March 22nd, 1997
The breeze carried a faint, salted tang and the shrill chorus of seagulls across the wild open fjord, propelling gentle waves ahead of itself and letting the rising sun flash upon their rippling crowns.
Below Tristan, an oval dueling circuit carved from deep black stone hovered above the swaying sea as if held by invisible strings. Countless rows of benches sculpted from harsh rock and brimming with students encircled the platform, ascending from the depths of the fjord to grow as tall as the stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium.
Fleur drifted past him down the steps, all her blonde hair braided and held together by a slim blue ribbon. "In the earliest days, long before the rise of Rome, wizards and witches in dispute came here to settle their differences, armed with nothing but their courage and magic," she murmured. "Of every pair that arrived, only one remained standing."
"Well, the shore is not too far." Tristan measured the distance from the platform to the water. "And it's not too big of a drop either, is it?"
"It was not water they fell into back then, mon Coeur." Fleur ran the tips of her fingers across the obsidian. "You are standing within an extinct volcano."
"Ah, yes." He glanced about. "I see how that might complicate things."
Fleur hummed and closed her eyes. "Thousands of years, and thousands of duels." A little shiver swept through her, leaving the fine blonde hairs along the curve of her neck standing straight. "To this day, their magic still screams as they once had, soaked in fire and blood."
"Tristan!" Daphne waved from a huddle of Hogwarts students gathered at the bottom row, all dressed in black athletic robes. "There you are." She flashed him a smile as she headed toward him, then noticed Fleur and dipped her head. "Good morning, Delacour."
"Bonjour, Greengrass."
Tristan hid a small grin. 'This will be fun.'
"Professor Flitwick and I couldn't find you last night nor earlier this morning at breakfast," Daphne said. "The bed in your room was still made too..."
Fleur's fingers found his and Tristan felt the smirk widen on her lips. "I couldn't find my room in the dark, but luckily for me… I found a different bed for the night."
Bright pink crept up Daphne's cheeks. "Well... your room is the third to the left."
"Good to know," Fleur murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.
Daphne's blush rose all the way to the tip of her ears. "Professor Flitwick would like to talk to us before the first duel starts."
"D'accord, Tristan will be down in just a moment." Fleur snaked her fingers into his hair and caught his lips, pressing all of herself against him, as warm and soft as the night before.
"You don't have to stake your claim anymore." He smiled into her kiss, one hand on the small of her back. "I'm all yours already, remember?"
"I know." Her teeth grazed his bottom lip as she drew back, bright blue eyes hovering a finger's length from his. "Bonne chance, mon Coeur," Fleur whispered. "For your sake, I hope we will not face each other too early in the tournament."
Tristan pecked the tip of her nose. "Perhaps instead of hoping, you should've made me exhaust myself when you've had the chance, petite Fleur."
"You came first last night because I let you. Now it is my turn." Fleur flashed him a little wink and drifted up the stairs, the skirt of her light blue dueling uniform riding up her thighs with each sway of her hips.
'Sneaky little veela.' Tugging his eyes away with a chuckle, Tristan headed down to his peers.
Flitwick mounted one of the benches, surrounded by the Hogwarts delegation. "The time has come everyone!" he squeaked. "We all have worked long and hard for this, and I am beyond proud of each and every one of you for representing your school. Let us give Hogwarts the debut it deserves!"
Their spirit spilled into claps and hollers and cheers, so infectious, Tristan pumped his fist alongside them. "For Hogwarts!" they chorused.
'But mostly for myself.' He caught Diggory and Davies' eyes and the sparks of anger flashing through them. Clawing it all back, Tristan smothered the bright thrill of excitement to a slim cool whisper of adrenaline. 'And for my family.'
Jarl Olafson apparated onto the dueling circuit with a soft snap.
"Dear friends, I hope you are well rested; for today, you shall face your first challenge. Before that, however, I must first bore you with a couple of rules; there are not many, but each serves their purpose."
He crouched and touched the tip of his wand to the obsidian beneath his feet; patterns of runes glowed up, spiraling across the circuit like molten steel running down the cast.
"This year, every spell and all magicks are not only permitted but encouraged." Olafson raised his voice as a murmur of outrage swept through the rows. "This choice was made to promote the usage of all of your talents, magical or not; the officials will only intervene, should you cast a spell not with the intention to overcome your opponent's defenses or gain an advantage, but purely to impose unnecessary lethal harm on them."
