Title: All That Glitters

Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Summary: Mr. Weasley makes a request, Percy takes a risk, and Harry struggles to make sense of the truth.

Not all that is gold does glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Trials and Tribulations

The situation was getting worse by the second.

It did not take long for Percy to realize that the world was practically going up in flames. The deaths of the Minister and the Headmistress were enough to send even the most docile over the edge with anger, and when Kingsley's supposed revenge was added to the mix… well, he reflected glumly, it was a miracle civil war hadn't broken out yet.

He was back at the Ministry, and now it seemed as though he might never leave. Already, piles of parchments were cluttering his desk, each demanding to be answered and dealt with right away. Outside his partially open door, others were gathered, talking in low voices and hushed tones. He would occasionally catch snippets of their conversations as they moved past, and that was enough to know that they were all facing some serious trouble.

Lost in his own dark thoughts, Percy barely even registered the door opening further and Penelope stepping into the room. She crossed to the desk before he managed to look up, and all he could offer was a wan smile.

"How are you?" she asked gently, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Alright, I suppose," Percy answered with a little shrug. "Better than Harry."

Penny waved her wand idly, conjuring another chair, and took a seat across from him. "So he really saw…?"

Percy nodded with a dispassionate expression. "Yes, he saw the Headmistress die. Only in his story…" He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the palm of one hand, "Things are so complicated right now. Harry says that Kingsley did make a deal with Snape…"

"Why?" Penny demanded, aghast.

"Because apparently Snape did not actually have anything to do with McGonagall's kidnapping," Percy muttered, "and we actually wanted to save her. I still don't quite understand how the Malfoys fit into this, though."

"So what happens now?"

It was a question without an answer, and Percy let it hang in the air, echoing in silence. Finally, when it became evident that there was really nothing he could say about the subject that would ease their heavy hearts, he opted to switch to a different, although still frustrating, topic.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work? I thought Ginny was coming in to shadow you today. Again."

Penny grimaced lightly, but nodded. "She is. But not for another hour. I have some time."

From there, the conversation turned towards lighter subjects, although neither could quite dismiss the less-than-pleasant concerns from their minds, and so their words were shadowed by worry and fear.

Finally, as Penny rose to leave, Percy caught her arm. She looked back, and he said softly, "Look, Pen… I know things with Ginny are… awkward…" Penny gave a dark chuckle at the understatement, and Percy continued, "But she is my sister. So can you at least try to… be civil? I know she can probably be… temperamental… still…" he faltered, hesitating once more, unable to coherently say what he wanted to express.

But Penny nodded, understanding. "I can try," she promised. "I can't guarantee I will succeed, but I can certainly try."

It was all he could hope for, as he well knew. Ginny's temper was easily frayed and Penny was slow to forgive slights against anyone she cared about, however justified they might be. But these were two of the most important women in his life, and he needed them to get along. Or, at least, to try.

Only moments after Penny slipped out the door, it opened once more, and Percy looked up in surprise.

"Father?"

Mr. Weasley shut the door firmly behind him and strode forward, his expression grim. Without preamble or pleasantries, he said, "We need you to call for a trial for Kingsley."

Percy blinked, confused. "Who is we? And why? Isn't a trial the last thing we would want?"

Mr. Weasley shook his head. "No. The last thing we want is for him to receive a sentence without a trial. Which, given the current public sentiment against him and Hannigan's own agenda, is exactly what will happen. Unless we can prevent it. It will buy us time, at least, to figure out a way out of this mess."

Percy considered this for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. "I see." His father did not need to elaborate on the issue of who was behind this, either, as it was clear from his silence and the nervousness of his continually moving gaze that this idea came from the remnants of the Order, the few who still survived and still believed in Kingsley's innocence.

He had no doubt that, should Hannigan succeed in his bid for Minister, those remaining Order members would be his first targets. Well, after the Malfoys and a few other Death Eater sympathizers, of course.

"Politically, you are the one in the best position to push for a trial," Mr. Weasley added. "Hermione is going to speak to Luna, and I believe her father's newspaper will run an article asking for the same thing. We will need to use a slant that the public will buy, of course."

Percy gave a vague nod. "And how exactly do you want me to do this?"

