"No."

Alex looked at him, half-pleading and half-reasoning. "Come on, Petrose."

"You want to waltz into a house filled with Death Eaters—"

"It's Malfoy Manor, and it's supposed to be public. It's not going to be a Death Eater event."

"Yes," Petrose said sarcastically, "because the Malfoys are so famous for their neutral stance on politics."

Alex sighed at the heap of pierogi filling in front of her. "What is this, anyway?" she asked grumpily, gingerly placing another spoonful onto the circular dough and closing the disc with difficulty—the filling insisted on making its way out.

"Mushrooms and meat," Petrose answered promptly. "Can't let you live on English food alone—who can survive on that?"

Alex had half the mind to argue that she lived on English food just fine for the past seventeen years, thank you very much, but she had to admit that it was nice cooking with someone for Christmas dinner, even though they still had a few days to go until the holidays.

Petrose's house was just above the convenience store he ran posing as Mr. Munson and it was as utilitarian as his store was organized. They hadn't cooked much during their travels so she hadn't taken him to be the one concerned with culinary experience; however, when she got off the station at Platform nine-and-three-quarters, she found him waiting for her (rather unnecessarily, she thought with embarrassment) with a large shopping bag in his hand.

"Cabbages, farmer's cheese, beets, the usual," he said to his inquiring look, skipping the pleasantries of "how was your semester" and "good to see you" entirely. He did, however, clap on her shoulder.

The usual turned out to be what Alex gathered was some sort of Slavic cuisine that she didn't know much about. The Conservato was once placed in Turkey, Petrose explained, and back in those days the food was really good. His parents, both them from Russia, weren't opposed to it, and made him learn how to cook—all of which was evinced by the neat rows of equipment in his cabinets and the small stack of various tableware. Petrose regarded the pile of chopped cabbage in front of him as if he were estimating how much cabbage they would need, and continued chopping.

"I'll be with friends," Alex continued. "There's Leila, who will be there with her long-term fiancé, and—"

"And that boy," Petrose scoffed. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that he is capable of protecting you?" Petrose had seen Livingston shyly say good bye to her at the platform and his opinion of him had been going down ever since. Even Alex had to admit that while Nick—that's what Livingston insisted that she call him—was perfectly capable of being nice and considerate, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer or the most daring. Even that guy yelled at him during Quidditch practice to take more risks when passing the Quaffle.

"He's cautious," Alex said. "That's a good thing, right?"

"He's a boy."

Can't argue with that. "He's a way in."

"And do you enjoy using him as a way in?"

And there went Petrose again, with his hawk-like gaze that didn't miss a single misstep Alex took during baton training. He had a knack for asking questions that hit the mark on the head and made Alex feel uncomfortable. And truth to be told, no, Alex didn't enjoy doing what she was doing with Livingston. She knew that she would never have been interested in him had he been in a different house—he was too naïve, content with the world he knew, and his niceness, which was made possible by his naïveté, made Alex uncomfortable. And because of this she especially didn't enjoy using him this way; by Merlin, it was as if he were white linen and she was a bottle of black ink, waiting to spill the darkness of her background onto him.

"It's not about enjoyment," Alex muttered, forcing the runaway filling back into the dumpling. Petrose sighed.

"You're eighteen—by Lech, you should be enjoying yourself."

"Not in this world, Petrose," she answered cheerfully. "Not in this life."

Petrose shook his head, but continued cooking without another comment.

"What about you?" Alex asked back. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Petrose smiled wryly. "You don't get to ask that question," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm older."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Sure," she said. "I'm just asking, you've never found—I dunno, a special friend you liked more than everyone else—" Petrose gave her a look and Alex held up her hands in defense. "Just asking."

"The male Petrose heir usually don't get a choice. Most of us don't—there's already such a limited number of people in the society anyway."

"That sounds familiar."

"In ways, it's not unlike the Pureblood society you have got going on in Britain… very insular. By the time you're eighteen you've met more or less everyone that's going to matter in your life."

"But you're not answering my question," Alex countered slyly, creasing the edge of her dumpling the way Petrose showed her. "There wasn't anyone?"

Petrose looked at her oddly. It wasn't a no-more-questions kind of a look that she knew from her, nor you're-not-ready kind of a look; instead, he was looking at her as if he were actually calculating what her reactions would be like if he ever told her.

