TWENTY-THREE: Identity


When Draco woke, early morning light was spilling out onto his features from a long, low window. He was sprawled on something soft that felt like neither his bed at home nor his bunk at Hogwarts. He lay quietly, blinking his lashes against the sun and sorting yesterday's events in his mind.

The Gryffindors were in a heap atop the bed on the other side of the room, Granger's mane of curls covering most of Weasley's face, so that Draco wondered how the other boy hadn't asphyxiated in the night. Granger still had some dragonsblood in her hair, and flakes of it painted on the cheek that Draco could see. Weasley clutched her to him, freckles and redgold hair standing out against the muscles of his forearm at her waist. Potter's back was pressed between the bed and the wall, and he lay curled away from the other two.

Draco had a faint memory of following the tug of the fealty oath up to this room, exhaustion numbing his head and dragging his steps; feeling the need to keep them in sight, but also to avoid nearness; dragging a blanket and casting a sleepy cushioning charm on the floor; his eyes pulling shut on the sight of Granger and Weasley and Potter across the room, tangling together and dropping into slumber.

He rolled to his feet and went downstairs.

A faint ghost of Grimmauld Place lived at the back of Draco's memory. Back before old Granny Black had died, his parents had visited the Black home once or twice. He remembered that his father had found the place distasteful; he remembered that Granny Black had swatted him until he cried, and his mother had gone white in the face. That was the last time they'd seen Granny Black; not that Draco had minded.

Still, it allowed him to wander the halls with, while not confident assurance, at least the conviction he would not become hopelessly lost. He remembered the location of the library, the drawing room, and the bathroom, as well as the location of the rooms he'd actually seen the night before.

He found Severus Snape in the kitchens, nursing what smelled like strong coffee.

"Draco," he said, straightening.

Draco examined him. Clearly, he had been right about Snape, who was so gaunt and diminished that he wondered he hadn't called Snape a stranger when he first clapped eyes on him. "Hello, sir," he said, carefully.

Something in Snape's expression shifted: alarm bled across his features. "Sir?" he quoted.

"Well," Draco said, still careful, still measured. "No one's told me what I call you these days."

Snape set the coffee cup down, and placed a hand at his holster.

Draco slid a step back, then another, until the small of his back hit the edge of a cabinet. "…Professor?"

Snape stood, drawing. "It's still you," he spat. "No one thought to restore him? No one – I made it easy, I made it laughably easy, are you telling me that Evans didn't think to – that Granger –"

"We didn't exactly have the time!" Draco gasped, palms up, the universal sign of look: no wand! "We were rushing through the caves, and then we were helping Lupin, and then we were helping you! I'm sure Evans – whoever that is – and Granger, too – thought they had more important things to deal with than me!"

"Than a fledgling Death Eater?" Snape challenged.

Draco felt his expression flatten into mulish lines. "I did a good enough job getting us in, didn't I? Played the perfect little pureblood, just as you wanted, sir. And faced a dragon and a werewolf in one evening. I'd say I did pretty well for myself, especially given I didn't know what I was in for."

Snape stared at him another, searching moment. "You did what you had to do to survive," Snape said. "Do not forget, I know who you are, Draco –"

"Who I was, you mean," Draco returned.

"And you believe you have changed?"

Draco frowned. "Believe? I don't need to believe. Not when everyone around me is so convinced. Everyone but you, that is."

"Suppose that you have them all fooled?" Snape said.

Draco shook his head. "I hardly think I'm a good enough actor to fool Potter or Weasley, much less Granger," Draco said, but doubt began to blossom in his mind.

"Granger would be fooled by you," Snape returned. "She'd be pleased to, wouldn't she, bleeding heart that she is? Or perhaps she is convinced because you have managed to fool yourself," he said, "imagining yourself good enough to stand in their company."

Draco felt as though he'd been struck, though he made no movement. No one had ever spoken to him with such deliberate cruelty. Even Potter's jibes were more offhand, careless, without this stiletto blade of scorn stripping his skin away at close range.

Snape's wand hand twitched as he snorted in derision at Draco's lack of response, and his sleeve slipped.

Draco could see the bite, could see the gauze Granger had taped there; could see lines of poison emanating from beneath it, down Snape's wrist and to his fingertips. Suddenly, he remembered all of Snape's warnings about werewolves in third year, the way he'd gone on and on about them in Potions. And he could see Snape's own spidery writing in his mind's eye: the early symptoms of lycanthropy include fever, chills, and mood irregularities: depression, and aggressive paranoia.

