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Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 15]

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Disclaimer and Thanks:

I acknowledge J. K. Rowling as the sole creator of the Potterverse and thank her for allowing us to play with her creation. I make no money from this work.

The beta crown (and my sincere gratitude) goes to Vaughn. All errors are my own, and I genuinely appreciate all feedback.





Insidious

by Grainne





Chapter 3: The Best of Intentions?



“Pince?” Vernon said through a mouthful of toast. He scratched the side of his nose in a thoughtful fashion, but his gaze did not stray far from the crumb-strewn path between the toast rack and his plate.

“Prince,” Petunia corrected, methodically plucking the crumbs from the table and piling them neatly on her own empty plate.

“Never heard of him. I’ll see if Marge knows anything—he’s a gardener, you say?”

“A bit more than a gardener, I think; he’s a horticulturalist with the RHS.”

“Horticulturalist, hmf!” Vernon leaned forward and waggled one of his thick fingers. “I know a good joke about that one, dear, but it’s naughty and I shan’t tell you.”

“Vernon!”

“Well, really, dear, plants are all right in their place, but I don’t see the point in making a career out of coddling them.”

“Cornelia seemed very taken with him,” Petunia said sourly.

“Oh?” Vernon crammed another piece of toast in his mouth. The only good thing that had come out of that unpleasant incident the previous week (apart from Harry’s absence, of course) was that breakfasts were nearly back to normal. Petunia had taken the old freak’s words regarding Dudley to heart. Panicked that she’d been damaging their son somehow by restricting him to fruit and high-fibre cereals, she’d resumed cooking hot breakfasts. She was still worried about the household budget, though, so the overall quantity wasn’t quite what it used to be, and Vernon was intent on getting as much into his stomach as he could before Dudley rose from his Saturday morning lie-in. Vernon loved his son, but the boy did tend to go into Hoover mode around food, and a man had to look out for himself.

“Yes. She insisted that I…well, he’s been invited to our tea next week,” Petunia said. “She thinks he might be able to help our committee take a first in the Southeast Suburban Community Garden Spruce-Up.”

“A first at the Southeast Suburban Community Garden Spruce-Up, you say?” For the first time since the conversation began, Vernon laid aside his toast and gave his wife his full attention. “Isn’t Blye’s DIY one of the key sponsors?”

“I believe so,” Petunia said. “Cornelia’s officially recused herself from our team, but I’ve told you how she—”

“Well, then by all means have tea with the man, Petunia!” Vernon interrupted, slapping his hands on the table (thereby causing the table to shake, and Petunia’s neatly constructed pile of crumbs to collapse). “Hear what he has to say. If Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye trusts him…I mean, I doubt she’s got to where she is by being the gullible sort.” As Petunia, looking rather put out, busied herself with tidying up the crumbs once more, Vernon laced his hands over his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Kevin Blye will attend the prize-giving, no doubt,” he murmured. “After you’ve accepted on behalf of BADLAD, we’ll all go out for drinks, of course, and I’ll—”

“I don’t know Vernon,” Petunia said tersely, “there’s just something about him that I find off-putting.”

Vernon came out of his reverie. “Kevin Blye?”

“No, Mr. Prince. He seemed, oh, I don’t know…” She waved her hands in an exasperated fashion, searching for the right word. At last, she added, “His manners were on the Continental side.”

Vernon chuckled. “Tried the old smarmy frog routine and you sent him packing, eh? Well, he’ll soon see there’s no point in that. I know what my wife likes—solid dyed-in-the-wool Englishman.” He punctuated these last words by thumping his knuckles on his expansive gut.

Petunia flushed, but a smile crept onto her face. “That’s right, dear.” The smile quickly vanished, however, as she thought about the implications of what Vernon had said. Had Mr Prince been flirting with her? She sincerely hoped not. Not that it wouldn’t be flattering, of course, but really. She shuddered.

“Go on then, Petunia, you have tea with the man—put up with his attentions for now. If he’s unbearable, have Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye give him a whack with her cane. But if he can get your lot that prize, well, let’s just say that Mr. Prince might be a good man to know.” Vernon reached for the toast once more. “And now that that’s settled, won’t you do us another fried egg or two?”

