A/N: Please note that some dialogue from this chapter is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It is not mine, and I do not wish to claim it. (Okay, of course I want to claim Jo's work as my own, but it's not, so there.) Now, everyone please thank Oblivionbaby for being a truly saintlike (not hole-y) beta, and Shayalonnie for her alpha reading!

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

9 August 1997

Kreacher had outdone himself at last, Harry was sure of it. The meal the decrepit elf had cooked for them had been equal parts delicious and filling, leaving the three human occupants of number twelve feeling both satisfied and drowsy as they settled into the drawing room. At the piano, Ron practiced the scales which Hermione had taught him several days before, his long fingers hitting the keys without mistakes. On the sofa near the piano, his teacher sat with her legs folded beneath her and a slim, leather bound book open on her lap. She was studying it with her brows furrowed, an expression which Harry recognized as one of concentration rather than displeasure. For his part, the Boy Who Lived was attempting to concentrate on a hand drawn map spread out atop the coffee table in front of him. The ink was smeared in several places, which he supposed was to be expected given the circumstance under which it had been sketched. There wasn't much room for true artistic expression beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Still, they had needed an accurate map of the area surrounding the Ministry of Magic, and now they had one, however poorly drawn it was.

"Has your family always used Ollivander wands, Ron?" Harry looked up at the sound of Hermione's voice, and Ron paused at the piano.

"Yeah, I think so," he answered.

"They've never used other cores? I'm reading a bit about wand lore, and was wondering if you knew anyone who had experience with a wand made with other magical objects."

"Fleur has a veela hair in hers, I think, " Harry offered.

"Sounds about right," agreed Ron, "and in America, Dad says they use loads of different things. Of course, that's probably why their magic is second rate."

"Second rate?" Hermione questioned, sounding skeptical.

"You know, all wild."

"Have you ever actually met an American wizard?" asked Harry, who have never done so himself.

"My dad invited one for dinner once when he was on business for MCUSA. Nice enough bloke. Gave me his leftover Knuts before he left."

"What was his wand made of?" Hermione asked, and Ron gave her a disbelieving look.

"I dunno. Not exactly dinner conversation. Wands are private, aren't they?"

"Alright, I was only asking."

"What are you reading about wands for, anyhow?" Ron stood up from the piano bench and moved to sit beside Hermione, peering down at her book as he did so.

"Curiosity," she answered, and Harry looked back down at the map on the table.

"What are you working on, mate?" He looked up again at the sound of Ron's voice and leaned back in his chair.

"Trying to figure out our little problem. I've got the sketch, but it's only part of the equation."

"We never thought it was going to be easy," Hermione spoke up now as well, closing her book and setting it on the arm of the sofa beside her. "It's the Ministry, not an out of bounds third floor at a boarding school."

Harry sighed, rubbing the spot right above the bridge of his glasses that always seemed to ache when he was stressed. Since Kreacher had returned with Mundungus several days ago, and they had learned that Dolores Umbridge was in possession of the Horcrux they were after, it had throbbed nearly constantly.

"I know." He sighed. "Believe me, I know." Silence descended as Harry avoided the gazes of the others, feeling guilty again that he had dragged them with him into this impossible quest.

"What about Polyjuice?" It was Ron who broke the silence, leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows against his knees, hands folded in front of him.

"That's not a bad idea, actually," said Hermione, before Harry had a chance to dissect what it was Ron had meant. "Of course, that would mean assaulting someone. Multiple someones actually, because I think it's imperative we stay together."

"Well we're already criminals to them." Ron shrugged. "Might as well really break a few laws while we're being hunted."

"I'm sorry, Polyjuice?" interrupted Harry. "You want to impersonate Ministry employees and go in the front door?"

Ron stood to come and look at the map still laid out over the coffee table. "Here," he said, leaning down and pointing to what they had labelled the employee entrance. "Through the bathroom."

"I still think that's a completely unhygienic place to have an entrance," Hermione said, sniffing.

"One problem though," Harry pointed out, once he was reasonably sure he understood what they were suggesting, "where are we going to get Polyjuice Potion? I know Hermione can brew it, but, as I recall, some of those ingredients were fairly hard to come by the first time."

