Draco's shuffled gait – as unsteady as a sailor's after several months away at sea – finally brought him to Hermione's door. He knocked several times, rapping his knuckles against the wood, and then leaned his forehead against it as well. It felt sturdy, and sturdy was good. He'd use just about anything for support right now, because walking in straight lines was proving to be a challenging task.

Standing upright wasn't so easy either, which he discovered the hard way when Hermione wrenched the door open, causing him to lose his balance and barrel in.

"Jesus Christ, Draco!" she exclaimed, jumping out of his way. Draco noticed she was holding a cellphone and had pressed one of her hands to the mouthpiece. "Do you know what time it is?! Our rendezvous was over two hours ago! Where have you been?!"

"I wrote you I would be late on that little… coin of yours," he mumbled, staggering about her room. Before they split up, Hermione had given him a galleon that could transmit small written messages of up to 140 characters.

"And what is… why do you smell like someone dumped you in a barrel of vodka?" She accused, eyes narrowing. "I've been sitting here, worried, and you've been getting pissed in some pub?"

Draco vehemently shook his head. "No pub," he answered, finally finding a couch and falling onto the cushions with a relieved grunt. "These Russians – they're crazy. You want to leave, but they won't let you leave until you've drunk so much that you can't."

"Well then why would you…" she began, her eyebrows rising indignation, but then a noise came from her phone, and she lifted it back to her ear. "Yes, Harry, I'm here," she said, and then added with a pointed glare in the blond Slytherin's direction, "It's just that Draco here saw it fit to attend some party with the locals."

Conveying her displeasure at that with a reproachful sniff, she turned around and walked over to the window, continuing her conversation with the Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco groaned. He was feeling queasy and some things were doubling in his vision. "Oh, Merlin, my liver," he complained to no one in particular. "But the bears… the bears were amazing... so friendly…"

Losing his ungainly train of thought, he petered off, and stared at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. For some reason, it was spinning around. Had he been a muggle, he would have compared it to the way a helicopter's blades rotate, but he wasn't some filthy, uneducated muggle; he was a wizard! So the ceiling spun like…

Like…

Unable to complete that simile, he groaned again and lifted his head up onto a pillow. This turned his gaze away from the butterscotch ceiling and right onto Granger's bum, which quickly became the focal point of his suddenly very rapt attentions.

She was facing away from him, leaning against the window and gazing out over the bend of the Moskva River and further, where the stars of the Kremlin glowed a ruby red against the midnight sky. Drawing absentminded patterns on the glass with her fingers, she continued to chat with Potter on the phone, pointedly ignoring Draco's pitiful whines.

It was always Potter on that phone, he thought. The two Gryffindors talked to each other every day, exchanging reports on the progress of their respective investigations. They also chatted a lot, mostly about meaningless things. Honestly, he never would have imagined Granger for such a blabbermouth, but she was always so reluctant to end her conversations with Potter that they dragged on forever.

Not that he minded too much. These talks were good for her.

Too often he noticed a far-off look in her eyes, and her shoulders slumped under some invisible burden. But after talking with her friend, she'd perk up and seem a little happier. It was impossible to begrudge her that.

Oh, if only his 15-year-old self could hear these thoughts. What Draco wouldn't give for a chance to sit down with his past self and warn him of the devastation headed his way. He'd explain to that haughty schoolboy that the bullshit his father was fighting for would lead their family to the edge of ruin; that if it weren't for Granger's infallible sense of right and wrong, he'd be rotting away in Azkaban with the other Death Eaters.

But, at that age, children always strive to emulate their parents. His father hated mudbloods, and, therefore, Draco hated them too… and it wasn't even a conscious decision on Lucius's part either. He had copied his own father, conforming to the established norms of pureblood society, as it had been done by for hundreds of years.

And it all culminated with a teenage girl being tortured on the floor of their mansion. A girl that had blossomed into a striking young woman, he noted, still staring at her jean-clad derriere, as his thoughts turned away from depressing, war-bound memories.

Oh, yes, there much more appealing things for his uninhibited mind to consider. Spurred by oceans of of vodka, his thoughts wandered around, until they led him to idly wonder what sort of undergarments she wore. Were they plain and cotton, were there polka dots on them, or did she opt for something more risqué?

