Haigha was right about the children's father. He'd been questioned under Veritaserum and proved not only innocent but utterly devastated at the loss of his children. He hadn't seen anything that could help them find the real killer, and he couldn't sit still for more than ten minutes without fighting back a spontaneous rush of sobs. Despite all that was happening, Mr. White and his predicament wove in and out of her thoughts—she watched him squirm in her mind's eye, trapped in an endless tea party with a madwoman. The image of Draco Malfoy haunted her, too, for he was either part of Mr. White or the other way around. If it was true that he'd been trying to remove his Dark Mark when all this happened, she couldn't help but wonder about his motives. It could have been anything from vanity to a complete change of heart, although the former struck her more likely.

Finally, there was the problem of her hand: just as Arley warned, it was getting worse. The black stain covered her first two fingers entirely, and she'd never quite gotten over the fact that no one else could see it. Her first instinct was still to hide it self-consciously, even though there wasn't any point.

The gut-wrenching sight of a father's grief, along with the fact that they were fresh out of leads, had already made for a disheartening day at work when she received the worst news of all: there had been another murder. Another set of identical twin girls, age eight this time. They'd been out with their parents in Diagon Alley, waiting with their mother while their father shopped for ties, and then they disappeared. Their mother had searched frantically until they were found only a few hours later, on a bed of dead grass and rotting leaves at the outskirts of a nearby park. Their heads had been placed in their hands.

At the end of the day, she remained in her office paralyzed by hopelessness. The first autopsy folder lingered in the centre of her desk, teasing her with its terrible images and truths, and soon it would be joined by a second. There were two sets of parents cycling through the stages of grief, being helped along by liars who said there were only five. Someday, though, they would all find the sixth one buried deep in the coldest part of the mind: remembering. The final stage that never ended.

There was only one thing she could possibly do to help any of them, and she'd known it ever since the morning's interrogation had confirmed the Seer's prediction: she needed to go back to Haigha.

Once the rest of her coworkers had cleared out at half past five, she took to the empty corridors. She continued walking longer than usual, until she passed Cassandra's office for the second time and stopped in her tracks. She began walking again, more quickly this time, down and down and down the same corridor. When she passed the same office a third time, she stopped again to look at her watch: 5:31. As someone with little experience in the field of time hiccoughs, she had no way of knowing whether it would help to keep walking or only tire her out. The minute hand on her watch jerked back and forth between 5:31 and 5:32, but it would go no farther, until it did. The corridor blended into a nauseating whirl of colour around her wrist as the hands spun around to 7:13.

The sensation was nothing like using a Time-Turner. It wasn't a quick jump like she might have expected. She really existed in the world for all the time she lost, processing information and making decisions, and she remembered everything that happened; it simply went by impossibly quickly. After she'd left the Ministry, she had made herself a snack at home and then Apparated to Haigha's, this time envisioning a spot a metre to the right of the doorstep. It had dropped her just in the right place, and now she sat on the sofa with Mr. White, waiting for Haigha to prepare the tea.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, even though the answer was obvious. His scowl hadn't lifted since she'd seen him.

"How do you think?"

"Doesn't she leave you alone most of the time? She's always talking about how busy she is."

"That's the problem—apparently, she needs a lot of help. Also, she's not pleased about having me here at all. You wouldn't believe what she's got me doing." He laughed joylessly and shook his head. "Polishing her crystals, plotting the stars every night, grooming her cat... It's been a nightmare."

He may not have been Draco Malfoy, but he was the next best thing, and it should have satisfied her to see him reduced to cleaning and feline maintenance. It didn't, though. "Has she been helping you figure out how to get back to wherever you came from?"

He shook his head. "She says it'll work itself out when 'certain events transpire.'" She could tell he'd spent a lot of time with Haigha, for his impression of her was both accurate and quite funny. She lifted her hand to hide a smile as the Seer entered the room.

"It's good to see you humbled, princess," she said, so casually vindictive. At least Hermione didn't have to live with her.

"Of course," she said. "A serial killer's still on the loose, but the most important thing is that you were right."

"That isn't my fault, and you know it." She sat quietly for several minutes, sipping her tea while Hermione resisted the urge to check her watch. A time hiccough would have been nice just then, so she could skip to the end without having to wait at Haigha's leisure while a killer roamed the streets. "I could have told you at the beginning that you sought the wrong man, but you wouldn't have believed me. I could have told you a lot of things, and I still can, but I'm not going to."

