Wow, I'm completely awed and blown away by the positive response I got from this. I really didn't expect it. Thank you all so much.
Okay, here's chapter 2, though I feel I should explain something first. Harry and Hermione completely hijacked this chapter. Yep, they grabbed the reins and took it wherever they wanted to, almost disregarding what I had planned for them to say or do. As a matter of fact they did! They weren't even supposed to go into the dream, Hermione wasn't supposed to know about it, but now she does. As a result, everything else I had planned for this is changing. Anyway, if any of the dialogue seems repetitive it's entirely their fault! I practically had to beat them with a stick to get back on track. Oh, and once again, sorry if this seems choppy and not all that smooth.
I hope you don't find this anticlimactic, but Harry and Hermione wanted a nice chat, and it's their story, I'm just the one they chose to write it, so who am I to stop them, right?
And now, on with the fic.
Dreamscape
Chapter 2: "On a cast iron bench"
Considering the state of mind he'd been in upon his awakening, Harry guessed that he really wasn't in any condition to do anything but what he'd done.
Not that accepting Ginny's grovelling apology was necessarily a bad thing.
He just wasn't sure whether or not it was the right thing.
But she was still his girlfriend, so he had to forgive her…didn't he?
Shaking his head in hopes of dispersing his confused thoughts, Harry looked back at Ginny. Her big blue eyes were pleased and still slightly pleading as she kneeled before him while he sat at the edge of his bed.
She was lovely. From her bewitching eyes, to her lovely hair, to her thin but well drawn lips, to her lithe-if maybe too thin-figure. She was absolutely lovely.
He was just beginning to notice how her attractiveness wasn't as attractive to him as it once seemed to be. And he definitely didn't feel up to giving into the gleam she'd gotten in her eye as her hand inched up his thigh.
Taking hold of her hand, Harry removed it from his leg, and held it down on the mattress. "I'm still feeling a little sick, Ginny," he told her, hoping that the memory of his hurls and the sounds that she must have heard not twenty minutes earlier would deter her.
They didn't. If anything, a seductive smile seemed to add itself to her gleaming eyes. "I'm sure I could make you feel better."
For some unknown reason, that seemed to bring bile back to his mouth and made his stomach lurch. He cupped his hand over his lips and forced it back down, but Ginny couldn't ignore that. Her sultry look disappeared, and she removed her hand from his and crossed her arms under her small breasts in annoyance, a huff of displeasure leaving her. "I guess there's no reason for me to stay if you're not even up to make-up sex," she grumbled.
He gave her one of his usual penetrating stares. "As far as I know we haven't even had sex yet."
"Exactly!" She huffed again, standing up in her annoyance to look down at him. "I was hoping we'd got to it for once."
Harry leaned back on his elbows, but the look he was giving her completely smothered any seduction the pose-and the fact he was only wearing a loose pair of Quidditch pants-might have had. "I don't think I like the idea of our first time happening after a row and right after I've managed to vomit anything I've eaten in the last three days."
"Ugh!" She exclaimed, a disgusted, unbecoming look deforming her pretty features.
"Exactly," he told her, mimicking her earlier answer.
"Whatever, I'll go home if you're so sick," she grumbled, heading for the door with nothing more then a mumbled "Owl me when you're up to it," thrown behind her as she left.
Staring at the door, Harry thought, once again, that considering his state of mind-and body-upon his awakening, he really couldn't have done anything but accept Ginny's grovelling apology. It was the normal thing to do considering she was his girlfriend.
He just wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.
And since when did normal ever fit into his life or his way of reasoning anyhow?
--
Harry had not been able to find any way to relieve accumulated stress since he'd left Hogwarts. Back in school whenever he was feeling strained, all he had to do was grab his beloved Firebolt, and head for the Quidditch Pitch for a couple of hours of very strenuous flying. The only place he knew of where he could safely fly outside of the Castle's walls away from prying Muggle eyes was the Burrow…and he really didn't think going there would relieve any stress whatsoever. Especially considering that just thinking about the kind of activities that Ginny would try to perform with him in the hopes of relieving stress seemed to bring bile back to his mouth.
Maybe there was something seriously wrong with him, he thought, considering the fact he was still a teenager, and the thought of sex with his girlfriend completely disgusted him, but right now he had other things on his mind.
And the stress kept building on him.
