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A Determined Frame of Mind	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16811 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Three—Yes

            “We can talk here and not be overheard, Mr. Malfoy,” said Umbridge, with a grand wave of her wand as she opened the door.

            Draco stepped into a room oppressive with magic. On the walls hung enchanted china plates with kittens playing on them. Wards of several different descriptions flickered in the corners and along the edges of the door and desk. The desk itself had hidden drawers, glamours, and an extra chair, most of which Draco could just see out of the corner of his eye. An inkwell that occasionally spat bright green sparks sat next to an enormous pile of paper.

            “Important correspondence for Minister Scrimgeour, of course,” said Umbridge with a smile, when she saw him looking at it, and shifted it gently out of the way. She sat down behind the desk and folded her hands, not seeming to notice that she should have offered him a seat if it would be a conference of any length. “Now. What is your information on Harry Potter?”

            Draco managed to force a pleasant smile onto his face, though he never knew how he did it. “There were certain sights I saw in his mind which did not impress me as important at the time,” he began promptly, drawing on the story that he and Harry had constructed together. “But since then, I have reviewed them, and I have realized what they meant. He intended to flee north.”

            Umbridge sat up; even her kitten earrings stopped gamboling about on her shoulders and rushing the edges of her horrendous pink jumper, and looked at him. “North? To Scotland? Back to Hogwarts?” From the sound of it, she would have liked any excuse to interfere with the supervision of Headmistress McGonagall.

            “No,” said Draco. “Every image of the school that I saw in his mind was associated with loathing.” And if that had been true, I’m sure it would be because of you, old cunt. “He was aiming for the Hebrides. He believes it cold and lonely enough that no one would ever find him there.”

            Umbridge looked thoughtful. “There are wizards there, however. Several small communities. He could not hope to avoid detection forever.”

            Draco made himself twist his mouth into a cruel sneer. “I don’t think he was brave enough to give up the company of his own kind completely. Who would he go to for praise and adoration if he fled the wizarding world? It’s not as though Muggles know who he is.”

            The woman laughed like a toad pleased with its pool of mud. Draco gnawed the inside of his cheek with small movements, so it wouldn’t be visible from outside his mouth. Bitch.

            “A good point,” she said. “Are you certain that he went to the Hebrides, or was it only something he planned on?”

            “Only something he planned on.” Draco shrugged. “But I know the Ministry has made a splendid search in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade and other centers of the southern British wizarding world, Madam Secretary. I think that if he were easily findable here, you would have found him.”

            Umbridge preened, playing with the small pink bow in her hair, which Draco found so revolting that he had to lower his face as if in respect, so she wouldn’t see his expression. “You are right,” she said. “Right. Well. We shall turn our attention north, Draco Malfoy. And you shall be handsomely rewarded.” Her voice turned suddenly stern. “Do not think that will mean a lightened sentence for your father, however.”

            Draco looked up with a smile that he’d taken a moment to render ingratiating. “I understand,” he said earnestly. “The Ministry has to keep order, Madam Umbridge. My father was a threat to that order. He had to go to prison. Any other reward would do very well.”

            There, he thought, as his voice whinged and slid over the last words, and Umbridge’s smile grew even broader. Now she’ll think me both calm and obedient, and so greedy for money that I’ll have no reason to hide anything—like Harry’s whereabouts—from the Ministry.

            “I am so glad to see that sort of wisdom appearing among our young people, Mr. Malfoy,” said Umbridge, and loosed a long sigh that ended up with a wobbling bubble of spit clinging to her lips. Draco tried hard to avoid staring at it; he was glad that he would not need to spend much more time in the same room with her. “If it were more common, the Ministry could devote more time to improving the culture and the wisdom of the wizarding community, instead of enforcing laws that should be simple sense.”

            Draco murmured urgent agreement, and started to turn towards the door, since Umbridge had begun to write a memo and wouldn’t need his presence any longer. Before he could slip discreetly out and make his way back to Harry’s side, however, a heavy knock sounded on the door, and then Minister Scrimgeour strode into the room.

            He halted when he saw Draco, one eyebrow rising. Draco dipped his head in response. He was bowing to the power the man represented and not to the man himself, but it was not as though Scrimgeour had to know that.

