# The South Lawn - Hogwarts Grounds
The X-jet touched down on Hogwarts' south lawn with barely a whisper, Storm's masterful control of wind patterns cushioning their descent until the landing felt more like settling onto a cloud than arriving on solid ground. The aircraft's sleek hull reflected moonlight as its engines powered down with a soft whine, and the passenger door opened with a precise hydraulic hiss.
Logan stepped out first, his boots hitting Scottish soil with the kind of alert posture that suggested he was cataloging every sight, sound, and scent for potential threats. His enhanced senses immediately registered the complex magical atmosphere surrounding the castle—layers upon layers of protective enchantments, ancient wards, and the lingering traces of power that spoke of centuries of accumulated magic.
"Hell of a place," he muttered, tilting his head back to take in the towering spires and ancient stone walls that seemed to grow organically from the landscape itself.
Charles emerged next, his wheelchair's advanced suspension system automatically adjusting to the uneven ground as Storm guided it down the jet's extended ramp. The professor's pale eyes swept across the castle grounds with academic appreciation, noting architectural details that spoke of both medieval craftsmanship and ongoing magical maintenance.
"Even more impressive than I remembered," Charles murmured, his cultured voice carrying genuine admiration. "There's something about places where magic has been practiced for centuries—they develop a resonance that's almost tangible."
Storm was the last to exit, pausing at the aircraft's threshold to extend her consciousness across the local weather patterns. The storm systems that had raged earlier were completely dissipated now, leaving behind air so clear and still it felt almost crystalline. She took a deep breath, then nodded with satisfaction as she joined her companions.
"Beautiful night," she observed, though her tone carried undertones that suggested she was referring to more than just meteorological conditions. "The atmospheric pressure is perfect. Whatever disturbances occurred earlier have been completely resolved."
The sound of heavy footsteps crunching across the lawn announced their host's approach well before his massive silhouette became visible in the moonlight. Rubeus Hagrid emerged from the direction of his hut with characteristic enthusiasm, his wild hair and beard catching the silver light as he waved a hand roughly the size of a dinner plate.
"Professor Xavier! Blimey, it's good to see you again!" Hagrid's voice boomed across the quiet grounds with unrestrained pleasure. "And Storm! Haven't seen you since that business with the Frost Giants in Norway—though I suppose we don't talk about that one, do we?"
"Rubeus," Charles replied warmly, maneuvering his wheelchair across the uneven ground to meet the half-giant's approach. "A pleasure, as always. I trust the years have been treating you well?"
"Can't complain, can't complain," Hagrid replied, though his expression grew more serious as his dark eyes settled on their third companion. "Though I have to say, tonight's been a bit more excitin' than usual around here."
Logan stepped forward, extending his hand with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he was entirely comfortable meeting individuals who could bench-press small buildings. "Logan Howlett," he said simply. "Appreciate you clearing space for our landing."
Hagrid's massive hand engulfed Logan's in a grip that would have crushed normal bones, but Logan's enhanced physiology handled the enthusiastic handshake without difficulty. "Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds. Heard quite a bit about you over the years—the Wolverine himself, eh?"
"My reputation precedes me," Logan replied with a slight grin. "Hope that's not a problem."
"Problem? Course not!" Hagrid laughed, the sound echoing off the castle walls. "Anyone who's fought alongside Charles here is welcome on these grounds any time. Besides," his expression grew more serious, "after what happened tonight, we could use all the help we can get understanding what young Harry's going through."
Storm moved to join them, her presence somehow managing to make the entire group feel more cohesive despite the disparities in their sizes and backgrounds. "How is he? Harry, I mean."
"Recovering," Hagrid said, though concern colored his voice. "Been through quite an ordeal, he has. Physical transformation's one thing—we've all seen that before with various magical creatures—but this is something else entirely. Something new."
"Indeed it is," came a familiar voice from the castle's main entrance. Albus Dumbledore approached across the lawn with his characteristic unhurried gait, his star-spangled robes flowing behind him and his eyes twinkling with what might have been anticipation or simple pleasure at seeing old friends.
"Charles, my dear fellow," Dumbledore called out, his arms extended in welcome. "And the incomparable Ororo Munroe—still commanding the heavens, I see. The weather tonight has been absolutely perfect for flying."
