"Blaise, go back to St Mungo's and round up all her former research assistants and graduate students. Do you know who they were?"
"I know some, who will know others." Zabini stands, picking invisible lint off his shirtsleeve. "But if there's nothing to study –"
"There will be. Part of my deal with my father was that he emphasises the importance of the research within the Ministry, specifically the Department of Mysteries. I'll go get Elena Vasile. I'm going to move her into Hermione's lab to take it over. Theo, can you find Luna Lovegood? We need to know what's coming out of the DoM."
"They can't say anything, Malfoy. Things are as classified there as Hermione's lab was."
"She'll tell us as a friend. For Hermione; I know she will."
"What are you going to do? Look for her?"
"I have no idea where she's gone, and until I can think of somewhere specific to try, it'll be a waste of time. No; she'd wondered to Vasile whether the curse was being developed or experimented on in the Department of Mysteries during the war. Rookwood ran that at the time. I'm going to dig around for any old records or notes that might have been kept. Lovegood might be able to help with that, too."
"Draco, you need to eat something."
Pansy shoves a quiche in his direction and he flinches away. "Not now, Parks. In a little while. No, I don't want it."
"Has he eaten anything?" she asks the other two, and they both shake their heads. He's been manic and pacing.
"Fine," he snaps. "Parks, come with me and we'll eat in Diagon Alley."
Taken aback, she stares at him. "Why?"
"I'm going to Gringotts. I need a ring."
He's become increasingly certain that her reluctance towards anything serious wasn't because of him. And his intent to reassure her (when he thought the problem was fertility) that he loved her anyway is a sound one. When Draco finds her, he's going to make sure she knows he doesn't care how long she may or may not have.
He wants to marry her, and he'll be prepared.
Pansy does cut an intelligent argument into his process, however.
"If we go to Gringotts, isn't there a very good chance your father hears about it? Don't tip him off so soon. Buy her a new ring. Don't give her a family one."
This is solid advice, and Draco takes it. Pansy helps select one, something Draco would have probably planned on anyway. In a calmer world, a normal pace of a relationship, he'd have asked Pansy to help pick one out.
But nothing about this is normal. It's all rushed and he can't help feeling like he's racing the clock.
"Draco."
Pansy's voice cuts through his mental acrobatics.
"I asked Weasley if Hermione had said anything to her, confided in her. She hadn't, but said she'd ask around, too. I'll check in with her after this."
"Okay," he responds, a little distant, thoughts still elsewhere. "Thank you." What he said finally registers and he looks at her squarely. "I mean it, Parks. Thank you. For all of this."
She punches his shoulder affectionately. "Well, we have to get her back. And then we have to fix her."
Pansy Parkinson, while known at Hogwarts for being something of a gossip, is not that witch any longer. As a result, she's unsure how much to tell Weasley about the situation. If Hermione hadn't confided in her…
For now, Pansy decides to keep the severe details to herself. All she told Ginny was that Hermione ended it with Draco out of nowhere and vanished. Did Weasley have any ideas where she might have gone?
Ginny had not, but Pansy thought she saw a shadow cross the witch's face. Keeping her own secrets, Pansy figures she won't pry – this time.
"If you do hear from her, tell her Draco wants to work things out. Alright? That's probably not a surprise, but he just wants to be there for her, whatever she's going through."
Ginny nods, shadow still present. Her brow is a little rumpled.
"What are you thinking?"
Ginny starts. "Nothing, really. But I wonder if Harry's heard anything. I'll ask and let you know."
That is a very good idea, one they definitely should have thought of. Pansy surprises Ginny with a hug and surprises herself with blurting out some gossip.
"He loves her so much, Weasley. He bought a ring."
The two witches exchange a sad look. Nobody had any doubts where Draco's intentions lie.
"Well, we don't know why she ran –" at this, Pansy cringes, "– so I won't say anything. But I hope he gets the chance to ask her."
"Hermione?"
Harry's baffled tone amuses her, the first thing she's found funny in days. She supposes his doubt is justified. Why the hell would she be standing here, in the middle of the Scandinavian Snidgets Quidditch facility?
"It's me. It's rather hard to explain, now, and I know you're busy. I was hoping – maybe I could stay with you for a few days? I needed to get away for a bit. I'm sorry I didn't send notice. Do you mind?"