As a substitute to flying, he'd taken to walking around the Muggle neighbourhood near his flat-a lovely well kept rural area on the edges of London-and sometimes watching the happy families taking their children around, the friendly housewives chatting as they carried their groceries…sometimes it helped. Made it feel like in the end The War was worth it, even though the people that surrounded him didn't even know about it. Didn't know him.
He liked it.
But it couldn't replace the freedom and the liberation he found souring through a cloud on his Firebolt.
With a sigh, he let himself fall heavily onto one of the cast iron benches lining the small park he often wandered into when he needed to relieve the aforementioned stress. Right now, he really needed to leave all his cares behind before he began to lose his mind. Though he might have already.
What he'd experienced the previous night…that was no regular dream.
With all the Voldemort induced visions he'd endured since childhood, he likened himself an expert on the subject. He could tell a real dream from something else rather easily. For one, upon awakening from a real dream, Harry often hardly remembered what it was about, generally only retaining a feeling, or a foggy recollection at best.
What he'd experienced was clear, sharp and painful. Every word, thought, and feeling etched into the forefront of his mind.
For two, when he actually dreamt, Harry wasn't usually aware he was dreaming until he'd awoken.
He'd been perfectly aware-throughout the experience-that his body had been sleeping at the time.
For three, his instinct told him what he'd lived was real-though otherworldly and mystifying-and he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. So as far as his instincts told him, his parents really had summoned him into a sort of `Limbo' to then bring him to some sort of Alternate Reality where he'd died the night he'd finally faced off Voldemort, just to view the reactions of his friends and loved ones to such a situation.
He sighed and turned his head to the sky, finding it a clear blue just like the one overlooking his supposed funeral. He was officially beyond confused. And yet there was clarity among it all. Which in the end confused him further. Where was Hermione when you needed her?
"There you are!" His head shot up. Did his baffled mind conjure an image of her out of desperation, or was she truly standing in front of him wearing a smile and a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a turtleneck? "Hermione?" His voice was quiet and surprised, at her nod, he grinned back. "What are you doing here?"
She shrugged. "Heard you weren't feeling too well, so I thought I'd come check on you, since you can't seem to take care of your own self," she replied, easily slipping into the spot on the bench next to him, the close proximity not bothering her in the least.
"How'd you hear that?" He asked off-hand, rather embarrassed that she'd found out so quickly.
She blushed. "I was having an argument over the Floo with Ron when Ginny came back ranting about how you almost covered her in vomit."
"That's not true!" He defended himself. She just raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay, fine, maybe a little, but it's her fault! I told her I wasn't feeling well after I woke up."
"Fair enough," she conceded. "That's why I thought to check in on you. Imagine my surprise when I got to your place and the kindly older lady in the flat next to yours told me she saw-first a redhead girl of the kind she wouldn't wish on her grandchild for her apparent lack of morals-and then you, leaving in huff. She said you looked like death warmed over. Can't say I don't agree with her," he gave an uninterested shrug. "She really likes you, though. She told me where to find you."
Harry was glad for her presence, her usual tendency to babble covering up most of the continuous thoughts running through his mind, yet he was aware it wouldn't last long. "So was it Voldemort?"
Harry's head snapped to face her. "What?"
"Was Voldemort what you were dreaming about?"
He blinked slowly. He really shouldn't be so surprised by now to find that Hermione could always guess the source of his discomfort, but he still was. He was always floored by her intuition. Coming back into himself, he gave her a slow shake of the head, staring at her for a second, wondering if he should tell her what the dream had been about. "Didn't feel like it."
And quiet descended upon them. Harry was battling with himself, one part of him truly wanting to discuss it with her, the other afraid she would think him crazy-even if she never had before. Hermione looked like she was trying to stop herself from asking, her natural curiosity fighting with the knowledge that Harry had his own times. In the end, the first to lose to the silence was Harry.
"Hermione?" His question was quiet and tentative.
"Yes?" Her answer was excited, and relieved that he was willing to open up on his own.
"Do you think it's…possible…for dead people to contact living people through dreams?" Merlin, he sounded stupid-and crazy!-and he barely suppressed the urge to slap his palm on his forehead.
