I Knew You Loved Me Then

Author

Aubretia Lycania

Rating

This fic is written from the mind of Remus, an adult, and, as in life, the world as we perceive it becomes steadily more violent as we grow older. Plus, he cusses more. Bye-bye innocent musings of Harry—hello werewolf self-hate of Lupin. Enjoy.

Warnings

Please do no read this fic if you haven't read OotP—not only will it not make sense if you haven't, but it will also spoil the book for you, which is a shame because it's one of Rowling's best. Also a bit slashy (Remus/Harry); I never intended it to be, but it's my favorite pairings and I tend to sneak it in subconsciously. If that bothers you, please don't read my fic and flame me on it. I'd rather have constructive criticism on my writing, not immature complaints about the subject matter. If ya don't like it, don't read it.

Oh, and kindly read "I Know the Truth Now," my other fanfiction, which is the prequel and partner to this story, before proceeding. If you already have, thank you! Also, I'd like to apologize for the… uh… two year gap. College is a pain.

Disclaimer

I don't own any of these characters and situations, and if I did… I wouldn't need scholarships up the wahzoo. As a writer, I'd be pretty ticked off if someone stole my characters and made money off them. I'm just a fan. Besides, if Remus Lupin were mine, he'd be shackled up in a basement somewhere, waiting for me to snog and shag him.

The song is "Taking Over Me" by Evanescence, and I don't own it either. The chapter titles are from "Innocente" by Delirium—which also isn't mine.

For Amity

In French

The English language possesses a concrete word to denote a farewell, whether for short or long term, know as "goodbye"; beyond this, phrases must be used to portray what kind of goodbye being used—will I see you tomorrow, or shall I see you never? In the next life, perchance? The French phrase for a farewell, however, is "au revoir," meaning "until later," and follows one general assumption; that one will always see the other again, whether in this existence or the next, tomorrow or the day after. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the sequel to "I Know the Truth Now."

So, friend, you have returned—young Harry has graced you with a tale of the Marauders, of or betrayer's death. Perhaps you stopped and wondered about our pack, wished for the warmth and the heartache; perhaps you, like Harry, silently yearn for the stalking shadow to appear like the good Church Grim and make you what I am—to sink its teeth deep into the sultry satin that is your flesh, intoxicating with its hormones, sweet with its heat, acrid with salt and the ammonia secreted from your pores like a poison… enticing and repelling, even to myself. Perhaps you even wish for that shadow to be me. Congratulations, my friend. You're human—and you're beautiful.

You have heard Harry's part of the tale. Now, it's my turn.

Part One

I believe in you,

I'd give up everything just to find you…

I have to be with you,

To live, to breathe—

You're taking over me.

June sunlight twinkled congenially off gentle wind-swept ripples; it shone through brilliantly green leaves hanging high above, dipping down for a cool drink in the still, icy lake. Rushes swayed and the chance sleepy-eyed toad croaked, to answering calls of exuberant frogs cavorting in the murky shallows. Droplets sprayed in a sudden disturbance and, amid a few perked cattails, a pair of dark sunglasses floated to the surface to shine in the sun. Two hands dove for them at the same moment, then, amid calls and shrieks, two sleek young bodies, wet like the pelts of otters, toppled headlong into the water.

A head of tangled, dark red hair surfaced first; a girl, of seventeen or so years, with bright green eyes, dashed her glance about, half-smilingly, half-panicked.

"Jamie! My sister'll kill me if I lose those!" she protested at the second head, one of indecently untidy black hair and warmed by hazel eyes—a boy who grinned impishly at her, waving the sunglasses tantalizingly.

Lily Evans made a futile dive for them, soaked auburn tresses flying, to resounding shouts of laughter from shore. She swung around towards the source, eyes ablaze, a highland warrior chieftain of the Culloden days.

"Sirius, you'd better not be laughing!"

Another boy with black hair, that fell rather daringly into handsome pale blue eyes, closed his mouth with a fearful snap, scrambled onto a branch, and went back to trying (without success) at catching a frog, along with the occasional lobbing of some missile or other at a small, plump boy swinging in the branch of a tree. Peter Pettigrew squeaked as a yet more volleys of pebbles made it to his rump, nearly falling clear out of his perch. James Potter, still in the water, scowled a bit at Sirius in a regally confident fashion.

