Disclaimer: previous chaps.  I chose the name of the Philosophy Club, mentioned later on, from Gregory Maguire's Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, my new favourite book.  And the play kicks ass too, that's where the quote's from.  I don't own the name of it, but I changed around what it actually was.  It was by no means a billiard hall, again, you will read later.  By the way, all of you should read Wicked.  It is the ultimate fanfiction, and he writes so beautifully.  You don't have to be an OZ obsessor to enjoy it.  That is all :)

This chap is more of an intro to the real one, because I had no free time for a month.  Sorry for the wait. I do care about all of you, and thanks for the numbers.  We'll just have to see what happens.

~*~*~*~

 "Was I really seeking good, or just seeking attention?"—Wicked Witch of the West, Wicked

Two people sat on a train.  Passers by would have merely thought they had been placed there by chance, but the contrary was true.  Each sat in silence, glancing out the window.  Eyes never catching, or even wanting to.  Fidgety movements, uncomfortable silence, and second guessing one's worth, one's choices, on those stiff uncomfortable seats that joined and separated the two at the same time.  They were soul mates simply because they shared the same misfortune, each other, and another that was gone, past, and unforgivably loved. 

He flipped quietly the pages of the Daily Prophet, searching for something, though he didn't know what.  A clue maybe, or a hint, but no.  He was not in the paper that day.  Business was what drew him, and she was dragged simply for ornamentation.  He had made another donation, to gain power and respect over the foreign schools, Beauxbatons particularly.  He was to meet with the Head of the school, Laundrette Maxime, to celebrate the opening of a new wing, which his contribution made possible. 

She looked sick, he thought, one of the few times he chose to look at her.  It would have been better if she at least looked her part, under the circumstances.  She could at least act like a wife, he thought. 

She refused to utter a word to him.  She swore she never would again.  He is such an animal, she thought.  She still didn't know how she got landed with the worst-case scenario that was her very existence.  She could have married anyone else.  She should have married anyone else, but she didn't.  And now she could never leave him, for he was a part of her, and would be forever.  It was no longer just her life in question anymore, and when she thought about it she felt a stirring inside of her. 

He didn't mind too much; accept it got boring after a while, for she also refused to come near him.  She would not let him touch her.  He didn't much care.  He could get pleasure elsewhere if he so desired.  Actually, he planned on it, as soon as they arrived.  He would place her in a hotel of sorts.  It would be fancy and overpriced; where she could get anything she wanted and not care at all about where he was.  Not that she wondered much.

He threw the paper to his side.  She noticed, and reached her hand in front of her, motioning her fingers back, requesting the paper.  He gave it to her.  She nodded a thank you.  Sighing, she scanned it. She became fed up quickly, seeing nothing of interest.  It was always the same.  The propaganda of the press was so provincial these days, and yet so funny, for she had one of the elite in front of her, fearing nothing, and loving the past, that which was dead, but she could not argue with that. 

"Comical, isn't it?" he said, almost reading her mind.

She looked at him as if she didn't understand.  He pointed to the newspaper.  "It makes me sick," she said.

"You look sick." He replied, looking at the landscape.

She felt it too.  Nausea.  But it was not indigestion.  She felt it.  She was gaining wait, and it was not becoming.  She felt her body heat rising.  "I don't want to go." She finally said.

"Business," was all he said.  He began to twist his wedding ring around, simply for the fact that his finger had become too comfortable with it.  "I thought we weren't speaking."

"I wasn't talking to you," she spat.

"Oh?  Well isn't that lovely," he said, looking at his watch, wondering how much longer he would have to endure this.  "Honestly, I said I was sorry."

"You didn't mean it," she said.

"Do you mean everything you say?"

"Yes," she said.  "And I meant it when I said I despised you."

"You know, Narcissa, do we really have to go through this again for the millionth time this month?  My patience is thin." He said, getting the beginning of a tension headache.  "Now cut it out or I'll-"

"Or you'll what, rape me again?" she said, loud enough for people to start turning their heads in other compartments.

"One never can tell.  You know, you used to like it rough, Cissa." He said, attempting to massage it out.  "Now you are such a drama queen," he whined.

"You're a beast," she said, disgusted.  "And I was a stupid child.  It's not like you made love to me.  You just fucked me is all, like you fuck your other conquests or whatever you call them."

