I love the idea and I think that mixing up these two series has a lot of potential. But your Mal is very off to me.

 

You might well be right. I've never written him before, and it's been a long time since I've watched the show. What about him was off, particularly?

 

For one this:

I just can't see him having this reaction. For one, Mal isn't that shy about women. And for two, this is Zoe. Their camaraderie is so strong that they could probably sleep naked in the same bad without feeling awkward at all. That was one of the reasons why Wash was feeling very insecure about their relationship.

 

Scrapped this halfway through and wrote a different scene... where Hermione has a much better role. That is to say, she ends up worse than dead. :awesome

-a-​

It is raining. Big, heavy sheets of water, so that he can't see a thing, hear a thing or feel a thing but the icy battering.

Fuck this, Harry thinks, and tries to make the water pooling on his cloak find a more comfortable route down his back. It is fucking cold, is what it is, and if it was any colder it would be fucking sleet. And then it is sleet, and the street that had been black and yellow-orange neon takes on a more grayish quality, and his vision decreases even further. Harry would like to curse and maybe kick a wall, but invisible persons don't make that much noise.

He has to squint to see anything at all, and the slush goes into his eyes, but there are shadows moving across the window he is watching now, and the door is opening. Two figures step out, one short and broad and one tall and slim, like two slapstick characters hunched against the rain. They stand on the front step and peer carefully into both directions (Harry guesses they too have to squint), then pop out of existence, the loud cracks muted in the downpour.

Harry goes to the door and knocks softly, eager to get inside the dry house. The door opens a hair's breadth.

"Who's there?" queries a womans voice thinly. Harry raises his hood and the door opens enough to admit him.

He slips in and shakes off his coat and stomps his boots and turns to look at her. Hermione has been crying.

"Who were they?" he asks. It doesn't matter anymore, but he asks anyway. She's his friend, he owes her that.

"Rookwood and Carrow." Her voice is strange, like it is coming from underwater.

"Again?" It doesn't matter. "The bastards," he says anyway.

Hermione doesn't say anything to that. She looks tired and wrung out and much, much older than she should. She's still in her workrobes, a neat pinstripe affair, but the house is dark and quiet as they move through it. The picture of Lord Voldemort looks down at him with disapproval from his place of honor on the living room wall. Harry flips him the bird and follows Hermione to the kitchen.

"There's food if you're hungry."

He shrugs and thinks, why not. It wouldn't matter either, but he is starving, and a last meal is traditional. Not that he is going to die, exactly. He hopes anyway – he's avoided it well enough until now.

-a-​

"So what did they want?" He tries to speak through the food. The stew is good and he's too hungry for much manners.

"The usual," she says and looks away.

"Oh," Harry mumbles. "Yeah, well, you're too useful to let go, otherwise they would have done away with you ages ago. I mean," he grimaces, "the Prime Minister's speech today. That might have been your best piece yet, you should be proud of yourself."

Hermione doesn't look proud. She looks like he's slapped her.

"That's not why they keep me, you know that." She straightens her spine and draws her robe a little tighter around herself.

"They keep you for muggle control."

"They keep me because of you!"

And in that moment he hates her for having this. A family, two kids, a krup and a house and that stew.

There was a time he ran a war out of five star hotel suites, but now the money is gone through and a simple confundus is as like to bring aurors down on him as get him a room for the night.

"Me? What the hell did I do to get you a pardon? Did I fuck Nott? Did I whore myself to a Death Eater son of a bitch? I DON'T THINKS SO!" He's yelling now, but can't seem to stop.

"DO I LOOK LIKE I CAN WALK PEOPLE OUT OF AZKABAN? CAN I RAISE THE DEAD? CAN I–"

Suddenly there's a loud cry. Harry jumps up, draws his wand, drops his mug and crashes the chair to the floor.

"For God's sake," Hermione hisses. "Will you settle down! It's just Hugo, we woke him up."

It is a child crying, he realises now, embarassed to be standind in a pool of tea, ready to make battle. He slumps down, the wind out of his sails while Hermione goes to put her kid back to sleep.

They've been over this a hundred times, and Harry knows Nott is not a Death Eater, he would never let his wife feed the Number One Undesirable otherwise. He knows this and knows he should be glad Hermione is okay and not rotting in Azkaban or dead, but–

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he blurts as soon as she's back.