"Padfoot, give it a rest already, will you?" In his reprieve, Lily made another deft grab for the glasses, finally snatching them right out of James's hand in a glittering shower of droplets; she waved them gracefully, blazing with calm triumph, and splashed back onto the grass and rocks that overhung part of the lake. James, mock-scowling for the appreciation of his young courtship, laughed and disappeared again beneath the sun-glanced surface in a flash of Quidditch-tanned skin.

Remus Lupin looked over the top of his book as Lily sat down beside him on the warmed gray rock, though he needn't have—she was infectious, a travelling light that lingered like perfume long after she left the room, the electric spark left behind after the touch of another, the magic that flows in your veins realer than real. And while the others may have been undecided, he already knew deep within how much he enjoyed having a girl, this strange and compassionate and mothering creature, join the tight circle of Marauders. He often basked in the glow that Lily brought to them—their princess, their queen, beloved sister and matron and treasure, to protect them and be protected, cherished and guarded, with their lives if need be. Her smell was one he had long-since forgotten and began to rediscover with the enthusiasm of a child—hearth smells, comforting cloth and warmth and firelight; soft and dignified in pearls and silk that would swish lightly as water around her slim frame on special occasions; the wild smells of a girl unafraid of frog spawn and mud fights, raucous singing and the infrequent illicit draft of firewhiskey—sun-smelling oranges and lemons, dirt that caught under nails and in the creases of work robes, levitating sherbet balls, and the lilies from whence she got her name.

"Hey, Remus," she said gently after a few moments of congenial silence. She often spoke to him this way—soothingly and amiably, as a mother speaking to her sweetheart middle son. "You sad now we've graduated? The four of you won't be able to go on any adventures or play terrible pranks so much anymore."

Remus smiled shyly, clutching his book and watching their princess with adoring awe. "Well, yes… But at least James and Sirius won't be able to hold their marks over my head anymore."

Lily beamed indulgently and chuckled. "Those big-heads. Want me to punch their noses in?"

Remus brushed a strand of light brown hair out of his eyes as they lit up with the spark of her comfort. "That's okay, Lily, but I appreciate the offer. If they steal your sister's sunglasses again, just give the word and I'll eat them."

Lily rocked backward, her laughter a pleasantly tinkling bell, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He felt himself blushing fiercely. "You're so sweet, Remus. I'll keep that in mind."

Suddenly Sirius clattered onto the rock, looking with mock disapproval on Remus and flopping down in the sun. "So, Moony, conspiring with the enemy now, eh? She hasn't even been properly voted in yet!"

Lily stood up, hands graciously poised on hips, towering above Sirius, and spoke with a fearsome, challenging timbre. "Oh, I haven't, have I?"

Sirius all but quaked in her very shadow, and James, who had emerged again beneath the low rock, treading water as he watched, nearly drowned with laughter.

"Hey, Padfoot, if she can scare you straight into a tree, she's pretty much in!" James called, spitting out the slightly sulfurous water carelessly.

Sirius played at looking wounded. "She never scared me into a tree! That's slander, sir! An insult!" He drew himself up straight, looking down his nose at James, unable to keep the grin from his face longer than the boy in the water.

Remus and Lily exchanged glances. Sirius held the blazing scent of acquiescence and play lightly on his skin, mingling comfortably with the gingery speckle of his pride and exotic taste that was his vibrant lust for love and life. He could quicken the most phlegmatic of blood, send sparks into the dullest eyes, he breathed confidence and imbued passion and intense heartbeat, the very essence of the floor on which the dancers of life moved in wild rhythm, glistening with sweat and tears and the cool water from a dip in the first and last Summer's day. "Seventeen forever," his blood whispered. And made you believe it.

In one lucid movement, Lily reached over and propelled Sirius face-first into the lake amid shouts and splashes, followed by throes of laughter. Remus shielded his book as the water reached its brisk hands towards them, rolling with mirth and applauding Lily's boldness with the offending Marauder. She bowed with remarkable grace and looked down into the pool, where Sirius and James re-emerged grinning—though the former had nearly landed clear on the latter's head.

"Yeah, Prongs, she's definitely a Marauder," Sirius said appraisingly. "What d'you think, Moony? Wormtail?"

