I feel like I've spent the Winter in HP-hibernation - just hoping that you will like this little short story :) Not mine, JKR is a true artist and I'm just aspiring to get reviews and followers ;P
ENJOY!
Blueberry-Muffin-Girl
I.
Cairo was nice. Everything about it had been tempting right from day one: the sun, the sand, the outlandish food, the exotic people and their even stranger way of dressing, his work and then, of course, the fact that it was miles away from home.
2 180 miles to be exact.
And oh dear Merlin, to be out of his mother's reach for the first time in his life! To be truly so far away that she would not even consider coming to a near city for a week-end to meet up with him and see how he was doing, or to covertly sneak there to spy on him. No, Cairo was far away. So far away in fact, that his mother could count herself lucky, he sent her an owl once a month. Because really, the poor things dealt with heat and sand-storm and travel across two water-ways – and the Mediterranean was littered with pirates.
Being an International Owl in Egypt was probably not exactly the best job for an owl.
There was one thing about Cairo, and Egypt… and maybe even the whole of Africa, which was unsettling. Homesickness simply had to be ignored here. Because even if you employed wizarding tactics, there was not a single English Gastronomy to be found considering that Africa had had its share of colonialism between France and England. …And the Netherlands, but that was another story entirely and not for today.
Egypt especially had worked a miracle in oppressing any English, or French, set ups within its country: it simply was not tolerated. And therefore, without a little hole-away to alleviate homesickness, the feeling of yearning for home simply had to be ignored… or alleviated by another way.
Which was why, right now, he sat in a Back-Alley Café in Edinburgh, happily burning his tongue with one of the finest Earl Grey's he had ever tasted. Spread out on the table before him, were photographs of the dig he was currently working on. Supposedly it was a temple for Bastet, the cat-goddess, and if their source could be trusted there were some ancient healing scrolls hidden in there.
Gringotts, of course, was interested in those scrolls – the first to own them could claim fees for every eye laid upon them. And the Goblins were eager to strike a bargain with the British Ministry of Magic, if they managed to pull St Mungo's into the deal as well, the better. The more people depending on the scrolls, the likelier the Ministry would give in to the demands of the Goblins.
He had never been a friend of politics. It simply did not mix well with his profession as curse-breaker. He was the one to chase down what ancient politicians had tried to obscure and hide away – he dug too deep and revealed too many secrets, no politician liked that, and if any of the people whose secrets he literally dug out would still have been alive, he would be dead a few times over now.
Setting down his Early Grey, he returned his waning concentration on the photographs. The hieroglyphs, he had determined by now, signalled a hidden entrance at the back of the temple. The general entrance had already been laid bare, but there were no protections, in comparison to this entrance.
Of course, it being the front door, so to say, there was little use of protections save for the regular, warning off for thieves, lest it would look too suspicious. There was blabbering about priestesses only, and even over the millennium the wards still held strong, however, they were no feat for five determined Curse-Breakers and had crumbled soon.
The back door was his project. And everything behind it, naturally – it would be up to him to ask for help, but knowing his pride, he would never do so. Also, he was quite anxious about the loot; his gut feeling told him that this entrance would lead him far beneath the earth… past a thousand traps and right to a treasure.
If only the migraine would leave him alone.
Vision swimming, he turned his eyes from the photographs, trying to soothe his sore head by rubbing his temples, his neck, anything to alleviate the pain. If anything, it intensified. His throat constricted uncomfortably, and he knew that any minute now, he would start dry-heaving, next thing he'd know, he'd clutch the toilet and empty anything he'd eaten. Good thing he'd had a light breakfast.
"A Blueberry-muffin and an espresso, please."
The voice cut through the singing in his ears as if it were spoken into a microphone, multiplied in sound by towers of boxes – he groaned, the sensation of sickness not abating.
And then, just as he'd been about to rise from his seat and beat a hasty retreat to the restrooms, another sensation cut in. Soft, prickling… comfortable. It started at the base of his neck, heating, intensifying, splitting as invisible hands kneaded the tension out of his shoulders and the sensation washed over his head. Warmth and comfort spread where just before sickness and pain had resided and like that, the charm worked his way down his face, his eyes, carefully kneaded around his lids, stimulating their relaxation.
