AN: Happy Sunday my darlings. Do you realize we've been doing this for over six months? Admittedly, I did take a bit of a break or it would be done by now…ah, well…such is life! We can't spend every moment writing and reading! I hope all of you are enjoying reading as much as I enjoy writing it.

Jean-Marie subconsciously held his breath as his lord appeared in the grand (some would say gaudy) two way mirror the Frenchman had brought from his homeland.

Gellert Grindlewald was obviously a wizard in his prime: at sixty-nine he was as fit as many twenty year olds thanks to constant dueling practice with the best his army had to offer and the decadent life of an emperor had not softened his frame one whit. His hair was golden with hints of silver at the temples; the effect was regal and oddly more attractive than those golden locks without their silver gilding.

If one knew him well, then perhaps one would realize that there were old curse scars scattered along his frame. He rarely made any effort to cover them; to Gellert, those scars were marks of victory, and intimate mementoes of those who had fallen before him.

Many claimed that Gellert was beautiful, but Jean Marie knew better; he had seen his lord in repose: without the snapping wit and scalding intelligence behind his eyes, his face was nearly plain despite the neat symmetry between the eyes and mouth.

As he waited for his lord's command, Jean-Marie's thoughts never touched these superficial matters. He'd ceased to contemplate such things since he'd felt the bite of Grindlewald's wand. Now he simply obeyed. His entire existence revolved around never feeling that kind of pain again, though his worship of Grindlewald had only increased. He would do anything…anything at all for a kind word from this man.

"Report."

Jean-Marie tried to hide his slight shudder at the tone his lord took; his failure was met with a small, cold smile.

"I have succeeded in seducing Helga Malfoy my lord. She is not close to the children, but has full access to the manner. She expects them to spend at least part of their summer with the young lord." Jean cleared his throat. "I will have to put her under the impero should we need anything more than information from her. I should like to avoid it, since it might damage the child she carries."

Grindelwald nodded, but didn't comment. Jean wished that he dared to breathe a sigh of relief. The British Ministry was quite mad about the use of the impero and other curses. Even the elite might find themselves shipped off to that dreadful island if they were so careless as to get caught casting it.

"Await my order, but plan to take the children as soon as you may. I will send both gold and portkeys in the usual manner so you can be prepared." He moved to wipe the image, but Jean held up a tentative hand.

"If I may, my lord? Has Madam Ivanova been visible in the last fortnight?"

Gellert growled. "The bitch hit the grain depository no more than three days ago in an attempt to turn the people against me. I hung the head of task force naked above a pen of hungry Thestrals as an abject lesion."

Jean gulped. "My lord, at last night's ball, Helena Malfoy brought a frail old woman who resembled Madam Ivanova, claiming that her mother had been ill since her home was destroyed and that any rebel using her name was simply a fraud."

Gellert snorted. "That she-bear has plagued me for many years, and she's never been ill a day in her life. Watch Helena Malfoy carefully. She may be indicating a willingness to side with us should we invade England, and the Malfoy gold might be worth sparing that misbegotten thorn in my side. Contact John Smith if you need his aid. But don't forget to focus on your true objective. Once I have the Hallows, all of Britain and the rest of the world will bend a knee to my standard. The girl is the key. I want them both, make no mistake, but if you must choose, bring me the girl."

With that, Gellert blanked the mirror and Jean finally breathed a sigh of relief.

He ran a hand through his distressingly short locks. One month left until the Hogwarts term resumed.

Jean padded into his bedroom, but the two women taking up his bed were snoring. In the early morning light, they were even less appealing that they'd been by the flattering light in the ballroom.

He felt a bit sick at the sight of them, but he fought it down.

Perhaps some scones and tea would remove the horrible, empty feeling from his soul.

TRTRTR

Hermione returned to the Flamel's home obsessed with the thought of a vaccine for dragonpox. A week of frantic research later, Tom was mildly interested. Perenelle was perhaps a bit concerned. Nicholas, on the other hand, seemed more alive than Tom had ever seen him.

"The problem of course, is the double protein that coats the virus. Most white blood cells chew on it a bit and spit it back out as if the virus were dead, when in fact our own immune system activates it. Then of course it attacks the magical core so Muggles are completely unaffected. Children are less likely to die from it because their magic is so unfocused that the pox can't get a good hold…"

Nicholas was chortling and pulling out books as he basked in the light of Hermione's new 'project.'

Perenelle looked over Hermione's notes.

Nicholas was flipping through a book almost frantically, looking for only Merlin knew what. "Yes, that does explain why the potions and charms only seem to exacerbate the problem and why it kills those with stronger magic. You can't strengthen the body's natural response without actually feeding the virus."

Tom was watching Hermione as she scribbled complicated formula down like her life depended on it. "Encase it and starve it out."

Hermione turned to him, all wide eyes and bushy hair. She seemed to be looking at something deep inside herself. Then she tackled him and kissed him full on the mouth. "Tom! You are brilliant!"

She conjured another chalkboard and Nicholas slipped out to get another sealed sample of the virus. They'd already progressed to testing the effects on magically enhanced mice.

