Disclaimer: I don't own many of the character names or many of the place names. Let's make this simpler, actually: anything you find familiar? Not mine. But I completely own the plot, the situations, and some of the random names thrown in here.
Summary: AU/AU. Harry Potter is looking for The Heart's Desire. But it's a little difficult to do that when Ron's a droid with a superiority complex, Luna's accidentally given herself an extra limb, the Galactic Aurors are trying to hunt him down, and—worst of all—there's Hermione, a nuisance Harry really can't afford to put up with…
Author's Note (A/N): I fully intend to finish "Old Sins" soon. The explanation for why I haven't yet posted anything more is a bit of a spoiler for Book 7, so it's at the very bottom of this page.
Right. So this story will be about five or six chapters, and will be a little… er… odd. I'm writing this because one of my best friends asked me to. She wanted me to write—and I quote—"something different and funny, involving outer space and Harry as a pirate on the run from the law".
Ahem.
The more I thought about it, the more these utterly random ideas flickered into my head, and out of that loose and rather… er… bizarre outline, came… this. I've tried keeping everyone in character—essentially, anyway—wherever I could, but given the situations I've had to put them into, that's proven downright impossible in some places.
This really is completely different from anything I've ever written before, so please review and let me know what you think.
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His Heart's Desire
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Chapter One
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If someone had asked Hermione Jane Granger what her heart's desire was, she would have had a hard time answering them. She did, however, know what it most certainly was not—she had no desire whatsoever to be on Garvage, the Grunge planet of the Galaxy.
Unfortunately, that was precisely where she was.
Scowling to herself, Hermione marched across the smoky Garvage pub towards the bar, her eyes fixed on the suspect bottles of liquids with disfavor. Normally, she thought all forms of intoxication were beneath her (except for Butterbeer, which was all right in moderation), but considering the nightmare the past couple of days had been, she decided that she needed something strong and hopefully numbing.
Usually, when she felt this way, chewing gum had come to distract her quite well, but ever since Bertie Botts had stopped producing the Booty-Fruity Flavor ("keep post-sex breath fresh"), she'd gone off gum.
In her line of work, she had discovered, she always functioned best when her sliver of a moral conscience was dulled and couldn't bother her.
"Yeah?" asked the barman, eyeing her speculatively.
Hermione had gotten stares like that before. She wasn't strictly beautiful, but she had noticed that sometimes, people were wont to take an interest in her. When it bothered her (as it did now), she just used her spiked bracelets. In lieu of something more powerful—like, say, a wand, for example—they did quite well. She flipped a tiny switch on the corner of one of these bracelets on either wrist, and a shining bolt of electricity crackled between the pair.
It usually worked at putting people off. People, Hermione had realized, were often afraid of young women who could pack a punch.
Like this barman. He took a step back, narrowed his eyes, and said more brusquely: "D'you want something?"
"Yes, actually," said Hermione, almost scrupulously polite, high stress notwithstanding "Do you think you could get me a Positive Banana Hammer? Large. It's been a long day."
The barman turned away. "Right," he said gruffly, his back to her.
Hermione idly waited for her drink, tossing a Knut onto the top of the counter. She looked around the smoky little room, at the wide screen on the wall playing back a 3-D hologram film from the 2050s or something, featuring now-dead superstar Mynah Hyena. There was a red-haired boy sitting on the couch in the corner of the room and playing Nintendo 2074, while someone else appeared to have come for a drink dressed up like Count Dracula (a figment of morbid imaginations from Galactic War-zone Earth).
The pub door opened, and a gust of red sand came in with the cold air. Only on Garvage, thought Hermione bitterly, could you have such brutally dry weather across the sandy red dunes and an icily cold wind. She probably shouldn't have expected anything less, though, considering Garvage was a good million or so light-years from the Sun.
Oooh… she thought. A young man had walked in, and she straightened up slightly, watching him as he slammed the door behind him. He was tallish and thin, with a scar shaped like a lightning-bolt on his forehead. His mouth was set hard in a face that was both weather-beaten and weirdly fanciable. His short hair was untidy, and his hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. The telltale outline of a sophisticated Deflector Handgun was just faintly visible, tucked into his belt under the frayed shirt he wore. Hermione suspected he could have hidden the weapon if he wanted to, but he obviously didn't want anyone playing games with him.
