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Victim of the Fall	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 32726 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of its characters. I do not make any money off this story. Only love!

Chapter List
- 30
- 31
- 32
CHAPTER 31

GOOD, BAD, UGLY

“Sometimes the beauty is easy, sometimes you don't have to try at all. Sometimes you can hear the wind blow in a handshake, sometimes there's poetry written right on the bathroom wall.”

After that night, Hermione felt as if she was growing closer to Draco with every passing minute. Something special had passed between them when he’d allowed himself to be so vulnerable in front of her. There was something so sacrosanct about having someone’s trust. Hermione felt both buoyed and frightened by it, like it was a precious object entrusted to her to keep safe. She was flattered by the gesture but scared that she would damage it or destroy it and cause more pain.

Days dragged into weeks and weeks dragged into months. Her love for him bloomed like a light out of the darkness, intensifying with every minute, every hour. She needed him around her, needed his presence. He was like a lifeline and she hated to be apart from him. Time passed like it always had, some moments were fleeting and some days dragged on endlessly. But through all of it, she and Draco were together.

By mid February, he was living with her, having officially pulled out of his residency at Hogwarts and moved all of his things into her flat. Hermione had made space for him in her wardrobe. On the whole, it had been a fairly easy and stress free decision. They had figured that as he was in her home most of the time, and sharing her bed every night, they may as well stop pretending and tell Graham, her landlord, that there was someone else sharing her space. The old man had seemed overjoyed and enthusiastic about her new found source of happiness and regularly offered Draco a cup of tea whenever he passed through the shop. The two of them formed a friendship and Hermione’s heart was warmed by the fact that not everyone was judgmental of Draco’s past and accepted him for the intelligent and entertaining individual that he was.

The two of them went to class together, ate lunch together and slept together. At first, Hermione felt anything but crowded. Having Draco around her all the time was almost like having another part of herself to talk to. They walked through the halls of Hogwarts like it was their territory, sometimes they held hands, sometimes they did not. The rest of the school had learned to become accustomed to it. Though, Hermione got the feeling sometimes that Draco might have been dealing with an undertone of mutiny from the more fanatical of the purebloods in the school but he was never outwardly bothered by it so she did not let it stress her.

The rest of the tovarasi continued to treat their relationship as an ongoing source of amusement and took great pleasure in quoting Draco and Hermione’s earlier remarks to each other from before they’d become friends. Even Teodora stirred the two of them occasionally but they were so totally happy with each other that they let none of it go to heart. School was becoming fun again, something Hermione looked forward to that wasn’t a chore. Her classes were pleasurable again, and stimulating, and she had her friends. She had the tovarasi around her and Teodora’s motherly, caring support. She was glad that their teacher had not pushed for the class trip to all of their family homes though. She might have reached a sort of easy happiness, but she was certainly not ready for a trauma like that.

Over time, Hermione began to suspect that love was definitely in the air. Padma and Eli were almost sickening in their sweetness with each other; Isobel spent all her time mooning around and refusing to tell anyone about her secret boyfriend; and Luna had gotten back into contact with Dean and had apparently been on several dates with him. The only two members who weren’t dabbling in codependency were Susan and Juliet who both seemed to be quite happy watching everyone else act like fools in love.

But the one coupling that got more laughter than her own was Ginny and Blaise who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off one another.

Hermione, though, remained concerned about Ginny’s new found source of distraction. For all she could see, the younger girl and Blaise rarely talked. It was more of a physical relationship. And for all their intimacy, Ginny still tensed up at the mere mention of Harry. Hermione could tell that her young friend was far from over the wayward wizard and continued to feel concerned for Blaise and his possible emotional investments. Draco had tried talking to him but Blaise had only reacted with a friendly but firm rebuttal, telling Draco to keep his pointed face out of other people’s business. After that, she tried to let it go, she really did. What Ginny did with her sex life was not Hermione’s business and she felt she should have been able to just allow her friend to do whatever made her feel better, but this was all easier said than done. It bothered her, what Ginny was doing and she couldn’t understand why. Every time she saw Ginny and Blaise together, all she could feel was frustration and bitterness. How could Ginny not see what she was doing? What she might be putting Blaise through? The girl was in denial and it rankled her that Ginny could not see it.

