A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 6 The Fallout

"You okay?"

The whisper came from behind the corner couch. Still disoriented, with head and knees throbbing painfully, Hermione tried to get up. The hearth spun and she lost her balance. "Mmugh," she managed.

Extricating herself, the whisperer scurried across the dimly lit room, concern creasing her features. "Anything I can do?"

Hermione slumped, relieved. It was just Ginny. She shook her head gently, making sure that her stomach was going to go back where it belonged. "I'm fine, thanks," she lied.

Eying her critically, Ginny offered a hand. "Trying to floo?" Hermione nodded vaguely, refusing to elaborate. She really wanted Ginny to go away so she could think. What was Draco doing with that dirk? And why on earth was she dreaming about him? Her thoughts tilted, unsteady as her equilibrium. She needed time. Deciding to stay put, Hermione waved away the hand.

Ginny shrugged and wandered over to the couch. "Sorry to bother you. Remembered I'd left my wool jumper--dove behind here to avoid crossfire snogging by Neville and Luna." She rolled her eyes. "You just missed them." Attempting what she hoped was an empathetic smile, Hermione tried not to visualize Neville and Luna rollicking about on the cushions. The smile was watery, at best--the image definitely wasn't helping her stomach. Ginny sighed. "Anyway, maybe Ron nicked it."

Hermione felt she was expected to say something. She swallowed carefully. "Hasn't he got his own?"

"Sure, they just look better on me." Ginny lifted a cushion half-heartedly. Hermione pictured Ron's raggy, burgundy jumper, which he was always wearing as a last resort. Unlike the brown one she'd seen him in earlier, it clashed terribly with his hair. She took pity on him.

"Ah," she replied noncommittally. The throbbing in her head lessened as Ginny continued riffling the couch. Her efforts unearthed several moldy Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, and a suspicious-looking wrapper that didn't bear thinking about. To distract them both, Hermione said, "You know, I could really do with a spot of chocolate. D'you want one?"

"Sure!" Ginny cheerfully abandoned her search and plopped down on the settee nearest the fire. Gritting her teeth, Hermione picked up her wand. Despite her determination, her hand wavered at the first spark of spell. She felt dizzy all over again.

"Hermione, stop! I'll do them," Ginny said hastily. The older girl's face was positively green. "You sure you're okay?"

"Oh, I will be," Hermione moaned resignedly. "I sort of missed my fireplace."

Ginny grinned sympathetically. "Oo, you must be feeling narsty. I've done that, loads of times." She conjured two steaming mugs, holding her wand over them to cool. "When I was four, Fred and George dared me to floo--I'd never done before. They thought it was great fun, had me go over and over. Found me once in the lobby of Gringotts. Made me right sick." She giggled. "Good thing mum never found out." She handed Hermione the blue mug. "Don't worry, you'll be fine in a minute."

"Thanks." Hermione curled her fingers gratefully around the mug.

Ginny picked at the fraying cuff of her flannel pajamas. "Did you hear about the time Harry missed? He came out in a shop in Knockturn Alley. Draco Malfoy and his father were in there selling black market."

Hermione's mug tipped dangerously. She looked warily at Ginny, but there was nothing in the girl's face but cheeriness. "No surprise there," she observed calmly. Ginny nodded and tested her chocolate. The floor seemed to have resumed a normal angle, so Hermione turned her attention to her own cup. As they drank in silence, she wondered what she ought to be doing about Malfoy. She couldn't make up her mind. Picturing the lurid scratches on his arm, she was tempted to wake Professor McGonagall--but kept returning to Dumbledore's strict order not to interfere with Draco's dealings. I'm just too tired, she thought resignedly. The chocolate was very comforting, reminding her for some reason of Jane Austen. She drank deeply, letting the warm liquid lull her, her thoughts following the flickering pattern of the dwindling flames in the grate. They flared briefly. Perhaps Jane's still up writing. Mug balanced on the palm of her hand, Hermione watched the fire, almost unaware of Ginny quietly sipping her drink.

When the idea came to her, it was so dreadfully manipulative that she nearly rejected it. She furtively watched the younger girl a moment longer before deciding. The firelight made Ginny's skin and hair half luminous, as if she were almost translucent, fragile even. Whatever Malfoy was up to now, there wasn't much more she could do tonight--whereas Ginny had offered . . . anything I can do? Hermione wondered if Ron would ever forgive her. She sighed. "Sorry for being so quiet. I'm just worn out, I guess."

