Hermione'd always thought the Hogwarts atmosphere couldn't get any worse than it had been under Umbridge's regime, or even the end of last term, when everything went to hell.

But now, after three months of unmitigated terror and fear, everyone at home hearing whispers and reading missing reports and obituaries—

(Everyone's fear is palpable.)

Several families are especially grim; their names those that have recently been in the paper.

(Those who've lost loved ones.)

Sirius hugs them both close, Sofia pouting at his side; she'd thrown a legendary tantrum upon being told her siblings were leaving again, even though her parents had promised she would see them regularly when she and Sirius floo to visit Remus in his quarters.

Sixth year prefects don't have to attend the meeting on the train, so Hermione and Harry track down a compartment, Blaise, Ginny, and Ron joining them shortly after.

Ginny's sitting on Blaise's lap, which has Ron looking on the verge of retching, but it's clear the two are just relieved to be together and safe.

(If such a thing is even possible right now.)

"Is Luna coming?" Ron asks Harry, before casting a spell to make the chessboard float between them.

"No, she and Padma and Ernie are hanging out to discuss hippogriff habitats, or something? I dunno, I just nod sometimes because I never know what she's talking about."

A few minutes later the door to the compartment swings open, Pansy dramatically pausing after stepping inside before closing it to allow Draco to sneak in behind her, disillusioned.

As soon as they're both inside Hermione begins casting the familiar security enchantments, blocking out their window.

Draco becomes visible—and even though she saw him a week ago, she could swear he's lost even more weight.

(Lost even more sleep.)

Harry moves to hug him tightly. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Thanks, Potter," Draco smiles half-heartedly. He moves to Hermione's side, nearly collapsing into the seat beside her with relief, the tension leaving his body as he leans his head on her shoulder.

His soul mate moves her fingers through his hair gently, brow furrowed with concern.

Even more concerning is Pansy's behavior; she's quiet, sitting in the corner and receding into herself—at one point even telling Ron she's too tired for a chess match.

(She is—not okay, in a horribly, horribly wrong way Hermione can just sense.)

Blaise rubs circles on Ginny's hand with his thumb as he begins speaking. "My mother says Slughorn is a decent professor, but plays favorites excessively. He's not a particularly accomplished wizard himself, but he has connections everywhere in the wizarding world—entertainment, politics, innovators, investors, you name it."

A nod from Harry. "Yeah, when Hermione and I were at his place a few weeks ago he managed to mention at least five or six famous alums he's still in contact with in less than as many minutes."

Draco cocks his head, gears in his mind whirring. "You think Dumbledore wants to use Slughorn to recruit?"

"I'd believe it," Ron mutters. "The way Mum and Dad tell it he'd do anything and everything to get people to fight for their side the last time around."

"So is he trying to get powerful people to fight with the Order," Hermione muses. "Or to leave the Death Eaters?"

"Both, probably," Draco says darkly. "He'll do everything in his ability to consolidate as much power as possible."

Thoughtful, Ron rubs at his chin. "We need to get close to him. Someone to be around, able to keep an eye on what exactly Dumbledore wants with him."

All eyes turn to Hermione.

She groans, slumping against the back of the seat. "Why me?"

"Hermione. Come on." Ron clasps his hands together and levels her with a look. "We need someone to suck up to a teacher. Someone he'll favorite because they're exceptionally smart and good at potions and likely to have an especially bright and lucrative future. Are you kidding me? There's literally no one else who could possibly be a better candidate."

Her cheeks warm at the compliments, weaponized as they are. "Okay, thank you, but—but—he likes charisma, and charm, and social capital. I have none of those things. And he's already taken a particular fascination with Harry, so I think he would be—"

"Oh, throw me under the bus, why don't you!" Harry sends her a half-hearted glare. "I don't think so. Need I remind you of the many professors who have previously taken an interest me? There was the one with a psychopath on his head that tried to kill me, the one that tried to obliviate me and leave me to be murdered by a basilisk—"

"Harry—"

He continues, nonplussed, "—the one who predicted my death a few hundred times, the other psychopath who tried to kill me and murdered and maimed three professors, the other other psychopath who sed an illegal torture device to permanently scar me and attempted to use an Unforgivable on me after attempting to get my wand snapped the summer before." He raises his eyebrows at her. "No thank you, Mia, I would very much like to sit this one out."