"At least I'm not chasing a childhood fantasy like a stupid little girl."

"Yes you are.  You just don't realize it yet," she said, starting to crumple up sections of the paper, making a violent ripping sound that set off something in both their brains.  "You contradict yourself."

"Stop it, Cissa," he said, grinding his teeth.  "You are so badgering.  You love upsetting me."

"Well you love hurting me, so I suppose in that respect we're even," she said.  She tied her hair back in a black ribbon.  "Why do you love hurting me? Makes you feel like more of a man than a coward, eh?"

He ignored her.

"To each his own, I guess," she said, shrugging.  She crossed her legs, and when she did a bit of her thigh was revealed.  "I sometimes wonder why out of all the hopeless women in the world you chose me."

"Well, Narcissa, you were the easiest one to manipulate.  Now shut the bloody hell up before I Crucio you into silence," he said, not listening, never listening.

She continued to rip the paper, only to see the vain in his temple throb.  He wouldn't dare try anything in a public place, and he refused.  Some things were left to the comfort of one's own home.  Narcissa began to rub her belly, although there was no difference yet.  There would be soon, in a month or so.  Then she looked at him, with fire in her eyes, as if she were wilfully conjuring the spawn of Satan.  He looked at her for the final time during that train ride, long enough to hear her say in the faintest of whispers, "You have poisoned me."

~*~

Lily and James sat next to each other in the compartment at the farthest end of the train.  It was the quietest, and had the best view.  Frank and Alice's rehearsal lunch had been on a Tuesday, and that day was Friday.  James' boyish charm and hopelessly adorable way of getting what he wanted swayed her to the point where she could not say no.  When things were this good she could never say no.

Lily fell asleep briefly, loosing herself in the greenery of her country, meshing with the clouds until it became one giant blur.  It was a dream.  She had thoughts of love and children, Christmas parties and barbecues, smiles and laughter, kisses and caresses.  She was in a state of euphoria from her visions.  Everyone was there, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, with coloured lights and birthday cakes.  And children, there would be children. 

"Lily? Ahem, Lily?" she heard and straitened up.  It was then she realized that she was not asleep at all, but in a sort of trance.  For the first time in a daydream she was looking at her desolate world with rose coloured glasses.

"You know, James.  This was a good idea.  I need to get away from Britain for a while.  It rains too much there anyway," she said, smiling uncontrollably. 

"Where were you just now, love?" he asked, cleaning his glasses on his wine coloured shirt.  "And I hardly think the weather had anything to do with your decision," he said, leaning forward and rubbing her knee.

"You can be really boring sometimes, James," she said.  "I think you're trying too hard." Then she started giggling when his expression turned to total offence.  "Oh, babe," she said, leaning over and touching his cheek.  "You are so adorable."

He smiled at her.  "Thank you," he said.

"What shall we do, dear, when we get there? I can't believe you talked me into it."

"Get a hotel, eat some overpriced French cuisine, and walk around for a bit.  How does that sound?"

"For the first day, not so bad," she said.  "What about after?" she asked.  Then she gasped.  "Can we go dancing?" she said, excitedly.

"Uh, Lil—"

"Oh, love, I know you hate it, but—oh please, darling? For me?" she said, her eyes glowing with anticipation.

"We'll see, Lily," he said.

"Oh, sweetheart, let's be children again," she said, clasping her hand together.  "Just like old times.  My mood has been elevated like you've no idea," she said.  "I just want to be silly and young, and not worry about a thing.  Won't that just be wonderful, my love?"

"We are young," he said, smiling at her cuteness.

"Oh, well not really," she sighed.  "People in their fifties have gone through less.  But yes, I suppose you are right to a degree.  I would be lying if I said I couldn't be happier, but right now I just see you, and that's enough."

"Did you take anything before we left?" he asked.  "And what do you mean by you could be happier?"

"No, dear.  Listen.  Happy is what happens when all of your dreams in life come true.  Well, they haven't.  Let's be realistic.  Right now, you couldn't look handsomer.  I couldn't feel calmer, but we have crossed bridges that cannot be revisited.  Every day there is more wicked.  Every day, more terror grows.  There are so many calumnies and lies.  But this fairy tale plot can be put on hold.  I don't want to be a witch this week, please, honey," she said.