"I know."

"No, I'm sorry, I really am."

It doesn't matter. He's always been a quicker draw. "Imperio."

 

Intriguing. Where are you planning to take this? The background has been built with enough substance, I think this can be the beginning of something good.

 

Here: https://forums.darklordpotter.net/showpost.php?p=587547&postcount=487

It was the first scene of the first chapter of that plot bunny, but I decided that I really wanted to start the story with a bang. Action, not reflection. Also Hermione's role didn't feel quite right to me, so now I'm doodling something else for the introduction, or maybe I'll end up repurposing this drabble somewhere else. Who knows?

 

Sometimes you just have to write it, so you can move on to your other tangent thoughts.

Dreamland

​

I told myself it would never come to this. That I was the better man. He would laugh if he could see me following his footsteps. But there I was, standing at the edge of the lake, unable to forgive myself.

Soft waves were rolling across the lone waters. Ripples cascaded outwards as they hit the shore, and for the briefest of seconds, I could see the moon. I looked up and just gazed upon the sublime, heavy thoughts eased away as I basked in moonlight. Twin spheres of twinkling light sped across the night sky. Burning bright and vibrant along their path, drawing me back to sheeted memories of the past. To a man who was more than a man. But they too faded like an eidolon in the night.

I turned away, my head was clear but my heart heavy. For the first time that night, I dared to look at the white sepulchre by the shore. Its ethereal glow encased two things. One I cared deeply for and the other I promised to leave to the ravages of time.

I drew my wand, its warm embrace begging me to stop—was it not good enough. With a slow and steady motion I removed the top of the tomb. I levitated it next to the lake, its sad waters lolling to a chilly calm. No longer did he have the deep blue twinkle of a genial old man. Albus’s eyes would remain ever closed and he looked at peace. It was a good thing, because it meant he didn’t see what I was about to do. I dropped by phoenix feather wand, it was frigid as it slipped through my fingers, finally recognizing the woes of my heart.

I reached out and removed the elder wand from its place on his chest. It burned, its power unrelenting. I returned the cover to its rightful place and for a fleeting second remembered; Voldemort too claimed the wand as I eventually did, for power. I turned away and never looked back.

I walked down the haunted route, obscure and lonely.

 

I seek response if possible, especially about how well or not the 1st person perspective has been written.

I knew it was a dream. It’s one that I’ve had countless times, though I never remember it afterwards.

The rain pounded against the windows but nothing could drown out the shrieking bell that alerted me that there was someone at the door. Cursing the fact that i had fired my house elf once again, I set aside the papers I had been analysing. Nothing would be accomplished tonight. Scowling at the thought of whoever sought to disturb me at this ungodly hour, I strode towards the ornate doors that served as the house’s entrance.

I knew I would find no one.

Still I opened the door. No one stood framed in the large doorway, seeking admittance. Yet I knew there was someone inside with me now . Don’t ask how, but I know how this dream would go.

I would be attacked.

My foreknowledge was useless. As much as I’ve tried before, nothing i did affected the final outcome and I simply learnt it was easier let this dream run its course. It makes for a less scarier, less violent nightmare.

I turned around. I was aware of the movement before it even started. A wand materialized in front of me, and a wispy thread of magic shot at me. I fell to the ground, bound up in thick ropes as a murky figure appeared from under an invisibility cloak. As i’ve done more times than I can remember, I squinted, trying to make out who the figure was, but the result was the same. It was hooded, and under the hood was too dark to see regardless. I tried to move as the figure came into view and lifted an arm, but the ropes gave no quarter. A red flash of light filled my vision and the last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the sight of short man cradling what appeared to be an infant in one arm.

The images blurred, and I realised with a start that I was waking up. Even though i thought the effort futile, I clutched at the memory of dream and fought against the pleasant haze of forgetfulness that was overtaking my mind. You know, that one that you feel right before you forget a dream each morning. It’s a foe i’ve lost to all the time. Still, I’m a determined man when I wish and this time something gave way as the compulsion faded away. I woke up with the prize of a dream and a splitting headache.

Perhaps if I had known, i would have lost the fight i had just won. I would have lived a little longer, I think.

My name is Barty Crouch Sr. and this is the beginning of my story. The story of how I died, even though I don’t know it yet.