Even across the pub, she could see that his thickly lashed eyes, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, were a vivid green. His sharp, slightly humorous stare swept the room quickly before coming to rest on her. Without another word, the young man began to move, and he came to stand beside her at the bar.
"Hermione Granger?" he asked.
Hermione rolled her eyes inwardly. "You already knew that," she said with a mixture of scorn and patient tolerance, rather like one might behave towards a cute yet dull child. "We communicated over the TeleCom, remember?"
He smiled. "I thought that enhanced the whole mystery bit."
"Very adventurous of you," said Hermione in a cool voice.
At that moment, the barman dropped her Positive Banana Hammer down on the counter, and gave the young man a rudely expectant look.
Hermione asked: "Are you going to have a drink?" He was probably addicted to Firewhiskeys or something equally awful, she thought critically and then felt slightly ashamed of herself. He had been polite enough to her, and there was no reason for her to judge him unfairly.
He nodded and turned towards the barman. "A Glum Orange Harlot," he said calmly. "And leave out the cherry."
"Harlots don't come with cherries," said the barman nastily, "Only the Excitable Virgins do."
"Then there's no problem here, is there?" said the man, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. He looked across at Hermione, and said, with the air of somebody who wants to be anywhere but exactly where he is: "Er… yeah… so do you want to get this over with or not?"
"Excuse me, but you asked me to come here, remember?" said Hermione waspishly, immediately taking offence to his façade of cool confidence, "I didn't want to come to Garvage! Look, who are you anyway?"
His eyes briefly lit with a grin. "Harry Potter, businessman."
"Oh!" Hermione choked on her drink. "You're certainly that!"
He grinned.
"More specifically a kidnapper!"
A sudden hush fell over the room. It was common knowledge in Garvage that to eavesdrop on somebody else's conversation was morally, ethically and legally acceptable. It was, after all, the best way to pick up news or gossip that could end in a large pot of gold later on. Take the example of Explorer Willy Widdershins, who talked to his best friend in a Garvage pub about the Crystal Cave he had discovered, only to wind up dead the next day while bits of shattered Crystal were being sold all over the Galaxy.
It was therefore unsurprising that the moment the unsavory occupants of the pub heard the word 'kidnapper', they stopped what they were doing and listened keenly to gather all the information.
Neither Harry Potter nor Hermione Granger seemed aware of the attention they now received. Hermione appeared flushed with righteous indignation and rage (and who could blame her?), while Harry was… well, to an onlooker, it was very hard to tell what Harry was. In fact, had people not suspected better, it would have looked like a typical Lover's Spat.
"I want my son back," said Hermione coldly, and she looked like a very young mother indeed. "And I demand that you hand him over to me."
"Yes, indeed," said Harry, "Because I make my money by politely obliging all the anxious parents who ask the exact same thing of me. Honestly, Granger, use your brains! You give me the gold and silver, and I'll give you your little Sweet Pea."
Hermione made a spluttering sound. "You have no right—I could turn you in to the Aurors—"
"Yes, yes, and spend the rest of your life scouring space for your son, who would probably be so old by the time you find him that if you recognized him, you could make a fortune off writing books about Mother's Instincts."
"Or I could shove a nasty little Braindigger into your foul head and let it suck every last bit of information out for me—and then I could turn you in!"
Harry shuddered slightly. He had never enjoyed Legilimency, and Braindiggers were a particularly new and noxious form of accomplishing this art. "Right little spitfire, aren't you?" he said to Hermione, looking disconcerted. "Look, there's no need to make this so insanely complicated. All you have to do is give me the two thousand Galleons I asked for, and I'll have your son back in your arms before you can say 'wretched blackguard'."
"Does that mean he's close by?"
"In space, Hermione, anything's close by if you've got the right ship!"
For a long moment, Hermione studied Harry, clearly unaware of the dozen or so pairs of eyes watching her with bated breath. Her obliviousness to their scrutiny was further enhanced by the way she flicked the switch on her bracelet on and off, allowing the electricity to crackle ominously. The Deflector Handgun sat idly in Harry's hand. The two stared at each other, each with their own equally intimidating weapon at the ready, each looking equally accustomed to using them.