"That means two of the Unforgivables are allowed!" Daphne whispered, loud enough for every Hogwarts student to hear.
"Maybe even the Killing Curse if you use it to break shield charms," Cho Chang muttered.
'Does it really matter?' Tristan considered it, but in his mind's eye, golden rapiers flashed bright as the sun and hot as hell. 'I've seen much scarier magic than the Unforgivables.'
Olafson jabbed his wand, and along the edge of the platform, the air blurred in a faint ripple of magic. "These wards work unilaterally, protecting the spectators and preventing you from apparating off the platform. Within their confines, however, you can do as you please. If our wards do not prevent you from it-," he vanished in a rustle of his cloak and reappeared at the opposite side with a soft snap, "- then they were not meant to."
'I'm sure Fleur will be overjoyed about that.' Tristan sought her out amidst the crowd of Beauxbatons students but only caught the sun flashing in her blonde hair. 'She's the only person I know that apparates completely silently.'
"The initial groups of six for each age bracket have now been randomly drawn, but we will not share them with you, so that no one has the advantage of knowing their next opponent," Olafson announced, consulting a small scroll of parchment from within his robes. "For the first duel of the tournament, Alexander Alexopoulos from Aegean Omiros will face off against Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons Academy."
Tristan joined in on the polite applause, his insides squirming as he watched Fleur drift down the rows with her chin raised high. 'She'll be fine. I've never met anyone our age better than her.'
A dark-haired boy of average height joined Fleur on the platform. Purple scars littered his olive-toned skin, stretching from his forearms to his neck in swirling patterns of Greek letters.
"Any idea who he is?" Tristan asked Daphne as the contenders took positions opposite each other in the circuit.
"No," she murmured. "But the school he's from, Aegean Omiros, is rather famous for its expertise in magicks that were popular long before the rise of Rome."
'Old and obscure magic.' A little nervousness trembled in the pit of Tristan's stomach. 'That's my forte, not Fleur's.'
"Ready?" Jarl Olafson called. "Begin!"
Alexander opened with a trio of spells, blurring the wand motions together. Fleur wove and twisted through the first two beams of red, and flung the third back with a sharp flick of her wand; it burst against a bright brass shield in a shower of sparks, the reverberating gong echoing through the rows.
Fleur twirled over the obsidian on light feet and closed the distance step by step, trailing the halo of her magic like a rippling cloak of silver across a dance floor. Apparating behind Alexander, she slashed her wand like a whip, wrapping a sizzling snare of azure flames about his shield.
Alexander conjured a bronze dagger and sliced it across his palm, spattering crimson over the black rock; his shield brightened like the dawn, biting into Fleur's lasso until azure bled into pure bronze.
The stands covered their eyes from the blinding flash, hushed whispers rippling down the rows.
"What the hell was that?" Blaise Zabini choked.
Things fell in order behind all of Alexander's scars. "Blood magic," Tristan murmured. "He specialized in blood magic."
Seizing the gleaming dagger by its tip, Alexander hurled it at Fleur. It passed through her white shield like fingertips through smoke, missing her face by an inch as she apparated across the platform.
Fleur watched the dagger strike the dome shielding the stands with wide blue eyes, her chest heaving in deep breaths.
Alexander raised his hand to his face with a thin smile; dark blood trickled from his lips down his chin, catching in the scars on his neck, and his eyes blazed with raw hunger.
The stands held their breath as he thrust his wand forth.
A torrent of crimson magic shattered Fleur's shield and sent her staggering across the obsidian. She caught her footing and twisted on her heel, diverting two further attacks into the ground and tiptoeing around the gaping craters of steaming, molten rock.
Her wand was a blur and Fleur's magic blossomed like a flower in petals of platinum, shrouding her like a shooting star as she waltzed with grace across the circuit.
'Finish him.' Tristan clenched his fists. 'Finish him, Fleur.'
But with every spell Fleur swatted back, her own curses grew weaker, fizzling out against Alexander's brightening barrier of bronze like faint spatters of rain in a dying summer storm.
'His blood magic is corrupting her.' Panic seized Tristan's heart. 'The more of it she's exposed to, the weaker Fleur becomes.'
