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A Tangled Web by xenasquill [Reviews - 2]

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Author’s Note: This chapter includes a scene from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Ch. 33, “The Prince’s Tale”. The dialogue in that scene is therefore all Rowling’s. In addition, I would like to thank my beta-reader Fleur du Mal for her insightful comments on this chapter. I feel her suggestions led to a big improvement.

Chapter 9: The Ring

Soundlessly, Albus Apparated to a spot directly in front of the weathered old signpost he had only ever seen in Bob Ogden’s memories. A crow, startled by his sudden appearance, squawked and took wing, revealing the faded inscription that indicated the direction and distance to the village of Little Hangleton. Had Muggles been present to witness this occurrence, they might well have been as startled as that bird, Albus reflected with a smile. His pointed purple velvet hat, spangled robes, and waist length, snowy white beard were rather out of place in this quiet country lane.

When dealing with the Ministry, though, it could not hurt to look one’s best. Unfortunately, neither his impeccable dress nor his forceful arguments seemed to have any effect on Rufus, who remained convinced that a public relations campaign with Harry as its figurehead was the solution to all of the Ministry’s problems, which were many. Albus winced, remembering the sight of Amelia Bones’s body, which Scrimgeour had shown him, ostensibly to seek his expertise, though the attempt to manipulate his emotions had been transparent to Albus. At least they had managed to come to some agreement about security measures for the school, Albus consoled himself as he turned in the direction indicated and started walking.

The road turned left and sharply down as Albus remembered, revealing a vista of the Riddle manor and village below it. As the lane turned again, this time to the right, Albus saw where once, there had been a gap in the hedge. The growth there was now barely less thick than the rest of the hedge, but the clinging branches drew aside with a flick of his wand, allowing him to pass unhindered before they closed again behind him.

The dirt track on which Albus now found himself was even narrower than he recalled, the wild hedgerows bordering it showing the neglect of decades, and overgrown with vines. At its end, entirely lost in the deep shadows the tangle of ancient trees beside it cast in the setting sun, lay Albus’s destination. He could scarcely imagine a less welcoming sight. At the time of the removal of the last of the Gaunts to Azkaban, it had already been in a pitiable state, roof tiles falling, moss growing on the walls, and nettles growing rampant around it. Now, there were gaping holes in the roof, and shards of glass hung where once there had been windows. Albus considered it for a moment, considered his best approach, and then cast his first incantation, seeking to uncover the spells he suspected Voldemort had cast on the place.

Wards to prevent Apparition and the use of Portkeys were in place, a protection Albus had expected. Their presence increased his confidence that he had guessed correctly what he would find here.

He did not relish the though of a return trip up the steep, narrow track in the dark, especially if in a moment of carelessness he were to sustain an injury. Cautiously, he approached and began circling the hovel, muttering counterspells. A large barn owl, hooting loudly as it flew out through a gap in the roof, nearly broke his concentration, but with a second circuit, he succeeded in lifting the wards.

He stopped in front of the door and faced it, thinking about his next move. He suspected it was locked, or perhaps set to trap one who opened it improperly. He ran his fingers lightly over the frame, sensing the traces of Voldemort’s magic, mingled with old, unfamiliar signatures. The Gaunts, of course, he decided. They had been the sorts of wizards who would have placed curses on their door to deter unwelcome visitors. Yet Voldemort had entered without difficulty in Morfin’s memory, and that was the clue Albus needed. The family had all been Parselmouths.

With a flick of his wand, he conjured the book he wanted, and flipped through it looking for the right page. There, spelled out phonetically, was (he hoped) the correct Parseltongue for “Open”. After sending it back to the shelf off which he had conjured it, he attempted to pronounce the unlikely combination of sounds he had seen in the book, his wand held at the ready in case his attempts set off a curse. Nothing happened, but Albus persisted, repeating the syllables several times, varying the rhythm, and attempting to give them greater sibilance. Abruptly, the door rewarded his efforts and swung open, revealing the interior of the house.

