Bond of Circumstance

Warning(s): Descriptions of violence, cursing, and very mild sexual content

Beta: CleopatraIsMyName

Bond Eight

Courageous Cowardice

It felt like weeks had passed since school had finally let out for the summer hols, and already Draco was mixed up in more than he could wrap his mind around. And even worse were the fits of non-contiguous insomnia that sprung up every now and then, the lack of sleep causing dark shadows to form beneath his ordinarily unblemished skin. All seemingly caused by the Merlin-forsaken bond Draco was certain Potter had caused, entangling them tighter than Draco could have ever imagined.

Somehow.

And it wasn't his fault that he still wasn't exactly sure as to the type of bond it was that had formed between the both of them; unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to Draco's parents to sit him down, in his younger years, and discuss the basics of bonds and such. Bonds, as far as he could derive from the thin paragraphs of information he'd extracted from the textbooks he still kept, were usually formed between wizards and witches by their own conscious will, after all. And what use would a simple bond bring to a Malfoy at the height of their power? None, his father would certainly answer. So, thereupon lay the reasoning behind his lack of knowledge on the subject.

And damn Potter for managing to, once again, fuck up Draco's life. Luck would have it that, just when he thought that things couldn't get any more awful or stranger, Potter would correct that baseless assumption of his, even when he held absolutely no responsibility towards the events that were currently unfolding. Karma, he remonstrated, was an evil, evil bitch.

'At least,' he thought woefully, as he stared up at the Muggles' bland, banal ceiling. 'I still have some things to entertain myself with.'

A sudden pain in his ankle took him by surprise, right then. Draco felt a wave of uncertainty take hold of him. Uncertainty that he would survive these circumstances with his sanity intact.

And with that, Draco groaned disgruntledly and stood in preparation to leave the room. A quick brushing of lint off his clothing later, and Draco was off to the, now familiar, playground.

Upon his arrival at the enclosure, he sighed and subsequently took in a lungful of the fresh air that finally surrounded him, feeling a tension he hadn't realised had been there leave his shoulders in a rush. It certainly felt a sight better than whenever Potter's aunt used whatever Muggle cleaning nonsense she saw fit to around the house; or, rather, when she did her reputable best to eliminate any and all trace of human interaction on every bit of furniture she was able. Which was practically all the time. Draco couldn't recall ever seeing even a house elf act as dedicated to keeping a room as spotless as that harridan did, and his father had never been one to shy away from harsh displays of his ire whenever he claimed to find anything lacking in the quality of perfection he craved within his household.

Draco, truthfully, had found himself on the other side of that scorn on more than just a few occasions.

He shook his head, as if to forcefully expel the lingering effects those thoughts still held over him, and sat on a swing, decidedly not the one on which Potter and he had enjoyed a most eerily light mood. Kicking off, Draco sent himself off into the air, gravity and sheer force of will his only guides. He felt himself travel higher and higher, faster and faster into the air, the closest to the likeness of flying astride a broom that Draco figured most Muggles could manage to obtain. However, despite his vague exuberance at the freedom the swings granted him, he could still taste the sour remnants of bitter in his throat, even as he sailed the winds and cleared his mind of everything but the most basics of his survival.

It was as he was finally letting go of the collective clutter within his mind that he was disturbed by panicked screams and a menacing laughter that bordered on hysteria. Draco halted in his swinging as he turned his head and tightened his grip on the metallic chains that still held him aloft.

'Ah,' he realised with yet another shake of the head, this one of irritation at the beleaguering teens off in the distance. Potter's pathetic oaf of a cousin, Duddykins or some such, and a bunch of thuggish brutes were taunting a thinner, smaller boy, practically still in his primary school years. 'At least the first-years have the ability to protect themselves,' Draco thought scornfully. 'This is just worthless squabbling.'

The boy was sat on his bum, elbows and arms atop the earth, speaking purely in whimpers. All the while, Duddy pounded his fist into the palm of his hand, the sound of skin slapping against skin probably adding an edge to the barbaric performance that Draco could only partially understand. Sure, physically hitting Potter had been fun while it had lasted, but such displays were barely even worthy of a vague spark of annoyance.