Sinking into the cushioned chair, he let his shoulders fall, let the charm work, for sure as day, his fingertips tingled, as they always did when in contact with magic ever since that run-in with Malfoy Senior.
He did not know just how long he sat there, enjoying the magic washing over him, working away the migraine and soreness, the stiffness in his muscles. What he knew was that when he opened his eyes again, he felt right as rain – and Hermione Granger sat, not too far away from him, pressed into a dark and secluded nook bent over an ancient looking tome – an espresso and a blueberry-muffin seated on the table next to the book.
II.
"Enter, ye who fears not sickness, ye who feareth not the eyes of Death
–for Death is our deity, and as we pray, what we say to her is Not Today.
Enter, ye whose heart has witnessed darkness, ye who turned and walked from it
–for Dark and Light is our path and lit's the pavement with our wrath
Enter, ye whose soul is purged, whose hands are bloodied, but in peace
–for Love's our guide in this our war, and fills our intents and our cores."*
Well, for a translation of Ancient Egypt to Understandable English, it was doable, he would not receive a Nobel Price, or even an Award for Translation, but he was no Literate, he was a Curse-Breaker and Grave-Digger, that was his job and that was what he was paid and praised for.
So… entrance was only for healers – if this inscription was to be believed. Then again, these wards had never met Bill Weasley's Iron Determination. And, convinced by this little pep-talk he found himself face to face with the entrance just a few hours later. How he ended up on his ass, despite being covered in protection Charms, and his left wrist broken, he had not so much of a recollection.
(* No it's not a pretty rhyme, it's a translation of a rhyme - translations never accurately rhyme...)
III.
Blueberry-muffin and espresso. Again.
Bill quietly nursed his Earl Grey, lost in his contemplation. Meredith had promised that, now that he'd forced down the Skele-Grow, it wouldn't take more than three days until he was fine again – which soothed the Goblins. They had agreed to not pull him from his project, he was the best after all – and if he would be alright in three days again, then why go over the pain to search for another, likely less versed, Curse-Breaker? No sense at all.
That's how he found himself in the Back-Alley-Café once again, sipping his tea while he tried to remember what had gone wrong, his eyes trained on the small figure of Hermione Granger, as if looking at her would inspire him.
Everything had been going as planned – he'd taken down ward after ward, slowly baring the entrance as if he would dig away the dirt. He had hit upon the last protection layer, when his fingers had started tingling with such a vengeance it had pricked and burned. And then he was on his arse, sand in his hair and his shirt, hell even in his mouth, and his wrist aching.
Again he looked over his translation. Healers only – that much was obvious. But how was the ward still able to recognize him as something else than a healer? What distinguished a healer from a normal person?
Sunk in his thoughts, he caressed his still smarting wrist with soothing motions. He hadn't even tried to remove the bandage and wash off the sticky green ointment Meredith had smeared him with. He pulled a mien of contemplation: would the medic-witch be open to a little gallivanting in the Egyptian sun? Well… the Goblins might not be so happy about that, after all Meredith did work for St Mungo's.
And once she realized just what kind of scrolls he was about to retrieve, she would also not hesitate to hex his balls in order to confiscate the loot. So… no, Meredith was out of the equation. Back to point zero and the question: what made medics different from other people?
About to scratch the itching skin beneath his bandages, his fingers tingled and right on cue, his wrist stopped itching – stopped hurting altogether actually. He stared curtly, rotating his wrist.
"I would not do that as of yet, you don't want to aggravate it too much." – he knew that Hermione had forsaken her solitary nook then. He looked up meeting chocolate brown eyes. "If you don't trouble it today, you'll be back at work tomorrow."
And then she left.
IV.
He came back to the Café the next day, curious about the petite woman whose only words to him, in five years – imagine that - had been advice on his injured hand.
Since the end of the war, he'd seen neither hide nor hair of her, and after a year of trying to mend things, Ginny's letters had slowly shortened, no information on Hermione, only Harry and Ron, who still lived at the Burrow, according to Molly's Weekly Weasley News Letter. Hermione, however, had apparently vanished from sight.
And had somehow reappeared in a Back-Alley Café in Edinburgh, munching her Blueberry-muffin and drinking her black coffee.
