"Think we're close?" Ginny muttered, her voice low but steady, her wand gripped tight in her hand.
Harry shot her a quick grin, his demeanor utterly relaxed. They'd already taken care of every Death Eater that had come out to party tonight, and they had nothing to be wary about anymore, not that they ever did with him there.
"Close enough. Worst case, we kill our way out of whatever's next."
Ginny smirked, about to reply, when a sharp crack split the air. A jet of red light streaked toward them from the shadows ahead, fast and wild. Harry's reflexes kicked in like a whip—he flicked his wand up, a casual "Protego!" emerging over his wand. The spell slammed into an invisible wall, bursting into sparks that lit up his face for a split second as it was swatted aside.
Ginny didn't flinch, just shifted her stance beside him, ready.
"Who's there?" a voice barked, tight with nerves. Another spell followed—orange this time, sloppy and off-target. Harry sidestepped it easily, twirling his wand like it was an extension of his arm. He gave it a flick, and a wand sailed out of the darkness, landing with a soft thud in the grass. A muffled curse followed as whoever it was scrambled for it.
"Stop! Identify yourselves!" another voice shouted, this one deeper, edged with authority. Shapes emerged from the misty darkness in front of them—people in Ministry robes, darting forward with their wands raised, their faces pale and twitchy. Aurors flanked the group, their eyes darting like they expected Death Eaters to lunge from every shadow. Harry squinted, catching the glint of a badge on one of them, but the dark made it impossible to tell who was who.
"Easy," Harry called, his tone calm but firm, warning the group that another aggressive move will be met with equal force. "You're wasting spells on the wrong people."
"Drop your wands!" a jittery Auror snapped, his voice cracking halfway through. He fired another Stunner, and Harry parried it with a lazy flick, sending it spinning into a nearby tree. The bark splintered with a loud crack, and the Auror jerked, stumbling back.
"Enough!" A familiar voice cut through the chaos. Arthur Weasley stepped forward with his hands raised, his face creased with worry and relief all at once. The faint light from a hovering Lumos caught his red hair, and Harry felt his lips quirk a bit. "Lower your wands, all of you—it's my daughter and Harry Potter!"
The Ministry group froze, their wands still half-raised, still suspicious. They couldn't really be blamed given the events that had transpired that night.
Barty Crouch Sr. loomed behind Arthur, his sharp features drawn tight, and his mustache twitching as he scanned Harry and Ginny like they might sprout Death Eater masks any second. The Aurors muttered among themselves, one of them retrieving his disarmed wand with a scowl.
"Harry? Ginny?" Arthur pushed past the others, his voice softening as he got a better look at them. "Merlin's beard, where have you been? We've been out of our minds!"
Ginny stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her chin lifting in defiance as she eyed the men behind her father. Harry had to stifle a smirk at that. She looked like she was ready to take on the whole lot of them.
"We got separated, Dad. When the attack started, everyone was running—Ron, Hermione, the twins, us. It was a mess. It was like the crowd just swallowed them up, and we couldn't find our way back."
Arthur's eyes widened, flicking between her and Harry. "You've been out there on your own all this time?"
"Yeah," Ginny said, her tone dry but steady. "Thankfully, Harry's got a knack for not getting us killed. We stuck together, tried to loop back to the camp, but it was pitch-black, and the crowd kept pushing us the wrong way. Then we heard Death Eaters—shouting, spells flying—so we bolted in the opposite direction. Took us farther out, but we didn't exactly have a map."
Arthur exhaled sharply, running a hand through his thinning hair. "You don't need to say anything. I understand, Ginny." He turned to Harry, his expression softening. "Harry, thank you—for keeping her safe. I don't know what I'd do if…"
Harry shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "She kept me on my toes too. We're a decent team."
Ginny gave him a meaningful smirk as he gazed at her with that look on his face.
Meanwhile, Arthur just looked at them for a moment, relief washing over his face like a tide. "The only thing that matters is you're both here now, safe. Let's get back to the camp—Ron and the others are waiting, probably worried sick."
"Wait." Barty Crouch's cold and clipped voice sliced through the moment, stopping them in their tracks. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied Harry and Ginny. "Did you see anything out there? Anyone… peculiar?"