For a time, Hermione wandered through her life with barely concealed awe. She couldn’t believe how perfect it had become, how easy. She was laughing more and connecting more than she had when she arrived at Hogwarts six months previously. It was like all her fear had dissipated. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be scared of something. She thought of the war now with a sort of bittersweet sadness. It wasn’t despair any more or wretchedness. She looked at with an air of brave, wounded, melancholy. But it was no longer damaging. It no longer stopped her living.

Of course, there were still hard parts. Like the fact that Harry had not been seen or heard from in months though the Aurors continued to pursue him and continued to stand guard outside her flat. Or that Watson still came around every now and then to see Draco which made Hermione’s blood boil. Or that, sometimes, Hermione and Draco would have the most incredible rows which would leave them both exhausted and numb. She found him becoming increasingly touchier about his father since she’d told him about what had happened and most of their fights became about Lucius. Despite their growing openness around many things, Draco was seizing up when it came to the more traumatic experiences of his past and sometimes, Hermione thought that maybe he still didn’t believe her.

But aside from those hard, restless nights spent sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, Hermione was happy most of the time, and much of the credit for that was owed to Draco. When they weren’t fighting, he brought out the good in her, made her laugh. But more than anything, they talked. All the time. To the point that Hermione felt sometimes as if her voice would disappear from overuse and found herself surprised when she still had things to say to him. It was incomprehensible that there were still conversations to be had between them when they had already covered so much.

Hermione found herself surprised that she could have found more of herself to give him, surprised that they were even capable of being more intimate with each other. But she always found new things to say, new questions to ask him.

Those were the times that they told each other about their lives, about who they had been before they became friends. Hermione told him about her grandparents, and how they were the most racist, bigoted, loudmouthed people she had ever come across but she still loved them. She told him about how she’d had little sister once but she’d died at only seven months old when Hermione was ten, just before she’d gone to Hogwarts. She told him about her school years, before she’d joined the wizarding world, about how her mother had tried to force her to learn the guitar but it never stuck. She even talked with him a great deal about her friendship with Harry and Ron and the things they’d done together.

Draco was almost as open with her about his own life though he steered away from the memories that she could see bothered him. His father never came up at all and if he did, it was only in passing. But, nonetheless, what he did share with her brought to light how little Hermione really knew of him and she could not stop herself asking question after question whenever the subject came up.

His early life had been filled with those death eaters that had not been apprehended when Voldemort had first fallen from power. The way he spoke about it allowed her to see how he’d seen these men as warriors, freedom fighters. He had both feared and revered them just like he did his father. It was odd hearing about death eaters in that light, about how Theodore Nott’s father had taught both of the young boys how to ride a broom when Draco was eight; how Walden Macnair had given Draco ‘the talk’ when he was thirteen, stating that woman were ‘like a cauldron cake on a hot day, unnecessary and only appealing for a short time’.

From what Hermione gathered, Draco was not so much brought up by his mother and father but by the death eaters as a collective. It appeared to have been the same for all of the other young boys. He talked about how it was expected that they would follow in their father’s footsteps. Even when the fathers themselves believed Voldemort to be dead, they had still talked of branding their sons with the dark mark and making sure that they were raised believing in Voldemort’s values. The girls, of course, were given a far less impressive insight into their future. Hermione was slightly appeased to see that the treatment of women in Voldemort’s inner circle was the subject with which Draco spoke with the most venom. As far as she could make out, they were no more than pretty slaves and those who were not pretty were outcast and used, taught to heal and cook; in essence, taught women’s duties that the death eaters thought beneath them. Only if their bloodlust reached unimaginable peaks, like Bellatrix’s or Alecto Carrow’s, were they branded with the mark.

All in all, Draco and Hermione found each other’s lives endlessly fascinating and could sit, listening to each other speak for hours. It was amazing that they got anything done at all, that they even managed to sleep for the questions were relentless and the conversation never ended, not even when they did go to bed. They would only pick up straight where they left off the next morning.

Hermione liked feeling like someone was really interested in her, in her past, in who she was. It was different. It felt nice. And above all, she was happy that Draco was the one with whom she was sharing so much of herself, even if he wasn’t given quite as much back. She felt, in the end, that he was the one who deserved it most.

But Draco offered her more than stimulating conversations. There were other things…

For a little while, the first few weeks after he had commandeered one of Hermione’s drawers as a place to store his socks, it had seemed to her like all they had done was have sex. Time that they spent doing menial, pedestrian things like homework or socializing, had seemed like time wasted.