Ginny nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About Draco Malfoy?"

"Er--" Ginny backpedaled, a bit wide-eyed. "Actually, I meant about Goyle. I mean, I just thought . . . since I didn't tell anyone when the whole Tom Riddle thing was going on. Except a diary. Which only got me in worse." She paused for breath, sizing the forlorn sixth-year up carefully. "Of course, if you want to talk about Draco Malfoy . . ."

Hermione smiled ruefully. "Guess I've been found out."

"How much do you think about Malfoy, anyway?" Ginny asked, curious. She'd forgotten all about her hot chocolate.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," Hermione admitted.

"Wow. Kinky." Ginny's green eyes sparkled mischievously. "But, I don't blame you. Malfoy's a prick, but hot. Besides the evil arsehole part, he's completely shaggable."

"Ginny!"

"Well, he is. Secretly, I think it's great that you fancy him."

"I never said that!"

"Right." Ginny snorted, reminding her of Ron. "Clearly not. But, you know, it would make it easier--you know, to find stuff out."

"Stuff?"

"Like . . . whether or not he murdered Goyle, for instance," Ginny said, casually. Hermione regarded her dubiously. Ginny faced her down. "C'mon, Hermione, everyone's thinking it."

"What possibly gave them that idea?"

"The Thomas a Becket presentation."

"You know about that?"

Ginny opened her mouth, her look pitying. Quickly, she relented. "Everyone does. I heard about it right after Herbology. And you knew, didn't you, that Malfoy and Goyle weren't friends?" Hermione's surprise was evident. "Everyone thinks it's over Pansy Parkinson--"

"Eww," Hermione said, without quite meaning to. What is this, she thought, annoyed with herself, Rita Skeeter's gossip column? Teen Witch Weekly?

"Exactly!" Ginny said triumphantly. "Malfoy and Goyle stop speaking--then Goyle turns up dead. It looks so totally obvious."

Hermione sipped her chocolate. Reluctantly, she had to agree. But a crime of passion? Pansy Parkinson? She stopped listening to Ginny, studying the younger girl's animated face. Ginny had such a knack for fleshing out the details. I think you'll help me more than you know.

And yet. Using Ginny felt like being caught up too far in one of Fred and George's hare-brained schemes. It's really just a little gossip, she told herself. Deciding she'd done enough damage for one night, Hermione waited for Ginny to take another breath. She managed a huge yawn. It wasn't entirely fake. Getting unsteadily up, she said, "Well, I should go to bed. Can I beg a favor?"

"Sure," Ginny shrugged.

"Is Malfoy really single?"

Ginny smiled. "I'll let you know what I find out." Nodding her thanks, Hermione felt an unsettling mixture of guilt and horror at her cool approach to exploitation. She didn't even protest when Ginny gingerly piled the empty mugs on the cluttered study table for the house elves to clean up. The two girls padded up the stairs, saying goodnight at the landing.

Jane's desk was vacant, except for some books carefully piled over the manuscript pages. Hermione might ponder all she liked whether this little maneuver would meet with Austen's approval, but she had no doubt that tomorrow there'd be glances and whispers for breakfast.

* * * * *

Hermione never got a chance to find out what sort of reception she was to have. There were only about fifteen early risers in the Great Hall when a strident alarm went off, rising and wailing, flooding Hermione with waves of dread. She was just glad that this time she wasn't alone.

"What is that?" Ron yelled, clamping his hands over his ears, thus making it impossible to hear Hermione's shouted reply.

"The air-raid siren!" It had been installed during World War I over the protests of Headmaster Dipple, who insisted that the magical all-alert was quite sufficient, thank you very much. It didn't matter that Hogwarts was virtually unplottable. The Ministry had been absolutely overwhelmed with howlers (and some disavowed nasty jinxes) from frantic parents, until in the end the Minister pressured him into it. Now the terrible discord continued, making Hermione's stomach roil unpleasantly.