Peter scurried uncertainly out of the tree, as though afraid he would again be pelted, and stood at the water's edge. "Oh… oh, yeah, definitely." He gazed at Lily adoringly and warily, like a branch fathoming the Heavens, fingers reaching and lingering just beyond the heights of understanding.

Remus looked on at her for a few moments, drinking her in again, squinting against the sunlight that framed her like a halo. "Yeah," he said simply after pondering, worrying at the tactility that he could nearly roll about in his fingers. "A Marauder to the end and beyond."

James grinned as he and Sirius wadded ashore. "You know my vote," he said, winking at Lily. "Besides, I'm not all that interested in getting hexed today. Unless old Snivellus is around to give it a go…" At Lily's resulting growl, he smiled charmingly. "Because I so… enjoy… his company…" The words seemed to cause both him and Sirius considerable pain, but appeased both comrades on the rock. James and Sirius joined them in their shorts, skins shining with beaded drops and rippling with gooseflesh—followed closely by Peter. They sat, five, simple youths with few demands, watching the sun as it slowly sank towards the tree line, sending flaming gold, rose, and orange shimmers across the lake as it rippled with teeming life and the unknown below. James shot an approving glance at Remus, who could want nothing more in that instant; the unobtrusive scent of spring mornings and breezes above the pitch, fresh grasses and strengthening sunlight greeting him at James's closeness, more exhilarating than the run and yet more, more peaceful than the deepest sleep yet it sent blood rushing through his very veins like a pounding, savage drum. Lily played with his untamable black hair contentedly, her green eyes orbs of promise and hope as they gazed into that everlasting sunset. The warmth of their bodies came together to form a pocket of protection against the gales of the world; silently their souls howled in unison, together challenging all that came their way, ready to fight boldly and spiritedly.

We are Young. We are Beautiful. We are Invincible.

We are Seventeen, and we're going to live Forever.

Part Two

The events of August tenth could have ended—and did, in my opinion—in tragedy. Do I mourn the loss of Peter Pettigrew? Yes. Did I hate him? Oh, most certainly. But as I hear, and, indeed, say his name, I call to mind, not the spy that whimpered at the Dark Lord's hem, but the boy I once called dear friend and confidante. Only in this way can my mind go at the moment, and whether or not I like it, I have found myself crying for the first Marauder to truly die: Wormtail. Dead now sixteen years, yet it was not until August tenth that the Otherworld finally rose up from its bounteous, dark mouth of a chasm and claim his body with its many haunting, beloved hands. Wormtail. Our Wormtail. May you rest in peace; though I suspect you won't with Sirius raging at you for all eternity—he can't very well kill you again, can he?

I do not remember the morning of August eleventh very well. Harry and I returned to twelve Grimmauld Place near dawn, tired out of our minds and numbed through to our bone marrow from the night cold, from grief, and that horrible stench of death that lies beyond the capacity of human words and that pervades our existence so very meticulously. I remember it. The visage of rotting things, frozen things, an impression of burnt rubber and roasting plastic, screeches of wheels of unforgiving pavement, scorched hair, the smell of thinned, dusty earth robbed of its fertility, latex and formaldehyde at muggle funeral homes, sickly-sweet, goading lilies on every single fucking coffin in the world…

Why I want to surrender to that smell again is beyond my mind to decipher. It clung to me once, all those Halloweens ago, as my life leaked out of me and my heartbeat began to slow to a memorial tap. A truly delicious feeling, in all honesty. It was a perverse pleasure to watch those silky rivulets, like satin ribbons, run inexplicably down upon spotless white porcelain, like china dolls' faces, pretty shocks of bright rose lips upon pale countenances, glistening and inviting a kiss they shall never return—child corpses, unforgiving wide eyes which question without receiving answers, the penultimate of Keats's Grecian Urn, lips preparing to kiss, yet frozen forever more, suspended in time. I never told anyone why I survived that night. Not even Dumbledore, when he came to find me nursing my wounds a bit too calmly, a dreamy expression setting my face into a primeval mask. It is for the exact same reason that I lived on after August tenth, and after the death of Sirius. I am not, by far, the last Marauder.