Still as a statue, he watched as she carefully plucked the muffin apart, with deliberate gentleness in her fingers. There was a hint decadence in her expression whenever she twisted her wrist gently to snatch the crumb of muffin she was holding captive between three fingers with her plump lips and push it into her mouth, not even chewing from the looks of it. Then again the muffin did appear fluffy and light enough to be squished against the roof of her mouth. She ate her muffin piece by piece, never taking a bite, but always tearing it apart with the loveliest face of innocence and carelessness that made it almost a seduction in its own.
Which, Bill realized, was really stupid, because since when could eating be counted as sexy.
Except, apparently, when the witch concerned was Hermione Granger, and when one Bill Weasley fell for the artless kind of seduction.
As he stood, collecting all his photos and making them disappear into a brown envelope which promptly made its way into his small, leathery duffle-bag, his only steady companion, he knew that there was only one way to ascertain his musings about the young witch – and it had to be done the Gryffindor way: frontal attack.
V.
"I waited for you.", she said by way of greeting – it nearly flummoxed him. Nearly, he was a Curse-Breaker after all and unforeseeable things made his money.
"That so?", he answered nonchalantly, taking his seat opposite of her, depositing his tea next to her empty espresso cup.
"Placed bets with myself. Luckily that means no money lost, sadly though it's a testament to how fucking solitary I have become in three years."
There was, apparently, a desire for her to rant and whine, but she reigned it in, before it could develop its full potential. He had, nevertheless, noticed – and wasn't one to let go of things easily.
"What, Weasley and Potter company not good enough for you?"
He'd angered her – he realized too late; she was good at masking her true face until it was too late. Specks of red appeared on her cheeks, her jaw clenched and he could see the twitch of her shoulder as she retained her instinct to go for her wand and hex him six ways from Sunday.
"Just because you decided to drop off the English surface does not mean that life there does not go on, Weasley." He promptly asked himself if she'd, by any chance, hung around Draco Malfoy for her to have perfected the sneer so perfectly – then again, he couldn't really say she hadn't had it before, he'd never hung around long enough to get a clear picture of her. "And if you have quite finished with forcing your presence unto me, I will take my leave." She was packed, before he could even utter a syllable. "Because believe it or not, some people actually dedicate their life to helping instead of stealing."
And with a breath of air, lemony-scented, she was gone.
VI.
Egypt was hot.
And after having had years to acclimatize to the African weather and its caprices, him saying that meant something. Of course, he was still English, but that did not mean that he wasn't tanned as hell and more tolerant of the weather swings than even most of the local populace.
But, Honoured Ra, the Great Gas Ball was bearing down on the earth as if it wished to burn it to a crisp.
Bill had patiently set up camp in front of the entrance, staring at the hieroglyphs from his position on the dunes. His fingers tingled relentlessly and, infuriatingly enough, all he could think of was Hermione Granger. The way her eyes had turned from curious to hurt and angry in the flash of a second, her perfume that still lingered in his nose and her curvy little figure hurrying away from him.
Having given her parting words some thought, he'd come to the conclusion that she was obviously aware of what he was currently working on and, very obviously, did not agree on it. He pulled a face – politics and Curse-breaking did not mix, but apparently Hermione had made politics her business. Or she was just a little opinionated hellion.
If memory served right, she'd founded S.P.E.W. when still at Hogwarts… Ron had raved about it and belittled it at every turn. It would not surprise the oldest Weasley child if the younger witch had simply made these politics her business, despite them originally not being hers. It would serve him right to run into her knife like that, careless vagabond that he was.
Slowly he stood, nearing the entrance – there was something he'd meant to try: something he'd learned long ago and which, surprisingly, was an international means of finding answers. It was ancient – so ancient that it was international and world-widely acknowledged.
Leaving his wand behind, he pressed his body as close to the entrance as he dared, hoping the contact would be enough. "Dimitte me somniare." And before he could truly and well finish the spell, he felt weariness befall him.
VII.
Well, falling asleep in the sun had certainly not been his best idea, he conceded when he realized that, indeed, his spell had worked. In front of him, he could see the Edinburgh Café on a rainy day. There was Asparagus on this week's menu, and the toast was off by half. He entered without taking too long to think.
Taking his usual seat, he waited, looking out for something.
And then, there it was – he could not believe he hadn't seen in before, if he wouldn't have known that this was an entirely different sphere and had therefore entirely different modus operandi. It was before him now, because that's what he needed to see.
Deviously the muffin sat atop his table.