"Albus," Charles replied with genuine warmth, accepting the elderly wizard's embrace with the ease of long friendship. "Thank you for accommodating our rather unconventional arrival."
"Think nothing of it. After Hagrid's description of your 'flying contraption,' I was rather looking forward to witnessing Muggle aviation technology firsthand." Dumbledore's attention shifted to Logan, and his smile took on notes of curious assessment. "And you must be James Howlett. I've heard quite remarkable things about your... capabilities."
Logan studied the elderly wizard with the kind of careful attention he typically reserved for potential threats or particularly interesting puzzles. Something about Dumbledore's manner suggested depths of knowledge and power that weren't immediately obvious, wrapped in grandfatherly courtesy that was probably genuine but definitely not complete.
"Professor Dumbledore," Logan said, inclining his head slightly. "Appreciate you letting us visit on short notice."
"Nonsense," Dumbledore replied, though his pale blue eyes remained fixed on Logan's face with unmistakable intensity. "When Charles explained the nature of your... connection to young Harry, I could hardly refuse. The boy deserves to understand all aspects of his heritage."
"About that," Logan began, but Dumbledore raised a gentle hand.
"All will be explained in due time, my dear fellow. However, I believe we might be more comfortable conducting such discussions in my office, where we can speak freely without worrying about curious students or portraits with excellent hearing."
Hagrid nodded enthusiastically. "Right then, I'll leave you lot to your important conversations. Need to check on the Thestrals anyway—they've been restless all evening. Something about the magical disturbances earlier has them all worked up."
"Thank you, Rubeus," Dumbledore said warmly. "Perhaps you might prepare some of your excellent rock cakes for later? I suspect our guests will appreciate some refreshment after their journey."
"Course, Professor! Always happy to bake for visitors!" Hagrid's grin suggested he was entirely unaware of his rock cakes' legendary reputation for structural integrity that rivaled actual stones.
As the half-giant disappeared back toward his hut, Dumbledore gestured toward the castle's main entrance. "Shall we? I believe Sirius is quite eager to meet you all—particularly you, Logan. He seemed rather... animated when I mentioned your impending arrival."
Charles raised an eyebrow as they began moving toward the castle, his wheelchair's advanced systems handling the transition from grass to stone walkways with quiet efficiency. "Sirius Black knows of Logan?"
"Not precisely," Dumbledore replied with that maddeningly cryptic tone that suggested he knew considerably more than he was saying. "However, he reacted to Logan's name in a manner that suggests... recognition. Perhaps not of Logan himself, but of something connected to him."
Storm moved to walk alongside Charles, her natural grace making the uneven pathways seem perfectly smooth beneath her feet. "That's intriguing. What kind of recognition?"
"The kind that suggests old memories and carefully guarded family secrets," Dumbledore said as they passed through the castle's massive oak doors into the warmly lit entrance hall. "I suspect tonight will prove quite educational for everyone involved."
Logan's enhanced senses immediately registered the complex magical atmosphere inside the castle—centuries of accumulated enchantments layered over stone walls that had witnessed more history than most countries could claim. Portraits lined the hallways, their occupants following the group's progress with obvious curiosity despite their pretense of sleep.
"Castle's older than anything I remember," Logan observed, his voice carrying notes of genuine appreciation. "How long has this place been standing?"
"Nearly a thousand years," Dumbledore replied as they began climbing the moving staircases toward his office. "Founded by four of the most powerful wizards and witches of their era, each bringing their own vision of what magical education should entail."
"And somehow they managed to agree on architecture?" Storm asked with mild amusement as a portrait of a medieval knight attempted to challenge their passage before recognizing Dumbledore.
"Oh, they agreed on very little, actually," Dumbledore chuckled. "The castle itself is a testament to creative compromise and magical engineering. Rather like our young Harry, actually—a unique fusion of disparate elements that somehow creates something entirely new."
Charles caught the subtle emphasis in Dumbledore's words and filed it away for later consideration. "You sound almost fond of complications, Albus."
"At my age, Charles, complications are what keep life interesting," Dumbledore replied as they reached his office door. "Though I must admit, tonight's particular complication promises to be among the most fascinating I've encountered."
