Epilogue 1: 2 months later.
On the outskirts of Hogsmeade, a few properties down from a bar and secret club named Amortentia, there is a dilapidated, homey, apartment building. It has several floors, visible and countable by the rows of windows from outside the structure, barred with wooden frames and metal scaffolding. All the floors look identical, with only minor differences distinguishing it from other levels, such as scattered patches of chipped paint and differently numbered doors. The patrons who live there mostly keep to themselves, producing a soundless oasis in the shabby building.
But on the third floor, on the east end of the building, which faces into Hogsmeade and catches the rising sun at dawn without fail, there is now an empty residence. Ghosts occupy that world now, coupled with rolls of thistles like those in Old Western movies, lollying across desserts to the tune of an ominous whistle and breeze.
The apartment was once vivacious, filled to its brim with a group of boisterous yet lovable Slytherins, often frequented by the building owner himself, though that was before his tragic passing. Now, that apartment is vacant. It's tacit. It's chilling—like there was never even a trace of those spirited Slytherins.
Hermione found it too difficult to continue to live there without them. Every corner she turned, every cabinet she opened, and every step she took reminded her of them.
It had become her home—that little apartment. From her first visit to the present, Hermione has valued that quaint loft with every emotion in her. Memories of Blaise and Adrian dancing to their radio, Theo and Pansy cuddling on one couch or the other (solely depending on the configuration, though they never complained so long as they were bound in the warmth of one another's arms), Daphne rolling on the floor in a fit of giggles, and Draco cracking a smile while watching his friends relish life's most simple joys all crowd her mind, each one a book that slides seamlessly into its spot on a compact shelf.
But the second she realized that the apartment was not only physically but emotionally empty, Hermione couldn't bear to stay there. It was like a fresh wound, too raw and too painful for even the air. Exposed, vulnerable, susceptible to infection, the apartment lulled away into an almost forbidden, unspeakable abode. The challenges posed with reserving its original spirit were simply too much to bear for one lonely person, so, once all of them had departed for rehab, Hermione packed her bags, lifted Crookshanks into her arms, and returned to her own apartment near London.
Her own apartment felt different—unfamiliar—when she returned. It was merely a conglomeration of her belongings, but they meant naught without him to brighten the air and kiss her soul the way the moon kisses a body of water—with reflective, prosperous, and gentle caresses.
Time moved slowly, each day arriving and falling like an eternal storm, no end in sight, but it was not a tempestuous outbreak. Rather, it blurred the skies and clouds into one shadowy, grey streak of shade. The sun would try to pierce through that endless veil, but its efforts were lost in the murkiness of it all. It was reflective of her insides, repressed by the loneliness within.
Harry would visit her often, though he was just as hopeless, just as tired. Things with Ginny remained tense, their arguments of her spending too much time away reaching levels his docile heart could not handle. Ginny's pride—so beautiful yet so dangerous—tore Harry's heart wide open and propelled him over a metaphorical edge. Her strength should not have been so frightening to him—he should have embraced that glow—but there was a part of Harry—a large part, truly—that yearned for the warmth and security which Adrian Pucey brought him while cocooned in his arms late at night.
It was too difficult to keep his illicit affair with Adrian a secret from Ginny, and so Harry, brave as ever, ended things with her just a week before Adrian's scheduled release date. It was a termination that required aggregate strength and an introspective reflection, but Harry sealed his fate and prayed that things would fall into place when Adrian returned from rehab.
And now, he sits beside Hermione in her apartment, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, and he cries softly into his palms, because this last week has been one of the hardest of his entire life. Because although Harry has survived war, death itself, and all things dark and terrifying, it is this raw human emotion—love, or the absence of it—that bears such pain and agony against his heart.
In truth, life was dull without his Adrian.
"I never thought I'd do it," Harry whispers. "Break up with Ginny." He pauses briefly, then cranes his neck to meet Hermione's consoling gaze. "I thought I knew who I was all this time, but now I feel... confused. And unsure of myself."
Hermione sighs, followed by her scattered but veritable response, drenched in nothing but the truth of the life she and Harry both lived: "Harry, we're always growing, always changing, always learning new things about ourselves. We grew up fighting in a war, for Godric's sake. We didn't have time to figure these things out for ourselves." She finds one of his shaking hands with hers and closes her fingers around it, gifting her love to him. "It's okay that it's happening for you now. You were never really given a chance to have this moment of reflection. You were just cruelly thrust into the world and expected to know everything and be certain of who you are. But that's a lot to ask of a young boy—to know himself before he's even had the time to consider the possibilities."
