The shaking wouldn't stop. She'd experienced the withdrawal symptoms before, but she never knew precisely what they were. If she had put any ounce of actual thought into it, she would have been able to deduce it was a result of her bodies' dependency—but why would she have ever bothered to investigate? She had never let it get this bad before. She had always managed to find her fix when the trembling began. She had always told herself the shaking was just nerves, that a drink or a pill wasn't required to make it go away; they just helped calm her down. They helped clear her mind from the overwhelming consuming black mass of thoughts that threatened to swallow her hole. But here she lay, in the middle of the small twin size bed, losing herself to a darkness she was not prepared for.
She could vaguely make out the sound of shuffling feet over the sound of her heartbeat. Her eyelids felt heavy; she couldn't bring herself to reach out to whoever came into her room. In truth, she didn't fucking care. Nothing mattered anymore. She wasn't going to be alone for forever because she was near certain that death's embrace was awaiting her on the other end of this fever-induced delirium in which she found herself. One moment, she was in the cottage, writhing from the pounding pains in her head and the twisting knot of agony in her gut, and then the next, she was back at Hogwarts running through the halls while the battle raged on around her. She couldn't discern which was reality or which was a dream. Every memory that her mind made her relive felt so real. She could taste the blood that spilled behind her lips when Dolohov's hex sliced into her side in the Department of Mysteries. She could feel every fierce tremor that wracked her body when she was finally freed from her petrification and the overwhelming sense of dread that something terrible had happened to Harry and Ronald in her absence. She could feel the trickle of blood run down the side of her neck and pool beneath her on the floor as Bellatrix LeStrange held the cursed blade to her neck, the excruciating burning that rippled through her body as the magic imbued in the blade drove straight into her soul, devouring every source of hope and light left in her body and replacing them with despair.
She relived the worst moments of her life on repeat. Like a commercial loop specifically designed to break her down to nothing, Hermione could not pull herself from the nightmare. She slipped in and out of consciousness, only returning to the present when the compulsion to vomit became too great. She had nothing left in her stomach by the end of the first night, but her body refused to give in. Instead of bile, blood poured from her lips into a porcelain bowl that had appeared beside her in bed.
That was the same night the visions began. They started with black worms crawling under her skin, igniting every nerve in her body until all she could to do was scream for relief from the pain. She clawed at her face and chest, desperate to let whatever burrowed in her free just so the pain would stop. She begged for relief between retching, for someone—anyone—to just kill her. She wasn't worth it. She couldn't take the pain anymore. She'd fought her demons for so long, but she was ready. Ready to join all those who fell during the final battle. She was ready to see her old classmates who never got the chance to experience life beyond their teenage years and ready to wrap her arms around Tonks' middle once more and tell the metamorphmagus how much Teddy looked like her. She was ready to sit for tea with Remus and a fire whiskey with Sirius. She was ready for Death to wrap his bone fingers around her throat and usher her into the sweet embrace of permanent nothing.
Seventy-two hours. Draco had promised him it would only take seventy-two hours for Hermione to be free of the demon that lingered inside her body. Seventy-two fucking hours for her to detox. What he hadn't told him was how bloody painful it would be for her. He hadn't told harry how she would scream and thrash and fight through every ill-begotten memory, how she would vomit and retch until the only thing left to come up was her own blood, how she wouldn't be able to control any of her bodily functions, how her skin would flush with a fever so high that Harry worried she might overheat and die. What Draco absolutely did not fucking tell him was how bloody difficult this would all be on him.
Harry had just changed her for what felt like the tenth time since her withdrawals began. The soiled dressing gown and sheets were wadded up in a white wicker basket on the floor beside a small pile of damp washcloths. He hadn't left her side since her delirium began. As painful as it was, he couldn't allow himself to walk away. He'd already left her in an hour of need once before, and look what happened. Instead, he transfigured a rattan chair in the corner into an armchair and stayed dutifully by her side, cleaning her when needed, putting washcloths on her skin to cool her body, and holding her wrists when she tried to physically harm herself or him. He fought though his own tears and spoke soft promises of making the pain go away. It was only seventy-two hours. Seventy-two bloody hours would be nothing—a knut in a bucket in comparison to the rest of her life. Because that's what she had to look forward to once this was done: a new start, a fresh beginning for a friend he never should have walked away from.
