been keen, but his arm would never be able to pitch a good throw, even if he had Weasley as a keeper. "I'm more of an asset than you originally expected."

Harry moved toward the sliding glass door, and unlocked it before stepping outside. "Hey! Potter! Acknowledge what I just said, dammit!" Draco pulled himself up off the bed and followed him outside onto the deck. It was worth abandoning the conversation, though. If there was one thing that was more beautiful in the muggle world than anything magic could've attained, it was NYC's lit up skyline. Gold and neon sparkled for what seemed like kilometers on end, all framed boldly against the black and purple of the night air. Draco had personally never seen anything like it. Maybe in London, if he could remember a time where he'd been there in the evening, but even then it was nothing compared to this.

"You are an asset." Draco didn't expect him to say it, but it was nice to hear. He leaned against the railing and looked out. Harry did the same.

"I always thought that hearing you say something like that- something nice- would be just another play on your part to follow up on your Saviour of the World act," Draco said, "But I'm surprised to say that it's not."

"Damn straight it's not."

Draco paused to momentarily button up the collar on his coat. The view was spectacular; the breeze was not.

"Hey, Malfoy."

Once again, Draco looked up, this time expecting some other sort of life-investigative question or another. But Harry only hesitated.

"I'd just," he started, "Like to thank you. You know. For putting up with me all day. I was just so upset over Ron and Ron and Hermione together and Ron and Hermione apart-"

"I get it. It's no problem."

Harry offered a sheepish smile. "They're my best friends. I don't like the idea of them losing each other," he offered, shrugging. "I don't like the idea of losing anyone."

"Understandably," Draco commented. "But you know, you can't play hero to everyone. Some people are bound to refuse."

Harry looked at Draco. "Did you?"

This caused Draco to cough out a laugh and look down at his shoes to confirm their status as 'tied'. "No, I suppose I didn't. I'm here, having a civilized chat with you, after all." In fact, Harry was closer than he would've preferred, but there was only so much he could do about it right now. Keep it together, Malfoy.

"Guess that makes me a big-headed hero then, finally. Just like you've been saying all these years, eh Malfoy?"

Harry turned to look at Draco, and they were shoulder to shoulder, and Draco could feel the warmth emanating from Harry's overcoat. There was no animosity, and for the first time in eighteen years, there were no barriers whatsoever. There was only agreement, and dare he think it- trust.

Draco was already yelling at himself.

"In your dreams, Potter."

His conscience was shouting, and his blood was telling him something was wrong, but his muscles didn't listen. He didn't know how it happened, and couldn't recall it if he wished the world upon it, but the heat from Harry's face was against his, and his lips were dangerously close to committing a hazard sin, but their breath was already laced with scent and damn Draco couldn't see much . . .

It was quick, just a brush if anything at all, but after a second of sanguine ignorance Draco's logic kicked back into a functioning mode and he turned away sharply. If he could breathe at all, he'd surely be hyperventilating.

". . . I'm sorry," he said in disbelief, his eyes wide against the windy altitude. "I don't know what . . . I'm sorry . . ."

To his worst expectations, Harry didn't say anything. Nothing at all. He glanced at Draco, but had little emotion displayed at all. He wouldn't look him in the eye, that was for certain.

Fuck. Draco's mind was reeling. Fuck fucking fuck!

He'd just blown it all to pieces. All of it.

Draco Malfoy had just kissed Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy was gay.

He re-entered the suite and sat down on the edge of his bed, and sunk into his hands. If he could've garnered the personal strength to slap himself, he would've. But unfortunately, there was a lot that seemed to be lacking right now. It seemed like hours before Harry had come inside and closed the glass door, but he stood, still holding the handle, when he finally spoke.

"You wrote my paper. I owed you. So my favor to you is to keep quiet. Sound alright?" he asked, his voice flatter than it usually was.

Draco nodded, unable to say anything. It was more than he was hoping for.

Draco Malfoy had just kissed Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy was fucked.

A/N: Yargh, I've finally hit 70 pages of single-spaced size 10 font writing this thing. Trust me, folks, that's a lot for me XD I also obviously have little to no French training, as I took Spanish and Japanese and neither of those helped with this chapter. So forgive me/feel free to help me out if anything looked awkward. Also, as serious and downtrodden as this may be right now, I have always been one for fluff, so for fans of that, it will come. Eventually. Yeah. Review if you feel like dancing =)