"Getting your dreams is a little bit complicated for you, isn't it dear?" he asked.  "But if things weren't as you thought they'd be, let me tell you that I couldn't be happier with you, right now, on this train away from all that."

"There is a cost, and a couple of things get lost in all the fire.  And that joy, that thrill, doesn't thrill like you think it will sometimes, and that's when reality sets back in.  Maybe that's why the word fiancée is much more beautiful than husband.  There is hope in it.  But I'm glad you're happy.  That is all I really wanted," she said, looking out the window once more.  Then she turned to him, laughing and said, "Alright, let's go to the bar car," she said.

~*~

Remus and Nicole spent yet another day in their large estate in Ottery St. Catchpole.  She apparated back and forth between the Daily Prophet and their library.  Remus never asked her what she was doing, simply because he was ridiculously busy doing something else.  Molly, his business partner, was too busy conceiving children and raising the others to participate, so his part was all on his shoulders.  He kept falling behind do to his transformations.

He constantly watched her, as he often did, but lately she had been acting more serious, more into her work than usual.   Nicole was a serious writer, so he simply assumed she had finally found something worth writing about.  Her last article about why Muggle borns should be treated like first class citizens, was not widely respected, mostly considering they denied any reason why they would not be. 

Nicole flipped the pages fervently, skimming and reading paragraphs of importance.  She had stolen, no, borrowed this book from Sirius during one of his 'I'm so alone' moments.  It was open on his bedroom floor.  It was a book about becoming an Animigas.  He had stolen it years ago, before any of them knew what they were getting themselves into when they decided to become friends with Remus.  He had no idea.  She figured she would surprise him with it, not while he was transformed, of course.  That would just be cruel.  She was reading, presently, a paragraph about the initial side effects of transforming.  She wasn't sure what animal she would be.  It was all dependant on her personality, so she read. 

"Hon?" she asked.

"Yea, babe?" he answered, closing a book and tossing it aside with the other ones.  Most of what he decided to read had to do with psychology, and why one would want to convert to the Dark Side.  He was a researcher, after all, and found the subject fascinating.  He had just finished the chapter on the Sanguine temperament, the one preoccupied with change and immediate pleasure.

"Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?" he wondered, scanning the spines that described early child development, mainly, the Freudian concepts. 

"When you, you know, transform and everything? Do you feel pain?" she asked, with a girlish ignorance that suggested she had ulterior motives. 

"Um," he said, not knowing how to answer such a random question.  "Yes, actually," he said, and then he saw fear and pity in her facial expression.  "Oh, it's not physical," he said, but it didn't matter.

"Oh," she replied.  "I was just wondering."  She closed the book lightly and wandered over to his side of the room.  She read the margins with care, and changed the subject.  "I don't have a temperament," she sighed.

"Yes you do, dear."

"No," she said.  "I'm too boring."

"I don't think you're boring," he said.  "And if you are, then I love a boring, but gorgeous woman."

"I wasn't always boring," she said, not really listening.  "I was interesting once." He looked up at her and raised his eyebrow in confusion.  "Do you remember how interesting I was?" she said, coming between him and his books.

"Briefly," he said.  "I like you better now," he said, shooing her to the side.

"Why?" she said, annoyed.

"You had too many scars.  I don't like complicated women," he said, yawning. 

"Don't like complicated women?" she said, shrilly.

"I told you, you were too scarred.  Come on, darling.  We'd forgotten all that nonsense."

"It is our scars that remind us that the past was real, Remus," she said.  "You of all people should know the past.  Everyone else seems keen on forgetting it."

"No.  I don't dwell on it," he said, getting considerably irritated for the first time in a while.  "That's what makes you…… melancholic."

"Oh, pick a better one that that.  I am not melancholic," she protested.  "Phlegmatic, if anything."

"There, you answered your own question.  Now leave me to my work, and you to your silly articles."

"Why, I've never heard you so rude—"

"Nicky, dear.  Not now," he pleaded.  "I adore you, then, now, forever, whatever, but please, I need to work now."

"Fine, my love," she said.  Then she softened.  "I'm sorry.  You're right."

"It's alright."

"I'll leave you, but kiss me first," she said, putting her hand over the book.

He looked up at her, smiling.  He rolled his eyes.  Then he slid out of his chair and kissed her so hard that she fell backward onto his precious papers.  When he pulled away she was panting.  "There.  Now let me work."

