Harry Potter: Forging the Flame

Harry entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ron waving at him. He quickly sat down beside him, but before they could exchange a single word, Moody, who had been standing on the platform at the front of the class, spoke up.

"Right, then. All here, are we? Name's Moody. Defense Against the Dark Arts—what a laugh , as if defense will do you much good when you're caught in the thick of it, eh?" He barked a short, humorless laugh. "We'll call this 'how not to die,' shall we?"

Moody took two steps to the left, his wooden leg thudding against the floor with a dull echo, then turned back to face them. His magical eye whirred and spun, darting from student to student, as if it could see right through them.

""I've been mulling it over," he began "How to break this to you lot. You're kids, sure, but what's out there? It doesn't care how young or clever you are. Defense Against the Dark Arts isn't waving a wand and saying a few words. No, it's surviving. Surviving when someone out there wants nothing more than to see you gone—and trust me, they will.""

Moody reached down and pulled a wooden box from under the desk, placing it in full view of the class. He flipped the lid open, and a collective gasp followed as a large, hairy spider scuttled out, its legs twitching nervously.

"Right then," Moody growled. "The Imperius Curse. Watch closely."

"Imperio"

With a flick of his wand, the spider leapt into the air and began a grotesque dance. It twisted and flipped, performing acrobatics that grew more erratic by the second. Some students giggled nervously, but others looked pale. Moody's magical eye didn't leave the spider as it twirled.

"The Imperius Curse—ah, nasty bit of work. Like a puppet on strings, you'll be. Won't even realize your hands are doing the Devil's work till it's too late. Walk off a cliff? That's child's play. How about betraying your lot while humming a jaunty tune, eh? That's what it can do."

Moody broke off the Imperius Curse and surveyed the classroom. Most of the students looked shocked, their eyes wide and fixed on the now-motionless spider. A few, however, seemed indifferent—bored, even—like Draco Malfoy, who leaned back in his chair with an air of feigned disinterest.

"That," Moody said, "was the first of the three Unforgivable Curses. Use any one of them, and it's a one-way trip to Azkaban for life. For this lesson, I've been given special permission."

He raised his wand again, pointing it at the spider.

"Crucio"

The spider erupted into violent spasms, its body curling and twisting unnaturally. The class collectively recoiled, a few students letting out involuntary gasps. But not Harry.

Harry stared, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. He wanted to see. He needed to see. It wasn't just the sight of it—it was the way its body betrayed it, locked in a war against itself.

How to counter it?

"The Cruciatus Curse. Pain so raw it'll strip you to nothing. No shield blocks it, no charm softens it—once it hits, it owns you. And to cast it? You've got to mean it—really want the suffering. That's the darkest kind of magic there is."

Harry glanced at Moody. For a fraction of a second, he thought he caught something in the man's expression. It was so quick Harry wasn't sure if he'd imagined it.

No way an Auror, someone meant to fight the Dark Arts, would actually look pleased casting the Cruciatus Curse. Not on anything—not even a spider. Right?

Weird.

"And now," Moody said, slicing through Harry's spiraling thoughts, "we come to the last curse—the Killing Curse."

Moody pointed his wand at the spider once more, and for a fleeting moment, the classroom seemed to hold its collective breath.

"Avada Kedavra"

A blinding green light erupted from the tip of his wand, illuminating the dim classroom. The spider froze mid-movement, then fell limp onto the desk.

"That is the Killing Curse. There's no counter-curse. No shield. Nothing can stop it."

The students remained motionless, many unable to tear their eyes from the spider's lifeless form. Dean Thomas let out a shaky breath, his fingers clutching the edge of his desk. Beside him, Parvati Patil had her hands pressed to her mouth, her wide eyes fixed on the spot where the spider had fallen.

"You think the Dark Arts are just nasty little tricks? Curses you can laugh at, like a tickling charm gone wrong?" He raised a single, gnarled finger, gesturing for attention.

"The Dark Arts are designed to do one thing—kill, maim, destroy. You lot need to understand that before you can hope to defend yourselves."

Harry glanced at Ron, whose freckles stood out starkly against his pale face. He gave his head a little shake and leaned toward Harry.

