Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
The dates are deliberately written as such in the following chapter. I know it's wrong, but we'll learn why in chapter six, which is also complete. Enjoy :)

Thank you once again, to my Beta Absinthe, who's efforts are far more than this story deserves.

Edit: This chapter has been edited on 12.02.2021, thanks to Ms B's efforts. Thank you :)
The Boy at Diagon Alley

The next morning, Harry woke up exhausted.

It felt like the Knight Bus was weighing his body down, burying him on the mattress by the bones. Harry opened his eyes, squinted at the sun filtering through the dusty panes, and turned his head to the other side. He would have turned his body, too, if his limbs didn’t feel rock heavy and about to fall off. He tried to move the arm pinned under his weight, at least, and groaned. The bedframe groaned with him. 

Soon after, Harry opened his eyes again. He bared his teeth, both hands clenched into fists. He was tired. So very, very tired. 

Sleep was persistent in dismissing him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry finally managed to roll to his back, staring at the ceiling. Old pieces of wood ran down its length. A sour colour that seemed to be coated in several layers of dust. The room wasn't much different, either. Wooden floorboards, thin-looking walls, and horrible decor. Harry wasn't surprised to find himself missing his room at Snape's apothecary, with the warm coloured walls, the small work table and cushioned chair. Harry took some of the sheets in his hands, pinching the material between his fingers before dropping his hand down with a groan. Why had he run away? Why hadn’t he just ignored his Aunt and Uncle? They couldn't break windows, surely, heavy fisted though they may be. Uncle Vernon was always deathly afraid of law enforcement. He’d even backed off when Harry mentioned Snape would report to the constables, dragging his sister with him until the ginger ruined everything.

Harry hated ginger. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed himself up. His feet landed on the floorboards with a dry thud, sending dust flying about, catching the sunlight. Another heave, and Harry was up - wobbling and flinging his arms about him until he caught his balance, resting his hands on the bed. Right, the bed. Harry took the cheap material in his hand, the rough fabric itchy on his skin and pulled it harshly. Dust came with it - a whirling storm that invaded his mouth and nose and sent Harry into an ugly coughing fit. 

Harry waved his hand in front of his face, trying to get rid of the dust and glared at the sheet once his coughing ceased.

“Right, then,” he snapped, grabbing at the sheet one last time before starting to smooth them out with aggressive movements, dragging the creases with harsh pulls until he had a somewhat satisfactory look.

Somewhat. 

Harry noted that it only made him feel guilty.

He could do better than that. And he did. Three tries and some angry tears later Harry stalked to the door, grabbing the key and twisting it to the right. It didn’t open. He tried again. No click came from the door. Cupping his head in his hands, Harry waited until he gained some composure before pulling the key off, number ten branded on its side and cupped the door handle. The door opened without a fight and Harry almost kicked the door as he walked out, this time locking it. 

The hallway on floor one was as he expected: ugly wood, worn out carpets and windows that could do with some cleaning. Harry didn’t understand why the way the wood looked made him so anxious, as if any minute something was going to burst through and strangle him, so he kept his back hunched and his eyes glued on the patterns of the carpet - giant red and blue triangles that flowed down the rug in various directions, leading the path towards the staircase.

He was about to walk downstairs, from which some vigorous noises were already rising, when he caught  sight of himself in the mirror. Confused, Harry stepped back, his eyebrows knitting close together.

He looked pathetic.

The shirt was wrinkled, and so were the trousers. A visible fold ran down his leg and reached the cut on his knee. Harry’s posture sagged at the sight of it. Lifting his eyes, however, Harry found that it wasn’t the only bad thing about him. His hair (which was a bird’s nest already on a good day) was simply  like a bird's nest, or crackling with friction and sticking out in all directions.

Harry peeked at both sides of the corridors, listening for approaching steps. When none came, Harry took a hesitant step forward before the mirrors and licked his fingers, combing through the wild strand, specifically the bangs over his scar. Aunt petunia had always warned him to keep those bangs down, screaming whenever she caught sight of-

Harry shook his head, slapping his forehead. He wouldn’t think about it. Not here.