"Just casually mention to Hannigan, preferably while there are other notable witches and wizards in the room, that Kingsley betrayed us all and we all deserve to hear him confess, to force him to face what he did. Can you do that?"

Percy bristled. "Of course I can manage it, Father," he answered quickly, tightly. Sure, he had never done any type of work for the Order, having been opposed to the organization while they were still n existence, but it was not as though this was some type of complicated subterfuge. It was simply uttering a few words, and that would not be too difficult.

"I did not mean…" Mr. Weasley stopped with a weary sigh. "I did not mean to imply you could not do it, son." Percy did not answer right away, and so the elder man said, "I just want to make sure this goes… well. Hannigan is a dangerous man, if he becomes suspicious of you or your intentions…" He trailed off and did not finish the statement.

He did not need to finish it, Percy understood the risks. "It will be fine, Father," he said firmly, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.

"Thank you. Be careful." And without another word, Mr. Weasley left, exiting just as quickly and abruptly as he had come.

Under any other circumstances, Percy might have been annoyed at how easily he had had his services requested and then been dismissed. The tension in his family was far from resolved, but he at least thought he was making some headway with his father. Still… he knew, better than most, just how easily the Ministry could become swept up in one person's schemes, and under these circumstances he fully agreed that there was hardly time to waste on empty words.

His father had asked for his help. On a matter of supreme importance, his father had asked for his help.

Maybe it was a step in the right direction after all.

It was those thoughts that were still echoing through his mind when, nearly thirty minutes later, he found himself approaching Hannigan with a stack of parchment in his arms. "Uh… Mr. Hannigan?"

"Yes, Weasley?" the man in question replied with a slight nod of his head to acknowledge the younger wizard.

Percy held out the parchment and explained, "Some… requests… came for the Minister over the past two days. And he didn't have a chance to look at them before…" He paused, flushing slightly, unable to bring himself to utter the words of Diggory's murder, and rushed on, "They are not particularly urgent matters, but they are in regards to decisions that I am not in a position to make. I thought perhaps you could look at them and advise me, sir?"

Hannigan smiled eagerly. "Of course."

They were standing in a hallway near the entrance of the Atrium, within earshot of Abbott and a few people Percy recognized from the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, as well as a reporter wearing a badge from the Daily Prophet and a cluster of Ministry workers Percy thought vaguely might be Unspeakables. Hannigan was clearly basking in the glory of Percy's obvious implication that he was close to becoming Minister, and the others were hanging on his every word.

"I know you might not have a lot of time, though," Percy added with a faintly apologetic smile, "with Shacklebolt's trial coming up and all that."

"Trial?" Hannigan nearly sputtered, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Percy winced inwardly, but remembering that this job had been given to him and not anyone else, he pushed forward bravely. "Oh…" he said, looking contrite, "I just assumed there would be one. We all trusted him and he betrayed us. He needs to be made to account for it now that he no longer has… protection."

"Indeed," Hannigan said slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. "We can't have him getting off easily just because they used to be well-respected by those with influence."

Percy knew that was a subtle slight against both Dumbledore and the Order, although he would not dare to say so aloud. Since the final battle, very few had expressed anything but love, respect, and adoration for the deceased Headmaster.

Still, he forced himself to smile and reply, "Exactly, sir."

Hoping that his words had been enough, he left the parchment in Hannigan's outstretched arms and turned away, his heart still hammering in his chest. He had not expected that exchanging pleasantries and few comments with anyone could leave him this nerve-wracked, and he suddenly had much more appreciation for what the members of the Order had been forced to endure during the year of Ministry denial. Subterfuge might not always involve wands or weapons or even magic, but that did not make it any less dangerous.

The figured, robe all in black, identity obscured by a traveling cloak, moved silently and swiftly up the steps to the small house, moving with obvious determination. And yet, still, there was a sense of hesitation in the steps, as though the person needed to be here, and yet still did not want to come. Harry watched, intrigued and a little worried, wondering what drama was about to unfold before his very eyes.

Beside Harry, Draco Malfoy watched dispassionately, his expression closely guarded. Harry slanted a glance towards his unusual companion, replaying the recent events in his mind. He had not expected to return to his flat and find the proud Slytherin waiting for him, nor had he expected Malfoy's insistent request that he looked at the vial of memories the blonde-haired boy had brought. He said, over and over, that the memories would prove vital for saving Kingsley, and didn't Harry want that? But every instinct had been telling him not to listen for when had Malfoy ever done anything without some ulterior motive?