Harry's gathering himself with impressive speed. "Of course not. But you don't know where my flat is, right? You had to come here. I have a Floo in my office. I'll send you there and meet you when I'm done. Does that work?"
The way he's looking her over tells Hermione she doesn't look great. Harry's plainly concerned, but as she's not currently falling apart, he must figure she'll be alright for a few hours. And she will be.
When she spills out of the Floo and manages to stand, she finds that Harry's flat is hilariously bachelor-esque. Minimal furniture – a single chair in the living room. No décor. Glancing around, Hermione thinks he must eat standing up, feeding himself snacks and ready-to-eat meals for one. Or maybe he eats in the chair, his sole piece of visible furniture.
She'd hoped for a nap but she isn't going to inspect the state of his bedroom. She's not sure she wants to – he might just have a mattress on the floor.
Bleak, she thinks, shaking her head. Well, she can express her gratitude for his hospitality by expanding his selection of furniture. Besides, they're about to need two places to sit.
Her magical reserves still feel low, and she thinks the blanket of depression must still be affecting her. She's just not very motivated to do anything at all, and she forces this out, conjuring a basic wooden chair. Collapsing in Harry's, she aims at the new wooden one and transfigures it slowly, generating some cushion and a little more comfort to it.
The state of his pantry is almost as dire but Hermione can't conjure food. She just beginning to get an appetite back and hopes Harry thinks to stop for a takeaway before arriving back home.
She's so tired again that once she curls up in Harry's chair, she falls asleep almost at once.
Harry gently shakes her awake some time later and Hermione immediately smells the delectable scent of Chinese food. She's surprised that alone didn't wake her and is pleased to hear her stomach rumble.
Harry scrounges up some plates but Hermione waves him off. "These are fine." She sorts through the takeaway boxes and grabs a pair of chopsticks from the bag.
"Thank for the chair," Harry notes as he sits in it, green eyes twinkling. "It's not half bad, but I've seen you do better."
Hermione scoffs before realising he's quite right, and this is Harry's way of asking her what's affecting her.
"I've had a hard week," she admits at last, staring listlessly at her mound of Beijing beef. "I'm not at my best."
"Is it Draco? I've only been gone a few weeks, but –"
Hermione's wrestled with what to do about this. She knows she must tell Harry something; she can't just show up here and expect him not to have questions. And he deserves answers, just like the rest of them do.
But now that she's faced with it, faced with her oldest friend waiting patiently to hear what's wrong, happily housing her in her time of need, she still can't say it.
It feels like a betrayal to tell Harry when she wouldn't even tell Draco.
"I ended things with Draco. I didn't want anything serious after Ron, and I knew the longer it went, the more it would hurt him. I just needed some time away to clear my head. Thank you for letting me stay."
All of that is true and Hermione laments how adept she's become at lying by omission.
"You can stay as long as you like," Harry offers with ease and Hermione feels a surge of fondness. "But you might get bored here. You're welcome to come along to the stadium with me tomorrow as the team practises. I know Quidditch isn't your thing, but it's something to do."
Hermione considers and accepts. No, it never was, but she's still interested in new things. And it'll keep her mind off Draco. She's spent enough hours this week miserably staring at blank walls.
Harry keeps up a steady chatter for her as players fly around an otherwise empty pitch, and Hermione finds herself absorbing more detail about Quidditch than she'd have thought possible.
"So this is the Scandinavian team," she asserts and Harry nods.
"This is the team that will be competing for the World Cup next year. There are regional teams – you recognise names like Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons from England, but players from those regional teams are chosen to represent England itself at the World Cup. This is no different."
He gestures around. "The Karasjok Kites fly out of Norway and they're the closest team in the region. We're a bit of a hodgepodge team, though. Other players from other teams who aren't chosen for their respective country's World Cup team can try out to fly for us."
"That's allowed?" Hermione's surprised.
Harry nods. "The wizarding population up here isn't enough to support several regional teams, so Norway represents all of Scandinavia during regular seasons. But for the World Cup, some of the more saturated markets have too many Chasers or Beaters – you know, players who could easily make a World Cup team in a smaller market, like here. So they try out. They'll still play for their own team during the regular season and practise here leading up to the World Cup."