 

^While talking about Ice Queens; You know what would be awesome? Daphne is the Maeve in disguise. (DF)


Gives Ice Queen a whole new meaning doesn't it?

 

Just... something. If you can guess where I was going, kudos. Probably I should toss some of my random shit that litters up my harddisk in here, because sheesh, too much.


The world shone with unearthly light as it turned below Harry’s feet. Its slowly churning insides made him slightly queasy as he stared down at the ground, unable to look away. How bizarre it was to realize that the world was spinning, that he was on its surface, stuck to it only faintly, separated from fire by a mere few miles of rock, below which the inferno spread out in all directions.

It was terrifying to take a step, since it seemed like he could fall in at any moment. The ground was solid, but if felt as if it did not have to be, as if a single thought could liquify the earth beneath his feet. He looked back to his hand, to the brightly shining stone. He was not sure when he had grabbed it from Quirrel’s dying hands, when he had taken it up into his hands. It felt like hours ago.

Quirrell was dead. Voldemort had left, his spirit fleeing the castle as quickly as he could. The same could not be set for his tortured host; Quirrell had stared at Harry for a long time after his death, hovering over his body with disbelief etched across his face and some trace of fear plainly evident.

Whatever had kept him as a ghost, though, had not lasted for very long. When Harry had reached out to him, curious to see if he could touch the translucent spirit, the man had simply vanished into thin air. He wondered if he was supposed to see the unearthtly glow that stole him away.

“I’m getting sick of his,” Harry muttered with a certainty that he could not quite place. His feet were firmly on solid ground again, the stone of the castle between him and the flames of the deep. His uncanny awareness went with it, the constant feeling that everything was less than real. The world shrank, and his head felt very full, as if all the strange thoughts he had were stuffed away in there, out of sight.

“Harry!”

He looked up, surprised to see Professor Dumbledore, gazing at him with a dumbfouded expression. No, that was not quite right – the man’s eyes were fixed on his hand, the hand that held the Philosopher’s Stone. It still emitted bright light, its glow making his skin look awfully pallid. “Ah...”

The headmaster looked at the crumpled form of Quirrell, partially charred as it was, and shook his head in worry. Then, his eyes returned to the stone. “Voldemort was here.”

“He was possessing Professor Quirrell,” Harry answered easily, and a chill ran down his back when he realized he did not feel anything about that fact – and he definitely should. Thankfully, his being in shock was probably expected. “He fled when he burned up.” Harry raised the stone. “He couldn’t touch me...”

Dumbledore frowned as he held out his hand. “Could you give me that stone?”

Harry handed over the rock without a second thought, glad to be rid of it. The instant he let go, its light flickered out. A strange warmt went with it, though Harry was sure it was something beyond the temperature. It was more like a calmness in the air, a cetain tranquility in his mind that vanished. Dumbledore looked at the lumpy object in puzzlement.

“We can’t leave him here, can we?” Harry wondered as he looked down on his victim. He had killed someone – unknowingly, perhaps, but still – and honestly he still felt nothing. He could not even work up anger for him. Nervously, he turned his eyes away from Dumbledore.

“I will take the Professor along,” Dumbledore said in a subdued voice. “I think it is time I bring you to the Hospital Wing. You look like you could collapse at any moment, my boy.”

“I haven’t been so awake in years,” Harry answered honestly, and he turned to the door.

Dumbledore did not say much as he followed Harry out. His hand was clasped around the dull Philosopher’s Stone. Not quit as tightly as his hold on the Elder Wand, though; his grip on that was tight enough that his knuckles turned white.

 

That's not fair Roarian.
You can't just post something awesome like that and expect people to be satisfied with so little text.
We all know here you can write very well, as your fanfictions have proven.

So, please, tell me what happens next.

 

Shit starts turning into solid gold uncontrollably?

 

Threw this up in 500 club a few days back, but can't really bring myself to write what came before. Might come back to it at some point, might not. Whatever, back to outlining other things.

Some Untitled Black Lagoon and Dresden Files Thing

Dresden's young helper blinked as though she suddenly remembered something important. “Oh, before you go, Miss Balalaika?”

I stared at the young girl, her exuberance grating on my nerves; oh, how I wanted to wipe that smile of her face. Violently. “Yes?”