Still, thoughts of Dumbledore's calm façade and McGonagall's lifeless body kept replaying through his mind, and seized by a rash and possibly foolish bravery, he had followed Malfoy into the pensieve.

Which was how he ended up here, standing on the steps outside the home he recognized as belonging to his Aunt Petunia and Dudley, frowning at the faint moonlight trickling down from the sky and illuminating the neatly trimmed lawn.

The figure knocked on the door, sharply and impatiently.

Judging by the stars, Harry could guess that it was not much after nine o'clock, and so visitors would not be completely unheard of at this hour. Still, he was a little surprised as the door slid cautiously open and Petunia's face peered out into the night.

"Who are you?" she asked shakily, eyes travelling up and down the figure. "What do you want?"

The hood of the traveling cloak came down then, revealing sallow skin, a hook nose, and a sheet of damp and greasy hair. Harry inhaled sharply, whispering, "Snape," as a hot anger boiled in his stomach. Malfoy narrowed his eyes slightly, but did not make any other motion.

It was Petunia's reaction that surprised the young green-eyed wizard the most, though. Instead of reacting with surprise, confusion, or fear – all natural reactions if a weird looking stranger showed up at her door after dark – she sneered, her eyes filling with disgust.

"Snape."

Harry gaped. Andromeda Tonks had claimed that Lily and Snape were friends at Hogwarts, but Harry had dismissed it as nothing more than a vague friendship, the sort that would start because Lily was the type of person to take pity on an outcast and could not possibly have wanted to stand aside and watch others mock or abuse the lonely and awkward Snape. But now it appeared that Aunt Petunia knew Snape as well…

And how exactly could he explain that?

"Mum? Who is it?" a voice called, and Dudley appeared behind his mother.

"No one, Dudders," Petunia said, turning to her son with a smile. "Go back, alright?"

But Dudley had caught sight of Snape and shook his head determinedly. "No! It's one of those freaks like the one that killed Dad!" His hands balled into fists, his eyes glittered with anger. He had lost weight since the beginning of his hiding, but he was still a big man, and carried a lot of physical weight. He was obviously thinking that his mother was in danger, and he would not leave her alone.

Of course, Harry knew perfectly well that if Snape had wanted to kill Petunia, there was nothing Dudley would have been able to do to stop it.

But, again to Harry's surprise, Petunia said, "It's alright, Dudley. He's not… Snape won't hurt me. Go back to the kitchen."

"Others might come," Dudley protested. "The war…"

"The war is over," Snape interjected smoothly, black eyes turning to Dudley. "The Dark Lord is gone and most of his followers have been found and imprisoned. It is doubtful you are in any real danger."

"Go back to the kitchen," Petunia repeated, now practically pleading with her son.

And Dudley, ever so slowly, nodded and turned, moving away.

Petunia waited until her son was out of earshot, then spun to face Snape again. "What do you want?" she demanded, her tone filled with disgust once more. Her eyes studied his face and she added with a drawl, "You did not grow any more handsome with age, did you? And still in tatters?" She glanced at his traveling cloak, which was frayed in places and pursed her lips.

Snape added easily and without pause, "And you did not grow any more pleasant, did you?"

Petunia laughed, a dark, ironic chuckle. "Pleasant?" she repeated, sarcasm dripping from her tone. "Pleasant? When all your kind has ever done is to make my life worse? My husband is dead because of you and your war, because of my sister's brat of a son…" She paused, dark splotches of color marring her pale complexion, and inhaled slowly in an attempt to control her anger. "We watched him until he was seventeen, gave him a place to live and food to eat and what did he do in return? Vernon is dead now because…" Again, she stopped, obviously unable to continue.

"I did not know about your husband's death," Snape offered, his tone neutral. "You have my… sympathy."

Petunia shook her head and looked away. "Your sympathy means nothing, Snape."

Harry took a few steps closer, watching the exchange, wishing he knew what it meant. There was an underlying connection, something that had passed between them before, some context to the conversation that he was missing. Malfoy did not seem to know any more than he did, although he had at least seen the end of the memory and knew what happened when it was all over.