"Wait here!" Hermione cried out as she sprang from her spot on the sofa and darted out of the room. They could hear her on the stairs, heading up to the room she had claimed as her own and then running back down. "I've got it here!" She said breathlessly as she reentered the room. She was holding her little beaded bag aloft and waving it about enthusiastically.

"You've got Polyjuice in there?" Ron asked, seemingly awed. Hermione nodded with a brilliant smile, and Harry felt cheerful for the first time since he'd realized infiltrating the Ministry would be inevitable.

"Hermione, you're brilliant," he said, watching as she plunged her arm into the bag and rummaged around before withdrawing it triumphantly, clutching a large phial in her fist.

"I stocked my bag with a variety of things I thought we might need. I brewed this for Professor Slughorn as a side project last year. I've got loads, along with some Veritaserum and tons of Healing Potions."

"Genius," said Ron, echoing Harry's enthusiasm. "We'd be lost with you."

Hermione laughed, apparently thrilled, and stuffed the potion back into her little bag.

"This is fantastic," said Harry, turning back towards the sketch of the Ministry's surroundings. He was just about to reach down for it when something across the room caught his attention. A subtle shift, a shimmer in the air, and a sense that something had changed.

"What was that?" he said abruptly. Beside him, Ron and Hermione quieted, pausing their excited conversation to look, concerned, at Harry.

"What was what?" Ron asked, withdrawing his wand and pointing it in the direction Harry was facing. His eyes narrowed in concentration. "You hear something?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "I thought I saw… just there. Something moved." He pointed in the direction he'd noticed the change, and Hermione came to stand beside him, her wand held loosely in her hand.

"The tapestry?" Hermione queried, glancing at the large family tree on the opposite wall. "Harry, the faces move about. You know that."

"It wasn't a face," he insisted. "Something shimmered."

"Shimmered?" Ron approached the tapestry warily, lifting his wand and lighting the tip to illuminate the ancient cloth. The gold threads woven into the thing glinted in response. Harry moved to join Ron, studying the Black family tree depicted there. He read the words inscribed at the top—Toujours Pur—remembering as he did the first time Sirius had shown him this piece of his history. He let his eyes skate down the rows of names and the little faces which seemed to watch him in return. He noted a scorch mark where Sirius Black III should have been and studied the area around it carefully. This had been the general area where he thought he had seen the movement, and somehow, the names seemed smaller than they had been the last time he had studied them.

"Oh my God," Hermione's voice beside him startled Harry, and he looked up at her. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her hand had flown up to cover her mouth.

"What? What is it?" Ron looked back at the tapestry, his expression concerned, as Harry followed Hermione's gaze back to the family tree. The spot she was looking at was near the very bottom, just to the left and below Sirius's name. Harry squinted, leaning slightly closer to read the name embroidered there.

Delphini Riddle it read in flowing black script. Harry's brow furrowed as he followed the line above it up to the names from which it descended.

"Bloody hell," Ron swore from Harry's other side as he finally spotted the names Harry was rereading for a third time. "Thats him, isn't it? You-know-who?"

"And Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione confirmed, finally having overcome her shock.

"But what does this mean?" Ron questioned. "I mean, they can't have… that can't be their… Merlin, I think I'm going to be sick." He turned his back on the tapestry, crossing to the other side of the room and leaving Hermione to stand with Harry, who felt rooted to the spot, unable to move his gaze from the new addition to the tree.

"Harry," Hermione said his name softly, reaching out as she did to grab his arm. Her touch was comforting and gave him the strength he needed to swallow and look up at her.

"They have a kid," he forced himself to say, his voice coming out hoarse in the silence. "They've got a kid, and I'm trying to kill its parents. What does that say about me?"

"Oh Harry." Hermione wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. "It doesn't say a thing about you. We're doing the right thing. He's got to be destroyed. This doesn't change that."

"Yeah," whispered Harry after nearly a full minute when he trusted himself to speak once more. "You're right. Not my problem, is it?" Hermione's mouth pressed into a thin line as she grimaced in response. Ron answered from the other side of the room where he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a glare on his face.