"Let's get out of here!" Ron clamored, wildly gesturing with his elbows towards their fleeing counterparts. Hermione winced as she banged her knee on the bench. She and Ron ran, bags flapping wildly, up stairs and down corridors toward Gryffindor Tower. In the hallways the volume was less, but there were more people. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, contrary to the rules, had flooded out of the dormitories and bathrooms, some headed for common rooms, most not. Ron and Hermione single-mindedly passed them all, and as she ignored the pain in her knee, she knew without asking what they were both thinking. Where's Harry?

Just past the Slytherin dungeons they slowed, the grueling siren echoing weirdly around them. She remembered Draco tucking that dirk into his sleeve last night, and felt a terrible pang of guilt. Where was he now? Ron dodged a band of Hufflepuffs scurrying out of the adjoining corridor. With a start of recognition, Hermione recalled that it led to a forked passage in a medieval part of the castle, one of her old shortcuts to the library. She hadn't used it since the first incident with the Chamber of Secrets. She hesitated. One of the girls was friends with Ginny. From her face, Hermione sensed she had news, but couldn't bring herself to stop her.

"Come on," Ron said. They took the corridor, Hermione unconsciously letting him go first. Leaving the intersection behind, they sped into the dim, narrow passage. Halfway down, it began to curve. Hermione's heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She slowed to catch her breath. Ron slowed, too, turning.

Then the siren ground down into the all-clear. In the deafening silence, a new sound replaced the anxious drone. It was the sound of restless voices. Hermione and Ron exchanged a worried glance. Steeling herself, she tiptoed after him around the bend.

The way was blocked. A crowd of people pressed the corridor where it widened, all of them peering over shoulders into the fork ahead and whispering. "What is it? Can you see?" a first-year asked, noticing Ron's Head Boy badge.

"Go back to your House," Hermione began. Grimly, Ron grabbed Hermione by the arm and began plowing through toward the twin Norman arches set into the hallway. They pushed out in front and ran up short against Snape.

Ron grimaced. Snape's black robes spun angrily as he rounded on them.

"Weasely!" he began. Then he saw Hermione. "Go back to your dormitories at once," he hissed blackly. The students nearest Ron retreated a fraction of an inch. The lights flickered ominously. "EVERYONE!"

The crowd flinched as though struck. People started moving. Snape fixed Hermione with an eagle-eyed glare. Frustrated, she surveyed the jostling faces surrounding her one last time. No love. "Find Harry," she whispered urgently, and wriggled out of Ron's grasp.

"Hermione!" he called, trying to follow where she'd slipped into the melee. "Hey!" Hermione shuffled around, doubling back and keeping to the edges until the others had trickled out around her and she was left hugging the stones in the center column of the divide, Snape's looming figure blocking her from view.

"He's gone," Snape said at last. Protests and sounds of disappointment told Hermione that a similar group of students in the right-hand branch were also being sent on their way. A moment later, Professor McGonagall nipped into the hall.

"They're here, Albus," she said quietly into her wand. She gave Snape a brief nod. For a second Hermione felt a biting cold emanating from the Potions master. Just as suddenly, it was gone. Professor McGonagall beckoned them into left fork, and Hermione joined her in the arched entrance, budging up against the wall beside the tall witch. "We wait."

Uttering an incantation, Snape erected a shimmering barrier, blocking the opening behind them. He moved to stand on Hermione's other side. She looked nervously at Professor McGonagall. "Is it--"

"It's not Harry," she said, reassuring Hermione with a quick pat on the shoulder. The look she gave Snape was not so encouraging. If possible, his expression became even bleaker, although it could have been the shadows under the massive archway. Hermione felt very small sandwiched in the choked space between those two imposing figures. She smiled in a small, sympathetic way, a smile that Snape stiffly didn't acknowledge. They waited.

Hermione leaned her head back against the cool stones. Between the thick wall and Professor McGonagall's wide sleeve, she had a limited view. Outside the curved stonework, the architecture opened up again, the tall windows letting in shafts of light as the corridor continued veering to the left. A few yards out she could hear Dumbledore dispensing orders to a half-visible ring of teachers. Judging from Professor Sprout's hair, spiraling wildly out from under her hat, they'd been in the middle of dressing when the air-raid sounded. Then she became aware of a girl's sobbing.