Harry's fingers twiddle beneath her touch as he fights back tears. "A part of me still loves her. But when I'm with him... I feel seen. I feel like I am first, but he's also first. We are perfect equals." A light sniffle, and then he continues. "He kisses me, and I'm whole."
"That's special," Hermione responds, her voice lighter than air. "That's... exceptional."
"Is that how you feel with Draco?"
Hesitation strikes her mind—not because the answer is no, but because it is an overwhelming yes, so overwhelming that Hermione can physically feel her heart twist into itself and then burst into this ocean of complete and utter affection. Love tickles her veins and spreads all the way down to her toes, rendering her speechless.
Draco makes her feel alive. He's pinpointed the part of her that's always wanted to emerge—pinpointed and nurtured it. Protected it. Caressed it.
Even now, miles away, Hermione can feel his heart on hers.
"That and more," she answers, her eyes swelling with tears. "With him I feel... I feel like I'm on fire. I've always felt alive around him, but now more than ever, I feel like Draco has awoken something inside of me. Educated me. Inspired me. Made me want to be... the best I can be."
"That's something, too," Harry acknowledges, flipping her hand into his and placing his free hand on top of it like a shelter. "I can't say I ever expected it, but if ever there was someone with true forgiveness in her heart, it's you, Hermione."
Hermione nods, but its weak. She thinks her melancholy might be too obvious, because Harry squeezes her hands a little tighter.
"Soon now," he whispers. "You'll see him soon."
Hermione glances out her window at the dreamy, London street. She dreams of traipsing down that road with Draco, hand in hand, happy, healthy, alive, rebirthed, free. It could be tomorrow, it could be a week from now, or perhaps a month, six months, a bloody year. So long as she can feel her hand wound in his again, Hermione will be complete.
Just his touch would set her on fire.
It secretly always has.
Her hands won't stop shaking.
Weaving her fingers together does nothing to curb the flashes of anxiety running hot beneath her skin, wrapping around bone and squeezing, crushing, almost snapping them into a million little pieces.
Hermione needs to see him. She's ready to see him. It's been two arduous, almost impossible months—two months of constant concern, of a mint deficiency, of a longing that only Draco's particular warmth can curb, can heal. She's anticipated this moment since she last felt his touch outside this exact building, and now that the time has arrived, Hermione is convinced that she'll faint right here on this patch of concrete under her feet.
The cerulean bench that she sits on feels like it'll concave into the earth from the weight of her worries, the burden of the unpredictable. Her chest feels all kinds of tense as she exhales a shaky breath.
Gods, she just... she needs to see him.
Hermione thinks that around fifteen minutes pass before the front door swings open, a light creak announcing the movement. She almost sprains her neck as she looks over at the door, yet it's all for nothing. It's not him—not Draco. Just two employees leaving for the day, identification cards clipped to the breast pocket of their scrubs and bags slung over their shoulders, and at the sight of them, Hermione lightly moans. She runs her fingers into her hair, realizes that she's likely making it more of a fucking mess, and then quickly begins to pat it down, brush through her curls, tame it so that when Draco finally sees her, he'll still find her beautiful.
It's moments later that the door opens again, the same creak filling the otherwise silent patch of her world. Not wanting to get her hopes up again, Hermione takes her time turning her head to face the entrance, but when her eyes land on that patch of blonde hair, that glimmering pale skin, that mosaic of tattoos, and that warm, beautiful body, she rushes to her feet. Turns to face him. Feels tears pool in her eyes at the sight of her treasure.
Draco looks just as beautiful as he did two months ago, but there's something more enchanting about the way he holds himself.
His shoulders used to slump when he walked, bore down by the weight of the world. But today, he stands tall and proud—shoulders back, neck held high, chest out and broader than before.
The eternal bags under his eyes seem to be lighter—present still, but not in a ghostly way. In a simple, understandable sense of the word tired.
But the eyes themselves have not changed—still as piercing and precious as the finest diamond.