Bending down, Harry took out his shoes and pulled his socks up underneath his trousers before putting the shoes back on and buttoning them up. And finally, Harry smoothed out his shirt with his hands, rebuttoning them by the sleeves and collar until he looked at least a bit presentable. Not in front of Snape, no. The man would probably send him to his room, shouting behind him to fix himself up before he made a disgrace of himself. 

It was enough for the Leaky Cauldron, however. Dingy inn, dingy boy.

Harry turned around and made his way down the stairs. The creaking wood sounded louder, somehow, even though Harry could make out much laughter coming from the entrance. Well, there shouldn’t be much of a crowd, considering how this place was one of those that didn’t judge a man by the skin, as Stan put it. He wasn’t sure if he believed it. Harry chuckled, his feet touching the landing. Surely the people here couldn’t be like him.

And he was right.

The people here weren’t like him at all.

They were everything and they were more.

Harry’s mouth hung open as he walked beside the counter to the eating area where seated at  the tables were the most, well, un-normal people had ever seen. 

Men, women, children. All of them with skin tones Harry had never seen, ranging from a man paler than snow with even paler hair to a man black as the soot Harry used to clean. But not only that, there were people that wore blemishes and different colour patches on their skin, laughing along and talking to their companions as if this were normal. As if they were normal.

Harry thought Snape was admirable to not abuse him based on his skin colour, and he had never brought it up, grateful Snape was willing to eat at the same table with him while most people loathed walking on the same street as him.  But Harry had also thought Snape had some foreign descent, too, with the same  narrow eyes that some strangers on the harbour had once or twice. A man had called them Asians just as Harry passed. 

Harry didn’t ask Snape about it.

But this scene at the inn? Harry couldn’t stop staring as he walked to Tom who was behind the counter and serving a man with brown skin and clothes that were most obviously not of London, or even England.

Eyes still wide, Harry didn’t notice the man was calling for him until Tom patted his shoulder.

“What?” Harry turned, confused and a hand covering his mouth.

“You are here to pay the bill, young man?” Tom said, grinning and taking a notebook from under the counter, “Had a good rest?”

Not entirely, but Harry gave him a smile. Not a forced one. It came as natural as the bewilderment he was still experiencing, “Uh, yeah, thanks,” he said, pocketing his hands and searching for the coins in his pocket. A few things came out before that, though. The key to the safe box and the folded front page of the newspaper. In the light, Harry could now make out the newspaper’s name as the Daily Prophet and some snippets of the photograph that no doubt belonged to Sirius Black. 

“Uh, would this be enough?” Harry said, pushing the money forward. Tom counted the coins on the counter, murmuring under his breath until he took some portion back, “More than enough. How long are you going to stay, young man?”

Harry looked down, toeing the bottom of the counter, “I’m not sure. Until I earn enough from a job.”

“Ah, where you working at?”

Harry blushed, and mumbled quickly, “Haven’t found one yet.”

Tom nodded, scratching his chin and taking a pen that was stranded on the counter, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find some work in Diagon Alley. If not, you can always tend to some tables here for room and board. Pay me when you need to leave,” Tom said, and pushed the remaining of the coins to Harry, opening his book and grinning down at him, “Deal?”

Harry’s face immediately lifted, a wide smile pulling at his lips, “Really?”

“Well, long as you don’t steal,” Tom said with a chuckle and leaned on the counter, “What’s your name, young man?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, Neville’s name on his lips before he closed it again. He didn’t like the idea of lying to Tom, after his kindness.

“Harry,” he finally said, settling for a half-truth.

“Just Harry?” Tom said, lifting the pen over a page.

Snape’s warning came to mind again.

“No, uh, I’m Evans. Harry Evans,” he said beaming, and instinctively flattening his bangs, “Harry Evans.”

“Harry… Evans,” Tom repeated, writing the name down, the pen scratching the paper in rough, fast strokes, “I’ll have breakfast ready for you, Harry. You just wait on a table. Anything you can’t eat?”

Harry raised a brow, thinking of what he meant before he nodded vigorously.

“Nothing with ginger, please.”

*
Breakfast, which consisted of sausages, bread, and a cup of warm milk, Harry opened the newspaper Stan had given him and laid it out on the table he was sharing with a couple, smoothing the crinkles on the page. 