"That was mad," he whispered, "Completely mad."

Harry nodded absently, but his attention drifted across the room. Daphne Greengrass sat rigid in her seat, her usual composed expression nowhere to be seen. Her face was pale, her lips pressed tightly together. Her hands, clasped on the desk, gave her away—they were trembling slightly.

"Lesson's over," Moody barked, snapping the wooden box shut and picking it up. "Homework: Write me a foot on why understanding these curses is crucial for survival. Due next class."

The class erupted into a low buzz of murmurs as the students began packing their things, some moving with an almost mechanical stiffness.

Harry watched as Daphne Greengrass hurriedly left the classroom. He frowned, looking at Ron and Hermione.

"Hermione," Harry said quietly, leaning in, "can you check on Neville? After… that, I think he might need someone."

Hermione followed Harry's eyes to where Neville sat, his head bowed and his hands trembling as he packed his bag.

She nodded immediately. "Of course."

Ron hesitated for a moment but followed Hermione toward Neville's desk, glancing over his shoulder at Harry.

Once they were gone, Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map from his bag. He tapped it with his wand, muttering, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Ink spread across the parchment, forming the familiar layout of Hogwarts. His eyes scanned the map until he found her name: Daphne Greengrass.

She wasn't heading toward the common rooms or the Great Hall. Instead, her dot wandered aimlessly before stopping in one of the unused classrooms on the third floor.

Harry folded the map and tucked it back into his bag. Without a word, he slipped out of the Defense classroom and headed in that direction.

He didn't knock when he reached the door. He pushed it open.

Daphne spun around, her wand raised. "Potter!" she said, the word bursting out like she wanted to throw it at him. But whatever fire was behind it fizzled fast. She stared at him for a moment, then lowered her hand, slipping the wand into her pocket. Her shoulders dipped, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost unsure. "What are you doing here?"

Harry didn't answer. He stepped closer, his eyes catching the tearstains on her cheeks. She wasn't trying to hide them, not really. Her makeup was still mostly intact, but the redness in her eyes gave her away. He let out a soft sigh and reached into his bag.

"I think I've become way too observant for my liking," he said, pulling out a crumpled tissue.

Daphne looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she took the tissue from his hand, her fingers brushing his as she murmured, "Thank you."

She turned slightly, blotting her cheeks with the tissue, careful, deliberate, like she didn't want to ruin the work she'd put into looking perfect. Harry didn't say anything. He stood there for a moment, watching her before his eyes drifted to the door, the walls, the floor.

Daphne finished wiping her cheeks, folding the tissue neatly before glancing up at Harry. He felt her eyes on him, and for some reason, it made him acutely aware of their height difference. He straightened slightly, realizing just how much taller he was. Was he always this much taller? Or had she always been this small?

And now, with her usual mask gone, she looked… different. Not in a bad way. Just different. Like the girl he'd seen in the hospital wing—the one beneath all the composure. She was beautiful.

No, Potter, he scolded himself. Definitely not the thing to say right now.

"Feels like you want to ask me something," Harry said finally, breaking the silence. "Something about Tracey."

Daphne stiffened slightly. She hesitated, her eyes darting to the floor for a moment before nodding. "I… yes," she admitted quietly.

Harry waited, watching her, and eventually, she continued, her words coming slower, as though she was deciding whether to say them at all.

"It's my fault," she said, her voice trembling. "Tracey was only there because of me. We went to the match together. We're both Quidditch fans, but… we had this stupid fight. Over nothing. She stormed off, into the forest, and if I'd—if I'd just…"

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold it together, but when she looked at Harry again, the tears spilled over.

"If I'd been smarter, if I'd gone after her, none of this would've happened. She'd be here, not… not like that. It's my fault. All of it. She's like this because of me."

Her voice broke completely as she finished, and the room filled with the sound of her quiet sobs.

He just reached into his bag and pulled out another tissue, handing it to her. She took it, her fingers trembling.