Harry points to the far side of the field. "I have offensive and defensive assistant coaches who will run drills and scrimmages. That's what they're all doing now. Usually I'd be out there, too, but they can handle it for an afternoon."
He gives her a broad smile and Hermione relaxes into it. She's missed Harry and she's glad she came to visit, even if she hates the circumstances. It shouldn't have taken something like that for her to visit Harry. She decides she'll stay a while.
Maybe she could move here and cheer on the Scandinavian team next summer. She snorts and Harry gives her a side-eye with that twinkle.
Draco scours texts from the Ministry archives until he gives himself a blinding headache.
He's sent several employees from his own department down into the records wing to do verbal (and hopefully only verbal) battle with the witch who runs it – a Bulstrode of some relation, and Draco thinks she may have troll blood in there, too. Although, come to think of it, the Bulstrodes seemed to be part-troll anyhow. She might have it on both sides.
She's certainly inclined to force unwary travellers into the records department to answer three questions or be expelled on their arses.
Cullen, who got expelled on his arse just this morning, told Draco he suspects the lady Bulstrode to be delving into questionable activities. "She asked how to obtain powdered cocks' teeth. I didn't have an answer."
"Do you think she was referring to powdered hens' teeth?" Draco asks, momentarily stymied. He's never heard of cocks' teeth, powdered or no.
Cullen shook his head, disturbed. "She was very clear. Cocks."
"Do you think it was a play on words somehow?" Maybe he should ask Septimus when he gets home.
"No. She was very clear. And since the female variety are extremely illegal and I have no knowledge that the male variety would be any different – not that I know where to find them anyway," he hastened to add, "she tossed me right out. Yang is still going, though."
That's something, anyway. Draco decides not to ask if Yang knows where to find powdered cocks' teeth. He'd rather not know and at least he has one employee successfully infiltrating the records department.
Theo knocks on his door and Draco sees a brilliant flash of yellow hair behind him, paired with the deep royal purple of an Unspeakable robe.
"I bring you Lovegood," Theo announces grandly, as Luna stares up at him without comment. She reaches a hand up to Theo's curly brown hair and yanks out one strand.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"No reason right now," Luna says absently, tucking it into a pocket and fastening a button over the top. "I need them to show me things. Don't think about it."
Theo, looking suspicious, backs away as Draco invites Luna to sit. Crooked in one arm, she has a large tome that she thumps down atop his desk, sending miscellaneous papers fluttering and other bric-a-brac to the floor.
"I've brought his research," she warns him, looking slightly more focussed. "It's a giant mess, I fear. I'm warning you now."
Draco grabs for it. "What was he working on?"
"All horrible things. He experimented loads… magical sources. Old magic and squibs, foundations of lineage. Younger squibs better. He preferred children, before they learned Muggle ways. No habits, customs."
Her peculiar way of speaking might give him a headache. He cuts through it. "Was he doing any research with curse development?"
"What about curses? Is this for Hermione? Blaise and Theo asked. They came earlier. But I don't know anything. Nothing for certain."
"Yes, it is. Now that you know it is, and we're looking for curse experimentation specifically, does anything come to mind?"
Luna reaches for the book in Draco's hands and he returns it. She skims her index finger across the stack of pages twice, up and down. With her eyes unfocussed, she stops three-quarters of the way and flips it open to a specific page.
She points and turns it to face Draco. "He tried several things. Modified a Mind Flayer, the farthest he got. It was a long shot. Grandiose plans of success. Rookwood wanted more. Horribly evil. Bring down Albus Dumbledore, their main strategist."
Draco considers. He looks to Theo, who is standing by the door, propped against the wall with one shoulder. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"The timing fits. It was about two years before Dumbledore's death, but he'd have needed time to work on it."
"But she was hit in the torso. How was he modifying it?" Draco turns back to Luna.
Luna's finger scans down the page, covering it in a matter of seconds. "He knew it was hard. Mind Flayer would be spotted. Used delayed onset. He thought it out well. Slow it down, seem natural. Dumbledore grown old. Growing more senile. Mental faculties decayed. Order relies less. Then less, and still less. His mind would be fully gone. A useless asset."
"That would have taken a while."
Luna nods. "They never used it. They wanted something faster. He worked on more things. He got furthest here, but he had other ideas. They were all evil."
"What else?" Theo asked, unsettled.
