The morning owl comes bearing both a small package and a note. Æthel opens the package from her Aunt 'Mione first, feigning nonchalance. She's already become adept at dormitory politics and too much enthusiasm is asking the resident mean girl to abscond with whatever you treasure. She could have hexed the girl, or physically beaten her senseless for that matter, but she's been quietly cautioned by 'Lord Nott' to stay in the shadows and avoid attention. "You'll be a star your whole life, princess," he'd said. "Play it cool and find out who your real friends are while you still can."

She is considering having a box of trick chocolates sent to another girl, one she'll warn to gush at the table without sampling any. Watching Little Miss Mean steal the chocolates, gloat about it, then be violently ill or turn colors or swell up like a puffer fish, these are all delightful possibilities. The only problem is she'll have to buy the things the next time she's home and then repackage the chocolates so they aren't obviously from the Weasleys as everything from that shop is immediately confiscated. She wonders, briefly, if Uncle Draco would agree to mail to them her; she's fairly sure her own father will refuse. If Uncle Draco won't she knows Aunt 'Mione will; "You won't get caught?" is all she'd say, eyebrows raised.

Almost all her new family had given her some variation of "Don't get caught" as their advice before she'd left. That and, "no one likes a braggart." Growing up in an orphanage, she really hadn't needed to be told any of that but it was good advice all the same so she didn't gloat about her connections to the powerful players in the political arena, didn't name drop.

She sure as hell didn't admit she'd heard her Aunt Mione telling her Dad to start teaching her the Dark Arts as soon as it was practical. That, Æthel thought, was unlikely to go over well at a school that still only taught Defense against such arts. Even Slytherin house was skittish about being too closely associated with the Dark after the last war. "Contrary to popular belief, this is not a house for Dark wizards and witches," their Head of House had said the first night. Ethel had looked properly solemn and intimidated while thinking, "Idiot." She can't wait for lessons on stuff more interesting than turning needles to matchsticks.

Now she unwraps the newest book Aunt Mione has sent her and hides her smile to try to prevent her would-be tormenter from noticing it. The Witch of Blackbird Pond: Muggles had the best books. She supposes it must be some kind of compensation for having no magic. Alas, her least favorite roommate is paying attention this morning and she can't just read the thing in peace.

"Another Muggle book? Merlin, I'd be embarrassed to get trash like that." The girl pauses before adding maliciously, "but I guess your aunt's a mudblood so she doesn't know any better."

Æthel tucks the book into her bag without saying anything then simply stares at the girl with the same unblinking gaze that so unnerved Ron Weasley. She's definitely going to buy those chocolates next time she's home; if she tells Uncle Draco what this girl just called Aunt 'Mione he'll definitely mail them for her.

"You're an embarrassment," a third year drawls and Æthel looks over at her with a sharp turn of her head only to find the girl looking not at her but at her little problem. "You should have been sorted into Gryffindor given that you seem to be both brainless and mean."

The girl tosses her head and says with what Narcissa Malfoy would have deemed a vulgar snort, "She's getting mudblood presents; she doesn't belong in our House."

"Uh huh," the older girl says. "Definitely Gryffindor." A cruel snicker runs up and down the table; there's really no worse insult for them. A Ravenclaw might be clever, and no one denied Hufflepuffs were nice, but the vicious inter-house rivalry ensured that no Slytherin would ever admit anything good about a Gryffindor. Not very bright, was the general consensus, and far too obvious to be respected.

"Her aunt IS a filthy mudblood," her little tormenter continues, still pushing, not seeing the tide of opinion has turned against her. "It's carved right on her arm."

"It is." Æthel shrugs. "Of course, I could carve 'clever' on your arm. It wouldn't make it true."

The students near enough to overhear her laugh loudly enough to earn a quick glare from their Head of House. Mealtimes are supposed to be decorous; consider it, their Head had suggested, a lesson in keeping your malice subtle enough to not attract attention. The third year girl smiles at Æthel and they both quietly assess each other; political alliances start young.

Æthel opens another piece of mail and frowns.

"What is it?"

"Someone sent me something from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It's just a notice of confiscation."

"Weird."

It is weird, Æthel thinks. There's no one in her life who would send her something from that shop and, even if someone did decide to send her a random present, everyone who cares about her is smart enough to know to repackage Wizard Wheezes. Very weird.

With a shrug she dismisses the random, confiscated gift, pulls the juice pitcher forward and starts getting her breakfast.

. . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa looks around the nursery with approval. "I still think," she says, straightening books that had made the mistake of lounging dissolutely against one another in her presence, "that you should move to the Manor, especially with all the work you two are putting into renovating that room in the dungeon."

Hermione has decorated the room almost wholly in shades of grey and silver, with a blue ceiling that mimicked the color of the sky right before the world sank into darkness. Enchanted stars begin to glow whenever the ambient light drops and two spiral galaxies slowly approach one another from different corners. If Hermione has timed that spell correctly they'll intersect near the child's sixteenth birthday.

Draco had dared her to create a spell more complex than the Quidditch players flying around the walls of his own childhood playroom. The players eternally cycled through the same game; she'd asked how long the time loop ran and when he'd said, "one week" she'd scoffed at him. "One week," she'd said. "You want me to do something more difficult than a measly one-week decoration spell? That's almost insulting."

She'd yet to tell him she'd worked a nova into the sky that should go off in six years or so, or that the stars actually rotated across the ceiling with the seasons. That might have been rubbing her victory in; she also thinks it might be more satisfying to say, casually, years from now, "Oh, that? Yes, I put that in back when we first decorated the room." After a childhood spent with people who hadn't understood - hadn't been capable of understanding - how far beyond them she was, she doesn't think she'll ever tire of Draco's ability to actually appreciate her work. It's not that he's effusive in his praise because he's not. Still, that casually raised eyebrow combined with his small nod and smile mean more than any of Ron's exclamations of her brilliance ever could have because this man, this husband of hers, understands what she's done. It's nice, finally, to have an audience that gets it.

"Well," Hermione looks away from the sky she'd created and returns her attention to the aristocratic woman before her. "I was tortured in the Manor." Hermione has grown tired of this discussion, had, indeed, been tired of it for several months now. "By your sister. The place has what one might call bad memories for me."

Narcissa shrugs. "Bella was impulsive and sadistic; everyone has flaws. I'm sure, as time goes on, you'll find that some of your followers are less easy to control than others."

"And some need to be let off the leash now and then," Hermione nods. "Nevertheless, we like the flat and, really, this is only one baby. There's plenty of room."

"But there's no room for a live-in nanny," Narcissa objects. "How do you think you'll be able to handle being Minister without child care help? You'll see. You'll be at the Manor within two months."

"Being in the City has a number of benefits," Hermione demurs again. Again. Merlin, Narcissa is relentless in her quest to have her grandchild living in her own home. Now Hermione knows where Draco gets his annoying persistence. "It's easy to meet with people, easy to keep a sense of what's happening. And the work commute will be easier."

"Mmm. You're a witch; commutes aren't an issue for you." Narcissa admires the room again, quite certain she's right and that time will result in her getting what she wants. "I like the way you've done this. The constellation theme is delightful."

"It seemed fitting," Hermione says, thinking of the star names guide Narcissa had given her almost as soon as they'd told her about the pregnancy. She'd highlighted names she thought were especially lovely for children, and the most annoying thing about the entire situation was that Hermione found herself agreeing with the other woman's choices.

Draco walks in and brushes his lips inches from Narcissa's cheek. "Mother," he smiles, then takes Hermione's hand and kisses her fingertips. "I've missed you, love. All plotting and no play these days, it seems."

"How goes the plotting?" Narcissa settles onto the pale grey settee and eyes both of the children standing before her. "I've enjoyed watching your inner circle slowly realize the truth about your absurd origin fable."

Draco frowns as Hermione lowers herself down to the matching chair. "It's true," she says, rubbing a bit at her lower back, "though I blush to admit it. I'm not actually Nimue reborn."

"Clever girl," Narcissa says. "Theo's implied adoption of you was a particularly lovely touch. You almost had me fooled for a while. Rather like that plain little Parkinson girl - she certainly doesn't resemble Eustacia, poor thing - I thought neither of you boys would really take a woman in who wasn't -." She hesitates and Hermione smiles blandly at her and waits for the woman to finish her sentence.

"And Blaise, of course," Narcissa continues on. "Not a fool and more than a bit of a pureblood elitist, yet his devotion to you is unmistakable and clearly unfeigned. It's impressive, really, what you've done."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're getting at, mother," Draco says, still standing before both women. "I must be entering my dotage; you're going to have to be more explicit."