Laying his head down on the mattress beside her shoulder, Harry's thumb gingerly stroked across the knuckles of her hand, trying his best to sooth her as a plaintive whimper slipped from her parted lips. "It's okay, 'Mione. I'm here… I've got you," he whispered, emerald eyes watching as her face twisted with fear in her sleep. "It's going to be okay."
The soft squeak of the bedroom door opening behind him caused Harry to lift his head off the twin sized mattress. His spine straightened as he looked over his shoulder toward Draco. "You need help?" Harry questioned as he slipped his hand from Hermione's and began to get out of the transfigured armchair.
"I got it," Draco replied as he moved to the opposite side of the bed from Harry. He had been in the kitchen gathering some supplies to help Hermione. Since the beginning of her detox, he had played nursemaid to the witch, administering potions when he could get her to keep them down, bringing Harry towels and soapy water when he needed to bath her. He'd even figured out how to use the Muggle washer that sat under the cabinet in the kitchen so that a fresh supply of sheets and blankets were available. He hadn't pressed Harry about his intentions with Hermione despite the fact the question was at the forefront of his mind. Instead, he remained a silent companion, spending most of his time in the living room with a good book and an open ear—waiting for the first sign of when his help would be needed.
Laying the white porcelain bowl down on the nightstand, Draco pushed up the sleeves of his black henley. The knit fabric bunched at his elbows, exposing the toned arms that lay beneath—and also the remnants of what he considered to be the worst time in his life. The Dark Mark was no longer as striking as it had been when Voldemort was alive. Instead of inky black, it now looked almost charcoal gray, dark but cloudy. The magical properties that linked it to the infamous dark wizard faded on that fateful day in 1998, but his link to that sociopath would never be severed. Not while the brand was still on his arm.
Draco's right hand dove into the basin, and he withdrew a crimson coloured flannel. He carefully rung out the excess liquid from the fabric before he turned towards the bed. He folded the square flannel in half, nimble fingers smoothing out the rough fabric before he leaned across the mattress and laid the damp cloth across Hermione's forehead. "You look like shit, Potter," he remarked, grey eyes giving only a quick glance to the sleep deprived wizard before he turned to withdraw another flannel from the bowl. "You really ought to go lay down and try to get some rest. I can take over for a while."
"No… thanks though."
When no further explanation was given, Draco simply shrugged his shoulders and returned to his silent job of placing the water-soaked flannels across her body. He lined her legs and thighs before tucking a thin sheet over her body. Her arms were wiped down, but he knew by now not to leave any flannels on them; her hallucinations were worse when he did.
Pulling his wand from the back pocket of his denim jeans, Draco cast a stasis charm on the porcelain bowl of water to keep it at the optimal temperature before he cast a diagnostic charm on Hermione. The tip of his hawthorn wand ran from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, blanketing her in a shimmering pale blue light that sunk into her body. The magic swirled just underneath her skin, illuminating her features with a beautiful glow. As the magic worked its way through her body, Draco's eyes stayed glued to the witch, making sure not to miss any subtle warning indicators that the spell would give if Hermione was worse off than he assumed. When the magical glow faded and nothing beyond an indication of her fever came up, he let out a soft sigh in relief.
Her detox had been hard, much harder than he ever assumed. He knew she was bad off; the pictures and stories he amassed in his file clearly told that tale, but his estimates on how much drug and alcohol abuse she had grown accustomed to was clearly off. Her body was in shock—the worst he had ever seen—revolting from the lack of opioid and alcohol consumption. It was as if, on a chemical level, her body had forgotten how to function without the drugs or liquor coursing through her blood, numbing her senses. She was as dependent as one could become, and this type of detox was incredible risky. If they weren't careful, they could actually make her quite ill. Had he known how dependent she truly was, he might have had a mediwitch on call, but by the time that he had realised his error, it was already too late. She had peaked. The worst of her withdrawal was behind her, and each minute that ticked by meant she was one step closer to waking up without the haze of drug or drink in her system.
"What did it say?" Harry's voice did little to hide the concern he held.