"Why not? We've already established that I believe you now. You've converted a skeptic, all right? Now, can we please catch a murderer?" There would be more and more lost children until they found the perpetrator, and still Haigha looked upon her with smug disinterest. As usual, her tea was growing cold on the table.

"Officer Granger, I know that you believe yourself to be quite clever, but you can't see the rabbit for the fur." Hermione scoffed at the made-up expression as much as the insult, but Haigha didn't react. "I know you spoke with Blanche about coincidences, but she has a personal bone to pick with them. Just because Blanche and coincidences don't get along doesn't mean they can't play well with others." She paused, then pressed a hand to her chest and added: "Don't tell her I defended them. I'm just trying not to choose sides."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"In any case, I doubt they're terribly fond of you at the moment. You're ignoring them entirely, and it's most disrespectful."

"Disrespectful," she repeated blandly. "To the coincidences."

"If you don't clean up your act, they'll pile on until you can't tell one from the other up, down, or edgewise."

"I see." She didn't.

"However, if you'd like me to mediate your dispute, it won't count as a service to your Department. You'll have to pay my regular hourly rate."

"Which is?"

"Fifty Galleons."

Steep, to be sure, but she'd already admitted she was out of her depth—so much so that she was considering paying someone to "mediate" between herself and an abstract concept—but she was willing to try anything at that point. "Fine," she said, after a moment.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Mr. White taunted. Beside her, he grinned with the glee of watching Haigha torment someone else.

"Not as bad as a beheading," she said. "I haven't lost sight of that, and I won't."

"That's not a bad start," Haigha said. "At the beginning—always a classic, often quite effective."

"I must confess that I'm not sure how, exactly, this is going to work."

"It's simple: I'll help you understand where coincidences are coming from, and together we'll try to reach a compromise."

She sorted words in her mind, trying to think of a way to phrase such a stupid question. "But I don't see how they'll... respond. The coincidences, that is."

"If you're lucky, they won't." Haigha gave her a moment to speak, but she'd run out of language entirely. "Back to the beginning: what was the first coincidence that you encountered?"

She picked up her cold tea and pulled out her wand to warm it up. "Before we get to that, which way is east again?" Haigha pointed, and Hermione moved her wand tip about an arm's length away from the cup in the opposite direction before casting the spell. She'd hit her target, and steam rose from the surface. When she looked back up, Haigha's expression showed an emotion she'd never seen before: approval.

"Look at you, adapting," she said. "Don't forget: you can bend so much farther than you think before you break."

Coming from Haigha, the near-compliment was rather touching. The aroma of the tea helped her mind relax, and she scrolled back through her jumbled memories of the past few weeks. "Well," she said, "I guess the first coincidence was when I ran into Arley at the hospital."

"No," Haigha said. "That was merely a notable event. A coincidence can only occur after such an event, distinguished by its similarity therewith. Also, it isn't a coincidence until you know it's a coincidence: in other words, that would count if you had known that I knew Blanche, but you didn't."

"I see." She did. "So, the first coincidence was when I ran into Arley the second time."

Haigha nodded. "That's right. And the next?"

"When I found Mr. White."

"And then?"

"When I learned about his dreams."

"Yes, and?"

"When I found out you and Arley knew each other."

"Wrong again." She set down her tea and waved her hands encouragingly. "There's your problem—you missed one in between those two."

"I did?"

"The most important one of all."

She paused to think about it and realised something unsettling. "Hang on, how do you know all this?"

"Blanche told me what you said. We tell each other everything." Once again, she pressed her hand fearfully to her chest. "Except as it relates to coincidences, of course. She can't know about this."

Hermione didn't want to badmouth Arley to her best friend, but she had no intention of speaking to her again unless she absolutely had to. "I promise I won't tell," she said.

"Good. Now, think back carefully. There was a coincidence at the apex of all the others—the capstone coincidence, as you've probably heard it called."

She hadn't heard any such thing, but she did as she was told, thinking aloud this time. "Before Arley looked at my hand, she and I talked about this. I brought it up, and she scolded me—Mr. White arrived at the same time Draco fell ill, which I remember thinking was at the same time as something else. I read about it in the Prophet the day those children were killed."

