Pairing: Marcus/Percy.

Rating: NC-17. Violence and ambiguous consent.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: Percy is due to meet Penelope for a tryst... but someone else catches him instead.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?"

Percy jumps at the unexpected voice, reaching for his wand in case there's trouble. And there's definitely going to be trouble, he realizes, as he recognizes the voice--not intellectually, but by the cold fear that pools at the base of his spine. It doesn't matter that it's been years since the last time he'd been cornered in an empty room, doesn't matter that his tormenters have started using words more often than fists, doesn't matter that he's a foot taller than he was then and has learned, thanks to Oliver, how to hit back if he's not too outnumbered. That voice, when there's no one else around, turns him into a trapped animal.

"Expelliarmus," Flint drawls, and Percy's wand flies out of his hand. Flint plucks it out of the air and pockets it before saying, "Mind your manners, Weasley. I asked you a simple question."

Penny will be here any minute, and he doesn't want her to have to deal with Flint. Doesn't want her to be targeted by association. He knows what Flint and his cronies have done to him; he doesn't want to think about what they'd do to her. He shrugs and points to his book satchel. "I wanted a quiet place to study. Too many people in the library."

Flint shakes his head. "I don't think so, not over Christmas."

"Think what you like." And his voice is not shaking; it's the echoes down here that make it sound like it is.

"You know what I do think you're here for?"

Percy picks up his books, feigning unconcern. "I've no idea, and less interest. Contrary to what you seem to think, Slytherin doesn't actually control the entire dungeon."

"I think you're here to meet that girlfriend of yours." Percy flushes, surprised that Flint knows what not even his own roommate does, and Flint grins. "You're down here far too often if you want it to be a secret." He leans back against the door, in a pose that would look casual if Percy wasn't aware of how completely Flint is blocking the only exit.

"She isn't my girlfriend," Percy argues, hoping against hope to offer Penny some measure of protection. She isn't the sort to draw bullies, and he shouldn't be the one to bring her that kind of trouble; she's pretty and quiet and--smart, yes, but not in the way that attracts attention. Not in the way that Percy is, the way that Marcus Flint has taken as a personal affront for six years--and it has only gotten worse this year, now that Flint is in some of the same classes as Percy. He doesn't know what they'd do to a girl, whether they'll be content to slam her against walls and bloody her nose, or whether someone might not decide to try worse. He can't be responsible for something that terrible happening to Penny.

"Aw, what's the matter? Lovers' quarrel?" Flint's voice is full of mocking concern. "And I thought that sneaking around in the dungeon was the mark of such a happy relationship."

Percy is clutching his satchel now, prepared to use it as a weapon if he has to. He's not sure what Flint will do, is unused to meeting up with him without his cadre of thugs behind him; he doesn't know if Flint will prove a coward one-on-one. He's beginning to doubt it, though.

And the way Flint smiles at him makes him think that instead, maybe the other Slytherins have been keeping him in check all this time. "So, tell me, has the Ravenclaw slut let you fuck her yet?" Flint asks, as casually as Percy would ask someone if they understood the Arithmancy assignment.

Percy's face grows hot again, out of anger this time. "Don't call her that," he mutters.

"Why not? Bole went out with her last year, and some of the things he came back saying--" Flint shrugged. "Then again, Bole's a fucking liar. Still. There must be some reason the two of you are together, and since you won't be seen in public with her, it must be because she puts out."

"Penelope isn't that kind of girl." He wishes Flint would just hit him, would leave Penny out of this. It's not her that Flint wants to hurt; he knows that, and it's his fault she's being maligned.

Flint chuckles. "Is that so? See, that's not the way I would have figured it." He looks Percy up and down, and the blush deepens. "I'd have thought you weren't that kind of boy, if anything."

He forces himself to meet Flint's eyes, refusing to let himself think about dark corridors, about the way cold stone tears at the skin of your back, about the hot salty taste of fresh tears. Say it, Weasley. Admit you're a fucking little four-eyed cocksucker, and we'll let you go.

He supposes they hadn't lied to him; they never promised not to hit him first. They'd wanted to see him cry, he'd known that; what he hadn't realized is that when they found out they could, when they found out they could make him cry, and beg, and do whatever they asked of him in the vain hope that he'd escape a beating, they would decide to see if they could make him bleed.