"She's through the worst of it," Draco said unceremoniously as he slipped his wand back into his pocket. "Just a fever and some mild dehydration. In a couple hours, I'll try to wake her to see if she can get any more of that hydration multiplying elixir down, but she'll still be queasy for a bit. Not to mention that tomorrow the migraine will start, but it shouldn't be too bad with the hydration elixir and pain potion we've been alternating. "
"How do you know that?" Harry's head cocked to the side, watching as Draco adjusted a couple of the flannels that shifted on Hermione's legs before he tugged the blanket higher up her body, carefully tucking her under the comforter like one would a small child.
Draco glanced over his shoulder to the other wizard, giving him a pointed look before turning his attention back to Hermione, who had begun to stir in her slumber. "You saw me cast a spell, Potter. I know you have little need to use magic anymore considering your celebrity status, but surely you mustn't have forgotten how it works."
A disgruntled noise emanated from the back of Harry's throat before he could prevent it. Of course he bloody knew Malfoy used a diagnostic charm. He'd seen it cast his fair share of times while under the care of Madam Pomfrey, but he also knew for a fact the charm was only diagnosing issues rather than prognosing. Leaning back in the transfigured chair, Harry crossed his arms over his chest, his lips thinning, unamused as he watched Draco adjust the bedding around Hermione to his liking. "I'm not a moron, Malfoy. I know what bloody spell you used, and it would absolutely not tell you upcoming symptoms for what's going on."
"This is my job, Potter. Of course I would know a little about what I'm doing,"
"From firsthand experience?"
"Obviously… she's far from the first drug addict or alcoholic I've treated."
"I meant yourself," Harry deadpanned. "I know you didn't just run off to America for no reason… especially after what we had started between us."
He was done with this delicate dance that he and Draco had developed over the past three days of helping Hermione. The tension between them was thick, almost visible. When Harry had tried to bring it up, Draco simply brushed off the topic or left the room. Between his worry about Hermione and lack of sleep, he hadn't had time to confront Draco about it. But now Harry was clearly done pretending like there wasn't something there. Even now, every time the blond wizard set foot in the same room as him, he could feel that delicious tingle of magic he'd felt so long ago thrumming at his heart, setting his skin on fire.
Draco gulped, his tongue sliding across his teeth behind his lips as he resisted the urge to tell the boy-wonder behind him to mind his own fucking business. This wasn't about him and his demons. This was about her. It was a bloody job! He released a long-suffering sigh in an attempt to calm his tongue before he turned to face Harry. Leaning back against the nightstand and sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he crossed his legs at the ankle. "Let's start off by clarifying some things, shall we? First, we just shagged. It was nothing—"
"It went on for nearly six months," Harry interrupted. "It was clearly not 'nothing.'"
Draco lifted a thin flaxen brow in irritation, and when Harry swept a hand towards him in a silent command for him to continue, his eyes rolled skyward. "Perhaps nothing was the wrong adjective, but regardless, it was just shagging, Harry. I didn't wine and dine you, and you certainly didn't dare meet me anywhere we could be caught. We met in seedy hotels and fucked each other until the pain of our reality faded away. Truly, it was no bloody different than what she did, with the exception that sex is only slightly less addicting."
He watched as Harry's spine straightened, his words clearly getting under the wizards skin. Pulling his hand from his pocket, Draco lifted it to silence Harry before he took them down a path he was neither prepared nor willing to go down this very moment. Now was not the time to get into the fuzzy details about what he and Harry shared nearly ten years ago. Could he feel the magic between them, vibrating his occlumency shields, begging to be let in? Abso-bloody-lutely he could. The way it licked at his soul was intoxicating, begging to ease the wounds that ran like deep chasms in his heart. If he felt this way with his walls up, he could only imagine what Harry was feeling. Whatever it was that drew them together was rearing its ugly head and demanding they find each other once more, but he wasn't willing to explore that any further. He was here to do a job: fix Granger and get the fuck out of England. But more importantly, he wasn't ready to open his heart. He had kept it guarded for so long; the idea of finally allowing someone in seemed more frightening than facing the snake-like man who plagued his dreams to this day. He brought his attention back to Harry's question.
