A/N Warning for misogynistic language.

"She knows."

Voldemort sat at the desk in Harry's room the next day sorting through a stack of Ministry documents. "Who knows what, darling?" he asked distractedly as he scratched out several lines on the top parchment.

"Hermione," Harry said, pacing back and forth in front of the fire. "She knows I'm your Horcrux, Master. I know she does!"

"Really?" Voldemort set his quill in its stand and cast an ink drying charm on the parchment. "That's too bad. I suppose you expect I will kill her now."

Harry stopped his pacing. "Won't you?"

Voldemort turned to look at him. "I could. Or we could explain to your former friend that, as Master of Death, my immortality is no longer linked to either you or Nagini. But really, Harry, I am not concerned. She has sworn oaths which render her harmless to both you and your sister, so unless you have had a change of heart and wish it so, she will remain unharmed."

This was not how Harry had expected this conversation to go. He'd nearly kept it secret—as secret as anything was from a master Legilimens who had a particularly direct link into his mind. In the end, he couldn't keep it to himself. The words had spilled out of his mouth, as if they'd pressed against his lips until he could not longer prevent their escape.

"I haven't," Harry said when he realized his Master was awaiting an answer. "I'm just disappointed that she was so hateful towards me. It wasn't as if I expected her to be try to hug me or anything."

"If she does, the Death Eater entrusted with her care has been sanctioned to hex her violently," Voldemort said. He turned back to his work and crossed out another line on the parchment. "And I will be displeased with you as well, dear Horcrux. I ordered you not to touch her."

Harry nodded. "I won't," he said. Besides, he rather thought she would slap him if he did.

"If that girl so much as lays a finger on you, I will have Bellatrix slice them all off, one by one."

"Yes, Master." Harry couldn't quite supress a shudder. "What I don't understand is why she didn't seem angry with me at Midsummer."

Voldemort signed the document he'd been amending, and immediately the parchment rose up in the air, glowed brilliantly golden, then vanished with a small pop. "I suspect she hadn't realized your value to me until then. Remember, too, that she was in close proximity to me; she had every right to be reserved that night. She probably feared that should she displease me that I would find space enough for her in the Wicker Man, no matter how stuffed with vermin it already was."

"I doubt I'll ever so much as speak with her again," Harry said. He couldn't stop the sadness from creeping into his voice.

Voldemort hummed skeptically, as he often did after Harry made such assertions.

The Dark Lord worked steadily for a while. Harry picked up his book of poetry, hoping to find solace in the verse, but nothing held his interest for long and he was soon pacing the room again. As much as he enjoyed it when his Master found time to visit, Voldemort was still usually preoccupied with his work. During these times he was tolerant of the occasional interruption from either Harry or Nagini, explaining that if he required silence he would work in his study (cramped though it was). More important, he said, was spending time with his living Horcruxes.

"I think it's time for a break," Voldemort declared as gathered up the parchments into a neat pile.

Harry stopped his pacing and followed his Master to the table. Almost at once, a tea set and a small meal of scones and fresh fruit appeared. Harry had taken to pouring out the Dark Lord's tea. He wasn't sure if his Master was humouring him, or expected such small services as Harry enjoyed providing, but the result was the same—two content wizards. Harry basked in the warm brush of rare happiness that washed through his scar. He did that, he marveled. He'd made Lord Voldemort happy, and with so small a gesture.

Food, combined with his Master's satisfaction, settled Harry's nerves better than poetry. The scones were so fresh they crumbled even as he spooned clotted cream onto them. Combined with the fresh strawberries, they were heavenly. Harry sighed his contentment. This was better than death, he told himself, taking another blissful bite. Far better.

The Dark Lord was not eating. He'd taken a few sips from his tea, but had chosen, instead, to watch Harry as he ate. He cleared his throat, and when Harry looked up, he said, very seriously, "You are in the very summer of your life, Harry. So young and fresh. Seeing you like this—enjoying such simple things without a care at refinement or propriety—is a delight to me."

Harry flushed at the words. He licked an errant smear of cream from his thumb.

"It occurs to me that your birthday will be here before too long. We are already half-way through July. Have you given any thought as to what you would like for a gift? I am feeling benevolent this morning. I encourage you to take advantage."

Swallowing down the scone that had become inexcusably dry in his mouth, Harry said, "Well, Master, you had promised me that book." He flushed even more fiercely.