Cautiously, Albus stepped over the threshold and stopped just inside. The stone floor and walls of the main room were filthy with bird droppings – the owl that had startled him must be one of a long line that had made the house its home after Morfin’s arrest. Roof tiles littered the floor, and the armchair, still standing beside the cold fireplace, looked to be the abode of a family of mice. A less likely place to find a treasure, Albus could not imagine, yet the addition of Voldemort’s spell to the protections on the door confirmed his surmise that indeed, one of the Horcruxes must lie hidden here.

Dropping to his knees, Albus lightly ran his fingers over the stones adjacent to the one on which he knelt. Each of them bore the traces of Voldemort’s magic. Muttering incantations, Albus focused his attention on the one directly in front of him. Despite his efforts, he could neither dispel whatever magic permeated it, nor see a mechanism for passing it safely. He sat back on his heels and toyed with the puzzle for a moment, then reached over to the next row of stones. With a smile, he realized that the stone he now touched was free of the enchantment. It was a child’s game of stepping stones Tom would have him play, then. Rising to his feet, he stepped carefully over the cursed stones and onto the one he had determined was safe.

Suddenly, a figure came flying out of a dark corner right at him, nearly startling him into a potentially costly misstep. For a moment, Amelia Bones stood before him, her face twisted in the grimace of pain and terror he had seen on it at the Ministry earlier that day, before changing into a look of reproach. For a moment, he remembered her as a young girl, representing Hufflepuff in a Debate Society contest, her passion for justice evident even then, before he shook his head to clear it of his memories. So, Voldemort had thrown in another challenge. It would behoove him to keep his focus.

Albus squatted down, to seek the next safe spot to step, and another figure sailed out at him. The haggard, once handsome face of Sirius Black smiled mockingly down at him, just as he had smiled at his cousin in the moment of his death, before he too, glared accusingly at Albus. A memory rose unbidden, of Sirius at Harry’s bedside…and there was the stone he sought. As he stepped forward onto it, poor Cedric popped out from somewhere, his face bearing a look of mild surprise that turned to blame, and Albus mentally shoved a memory of his beaming face as he led Cho Chang onto the dance floor aside and resumed his task.

As he worked his way into the house, the dead of Voldemort’s first rise to power assailed him. First Lily, her arms flung wide, and a ghostly tear running down her face before she pointed an accusing finger at him, James, his face twisted in anger and so like Harry’s… the McKinnons in rapid succession, the Prewett brothers…ruthlessly he forced his mind back to the task, aware that he was making progress. He was penetrating further into the house and closer to his goal. A goal, he reminded himself, which would bring him that much closer to preventing another such reign of terror.

The sequence of uncursed stones had led him in a meandering path through the main room, through the first of the back rooms, and into the second. He wiped his brow and took a pair of deep breaths, for the effort of keeping his feet together and keeping his balance in the warm July evening was telling on him. Suddenly, an apparition appeared which for the first time struck fear into his heart. A man he had not even known, but a man whose death he remembered clearly, his young face grimly determined as he went to the aid of his leader, his dark robes marked with the sign of the Hallows. Grindelwald’s sign.

For Albus suddenly realized how far into his past he had journeyed, and whose accusing eyes he might consequently behold, if he did not finish his task quickly. He waved his wand and muttered incantations, seeking the possible hiding place he sought. It was under a paving stone below the remnants of a bed, he saw, as a white light flared out from there, showing him what he sought.

As quickly as he could he stepped onto the next stone and sought for another, Vanishing the remains of the decrepit bed. A family of mice scurried away, squeaking, into the dark corners, and the ghostly face of Friedrich Herrmann, a victim of Grindelwald, floated by. His goal was nearly within reach. With a flick of his wand, he lifted the concealing stone and levitated it out the window. The light of his wand revealed his quarry – the ring Riddle had taken from his uncle Morfin.