As the volume increased, Professor McGonagall crisply stepped into the corridor, cautiously skirting something in order to join the others. Hermione edged nervously forward. Dumbledore had his back to her. Just behind Dumbledore, sprawled in the center, was a terrible sight.

Crabbe was lying very still, and very dead, on the floor. Somebody had hastily thrown a school robe over his splayed limbs. Somebody else had peeled it back partly; she could see his twisted face. She glimpsed a green insignia writhing on the breast pocket and flattened herself against the wall, mind racing.

"Irma, please take Miss Parkinson to the infirmary for a calming draught," Dumbledore murmured.

"Yes, certainly," the pinched-faced librarian enthused, suddenly all sweetness and sympathy--really far more than Hermione imagined was necessary. "Oh, you poor dear! I'll see she gets the same one I had for my hysterics--Winfrey's Tranquility. It's really the best thing, dear, I can't imagine anything better. If it hadn't been for that--well, I don't mind telling you, my nerves after finding that poor boy--why, without it I would have killed myself with a fork!" Incredulous, Hermione stole another look.

Madame Pince had Pansy's shaking shoulders firmly ensconced beneath one arm, delighted by her captive audience. Hermione cringed. The professors alternated rolling their eyes, a bit chagrined. Behind Hermione, Snape emitted a low rumble, but she didn't dare move. The temperature in the archway had already dropped three degrees.

Steering Pansy away from Crabbe's body, the librarian continued as they retreated down the corridor, gesturing all the while with her free hand. "Did you know the Weird Sisters use it for performance anxiety? I read about it in Witch Weekly. You must have it. It's even better than the kind Fergie takes--I've tried that, she gets it at Harrod's." Her thin voice echoed eerily as it grew more distant. "All the up-and-coming stars use Winfrey's, from London to Hollywood. They crush a salamander, dissolve the blood in the stewed juices of pomegranate and newt--that's what makes you feel stronger--then distill it with mild sleeping draught. . . "

Downright cold now, Hermione shivered, shaking her head in disbelief. Poor Pansy, face blotchy with misery, hadn't looked in the least like she needed the scoop on celebrity therapy. Madame Pince usually seemed so competent, but Hermione now had no doubt that she could go on in this vein for ages. Really quite scary.

Simmering, Snape stepped out from behind her. Several teachers courageously murmured their sympathies as they dispersed. None of them came her way, so Hermione stayed where she was, scuffing her toes across the oddly worn flagstones. They seemed to have a chevron pattern, just like the carvings on the archway columns.

Dumbledore finally turned to her sadly. "Ah, Miss Granger. I'm afraid I require your assistance."

"Yes, Professor."

He motioned toward Crabbe. "Tell me, what do you see?"

Hermione came slowly forward and looked closely at his prone body. A posh, green-striped collar emerged from under the robe. Paul Smith. "He's wearing his pajamas."

"Just so," Dumbledore agreed. "Leading me to believe that he was engaged in relatively harmless activities."

Hermione agreed. She sincerely doubted that any self-respecting Slytherin would disguise the fact that they were up to no good. Snape knelt down and pulled the robe back farther. The label inside said Parkinson. Professor McGonagall noticed it, too. "Severus, were they close?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "One assumes."

Hermione suddenly had a flash of appreciation for Ginny's abilities. "What's that?" she asked, bending down. She removed a toothbrush from Crabbe's pocket. "Oh."

"Ambushed, apparently," Snape growled. He seemed to be taking this extremely personally. Hermione guessed that dealing with Slytherin parents took a great deal of finesse. She handed the toothbrush to him gently for safekeeping and hoped that Pansy made it to the infirmary without having a total breakdown.

Next Snape examined Crabbe's wand. Hermione stepped back and let him work. "Priori Incantato." A series of frosted chocolate cupcakes with green heart sprinkles paraded out of it, followed by a ghostly, levitating book, whose illustrations were too nebulous for her to make out. A cookbook? Snape appeared vaguely disgusted. "Deletrius." They vanished. "No defensive spells."

He removed Pansy's robe and folded it up. He lifted the pajama collar, peering underneath. "No blood, no obvious marks. Nothing else in the pockets." Hermione hadn't seen many dead bodies, but Crabbe looked decidedly--well, grey. Dry, somehow. And he was terribly twisted up.