But he isn't eleven any more, and he isn't going to let Flint get to him. "How astonishingly original," he says.

Flint shrugs. "If it works, why change?" Steps forward, and for an instant Percy thinks he's tired of the game, is going to let him go. Until he advances on Percy, who knows there's no way to escape, that the only way to survive is to take the punches and let Madam Pomfrey patch him up later; if he runs, Flint will only be angry when he finally catches up. Flint backs him against the wall, the feel of stone against his back distressingly familiar, and Percy closes his eyes.

"Look at me," Flint orders. When Percy doesn't comply, Flint punches him, hard enough to force all the air out of his lungs.

He wheezes and chokes, but keeps his eyes shut. "I said open your fucking eyes!" Flint snarls, and this time, after the fist drives into his stomach again, Percy does what he's told.

Flint gives him a smile that almost looks sincere. "That's more like it." He leans into Percy a bit more, pressing him harder against the stone. "I bet Clearwater thinks you're a gentleman," he says into Percy's ear, and Percy flinches away from the coarse prickle of stubble against his skin. More than anything else, that reminds him that this is a different "game" than Flint played six years ago; this is no twelve-year-old boy threatening him. "I bet she thinks you respect her, and that's why you haven't tried to touch her. Doesn't she?"

"I do," he says, his voice sounding small and pathetic in his own ears.

Flint ignores him. "Is that it, Percy? Does she think you're nice?" His knee shoves Percy's legs farther apart, and his hand slides in, travels up Percy's thigh, and then there's a hand--large and warm and terrifying--cupping his cock. Percy tenses, waiting for pain, but Flint only squeezes him, surprisingly, no harder than he touches himself. And then Flint shakes his head sadly. "She's probably tired of being with such a nice boy," he says. "Maybe she's wishing she could have--" squeezing again, until Percy whimpers, though he only wishes it was from pain-- "this."

Percy swallows, wishing he dared to close his eyes again. He can feel the flush, hot and ashamed, on his face, extending down past the open collar of his shirt; can feel the heat and humiliation spread to wherever Flint's hand moves. "I'd never--" he begins, trying to defend Penny again, to keep her safe from this, even if he can't save himself.

He can feel the laughter against his neck, even though he can't hear it. "Oh, no, you'd never," Flint says. "Or do you just mean not with her? Because it feels like you just might." And then he turns Percy's head slightly and kisses him, his tongue pushing past Percy's lips as though they're something to be conquered, and Percy realizes Flint's not going to be satisfied to leave him with a cracked rib or a broken nose this time. For a moment, Percy considers biting, kicking, clawing at Flint if he has to--anything to get him to stop. Only for a moment, though, because if he's being honest he doesn't want Flint to stop touching him, not if it's going to be like this. Not if it's going to be--not if it's actually going to feel good, at least if he doesn't let himself think about it. And then, in dismay, he realizes that Flint has already stopped, as though waiting for him to react.

Percy's been humiliated before, but he isn't sure he's ever wished so fervently to disappear as when Flint looks him over again and says, "And you sure as hell don't look like a gentleman, not with your mouth begging me to kiss it again... not to mention how much your cock seemed to like what I was doing to you earlier. Maybe the problem is that she's been treating you like one; looks like you'd rather be treated like a whore."

Now he finds the impetus to kick, forcing Flint back a few steps, far enough away that he can make a break for it. He bolts for the door--

And Flint slams him back into the wall without visible effort. "You think I'm fucking done with you?" he demands, as fists pound into Percy's gut, his jaw, his chest. Percy chokes back a cry of pain; he doesn't have to give Flint that. He's already given up too much.

Then Flint is touching him again, his grip a bit too firm this time, and Percy does cry out. "Don't you like that?" Flint asks. When Percy shakes his head, he adds, "Good. It's about time you got taken down a peg or two, anyway."

Fear twists in Percy's stomach. In a way, this almost seems inevitable, as though they've been leading up to it since that first September afternoon when he'd taken a wrong turn on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts and found himself in the dungeons. In a way, it almost seems right--not so much desirable as simply part of the natural order of things--and that frightens him more than anything. "Go on, then," he says dully.