"Oy," he called out, stepping away from the, now motionless, swing. All eyes flew to him at his proclamation of attention, and Draco nearly glorified at the thought of being the cynosure of an audience before he remembered that these were just Muggles, and Draco needn't feel as if their attention was actually worth a single Knut of his time. "What is he, five? How about the lot of you," Draco aimed one of his fiercer sneers at them as he slowly stalked forwards with the grace and intimidation of a predator of the wild, "go and bugger off somewhere else?"

Duddy visibly paled at his words as he took an unconscious step back, his friends glancing back at their leader with frowns crossing their confused faces. As if they couldn't recognise danger when it stared them dead in the face, in a group performance that Draco thought would even do Potter justice. And how like Potter Draco was acting, right now. If he weren't positive of his own identity, he might've mistaken himself for a Gryffindor, and nearly shivered at the mere thought of maroon robes and golden trimmings, halting the movement before it could reveal itself. They would probably believe it to be perpetuated by fear, and Draco wouldn't stand for a worthless bunch of Muggles to ever think he was scared of them. Disgusted, yes. But frightened? Never.

"Hey, Dudley. Who's this ponce?"

Dudley seemed to shrink at that, seemingly unwilling to answer the question voiced by his minions. Draco considered it to be the wisest decision the brunet had ever made, and inclined his head in agreement. Dudley merely grimaced at that, to which Draco shook his head.

"Is that really all you've got?" Draco answered back at the boy, laughing at them with not just a slight moue of distaste clear on his face. "How about you scurry off to whence you came?"

It was when they began to edge in closer, and Duddy even farther away, that that annoyingly familiar voice met Draco's ears.

"Oy!" and of course he also had to take Draco's line. Potter always did have to take everything and keep it for himself, didn't he? Well, that wasn't strictly true, now that Draco thought on it, but no, he wasn't going to. Not right now. Not ever. "What's going on, Dudders?"

And there the hero was, in all his glory. If the audience was larger, teamed with the members of his little fan club, they would all most likely be swooning at the righteous tone of his voice. Draco narrowed his eyes at the git and folded his arms, turning his sneer from the group of Muggles onto Potter, instead. Boy Wonder appeared taken aback for a split second before he glared back and physically dismissed Draco from his attention as he drew in closer and faced the Muggles.

At Draco's glance down, the boy who had previously been cowering at the group's feet quickly sprang up, escaping before anyone could say otherwise.

"Nothing, Potter," and Potter's cousin was now speaking, having regained his own footing in the meantime. He straightened his spine and looked the brunet in the eyes, shying away from meeting Draco's own. And the blond felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction at that, before he quickly stamped down on that emotion. "And I suggest you leave now before you find yourself in the same position that git was in, just now."

"Yeah," one of the boys, this one with a heap of dirty blond hair littering his head, spoke up. "He owed us some money."

"Fifteen pence," another one said. "He owed us fifteen pence."

Draco rolled his eyes at the lot of them and turned his back.

"Oy, where are you going?"

Draco merely shot a two-finger salute at them all, not deeming even that worthy of the pithiest of responses. It was due to them that he was now nursing a most unfortunately timed headache and maybe the loss of more than a few brain cells. Trust the Muggles to manage to accomplish what even Crabbe and Goyle hadn't in their years together.

"Malfoy!"

Draco was startled. That was it. That was the only reason he had stopped at the sound of Potter's voice. It wasn't because of whom it belonged to, nor was it due to its pissed tone.

He turned about to face the brunet just as a curious sort of coldness swept over him as gently as the softest of blankets. He carefully folded his arms and shivered at the sudden frostiness of the air. Time seemingly becoming slower… and slower... And it was as an oddly familiar bout of numbness descended within him, taking with it his previous mood, that he finally realised what was happening.

He stood, horror-struck, as a Dementor drifted down from above, the gloom and despair that it carried causing the playground that had previously filled him with so much relief to grow darker and darker, as literal as metaphoric. The effects of which left him with less energy than he had ever felt, even after a third-year alongside the blasted creatures. That numbness came over him in a stronger wave than previous, and he regretted not ever having asked Professor Snape to tutor him in mastering the Patronus charm, even now when he fully understood the enormity of what a Dementor could do. Could cause someone to do. Could make them feel and doubt and shiver and - oh, Merlin.