"Not to mention you definitely do have charm and social skills," Blaise adds, eyebrows raised. "You managed to convince all four houses they should ally for ASA, convinced them all the join and then to listen and throw away previous prejudices. Hermione, you're the perfect person to do this."

"Ugh I hate it when you're right," she moans. "Fine. You all suck."

"I'll buy you as many licorice wands as you want all term," Harry promises, smile wide.

"Damn straight you are." She gets to her feet with a sigh. "I'm going to run to the bathroom and then hit the trolley—Pansy, you want to come with?"

The other girl eyes her, likely knowing it's a ploy, but acquiesces nonetheless; Hermione lifts the wards for them to exit, then recasts once they're on the outside.

"You don't need to go to the bathroom, do you?" Pansy asks as soon as they're alone.

Hermione gives her a small smile. "No. But you've barely spoken a word all day—something's wrong. Spill."

Pansy looks around them, before dropping to the floor, pulling her knees tight to her chest. "Can you—do your thing, so we're not overheard?"

Her friend nods worriedly, casting the usual spells to keep the section of hallway secluded, before turning her full attention to Pansy.

The Slytherin is quiet for a moment, taking a shuddering breath before forcing out a whisper. "It happened again."

(Her silence, the way she's curled in on herself, even the way she's tugging her sleeves down over her fingers—Hermione understands instantly.)

(The realization makes her have to resist the urge to vomit.)

"Oh, god, Pansy." Her voice breaks. "God. You just can't catch a break. Fuck." She looks to Pansy carefully, trying to figure out what she needs. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It—I—" Pansy opens and closes her mouth, unable to compose words, unable to even breathe, just—overwhelmed by it all. She presses a hand to her mouth, muffling her speech.

After a beat, she takes a rattling breath before speaking. "He—Voldemort, I mean—he's using Malfoy Manor as headquarters. So I was there a lot all summer, for meetings and planning and revels and inductions, and—all of it." She swallows heavily. "Draco's the only one of us still in school that he Marked, but—it's clear we're all a part of his side. Not that that's relevant to anything."

"That's okay," Hermione soothes, voice gentle. "Whatever you want to tell me. Whatever you need to say."

Pansy nods sharply. Her eyes are far away. "There was a revel. Everyone was drinking; we weren't allowed to opt out, and even if we could I wouldn't have wanted to—the drinking made it all easier to stomach." Deep breaths. "I don't remember much. After the fact, I realized someone must have—drugged me, or imperio-d me, I—I don't know. It's in and out, the whole rest of the night, just—flashes, bits and pieces of it.

"And," she presses her hands to her face, like this is the part that kills her the most, "I don't know who it was. I can't remember what he looks like, because of—the drugs, and the dark, and the unconsciousness. I—I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him." She slides her fingers to her scalp, tugging at her hair as though if she pulls hard enough it'll distract her from the pain she's remembering. "Hermione, he could be anyone. Anywhere, I—he could walk up and say hi to me and I wouldn't know that he's—"

(She dry heaves, then leans her head onto her knees, devolving.)

"I'm so sorry, Pansy." Hermione's lip trembles, wishing she could wrap her friend in a hug.

(Knowing doing so might only make it worse.)

"I just…" Pansy hesitates, licking her lips anxiously. "Before—it was awful, but—the kind of thing I could chalk up to a monster. And I knew there wre plenty of monsters out there, but somehow…they still felt like the minority. But now, it doesn't feel like a fluke, it feels like—like they're everywhere. Like I'll never be okay again."

And Hermione has to squeeze her eyes shut because that—that feeling she knows.

(God, does she know it.)

"I just don't understand." Pansy whispers. "Part of me is glad it was me instead of someone else—I'm already broken from it, you know? Better me again than someone who's still whole. I know it's—survivable. But at the same time—how is this fair?" her voice breaks. "Did I do something wrong? Did I—"

"Hey, no, do not go there." Hermione's tone is insistent—a command. "This is no one's fault but his. You and I know that better than anyone. Men like that…" Clenched jaw, she shakes her head. "Drunk or sober, single or dating, tank top or pajamas, seven or seventeen—this is what they do. They are the problem, not us."