Hogwarts-themed lingerie was back at the forefront of bedroom fashion; at least, according to the magazines he would never admit to paging through. There had been a fantastic Slytherin bra and knicker set there. He pictured the lacy thing in its green and black and silver on Hermione, as she strode towards him with a sultry smirk and then, with fire dancing in her eyes and her breath ghosting over his skin, lowered herself down, down, until she was on her knees and...

"You did what?!" exclaimed the object of his desires with innocent, bubbling laughter. Draco's cheeks burned with shame. He realized how wrong it felt to think about Hermione this way, especially with her in the same room. Think about something else, he thought with silent admonishment, trying to purge the sexual images from his mind. Hagrid, think about Hagrid. Hagrid and his herd of hairy hippogriffs.

Hermione meanwhile, unaware of her companion's internal conflict, continued to speak on the phone, "Harry, that is brilliant! Evil, but brilliant! I love it! And you made sure he can't…? Ok, great. Mhhm. Yes. Yes, ok. I'll check in tomorrow again, Dad, don't worry. I'll be fine; I am fine. Yes. Ok, tell Ron and Ginny I love them. Bye."

She hung up, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and turned away from the window, gazing around the room with a look of sincere content. Several seconds of blissful peace played around the pair, disturbed only by sound of traffic from below. It lasted up until the moment Hermione's eyes fell upon Draco's sprawled form, which caused her to cross her arms with an irritated moue.

"Pray tell me," she asked, eyebrows rising in a disapproving rebuke, "but why are you drunk like a skunk?"

Draco groaned. What the fuck did that even mean? Why would skunks get drunk? Did they do so at parties, and, if they did hold parties, were they dependent on nationality? Like, did South American skunks hold quinceaneras, and Jewish ones – Bar Mitzvahs? Would the skunks in England reverently intone "God save the Queen" thrice before going to bed, and Aussie ones brawl with kangaroos? These were very important questions, and he made a note to look into this once his head cleared.

But as to Granger's initial question… no. Explaining his current condition was an impossible feat. Granger simply wouldn't understand. For all her bookish smarts, she was a woman.

And they never do.

. . . .

. . . .

It had all started when they decided to split up for the day. Well, no, if he was being honest about it, it probably began when they disembarked in Moscow. Their train had arrived late, and they spent half the night in the city's morgue, testing all the cadavers for any traces of the virus.

By the time they had dispensed with that gruesome business, it was already in the wee hours of the morning. They took a cab ride to their hotel (Hermione had nestled into his shoulder during the drive, which was almost a tradition by this point, not that he was complaining), and then trudged up to their respective rooms. Neither had woken up until the sun crossed the midday mark. Hermione, when she did rise, had been horrified at the time; she had constructed a whole plan on the train, only for it to go underfoot when they overslept.

Draco snidely remarked that with her friends like hers, she should be used to her plans falling through, which had earned him a glower and a half-hour lecture on all the redeeming qualities that Potter and his little red Weasel possessed.

She had huffed and puffed, and her hair had been all a mess, and it had been totally worth it.

Needless to say, that had put them even more behind schedule. So Draco offered to split up.

Their primary objective in Russia was to find a member of the original Dolohov family or the location of their estate. The hope was that the Dolohovs could confirm that it was, in fact, their relative that was infecting all the muggles and would have a way to locate him.

Unfortunately, finding people here was not as straightforward as simply going to their mailing address. The country was vast – more than six-and-a-half million square miles of endless tundra and bogs, forests and mountains, rivers and lakes. Wizarding communities dotted the vast expanse, hiding their locations behind potent spells of nature-based magic. It was an adaptation to the countless invasions the country had experienced over the centuries, both from the east and the west. Its resources ran deep, and with its people spread out over a wide area, many laid a greedy eye on what they thought was poorly defended.

So the local shamans and witches and wizards had learned to use the land to their advantage. Concealing their homesteads and movements, they would lure enemy forces deep into their territory, and then strike out in small ambushes, cutting off supplies and executing isolated groups until the enemy had bled to death from a thousand wounds.

While these means of partisan warfare may have been extremely effective, they had also contributed to the current state of utmost secrecy that most Russian estates relied on. Unless someone lived or worked in a large city (and none of the Dolohovs did), then finding them was a difficult matter.

So it wasn't any surprise that, after giving Draco's idea a brief amount of consideration, Hermione agreed. Apart, they could cover more ground and reach out to more people. Hopefully, one of them would get lucky.