---
# The Headmaster's Office - Twenty Minutes Later
The fire crackled warmly in the ancient hearth, casting dancing shadows across the book-lined walls and making the various magical instruments gleam like captured starlight. Fawkes preened on his golden perch, occasionally releasing musical trills that seemed to harmonize with the room's inherent magic, while portraits of former headmasters maintained their traditional facade of sleep while obviously listening to every word.
Logan stood near one of the tall windows, his stance relaxed but alert as he studied the view of the castle grounds below. Charles had positioned his wheelchair near the center of the office, within easy conversational range of both Dumbledore behind his massive desk and the figure occupying one of the comfortable wingback chairs.
Sirius Black looked remarkably different from the escaped convict who had fled the castle grounds months earlier. Clean-shaven and properly dressed, his aristocratic features showed clear evidence of good food and adequate rest. But his dark eyes held a tension that seemed to increase every time they settled on Logan's profile, as if he was trying to solve a puzzle that remained just out of reach.
Storm had claimed the remaining chair with her characteristic grace, though her attention kept drifting between the room's occupants and the various magical devices that whirred and clicked with mysterious purpose throughout the office.
"Well," Dumbledore said, settling back in his chair with the air of someone preparing for a long and complex conversation, "I believe we should begin with the most pressing question. Logan, are you prepared to learn the nature of your connection to young Harry?"
Logan turned from the window, his expression carefully neutral despite the tension visible in the set of his shoulders. "Wouldn't be here if I wasn't, Professor."
"Indeed," Sirius said quietly, and everyone turned to look at him. His voice carried notes of certainty mixed with something that might have been old grief. "Though I think... I think I should be the one to explain."
Charles leaned forward slightly, his psychic senses picking up the complex emotional resonance surrounding the other man. "You recognize Logan, don't you, Sirius?"
"Not Logan himself," Sirius replied carefully. "But I recognize his face. Or rather, I recognize someone who looked exactly like him." He met Logan's eyes directly, and his expression held profound sympathy. "Someone I saw in a photograph nearly fourteen years ago."
Logan went very still, the kind of absolute stillness that preceded either violence or significant revelation. "What photograph?"
Sirius looked to Dumbledore, who nodded encouragingly. "It might be easier to show you," Sirius said slowly. "I can use the Pensieve, if—"
"That won't be necessary," Charles interjected gently. "If you're willing to lower your mental barriers, I can share the memory with everyone present. It would be more... immediate than a Pensieve viewing."
Sirius considered this for a moment, then nodded with the resolution of someone who had decided to trust completely. "All right. But I should warn you—it's not an easy memory. It involves Lily's parents' funeral, and some... family secrets that have been kept for a very long time."
"Family secrets," Storm repeated, her dark eyes sharpening with interest. "What kind of family secrets?"
"The kind that explain why Harry Potter now looks like a younger version of Logan," Sirius said quietly. "And why Lily Evans carried a photograph her entire life that she never showed to anyone—only myself and James."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Sirius, are you suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Sirius interrupted gently. "I'm stating facts. Facts I've kept secret for thirteen years because Lily made me promise, and because I thought they were buried with her." He looked at Logan again, his expression growing more certain. "But they're not buried. They're standing right here in this office, asking questions that deserve honest answers."
Charles moved his wheelchair closer to Sirius, his voice taking on the careful professionalism of someone preparing to perform delicate telepathic work. "Are you certain about this? Memory sharing can be... intense. Especially memories with strong emotional content."
"I'm certain," Sirius replied firmly. "Everyone here has a right to know the truth. Especially Logan, and especially if Harry really is—" He stopped, unable to quite voice the possibility.
"His grandson," Logan said quietly, the words falling into the sudden silence like stones into still water.
Sirius nodded, his expression grave. "His grandson."
Storm's eyes went wide. "Grandson? But I thought—we all thought he might be your son."
"The genetic markers suggested a close familial relationship," Charles explained, his scientific mind already working through the implications. "But grandfather and biological father would produce similar readings, particularly given Logan's unique genetic profile."
Logan sank into the remaining empty chair, his usual confidence replaced by something approaching vulnerability. "Show me," he said simply. "Whatever it is, I need to know."