"There was a girl," he said. "A few years older than me."

"What happened?"

Petrose shrugged. "It was after your grandparents and I came to England, and she was already involved with someone else. My duties came first—I wasn't going to suddenly leave everything that I was to pursue a pipe dream."

The more Alex listened, the more she felt like she'd heard the rhetoric before—and from a place that she didn't want to associate with Petrose. "Did she—did she feel the same way?"

Petrose shrugged. "Who knows," he said.

"That's not very nice."

He laughed wryly at this. "She wasn't a very nice person."

"What did you like about her, then?"

Petrose smiled reminiscently. "Nothing. I just did." And then: "That's still a no on the Malfoy party."

"Come on—"

"What do you even want to do there?" Petrose asked. "Say you want to fight with the Order. I don't like the idea, but say that will happen—how is this even related to the Order?"

"I don't know, gather intel—"

"So you don't know."

"I need to see him, Petrose." At this Petrose' look turned from impatient to pitying and Alex wished that he was just impatient again.

"You don't need to look at me like that," she mumbled. Petrose sighed.

"Grab that package on the table, will you?" he said, pointing at the corner of the room and Alex followed, frowning in confusion.

"What's this?" she said, gauging the hefty weight.

"Open it."

Alex ripped the paper wrapping, and a reluctant laugh came from her throat.

"Vodka?" she said, reading the label. "Really?"

"I admit, the winters here are so mild that you feel like vodka is unnecessary, but…" Petrose shrugged. "My nephew sent it to me as a holiday present."

"And you thought you'd hog the entire bottle to yourself," Alex joked, getting two glasses from the cupboard. As she reached up, a letter fell from between the wrapping and the bottle. Alex tried to read it, but none of it made much sense.

"He wrote you a letter," Alex said. Petrose examined it for a minute, shaking his head at one line, chortling at another.

"He wishes you the best," Petrose said after folding the letter and carefully storing it in one of his drawers.

"He knows about me?"

Petrose shrugged again. "You came up a couple of times."

Alex didn't know if she should be pleased or not. "What else does he say?"

"Nothing much. Very cold, where he is. My niece had a grand-niece. As people do," Petrose said, giving her a significant look. Alex fiddled with the edge of a dumpling.

"I'm not starting a family," Alex said.

"Not with that Livingston boy," Petrose conceded, looking as though he were reasoning things out. "But there are still other options, and you've met so few people."

"C'mon, Petrose," Alex said. "Look at my family. My mum—who knows what happened with my father, but the end result was that she had to raise a child all by herself. She decided to stop talking to her family because they didn't support her decision. We were always fighting. The last person I was in a relationship with—" Alex barely repressed disgusted shudder—"ended up being a cowardly hypocrite who just promised a bunch of things without—anyway. How would I ever raise a family?"

Petrose poured generously into the glasses. "First of all," he said, "we don't know exactly what happened between Sophia and Al. He might've joined before or after—that's not the point. But you're not your mother, and you're not going to make the same choices. Case in point: you dumped that sorry excuse of a boy the moment you found out just how much he'd lied to you."

Not soon enough, Alex thought darkly, but Petrose held up his hand to stop her from arguing back.

"And if you're worried about not having a good role model," Petrose continued, "think of your mother, who gave up her family, her magic, and the best years of her life for you. Nobody could've done more, and you always knew that. Your children will, as well."

Alex felt the end of her nose grow warm and itch and she looked down to hide her face. Petrose raised his glass.

"In her memory," he said.

Alex looked up wanly. "Cheers, Petrose." Vodka didn't sting on its way down as much as sadness did.

Petrose was looking at her funny. But it might've been the vodka.

"What?" Alex said. She was pretty sure that she wasn't slurring, but who knew after three full glasses? Petrose, despite his old age, seemed to be faring better—he did look at her chocolate cake and ask what it was, though.

"Al asked the same question once," Petrose drew out slowly. It seemed alcohol strengthened the accent he usually hid quite well.

"What question?"

"How he was supposed to raise a family," Petrose said. "He was about fourteen, I think."

"So he was a premature worrywart," Alex said. "Great."