So that was how Draco found himself wandering the streets of Moscow, searching for his father's business associates. There were several in this city, as Lucius had cultivated professional interests in many countries, Russia included. This was simply the result of sensible money management, which Malfoys, as it is known, imbibed with their mother's milk. Besides, investment diversification is like 'What to do when you're born rich 101', and even though Malfoys could be described as many things, 'poor' would not be among them.

Therefore, Malfoy gold was spread over the globe like sprinkles on a cake, and no matter how much the ministry tried, confiscating it all was simply unfeasible. Some of it was here, and Draco just needed to gain an audience with the people his father had invested in and ask them about the Dolohovs. Surely, someone knew how to locate them?

Alas, it was not that easy. The first person he attempted to contact – an old sable fur trader – had gone bankrupt and moved to Argentina. Draco's mood turned sour at such news – it was such a pigheaded way to lose money. Sadly, there hadn't been much Draco could have done, as he had simply lacked the time to conduct any business affairs in the past several years. Handing them off to some financial management agency was also out the question; trusting anyone with their family's money would have been the pinnacle of idiocy.

Now, however… now that Hermione had got him out from under the ministry's yoke and he didn't have to spend his days at that filthy muggle job anymore… now he could return the Malfoy name to its rightful place of prosperity.

Such thoughts occupied his mind as he strolled through the narrow alleys that branch off of Moscow's Old Arbat Street. They were part of the magical world, and undetectable to muggles. Grand buildings towered on each side, and a bitter wind swept through the middle. December was just around the corner, but only a sprinkling of snow had fallen so far. Draco's warming charms were insufficient for this weather, and he huddled his nose into the neck of his coat. His head was covered by an ushanka hat he had purchased from a nearby store, and it pleased him greatly. It was warm, covered his ears, and Draco also thought it made him blend in with the locals, despite the fact that he was only person wearing one.

Humming a nondescript tune, he walked on, sometimes asking other pedestrians for directions to various addresses he remembered from his father's business papers. Unfortunately, neither his second or third contact could assist him directly, but they did point to several people who might.

Draco didn't despair; on the contrary, he felt elated. Walking around like this was a luxury after years of dirty work. He was his own master now, and when he met up with Hermione in the evening, they could go down to a restaurant, and eat and talk and laugh.

Hermione… it was astounding how much at rest he felt in her proximity. It was almost instinctual to reach for her, hugging her close in the protective confines of his body, feeling the bushy strands of her hair tickle his chin. The years of animosity at school didn't matter anymore; after all, what do schoolyard taunts mean to someone who has fought a war and seen others tortured to death? They were just two individuals who shared a past so dark and terrible that they didn't need to explain it to one another. Things like that, you can't explain to anyone – they have to live through it to know what it's like, and that shared connection bridged them in many ways.

He also got the feeling that she had been lonely before, just like him. This, too, brought them closer together.

Oh, they still disagreed about many issues, of course. But the main point of contention between them – Draco's hate born of prejudice – was now gone, burned away in the fires of war. So when they did argue, it was without vitriol.

Draco's next destination – a townhouse guarded by a pair of gaudily gilded lions sitting on marble plinths – brought him out of his thoughts. Carriages lined the street, and a throng of people, all dressed up in expensive outfits, was making its way towards the entrance. Children sprinted around, oblivious to the cold, and waved toy wands, laughing with a carelessness that adults can only envy. A cavalcade of house-elves carrying boxes of all shapes and sizes (many with pretty bows) stomped up and down the wide steps that led inside.

Draco paused for a moment, observing the cheerful nature of the scene. He had seen many just like it – when life had been simple and easy, and when his greatest worry was how to meet his father's expectations. It was some child's birthday party, and a part of him wished that this child – as well as his or her whole generation – would never have to endure the terrors he had.

He joined the ranks of the privileged (it was easy – he fit right in), and walked up the steps to enter into a spacious vestibule with a vaulted, high ceiling. A matronly woman, whom he identified as the Lady of this Manor, was greeting guests with a subdued smile. He approached her with the artful movements of a practiced socialite and introduced himself, apologizing for the intrusion and requesting an audience with her husband in the same sentence.