Perenelle smiled at Tom. "Good show. Speaking of starving, witch and wizard cannot live on magical discovery alone. Perhaps we should leave them to it for a bit? Make some dinner?"

Tom, still slightly red from the kiss, nodded. "Hermione did mention that one of us did need to learn to cook after Hogwarts."

Perenelle wrapped an apron around her stylish dress. "Someone being anyone but her, am I right?"

Tom Smirked as he donned his own apron. "That was the sub-text, yes."

Perenelle sharpened a rather excellent knife as Tom gathered ingredients. "I've never met a potions master or mistress that couldn't cook, and both of you have the capability. Don't let her get by with avoiding her share, at least not unless she has a good reason like curing a major disease. You are just as talented."

Tom smirked, pleased that Perenelle thought so. "She promised to learn the cleaning charms. What about Nicholas, what's his excuse?"

Perenelle laughed. "Him? Cook? I'd rather we weren't all poisoned." She shook her head. "He tried when I first married him, before I banished him from kitchen. He's a terrible potions maker too. He simply can't focus on the here and now well enough to make anything that requires his total attention. He's brilliant at the academic, but I always completed the practical. It works for us. But you know he does his part. I've never once chopped a stick of wood since I married him, nor filled a pot with water. At least not without my wand." She motioned for Tom to levitate a large cauldron to the cast iron stove.

"What are we making?"

"It will be chilly tonight, and they won't stop for hours. A nice soup will feed the two of us, and keep for whenever their bodies remind them that they need less cerebral food." She pulled out a chopping board.

"Be a love won't you? Fill it with water?"

Tom complied. Soup always reminded him of his very first act of magic…or at least the first he could remember.

There were good times and bad times at the orphanage. The worst time was one winter when the potato crop had failed the summer before. The staff was dipping into the funds for the food budget, and in between the two, there was very little to go around. Mrs. Cole wasn't the matron at the time, her predecessor, a stark, cold woman named Donovan, was less gentle.

He'd been so hungry. They shorted his bowl once again, and something inside him wanted to scream or cry, but he'd known better…

But then, as he ate, his bowl never seemed to go down. It refilled and refilled and refilled again…

No one noticed it was him, and good thing too. The next day one of the maids was fired for stealing food.

Tom later figured out that he'd been draining the large stock pot with magic.

Nothing had ever tasted so good to him as that poor, thin soup.

It wasn't half as wonderful as what he was carefully making with Perenelle, but it had filled poor belly…and it had opened the pathway of magic to him. It was fitting that the first thing he learned to make was soup.

He worked in tandem with Perenelle quietly. She commented, now and then, on how to find quality ingredients or why the ingredients mixed the way they did…but for the most part there was only the sound of the crackling fire and the bubbling of the soup.

She had him levitate another pile of wood for the fire. "I could just charm this to burn for you. It requires a lot of power, but you should have that."

He saw the color drain from her cheeks a bit. "Oh, we'll see. Bring me another potato, would you?"

That was strange. Very strange.

As he dug around in the bin, pretending to look for the perfect spud, a number of things clicked in his mind. Dumbledore was great friends with the Flamels. They were brilliant and obviously fond of him. If he was captured they would surely come for him…if they could. He'd said that many of his true friends were not duelists. But Tom thought it went deeper than that. Other than potions, he never saw them use powerful magic. Perenelle seemed tired sometimes after simple levitation charms.

He turned back, potato in hand, and his most charming expression on his face. "You don't waste magic, that's for certain. I suppose, it was different, before, when Muggles might catch you and tie you to a stake."

Perenelle snorted. "There was never any chance of that. We use plenty of magic, or have you forgotten watching me convert iron to gold?" Her expression was light, but her tone was off.

It did nothing but confirm what he suddenly knew to be true.

The price of using the stone was most of your magic. And neither he nor Hermione could afford to be weak.

PFPFPFPF

When one made the philosopher's stone, there were certain oaths that one took. One of them was never to reveal the stone's nature to anyone who had not created the stone with you. The price had to remain hidden until those that sought it came to the understanding on their own. The isolation from those around you. The lack of children once you took the elixir. The very magic inside you.

She could not tell her brilliant students the price it would require if they should continue down the path they had so childishly decided to follow.

But she could guide them, guard them, and give them her unspoken support.

She sent a silent prayer that it would be enough.

AMAMAM

Abraxas had to congratulate himself. He'd pried both Hermione and Tom from whatever research they were immersed in with the Flamels, and practically ordered them to take a bit of a break before term started. They'd arrived days ago, and he had insisted on ordering their school things and dealing with the bill. They protested of course, but it was done. "This way you can't claim that you need to attend to that instead of keeping me amused. You'll be at Hogwarts without me until Christmas!"

Hermione lifted a brow. "I didn't realize that it was my job to keep you amused."

Abraxas was totally unrepentant. "Amused and informed. And we need to go over the members of the Knights so you'll know how to deal with them, and then Tom and I can discuss Quidditch formations for the team. I expect Dippet will wait until next year to name him Captain, but it never hurts to be prepared."