He stared at her, unsure of what to say. Daphne Greengrass, who always seemed like she had everything under control, was falling apart in front of him

The Cruciatus Curse. Seeing it in class had dragged Daphne right back to that moment. She was reliving it—over and over again. And they were just kids. For Merlin's sake, where was the adult to help them through this?

Right. An adult. Snape. Their supposed guardian. Leave her with Snape? That'd go well. Harry almost laughed bitterly at the thought.

He took a step forward, slowly, carefully, letting her see what he was about to do. When she didn't pull away, he gently wrapped his arms around her, a tentative hug.

Daphne tensed at first, startled, but as his hand rested lightly on her back, moving in small, soothing strokes, she softened. Her sobs quieted, fading into uneven breaths.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Daphne's hands hung limply at her sides before she hesitantly brought them up, her fingers clutching the fabric of his robes.

When she finally looked up, her tears had stopped, but her eyes were still wet, wide, and filled with something Harry couldn't quite place.

A few moments passed, the silence stretching between them. Then Harry gently stepped back, giving Daphne some space. He offered her a small, almost shy smile.

"Come on," he said, his tone light. "Lunch. You could probably use it."

Daphne blinked at him, still standing there like she wasn't sure what to do. But after a pause, she nodded. "Alright."

They left the classroom together. The corridor was quiet as they walked, and for a while, neither of them said anything. It wasn't uncomfortable, though—just a sort of unspoken truce.

"So," Harry said eventually, breaking the silence. "You're a Quidditch fan?"

Daphne glanced at him, her brows lifting slightly. "You sound surprised."

"Well, yeah," Harry admitted. "Didn't peg you for the type. No offense."

Daphne rolled her eyes, though there was a faint twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips. "What, because I'm Slytherin? Or because I don't yell my lungs out at matches?"

"Bit of both," Harry said, grinning now.

Daphne let out a soft huff of a laugh. "I like the strategy. The plays. Not everything has to be about yelling."

They continued like that, their conversation light and polite. Harry found himself relaxing as they walked, surprised by how normal it felt. By the time they reached the Great Hall, the noise and bustle of students filled the air, and Harry felt the shift back to reality.

Daphne slowed, glancing toward the Slytherin table. She hesitated for just a moment before turning to Harry. "Thanks," she said softly. "For earlier."

Harry nodded, offering her another small smile. "Anytime."

She gave him a brief, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and walked away, heading for her table. Harry stood there for a moment, watching her go, before turning back toward the Gryffindor table.

Harry slid onto the bench beside Ron and Hermione, reaching for a plate. "How's Neville?" he asked quietly, keeping his voice low so no one else could hear.

"He's okay," Hermione said. "Shaken, obviously, but we talked to him for a bit. Made sure he knew he didn't have to do the homework if it was too much."

"Good," Harry said, nodding. He picked up a serving spoon and began piling minced meat, rice, and vegetables onto his plate.

Hermione gave him a pointed look, her lips quirking up into a knowing smile. "And what about you?"

"What about me?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes.

"You disappeared after class," she said, leaning closer. "And now you're acting all… thoughtful."

Ron, mid-mouthful of bread, raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet.

Harry sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "I followed Daphne." he admitted

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "What? Why?"

"She left the class upset," Harry said, shrugging. "I just… wanted to make sure she was okay."

"And?" Ron asked, finally swallowing his bite.

Harry leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was a mess. She's blaming herself for what happened to Tracey. Completely fell apart."

Hermione frowned, her expression softening. "Poor girl. That's awful."

Harry nodded, his fork poking idly at his food. "Yeah. I told her I'd help if I could. Don't know how yet, but… it just felt like the right thing to do."

Hermione smiled again, but this time it was softer, more understanding. "That's very kind of you, Harry."

Ron glanced between them and muttered, "Not sure I get it, but good on you, mate."

Harry rolled his eyes again but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips as he dug into his food.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The library was quiet except for the faint sounds of quills scratching against parchment and the rustle of pages being turned. Harry sat hunched over his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework, his notes spread out in front of him. Ron slouched in his chair beside him, barely pretending to read a Potions textbook, while Hermione was entirely absorbed in cross-referencing brewing techniques from three different tomes stacked around her.