Harry tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "Peculiar how?"
Crouch's jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the Aurors before settling back on Harry. "We've found Death Eaters scattered around—dead. Not just knocked out or captured. Killed. Brutally. Something's off about it."
Harry frowned, his mind already turning, but before he could say anything, Ginny's voice cut in, sharp and quick. "That must've been them—the Death Eaters we saw."
Arthur blinked, turning to her. "What do you mean?"
"When we were running," Ginny said, her words tumbling out with a mix of urgency and unease, "we stumbled across a few bodies. Dead ones. We didn't stick around to check, obviously—got out of there fast. But later, we nearly tripped over another scene. There were Death Eaters fighting, Dad. Killing each other. Shouting and cursing like they'd lost their minds."
The Ministry group went still, the air thickening with disbelief. An Auror—a burly man with a scarred cheek—scoffed. "Death Eaters turning on each other? That doesn't happen. They're loyal to a fault."
"Maybe not," Harry said, his voice low but carrying that quiet confidence that forced everyone to give him their undivided attention. He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, looking casual and perfectly at ease about it. "We overheard them while we were hiding. They were arguing—screaming, really. Something about Voldemort."
The entire group shivered, a few yelping at the mention of the name, but Crouch's head snapped up, his eyes boring into Harry. "What about him?"
Harry met his gaze, unflinching. "They were yelling about whether he's really gone. A few of them swore they'd seen him—alive, giving orders. The others didn't believe it, called him a liar, said he was trying to take over now that Voldemort's 'dead.' It got ugly fast. Wands out, spells flying. Next thing we knew, half of them were on the ground."
A ripple of shock ran through the group. The Aurors exchanged uneasy glances, while one of the Ministry officials—a wiry woman with a pinched face—muttered, "That's absurd. You-Know-Who's dead. Everyone knows that."
"Doesn't sound like they got the memo," Ginny shot back, crossing her arms.
Crouch's expression darkened, his fingers tightening around his wand. "You're certain of this? You heard them say his name?"
"Not really his name, but I don't know what other Dark Lord they might be talking about," Harry said with a shrug, his tone even. "They weren't exactly whispering."
The group erupted into murmurs—some skeptical, some rattled. The scarred Auror shook his head. "Death Eaters fighting over a ghost? Sounds like panic talking. Or a trick."
"Maybe," Harry allowed, shrugging like it didn't faze him either way. "But they didn't look panicked. They looked furious. Like they'd been waiting for an excuse to tear into each other."
Crouch opened his mouth, clearly itching to dig deeper, but Arthur stepped in, his voice firm. "That's enough, Barty. They've been through hell tonight—let's not interrogate them in the middle of it. They need rest, not more questions."
Crouch's mustache twitched, his eyes flashing with frustration, but he didn't argue. After a long, tense beat, he sighed, his voice heavy with resignation. "Fine. Go. But we'll need to talk more later."
Arthur nodded, already turning to Harry and Ginny. "Come on, you two. Let's get you back."
They fell into step beside him, the Ministry group fading into the shadows as they trudged toward the camp. The night pressed in around them, the distant crackle of fires and murmurs of survivors growing louder with each step. Harry glanced at Ginny, catching her eye. For a split second, a smirk flickered across her face—sharp, knowing, and it was gone as fast as it came. He mirrored it, the barest twitch of his lips, before they both smoothed their expressions into something neutral, perfectly innocent.
Arthur didn't notice, too busy muttering about how relieved Molly would be. "She'll probably hug you both to death," he said, a tired chuckle escaping him. "And then give you an earful for wandering off."
"Wouldn't expect anything less," Ginny replied, her voice light as she chuckled.
XXXXX
Smoke still clung to their clothes as Harry, Ginny, and Arthur trudged up the uneven path, the exhaustion of the night settling into their bones. Ginny let out a yawn as the door creaked open before they even reached it, spilling warm light and a flurry of voices into the chilly air.
"Arthur!" Molly's cry hit them first, sharp and trembling. She barreled out, her apron askew, and her arms swallowing Ginny in a hug so tight it looked like she might never let go. "Ginny! Oh, my girl—Harry!" She yanked Harry in next, squeezing him until his ribs almost creaked, her tears dampening his shoulder.