There wasn’t an inch of their flat that had not had Hermione’s bare ass pressed up against it at some point. She had actually begun feeling guilty during their now regular Saturday night dinners with the tovarasi as she couldn’t stop herself thinking about things like the fact that Draco had cum all over the very spot on the coffee table that Blaise had just set his drink down on.

It became difficult to imagine her life without sex in it. Now that the experience was not painful, she couldn’t get enough of it. And Draco seemed to be of the same mind. All she had to do was look at him and he was hard within seconds and Hermione couldn’t ever pass up the opportunity.

Draco had this way of touching her, this way of treating her, that made her feel alive.

This is what they’d moved into. It was no longer cute or innocent, full of awkwardness and shy smiles. They’d moved past that into unequivocal fucking. Hermione had taught Draco how to touch her and he’d done the same. It had taken time and work and no small amount of frustration, but this was the equilibrium they had achieved in their affections to each other.

Hermione felt like she couldn’t possibly be any more happy than she was in those months.

But that had waned.

Hermione stayed on this turbulent high from the end of January all the way to the end of March before she began to slope slowly downward again, a realization that she resolutely ignored. If she was honestly with herself, she’d been heading that way for a while. She was becoming more manic, a little more withdrawn, less honest. But the thing that had instigated this dissension, in her opinion, was a certain seemingly innocuous conversation she’d had with Ginny.

The two of them had been behind on a potions assignment and had chosen to study in the library for a few hours one Saturday evening, planning to meet the rest of the tovarasi back at Hermione’s flat when they were done for the usual get together.

Hermione was already feeling tired and drawn by the time their study session ended, having spent the day working tirelessly at Flourish and Blotts before scooting off to Hogwarts without so much as a ten minute break.

It was dark and cold when they were finally finished, their cloaks pulled tightly around their bodies to ward off the slight chill in the air as they descended the front steps of Hogwarts.

Hermione suddenly realised as they made their way back to her flat, that it might have been the first time Ginny and her had been alone together in a long time. They were usually surrounded by the rest of the group so, though their friendship was a lot stronger and more affectionate than it once had been, they rarely connected. Really, there was still too much history.

Because of all this, Hermione was overcome with a feeling of awkwardness as they walked from the Leaky Cauldron to her flat that night. She scrambled for something to say.

“So… uh… how are your parents?” she asked, flailing.

Ginny gave her a shocked look. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had been put into their don’t-go-there category a long time ago. Hermione knew even as she said it that it was very out of character for her to mention them.

“They’re fine.” Ginny answered slowly, “Mum’s getting better by the sound of Dad’s letters…”

“Oh! That’s great!” Hermione knew she sounded far too enthusiastic to the point that the statement might be taken as fake even though she was genuinely happy at the news. Her nervousness increased tenfold. “And how’s Ron?”

Ginny actually laughed at the ludicrousness of this question. Ron was even more of a no go that the younger girl’s parents. “What are you on, Hermione?!”

Hermione chuckled uncomfortably and shrugged. “I’m sorry…”

“Do you really want to know?” asked Ginny carefully, after a moment.

Hermione thought about it for a second and realised that she did. She’d ignored the specter of Ron for too long. Hadn’t she moved past their relationship? Wasn’t she happy with Draco? That ought to mean that she should be ok about knowing what Ron was up to, if he was doing well. She should have reached the point where it wouldn’t bother her. Shouldn’t she?

“Yes. I want to know.” she said decisively.

Ginny sighed, “Well, I don't know much. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. But he seemed to be doing alright. He was a lot happier than before, seemed a little surer of himself, I guess.”

To Hermione’s consternation, this information stung a little. She was glad that Ron was happy but then she couldn’t help feeling hurt that he was capable of being happy without her in his life. “Is he back at the Burrow now?” she asked, trying to keep the thickness from her voice.

“No, he’s still travelling. He won’t tell us where. I think he’s just, I don’t know, globetrotting or something.”

Hermione nodded, getting the feeling that she’d heard enough.

After that, she did not bring up the subject of Ron again. It should have felt alright that she now knew that he was doing ok. That should have been all she needed.

Ron was gone, he’d moved on and she should be happy for him. She’d loved him for a long time, it would have hurt her far more to hear that he had gone through the same ordeal that she had, that he had struggled as much as her.

Or that’s what she’d told herself.

Sadness had followed her around for a few days after her conversation with Ginny, even to the point that Draco had asked her if she was alright. She had been quick to reassure him, but had refrained from telling him what was really bothering her. She waited for the bad feeling to fade just like all bad feelings did those days.