Harry tapped his quill against his parchment, rereading the last line he'd written.

"But survival comes with a cost. To fight the Dark Arts, you have to understand them—know how they work, what they do, and why. That knowledge changes you. It forces you to see the world differently. To think like the enemy. And once you start thinking that way, it's hard to stop."

He tapped his quill against the table absently, Moody's words looping in his mind. "And to cast it? You've got to mean it—really want the suffering. That's the darkest kind of magic there is."

Harry added a new line beneath the others, his handwriting slower now as he thought.

"To cast something like the Cruciatus Curse, you have to summon hatred—pure, focused hatred. That kind of emotion doesn't just appear. It has to come from somewhere. Pain. Fear. Anger. A person doesn't start off like that. So what happens to them? What do they go through to make hatred so powerful that it fuels magic like that?"

He paused, frowning at the words. What kind of life created someone like the man who tortured Tracey Davis in the forest?

Harry's quill moved again.

"Maybe the real danger isn't just the magic itself. It's what it takes to cast it. Hatred that strong consumes you. It warps the way you see the world, turning everyone into an enemy, every moment into a fight. When you carry that much darkness inside, it doesn't leave room for anything else. No kindness. No love. Just the curse and the will to use it."

Sirius had been right. Moody had been right. To fight the Dark Arts, you had to walk the edge of a very thin line. One wrong step, and you didn't just lose the fight—you lost yourself.

Ron, who had been absently flipping through a Potions book, let out a low whistle. "Blimey, Harry, you look like you're writing a manifesto, not homework."

Harry glanced up, startled. "What?"

Ron nodded toward Harry's parchment. "Seriously, mate, I don't think I've ever seen anyone take Defense so seriously."

"Maybe we should," Harry said, his tone sharper than he intended.

Ron blinked, taken aback. "Alright, alright. Didn't mean anything by it."

Hermione set her quill down, looking at Harry carefully. "He's not wrong, though, Harry. You're… thinking about this a lot."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I just—Moody said something in class. About how you have to really mean it to cast the Cruciatus Curse. You have to want someone to suffer. And I keep thinking—how does someone get to that point? How do you carry that much hate inside you?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "It's not just hate, though, is it? It's pain, too. People who do terrible things often have terrible things done to them."

Ron shifted in his seat, fiddling with the edge of his parchment. "You're overthinking it, Harry," he said. "Some people are just… like that. They enjoy hurting others because it makes them feel big. Strong. Like they're in charge."

Harry frowned, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, but why? No one's born wanting to hurt people. There's got to be a reason."

"Does it matter?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow. "If someone's pointing their wand at you, you don't exactly have time to figure out their life story. You just need to stop them before they stop you."

Harry opened his mouth to argue but paused. Ron had a point, in his own way. It wasn't about justifying what people did, but about understanding enough to know how to defend yourself—and to make sure you didn't cross the same lines.

He glanced at his parchment again, tapping his quill against the table. "Maybe that's it," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Hermione looked up from her notes. "What's it?"

"Why understanding these curses matters," Harry said, straightening. "It's not just knowing how to defend against them. It's knowing why they're so dangerous. Why they corrupt people. If we don't understand that, how can we be sure we won't make the same mistakes?"

Ron looked skeptical. "I still say you're overthinking it, mate. But, you know, write whatever you want. As long as Snape doesn't make us write one like that."

Harry grinned faintly, then bent over his parchment and began writing from the start.

The Unforgivable Curses: Why Understanding Them is Crucial for Survival

By Harry Potter

The Unforgivable Curses are among the most dangerous spells ever created, not only because of their effects but because of what they represent. They are designed to strip away everything that makes us human: life, freedom, and even the ability to endure. To understand them is not just a matter of theory—it is a matter of survival.

The Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, is the most final of the three. There is no counter-curse, no way to block it. The only way to survive it is to avoid being hit altogether. This makes understanding its use and limitations crucial. Knowing how it works and recognizing the signs of its casting could mean the difference between life and death in a fight.