            “Visiting Madam Umbridge?” Scrimgeour asked, cocking his head to the side. His ragged mane of hair surrounded his head with a halo so thick that Draco wondered idly if his Aurors could tell when he was coming by how it rustled. Harry had never mentioned it, but then, he and Harry had had very little time for casual conversation. “I did not know that you were a friend of our Undersecretary, Mister Malfoy.”

            “Giving information on the probable destination of Harry Potter, Minister, sir,” said Draco, and bowed just once. His instinct was to try for twice, but that might seem too sarcastic even to Scrimgeour. He wasn’t the most observant man alive, no, but he had a fine-tuned ear for the nuances of respect. He’d winnowed the Ministry after the war, casting out those who refused to pay some kind of allegiance to him, even if that was just shutting up and keeping their eyes on the floor.

            “Ah,” said Scrimgeour, and his voice held a complicated mix of emotions that Draco thought was worth coming to the Ministry just to hear. There was reluctance there, and regret, as if he disliked being reminded that one of his best Aurors had gone mad and tried to kill himself. But there was also anticipation, as if he liked the thought of a hunt. “Yes. If you’ve given the information to Madam Umbridge, I think it’s best if she tells it to me.”

            That was doubtless the cause of more preening from Umbridge. Draco didn’t look, though. He nodded and slipped out of the office with one more bow, making his way back towards Lila Ambernight’s desk.

            He wondered what the Minister’s feelings were towards Harry Potter, the hero who could have upstaged him badly if he’d had a modicum of political ambition. Draco knew they hadn’t worked together well during the war, but Harry had entered Auror training, after all. And Scrimgeour did seem interested in winning him back, which he wouldn’t be if he were utterly hostile to Harry. One would think that he’d welcome the suicide attempt as a gift from Merlin, in that case, and obstruct the hunt for Harry.

            Draco would have liked to linger and eavesdrop on the conversation between the Minister and his Special Undersecretary, but he didn’t quite dare. And he’d brought no devices with him to make overhearing easier, more was the pity. He made a note to himself to do that for his next venture into the Ministry.

            He had noted the expressions on Umbridge’s face, though. She had looked greedy for news of Harry, intent on knowing what exactly was happening with him. That didn’t prove she’d cast the spell, but it did show that her interest in him hadn’t waned with the years, even though they would have almost no occasion to cross paths.

            A shout rang down the corridor from ahead.

            Draco redoubled his pace, switching his mind smoothly from the complications of intrigue to the problems in front of him. He had no real doubt that the source of the trouble was Harry. Who else could it be?

*

            “But you must remember your distant cousin Esmeralda,” Harry persisted. “Vonderful voman. Ve are connected through her, I am certain.”

            Lila only gave him a disdainful glance and reached for a file on her desk. Harry read the title upside-down, and nearly shook his head in disgust. The title referred to a minor case of cursed artifacts someone was selling over in Knockturn Alley, not to the mystery of Harry Potter’s escape.

            He had to admit that Draco’s plot to disguise him as the foreign Albert was a stroke of genius. The disgust that the Cassandra Curse inspired in anyone but Draco was dismissed as the general xenophobia that most of the Ministry felt for wizards from other countries, and his lies were further confused by the accent. If Lila thought he was deceiving her, she could always tell herself she hadn’t really understood what he’d said. Harry had “helped” by exaggerating both the accent and his leers at Lila, as if his claim of “family” connections were just an excuse to talk to a woman he found handsome.

            She’s not nearly as handsome as Draco.

            Harry shoved the thought so firmly to the back of his mind that he thought he heard small cries as it fell down the stairs. He’d reacted like that several times since coming to the Ministry, and it was simply unacceptable.

            “When I require your companionship,” Lila said, drawing his attention to her again, “I will ask for it.” She had sat back and was regarding him with a cool, disdainful expression she seemed to taken off a hook in some immense closet. When Harry met her eyes hopefully, she shook her head and turned away, lip just curling in a sneer he knew he wasn’t meant to see. “In the meantime, since you must know we are not related, Mr. Malfoy, please cease your transparent deception and leave me alone.”

            Harry had, reluctantly, to admire her. This was the same composure that Lila had used to put him off when they were partners. She rarely argued; she simply enforced indifference on him until he was compelled to give her indifference in return. And now she went back to work with an air that suggested nothing would be allowed to interrupt her, even if someone was impertinent enough to try.