It was as he had thought. He had felt sure that for the ancestral home of his mother, Riddle would pick one of the two heirlooms of her family. Myrtle Watkins, wearing her usual aggrieved expression and glasses, floated by next, but he ignored her, thinking desperately. One of the stones next to the place of concealment must be safe, he had covered most of the ground available, and he could not longer remember whom he had known, who might have died earlier than Miss Watkins and yet later than….

He leapt onto what must be the right stone, and stooped down to pick up the ring in his left hand with his handkerchief. A white mist was coalescing in the doorway, thickening, taking on the form of a child not yet full-grown, and Albus looked away desperately and his eyes fell on the ring he held. He nearly dropped it in his shock. The large black stone set in the crudely wrought gold bore clearly the mark of the Deathly Hallows. The apparition of his sister approached, her face suffused with gentle reproach, and he wanted more than anything to explain to her, to apologize, to hear her speak again, if only… and he realized then, exactly what it was that he held. Without hesitation, he slipped the ring onto a finger of his right hand, and the apparition disappeared. A true vision of Ariana did not appear to replace the apparition, however; instead, a pain such as he had seldom felt before suffused his finger, and he screamed. Looking down, he realized in horror what he ought to have remembered all along. The ring was still a Horcrux, and Riddle’s final protection on it was a curse to which he had completely opened himself by his imprudent wearing of the ring.

Focusing his will, he took the Elder Wand in his left hand, and cast the most potent countercurse he could muster, praying as never before that the power of the wand would suffice. Fumbling awkwardly in his pocket with the cursed hand, for he would not surrender his wand, he took out the Portkey he had prepared before starting out, and activated it, grateful for the precaution he had taken previously of dispelling the enchantment that would have prevented its use.

Albus landed, gasping with the continuing pain of his hand, on the floor of his office. The barrier his counterspell had formed was dissolving already, just in the time it had taken to Portkey back to the school. He needed help, but first he must destroy the Horcrux. He fought to raise himself, but a dizziness on top of the pain made him clumsy, and he staggered drunkenly to his chair. Grateful for its weight, which prevented him from knocking it over, he leaned on its high back for support as he reached to take down the sword that hung on the wall behind it. His choice to destroy the Horcrux before seeing to his injury would suffice to make it work, he hoped fervently.

As he dropped the cursed ring onto his desk, out of the black stone there rose a bubble, which grew until it became a figure of Ariana, grotesquely rooted to his desk.

“Albus, is that you, my brother?” she spoke, and smiled shyly at him. An expression he had, in truth, seen but rarely, for while she lived, he had not taken the time to seek her out on her good days to spend time with her. He froze, looking on her with amazed gratitude, and his grip on the sword loosened.

“You are weeping, Albus,” she said tenderly. “Don’t cry. There is no need.”

The sword fell to the floor with a clang from his nerveless fingers.

“Ariana,” he sobbed. “I…I’m sorry. So sorry-”

“Hush now,” she said soothingly, raising a finger to her lips.

He looked up at her, smiling down at him with an expression uncannily like his mother’s, in the good, old days before Ariana’s illness, full of love and hope and joy, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and just look at her, drink in the sight of her. Could she truly have forgiven him for his callous neglect of her, for her death? Could he doubt it, this vision of his fondest wish come true? This was too easy, this was a lie, a voice in his head warned him, and, with a sob, he bent down for the fallen sword and grasped it with both hands.

“Would you kill me again, Albus?” the Ariana-bubble said softly, spreading her hands wide in mute appeal.

Raising the sword’s hilt above his head, Albus drove it down onto the ring, his heart pierced by the shrill screaming of his sister’s voice in his ears. The stone cracked with a sound that rang like a gunshot in the enclosed space of the tower room, and the vision winked out, the horrible sound of its screams fading to silence. Spent, tears streaming down his face, Dumbledore dropped the sword down onto his desk and collapsed onto the chair. He lacked the energy to raise his hand to look at it, but the curse was spreading. He could feel it now, like a viscous liquid fire, engulfing his finger and spreading down into his hand. He scrabbled blindly for his wand, for he could no longer focus his eyes.