The Cruciatus Curse, Crucio, is meant to cause unbearable pain. As we learned in class, this curse isn't simply about incantation or wand movement—it requires intent. To cast it, a wizard must mean it. They must truly want their victim to suffer. This makes it especially dangerous because it draws on the caster's darkest emotions, corrupting them in the process. Someone who uses Crucio willingly is not only causing harm to others but also to themselves.

The Imperius Curse, Imperio, removes a person's ability to make their own choices. It gives the caster complete control over their victim, turning them into a puppet. This curse is dangerous because it can be subtle, leaving no outward sign that a person is under its influence. Understanding how to resist it is critical, as even the strongest minds can be vulnerable.

Knowing these curses and their effects is not about using them—it's about recognizing them, defending against them, and surviving them. Professor Moody was right to stress the importance of understanding not only how these curses work but also what they demand from the caster. Each of these spells requires something far worse than skill or power: the willingness to sacrifice morality.

In learning about the Unforgivable Curses, we are not simply preparing to defend ourselves. We are learning the boundaries of what magic should and should not do. Because the moment we allow ourselves to cross those boundaries, we lose not just the fight but a piece of who we are.

Harry sat back, rereading the final lines of his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest, and that felt like enough. He folded the parchment carefully and set it aside.

"Done," he muttered, stretching his arms.

Hermione glanced up from her notes. "Well, at least someone's making progress."

"Speak for yourself," Ron grumbled, flipping half-heartedly through a Potions book. "This is going to take ages. Why couldn't Snape just let us work on our own instead of sticking us with the Slytherins?"

Harry smirked. "Because he likes watching us suffer." He glanced at Ron's empty parchment. "Got any ideas for that yet?"

Ron groaned loudly, slumping further into his chair. "Don't remind me. Malfoy hasn't said a word to me since we got paired up. Not that I'm surprised. I'll probably end up doing the whole thing myself while he swans around being a git."

"Or you could try talking to him," Hermione suggested, not looking up.

Ron shot her a glare. "And what, ask him nicely to stop being a stuck-up prat? Sure, Hermione, I'll get right on that."

Harry stifled a laugh. "Alright, Ron, forget I asked. Just don't get detention for hexing him before the project's done."

Ron muttered something under his breath, and Harry decided it was best to change the subject. He pulled out The Theory of Spells from his bag, flipping through the pages.

He paused when a chapter heading caught his eye: The Magical Core: Understanding the Source of Power. He hadn't noticed it over the summer, but something about it felt important now.

The introduction was brief but direct.

"Every spell, every bit of magic a wizard or witch performs, originates from their magical core. This core, unique to each individual, acts as a reservoir of magical energy. Learning to sense and regulate this core is a cornerstone of advanced spellcasting."

Harry's brow furrowed as he kept reading.

"Most beginners access their magic instinctively, with little thought to the energy they expend. However, advanced practitioners learn to control this energy, drawing precisely what they need without waste. A controlled magical core leads to stronger, more consistent spells and prevents exhaustion during prolonged use."

Harry leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. He thought of all the times he'd cast spells without much thought—reacting more than planning. Was he wasting energy every time? Or worse, was he drawing too much from his core without realizing it?

The next section provided a practical exercise:

"To begin sensing your magical core, find a quiet place and hold your wand lightly in your hand. Close your eyes and focus on the feeling of the wand, the connection between it and yourself. Imagine the magic inside you as a steady flame, glowing in the center of your being. With practice, you may begin to feel a subtle pull or warmth, a sign of your core responding to your focus."

Harry glanced around. Ron was grumbling under his breath, flipping through his Potions book without enthusiasm. Hermione was deep in her notes, oblivious to anything outside her bubble of parchment and ink.

Good. No one was paying attention.

He held his wand loosely in his hand and closed his eyes, trying to picture the flame the book described. Small, steady, and somewhere deep inside him.

Nothing happened.

Harry frowned, adjusting his grip. He took a slow breath and tried again, focusing harder on the instructions. A flicker—he thought he felt something for a split second—but it was gone before he could grasp it.

He opened one eye, glancing at his wand. Still the same.

"Great," he muttered under his breath.

Trying again, he closed his eyes and forced the image of the flame to reappear. He concentrated so hard his head started to ache, but there was no warmth, no pull, no sign of anything.