"No, his parents—" Petrose sighed. "I told you that Darkhiders tend to go with arrange marriages. I've been told that the trend isn't so dominant anymore, but really, if you live out your entire life in a castle with less than five hundred people, and there are about fifty people around your age that you can choose from, can you ever have a choice? Anyway… Let's just say that your grandmother wasn't terribly excited about Charles. Can't blame her, to be honest. Very—stern. Rigid, by-the-law sort of a person. And she was… rather like you, actually." Again, the funny look that Alex was beginning to realize wasn't funny, but drunk. It seemed that Petrose was drunker than she imagined.

"And what am I like?"

Petrose moved his head side-to-side, as if he were trying to physically demonstrate his deliberation. "Fluid," he finally decided. "You both… felt like you don't quite belong anywhere, and that can be very difficult, of course… but it also means that you can have sympathy for unexpected people… even if that person doesn't always deserve it." Petrose smiled. "Polaris was—she didn't like being a Wymond. Her mother was very strict regarding her upbringing. They were both very stubborn… By the way, if you ever talk to another Darkhider, they might say something like 'the Wymond women are as stubborn as the Petrose men are unpredictable,' or something along those lines…" He chuckled and Alex wondered if she should bring a glass of water, but Petrose sliced another thick piece of chocolate cake for himself.

"They have a saying?"

"What can I say? We're a cliché at this point… As I was saying, both very stubborn. She didn't want to leave for England when Grindelwald came, either. She wanted to stay and fight with her family and friends, but your grandmother, while she was still alive, told Dabrowski—that's your grandfather, mind—to keep her daughter safe at all costs, and the elders agreed that it would be best to have a fail-safe in case the society fell. He managed to trick her to coming here—I don't know the exact details of what he did. I know that I began following them a few days later and that the two didn't speak to each other for months after that.

Let's just say that their marriage was never smooth." Petrose' face darkened. "Polaris always wanted to do something—start an initiative, or mingle with the English society to learn who was really making decisions, or even start a business in security. She wanted to contribute to Conservato by providing them with a base in England. Dabrowski thought it would be best to keep quiet and wait for someone from the society to come to us, tell us what they needed—that never happened, naturally. Everyone was either dead or in hiding, and that wasn't going to change soon. But neither were they going to change, even after Al was born. I suppose it's a bit of a miracle, really, that Al grew up so… normal as he did, stuck inside the house with the three of us." Petrose said, looking glumly into the distance.

"Other than saying that he couldn't imagine having a family of his own, that is," Alex added wryly.

"Yes, but—he had friends. Sophia. Polaris and I thought that he was going to be like any other English boy his age, fancying a girl and learning how to play Quidditch. Dabrowski was alarmed about his son becoming far too much of a sissy—sorry," Petrose said. "The Darkhiders don't have the best opinion of anyone who comes from west of Germany.

So he wanted his son to be more like a Darkhider, and I don't think Al wanted that—at least, he stopped paying attention during our lessons. And then his parents both passed away, and… something changed. I thought Sophia made him happy, and I was glad that he had her, but we fell out of contact, and…" Petrose took another long gulp of vodka and Alex decided that it would be a good idea to change vodka into water.

"You don't know what happened, either?" Alex asked carefully.

"No," Petrose said. "I was away for a while. Sophia contacted me, actually—told me that Al had told her about me a little, and that she thought he was in trouble. But when we tried to find him after that he was already—gone. Joined their ranks."

"Why would he ever choose that? How did—how did he figure that being a Darkhider would make him a good Death Eater?"

Petrose prodded his chocolate cake darkly. "That's the problem. The Conservato teaches its members that we're meant to protect. We never learn who we should protect. Sometimes the lines get blurry… but I always thought…"

"What?"

"That Al was clear-headed enough to know the right from wrong. By Lech, if Polly ever knew…" He trailed off once again, looking glummer than ever, and then took another swig.

"Hey, Petrose," Alex said. "Maybe stop with the drinking for just a bit…"

"All I'm saying is," Petrose continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I understand why you want to see him, of course I do. But I also don't know where his head's been for the last twenty years and this could end badly."

"He came to visit me a few times," Alex said in a small voice. Petrose looked up.

"He did?"

"Once here, once at Hogsmeade… and Mum said that he's a good man, even though—" he's the one who killed her, she finished the sentence in her head. The idea sounded impossible—who would ever do such a thing? But she saw it, the memory was clear in her head, and it was as if there were two different versions of events in her head, fighting until her brain bled out. Her hand went to the necklace she'd gotten from him years ago, which she had not been able to take off.