She smiled and replied with only the barest trace of an accent, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your father; even in our distant backwoods, we have heard of your misfortunes."

Draco looked around the "distant backwoods" that could give his own home a run for its money and nodded politely. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, the woman summoned a house-elf and instructed it to escort Draco to the parlour, where the men had gathered.

The men, as evident by the clouds of smog when he got there, had been socializing for quite some time, contently puffing on cigars and admiring the numerous hunting trophies hanging from the walls. The owner of the manor – a man of wide, free stature, with a wild joviality dancing in the whites of his eyes – clapped Draco on the back the instant he came near.

"Ze little Malfoy!" he exclaimed in English that was much worse than his wife's. "You come to congratulate daughter? My Natasha – she is six today, and already worse zen ze devil himself! My wife claims I spoil her too much, but vat can I do, ha?!" Everyone in the room roared with laughter.

Draco's expression became a little strained; judging by the amount of empty bottles on the tables as well as the exuberant response, everyone was more than a little tipsy. It looked like this could be another dead end.

Still, he explained his need. The man nodded sagely, clapping him several more times on the shoulder with the force of a giant. "Dolohovs, yes. I help you find! But first – you drink!" With that, he shoved a cup (not even a shot, a cup!) filled with a clear liquid. "You drink for my Natasha!"

What could he do? His options were rather limited, and, besides, he hadn't engaged in any sort of revelry in years. So, of course he had to drink to the health of some girl! In fact, it was actually necessary to complete his mission, and that meant he was really doing it for Hermione and all the muggles she yearned to save. Calmed by such infallible logic, he took the cup and emptied it down. The man grinned and offered him another.

And another.

The evening became hazy after that. He remembered snippets of conversation and a heated argument the content of which was unclear, because he didn't speak a lick of Russian. That didn't stop him from offering up his own opinions, and everyone, including him, shook with laughter when he did.

So many things become funny in the presence of alcohol.

A trio of bearded gentlemen cornered him at one moment, declaring that they would instruct him in the wonders of their noble language. Then, interrupting and talking over each other, they made him repeat a dozen times phrases like "Spartak – Chempion" and "Zhora bol'shoi mudak" until he had them committed to memory.

The high point of the evening came when the manor's owner floo'd in a couple of pet bears. The bears were brown, furry and wore red-and-gold jester's caps with little bells that jingled when they walked. It was quite a sight. The owner swore they could dance, and, emboldened by copious amounts of vodka, Draco actually volunteered, after which he, to everyone's great amusement, managed to perform a decent jig in tow with the two mammals. Everyone clapped and cheered, and Draco felt like he was the center of the party again, so many years after the last one, which had been when he was still in school and Voldemort just a dim shadow on the horizon.

Somewhere in the course of these celebrations, he remembered the owner introducing him to some grizzled chap who knew the youngest Dolohov – a girl by the name of Anastasia. She would be attending the Shabash on Bald Hill in three day's time, and, of course, Draco was welcome to share his new friend's portkey there. He just needed to come to his address in St. Petersburg, because that's where the portkey would depart from. Draco nodded, storing that information, and then quickly found himself in the middle of a disagreement of whether or not Russia could make the next Quidditch World Cup.

To Draco's credit, he attempted to leave several times after getting the information he had come for, but every time he tried, someone would thrust another drink into his hands, and, well… it would be rude to refuse, right?

Finally, he managed to slink out sometime before midnight, take the Russian equivalent of the Knight Bus to their hotel, and stagger up to Hermione's room to share the exciting news.

But articulating this tale of dedicated self-indulgence was beyond him at the moment. I mean, how do you even tell a sober person that you danced with a bear? You can't. Don't believe me? Try it.

So, he just shifted uncomfortably under the bushy-haired witch's wicked glare, smacked his lips several times, said, "Zhora bol'shoi mudak," as if it were all the explanation in the world, and promptly passed out.

Hermione, exasperated at her companion's behavior, breathed a heavy sigh. Then she removed his shoes and brought in a sheet from her bedroom to cover him. A fond smile played round her lips as she tucked Draco in. When she was done, Hermione brushed away several strands of hair from his forehead with a gentle touch and then retired to her own chamber. Sleep didn't come easily to her outside her home, but she would try.

. . . .

. . . .