As if reading her thoughts, Snape checked the fingernails, and held his wand level over the body, muttering under his breath. "Not poison." He continued his spells. At last he reported, "Not Advara Kedavra. But confirmed traces of magic."

"So, what then?" Hermione asked worriedly.

McGonagall sighed. "We don't know yet. The Bloody Baron was through here about four. So it had to have happened this morning." Hermione surprised herself by feeling relieved. At least that sort of answered her question about Malfoy.

"That gives us a better window," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Severus, I'd like to consult Lupin and Moody, if that is acceptable to you, of course."

Snape's mouth thinned, but he nodded. "And perhaps Nott, for appearances sake."

"I agree," said Dumbledore. "No doubt the Ministry will send him to the inquiry. Miss Granger, is something bothering you?"

"It looks horrible," she said finally, sadly.

Dumbledore patted her shoulder. "Yes, it does. Thank you for your fortitude," he said gently. Seeing Madame Pomfrey coming around the bend with her stretcher, he waived her forward and said to Hermione, "Come with me." He led her away from the body. "We're questioning his friends, of course." He looked at her over the brim of his glasses. "I should ask if you have any reservations regarding Mr. Malfoy?"

"Um." She glanced over at Snape, but he and Madame Pomfrey remained occupied. "You asked me not to worry about him, so . . ."

"But you are still concerned, yes?" he encouraged.

"Well. . . last night I happened to see him with a dagger." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow gravely. Hermione sighed. "It made me wonder. But would he have waited until this morning?"

"Just so. I'm sorry I've placed you in this position, my dear." He looked at her rather strangely. "I'm afraid I can only advise you to continue on your present course, and bring me any further information. I will say that I do not think it was Mr. Malfoy. I am aware that Miss Parkinson may not share my opinion--and that, of course, I could be wrong." He smiled ruefully. "That happens from time to time. However, can I rely upon you to continue?"

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said, perturbed. She fervently hoped that Harry had nothing to do with this. How irrational.

"Yes, quite," Dumbledore said absently. "Well, Miss Granger, I'll leave you to return to your dormitory. In fact, I think it best if everyone stays put. Minerva, I'm canceling classes this morning." He laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Perhaps you and Ron might be willing to organize the Prefects for an emergency meeting?"

"Of course," Hermione said, glad to have something to do. Dumbledore went to join Professor McGonagall. Snape and Madame Pomfrey were already following Crabbe's stretcher down the corridor. She didn't particularly want to go back through the archway, so she walked very slowly, keeping her distance from the receding figures until she reached another corner. Finally free of the passage, she hugged her bag close to her chest and hurried away through the now-deserted corridors.

* * * *

Understandably, Ron was a bit tetchy over her disappearance. He cornered Hermione by the portrait hole as soon as she crept into the common room. Waiting hadn't improved his disposition. "Don't suppose you've seen Harry," he said curtly, by way of opening.

"Oh, hi," she said guiltily, belatedly wishing she'd thought to use that invisibility charm. "No. Isn't he with you?"

Ron glowered. Neville and Luna had noticed and appeared to be deliberating whether or not to come over and demand a full report. Hermione caught Ginny's eye across the crowded couches. Ginny started to get up. Hermione shook her head in warning.

Ron stubbornly stepped into her line of vision. "I thought you were going to look for him."

"Oh, Ron. I'm sorry. I . . . found something out. I need your help." Before he could cut her off, she told him about Crabbe.

"Gor!" he said, jaw dropping. Heads turned. "It wasn't Harry!" he insisted fiercely.

"I know! Look, we can't talk here," she rigidly muttered, lips not moving. Hermione shot Ginny a look of mute appeal. Suddenly Ginny yanked out a pillow she'd been leaning on and tossed it, ostensibly at Luna. It struck Lavender, taking out her latte.

"Oops, sorry, I missed," she said nonchalantly.

In the ensuing chaos, Ron and Hermione made a clean getaway up the dormitory stairs. They were forced to a stop at his closed door. "It's why Snape was guarding the hallway," she hissed frantically in Ron's ear as he fiddled in his pocket for his wand. "There wasn't any blood at all, not even a mark." She was babbling, not realizing how much she'd been holding in.

