Fraying

Things were bad.

Harry knew there was something, something inexpressibly bad, something painful and tormenting, something that flickered in Draco's eyes and trembled in his hands, catching in his throat and making him seem like nothing more than a child, shivering and hiding behind a cold mask of carved smirks.

It was also pretty bad that he was drinking with a house elf. Pathetic, really.

He wasn't really drinking with Winky, not yet anyway, simply seated at one of the kitchen's tables and swirling the amber Firewhisky in the tumbler the elves reluctantly supplied. They watched Winky with thinly veiled distaste and Harry with a mildly disapproving glare, but undying adoration nonetheless, making Harry wonder how often a student stole down to the kitchens and asked for a glass of something stronger than Butterbeer.

The liquid in his tumbler glowed like dying embers as he sloshed it aimlessly, finding no warmth in its fiery gaze as his thoughts were turned to chilly winds on the Quidditch pitch that Draco no longer flew on, and the even frostier look that the Slytherin shot him whenever Harry asked if he was alright.

"Is alright," Winky nodded knowingly as if reading his thoughts from across the table, "Master Malfoy said we can has rumored."

Harry hadn't the foggiest why Winky referred to the well-aged Ogden's as 'rumored', but had a niggling suspicion that his master hadn't specifically given them permission to drink the 'rumored'.

That didn't stop him from downing a great gulp in a split second of rebellion that left him sputtering and fevered the fire licking down his throat and spilling into his stomach where it pooled with an uncomfortable heat. He knew it was bad to try and drown his thoughts, brooding and maddeningly suspicious things they were, in alcohol, but the frustration that ached at his every cell argued otherwise.

"Harry! What do you think you're doing?"

He sprung from his seat, nearly knocking over the remainder of the priceless Firewhisky as he whirled about, flushing guiltily.

Ginny stood there, blushing herself and staring at Harry with wide brown eyes, just as surprised and apparently as embarrassed as Harry was.

"What are you doing?" Harry countered when he regained his voice, hoarse and burned from the Firewhisky that left his mouth hot and lips numb.

"I—I asked you first."

Harry wiped his mouth and looked for an answer that wasn't pathetic and complicated and involving Draco Malfoy—in short, one that wasn't the truth.

"Visiting Dobby," he settled on lamely, before he cast his gaze about the kitchen sharply, "Where is he anyway?"

"Oh, I sent him off," Ginny said quietly, busying herself with plucking the end of her tattered skirt, "Gryffindor Tower's been a bit of a mess, you know because of Hermione's barf thing, or whatever she calls it."

Harry laughed weakly, the subject of S.P.E.W. and house elves infinitely less amusing after the last weeks.

"Actually," Ginny suddenly announced in a falsely breezy voice, as she tossed her red mane of hair over her shoulder, "you wouldn't know about what's going on in the common room, would you?"

"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know," her high voice sung as she took a few steps—ones that looked distinctly threatening—toward Harry so her could see the smoldering anger in her eyes, "You've been hanging about your precious Malfoy too much to bother and pop in on the common room, haven't you?"

Harry glowered right back, trying not to think about how much he hurt Ginny, disappointed her, how much she loved him, or how precious Draco really was to him. He wasn't sorry for any of these things, he realized, and he wasn't about to let Ginny make him feel guilty, that had become a talent of hers indeed.

"I can hang about whoever I want Ginny." He said evenly. Her eyes flashed as if she very much wanted to say otherwise, but her lips merely turned down in a determined frown.

"He's no good, Harry."

"Maybe he's not the best of people, but he's not that bad, not really."

"He's the worst of people, really."

"Really, you don't know anything about him." Harry retorted, plopping back down in his seat and resigning himself to a row only a stubborn Weasley could carry on.

"But I do!" she exclaimed, sitting down next to him and nestling herself incredibly close, her voice dropping to an excited whisper, "He's up to something and I know it. Harry, he's only using you in some evil scheme he's cooked up."

Harry addressed her solemn look with one that she evidently didn't expect, face falling, but the passionate resolve never leaving her eyes.

"You know Ron doesn't reckon he's so bad." He offered.

"I know things Harry."

"What do you know about Draco?" he sighed, grimacing as she tensed at the use of the devious and most villainous Malfoy's first name.