She opens her mouth to greet him: "Draco—"
But he's already flying across the courtyard with generous steps, and it only takes a second or two for him to reach her and hurl himself against her in an embrace. His arms snake around her waist, and he tows her into him like they've been parted for an eternity—like they're reuniting in an afterlife built for them and them alone. His head molds brilliantly against the crest of her neck, and when he lets out a placated sigh and it flutters against her sensitive skin, Hermione tosses her arms around his neck and drags him down against her.
Her tears settle against several strands of his hair, and his nails dig into her back in desperation, but there is no care in the world for such actions. There is only them—Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger—former Death Eater and Golden Girl—proving to the world that there is such a thing as forgiveness, redemption, and second chances. There has to be—for what else would someone call this moment?
Suddenly, Draco breaks the silence with simple yet considerable words. They change Hermione's life.
"I didn't say it," he rasps, and Hermione can tell that he's trying to cover up the sobs fastened to his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't tell you when I left two months ago. I didn't tell you that I—that—gods, Hermione—I didn't tell you that I love you."
Hermione's heart suddenly feels very warm and cold at the same time, like the sun hitting the aftermath of a raging blizzard. She melts and softens under Draco's words and the way that he continues to embrace her.
He lets out this authentic whimper—a joyful but still painful weep. It breaks her heart and then pieces it back together when she remembers what he's just admitted to her—what she herself has felt for quite some time now: I love you.
"Shhh, Draco," she hushes his cries, running one of her hand's over the back of his head in an act of comfort.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," Draco repeats, tears streaming down his face and onto Hermione's sleeve. She feels the fabric of her top run wet, but she can't find it anywhere in her being to care. Not when this moment is so pure, untainted—so everything that she's wanted of recent.
Hermione's feelings seem to rush to her mouth all at once. Holding those words in for so long has been torturous, to say the least, but now that she can feel the release surfacing—now that he's confirmed his strong feelings for her—Hermione has no fear. No qualms. No hesitations. She allows the fire he stirs in her to burst forth in a streak of sparks and crackles and pops, until the holy sentiment comes streaming out of her mouth in a desperate, oxygen-releasing "I love you, Draco," an I love you that feels like heaven to verbally acknowledge, finally.
Draco sighs and doesn't stop saying that he loves her back, even as he drops to his knees before her, settles his wobbly hands on the slopes of her waist, and presses his forehead to her belly. Space becomes nonexistent as he attached himself to her in every way he can. Like an utterly devoted and pious man bowed down before a marble statue of a bountiful, fruit-bearing goddess, Draco worships Hermione—supplicates her forgiveness in a desperate, frantic plea.
"You saved me—I love you—how can I ever express how much I love you—"
Hermione falls to her knees in front of him and takes his cheeks in her shaking hands. She rests her forehead upon his, swiping her thumb below his eyes to wipe the tears off of his soft, supple skin. "You saved yourself," she whispers, repeatedly nodding her head against his. "You made this choice. This was you, Draco. You saved yourself—"
His lips are suddenly upon hers, and they're just as smooth as she remembers. Coated with honey and magic and a hunger only the world's most devoted ascetic knows, Draco's lips slide across hers with passion and fervor, and Hermione feels indebted to him and this kiss; she presses her lips against his with a craving that is ages past wild—it's raw, it's bountiful, it's the manifestation of everything she's felt and everything she hasn't over these last two months.
It's love.
"I wouldn't have made it here without you," Draco says when he pulls away for air, but then he's already jerking right back to meet her lips and feed her his holy breath. "I'd be—" his lips press against hers again— "dead without you—" more kissing, more hunger, more fire. "You saved my life."
"I'm sorry it took this long," she croaks, thinking about that ghost of a boy her sixth year—Draco, tired, alone, depressed, walking the corridors of Hogwarts like an apparition—and how she could've helped him then, reached out, done something to ease the festering pain.
Draco shakes his head. "You are perfect, now and then." They're both quaking, but his hands find Hermione's, and they hold hers in the space between their chests. "I'm... Hermione... I'm sorry. For... everything—everything—leading up to this moment."
"It's all in the past," Hermione asserts as Draco peppers a kiss on the tip of her nose. "All in the past, Draco."