Harry, as I remember, spent the morning wandering about after me like a placid pup, expressionless, his eyes, those incredibly lucid orbs that reflect the very soul of his mother, become dull and devoid of light. I could have wept for those eyes. It was for him that I mourned the most, that boy who trailed in my footfalls, my everlasting shadow, as though afraid to lose sight of me. I couldn't blame him—after all, some part of me, concealed deep under layers thick as volumes, dusty and knowledgeable as tomes, wanted very much to rip free of my mortal coil and take to mountain lakes and endless trees, where it belongs. It longs to be free; is that so inhuman after all? I want to be free. Shame laughs, ridiculing, at me as I nurture these thoughts, even now—to cleave myself from my long-used corporeal shell, tear the skin to shreds and mock the face of civilization as I bite into Harry's flesh, give the beautiful little horror what it is he wants. Take him away with me, the darkest Bacchus abducting my loyal maenad, to hide in another land, behind the hoods of cloaks, our glittering eyes warning away those who would question our intimate, hedonistic cult of forest shadows lilting—running, running, running, once the moon rises, two spirits of the wilderness, whispers turned to rumors turned to tales turned to legends turned to myths, engraved in the impressionable tissue of time, free from pain and mortality and this. The Order. The Death Eaters. The Ministry. Grief. Memorials. Dumbledore. This.

They say all myths have some foundation in truth. The myth that werewolves are immortal creatures has a basis in fact, with one of those interminable "buts." A werewolf, given the best of circumstances, can technically live for hundreds, and even thousands, of years. The constant regeneration of our tissues can, in theory, prevent the aging process—leaving us to remain, timeless, in our primes, the place where cellular growth has completed. The sad truth of the matter is that we often kill ourselves; ripping our bodies apart during the arduous torment of transformations, turning, in hatred, on our own flesh, depleting our energy, depriving ourselves of the necessary hunt, and preventing the regenerative processes. We are creatures of slow suicide. In order to attain the energy needed for these restorative powers, we must hunt, we must kill, we must devour—or we are destroyed. That is, unless the Ministry should be so kind as to do it for us. I shudder as I think of the hundreds upon hundreds of pureblood head-hunters that stalk the haunted forests protected by the Ministry from Muggles, and the many creature-catching Aurors sent to keep us under control.

And what I wouldn't give to keep Harry as mine, young and beautiful forever, show him how much more life can be if one steps away from logic's doorstop, if only for a fleeting moment, and into the heartthrobs of savagery. But it is the knowledge of reality that stills my hand and my hunger—I could not condemn him to my Hell, however much better it would be made for me. I ignored his silent pleads on August eleventh as I always had, with more difficulty than ever. He smelled of death. I smelled of death. The wolf in me howled to be bathed in blood that smells of heady chocolate and peppermint, oranges and new grass that peaks through the drabbest ash.

The other members of the Order of the Phoenix finally appeared, avoiding our gazes, disturbed by us, filing into the kitchen. Molly did some more fussing over Harry and rushed back off for the emergency meeting being conducted, addressing the events and findings of our mission. I didn't care. All my senses could keep themselves keyed onto was Harry, his soul screaming pain, his eyes reflecting emptiness and hunger as they looked on me, skin scented of death clinging to him since he had emerged from the Veil, and long before. It is a surface armor; when I draw nearer, to his soft hair and shallow breath with could not reach his core, and dive under that exterior, I find warmth and love and sorrow and the life that makes me weep more than anything else in the world ever has—human misery and anguish, all the injustices of our world, the ghost of Marlow—the horror, the fucking horror of it all—where's the sense, the rivets, to hold it all together?

I looked at him, then, and found his demeanor pale as ice, dull-eyed, racked by nightmares and thoughts of the Veil—that damned veil—the source of all rage, cynicism, and disillusionment which crept up upon him like a African toxin along the Congo—invaded slowly but surely by the adult he is not.

It was then that I decided to take Harry home.