Alexander conjured a pair of daggers and ran his palm across both blades, leaving them crowned in crimson. Slipping his wand up his sleeve, he took one in each hand and twisted about.
Fleur bent over backwards, arching until her palms touched the ground. The first dagger whizzed past her navel, but as she propelled herself back off, the second one grazed her thigh.
She hissed, clutching her bare leg; red smeared the blade as it skidded to a halt on the smooth obsidian, and Tristan's heart froze.
All the blood drained from Fleur's face, and she slashed her wand at the dagger, banishing it over the edge of the circuit, but Alexander apparated across and summoned it back into his open palm. His eyes flashed with bright hot triumph as he drew his tongue down the blood-smeared length of the blade and threw his head back, swallowing.
The fjord lay still and silent as snow, watching with bated breath. Alexander dropped the blade in exchange for his wand, pointing the tip at Fleur's heart.
He paused with a grimace, choking and clutching his throat, and his eyes widened; a web of fine black veins snaked from his lips across his face.
Fleur's wand flashed up and Alexander's legs gave out underneath him, his knees smacking into the ground and his wand ripped from his fingers.
"Winner, Fleur Delacour!" Olafson shouted.
Silence hung above the stands, thick as morning fog.
"What the hell just happened?" Blaise blurted.
Tristan caught Fleur's prideful smirk as she skipped past the team of healers attending to Alexander.
"She poisoned her own blood." The realization spilled from his lips in a burst of dry humor. "Fleur knew Alexander would use her blood to land the final blow. That spell she hit the dagger with wasn't a banishing charm; it was a withering curse."
"That's clever." Admiration and a touch of envy colored Daphne's tone. "That's actually really clever."
A swathe of raw, hot emotion spread through his breast. Tristan rose from the bench and met Fleur halfway down the steps, sweeping her into his arms. "You were amazing."
"Merci, mon Coeur," she murmured. "I do feel rather tired now."
"Come." Tristan stirred her to an empty stretch of rock above the Hogwarts delegation as the next two contenders mounted the platform. "You're done for the day; you can rest now."
Slipping sideways onto his lap, Fleur rested her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh. "This feels very comfortable. Just make sure I do not fall asleep, mon Coeur; we need to study the competition."
"Let's get you fixed up first." He hitched up the skirt of her uniform by an inch, exposing the shallow cut on her bare thigh, and ran the tip of his wand along it. "Vulnera Sanentur."
The cut crept close in a stretch of new pink skin.
"There you go." Tristan patted her skirt back down and circled his arms around her. "And no ugly scar to ruin your bikini figure."
"Très bien." Fleur shook with soft little laughter. "Now you cannot get upset that I am less than perfect for you and run to some different girl."
Something stirred beneath his heart, a little knot of worry twisting in his stomach.
"You know I wouldn't care if you had a scar, right?" Tristan held her eye as she studied him. "I'm serious, Fleur. What I found in you, our connection... the intimacy we share... all that is more than I ever imagined, and no one will ever match that for me." He brushed a few escaped strands of her blonde hair back behind her ear. "That you're the most beautiful girl I'll ever meet is a bonus, but not the reason I love you."
"Merci, mon Coeur." Fleur cupped his jaw and caught his lips in a soft kiss. "Je t'aime."
She nestled back against his chest, circling his arms around her midriff as Cormac McLaggen and a boy from Durmstrang were called upon.
Tristan watched Cormac struggle under his opponent's onslaught. "I'm starting to think some of my peers might be in over their heads."
Three curses hit their mark and Cormac cried out in pain, curling together into a whimpering sobbing mess amidst the crowd's jeers.
"Unless, of course, the drawing of the groups wasn't as random as the officials claim, and they just cherry-picked the strongest opponents for the first couple of duels…"
"It was random," Fleur said, studying the next duel with calm blue eyes. "But from everything I have seen last year, your school will have a difficult time asserting itself. The dueling world has evolved ever since Hogwarts stopped participating in these tournaments. Many of our competitors here use techniques and talents your peers were not taught to defend themselves against."
"Like that blood magic of your opponent." Tristan recalled the torrent of wild crimson magic and the unwavering bronze shield. 'Could I have dealt with that?'