"Blimey, Mum, let 'em breathe," Ron grumbled from the doorway, but his voice cracked with relief. He stepped forward, clapping Harry on the back hard enough to jostle him. "Thought you'd gone and gotten yourself eaten by Death Eaters, mate."
"Not so easily," Harry said, flashing that easy grin of his. "It'd take more than a bunch of crappy idiots in masks to get rid of me."
"Don't tempt fate, Harrykins."
Harry looked over as the Weasley sons spilled out behind Ron—Fred and George with matching smirks, Bill rubbing his head as if trying to stave off a headache, Charlie yawning wide enough to show off a chipped tooth, and Percy hovering near the back, adjusting his glasses like he was about to file a report.
"Good to see you in one piece," Charlie said, ruffling Ginny's hair until she swatted him off.
"Barely," George chimed in, leaning against the doorframe. "Heard you kicked some ass tonight, Harry. Teach us that trick sometime?"
"Yeah, reckon we could use it on Percy when he starts lecturing," Fred added, dodging Percy's indignant swat to the head.
"Honestly," Percy muttered, "this is no time for jokes. The Ministry will want statements—"
"Stuff the Ministry," Charlie cut in, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "You two look like you've been dragged through a dragon pen. What happened out there?"
Ginny flicked her hair back, stepping into the spotlight like she owned it. "Got separated in the chaos. Crowd was mad—running, screaming, the works. Harry and I stuck together, dodged some Death Eaters, saw some… weird stuff. Took us ages to find our way back."
"Weird stuff?" Hermione piped up, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of tea clutched tight. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her brown hair more disheveled than usual, but she zeroed in on Ginny like a hawk.
"Later," Arthur said, waving it off. "They're knackered. Let's get everyone inside—tea, food, and bed. In that order."
Molly herded them in like a fussy hen, piling plates with scones and shoving mugs into hands. The kitchen buzzed with overlapping voices—Ron recounting how he'd tripped over a tent peg, Fred and George speculating about Death Eater infighting that Harry and Ginny told them all about, and Hermione quietly watching Harry and Ginny over the rim of her cup. Harry stayed loose, leaning back in his chair, answering questions with that calm and assured drawl that made it sound like he'd planned the whole night. Everyone attributed his demeanor to tiredness and lack of sleep.
Eventually, the adrenaline faded, and yawns started breaking up the chatter. "Right, they're back, so now, you're all off to bed," Molly declared, shooing them upstairs. "Harry, you're with Ron. Hermione, with Ginny. No arguing."
The group dispersed, footsteps thudding on the creaky stairs. Harry shot Ginny a quick look as they parted—nothing big, just a flicker of something insinuating—before following Ron up to his attic room while Ginny led Hermione to hers.
Her room was dim, lit only by a flickering lantern on the dresser. Ginny kicked off her boots, tossing her dirt-streaked jacket over a chair, while Hermione methodically unlaced her shoes, her movements precise even through her exhaustion. They changed in silence—Ginny into an oversized Holyhead Harpies shirt and Hermione into neat pajamas—brushing teeth, splashing water on their faces, the routine calming them both after the night's madness.
They climbed into their beds, the springs groaning under them. None seemed to fall asleep though, contrasting thoughts running through both their minds. The silence kept stretching, thick and restless. Ginny lay on her back, staring at the cracked ceiling, while Hermione curled on her side, her breathing too uneven for sleep.
"Can't sleep, huh?" Ginny's voice broke the quiet, low and teasing.
Hermione didn't answer right away, her fingers twisting the edge of her blanket. After a beat, she murmured, "Just… thinking. About the attack."
Ginny hummed, rolling onto her elbow to face her. "Yeah, it was a nightmare out there. Harry and I saw some wild stuff—bodies everywhere, Death Eaters scrapping like animals. Kept each other sane, though. Dodging spells, hiding in the dark. He's good to have around when it all goes to hell."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flicking to Ginny. "You two seemed… close when you got back."
Ginny's smirk was quick and sharp as it flashed in the dim light, but her voice stayed light. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Hermione shrugged, her gaze steady but not quite challenging. "Just something I noticed. All day, really—since we got to the camp. You and Harry. Close."