Draco took an unconscious step forward, and Snape's wand hand jerked up. Now that he was looking for it, he could see signs of the older man's discomfort in his face. Sweat stood out on his brow, his skin was even more sallow than usual, and his hands shook with the finest of tremors.

"Sir," he said. "The bite. It looks as though it's gotten worse..."

"Worse?" Snape scoffed. "I have fought my way through far worse. You have no idea what I am capable of."

"No," Draco agreed. "But even you aren't immune to a werewolf bite. Sir."

Severus paused, wand hand dipping.

Think, Draco willed, silently. Think, and remember.

Snape shook his head, as though he could shake free of the madness lodged there. He backed away to the kitchen table and seated himself, never lowering his wand, although now he wasn't even looking at Draco. "Could it be?" Draco heard him mutter. "Is that all it is, a little scratch and a life in shambles? Well, after all, why not? A moment of folly is all it takes Severus, and you should know…"

"Can I… get someone?"

Snape's head snapped up to pin him in place. "Get someone? You're just the same as you were in the woods where we first met, aren't you? So earnest. Not fooling, not posturing. Is the image you have created of yourself that strong, that I cannot move it, no matter what I do to you, no matter how I try?"

"Professor," Draco said.

"Very well," Snape replied. "Lupin. Lupin it must be. Who else?" he said, and issued a horrible laugh.

Draco backed out of the kitchen under Snape's wand and only allowed himself to about-face once he reached the stairwell that led to Potter, Granger and Weasley. He closed his eyes to center himself. Even now, he could feel twin pulses from two very different sorts of connections: the thread of memory that would lead him to Potter, and the thread of fidelity that linked him to Weasley. His first impulse was to consult them, because had no idea where Lupin was in the house, and he had the feeling that if he did not locate him quickly, Snape might do himself some terrible harm.

But in Snape's condition, additional people might add to his paranoia. Besides that, there was only so much house to search. Draco ran from room to room: the foyer; the dining room; the halls; Sirius Black's old room. He was beginning to believe Lupin had gone elsewhere – back to Hogwarts, maybe? – when he found the older man curled up by the softly glowing fireplace in the Master Bedroom, some shed fur lying around his sleeping form like a far larger halo. Someone had covered the wolf with a blanket, and it preserved the man's modesty, now.

Draco ran to Lupin and shook his shoulder.

Lupin's eyes flew open, and he looked around the room in shock. "I'm… alive?" he rasped. His bloodless face swung to examine Draco, gaze flicking up and down his form. "You're alive. Are they all alive?" His voice was so hoarse that it took a moment for Draco to parse the words.

But then he nodded. "Yes –"

A sob racked Lupin, and he clapped both hands to his mouth, fingers slender and scratched and bloody. His golden eyes stayed trained to Draco's until Draco realized the other man needed more. Some kind of confirmation? So he nodded again, as earnestly as he knew how.

"The others are asleep –" he added.

Lupin shook helplessly, shaking his head from side to side. He didn't seem to be able to speak.

Draco was at a loss. Lupin kept trying to speak and getting choked on his own breath. Draco thought about hyperventilation, and that if Lupin passed out, there would be no one who knew how to help Snape.

"Water," Draco said. "I'm going to get you some water."

He left the room, Lupin still gasping on the other side of the door.

Right. Cups. Cups?

There were cups in the bathroom, close by. Draco Aguamenti'd the cup and returned, helping Lupin hold it, making him sip it slowly until his breathing evened out against the will of the man's body, because he could only gasp when he was not swallowing. "Professor Snape is in trouble," he said. "I need you to stand up. I don't think this can wait for clothes. Wrap that around you, that's right. Okay, we're going to walk, now. Come along," Draco said, narrating everything because he wasn't sure what to say, and because Lupin gave a sharp nod whenever Draco confirmed something they were already doing, seeming to gather more strength with each predictable, carefully laid out, "stairs, now, watch the blanket" and "let's get the door" and "stairs again".

Then Lupin and Snape were face-to-face, and it was as though all the air had left the room.

"Severus," Lupin said.

Draco closed the kitchen door between them and locked it tight with every spell he knew.