"You know… angering her was probably the dumbest thing you've done in a while."
Speaking muffin – of course. He did not even examine the reasons why he was sitting vis-à-vis a talking muffin. This was another sphere: and the muggles weren't exactly wrong when they said Other countries, other customs. The only difference here was that it was actually a completely different level of awareness.
"I am aware. But I also didn't know she'd react like that." He shot back. The muffin developed two Blueberry eyes and lifted its top from the wrapping in an imitation of a mouth, the next time it spoke.
"You did not even wait until the third phrase to insult her, you baboon; you invited anger. Merlin knows why."
The muffin sounded surprisingly like his mother when she was annoyed with him. He suppressed the quirk of his lips: Muffin Mama.
"I heard that." The muffin grouched. "And just so you know, young man, I won't tolerate your non-sense. And while we're at it: where the hell are your manners? You see the girl for the first time in years and you don't even possess the courtesy to greet her properly? What have you been raised to?"
He sat in silence. Muffin Mama was right… of course, Mum was always right.
"I can still hear you, you know." The muffin sniped. "And I'm fairly certain that is no way to treat a spirit you called yourself."
True – again. But Muffin Mama seemed to be stuck. "I am sorry."
"Yeah well, you don't need to apologize to me. I've known you for thirty-four years now and we've had run-ins before. But this time, boy, I must admit you've done a number."
He pulled a face. "Can we get past the attempt to guilt-trip me and move on to constructive advices on how to make it up to the girl?"
"Girl?", the muffin asked non-plussed. "Girl?!", he tried again. "MAN! Open your eyes! Can you truly tell me your eyes did not see the woman she had turned into?!"
And right on cue there appeared Hermione, standing next to his table, hands stemmed into her hips in a surprisingly non-threatening way. She only shook her head
"Umm…"
Hermione snorted, suppressing a giggle. "Smooth, Weasley, smooth." And sat down opposite of him. "You know, there's a fairly simple way to make it up to me: and you know it too." And then she simply started to pluck apart the now motionless muffin.
VII.
The next time he entered the Café, Hermione was, unsurprisingly, not seen. And that was alright for him, somewhat. Of course it kind of crossed his plans for the younger witch, but he decided that his plan was still worth a shot.
"An espresso, a blueberry-muffin and a cup of Earl Grey.", he ordered silently, observing the empty nook where Hermione usually sat. His fingers tingled – he smirked. Accepting his orders, he swaggered over to it, passed the Invisible Charms and sat down opposite of Hermione. She eyed him warily.
"Hello, Hermione.", he said, pushing the espresso and the muffin towards her. "I haven't seen you in a long while, how do you do?"
There was an awkward pause in which the woman decided whether to accept his apology and grasp the offered olive-branch, or whether she would simply let him stew longer and leave.
"Busy.", she finally answered, pulling the espresso closer to her. "My boss makes me go crazy on her better days and doesn't even let me enter the Department on her worse days."
"So you decided to act like the part Austrian you are and turned the Café into your living room?"
For a second she did not answer – then she shrugged, taking a sip of her beverage. "I don't even want to know how you know – but when she does not let me into my department, I activate my beeper and return here."
"Ginny has a loose mouth, you should know. She couldn't keep the secret of your newest acquisition to herself, when she found out that there was something under your skin." He sipped his tea, burning his tongue.
"You could cast a charm, you know." The witch had observed his momentary mien of discomfort and had deducted correctly. "Unless you work on developing a camel's tongue."
He shrugged. "Not working on a camel's tongue, but it does grant some familiarity – I don't know. Why did you even get it, by the way? I meant to ask ever since I knew."
She smirked. "Mum is a royal descendant; I adore my roots and could simply not find it in me to turn my back on them completely."
"So it's an admission to your background?"
"My muggle background, yes. I chose the wizarding world, but that doesn't mean I completely turned my back on everything that makes me."
He nodded in understanding, pushing his palm against his left pectoral, where the Weasley coat of arms was forever etched under his skin. "I know where you come from."
Hermione took another sip of her espresso, effectively downing it, closing her tome simultaneously. "So, what did you originally want to confront me about?"
Bill took a deep breath – here went nothing.
VIII.