"I'm supposed to make amends where I can—"
Hermione squeezes his hand. "You have already amended yourself time and time again—"
"—my cruelty was because of my fear—"
"—I know, I understand—"
"—and I'm sorry—"
"—shhh, shhh, Draco—"
"—I should've never said the things I said to you."
Hermione pauses. She takes in those words, that sentiment. Inhales another one of Draco's attempts at reconciliation and exhales utter forgiveness. Spills it into his mouth in another kiss; she feels his tongue on fire against hers.
"I forgive you," she whispers. "I forgave you a long time ago."
"Because it's in your nature," he says, smoothing away a piece of Hermione's hair and tucking it behind her ear. "Because you're predisposed to kindness."
"And because you are a good man," Hermione adds. "Because you deserve to feel at peace."
"I feel like I'm bathing in peace when I'm with you," Draco says, and there it is again: his poetry. The string of his words that electrocute her heart—cause it to short-circuit. She knows so many truths—this and that and this and that and everything in between—because of Draco's poetry. She knows how soft gold feels, how brilliant the sun shines, how coveted a Golden Age is. She knows the rush of dopamine and the calm of his kiss. She knows the warmth of his arms and the fire in his heart. The meaning of a mince pie, the cool touch of a mug upon her lips, and the ardor of his body when it is consuming her whole. She knows Draco Malfoy—loves him without fault. Wishes she could wring him dry of his pain and bask in the sweet, picturesque lumen of his eyes. She loves him, and she doesn't care how this love came to be. She's just certain that it's there.
"Let's go home," she whispers. "I think everyone should be back by now. I haven't been—"
Hermione pauses, gnawing at her lip and casting her eyes away in remorse.
"Have you not been staying there?" Draco asks, finding her eyes and gazing into them with a puzzled yet hopeful look—a look Hermione cannot resist monopolizing and seizing for herself and only herself.
She shakes her head slowly. "It was too hard without you."
Planting his hand on her cheek, Draco undergoes a period of silent reflection before expressing his thoughts. "I've learned that breaking old habits and trying to start fresh is a good way to avoid falling back into destructive patterns." He gulps, and as Hermione tilts her head, she can tell that he's preparing to ask her something else. It's in the cadence of his voice and the bend of his eyebrows—he's nervous about something. "I've missed you, Hermione." Gods, she loves how he says that. "And I can't spend another second without you. Maybe... for a little while... I could—"
"Stay with me," she concludes, both finishing his sentence and ordering it herself.
Draco nods. "I hate leaving them, but I... Hermione, I don't want to do this all over again."
"I'll do anything it takes to keep you safe," she whispers, bringing his face closer to hers so that they're only a slip of breath away. "Of course, you can stay with me."
He sighs—fluttery, saccharine in nature. "I have so much to tell you."
Hermione smiles, pressing her lips once more to his damp cheek and resting there for a moment before pulling back and saying, "We have all the time in the world, Draco. All the time and all the gold imaginable."
With a laugh as smooth as syrup from the depths of his throat, Draco whispers, "You're made of gold, Hermione Granger. And I love you."
The reunion between the Slytherins is priceless, authentic. It's filled with laughter and tears. It's the most joy Hermione and any of them have felt in a long time. It's Christmas morning. It's sweet licorice. It's honey-infused incense that burns and purifies like its embers depend on it.
It's Theo embracing Pansy with a mammoth hug and slamming his lips into hers, and then with a more delicate touch he peppers kisses on the side of her face. And it's Pansy's hands finding his hair, and her mouth running wild with one sweet word: "Theo, Theo, Theo." She says it until her throat grows sore.
It's Daphne smiling at Blaise, still building her trust but ultimately finding comfort in his innocuous, heavenly face. It's a careful pat-turn-caress on her shoulder and a sweet greeting back to their home.
It's Adrian embracing Draco with the most genuine smile Hermione has ever seen cross his face—a smile she's only ever seen when he is with Harry, who arrives mere moments after receiving Hermione's Patronus.
"Potter—"
Harry and Adrian barely have time to breathe before they tumble into one another in a powerful collision. Immediately they're whispering lovely things into one another's ears; Adrian is smiling, Harry is laughing like it's the birth of his joy, and after a few moments of spinning in an elated embrace, Adrian pulls away, reaches for Harry's face, and pulls him up to kiss him. Splay his lips across his and drink the wine on Harry's lips, the infused peace and love and acceptance that they gave one another only few months ago.