Sirius Black’s photograph glared at him, mouth open in a scream. Harry couldn’t hear him, of course, but he still had the impression that he could catch his voice in the distance, his rage echoing inside the cell he was being held in by a number of hands. 

Harry shuddered. Dropping his fork, Harry pushed his plate away and pulled the paper closer, reading along with his finger.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry confirmed today. 

“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said Minister Cornelius Fudge this morning, “and we beg the community to remain calm.” 

Fudge has been criticized by some members of the Court and High Council for informing the foreign embassies of the crisis.

 “Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, British or not. I have their assurance that they will tread carefully on the matter, including word of Black’s alliances. And let’s face it — we’re not the only ones that are in danger.” 

While it has been told that Black is carrying multiple revolvers, the community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single explosive. 

Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive. Harry didn’t think it was possible to look so dead while alive but Black, with his waxy white skin, looked just like a corpse. 

“Scary looking thing, isn’t he?” a waiter said, picking up Harry’s empty plate and mug, “That Sirius Black?”

“He murdered thirteen people?” said Harry, holding the page to the waiter, whose face on one side was terribly burnt, “just like that?”

“Oh, yes,” the waiter said with a one sided frown, the burnt side of his face deathly still, “Best to be careful outside, lad. If he did it in broad daylight, with witnesses and all, God alone knows what he’ll do next.”

And then the waiter left, squeezing himself between the tables and returned to the kitchen. 

Harry watched him disappear behind a swinging door before he turned to the page, looking for more articles to read, when the man in front of him spoke.

“I heard Black was a big supporter of You-Know-Who,” he said. Lifting his head, Harry saw a black man who was wearing a brimless, cloth cap looking down at the article and pointing at Black’s picture with a finger, “Very close to His ranks.”

Harry tilted his head and glanced back at the drawing, trying to decode what the man had said.

“You-Know-Who?” Harry repeated, turning the page over to its front, finding the title awfully hilarious, and would have laughed if not for the situation,”Uh, who’s You-Know-Who?” 

“You don’t know?” the woman beside the man asked in a monotonous voice, a hand adjusting her head wrap before continuing in the same toneless way while the man pulled on his jacket, “That’s very odd.”

Harry was beginning to think that all his life, he was kept out of a secret that he was meant to know. Irritated, he pressed his lips together and crumpled the page into uneven folds, “Well, why don’t you tell me, then?” he snapped, immediately feeling guilty when the man’s eyes widened in surprise while he stood up, reaching for some long sticks, a crescent shape on one end of each, which were leaning on the table.

“Uh, sorry, I’m really sorry,” Harry said, rubbing his neck, “I’m having a bad few days.”

“Completely understandable,” the woman said, again toneless, adjusting her blouse as well as a necklace which had two triangles intervening to make a star at its end, “I’m having a bad day myself.” 

The man chuckled and handed the sticks to her. The woman threw her legs over the bench  and took the sticks from the man. Standing up, she positioned the crescent shapes under her arms and walked around the table, so now Harry could see that she only had one foot under her green dress, making Harry blush around the ears in shame.

“He was a bad man, an evil man that hated those who weren’t him, and killed those who dared oppose him and his ideologies.”

Though Harry processed the words, he wished she wouldn’t say it as though she was talking about the weather. The man behind the woman shuddered, shaking his head with a grim frown, “A serial killer, more likely. He campaigned his ideologies, spread it around those with similar views and began a raining terror in Britain, killing coloured, disabled, and non-Christian folks.”

“I heard he killed many children, as well. Leaving them with scars on their foreheads before setting their houses ablaze. Horrific.”

Harry’s heart suddenly stopped and his mouth went dry, no longer caring if the woman’s voice was monotone. Reaching a hand, Harry touched his own forehead, the words echoing inside his head like blaring sirens. 

No, it couldn’t be. He did have a scar, and parents whose house burnt down, which led them to abandon their son (Harry’s heart gave a twisted, painful wrench), but he was alive now. He was alive. He wasn’t dead, like all those children.