She scans the text. "More physical things. More immediate options. Boiling them alive. Different spellwork. Spells to increase body temp, not sustainable. Tearing their eyes out, causing permanent blindness. Eyes out of sockets. Targeted blasting, specific organs or parts. Human combustion. Removing the tongue. Looks like that was discarded… slicing spells work fine."
"Can we borrow this?" Draco asks urgently. "Can we borrow you, too?"
Luna looks around slowly, as if expecting to see a crowd of people heartily protesting. "I'd like to help her. Is anyone else going? The more the better."
In Hermione's lab, Draco introduces Luna to Elena Vasile. Vasile wasn't thrilled about taking a sabbatical from Durmstrang Institute, but Draco paid her well enough to overcome any further objections.
"I do feel partially responsible for Hermione disappearing," she'd admitted. "I hadn't meant to impart that we felt there was no hope."
Slughorn was back at work on the potions quadrant of the lab rooms, ordering around student interns. Vasile has two of four walls covered with various sketches, branches of possibilities, and other theorising. Draco is amused to see the overstuffed armchair in the corner, with Salvatore splayed belly down atop it and supervising solemnly.
Vasile's eyes brighten at the heavy book in Luna's arms and the two women bend over it. Draco backs up to stand next to Theo, watching and listening intently.
"There," Vasile announces after a few moments of joint muttering. She's several pages beyond where Luna had started, and she points. "There. That's the specialised glamour I couldn't figure out. It was meant to be something else entirely and Dolohov bunged them together. Wait – did he?" She flips through a few more pages. "Yes. It must have been him. I don't think Rookwood had been playing with combining them."
Luna closes her eyes and strokes the book again. "No, I don't think so. If he was, it's not mentioned. Not that I can find."
Theo's eyes narrow on her. "Odd bird, isn't she?"
"Always was," Draco murmurs. Luna had yanked out one of his hairs, too, on the way up here.
"I just collect them. They're useful for decisions. No time to explain." She'd stared at the wall in the lift, her voice far away. He sees her now eyeing Vasile's head of short, black hair.
"What about the glamour?" Draco calls over to Vasile.
"The way Rookwood had intended it, it was a full illusion. More mental games, extended types of torturous intent."
"Pain?" he asks, concerned.
She shakes her head. "No. Not even the illusion of pain. Well, I guess - maybe. But – a hallucination, almost, a detailed tapestry of fiction the recipient would believe to be true."
"…like what?" Theo asks.
"Difficult to say from these notes, but maybe that your spouse or partner is cheating. Being unfaithful. The glamour would fabricate memories, 'facts,' scenarios to support the untruth. The recipient would become convinced."
"How could that be used in war?"
Vasile faces them, resting against the table. Luna reaches a hand up behind her shoulder, carefully selecting a hair.
"Say… the recipient believes the war is already lost. Or that a loss is imminent, with the – ow!" She pulls away from Luna, who looks utterly unapologetic. She tucks the hair in her pocket and moves back to the book.
"Individual fighters could lose their will to stay in battle," Vasile continues, looking wary. "Another, crueller example could be a quicker sort of illusion, but no less thorough. Maybe the recipient is led to believe their partner is dead – or someone of extreme value to them. A child, maybe. With the right motivation, the person could be driven to commit suicide. It could have been a way to target high-level Order members without being suspected."
"Fascinating," Theo mutters, looking profoundly disturbed. "And Dolohov tried to combine them? What's your theory?"
Vasile sighs and points to one of the walls covered in magical scribble. "Hermione and I had theorised several things. I believe he was intending to hit her in the brain with it and missed. She thought his aim seemed intentional, but it was mid-battle. Things were happening very fast. Hermione said it was nonverbal, causing a tremendous level of difficulty in identifying it at all. But if he'd cast it verbally, it almost certainly would have killed her before now. Having it nonverbal diluted the efficacy.
"Of course, that could have been purposeful, too. Kept us from identifying it and delayed the suffering. The slow onset was on purpose, don't forget. This could have been another way to stretch things out."
"Hence the eighteen different branches of possibilities," Theo says under his breath, moving towards the wall. Draco is reminded of Theo's nature at Hogwarts – studious and serious. His playful havoc-wreaking always came between bursts of intense academic drive.
