The Great Hall was once again bustling with excitement and joy. The students had all returned from their holiday the night before, and friends were animatedly catching up with one another over a delicious meal of sausages, eggs, bacon, and buttered toast.

Hermione sat between Ron and Harry. Ginny, Dean, Neville, and Seamus sat opposite them, and she felt happy to have her friends back. Truly, she did.

Harry and Ron were recounting every detail of Scrimgeor's visit to the Burrow on Christmas, along with other holiday happenings, but she was only half listening. Seamus was telling of his little cousin's case of accidental magic that required the Ministry's whole team of Obliviators to work overtime on Christmas Eve.

She took another bite of her fried eggs and tried to refocus on what they were saying.

"Ginny learned to make mince pies this year, 'Mione. Merlin, you'll have to try them," Harry gushed. "They're better than Mrs. Weasley's!"

Ginny blushed and swatted away the praise. Hermione noticed Dean not-so-subtly wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Hermione hoped she was the only one who noticed the possessive and jealous look on his face, where a proud look should have been.

"And thanks for the proofreading quill, Hermione!" Ron called. "I suppose I'll need less of your help on essays from now on, huh? How thoughtful and Slytherin of you," smiled Ron.

Dean and Seamus chuckled at the tease. And Ginny swatted their shoulders disapprovingly after wiggling out of Dean's reach.

Because Hermione's eyes had fluttered to the Slytherin table again when he'd mentioned that.

Ginny tried to change subjects for Hermione's sake. "Raven Borges, chaser of the Holyhead Harpies, announced her upcoming retirement last week. Says she's got two or three more years in her before she wants to leave the league. Says she wants to settle down with her husband, have some kids."

Quidditch. The ever-reliable distraction. The boys ate it up.

Hermione ate in silence, pushing uneaten tomatoes around her plate. She was half listening to their banter about flying and Quaffles and half thinking about Malfoy.

Her eyes kept flashing to him when his hand would shake no matter how hard she tried not to notice.

She'd been up until well past midnight thinking about him. The idea that he was forced into his position, forced into taking the Mark, left her completely tormented. She almost wanted to be wrong.

Why?

Because if she was correct, if Draco had been coerced into joining Voldemort's ranks, then the guilt that sat heavy in her chest was warranted. She'd have to deal with it. She'd have to–

Merlin. Soft waves of guilt lapped at her heart. Was he trying to tell her that night, outside of Slughorn's party? If he was, he could have been more clear, couldn't he? Had she been so caught up in her teenage girl emotions that she'd missed the bigger picture, missed what was being said between the lines? Hermione prided herself on being highly logical. And she usually was, wasn't she?

But these… feelings… these bloody tormenting, painful, confusing, distracting butterfly-like feelings had made her completely blind! But her feelings were valid, too, she reassured herself. He was charming and kind. He was funny, and he took good care of her. She couldn't deny that. Still, he'd lied to her, used her, hadn't he? It was completely fair that she felt betrayed and full of anger.

She had just found out that the man she loved, (yes, loved. She'd admit it now), was a marked Death Eater and had been lying to her for months. Surely she had a right to feel upset!

It was complicated!

Draco was a complicated person, this she'd always known. He carried himself with an air of superiority and was quick to spew judgment of how others were below him. But she understood now that this annoying, yet endearing, character trait was hardly because of real prejudice. No, Draco was an arse half of the time simply because he was raised to be an arse.

And she couldn't stop thinking about the paradox that he was. He was a bully, no doubt about it, but he was also kind and compassionate toward her beyond measure. He was thoughtful and protective, yet self-serving and manipulative. Cunning and capable. But he was more than that, of course he was. He'd been vulnerable with her, and honest with her, and then he'd lied to her and betrayed her.

He was a paradox, a puzzle, and maybe she had been wrong before. Maybe she'd let her emotions prevent her from thinking rationally?

It was past midnight last night when she'd had enough. She wanted to sleep, but her brain was racing so much, she couldn't make sense of it all. So, she decided she had to write it all down. Get it out of her brain. Hopefully, that would help her find clarity, and help her solve the puzzle?

16 inches of parchment later, 12:48 am, she laughed at herself.

She'd made colour-coded notes about Draco Malfoy, for crying out loud.