"Oui, you definitely could have, mon Coeur..."
He chuckled. "I have no idea what you mean?"
Fleur took his hands in hers. "And I do not need legilimency to know what the man I love thinks about."
Tristan smiled through a warm rush of affection, cradling her tight in his arms. Beyond the opposing rows of spectators, the spring sun sank lower and lower behind the mountain ridge, casting long shadows across the fjord as one duel blurred into the next.
"Let's say you're right and I could've overpowered Alexander early on." He flirted with the idea. "Would it have been the right thing to do?"
"It is a double-edged sword," Fleur hummed. "Every moment you refuse to play your trump card might be the one your opponent plays theirs and ends the duel." She motioned over the stands. "Most of these people have known and dueled each other for more than a decade; it is you, someone new, they are cautious of. That is your advantage."
"So you agree I shouldn't go all out yet?"
"You have many talents, mon Coeur; your wandless abilities, your strength, your reflexes, your healing, and of course your unorthodox magic." Fleur listed them all on her fingers. "Use some of them when you wish too, and use them all when you feel it necessary."
Jarl Olafson's amplified voice cut through the cheers of the crowd as Daphne disarmed a girl from Beauxbatons. "Next up, Aila Ó Branáin from Morlaix Dueling Preparatory will face off against Tristan Peverell from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Fleur slipped from his lap and smoothened down her skirt. "Bonne chance, mon Coeur."
"Rooting for me now?" He chuckled. "What happened to finishing first?"
She rose onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "I'm rooting for us." Her blue eyes darkened a hue as she nudged him in the chest. "Now go and win for us."
'For us.'
Tristan descended the steps, feeling countless pairs of eyes prickling in the nape of his neck, and crossed the narrow bridge of smooth rock onto the platform.
'I promised to be great for us.'
A slim girl almost a head taller than him entered the circuit from the opposite side. Her red hair held bluebells and primroses and lilies, spilling over her bare shoulder to the slim belt of Celtic knots circling the waist of her green dress. The stem and roots of an upside-down willow tree spread from her neck to her collarbone, its swaying branches of black ink vanishing in her cleavage.
Tristan slipped his pale wand from his sleeve, spinning it around his fingers as he ran his eyes along the flocks of ravens, owls, and falcons devouring each other in some endless, winged chase all across Aila's bare arms.
'Some sort of druid?' Ekrizdis' vile magic and the dreadful screams of all those undead muggle children echoed in his ears.
"Ready?"
Aila drew a long, curved piece of willow wood from within her dress and crouched low, her black eyes sharp as a crow's.
'At least she doesn't have some weird staff…'
"Begin!" Jarl Olafson shouted.
Tristan took a small step forward; Aila's wand snapped up, firing a string of dark purple curses.
He batted them all back with swift flicks of his wrist, watching them ricochet off her bright white shield in rippling washes of color, and he took another step, a sweet trickle of adrenaline coating his tongue like Fleur's surgery kisses.
'This is why I'm here. Time to be great.'
Aila hissed under her breath; a direwolf leaped from the tip of her wand, its shaggy fur black as night and eyes pale as the moon. It prowled on pan-sized paws and charged, baring gleaming curved fangs the length of daggers.
Tristan wrapped his magic about the wolf's legs, catching it mid-jump, then gave his wand a sharp flick and smashed the direwolf back onto the platform, flattening out its limbs like the hide of some exhibited hunting trophy.
'And now…'
Twisting his wrist, Tristan ripped the wolf's head and spine free from its body in a spatter of crimson gore and a gleaming column of bone, tossing it to Aila's feet.
She closed her furious black eyes, and a strange, mellow note left her lips.
The stands fell silent; even the gentle splash of waves beneath them died as Aila's tune rose in volume and grew faster.
The melody stirred in Tristan's blood, shivering through him to the bare bone. Far above his head, the vast flock of seagulls threw it back, circling faster and faster in a maelstrom of flapping white wings and shrill shrieks.
'That's not very promising...'
A slim bead of silver leaped from the water and smashed into his ribcage, driving the air from his lungs.
Tristan swatted back the next fish and conjured a shield, spinning on his heel as they hurled themselves against the barrier in mindless rage, writhing about on the platform with twitching fins and tails.