Draco rose not two hours later, because of a riot in his stomach. No, scratch that, it was not a riot – it was a whole on revolution, a prison break of the most relentless magnitude. The contents of his gut wanted out, and they wanted it now. There was no time for deliberation or negotiation; Draco sprang up and, quicker than a beggar to a spare coin, rushed to the loo. There, hugging the white porcelain of the toilet seat, he emptied the contents of his stomach in a gushing explosion. Coughing and sputtering, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he felt the acidic aftertaste of liquor burning in his mouth.

When he was finally finished, he slumped down, wiping his lips with the edge of his sleeve. Taking several deep breaths, he raised his eyes to the mirror. He looked like a vampire out of some trashy muggle novel: pale, translucent skin, bloodshot eyes, mouth twisted in a disgusted snarl.

That wasn't the worst part though.

Because there, next to his reflection in the mirror, was Hermione Granger. Dressed in a pair of maroon pajama pants that read 'GRYFFINDOR' in bold, golden letters on the side and a t-shirt that he suspected had belonged to Potter or Weasley at some point, she looked decidedly amused.

She raised an eyebrow and asked, "Learned your lesson?"

Draco didn't even dignify that with an answer and shuffled up to his feet. He opened the tap and rinsed his mouth, washing out the taste of vomit. He was in the process of drying his face with a small square hand towel, when Hermione followed up with softly spoken phrase that made him freeze.

"I was worried, you know," she said.

He dropped the towel and looked up into the mirror again, meeting her eyes. She was leaning against the doorframe, feet crossed, hands hanging limply at her sides. A pang of guilt shot through his stomach. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have messaged you more, but things got a little crazy. There were bears..."

"Bears?"

"Mhhm," he confirmed, turning around to face her. "Big dancing bears. It was for some little girl's birthday party, but I never saw her, just a bunch of men and bears."

"Wait a minute," she said, crossly, "you got wasted at child's birthday party? How did… how did you even get there?"

Draco shrugged. "It's Russia," he offered by way of explanation and then added, "I found how to get in touch with one of the Dolohovs though."

Hermione visibly perked up at his words "You did? How?"

He explained what the guest that told him: that they would need to go to St. Petersburg to catch a portkey to the Shabash, which is where Anastasia would be.

"The Shabash?" Hermione eagerly clarified. "You mean the Shabash at Bald Hill?"

"On Bald Hill," Draco automatically corrected. "And yes, that's where we can meet her."

"Oh, but that's great news!" Hermione exclaimed, striding over and flinging her arms around him. "That'll put us one step closer to catching him! And the Shabash... I've read about it, of course–"

"Of course."

"Shush, you," she chided and continued with reverent awe. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and, this close, he noticed that there were several freckles on her face that were positively lovely. "But to actually be there. It's one of the most famous wizarding events! Gilinger's Customs and Traditions of Magical Peoples has a whole three chapters devoted to it; Beauxbatons offers a whole course; and it's even referenced in Hogwarts: A History! Draco, this is fantastic! Did you know that in 1257 it was actually the place of–"

"Hermione," he interrupted, "you sound like we're back in school, and house points are up for grabs."

She blushed and punched him in the shoulder, playfully. "It was never about the points, silly. It was–oh my, I just realized I have nothing to wear!"

She jumped back, disentangling herself from their embrace, and began wringing her hands.

He grinned. The fretting actually reminded him of Pansy right now – just a little bit, proving that all girls, brainy or vapid, share a trace of similarity when it comes to clothes and looks. Then, of course, it's not like men don't have their moments of self-consciousness either.

"It's not that big of a deal," he wryly calmed her down. "Clothes are one of the least significant aspects of the Shabash."

Blush deepening, Hermione remembered the lurid pictures that accompanied several of the less academic texts.

A lone car drove by outside, engine revving, and he remember how late it was.

"Why are you actually up?" he asked with a frown. "It's–what? Three in the morning?"

Hermione looked down at the ground. "Couldn't sleep," she answered with a shrug. Her voice sounded hollow all of a sudden, like wind moaning through an abandoned house that is slowly falling to ruin.

"Nightmares?"

She replied without looking up, "Something like that."

Draco paused, trying to pierce her with his stare. What was she hiding? What did she not want him to know? He recalled how she had confided in him once how uncomfortable she felt falling asleep in unfamiliar places. Was it some echo of her trauma-filled past?