It gave her peace to reflect on him, on herself, and on their relationship in such an analytical way, but it hadn't helped her truly decide what to do about him. It wasn't a black-or-white answer. Whatever she'd do about her feelings for him were grey. Grey like his eyes. Grey like—

"Earth to Hermione?" Ron waved his hand in front of her face and she startled. Harry and Seamus laughed. "You're staring at him again," Ron noted, a poorly done teasing tone on the phrase.

Her eyes flicked up again and found Draco easily, naturally, but she just as quickly looked away. "I am not!" She protested defensively while picking up some toast as if to show how present she was at the Gryffindor table. She exhaled sharply and softened. "I was not staring. I simply gazed over in a direction and he was there."

"Oh, sure," Ron mocked with a voice. "If he was 'just there' then why was that look on your face?" he pressed.

Hermione scoffed. "What?" She asked. "What look? There wasn't a look."

"There was definitely a look," pestered Seamus, joining in. As always, he was either completely unaware or plainly uninterested in her growing annoyance at this continued conversation.

Ron went on, "You look a certain way when you see him," his tone this time was, somehow, both teasing and serious. "You look at him and it's like… it's like you're staring at a needlessly massive book."

Neville was the only Gryffindor boy who wasn't laughing at Hermione's expense, though through her side-eye glance, she could see that even he was amused. Hermione felt heat climb up her neck turning her cheeks pink.

"Please," she said, trying to brush it all off. "It's nothing. I hardly look at him like… like he's anything special." She couldn't possibly. It wasn't like— she didn't— Draco was—

Ugh.

She shook her head trying to push the thoughts from her mind, trying to end the conversation.

But Ronald Weasley never knew when to end a joke. He didn't know when he was going too far, nor when he'd wish he could take back the words once they were out.

This was no different.

Ron's voice filled the air like a firework. "You look at him like he's a collector's edition of Hogwarts: A History."

Laughter roared from everyone within earshot and Hermione went scarlet. She looked from Neville, to Dean, Seamus, Ginny, and Harry. They were all laughing full-bellied laughs as if this was the funniest joke they'd ever heard.

Harry and Ginny had caught each other's eyes as they nodded merrily in agreement from across the table. She felt sick.

Hermione scowled at Ron, turning fully to face him.

She had to raise her voice to cut above the laughter that thrummed around them. Hermione's voice was clipped and sharp. "And your point, Ronald?"

At her tone, a few of them started to stifle their mirth, quieting their laughter. Ron looked down and away from his empty plate, the joyous demeanour disappearing from his features instantaneously. Her question seemed to sober him. His head hung, and she thought for a moment that he was going to just drop it, thankfully, but he didn't.

This time, when Ron spoke next, his voice was low, as if he didn't really want to say what he was about to say in front of everyone else. When he looked up at her with this sad expression, she had a feeling she didn't want anyone else to hear it either.

"Hermione," He breathed softly, pleading, suddenly, as if begging her not to make him say it, but her glare was piercing. Ron resigned. His eyes flicked toward Draco and back to Hermione. "You love Hogwarts: A History."

The breath rushed out of her lungs faster than she could blink.

An awkward silence consumed the table. Even ever-confident Ginny looked down at her plate and poked around with her fork. Seamus and Dean made a mumbled excuse to leave. Neville was red. Harry absentmindedly scratched at his scar and mussed his hair.

Ron was back to staring at his empty plate, shoulders slumped and expression troubled.

Hermione sat a beat, letting her anger dissipate. The heat had been sucked out of her and replaced with a cold and dull ache she couldn't ignore.

When no one said anything else, Hermione stood with a huff, swatting at Ron's pumpkin juice for good measure, spilling the sticky liquid across his plate and onto his lap.

"Oi!" he'd shrieked, failing to hop up in time to avoid the mess.

Catharsis, she told herself, but even she knew it was only half true.

Was the anger she felt because of Ron, or because of the raw truth in what he had said?

Probably both, she mentally reasoned. However, being angry at Ron was much easier to think about than her feelings for Draco.

It required so much less vulnerability.

After all, it had always been natural to be angry with Ron. She'd been doing it for years.

Despite her romantic feelings for him having long gone, she couldn't help but feel this new wave of annoyance at Ron's terrible timing. How many years had she spent hoping for him to notice her? And now he's all observant, apparently, and he notices this. Of all things!