They would be spending Christmas with him…no matter who he had to manipulate to make it so. He fully intended to make them the godparents for his child, no matter what Helga muttered about when he informed her.

His wife had complained bitterly when he proposed a ball, but he ignored her. She was still in the first trimester, but her worries that the baby would be in danger from the stress were nonsensical; his mother did all the planning and the elves did all the work. Her only stress was deciding whether should accentuate her growing belly like any sensible woman, or continue to hide it with glamors. It wasn't much of a bump, but protruding from her too-thin frame it was rather obvious without magic.

Then again, perhaps the real stress of Helga's situation was her choice of lovers.

At the moment, she was sitting in a chair, seemingly oblivious, where her long term 'friend' glared at the voluptuous witch that split her time between Helga and the French wizard, Jean Marie Bassett. Helga looked more than a bit green as she sipped some sort of sparkling juice instead of wine.

Abraxas sighed. He certainly wished that she would have waited until after the child was born to be so publicly unfaithful. Not that there would be any doubt about the lineage of the child once he was born. Malfoys bred true. It was just a tad insulting.

If she had only allowed herself to be aware for their 'wedding night'…

Abraxas firmly controlled a shudder. Merlin. Never again. Never again. He promised himself that he would never have to touch a woman who didn't wish it. He'd rather give up sex entirely that do that again.

The French bastard leaned down and whispered something in Helga's ear, eliciting a delighted (if screechy) laugh. Abraxas wondered if she'd taken him as a lover as well.

Abraxas had avoided all such encounters himself, and the offers were…somewhat tempting. Once one's duty to one's family was done, a pure-blood's time was really theirs to do with as they chose. He'd been propositioned by matrons and debutants; men and women. Some, perhaps most, wanted the connection with the Malfoy name. A few simply desired his golden locks and fit frame. One or two were intrigued by his personality. He put them all off. It seemed uncouth to bed any or all of them while a witch was incubating his heir.

Obviously, the witch in question didn't share his squeamishness.

That miffed him, more than a bit, but he wasn't fool enough to call her out on it. As long as she didn't endanger herself or the child, it was enough for the moment. It wasn't as if it were a love match (ha!)

Abraxas' eyes turned to Tom and Hermione on the dance floor. She was laughing at something he said, genuine affection written clear on her face. He was a bit taller perhaps (thankfully, he'd had the tailor add a self-sizing charm to the robes…it was a must when purchasing for young gentlemen who were seemingly able to grow an entire foot over a two-week period). She was still pixie-like, which seemed peculiar when paired with her power, intelligence, and that odd wisdom that she could never quite hide.

Another screeching laugh from his wife drew his attention back to Helga. She seemed…off tonight. He would blame it on the wine, but she'd abstained.

He felt his feet wander toward her a few steps before he stopped himself, uncertain. He didn't inflict his presence on her more than he had to. He felt his feet carry him forward again, drawn to her by some unknown force.

Jean-Marie was draped over the arm of her chair, while Helga's old 'friend' Beatrice glared at everyone and everything. The little tart that Helga had recently taken up with had a spiteful expression on her face, as the other woman seemed to be fighting back tears.

He caught the edge of a whisper as he approached. "You don't mean it Helga! Not after everything…everything we've been through, everything I've given up for you…you can't just abandon me."

Helga looked confused. "I have told you before, we are nothing. Simply old friends…"

Beatrice grabbed the smaller woman's arm and sneered. "No, that's what you told everyone else. Never what you told me, old friend."

She stalked off, leaving Helga.

Abraxas tried a non-verbal spell to end enchantment, but Helga's expression didn't change. The French wizard hadn't noticed him yet, but the man was getting sloppy. He wasn't hiding his cat-got-the-cream smirk.

Abraxas wrapped his arms around his wife. She tried to jerk away. He pretended to nuzzle her ear while he whispered, "Don't make a scene."

His wand was out, as he added a small charm to make it easier to carry her. He looked at the Frenchman, who seemed frankly amazed. "Stress. It's been a very stressful day for my wife." His voice carried. He hated making a scene, but he still carried her out of the ballroom in a way that sent half the silly chits in the room to sighing about the romance of it all. He could hardly toss her over his shoulder like a caveman when the witch was pregnant!

He took her to her room and called Chirpy, the elf that had often watched his father. "I need a mild sleeping potion that's safe for her while she's with child." In an instant, the elf was back and Abraxas managed to get it down Helga's unresponsive throat. "I will call a healer. Watch her please. Don't let her leave the room and alert me if she tries. Do not allow anyone into the room without my permission. I may send Mother to you."

"Yes sir." Squeaked the little elf.

He ordered another elf to go to their family physician and bring him to the manor. "Make certain he's sober before he shows up, better take a hangover potion with you." The old man was foxed by eight o'clock on any given evening, but he was the best healer in the country when he was sober.

He made his way down to the ballroom to inform his mother. An open door to the gardens drew his notice…just as the light from some serious spell work and the sound of a port-key popping reached his ears.

Tom and Hermione were nowhere to be found…and neither was Jean Marie Bassett.