            Harry glanced around the small walls of the cubicle that enclosed her desk. Wizarding photographs waved and opened their mouths in soundless calls and smiled, trying to attract attention. Harry picked up the nearest one. It was a young woman with bright blonde hair, her smile demure, but a trace of a great sadness around her eyes.

            “Who is thees?” Harry asked, though he knew perfectly well who it was from his period working with Lila. He also knew it was the only photograph in the entire area likely to get a reaction from her.

            Her shoulders stiffened, and she stared at him with the cold eyes of a snake. Harry could see why Draco had thought her dangerous. “That is my sister, Melissa,” she said. “A wizard wielding the Dark Arts killed her.” There was an entire layer of frozen disgust beneath the words “Dark Arts,” rather like the ice hidden under the surface of a pond in winter. “He might even have been from your country. I’ll thank you to put her picture down and go away.”

            Unfortunately for Lila, Harry had had a lot of practice in ignoring people who would prefer that he back off and investigate something else. He gave her a cool smile, feeling more comfortable and in control than he had in months. Perhaps the whole damn year under the Cassandra Curse, in fact. “Vhat is vrong vith the Dark Arts?” he asked, as though he didn’t care about the warning behind her tone. “I understand that your attitude is—how do you say it?—unenlightened towards them here, but in my own country—“

            Lila rose to her feet, and in one smooth movement struck him across the face and took the photograph of Melissa away. Harry jumped to his feet and shouted, because that was what an ignorant foreigner would do.

            He couldn’t regret it. He had seen two valuable things. The first was the look of stark and staring revulsion in Lila’s eyes. She might have unknowingly served the person who cast the Cassandra Curse, but she wouldn’t have used it herself, or worked for someone who did. It was undeniably Dark magic, and Harry hadn’t thought one wizard or witch could hold as much hatred for the Dark Arts as Lila did and not explode.

            The second was the title of a file shoved, as if casually, in between thicker and more interesting-looking stacks of parchment. His own name gleamed from the spine of it.

            Hurrying footsteps converged on the cubicle. Harry turned with an indignant look on his face, ready to explain himself and assert that this silly voman had slapped him, and all he had done was a bit of harmless flirting.

            But while his back was turned, Lila hit him with the Revealing Spell.

            Though intensely painful, it was magic that the Ministry allowed to its Aurors in the name of doing justice. It hit in the middle of the body and opened up from there, stripping away glamours and spells designed to conceal weapons, and writing the most dangerous secrets the victim carried in letters of fire on the air. Harry had used it himself on occasions when suspects were being more troublesome than helpful.

            But if there was any spell Harry couldn’t afford to have cast on him now, it was this one, since it would immediately show his true identity and remove the glamours above the scar.

            He screamed in pain—which wasn’t feigned, since the curse felt like a splash of scalding water in the middle of the back—and then flopped to the ground, drawing his own wand on the way and casting a Smoke Charm to wreathe the entire area in a low-lying, thick mist. They would have to have at least three wizards to dissipate the entire spell, with as much power as he’d put into it. The Revealing Spell still wrote Harry Potter, under the Cassandra Curse on the air next to him, but the mist covered it, dimming the incredible red and gold colors of the letters, and the Revealing Spell didn’t last long. Harry hoped fervently that by the time the Smoke Charm was herded away, his secrets, too, would have faded.

            Lila shouted, “Finite Incantantem!” and then gave another wordless, angry yell when the mist continued to eddy and shift about her. Harry scrambled to his feet and ducked out of her cubicle.

            Draco was beside him in an instant, eyes wide and concerned. His hand fell on Harry’s spine, and Harry hissed and arched away in pain, too much hurt to conceal his wounds out of pride. Draco’s face went pale for a moment—which Harry must have imagined, surely, because he didn’t care that much—and then he had hold of Harry’s arm and they were walking rapidly away.

            The pace was perfect. Since they didn’t run, no one thought they were fugitives. Draco wore the intensely bored expression of a man who had remembered pressing though uninteresting business elsewhere. He supported Harry while appearing to tow him along, so that Harry had a chance to steady his breathing and somewhat ease the burning pain in his back. They were riding down in a lift before any shouts of pursuit followed them. Harry continued to listen as they descended, but there were no shouts at all, which he thought there surely would have been had someone seen Harry Potter. They must be concentrating on dissipating the Smoke Charm.