Severus could feel the fever in his blood, in his brain. Contagion swept through his veins and heart and liver and lungs. Every breath he took burned him.

"Severus," Lupin said again, and Snape shivered.

The sound of his name on Lupin's tongue vibrated the air between them, kicked off waves that sailed through the kitchen, bounced off of the cabinets and back again, and then in some places off the floor.

It was so loud.

And after the loudness were the syllables, which was his name – hated, feared, familiar, his own – and the tongue which shaped them.

Hated. Feared.

Familiar. His own.

Lupin was the werewolf who had made him and, like many magical creatures, werewolves implanted the desire to obey within their prey, Severus recalled with the stillness of detachment. So that they could eat them or turn them, one presumed. He knew this and at the same time he hadn't been able to help asking for Lupin.

Lupin, whose eyes were wide and black and full of horror. Lupin, who stumbled forward to fall at Severus's feet. "Please," he said.

Juxtaposition. The fire in Severus's blood demanded he prostrate himself, roll onto his back to show his white underbelly. The human part of Severus, nominally still in control, thought it just that Lupin should beg him for forgiveness.

"Please what," Severus said.

"Why did you do this?" Remus cried. "You were safe – you were all safe from me. Why did you open the door?"

Severus paused. Doordoordoor echoed around the kitchens, as though it were searching for just that, a way out. Vibrations shivered in the air like candy floss. Why had he opened the door?

Evans was crying. Granger was crying. No, he'd stood at the vault door before that, banging against the door, even after he'd guessed what must be going on inside.

"Why didn't you open the door?" Severus countered. "We had the time, you fool, the time to help you. If you hadn't dallied so long…"

"I could've died!" Remus pressed.

Dieddieddied, said the walls, and Severus realized that Remus wasn't acknowledging his brush with mortality; he was stating a preferred outcome.

"I could've died happy, knowing I'd saved my friends. Knowing I'd died in the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Instead, I'll live. This is what I dream at night, Severus, this is what I've done in my sleep when I wake up screaming. Why couldn't you have just let me go?" he growled, and took Severus by the shoulders, and shook him. "Why do you have to save everyone? Why couldn't you let me be?"

Severus let himself be shaken for a moment; but then, without warning, his horror turned to fury. He slammed Lupin to the floor beneath him. "Why do you keep giving up?" he growled, pressing Lupin to the floor with all his weight. "Why do you keep playing the martyr?" Snape picked up Lupin's shoulders and slammed them against the floor with a satisfying smack, and didn't care that the other man's head jounced off the floor a beat behind. "I need you alive!"

Lupin's eyes narrowed, flashed gold. "Why," he said, flat. "Why do you need that?"

Severus stared as the kitchen swooped and whirled around him.

"Go on," Lupin said. "Why do you need me? Why does Severus Snape need anyone?"

"Because you are guarding my sanity," Severus said.

Lupin laughed bitterly, and a tear spilled down his cheek; Severus wasn't sure if the other man was weeping again, or if the movement had dislodged the liquid. He had the oddest, animal urge to taste it. "We've been asleep at our posts. You and I are mad, Severus, and only growing madder."

"Then let us be mad," Snape said, "as we have no choice in the matter. Let this war destroy us, leave nothing behind of who we once were. You'll see plots everywhere, and I'll see Lily, and we'll be our own worst fears together. Let the flames lick at our feet. But do not let us walk willingly into the conflagration and allow ourselves to be burned to cinder. Do not let us leave our work here unfinished."

"Factum est illud, fieri infectum non potest," Remus whispered, and it sounded like a mantra, or a prayer.

"What's done is done, and cannot be undone," Severus replied. "Has it stood you in good stead, then?"

"Often it is the only thing that has," Remus said, voice full of some passion Severus struggled to name. Lupin squinted up at him for a long, silent moment, then lifted a hand to Severus's face. Severus flinched, then held, as Remus pressed his palm to Severus's cheek; they sighed together. "Bravest man I know. Best man I know. Why do you have to choose me to look after?"

"Shut it," said Severus, but his eyes were closed against the touch and the room seemed to be settling around him, vibrations down to a bone-deep hum.

"You stuck your hand into a werewolf's mouth, Severus," Remus pressed, pulling Severus down beside him. "I'm not the only one with a death wish."