"Secondly, my expertise in detoxification is due to work with my clients. I am the best in the business for a bloody reason. I take jobs no one else will, and I make sure by the time I leave the client will never think about picking up a damn bottle or pill again. Do not question my talents, Potter. Some of us have to work to gain skill, unlike others who are born into it with a bloody scar on their head." Despite the harsh words, he kept his tone soft, choosing to keep the fire he felt from his voice. "However, to answer your fucking question, yes I have been in the same position as Granger, except I did it alone in some bloody yankee motel in a part of town that would make Knockturn Alley look warm and fuzzy. So yes, I bloody well know what I'm talking about."
Harry sat frozen, his teeth biting painfully on the inside of his cheek as his emerald eyes flickered away from Draco to stare at his socked feet, desperate to avoid the piercing gaze of the wizard before him. He knew Draco had had a drinking problem when they were sleeping together. It had been fairly difficult to avoid noticing the bottles that littered the hotel rooms they shared or the way his tongue always tasted of that smokey amber liquor—the same one that he to this very day would drink on lonely nights, using it to remind himself that not every aspect of his life post-war had been so carefully planned and executed. "I… Is that why you ran?"
Draco let out a sharp laugh, his hands lifting from his pockets to smooth back the fallen blond fringe. "No, I didn't leave England because I had a bloody addiction problem."
"Was it me?"
"Not everything is about you, Scarhead." Draco sneered, falling back on the oldest insult he had for the wizard.
"Then why the hell did you go?" Harry lifted his head, emerald eyes finding Draco's once more.
Draco shrugged, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as he internally debated his answer. There had been many reasons for him to leave the country, but how does one begin to explain something that had happened nearly ten years ago? How does one begin to explain how the war his family helped cause–the same one that helped catapult Potter further into fame and fortune and that had took so many lives and ruined so many who were still standing once the dust had settled–had been his own undoing? "I had no reason to stay. England didn't want me, and I certainly did not want her."
"So what happened?"
"In America?"
Harry nodded before leaning forward to lace his fingers together, resting the side of his face against his hands as he looked at Draco curiously. "What got so bad?"
"Life… everything. Potter, I know this might surprise you, but my life wasn't exactly bloody roses and sunshine since the war. I am the child of a known murderer and Voldemort supporter. My father was one of the first to receive the Dementor's Kiss. My mother narrowly got off, and mainly thanks to that little stunt she pulled at the end–partially with your help. But you do realise that she did not save you because she felt some sort of change of heart, right? She lied to Voldemort because of me–she risked her life because she was so bloody concerned about me." Draco pushed off the nightstand, his hands smoothing over the back of his neck as he began to pace the length of the bed, his bare feet padding softly against the cold wood flooring.
"Mother's love and all that utter nonsense. But it doesn't matter, because she still supported him. She allowed him in our home and stood by my father when he… when he chose to follow Voldemort a second time. They pushed me to join his ranks, to take the Mark, to follow in the proud family footsteps of my ancestors. I–I just wanted to make them happy. I don't know if I ever believed that blood purity propaganda, but I just wanted to make them proud. But you lived. You stopped him, and everything I thought I knew about my fucking life was upended within weeks."
"The Manor was seized and destroyed. My father as good as dead. My mother a wreck. And to top it off I was shagging you–the same boy who kept coming into my life and fucking it up since I was eleven years old. I needed to leave. I needed to start over someplace no one knew my name or my story, somewhere no one gave a shit about my past because they were all too focused on their own problems. So America seemed like a reasonable place. Moving wasn't easy; Mother was livid, but I couldn't stay. When I got there, it didn't seem so bad. New York City was busier than what I was used to, but it wasn't home. I didn't have to see all the bloody people I hurt on a daily basis, so it was a nice change. For a while it was okay… I was okay."
"But then I wasn't. I was alone in a country where most of the people only talked to me because they liked my accent and had something called a bucket list and wanted to shag a British bloke. Which, for the record, I don't bloody understand, but it worked to my benefit. I had my drinks bought, drugs were given to me, and I was able to forget about all my other bloody problems because no one over there knew my fucking name. One witch told me she liked my tattoo one night. A fucking tattoo—like I walked into one of those parlors and picked it off the bloody wall," Draco ranted, his head tipping back, grey eyes transfixed on the ceiling. He didn't understand why he was even telling him all this. It wasn't like he particularly cared what Potter thought of it all, but there was something compelling him to spill his secrets. Something compelling him to tell Harry everything that happened, to bring the wizard closer than he'd allowed anyone else to get since leaving Hogwarts.