"Thank you," she said, surprised but satisfied.  There was time for more, but after dinner.

~*~

On a particularly dreary day in Paris, Diana walked hastily down the street.  Having newly recognized that James, her long-time friend, part time enemy, and all around pain in her ass, was actually connected to the bloodline she hated so much.  Their mothers were sisters, and their fathers were friends.  Were they?  Had she remembered that? How odd, she thought, smoking her cigarette and breaking a light sweat from the harsh heat.

Turning down a side street she lightened her step and walked more casually towards her destination.  In a barely inhabited area she came across a building with its marquee scratched out from age and acts of vandalism.  It still read though, with a sort of sinister mystery: The Philosophy Club.  The door was unlocked but she tested it anyway.  Walking in slowly, with her dark green skirt and opened black blouse, she addressed the bartender.

It was a billiard hall, or at least tried to be on the surface.  There were many people, older men and unfaithful couples, looking for a hidden meeting place to further taint their unknown homely relationships.  People stopped briefly to look at her, some gawked and others glanced.  Resuming their positions at the tables and dartboards, while moving out of her way, the hush chatter continued.

Oh the memory of this place, she thought, and shuddered.  As she briefly looked around she wondered if it was the same place she had remembered.  Were there still the hidden back rooms for which the place was named?  Did it still have its secrets, and meetings for which she was part, regrettably?  The fornicating masks, the shadows, slinking, devouring; women, men, with their sexual tastes and impure fetishes, carrying on after hours.  And she watched, sometimes drugged, sometimes not.  Young and inexperienced as she was, she followed, and learned things she'd rather forget.  But, as part of her curse, she never would.  Her partners, slaves to their own depraved desires, and Lucius did nothing to prevent it.  No, she thought.  He did nothing.

"The key, please," she said, more forcefully than she had intended, as she kicked a barstool out of her way.

"Pardon?" he answered, cigar fuming.  He began to clean the glasses with a cloth, while his eyes roamed her figure.  It was a dim place, and could not make her out properly. 

"La clef," she said, rudely.  "Cut it out, Maurice. I am in no mood for this.  I know you understand me."

He blew the smoke away from his face to get a clearer look at her.  "By God," he started, and chuckled at her.  "Mrs. Malfoy, la femme fataleComment ça va?"

"No," she quickly corrected.  "I am not she."

"What do you mean? I thought it was a fait accompli," he said laughing.

"No," she said again.  "It was never done.  Give it to me." She held out her hand.

"So rude, and never to say hello again.  Did the joie de vivre not last?" He leaned against the counter, as if ready for a chat.

"Don't be coy.  I asked nicely."

"Why do you need it?" he asked, putting out his cigar.  "You know it's confidential."

"Because I just do," she said, raising her voice.  "Stop playing games with me."

"I thought you liked games," he said with a devilish smile.  "Not even two words of hello.  Not with such an attitude, non—"

"How's Avada Kedavra for two words?" she hissed, pointing at her wand, which was in the purse.

He slinked back from the bar.  He reached down under the bar and pulled out a key with a tiny emerald key chain attached to it.  She put it in her pocket and nodded a respectable thank you. 

"Are you expected?" he asked, in confidence.

"Am I ever?" she responded, and left him.

He continued to clean the glasses as she casually walked to the back of the hall.

"Il est dommage," he sighed, and lit a cigarette.

"Yes, too bad indeed," said a person sitting at the barstool.  "Is she one of the professionals?  How much for her?" 

"She's not for sale," he said, rudely. 

"Bah.  I bet I could get her to do me a few favours.  She has a certain savoir faire." 

Maurice said nothing, only refilled his drink.

Diana walked to the back, past the restrooms and down a long corridor that was closed off.  There was a door at the very end of it and, conveniently, the key fit it, as it should.  She didn't know what she was expected to see, or why she had come in the first place? For answers, for questions, or just to take a few lives?  By now it didn't matter.  It was no turning back.  She took two deep breaths and opened the door.

~*~(Be prepared for serious character development)

Lucius and Narcissa got off the train without a word and gathered their limited luggage.  Narcissa felt a slight pain in her abdomen as she carried hers, while Lucius carried the rest.  When they arrived at a hotel, Narcissa immediately unpacked while Lucius went to the nearest bar. 