George was about to do it instead, the heroic fool. He was tired, tired, tired. And when he closed his eyes everything stopped spinning, spinning, spinning.

Remus pulled him close, so that Severus's head was pressed to his shoulder, and the universe steadied further, yet. Severus sighed. Remus smelled familiar. The sweat of fear and the herbal scent of Wolfsbane, tea leaf and Order meeting, Potter and Evans and Black and Pettigrew. Remus smelled like his life.

"It's Lily that you see," Remus said.

Severus startled. "You knew."

"I postulated. Once you said it wasn't Albus."

There was a silence. Severus breathed in the scent of his life. Remus trembled under him.

"You sure you wouldn't like to have a go at killing me, yourself?" Remus offered.

"No," Severus said.

"It might make you feel better."

"No."

"It might make me feel better," Remus admitted. "If you were to shout, and throw things, and cast hexes. I'd understand."

"Shut up," Severus said again. He sighed against the cloth of the sheet wrapped around the other man and collapsed into slumber.


Draco was clutching at a mug of tea.

He was clutching at a mug of tea because he'd made a kettleful of hot water and Summoned a cup, and he'd done that because he wasn't sure what else to do. He hadn't woken any of the others because his first instinct had been to wake Potter, and then that instinct seemed to grow duller when he focussed on it, and then grow stronger again when he let it be. That was so puzzling that he ignored the idea of waking anyone entirely.

Soon enough, though, the decision was taken out of his hands. Granger descended the hall stairs, all barefoot and sleep-mussed, and he smiled at her before he could think better of it.

"Oh. Hullo," she said, looking surprised. "Tea?"

"Tea," said Draco, because she still looked mostly asleep, and words of one syllable might be all she could gather at this hour of the morning. Even Muggleborn geniuses might need a few minutes.

He didn't say anything else as she fixed herself a cuppa and settled into the stuffed chair across from his.

"How long have you been awake, then?" she inquired, blowing across the surface of her china cup and slurping a thin sip.

"Half hour," he said. Then, "Snape and Lupin are… uh, talking. In the kitchen."

She eyed him. "And no one's fixed you, yet?"

"I'm not broken," he snapped. A bit of hot tea sloshed on his fingers, and he cursed.

"Sorry, no, of course you're not," Granger stammered. "I didn't mean to imply… Draco, it's early. I don't know what I mean."

"Do I seem broken to you?" Draco snapped. Or at least, he'd meant to snap. Instead, the words emerged humiliatingly plaintive.

She must have heard the real question. No one had ever accused Granger of being short of brains. "No, you seem quite yourself. Albeit a little shorter-tempered. As brave and brilliant as usual."

Draco hid his confused flush in a hasty sip of tea, but when he looked up, Granger was dashing tears from her cheeks.

"Oh! Don't worry, it's nothing," she said. "I, erm, tend to cry once horrible circumstances have past. It saves t-t-time during the c-crisis…" she added, then buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Draco took her teacup from her and set it aside, and stood awkwardly until her tears began to dry.

"Oh, Merlin. I'm so sorry to weep all over you…" Granger looked up through lashes spiky with tears. Then, she frowned. "You came over here. You… took my tea." She wiped at her cheeks, looking businesslike so rapidly that he was a bit taken aback.

"You'd have spilled it," he said, quiet. He swallowed and drew back, settling in his own chair again. "I don't understand," he said, not meeting her eyes. "I don't – the last thing I remember saying to you was an insult," he added, and he could feel his cheeks heating again – could feel the shame the thought brought him, that he should have insulted Hermione Granger, who was so brilliant and brave and good, and who'd always thought he was… the thought stopped before it could take form, but he somehow felt the shape of it.

The way she always saw the best possible him. The best possible everyone.

"Do you know," she said, leaning forward, hands pressed to her knees. "Ron and I laughed at it, back at the beginning, how we both felt we'd known you forever. It was because you treated us as though you had."

But Draco wasn't basing his actions off of the way Granger treated him, but based off of how he felt, which – he wasn't even sure he could explain it.

"No?" she said, reclaiming her teacup. They sipped in silence, and it would have been surprisingly companionable but for the way Draco kept expecting the other shoe to drop. Hermione Granger had been adventuring with him last night. There had been some of what Draco could only call 'derring-do', and a near-tragedy averted by the heady combination of bravery, intellect and sheer luck. And now she was seated across from him, cheeks drying with little crusts of salt he was close enough to see, sipping tea.