Narcissa ignores him. "Both Greengrass girls, unless I'm quite mistaken, have figured it out; their parents are tiresome, of course, but they are both delightful young women and, with careful handling, young Greg will be an excellent ally as well. I, of course, look forward to meeting my grandchild, newest Heir to the House of Malfoy and I would be most irate with anyone who would even consider suggesting that there had been any... dilution... of the bloodlines."

"Dilution?" Hermione makes a pretty moue and smoothes her hair. "Is it even possible to dilute blood and still have a living person?"

Narcissa and Hermione smile at one another, messages sent and received.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Hi Harry," Luna lowers herself down into the seat at the bookshop, dropping the bag that has her about knitting to the ground and pulling out the blanket she's working on as she examines the man. He's thinner and deep shadows have settled under his eyes. He's holding a scarf Luna recognizes as one of Ginny's, twisting it between his fingers, stopping now and then to smell it.

"I can't remember things," he says without greeting her. "The way she'd smile at me in the morning, and roll her eyes at how messy my hair was, that I remember. But she always said something after that and it's gone. Just gone."

"Ginny?" Luna asks and when Harry nods she says, formulaically, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She was, too, though more in the abstract way one's sad whenever one hears a former classmate has died, someone one hasn't seen or spoken to in years. It's the kind of idle sadness that makes you stop if you're reading the paper and happen to see an obituary, look up, and say to your spouse, "Did you hear so-and-so has died?" It's not the sharp pang she'd expected to feel, especially since she knows Hermione effectively arranged the woman's death. It's certainly not the aching emptiness Harry is clearly enduring. Ginny hadn't been interested in her school friend after the war, not her weird, unfashionable friend who you simply couldn't take out and trust to not wander off to study the lintels instead of chatting up whatever sycophants Ginny had found. Whatever closeness they'd had had long since dissipated. Still, Luna thinks, I probably should care more that we killed her.

Luna worries, sometimes, that her interest in the revolution Hermione is so tidily engineering and the dark magics she's using to do it have drowned her own moral sense of right and wrong. I am, she thinks to herself, somewhat culpable for the destruction of this man, the savior of our world and once my kind-of friend, and I only feel minor sadness that he got in the way. I wonder what that says about me.

Of course, she'd never been mindlessly nice either and what Hermione is doing, even aside from the regime change Luna wholly supports, is so interesting, so very, very interesting, more interesting than she suspects Hermione even realizes and Luna's fascination with the magic rather outweighs her sympathy for a couple who'd long ago abandoned her as too strange to bother with. Still, Harry does seem like a bit of an unfortunate casualty.

"I loved her," Harry says with simple dignity and Luna nods. "Life isn't fair," he adds.

"No," Luna agrees, letting her hands move in the knitting patterns she's become so comfortable with.

"I like your ring," Harry says, after staring at her hands as they click the needles for a bit.

"Thank you." Luna stops to look at the band. Small sapphires and emeralds alternate; it feels remarkably showy to her but Blaise had pointed out that, in the normal run of things he'd have given a woman a rock big enough to put out someone's eye and she had to compromise and let him give her something that at least sparkled. "Blaise gave it to me."

"You're still with Zabini?" Harry looks like he'd just discovered the milk he'd put in his tea had gone off and Luna laughs.

"You could say that." She admires the ring again before returning to her knitting.

"So," Harry sighs, "you're well and truly with the snakes now?"

"You're drawing lines and creating sides where none exist," Luna shakes her head. "You don't have to..."

"I do." Harry stops her. "Ron's my best mate and he says..."

"Ron's an arse." Luna has no intention of even pretending to like the youngest Weasley boy. "When people listen to him they end up in dark places."

"I'm already in a dark place," Harry says and this time Luna sighs.

"You don't have to stay there, though." She frowns and tries to think of a way to reach him. "Mourn your wife, Harry. Don't play the game right now. The rules aren't what you think; they aren't the same as when we were in school. "

"I always liked to break rules." He gives her a quick flash of the smile she remembered from school, a hint of the charming boy who'd shouldered burdens for them all and it's enough to make her try, again, to save him.

"I'm asking you to stay away from Ron," she says, knowing it won't work. "Let all this go. Go away, go rest in France or Italy. You can't even see all the pieces, Harry. You can't win this."

"You're on their side," he accuses her.

"There are no sides, or there won't be tomorrow, or soon. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

"You don't make any sense. You've never made any sense," Harry says bitterly. "Looney Luna."