"But I—the fact that it was more than once, that someone totally different figured out that I was a good target—"

"That's not just you, babe." Hermione reaches to tie her hair back, needing it off of her face, her neck. "It's—half of us are revictimized later in life. We've been conditioned not to fight back, to think trying to stop it is useless." She gives a helpless shrug. "It's—shit. But it's not just you. And it's definitely not your fault."

Pansy's eyes water for the first time during the whole conversation. "Thanks." She leans her head onto Hermione's shoulder gently. "Do you think we'll ever feel safe again?" she wonders aloud.

"I don't know," Hermione admits faintly. "Sometimes I do—with Draco, or Harry and his family. When I'm with you, Ginny, and Luna. Never for long, but—it's something. And I have to believe—someday it'll be better. When the world stops falling apart long enough for us to—heal, or something."

"I'd like to believe that, too," Pansy whispers, eyes fluttering closed as she imagines it.

(She falls asleep, then; sleeps the rest of the ride to Hogwarts, the two hours passed out on Hermione's lap in the hallway the longest consecutive amount of time she's slept in months.)

(Someday.)

/

All throughout the welcome feast, it seems like every upperclassman in the entire student body is trying to catch Harry and Hermione's eye.

A bunch of them approach, each one attracting more even as Harry and Hermione attempt to wave them off.

(They know what they want, of course—it's all ASA members, asking what the plan will be now that Umbrdige is gone.)

(If they'll still have the group that had become a safe haven, the one place everyone was united.)

But even though Umbridge is gone, it doesn't mean everyone in the castle is on their side being this obvious is just a very, very bad idea, a chance for everyone to figure them out waiting to happen.

Eventually, Ron's the one to make them scatter. "Oi! Give them some space, you lot. Don't you have things to do?"

"Yeah, it's the first night of term," Neville calls. "Leave them be and go—count your galleons, or something."

The statement is so incredibly out of character, so far beyond shocking coming from Neville, of all people, that it makes everyone go silent.

(Just so odd, and the way he'd stressed the word galleons—)

"Oh!" Hermione exclaims, understanding dawning on her. "Neville, you are brilliant."

She digs in the bag she'd cast the undetectable extension charm on, one she's taken to always keeping on her person.

Tugging out the ASA communication galleon, she watches out of the corner of her eye as they all realize what she's doing and retreat. "Thank god for Neville," she mutters. "Harry, do you want to call for a meeting to figure things out Sunday night?"

He nods immediately, and she's charming it into the coin, silently begging for them all to be a little more subtle in checking their coins.

(They can't afford any enemies to know.)

"Are we even doing ASA this year?" Ron asks quietly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love it as much as anyone, but—is there a need?"

Hermione bites her lip. "Not in the same way—as much as I dislike Snape, he is a good teacher, so I wholly believe we'll have adequate Defense instruction. But…we can never overprepare with a war on the horizon."

Harry nods in agreement, frowning thoughtfully. "And—last year the focus was the defense itself, and the unity was just icing on the cake. This year…I think the time together, the safe haven, is what everyone needs." He scratches the back of his head, further messing up his hair. "We should do it, but—more like an actual study group this year, instead of a teenage militia. Like, people can practice wand work together if they'd like, but they can also just talk while they do bookwork, or even just spend the time relaxing, seeing friends they might not normally get to see."

"All the hours we spent insisting it wasn't a teenage militia to Remus and Percy last year only for you to call it one now," Hermione rolls her eyes, but smiles fondly. "That's a great idea. Perfect, actually." She tucks baby hairs behind her ears. "We'll have to renew the contract, adjust for any new students that join and take off the old ones."

"No," Ron blurts. "Don't take them off."

Hermione's brows furrow. "Ron, what—"

"We know Voldemort has eyes on you, right?" he says quietly. "You're a target. Anyone no longer bound by the contract would become a potential leak—someone who could tell him anything and everything they learned about you last year. Anything they learned about anyone in all of ASA."

"You're right—god, of course you're right. I—can't believe I didn't think of that." A shake of her head. Voice hollow, she says, "It's odd. Things were so bad last year, and yet—I think this is the year we need to worry more. The year we're in the most danger we've ever been in."

Harry sighs, tiredness lining his face as he looks out across the room around them.

Grim set to her face, Ginny says, "Let the games begin."

/

That night, Hermione and Draco commandeer the RoR, barring the door and politely ordering their friends to stay the hell away, please.

