40

Chapter 40

Friday 14 March 2003: PM

"My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an alcoholic."

The abject pity and sadness in Hermione's big brown eyes after Draco utters that well-used phrase cause his stressed airways to shrink further. He feels as though his detached words are being spoken from the end of a long tunnel. The mocking, cynical part of his psyche wonders whether he might yet emulate a cliched Victorian heroine and faint dead away; he manages to will away the grey spots stippling his vision and maintains his rigorous posture.

Buck up, you weakling – your craven reluctance to tell Hermione the truth has led you directly to this moment. The least you can do is provide her with an explanation. But not here… not with this audience. Even Macdolas is jittering in the corner by the door, hopping from one skinny leg to the other as his hyperbolic lawn-green eyes track across the humans' distressed faces.

Forcing his vocal chords back into action, Draco moves his gaze to Hermione's left ear as he hoarsely requests, "Granger, may I speak with you privately, please?".

He is both relieved and uneasy when she instantly nods.

"Oh, Draco – of course."

He tips his silvery head curtly toward the door, which Macdolas opens as they approach from their opposite sides of the antique dining table. Thrusting his twitching hands in his pockets to avoid taking the palm Hermione automatically tenders, Draco ignores the expression of hurt that crosses her sweet face. "We'll speak in the library, if you don't mind." He waves a jerky hand in that direction; she silently precedes him.

Running the salient points he needs to cover over in his mind helps to keep some of his swelling panic at bay. Draco opens the library door and gestures silently to the comfortable brown armchairs. Hermione sits stiffly on the edge of one of them, curling her lithe legs to the side.

She parts her mouth to speak, but Draco interrupts, "I'll remain standing, if you don't mind."

"I do mind, actually; if you intend to pace about the room like a caged panther, I shall too," Hermione retorts with a little of her customary vim.

"Fine. I'll sit down," Draco sighs. He nudges his own chair back a few inches; he needs more distance. He adjusts his trouser lengths and the cuffs of his dark cobalt suit jacket in an effort to settle his thundering heart and erratic breathing.

Fuck – where to begin? He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling overwhelmed by the unsavoury discourse looming ahead of him. It's your own pusillanimous fault, you've procrastinated over telling her for bloody weeks… just get on with it.

"That photograph – I wasn't trying to kill myself. I just wanted to be… numb," Draco blurts, regretting his bluntness as Hermione's eyes round in shock and grief. "No, Granger: just let me speak, please," he forestalls her outstretched arm and the questions he glimpses forming in her eyes. "I'll answer any and all of your queries, once I've said my piece," he rasps.

Subdued, Hermione relaxes her hunched pose a little as she grips her hands tightly in her lap.

"I didn't start drinking in earnest until after the War; I suppose you know I spent two months in Azkaban, awaiting trial? And then I was sentenced to six months of house arrest, here?". Draco continues without waiting for her tiny acknowledging nod.

"As you are no doubt aware, Lucius was punished with five years of house arrest, and the permanent revocation of his right to carry or use a wand. We were released from prison at roughly the same time, and neither of us coped well with our straitened circumstances. Don't get me wrong – the Wizengamot were far more lenient on us both than we had any right to expect. I suspect your and Potter's testimonies went a long way to granting us that grace." Hermione's lambent cocoa eyes haven't left Draco's face since he started talking. He fixes his own regard to her hands as he strives to remain as unemotional as possible in his recount.

"Shacklebolt disbanding the Dementors from Azkaban and replacing them with Aurors meant I survived Azkaban OK, though I am in no hurry to return. I think I was still rather numb, and I had trouble processing my relative freedom – and the fact I was still breathing. But once I came home, my nightmares accelerated, and I was too fearful to sleep for longer than a snatched half hour here and there. Lucius started providing me with 'nightcaps' of Firewhiskey; I took to hard spirits like the proverbial duck to water," Draco discloses.

He doesn't realize he is rubbing rhythmically at his left forearm, until Hermione casts it a pointed look. Draco grips the buttery brown leather ends of the armchair instead. "It didn't take long before I was shifting the 'I won't touch a drop until the sun goes down,' line to 'Just a little nip before dinner won't hurt anyone'. The nips became drams, the drams became tumblers… then I was sneaking off with an entire bottle and drinking most of it before passing out. Being disgustingly rich helped me keep my habit more or less hidden; and as the newly pronounced Lord Malfoy, I had all the Galleons I could ever need at my drunken fingertips." His laugh is more a bitter gasp than a chuckle.