"What if he aimed for her stomach on purpose?" Draco feels like he's drowning. This is so much detail all at once. It explains so many things and yet doesn't explain half of what he needs.
"Whether he did it on purpose or not, that's where it landed," says Theo at the same time Vasile contributes.
"It's causing internal damage, the same as it would to her brain – it just has more organs to affect. He may have been trying to keep us from guessing it was a Mind Flayer by aiming for her stomach. Again, another way to delay identification and treatment."
"Why did she leave?" Draco asks bluntly. "What did you say to her?"
Vasile winces. "Horace, can you come in here?" she calls over her shoulder.
Slughorn waddles in and takes an equally solemn place next to Vasile.
"We didn't intend to make her give up. But Horace has been strengthening her daily potions for several years now, without telling her. She learned of that and it must have hit her harder than we anticipated."
Slughorn looks awkward. He takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt. "I should have told her sooner. I didn't want to think I was right, that they were becoming less effective."
"How long does she have, if we don't find something to treat her?"
"A year or two, as long as she keeps taking them. I'll keep making them stronger to keep her balanced, but sooner or later, she'll deteriorate."
A year or two. It's what Vasile had said in her office, but Draco still feels like he was punched. The ring box rests in his pocket, always in the wrong place. It should be on her finger.
He's trying not to be angry with her, but it's hard. She expected him to be. Draco had gone back to her lab for a closer, calmer inspection and found a crumpled-up piece of parchment thrown in a corner.
Draco, I'm so sorry you found out this way.
Draco, I'm sorry I didn't tell you.
Draco, I hope you're not too angry with me.
How long had she been planning to do this? How many times had she tried and been unable?
Every time she cried… every time he'd tried to comfort her, he'd had no idea what he was really trying to fix. And the anger flares up again, hot and sharp, that she didn't trust him enough to tell him.
He reminds himself that she'd been living with this secret since she was sixteen. He doesn't know why she'd never told Potter or Weasley – probably had enough to be going on with, in the middle of the war. And she'd told him a bit after, about how it had been with Ron. It had felt strange to bring it up after it had been so long without saying something.
She'd been talking about fertility at that point but Draco thinks there was probably a close parallel. She'd fallen back on that as an excuse for a reason.
He agrees with Vasile, how awful it is to think of her carrying this alone. She'd felt she had no one to confide in, in a decade and a half. No one she trusted. Or maybe she was more afraid that people would treat her differently. Maybe she just didn't want to be constantly asked how she's doing, how she's feeling, the never-ending reminders of it.
She wanted to do other things. She wanted to enjoy herself.
It's still hard not to be angry.
Draco decides to take a page of her own parchment and write her a letter. He'll send it out with Fox, his owl, and hope Fox can find her. If only Fox could speak when he returns and tell Draco where she is – but one problem at a time. The idea of correspondence is a good one. He'll keep her lab humming along, his father's money driving it, and keep her apprised.
Maybe she'll write back.
Hermione,
I am angry with you. I have a right to be, and I want to tell you to your face. But I love you, too, and that's part of a real relationship: a healthy one. One where you tell me things and I tell you things, and we confront problems together.
Vasile didn't mean for you think there is no hope. She's running your lab now, still trying. All of us are trying.
Come home. I love you.
"Where is the Nott boy?"
Theo, a lifelong fan of unexpected physical activity and academic pursuits alike, sighs and wanders out of their kitchen. "I'm here, and I'm not a boy."
"Mm. I shall continue to refer to you as 'Nott boy,' as you are not a boy. Where is my great-grandson?"
"Trying to find and/or save the love of his life. Haven't you been paying attention? There must be loads more activity here than Malfoy Manor, and you're stuck there right in the centre."
Theo sips his firewhisky irritably. He's not sure what to do next to help, but he had to come home long enough to shower, change, and eat. He's heading back to the lab in an hour or so, still unsure of what to do there, but Luna told him to come back.
Luna is strangely compelling. Ever since she yanked out a strand of his hair, she's been looking at him oddly. Odd, even for Luna.
"If the three of you here are not having carnal relations with one another, I'm not sure the purpose of sharing this small Manor. But if that's not the case, have you a witch? I was hoping things here would be less dull. There is indeed more activity here, but so far, it's not of the enticing variety."
"I'm between witches, currently."
"No harbour for your ship?"