"He uses people. He's a selfish, greedy, spoiled brat." Ginny ploughed on, undeterred by Harry's wry stare.

"And where did you hear all this? Lavender needs to stop spreading rumors; she's getting to be as bad as Pansy Parkinson."

"Not Lavender or even Parkinson told me this." She said softly, eyes positively shining with a slightly mad light, "Terry Boot himself told me."

Harry stared incredulously, laughter bubbling in his charred throat.

"Terry Boot? The Boy Who Lives to Shag?" he hadn't laughed at first at Draco's title for Boot, but now it seemed dreadfully fitting.

"Terry dated Malfoy." she insisted, "So he knows firsthand how Malfoy uses people to get his wicked way."

Harry's chuckling died instantly, a blush creeping up his neck and an idea blooming irrevocably in his mind, the seed planted there by an awkward and inquiring Ron and only fertilized by the rumors milling about the school and the warmth of Draco's gazes and the heat of his kisses and now by the things Ginny was implying.

"We're not d-dating or anything like that," he stuttered, nervously fidgeting away from her proximity, "Nothing like that."

But everything seemed like that: the snogging, the feeling, the undeniable fact that he fancied Draco Malfoy. He wanted to claim Draco just as Harry was claimed by him, a claim staked by not a curse, but something more powerful and just as binding. The idea that he could—that Draco could be his—was like an order singing through the curse, a melody that he couldn't shake from his thoughts.

A hope leapt into Ginny's eyes at his words that made him wince, guilt slithering its way back along with pity for poor Anthony Goldstein. Uncharitable thoughts, words he'd seen visibly poised on Draco's lips whenever they glimpsed the 'happy' couple, twined their way along with the guilt and pity, but he shook those away, wishing desperately to be alone again with his Firewhisky and his own kind.

Things were bad if he was surrendering himself to the fact that he was a house elf, eagerly waiting on his beloved Master Draco.

No doubt things would get worse.

"Harry, you need to stay away from him." she went on, serious again although she peeked at him coyly from behind the curtain of her hair.

"I don't need to do anything." He growled, swinging his legs around to face Winky, who sat and clutched at her the bottle of Firewhisky for dear life, gazing at Ginny as if she might steal it away from her.

"Harry, listen—"

"No, I'm not going to," he declared airily, a tone specifically belonging to Draco and specifically to annoy Ginny, "In fact, I'm deaf. Deaf and smart enough to know that Terry Boot is nothing but a gossiping slut."

She gave an angry huff that might have been a gasp as she rose to her feet, arms crossed and hair tossing wildly in her agitation. Harry ignored her, opting to examine the whisky left in his tumbler with profound fascination.

"Is that Ogden's?" she asked flatly.

"What else?" Harry granted her a glance, watching as her keen stare lingered on the battered case on the table.

"Looks like its old, the good stuff."

With that she left, slipping out the portrait door with elves biding her goodbye in her wake. Harry wondered if he'd been too harsh with her, the guilt sneaking its way into his heart again before he banished it forcefully with another, more tentative, drink of the Firewhisky. He didn't want to date Ginny, he didn't care if Boot, who really was just a whore, was her boyfriend's best friend, he didn't think Draco was plotting his doom, and he wasn't sorry.

By the third glass of Firewhisky, he wasn't sorry he'd called Ginny a slut.

He was floating by then, drifting on a river that was carrying him to a carefree place, leaving all those brooding thoughts about his master to burn away in the scalding waters he poured down his throat, one tumbler full after the other. He wasn't sorry about anything in this state really, not about nearly taking his own life that night, not about Ginny or Anthony Goldstein or Terry Boot or anyone.

He wasn't regretting anything, aside from a sinking, pulling, clawing feeling that he wasn't doing something right. Strings pulling him in the haze he'd drenched his worries in.

"Winky," he said slowly, his voice the only sound in the emptied kitchens aside from Winky's watery snuffling. The other house elves had popped away to take care of whatever chores needed to be done in the dead of night, which Harry wagered was a lot considering he hadn't seen a single elf about the castle until fourth year.

"Winky is being here," she squeaked, clutching more tightly to her tumbler.

"Am I a good house elf like my master says?"