            Draco marched him straight to a fireplace on a lower floor, tossed in a handful of Floo powder, shouted, “Malfoy Manor!” and almost pushed him through.

            Harry went without objecting.

*

            The moment they were back in the Manor, Draco closed the Floo connection behind them, and then grasped Harry’s shoulders and turned him around. Harry squirmed and struggled, but Draco ignored that. Worry made him the stronger at the moment, and he wanted to see the wound.

            To his relief, Harry’s robes had somewhat protected him, though there was still a smoking patch of cloth and an angry red patch of skin beneath that. Subduing his own anger at the person who had wounded him, Draco said quietly, “I’m going to call Batty to help me tend to you. In the meantime, I’ll lay you down on my bed, and you can tell me what happened.”

            “It’s fine,” Harry protested, curving his neck and arching away from Draco’s touches like a wild horse. “I don’t need—“

            Draco tugged him close, though he was careful not to lean on the injury, and spoke directly into his ear. “Yes, you do.” One of his hands moved, skimming his fingers delicately just above Harry’s throat. Harry made a little hitching sound, and his eyes fell shut.

            The expression of intense vulnerability that overcame his face then told Draco much he would not have suspected otherwise. Umbridge wasn’t the only person he could read.

            He needed to give Harry what he needed without humiliating his pride too much. Keeping that one hand hovering above his throat, teasing without touching him, he shouted for Batty to bring cool cloths and one of the general books on medical magic from his library, and tugged Harry towards his bedroom.

            Draco’s bedroom was broader and wider than Harry’s, which only made sense, since he’d given Harry a guest wing, while this one had always been designated for the occupation of a member of the family. The bed swayed with canopies of a dizzying color; Draco didn’t know the glamour that covered them, but it was one that changed shades with the moods of whoever slept there. Currently, it was a deep green flecked with splotches of gold, like trees in sunlight. Harry was still protesting in the back of his throat, but in between staring at the bed, craning his neck back to stare up at the immense, hidden ceiling, and trying to decide what he thought of Draco’s touch just above his neck, Draco had dropped him onto his stomach before he was aware. And then he could test the softness of the sheets for himself.

            “Stop complaining,” Draco ordered, while he nodded to Batty. The house-elf didn’t like Harry much, but she would never disobey an order from her master. She vanished while Draco picked up one of the cloths, already cool thanks to house-elf magic, and pressed it against the burn on Harry’s back. A murmured spell made the robes pull back, allowing him access to the wound while not stripping Harry naked.

            Harry tried to get up anyway.

            “No, you don’t,” said Draco, deliberately hovering his hands over Harry’s shoulder blades, so that Harry brought himself into contact with them. He stopped promptly and sucked in an enormous breath. Draco pretended not to notice. “You need healing,” he said, pushed Harry flat, and picked up the book which Batty had brought him. “And you need to tell me what happened.”

            “I played the part of obnoxious foreign lecher as well as you told me to,” Harry muttered, flopping back down. “And she didn’t respond, so I picked up a photograph of her sister—the one who died by Dark Arts—and hinted I knew Dark magic. She didn’t take that well.” He hissed as Draco pressed one more cloth down, but cut off the hiss suddenly as Draco trailed his fingers along above his spine, touching nothing save the very edges of his sudden gooseflesh. He had to swallow several times before he could continue. “She used the Revealing Spell on me.”

            “And you—“

            “Used the Smoke Charm in turn.” Harry uttered a painful chuckle as Draco removed both cloths. “I don’t think she saw anything before my Charm overwhelmed hers, and it would have taken several wizards to get rid of mine. It was risky, but worthwhile. She has a file on me in the general mess.”

            Draco suffered a fleeting impulse to scold him for not stealing it, but if he had, then they might as well have announced to the wizarding world in general that “Albert Malfoy” was Harry Potter. It was better to wait and retrieve it later. Draco already had a plan in mind that he thought would accomplish that.

            “I don’t think it was her, though,” Harry continued earnestly. “She hates Dark magic. As you pointed out, she might work for someone who performed the Cassandra Curse as long as she doesn’t know, but she’d turn on him the moment she did. No questions asked.” He licked his lips—Draco knew the sound, though Harry’s head faced the bed—and said, “What did you discover in Umbridge’s office?”