"Precisely," Haigha said. "You've found the root of it."

For a second, it felt like she had truly unraveled a mystery, but then she realised that she was no closer to the heart of the matter. "All right," she said. "Can we get back to the case now?"

Haigha's approval vanished. "I honestly don't understand it," she said. "How can you people go through life sorting everything into meaningless categories? You insist on separating your lives into piles of nonsense!"

"You're one to talk about nonsense. And what do you mean by 'you people'?"

"Exactly that," she snapped. "People like you. In case you haven't noticed, Blanche and I are not like you."

"If you're so enlightened, by all means, explain it to me. I'm here to stop a killer before any more children lose their heads." Her breaths came hard and fast, and her hand clenched so hard around her teacup that it threatened to shatter. "If you can help, then you'd damn well better."

Haigha pulled out a gold pocket watch and noted the time. "In that case, your personal session is over. Normally, you'd owe me fifty Galleons, but I don't think that will be sufficient in this case." She fixed her gaze on Mr. White and tightened her lips in disgust. "As payment, you'll take him with you when you leave."

"What? We had an agreement!"

"And now it's changed. I'm sick of looking at him, and Martin doesn't care for him, either." Martin, she could reasonably assume, was Haigha's cat. "Adapt, Officer Granger. Flex your mind for once in your life."

If Haigha knew her at all, she would know that Hermione was more than capable of flexibility. She'd moved into an entirely different world at the age of eleven, severed all ties with her parents to fight in a war at seventeen, brought them back and delicately regrew as much of their memory as she could salvage at nineteen, and now faced the daily challenges of an incredibly difficult job. She was the poster child for adaptability; she was water over rock. "I'll take Mr. White," she said, as if to prove all this and more. "But you need to tell me everything you know about this case, or I'll be forced to terminate your involvement with the Department. We aren't paying you to play mind games."

"Believe me, Officer, I'd hate to be involved with your Department any longer than I have to." Hermione could tell she was angry, too, and she paused to finish her tea and collect herself. "But it eases my mind that you'll take care of Mr. White. He's caused more problems for us than you could possibly understand."

"You keep telling me what I will and will not understand," she said, with forced composure. "But you won't even give me a chance."

Haigha considered her, then nodded. "I see the problem. You think I'm insulting you, when in fact I'm only stating the truth: you won't understand because it would be far too complicated for me to explain. I would need to start at the beginning, as we discussed, and it would take approximately three days if none of us slept."

If processing nonsense were a marketable skill, Hermione would soon be able to add it to her resume. "Let's be flexible, then," she mocked. "Start at the end."

"If you insist." Haigha shrugged her bony shoulders and surveyed her surroundings. "You and Mr. White and I were drinking tea, and before that we argued, and you agreed to take him off my hands, which I appreciated—"

"Skip ahead," she interrupted. "Er, backwards, that is, to before I was involved."

Haigha closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as though she were truly moving back through time in her mind. At last, she spoke without opening her eyes. "Draco Malfoy was in his home, working on cleansing potions. As far as we can guess, he was trying to remove some powerful and evil magic that had previously been embedded in his arm. His solutions weren't working, and so he attempted to break apart the magic and release it. Unfortunately for all of us, he succeeded. His Dark Mark contained a great many years' worth of time, enough for it to ebb and flow for the rest of Mr. Malfoy's life, with each moment written into the fabric of the spell. When it shattered, it caused something much greater than a time hiccough—more like a time seizure.

"All that extra time had to go somewhere, and some of it fell to us. Blanche and I took on eight years between us to mitigate the damage, and we gave as much as we could to Mr. White. Someone else took the rest, even though she already had far more time than she should've. She's using it now, minute by minute, and that's why we can't find her—she has a great deal more time than we do. We can't help but arrive a few seconds after she's left. That is also why I can't stand to look at Mr. White."

Hermione took a moment to swallow all the new information. She was silent for a long time, working it out and formulating questions until her mind overloaded and went blank.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you everything at once," Haigha said.

"So, that's who I am?" Mr. White asked. "I'm the man who tore a hole in the universe?"

"Not exactly. You're a physical manifestation of a portion of his conscious mind."