“But you can be happy, lad,” the man said, readjusting his jacket with a hearty grin, “Today’s the anniversary of his death.”
“What?”

“He died thirteen years today, thanks to the Boy-Who-Lived.”

You-Know-Who, Diagon Alley, the Knight Bus, the Leaky Cauldron? And now the Boy-Who-Lived? If Harry wasn’t as shocked as he was now, he would have laughed in confusion, demanding to know who had come up with such names. As of now, however, his head was starting to hurt and a horrible wave of fear was starting to surge up his body, a painfully heavy, foul wave. 

“You can find some books in Diagon Alley, lad, I don’t doubt it,” the man said, lifting the woman’s bag from the bench, “Just look for the library and ask for a copy of Recent Local History, volume two.”

“Poor child,” the woman said, her toneless voice breaking silently and rather painfully, “Survived You-Know-Who but went missing soon after. I do hope he’s happy now, though. Happy and laughing somewhere,” turning to Harry, she gave him a swift wave, “Well, goodbye, then.”

The man nodded at Harry, and turned to follow the woman’s lead, balancing the heavy bag on his right arm. 

Harry blinked, looking down at the crumpled page in front of him. With sudden realization, he ripped it open once more, creating an ugly tear in the middle while he searched for the publishing date.

July 30, 1874. 

His heart almost thudded to a stop before pumping fast in Harry’s ears, because if that was yesterday's date, then today was July 31st. The anniversary of You-Know-Who’s and the Boy-Who-Lived’s apparent death.

It also happened to be Harry’s birthday , which he had forgotten with the events of yesterday. 

Still not believing what had happened and with far more questions than ever, Harry made a sudden turn, snatching the newspaper with a jolt and stumbled after them, almost tripping twice and bumping into various people and furniture multiple times, “Wait!”

The couple turned around, as well as some people around them. Harry ignored them, though he still felt anxious from their stares, but focused on the bewildered confusion on the man’s face, “What was his name?”

“Who’s, lad?”

“The Boy-Who-Lived!” Harry said, throwing his arms up, his faced flushed, “Who else-”

“Harry Potter,” the woman said, toneless, staring at him with hollow eyes. 
Harry’s shoulders fell, the paper floating to the floor in a defeated sort of way. 

“What?”

“The Boy-Who -Lived. His name was Harry Potter.”


*
Harry would have found it easier to focus if he hadn’t heard all of this information. And for that reason alone, he had taken to his room almost immediately to clear his mind before giving up entirely and deciding to enter Diagon Alley to find the previously mentioned book and any information on his new situation.

Walking out the door at around two in the afternoon, Harry found that he was somewhat glad Snape hadn’t disclosed much of his past. Though to be fair, he wouldn’t have believed the man if he had. It still sounded atrocious while he walked to the back of the inn which led to the Alley, a sort of lie these people had brought up. Because if he really was Harry Potter, a famous Boy-Who-Lived, why didn’t everyone else he met during these thirteen years recognize him? Why was Snape the only one to recognize him by face and not name? Shaking his head, Harry crossed the distance between him and the door, lifting his head to get a better look at it.

It wasn’t a big door, Harry thought, staring at the handle on the  dark wood. Windowless and of much better quality than the rest of the inn, spiral patterns carved along its length. Nothing remarkable. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled the handle down and pushed. 

The bright sun hit him in the eye unexpectedly, making him gasp. Squinting, Harry held up a hand to shield his face, blinking to get rid of the light that was now flashing in his vision. 

Momentarily blind, Harry was left amidst waves of noise that came from all directions. Laughter, excited talk and the general sound of the public, all with an air of a celebration. And as his vision eventually returned, Harry swore he could hear some instruments coming from the distance. 

If Harry was taken aback by what he had seen inside the Leaky Cauldron, nothing could match the surprise he had received once stepping into the busy streets of Diagon Alley. And if he hadn't heard what the couple said, he might have enjoyed it far more. 

On a narrow road squashed between rows of stalls and shops, were people of all shapes and sizes, some much, much taller than Harry, while some could only come up to his waist. Exactly like how it was inside the Leaky Cauldron, the people here also had skin colours of various tones and shades, some of which were dressed in clothes that Harry had never seen before. 