She stared at him in surprise for a second, obviously not expecting him to ask anything of the sort, but still considering his words-and her answer-carefully. "Well, I don't think it's impossible. We've seen stranger things than that so far, haven't we? Many people have dreamed of loved ones who have passed away, some of them even famous. There are a good six witches and wizards that have had an apparition of Merlin in their dreams, and in religious writings there are loads of these cases, in the Bible and the like, often happening when they are assigned some sort of mission, or when they need to be enlightened," she babbled away, but stopped herself from getting to far off the subject. "Who was in your dream?"
He sighed and slumped further into the bench. "My parents," he told her, already waiting for her logical explanations about how his own love-deprived mind had conjured the image of his beloved dead mother and father in an attempt to fill the void left in him after he'd lost his purpose in the war…
But no such thing came.
She was still there, looking at him, contemplating him, quiet…waiting for him to continue. So he did. "I don't actually think they meant for me to hear them," he began, "they were talking among themselves, sort of…arguing, but in a friendly…affectionate way."
"Arguing over what?" Hermione asked him. He turned to look at her, noticing the genuine smile she was wearing after seeing the faraway look his eyes were showing.
And here Harry blushed again, embarrassed. Here she was definitely going to call him crazy. "Over whether or not they should show me what my mom wanted to show me."
"And what was that?"
"My mom said she wanted to put me in an `objective position' and she said that in her experience there was almost nothing more objective then death," Hermione drew in a sharp breath, but Harry had already made his grave, he might as well jump in it. "She showed me what my funeral would have been like if I had died with Voldemort."
Hermione's earlier breath was released in relief. "Merlin, Harry, you had me scared for a second there," she laughed lightly, holding a hand to her heart. Then she regained her composure. "So," she started, her old analysing tone from school returning, "What did you see at your funeral to make you so sick?"
"Different things, really," he shrugged, "wouldn't really know where to start."
"What's the first thing to come to mind?"
"Well, it looked like most people accepted that I was gone right away, and cast me off quickly. Most of them were talking as if I'd been dead for centuries, till George got angry and shouted at them. Said they should have honoured me a little longer, or something."
Hermione gave a little nod. "I'm sure he would," she told him quietly, "he cares more for you then he lets others know-especially since Fred's gone, too."
Harry felt a wry grin on his face. She'd said much the same in his dream. His smile disappeared quickly, though. "You're the one who reacted more strongly than anyone," he whispered, his eyes clouded in the memory. "At first you looked like you weren't even there, until Ginny said something that made you hit her twice," Hermione's eyebrows shot up at this in surprise, "and then when everyone else had left, you…you just fell apart…" he couldn't go into more detail than that, her desperation still haunting him.
"I thought that much would be obvious," Hermione told him quietly.
"How could it be?" Harry asked confused.
"Well, honestly, Harry, think about it!" She huffed in exasperation. "You've been my guiding force since we were eleven, my whole life revolved around you. We broke rules together, studied together, and fought dark forces together. You're the only one who never cast me off, even if you liked Ron's company better. With you I always felt like I had a purpose. I felt as though it wasn't a bad thing to be a bossy know-it-all if it meant it would keep you alive a little longer. And if you weren't there, I can't even guess the sense of loss I could feel. You're my best friend, Harry. The single most important person in my life, the one who saved me from a troll in the girl's lavatory and gave me two amazing friends in the process. I imagine I'd fall apart at the seams if anything were to happen to you."
Harry could only stare wide-eyes at Hermione's blatant honesty. He didn't think he could find anyone else who could open themselves up so completely to him if he searched the globe. Instead he found himself grinning. "Likewise," and she was smiling back at him radiantly.
He saw her shaking her head as though to clear her thoughts and recollect them. "What did Ginny say to anger me?"
Harry's demeanour straightened, as they had gotten to the point he'd truly needed to discuss with someone who might shed some light on all those strange thoughts and feelings that were escaping him. "Well," he began, but found he needed to clear his throat before continuing, "the first time you hit her, was because, right after George talked down to everyone for casting me aside so quickly, she said she'd go talk to Dean. Said he looked like he needed a friend."
"No!" Hermione gasped, scandalised. "She said that at your funeral? Or what might have been your funeral in some strange alternate reality?"
Harry burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. Only she could say something like that, as though she was analysing what she was saying while still trying to take everything in along with her righteous indignation. He looked to her, and found her looking down at her linked hands in bashful shame. "I'm sorry," he told her honestly, "it's just the way you said it that made me laugh. I'm sorry." Though, as a thought hit him, he grinned again, "But as least I know you really might have hit her if she said something like that."