Shadow Wood has always been a place of darkness—I won't deny that. It was for this very reason that the Ministry made it into what it has been for a good two-hundred years. Their word for it is a "reserve"; mine is closer to "prison." But a peaceful prison, nevertheless, little-known and possessed of an unearthly silence. The small, mist-shrouded valley located vaguely in northern Scotland, where mysteries seem to grow as in a deep womb, a dime a dozen, where ghosts sit down in pubs for a bottle of scotch whiskey beside the patrons and leave a few shillings tip—has been home to Dark creatures and wizards and witches with Dark gifts for centuries—cursed-bloods, we have been called, the shadows, the monsters. We are the banshees on the moors which mourn deaths in a howling gale, the wolves that tear the sheep heads from their fluffy bodies, streaming the cockle shells and silver bells with blood, before disappearing into the netherworld from whence we came. Werewolves, vampires, banshees, hags, ghouls, zombies, trolls, ogres, the occasional giant, the cursed and un-afflicted half-breeds of these sorts, and countless permanently jinxed witches and wizards, have all found their home there. The trees whisper secrets and hunger for pure flesh untouched by Dark magic; dementors drift victimless among them. Werewolves, who have all but forgotten how to change back into humans, form packs and hunt the mountains for what game still wanders heedlessly into our midst. Our cemetery is the haunt of the ghosts of tortured souls, many of whom passed from one existence to the other seamlessly, merely rising from bed for another day, leaving their stiff envelopment of transience twisted among the sheets in eternal sleep. At night, the vampires light bonfires to rekindle their souls and the banshees sing eldritch songs which send icy shards throughout the spine, mournfully in tune with faraway baying, the cult of the moon. I could think of no better home, and no crueler prison—a constant reminder of what I am at my very center, and each desire which pulls at me throughout my life. And I am always pulled back to it.

The Ministry instructs most registered cursed-bloods to reside in Shadow Wood, and, in accordance with their records and the individual's potential danger to un-afflicted, are either allowed to leave at intervals or instructed to stay at all times. I was lucky enough to have had Dumbledore's protection for a good portion of my life, come from a respectable enough family, joined the war against Lord Voldemort, and have never yet bitten anybody. I can leave freely and have fewer eyes watching my movements; I begin to think the Ministry really doesn't give a damn about what I do, so long as I keep to the shadows, in my place. It is my "job" to take care of the residents, keep an eye on their movements, and keep uprising and discontent at bay. I'd do anything for a bit of discontent—I'm rather discontent myself. Moreover, I am a discontent—inwardly, I eternally find fault, and as my self-opinion moves toward the negative, it's the opinion of others which retains my sanity. I'm shamefully weak: a pack animal, a herd-beast, a remorseless stampede who is but one portion of a thousand, a percentage, a thin slice of strawberry pie. Most importantly, I am not a leader. I do not lead my own life—rather, the dictates of layered reserve, society, nucleotide bonds in DNA, rivulets of curse magic lacing the blood stream like poisoned wine glasses with pink sherry; wolfdom is sweet, but short-lived.

Hell. To whom I'd sell my soul to take him with me.

I'm a scholar at heart, and my little house there tells the tale. A kitchen, a main room, a bath, magically-heated well water; books lining the walls. It is a hermit's domain, tried-and-true, a whisper of the picturesque. Keats himself could have walked into my pantry, held out his arms: "Ode to a Well-Prepared Hermit!" A storm could hit outside the windows—indeed, in my hut I wouldn't notice. Cramped, claustrophobic, dusty, smelling of old things and powdery moths, mushrooms under dead trees, wet and impotent boards—the smell of wasted effort, a wasted mind, and a wasted life. Fermented semen unreleased, nutritious blood trickling down a drain bright red and oxidized, mother's milk and a severed fetus, the sun between snowstorms, the black slime innards of a stag spread upon the grass in the hot sun after a kill.

"Professor, this place is fantastic!" Harry's voice intruded; we are far apart enough in age that I wasn't agitated by the difference in our personal outlooks. He doesn't realize that, after Hogwarts, it might very well be his prison too—with a feeling of satisfaction that comes with age, with ever-substantiated, irritating knowing that follows adults around like our shadows on the very ground, I let him have his delusions, and smiled to myself at his naiveté. I remember what was to be young, impressed easily, hand over my respect to the worst of places—and oh, yes, he respects me. Professor Lupin. I feel a twisted smile even now. He doesn't know who I was: the defiant glint in my eye when I discovered my creator had made me on bloody purpose, when I knew I'd been made to suffer as someone else's lackey, a tool of revenge exercised on some petty foolhardy thing my father had done; the way I glanced ever-so-innocently at girl's forms hidden by their billowing robes, my mind filled with a thousand imaginings; my dark broodings, moments in the boy's toilets in the showers when I'd sat, empty-eyed with boiling water pounding down on my skull and shoulders, feeling that lascivious orb outside the window pulse and rage at me like a coming storm, mother's arms that caress before they plunge her child beneath the water and hold.