“Wait until Dudley comes down,” Petunia snapped. “I want to make sure he’s eating enough; if there are any eggs left, I’ll fix you seconds.” She sighed and got to her feet. “The dairy’s put their prices up again.”

“What?” Vernon said. He was clearly outraged, but it was unclear what bothered him more—the rising dairy prices or the fact that he might not get any more breakfast.

“It seems,” Petunia went on, “that this weather doesn’t agree with the hens. Their production is down.”

“Weather doesn’t agree…weather doesn’t agree with them, you say? I’ve never heard such bloody nonsense in my life! Ruddy birds will be clamouring for union hours next. I’ll tell you what—it isn’t our birds causing the trouble. If a bit of damp ever fazed an English chicken, I’ll eat my hat. It’ll be those foreign breeds they keep mixing in. When will they learn that…”

As Vernon worked himself up to a good rant (and a nice shade of mauve, to boot), Petunia cleared away her breakfast dishes and set a place for Dudley. It felt so good to be feeding her son properly again. The look on his face when she’d first started him on his diet two years ago had nearly broken her heart. She hoped that he would be in for tea today (he had stayed out all day yesterday and had got back quite late, the poor darling), as Tesco had had his favourite chocolate-covered biscuits on sale.

Petunia paused in front of the sink, staring out the window into the back garden. A little line of worry appeared between her brows. She hadn’t told Vernon her other reason for her mistrust of Mr Prince.

Petunia had, of course, caught Mr Prince eyeing her shopping outside the Woolley Arms. She also knew that he’d seen her in the Tesco, and by the gleam in his eyes, she was fairly certain that he was aware of her ploy. She was grateful, of course, that he hadn’t mentioned a thing in front of Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye, but the very fact that she felt this gratitude annoyed her because she’d been so intent on disliking the man, based on her first impression. She was also suspicious as to why he hadn’t mentioned having seen her earlier in the day. Perhaps he was just being polite, but Petunia couldn’t help but feel that she was now in debt to Mr Prince in some fashion—and that he knew it, too. The idea of sitting down to tea with him and Mrs Mountbatten-Woolley-St. John-Blye made Petunia uneasy.

*******


“Come to declare your intentions, Severus?”

Snape paused, his wand at his temple. He had not heard Dumbledore enter the room. The current Headmaster of Hogwarts was one of very few people capable of sneaking up on him…well, he supposed he couldn’t really call it sneaking this time round, but Dumbledore had entered with a suspicious lack of commentary from the portrait guarding the door. The grizzled old hag had given Snape an earful when he’d come in.

Snape sighed and lowered his wand. “You got my message, then?” he said. He’d been staring moodily into the stone basin for several minutes now, mentally preparing himself to extract and submit the memory of Mrs Dursley’s invitation (or a version of it, anyway). He tore his gaze from the basin and peered toward the far wall. In the flickering light of the torches, he saw Dumbledore nod.

“I haven’t seen a carrier pigeon in these parts for some time. I confess that, at first, I thought it lost,” Dumbledore said, coming closer. “And then, when I realised that it had a message for me, I had a devil of a time trying to coax it inside.” He chuckled. “I think it was frightened of Fawkes.”

“Well, there aren’t many owls hanging round Spinner’s End,” Snape said defensively, “and I’m trying to keep a low profile. Wormtail has taken to acting like a suspicious housewife.” Snape had actually caught Wormtail sniffing at him under the pretext of helping to remove his cloak the other day, but he wasn’t about to mention this to Dumbledore.

“Has he?”

Snape nodded. “Even his rodent-sized brain has managed to grasp the fact that I’m away more than I need to be for typical pre-term preparations. He’s got no evidence, of course, but he’s convinced I’m up to something above and beyond our orders.”

“Then it sounds like Peter’s mental faculties are not as limited as you suggest; you are up to something above and beyond your orders.” Snape snorted, but Dumbledore pressed on. “I do hope you’re not mistreating him, Severus.”

“I think he’s been shown enough mercy already, don’t you?”

“It is never wrong to show mercy,” Dumbledore said firmly.