Luna remembers, then, the moment she'd decided she liked Blaise as more than just a clever tongue attached to a pretty man. It had been when he'd shoved his wand - his actual wand, not a metaphorical wand though there'd been a great deal of shoving of that as well - into her neck and said he thought she was a threat. It had been the first time anyone, any man at least, had seen through the mists in which she tended to wander and realized she wasn't just dotty. Of course, she'd told him afterwards that if he ever did that again she'd emasculate him; it's one thing to be charmed that someone takes you seriously, quite another to encourage violence in a partner. The old taunt of 'Looney Luna' reminds her how much she really doesn't care for being dismissed. She can hear Blaise in her mind: if I've learned one thing, it's that she's never random.

"Well," she says, packing up her knitting. "I guess I'll go back to playing my pungi. It was good to see you, Harry." She pauses, then adds, "Think about what I've said; consider it, please. If you can. You were, after all, born of woman. No prophecy for you this time."

Harry rolls his eyes at her as she walks away.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Hermione Granger," Molly Weasley squints down at the woman, frowning at her transformation. Gone was the frizzy haired girl who'd almost panted for approval; she doesn't know this sleek creature sitting here in the orphanage sorting the books.

"Molly," Hermione acknowledges the woman with the barest of nods. "It's Granger-Malfoy, actually, or simply Malfoy. I got married a few months ago. Maybe you heard."

Molly, feeling the brunt of the casual dismissal, stands for a few moments, looking down at this vixen, this harlot who'd abandoned Ron to a life of dissipation and then made the most ridiculous claims about his violence and her blood. Stupid little mudblood, Molly thinks, letting herself use the slur in the privacy of her own mind, look at you, dressed up like some pureblood aristocrat. It doesn't matter what you wear or who you whore yourself out to, you'll never get the smell of dirt off you.

Lady Malfoy, Molly thinks with a sneer, held what looked like a Muggle notebook in her lap and sat making a list of titles as she placed books into one of two piles. No real pureblood would ever use a Muggle notebook, such a pathetic giveaway of her filthy background. "You should pay attention to me, Hermione."

"Why?" Hermione continues flipping through one of the books, frowning at torn pages before putting it into the larger of her piles. "You haven't paid attention to me in years, not since Ron decided he preferred an endless stream of presumably paid companions to my company. I can't imagine what's suddenly so important you can't just sent a note to my secretary."

"I know you killed Ginny," the older woman finally hisses.

Hermione looks up at that and says, "Oh, Molly. I know grief is a terrible thing, but I really don't think you should blame me for all your tragedies. Have you considered seeing a counselor?"

"I don't need a counselor, you bitch," Molly says, feeling goaded by the other woman's obviously false sympathy. "I need you to pay."

At that Hermione stands up, brushing some of the dust off her otherwise immaculate black dress. Her smile chills and Molly takes several steps backwards, only to have Hermione close the distance between them, sauntering forward and putting herself back right at the edge of being too close. "Molly, I don't think you should go about threatening people. Your family is already in such disarray with both Fred and Ginny dead and Ron missing that I'd hate to see them lose time with you if you had to be taken into the Ministry for questioning."

"What do you mean, 'Ron missing'?"

"Oh, that's right," Hermione leans in close to Molly and whispers, "that hasn't happened yet."

Molly looks at her in horror and Hermione laughs. "Let me tell you a few things, Mrs. Molly Weasley. Your name is all over this institution; Kingsley may have diverted the money but you let him use this place to hide it, you, the well-known mother figure. How would you like daily reports in all the papers on how you live, compared to the way these children live? What do the Weasleys eat, while the orphans they vowed to care for suffer? How do the Weasleys dress, while the orphans go about in ratty Muggle cast offs? How do the Weasleys play, while these children are lucky to have a single ball to kick around? Keep bothering me and that's exactly what you'll get. And the beautiful thing, Molly? The thing that makes it so sweet, so utterly perfect? Artistic, even? You did this to yourself. If you'd declined the honor of being on the Board none of this scandal would have attached to you. If you'd ensured these children had a decent environment, actually used the money allotted to this place to care for them? You'd be an untouchable public figure. But that's not what you did. You stole money from children to line your own, tasteless pocket. So, I'd go home if I were you, Molly, and I'd stop blaming other people for everything that goes wrong in my life. These are your own chickens coming home to roost."

"Ron and Harry are going to stop you," the woman whispers, almost hisses, though now unease has replaced the confident fury she'd felt walking into the orphanage's playroom.