Petunia swallowed nervously, and then said, "What do you want, Snape? My sister is no longer around, you cannot stalk her every move."

Snape flushed, looking angry. "I never…"

"You always did," Petunia hissed. "Always! Hiding in the bushes and watching us. Luring her away the moment you knew she was a freak like you! You couldn't wait to get her away from me, couldn't wait to pull her into your world and make her forget about the rest of us. Sneaking around and reading my letters and then telling her about it? You filthy…"

Snape retorted coldly, "And you? Hiding and watching us? Calling your own sister a freak because you did not get the magic that came to her? Sneering at me and my home and my clothing just because you could? Do not put yourself on a pedestal, Mrs. Dursley, it is a long way to fall. If you hadn't been so determined to have everything Lily had, maybe you wouldn't have called her freak so often."

"Better than Mudblood."

There was a complete silence after Petunia's comment as Snape seemed to be trying in vain to push his emotions behind a mask. Petunia looked triumphant, her lips twisted into a smile, and Snape lowered his gaze for a moment, collecting himself.

"Yes, I know about that," Petunia said fiercely. "I never cared, never wanted to hear a single thing about her oh-so-precious life, but it was hard not to, when she came home and sobbed about it over and over after her fifth year at the freak school. How her best friend in the whole world had turned on her, had become a hypocrite, a bigot, a power-hungry, greedy, cowardly…"

"Shut up!"

The pure rage in Snape's voice took Harry by surprise, as did the look of a wounded, panic-ridden animal that surfaced momentarily in the potion Master's gaze.

Petunia stopped. After a pause, she repeated one last time, "What do you want, Snape?"

"I only came to tell you the war was over," Snape answered finally, his voice back to his drawling tone. "Perhaps I needn't have bothered, but I assume that the rest of the wizarding world would have forgotten about you by now and so you might not know. Surely your nephew would not have bothered to come."

Petunia shrugged. "And good riddance to him."

And without another word, she slammed the door in Snape's face.

Harry turned to Malfoy as the memory around him began to fade. "What does this have to do with anything?" he demanded hotly. "All it shows is that Snape was friends with my mother before he went and got her killed. Which isn't a whole lot of help for Kingsley. Why are you wasting my time?"

"I'm not," Malfoy answered. "There's just one more memory. Use your brain for once, Potter, and try to pay attention. It might not be easy for you, but after several years of school, I assume you at least have some intelligence."

"More than you," Harry snapped.

Malfoy shrugged but did not reply, and the next memory appeared around them. They were standing in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. It was daytime, and sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the dust motes that hung suspended in the air. Several of the portraits were asleep, leaning against their frames, eyelids fluttering with dreams.

Snape was standing in the center of the office, staring hard at Dumbledore's portrait. Harry assumed that this memory must have occurred prior to the other one, perhaps at some point while Snape was still Headmaster.

"It is not the Dark Lord I fear," Snape was saying, his expression grim. "But… Minerva is becoming troublesome. My threats have not been enough to give her pause. I cannot let her subordination stand, or word of it may travel through the Carrows to the other Death Eaters. She would be beyond my protection then."

"She has not backed off when you threaten harsher punishments for the students?" Dumbledore asked with a frown, leaning forward in his portrait frame. There was just the tiniest bit of pride in his voice, and yet some concern and worry as well.

Snape grumbled in reply, "No. She hesitates, she does not wish to cause any unnecessary pain. But she is far too ridiculously noble and courageous to back down, even when she has already lost the fight." Turning away from the portrait, he stared through Harry and Malfoy towards the window, watching the sunlight. "Bloody Gryffindors," he muttered under his breath.

"How long can you delay…?"

Snape shrugged and did not face Dumbledore as he replied, "It depends on how far she goes, which lines she crosses. I doubt anything would further stop her, though, except…" He trailed off and did not finish the sentence.

Dumbledore's gaze hardened. "A step I can assume neither of us would feel comfortable with, Severus," he said softly, although in a tone filled with steely resolve. "There is a better way, we must simply find it."