The second they're alone, they both—fall apart.

(overwhelmed with emotion, and stress, and a complicated joy at being together.)

They should be talking strategy, and catching up on all the thigns they haven't been able to tell each other yet—but instead, they lean into each other impulsively, and then Draco's mouth is on her neck and she's tugging off his robes and tie—

(it's dumb—idiotic, to spend the time having sex instead of having the serious conversations, but that's exactly why they need it so bad—why they so desperately just want to escape the world for a little while, get lost inside the bliss that is each other.)

It's—soothing, reclaiming this, the sense of control in choosing; the calm, in him knowing not to say the niceties she'd once heard that made her skin crawl; the security blanket of peace and passion that is Draco against her, behind her, above her; the shape of the body she knows better than her own, the skin linked to hers that every fiber of her being knows.

(And yeah, on a basic, physiological way, it feels good.)

After, they catch up on all of the things—his mother, Voldemort, the Order. Any more information for her to convey to McGonagall.

(How the hell they're going to get through the hellscape that is this year.)

The odds are very much not in their favor, the stakes too high for it all to end well.

(But in this moment, she manages to find hope that somehow it will.)

/

"What do you mean, you're not taking potions?" Hermione demands, eyes narrowed at her brother as they make their way through the hall the first morning of classes.

Harry waves away her concern before covering a yawn. "I only ever needed it if I was going to be an Auror. We all agreed I'm not gonna do that, and if I am going to teach the only thing I need a NEWT in is Defense." He makes a face. "Sucks that I have to deal with Snape, still, but at least I don't have to deal with potions itself anymore."

"Harry James you don't get to just drop core subjects like that!" Hermione groans and contemplates either throttling him or casting a body-bind to drag him to class. "Whatever you go on to do, a basic knowledge of potions is important."

"Yeah, I'm sure a basic knowledge of Divination would be important too and yet one of us doesn't even have a full year of it."

Hermione scowls, even though she knows he's just saying it to get a rise out of her. "I'm going to potions. Don't come begging me to brew for you the next time you need to interrogate someone with Polyjuice, you pain in the ass."

"Love you! Have fun in potions!"

He smiles cheekily as she heads toward Slughorn's classroom, only to spin around and come face to face with McGonagall. "Ahh, god—I mean, Professor! Good morning."

"Mister Potter." Even though he's taller than her now, she manages to look down her nose at him. "Please tell me I misheard you. Tell me you are not truly so foolish as to drop a vital class simply because you dislike it."

Harry begins to let out a sigh before quickly stopping at the sight of his professor's glare. "Professor, you're the one who said I shouldn't be an Auror. Why else would I take Potions?"

"Well, for one thing, Miss Granger is right—there may come a day you critically need a potion and she's not there to do it all for you." She gives him a look, like she knows just how much of their magic Hermione conducts. "For another, Hogwarts does like its faculty to be proficient in all subjects, not only the one which they teach. Not to mention other organizations in which you may wish to engage often expect a certain level of proficiency in all core subjects."

He grimaces at the realization—she means the Order.

(god damn it.)

"Fine, fine—I mean yes, Professor."

"That's what I thought. Go on, then, I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be thrilled to see you."

She's smirking a bit too much for his liking as he heads in the direction Hermione had gone, making his way down to the potions room.

He braces himself for opening the door—the way every student does, knowing how every head will turn.

(He's used to more attention than he'd like, but even still—dreads it.)

Slughorn beams as soon as he enters the room, Hermione's eyebrows lifting with happy surprise; Harry smiles nervously, distracted by how few people are in the room.

(It makes sense, he supposes; potions is one of the more difficult subjects, and even only needing an Exceeds Expectations excludes a good chunk of the student body.)

(But still—it surprises him, the intimacy of such a small class, Hermione and Parvati the only other Gryffindors in the room.)

"Harry, m'boy! Are you here to join us?"

"Yes, Professor, I'm sorry it's so last minute."

Slughorn waves away his concerns. "Not a problem, dear boy. Go ahead and sit where you'd like, we're just about to begin."

Harry moves to the table where Hermione and Pansy are seated, settling on his stool before turning to his sister anxiously. "Er, I didn't want to tell him and cause a scene, but—I don't have the book yet. Alright if I look of you?"

"Of course." She squeezes his hand. "Breathe, Harry."