"Petrose, don't you want to know?" she asked desperately. "Don't you want to know what happened? You knew him since he was a baby, and he never explained anything to anyone—don't you want to know?"

No, Regulus Black decided minutes before the party. It won't work.

It's as if his entire body were rebelling against his decisions. His already-pale skin looked sallow, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair, which usually obeyed the command of whatever hair product his Mother and Kreacher set aside for him, somehow decided that today, of all days, was the day it was going to rebel. It refused to stay combed back and instead flew wildly in different directions like a lion's mane.

How apt, he scowled, adjusting the dress robes which made him look like a penguin. A lion's head on a penguin's body.

"Regulus, darling, are you ready?" his mother's voice, high and unsteady, came up the stairs and he jumped in his place.

"Coming, Mother," Regulus said, hurrying to put his tie on. He didn't want his mother to come into the one place in the entire house where he had some solitude. "I just need to get this—"

Too late.

"Why, darling, you look wonderful," his mother said. Regulus really doubted this.

"Thank you, Mother," he said instead.

"But do do something about your hair, dear. Did you wet it before putting in the balm I sent you?"

"No," he said, slapping himself mentally. Rookie mistake. Thirteen-year-old girls knew this.

"Typical Reggie," his mother sighed, fussing over his tie. "Sit on that chair, darling. And Kreacher!" The house-elf appeared instantly. "Some salves I set aside for Mr. Black."

"Yes, Madame," Kreacher said and disappeared. Regulus looked away. So Father wasn't coming. Best not to say anything about this.

"You look lovely, Mother," Regulus said, and he wasn't lying, at least too much. It was one of her better days, and her skin looked like it had regained some of its former color. Her wide gray eyes, which could grow manic and wide, were bright and, well, not bloodshot. Her hair was combed back and braided for once, and her dark dress, while perhaps too frilly for today's taste, was made of finest satin.

"There you go, Madame," Kreacher said, appearing out of thin air. Walburga didn't bat an eye.

"Well, then," she said, beginning to fix her son's hair. Regulus tried not to let his discomfort show and to relax his shoulders, but the rare moment of motherly care was making him even tense than usual. "Now, Reggie, I wanted to talk to you about a few things before the party. I heard that Genevieve Bastion is going to arrive with that new fiancé of hers—that insensitive cow, daring to show her face after turning down a Black heir—" her mother went on for a bit and Regulus practiced the old art of tuning her out. Really, could anyone blame Genevieve Bastion? First fiancé: Sirius Black, who never wrote to her and ignored her existence. Second fiancé: Regulus Black, who either intoxicated or indifferent when she saw him. If anything, Regulus had heard solid things about her new fiancé—not that any of those solid qualities mattered to Mrs. Black.

"She had some sense, I suppose, picking out that young man, but I've heard rumors that there's a Muggle on his mother's side—"

"What are some other things you wanted to talk about, Mother?" Regulus interrupted, wincing as his mother pulled at a particularly difficult knot in his hair.

"Oh yes," Walburga said, mildly tsking. "I got a message from that man Warner this afternoon. Apparently he wants you to expect an audience with him." Regulus's stomach tightened and began to coil itself around his liver at this news, but his mother gave him a proud smile in the mirror.

"Such an honor," his mother continued. "And at such a young age. Though I must confess, dear, I don't quite care for this Warner character. There's absolutely no mention of the name Warner in any of our annals, and you know what that means—he might be an imposter trying to pass as a Pureblood. Filthy mudblood liars." Pronouncing the insult casually, Walburga lovingly began to comb back her son's hair.

"You never know," Regulus replied tightly. If half of Alex's theories about her father were true, his father would hail from one of the oldest families in wizard history. But never mind that.

Despite his mother's ignorance on the subject, Regulus had to agree with his mother that Warner didn't particularly appeal to him, either. The intensity of his face reminded him of Alex but, unfortunately, the intensity always seemed to be directed at him, and never with positive intentions. In fact, Since their first acquaintance some years ago, it seemed as though Warner's dislike for him had grown with every meeting until even Lucius remarked Warner's icy stare. It didn't help that the man probably knew the details regarding the Black family—the finance, the estates, and all the relatives—better than Arcturus Black, the eldest male member of the family.