The Goblins wanted his arse – he was sure of it. Somehow knowledge of his fraternization with Hermione had leaked its way up to Rogok who was not happy about the whole thing. But Bill knew how to play his cards – he hadn't been working with Goblins since his graduation for nothing.
If he was quite honest, working for the Goblins, while nice and financially stable, was not what it once had been. Yes, they had their greedy tendencies, but he could live with them.
What he had difficulties with, was the way they continuously lowered his wage – hoping to push into accepting a post as lecturer – while sending him on increasingly dangerous missions that required his all. Not only that, but they had also started to view him as their property, unwilling to let him have a say in his time-table, the people he wanted to see regularly and now, apparently, also the more private aspects of his life.
"If you need to find a mate then do so out of business."
Rogok had never been one to beat around the bush. But this was certainly the icing on the cake… Since when was it of any concern to them who he saw and who not? And why was he actually working on helping them forcing the ministry to agree to their selfish demands? Yes, yes he was all for equality of creatures and wizards, but this… well, this was certainly not the best way to deal with things.
"You know,", Hermione said one afternoon, "I really hate to say it because it means I no longer have a monopoly on my own pity, but your work sucks even more than mine."
Since then he worked on a plan to extract himself from work at Gringotts, taking the scrolls with him and taking Hermione with him in the process – he was a Curse Breaker, he was used to thinking outside of the box, surely if anyone could work out something, it was him.
IX.
"Good-evening, Mister Weasley."
He was shell-shocked to see a blonde witch in the place where Hermione normally sat. She was familiar, but he'd never been good with names.
"Good-evening." He said, taking his seat and placing Hermione's spoils next to his tea, casting a Stasis Charm over them. "How can I help you?"
The blonde woman smiled dreamily. "I couldn't help but overhear, by chance mind you, that you were in a somewhat… difficult situation."
He quirked his eyebrow. Had she been listening in on his and Hermione's conversations? How was that even possible through all the wards they'd set? Unless…
"I have been working on the first Magical Museum in Great Britain… and I could need a Department Head. Someone with experience, who knows his ways around digs… and curses."
Well, she cut straight to the topic didn't she? "Well… how did you come up with me, Miss…"
"Lovegood", she breathed. "Luna Lovegood. Hermione is a school-friend of mine. We had some problems at the start, but that sorted itself out soon after the … well, the incident. She came to me the other evening and proposed talking to you."
He hadn't known that Hermione could be such a string-puller.
X.
The next time he saw her, she beamed at him. It was so foreign a look on her that he nearly stopped dead in his tracks to take in the picture of loveliness – his heart jumped, for god's sake!
"I heard some news from an old friend.", she said by way of greeting, smiling slyly.
"And I heard of a woman who pulled strings for people she hardly knows.", he returned, taking his usual seat opposite of her – she shrugged.
"You needed a way out, I had an idea, it was worth a shot. So… now that we work for the same employer, I can finally get it off my chest: I have the answer to your ultimate question."
He raised his eyebrows over his mug of tea, burning his tongue and his throat; she didn't even say a thing, she only shook her head. "How healers were different from other people?" Bill nodded, eager to finally find the answer.
"The Hippocratic Oath."
XI.
And that was it. No sooner had he switched sides did his life look up. The tomb could be entered without further ado when he held Hermione's hand, the scrolls were retrieved, handed over to Miss Luna Lovegood and like that he had switched employment.
Gringotts raged, tried to sue him, but short of admitting their attempt of bribery to push their own demands through, nothing could help them – and even if they would admit it, there would be hell to pay. Wisely they kept silent.
XII.
"She still throws you out?", Bill asked when he found her again in their Café, table littered with documents of his next dig. Hermione pulled a face.
"I think of dropping my job, but I have unfortunately no idea where to go instead."
Clearing half of the table, he allowed her space for her thick tome as well as her usual treats. Carefully he took her in. She was tired if the bags underneath her eyes were any indication, her fingers were too slender to be a sign of complete health and yet, there were curves in the right places. He could not remember Hermione from when she was younger when he looked at this older version.
Back then she'd been a walking stick, no curves to speak of, an untameable mass of curls atop her head.
Now though she was… perfect. A woman in all her rights. A healthy amount of breasts, thick thighs, a gentle dip where her waist was, a nice plump arse that he loved to watch when she walked, all wrapped up in petite-ness and topped with chocolate brown curls. Ensnaring and bewitching – that was what she was.