No. I'm noble, caring, kind-hearted; simply and cleanly—Professor Lupin.

"It is, isn't it?" I said in my scholar's voice. "I don't often come back here—no more than I need, anyways, to see to things. It's rather lonely, and I can't do much for the Order; Voldemort doesn't come near here. The cursed here are beyond the Dark Arts. They're bored. They're just… ghosts. Not even dangerous; they just exist."

"Why're you here, then?" he asked, still insistent on my incumbent normality. "You fight—you've got the Order."

I strode toward a bookshelf; there are things he'll learn in time; and the things I wanted him to know, there and then, while we stayed in Shadow Wood, in a suspended moment, an eye in the storm against Voldemort. Before he comes to know me as a man, before we have to face each other as equals, as fellows, as two men and two creatures and two colleagues, before he forgets this boy-self of his that asks questions, I felt determined to give him Moony: the teenaged me that is fast-dying under the onslaught of Greyback, the werewolves, the Dark Lord, Harry's eyes gaining a wisdom I fear to see…

"I have demons of my own to face, as I'm sure you've seen in our Occlumency lessons. Being here helps." I took down a couple choices—classics, in fact—one British, and one American. "Fancy reading any more fiction before diving back into your D.A. work?"

Harry smiled. "More Irving?" he asked; I privately thought to myself that if you've read one Irving, in some essential fashion you've read them all.

"No—a little less recent, I think."

I handed the two thin paperbacks to him—Lord of the Flies and A Separate Peace.

"I hope you don't mind the couch," I said, smiling. My own bed actually folds out of the wardrobe in typical bachelor fashion—as I said, close quarters. He shook his head, and I promptly showed him around the little place, and sat us down for something to eat. A suspended time indeed, as we sat across from each other in the candle and firelight at the small wooden table, our eyes wandering eagerly over words, over musty, often-forgotten pages, dimply-appreciated places; my eyes wandering to him, looking for the questions I knew him to have; the sharp spike in his endorphins as he felt the surge of epiphany, the down-sweep of disappointment like the drop of the stomach in a quick fall or a missed stair in the dark, a trickle of musical sadness almost indefinable among waves of intricacies, thoughts and doubts, rhetorical questions. His heartbeat would quicken—I knew Ralph was struggling with Jack, knew their tribes were separating, knew Ralph was wondering what had gone wrong, and soon Simon would be brutally murdered because of it, knew the Lord of the Flies would be cackling atop his putrid stick, his voice gurgling, spitting up from Phlegethon, laughing that unendurable laugh… Often in my mind he has gray whiskers and pointed, bloodied teeth… in Harry's, I wondered if perhaps he had cat's slit red eyes and a snake's nose…

"Professor—"he began, as I quite knew he would—"they couldn't really mistake Simon for the monster, could they? That's just… stupid."

"Paranoia and fear can do that, Harry," I responded, feeling at ease, leading him toward answers that were hovering just there above his grasp. I suppose—no matter how frustrating and ill-rewarding it can be—that's the true responsibility of adults. If we don't have those answers ourselves by a certain age… what then? More rhetorical questions.

"But Simon and Ralph and Jack—they were all just like best friends, weren't they? Wouldn't they stick together on an island like that, with some great monster after them?"

I smiled, somewhat indulgent. "Try not to think of them as entirely round and realistic characters—Golding writes them out to represent ideas."

He did not appear satisfied. "That doesn't mean it's okay for them to act crazy."

I felt a stab of sadness; Harry does not yet know war; when I spoke of the dangers involved in the Order, I was not referring to death—it's what war does to your soul, to the way you perceive those around you—the breaking of your trust, the inability to discern shadows from objective reality, the turning of friends to enemies in every corner—the depths into which you would dive to get what you think you need to survive, and to hell with everything else.

"Well, Harry… war makes us act crazy."

He blinked, another question behind his eyes—I blew out the candle. In the firelight, I glimpsed tendrils of smoke curling around one another tantalizingly, daring the other to come close enough to merge, in a dance up to the ceiling, curling like snakes of fog, material sound. Sulfur and gun powder, a child lying dead while playing ball—educate them to protect themselves. Wasted effort.