"C'mon," he said after a moment, having made a decision. Tugging an arm around her waist, he led her away from the bathroom. She felt stiff to his touch, like a marionette on taut strings. "Why don't you tell me what you were laughing with Potter about?"

A small giggle broke through her lips, and he felt her loosen just a little bit at the change of subject. "It was about Percy," she explained, as he guided her onto the couch he had been sleeping in just a little while ago.

"The older Weasley? The one who always looks like he's got a stick up his–"

"Yes, yes, that one. They needed his help to figure out some of the ministry's financial dealings, and he, obviously, refused. So Harry and Ron–"

His arm was still around her, carefully, like she was a frightful animal, rubbing up and down her back. With every word she spoke, she became more animated and less tense. Her thigh and shoulder rubbed against his, and he breathed in her scent, the muted aroma of aster and foxberries. She was warm, soft and so close.

"–and they threatened to turn him into a material witness in their investigation and lock him up! They said they'd lead him out of the ministry in cuffs!"

He clucked his tongue. "They could do that. The amount of authority aurors have – it's insane. They don't even need some court order or warrant or anything. What they do practically is the law."

"Well, I suppose that's true, but those that lack morals just need a strong hand to direct them," Hermione argued.

Having felt their heavy handedness himself, he didn't really agree, but didn't voice his objections and just moved his hand a little higher, to which she hummed approvingly.

"Anyway, now he's locked up in Grimmauld place with stacks of documents," she finished her story.

"And he's happy with that? Aren't they afraid he'll escape?"

"Well, he wasn't happy… up until the moment Ginny pointed out what uncovering one of the biggest conspiracies in our country's history could do to his career."

Draco threw his head back and laughed.

"Yeah," she grinned. "So now he's the most enthusiastic of the bunch. Practically biting at the paper."

"Well, I'm glad that worked out."

"Me too." She yawned widely. His fingers absentmindedly twirled a curl of her hair.

"Tell me about how working with muggles was?" she asked, sleepily.

"At that distasteful place?" he scowled.

"It couldn't have been all that bad."

"It was," he said, explaining how he had been thrust into the muggle world immediately following his trial's verdict. How he had no preparation and no idea how how anything worked; how the blaring and automobile honking made him flinch; how he had felt an outsider in the land, and how his muggle coworkers would laugh at him after playing a particularly nasty prank.

He told her how lonely he had been and how much he despaired, because he had to bare it all silently, or off to Azkaban it was. He whispered his fears of being stuck in that place forever, until he couldn't stand it to the point where he would begin to ponder ways out. Ways that, usually, are very unappealing.

She made horrified sounds at the appropriate moments, and then somehow her head wound up in his lap, and he was gently winding his fingers through her hair. It was thick and springy, and he realized just how many subtle colors were contained in those bushy locks.

He talked about many things, some good, some bad, sometimes briefly touching upon the war. She would interject from time to time, and the last thing she muttered before being lulled away to the lofty realm of sleep was, "I wonder what they're doing now."

"Who?"

"The people behind this. Dolohov and his ilk. What are they planning? They need to die, Draco. I want them to die. I want to go to sleep without fearing the dark, without wondering what's outside my door. I don't want to be afraid anymore."

A lump formed in his throat, and he thought of what to respond, but she was already asleep. So, instead, he bent down and pressed his forehead against hers, wishing that he could carry some of her burdens. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips, and then lifted himself back up.

He gazed at her resting form, so beautiful, trusting and fierce; at the freckles covering her skin and the way her hair fell down in rolling waves, and the strangest feeling gripped his chest. It was something he hadn't experienced in years, something that had been torn from him in his fifth year at school. His greatest fear was he'd never feel it again.

It was the feeling of being accepted for who you are. It was the feeling of being home.

My deepest gratitude to those who care to comment! Not only is it kind, but it is also thought-provoking, and makes me understand how you, the readers, see this story.

"Zhora bol'shoi mudak" means "Zhora is a big asshole". Who is Zhora? That, I do not know, but I'm pretty sure he's a big asshole!

Shabash is a transliteration of the Russian word that translates into "Sabbath". It has two meanings; obviously I'm referring to the one that denotes it as a time when witches meet with the Devil in the dark of the night. I'm already having fun with that chapter =) It's... hmm... two updates away.

I hope to bring them soon! Do vstrechi!