            “Hush just a moment,” Draco said, making his voice absent. “I’m studying.” And he did have to read the incantation he’d need, and practice the wand movements. He just made sure that he practiced the wand movements with the empty hand not clutching the book, and just above Harry’s back.

            Harry arched very slightly upwards. Draco proceeded to ignore that, and swept his hand across another twenty times before he said, “All right, ready,” and cast the spell. Harry audibly gasped as a white mist shot out of Draco’s wand, engulfing his burn as liquid, and then froze solid. Draco waited the five minutes the book instructed, then tapped the ice sharply with his wand. It cracked and fell away, and beneath it was new, stretched, shiny skin, which should feel better in a day or two.

            The spell had, inevitably, chilled Harry. Draco moved his hands back and forth, providing just a hint of heat here, another there, all the while telling Harry about Umbridge and then checking him for further burns. He already knew there were none. That didn’t matter. This was about tempting Harry into taking what he needed.

*

            Draco was driving Harry mad, and the prat didn’t even realize it.

            Harry craved warmth. He wanted the hands sweeping along above him to descend, massage him, grip his shoulders, make good on the promise given whenever their fingertips stirred a slight hair or pulled back fastidiously from a little bump or ripple of skin. But Draco went on talking in a perfectly normal voice, and had no idea of the effect he was having.

            Harry shut his eyes and tried to ignore his need. He reminded himself of all the bad things that would happen if he became intimate with Draco Malfoy. Laughter would be the least of it. Draco Malfoy was fickle in all interests but Psyche-Diving, surely. He would want to go back to his comfortable career in St. Mungo’s, Diving into the souls he had told Harry he loved. He wouldn’t want to devote all his time to finding out who had cast the Cassandra Curse, which might take months.

            But the words didn’t matter against the need, which was smothering his mind in velvet. If he had had one break, one moment when Draco had sat back on his heels and not nearly touched him, Harry might have been able to think clearly. But he didn’t have that moment, and he finally arched upwards, unmistakably, and pressed himself against one palm.

            Oh, God, that felt wonderful. Harry listened to the unabashed moan coming out of his mouth and told himself that he should feel a bit of shame, but he didn’t, not really. He’d been burned, and then chilled to heal the burn. Surely that entitled him to a bit of body warmth? Just to make sure that the cure hadn’t done more harm than the initial curse?

            “Yes,” he heard himself mumbling, as if that would make sense to Draco, and pressed up again.

            The hands descended heavily at once, just what he wanted, rising to rub his shoulders, following the line of his ribs, now and then ducking beneath the remnants of his robes. Harry wriggled closer, parting his legs so Draco could continue to kneel between them, letting out a violent gasp of satisfaction as Draco put one hand on his hip to hold him steady.

            And then the fingers were back, massaging gently around the burn. Harry buried his face in the seductively soft pillow, so he couldn’t hear Malfoy’s chuckles if they began, and deliberately lost himself in the sensation.

            Malfoy seemed to know just how to touch him. He didn’t skim the delicate skin along Harry’s ribs lightly, which would have only tickled. He gave equal attention to his shoulder blades and the dip between them. He paused on Harry’s hips in between movements, long enough to reassure, not long enough to worry Harry that he would go lower and touch his bum. He worked at a tense knot a time or two, and Harry relaxed gratefully, pressing the pillow around his face to muffle his gasps this time.

            It was what he wanted: companionship, a reminder that someone else existed in the world who game a damn how he felt, without bringing sex into it at all.

            He couldn’t go so far as to think that Malfoy cared about him. He wouldn’t permit himself that delusion. But Malfoy would want him comfortable and limber, of course, so that he wouldn’t fall behind the next time they attacked the Ministry. Yes, of course that was it.

            “Yes,” Harry whispered into the pillow.

            There was no harm as long as it only lasted a little while and he didn’t make it into something it wasn’t.

*

            Draco would gladly have gone further, draped himself over Harry and showed him the complementary heat of another human body, or turned him over and exercised his curiosity on the parts of Harry he’d never seen bare. But that was the key to losing the other man’s trust, skittish as he was. Draco contented himself with what he had.