"Then my home arrest was lifted, and I partied with Blaise and Theo like it was 1999 – well, it was 1999. Sorry, poor joke," he apologizes as Hermione simply stares sorrowfully at his pale face. Draco hesitates as he tells her, "For a while there, I went home with whichever witch would have me… though I suspect most were disappointed by my 'whiskey-dick' issues, and incoherent ramblings." Hermione drops her thick dark eyelashes to hide her reaction, but Draco sees her knuckles whiten in her lap at his confession.

"The alcohol and the women never made me feel any less lonely – just anesthetized. I couldn't understand why I wasn't sharing in everyone else's relief, and the joy and excitement of fashioning a new 'normal'… all I craved was to obliterate the memories I couldn't live with, in both my waking and sleeping hours. I told myself I could stop drinking at any time, of course."

Hermione breaks in. "Malfoy – you had PTSD… you know that, right?". She stretches to place a tentative little hand on his knee. Even through the thick material of his navy suit trousers, the warmth of her touch sends heat and succor oozing through his fraught nervous system.

Don't touch her… you won't be able to stop. Quell your selfish urge to wallow in her tender, generous solace. Draco hardens his resolve and wills his traitorous body not to lean closer. The subtle, irresistible fragrance of her lightly perfumed skin drifts beneath his nose. No. Stay focused.

"I know that, now… but the wizarding world isn't big on addressing psychological disorders, Granger." He shrugs, lean fingers pressing a little harder into the lovingly polished, upholstered brown hide as he tries to affect an impassive countenance.

"Anyway, Mother was the first to suspect I had a serious problem. The boys – Blaise and Theo, I mean – told me a few times that I was out of control, but they were busy dealing with their own guilt and disorientation. We were still teenagers – not that our age made any difference, I don't mean to try to excuse my poor judgment– "

"Hey – I get it. I developed some peculiar coping mechanisms when the War was over, too," Hermione consoles. At Draco's disbelieving quirked eyebrow, she confides, "I started counting things… cars, buses, people… my footsteps, raindrops on the window pane. Anything around me, really. And then I'd feel edgy if the count ended on an odd number, unless it was a doubled numeral – like '33', or '77'. So I'd find more things to count, and so on…" Draco quirks a disapproving eyebrow as she raises a hand to graunch at her carved forearm scar, but drops it before her fingernails find purchase on her olive skin.

"You may have noticed I have a tendency to unconsciously claw at my scar when I'm anxious," Hermione twists a small, rueful smile onto her lips. "Harry pushed me to see a therapist about it all… anyway, I know it's not the same as what you experienced. But we were very young." She motions choppily for him to continue.

"A few weeks before – that night, Mother cornered me in Lucius's study. Actually, she busted me breaking into his liquor cabinet. I had no scruples when it came to stealing my father's booze – hadn't I technically paid for it? Didn't the bastard owe me a damned sight more than a few bottles of Ogden's finest?". Draco has to make a concerted effort to lower his voice. Don't frighten Hermione any more than you already have, you stupid prat.

In a gentler tone, he elucidates, "Mother didn't mince her words: she told me I was an alcoholic, and I needed professional rehabilitation. She even produced literature to back her up – pamphlets from the Muggle clinic I ended up being admitted to. Apparently her magical-world research came up empty on how to treat full-blown alcoholic addiction issues; the Healers she'd discreetly consulted suggested a variety of powerful potions… which can be used only sparingly, as they in turn have addictive properties."

Hermione's pinched expression conveys her disdain for that 'solution'.

"Mother told me I needed to address the reasons why I was binge-drinking myself into a stupor every night, not merely treat the physical aspect of the disorder. I wasn't ready to hear the truth, though." Draco swallows hard as he remembers the harsh insults he'd screamed at his parent.

"I was horrid to Narcissa – I shouted that had no business sticking her nose into mine, I accused her and Lucius of selling my soul to the Dark Devil in order to save their own necks. Oh, I was appalling, Granger. My weakness was exposed, and I lashed out with every cruel insult and imputation I could think of. It's a miracle Mother didn't blast me with a 'Silencio', at the very least," his ears redden as the remembered shame of his vicious verbal attack washes over him.