When he opened his eyes again, all he felt was frustration.

The book had made it sound straightforward—hold your wand, focus, sense your core. But it clearly wasn't. Maybe it was too advanced for someone like him. After all, he'd never exactly been top of the class in spellwork.

Harry set the wand down with a sigh and pushed the book aside. This wasn't something he could just force, and he was already starting to draw curious looks from Madam Pince.

For now, he'd leave it alone. But he couldn't shake the idea that this was important—something worth coming back to when he was ready.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The winding staircase leading to the Divination classroom was as stuffy and claustrophobic as Harry remembered. The air grew warmer with every step, the faint scent of incense creeping down to meet them like a warning.

"Still can't believe we signed up for this again,"

Harry glanced back at Ron. "You were the one who said it'd be an easy O.W.L."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting the price to be sitting through another year of her doom-and-gloom nonsense," Ron grumbled.

They reached the trapdoor at the top, and Harry pushed it open. Warm, perfumed air spilled out, and they climbed into the circular room. Beads, tapestries, and flickering lanterns gave the space its usual overstuffed, hazy feel.

Professor Trelawney was already seated at the front of the room, her large eyes magnified behind her thick glasses. She greeted them with her customary air of mystique. "Ah, my dears, welcome. Come, settle yourselves. The mists have been unusually restless today—I sense we are on the cusp of great revelations."

Ron shot Harry a look that said Here we go again, but they took their usual seats near the back.

The rest of the class trickled in, some yawning, others shuffling reluctantly. Once everyone was seated, Trelawney rose dramatically.

"Today," she began, her voice heavy with theatrical importance, "we shall delve into the most elusive of all mysteries: the art of the Crystal Ball."

Several students groaned quietly, and Ron leaned over to Harry. "Crystal balls? Again? Didn't we already spend half of last year squinting into those things?"

Harry snorted but kept his eyes on Trelawney as she began arranging a row of cloudy crystal balls on the front table.

"The future," she intoned, "is not for the faint of heart. To see what lies ahead, one must open their inner eye, casting aside the veil of doubt that clouds our perceptions."

Harry exchanged another glance with Ron. The only thing cloudy in the room was the crystal balls themselves.

Trelawney floated between the tables, her shawls trailing behind her like drifting mist. "Clear your minds, my dears," she said, her voice hushed "Let the crystal draw you in. Look beyond the surface—peer into the depths where the truth lies hidden."

Harry squinted into the foggy ball in front of him. It looked like the same useless lump of glass it had always been. He tried to focus, but all he saw was his own vague reflection staring back at him.

"Anything?" Ron whispered from the corner of his mouth, not even pretending to look interested.

"Just clouds," Harry muttered. "You?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker. Think mine's broken." Ron poked it half-heartedly.

Trelawney appeared at their table like a sudden gust of perfumed air. She leaned over Harry's crystal ball, her enormous eyes narrowing behind her thick glasses. "Ah," she breathed, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Yes. I see… shadows. A shroud of darkness, curling ever closer."

Ron gave Harry a sideways glance, barely suppressing a snort.

"Professor," Harry said, deadpan, "are you about to tell me I'm going to die again?"

Trelawney recoiled, her hands fluttering dramatically to her chest. "Not just death, my dear boy. A fate most dire! The Grim looms large in your future—it is undeniable."

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Right. Thanks for the warning."

She huffed, clearly displeased, and floated to the next table.

Ron burst out laughing the moment she was out of earshot. "You'd think she'd come up with a new prediction by now. Grim this, Grim that. She's obsessed."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm starting to think we could find better ways to spend this hour."

Ron perked up. "Skipping it? I'm in."

"Not what I meant," Harry said, smirking. "I was thinking we could switch to another subject."

"What?" Ron groaned, slumping in his chair. "And have more work to do? No thanks. I've got enough homework as it is."

Harry stared back into the crystal ball, his reflection rippling faintly. For all her theatrics, Trelawney had managed to make him consider one thing: maybe his time here really could be better spent.

I wrote and already published next three chapters, check my Patreon if you are interested.

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