She held out her hands, her seemingly ever present grin growing wider as she did so. “Don't forget your gun, or your phone for that matter. It's be a waste if they remained here.”

I could not help but stare in shock. Held in her hands was my personal phone and my Stechkin service pistol. My eyes darted between the girl's hands and her smiling, perky face. I snarled, ripping both my phone and my pistol from her hands. I jammed the first into my coat pocket before using the now free hand to grab a hold of the girl's shirt. Slamming her against the wall, knocking many of the various knickknacks I had noticed before onto the ground, I shoved the barrel of my Stechkin under her chin.

I leaned my face close to hers and growled at the still smiling girl. “When the hell did you steal these?”

“Before you went down the stairs,” she replied with ease, as though I was not a hair's breath away from pulling the trigger, “Modern technology and the magic mojo don't mix under the best of circumstances, and the Bossman's plenty powerful, much more than I am by a long shot; anything you'd take down would've fried in seconds. Your gun, well, it's not like I was gonna let you near Harry with it.”

I glared at this young girl and that infuriating grin. “How.”

“Magic,” was her quick and simple reply.

“And what, “ I said as I leaned even closer, pulling back the hammer of my Steckin, “Makes you think I wont evacuate your brain from your head?”

Her infuriating cheshire grin grew larger. “Oh, Miss Balalaika, what makes you think you ever saw Harry or I in the first place?”

My eyes widened, and suddenly I was sitting in my car, the confused and concerned faces of Jodorowsky and Boris staring at me. I breathed, and the pungent flavor of smelling salts invaded my consciousness. Violently, I knocked Boris' hand away and attempted to take a draw from my cigar. It was only then that I realized it had burnt all the way down to its head, burning my tightly clenched fingers in the process. I stared mutely as the embers flickered in tune with my breath, as the ashes were knocked onto my hand by now twitchy fingers. I do not know how long it was before Boris gently removed the cigar's remnants from my hand and applied the burn salve provided by the car's first aid kit to my newest scars, but it was long enough.

“Drive.”

“But Captain.”

My head shot up and I gave Jodorowsky the fiercest glare I could muster. “Drive!” I yelled. I must have looked truly horrific as he moved faster than I thought him capable of, quicker than I remember him being in Afghanistan. The sound of the tires and the smell of rubber soon permeated the car as I attempted to calm myself. I did not succeed.

Boris had moved on to bandaging the burns. “Captain, your meeting with Dresden.”

I did not let him finish. “Has already occurred, Sergeant.”

His eyes widened, in shock or worry I do not know. “Impossible. You never left the car. How?”

My mouth twitched, a dry smile that did not reach my eyes coming into place. “Magic, I suppose.” I reach into my coat's inner pocket, my hand brushing against the indentation of my phone and my pistol, and remove another cigar. I bite the cap off and attempt to light it, but my still shaking hands bring me nothing but failure. Looking at Boris, I offer him the lighter. “If you don't mind?”

This, more than anything else, shocks my second. Although he does as I request, I can see the fear that my admission has instilled in him. Vaguely, I can hear Jodorowsky cursing and praying in equal measure.

I chuckle as I realize that I, too, am frightened. For the first time since my father abandoned me to Brezhnev's Russia, I feel that clawing pit of despair attempting to grasp me with monstrous limbs and drag me into absolute darkness and solitude.

My chuckle grows in tone and cadence, soon morphing into laughter, before finally settling on a mad cackle that no doubt raises the hairs on my two subordinates. Monstrous? Please, I have long learned how to kill my monsters.

I grin savagely as I start to draw from my cigar. Harry Dresden and Molly Carpenter. I had their names, and at least an idea of what they looked like. My Grandfather had always said that there was nothing I could not discover or accomplish with sufficient motivation.

For the first time since 1993, I find myself sufficiently motivated.

 

Something that came up in a conversation with Roarian, and is in fact, largely written by him. A special credit and mention goes to JKR, for her tasteful description of the toiletry of pre-plumbing wizardry.



When students were gathering for their weekly History of Magic lesson, no one was expecting anything different than the usual chance to catch up on a good night of sleep, dozing away as Binns droned on about goblin rebellions. It became quickly apparent, however, that today would be a little different.