And, it can't be overlooked, that Ron had the nerve to be disappointed, slumped over his plate as if it pained him to admit that Draco was the object of her affections. Ron was disappointed, as if Hermione loving Draco was a hard truth to accept, as if Ron wished it were himself she looked at that way, instead of Draco.

Ron was right though, she knew. That was painful to admit. He was absolutely right. She did love Hogwarts: A History. And maybe… maybe she did look at Draco with the same care and wonder… curiosity… and passion.

Oh, Godric. It was entirely possible.

But, for the love of magic, why did Ron have to go and get all observant now? Of all times? Why did he have to point it out so brutally, in front of everyone, when she already felt overwhelmed by her tempestuous feelings?

She stopped just shy of the double doors when the notes she'd stayed up to work on the night before popped into her mind. She took a deep, steadying breath, and turned to look for him.

Draco.

As always, her eyes found him effortlessly.

A sour expression contorted Draco's face as he stared at Theo and Daphne. A barely-eaten apple twitched in his hand.

Hermione's breath hitched at the sight of Draco's subtle tremor and the tension she could see in his shoulders. And, in an instant, every bit of remaining anger melted from her body.

Her feet started moving toward the Slytherin table. She didn't have a choice in the matter.

Hermione took several steading breaths as she strode over to the Slytherin Table. Her bag felt heavy on her shoulder, her colour-coded Draco Notes peeking out of the top as if screaming at her.

She lifted her head higher and licked her lips. She could feel the stares of her Gryffindor friends on her back now, but she didn't care.

Ron was right, after all. They'd all laughed, didn't they? Not because it was funny, but because it had been true.

Draco was her favourite book. Intriguing, complicated.

Probably always will be.

She stubbornly wished she knew how it would end.

He was the kind of book that you can't put down.

She nearly reached their place at the Slytherin table when she heard this group howling with laughter, too, and she nearly turned around to leave.

But all too soon, Blaise Zabini had noticed her, and others followed suit. Draco was last to see her, but he stilled as soon as he did. His eyes were dark and focused in a way they hadn't been moments ago.

Maybe he had a special way of looking at her, too.

And this was the thought that held Hermione in her spot, gazes from all around the Great Hall be damned.

Nothing else mattered.

Draco had never been less interested in Blaise Zabini and his stories about his mother's newest husband; which is saying something because he spent last January using those Weasley Twins' Skiving Snackboxes to evade Zabini's heated ramblings.

It was the first morning of term and, having all of the students back in the castle for the first time in weeks, the Great Hall was buzzing with equally pathetic and uninteresting chatter.

Currently, poor Blaise was lamenting how he and his poor mother had to skip their usual holiday in the Italian countryside because her new husband had surprised them with a luxury villa in St. Moritz, Switzerland and a private ski resort.

How completely terrible.

And then, Blaise started complaining about how the man, who was exceptionally rich and only a few years older than Blaise himself, had monopolised all his mother's time, leaving Blaise alone for nearly the entire three-week break. Apparently, the man didn't exchange two words with Blaise after they'd arrived in Switzerland.

What a shame.

Draco felt like throttling his friend, but that wasn't a particularly odd desire. Blaise was always acting a fool, becoming the subject of Draco's ire. Blaise often tried to make Draco jealous. It was infuriating.

What Draco would have given to have been left alone by his father.

Merlin, he'd consider giving up every knut and sickle in his Gringotts vault if it meant he'd never have to see his father's slimy face again.

He pushed aside his nearly-full plate, unable to even look at the food. It disgusted him. Not that he had an appetite anyway. He hadn't been able to keep much down in the days since his trip home for Christmas. He was getting by on toast and Dobby's apple tarts, but he could already feel himself weakening at the lack of real sustenance.

And if the brain fog and trembling hands couldn't be chalked up to the lack of a healthy diet, maybe it had something to do with his exhaustion and lack of sleep. Or, probably, it was a carry-over effect from spending 60 seconds under the Cruciatus Curse – by the hand of his very own father, no less.

Draco stretched and massaged each of his palms in turn under the table, hoping none of the others would ask him any questions about his own Christmas holiday. Thankfully, he was sitting at a table full of Slytherins, so the likelihood that anyone would actually care enough to ask him specifically was quite low.