"Stop me from what?" Hermione steps back and looks pointedly around at the room, freshly painted thanks to her very own Knights but still institutional and barren. "Running for Minister? Having a baby? Volunteering to replenish this place's library? I doubt it. We'll be holding a public book collection at my next campaign event, taking donations of new children's books. Maybe you'd like to donate some?"

"Stop you from everything," Molly snaps, frustrated.

"Last I heard Harry could barely get out of bed. I doubt he's going to stop me from much of anything." Hermione cocks her head to the side and appears to be considering Harry's plight. "I'll ask Daphne to have some flowers sent over, express my concern for his unfortunate fate and all.

"He's helping Ron; we're going to stop you!" Molly almost stomps her foot; she can't believe how easily this frumpy little nobody of a trollop has reduced her, reduced Molly Weasley née Prewett, to inarticulate sputtering. And how dare she threaten me, Molly thinks; threaten me with the condition of this place. These kids have a roof over their heads and food on their table; who would expect anyone to do more for the spawn of the monsters who waged two wars?

"Well, I'll make a note of that," Hermione says with bored courtesy. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get pack to pulling out the worst of these books. We plan to have a table outside the ministry with these as an exhibit to illustrate the oversight issues while encouraging people to make a donation."

"You can't do that!" Molly exclaims.

"Oh, really?" Hermione settles back down into the child-sized seat at the table, brushing a fleck of peeling paint away. "I think the book drive will be very successful in so many ways."

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N: Sorry, it's a long one.

First, the general comments….

Thank you, everyone, for reading and following along and commenting. Y'all really do make my day.

I'm thinking I will probably do an "intermezzo" chapter of just Blaise and Luna for all the Bluna lovers as a bit of a break after the election before Hermione moves into governing and am trying to decide how, err, lemony it should be. Suggestions gratefully accepted.

If you aren't reading Bodyguard of Lies, well, it's so dark it makes this one look like a cheerful picnic and I think you should read it, even if no one likes the version of Theo in that story but me. Plus, of course, the birthday drabble thing (explained in my profile).

Then the citations…

Luna is quoting Macbeth: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time, / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death." V.v.

Luna refers to Macbeth again with the comment that Harry was born of a woman as Macbeth was told no man born of woman could defeat him.

pungi = traditional instrument used in snake charming

Then the thanks for, and some responses to, everyone who was so kind as to review…

Thank you with extra sprinkles and some alcoholic chocolate covered cherries, as always, to the people who take the time to share their thoughts with me. Namely, with some personal responses to people who aren't logged in when they comment: Delancey654, Lady Malfoy, athmsc, my name is mommy, DibbleWife, Jenny Felton (no spoilers on who's going to get it once Ron gets going, sorry), loveroelves, AnnaxVakarian, Pank98, Guest (I'm glad you like the frequent updates), Grovek26, analena, apple77, jadedlady (Molly will get what she's got coming but I'm not sure people will enjoy it and I'm glad you caught my snippy little commentary on US tax policy), muffinz113, ii V I, Honoria Granger, Faebreeze, xXMizz Alex VolturiXx, rosierocks30, the aspiring cynic, Icelynne, EsterC94, Guest (glad to hear I got you hooked), moriah, S Wright, LadiePhoenix007, Naysaykaybay (thank you for the many many reviews – because you don't accept PMs I've never been able to personally thank you), chibi moon baby, Guest (yes, Molly is a bit both blind and vindictive when it comes to her children), Guest (Yeah, gotta love George), hoshiakari7, Guest (Ron will get his, eventually, though maybe not quite as much as you'd like), SimiDemon1994, Casy13, DarkFairy8506, Artemisgodess, ryggrad, tabby2010 (I'm so glad you like it!), Lady Malfoy (Thanks! I'm glad to hear the structure works!), TabBenj (Oh, I'm so glad!), miss Valentin, dutch pottterfan, green-jedi, Danielle (I update about once a week!), Terrence Rogue, Nekobear, Aristocratic Assassin, Beloved Daughter, Lorelai Love Spencer-Meraz, Guest (well, one out of two's not bad), snowleopardluver, TheFantabulousPotterHead, Marion Hood, Booker10, pagyn, kei (I do love Luna and it's so great to see how many other people do too), lakelady8425, dulce-de-leche-go, Ev'rdeen, aeireis, Emmeebee, Dark-D-Knight.