She smiled in return, though her bashfulness not leaving her. "Of course I would have," she gave a little shrug. "Why did I hit her the second time?"
"After you hit her, she said that you didn't have the right to. She said that you didn't know what I was to her, and that I meant more to her than I did to you," she didn't answer, but her shocked expression and the stillness in her small frame seemed to tell Harry that the answer Hermione had given in the dream might not have been far off from the one she would give in this reality. Added to what she'd already said about her reaction to his hypothetical death, it became almost obvious.
She cleared her throat, and looked at him. "What do you think about it?"
He shook his head, none of his confusion leaving him. "I don't know what to think anymore," he sighed, yet again. "My mom didn't seem too fond of Ginny when I overheard her, and lately I'm not too fond of her either. I don't understand how she could have been so perfect before, and now that the war's over she seems something else entirely," he slumped further into the bench, almost reclining in it. "I mean, I know The Hunt changed us, not necessarily for the better, but I thought she could be prepared for that…"
"I don't really think that's it," Hermione replied, sighing as well and mimicking his position. "She was part of The War as well, if you remember, though on a different front. I think that in truth, during The Hunt, since we were always in such dreary atmospheres and extreme situations, we kept looking at certain things as though they were a beacon. Something wonderful to return to. And since the situations were so extreme, we raised our expectation too high."
Harry raised an eloquent eyebrow at her. "We?"
She looked down at her hands in shame again. "Yes, we," she told him. "At least I know I did," Harry's eyebrow remained raised, urging her to continue, and, after another sigh, she did, "Before we were forced into running, Ron was suddenly nice to me. He was complimenting me, and it felt like he appreciated me, and we were fighting less. During The Hunt, he was back to being crude, rude, and obnoxious, but I told myself it was just because his nerves were shot, and because of the Horcrux Pendant we were lugging around. And then, at Hogwarts, when he remembered about the House Elves in the kitchens, that's when I finally thought it could work between us. Is seemed like he cared about the things I cared about, and had understood my point of view. Like he might be ready for a real commitment to me and my causes. But he's not. Ron's still Ron, and he will always be Ron, only now his head's inflating because of the recognition, and he's lazier than ever. We can't work anymore. I don't really think we ever could."
Harry gave her a penetrating green-fire glance. "What do you mean?"
She gave an apologetic shrug. "We broke things off this morning. You know, that argument over the Floo that Ginny interrupted? Once we got ourselves straightened out we decided it just wasn't right for either of us, so our break up wasn't really a bad one, but I think we might not be too comfortable around each other for a while. Sorry."
"For what?"
She gave another shrug. "For putting you in the middle like this. I know you don't like it when we fight because you're always stuck between us as a sort of shield."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he dismissed. "It's just…it's weird," he explained. "It always looked like it would be a sure thing between you two."
"No, it's not possible," she smiled sadly. "I love him, and he loves me, but it's not that kind of love. We're just too different, too incompatible, to be able to stay together without killing each other for long," a pause, and then, "besides," she shook her head in humour, "I'm not attracted to him in the least."
Harry choked on air. "What?" He asked, completely shell-shocked.
"Oh, no need to be so overdramatic about it, Harry," she waved his reaction off in a no-nonsense wave of her hand that was typical of her, "it's not that unusual. I thought I could bring myself to…learn to appreciate him, but it didn't happen. Red hair is not a turn on for me, neither are freckles, nor his rather crude attempts at romance. I'm just…not attracted to him. And I'd like to say that I'm above factoring that into a relationship, but I can't. Not that I wish for someone like Gilderoy Lockhart, that's all looks and nothing else."
"Then what do you wish for?" He asked, genuinely curious.
"Well," a slight blush painted her cheeks, giving her a very flattering demure look, though she was definitely not a demure little girl, "someone who treats me as an equal, who can understand me without criticism to what I do and what I like. Someone who can appreciate me and that I appreciate in return. And yes, someone that I feel attraction for, not necessarily based on looks, but attraction nonetheless."
He nodded, thinking he might have understood, but not certain of it, "Doesn't sound very easy to find."
She trained her eyes on him, giving him a deep penetrating-indecipherable-stare, then, after a moment's pause, she shrugged. "I guess," was her vague reply, but she wasn't used to focusing a conversation on herself so much. "So what about you?"