A strong, retching scent assailed them the second someone opened the door, some horrific mixture of old beans, rotten eggs and a whiff of goat urine. Someone gagged and almost fainted on the spot, while the cleverer students cast a Bubble Head charm on themselves and the people around them. The unlucky ones had to fight to keep their lunch in their stomachs as they carefully looked inside, searching for the origin of the noxious fumes.

Professor Binns was contentedly hovering in the corner, adjusting his ghostly glasses as he looked with surprising interest at the tableau before him. The other two occupants of the room were not as calm as him, however. Quite the opposite - Professor McGonagall was in the middle of a serious argument with Albus Dumbledore, who was distractedly scratching at his beard.

“Why did you think that this was a good idea, Albus? Honestly!?”

“I was simply planning to assist Professor Binns,” Dumbledore said, sweating slightly under the woman’s pointed gaze. “I even ate something special for the occasion.”

McGonagall rubbed her forehead, grimacing. “Explain.”

“The students will benefit from some hands-on education,” Dumbledore noted. “It’s not easy to explain the technicalities of wizarding life in past centuries, one really has to immerse oneself in the culture to understand it. Since Professor Binns is slightly, erm, corporeally challenged, I took the duty upon myself.”

McGonagall sighed. “Fine... But, please, where are your pants?”

“...That is a very good question.” Dumbledore turned to the crowding students who looked very reluctant to enter. “Oh, please do not hesitate to come in, I will be with you in a moment. After all, we’re going to cover a natural part of our history, nothing to be ashamed off here. Come now, don’t be cagey.”

Never had the students moved so slowly into the classroom, not even when Severus Snape held a particularly terrifying lecture on contact poisons, which he liberally sprinkled all over the classroom as he passed by, just to keep people on their toes. One of the girls eeped, and jumped back when Dumbledore took a step in her direction.

The girl looked down at her feet, and slowly horror overtook her confusion and distaste, and she stared with wide eyes. Dumbledore followed her gaze, and blanched. "Ah, I seem to have forgotten to vanish everything. Terribly sorry, here, let me clean that up for you." He waved his wand, and the mess on the floor vanished, alongside the girl’s shoes and socks.

“As you can, ah, could, see -” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Up until recent times, as little as two-hundred years ago, the use of the so-called toilet was considered too Muggle for most wizards’ tastes. Thus, they chose...”

“To shit on the bloody floor?” McGonagall barked in disbelief. “Albus, is that real...?”

“But it’s all very clean - see - that’s why the vanishing charms were so very popular. It’s why they were invented, in fact! There was a fellow in the sixth century, had a terrible case of rotgut, he regularly sprayed-”

“ALBUS.”

“Are you censoring history, Minerva?” Dumbledore asked, affronted. “Maybe I should tell you about that time your grandfather, bless his soul, came to me with the worst case of stoppage that I’ve ever-”

McGonagall snarled. “If you continue to traumatize these students, I will be filing a complaint. And probably hiring a whole legion of cleaners.”

“Why? The house elves love to clean.”

McGonagall paled. “Do - do they clean their hands afterwards, too?” She shuddered. “Please tell me that this practice is extinct...”

“I’m sure some of the pure-blood families still persist in indulging in such wonderful historical practices. Why, I could have sworn that some of the men I met when I was younger greatly appreciated a good cleansing on occasion.” His eyes twinkled. “There was a man called Gellert, once... He made it look like a new form of art, even.”

There was a space forming around one Draco Malfoy. Rapidly.

“Well, enough dilly-dallying, I already feel something coming, now. If these students wish to know how previous generations lived, then they must be swift about it.” He stepped aside as McGonagall just stood there, look of horror frozen on her face. “Now, who can tell me of the great brown Christmas of 1691?”

“Albus!” McGonagall exclaimed. “Stop this insanity, at once!”

“Why, my dear - it’s simply, how should I put it... A set canon.”

 

Fine. -grumble grumble-


Harry sat before Professor Dumbledore’s desk with a vacant expression, though he occasionally glanced to Fawkes in the corner, who stared back with old, weary eyes. It would be his burning day, soon – already the feathers on his crest were turning a vague brown, or were falling out entirely.

Professor Dumbledore had moved to a small fireplace the moment they entered his office; Harry wondered why, but figured that he would find out soon enough. He looked curiously at his bandaged hand again, at the thin scarring that he had apparently received in that room wih the mirror of Erised, with Voldemort.