Winky squinted at him and Harry blushed, sincerely hoping that he was a good elf like his master so often liked to whisper in his ear. Harry quite liked the whispering, he also quite liked his master's voice, his name on his master's skilled tongue. Skilled that tongue was indeed, with both words and other things…

"Harry Potter is be being…not very proper." Winky decided, nodding, "but if Master Malfoy is be saying so, the Harry Potter is be a good elf."

Harry frowned, it wasn't precisely the answer he was looking for, but he had to agree with Winky. He resisted; something no self-respecting house elf did. He wasn't very proper at all, assuming he was a—an equal to his Master, even some wayward thoughts suggesting he was better than his master, which was unthinkable. Wrong, like a scream in the middle of a song.

"What should I do?" he mumbled miserably, running a hand through his hair.

"Hm," Winky seemed abruptly sober, looking over Harry with sharp, clear eyes, scrutinizing him with a thoughtful look while Harry sat and felt awkward and inefficient.

"Winky thinks that Harry Potter needs to obey, and Harry Potter needs to be elfish."

"Elfish?"

"Elfish."

"Like, bowing more?"

Winky nodded, nearly knocking herself from her chair in the force of it.

"Yes, bow more is good." She said.

"And…helping my master?"

"And Harry Potter shall call him Master."

Harry smiled, "I like helping him, my master."

Something within him thrummed appreciatively and he kept beaming and kept drinking, warm, contented, and unaware.

Blissfully, blessedly unaware.

~o0o~

Draco had something writhing inside him, something with sharp, but with slippery sick edges that dug into his everything. He was grimacing against it, against the coldness that made his steps stiff and labored, which shivered through his hands and set him on edge, aware of every creak and crack of the ancient castle around him.

Terribly, dreadfully aware.

He was aware of Severus' lingering hand on his shoulder, but he was numb to the comfort, numb to the words, gruff and clinical but with concern nonetheless, that his guardian said. He was aware that his feet were carrying him down the path he always followed after gatherings, off to the nearest showers to wash before Pomfrey tracked him down to fussily mother him.

He felt incredibly and completely dirty, the few smudges of blood he couldn't seem to wipe from his hands spreading to cover every inch of him, screams drenched over him like filth and curses poisoning him, sinking past the blood to settle in his gut along with that serpent of disgust. He knew from experience that, unfortunately, no amount of soap, or charms, or scalding water would ever wash away what had happened that night.

Merlin, what had happened that night still ran like bladed lightening up his spine, every glance of those crimson eyes stained on his retinas, horrifyingly luminous in the dark of the drawing room. The Dark Lord's stare was penetrating, it sought out lies with a deadly precision and Draco was sure that he suspected something. Perhaps he didn't know that he was running about snogging Harry fucking Potter, but he knew Draco wasn't doing everything in his power to mend the Vanishing Cabinet.

And he knew Draco was afraid. He could smell it.

And Draco was punished for it.

A shudder ran unbidden down his spine and his steps faltered on their way down toward the dungeons, but he merely growled at himself and sped up, trying to direct his thoughts elsewhere—anywhere but the dark path they were wandering down, back in time not more than an hour ago.

He thought of Potter instead, not the nasty, horrific things the Dark Lord had proclaimed about him and the things he'd do to his mutilated corpse, no, he tried to think of his eyes, their gaze that held him firmly in place, far away from the Dark Lord and the curses he spat.

The memory wasn't enough. He needed to see those eyes, lose himself in them, if just for one night, just a few hours encompassed in green to ward away the very black and dreadfully red nightmares that were sure to prey upon him in sleep.

The sick sweep of dizziness descended on him again as he stumbled his way down the stairs—he couldn't be arsed to know which stairs—and he knew Pomfrey would likely find him in a heap on the cold dungeon floor, hopefully reaching him before Nott came sniffing about, that git, dreaming of blood and Muggle guts and—

Draco was sure he was going to retch up what little food he had in his stomach, swooning forward just as lights burst behind his eyes, sure that he was going to split his skull open on the stone floors, sure he was going to fade into a nightmare, a memory, and awake screaming and bloodied just as he did every other time.

But then the unexpected happened.

He was caught, arms wrapping about him in an embrace he could call familiar, maybe even safe, but those were things only Hufflepuffs said. Slytherins did not say those things, rather they said,

"What the fuck?"