Harry took a step forward and started to make his way through the street, dodging people while trying to look for a help-wanted sign on a shop, a wide, lopsided smile on his face. He wished desperately to carve this moment into his head, to forever have this moment of absolute joy and happiness, with all its colours, sounds, and emotions. 

Harry moved through the crowd, dodging people left and right while also keeping an eye out for the library. He wasn’t really in the mood for asking anyone about it, understandably. Who would be able to approach anyone knowing they were some sort of missing idol that everyone supposedly knew? Harry didn’t care if these people here looked approachable, and would most definitely not judge him. He was going to make sure no one in Diagon Alley learned about him.

Sidestepping a few people seated in chairs with wheels (chairs with wheels!) and some other people that used the sticks the woman in the shop had, Harry finally found himself in front of a bookshop. Squinting at the name, Harry lowered his gaze to the window in defeat. Too blurry. But the writing on the glass -painted white over a red crest- spelled Flourish and Blotts. Well, he had some idea how to spell that, at least. Rubbing his hands together, Harry stepped over to the door and pushed.

The door opened into a shop, which, except for the bookshelves that reached the ceiling, was unremarkable in every way. Harry closed the door behind him, flattened his bangs and walked to the empty counter. Well, the almost empty counter. Harry could barely see the other side with the stacks of books piled on the surface. 

He could, however, make out a bell between two tall piles. Wedging his hands between them, he managed to ring it twice, almost toppling the piles when he tried to take his hand back.


A few moments later, Harry heard footsteps coming from the other side of the shop. He couldn’t see the owner, by virtue of the books and his height, but when the man spoke, he could make out the odd lisp in his voice.

“Welcome to Flourish and Blotts. How may I help you?”

“Uhm,” Harry rubbed his neck, feeling foolish about asking a bookshop owner for directions to the library, “I was wondering if you could tell me where the library is.”

“Ah, no matter, my young friend. Just turn right from here and when you see the Healer Shop, turn left and you’ll find yourself there in no time. May I ask what book you’re going to read, out of curiosity?”

“Recent Local History, volume two.”
“Ah,” the man said in a voice that sounded defeated, “Well, doing some reading to honour the day?” 

Harry licked his lips and shrugged his one shoulder, “You could say that.”

“Well, have a good day, my young friend.”

The footsteps retreated to the back of the shop, and Harry left the shop soon after, running the directions in his mind. 

The Healer shop wasn’t far. In fact, Harry found it not long after and took the left, which also led to the library in no time at all. 

But upon seeing what the library looked like, Harry couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. He was expecting something grand. Something huge. Maybe with marble and pillars and statues. But instead, the shop was a two story, red-brick building with a dingy sign that looked like it was leaning a bit too much to the left, as if a powerful wind had bent it to the point of almost collapsing. 

Harry wrinkled his nose and dragged himself to the door. 

It opened with some struggle, the bottom of the door dragging on the red carpet. Harry pushed it open with his whole weight, his back to the door and the heels of his shoes digging into the carpet. 

Harry closed it behind him with equal trouble. A drop of sweat fell down his forehead. Wiping it with his sleeve, Harry moved to the small, round counter where a woman was resting her head with multiple mugs surrounding her pool of long, black hair.

Harry avoided looking directly at the woman, and instead focused around the shop. This was a much better setting than Flourish and Blotts, with a space that looked wider than the prior shop and smelled more musty and cardboard-like than dust and old paper. 

The smell worsened as Harry stepped closer, and he realized it was coming from the empty mugs around the woman, including one that held some still, brown liquid. 

“Excuse me,” Harry said, a little over a whisper. 

The woman didn’t stir, of course, so he tried again. This time louder.

“Excuse me, Ms?”

No response. 

Harry shuffled his feet, and decided to find the history section on his own. 

He didn’t, of course. But he did find some interesting titles he would like to read, as well as sections that tempted him rather too much, specifically the one on the second floor dedicated to basic school knowledge. 

At the end, Harry came shuffling back, glaring at the woman’s head which still hadn’t moved. This was becoming rather irritating. 