"What, here?" Flint shakes his head. "And have someone find us? I don't really think you want that." He takes a step back, but stays close enough that Percy knows he's still trapped. He can't run. "Fortunately, everyone else in my dorm has gone home for Christmas."

"I'm not going back there with you." Students from other Houses aren't supposed to be in the dorms, he thinks, with a tinge of hysteria. Never mind that no one would know or guess where he is until it's possibly too late. Never mind that he has no idea what's going to be happening to him--or rather, he does, but he can't afford to let himself think about that. About any of that. Things are too complex; focus on the simple: there's a rule.

"Isn't Clearwater supposed to be meeting you here?" he asks. "Is this what you want her to see?" Kisses him again, and again, Percy tries to make himself fight. To want to fight. And again, all he wants to do is tilt his head back, and part his lips... and now he realizes that he's standing with his feet further apart, his hips canted slightly forward, and that it's to give Flint better access to his hardening cock.

And no, he doesn't want Penny to see him like this. Doesn't want her to see that Flint's right about him; he's been telling himself he doesn't want to pressure her into something she's not ready for, but the truth is that he doesn't want her. Likes her, thinks he might love her, but doesn't want her. She can't do this to him.

"No," he says, and Flint flashes a triumphant grin.

"Then you do see the wisdom of what I'm suggesting."

"I'm not going with you," he repeats. Flint's hand tangles in his hair, yanks his head upward so that Percy has to look him in the eye.

"You can go with me," he says, his voice unnaturally calm, "or I'll put the full Body-Bind on you and carry you. Which would you prefer?"

Percy swallows hard and nods. He knows Flint isn't bluffing, isn't sure Flint knows what "bluffing" is. "Let's go, then," he says.

Unsurprisingly, Flint leads the way--he, after all, knows where he's going. What does surprise Percy is how far ahead he walks; he's reached the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories while Percy is still yards behind. He could run, and Flint would never be able to catch him before he reaches safety. Percy may not be exceptionally athletic, but he's fast; it's been a survival trait.

He tells himself that he's turning, that he's running down the corridor and up the stairs to the main floor of the castle. He tells himself that he's going to put this behind him, ask Oliver to watch his back for a week or two--Oliver never minds, accepts it as part of the give-and-take of rooming with someone for six years, just as Percy accepts the chore of proofreading Oliver's essays to correct the more comical misspellings--and never, ever let himself be caught in the dungeons alone again.

He tells himself all of this, even as he catches up to Flint and follows him into the Slytherin common room.

He doesn't know what he was expecting; apart from the lack of windows, it looks remarkably like the one in Gryffindor tower. The chairs and wall-hangings are a rich forest green, not scarlet, but the furnishings are essentially the same--squashy armchairs and tables scuffed from decades of boys having put their boots on them. There's even a cardboard box in the corner serving as a Lost and Found; he wonders if the same dog-eared copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven (with the same even-more-dog-eared issue of Wicked Witches tucked inside, when it isn't being "borrowed") is at the bottom.

A couple of girls who look about Ginny's age are in the chairs closest to the fire, giggling over a stack of Teen Witch Weekly magazines and eating Chocolate Frogs. They pay Percy little notice, although the dark-haired one does elbow her friend, nod toward Flint, and whisper. The giggling intensifies, and Percy can't help but smile a bit. Oliver thinks it's his natural charm and good looks that has the first- and second-year girls doodling his name in the margins of their class notes; apparently, it's just being Quidditch captain, as "charm" and "good looks" are not qualities that Flint possesses.

Flint leads him down a staircase with a green carpet runner. On one of the landings, Percy can hear music from behind the door: Celestina Warbeck on the WWN, singing Christmas carols. Christmas, he thinks, is only two days away. He wonders if he'll even recognize himself in two days.

At the bottom of the stairs, Flint pushes the door open. Again, Percy is struck by how much it looks like a Gryffindor dormitory. It's a bit larger than the room he and Oliver share; their room is large for the two of them, but this room holds seven beds. The bedspreads and curtains are the same deep green as the chairs upstairs, the cord that opens and closes the bed curtains is silver instead of gold, but the basics are the same. Beds, night-tables, trunks. One bed has clothes strewn across it, as though its owner forgot to pack for the holidays until the last minute; another has a pile of schoolbooks dumped beside it. There are racks on the wall above a few of the beds, most of them are empty, but one still holds a broom.