He felt as if he were on the verge of collapse, his knees weak and arms curiously achy and his thoughts dulled down to the iciness of an ocean at storm. And then a hand clasped his own and a warmth overtook him. Alongside that came as a stronger need - a pulsing, itching, bursting need - to get Potter out of danger as soon as possible took hold of him, as if he were a puppeteer's marionette.

"Expecto Patronum," a voice rumbled to his right. Following the words came piercing light and warmth, a brief solace that shielded Draco temporarily from the draining cold. He grasped the chance with all he had, tugging on Potter's hand.

"Potter, we need to go," Draco could hardly recognise his voice, as scratchy as it sounded to his own ears. He quickly cleared his throat and tried again when the brunet tried the charm a second time, this time unsucceeding. "Potter, now."

His tone seemed to match the urgency he felt at the situation, as Potter's gaze soon met his own. They held for a second longer before the brunet nodded carefully and called out for his cousin to follow. Draco would've been displeased at the delay if he couldn't feel his heart slow down its previously even beating and his arm nearly tear from its socket, the light from the charm dying down.

And despite the pain, Draco pushed on, determined to follow Potter and escape from the feeling that the Dementors seemed to awaken in all their victims, for Draco refused to be one of them, a soulless carcass like his Great Aunt Athena had become after the Plague had taken Europe by storm all those centuries ago.

They soon passed through a grove of trees, too thin to really be viewed upon as a forest, and ended at the outskirts of an old tunnel. Though the air was warmer against Draco's oddly cool skin, Draco still didn't feel safe. As they tread through the mouth of the tunnel, Potter nudged Draco with a bony elbow. Draco soon picked up on what the Gryffindor wanted him to do and demonstrated such with a quick flick of his wrist and a near-indistinct murmur. The glow of his Lumos shown in the space and they both leaned against the walls - Draco more gingerly, seemingly more aware of the stains and dirt that encrusted the surface than his current ally - with a harmonious sigh.

"Potter," Draco started at that, having forgotten that Potter's lug of a cousin had been following them. "What was that?"

"Dementors," he explained, panting for breath. "They suck your soul out, Dudders."

The giant lump seemed to grow weary at that, as if Potter had been playing some sort of huge practical joke on him for some time, and he was tired of all the nonsense. But then Draco felt the cold come back and he pulled on Potter's hand - and why hadn't he noticed he was still holding the git's hand, as if he were a scared schoolgirl seeking comfort from her latest dalliance? - as he dragged them further down the tunnel. It became harder and harder to see as they strode deeper and deeper within, and Draco was distinctly grateful when Potter raised his wand and cast a Lumos of his own.

The Dementors seemed to be after one or the both of them because they continued to follow them, even after they'd been running for a good amount of time. Draco was just contemplating how long and far they'd strode within the tunnel when he heard Potter's voice ricochet off the walls at a greater distance than he should've been, had he been dutifully running alongside them like a good Chosen One should. But of course, Potter had always been an awful troublemaker, hadn't he?

"Expecto Patronum," Draco tried, mimicking the movement and pronunciation of the charm fruitlessly, a grunt of frustration escaping his throat when nothing came out of his wand. He felt a hot flash of envy at that, for not even a flicker of the blinding white light he'd seen emerge from Potter's wand came to being.

And then the Dementors descended.

Draco's scream pitched off the walls, adjoined with Dudders' and Potter's own, vision blurring as he fell to unconsciousness.

When Draco next woke, it was to a cacophony of cats meowing and the distinct smell of rotten cabbage. He groaned at that, a headache piercing his temples alarmingly. He didn't especially crave wakefulness, but the smell was causing him to want to vomit up what he'd eaten the night before. A sudden growl of his belly portended Draco's sudden desire for food.

A cool hand was then placed on his forehead, as if checking for a temperature, and he sensed an additional four other people in the room. When he finally cracked open his eyes, he groaned once more at the bright sight of a disturbingly orange robe. Draco couldn't think of a single worst thing to wake up to when your head was throbbing in concert with the beat of your heart.

"Is this hell?" Draco inquired to a higher power above. "Because it sure does feel like it."

"No, Mister Malfoy," an old man's voice called out in answer. "This isn't anything of the sort. You are at Mrs. Figg's home, resting after an encounter with a group of Dementors. How are you feeling, dear boy?"

Draco felt the need to count to ten in French, and then twenty when that didn't seem to work. Right when he'd finally got to trois-et-un, the old man called out again, "Are you ignoring me, Mister Malfoy?"