Charles positioned himself carefully, his hands rising to his temples in the familiar gesture of deep telepathic connection. "Everyone, please try to remain calm and focused. I'll be creating a shared mental space where we can all experience Sirius's memory simultaneously. It may feel disorienting initially, but the sensation will pass."
"Ready when you are, Professor," Sirius said, consciously lowering the Occlumency barriers he'd maintained for years of self-protection.
The telepathic connection established itself with surprising gentleness, Charles's decades of experience evident in the careful way he wove their consciousness together. One by one, the office around them faded, replaced by the warm, intimate interior of a nursery that belonged to another time, another world.
---
# The Memory - Potter House, Godric's Hollow - October 1980
The nursery was painted in soft yellows and greens, with hand-carved wooden toys scattered across a thick rug and afternoon sunlight streaming through gauze curtains. A mobile of tiny golden snitches hung over a carefully crafted crib, their delicate wings catching the light as they turned slowly in the gentle breeze from the open window.
Lily Potter sat in a rocking chair beside the crib, holding a baby who couldn't have been more than three months old. Even at such a young age, Harry's resemblance to his father was unmistakable—the same unruly black hair, the same strong jaw, though his eyes were already showing the brilliant green that would become his most distinctive feature.
But Lily herself looked nothing like the confident, happy young woman from the wedding photos scattered throughout the house. Her face was pale and drawn with grief, dark circles under her eyes suggesting sleepless nights and the kind of exhaustion that came from mourning. Fresh tears streaked her cheeks as she clutched a letter in one hand and stared at a photograph resting on the small table beside her chair.
The nursery door burst open with enough force to rattle the frame, and James Potter rushed in with Sirius close behind. Both young men looked frantic with worry, still dressed in the formal black robes they'd worn to the funeral earlier that day.
"Lily!" James said, crossing the room in three quick strides. "Love, you disappeared right after the service—we've been looking everywhere for you."
"The will reading finished an hour ago," Sirius added, his voice gentle but concerned. "When you didn't come back downstairs, we thought—"
His words cut off abruptly as he caught sight of the photograph on the table. Even from across the room, the image was clear enough to recognize—a young woman who looked exactly like Lily, laughing in the arms of a ruggedly handsome man with distinctive dark hair and eyes that even in the faded photograph seemed to burn with intensity.
"Lily," James said carefully, settling onto his knees beside her chair. "What is it? What did your mother leave you?"
For a long moment, Lily couldn't speak. She simply held Harry closer, rocking slightly as tears continued to fall. When she finally found her voice, it was barely above a whisper.
"A secret," she said, looking down at the letter in her trembling hands. "A secret she kept for twenty-one years. A secret about my father. My real father."
James went very still, his eyes moving between his wife's grief-stricken face and the photograph that seemed to be the source of her distress. "Lily, what are you talking about?"
She held out the letter with shaking hands, the parchment yellowed with age and written in her mother's careful script. "Read it," she whispered. "Read what she couldn't tell me while she was alive."
James took the letter with careful reverence, unfolding it as Sirius moved closer to read over his shoulder. The handwriting was elegant but shaky, as if written by someone in considerable emotional distress:
*My dearest Lily,*
*If you are reading this, then I am gone, and you are preparing to welcome your first child into the world. I can only pray that you will forgive me for the secret I have carried all these years, but you deserve to know the truth of your heritage before you become a mother yourself.*
*Twenty-one years ago, your father and I had what he called "irreconcilable differences" about his gambling and drinking. We separated for nearly six months, and I was certain our marriage was over permanently. During that time, I went to London with some friends from work—a girls' trip, we called it, though we were all running from our own problems.*
*At a pub in Westminster, I met a man who called himself James. James Howlett. He was Canadian, he said, though he spoke with an accent I couldn't quite place. He was handsome in a dangerous way, with eyes that seemed to see everything and a laugh that made me forget why I was sad. We spent three days together, and for those three days, I felt alive in a way I'd never experienced before.*
*Then he was gone. No goodbye, no forwarding address, just gone like he'd never existed. I was heartbroken, but I told myself it was better that way. He was clearly a man with secrets, and I was a married woman trying to save her marriage.*
*Six weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant.*
*I went back to your father, and we reconciled. He never questioned the timing—by all appearances, you were born slightly premature, though you were actually perfectly on schedule for a child conceived in London. My friend Margaret, who worked as a midwife, helped me adjust the records. Your father never knew, and I saw no reason to tell him. You looked exactly like me, after all. Not an ounce of James Howlett in your appearance.*
*But Lily, my darling, you have his spirit. His fierce protectiveness, his willingness to fight for what's right regardless of the cost, his absolute inability to let injustice stand unopened. I've watched you grow into a woman who would rather die than let innocent people suffer, and I recognize that courage. It's not mine, and it's not your legal father's.*
*It's his.*
*I kept one photograph, taken during our last night together. I've carried it with me for twenty-one years, along with the guilt and the wonder and the love I felt for three perfect days. I'm leaving it to you because you deserve to know where your strength comes from, and because someday you might want your children to understand their heritage.*
*I love you beyond measure, my brave, wonderful daughter. I hope you can forgive a foolish woman's choices and find some peace in knowing the truth.*
*Always,*
*Mother*
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the soft musical tinkling of the golden snitch mobile turning slowly in the breeze. James sat back on his heels, the letter falling from nerveless fingers as he stared at his wife with an expression of profound shock and growing understanding.