"So I enjoyed it for a couple years. The anonymity. The drinks. The drugs. But one day I woke up and realised I wasn't in the same place I was when I took that Portkey. I was worse. I couldn't go five hours without a drink or the shaking would start. And Merlin forbid if I had to choose between eating or drinking because I would have picked the bottle every bloody time. I couldn't live like that—not anymore. I'd already allowed someone else to make my choices for too long; I would be damned if I was going to let my addiction do the same. I checked into a motel and spent the last of my money on a week's rent and got clean. It was… it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. No pain potions, no hydration elixirs, and certainly no calming draughts."
"It was bloody stupid, as well. So when I decided to make a business of it, I looked into the proper way. Consulted with Healers and Muggle physicians. I got a plan together, and well, as they say, the rest is history." Draco shrugged, pausing at the foot of the bed dropping his hands, sliding them back into the pockets of his jeans as he turned his attention back to Harry.
Harry remained silent, his mouth slightly agape as he looked at Malfoy with raised brows. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard him say so much at one time. Even over the course of their six month relationship—shag fest, whatever the hell Malfoy wanted to call it—he had not said more than dirty words in the bedroom and the location of their next meet up. Harry opened his mouth to respond but quickly closed it again, unsure of what he could even say to the wizard at this point. An apology wasn't appropriate. He hadn't done anything wrong aside from being the unlucky recipient of a nasty scar on his forehead when he was one, and he was not going to bloody apologize for something he had zero control over. "Malfoy… Draco I don—"
"Don't, okay? Just don't say anything. I'm not even sure why I told you that shite," Draco interrupted quickly, a slow burn of a pink blush creeping on his cheeks as he crossed the room towards the medicine kit he had set up on the dresser. With his back to Harry, he busied himself with finding the potions he planned on giving Hermione. "Just forget it okay?"
"I—Okay…"
With three small vials secure in his hands, Draco returned to the nightstand where the porcelain bowl sat, and he laid them down one by one. "I'm going to infuse these in her bloodstream… since she can't keep anything down. She'll be asleep for the next seven hours or so. You really ought to go get some rest if you want to help her tomorrow morning when she finally wakes up, or you'll be useless to both her and me."
Harry shook his head despite the yawn he was currently covering with the back of his hand, large green eyes struggling to stay open through the process. "But what if she needs help. You said she's got a fever and—"
"I'll stay in here tonight if it means you'll actually go rest." Draco sighed. He pulled his wand from his pocket before he tucked it carefully behind his ear before moving to uncap the shimmering red pain potion vial. "Merlin, are all Gryffindors so bloody noble, or is that just reserved for a special kind of lion?"
Harry huffed. He knew Malfoy was right; he was exhausted, and if what he said was true, Hermione would be coherent tomorrow, and he needed to be there for her. He also needed to apologize to her. He owed her more than a million sorrys. He owed her a lifetime of making up for how neglectful he had been for the past decade. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure. If I wasn't, I wouldn't have offered." Draco glanced up from the potion vial in his fingertips to narrow his eyes at the wizard, his lips thinning.
"Okay… okay. Fine, I'll leave." Rising from the transfigured chair, Harry leaned across the bed, careful to not nudge or bump Hermione as he pressed a soft kiss against her cheek before whispering goodnight. With one final once, Harry made his way out of the room. Despite his exhaustion his mind swirled like a maelstrom, trying to process everything Draco had told him and deal with the fact that the tingle of magic he was experiencing with Draco felt frightening similar to the way his body thumped with magic when he and Hermione kissed.
Draco sat quietly beside Hermione, gray eyes watching her fingers twitch in her sleep. He had administered the potions nearly four hours ago, and while the dreamless sleep would allow her body to relax and rest as much as possible, it was obvious it did not completely eliminate whatever terrors haunted her. When a soft whine left the back of her throat, filling the silent room, Draco reached out to lay his hand on top of hers before he could second guess the impulse.