He nods, tuning into what Slughorn is saying about the potions before them.

It—as much as he's always hated potions because of Snape, the content really is interesting, especially with a professor who so clearly just wants them to love it as much as he does.

When the lid's taken off the Amortentia, he blushes at the scent of daisies, lake water, and a hint of radishes—so purely Luna, it makes his heart float.

(He tries not to grin at the glances exchanged between Hermione and Draco, trying to force themselves to keep a lid on their emotions at the sight of each other as the scent of the love potion seeps through the room; he meets Pansy's gaze, snickers when she rolls her eyes at the two of them.)

The period is a competition; the whole time, Hermione's muttering under her breath about something in the directions not feeling right. "There are just more efficient methods for this," she keeps muttering, shaking her head at the outdated textbook, occasionally consulting prior years' notes to confirm that her memory is accurate before utilizing the methods she'd learned from Snape.

Likewise, Draco brags about Snape being his godfather under the premise of being an asshole, but it's really taunts to Hermione—a challenge, to his soul mate, to see whose potion will be better.

(Hermione's kind enough not to boast audibly, when Slughorn deduces her the winner, though Harry does catch her scribbling ha on her wrist.)

As the others start to leave the classroom, Hermione taps his shoulder. "You should see if Professor Slughorn has any extra copies of the textbook; not that I'm not happy to share as long as you need, of course, but given that our homework schedules are often vastly different it might be good for you to have your own loaner till you can order one."

He nods, following her advice and mumbling his thanks when the professor directs him to a closet in the back. There are two copies, there, one appearing fairly new, the other incredibly shabby, spine wrinkled and pages thick from frequent use.

And it probably doesn't matter, the odds of any other transfers before he gets his copy and gives the loaner back are slim, but—he's never minded hand me downs, much.

(He's already been given so much more excess than he ever expected.)

So he grabs the older copy, casually stuffing it into his bag and hoping it's not missing any important pages.

(Thinks nothing more of it—not yet, anyway.)

/

Pansy is—skittish, understandably so.

So Neville's careful when he approaches the first Friday night of term after ASA, when their friends have stuck around post-meeting to have drinks and pizza they'd begged Winky to bring them from a muggle shop.

Pansy puts on her patented smirk, the usual suave façade when he approaches—though her eyes are soft, as they tend to be around him.

"Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?"

She blinks with surprise, curving her lips. "Yeah, of course—do you need a shopping consult or something?" one eyebrow cocked. "You'd better be careful, or I'll think you want to take me on a date, Longbottom."

"Good." Neville smiles, looking nervous but still sure. "That's kind of the idea."

She shouldn't be surprised, really, and yet her jaw drops open at the admission. "I—you—really?"

He nods with a snort. "Desperately. I think everyone's been tormented for the last year watching how painfully obvious my crush on you is."

Pansy closes and opens her mouth—words, words would be good here.

"Oh," she manages, cheeks flushed. "I—I'd like that, then. The date, I mean." She hesitates a moment, before swallowing heavily. So only he can hear, she says, "I—dating me might not be like dating other girls. I have—things in my past…"

"That's okay. Whatever it is. Whatever you've been through, we can—face it together" he promises, "Or if you need space, I can give you that too. Whatever you need. I just want to be with you."

Pansy's cheeks grow pink at the comment, at the honesty in his voice.

(Most of her is wary, reluctant to believe it, but—this is Neville.)

(Something about him has always felt—different.)

Hesitantly, she reaches for his hand; squeezes it, gently, feels a small smile creep up on her face. "Okay. I'll see you then."

(Nervous already, she shoots out of the room; she's gone too soon to see Neville's helpless grin as he pumps his fist up into the air.)

/

He's tapping at his broom handle anxiously all during breakfast.

"You need to eat, Harry," Hermione orders gently, setting a few blueberry waffles onto his plate. "You'll feel better with some sugar in you. Breathe."

Harry nods; stabs his fork into a piece of waffle before eating it.

(It feels heavy in his mouth; it's his favorite meal, but in this moment it tastes like cotton fluff and cardboard.)

"I'm going to be sick."

"Have some pumpkin juice, at least," Neville encourages from across the table. "It'll go down easier, and you need something in your stomach."

"No, Harry's right," Ron says from Harry's other side, so pale he looks almost green. "Eating right now would equal vomit all over the table. Best not."