Ginny sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, her head tilting as she studied Hermione. "You've got something to say, Hermione. Spit it out."
Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening on the blanket. She wondered what to say, her thoughts running a million miles a minute until it burst out, fast and unsteady. "I saw you. At the camp, after everyone else was asleep. You snuck into Harry and Ron's room in the tent. I—I saw what you were doing. You and Harry."
The air went taut, the tension rising and making it warmer. Ginny's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in a perfect mask of shock. "What the—Hermione, are you serious? You spied on us? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Hermione flinched at that, her face flushing red. "I didn't mean to—I couldn't sleep, I saw you and got curious. I didn't know what you were doing sneaking out like that, and the flap was open, and—"
"No," Ginny snapped sharply, her voice rising but still not quite enough to spill outside. "You don't get to play innocent. You had no right to poke your nose into my business—or Harry's. How do you think he'd feel, knowing you watched us like some creep?"
"I wasn't—" Hermione's voice cracked, her hands balling into fists. "I didn't mean—it was an accident, Ginny, I swear—"
"Accident?" Ginny laughed, short and bitter. "You accidentally followed me? Accidentally stood there gawking? Accidentally watched us shag? Come off it."
Hermione shrank back, her bravado crumbling. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I just—I don't know. I was curious, and then I saw, and I couldn't stop looking."
Ginny let the silence hang, her anger softening into something calculated, her eyes glinting with a new edge, like a cat that had spotted a canary. She slid off her bed, crossing the small space to perch on the edge of Hermione's close enough that their knees brushed. Her voice dropping low to a husky murmur. "Couldn't stop looking, huh? Watched it all, then. Him pinning me down, his hands rough on my hips, tearing my shirt open. Me on top, riding him slow, then fast—his breath hot against my neck, groaning my name. You saw how he moves, how he feels. Bet it's burned into your head now."
Hermione's breath caught, her eyes wide, but she didn't pull back. Ginny leaned in, her fingers brushing Hermione's arm. "He's wild when he lets go—strong, sure, every thrust like he owns you. And me—I took it all, gave it back just as hard. Screaming for him, clawing his back 'til he bore the marks. You saw that, didn't you? How it made me shake, how I begged for more."
"Ginny—" Hermione's voice was a whisper, strained, her face a mess of shock and heat.
"Bet it got you hot," Ginny pressed, her smirk wicked, her tone coaxing. "Watching him take me apart, knowing how good he is. I saw your face when we got back—jealous, maybe. Not 'cause I had him, but 'cause you didn't. You've thought about it, haven't you? Those hands on you, that mouth. He's got this fire—pulls you in, makes you want to burn."
Hermione swallowed hard, her hands trembling. "That's… I wouldn't—"
"Why not?" Ginny's fingers slid to Hermione's wrist, light but firm. "You saw us. You know what he's like—how he looks at you sometimes, all trust and heat. He's not just mine, Hermione. He could be yours too. I'd let you have him—hell, I'd watch, cheer you on. Imagine it: him between your thighs, slow at first, then relentless, 'til you're screaming like I was."
Hermione's chest heaved, her eyes locked on Ginny's, caught in the raw, filthy web she wove. "This isn't… it's not right."
"Says who?" Ginny's grin was feral, her voice soft but relentless. "You're not some prude, Hermione. You're curious—hungry, even. You watched us fuck, and you didn't run. That's not shame. That's want. He'd ruin you in the best way, and I'd help him do it."
Hermione's breath hitched, her eyes darting away. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" Ginny pressed, her smirk returning, slow and sly. "You've been watching us all day, Hermione. Noticing how close we are. Maybe you're not mad I was with him. Maybe you're mad it wasn't you."
"Stop it," Hermione whispered, but it lacked conviction, her face a mess of guilt and confusion.
"Why? You brought it up. You saw us—saw him. Harry's got this… pull, doesn't he? That quiet confidence, the way he takes charge. You can't tell me you've never thought about it. That you don't want it."
Hermione's jaw tightened, but she didn't pull away. "You're twisting this."
