DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"So, Miss James, you spent some time in the Muggle United States, I understand. Can you tell my readers something about that? It must have been very challenging to adapt to such crude artistic methods," said the middle-aged, round wizard with an overly bright smile.

"Hum... oh yes I was in West Virginia for a little over a year," with tremendous effort, Hermione pulled her attention back to the reporter before her. He was scribbling furiously, periodically shooting her looks of pain and exaggerated frustration. She supposed he was feeling a little put out, but she had emphatically forbidden the use of a Quick Quotes Quill. This was, most likely, the reason behind the questions emphasizing her connection to Muggles, a dangerous connection to say the least. "What I did was take the basic art and improve it through magic. Using a transfiguration spell of my own authorship... and don't think I am going to give away all my secrets," Hermione added with what she hoped was a charming, flirtatious smile, "I managed to get the effects and... well, it would be easier if I showed you. If you will permit me?"

"Oh, that would be absolutely wonderful Miss James! What a treat for my readers! I am really so glad that you agreed to this interview," he gushed, apparently forgetting or at least forgiving the ban on his Quick Quotes Quill."This will be a great start for the new Magical Arts and Culture page in the Sunday Prophet. Yes indeed, the reclusive Jane James not only gives an interview, but a demonstration, yes indeed."

As she set her hands to the wheel, everything else faded somewhat. She was vaguely

aware that he was still chattering on about the story, but all that was secondary. Absently, she brushed away a few rebellious curls of hair, not noticing the flash of a camera, and then she began. Humming the spell to herself, she guided the clay as it began to bend and move beyond all laws of gravity into an elegant impossible form. Strange, she knew that all her brilliance and book smarts would be put aside, yet as the magic flowed from her fingertips, she could find a kind of freedom. McGonagall would be disappointed in her, but McGonagall and all who could hold her accountable were dead. Here she had control; here she could create beauty even in a world such as this. She tried not to dwell on regret. What good was regret?

The second flash of light brought her out of her reverie. At first she did not comprehend what it was. In the second that it took the pieces to fit into place she was in a rage.

"I told you, no pictures! How dare you violate my wishes in my own home!" The wheel and clay tumbled down onto the stone floor. "You will give me that camera and leave this building at once!"

"There, sweetheart, it will be all right. No harm in a picture. We hardly got your face at all, promise," softly drawled the reporter, all the while slowly moving back towards the door. He had safely concealed the offending camera in his robes and was now looking quite pleased with himself. "Besides, I am not so sure what you are so worked up about. We will not give out your address, and you are over an hour broom ride from Prague in perfect weather." Hermione had by now recovered her wand and was following him out the building, with a definitely threatening air. "Speaking of Prague, I really must be going if I am to make it back before the deadline. Thank you for the interview. I will make sure you are owled a copy."

"Argg!" Hermione helped the door to slam after his retreating back before she slumped down onto the floor. "Well, Crookshanks, I should have known better than to deal with the Daily Prophet again. Why ever did I allow Violet Greystone to talk me into the article? You would think that the cut she gets as my agent would be quite enough!" On guard for more flying objects the tabby had climbed onto Hermione's lap, where she was absently petting him. "There really is nothing we can do about it now, is there? Hope the light was too bad for any of the images to come out properly. People will see what they want to see, they always do. I just hope no one will see... well, me. But you missed your dinner while I was talking to that buffoon! Come on; let's see what we've got then." But despite her words, a knot of worry had lodged in the back of Hermione's mind.

"Wormtail! Get! In! Here! I swear, it is bad enough trying to keep the Muggles from suspecting anything without you running around with that utterly wasted silver arm!" Lucius never raised his voice nor took his eyes from his breakfast, yet each word fell like a blow to Wormtail, causing a hot spike of anger slice through him. "Oh, and Wormtail, I do hope you remembered to bring my Sunday Prophet."

"Here it is. I don't know why you can't just get it owled to you like everyone else. But I don't know how you can stand being around Muggles all day either," he added with a snide smile. His blow hit the mark. In a flash, Lucius had sprung up and grabbed him by a grubby shirt collar.

"You know very well that as the Muggle Prime Minister, I have appearances to keep up. And you know the importance of the position I hold, given the master's interests in the Muggle War. I would think you would speak more wisely," hissed Lucius.

"And I know very well that you would be Minister of Magic right now if your son had not switched sides in the final hour," spat Wormtail, thinking himself extremely brave. He hit the wall, knocking down one of the strangely still Muggle paintings before he registered being thrown. The pain caused his head to spin, and for a moment he thought he would utterly disgrace himself and pass out.

"Lucius, Lucius, I am surprised at you. And displeased, you know how I feel about people treating my things poorly," said a cold voice from the fireplace. Lucius, his arm raised mid-curse, stopped dead and grew pale. "Sit, eat your breakfast before it gets cold," chided the voice. Lucius practically ran to obey. "I want a full report from the Muggle War; things are progressing along I presume? Germany will fall next?"

"Yes, my lord, of course. And my deepest apologies," murmured Lucius while trying hard not to see the joyful look on Wormtail's face as he crawled towards a plush green armchair. Once reaching it, he did not sit but instead rested his head against the seat, as if the act of climbing into a chair might be too much for him.

"Oh, and Wormtail, do stop provoking Lucius. He does have a point; your arm is a little conspicuous. I thought we had talked about a spell to conceal it." There was a dangerous note in Voldemort's voice; it was never a good sign when he was being this congenial. Wormtail cringed.

"But... master, it burns so."

"Oh, stop whining and stand up, you disgust me," snapped Voldemort. He opened his mouth to speak more but, to his shock, was interrupted by Lucius's cry.

"Gods, Granger!" Instantly, all attention in the room snapped back to Lucius, who had risen to his feet while staring at a page from the Prophet.

"Granger... Granger, you mean the boy's Mudblood?" Voldemort's voice seemed to almost purr at the prospect of the last and infamous member of the DA being unearthed.

"Yes, my lord, it appears she is living near Prague under an assumed name, an artist or artisan of some sort. Still, not much to look at is she," sneered Lucius, handing the paper to the hand now protruding from the marble fireplace, his composure quite regained.

"You always were overly caught up with looks, Lucius. You miss so much..." Voldemort turned back, his eyes quickly taking in the article and accompanying picture of a young woman sitting at a potter's wheel, absently brushing strands of her bushy brown hair away from her face. "Ah... so it is Miss Granger, after all this time, the brains behind the boy. Is it really any wonder she is the last to be found... but you have slipped this time, little one? I believe could capitalize on that..." Both Lucius and Wormtail looked slightly uncomfortable to be overhearing the Dark Lord's murmurings.

"Do you want me to send a group to dispose of her?" asked Wormtail.

"No, I believe I might have other plans for her. After all, we must see if she really is, what was it they all said... 'the cleverest witch of her age'. I wonder what she is capable of."

"Surely, you don't actually mean to employ... I mean she is a Mudblood!" said Lucius, looking utterly aghast at the very idea.

"There are spells Lucius, spells, one such as you could never even dream of reading off a page, let along wielding. But she... she just might be able to assist me... just maybe. Wormtail, attend me now!" snapped Voldemort. "And fetch an owl on your way to my chambers."

With a slight pop he had left the fireplace, not even pausing to acknowledge Wormtail's clumsy bow. "Still an errand-boy are we," sneered Lucius.

"Go play with your Muggles, Prime Minister," spat Wormtail before he hurried out of the room.