The old geezer actually sounded wounded.

With a sign, Draco opened his eyes, once again, and this time kept them open. The woman's house looked the same as it did the last time he'd seen it, though Draco wondered if she'd acquired yet another cat in the few weeks since he'd entered via Floo. Potter was sitting a little ways from him in a huge, cushioned armchair that seemed to want to devour him alive, so low was he sinking into the upholstery. The other two occupants of the room - Mrs. Figg and Dudders - were sitting, in complete contrast to Potter, upright and straight-backed, wary of something. But of what?

"Mister Malfoy?"

"Yes, Professor?" Draco said in answer, mentally rolling his eyes at the frequent and tiresome questions. All he wanted was to go back to sleep. Preferably out of view of the others. It was unsettling, to find oneself awaken in a room chock full of people he'd never wanted to see him in such a vulnerable state as sleep. "What happened to the Dementors, sir?"

The man brightened at that. Draco felt the overwhelming need to roll his eyes again at the way the open change in countenance, expression resembling that of a Crup pleading for attention from its masters.

"They were sent back to Azkaban, of course," he answered loftily. The question still hung in the air, however: why had they been there in the first place?

Potter, of course, was the one to raise the question.

"Professor," he started warily, struggling to sit up dignifiedly in a most undignified seat. Draco had to muffle a snort when the teen's efforts only managed to sink him even deeper into the furniture, and once more when the brunet had the gall to glare at him. Draco hadn't been the one to choose it, after all. What was he so upset at Draco for? "Why were the Dementors here, at Privet Drive? I thought they all… well, lived at Azkaban?"

"That does beg the question, Mister Potter," Dumbledore's previously bubbly mood seemed to settle down to a cool froth, a seriousness creeping into his voice that Draco couldn't help but think was rather disarming in the Headmaster. "The Dementors are under the control of those who hold the power to do so."

"Are you saying the Ministry sent the Dementors after us?" Draco sat up as the idea seemed to come to life within him, his mind connecting the events to those positions his father had made him slave over memorising when he'd been taught the ways of politics, all those years ago. "Or one of us in particular?"

Potter managed to somehow straighten up in the seat at Draco's speculative tone.

"Oy," he growled, a flash of anger bright in his eyes. "I didn't cause this! How do we know it wasn't you or your Death Eater father, Ferret?"

Draco coloured visibly, flinching at the memory more than anything else. "Let's recount the ways you've managed to screw up the lives of the people around you, huh, Potter?"

Potter jumped up from the chair at that, "Did you just make reference to what I think you did?"

Draco rethought his words and snorted at that. "No, blockhead. I didn't mean anything having to do with Diggory. I'm more meaning your friends than anything else."

Potter appeared stunned at that revelation, and Draco noticed how he seemed to shrink when he wasn't itching to fisticuff with someone. And just when his mind seemed on the verge of associating Potter with images of him in similar positions in a most dissimilar fashion to fighting, Dumbledore cleared his throat pointedly at the both of them.

"Boys," the simple word seemed to encompass his disappointment at them in such a way that even Draco felt himself deflate at its utterance. When Potter finally calmed and settled himself on the floor, rather than try to take up arms with the Chair of Doom, he beamed.

"Now," he clapped his hands. "Who wants tea?"

"So," Potter started on the walk back to the Muggles' house. "What was that, back there?"

Draco groaned in question as a sharp pain overtook his ankle, once again, as if it had been lurking in the background until just when he'd settled back down. Instead of whinging about it, though, he instead chose to keep the occurrence to himself, if only because they were in the line of sight of any Muggles' wandering eyes.

"Malfoy," Potter called once again, sidestepping the blond until he was suddenly in front of him, hands on his hips in a posture he undoubtedly copied from Granger. "Answer my question."

"What was what back where?" Draco was confused, and not only just because the throb in his ankle seemed to escalate as the brunet grew more and more frustrated, but also because with the pain came his ability to think clearly. "I have absolutely no idea of what you're on about this time, Potter."

"On the playground," the brunet rolled his eyes at Draco, and Draco bit back a sharp riposte. "You knew the Dementors were there long before I did. And once you snapped out of whatever daze they had put you in, you almost immediately chose to try and lead me out of there, instead of running away with your tail between your legs, like you usually do."