It's that bed that Flint shoves him toward. "Get your clothes off," he says, and Percy flinches. He hasn't been letting his thoughts go this far. Hasn't let himself consider what's going to happen now, even when he made the choice to follow Flint.

But he'd felt--something; he didn't know what to call it; it hadn't been particularly pleasant, but it had been better than the vague sense of failure he feels around Penny, better than the numbness he surrounds himself with most of the time--back in the classroom. Not quite fear, though that's certainly a part of it. Not quite--not quite anything he knows the name of. But whatever it is, it means that he does what Flint tells him, even though his hands are shaking as he undresses.

Flint looks him over, his upper lip curling in what Percy can only assume is disdain, and orders him onto his knees. He doesn't even wonder what will happen if he refuses; it's simply not an option. Even the coldly rational part of his brain agrees: this is going to happen. Fighting it will only postpone what became inevitable the first time Flint had backed him against a wall, and he might as well get it over with.

"Maybe you are as clever as you think you are, then," Flint says; "at least you didn't try to argue with me. Now, hands behind your back." As soon as Percy complies, he produces his wand and does a quick binding spell.

Percy wonders if he's gone mad, to acquiesce this easily. He doesn't believe in predestination, drives Professor Trelawney mad in Divination by insisting that the tea leaves (or cards, or crystal ball) show only the most probable future, not absolute certainty. Perhaps he owes her an apology, however, because he knows, has always known that this is going to happen. He has no choice. He never has.

At least he knows he'll feel this. There'll be no explaining it away, no constructing of a carefully-rationalized excuse to avoid thinking of it at all. There will be blood and bruises and scars, and with such empirical proof in front of him, he'll have to let himself feel it.

He won't like it, but that would be too much to ask.

The carpet is rough on his knees; he studies it rather than looking up at Flint, who is shedding his own clothing with considerably less hesitation than Percy did. The carpet is, not surprisingly, dark green, well-worn, with ink blotches and fraying areas and small burnt spots where someone had fooled about with fireworks or dropped an illicit cigarette. He's been looking at the carpet for a very long time, it seems, when Flint speaks again. "Look at me, you fucking coward."

Reluctantly, he raises his head. He doesn't even see Flint move before he feels the blow, a sharp backhand against his cheek. "Don't hesitate when I give you an order," he says. Then he grins, like the snarl of a wild animal, and adds, "You know what you're going to have to do."

Percy's throat tightens at the thought, but he nods.

"You've got everyone fooled, don't you, Weasley?" Flint says. "They all think you're so perfect, such a good boy, so serious about his education... but you and I know better, don't we? Look at you, practically drooling at the thought of having a cock down your throat."

Percy tastes bile, swallows hard and thinks longingly of the safety of the Gryffindor common room. The head of Flint's cock nudges at his tightly-compressed lips, and he knows he should open his mouth. Knows it, and still can't bring himself to do it.

Flint grabs his hair, forcing him to look up, and then snarls, "If I have to open your fucking whore mouth for you, you're going to regret it." Punctuates it with another smack across the face, next to the first that still stings Percy's cheek.

This time, Percy opens his mouth, choking as Flint thrusts farther in than he was expecting. Flint pulls back a bit, enough that Percy can adjust, if there's any adjusting to this: to Flint's cock heavy and thick in his mouth, to the ache in his shoulders from having his wrists bound behind him, to the traitorous stirrings of his own arousal. There's no need to adjust to things like this, anyway. They just are, and there's no point either fighting them or trying to understand.

"You'd better make this good, Weasley," Flint warns him, and Percy wonders what, exactly, he's meant to be doing. Tries a few experimental swipes of his tongue over the shaft and is rewarded by a groan from Flint. "That's right... told you you wanted to be treated like a whore, Weasley, isn't that right?"

Percy lets himself close his eyes, concentrates on what he's doing, on sucking and licking and trying to get Flint to groan again. Anything to get him to stop talking.

"I see you looking, you know," Flint's saying, occasionally losing the thread of his sentence for a second when Percy finds an especially sensitive spot. "Watching all the pretty boys, and you don't think anyone notices. You don't think anyone would ever suspect that the Perfect Prefect wants someone to shove him against a wall and fuck him."