"Not here," Ron hissed back. The door handle finally released and he scooted her into his room. "Have you seen Harry?" Ron demanded over Dean and Seamus's loud protests. Dean was in his boxers.

"You can't bring her in her," Seamus sputtered. Startled into silence, Hermione was doing her best to avert her eyes.

"Fine, sorry," Ron said. "Look, just get out." Scrambling into his pants, Dean muttered darkly. They went.

All of a sudden, Hermione couldn't take any more. She sat down on the corner of Ron's unmade bed and burst into tears. Ron let out a slow, silent whistle and strolled over to make sure the door was shut. While his back was turned, Hermione sniffled, wishing she could tell him the whole story, even the part about Pansy--then glumly realized she practically had. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she said.

Ron nodded. After a moment, he asked, "Well, what now?"

"We contact the Prefects," Hermione said defeatedly, tiredly shrugging her bag from her shoulder.

"What about Harry?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him. He'll just have to wait," she said a little despondently.

"Hey, it's okay." Ron patted her on the shoulder with concern. "I'm sorry. I know it wasn't him. We'll find him. You've got enough to deal with at the moment," he said. "Listen, about the Prefects. I'll handle it." Hermione smiled at him gratefully.

* * * *

Ten minutes later they still had no news of Harry. Nobody had seen him all morning. By way of apology, they left Dean and Seamus in charge of curfew, hoping that Professor McGonagall would show up soon--otherwise Hermione worried that things would lose control. Expertly avoiding Neville and Luna, they went to join the other Prefects, who were gathering in an empty classroom.

Everyone seemed relieved to see Ron and Hermione, but they had no sooner sat down when the strain took over their faces again. It was very awkward. There was none of the usual chatter and speculation. At first Hermione thought it was because they'd already partly guessed at her news. Then she realized someone was still missing.

When Malfoy arrived at last, he looked terrible. The dark smudges under his eyes made his face seem paler than usual. Even his robes looked rumpled. He took a seat next to Marie Spinnet, who had folded over a page of her notebook to take the minutes. When he wasn't looking she stole a sidelong glance at him sympathetically. Nobody else acknowledged him.

It fell to Hermione to tell them of Crabbe's death. Amid the audible gasps, Draco was the only one who seemed unmoved. He sat, hands folded calmly in his lap, staring stonily at the tabletop. Hermione relayed Dumbledore's orders and added, "We're just waiting for the Heads of Houses to make a formal announcement, so please don't mention Crabbe. Justin, are you okay?"

Finch-Fletchly had lost his coloring. He was looking at Malfoy, horrified, and didn't respond. Bitterly, Draco said, "Don't worry. Nobody thinks it was you."

Marie's pen stopped scratching. There was a terse silence. Justin sagged, visibly relieved. Everyone else pointedly avoided Draco's gaze. A full minute elapsed.

"Is that it, then?" he asked in a voice like icicles.

Ron, standing behind Hermione, crossed his arms. "That's it."

Draco shot Ron a look full of hate. He coolly took Marie's notebook, scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page and placed it on the table. Wordlessly, he got up and stalked out of the room. The sound of the chair scraping the floor grated on Hermione's nerves worse than his measured footsteps.

The Prefects eyed each other uncomfortably. Then Hermione said with difficulty, "Thank you, Marie."

The meeting was over. Marie smartly passed off the notebook for the remaining signatures, looking genuinely glad to be rid of it. Hermione knew exactly how she felt. She could hardly wait as the other Prefects took their turn before filing out. She signed her name last, after Ron. As she did so, she noticed that Draco had drawn curious little lines through the tail of his 'y.' She squinted. It looked like a tiny feather. Closing the cover, she steadily handed the notebook back to Marie without comment.

In the hallway Justin was hanging around to walk back with Marie. The four of them weren't much for conversation as they went through the empty hallways. Hermione wondered how things were going back at the common room. She wondered where Harry was. She wished she could just escape. She didn't even want to think about Draco.

Ron waived goodbye to the pair at the Ravenclaw stair. "There," he said to Hermione. "All taken care of."

If only, if only. . . But she said nothing, just smiled wanly and let Ron put his arm around her shoulders. Together they headed back to Gryffindor Tower.