"Are there alternatives?"
The minute hesitation in her answer told everything. "Freelancing." She admitted finally; obviously she had given it some thought, but had put it off – Lord knew why.
"And why do you not?"
"Uncertain financials, mostly." She replied. "I would love to go and hop from project to project, as I please – but then, I don't know who would take me and what kind of projects I would be offered. I'm young and in my field of expertise, that is not exactly a bonus."
Indeed – researchers were respected as they aged.
"What if I told you that… well, my translators have a few… troubles with the texts we recovered in Memphis?"
She did not deign that with an answer, and closed her book instead, pushing it towards him. The title said it all. "What if I told you that… well, your translators are infiltrated by a spy of my boss, they give her copies, she hands them to me to translate in a day. If I don't manage, I may as well hand in my resignation."
That was pure, unadulterated slavery. Hermione was worth no more than a house-elf, apparently. Such a waste of that exhilarating mind.
"Well," he started, "if you are translating it anyway, only to have Miss Gordon collect the laurels then why not simply work with me instead. I'm a little ahead of my team and could use a healer's eyes for my translations, I have no idea what they are talking about."
XIII.
She spent her afternoons ensconced in her nook with him at her side, pouring over the papyrus scrolls, her evenings at his flat, being cooked for. Bill loved to cook for her – she was surprisingly thankful for every crumb of attention he offered her.
Sadly though it's a testament to how fucking solitary I have become in three years. – He remembered her saying to him on their first meeting.
He did not know yet what had happened to her and the rest of his family, Harry included, but he did not dare ask either. All he knew was that it had created a rift between them, too great to be mended – and thus, Hermione had plunged head-first into work. And had come up with a crappy job and no friends to speak of.
Luna was the only one who'd stayed at her side, and even his employer would not say what had happened. Hermione never mentioned it. He died of curiosity, but cleverly shut his mouth.
It was safe to say, hence, that within the short time of three weeks, he'd made a new friend. A beautiful friend… a friend he wouldn't mind seeing naked… in his bed… under him… moaning. Frustrated he stirred the Cream Soup.
Would she ever see him like that? Could she? Or would it be taking advantage of her loneliness if he made a move on her now? And there was still that unresolved mystery about Hermione's separation from her former friends.
"Dinner is ready!", he called from his kitchen, waiting for the answering sound through the door to his living room. A second later the witch appeared, dressed in his boxers and one of Charlie's Quidditch shirts. Maybe he'd have to thank Tefnut one of these days for the downright storm she'd had raging just as Hermione set foot outside of the Café to make her way to his flat. She'd been drenched by the time she'd reached his abode, only five minutes away from the Back-Alley – not a distance worth Apparating, which she would have deemed lazy. Being a good host, he'd offered her something dry to change into; and she looked ridiculously good in his shorts and Charlie's shirt.
"I heard the word dinner.", she smiled – it was a nice sight, and as of late he got to see it more often.
"Indeed. Sit down, soup will be there in a sec."
When she ate, he was busy not comprehending the way he gravitated towards her. She had been Ron's at one point, hadn't she? Shouldn't that be a reason to stay away from her? Why did it not bother him? Why did he want more?
XIV.
The day they finalized their translation, Hermione stood behind the stove. Bill had absolutely no say in that matter – and strangely enough, it did not bother him.
Instead, as she bustled in his homey kitchen, he watched her, comforted by the view she presented. Her mass of hair was pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, a hair pin securing it in place. She was wearing a dress – for the memorable occasion – black, with small white dots, a black cardigan and dark, though see-through stockings. She'd worn red half-boots with it, adding colour to the ensemble that made it impossible to not look after her.
And right now, she danced veritably through his kitchen, singing a song that he'd never heard, but unsure whether she made it up or he'd really simply never heard of it before – his taste in music wasn't too developed (reduced to the wizarding wireless actually).
Cross your fingers, hold your toes
We're all gonna die when the building blows
And what kind of text was that anyway?
Still, watching her sway her hips in rhythm, form the syllables with her plump lips, Bill couldn't help but think that it was the most entrancing thing he'd ever heard.
There WILL be several chapters so if you're hooked, keep tuned and leave Reviews! And cookie for the one who finds the hidden Cameo of a nearly everyone's favourite in the chapter ;P
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