Voldemort chuckled. "Ah, yes. The Kama Sutra. I had not forgotten; in fact, I procured an interesting copy for you with your birthday in mind. That gift comes with a caveat, however. You are not to make use of the information within, at least not without my explicit consent. You will not, and I am deadly serious here, engage in any sexual activities."

"I won't," Harry said. He wasn't stupid. He knew Voldemort was possessive of him.

"You are not stupid, no," Voldemort told him "And yes, I am very careful of my things, as you well know. But that is not all. I need you to retain your virginity. I have a particular ritual in mind that needs make use of it."

Harry wished he could sink right into the chair. If he did, he was certain that on his way down he'd surely light it on fire, his face was flaming so. He wrangled out a weak, "Of course. As you wish."

"I very much do wish. You will not like my reaction should I find you've spent your innocence casually. You may, of course, engage in any solitary acts of pleasure. I would not deny you that privilege, nor will the magic consider you spoiled from the occasional private interlude."

All Harry could do was nod.

"You have no idea how pleased I was when, in searching your mind that first night, I discovered that you were unspoiled. You must understand, my dear, that I lost my own virginity at a rather young age. Too young, in hindsight, though at the time my youth and body were commodities I believed worth exploiting."

As Voldemort spoke, Harry pictured the unfairly handsome and suave Tom Riddle he'd met in the Chamber. He could easily picture how the manipulative boy would take advantage of his charms and use them to his benefit in forging alliances. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as his imagination filled in too many details.

Voldemort continued, "With a portion of my soul in you, I am surprised it did not influence you in the same way. You are hardly unattractive. Even as I detested you after my rise, I realized you were on your way to becoming a beautiful young man."

Harry tried to take a sip of his tea. His hands shook, though, and he lowered the cup back to the table.

"I still wanted to crush you beneath my heel, darling. I wanted nothing so much as that." Voldemort's eyes were momentarily fierce, his glare crushing. Then, almost immediately, his expression softened. But not before Harry remembered the way his Master had so gleefully stepped down on his head during his surrender in the bomb-shelter cell. To his horror, he realized he was more humiliated by his body's treacherous reaction to that memory than he was by the submission itself.

Voldemort smirked. "I won't leave you wanting for long. Perhaps a month, or so, once the transference ritual is complete."

"Transference ritual?" Harry frowned. "Is this what we were researching that afternoon, Master?"

Voldemort nodded but infuriatingly said nothing more.

"What will this ritual do?" Harry asked him, hoping to draw out more information.

"Nothing terrible; you need not worry. It will simply transfer our respective seed. Late in my teen years I came to realize how foolish I had been to use my body for social advancement. That is not to say it didn't work—it did, all too well—but I had other advantages I could have used instead. By the time I realized the Magical uses of virginity, it was too late. I had lost my innocence and a number of powerful rituals were no longer available to me."

Harry frowned; he was not sure he understood where this was going.

"Severus has nearly completed the potion that we will need for the transfer to be successful."

"And this will transfer our…?"

"Our seed. I believe that the ritual, with the addition of the Horcrux residing in you, will allow me to make use of your own innocence. When I ejaculate, it will be with your virgin semen. But insofar as the magic of the ritual I will use it for is concerned, and given that we share both blood and soul, it will be my own."

"Oh." Harry looked weakly at his hands. "What sort of rituals?"

"Mostly ones to heighten a wizard's power. As a young man I had been particularly interested in one potion that promised increased longevity, though that seems rather irrelevant now. Perhaps I will brew it anyway." He looked at the clock above the fireplace's mantle. "I am afraid that is all the time I can spare, darling."

Harry stood. "I will see you tomorrow?"

"Most likely, so long as all goes well in the Wizengamot this afternoon." Voldemort stopped to reach down and pet Nagini for a moment. She hissed sleepily at him, pleased at the attention. To Harry he said, "I trust I have impressed upon you the importance in obeying my command regarding your virginity?"

"Yes, Master."

Voldemort nodded and said, "Good boy." He disappeared through the Dark Mark tapestry.

Harry was alone again but for the now-sleeping snake. He hesitated for only a moment, then rushed into the bathroom, repeating his Master's last words to himself as he sought his relief.

...

"You have to see this." Draco had barely given Harry time to pull on his boots before he was dragging him down the corridor with Nagini trailing behind in a series of graceful undulations. Both boys had finally recovered from their injuries, and Draco led Harry at a good clip along the maze that was his childhood home.