People in the room later described the scene as distinctly apocalyptic. "Battle of the Titans sort of thing," they claimed to the Galactic Aurors, even though most of them had no idea who the Titans were.
Finally, Hermione said in a voice that vibrated with venom: "We'll go outside, slowly, Mr. Potter. Then you'll bring my son to me. If you do it without trying anything funny, I'll give you a hundred Galleons. Otherwise, we have no agreement. And, I assure you, you don't want to cross me."
"No, I don't think I do," Harry remarked, watching her closely but with an unmistakable hint of amusement. "But do you honestly think my Deflector won't keep your little toys at bay?"
Hermione snapped her wrists upwards and together. A flash of electricity, charged from the friction between the bracelets, shot out and Harry leapt back, narrowly avoiding its dangerous jump. His brow contracted, and he no longer looked amused. In fact, in that moment, Harry Potter looked decidedly dangerous. The pub was cloaked in a sweaty sheen of tension.
Harry pointed his Deflector Handgun at Hermione. "I'd like the money, Granger, or you'll make me do something I really don't like doing."
"Now, really!" said a bearded gentleman sitting nearby. He got to his feet and looked very angry. Both Harry and Hermione stared at him. "This is really no way to treat a lady, my good sir! I demand you apologize and settle this matter civilly. You can't butcher a young woman in a pub!"
"Fine," grinned Harry, so unaffected he looked almost bored, "We'll take it outside."
"Apologize, sir!" roared the gentleman.
Hermione turned on him, looking upset. "Please don't get involved. I don't want anyone else to get hurt!"
"But, my dear young lady—"
Perceiving that she would have to do something drastic to make sure this poor, well-meaning man didn't get hurt in the crossfire, Hermione feigned a furious approach. "Do you think I can't take care of myself?" she said with false rage. "That I can't cope with this on my own? Stop interfering, would you?"
"The nerve – " the outraged gentleman took a step forward.
Harry turned the gun on him, and fired. A jet of red light hit the gentleman in the shoulder and, with a grunt, he keeled right over. He was Stunned. Hermione turned, aghast (but secretly relieved and admiring that Harry had refused to kill him), and she leapt at Harry, throwing a fierce punch in the vague direction of his jaw. The Positive Banana Hammer fell to the floor, spiraling slowly, and made contact with a shattering crash. The entire pub seemed to take this as their cue.
As is expected of such affairs, absolute pandemonium naturally ensued.
Human/alien nature is fairly simple (have said eminent psychologists). It is apparently physiologically impossible for somebody to watch a violently physical interchange taking place and not get involved in some way or shape or form. For once, psychologists may have been right.
There was soon an all-out brawl in the middle of the bar, from whence the odd fist or leg could be discerned. There were shouts of "blast" or "ouch" or "let me out of here" or (the general favorite) "What's that hard thing poking into my ribs?" The irate barman leaned against the counter with a Toilet Trainer whiskey and looked mildly interested by the proceedings. Speed Stunners flashed across the room at intervals, and the odd person fell limply to the ground. Mynah Hyena continued expostulating on the wide screen. And, completely unseen by anybody, two people strolled out of the bar as if absolutely nothing had happened.
They disappeared fairly quickly into a dusty alley, some distance away, in the direction of the outskirts of the sand-strewn Garvagin city.
Harry Potter and Hermione Granger turned to look at each other. Hermione slowly flipped off the switch on her bracelets, and Harry slid the Deflector Handgun back into his jeans pocket. Then he began to laugh, and after a moment of trying to stare at him in dignified, disapproving silence, Hermione allowed herself a reluctant grin.
"Sweet Pea?" she demanded incredulously. "You named my imaginary son Sweet Pea?"
"Well," said Harry, chuckling, "That was certainly dramatic."
Hermione recovered from her brief stint with mirth, and scowled at him. "You owe me more than you can probably count for that, Harry Potter. The whole getting-caught-in-a-brawl thing was not part of the original arrangement."
"I pulled you out of it, didn't I? What's the problem?"
"Oh, did you, indeed? You'd still be in there if my Electro-Bracelets hadn't shocked that beastly giant into letting you go at the critical moment."
"Oh, really – "
"Tell me again, Harry," said a third, slightly mechanical voice from the top of the alley, "Where in the bloody Galaxy did you come across her?"