"Absolutely not," he said. "A kid born from those two is likely to be just as stark raving mad anyhow. Don't even think about it, mate. The thing's not worth worrying over."

Neither Harry nor Hermione responded to Ron's vitriol, choosing instead to turn their backs on the tapestry and join him on the other side of the room. They headed to their rooms for the night after that, but try as Harry might, he could not get image of the flowing black script out of his mind long enough to fall asleep.

Isle of Skye

10 December 1997

Ron was gone, and Harry could tell that Hermione's heart was broken. He was not completely oblivious, he knew that something had been growing between his two friends, something precious and fragile… and the argument he and Ron had had— the choice Hermione had made to stay with Harry— it had cost her.

He tried everything he could think of to distract her. They read, they plotted, they listened to the wireless late into the night and danced together beneath the stars… but still, that sadness remained. He wished, late in the evenings as she lay sobbing in her bed, that he could take the pain for her.

And so he wore the locket. More and more he kept it with him, nestled beneath his jumper, pressed against his skin. Cold, always cold. She didn't need that misery, not when he could spare her, not after everything she had given to be there with him. Her schooling, her parents, Ron. It was too much.

When she finally noticed what he was doing, that he'd been wearing the bloody Horcrux for three days to spare her, she lost her temper and snatched it from him, sending a mild hex his way to express her displeasure, and settling the thing around her own neck.

"Stupid man," she muttered beneath her breath as she stormed from the tent, wand in hand.

She didn't speak to him for two days after that, but by the time she did, she had stopped crying in the night.

Malfoy Manor

24 March 1998

She watched the boys disappear through a one of the doors out of the drawing room, held at wand point by Fenrir Greyback. Bellatrix's hand was still tangled in Hermione's hair, her long nails scraping her scalp uncomfortably as she held her up, forcing her to watch her only allies disappear down a dark passageway.

"Now, you filthy little Mudblood, we're going to have a little chat. Girl to girl."

Hermione said nothing, her stomach flipping uncomfortably as she stared wide eyed at the mad woman in front of her. The silver dagger she held was wickedly sharp and pressed against Hermione's neck.

"Bella, please," Hermione heard a woman plead from behind her. She thought it must be Narcissa Malfoy. "Tell us why you—"

"Keep your mouth shut, Cissa," hissed Bellatrix. "You've no idea the danger we are in." And with a jolt, she released Hermione, sending her careening onto the floor. She was not quick enough to catch herself, and so she landed heavily on her shoulder. A sharp, throbbing ache radiated from the point of contact down to her elbow.

"Now, Mudblood," Bellatrix said, her voice thick with anger, "let me give you a taste of what you can expect if you attempt to lie to me. Crucio!"

This pain did not bloom, it did not radiate from a point of contact or spread, it simply was. Knives pierced every inch of her skin as her muscles began to seize uncontrollably, and Hermione thought she must be dying. The agony was all consuming. She did not realize until after the curse was lifted that she had been screaming.

"Tell me where you got the sword!" demanded Bellatrix, her voice barely penetrating the fog in Hermione's head. In the distance, Hermione thought she heard a child cry, and she looked up, meeting Bellatrix's eye just as she remembered that night at number twelve so many months ago, and the secret the black haired which had no idea Hermione knew. Was this defensiveness over her vault somehow related to to the name they had seen embroidered on the Black Family Tapestry?

Apparently, Hermione's thoughts had left her silent for too long, because with a quick step forward and a practiced swing of her arm, pain was blossoming across Hermione's cheek. She had never been backhanded before, and it stung, but she realized in a heartbeat that she would rather this physical violence than the unimaginable pain of the Cruciatus Curse.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?" Bellatrix was shouting now, her eyes wild as she stared down at the girl before her.

"We found it—we found it—" Bellatrix made to hit her again, and Hermione cried out even louder, "PLEASE!" The blow landed on the same cheek, and in another moment Bellatrix was over her, straddling Hermione's rib-cage and placing one hand on her neck as the other forced her left arm out across the carpet.