"I went on a two-day binge the next day and returned home stinking drunk. Merlin only knows what I got up to before I literally rolled up against the front gates. Macdolas had to Apparate me inside. He never said a censorious word about the condition I was in… but those reproachful green eyes of his said plenty."

Draco breaks the narrative to abruptly ask, "Would you like some water? Here, there's a pitcher and glasses on the sideboard– ". He busies himself with the mundane task, keeping his back to Hermione as he struggles to keep his wildly-fluctuating emotions in check. The soft affection and sadness emanating from his darling girlfriend is too much to bear. She's too kind-hearted for her own good – I need to get through the rest of this pathetic tale and… let her go.

Tossing back half a glass of cool water, Draco refills the tumbler before he returns to his seat, handing Hermione her drink. He waits for her to sip before he recommences his monologue.

"I apologize – this is dragging on a bit. I'll attempt to be more succinct."

Hermione shakes her head so furiously that her semi-loose tawny curls come dangerously close to whipping her in the face. "I want you to tell me everything that you're comfortable sharing with me, Draco." She places her hand back on his knee and squeezes gently. "Please, continue. Take your time."

"Th-thank you, Hermione." Draco takes another mouthful of water and rebuilds some of his Occlumency defences.

"Right. So I spitefully increased my boozing and carousing until I awoke in a private Muggle hospital room hooked up to an IV drip and innumerable beeping monitoring devices. Mother had taken me straight there once Rita advised her where I was holed up, and stayed by my bedside until I regained consciousness. She didn't say anything at first; not until after the dispassionate Muggle specialist came in and told me I would have died from alcohol poisoning if I hadn't been rushed into their emergency department the night before. Granger – please don't cry, ma- please, don't cry," Draco entreats, hurriedly pushing his navy silk handkerchief into her hand as the silent tears continue to track down her cheeks.

"You and your ruddy hankies," Hermione sniffles. "Keep talking, ignore the waterworks." She scrubs violently at the tears wetting her face and nods impatiently.

"Well. After the doctor left, Mother brusquely informed me of what had happened to bring me here, and then told me I had two choices: I could continue on my merry way until alcoholism claimed my life (she mentioned I'd need to pick out the epitaph I preferred for my gravestone); or I could choose to enter Muggle rehab and work on my problems, however long that took. She said that she would always love me, and do her best to protect me – but as a young adult, I had to start taking responsibility for my choices and actions. Mother granted me the rest of the day to come to a final decision, and left me with all the literature she thought I could handle about alcoholism and its treatment options.'

"Hearing how close I'd come to dying on the floor of some dingy little room while an indifferent, venal stranger snapped pictures of my demise hit me hard, Granger. I didn't want to die, but I felt trapped… useless… alone. And the craving for alcohol was – is – embedded inside me. I thought that getting drunk would soothe the monsters that rode me at night, but dipsomania swiftly became the bigger beast." He risks turning his pewter eyes to her face.

"My stay in rehab… it was both an ordeal and an epiphany. I suppose you could say it was my own personal 'quest', in an odd way. For four months, I was 'Jake Malloy' – don't laugh, it was Mother's idea – and we explained away my utter ineptness at doing things the Muggle way by saying I was a bored rich heir who'd fallen in with a criminal gang (hence the tattoo). Not that far from the truth, when you think about it." Draco manages something approximating a small grin, despite his heartsickness.

"I wasn't laughing at you… well, maybe just a little," Hermione's dark amber eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles back at him. "'Jake Malloy' just sounds so… Muggley, I suppose." She covers her mouth as a tiny giggle escapes. "I'm sorry – but I also want to call you that as a nickname, now," she confesses.

"Let's leave that well alone for the time being, please," Draco chides, before he remembers the rest of what he has to say to her. His face resettles into bleakness.

"Anyway, rehab was gruelling, eye-opening, boring, frustrating, extraordinary, terrible, enlightening… and the making of me. I was responsible for myself in a way I never had been, before – from making my bed and cleaning my own toilet, to opening up and expressing my deepest fears and trauma in front of strangers, day in and day out. Drying out was fucking awful, but exposing my weaknesses to a host of therapists and other people who were fighting their own battles with addiction… it was terrifying, to be that vulnerable.'