Ginny chuckled, getting up and slowly lying down on her bed again. "Whatever you say."
The room went quiet again, the lantern flickering low. Hermione stared at Ginny, her breath uneven and her mind a tangle of denial and curiosity, sparked by her words. Ginny didn't push, just watched, letting the words sink in, her smirk softening into something that almost looked like a challenge.
"Sleep on it," she said finally, stretching like nothing had happened before she rolled on her side. "No rush. He's not going anywhere. And you know he's worth it."
As Ginny shifted on her back and closed her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips, Hermione was left staring at the ceiling, her pulse racing and her thoughts a violent storm. Ginny's graphic taunts echoing in her head, and sleep eluded her all the while.
XXXXX
The heavy oak doors of Malfoy Manor creaked open, admitting a gust of cold morning air and three figures cloaked in the somber garb of the Ministry. The grand foyer, usually a gleaming showcase of wealth with its polished marble floors and towering portraits, felt dim and oppressive this morning.
Narcissa Malfoy stood at the foot of the spiraling staircase, her platinum hair pulled back tightly, and her face a mask of poised expectancy. Beside her, Draco lingered, his young teenaged frame slouched slightly, and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tailored robes. He'd been summoned from his room, grumbling about the interruption to his brooding over the upcoming Quidditch season.
The trio from the Ministry stepped forward. At the lead was a wiry man with a pinched face, his badge glinting faintly in the chandelier's light—likely some low-ranking official Narcissa didn't bother to recognize. Behind him came Cornelius Fudge, his bowler hat clutched nervously in his hands, and Dolores Umbridge, her toad-like smile stretched thin with faux sympathy. Between them, levitated on a stretcher, was a shape draped in a stark white cloth.
Narcissa did not need telling. She knew what this meant. Even as the realization dawned on her, she felt nothing but apathy, her eyes steely as she gazed at them.
"Mrs. Malfoy," the wiry man began, his voice nasal and grating, "I'm afraid we bring grave news. During the Death Eater attack near the Quidditch World Cup grounds, your husband, Lucius Malfoy, was… well, he didn't make it. We recovered his body after the chaos settled."
Narcissa's hand flew to her chest, her lips parting in a soft gasp. She knew how to play the part of a proper pureblood lady, aware of what was expected of her.
"No," she murmured, her eyes wide in disbelief and her voice trembling just enough to sell the act. "Not Lucius. Not my husband."
Inside, her thoughts churned differently. 'Good riddance,' she mused, her mind flicking to the vault keys she'd finally have control over, the freedom she could now enjoy, and the social invitations that would come where she could act without his insufferable shadow looming over her. She'd never loved him—never even liked him much. He was a means to an end, a gilded ladder to climb into the elite circles of wizarding society. His death was inconvenient, sure, but hardly a tragedy.
Draco, however, froze. His grey eyes widened, darting from the Ministry man to the shrouded figure.
"What?" he snapped, his voice cracking. "What do you mean, 'didn't make it'? That's rubbish! Father's too smart for that—he wouldn't just… just die!" He took a step forward, his fists clenching at his sides, the color draining from his already pale face.
Fudge cleared his throat, stepping into the fray with his usual bumbling air. "Now, now, young Draco, it's a terrible shock, I know. Lucius was a fine man, a pillar of our community. His loss is… well, it's simply dreadful. We thought it best to bring him here ourselves, to spare you the indignity of a public retrieval."
Umbridge nodded, her pink cardigan clashing garishly with the somber mood. "Such a tragedy," she cooed, her voice dripping with insincerity. "Lucius was so dedicated, so influential. The Ministry will feel his absence keenly, I'm sure."
Narcissa turned her head slightly, her gaze settling on the covered form. "Yes," she said softly, letting a single tear—summoned with years of practiced control—glisten in her eye. "He was… everything to us." 'Everything I could have done without,' she thought, suppressing the urge to scoff. Lucius had been a bore, a braggart, always strutting about with his cane and his self-obsessive nonsense. She'd endured his lectures, his cold hands, his endless schemes—all for the Malfoy name, all for the Malfoy gold. Now, she was free, or would be once the paperwork cleared.