Finally, they arrived at one of the drawing rooms. The 'lavender parlour', Harry remembered before he cursed himself for having recalled the names of any of these fusty aristocratic rooms. The door was ajar, and Draco put a finger to his lips before gesturing for Harry to covertly peer through with him.

Under the French windows, on one of the elegant settees, sat Hermione and Dolores Umbridge. Hermione sat very primly, her back straight and her hands resting demurely on her lap. Her smile was strained but unwavering, as if she'd vowed to herself to be pleasant, no matter how distasteful the situation. Umbridge was not even trying; her falsely sweet demeanor was absent and she was grimacing at Hermione with open contempt. In an armchair not far away sat a bored-looking Death Eater who was idly toying with his wand.

"Let's begin with something simple," Hermione said. She reached into a basket that lay beside her and pulled out a ball of pink wool. "I think a washcloth would be a good first project."

Then she dug out a pair of wooden knitting needles from the basket. "I'll cast on for you, as that can be tricky as a first step. Then I'll show you how to make the stitches." She made a knot in the wool yarn and began wrapping it curiously around the needle. The way the stitches formed on the needle was, in Harry's opinion, its own kind of magic.

After about a minute, Hermione handed the beginning knitting over to Umbridge and set about doing the same with a second set of needles and ball of wool. She held this up and said, "Okay, watch what I do. Hold the needles like this…no, not so tight—more like a quill."

Draco snickered. Harry elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"That's right," Hermione continued. She was speaking much more pleasantly than she had to Harry in the library, which he thought unfair, but he shoved that thought down and kept listening as she explained the mechanics of knitting to the disgruntled witch beside her. "Insert the right-hand needle into the first stitch like this. Good. Now wrap the yarn counter-clockwise around the right needle."

Umbridge huffed. "Counter-what?" she snapped. Nearby, the bored guard sat up a little straighter. Umbridge breathed heavily and forced out one of her sickly smiles.

"I meant widdershins," said Hermione. "Wrap the yarn widdershins around the needle-keep the yarn taut—then poke the needle under the stitch on the left needle. Now draw the loop off the needle tip. Yes, just like that."

Umbridge, when she tried, managed to follow what Harry thought were overly complicated instructions. Maybe it was easier if closely demonstrated.

The two worked civilly for a while, with Hermione giving the occasional correction to help Umbridge correct her grip or pick up a dropped stitch.

After another few minutes, Harry felt a hand at his elbow. Draco had obviously had enough and was attempting to pull him away from the door. Draco whispered, "Not the cat-fight I'd hoped we'd see. Let's see if we can find—"

"How far along is your pregnancy?" Hermione was asking, which made both boys turn hastily back to the door.

Umbridge made a noise akin to a growl. "Almost seven weeks."

"I don't think I ever said congratulations," Hermione said. Then she asked, "Are you having any morning sickness?"

Umbridge shuddered, for once looking sickened by something other than the Muggle-born witch seated near her. "It's been terrible," she said. "And I've not been allowed anti-nausea potions."

Hermione's tentative smile slid off her lips. "That's awful. Why ever not?"

Umbridge's beady eyes filled again with malice. "I don't need your pity, Mudblood."

"Tell her, Umbitch," drawled the Death Eater. He was again spinning his wand between his fingers, but the quick motion no longer looked casual.

Umbridge sniffed. "I've been told that I must suffer through every aspect of my punishment."

Hermione frowned for a long moment before finally saying, "What punishment? Don't they know you're pregnant? It's important that the fetus—"

"The pregnancy is my punishment, you foolish girl," Umbridge snapped.

Hermione didn't have a response to that.

The Death Eater sat up straighter, suddenly interested. "Tell her who the father is," he ordered.

Umbridge grit her teeth and ground out, "You know I can't."

Draco leaned in to whisper in Harry's ear. "She's been Tongue-Tied. She can't say anything about it being a half-giant baby to anyone who doesn't already know."

"Why?" Harry whispered. He wasn't as quiet as Draco, and Umbridge's sharp eyes shot towards the door.

Draco grabbed Harry's shoulder and pulled him back before she caught them lurking there. He shook his head and mouthed, "Later."

The Death Eater scowled and slumped in his chair, disappointed. "Let's just say he's tall, ugly, and not very bright," he said to Hermione.

She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Well, I'm sure he makes up for it with personality." It was courteously phrased, but it was obvious that she scarcely believed her own words.

The Death Eater began to laugh maliciously. "He has a big one, that's for sure." He made an obscene gesture.