“Still believe that, do you?” Snape sneered. “Still think we’re all the better off for Potter having a soft heart—not that it is all that soft anymore, or else we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

“Severus!” Dumbledore said, a warning note in his voice. “You know very well that if Peter had been prevented from rejoining his master, Voldemort—yes, Voldemort, Severus—would simply have made use of some other poor soul to the same end. And yes, I do think we are all the better off for Harry having a clear conscience and—”

“And having Wormtail indebted to him for his life,” Snape finished bitterly. Personally, he doubted that much would come of that particular theory. Wormtail was the most disloyal wretch he’d ever known. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he had a nose for power—who had it and who did not—and whilst Snape could very much envision the rat crawling back to Potter and licking his trainers in obeisance if the Dark Lord fell, he had a hard time thinking of a circumstance in which Wormtail would sacrifice his own mangy hide to save Harry.

“Let us hope, for my sake,” Snape said, “that Wormtail does not grow a conscience and decide to repay the debt whilst living under my roof. By all accounts, it sounds like Potter would like nothing better than to have me murdered in my sleep.”

“I think that’s being a bit dramatic, Severus.”

“Oh?” Snape looked pointedly at the basin in front of him. It sat in the centre of a large stone table, which also held books, pieces of parchment, a few small parcels, and a silver dagger. He indicated the lot with his wand. “What’s all this for, then? And if you dare tell me that it is, ‘just a precaution,’ I’ll have Argus seize and destroy all sweets delivered to the castle.”

“Merlin forbid!” Dumbledore smiled and held up his hands in mock defeat. “And I did not intend for you to think that I take your efforts lightly—only that I think we’re a long way from you being murdered in your sleep.”

“No, it is not the likeliest of scenarios for my death, is it?” Snape said softly.

“Oh, for—from dramatic to morbid in record time! Shall we put aside these wild speculations and begin?”

“We?” Snape looked up, startled. “Headmaster, you said that I should let you know when I would be here, but there is no need for you to—”

“I know, I know,” Dumbledore said gently. He drew near, until only the large stone table stood between them. “And I promise not to intrude on further stages of the process. In fact, once school begins, I very much doubt that my schedule will permit me to do so. However, I thought that you might be willing to let me assist in the opening rite and see you safely back to the castle. After all, if it hadn’t been for you...” He held up his withered hand and pressed it to his heart.

Snape was nearly distracted by the sentimental gesture. But not quite. “Back to the castle?” he said, eyes narrowed.

“You need to go somewhere else for the opening rite, Severus.”

Alarm bells sounded in Snape’s head. “It was my understanding that I had exclusive use of this room for the duration of the process.”

“And that is still the case. This room is reserved for your use, and none but you and I may enter it.”

“But then—”

Dumbledore sighed. “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought since our last meeting.”

Snape laid his wand on the table. “You have misgivings still?” he said quietly. “You need to see…more?” He reached up with both hands, carefully pulled his hair away from his face, and tucked it behind his ears. “Very well.” He then crossed his arms over his chest in a defiant gesture and looked directly into Dumbledore’s eyes. To his surprise, Dumbledore smiled at him.

“That will not be necessary, Severus. I have seen enough—far more, in fact, than I probably had a right to see.”

Snape lowered his eyes.

“I do still have misgivings,” Dumbledore went on, “but I believe that this is our best chance.” He began to pace around the small subterranean chamber, moving in and out of the light cast by the torches. “There is no longer time for Harry to come round on his own, and I fear his hatred of you will only grow when—”

“If,” Snape hissed angrily.

Dumbledore paused and turned toward Snape with a mild look of surprise. “You don’t honestly think young Malfoy will succeed, do you?”

Snape shrugged. “He is resourceful, like his father.”

Dumbledore frowned. “May I remind you, Severus, that although he’s tried on more than one occasion, Lucius Malfoy has yet to permanently rid Hogwarts of my personage? And I don’t think that I do young Malfoy any disservice when I say that I hope he does not have what it takes to succeed where his father has failed.”

“What would you have me say?” Snape cried, snatching up his wand and sheathing it in his robes. “I do not wish for his success, though I have vowed to assist him to that end, but neither can I wish for his failure! You must understand that, surely?” He was not being dramatic this time; he was in real anguish. His words mocked him, however, for they rang off the stone walls of the room and came back to his ears sounding ugly and petulant.