"I refused to participate in the endless therapy sessions, initially – all that incessant talking about one's problems was abhorrent to my haughty self. One-on-one and group cognitive behavioural therapy, the twelve-step facilitation method, meditation, yoga, art therapy… the last really helped me identify what gave me authentic joy, and purpose. But I didn't fully embrace the whole process until I finally started listening to some of my fellow inpatients' histories."

Draco guzzles down more water as the memories flood his psyche. "Granger, their stories – I was horrified. Many of these people had been systematically abused and neglected since their early childhoods… physically, emotionally, sexually… used like disposable chattel by their parents, or partners who'd professed to love and care for them while doing the exact opposite, until the abuse became normalized. I finally realized what a spoiled, selfish little shit I'd been. I was blessed to have one parent who loved me unconditionally, and the means at my disposal to choose what I wanted to do with the rest of my life."

"Malfoy, you shouldn't downplay or diminish your own suffering and trials," Hermione emphatically tells him. "You're far too hard on yourself – and it never fails to infuriate me."

Draco brushes aside her remonstration with a wave of his alabaster hand. "Granger, I was a pompous arse. It was past time I understood that lesson. I threw myself unreservedly into my rehabilitation, adopted some effective coping strategies and was eventually able to learn how to live with my addiction. I went straight to a small art school in Paris after I was discharged, and studied fine art techniques for a further six months. Came back to Britain, bought the townhouse, started painting full-time… you know the rest."

He restively stands up, sick to the eye teeth of talking about himself. "Now you know my sordid tale – please accept my sincere apology for not telling you sooner, Granger. I feared your inevitable disgust, and disappointment. I thank you for the time we have had together. I will – I will always consider it to be the best time of my life… thank you," Draco bows his head and fists his hands by his sides, his gorge rising as he imagines the utter barrenness of a future without Hermione.

This is for the best – she deserves so much better than a broken Dark wizard with a monkey forever riding his back. She is the smartest person I've ever met – surely she can see that being with me will only bring her grief and widespread condemnation?

Though he expects Hermione's pity and counter-arguments, he is shocked by her actual reaction.

"What the fuck does that mean, Draco Lucius Malfoy?!" Hermione bolts to her feet and grabs the lapels of his navy silk jacket, wrenching him toward her; he automatically steadies them both by sliding his hands to her hips. Touching her thrills him to his core, as usual – No. No. Let. Her. Go. Draco's resolve is not helped by Hermione shaking him like a terrier with a rat.

"'I thank you for the time we've had together'? What, you think one outrageously libellious newspaper article and finding out that you're not perfect – spoiler alert, I already knew that! – is going to somehow make me leave you?! You're not that fucking stupid, surely?" she snarls. Her luxuriant sienna hair is fritzing with tiny angry sparkles as her magic materializes.

"Granger, please calm down – your hair– " Draco winces as a stray hot spark lands on his cheek. Hermione flicks it away before it can burn his skin.

"Not once – in the entire history of humanity – has anyone ever calmed down after being told to calm down! And don't change the subject – I want you to understand how enraged I am, that you would think so little of me as to expect me to end our relationship over this tiny bump!" Hermione shouts.

A wide-eyed Draco stutters, "A tiny b–bump? Granger, I'm an alcoholic, disgraced Death Eater whose sleazy past has just been exposed to the entire Wizarding community! You were receiving daily Howlers for dating me before all this blew up – what do you think is going to happen to your noble reputation now? The vast majority of our society will tear you to pieces if you stay aligned with me – I won't allow it. I shan't let you throw away your brilliant future on the likes of me," he vows, jaw clicking with tension.

Another vigorous shake. "You shan't tell me what to do! You are my 'brilliant future', you big blond galoot! I cannot stress this to you strongly enough – whatever other people think of me is none of my business. Malfoy, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You had a problem, you sought help, you became a better person because of it. I am so unbelievably proud of you, my darling." Hermione is crying again, and the sight has him immediately wiping beneath her eyes with gentle hands.

"The fact that you were strong enough – brave enough – to turn your back on years of inculcation about blood racism, Pureblood elitism, all that utter shite about being born to privilege and perfectionism and lording it over the hoi polloi – and that you courageously faced down your demons, and got them under control for over three years – and that you managed to learn how to do that as 'Muggle' Jake Malloy! – well, you're an absolute champion, and I hold you in the highest possible regard."