"What about me?" he asked baffled.
She rolled her eyes heavenward at his stereotypical obliviousness. "What do you wish for? How does Ginny fall into that? How do you feel about her now that your perspective's changed?"
He huffed a smile. That was more like the Hermione he knew. Curious and full of questions. "Tough questions," he mumbled with a sardonic smile directed at a rolling cloud passing overhead.
"Take them one at a time," she reassured him. "I've nowhere better to be at the moment in any case."
He nodded, rubbing his face with his hand, noticing the sharp scratch of his heavy unshaved shadowed skin. "What do I wish for?" She nodded encouragingly, and he sighed, fishing for the words within his mind. "I guess someone who can see beyond my scar and my family's money, who doesn't worship me, and isn't afraid of me. Someone who can keep up with me and talk to me honestly, whose fun, but can also keep composed when the situation calls for it. Someone who I like spending time with, and yes, someone who I'm attracted to as well," his wry grin was back, his eyes glowing deeply green in self deprecating amusement.
Hermione grinned at him in mirth. "Doesn't sound very easy to find, does it?"
"Guess not," he mumbled, the smile still playing at his lip at how she'd turned his words against him.
"So what about Ginny?" She continued. "How does she fit into that?"
Harry brought his hand back to his face, rubbing his heavy stubble again, a deep weary breath released through his nose. "I don't know," he began. "In school she seemed so cool, you know? Relaxed, fun, and pretty."
"And now?" She encouraged him.
"She doesn't seem so relaxed, or fun lately. And she definitely doesn't know how to keep her composure," he told her, obviously referring to the day past. "Of course, she's still very pretty, but lately I don't really care either."
He looked to Hermione to find her with an elbow on her thigh and her head resting on fists, studying him. She gave a noncommittal "hmm" sound, and he knew that she knew that there was something more to it, and it was up to him to tell it.
He took a deep breath, and asked her the one question that had been truly burning in his mind up until that moment. "Hermione," he began, "tell me honestly: is Ginny just…worshipping me? Like some kind of hero?"
He watched her exhale slowly, shifting to hold her chin in both her open palms, her elbows leaning on her knees. "You know, before starting Hogwarts, while I was reading those books about you, in a way I think I idolised you as well," she started, and laughed when she saw him looking completely perplexed at the fact that she seemed to have gone off course. "Don't worry, Harry, I have a point, I promise."
"You always do."
"And don't you ever forget it," she laughed again, before straightening and continuing on. "In any case, when I first met you on the train, I recognized you right away-not because of your scar," she told him quickly, since he was already raising his hands to brush his messy bangs down, "but because in one of my books there was a picture of your parents, and you were so obviously their child I couldn't mistake you," A smile was slowly blossoming on her face of the kind he had never seen, not on her, not on anyone. "I don't know what I was expecting you to be like. I'd actually thought you'd be something of a bully, since you'd defeated the meanest wizard the community had known in the last half a century, but when I walked into that compartment, the whole notion crumbled. You were so small, listening to Ron and trying not to say anything that would scare him away, even if you found him so odd. It was obvious you were malnourished, and likely abused and bullied yourself, I found it the most endearing thing, and after that continuing to worship you as a hero was somewhat hard, but I was still fascinated by you. You were completely awed by what was around you, and so quiet and polite, yet still, I felt like you were emanating power-probably because of the intensity of your eyes-even at that age."
"How did it change?" He asked her quietly.
"I don't think there was any one moment, it was just a gradual thing," she explained. "Ron obviously found me annoying, so I never strayed too close, but I liked listening to you and your reactions, so I used to sit close enough to hear you without being noticed. Not that I was stalking you or anything, but in that period I'd felt so alone and isolated, so odd, and you were the only one that never said an ill thing about me-or anyone else besides Slytherins-and it was just very nice to hear that. I've always been very observant of those around me, as are you, but I paid a little more attention to you then I did to anyone else. Anyway, over time, listening to you and watching you made me feel like I was getting to know you. It was a little like having a friend, even though it wasn't actually real. By the time Halloween came around, and you rescued me from the troll-and I know it was you who decided to come and find me-I'd come to a conclusion."
"Which is?"