"What?" Draco was completely baffled by what Potter had just said, and to no fault of his own, most assuredly. "The Dementors were there long before I tugged on your arm."

"No, they weren't."

"Explain why you were already casting the Patronus charm long before I had managed to get you to come to your senses and flee, then."

"You were shivering and shaking even before they were finally in my line of sight," Potter said offhandedly. "All I did was react to what I couldn't see. And then the cold was all around me, same as with every other encounter I'd had with them, and… Well, you start to recognise the feeling, after a while."

"I have no idea what to tell you," Draco stated honestly, looking Potter dead in his bright, green eyes. "Because all I know is that I felt the Dementors, you apparently did too, and we tried our best to run from the inevitable as it chased after us.

"Now, I'm going to go upstairs and sleep."

But when Draco tried to take another step, he nearly fell over from the pain that burst forth from his ankle like the death of a star. It was white-hot and all-encompassing, and he almost immediately fought for balance by placing his hands on Potter's arms.

"Are you okay?" Potter called out in shock, his hands gripping beneath Draco's armpits at the blond's near-topple. "Oy, Malfoy."

Draco shook his head and tried to step away from Potter, refusing to surrender to whatever was trying to pull them closer and closer together. But the pain in his ankle was preventing him from balancing on his own two feet, and he buried his head in the place where the brunet's shoulder and neck met, and exhaled steadily. Another flash of pain shot through him and he tried to bite back a groan at the continuous sensation, too concentrated on the sensation to pay heed to Potter's physical freeze at the touch of Draco's warm breath on his naked skin.

"I-my ankle," Draco grunted, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain seemed to travel from his ankle to his hip, where the mark he knew was there seemed to flare and burn, sparking to life.

Potter quickly brought Draco's arm over his broad shoulders and advised him to walk carefully as they made their way over to the Muggles' front porch. And then with more thoughtful, careful manoeuvring - all without commentary on Draco's part, for once in his short life - they made it through the door, up the stairs, and headed towards Potter's room.

Draco winced at the skyrocketing pain as he collapsed on Potter's bed, Potter wincing back in what seemed to be sympathy.

"Take off my shoes and socks, Potter," Draco demanded imperiously, and Potter merely glanced at him, a blank expression the only sign he'd heard the blond. Decidedly not rolling his eyes, Draco muttered a quick, "Please," to which the brunet then acceded to his harshly-worded request. When he finally uncovered Draco's foot, his eyes slid up to Draco's own piercing grey ones.

"I give you permission to molest my ankle, Potter, yes," Draco said as he rolled his eyes. The pain seemed to settle down a bit as Potter touched his ankle carefully, causing Draco's hips and back to jerk and arch off the thin mattress' length.

"Ah," Draco gasped, eyes widening as the pain morphed to pleasure, escalating to such an extent that he soon worried about embarrassing himself in front of the brunet. But Potter seemed to be so incredibly intent on his ankle, squinting at what new rune now lay upon his skin's previously perfect surface, that he missed Draco's reaction entirely. Draco let out a soft sigh, at that. Thank Salazar for small blessings, and oblivious prats.

"Lemme see," Draco slurred slightly, adjusting himself so as to try and hide what was possibly his hardest erection yet. With Potter backed up slightly, he sat back up and lifted up his leg.

"It says, 'Courage,' this time, ironically enough," Draco said primly, settling back until he was laying down rather than sitting upright. "What do you think all this means, Potter?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Potter muttered after a few seconds of silent contemplation. "But do you think this has to do with you arriving here?"

Draco nearly rolled his eyes again before he also paused to ponder that thought. "Well," he rolled his tongue slightly over the word, trying to work out the connection. "I certainly never had nearly this much of a negative reaction to your mere presence, so maybe."

"Then it must have to do with the things we've done or said to each other, yeah?" Potter launched back, legs crossed atop the other as he spoke. "Think back."

"Well, there was when I first arrived here," Draco muttered, head tilted back and eyes closed shut. "Following that, I settled into the room your aunt most graciously hoisted upon me…"

"Would you have rather slept on the floor?" Potter called in outrage.

"Then we were eating dinner…"

"You practically threatened my uncle, then," Potter said.

Draco paused. "And before this summer, I wouldn't have ever dreamed of doing that. But… it looked so wrong."