Almost immediately, the contact jolted him, like a spark of static electricity. Draco jumped, but didn't dare move his hand from hers. Grey eyes went wide with shock as he stared at where their hands touched, and just as suddenly as the spark hit, a radiating warmth spread from his fingertips up his arm. The slow burn of magic sunk its winding tendrils in the center of his chest where his heart lay. This was so different than what he'd felt before, what he'd experienced with Harry. It was slow and steady, where the spark from Harry felt fast and heady. His thumb stroked against the top of her wrist, silently thrilling in the way it caused this expanding warmth to lap at his own magic like a slow-burning fire. The flames built inside of him. There was something odd about this particular magic, for it calmed him. His free hand lifted from his lap, and he scooted closer to the bed until he was perched on the edge of the chair arm. His hands enveloped one of Hermione's, his fingertips resting lightly against the pulse point in her wrist. It was then he noticed that the beat of her heart matched his own in a slow and steady rhythm: like a bass drum, the percussion like a forbidden song.
Draco's eyes lifted away from her hand and up to her face, where he noted that instead of the worried whimper he heard moments ago, Hermione was now only breathing soft sighs of contentment. The worry lines etched into her face were gone, and in this moment, she looked peaceful. He didn't understand why or what this meant, but the part of his soul that enjoyed the relaxing warmth created by this simple touch seemed curious to explore the possibilities. This, of course, was the same part that had pushed him into inviting Harry to bed those many years ago. The part of him that was telling him to give into the obvious attraction he still held for the wizard.
He sat like that for several minutes, gently stroking Hermione's wrist with his thumb, his hands not daring to let go of hers and cut off the strange new magic that coursed between them. As he watched her sleep, he could not help but notice how similar their lives had ended up: both lost in the mess of a new world that had moved on without them, unprepared to deal with the pain that the war had left. It was more clear now than ever that blood status did not mean a thing. It was a bloody joke—this idea that one's blood was better than another's due to parentage. They had both ended up in the same position: broken. Abused. Desperate to numb themselves from the outside world.
As he sat there, stroking her wrist, he realised that this feeling building inside him was not as foreign as he originally thought. For, as his mind wandered with thoughts of how far they had come from their rocky beginnings at Hogwarts, he was reminded of the same warm sensation rippling across his soul and mixing into his magic. This intoxicating heat. No drink could ever begin to hold a candle to the way it made him feel. It had been apart of his life for so many of those years in that drafty castle that he had not even realised how fucking empty he felt until it was gone.
But why was it back after all these years? Why could he feel it again when he was touching her? They were far from Scotland, so his original assumption that it had been the school was clearly wrong, and to his knowledge, the only thing magical in this vicinity was the three of them. He had specifically requested Potter book a Muggle cottage so he did not have to deal with the press. Hermione and Harry were two thirds of the most famous wizarding trio alive. If word got out they were bunking with a reformed Death Eater… well, this would not be good for either of their careers—even if Hermione's was already in the gutter.
With knowing they were the only wizards in the vicinity, it could only mean this radiating warmth in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him could only be caused by the two other inhabitants of this cottage—Potter and Granger. But before he could even begin to tackle that three-headed beast of a problem, he abruptly pushed away the thought. There was no bloody way this feeling could be caused by them. They were far from rivals, as they had been in their youth, but he wouldn't consider what they had a friendship. Draco simply didn't do friends anymore. Not since sixth year. Friends were trouble—getting that close to any one person wasn't worth the pain of losing them when they perished in a fire or they were slain by a mad-man.
The sound of the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times, letting him know how early in the morning it was, and Draco released Hermione's hand and returned it to lay on the mattress with gentle care. He needed sleep as well, but more importantly, he needed to keep his distance from both Potter and her. Merlin forbid this strange magic actually complicate what he was trying to do here. Scooting the transfigured armchair back from the bed, Draco extinguished the light in the room before settling back into the cushion , his feet lifting to rest on the mattress near hers. Pulling the throw blanket over his body, Draco finally let his heavy eyelids shut, taking a small amount of comfort from the way her feet brushed against his, as if she were seeking the magical pull that had calmed her from her terrors only moments ago. With one final yawn, Draco closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the magic settle into his soul, ushering him into a peaceful sleep for the first time in nearly ten years.
Author's Note:
Beta: Rivenslight | Alpha: Disenchantedglow
Thank you all for your lovely reviews, they help keep the muse well fed. I can't wait for you all to see how this story unfolds! Come follow me on Tumblr ms-merlinblack to stay up to date on all my ongoing stories. xoxo