But it did not.

It didn’t fade, it only got worse. The dissension suddenly became fast and unstoppable, and she was clawing out around her, trying to catch a hold of something to slow her fall. She tried to hold onto Draco, tried to use him to float her back up but it didn’t seem to be working anymore. He didn’t make her feel better about herself like he once had.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to see anyone. She began to feel crowded by Draco’s constant presence and because of this she became snappy and nagged him relentlessly. They fought more, slept on opposite sides of the bed more. The darkness was seeping back into her line of sight.

Hermione did not know what to do. She was desperate to pull herself out of the hole she’d dug. She tried studying, an age old habit to make her anxiousness disappear, but it didn’t work. Even the prospect of their upcoming NEWTS did nothing to assuage her melancholia. She tried sex but that didn’t work either. Draco couldn’t make her come as easily as he once had and she’d gotten so tired of his disappointed face that she began faking it which made her hate herself even more.

The panic attacks came back, catching her totally unprepared as she sat in class or ate dinner or walked to school. She had herself convinced that people had begun to notice. There was a slight edge to the way her friends looked at her now; their eyes stared a little longer, like she was a glass statue, sitting precariously on the edge of a table. One small movement and she would tumble over the edge and shatter into a million pieces.

The nightmares came back, and Hermione found herself yet again reliving her worst memories every night until Draco woke her and she would shake and cry and try to catch a hold of her fleeing sanity.

But Hermione hated it far more when she didn’t have nightmares. Those were the nights where she’d dream she was having sex with Draco, but then his face would morph into Ron’s, then George’s, then Harry’s. She could handle the flashbacks to some degree, but those dreams were the worst, those dreams made her hate herself the most. She couldn’t look at Draco in the eye after she’d had one, because each new face would pull from her some different emotion. When it was Draco, it was arousal; when it was George, it was shame; when it was Harry, it was fear; and when it was Ron… It was relief.

Hermione hated that relief. It felt like a monumental betrayal she had no idea what to make of. Was she missing him? Was she unhappy? Was she still in love with him?

But how could any of those things be? She’d been with Draco for almost three months at that point. And for the majority of that time she’d felt deliriously happy with him, far happier than she’d ever been with Ron.

She knew as it was happening that she was slowly closing Draco off, shutting him out. She hated it with a fierce passion but did not know how to stop it. Nothing was working anymore.

In April, the tovarasi sat their newts and by then Hermione was so far gone that she just didn’t care. She showed up, answered the questions, did the practical excersises and went home. It was almost like a normal day. She didn’t care how she’d done, didn’t care what her results would be.

The school year would end in a matter of weeks and she felt nothing. She was numb. She was cold.

It was four months to the day since Draco and Hermione’s kiss on New Year’s Eve when she woke up that sunny Monday morning and she just couldn’t do it anymore.

It had been him shaking her that had made her rise out of sleep. It was always him, he always had to make her realise the truth in the moment and right then, she resented him for it.

He told her they were going to be late for school.

She told him she didn’t care.

He asked her what she meant.

She told him she wasn’t going that day. That she didn’t feel well.

It was a testament to how their relationship had soured that he didn’t stay with her. He looked concerned alright, told her that if she needed him to let him know, but he left all the same. Hermione was both hurt and grateful.

He didn’t have the energy for her anymore, that much was plain. But then, she didn’t have the energy for her either so she could hardly blame him.

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t get out of bed. And she didn’t want him to be around to witness that. She wanted him out, to be away from her. She needed to be alone. But on the other hand, she wanted him to want to stay. That he didn’t even ask, didn’t offer, made her feel like he just didn’t care anymore.

Hermione did not go back to sleep. She just lay in bed, staring out her bedroom window. She cried for a little while but it didn’t seem to accomplish anything so she stopped. She didn’t even really know what she was sad about, it was just this cancerous black fog that filled her headspace and infected everything she thought about. It had even leaked into the happy thoughts and memories she was trying to bring to mind in the hopes that she might draw from them the energy to get out of bed.

By midday, there was no change except that perhaps her mind had sunk even lower into the black fog. She had managed to drag herself to the bathroom and back but that had been the extent of her physical activity.

It was funny really, she wondered, that each new manifestation of mental illness could look so different, could feel so different. She thought she’d gone through it all but what she experienced that day and what she had been experiencing for almost a month was something totally foreign to her.