"And lastly, dear," Walburga went on. "I was having tea with Narcissa just yesterday—you remember how we always have tea—and I happened to see the guest list for the party. One of your little friends was invited."

Regulus frowned. "Several of my classmates will be there, Mother," Regulus said. "As it always has been."

Walburga's touch became a touch hard. "Of course, darling," she said. "But this friend doesn't usually come to our parties. Her family hasn't been welcome to our gatherings for a while now.

Regulus stilled completely. It couldn't be that—

"Well, darling, I'm sure that you two haven't had any interaction in years, but I just wanted to let you know. Just in case." Regulus knew that, behind the sweet tone, his mother was watching every muscle of his face through the mirror and that he should never, never make eye contact with her at moment such as this. Eye contact meant defiance, and defiance meant rejection. Instead, he tried to put on a nonchalant face and relax even more into the chair.

"That's very considerate of you, Mother," Regulus answered, adding some haughtiness into his voice. "But, I assure you, completely unnecessary."

Walburga smiled. It was not the pretty smile that caught the gaze of many inquisitive boys in her day. "I'm so glad to hear that, darling," she said. Regulus resisted the urge to throw up. No point in making two hours of Kreacher's time moot.

The party, Narcissa was proud to say, was spectacular, and Regulus could see the pride in his cousin's face. She positively glowed with it; the glow, her blond hair, her pale skin, and the diamonds around her neck made her look like an eerie, pale halo. Next to her Lucius resembled an almost-perfect host, and Regulus might've believed them to be the perfect couple had he not remembered Lucius' activities in the Muggle village they raided a few days ago right before Christmas. Not an ideal husband, by any means.

"Narcissa," he murmured, kissing his cousin on the cheek. "Great party."

"Regulus," Narcissa responded. "Stay away from the shrimps."

"Will do." And then he was released from the clutches of his beaming mother, who let her son go as the etiquette required so that he could "mingle" with his own crowd.

Usually, after being released from his mother Regulus might retire to the "gentlemen's room," which tended to occupy the far side of whatever house the party may take place in; there men, often in their mid to late adolescent or even early twenties, would gather together, tell weak raunchy jokes that they would forget as soon as they left the room, and drank some Firewhiskey or something stronger, complemented by certain high-priced substance from Zonko's. But tonight he was on edge and forgot all about the "gentlemen's room," even though that room might've been the best place to avoid The Mistake. He clearly was not thinking straight and, unfortunately, he was aware of the fact. This didn't stop him from somehow finding himself standing next to Parkinson and her German fiancé who seemed, once again, to be a solid character.

"Parkinson," he said in acknowledgement. Parkinson rolled her eyes.

"Black. Meet Fred. Fred, meet Regulus Black. He's the Quidditch captain." And then this Fred asked him something about the Quidditch team that Regulus vaguely answered. Merlin, had Malfoy's house always been so full of lights and jarring? The gentle voices, the polite laughs, and tapping heels all morphed into one combustible den inside his head and Regulus felt as if he was going to pass out.

"Merlin, Black," Parkinson said after Fred had left to get drinks. "You look terrible."

"I feel terrible," Regulus whispered under his breath, but somehow Parkinson caught it.

"Black," Parkinson said—and was that actual concern in her voice? "Look, I think I should tell you, Alex is here tonight—"

"I know," Regulus replied thinly. Parkinson raised her eyebrow.

"With Nick Livingston."

"I figured."

"You're fine with this—" but her attention was dragged elsewhere and Regulus followed her gaze.

The Mistake was chatting with a few people that Regulus didn't recognize—foreigners, he guessed. She looked—as if she were doing fine. Her cheeks were pink. There was light coming from her eyes. Her bob of a hair was arranged into a neat but pretty knot. The color of her dress was wrong for the season, but she was engrossed enough in what the others were saying to make them not notice.

"Stare longer, why don't you?" Parkinson's voice came from somewhere far away, and Regulus would've stopped in a moment of self-abasement to look away had Alex not shifted noticeably at something. So his gaze followed hers again, and saw the cause of her stirring.

"See you later, Parkinson," he muttered as his feet started on their own volition. Regulus could feel it happen even before he saw it; her face paling, her breaths growing shorter. Her eyes were fixed on her target—Warner, or Wymond, or whatever his name was, her father. And he could also tell that Alex was seconds away from wobbling into a table lain with drinks and creamier desserts that no one would want to wobble into.