            He was more than content, actually, as long as he could touch Harry again. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this. And Harry lying tamely under him, now and then arching like a cat, was much better than the times in St. Mungo’s when he’d struggled wildly, afraid to feel.

            Draco had flattened his palms and was stroking along Harry’s spine when a sudden stiff set to those shoulders warned him the interlude had ended. Draco promptly rolled away and sprawled beside Harry on the bed, letting him turn over and do what was necessary to protect his modesty. Draco looked at the wall and yawned elaborately. By the time he looked again, Harry had taken his own wand in hand and used nonverbal spells to repair his robes.

            And his eyes were narrowed, his face flushed. Draco gave a little nod and prepared himself for an attack. Harry would need to show that he was still perfectly independent and proud, and the way to do that was to take the offensive, referring to their touching session before Draco could.

            “Are you straight or bent?” Harry demanded.

            Draco blinked. Well. He probably thought I was going to mock him about his orientation or proposition him, and he’s trying to head that off.

            Draco saw no reason why he should allow Harry to control every nuance of their interaction, though. It was his turn to assert some independence and throw Harry off-course. He crossed his legs and smiled sweetly. “I’m curved,” he said.

            Harry blinked at him. “What?” he asked, and then flushed more deeply, as if he realized how stupid that sounded.

            He doesn’t look stupid, no matter how he sounds. Draco admired the way Harry’s flush went with the deep colors of his eyes and hair. The Revealing Spell had evidently stripped out the blonde dye as well as the glamours. It was a look Draco would like to see more often. Perhaps a little teasing shouldn’t be anathema. “I’m curved,” Draco said. “My spectrum’s different.” He closed his eyes and hummed under his breath.

            “That makes no sense,” Harry said. “You’re straight or you’re bent.” He hesitated, then added, “Unless you’re bisexual, I suppose.” He made it sound as if people who were bisexual did it on purpose to confuse him.

            “Have you ever seen a boomerang?”

            “What?”

            “I said,” Draco murmured, letting his eyes slide lazily open, “have you—“

            “I know what you said.” Harry waved it away, his eyes burning as they stared at Draco. Very good, Draco thought. I can rouse the emotion. I just need to convince him to focus it in a slightly different direction. “I just don’t know what you mean, Malfoy.”

            I think he calls me by my last name when he’s trying to shut me out. Rather too late, when we’re joined at the soul. “A boomerang has two points that are parallel to each other,” Draco said helpfully, “and a middle further away. That’s what I’m like. Sexually, of course,” he said, and slid a hand down his chest. Harry followed the path of it with his eyes, and then jerked his head away. “I think my figure is rather fuller than that.”

            “Get to the goddamn point,” Harry muttered. His hands were digging into the bedclothes.

            “You brought it up,” Draco pointed out, helpful again. Harry said something that Draco didn’t think was worth paying much attention to, and so he continued. “Sometimes I like things that are similar but very far apart from each other, and sometimes I like things that are in between them.”

            “That makes no sense.”

            “Unlike you, I don’t require the world to make sense.” Draco rolled over and closed his eyes again. “I find it’s more fun that way. Now, unless you plan to stay and sleep with me—“

            That was all that was needed to make Harry dart out the door. Draco opened his eyes and smiled at the ceiling.

            Now I’ve provoked him. He won’t be able to stop thinking about this. And either he’ll bring it up again, to prove to himself that he’s not afraid, or he’ll press the opposite direction and treat me with distant courtesy—which he can’t bear, since he needs me, and that will just cause him to come back to me more violently in the end.

            I’m keeping my promise. I’m letting him heal at his own pace. Even if it’s patently ridiculous.

            Feeling very pleased with life in general, Draco finally let himself fall asleep.

*





            Mangacat: Well, this chapter was sufficiently action-packed, I hope.

            Even if it does apply to house-elves, their masters can order house-elves to do what they want, so a house-elf could distrust Harry and still obey Draco’s orders to take care of him.

            dark_samira: Thank you! I can promise I won’t abandon this story. As for the sex part, I really don’t know yet.

            BeautifulVoice: Thank you! Batty is meant to be creepy, yes, though eventually she plays a rather different role.

            Have a nice trip.

            MadnessWithinMe, paigeey07, thrnbrooke: Thanks for reviewing!
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A Determined Frame of Mind

Chapter Three—Yes