Percy's tongue traces along a vein, reducing Flint to only a strangled "Fuck, yeah," for a moment. Then he adds, "But I don't believe your heart's in it. You're going to have to do better."

It's easy, too easy, to forget who he is and where he is and why Flint really has him here, easy to lose everything except the need to do better, to make Flint's cock harden against his tongue, to hear Flint almost crooning, "Such a good little whore... you love this, don't you? You love having a cock in your mouth, love letting a real man hit you and use you and fuck you... "

Percy must have showed his alarm at that, because Flint chuckles. "You thought you were going to be done with just a blow job?"

Of course not. This is never going to be over, he's always going to be on his knees in front of Flint, for the rest of the time they're at Hogwarts. It won't matter that he's a prefect and a scholar, and Flint's a fuck-up and a thug. What's going to matter is that this happened, and that he let this happen, and this is all that he's ever going to be.

But it's easy. He doesn't have to think about it. Doesn't have to pretend to be something he's not, doesn't have to struggle to be perfect, doesn't have to do anything but exactly what Flint tells him. Doesn't have anything to worry about, just has to keep on doing this, and if he hates it, well, at least he doesn't have to think any more. And if he doesn't hate it--but of course he does, and the ache in his cock has nothing to do with anything.

Flint's fucking his mouth now, cock sliding over Percy's lips, and Percy can feel it in the back of his throat. Tries to breathe, tries to protest--tries to fight it, or tells himself he will, as soon as Flint's hand lifts from the back of his head, as soon as he can focus on something other than Flint's voice in his ears and Flint's cock in his mouth. He's worked out the "breathing" part, which is only something of a relief. Struggling, on the other hand--well, he already knows what happens when he tries to fight back: it gets worse. And things can always get worse.

So he lets his mind go blank and concentrates on doing exactly what he's been told to do. His jaw has started to hurt, but he can't bring himself to wish this would be over with, not with what he knows is waiting. He's not thinking, he's not listening to Flint, he's not--he doesn't care. If he cares about this, if he lets it make him cry or beg, then he's let Flint win again.

Flint groans again, pushes deeper into Percy's mouth, and then Percy's gagging, trying to swallow--knowing without waiting to be told that he'll be expected to--as Flint's cock spasms and floods his mouth with come. As he pulls out, Flint sneers down at him. "I wonder what your precious Clearwater would think, next time she kisses you, if she knew what else you've been doing with that mouth."

"You wouldn't dare," Percy replies, but he isn't sure why. He's not sure at this point if there's much of anything Flint wouldn't dare to do. Certainly not to him.

"Think she'd cry? I think she would," he continued. "Poor little Mudblood, finding out that her perfect boyfriend is a Slytherin's whore; who'd blame her for crying? And that's not even the best part. No, the best part is that no matter how much she hated me for it, she'd hate you even more."

Percy can't argue with that. After all, he hates himself more than he hates Flint, hates himself for not being strong enough to stop this. For having been the kind of boy that attracts people like Flint and his friends, like blood in the water attracts sharks. For not ever having been able to put a stop to it.

For the small corner of his mind that wishes Flint would just shut up and fuck him already, because that would be better than thinking about the disgust and disappointment in Penny's eyes. "Leave her out of this, Flint. It's not about her."

Flint grins. "You're right. This is about giving you what you've been asking for. Think you're smarter than the rest of us, think you're better than us, hiding behind a rulebook and that fucking prefect badge. Well, if I'm so stupid, how come I'm the one who figured out that this--" he bends down, and a calloused hand runs roughly along Percy's erection; Percy grits his teeth and tries not to arch into the touch-- "is what you really want?"

"I don't," Percy says, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, really?" The hand on his cock again, and Percy fights back a moan of frustration. "So this is just a coincidence? It doesn't mean you were getting off on sucking me? Fuck, Weasley, it's not like you've got any dignity left to protect; go on, admit it: You're loving this."

"Fuck you," Percy mutters, and even now, is privately appalled at his own language.

Flint chuckles. "Not quite."

Suddenly, Percy's hands are free; he rotates his shoulders a few times, easing the stiffness that has already set in, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, telling himself that the wetness he scrubs away is only saliva, and refusing to look.