"Breathe," he said, but his voice wasn't his own. He was somehow standing behind her, feeling his heart beat painfully fast inside his chest. "Breathe. Don't panic."

"You," she gasped. "Go away."

"You're having a break down."

"I'm not—" her eyes grew watery. "Not having a break down. My god. My god. I—"

"C'mon," Regulus said, looking around surreptitiously. No one seemed to have spotted them—good. His mother would have a field day seeing him just approach the direction of Alex. "There's an empty room right behind the plant. Cissy always keeps a separate room for cloaks."

"Isn't that called a closet?" Alex asked, the last few syllables becoming rather incomprehensible. They set toward the "closet" and a few seconds later—the time felt like minutes to Regulus—Alex saw why he didn't say anything about the closet.

The room was as big as any regular living room. A large sofa occupied the center and there was even a small fire burning in the fireplace. Robes hung neatly on magical racks that were shifting the robes by their size, material, and the owner's name, etc.

"Oh god," she sniffled, sitting down unsteadily on the sofa. "I—I—"

"It's okay," Regulus said. "You're having a break down. This is a normal reaction—"

"Normal reaction?" Alex shot at his direction, but she'd already grabbed tissues to wipe her nose, and her eyes were red. "What would you know about a normal reaction?"

Regulus scratched his head. "I might've read a few books about grieving while you were gone," he said. I thought it might help me understand you, he wanted to add, but the sharpness of her gaze and tone set him against it.

Alex snorted. "Right," she said. "Typ—" Regulus assumed that she was going to call her typical, but her words were stopped short as she clutched her chest and took loud breaths.

"Can't breathe?" he asked. She nodded reluctantly.

"Go… away," she gasped. Regulus hesitated.

"Accio," he said instead, summoning a glass of water in the hall. She stared at it as he held it out, offering.

She didn't take it.

"I don't need you here," she said.

"I'm here for me," Regulus said coolly, miffed despite having expected her rejection. But, he realized to his surprise, he wasn't lying. Being in that room—it was for his benefit. His vision was no longer blurry, and his head didn't feel like a cave anymore, providing a space for voices to echo in. His stomach was still in knots, but it wasn't from the prospect of enduring the party for three hours or so with everyone's eyes on him.

"Well then," Alex said. Her tone was dismissive as if she meant to leave, but she was still clutching her chest. Regulus sighed and drank the water himself. Might as well. He couldn't just leave her here like this, no matter how much she wanted him to.

"Enjoying the party?" he asked casually. Alex snorted.

"None of your business."

"Alex, I—"

"Mr. Black." At the sudden entrance of a new voice both of them turned around, Regulus with his eyebrow raised, Alex clutching her wand. At the doorway stood Warner, Wymond, whoever he was, his face concealed in the shadow of the frame. His face was inscrutable, his frame even more so.

But his voice made it very clear what he meant.

"Your presence is required," he said, leaving very little room for interpretation as to who required his presence. "Now."

A/N And DA-DA-DAAAAAA... Sorry, feeling rather chatty today. This chapter was a toughie-I kept getting sidetracked by Ilya (who has too much to tell), Ricky Gervais interviews, and the fact that my feelings for Regulus Black as a character have undergone considerable change over the years I spent developing this fanfic. I started out sympathetic and fascinated, and I still am those things; other times, unfortunately, I want to pummel his guts (he's got all the makings of a sadboi, I'm afraid). Anyway, it seems that Book 2 is getting longer than I intended; by the fortieth chapter I originally planned that Alex would've graduated and started post-Hogwarts life already, but I guess the fanfiction gods have a different plan for us. Anyway, thank you for all the kind reviews and favs and follows! I promise it'll be a long ride...

P.S. I realized that The Redemption has hit the point where the story cannot possibly continue without containing some major spoilers (and there have been several spoilers already, dang it), so it will be put on hold until Book II, Chapter 20 comes out (I hope the plotline gets there by chapter twenty, but I have my doubts). So for all those following both stories, sorry-and I promise it's a doozy;)

P.P.S. Trivia of the chapter (I'm trying to keep things interesting, you see): there is a love story hidden in this chapter.