"I found her in the Immoral, Unethical and Illegal Classifieds," said Harry, turning his head to look at the new arrival. "How the bloody hell did you manage to get out of there without a scratch on you, Ron?"
Hermione watched the young man, about hers and Harry's age, walking down the alley towards them. He looked like your ordinary redheaded, freckled, harmless boy. Then, as he approached them, he appeared to shimmer like a ripple in water. Hermione blinked. The next thing she knew, she was looking at a humanoid droid with flashing blue eyes and a rather unsettlingly permanent frown on his metallic mouth. His voice, too, seemed to have been programmed into a tone that always bordered slightly on rude.
"Hello," he mumbled, "It's nice to meet you. I've never seen anyone keep Harry on his toes like that before. Bloody brilliant, I'd say. I really like the Electro-Bracelets, too. They're very rare on Hogwarts, where we come from."
"Morphodroid," said Hermione with a deep fascination for all things unusual and intellectually programmed. She looked at Harry wryly, shaking her head, "I should have known that harmless young man with his GameBoy was too good to be true."
"This is Ron Weasley," said Harry, "Originally known as Alpha Four-Eighty. And Ron—Hermione Granger, our hired help."
Hermione glared at him. "I hope, after all that, that Ron was productive."
"Well," said Ron earnestly, "You were both very effective at diverting everybody, including the distinguished old man who happened to be carrying the secret blueprints of Planet Aberforth's forthcoming castle… on this very disk. He didn't even notice when I lightly took it out of his pocket. It was very suave work, if I do say so myself."
"Do all morphodroids tend to be this conceited?" asked Hermione, smiling in spite of herself.
Harry laughed. "Ron's one of a kind."
"I'm special," said the droid.
"So special that most things go right over his head," said Harry in an undertone, "Sarcasm, for example."
Ron demonstrated the truth of this by looking up, apparently expecting something literal to be going over his head. Hermione watched him with amused compassion—after all, it had to be quite the job working for a man as awful as Harry Potter.
Ron then pressed a button on his GameBoy (an archaic tool) and ejected a small, square, plastic hologram disk. Harry took it, and grinned. "It's about time I got my hands on this," he remarked. "The only thing that ever took me so long was this one search I went on for a Dark Lord's Horcruxes. Weird, that was. Lockets and snakes and temperamental old megalomaniacs. Anyway, this disk ought to be worth at least ten thousand Galleons from the Professor of Dumbledore. He's been dying to build a better palace than any on Aberforth for years."
"Some people call that plagiarism or copyright violation," said Hermione with a studied mixture of disapproval and nonchalance.
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Are any of those people here?"
"Not if they get their money. I don't live on weeds, you know. I have to survive somehow, so don't even think about getting out of paying me, you—you pirate."
Grinning, Harry said: "Ron?"
Ron snapped open a compartment in his chest. From within, he extracted and counted out ten crisp paper notes. "A Gringotts voucher for a thousand Galleons," he said happily, "Acceptable at any Gringotts Bank."
"And you'll get the rest of the four thousand Galleons after we're paid by the Professor of Dumbledore, as agreed during our last conversation over TeleCom," said Harry to Hermione. "We'll send it to you via confidential Express Floo."
Hermione looked amused. Harry had a sudden flicker of foreboding; in Hermione Granger, he discovered, he had finally met somebody far cleverer than he was. "You must honestly think I'm stupid, Harry," said Hermione tartly, "Young I may be, but I've been around long enough to know most of the tricks in this wretched game. I'm coming with you to Dumbledore and I'll take my money when we get it there. I don't trust you to mail me three thousand Galleons by Express Floo, which, by the way, is corrupt and inefficient."
"I hired you for three hours, Hermione. Your work here is done."
"Unfortunately, dear Harry, that also means I am no longer hired by you. I'm a freelance con-artist, remember? If I want to go to Dumbledore, I can bleeding well go there. Are we understood?"
"I don't like her," said Ron with decision.
"Damned hell," said Harry, looking back at the droid, "I've really opened a can of worms with this one, haven't I?"