Sighing, Harry stood up, rubbinng his neck tiredly as he tried to remember exactly what happened down there, with the man who killed his parents, and why he felt nothing about it. He tried for some anger, which he knew he should have had, or perhaps some fear – nothing. He idly wondered if he was in shock, but he doubted that, as well.

“What do you say, Fawkes?” Harry murmured as he stepped closer, reaching out and scratching the bird under his beak. The Phoenix warbled contentedly in return, reaching into the touch, and Harry involuntarily smiled. “Am I going to be alright?”

The Phoenix looked up at him with its old eyes, and Harry felt, for a moment, like something very eerie looked at him, something impossibly ancient. How old was Fawkes, anyway? Did Phoenixes really ever die, or were they just reborn, forever and ever?

“An old bird for an old man,” Harry said lightly. “It fits, doesn’t it?”

Harry looked up and was a little surprised to see Professor Dumbledore staring at him, with a mix of concern and amusement quite visible on his face – he wasn’t usually this expressive. He glanced at Fawkes, who was enjoying the attention, and sighed. “Well, my boy, I have called for the best expert I know, to see if he can help me understand what happened.” He reached into his robe, and retrieved the Philosopher’s Stone, gleaming dully. “The man who created this.”

“Nicholas Flamel,” Harry observed.

“You did do the thing properly, didn’t you?” Dumbledore replied, though his smile seemed a little forced. “He gave the stone to me to protect, to keep hidden, and I failed at that. Not only did someone attempt to retrieve it from within Gringotts – which has considerable defences of its own – but he came to take it here, and he very nearly succeeded. I believe he will take the stone back, or have it destroyed.”

“Why would you call him here?” Harry wondered. “Why not take the stone to him?”

Dumbledore frowned. “How much do you remember, Harry? When I first arrived, in that last room, you were...” He shook his head. “I do not really understand it, I admit. Nicholas should know – he made that stone, after all.”

“Could you give it to me, for a moment?” Harry wondered, petting Fawkes’ crest as he moved back to his seat. “I’m curious if it still reacts, now that I have recovered some.”

“I wonder if you hear yourself speak,” Dumbledore said slowly, as he reluctantly held out his hand, with the stone upon it. “You don’t sound eleven years old, Harry. In fact, by your tone, your inflection, you sound very much like...” He sighed. “Very well. Touch it, but only for a moment.”

Hary reached out, and the moment his finger brushed the surface, it lit up again with that odd, ethereal glow. Fawkes squawked for a moment, staring at the light with sudden intensity. The world fell away, like the paint on a canvas, and all that remained of the Phoenix was a brilliant spark, a burst of elemental fire suspended in mid-air, given life and a voice by some spell that he could barely fathom.

Lesser sparks were all around, magic made manifest, and in the vastness above him he could see he stars, even in the middle of the day, even from inside these walls, unforgiving specks of light from distant suns. The sun itself - Harry stared at it in awe.

“What do you see, Harry?” Dumbledore asked from somewhere far away, and Harry slowly turned towards him, feeling as though he moved a vast distance to get there, despiting staying put. He almost cringed back when he noticed the scars – his wand arm was covered with them, almost raw, and his eyes seemed troubled beyond just the present.

“I...” Harry removed his hand, and slowly the scars faded, and the world solidified. “I... don’t know.” He looked worryingly down at the stone, once again dull. “What is it?”

“You should know, it’s the – “

“I know what it is called,” Harry said irritably, and he rejoiced in the fact that he could feel annoyed again. “What is it? The stories tell of gold and immortality, but...”

“There is only one person who could answer that, for I do not know,” Dumbledore said, just as the fireplace in the back of his office burst into green flames.

 

Damn, that was intriguing.
I am willing to bet that if you turned this into a full fic, it would receive glowing reviews.
My best (most probably incorrect) guess is that the hocrux inside Harry is reacting somehow with the Stone.
Perhaps the stone is trying to "heal" Harry from this horcrux?
Yeah, I'm pulling these guesses out of my ass, but I'm trying to reach a conclusion here.

 

Didn't Harry meet Fawkes for the first time in his second year?

 

Probably. It's drabbles, it wasnt thought out very far beyond the premise and a few scenes >.>

 

Doesn't matter much anyway. Just a detail that caught my attention.