Ginny rolls her eyes at the pair of them, snatching berries off of Hermione's plate. "You two are ridiculous."

"Just because you don't have to worry—"

"Oh do shut up, ickle Ronnie." She narrows her eyes at her brother. "You have nothing to worry about. Do I need to take my Weasley is Our King pin back out? As loathe as I am to acknoeldge any of your positive qualities, Quidditch is very much one of them. And you," she turns to Harry, exasperated. "You literally already run a study group teaching teenagers NEWT level defense spells for a literal war. How can you possibly be nervous about coaching a fucking Quidditch team?"

Harry thumbs at the Captain's badge adorning his chest. "You're right, but it's just—different. I don't know. I'm worried I'll mess it up."

Remus approaches, and Hermione sighs with relief. "Please make your kid see sense, I'm about to hex him."

The older man chuckles, taking a seat on the bench beside Neville. "Somehow, I doubt I'll say anything different than you already have, Hermione. What's the issue, then?"

"He's panicking about being Quidditch Captain-for some reason he thinks he won't be good at it." Hermione crosses her arms, making a face as she says it. "Ron was too, but he seems to have calmed down some."

She flicks her eyes to the Slytherin table meaningfully, and sees Remus's lips twitch with amusement at the sight of a Weasley is Our King badge affixed to Draco's chest.

He turns to his son with a bemused smile. "Harry, I have spent all of the last week trying to talk your dad out of sending an excited Howler today to make sure the entire Great Hall would know you were the greatest quidditch captain Hogwarts has ever known. Please don't tell me I should've let him."

Harry flushes scarlet at the prospect. "No, I just—what if I'm bad at it?"

"Oh, Harry." Remus's expression grows serious. "Teaching and quidditch are literally the two things you're best at in the world."

"Besides almost getting murdered," Ginny interjects helpfully, earning a flick from her brother and a look from Remus.

(Hermione and Harry both laugh, garnering looks from everyone around them who's mentally stable.)

"Anyway," Remus continues, "Given that those are your strengths, I can't imagine anything more suited to you than being quidditch captain. You're going to be great." A grin forms on his face. "Minerva and I have been looking forward to tryouts for weeks—we have a bet with Pomona and Severus about the cup, so we're rather invested in a strong team."

"That sounds fairly unethical," Hermione sing-songs.

The clock sounds out the end of breakfast, and their peers begin making their way out of the room, heading to wherever they intend to spend the free day.

"Harry, Hermione, a word," Remus says—so they stay sitting, Hermione making faces at Harry to distract him from the fact that he has to go to the quidditch pitch, in a moment.

They both turn to him expectantly when the benches around them are empty.

Remus's jaw twitches, and Harry scrunches his nose. "Oh, yikes, who are you annoyed with?"

His father grimaces at the reminder of his skill reading body language.

(The reminder of why he'd had to learn to read the slightest of movements.)

But nonetheless, he carries on. "Dumbledore has requested private lessons with you once weekly this year." He scowls, making it clear he hates the idea. "I protested, but it has to do with—the Riddle efforts."

(Their code for the Order, at least until Luna's article is released in a few months.)

Hermione grips Harry's wrist tightly with worry. "Even still, I don't trust him, he can't be alone with Harry once a week—"

"I said the same," Remus nods. "Which is why Dumbledore is permitting you to accompany him to each lesson. He said it would be a good idea for you both to be able to discuss the content together anyway, that your different perspectives might be valuable to the work you'll be doing."

Harry scoffs. "More like he just wants to seem like he's still the one in control."

Remus gestures like he doesn't disagree. "I don't doubt it. Nonetheless, as much as we distrust Dumbledore, he is an incredibly knowledgeable wizard—everything you both learn will be invaluable. Just keep your guard up, please; and Sirius and I expect you to keep us informed of the times you're with him, and send us missives when you return safely."

They both roll their eyes at the caution, but are secretly pleased by it.

(at how loved it makes them feel, these people ready to go to war with the most powerful wizard in the world on their behalf without a second thought.)

A/N: chapter title from shattered by o.a.r.

I know the pansy scene is a bit heavy, but it's the reality of the world, and it felt important to me to keep the circumstances of this story as raw and real as life is.

Next chapter to come soon! Lots of love for y'all, always. Hope life is treating you well.