When things settle—when they're all convened in that quintessential arrangement on the couches yet again—Draco rises to say a few words.
"There's a few things I need to say," he starts, swallowing in anxiety. "This has been the greatest home, and you all have been the greatest family that anyone could ask for. But, if we really want to get better—and I really want to get better—then we need to reevaluate our dependence on one another."
He waits for an uproar, disagreement, something to thwart his newfound ideas.
But the Slytherins listen quite intently, and Hermione can tell by the looks in their eyes that they are well on already on the path of concurrence.
"I think that I need to say goodbye to this place."
They all appear taken aback—shocked and saddened by what Draco has suggested. But concurrently, and in a more tangible way, there's hints of admiration and veneration in their gazes. Doused in nothing short of respect, the Slytherins all take their time in agreeing with Draco; even Daphne, who has spent the last two months with Pansy, attempting to rebuild the life she once knew, exhibits total wonder and awe for the new man in front of her.
Adrian is the first to speak, and he curls his fingers through Harry's as he does so. "You do what's best for you, mate. This is your life. Don't let anybody hold you back from keeping yourself clean, you hear me?"
Beaming in relief, Draco nods, and then his eyes glaze over to regard Hermione at his side.
"I hear you," he whispers, directed at Adrian, though his eyes are glued to her. And then he turns back to face his friends and breathes another kind of sigh—one that feels full of dread, and suddenly Hermione grows nervous. "There's something else I need to tell you all."
"Go on," Pansy tenderly encourages as Draco falls quiet.
Draco clears his throat—glances down at his feet before summoning the courage he needs to present this information. "You all should know who I met while in rehab." A beat as he takes in the curious looks on everyone's faces. "It the girl from Graham's memories. Olivia."
Hermione didn't know this until now, and she's nothing short of shocked in the best way possible. There's something entirely inspirational about Olivia being there, in the right place at the right time, caring for Draco. It's been painful to think of what became of Olivia after Graham's death—somehow, this is a seamless fate for her. Perhaps she was always meant to be there, waiting for Draco, helping him when she couldn't help Graham.
There's a trust like no other that Hermione feels for Olivia now, and perhaps that's solely due to the way she perceived her in Graham's memories as someone with nothing less than total compassion in her heart. If anyone who is trained in such care should guide Draco out of his addiction, it seems perfectly sublime and fitting that it be Olivia, with her gentle spirit, kind eyes, and toiled hands.
Almost immediately, Adrian's shoulders tense, and his lips part. A tense subject for him, Adrian deeply inhales to curb the traumatic connection he has to the situation, to Graham. "She... she was there?"
Draco nods. "Training as a substance misuse nurse. She worked with me quite often."
Blaise bravely addresses the elephant in the room. "Did... did you tell her about Graham?"
To his right, Daphne quietly asks, "Who... who is Graham again?" Her question harbors a hint of shame, like she knows that she should know the answer. But she doesn't—Graham is nothing but a name to Daphne now. The memories have faded, and without Graham here, there's no rebuilding what is lost.
Blaise rotates his neck to look at her, and then very slowly, he places his hand over hers; she doesn't pull away. Doesn't even flinch. It's natural consent—it's the tug of the world resting on Blaise's fingertips, and it appears that Daphne enjoys the pull. Wonders where it might take her in the future.
"He was once a friend of ours," Blaise explains as delicately as possible, "but he... didn't make it."
Daphne gulps, her eyes widening in fear and remorse. She looks away from Blaise and purses her lips, regret strewn through her expression.
But then her palm slowly flips up beneath Blaise's hand, and her fingers curl into his, and that's plenty for Blaise. It's one large, beautiful step forward.
"I couldn't tell her," Draco says, shaking his head. "There was never a right moment to do it."
"She has to know," Theo says, looking at Pansy for confirmation. "I mean, what if she has no idea what happened to him? What if she thinks he's still out there? That... that's just cruel."
"I will tell her," Draco says, rubbing his temple with his fingers. "I will reach out under the guise of my recovery, and I'll tell her then. But if you could see the look in her eyes—" He pauses, pursing his lips to hold back his emotions. "She always looked so hopeful. So optimistic. And you could just tell that she was at peace with the work she was doing—like she knew she was supposed to be there. How could I tell her about him? I couldn't do it."