Hermione gropes about for his loaned handkerchief before she continues, "And don't you dare try to tell me that you're 'damaged' or 'cursed', or any of that morose guff. We're all 'damaged' in our own ways, Malfoy. Nobody gets through life without trauma leaving its mark on them. Each of us have shadows in our past." She ceases shaking him at last, instead slipping her hands down to his and lacing their fingers together as she smiles tremulously.

"You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I am not going to let you go now… and especially not because of your misguided idea that you need to protect me from scandal and opprobrium." She hesitates before she suggests, "Do you think that perhaps you're still affected by your family's pervasive obsession with protecting its good name, Malfoy? You know that issues surrounding addiction are more openly discussed and accepted in the Muggle world, right?".

"I can't countenance you being sullied by this, Hermione," Draco woodenly replies. Stepping back from her embrace feels like one of the hardest things he's ever done. "I expected some initial resistance – you are fiercely loyal – but you don't seem to understand how my presence in your life negatively affects you."

"Oh, bollocks – pull your platinum head out of your arse and listen to what I am saying, please. I don't care about any of that. I realize it's still early days, and I don't wish to scare you off – but I want you to know that the only future I envisage is one where you're firmly by my side. Please – please! – don't push me away. We're stronger together, and I'm not going anywhere." Hermione's face is set in the stubborn lines that Draco both adores and dreads.

He baldly utters the sentence that he knows will drive her away.

"Granger – I don't want children." Draco pretends an interest in the tips of his shiny black Oxfords as Hermione stills.

"I can't risk passing my affliction onto any innocent babies – and the wicked Malfoy line deserves to die out with me," he pronounces tonelessly. He tugs his nerveless hands from her clasp.

"You're lying." Hermione states, after an infinitesimal pause. She scrabbles for his fingers again, but he resists, his heart panging.

"Children who have one parent who struggles with alcohol use disorder inherit a three to four times increased risk of becoming an alcoholic themselves; there's a known statistical link to genetic disposition. I won't chance it. I know that you want children, someday… best you find a man worthy to sire them." Draco clamps his teeth and attempts to project an air of resoluteness.

"You don't know that – because we haven't discussed it, yet. And 'genetic predisposition' does not guarantee our children developing the same disorder, Malfoy. I know what you're trying to do, and I won't have it." Hermione doggedly retorts.

'Our children'. Draco's brain is inundated with images of chubby curly-haired brunette babies with inquisitive chocolate eyes and bewitching little smiles. I hope they look like Hermione… No. He ruthlessly sets his pipe dream aside.

Shrugging with as much nonchalance as he can muster, Draco drawls, "So now we've discussed it; no kidlets for me. Why do you think I'm so vigilant about casting the contraceptive charms? By-blows are not part of my future, Granger." He bites the inside of his cheeks as Hermione flinches at his casual disdain.

"Faux flippancy does not become you, Draco. I saw your frank wistfulness when I mentioned our future offspring: you want them just as much as I do," Hermione breathes. "Won't you stop this foolishness, please? We're a team now, and I am here to support you, just as much as you do me." She tugs at his jacket sleeve, her troubled eyes roving across his stoic mien.

"Come back to the dining room with me, and let's discuss all this with your parents," Hermione presses. "We all need to clear the air, if we're to move forward. 'United we stand, divided we fall', right?".

Draco scoffs, deliberately folding his mouth into a mean line before he sneers, "Are you seriously suggesting you are willing to be in league with Lucius Malfoy? The Dark Wizard who treated you like dirt beneath his shoes? The elitist bully who systematically attempted to strip you of all your magical rights and tried to hand you over to Voldemort as though you were a tasty apple to gift to a stern teacher? You must be joking."

"He's still your father, Draco. He cares for you, in his own warped way. And you care for him," Hermione quietly responds. "I don't entirely trust him – and why on earth did he bring that damned newspaper into dinner with him? – but his apology did sound genuine. As I said earlier, he deserves one chance with me."

Earlier. That was surely a lifetime ago, not a few hours. I wish I'd put down my foot and nixed our attendance at this fucking disastrous dinner party, Draco thinks dourly. But that appalling article would have still blown up on us like a volatile Erumpent Horn.