"Oh." Mr. White ran his hands through his hair and exhaled heavily. He opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it and shook his head.

"Who is this person who took all the extra time?" Hermione asked, when she found her voice. "Is she the one who killed the children?"

"We believe so. She's done it before."

If Hermione thought she'd felt hopeless earlier that day, it was nothing compared to this. She'd officially graduated to despair. "How can we catch her?"

"It isn't your job anymore," Haigha said. "I must admit that several of your coincidences were actually planned events—since you were overseeing the search for an innocent man, we had to get ahold of you somehow. Now that we've ironed all this out, you can help by taking care of Mr. White and minding your own business."

"This is my business, and it's still my job," she argued. "We clearly need to work together—our people are the ones getting killed." Now she was doing it, too—drawing a line between her world and Haigha's. The others may as well have come from a parallel universe, but Haigha had been telling fortunes in this house for as far back as anyone could remember. Either she traveled at will between dimensions or Hermione had no idea what was going on, and neither of those options seemed especially unlikely.

"And we're the ones who have to clean up his mess." Haigha gestured to Mr. White, then hesitated. "Well, not his, really, but you know what I mean."

"In that case," Mr. White said, "it's only fair if we help you." His offer surprised Hermione greatly, and he must've seen it on her face. "What? Wouldn't my real self want to pitch in? I doubt he did this on purpose."

"He couldn't have," Haigha said.

"But I doubt he'd try to help," Hermione added.

Mr. White looked disappointed—perhaps he'd been hoping his real self was a good person. Who wouldn't hope for that? "Well, I will," he said.

"That's quite noble of both of you," Haigha said, sarcasm evident. "But you haven't the faintest clue what you're doing."

All things considered, her statement was accurate, and Hermione conceded defeat. "Will you at least keep me updated?" she asked. "I have to tell them something at work."

"If it'll get you out of my house," Haigha said. She stood and began to gather the tea tray.

"Our pleasure," Mr. White muttered after she left. She could be heard knocking things around in the kitchen and ranting to herself, which seemed like a decent cue to leave. Hermione stood, and then she was sitting again as Haigha left the room.

"Our pleasure," Mr. White muttered. Hermione stared at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand spin this way and that. Part of her wanted to scream with frustration as she listened to the same cups rattle against the same sink, over and over again, but she hadn't screamed in that moment and couldn't change it now.

It passed soon enough, and time sped up briefly to make up for the hiccough just as it had before.

When the world slowed back down to normal speed, it didn't feel as normal as it used to—it only took a few time hiccoughs to make a person wonder if the whole thing was altogether "linear." Hermione was setting up a makeshift bed on her couch for Mr. White, who was shuffling his feet awkwardly near her coffee table. Draco would never have shown this kind of vulnerability, and it fascinated her to watch his duplicate reveal everything he'd always tried to hide. He'd thanked her no less than three times for letting him stay, offered to help with chores, and apologised for imposing. When she told him it wouldn't be a problem, she wasn't lying: she hadn't wanted to take him in because she'd feared that he would act mostly like Draco, but the sad fact was that Draco's Malfoy-ness must have stemmed solely from his life experiences. At the core of his being, also known as Mr. White, he was more or less a decent fellow; a bit sharp around the edges, a tad quick to judge, but generally okay company. Also, he didn't know a single other person or own any personal possessions, so he wasn't likely to throw any large parties or leave his clutter around the common areas.

When she finished setting up the bed, he sat on it experimentally and fluffed the pillow. "Thanks," he said, bringing the tally to four.

"Don't worry about it." It was still much too early to sleep, and so she sat in an armchair and studied his face—it would take some time to get used to seeing him with a neutral expression—while an awkward silence elbowed its way between them. She would have normally offered tea at a time like this, but she reckoned they'd both had more than enough of it lately. "So," she said.

"So," he repeated. "How well do you know my real self?"

"Well enough," she said. "We went to school together, but we didn't get along."

"Why not?"

"It's a long story."

Mr. White cracked a smile, which was even stranger than neutrality. "Did you turn him down for a date?" When she got over the surprise, she laughed until her lungs hurt. "What's so funny? Did he cry?"

He was flirting with her. Oddly enough, she'd been less taken aback by the time hiccoughs. "I—you—" She cut herself off, grasping for words. "If you'd ever met your real self, you'd understand why this is funny."