"James Howlett," he said slowly, as if testing the name. "Lily, do you... do you know anything else about him?"
Lily shook her head, reaching for the photograph with trembling hands. "Only this," she whispered, holding it out so they could all see clearly.
The image was remarkably clear for something twenty-one years old—a candid shot of a couple laughing together, obviously taken by a street photographer who had captured a moment of pure joy. Lily's mother looked exactly as they remembered her, young and radiant and alive with happiness.
But the man she was embracing was unmistakable.
It was Logan's face, exactly as it appeared now, down to the distinctive bone structure and intense eyes. Not similar to Logan, not reminiscent of Logan—it was Logan, photographed two decades ago but looking exactly the same age he appeared today.
Sirius sank into the chair beside the window, his legs giving out entirely as the implications hit him. "Bloody hell," he breathed.
Harry chose that moment to wake up, his tiny fists waving as he made the soft, sleepy sounds that new parents learned to interpret as requests for attention rather than distress. Lily adjusted him in her arms, and in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, his resemblance to both James Potter and the man in the photograph became even more pronounced.
"What do we do?" Lily asked quietly, her voice carrying the weight of impossible decisions. "Do we try to find him? Do we tell Harry when he's older? Do we pretend this never happened?"
James was quiet for a long moment, studying the photograph with the intense focus he typically reserved for particularly challenging Transfiguration problems. When he finally spoke, his voice held absolute conviction.
"We do what's best for Harry," he said simply. "If this James Howlett is really his grandfather, and if he's still alive, then Harry deserves to know. Someday, when he's old enough to understand."
"And if he's dangerous?" Lily asked, though her tone suggested she was asking for the sake of thoroughness rather than from real fear. "If there's a reason he disappeared without a word?"
"Then we'll deal with that when the time comes," Sirius said firmly. "But Lily, look at that photograph. Look at his eyes. That's not the face of someone who runs from responsibility out of cruelty. That's the face of someone who runs because he thinks it's safer for everyone involved."
Lily studied the image again, her finger tracing the line of Logan's jaw with unconscious tenderness. "He does look... haunted, doesn't he? Like someone carrying secrets he doesn't know how to share."
"Or someone who's forgotten more than he remembers," James added thoughtfully. "Lily, what if he didn't disappear by choice? What if something happened to him? Memory charms, cursed objects, experimental magic gone wrong?"
"Then finding him becomes even more important," Sirius said with growing conviction. "If Harry's grandfather is lost somewhere, struggling with damaged memories or magical afflictions, we owe it to both of them to help however we can."
Lily was quiet for several minutes, rocking gently as Harry settled back into sleep against her shoulder. When she finally spoke, her voice held the quiet strength that would eventually make her famous for standing against Voldemort himself.
"We keep the secret," she said simply. "For now. But we keep looking for him too. Quietly, carefully, but persistently. And if we find him..." She looked down at her sleeping son, whose tiny features already showed hints of the man he would become. "If we find him, we make sure he knows he has family who wants him in their lives."
"And if we don't find him?" James asked gently.