"You know, I had this brilliant idea that I'd Memory Charm my parents, send them off on some long vacation once Harry and Ron and I went adventuring. They're Muggles – of course, you'd know that," she added, warm brown eyes unusually sardonic. "But no matter how I tried, I could never seem to convince them of the danger. I tried using Muggle words: terrorist. Serial killer. But somehow, they couldn't see their little girl being famous enough or important enough to be anybody's target.

"Once I finally showed them some Prophets about him, it was all, Hermione, we can't allow this man to ruin our lives; no matter what, we must keep on living. My mother has a saying about life needing to be lived in between disasters."

Draco thought of all the stories he'd heard about Memory Charms going terribly wrong. About Lockhart, stuck in Saint Mungo's to the end of his days. "What happened?" he said.

"Well, I tried one out, just to see how it would go," she said, swallowing, eyes scrunching up against a sight Draco felt she'd rather not see. "At least, that's what I told myself. It was awful, the way they started treating me like a guest. But then… when I left to go to the library later that day…"

"Muggles have libraries?"

Hermione's nose scrunched up. "Malfoy, don't be provincial, of course Muggles have got libraries. Anyroad, when I returned, my mother was ever so pleased to see me. She s-said…" Granger had to pause a moment to gather herself before she could continue. "She said she wished I could stay forever, and if my own parents were foolish enough not to miss me, then perhaps I could live with she and her h-husband until term started up again…"

"A failed charm," Draco said. "And it's no wonder you couldn't cast it properly –"

Granger glared.

"…because you'd never done it before! Merlin. Touchy," he said.

"I cast it just fine, thank you," Granger retorted. "But it wouldn't work. Because they love me."

Draco sighed. "Don't tell me you have some romantic notions about love conquering all."

"I do," Granger said, as though it weren't something to be ashamed of in the slightest. "Dumbledore thought so, too. He thought that the greatest power Harry has is love."

"Well, the old man had a lot of crackpot ideas," Draco said, then suddenly recalled that Albus Dumbledore was dead. "Er… sorry. I mean…"

"It's fine," Granger said, waving away the objection with a swat of her hand. "He wanted Professor Snape to kill him in public, ending his career, any hope of human understanding and probably destroying him forever if not for – well. If not for us. I'd slap him 'round the ears if I saw him just now."

Draco was blindsided by a sweep of affection. "I remember your hitting arm," he said dryly.

It was his turn to watch her flush. "Ha bloody ha, as Ron would say," she replied. "Anyway, Harry's mum's love saved him. And," she said, blushing even darker scarlet, "I think my mum's saved me. Because if I'd kept on messing with other people's thoughts like that, I don't know where it might've stopped. So much faster just to try to control others than convince them of my – clearly correct – point of view. When it comes down to it, I'm awfully glad my experiment failed."

Draco envisioned Hermione Granger as the next Dark Lady and shivered. He was awfully glad, too, really. Then, sipping his tea, he caught Granger's eye and paused. "You mean –"

She didn't soften her words with a shrug or by politely gazing away. "I think that Professor Snape knows what he's about, which means his tweaked Memory Charm was probably effective. And I know you're still on our side. And I know why my own Memory Charm didn't work on my mum and dad."

Then, she finally broke her hold on him by setting her teacup on the saucer.

Draco's mind reeled away from the idea. He watched his hands as they shook, as the cup began to teeter in its saucer. As Granger grasped the cup, set it aside.

Clasped his hands in hers.

"You're just too clever for your own good," Draco said, not looking up at her – still staring down at their hands, hers squeezing his, grounding him. "But you've got it wrong. I've never l-loved anyone but my mother and father, I can't – I can't love you."

"Maybe you're right, and that's not it at all," she said, and there was something in her voice that called him to attention, that made his eyes seek hers again. "Maybe it's that, no matter what Professor Snape tried to take from you, you're the same person. A good person, who will do what's good because, in the absence of other influences, it's just what comes naturally."

It was so the exact opposite of what Professor Snape had assured him a mere hour before, that he pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was desperate, and off-centre, and Hermione pushed at him, insistent, so that he slammed against the cushions behind him, lips detaching from hers with an unpleasant sound; so that for one, horror-struck moment, he thought he'd made a terrible mistake. But then she followed him, draping herself across his legs, and pressed her lips to his: gentling the touch, quiet, warm, her, and Draco's heart twisted with –

- was it?