Lifting his hand, Harry touched the woman’s scalp, and gave it a few pokes, “Excuse me!”

The woman’s head lifted lazily. Harry clenched his hands into fists behind him before scratching his arms with his nails, which were starting to grow rather long.

The woman finally looked up, but she might as well not have bothered, with the dark, dark bags surrounding dead, cold eyes. Gulping, Harry dropped his arms and cleared his throat, hand in front of his mouth, “Hello.”

“What do you want?”

Well, Harry could work with that.

“History section. I’m looking for Recent Local History, volume-”

“Of course you are. Second floor, far left corner, nudged between languages and geography. Now stop bothering me.”

And taking the half-empty mug, she threw it back in one gulp, a momentary smirk on her lips before her head plopped down on the table with a dull thud. 

Harry knew he wouldn’t be bothering her, again. Confused and rather freaked out, he marched up the stairs behind the round counter, wandering to the far left corner. Sure enough, the section was there, rather small, compared to the other genres in the library. 

Harry ran his fingers along the thick spines, searching for the right one before his hand landed on a tattered copy of the book. 

A satisfactory smile widened on his lips as he pulled the book out. The book wasn’t in good condition, but it was enough for Harry. He’d just have to be careful to not damage the emerald-green cover, though it wouldn't make any difference, seeing as the cover was a few days away from falling off.

Not bothering with a chair or table, Harry laid the book on the floor and swiftly turned the pages. There was a table of contents, which he let out a mighty laugh at seeing, and ran a finger down the table to finally come across what he was looking for right at the bottom. Beneath it was a list of events Harry couldn’t care about, so skipping it, he instead focused on the parts that involved him. 


1854-1865 (pg 100)

  • Lord Voldemort (also known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who and Lord Thomas Marvolo Riddle), and His and the Death Eaters’ Campaign and Reign.
  • The (Assumed) Death of You-Know-Who
  • The Potters and the Suspected Order
  • Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived

Harry closed the book. He wouldn’t be able to finish this book now, with said contents taking up almost half the book. Standing up, Harry pressed the book under his arm and marched down the stairs. 

He did try to wake the woman again, to no avail, so with some hesitation, he started to walk to the door, clutching the book with a silent promise to bring it back and left the library, rather nervous as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron.

He didn’t look anywhere else until he reached the inn, and even there he ran up the stairs without disturbing Tom. 

The path down the corridor seemed longer, somehow, as though someone had stretched it in his absence. 

When he finally reached the door, Harry plucked the keys from his pocket with shaking hands, fumbling with them while his eyes looked from one side to the other, heart thumping fast and unsteady, until the door opened and Harry dived in. He slammed the door behind him, locking it twice and leaned on the wood, breathing hard - hard and unsteady, until he was able to calm down. 

Releasing a deep breath, Harry lifted his head. The book felt heavy in his hands. Heavy, as though he was carrying a grown man and not a 300 page book. He pushed away from the door, walking to the bed briskly. 

The book laid still on his bed. Still and foreign, like it shouldn’t have been there. Harry tried to tell himself that he wasn’t stealing. That he was going to take the book back, eventually, and he was only borrowing it. It didn’t stop him from approaching it with timid hands, though. He bit the inside of his cheek while his hands ruffled the pages to where he wanted to read. 

The Potters and the Suspected Order, black and bold, blinked at him on the page, almost mocking him. All this time, Harry had begged for some sort of information about his parents, about his past, and all this time, it was written inside a published book.

Absolutely mocking.

Harry shook his head, trying to get rid of the hollow feeling in his chest. Because this book, right here, could potentially be the evidence that his parents hadn’t abandoned him at all, and died in that fire instead.

Harry wasn’t sure which option he preferred more, but when he started to read, it didn’t matter anymore.

James Potter and Lily J. Potter (née Evans)...

James and Lily. How suiting. How lovely. How just like them, to have beautiful names. 

Harry felt the tears flow down but didn’t stop them. Instead, he pulled his legs to his chest and lowered his head into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, his choking gasps making it harder to breathe. 

Harry cried. Harry cried hard. 

Because for the first time in his life, Harry Potter could finally, truly mourn for his mother and father. 

 


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