It was Potter's arms, their hold so undeniably familiar just like the bloom of heat in his chest when he looked up into the emerald eyes he had so desired to see vague and watery, rather like the house elf he'd left him with. Upon Draco's raised brow he broke into a sunny smile and brushed a loose lock of fringe from Draco's face.

"What the fuck?" he repeated faintly.

"I've got you, Master." Potter smiled, half lifting him for emphasis and Draco felt dizzy all over again.

He very nearly did vomit when he got a whiff of the Firewhisky fumes that were rolling off Potter like a London fog.

"Potter, you drank the entire bottle, didn't you?" he sighed; astonished that innocent little Potter would be one for such a poison, less that he couldn't hold his liquor whatsoever.

"No!" Potter cried indignantly, before lowering his voice and his head, unaccountably abashed, "I mean, no sir, Winky had most of it."

"And I suppose you poured the rest over yourself?" Draco tried to wriggle out of Potter's arms, away from his breath that was churning his stomach.

Potter kept his hold, too tight and pressing before freezing and Draco at last wrest himself from Potter's hold, stumbling back and nearly falling again if not for the hand that latched to his and dragged him near again. Potter wasn't embracing him, just looking, intently, at his hand.

This was when Draco knew how utterly smashed the Golden Boy was.

"You're hurt,"

The sardonic comment caught in his throat and for a wild moment he thought Potter had learned something from the old bat in the North Tower and read his palm, seeing past whatever façade he built to say that he wasn't hurt, wasn't terrified, wasn't waiting for death to inevitably jump upon him shouting, "Traitor! Blood-traitor!"

But it was only blood. Blood that smeared off onto Potter's outstretched fingers that he furrowed his brow at, eyes distantly focused. Draco should have known that it would only be Potter to wash him of the sin on his hands, Harry Potter the Saviour of Us All.

"I tripped," he lied, before realizing that he didn't have to explain himself to a drunk. He snatched back his hand and spun on his heel, leaving Potter to be discovered in a hanged-over heap he thought he himself would have previously become.

He overestimated both his strength and Potter's determination as he wobbled and another persistent, if not equally wobbly hand grasped his shoulder and held tight. He sighed, a long, heavy one that seemed to release more than just air as he leaned back into Potter's offered embrace, finding a comfort there he could never have in his godfather's hard words.

He acquiesced to whatever Potter wanted for the moment, which seemed to be nothing more than to cuddle him close and muss his hair, breathing thick breath onto his neck. Draco kept his mind firmly in the moment, knowing the danger of a wandering mind after the horrors he wished hadn't happened, but he did find his increasingly heavy eye lids drifting shut. Despite his fight against the weariness that weighted his bones and the drowsy effect of Potter's heat, he soon found himself in darkness.

It was usually a frightening thing, but now, he couldn't seem to place why. So he started to fade, fade fast into something suspiciously like sleep, a sleep he hadn't had in quite some time, one without nightmares or screams or worries…

Surely, this was Death's embrace, then.

But when he awoke again, it was not to the fires of hell or the bright expanse of heaven. Limbo, it appeared, to be a cold, grimy bathroom.

But fortunately for him, Potter was there, still a cushion against his back, cradling him between his legs and still combing through his hair with his fingers, his breath no less rank with Ogden's.

"How did he get here?" he asked, voice echoing off the dark tiled walls.

"I took my Master here," Potter murmured into his ear, "My Master wanted a bath."

Despite the warmth, a cold chill ran up Draco's spine and he wondered again how much Potter knew, how far he could peek into the thoughts Draco carefully hid from his face, his demeanor.

"How did you know that?" he asked slowly, carefully.

Potter inexplicably giggled at this, his laughter shaking Draco.

"A house elf always knows!"

So the curse was in effect then, naturally the fickle powers it granted only in full use when Potter was utterly pissed. It was just Draco's luck.

"So then we popped in here, then?" he asked wearily, far too tired to grumble about his lack of luck, or the curse, or to even stop and wonder at it. He just wanted to fade into that rest he'd somehow obtained for a moment and pretend that that night had never happened, wash away the memories with what Potter had drowned himself in.

He hadn't tried that yet.

Potter had other plans however, dislodging Draco from his lap and bustling away, his heavy footsteps loud in the cavernous bathroom. Draco scowled down at the cold tile he was left on, but found no will to move himself or question what Potter was doing. Of course, whatever Potter was doing, he meant it to be for his Master, a title that still managed to send a pleasant shiver through him.