Theo eyes the portrait, which is staring down at him with a haughty expression. He really does look unnervingly like Lucius, with his formal, cut robes and long platinum hair. It gives Theo chilly memories of childhood. "I beg your pardon?"
"Not a sailing man? I can switch to equestrian metaphors, if it suits you. No stable for your stallion, Nott boy?"
Ah. The pieces click and Theo snorts, covering his mouth with a hand. "Can you at least use 'Nott man?' It's slightly less infantilising."
"Are you sure that's the message you want to send?" Septimus waggles his eyebrows. "It can confuse the witches if you aren't clear. Or the wizards; maybe your stallion's stable is of a different architecture. To each their own, dear boy, but do be clear about it."
Somehow through all this inane blather, Theo's mind keeps drifting back to Luna Lovegood. Maybe he'll head back to the lab a little early.
"Harry?"
Hermione freezes at Ginny's voice. She's in Harry's bed, curled beneath the blankets trying to take a nap. Harry, for the past two nights, has slept on his sofa – a recent expansion of his one and only armchair that Hermione graciously transfigured.
"Shh," she hears Harry respond. "She's asleep."
"She's here?" Ginny yelps, and Harry shushes her again.
"You didn't know?"
Hermione creeps to the bedroom door, wishing she had one of George's extendable ears.
"Oh, thank the gods. She ran off and everyone's been looking everywhere. I thought about sending an owl, but I haven't visited yet and figured I might as well just pop in."
"I'm glad you did." She can hear the smile in Harry's voice. "So she didn't tell anyone? Anyone at all?"
Ginny must shake her head. "She broke it off with Draco and disappeared."
"She told me she broke it off, but I didn't know everyone was looking for her. I'd have sent something out."
Which is why she hadn't told him, Hermione reflects grimly.
"She just said she'd needed to get away for a few days and clear her head."
"She didn't say anything else? Nothing? What do you think happened?"
Hermione can't decide what to do. She could come out, admitting she's both awake and present, and talk to the pair of them. But it still feels unfair to tell anyone if she hadn't even told Draco. She's waffling with it, with how to toe the line of the breakup spiel without going further, when Ginny's voice stops her cold.
"He loves her so much. He bought a ring."
Hermione's stomach flips. She'd tried to end it and he's digging in deeper. No. No, no. She knew it; he'd waste years on her without blinking twice.
She can't let him. She owes him better than that.
Hermione roots around in her luggage, packing and shrinking things down again. She takes out the Gringotts key and a piece of parchment.
For after I'm gone. Do the right thing. Thank you for everything, Harry.
Ginny and Harry both jump at dual *CRACKs* - one from the bedroom, the other from the window above the kitchen sink, where an owl just rammed it.
"Shit!" Harry yells, leaping to his feet and running for the window.
"You don't have anti-Apparition wards?" Disbelieving, Ginny flings the bedroom door open.
"I hadn't bothered with them yet. I've only been here a few weeks." Upon his opening of the window, the owl (whose head must be made of dragon-hide and who seems no worse for the wear) drops an envelope onto the counter and speeds off.
"Harry." Ginny's voice is flat and sets Harry on edge. Warily, he moves to stand beside her, wand out.
They stare down at the golden Gringotts key atop a small corner of parchment on the bed.
"What the hell does that mean?" Harry whispers as he read it, half to himself, and Ginny yanks the envelope from his hand.
"It's for Hermione," she says, and unapologetically rips it open.
Hermione,
I am angry with you. I have a right to be, and I want to tell you to your face. But I love you, too, and that's part of a real relationship: a healthy one. One where you tell me things and I tell you things, and we confront problems together.
Vasile didn't mean for you think there is no hope. She's running your lab now, still trying. All of us are trying.
Come home. I love you.
"What the hell is going on?" he asks slowly, meeting Ginny's wide green eyes with his own. "Why did she leave?"
"'No hope,' 'still trying,'" Ginny dumbly repeats. "And what's this about her lab?"
They read it again in silence and Harry looks at the Gringotts key.
For after I'm gone. Do the right thing.
He looks back at Ginny with a glint in his eye. "Seems like we could interpret that a few ways, don't you agree? She's gone now. And I want to do the right thing – by her, too."
Ginny agrees without hesitation. "Gringotts it is."