This time Snape did spin to face Dumbledore, his eyes filled with an uncharacteristic fury. For all his hard edges and cold façade, Snape rarely displayed emotion so openly as he did at that moment, and Harry could not help but feel startled by the depths of anger, hopelessness, and anguish in his eyes. "Don't you think I know that, Dumbledore?" he snarled, voice shaking. "Do you really think I haven't tried to come up with every possibility? But you know as well as I do that the only thing that will stop Minerva is permanent damage to a student, and I cannot inflict that on any of them."

In a conciliatory tone, Dumbledore murmured, "I know. I know this is a difficult situation and you are doing your best."

"My best," Snape sneered. "My best has not been enough, has it? Not for Lily, certainly, and now not for Minerva. I cannot save anyone, it seems."

"You saved Harry on several occasions," Dumbledore countered, "for which I am quite confident Lily will always be grateful. Even death cannot change that."

"Not enough," Snape hissed in a low tone. "It seems to be never enough."

Dumbledore continued as though he had not heard Snape's words, "And you saved young Mr. Malfoy. You saved him from becoming a murderer, from being forced to kill me. He might not realize it now, but you did him a great service that night, saving his soul."

Harry glanced sideways at Malfoy, but the wizard refused to meet his gaze. His eyes were fixed on Snape, and Harry could have sworn he saw something flickering through the pale orbs, something that looked very much like gratitude.

Snape lifted dark eyes to the deceased Headmaster's portrait. "And my own soul? I did not save that, did I?"

The portrait was silent for a moment, then asked in a discouraged voice, "Will you never forgive me for asking you to kill me?"

Harry snapped his gaze to Dumbledore, shocked and confused. "What?" he breathed.

"I was dying anyway," Dumbledore continued, "and this was for the best. It was the only way to ensure that Voldemort would give you the school, and you needed to become Headmaster to protect the students from the other Death Eaters."

"I was willing to spy for you," Snape muttered, turning away again and sinking into a stiff-backed wooden chair. "I was willing to put myself in danger, time and again, to bring you information. I have been… hurt… by the Dark Lord, by other Death Eaters. I have been forced to watch others die to maintain my cover. And I was willing to do so, because I… I knew it was right. Fighting this war. And I…" He stopped and shook his head. "I loved her. Lily."

Harry gaped.

"I know."

"But to kill you? For everything else you ever asked of me, I was able to forgive you. But asking that? No… No, Dumbledore, I will not forgive you for that."

The portrait heaved a weary sigh. "I am sorry," he murmured.

Snape nodded slowly. "Me, too," he whispered, but it was clear from his expression he was no longer talking to the portrait. And his next words confirmed it as he added, "I'm sorry, Lily. I have tried to keep Harry safe for you… I have tried to… to be better…"

There was a silence as Snape stared blankly ahead, lost in his own thoughts. Then, after a moment of reflection, he rose once more to his feet, his expression determined. "I will do what I can to delay the Dark Lord's wrath against Minerva and the others who follow her. But I cannot delay him forever. Potter must return soon."

"Have faith that he will," Dumbledore's portrait answered, and then the memory ended…

… And Harry found himself standing in his own flat, Malfoy next to him, both staring hard at the pensieve and the shimmering silver almost-liquid inside.

"No…" Harry gasped, unable to understand what he had seen. "The memories… they are fake… they must… they must be…" He turned away, walking on wobbling legs, and made it only as far as the sofa before he was forced to catch himself against the furniture. He let out a shaky breath, feeling dizzy and light-headed.

"They weren't," Malfoy said. "You know they weren't."

And he did know that they weren't fake, that they hadn't been tampered with. Because he knew what a memory looked like when it had been altered to conceal the truth. He had seen the foggy, congealed appearance of Slughorn's fake memory, of what he had tried to pass off as a truthful interaction with the young Tom Riddle. And these memories contained none of that…

No, they were real.

And yet… how could they be?

"It doesn't change anything," Harry muttered, feeling suddenly full of fury. "He still… he still got my mother killed. And my father. He… he betrayed them! It doesn't matter that he… that he's sorry…"

To which Malfoy replied mildly, "I was under the impression that it was Peter Pettigrew who brought about your parents' death. And the Dark Lord."

Harry turned to face him, rage etched into the lines of his face. "What do you know of it?" he sneered. "Was your Dad palls with that rat? Was he?"