"I'm not sure just how much I fancy you like this, Potter." he mumbled, blinking when Potter was suddenly inches away, his face earnestly hurt, yet determined.

"How does my Master want his house elf to be?" Potter asked.

Draco almost laughed if not for the tears that glistened in the green eyes before him, he sighed, deciding that he did not like the servile, drunk Potter, but rather the one he could rile and the one that resisted. There was a certain heat he could bask in when he used the curse, and whatever other method he'd developed over years of taunting, to get under Potter's skin, nestle himself there. Feel close to him.

"I want my house elf to be Harry fucking Potter, the Boy I Can Mess With." He said firmly.

Potter's brows drew together in a way Draco would admit to be adorable, but the tears cleared.

"Master wants to mess with me?"

"Yeah, you know, make you do silly and embarrassing things for my amusement."

"Like what?" Potter seemed genuinely eager to do something silly and embarrassing to amuse him, and it'd be stupid not to exploit a smashed, house elfish Harry Potter.

"Roll over," Draco drawled; watching as Potter did, unflinchingly, smiling all the while.

"Sit," Potter obeyed.

"Speak," Potter obeyed.

"Play dead," Potter obeyed.

Draco didn't like this trick, because Potter was an unfortunately fantastic actor. His neck twisted to the side and an awkward angle, limbs splayed out, chest barely moving, those verdant eyes closed as if they may never open again. Just like before, just like that nameless Muggle on his drawing room floor. Expect he'd stared, stared into the abyss, stared at his own blood split across the floor and splashed onto Draco, stared at Draco.

"Stop," he commanded, voice barely a whisper, but a whisper Potter heard and obeyed no less. "Don't die, ever."

Potter's eyes were opened again and gazing at him wide and concerned, like he had when he addressed the blood that wasn't completely washed from Draco's hands. Draco was distantly aware that he'd drawn his knees to his chest and his hands clutched them tightly, Potter reached out and touched them, held them, murmuring a spell that Draco thought he might've known.

"I won't," Potter said solemnly, and Draco wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he'd always have the Saviour at his side, to hide behind, to fall into.

"Draco?"

He started, thinking Potter had abruptly sobered, which was at this point impossible without a heavy dose of whatever Severus kept locked away along with his best wine that Draco often stole sips of, but Potter had just slipped into another drunken reality, less house elfish but nevertheless hazed and heavy.

"Yes, Potter?" he sighed, ready to find a way out of the bathroom and into a bed, nightmares or not.

"I…have to tell you…ask you…" Potter was chewing on his bottom lip, in an internal debate with himself, one part pissed, the other sobered and damnably determined.

Draco did not what to talk, as Potter had so demanded before Draco had banished him to the kitchens. Draco wanted to sleep and forget and maybe get his hands on one of those bottles the house elf had found.

He was never going to talk to Potter about whatever made his voice have such an edge.

"No, you don't." he said flatly, making to get up.

"No! I do!" Potter cried desperately, latching onto Draco more firmly.

"I don't; want to talk Potter, I want to sleep."

"Wait, no, I have to—"

"Just toss off, Potter."

He obeyed.

It was hesitant, but it happened. Draco very nearly didn't see it in his rush to leave, before he caught sight of Potter's suddenly flushed face, his lip being tortured by white teeth again as Potter's unsteady hands worked at the button of his jeans.

Draco's mouth went dry, hanging open as if to say something, but his mind was a short-circuited mess when he saw the first glimpse of Potter's pants.

Because they weren't Potter's—they were his.

His silken, monogrammed mint green boxers he'd plopped into Potter's hand—an action that had been rewarded with a punch to the face—were suddenly straining to contain Potter's erect cock. It was a thought that sent shivers straight to his own developing erection and kept him there, kneeling on the floor of a bathroom, gobsmacked as he watched Potter obediently, feverishly, deliciously toss himself off.

Draco watched every shift; every twist of the tight grip of his Quidditch-callused hands on Potter's revealed cock. His breath caught as Potter's did, fluttering out as a soft moan as he wished he were doing more than watching.

Then he realized he could.