The seagulls shrieked high above him and dove, half a hundred beaks poised at him, their eyes flashing as black as Aila's.
'Enough of this.' Tristan gave in to the rage, dropping his shield, and slashed his wand.
Tongues of cherry red flames poured into the coils of a basilisk; it reared its massive head high and bared blazing fangs, swallowing the flock of seagulls in a searing snap, and scattering white-hot ashes and scorched feathers across the platform.
Smothering the fiendfyre's raw fury beneath his will, Tristan clad himself in a dome of screaming flames and scalding heat. The last leaping fish melted in the aura of his magic, joining the puddle of blackened sludge and steaming entrails as he crossed the platform, twirling his wand in a shower of sparks.
Aila's eyes snapped open wide and she stumbled back, letting out a hoarse, bloodcurdling scream.
The fjord buzzed to life like a furious beehive, a whirr of thousands and thousands of tiny wings closing in on him like the tide swallowing a stretch of land.
'Alright, insects are where I draw the line.'
Slapping a belt of copper across her lips, Tristan silenced Aila and hurled her to her knees, summoning her wand into his open palm.
The frantic buzz died, fading into the gentle ripple of the waves.
"Winner, Tristan Peverell!"
The stands stared down at him; caution and awe shone in their eyes, bright as the last rays of the sunset spilling across the open fjord into the dusk.
'That's right.' A note of bittersweet satisfaction tugged at the corner of Tristan's mouth as he drew his magic back in and left the circuit to the polite applause spreading from the Hogwarts delegation. 'I was meant to be great.'
She stood tall and proud, waiting for him, raised from the harsh dark rock like a flower in coat of blue and crown of platinum; her eyes shone full of soft warm light and a small smile graced her lips.
"Bravo, mon Coeur." Fleur kissed him, slipping her warm fingers through his. "Hold on tight."
The rows and dueling circuit blurred into the shore of their campsite. From the grilling rack mounted over sizzling coals, the aroma of smoked meats and crab and roasted vegetables drifted to his nose.
"I wouldn't mind some dinner." Tristan's mouth watered. "I haven't had anything since breakfast."
Fleur's eyes roamed across the benches, lingering on the Durmstrangs. "Let us take something back to our room then," she murmured. "Pardon, but I am feeling rather tired."
"Our room, petite Fleur?" He quirked an eyebrow at her, loading his plate.
A playful little spark sprang up in her eyes as she served them both a side of salad. "You are free to sleep somewhere else if you prefer." Fleur pushed her chest out until his eyes dipped, then spun on her heels and drifted off toward the Beauxbatons cabin with a sway in her hips.
"Go on, puppy. You best run after her like a good little dog."
Tristan turned around, face-to-face with Richard Wagner and his mates from the night before. "You and I might face each other in a different setting very soon, Wagner. Then we'll see who's got his tail tucked between his legs."
Wagner offered him a thin smile, his scar stretching taut across his cheek. "I saw you duel today, Peverell; I'm not impressed."
"I was a nervous wreck, sorry about that. I'm new to all the spectators, and the referee…"
"You know where to find us if you grow tired of referees." Wagner bumped Tristan's shoulder as he strode past. "See you around, Peverell."
'What an idiot.' Tristan snorted, grabbed two cups of juice, and made his way through the crowd towards the Beauxbatons' cabins.
Fleur glanced from her bed up as he entered, clad in a white nightdress. "What held you up so long, mon Coeur?"
He tip-toed over scattered parts of her dueling uniform and underwear and sat down cross-legged on the bed, offering her one of the cups. "I think we should check out those gatherings the Durmstrangs talked about last night."
A little wrinkle creased between her slim brows as she cut her sausage into smaller, manageable bites. "Pourquoi?"
"Because Richard Wagner is as annoying as his older brother and I'm slowly running out of patience."
Fleur raised her cup and took a few small sips. "I would rather you stay here with me all night." She batted her eyelashes, a little heat gleaming in her bright blue iris. "I had plans for us, mon Coeur."
Tristan swallowed a mouthful of food. "Only five minutes ago you said you were feeling tired." He chuckled, but a little suspicion whispered from the back of his head. "You really don't want me to go, do you?"