"That you really are a hero. Not necessarily because of what happened when you were a child or because you're strong and powerful, though you are that, and of course, you're not perfect. You have your human flaws. But you're a hero because you care. Because if there's someone that needs rescuing, you'll do it, no questions asked. Even if you don't like them or know them very well. And I decided that, even though that's a wonderful thing, worshipping you wasn't the right thing to do, because worshipping is nothing but sitting by the sidelines, waiting for you to return triumphant, and I couldn't do that. I'd stopped worshipping you somewhere between the train ride and the feast, and what was before turned into deep admiration, and a need to help you stay alive," she told him finally, and he didn't know why, but he felt that her candour and her honesty were the most beautiful thing he'd encountered until that moment, and he found himself trying to swallow a lump in his throat, blinking back tears.
Thankfully, she either didn't notice, or chose not to comment, and continued on. "If you'd asked me before our fifth year whether or not Ginny was worshipping you as some sort of hero, I would have told you that she absolutely did, as it had been obvious by how she was around you. Then she came to me about it, in the summer before fifth, and I was honest with her. I told her the boy she idolised didn't actually exist, that the person she spoke about with dreamy eyes was completely different from the Harry Potter I know. We spent an entire night talking about this, and, come morning, she seemed to have understood. And from there the new Ginny was born. The Ginny you started adoring in sixth year," she told him, her eyes unfocused on some point ahead of them, misty with the recollection of events. "And if I have to be completely honest, I did have doubts about her the day of Dumbledore's funeral, when she simply accepted your leaving to sit at the sidelines praying for your safe return. I used to ask myself how she could just let you walk away when she was supposedly so taken with you…and then I berated myself for doubting her. She was a friend after all, and I was supposed to trust her. I remembered that she'd been a victim of Voldemort during the whole Chamber ordeal in second, and of course she wouldn't want to deal with Dark Magic and Deatheaters and evil megalomaniacs again. But I don't know. All that time you two were separated and she was at school feeling like the Princess locked in the tower waiting for her Knight-In-Shining-Armour might have set her back to her initial adoration of you-but that's just conjecture on my part. And now that you've been together again for a while I don't really know anymore, Harry. I can't read Ginny's mind, or heart, and I don't think she'd be able to answer that question for you either. I can tell you that she's not really prepared yet to face everything that being Harry Potter's Girlfriend truly entails, but she could learn. It's up to you to decide whether or not she should. And don't ask me for more than that, because I know that even if you listen to my opinion, it really won't facture into whatever your decision may be."
He wanted to tell her that wasn't true, but he couldn't really. It was true. Even when she was the voice of reason, he always did what his gut told him to, and, in any case, she'd already given her opinion on the subject, though she hadn't come straight out to spell it out for him. "Fair enough," he conceded.
She gave a strong nod, and slumped back against the cast iron bench with a strong exhale. "Well, I don't know about you, but this whole discussion's made me hungry. How about you show me a nice little venue we could go eat at? My treat," she offered.
"That," he said, pulling himself up, and offering her his hand to stand, "sounds like a wonderful idea." She readily took his hand, and laughed as she was lifted to her feet. He looked at her, a genuine smile lighting his features, making his eyes glow. "When was the last time we spoke like this?" He asked, thinking that it had been far too long since he'd felt anything like what he was now.
But his question seemed to shadow her sun as her demeanour darkened. "Before Ron left us on the Hunt," she answered almost too readily.
And Harry felt his heart clench.
He was about to open his mouth-to apologise, to do…something…to rectify the way he hadn't been there for her that night, though he just didn't know what could be said to excuse him-but she stopped him. "You don't need to say anything, Harry. I know how you were feeling that night. Angry and betrayed. Cast away. I felt much the same, so I don't hold anything against you."
"You should," he told her honestly. Darkly.
She shook her hand, a small forgiving smile curving her fleshy lips. "No," she reassured him, "I know you too well to do anything of the sort," and he felt relieved, and forgiven. "Now, come on, I'm famished."
And so they headed away from the park and its comfortable bench. Most of Harry's doubts had been reassured, his confusion ebbed, his stress relieved…for the moment. He didn't know what, but he knew there were several things-important things-that were still eluding him.
To be continued
Well, this is it for now, next chapter coming to you in a couple of days. I looked this over about thirteen times, but I don't think I managed to hide the fact that I'm too used to script format by now. T_T sorry about that. Stay tuned and be nice and drop me a line either in the review or by email at Robbygal@hotmail.com
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