"No. I require some time alone – and you need to attain some distance from our situation. I fear I've smothered you these past few weeks, Granger. I've wrapped you up in a sound-damping little bubble that has caused you to lose all perspective. I'll ensure Macdolas sees you safely ho– to the townhouse, that is. I'm staying here."

His determination to remain impassive almost dissolves completely as Hermione's beautiful face crumples in shock and hurt. "Are you – are you breaking up with me, Draco?" her voice is wounded and thready.

This is it. This is your opportunity to release her from the shackles of your disgrace. Opening his mouth to confirm her query, Draco is disgusted in his self-serving weakness as he croaks, "No. But you should. Break up with me."

It is downright astounding how quickly his little lioness shifts from miserable to cantankerous. Hermione scowls and juts out her chin as she crossly declares, "Malfoy – that isn't ever going to happen, you gorgeous, boneheaded, soft-centred, wannabe martyr! 'You're stuck with me now' – do you remember, you said those exact words to me, that first morning when you made me breakfast? It's come full circle, mon coeur."

She looks grimly satisfied by his startled reaction to her use of the foreign phrase. "Yes – I'm learning French, with Mac. He wants to romance Ruibby with some choice endearments, and I am resolved to understand exactly what all your sweet nothings really mean."

Wait, what? Dragon's balls, has Macdolas been eavesdropping on our… intimate moments, somehow? The thought makes Draco cringe.

"No, Mac would never spy on us! But he hears you calling me 'ma petite' all the time (with swoon-worthy results, I might add) and you are his primary role model, so of course he's going to try to emulate you," Hermione correctly interprets Draco's alarmed expression.

Folding her arms atop each other, Hermione huffs and exasperated sigh as she announces, "I'll permit you a day or two apart from me, since you're obviously insistent on wallowing in self-pity like a pig in mud – but you can't be rid of me that easily. You're going to miss me like crazy, which will serve to underline how right I am that we belong together. Get some perspective, organize some therapy of your own, talk to your parents, and decide how best to celebrate our eventual reunion. I'll expect you home before the Ball, Malfoy. Capisce?"

Draco nods dumbly as Hermione smiles artlessly at him. Her espresso eyes remain damp and a little woebegone, but her characteristic Gryffindor spirit has definitely rallied.

"Hermione – I'm sorry – I never meant to hurt you– " his voice hitches as he knuckles at his own moist eyes.

Hermione's small hand glides across his jaw, her fingers splaying across his cheek as she shuffles closer. "We're going to hurt each other occasionally – that's just human nature – but we'll always be OK if we talk about it, and help each other through the harder times. Look at me, Draco. We've got this. Now kiss me, please, before you accompany me back into that super awkward dinner party and we all plot the downfall of the Daily Prophet."

Draco ignores his nasty inner voice as it gloomily predicts he's making a colossal mistake. He wraps his arms around Hermione tightly and gladly complies with her directive, imbuing his kiss with every scrap of devotion, gratitude, and sheer amazement at how bloody lucky he is to have her. She returns his passionate smooch, her hands moving to compulsively glide across his strong back and shoulders as kissing technique is tossed aside in favour of raw, ragged need.

Breaking apart only when their mutual need for oxygen becomes desperate, Draco murmurs huskily, "Are you aware that you're the cleverest, most compassionate, sweetest and prettiest woman in the world?". He gazes at her in wonderment.

"Well, it never hurts to be told that by my favourite silly wizard, does it?" Hermione winks. "Come on, Malfoy. Lets' return to the dining room – 'Lucy's got some 'splainin' to do!'" she quips.

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Granger," a bewildered Draco lets her tow him from the library, quietly relishing the immediate comfort and rightness of her hand resting in his. "Is that how you intend to address my father, now? I don't think he'll care for it," he ventures to opine.

Hermione laughs properly. "'Jake Malloy' still has some rather large gaps in his pop culture education, it seems." She pats his arm tenderly. "Wait until Blaise hears of your Muggle alter-ego… ooh, and Harry is going to love it…" she teases.

You cheeky, adorable little witch. Draco lets his witch have her fun at his expense. Anything to wipe the last vestiges of sorrow from her enchanting cinnamon eyes.

Maybe… just maybe… we can find our way through all this.

Together.