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

He was just about to excuse himself and leave when Pansy arrived, demanding an audience. She was flaunting her many gifts: a jewellery set, a silk scarf from Italy, and some pointy shoes that Daphne fawned over, but Draco just thought they looked painful. He refrained from rolling his eyes and only half listened, but he managed to nod and exclaim in faux delight at the right moments, satisfying Pansy, all the same.

Then it was Theo and Daphne's turn to bumble through their holiday play-by-play. Completely unnecessary, disgusting, with far too much cooing and giggling. It made Draco want to vomit.

Frivolity. What a luxury.

Innocence. A forgotten dream.

The group of Slytherins laughed and, as if on cue, Draco's left hand began to shake again and he scowled, attempting to clench his fist under the table to stop the sensation. There was no way he'd be able to hide his tremors all day now that the castle was full. He could see if Snape could do anything about it, was there a potion he could take? Would Dittany do anything?

He doubted it. Draco fought the urge to slam his offending fist on the table in frustration, figuring it would draw attention he definitely didn't want. Unforgivables didn't respond to any basic known healing methods; they were a whole different classification of magic. They were Dark Magic. Difficult to trace. Difficult to treat. Lives have been destroyed by the Cruciatus. Draco knew that, and he tried to use this knowledge to trick himself into feeling grateful. Grateful that he hadn't been tortured within an inch of madness, grateful that he hadn't been conscious enough to hear his mother's shrieks.

But that was bullshit.

There was no figurative bright side to this.

This was just another piece of the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy's miserable life.

Daphne, Theo, Crabbe, and Pansy burst into another fit of laughter, presumably at Zabini's expense. Draco looked up from where he kept his hands under the table. Goyle was looking smug, probably having been the one to make the rare smart comment about their darker friend.

Draco stretched his hand again and reached for an apple. He took a bite, then another, testing his stomach. He forced down each bite and took another.

His eyes caught on the way Theo's arm was wrapped around Daphne's shoulder. Her hand was reaching up, intertwining with his. Draco took a moment to study the way Theo and Daphne's hands were tangled together, one dainty thumb tracing circles over the back of a larger, more rigged hand. It looked so soothing, so innocent, so… so much like Hermione used to do.

A pang of jealousy rang through his chest, warming his blood. The group howled again, pulling Draco from his thoughts. But then, everything cut abruptly to a stop, and everyone grew quiet.

"Ahh, there's our favourite Gryffindor!" Beamed Blaise brightly. "Granger, you look beautiful this morning, as always," he purred with a smirk.

Draco's blood scorched boiling for multiple reasons. In part, it was due to anger at Blaise's unforgivable flirtation. But mostly, Draco froze because Hermione was there, standing in front of him, fiery eyes locked on his own.

"I'm afraid that I'm finding myself, honestly, for the first time, quite out of my depth here."

Hermione stood nervously over Theo Nott's shoulder, shifting her weight from foot to foot as every single Slytherin within earshot stared at her openly. Draco had already been tense when she approached, and other than his darkening and deepening eyes, that hadn't changed. He was frozen, hand on a half-eaten apple, grey eyes boring into hers.

"What are you doing here?" Asked Pansy, nose crumpling in Hermione's direction.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" quipped Theo brightly. "She's missed sitting with us Slytherins, with our quick wit, dry humour, smashing good looks, fucking charm, and tantalizing conversation."

Blaise cut in. "You complete idiot, Theo, Granger's here to confess her undying love for me. Can't you see the nerves written all over her adorable, flushing face?" He winked at her flirtatiously and Hermione blushed scarlet, anger again threatening to take hold of her.

Draco glared at Blaise frighteningly and his hand holding the apple twitched.

Daphne swatted Blaise upside the head before taking Theo's hand and pulling him up. "Come on, you lot," she said. "Why don't we leave these two alone and give them some space, hmm?" She gestured between Hermione and Draco, both of whom remained frozen in place.

Pansy shrieked in laughter at the absurd idea. "Give them privacy? You must be joking. You can, Daph, but I want to hear what she has to say. It must be good. Just look at her." Pansy's smirk.

Hermione became well aware of the way her fingers nervously played with the hem of her sweater.