His face turned serious then, and he leaned forward to inspect her expression. "No, I understand now. You hate me," he said. "Or him, I suppose."

"Mostly him," she admitted. "I didn't want to, but—don't take this the wrong way—he made it difficult not to. He hated me first."

"Why?" Mr. White didn't seem overly worried about it—more curious than anything, which was reasonable. If Hermione were a fragment of someone else, she'd want to know all about them, too.

"Because my parents are Muggles," she said. "And I got better marks than he did in school."

She'd been trying her best to sugarcoat things when it came to Draco, but apparently she'd failed. She could tell from the look on his face that Mr. White was taking it pretty hard. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," he said, although he hadn't existed long enough to hear a great many things. "Is there anything good about him?"

"Oh, of course. No one's all bad," she said, stalling. "He's very, er, well-dressed."

"I see." He narrowed his eyes and stared into the middle distance.

"He's rather clever as well," she added after a moment. Mr. White only nodded. "And he wasn't bad at Quidditch." She'd never spoken so highly of Draco before, but it made her uncomfortable to see Mr. White so distraught.

"No wonder you didn't want me staying here," he said. "Although Haigha probably hates my real self even more than you do."

He had a lot in common with Draco when it came to the self-pity routine, the difference being that Mr. White actually had a good reason to pity himself. He was reacting the same way anyone would upon learning that everyone he knew—all three of them, counting Arley—couldn't stand him.

"I didn't want Draco staying here, and I thought you'd be like him, but you aren't. All right?"

"I guess," he said. Suddenly, he turned to her with wide eyes. "What time is it?"

She checked her watch. "Five past eight."

His shoulders slumped with relief. "Oh, good. That was just a really long time hiccough, then."

"Do you have them a lot?"

"Yes," he said. "I think I've had every conversation at least three times since I landed here."

In light of that information, she couldn't imagine how painful his time with Haigha must have been. "That sounds exhausting."

"That's true, but it's also rather useful. After I've had the conversation once, I can spend the next few times observing the other person—that's how I knew you hated me."

"I have a problem with him, not you," she corrected.

"Same difference."

She usually hated that expression, but for once it was strangely appropriate. "Haigha said they gave you as much time as they could, whatever that means. I wonder if that has something to do with the extra hiccoughing."

"Probably," he said. "Not that it matters. I reckon I'm getting used to it." She couldn't imagine herself ever getting used to something like that, but Mr. White had never experienced anything else. "What were you thinking about just now?" he asked, out of nowhere. "Not to be forward, but I've watched you think it six or seven times now. It looked interesting."

"Oh," she said. "I was just thinking you were adapting better than I would have."

"Thanks." Five and counting—the world had truly gone mad.


The next day was Saturday, but she didn't realise it until she arrived at a barren Ministry Headquarters. It had become increasingly difficult to put names to the days now that she knew their dirty little secret: they weren't days at all, just arbitrary handfuls of time sorted into meaningless categories by people whose time always moved in straight lines. Nevertheless, Saturday still meant that she hadn't needed to force herself awake so early. She went home and slept a while longer, but it didn't make her any less tired.

She shuffled into her living room and found Mr. White already awake, grinning excitedly at the clock on the wall. He didn't notice her, so she watched him for a moment. "What are you so happy about?" she asked.

It startled him, and he blinked rapidly before he looked at her. "There wasn't much to do while you were asleep, so I was trying a few things—I'm getting better acquainted with time."

"How so?"

"When it starts to hiccough, I can sort of diffuse the situation." She could tell he was quite pleased with himself, but she hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about. "Sorry," he added. "I don't think I can explain it any better than that."

On some level, she could relate. Explaining things was getting even harder than naming the days. "It's all right. Good for you."

"We've only had this conversation once," he continued enthusiastically. "I like it better this way."

"I'm not surprised."

"Where did you go this morning?" he asked. "You weren't out for long."

"I tried to go to work, but then I remembered it's Saturday."

He nodded, thinking it over. "Aren't days odd? Nobody talked about them when I lived with Arley. It took a while to catch on when Haigha tried to explain the process."

"I was just noticing that this morning," she said. "I've had days my whole life, but even the words for them are beginning to sound absurd."