Even Draco couldn't keep quiet at that. He snorted in a terribly undignified manner, barely pulling Harry down the hall before collapsing in a fit of giggles. Nagini stayed by the door after they'd departed and poked her head in a metre or so, eliciting a scream from Umbridge and an alarmed "Harry?" from Hermione. But no one followed Nagini out when she rejoined the boys in the corridor, and the parlour door slammed shut behind her.

"Sweet Merlin," Draco gasped out. "A big one. She has no idea."

"That reminds me," said Harry. "Someone was supposed to create a false memory of the, um…consummation. Have you heard anything about that?"

"I thought that was just rumour," Draco said. "But I hope not. I would pay good Galleons to watch that."

"The Dark Lord authorized it. But I can't imagine the mechanics at all. How would it fit?"

"Well, it wouldn't need to be doable in real-life," Draco said. "Anything would work in a fantasy memory. Potions. Stretching Charms. Wouldn't it be hilarious if they cast an Undetectable Expansion charm on her dried-up cunt?"

Harry pictured Hermione's beaded purse and all that fit inside. "I think that would be a perfect solution." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Wouldn't that have worked in real life?"

"Not a chance. Undetectable Expansion and Wizard Space charms can't be used on living creatures. Even if it were a viable option for the act itself, it would be impossible to cancel the charm without disrupting conception. And we hardly want the Wizard Space charm to remain in place, as then she might successfully carry to term. And I really want to be there when the little fucker tears her apart."

"I doubt it will be anything so graphic as that," Harry pointed out. "She'll probably just rupture internally. She might scream a lot, but it won't be anything to look at."

Draco shook his head. "I bet the Dark Lord accounted for that. It'll be a show, that's for sure, and I want a front row seat."

"I'll see if I can ask for that favour," Harry said. "Her punishment was a sort of gift to me, and you and I are friends now. Now tell me, why was she tongue-tied? Wouldn't it be more humiliating to make her tell everyone who—or rather what— the father is?"

"Pretty much everyone knows that already, except Granger," Draco reminded him. "And do you think she'd willingly help Umbridge learn to knit if she knew the truth? That girl has had a Doxie up her arse since first year. She'd refuse to co-operate out of some misguided principle."

"In this case it's not all that misguided, but I know what you mean. Do you want to know why she learned to knit in the first place? To make hats to free the Hogwarts house-elves. She left them all over Gryffindor Tower for unsuspecting house-elves to accidentally pick up."

"Circe. How embarrassing," Draco said. "Didn't she realize she was insulting them? And anyway, that wouldn't have even worked. If they were freed after picking up random clothes strewn about, then how would they manage to do our laundry?"

"Hermione is really smart, but sometimes she doesn't see the big picture. She thought all the happy house-elves were brain-washed to enjoy working for free."

Draco nodded. "This is the perfect example of the dangers posed by Mudbloods entering our world. They try to shove their own standards down our throats, not understanding why we do things the way we do. It destabilizes our entire society. If the Dark Lord hadn't won when he did, it might have been too late, we'd have been too far gone for the damage to be fixed. It's too bad he didn't succeed in taking over sooner."

"Sorry," Harry said softly, looking down.

Draco looked up, seemingly shocked. "What? I didn't mean…I didn't mean you, Harry. It wasn't your—"

"It was, though," Harry said. "A bit, anyway."

Draco tried a smile. "You came round in the end. Just in time."

Harry sighed. This had gotten serious far too fast. He forced a smile and said, "Guess what she called it? Her group to free the house-elves?"

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Tell me."

"S.P.E.W."

"Well, that explains one thing."

"What?"

"I'd always wondered why she got together with a Weasley. Even for a Mudblood, it seemed a step-down. I see now that they were better matched than I'd thought."

Harry scowled in mock-indignation. "I'll show you a step-down," and he knocked Draco into the wall good-naturedly, and they wrestled in the hallway until they tired, with Nagini carefully joining in to pin Harry to the ground.

"Traitor," Harry hissed, laughing.

A/N Bonus knitting pattern: Cast on 40 stitches with worsted-weight pink cotton yarn. Knit for five inches. Cast off and weave in ends. Now you have your own baby washcloth! To upscale it for a giant baby, multiply each measurement by ten. If you don't have a (giant) baby and wish to donate your washcloth to a good cause, please send your owl to : Dolores Umbridge, C/O Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK. (Please note: this pattern has not been test-knit. Satisfaction is not guaranteed).