"Let's go, Pans, Daphne's right," Theo stood as he spoke, pulling his girlfriend along with him. "This is painful enough just watching these lovebirds, we don't need to listen in. Besides, if we sit down there," Theo gestured over his shoulder as he backed away, "the view is better for watching Draco cry."

"Sitting by fourth years?" Pansy continued to gripe, but she got up to leave anyway.

Hermione watched thankfully as they all moved down to the other end of the table. When they were out of earshot, she let herself look at Draco again, meeting his gaze. He still hadn't said a word since she walked over here, but she hadn't really expected him to. This wasn't about him. This was about her. It was about saying all of the things she should have said earlier– the things he needed to hear.

Draco blinked and set his apple down, resting his wrists on the edge of the table as if trying to remain in control of them. One hand, his right hand, shook almost imperceptibly, but she'd been watching the same tremor for days now. She knew what it meant.

The shake of his hand, however slight, she'd noticed it, and it urged her on.

With a breath, she waved her wand between their faces, casting her first Muffliato, and stuffed her wand in her bag. She met his eyes again. She'd missed seeing them up close.

Hermione took another steadying breath. "I'm afraid that I'm finding myself, honestly, for the first time, quite out of my depth here," she repeated.

Like a thesis statement: it demanded to be heard.

The words came out slowly as if with great effort, deliberate and precise, and, impressively, without any hint of emotion that would tell him how he should feel to hear them.

"Typically, I've always been one who… understands. Very much so. I've never really been… unsure before. Yet, now, I am struggling to understand – to reconcile the Draco Malfoy I've come to know this year… and the Death Eater you've shown yourself to be. I really–" she cut herself off nervously, pulling out several sheets of parchment with, Draco noticed, what appeared to be colour-coded notes.

Hermione's smile was shy and embarrassed, and he could tell that it was causing her great effort to speak with him.

"I actually spent last night drawing up notes," she'd continued, gently flourishing them in her hand to show him. He saw them there, but his eyes stayed on her, highly aware of his heart beating in his stomach and Hermione standing in front of him.

"I cannot seem to make the pieces fit together to where you exist." A nervous laugh escaped from her lips. She reached up to adjust the strap of her book bag on her shoulder with her right hand. "Obviously, you exist. That wasn't how I meant it. I just – you – you can't be both people."

She paused, looking down at her feet, then back up at him. "These are the things I know for certain," she began again, reading from her notes, and meeting his eyes in between each line. "I know that you have been the biggest torment to me as long as I've known you." Draco's breath hitched painfully, and, for a moment, he looked down at the table, but he didn't stop her. Her voice, though afflicted, was tender music to his ears, even if it carried words of all of his failings. He deserved it, after all. But her voice? He'd never tire of her sweet voice.

"I know that you have made me cry more times than I could ever count," She continued. "I know that your father is a terribly vile man, and I know that, for a long time at least, you worshipped everything about him. I know that you come from a long line of ancestry who believe me to be the lowest excuse of a witch, a 'mudblood', they'd call me, unworthy of my powers. I know that you, within the last few years, have held that same belief yourself. I know now, with absolute certainty, that you no longer believe in such ideology and, dare I say, that I know it couldn't have been an easy revelation to come to."

He listened as she continued to read the list she'd written, his breathing shallow and shaky. The emotion in Hermione's voice was still indiscernible, but he saw in her eyes traces of threatening tears. Her breathing was steady and purposeful, her shoulders set. She was doing her best to hold it in, and he admired her for that.

She wasn't looking up at him from her papers anymore.

"I know that you were being honest when you told me that you loved me. I know that you are the first person in my whole life who truly seemed to understand me, and I know that I will always be grateful for your kindness, your encouragement, and your care. I know that I –"

Her voice broke now, one heartbreaking tear betraying her efforts, sliding down her cheek. She paused to steady herself.

"I know that I, too, fell in love with you," she breathed, wiping the tear away, "and I know that loving you is hurting me more than hating you ever did. Because, I know, Draco, that you have the Dark Mark etched into your arm." Another tear leaked down her cheek, Draco's tears beginning to fall silently, too. But he didn't care who saw. He didn't dare move.

"And I know," she pressed on, "that you've promised a master that you'd do some terrible things. I know that it was you who cursed Katie Bell with that necklace, and I know that there are probably more terrible things that I'm glad to not know about…" She was shaking a bit now, much like himself, her tears falling onto the parchment she was holding, smudging the ink.