"Haigha said they're named after gods that never even existed."

The more they discussed it, the sillier it all seemed. For the sake of her own sanity, she changed the subject. "So, you can control the hiccoughs now?"

"I'm not quite that far, but I can strike a compromise."

Immediately, she began angling for ways to make use of his new ability. If what Haigha said was correct, Mr. White had quite a bit of time, and she really had no intention of "minding her own business" when it came to a child murderer. For someone as old and supposedly wise as the Seer, she should've known better than to try and take a scrappy young detective off a case. "Maybe you should keep working on it," she said. "There might still be something we can do to help them catch the real killer."

"That'd be nice. I'd feel better about whatever my real self did to make this mess, and it'd knock Haigha down a few pegs. I wouldn't mind that, either." A few days of cat box cleaning had made him bitter. He may have had to clean the same cat box ten times in a row, for all she knew—that would've gotten on her nerves, too.

"Good," she said. "Let me know if you get better at it."

"I'll keep you updated. Also, I've been meaning to ask you: does my real self have a daughter?"

"No, he doesn't have any children."

"A younger sister, maybe?" he asked, with growing concern.

"No, he's an only child. Why?"

"A little girl keeps visiting me in my dreams. I assumed she knew my real self somehow."

Hermione didn't know much about Draco Malfoy's personal life, but she couldn't think of any children who'd be visiting him alone. "What does she look like?"

"She's pale, almost as light as I am, but with black hair and black eyes. Probably about five or six years old." He paused and clenched his jaw. "I'm glad she's not my real self's daughter—I don't like it when she visits. All she does is stand beside my bed, always at night, and stare with this awful blank gaze."

"She visits at night?" Mr. White nodded, as though this were an everyday sort of thing, and she remembered how little he knew about the rules of his real self's world. "The hospital must not know she's there, then. They don't let visitors enter in the middle of the night, especially not unattended children." Especially not when a child killer was on the loose.

"They don't? I didn't know that. And you can't think of any relatives who match the description?"

"No," she said. "I mean, I'm not exactly an authority on Draco's life, but that doesn't sound normal."

He was silent for a moment, thinking it over. "So, in other words, a five-year-old girl keeps sneaking into a hospital to visit a strange adult man in a coma."

"Yes, I think that sums it up."

"How extremely odd," he said.

"Even more so than the other things." She reconsidered that as soon as she said it. "Or less, or perhaps about the same. I can't decide."

"Either way, are you hungry?" he asked abruptly. "Not to change the subject, but I haven't had anything all day."

She hadn't, either, but she didn't notice it until he said something. "Now that you mention it, I could go for a late brunch."

She blinked, and they were finished eating. She had cracked eggs, scrambled them, served tea, and made conversation over breakfast. Time was moving at its formerly consistent speed once more, and she began to think about what Mr. White had told her earlier. "You said you'd tried a few things with time," she said. "How did you do that?"

He surprised her by getting up to clear their plates, without even being asked. "Well, first I realised that I don't pay time nearly enough attention," he said, as he rinsed the dishes like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I tried to ignore everything except time, and I stopped attaching numbers to it. Once I was free of that, it became clear that I've been putting far too much pressure on time, and that's why it's gotten so self-conscious."

"You're talking about time like it's a person."

"You've been treating me like a person."

Fair point. "All right. The time's been hiccoughing out of self-consciousness?"

"Only the backward ones. Those happen when it's trying to make sure it got everything just right."

"What about the forward ones?"

"From what I can tell so far, I think those happen when it's feeling under-appreciated."

"Oh." Hermione's hiccoughs were nearly always forward, and she felt the strangest pang of guilt for neglecting the time. "Then how do you reach a compromise?"

"If I feel like I'm about to go backward, I concentrate on my memories of whatever just happened. If they're clear enough, time starts flowing again at the usual speed. Forward's simpler, since all you have to do is stop and think about time, but I usually go back."

"You do? That's odd," she said, although that word was in danger of overuse.

"Why?"

"I'm the opposite."

Mr. White refilled their teacups and returned to his seat at the table. "That is odd," he said, "now that I think about it—our respective timelines have the inverse of our own problems."

If she'd known he was scrutinising her every word half a dozen times, she'd have taken care to reveal a bit less about herself.