There could have been no doubt that Hermione had some form of response on the tip of her tongue, as being lost for words was unlikely in her. Sadly, however, this undoubtedly edifying piece of insult was not destined for her companions' ears. At that precise moment, they all heard the blaring and echoing sound of Garvagin Transmission:
"ATTENTION GALACTIC AURORS AND GARVAGIN CITIZENS!" It bellowed vociferously, sounding quite agitated. "Wanted: two thieves, male and female, by alleged names of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger! Possibly accompanied by a third, male with a fetish for Nintendo 2074! Suspects are dangerous and highly unstable! Chances are, you might find them attacking each other. Disk in their possession must be recovered at once! DID YOU HEAR ME?"
A ringing silence followed the final question, which Hermione personally thought was a ridiculous one, because only someone absolutely deaf and outside a radius of twenty miles could have missed a word of that. She frowned.
Then she turned to look at Harry. "Weren't you just saying something about a can of worms?"
"Bloody hell," said Harry succinctly.
Hermione raised one eyebrow. "Oh, quite."
"I didn't expect them to discover the loss of the disk so quickly. I s'pose we're going to have to get out of here as quickly as we can, Ron. You and I better get on our way to Dumbledore right away."
"Excuse me," said Hermione indignantly, "But I'm coming with you."
Harry eyed her. "What for? You'd only be a nuisance."
"Because you're the reason I'm now a wanted woman on Garvage! You owe it to me to get me safely away from this wretched planet!"
Moral obligations did not seem to be a familiar consideration for Harry Potter. However, his schoolteachers had once told him he had a great deal of 'moral fibre' (he just, apparently, chose not to use it). So, after a moment's reflection in the shadowy alley of nighttime Garvage, Harry finally said: "All right, I suppose you could come along if you just stay out of our way. However, there's the question of how we're going to get out of here."
"Well, you're a pirate," Hermione pointed out, rolling her eyes, "Don't you have a ship?"
"Actually, he does," said Ron, in what he no doubt felt was a helpful tone of voice, "It's one of the fastest and most indestructible in the Galaxy! The Dirty Deed. It's at the spaceport about half a mile away."
Harry sighed. "Ron, make a mental note to remind me to disable your free-speech functions one of these days, yeah? Yes, all right," he said, addressing this now to Hermione, "I have a ship. We can get there in half an hour on foot in this cold and dust, or we could steal a taxi and get there in just a few minutes."
"Taxi," said Hermione, for once ignoring the law. "We're already fugitives. A little taxi couldn't hurt anybody!"
As it turned out, it had hurting potential. The only hovertaxi within the vicinity was a 30-foot long truck with huge headlights and a loud engine.
Resigning themselves to the inevitable, Hermione stole upon the driver, who was sleeping a drunken man's sleep in the driver's seat. Using a Speed Stunner extracted from Ron's inner compartment (the droid seemed to hold the Galactic armory!), she put him into a slightly deeper slumber. Harry and Ron then dragged him out of the vehicle and propped him against a nearby Garbage Can with a note ("Your taxi's at the spaceport. Sorry about the trouble. Don't drink so much next time, it's terrible for the liver. Friendly regards, Fugitives Fleeing the Planet").
The con-artist, the pirate, and the droid piled into the long front seat of the hovertaxi, with Hermione in the driver's seat, much to Harry's alarm. Before either he or Ron could say a word, Hermione popped the Firekey into its slot and flipped a few switches. With a grating sound, the engine started up, and, grinding noisily, the taxi rose into the air.
Hermione held onto the steering joystick as the taxi gutturally rumbled and groaned, but shot off through the air. Behind them, they saw lights flickering on in windows and heard the ominous crackling of a Transmission due to be broadcasted. Harry buried his face in his hands and groaned as Hermione swerved sharply to avoid a collision with a rusty Steeltree House. Bird droppings fell onto the front glass as they brushed past the leaves and zoomed noisily into the open air of the sandy dunes ahead. Hermione was forced to admit that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She liked swooping up and down because it created that pleasant swoopy sensation in her stomach.
"I knew it, I knew it," groaned Harry in a voice of abject despair. "Ever since I let Cho Chang fly my Nimbus Two Thousand—my old ship—I've known it! I knew all women were bad drivers!"
Hermione laughed to herself as she zoomed right through a dune of sand. Fortunately, the windows were closed.
"I should have driven," commented Ron, "I'm good at everything. Especially chess."
"You can keep your swollen head to yourself," said Hermione.
Ron heaved an enormous sigh. "Bloody woman!"