There had been the soul crushing yearning and pain that she’d felt over her break up with Ron. That was heart break. There was the incident with George that had made her want to vomit, made her want to crawl out of her own skin. That was shame. There was the aftermath of that, the self harm, the crushing worthlessness she’d felt. That was despair. There was the emptiness, the omnipresent sadness she’d experienced when she thought Isobel had died. That was grief. There was the quiet, lethargic numbness that had taken her over after what Harry had done. That was depression.

But this… She didn’t know how to classify it. She felt all of it at once. The shame, the heartbreak, the despair, the worthlessness, the grief and the depression. But there was something else as well… Anger. Resignation. What did that make her? Sad? Suicidal? In need of a couple of months in the St Mungos Ward for the mentally ill?

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Hermione did not hesitate to drag herself to her feet. She knew her tovarasi well enough by then to realise that if she didn’t answer it, they’d let themselves in anyway. She didn’t want to be found in bed with her head resting on a severely tearstained pillow.

When she had slumped into the lounge room and opened the door, she was shocked beyond belief to find that it was not any member of the tovarasi, but the head of it. It was Teodora.

“May I come in?” asked the older woman politely.

Hermione nodded dumbly and stepped aside to let her pass.

Teodora rounded on Hermione the moment the door swung closed and said simply, “It is getting bad again, isn’t it?”

Hermione could do nothing but nod again.

Teodora looked her up and down before she deposited her bag onto the coffee table and swept into the kitchen. “Sit down. I will make tea.”

Hermione lowered herself onto the couch, her mind rushing from one thought to the next. She had been found out; her pain had been discovered again. She hated it. She wanted to be left alone.

But at the same time, what remained of the rational part of her mind told her that it was a good thing. She needed help if she wanted to come out of this… And she had this irrepressible feeling that if she didn’t get help this time, she’d never come out of it again.

Teodora reappeared and sat down beside Hermione on the couch. Hermione took the proffered mug of tea and sipped it, more to be polite than anything else. Her stomach churned uncomfortably when the hot liquid hit it.

“So. Tell me exactly what is happening in that mind. Tell me everything.” said her teacher seriously.

Hermione quite literally forced the words from her mouth. “I thought it had stopped. I thought I’d gotten better.” she said numbly.

“Why did you think that?” Teodora inquired.

“Because I was happy for a while…”

“Were you?” asked Teodora lowly.

Hermione looked at her in consternation. “Yes… Of course! Things got easier after… After…”

“After you started your relationship.” she finished for her, “Forgive me Hermione, but love is not a healing potion. It doesn’t not make all of the bad things go away as much as we might like to believe it will.” she held up a hand to stop Hermione when she made an attempt to disagree. “I know you will tell me you know this already. But perhaps, for once, try to see the similarities and not the differences. I am not trying to say you do not love Draco or your comrades, no, but you have done nothing to deal with yourself. Think about this for a moment. You break up with your last love, Ginny’s brother, and what do you do? You pour yourself into your research of the Dividing Lines. Then Isobel makes the attempt on her life and you fall into your complications with Draco. Then your friend Harry Potter tortures you and again, you allow Draco to distract you, you use him to feel better. Do you not see this pattern? You are distracting all the time and then you wonder when the distraction stops working.”

Hermione could find nothing whatsoever to say to any of this. A part of her felt like Teodora spoke the unequivocal truth; another part was angry, fiercely angry that Teodora had presumed to be able to waltz into her house and tell her she’d been doing it all wrong, that she’d failed. The angry part won out.

“I have not been using Draco as a distraction! I love him! And… And even if I was, he’s doing it too! He’s using me too! Just because he can’t handle his father or what he did! He can’t handle what happened during the war! And Ginny’s the same! She’s only using Blaise as a distraction so that she doesn’t have to deal with Harry! Everyone knows it but she won’t admit it! I’m not the only one in denial!” Hermione exclaimed, the words coming out all in one breath. She knew as she finished that her words were childish but the resentful part of her reared up and said it was all true, no matter how juvenile it sounded.

Teodora gave her a long look, “I realise all this. But no matter what they are doing, looking at their behavior is just another way for you to avoid your own. Don’t play dumb with me Hermione, you’re better than that.”

Hermione leapt to her feet, throwing her hands in the air in indignation, “So what am I supposed to do?!” she demanded, a hint of hysteria bleeding into her tone, “Break up with Draco?! Leave behind the only thing that actually makes me feel good anymore?”