"Wrong?" Potter asked in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"You were completely under someone else's control, you realise," Draco drawled. "And while I had always thought I would love to have you under mine, it looked… disgusting. I really wanted to hurt your uncle, and for reasons I still don't exactly understand."

Potter looked at Draco differently, then, and he couldn't help but avert his gaze to the ceiling high above his head.

"And then there was when I fixed your face and glasses after your Uncle nearly punched your lights out," Draco grumbled at the memory, still able to recall the confusion he'd felt soon after the act. And, just as before, he still didn't really understand his reasoning behind his actions. It was if he was acting on pure impulse, with the likeness of a Gryffindor rather than the Slytherin he was born to be. "And when I woke up sweaty from a fitful bout of rest just to discover you whimpering in your bed."

"I was not whimpering," Potter rebuked, before he paused in bewilderment. "Wait, you had just woken from your own nightmare?"

"I never said it was a nightmare, Potter," Draco answered, glancing back down to the brunet's emerald eyes. "I had trouble sleeping. I couldn't even remember what I had been dreaming about shortly after I woke up, in fact. It was just the summer heat."

"Then explain away why you woke me up from that nightmare a couple nights ago."

Draco's eyes widened and he felt the sensation of a flush climb up to his cheeks. That had been a mistake, Draco knew. He'd managed to get too close to Potter, and had even foolishly entertained the vaguest thoughts of seducing the prat. But that wouldn't do.

"I can practically hear you thinking, you bloody Snake," Potter growled, scrambling up onto his bed without the slightest provocation. "As long as we are here, you can go ahead and explain. Now."

Draco stared up into Potter's eyes and felt a heat surround him, his thought process coming to a sudden stop. He opened his mouth to speak but the words wouldn't leave. Scarcely a sound could be made, and he swallowed the saliva that nearly flooded his mouth hurriedly.

"I-" Draco's eyes immediately landed on the brunet's messy raven hair, and he calmed himself down. This was only Potter, after all. Annoying, irritating, chivalrous, stupid, myopic, gitty Potter the Boy Who Lived To Never Die. A sight less frightening and nerve wracking than Professor Snape had ever been. Draco cleared his throat and said the first words that came to mind, "We can't possibly be sharing dreams, Potter."

Potter glared down at Draco; well, Draco thought he was. He could feel the heat of the brunet's gaze on the side of his face, but Draco wasn't ever going to look back into his eyes again, thank you very much.

"And where did you get that idea from?"

Draco rolled his eyes at the teen's utter ignorance of everything but Quidditch and saving the world and generally being a pissant.

"Immediately waking up from dreams I can never really remember and rousing you from a nightmare right after certainly does seem to strike one as a touch coincidental, does it not?"

"One of the effects of the bond or whatever it is between us must be dream sharing, yeah? And the tendency to wish to protect me."

"I do not wish to protect you, Potter," Draco sputtered, breaking his oath to not look into Potter's eyes just to look into Potter's eyes. They were bright like a forest, but light like the rarest of jewels. And the dark, long eyelashes that encased them didn't help Draco's wandering mind. And was he still hard? Draco was suddenly nervous of the discovery of a whole different sort of problem. "Now, get off me."

"Yes, you do, Malfoy," Potter smirked, completely disregarding Draco's near-plea for space of some kind.

"No, I don't," Draco clenched his teeth at the feel of his erection scraping against the fabric of his pants and doubly his trousers. "Now, get. Off. Me."

"What happens if I don't?" Potter seemed to have gone mad with some sort of power, because he was suddenly looming over Draco like some sort of dreadful palm tree. "Gonna hit me?"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the Gryffindor before pushing him off himself with as much strength he could muster. Thankful for his untucked shirt, he strode immediately for the door, only to have his break for escape evaded by Potter.

"Move!" Draco growled, trying to slip around Potter only to have the brunet brush up on him in just the wrong way and…

"Oh," Potter's eyes widened significantly and Draco was now humiliated and furious with himself and he pushed him out of the way, ran to his room, shut the door shut behind him.

'Merlin's sodding pants,' Draco thought to himself. 'What am I going to do, now?'

Author's Note:

Hey, gais. So, I finally finished the newest chapter. Several months later :D Sleeping, ya know. It's been hectic with all this sleep.

Pls leave a review kk thnx bai *kisses*

;P