Hermione reaches for Draco's unsteady hand, laces her fingers through his, and kisses the back of his palm. It's warm to the touch. "We'll find a time to tell her. Don't worry, Draco."
"Can I be there?" Adrian asks, lifting his eyes in desperation. "Please. Let me meet her. Let me be there when you tell her about Graham. I have... so many things to tell her about him."
Draco hesitates, but eventually nods. To give Adrian this closure would be like another step towards recovery, towards mending the broken pieces of his soul. Perhaps meeting Olivia and telling her everything would bring him the peace he has been craving in that aspect of his life.
"We'll tell her together. In time." Draco pauses, closing his eyes. "I just need a little more time."
There's a consensus between the group—nods and murmurs that agree with Draco. He sighs in relief, the world lifted off of his shoulders in that moment of release.
And then, an influx of emotions. Another glide across the horizon of peace. Another moment of proving that Draco Malfoy is stronger than anyone Hermione has ever known.
"I don't tell you all this often," he continues, glancing at his feet and then back at his friends, "and for that, I'm sorry. But... thank you. For keeping me alive long enough to experience this moment. I'm sorry it came with such challenging moments. If I could take it all back—"
"We are stronger because of it," Pansy says, lifting her eyes to meet Draco's. "All of us, in our own ways. I don't regret any of this, and neither should you, Draco."
"We're here because of what we had to go through," Blaise adds. "That's a reward in itself. Even though we went through hell to get to this moment, I also don't regret any of it."
Draco nods, trying to find it in his heart to agree, though he might not be there yet, and that's acceptable. The process shouldn't be rushed. It should age like an eternal olive tree, giving just a little bit of energy with each day that passes but never fully conceding to the needs and demands of others—not unless it is ready.
"You all still saved me," he continues, "and for that, I will always be grateful for you."
And then Draco looks at Harry, and the room seems to freeze as the ice in Draco's eyes meets the honey in Harry's.
"Even you, Potter, in your own way, have helped me get to where I am today."
Harry's lips part, but he nods in reconciliation and in treaty.
"You deserve to be happy, Malfoy. Truly."
To lighten the mood, Adrian chuckles and leans back against the couch cushion, crossing his arms over his chest. "You trying to steal your husband back from me, Malfoy?" The room erupts in solemn laughter; heads fall into hands at the pleasant memory. Even Daphne, who knows nothing of the joke, smiles alongside her friends—their joy is enough to stir that curve of her lips. "It seems that our dragon has developed a predilection for kindness."
Draco cracks a smile more beautiful than heaven itself. "There is nothing insincere about the way I regard you all," he explains. "Believe me. You saved me."
"This isn't goodbye, is it?" Daphne whispers, bending her eyebrows and creating anxious creases on her forehead. "I feel as though I've just gotten you all back."
Draco approaches Daphne slowly, kneeling when he reaches her. "No, Daph. This is not a goodbye." He takes her hand in his. "I will never say goodbye."
She nods, her eyes beaming as if she can see her memories again, but Hermione knows that it's just her loving, receptive nature. That the sincerity in Draco's eyes and voice is enough to make her feel as though she really is home.
"Go be happy," she whispers, squeezing his hand.
Draco bows his head up and down. "Promise me you'll do the same?"
Daphne smiles. "Apparently, I was always rather gleeful around you all. I'm sure that I will find that feeling again."
That night, as they lie in Hermione's bed with their arms curled protectively around one another, Draco exhales a sigh of relief into Hermione's curls, and at that tepid action, Hermione leans deeper against his bare chest. Her fingers slowly outline the tattoo of Saturn on his ribs, chasing its rings in an eternal marathon. His body is warm with love and new beginnings. She sinks into it with an exhale.
"This feels like home," Draco whispers, and it's so quiet that Hermione can barely hear it. She thinks, perhaps, that Draco meant to just whisper that to himself. But she's heard it know—knows his feelings about this new situation—and she can't help but respond with a question.
"Already?" she asks, turning her lips into a serene smile.
Draco chuckles, his chest lifting her up and down as he does so. "Anywhere is home if you're there, Hermione."
They sleep. Dream. Fall deeper in love as the moon treks across the night sky.
And the next morning, when the both of them wake, they'll undoubtedly feel the same way.