“Do you feel good?”

“No! But I’d feel worse if he wasn’t here!” she shouted, “So I should just tell him to go right? I shouldn’t subject him to me anymore should I?! He deserves better!”

“I was not saying that…” Teodora responded evenly.

“Well that’s what it sounds like! I don’t see any other solution to this problem!” said Hermione angrily.

Teodora sighed. “Perhaps you should think about seeing a mind healer.”

Hermione laughed sarcastically. “Oh what a brilliant idea! How original! Like I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Will you do it then?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“BECAUSE I AM NOT FUCKING CRAZY!” Hermione bellowed. One of the mugs sitting on the table exploded and coated her in scalding hot tea. She swore loudly.

The two of them stared at the shattered remains sitting on the table for a long moment. Hermione’s breathing was labored. The panic was coming…

Teodora stood slowly, looking at Hermione with deep concern. “Hermione, please listen to me.” she gestured towards the shattered mug, “You are losing control of yourself, can you not see this? Please consider that you may need some help.”

“What are you talking about?! Plenty of people lose control of their magic!” she exclaimed hysterically as she tried to ignore the dots of burning pain that were blossoming on her bare legs.

“Yes…” responded Teodora evenly, “But these are usually young wizards who have not yet learnt to control themselves. You are an adult.”

Hermione felt the panic bubbling up her throat. Teodora was right. She had never heard of an adult witch or wizard losing control of their magic like that. But of course, her mind would not hold on to these ideas and instead, chose to rebel. Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. “I don’t have to listen to this.” she said coldly, “I don’t know what’s going on with me right now but I can manage it.”

Teodora looked at her for a long time before she sighed and stood slowly. “Alright. I will leave you be.” she walked towards the door but turned back to look at Hermione with sad eyes. “If you need me, I’m here.”

And with that, she left.

Hermione’s fists clenched and unclenched as she stood in the centre of her lounge room staring at the closed door. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling like if she could just get through the following ten minutes, she’d be ok. Her whole body was shaking as her throat began to convulse.

Draco was not a habit, not an addiction. He made her feel alive. Teodora did not understand.

After a few minutes, the panic passed. She mastered it. Hermione walked calmly into the bathroom where she ran herself a bath, threw up, shaved her legs and afterwards, pulled out of her armoire the most alluring pair of underwear she owned. She put them on and nothing else.

She returned to the lounge room and retrieved from under the couch, the innocuous looking wooden box that was kept there.

Inside lay eighteen vials of shimmering black potion.

She knew what she had to do. Teodora had said she had been distracting; well, if that were true then the obvious conclusion she could draw was that she needed another distraction.

And she knew, deep down, that if she didn’t find one soon, she’d lose her mind.

A/N SO! I am happy to announce that a trailer is in the works for Victim of the Fall! To be editing by a wonderful young woman who I think is just the most amazing person in the world right now!

My plan is to release it with the very last chapter, so keep an eye out for that one lovelies! I've seen some of it already and watching it has quite literally been tears in my eyes.

But I have a little activity for you, inspired by the upcoming trailer. I was wondering if you guys could tell me the song that you think best suits this story, perhaps it's a song you think fits it or one you listen to while you read. Anyway, let me know!

Much love to you all.

xx

Aranel - Well I'm glad you two got that sorted out lol... Aren't Daddy issues wonderful? I have them in abundance. Yay! Lol so that last argument was a bit freaky huh? I can't imagine this chapter made you feel much better! xx

Kain - Yeah, I kinda let everyone down with this chapter did I?! Lol. Here we all were thinking things would get better but then... Well. You know me. I can't have anyone getting too comfortable. It just wouldn't be lifelike then would it? But we're winding up to the crescendo now with only ten more chapters to go so SOMETHING had to happen.

Ok, to your questions. The tovarasi wouldn't be all that well known in society. I think McGonagall would keep a pretty tight leesh on how much of what goes on in the school reaches the ears of people like Rita Skeeter. Though, they are changing the school itself. I'd say that yes, the slytherins probably are integrating better, with the exception of a few of the more hardcore purebloods.

Anyhow, back to writing chapter 32! I hope you liked this one, even if it does look kinda bad... xx

Cat - Thank you lovely! xx

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Ani Difranco's song Good, Bad, Ugly. Her music has served as a huge inspiration for this piece. I own nothing. Thanks Ani!
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Victim of the Fall