In growing desperation, he realized what his death now might mean. In his pride, his overconfidence, he had told no one of the Horcruxes, had shared his research on them with no one – he would be leaving Harry, unknowing, to fight a wizard made immortal. Then his fingers closed on the wand.

“Expecto Patronum!” he croaked, as his mind formed a message and destination, and then the wand slipped from his nerveless hand to the floor as the room went dark.

***

Severus Snape sat at his desk in his dungeon office. He yawned as he double-checked his sums on the budget for replacement Potions ingredients that he wanted to submit to Professor McGonagall the following morning. He’d inventoried his supply cabinets that day, owing to Dumbledore’s request he stay around.

The Headmaster wanted to meet with him, after an errand, the nature of which he had obviously been at pains to conceal, Severus recalled. He did not mind staying at Hogwarts, since the alternative would have been to spend the night at home with his unwanted guest. It was the mystery that irritated him. If the matter could have no conceivable connection to their meeting, why mention it? And if on the contrary it did…how did the old man expect him to be of service while leaving him in the dark?

Suddenly, behind him, he heard the Headmaster, speaking in a strained voice, “Severus!”

Rising and turning about in alarm, he saw the silvery Phoenix Patronus of Dumbledore. The Headmaster had indicated he would stop by upon his return, but Severus had expected this would involve meeting in person.

“I’m back. I need you…my office,” the familiar voice croaked.

The unnatural timbre of the messenger’s voice suggested Dumbledore needed his help urgently. Severus reached for the tin of Floo powder above the fireplace in his office and grabbed a handful.

“The Headmaster’s Office!” he spoke clearly, as he threw the powder in and stepped into the green flames that shot up in the empty fireplace.

Severus spun out of the fireplace into the Headmaster’s office, and the green flames winked out behind him as he steadied himself. Before him, he saw the back of the Headmaster’s thronelike chair, and Dumbledore himself, his body slumped over the armrest so that his right arm dangled freely.

“Headmaster!” he said, but received no response.

His heart in his throat, Severus hurried around the chair, horrified to behold the unnatural, waxy pallor of the Headmaster’s face and his uncharacteristically disheveled appearance. Quickly and efficiently, he reached for Dumbledore’s neck and felt for his pulse, while his eyes scanned Dumbledore’s body, seeking an explanation for his condition.

The relief Severus felt at finding a pulse, however weak and slow, changed rapidly to dismay at the sight of Albus’s ring finger. It was blackened and burned, and as Severus focused his attention on this alarming sight, he saw tendrils of darkness creeping into the hand and other fingers.

To buy time, he whipped out his wand and cast a quick "Ennervate!” He was gratified to see Albus stir ever so slightly.

A gold ring he had never seen before, with a massive, cracked black stone set in it, lay before Dumbledore’s body on the desk. A sword encrusted with rubies lay beside it.
Severus cast revealing spells on the two objects. The ring, as the blackened ring finger had led him to suspect, was the vector of a powerful curse, a curse that defied his attempts to identify its precise nature. He judged it might be a novel curse invented specifically for the protection of this artifact. The ruby-encrusted sword, though clearly also a magical artifact of some power, he judged not relevant to his immediate problem. Nor, he told himself firmly, was the question that intruded forcibly on his consciousness, of why Albus had taken the risk of wearing the cursed ring in the first place.

After making a hasty mental inventory of his store of potions, Severus flicked his wand and summoned the potion he judged best-suited to the nature of the curse and the symptoms he had observed. While he waited for its arrival, he knelt on the floor beside the headmaster and began to mutter countercurses, seeking to reverse the spread of the unknown curse. The black tendrils persisted in their incursions, as Severus tried every counterspell he could dredge from his memory, with little success. The pulse in the wrist held by the fingers of his left hand remained weak and slow, and the Headmaster’s entire hand was turning black.