She was left in her solitude, to her thoughts, not like she had any real ones.  Narcissa was a terribly misunderstood young woman.  She was left to spend her days as an unwanted attachment to her monster of a husband, unloved, and unwanted.  She thought about those few months when she was truly happy.  She would wake up next to James and he would hold her.  She would plan their future, after he had left Lily, of course.  She felt no guilt, no regret when she was with him.  Mondays and Fridays they met initially, and then, when things were rough, when Lucius was rough, she would call on him every day.  And he always came.  He was adorable with things like that, she thought.  She had become increasingly upset when she thought of these things, which was quite often.  She gripped her stomach and thought of doing awful things to herself to make the nausea go away.  Maybe I could throw my body down a flight of stairs, or slit my wrists, or abort this hateful spawn, she thought, with such malice that her face grew crimson.  She threw herself down on her bed and wept like an orphaned child for the life she'd never have. 

True, she was no Death Eater.  She was an honest woman who had absolutely no political values to speak of.  She wanted attention.  She wanted to be loved, like every other normal woman.  She didn't care about values.  She wanted to be made love to and adored.  But Lucius fulfilled neither.  So be it, she thought.  Let the Dark Lord overtake the Wizarding World.  She had nothing to live for, after all.  But the child, she then thought, and cursed herself for having one shred of maternal instinct.  She couldn't bring herself to destroy it.  She couldn't drink away her troubles, because of the life inside her.  If mine is lost, this shall not be, she thought.  If only to torture him, this child will exist.  I will raise it, she thought.  Not he! Not ever!  I'll die before he corrupts her, or him.  I'll protect it, but not because I love it, but because he will despise it, because it wasn't born dark and lovely like his previous mistake.  She grew angry and vengeful at her husband, for always loving something she considered inferior.

She then got up, wiping the tears from her face.  No, she thought.  His precious little half-blooded cunt will not pollute his family, like he, ironically wanted.  It will turn out exactly like me, and he will never destroy me!  I am Narcissa Black, wife of Lucius Malfoy, lover of James Potter, and mother of a sainted fiend.  I may not be loved but I will not be ignored, she thought, running cold water over her face to make it white again.  Then she began to pant, and grow upset again.  Oh, why didn't she just stay with Sirius and Andromeda against them all?  Why didn't she defy Bellatrix and earn some grandeur on her own? She didn't care about her family, or purity or any of that, so why didn't she just leave, and maybe she could have had the slightest chance to be happy.

Narcissa was not a clever woman.  She took what she could and kept her mouth shut, but that was done.  She felt a little affection for Lucius at that moment, when she moved towards her balcony and burst the doors open.  He had made her realize this.  She couldn't pine forever.  She knew that.  James would never love her, Lucius would never love her, she realized finally.  Lily didn't know, or did she?  None of it mattered.  Narcissa the Good was never in her foreseeable future.  She may have been honest, but no saviour would ever declare her good.  As the wind blew she felt an itch below her nose, and scrunched it up so it pointed towards the sky.  She opened her arms, as if to fly, or to jump even, and she screamed her last shred of decency that was left within her.  So now was she more like Andromeda or Bellatrix? She was in incredible pain, but now realized, Narcissa fucking Malfoy can cause pain too, no matter how truly fragile.  The one question that remained in her mind was simply this: should I cause pain to he that is my husband, to myself? After all, self-loathing seems to be in vogue these days, but then again, so is emotional torture.

It had come to Lucius' attention that his wife by no means wanted children, and he was perfectly content with that.  It gave him a freedom that he couldn't have with a child, and Narcissa could be easily distracted long enough for him to do what he pleased.  Lucius was not what any self-respecting wife would call a faithful husband, but he knew where his loyalties were, and it didn't lie with a snobbish brat-like wife with manic depression.  Let her think privilege gives her a reason to be faithless.  Let her think she can overpower me, he thought.

His itinerary was blank for the afternoon, and he wondered what he could possibly do in such a city.  He had been there before, and thought of what he did then.  Then he had, what he considered, a brilliant idea.  Perhaps a trip to the old Philosophy Club, he thought.  He'd have to make some calls, to friends still living in the area.  Yes, it would be could to see the old foreign crowd again.  At that, it was settled.  And, he had a great thirst for dark haired French whores, and he could get that out of the way there too.  Two birds with one stone, he thought, and was all the happier for it.