And then she drew back, and pressed those lips to his forehead, cheek, and lips for an instant each, and each kiss was like a spell that left him calmer and more himself in its wake.

And he didn't like touching. Didn't like to be touched. But now he had Hermione Granger sprawled on him, her legs and his a perpendicular pair, and he thought back to Potter and Weasley, their hands on him, how he hadn't flinched or shrunk away. How he'd leaned into them, his body betraying the trust he felt.

Hermione tucked her head under his chin and pulled her legs close, so that they were a tangle of warm limbs.

"Have we ever –" he said.

"Not that I'm aware of," she replied.

"Not that you're aware of," he repeated.

"It's complicated."

"I see that."

Then, nothing else for a bit. Hermione's hands came up to the back of Draco's head and scratched his scalp there.

Merlin, she was going to be amazing for some bloke.

For some bloke – not for him. And suddenly, he knew what he felt towards Hermione Granger: courtly love, of all the mad, nonsensical things. Courtly love towards a girl with wild, frizzy hair, more brains than sense, and a background he'd been raised to disdain.

"…no?" she said, after a moment.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, squeezing at the back of her neck. "And, uh… no."

She blinked up at him doubtfully.

"Not… like that," he qualified. "I mean, like that, but…" He had the urge to throw his arms up into the air at the way that words seemed to have deserted him, but his arms were otherwise occupied.

She laughed a bit, under her breath. "I think I see."

"Good," he added.

Draco noticed she didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave, though, and he was enjoying the novel experience of warm, friendly human crowded up against him. "I thought… you and, uh, Weasley?"

Hermione smiled; he could tell because of the way her cheek shifted against his chest. "Maybe someday," she said.

Suddenly, Draco had an unusual thought. "…And Potter?"

She drew back to look him in the face. "Well, all right," she admitted. "I suppose him as well."

"What, were you taking turns? Is Weasley next?"

She swatted him. "What? No! You were the one who kissed me, so don't behave as though I planned it all out. I wouldn't've, and if I had done, I certainly wouldn't have waited until just now."

When he was vulnerable.

It was the combination of that feeling of vulnerability and exasperation and a sweeping tide of trust in Hermione Granger's brilliance and kindness that he said, "fix me up, then, will you?"


A/N:


All right, now I know that many of you may be tempted to comment solely on one part or another, so, if you are moved to leave a comment, I'd love to hear:

1) How Severus's bit went. Initially I had them hexing each other to bits before settling down, but more than any two characters, these two thwart me whenever they interact.

2) How Draco's bit went. (Oh my gosh, overt romance! Which I haven't really written since HM. I am making a very anxious face as I type this. Which you can't see, so I'm narrating it for you.)

3) I know this is a short chapter. Initially, I had the beginning of Narcissa's bit, but it didn't feel quite like it went ALONG with the rest. So here it is: short.

It really helps me to hear what you think, so if you read it, please review it! :D


Rec for this Chapter:


It's got to be The Boy Who Only Lived Twice, by lettered. That, or Saras_girl's If I Had Words. Both are available on ao3. Let's cover lettered's fic first, because Saras_girl has already gotten quite a few recs from me.

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice is an H/D, whodunit spy fic with allusions to James Bond. Despite that quirky sell, it's deep, fascinating, and contains one of the saddest love scenes I've ever read. This is one of those fics that is NOT for the kiddies, so if you are turned off by sexiness - or violence - this is not the fic for you. If you don't mind those things, it really is brilliant.

If I Had Words is... well, it's Saras_girl, so it's fabulous, of course. Each section contains a word that does not have a direct translation into English, but nevertheless encapsulates an idea that is familiar to people of many cultures. Beneath each word is a definition, and a scene that either demonstrates the idea or has the characters discuss it in some roundabout manner. Many of the snippets are from Saras_girl's other universes, but I daresay you wouldn't have to have read a lot of any of them to 'get it', although - what are you waiting for, why HAVEN'T you read anything of her other universes? Are you mad?

Most of If I Had Words has a mix of gen, het, and slash scenes, the majority of which are G-rated, but there are a few steamy scenes tucked here and there. You have been warned.

Happy reading, happy writing, everyone!

-K