Draco, meanwhile, shoved past his mother, his boots thudding against the marble as he approached the stretcher.
"Let me see him," he demanded, his voice rising. "I don't believe you—this is some trick, some stupid Ministry lie!"
His hands trembled as he reached for the cloth, but the wiry official stepped forward, blocking him.
"Mr. Malfoy, please," the man said, his tone firm but wary. "It's not a pleasant sight. The attack was brutal—something I haven't seen since the war ended. We've cleaned him up as best we could, but—"
"I don't care!" Draco shouted, his face twisting with a mix of rage and panic. "He's my father! I need to see him!" He lunged again, and this time Fudge intervened, grabbing Draco's arm with surprising strength for such a fidgety man.
"Draco, my boy, calm yourself," Fudge said, his voice strained. "We're all grieving here. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."
Narcissa glided forward, placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Darling, listen to the Minister," she said, her tone smooth as silk. "They've brought him home. That's what matters." She squeezed lightly, her nails digging in just enough to warn him. 'Don't make a scene, you little fool,' she thought. 'Not when I'm so close to having it all.'
Draco wrenched free, spinning to face her. "Home? He's dead, Mother! Don't you get it? He's gone!" His voice broke, and he raked a hand through his slicked-back hair, disheveling it. "Father was—he was everything! He taught me how to be a Malfoy, how to hold my head up, how to win! And now he's just… just lying there?"
For a moment, Narcissa faltered, caught off guard by the raw pain in her son's eyes. She recovered quickly, smoothing her expression into one of gentle sorrow. "I know, Draco," she said, her voice low. "He was your guide, your strength. We'll honor him, I promise." 'Honor him with a tasteful funeral and a swift redecoration of this dreary house,' she added silently, already picturing lighter curtains and fewer serpent motifs.
Umbridge clasped her hands together, her smile widening. "Such a devoted son," she said, her eyes glinting with something predatory. "Lucius would be proud, I'm sure. He always spoke so highly of you, Draco."
Draco ignored her, dropping to his knees beside the stretcher. His hands hovered over the cloth, hesitant now, as if touching it would make the nightmare real. "He can't be gone," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He was supposed to be here—supposed to see me take over, make the family proud. He promised he'd always be here."
Narcissa watched him, her lips pressed into a thin line. She should feel something, she supposed—pity, perhaps, for the boy who'd idolized a man so utterly unworthy of it. Lucius had been Draco's hero, his god, a towering figure who'd shaped him into the arrogant, brittle young man kneeling before her. But all she felt was a faint irritation. 'He'll get over it, she thought. He's young. He'll find a new idol, or I'll find one for him.'
Fudge shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Umbridge. "We, er, we'll need to discuss arrangements," he said, his tone tentative. "The Ministry will want a statement, of course, and there's the matter of Lucius'… affiliations. Nothing official, mind you, but—"
"Cornelius," Narcissa cut in, her voice sharpening just enough to silence him, "my husband is dead. Surely your questions can wait until we've had time to mourn." She gestured toward the stretcher, her movements graceful but dismissive. "Please, leave him with us. We'll handle the rest."
Fudge nodded hastily, backing toward the door. "Of course, of course. Our deepest condolences, Mrs. Malfoy. Draco." Umbridge followed, her simpering smile lingering until the doors closed behind them, leaving the Malfoys alone with the body.
Draco stayed where he was, his shoulders shaking now, silent sobs wracking his frame. "He didn't deserve this," he whispered. "He was better than them—better than all of them."
Narcissa knelt beside him, her robes pooling around her like spilled ink. "He was a powerful man," she said, choosing her words carefully. "A force in our world. No one can take that from him—or from you." She rested a hand on his back, her touch light, almost detached. 'Powerful enough to die like a fool in some muddy field,' she thought, her mind already racing ahead to the solicitor's office, the will, the freedom that awaited her.
Draco turned to her, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "What do we do now, Mother? Without him?"
She met his gaze, her expression softening into something almost maternal. "We go on, Draco," she said. "We're Malfoys. We always do." And as he buried his face in her shoulder, she stared over his head at the shrouded figure, her lips curving ever so slightly. 'Yes,' she thought. 'We go on—better than ever.'
TBC.
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