He passed a fruit stand and decided he was hungry.  There was a little old Parisian woman in his way, and he grew impatient quickly.  He picked up an apple and waited behind the woman while she was paying, tapping his feet obnoxiously.  The woman turned, but didn't hurry.  She took her groceries under her arm and pushed the younger man out of the way.

"Pardon me." Lucius said, rudely, and the woman turned again.  "Rude, inconsiderate old bat," he muttered under his breath.

The audacity, she thought, hearing it, but she only found it amusing.  She found Lucius attractive, but he seemed too in love with himself to think about a second time.  When she heard her name being called, she turned.

The vender had pointed out that she had forgotten a package, and held it in the air.  She nodded and went back, retrieving it.

"Here you go, Madame Renton," the vender said, smiling at her.  Then she noticed, if it were possible, the young man's face turn deathly pale.

~*~

Lily and James, in their rediscovered euphoria, linked arms all the way to their hotel, conveniently the same exact one as the Malfoys.  They had a three-room suite on the twelfth floor.  Lily gasped as she entered, and gripped James' arm tighter.

The rooms were soft, matching colours and the furniture was elegant with a colonial flare.  The mahogany bed took up the centre while an open balcony showed them the complete view of Paris.

"Oh, James, it's just like the view from your old house, except, well, real," Lily said.

"Yes, it sort of is, except the la tour is a bit farther away."

"Oui. Tres bien!  Oh, listen to me, feeling so French already," she said, clasping her hands in excitement.  "I don't think I've ever been this excited without it being genuine.  How odd.  I am genuinely happy."

"I'm happy too," he said, calmly.

She rushed to the next room and ran into the bathroom, complete with his and her sinks with marble countertops and tile floors.

"Holy shit!" she screamed.  "Its beautiful," she said, on the verge of tears.

"It's a bathroom," he said.  "We've got those in England."

"Diana would go nutters if she knew where I was!  'Gone to Paris and didn't tell me,' she would say," Lily said, mocking Diana's irreversible attitude.  She added a bit more accent and nasally annoyed tones as she said it, laughing immediately after.

"Careful," James said, shaking a mocking finger at him.

"I don't care, it's not like she's here.  Hopefully she's gone and married some other poor fool with loads of money and a huge package to satisfy her needs—"

"Lily!  My god woman, please, desist.  Your happiness is making you horribly crude!"

"I'm sorry, my heart.  So, tell me.  How did you book it, on such short notice?" she asked.

"Let's just say they know me here," he said, tossing their luggage onto the king sized bed.

"Alright then," she said, giggling.  Then she ran back into the bedroom.  She hopped onto the bed and jumped on it, landing on her knees.  "This is so comfortable.  Feel this," she said, feeling the covers.

"Later," he said.  "Let's eat."

"Ok.  Where?" she asked.  "I have to shower, and get changed, and oh!  You promised dancing."

"Oh no.  I said, we'll see," he said, unzipping his suitcase. 

"That means yes," she said. 

"No it doesn't."

"Oh, and owl the Portman/Lupin household, would you? Tell them we're here, and to forward any mail by Dumbledore or whomever to the hotel.  I don't want to miss anything."

"Not to worry, Lily.  Everything regarding Dumbledore is secure.  He won't bother us."

"What makes you so sure?" she said, lying down on their bed, which was hardly broken in by the previous occupants.

"Well," he said, sitting beside her.  "I'm not.  Now get ready, I've already made reservations at the restaurant across the street."

"You're so clever that way," she said, half sarcastic.  She rolled over on her stomach.  "I'm a bit tired though.  How 'bout a nap?" she said, yawning.

"No napping, tigress," he said, slapping her ass hard.  She squealed.  "Up.  Now."

"Ooh," she said, practically falling over.  "You never do that anymore.  You keep that up and we will never leave this room," she said, stretching catlike on the covers.

"Oh we will.  We've still got some sites to see.  Remember your Eiffel Tower idea?" he said, whereupon she fell off the bed completely.

(Next chap should be up in a few days, I promise! I needed to break it up, you know, rising action climax thing.  Just bare with me, school starts again.  You know the deal, lots to do.  Love you all!