As the bottle of glowing golden potion floated into the room, Severus pointed his wand instead at Dumbledore’s wrist, above the farthest incursion of the curse damage, and began to mutter a potent blocking spell, that should prevent the curse from spreading further. He set Dumbledore’s hand down carefully on the armrest to free his left hand, and plucked the little bottle out of the air, all the while continuing his spell work with his wand hand. He forced the little crystal stopper out of the bottle with his left thumb, so that it fell to the floor and shattered with a musical tinkle that Severus ignored. He pushed the Headmaster’s head back to open his mouth and poured the thick golden potion down Albus’s throat, continuing to murmur the blocking spell.

Severus waited anxiously for a few moments. Then his patient’s eyes opened, and color began creeping back into his face.

“Why,” the question he had forced to the back of his mind as he concentrated on the task at hand burst out of him, “why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”

Albus grimaced, remembering his recent experience in the Gaunt house.

“I…was a fool. Sorely tempted…”

Even Severus could tell that it was not the ring’s aesthetic qualities that had formed the basis of the temptation.

“Tempted by what?” he demanded.

A fair question, Albus allowed, but the secret of the Hallows was not one he would entrust to a man he sent to face Voldemort on a regular basis. He did not answer.

“It is a miracle you managed to return here!” Severus exclaimed, increasingly irritated at the lack of response. Did Albus not understand how fortunate he was to have survived the consequences of this ‘temptation’? “That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being-”

The Headmaster raised his blackened, useless hand and examined it dispassionately. It was as Severus said – the curse was contained for some short time at least. He had avoided the worst-case scenario he had imagined. He would have time to pass on his knowledge of the Horcruxes.

“You have done very well, Severus,” Albus said. He kept his voice calm as he asked the question that would determine how well he might prepare Harry before the end. “How long do you think I have?”

Severus thought for a moment, weighing what he knew of such curses against the likely efficacy of the treatment he had provided. He had done well, he recognized, to accomplish as much as he had. This did nothing to relieve the sense of inadequacy that the knowledge of his failure engendered, for Albus faced a death sentence. The curse was too powerful, he had started too late, and there was nothing he could now do to cure it.

“I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually; it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.” He was inwardly pleased to have matched Albus’s conversational tone.

Albus smiled at him, unable to hide entirely his relief at the news. He would have time to tell Harry of the Horcruxes properly, then. He could pass on to him all he had learned, and guide him to an independent understanding of the problem.

“I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus,” Albus said, and knew it for the simple truth as he spoke.

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!” said Severus. The compliment had brought his anger back to the surface. If he was so bleeding useful to have around, why had Dumbledore not sought his help immediately, when it would have done the most good? Why had he not been given advance notice that he might need to treat an injury of this nature? He looked down at the broken ring and the sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?”

“Something like that...I was delirious, no doubt….” Albus replied evasively.

The keen observation and logical mind that made Severus a spymaster’s dream had its price when it came to keeping his own secrets. It was time to change the subject, Albus decided. The certainty of his own death within the year altered his view of another problem. He’d been considering, since his last conversation with Severus, how best to rescue Draco Malfoy, while retaining Severus in Voldemort’s favor and remaining alive at the same time.

Remaining alive and undefeated, only to die from a curse cast by Lord Voldemort, however, would be nothing less than a disaster now. It would cause the Elder Wand to transfer its loyalty to Voldemort, which might destroy the frail hope of survival for Harry that Albus had clung to ever since Voldemort had dared to take Harry’s blood for his reborn body.

He sat up in his chair, and Severus could see the effort cost him, but he continued in a casual tone, “Well, really, that makes matters much more straightforward.”

Severus looked at him, uncomprehending. Certainly, Dumbledore contracting a fatal curse did wonders for simplifying everyone’s life. He kept this sarcastic observation to himself, however.

“I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me,” Albus clarified. “His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.”