"Then we make sure Harry knows the truth when he's ready to hear it," Lily replied with absolute certainty. "He deserves to understand all parts of his heritage. The magical and the mundane, the known and the mysterious."
She looked at the photograph one more time, then carefully tucked it into the letter with her mother's confession. "Sirius, I need you to promise me something."
"Anything," he said immediately.
"If something happens to James and me, if we're not here to tell Harry the truth when he's ready... promise me you'll find a way. Promise me he'll learn about James Howlett, about this photograph, about the part of his heritage that comes from strength and healing and the kind of courage that doesn't know how to surrender."
Sirius stood and crossed the nursery, kneeling beside Lily's chair with the solemn formality of someone making a sacred vow. "I promise, Lily. On my honor as a Black, on my friendship with James, on my love for you both—if you're not here to tell him, I will be."
The memory began to fade as the afternoon sunlight dimmed, but the last clear image was of three young people gathered around a sleeping baby, united by love and determination and the certain knowledge that family was worth any sacrifice, any secret, any risk.
---
# Back in the Headmaster's Office - Present Day
The telepathic connection dissolved gently, Charles's careful control ensuring that the transition back to the present felt natural rather than jarring. One by one, they became aware of their surroundings again—the crackling fire, Fawkes's soft musical trills, the familiar weight of their own bodies in the comfortable office chairs.
Logan sat in absolute stillness, his hands clenched into fists as he processed what they had all witnessed. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion he couldn't quite hide.
"That was my face," he said quietly. "Exactly my face, twenty-one years ago."
"The resemblance is unmistakable," Dumbledore agreed gently. "And Logan... the healing factor, the way you haven't aged visibly in all the years Charles has known you..."
"It's possible," Charles said with scientific precision. "More than possible. Logan, your healing factor has essentially made you immortal—your cells regenerate faster than they can degrade. You could easily have looked exactly the same twenty-one years ago."
Storm leaned forward, her dark eyes bright with sympathetic understanding. "Logan, you said you don't remember much from before the experiments. But this... this could be a real memory. A connection to who you were."
Logan looked at Sirius, his expression vulnerable in a way none of them had ever seen. "You kept that secret for thirteen years?"
"I promised Lily," Sirius replied simply. "She made me swear that if anything happened to her and James, I'd make sure Harry knew the truth about his heritage. All of it."
"And now?" Logan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Now I think it's time to keep that promise," Sirius said with quiet conviction. "Harry deserves to know he has a grandfather who's spent decades fighting for people who can't protect themselves. He deserves to know where his strength comes from."
Dumbledore cleared his throat gently. "There is, however, the matter of timing. Harry has undergone considerable trauma tonight, both physical and psychological. Perhaps we should—"
"Ask him," Logan interrupted firmly. "Don't make the decision for him, Professor. The kid's been making impossible choices since he was eleven—he can decide whether he's ready to learn about his family."
Charles smiled, recognizing the protective instinct that was already manifesting despite Logan's lack of direct memory. "You're already thinking like a grandfather."
"Am I?" Logan looked genuinely uncertain. "Because I have no idea what I'm doing here, Chuck. I can barely remember my own name most days, and now you're telling me I've got family? That I've got a grandson who just manifested powers that make mine look like party tricks?"
"You're doing exactly what you should be doing," Storm said warmly. "You're putting his needs first and worrying about whether you're good enough for him. That's what family does."
Sirius stood, his decision clearly made. "Right then. Let's go meet him properly. I think it's time for some introductions."
"Are you certain he's ready for this?" Dumbledore asked, though his tone suggested he was asking out of caring rather than genuine opposition.
"Professor," Sirius replied with a grin that reminded everyone present of his famous troublemaking days, "Harry Potter just manifested mutant abilities, burned away a piece of Voldemort's soul, and committed genocide against an entire species of dark creatures. I think he can handle meeting his grandfather."
Logan stood as well, his posture straightening with renewed purpose. "Then let's go. Kid's waited long enough to know he's not alone in the world."
As they prepared to leave the office, Fawkes released a crystalline note that seemed to carry blessing and benediction. Outside the tall windows, the first hint of dawn was beginning to touch the horizon, promising a new day full of possibilities none of them could yet imagine.
The Age of Miracles, as Charles often called it, was about to welcome its newest member to the family.
---
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