“Yes, Severus, I think I do,” Dumbledore said pointedly. “And you are free to form your own opinions on the matter, of course. Just so long as, in the end, we are on the same page, hmm?”

The two men stood regarding one another silently for a long moment. Snape, who had grown accustomed to living with tangled loyalties (usually resolving any conflicts by prioritizing his own self-interest, or that of Slytherin House), wondered if even he had got in over his head. How was he to survive the coming year? How was he to face Dumbledore with this thing between them? He felt as if he’d been catapulted from a state of calculated survival—where he’d carefully managed his ambitions and desires, where he’d paid his debts and fulfilled his promises in dribs and drabs—to a fantastic endgame. Before a year was out, his fate would be sealed, one way or another (and after desperately trying to keep his options open for so long, he wasn’t sure if this was disturbing or liberating). On top of everything else, Snape found that his current mission—meant, in one regard, to assure him a future—was leading to a great deal of unwanted emotional introspection about his past. As he stared at his employer, Snape wondered, as he often did, how much Dumbledore really knew, or guessed, or even cared, about his torments.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me,” Dumbledore said, breaking the tension, “what form Mrs Dursley’s invitation took?”

“Tea,” Snape replied sullenly.

“By Merlin’s odd socks! However did you manage that? No—don’t tell me. I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

“Not at the house. In town, with friends.”


“That is still quite an accomplishment,” Dumbledore said, “given what I know of her. Unless I shamed her into acquiring some manners last week…but, no, I don’t think she thought she was being rude in the slightest. Probably would have refused to drink even if the bottle had upended itself over her head.”

“Headmaster?”

Dumbledore grinned and recounted the details of his most recent trip to Privet Drive. Snape found the tale amusing, but he resisted the urge to smile openly or make snide remarks.

“Your turn,” Dumbledore said lightly.

“Sorry?”

“Your turn to be civil, Severus—make small talk. I imagine you could use the practise, if you’re set to have tea with Petunia Dursley.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He looked around the room, searching for some inspiration. He saw only four solid stone walls. “How’s Vance?”

“Ah! Well enough in body, although she says she’s bored out of her skull.”

“That took some doing, I expect; it’s thick enough,” Snape muttered.

“She also says,” Dumbledore went on cheerfully, “that you owe her a mature Flitterbloom and a signed copy of Magical Me, complete with original dust jacket. Apparently your lot were a bit messy when they went in—her words, not mine, of course.”

Snape arched one eyebrow. “And you will remind Ms Vance that, where my lot are concerned, things could have been a great deal messier, and that she’s lucky to be alive. Now, are you going to tell me where I have to go to start this infernal process or not?”

Dumbledore’s face, which had, in his amusement, taken on the illusion of youthfulness, suddenly fell; he appeared a tired old man once more. He resumed pacing.

“As we’ve discussed, Severus, this is a cumulative process. There are certain conditions that have to be met, yes, but the overall strength of the connection depends on a variety of factors, many of which are, I suspect, out of our control. The fact that you are attempting this with a Muggle who does not know of her involvement will work against us, and therefore you must take every available opportunity to increase the—”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Snape interrupted. “Because I’m well aware of how the process works. It is no use trying to distract me—out with it. Where do I have to go?”

Dumbledore approached Snape and reached out as if to take his hand. Then he thought the better of it, apparently, for he placed his hand instead on the basin that sat in the centre of the stone table.

“Godric’s Hollow.”

*******


Saturday afternoon saw Petunia calming her nerves in the best way she knew how, which invariably involved rubber gloves and something from her well-stocked arsenal of cleansing solutions, powders, polishes, and sprays. At the moment, her efforts were focused on the room her nephew had recently occupied; she was wiping down the desk and windowsill with a bleach solution. She had done a basic cleaning immediately after his departure, of course, but was now giving the room a thorough going-over. Petunia firmly believed in the power of cleaning products, even against the abnormal. She’d convinced herself that, once she had chemically purged their home of any last traces of the filthy boy’s presence, she would not have to think about him (or the world he belonged to) until next summer.