Malfoy paled but did not reply to the question. Instead, he said, "Snape did not kill McGonagall. It is obvious from the memory that he would not have ever done it. We have to find the people who did and bring them to justice. That will prove Shacklebolt innocent of whatever crime Hannigan tries to attach to his name. We can clear them both, him and Snape."

"Clear him?" Harry hissed. "From what? Those memories do not change anything!"

"Are you bloody mad?" Malfoy snapped in reply, growing more and more impatient. "They change everything! That's your proof that Snape was always on your side. Always."

"Except when he took the prophesy to Voldemort," Harry answered. "Except when he joined the Death Eaters in the first place!"

Malfoy clenched his hands into fists. "People deserve second chances."

Harry, tears of frustration, confusion, and anger almost pooling in his green eyes, replied, "You would not be saying that if it was your parents who were dead." He looked away from the Slytherin, still trying to order his thoughts. Dumbledore believed in second chances, and he had granted one to Snape. It would have been hypocritical for the old Headmaster not to, given what had happened in his youth, and the mistakes he had made. But although Dumbledore seemed able to forgive Snape for his past sins, Harry simply could not. Because, no matter what Snape said or did not, James and Lily were still dead. And he had been partially responsible for it.

Malfoy answered sharply, "So you will let him suffer for crimes he did not commit?"

Harry shook his head. "No. But I will willingly let him receive punishment for the crimes he did commit. Don't pretend he is completely blameless."

"I'm not," Malfoy argued. "But don't you think years of risking his life to spy on the Dark Lord is punishment enough?"

"You just feel indebted because he saved you," Harry retorted.

Malfoy frowned and answered, "He saved you, too."

Harry leaned heavily against the sofa and rubbed his eyes with the palms of both hands. It was true, of course, that Snape had saved him on a few different occasions. Ron had always maintained that it was because he would have gotten in trouble with Dumbledore if he hadn't have done it. Even Hermione had changed her opinion after their sixth year, agreeing that it was all just a cover, a way of earning Dumbledore's trust. But now…

Did the reasons even matter? Did it make any difference?

He had spent the first ten years of his life living in a closet underneath the stairs. He had spent nearly seventeen years being called everything from ungrateful brat, to lazy-good-for-nothing, to freak. He had been ignored, neglected, and insulted at every possible chance. He had no memories of his parents save for a flash of green light.

Because of Snape.

He had not forgiven Pettigrew, and he certainly could never forgive Voldemort… why would Snape be any different?

"He doesn't deserve…" Malfoy began, but Harry cut him off with a snarl.

"Yes, he does! He deserves Azkaban. He deserves the Dementor's Kiss."

And, quite suddenly, he remembered a conversation he had had with Lupin during his third year, back when he still believed that Sirius had betrayed his parents, when he had been informed that the Dementor's Kiss was the fate that awaited the escaped convict. And what was it Lupin had said?

"You think so? Do you think anyone really deserves that?"

Behind his closed eyelids he could hear the faint cries of his mother's final words, Voldemort's high laughter, his father desperately trying to save them… and he would always remember that final flash of green, the burst of noise that filled the air… and that last, sudden silence.

Then he thought of the others who had died, of Dobby's lifeless eyes and Lupin and Tonk's bodies sprawled across the floor of the Great Hall, of the hollow look in George's eyes as Fred collapsed to the ground, of Sirius' exuberant laugh still echoing through the room as he disappeared behind the veil…

… of Dumbledore, suspended mid-air…

Of the hatred in Snape's eyes as he uttered the killing curse, of the Snape from the memory who could forgive Dumbledore for everything except that final request…

He sank onto the sofa, unable to fully grasp any of what he had learned. But Malfoy was right about one thing, at least, and that was that the only way to save Kingsley was to find Runcorn and Yaxley and prove Hannigan's role in the plot. They could not even begin to clear Snape until after they had done that, so really…

He did not need to make any decisions regarding the potion Master quite yet. First, he had to find the other villains of this particular story, and stop them. They had fought this war twice already, each time losing so much. But they had one that final battle, and it was supposed to be over.

Harry knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could not possibly hope to survive yet another war. Even if he lived through it physically, it would destroy him emotionally. This had to end… now.