Her smirk widened as she toyed one finger under the thin strap of her nightdress. "Of course not." The white fabric slid a couple of inches down her shoulder, baring the swell of her breast and the outline of her nipple. "There are so many fun things we did not get to do last night..."
Tristan snuffed out the spark of excitement and put his plate and cutlery down. "You took me back early to the cabin when everyone else was still out and about." He watched that little wrinkle deepen between her eyebrows and his suspicion doubled. "You did the same this morning for breakfast and now you're doing it again..."
"Tristan-"
"Why, Fleur?"
She tugged the nightdress back over her shoulder and hugged herself, staring down into her lap. "I do not wish for you to spend time with him."
"Who?" Tristan asked, but the answer rolled off his tongue. "Wagner? Why? Why him?"
"I..." Fleur squirmed, hugging herself tighter; the nails of her trembling fingers bit into her shoulders. "I know Richard."
'Richard...?'
She glanced up and the truth stared back at him, spilling from within those wide blue eyes.
Tristan's heart froze. "You... and him." Something cold and dark and ugly twisted in his chest, tightening like bands of steel around his ribcage. "He... He was the one you..."
His vision swam, dark spots blurring before his eye, but somewhere within them, a shadow's hand slid over Fleur's curves, and her smooth legs locked around his waist as he thrust.
Black mist swirled through Tristan's fingers; the plate and cutlery in his lap shattered into a thousand shards, slicing lines of agony across his skin, biting deep like white-hot razor blades.
"Tristan!" Scalding hot fingers clutched his face. "Tristan, stay with me. S'il te plait!"
The sting in his hands faded as he watched the cuts creep closed, spitting out little shards of porcelain, but the raw ragged pain in his heart lingered.
"Why?" he breathed. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked, mon Coeur." Tears swam in Fleur's eyes and trickled down her fair cheeks. "And I could not bring myself to share it knowing how much I would hurt you."
"I never wanted to know," Tristan whispered, staring out the small window over the moonlit fjord. "For a while, I had hoped..."
"Désolée, Tristan. Je suis désolée." She cradled his head against her chest, running her fingers through his hair. "I am so sorry. I know how you are feeling, mon Coeur; I felt just the same anytime I saw you with that girl at Hogwarts."
'But Adelaide meant nothing to me.' Bitter regret curled to a knot on his tongue. 'I wish I had just waited for you.'
The outline of Fleur's locket, the counterpart to his, bled through her nightdress, swaying on its slim silver chain just above her heart.
Tristan embraced it through the thin white cotton with shaking fingers. "I feel... I feel like he took a piece of you, a piece that was meant to be mine." His stomach churned with hot guilt. "And I know that's not fair, it's wrong, you didn't even know me back then, but I just can't help it."
She slipped into his lap, all warm and soft, and cupped the hand clutching her locket with her smaller ones, easing his grip.
"Je sais. I know, mon Coeur. If I could turn back time, I would offer that piece of me to you in a heartbeat." Fleur raised his chin and caught his lips in a tender kiss. "You were meant to have that piece, as I was meant to have yours."
Something possessive stirred in Tristan's breast; he seized her by the hips, fingertips digging into the soft curve of her bottom, and deepened the kiss, pouring all of himself into her.
Fleur's breath hitched and her fingers fisted in his hair. Her nightdress vanished in a flash of azure, leaving her warm and bare in his lap, save for her locket.
Tristan's eyes dipped, drinking her in, and he swallowed hard.
"You can do more than just look, mon Coeur." Fleur took his hands placing them over the full swell of her breasts; he cupped them roughly in his palms, kneading with both hands, and pinched the stiff pink buds of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
A breathless little moan escaped Fleur. "I do not care for him, I am all yours," she whispered, grinding on Tristan's crotch and coaxing that hungry spark of greed in his blood into a roaring flame. "You are twice the man he is, mon Coeur. I can feel it."
Tristan forced his tongue past her lips, tangling with hers.
"And when you meet him in the arena-," she seized his uniform, scorching it from his skin in a searing flash. "-you can do whatever you want to him."
Fleur's fingers found him hard and ready, curling around him and touching his tip to the slick silken heat between her thighs.
"But tonight, mon Coeur-," inch by inch she took him in, moaning in his ear as he stretched her, until she had all of him and he twitched deep inside her. "-tonight, I want you to do whatever you want with me."