She had opened the window, hoping for a bit of breeze, but the gloomy miasma that had settled over Britain didn’t allow much in the way of breezes. Petunia soon felt as if she were enveloped in a bleach-scented fog. Dizzy, she sat down on the bare mattress. She would just rest for a moment. She’d had a vigorous go at the carpet in the lounge after breakfast, so it was no wonder she was knackered. She hadn’t actually seen any dirt on the carpet fibres, but the memory of that horrid creature having a fit on her shagpile had been enough to set her scrubbing as if she’d espied Claret stains.

Yes, that felt better. She’d just sit here and catch her breath a minute, or, yes—why not? Petunia dropped the rag she’d been using into the pail of bleach solution, lay back, and closed her eyes…

“…of Azkaban, the wizard prison. They’re scabby and scaly and rotten and, if they get the chance, they’ll kiss you and suck out your soul.”

“Get away! That’s horrid.”

There was the sound of a tussle, and then giggling. She pressed her ear closer.

“But do you know what their absolute most
favourite food is? It…is…Muggles who listen at keyholes! Hello, Poppy.”

“I’m not…I wasn’t. My name’s not Poppy.”

“Whatever, Primrose.”

“James! Stop being mean to my sister.”

“I’m to tell you that dinner’s ready in ten minutes.”

“Thanks, Peony. Unless—hey, you didn’t poison my share, did you?”

“James!”

“You’re not supposed to have the door closed when
he’s here, Lily.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Petunia, go easy. We were only chatting.”

“About those…those things!”

“They’re called Dementors, Pansy. Would you like to meet one?”

“My name is
Petunia! And I saw what you had in your pockets when you came in. Mum won’t be pleased. You’re not supposed to bring that stuff home from school.”

“Dementors also love to feed on sneaks, Periwinkle, so I’d take that bobblehead of yours elsewhere and have a long hard think about keeping out of other people’s business!”

“DON’T YOU THREATEN ME, YOU…YOU—”


Petunia sat up with a choked cry. She looked wildly about, and it took her several moments to reassure herself that she was in her own time, in her own home, wearing her adult clothes and her favourite brand of rubber gloves. She got to her feet shakily and put her face to the window, hoping for a breath of fresh air.

The sky was still gloomy, but as there was no longer any light behind the clouds, the gloom was now of a normal, opaque, late-afternoon-or-early-evening sort. The streetlamps had already come on; Mrs Toddy was taking that dratted Pekingese for a walk; someone was watching television in the lounge over at number seven; and the car was back in the drive, which meant that Vernon—her very own husband who was one hundred percent solid dyed-in-the-wool Englishman and who would never make jokes about her name or bring frog spawn into the house—had returned from town. All was as it should be. She was safe. But where had that memory come from? Why was she having it now?

She’d repressed that memory, along with several others, for years. She’d been painfully reminded of it last summer—oh, how she had panicked when she’d realised what she’d said, when she’d seen the look on Vernon’s face after she’d admitted to knowing about those things—but she’d never had anything like this happen before. It had felt so real.

Even now, Petunia could feel the anger and resentment burning up her cheeks. Their father had overheard what she’d called James Potter and publicly admonished her for being so rude to her sister’s friend. “That is never what we taught you about hospitality, missy—for shame!” is what he’d said, and then, when she’d refused to apologise, he’d banished her to her room. Like she was a small child. “Sorry about that, son. She doesn’t know what she’s on about,” she’d heard him say as she’d retreated down the corridor. But she had known, and she had meant each and every word.

Petunia sat down at the desk, her hands balled into fists. The room was still close with bleach fumes, however, and she nearly gagged on her next breath. No wonder she wasn’t feeling well! She shot up from the chair and wobbled her way out of the little bedroom, across the landing, and into the bathroom, where she stripped off her rubber gloves and splashed water on her face.

“I never had a bobblehead, James bloody Potter,” she whispered defiantly to her reflection in the glass.


*******


Severus Snape opened his eyes and let his gaze wander from the ceiling down to his exposed left arm. The blood had been trickling from his vein into the basin for hours now—or was it only minutes? Perhaps it only seemed like hours—yes, that must be it, as the basin was smaller than a Pensieve. It would never hold several hours’ worth of blood. Nor would Snape’s body have been able to withstand losing so much.