It was clumsy, there was no grace as he might've liked, but Potter was pissed off his arse and he was desperate, so he didn't care as he dove for the Gryffindor bodily, teeth clacking together as mouths met and hands tangling in clothes before Draco's searching grasp found its quarry. Potter's cock was as better to touch than to look at, and Draco could only imagine how it might taste. He hadn't even dared to do more than wrap his hand around it and he was in danger of coming in his trousers already.

Potter didn't seem merely satisfied with this tentative grasp as he bucked, his entire body searching for friction and contact that Draco shamelessly supplied, pressing himself as close as possible and ruthlessly tugging on Potter's throbbing cock. Potter gasped in his ear before biting it, the feel and his hands drifting down his back with an electric touch, eventually settling with kneading, needy hands on his arse.

He muffled another moan into Potter's neck where he tasted it, no doubt leaving a love bite for the entire world to see, because Potter was his, his and only his.

Potter, his house elf.

Potter, the Boy He Messed With.

Potter, his Saviour.

Potter, who'd just vanished his clothes, pushing him back to straddle his naked thighs and ravish him with his mouth, sucking, licking, biting.

Draco could only mewl his appreciation as he writhed beneath Potter, keeping a determined hold on Potter's cock. Potter's lips were moving over his chest, hungry and laced with the taste of Firewhisky, sending fiery sparks through Draco whenever they brushed over Draco's nipples. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to make Potter read his mind and wishes as he had before.

But Potter knew what he really wanted.

Draco stilled entirely when he found his cock brushing that back of Potter's throat.

And then he couldn't stop moving, Potter had to use a hand to keep his hips from thrusting off the cold tiled floor and driving his cock impossibly deep into his mouth. Draco was absolutely positive that Potter was indeed reading his mind, his tongue doing just the right things to make his toes curls, blasphemies belting out from his slack jaw as that went warmth sucked and lapped with a force that left him begging in between the fucks and oh Potter!s. His suspicions were only affirmed when a finger teased his puckered hole, slick with saliva and pressing. When it pushed past, Draco readily impaled himself on it, demanding the second that was swiftly supplied. Draco reveled in the burn of being stretched, or maybe it was just the Ogden's.

The burn and the sparks those curling fingers found, along with Potter's fucking amazing mouth, licked away at the short fuse of his orgasm and soon he was coming for what felt like ages straight down Potter's throat, vaguely aware that Potter was drinking it as if it was ages old, priceless Ogden's Best Firewhisky.

Then everything was just as tiring as it had been moments before, the short burst of energy and lust lulled into a tender languor. Potter went limp and for a second Draco thought he'd fallen asleep with Draco's flaccid cock in his mouth, but he dragged himself up with a slurping pop that was enough to make even his spent cock twitch in interest. The Gryffindor then gave him a smile, smeared with come and yet the sweetest thing Draco had ever seen, as he shrugged out of his robes and gently rolled Draco onto them.

There must have been some magic involved, because Draco felt that he was lying on a mattress, warm and soft rather than a bathroom floor, cold and hard. He also felt no desire to protest when Potter wrapped him in a smothering embrace, sighing contently and settling down to sleep, his hands still carding through and mussing his hair. Only a spell could keep him from commenting on such Hufflepuffish behavior from the bravest lion of Gryffindor.

He couldn't make himself complain though, being so damn comfortable, being so close to that rest, that sleep without nightmares, the one he so needed after the night he'd had, so he moved closer and planted a smirking kiss to Potter's temple.

The mysterious magic of the curse that bound Potter to him had granted him what he wanted and needed that night, Potter's gaze and the bliss and protection they gave him, keeping the terrors and Madam Pomfrey at bay. He found himself not lost in the dark, but in their verdant depths, floating on an oblivious river of something that wasn't quite drunkenness, but close to it, all irrational thoughts and mad urges.

But even there, the worries existed, lurking and waiting for the harsh light of morning to pounce. Those worries came in the form of a sober Potter, filled up with morals and stubbornness and the unshakable need to talk.

But Draco had no desire to talk about whatever took the sparkle from Potter's eyes and put such an edge to his voice.

Draco, for the second time that night, had the most sinking feeling; this time that there wouldn't be so much speaking as there would be shouting, maybe even curses flung.

When Potter awoke to find his cheek pressed against a Dark Mark, that is.

~o0o~

A/N~ Again, sorry for the wait. Reality seems to hate writers and the schedule they try to set.

Thanks for reading, please review!