Harry said absolutely nothing; he was possibly immersed in trying to get back into Merlin's good graces.
"Master Harry," said Ron after a moment, with the air of one commenting on extremely pleasant weather, "I calculate that the probability of our surviving this entire escapade and getting to the spaceport intact is approximately point-three at this moment."
A devil she didn't know she possessed compelled Hermione into mischief. Served them right for what they'd put her through at the pub. She looked mischievously at the two male objects beside her.
"Let's see if we can bring that down a little lower, shall we?"
They arrived at the Garvagin spaceport three or four minutes later. Although it was well past midnight, and the four Garvagin moons were high in the sky, the spaceport was still a happy entanglement of activity. Harry and Ron stumbled shakily out of the slightly dented taxi, followed by Hermione, who moved with a decided spring in her step and a satisfied expression on her face.
"The next time we need a freelance con-artist," muttered Harry to Ron, "We'll call Unsavory Services."
Hermione looked around at the hustle and bustle. "Where's your ship, Harry?"
"None of your business," said Harry, and he marched off in one direction.
Smiling, Hermione followed him. Ron tailed them, obviously trying to look very fierce, like a vigilant bodyguard. They wove their way through the roads and hangars of the port. Harry eventually came to a halt in front of a man in official Garvagin garb. The man looked like he was either about to fall sleep or about to kill somebody.
"I have a parking receipt for the Dirty Deed. ID 76359." Harry handed a microchip over to the parking attendant.
The man shoved the chip into a machine beside him, looking disgruntled, and said irritably: "That's the Firebolt ship, ain't it? It's in Hangar Four, parking block Sixty Nine. Don't scratch any of the other ships on your way through."
They entered Hangar Four just in time to hear another Transmission:
"ATTENTION GALACTIC AURORS! Thieving suspects have been sighted at Spaceport Oh-Nine! Must be prevented from leaving the Planet at all costs! Garvagin law doesn't reach beyond the astro-border! HURRY, DAMN IT!"
"Damn it," echoed Harry, quickening his step. "We'd better get to parking block Sixty Nine and get the hell out of here before they arrive at this Hangar!"
"You don't say," Hermione remarked.
Harry threw her a very aggravated look, and they ran through the rows of spaceships to one at the far end. Hermione stopped and looked at the Dirty Deed. Firebolts were always good-looking and fast. This one might be weather-beaten and travel-worn, but it nonetheless looked like it could take on the entire Galactic Fleet! It was also a mixture of dark blues, blacks and greens, her favorite colors. Hermione did not say this, of course, because it went against her principle to compliment anything related to somebody she absolutely despised (and she certainly despised Harry Potter).
Instead, she sniffed loudly and said: "Obviously, something is lacking a little tender loving care."
Harry was evidently pushed to his limits by the insult to his prized possession. He looked her up and down. "Yeah," he agreed, "You. Not that that surprises me, though. I suppose only a porcupine with decent defense mechanisms would dare offer you any love and care."
Ron applauded this statement with vigor, but Harry wondered what had come over him. Normally, insults were Ron's forte. But she had really rattled him since they'd met, what with her poking at his conscience the way she did and reminding him of the niceness he had once had nestled within him… I mean, he'd invited her along, hadn't he, when he could have just left her here?
And that really annoyed him. He didn't want to be the nice guy.
Furious, Hermione smoldered as she watched Harry extract a glowing orange tube from his shirt pocket. This he quickly inserted into the ship's outer pipe, and with a click, a ramp opened up. Harry marched upward without a backward glance at her, and was immediately followed by Ron. Hermione was so enraged with the pirate that she had a good mind to tell him to shove his—
Well, anyway. She was in half a mind to just stalk away and let them fly all over the Galaxy on some fruitless quest for money. She was just about to carry this plan out when the Hangar doors burst open.
"There they are!" shouted a voice.
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TO BE CONTINUED.
Spoiler for Deathly Hallows here, so ignore this bit if you haven't read the book yet:
Please, please bear with me over "Old Sins". I will write and post the last two chapters of the story (and soon). It's just going to take me a little longer, thanks to the end and epilogue and various intermittent bits of "Deathly Hallows", which depressed the hell out of me in all its disgusting cliches and predictability! I thought I needed to write something fun before the bitterness overpowered me. :)