He ached to reach forward to brush away her tears, even with his quivering hand. She beat him to it, taking a breath before her wobbly voice continued. "And… And I know that you lied to me, and I know that it hurt you to tell me the truth, and I know that I still feel incredibly pained every time I think about you."

Hermione set down her notes on the Slytherin table in between them, and he almost wanted to smile at their existence, the way that she was so unapologetically herself. But stronger than his awe for her notes, was the indignity he felt and the incredible pull of her presence.

She'd wiped away the last traces of wetness from her cheeks. Her eyes were on him now, and there was absolutely nothing he could have done besides returning her gaze, hoping beyond hope that she could see the torment in his eyes. The way her words were affecting him.

"Draco, I've thought… and I have realised that maybe you didn't have a choice. And, honestly, I'm very hopeful that I'm right. But, even so, I'm afraid of what that means. Honestly, I'm afraid for you, and a little bit afraid of you, and I'm very much afraid I don't quite know what to trust."

Her voice broke, and he hated to hear it. "And… I suppose all this to say: I'm sorry it has taken me so long to realise why you've done what you've done. I am still incredibly hurt and angry and… but if you have no choice in the matter, then… well… I suppose I don't either. I worry about you. I miss being near you. And I love you too much to sit by and watch your hands tremble and pretend I don't notice."

She let out a shaky exhale; her eyes flickered down briefly.

She looked back at him expectantly. He knew she was waiting for him to say something, anything. Again, she'd left him lost for words. She was always making these sweeping declarations. Saying these incredible things. Thoughtful things. brilliant things. How did she do that? How did she read him so well? How did she understand so much?

Draco searched his brain for an appropriate response, but nothing felt good enough. Again. "Please, I–" But he trailed off, unable to convey his feelings in words. He was deeply touched by what he knew was a difficult declaration on her part, terribly regretful of his actions, and yet, he felt hope, unsurmountable hope buoyed by what she'd said. He stayed silent, staring at her with emotional eyes, and hoped, desperately hoped, that the silence might have said enough.

What do you say when I'm sorry and I don't deserve you aren't nearly enough? How do you respond when they love you and hate you at the same time? What do you do when you meet the love of your life and realise it's all about timing, and that the timing could not be worse? How do you accept that no matter how perfect you are for each other, circumstances get in the way? How do you compete with that kind of fate?

He sighed, and moved his hand toward her, reaching, but stopped himself. "You don't need to– you're not– I shouldn't have– I–" He started and stopped several attempts at speaking, sighing nervously. He hid his shaking hands under the table.

Draco resigned that it was impossible to say the exact right thing right now. "I don't trust my words right now, Hermione. This is– you are–"

He hated being so clumsy with words when words meant so much.

Hermione's eyes carried the softest glow. A little fire. He'd missed that. The way her gaze could warm him up. It steadied him and finally, he managed to speak clearly. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.

She saw the desperation in his eyes, the overwhelming pressure to say the right thing, and understood his effort. She had needed time to process… everything. She could grant him the same patience.

"Well, I could go for some tea and maybe a visit with Dobby… What do you think?" She smiled shyly and added, "Care to join me?"

His face was consumed by a smile, and his demeanour brightened considerably as he relaxed. "That would be perfect, Hermione." He said her name gently, slowly, carefully, as if testing it out and seeing if she would flee at the sound. But she didn't flee. She smiled. A sunny smile that broke through the cracks in the stormy grey clouds of his life.

He stood, tucking her heavy book in the crook of his arm, and picked up her colour-coded notes. She gave him another nervous smile and turned. In silence, the two made their way down the length of the Slytherin table in parallel aisles through the Great Hall. A room full of shocked, pleased, and confused expressions followed them as they left.

But this time, neither Hermione nor Draco cared how others reacted to their companionship. In fact, neither of them even noticed.

A/N: I can hear you all yelling, "Finally!"

Please comment. Rate. Like. Kudos. Bookmark. Share. Etc. Etc. Please. Please. Please. Every comment makes a huge impact!

Disclaimer: All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of J.K. Rowling.

Thanks to my beta readers the_shitshow_must_go_on and Cleo26. Many thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this story, OxfordElise