“I think that should just about do it,” came Dumbledore’s gentle voice. Then, because Snape could not (or would not), the same voice whispered something in a sing-song and the vein closed up, the flaps of pale skin above it melding together as if they had never been parted. Another whispered word and the violet flames that surrounded the basin lowered. Clutching his arm, Snape staggered backward, out of the circle roughly chalked on the floor, and collapsed in a shadowy corner.

“Let us rest now, Severus.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head (although he was fairly certain that Dumbledore couldn’t see him in the near-darkness). He didn’t want to spend another minute in this place than was absolutely necessary. “We can continue. That is, unless you need the rest?”

“Rest won’t do a thing for me, I’m afraid,” came the reply. It might have sounded bitter, but it didn’t. There was a laugh in the voice. “Well then, if you’re determined to press on, you’d best fetch your parents’ things.”

Something from Sire and something from Dame, Snape thought. Then, because in its weakened state his brain could not resist completing the rhyme, he whispered, “If need be can stand in place of the same. Mingle with blood of the child in flame, as son or daughter chants covetous aim.”

Snape was woozy and his whole body ached, but no amount of physical pain could compare to the drowning feeling he’d experienced when Dumbledore had informed him that the opening rite would have to be performed in Godric’s Hollow. Snape had not shouted. He had not pleaded. He had stood perfectly still while his brain had worked overtime trying to come up with alternatives. The headmaster must have sensed his desperation, but he’d given no quarter. He’d done away with each and every one of Snape’s protests with calm diplomacy.

“Because she is, at this point, your strongest link to the line.”

“No, you are correct. That cottage had no special significance within the family, but it is where she died, Severus. It is where she made her sacrifice. By performing the rite there, you honour that sacrifice and demonstrate the sincerity of your intentions.”

“Yes, of course it has been rebuilt, but the original foundation is there, and I do not think the imprint of such an event ever truly goes away.”

“I’ve already checked—it is empty at the moment. Seems the place has got a funny reputation amongst the Muggles. We’ll not be disturbed.”


And Dumbledore had been right, at least, on the latter point. They had not been disturbed. No one had noticed two cloaked wizards enter by the rear door and set up a makeshift workbench in the centre of what would have been the sitting room, if it had held anything to sit upon. No one saw the mysterious stone basin encircled by a ring of violet flame; no one heard the strange incantations that were uttered over it.

“Let this token burning stand for blood grown cold,” Snape said, dropping his father’s belt into the swirling mass of memories and blood. The magical fire surged up over the sides of the basin. Holding his mother’s headscarf, he repeated the words—he could not resist rubbing the soft, worn cotton between his fingertips as he did so—and consigned it, too, to the flames. Then he bowed his head, placed his hands just above the blaze, and concentrated every ounce of his being on meaning the words he said next—his so-called “covetous aim.”

“Blood tokens, here before me, speak for sire and for dame. Let your son untie himself from the bond of family name. In this renouncing, I renounce you not. In giving up, I seek to gain. Let this loosening of the family knot serve to bind me tight again. For to ally is my intention, not for harm or wealth or fame, but from deepest desire to…”

And, as much as Snape might have wished to be disturbed at this point in the rite, he was not. He took a deep breath, finished chanting his intentions, and lowered his hands.

The violet flames surged to a great height above the rim of the basin and turned a brilliant red. Then, just as suddenly as they had risen, the flames subsided; it was as if they’d dived headlong into the basin itself. The only seeming trace of their existence was the wisps of smoke that danced across the surface of the basin’s contents. But when Snape (and then Dumbledore) peered into the basin, they could see that, for all intents and purposes, the fire had gone into the basin, for its contents now glowed from within. Every so often a few bubbles rose to the surface.

“Well done, Severus,” Dumbledore said.

Snape continued to stare into the basin.

“Severus?”

Snape tore his gaze away from the simmering mixture and focused on his employer. “I wouldn’t congratulate me just yet,” he said roughly. “I’ve only just begun the process, and I still have to live up to my good intentions.”

Insidious by Grainne [Reviews - 15]

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