"On the bed," Flint directs him. "All fours, I think."

And as Percy starts moving, almost reflexively--do what he wants, and it'll go easier, he knows--toward the bed, he realizes that there's nothing between him and the door. Realizes that he could grab his clothing--his trousers, at least--and make a break for it.

Then he notices that Flint's looking in the same direction; he has to know what Percy's thinking, but he doesn't make a move to stop him, just waits a few long, silent seconds before saying, "Don't make me have to tell you again."

He can run. This can be over. He doesn't have to go through with this, doesn't have to face the pain and the shame and the knowledge that once again, he was too damned weak to protect himself.

But if he does run, he tells himself, it'll only be that much worse the next time. And there's always a next time, so he takes a deep breath and gets on the bed.

"You're quite sure about this?" Flint says, his voice a parody of gentleness. "You do realize we both know you could have walked out of here."

"And you'd have just made it ten times worse when you caught up to me again."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself."

He can feel Flint's weight settling behind him on the bed, and then blunt fingers shove their way into his mouth. "You'll want to be sure they're nice and wet," he says. As if Percy can't guess.

His throat is strangely dry, but he does the best he can to get the fingers slick with saliva before Flint withdraws them. Percy closes his eyes, and bites his lip, and waits.

He isn't ready for the pain of a finger being pushed into him with no pretence of gentleness. He's barely had time to catch his breath when a second joins it, and he gives into the pain, lets it blot out everything else: sharp and clear and alive, at least, or it wouldn't hurt so much.

Which makes it different from everything else, which doesn't hurt at all any more. He can't ignore this away, can't render it painless by sheer force of will.

The fingers scissor inside him, and then Flint swears. "Will you fucking relax?"

He'd like to laugh at that. At the very idea that he could possibly relax. But then he feels the cool wood of a wand tracing its way down his spine, and Flint mutters, "Recludo," which Percy dimly recognizes, with that part of his brain that remembers who he is, as the same spell he uses when his shoulders and neck knot up after a late night of studying.

It still hurts, but less, and Percy thinks he might just survive this, after all. Until Flint pulls out of him, brings his hand up to Percy's mouth. "Spit," he orders.

He does. Risks a glance behind him afterward to see Flint slicking his cock with Percy's saliva, and then looks away again. Even with the muscle-relaxant spell, tears prickle behind his eyelids, and a pathetic mewling sound escapes his throat as Flint thrusts into him, burying his cock as deep as he can.

Flint's breath is hot on the back of Percy's neck, and Percy wants to flinch away when Flint reaches around and runs a fingertip along his cheek. "Oh, now, don't cry about it, you fucking cunt," Flint says. "You'd think you're not having any fun."

Percy doesn't dignify that with a response. Or maybe it's because Flint has thrust into him again, has wrapped an arm around his hipbone and is now jerking Percy's cock to the rhythm of his own assault on Percy's body.

"Tell me you're not a whore now," Flint says, and Percy can feel his hips jerk backward, trying to draw Flint farther inside. He's whimpering, he's pleading--and not for mercy, to his desperate shame--and the only thing keeping him sane is the knowledge that it will be over soon. "Little Gryffindor whore, waiting all these years for me to fuck you. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" he adds, his voice sounding ragged. "That's what you've always wanted. You like to look at those pansy pretty boys, but this is what you really want: someone to shove you down and fuck you again and again until you can't remember your name. To make you crawl."

And that's real and possibly true--it hurts enough to be true--and makes his cock even harder, but he's not going to let Flint know that. Unfortunately, though, whatever argument he's planning fades as he comes, so hard it nearly hurts, all over Flint's hand. Flint thrusts into him a few more times, faster and deeper than before, and then collapses onto Percy's back, biting at the skin stretched over Percy's shoulder blade. "Tell me that's what you wanted," he tells Percy.

Percy shakes his head, manages to squirm out from under Flint. "Hardly," he says, and he can hear that his tone is only a hollow imitation of his usual lofty arrogance. He begins gathering up his clothes, pulling them on as rapidly as he can.

They're both quiet until Percy has found his wand and stashed it in his pocket. Then Flint grins up at him. "You'll be back, you know. You can promise yourself you won't, but you will. And I'll be here."

And at last, Percy runs.