She couldn't help but scream, couldn't do anything but struggle against the weight of the witch atop her. Finally, Bellatrix brought her forearm down over her windpipe, cutting off her access to an air supply and causing her to scratch and claw violently to break free. The older woman eased off the pressure only enough to keep Hermione conscious, and with her hand she pulled up the sleeve of Hermione's jumper.

"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts!"

Hermione shook her head frantically just as Bellatrix shifted off of her neck and the gleaming silver of her blade began to dig into Hermione's forearm.

"Tell the truth, tell the truth!"

The dagger painted fire on Hermione's arm and she screamed again, shaking her head in horror as she realized Bellatrix was carving something into her arm. In the distance, she thought she could hear someone calling her name.

"What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

Hermione had managed to quiet herself to a dull whimper when Bellatrix went back to the beginning and started over on the open wounds the dagger had left on her arm. This time she went deeper, and Hermione heard herself begin to scream involuntarily once more.

When she had finished, the black haired woman held her blade, already red with Hermione's blood, up to the girl's neck.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!" And perhaps realizing that Hermione was not planning on answering her, she raised her wand again, still straddling her as she shouted, "CRUCIO!"

Again, the pain flooded her reality in an instant, filling every corner of her experience with a white hot sensation that could be neither ignored, nor properly catalogued. By the time the older witch lifted the curse, Hermione had wet herself, and she found it impossible to stop screaming.

It took Bellatrix backhanding her again to bring Hermione back to her senses and back to the moment enough that she realized she was being addressed again.

"How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?" Now, Hermione was certain she heard a child crying somewhere in the distance, and she shook her head to try to ignore it.

"We only met him tonight!" Hermione sobbed instead. "We've never been inside your vault." And, seeing Bellatrix raise her hand again, she flinched and turned her face to hide her already injured cheek. "It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!" She knew the words were a lie, but she couldn't think of anything to say which might appease the madwoman above her. She couldn't know that the sword was real, couldn't be given any inkling that they might be hunting Horcruxes."

"A copy?" screeched Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"

"But we can find out easily!" Hermione turned towards the voice which had spoken, spotting Lucius Malfoy, who stood beside his wife and son. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

She watched as Draco followed his father's orders, disappearing down the same dark passage she had seen Harry and Ron go into.

"You think you're so clever," Bellatrix hissed into Hermione's ear, "But I will find out the truth if it kills you, Mudblood. You are worth less than the carpet you're bleeding on."

"And Delphini," Hermione whispered, suddenly enraged, her voice hoarse as she found herself staring up into Bellatrix Lestrange's shocked eyes. "Is she worth more, with a half-blood father?"

Bellatrix looked nearly apoplectic at Hermione's words. "How did you—"

"The Black Family Tapestry." Hermione paused to cough. "That's her crying upstairs, isn't it?"

"CRUCIO!"

When the curse was finally lifted, Hermione understood how the woman now standing above her had driven Neville's parents to madness with a single, unvarying curse repeated time after time. She did not pay attention as the Goblin was interrogated, only continued to lay on the expensive oriental rug, watching her blood drip from the word she had finally been able to read, to the floor. She had been a fool, to mention the child, and she knew that if her birth was as much a secret as she had expected, Bellatrix would not let her live once she had solved the problem of the sword. She felt herself begin to cry again, and let her eyes flutter shut.

Hogwarts Castle

2 May 1998

When it was over, and he had fallen asleep in his old familiar four poster bed, Harry dreamed.

He walked quickly toward the cottage, dead leaves scraping the ground beneath his cloak as he moved through the night. The streets were empty, and as he approached the door of the cheery home, it swung open in invitation.

He didn't raise a wand as he walked through the house, he didn't need to, they were already dead. The father, a black haired man with unseeing red eyes, lay unmoving on the stairs. Harry stepped over his body, making his way up to the room he knew would be a nursery.

The mother, her black hair streaked by premature grey, was propped against the crib, her head lolling grotesquely to the side, her neck obviously broken.

As he approached, the child began to cry, and Harry forced himself to look at her. She was round cheeked and grey eyed, her thick black curls an unruly mop atop her head as she screamed, tears streaming down to her chin.

The lightning shaped cut on her forehead accused him as he raised his wand.

Harry woke with a start, his head swimming as he breathed out a single world.

"Delphini."