Severus sat down in the guest chair across from the Headmaster’s desk, as he had done so often in the past five years. He wanted to say more about the hand, but Albus stopped him with a gesture. Scowling, Severus explained instead, “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said Dumbledore. He wanted to be sure that he understood the situation fully before putting his solution before Severus. “Now, I would have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

Severus thought back to his recent conversation with the Dark Lord, about “other measures”. There could be little doubt.

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan,” he confirmed.

“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?” Dumbledore asked.

“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes,” Severus replied. With both elements of his plan accomplished, with Dumbledore gone and the Ministry under his control, the Dark Lord would be able to do as he wished at Hogwarts, Severus reflected with dismay.

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” said Dumbledore casually, “I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students of Hogwarts?”

Severus nodded stiffly. He would, of course, but as Head of Slytherin, he was best situated to protect those students who would likely need it least.

“Good,” Albus said, pleased at Severus’s quick agreement. “Now then. Your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you-”

“-much less since his father has lost favor,” Severus interrupted, remembering his conversation with the boy on the final Sunday of the school term. “Draco blames me; he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s position.”

“All the same, try,” Albus said. “I am concerned less for myself than for accidental victims of whatever schemes might occur to the boy. Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath.”

Severus raised his eyebrows in disbelief and asked in a sardonic tone, “Are you intending to let him kill you?”

“Certainly not. You must kill me,” Albus replied. For, barring a fortunate accident or illness on which he dared not rest his hopes, a death he arranged was the only way that remained for him to die undefeated, and extinguish the threat the wand posed to Harry.

Severus looked across the desk at the man whose life he had just saved, if only for a year. To take it away again… the idea was unthinkable. Unbearable. A silence fell, interrupted only by the clicking of Fawkes’s beak. It was ridiculous for him even to have to respond to such a suggestion, Severus fumed inwardly, but Albus continued to regard him calmly, as though he had made a perfectly reasonable request.

“Would you like me to do it now?” asked Severus finally, his voice heavy with irony. “Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph?”

“Oh, not quite yet,” said Albus with a smile. He had rather suspected Severus would not jump on the idea. “I daresay the moment will present itself in due course. Given what has happened tonight,” he indicated his withered hand, a reminder of the changed circumstances, before continuing, “we can be sure that it will happen within a year.”

“If you don’t mind dying,” said Severus roughly, “why not let Draco do it?”

“The boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” Dumbledore explained. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?” Severus blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth in his distress before his mind could assemble the words to phrase a more refined objection. Albus knew the full enormity of his transgressions, knew he was no innocent. Even so, how could he so casually ask a murder of him?

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore. “I ask this one great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved – I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.”

Albus’s tone was light, but his blue eyes regarded Severus intently. The picture these words painted in his mind was all too credible, and with the details his memory could supply, it was too horrible to contemplate. It was not precisely a murder that Albus was asking of him, then, though it would have all the semblance of one. Could he cast the Killing Curse, accept the favor of the Dark Lord, and face the scorn of all who had not yet succumbed to the Dark Lord? This last was no more than he deserved, for the blood he had on his hands, Severus reminded himself bitterly. Yet Albus had hired him, had enlisted him to protect Potter, and had kept his secret…. He gave another curt nod. He would do it.

“Thank you, Severus…” Albus said quietly, and leaned his head back against his chair. He felt abruptly a weariness beyond measure, from which even the immense relief he felt at having avoided the complete ruin of all his plans could not buoy him.

Severus rose quickly from his chair and approached, wand drawn, to check on the condition of the arm. The barrier was in place and showed no deterioration, he ascertained quickly. The Headmaster’s sudden weakness must be due to fatigue after a long day, exacerbated by the effects of the curse. He summoned a potion for dreamless sleep from his office.

Albus submitted to this treatment, content to let his mind drift as Severus examined him. He drank the potion Severus offered him without argument, and agreed he would be getting himself to bed immediately. The further details of his revised plans, he could work out later. Severus had given him the time he needed.


A Tangled Web by xenasquill [Reviews - 2]

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