Thank you all for the lovely reviews and your unyielding patience. I see this story so clearly in my head that sometimes it goes through a lot of revision to get to where I want it.

It was moments like these that Hermione was supremely grateful she was a witch. Without magic, she was sure she would be a pile of nervous sweat covered in red silk. She smoothed her red lacquered fingers down the fitted dress and checked to make sure her hair was behaving itself before nodding her head resolutely and walking towards the door. This dinner was the first test.

She had purposefully invited all of her suitors to see who had matured enough to let the past stay where it was. It was one of her constant frustrations with Ron that he could simply not let go of house rivalries. "They're snakes 'Mione!" He would shout. "They're evil! No good left in them!" She would frequently point out that there had been several Gryffindor and Ravenclaw blood purists, not to mention the infamous Peter Pettigrew. "And what about Sirius's brother, Regulus? And Severus?" He would grumble and she would huff and they wouldn't speak to each other for days. She would not tie herself to someone who could not see beyond childhood slights.

Walking down the halls of her home she felt the thrill of anticipation run through her veins. She had never considered herself a beautiful woman. Pretty, maybe. Certainly she cleaned up well. But tonight she had pulled out all the stops. The dress she wore was a slim, sheath cut in vibrant red silk that left her arms and collarbone bare. She had pulled her hair back in a chic chignon and wore large ruby and gold earrings. She wore no rings, no bracelets, no necklace. Bellatrix's mark and the tip of the scar she had received from Dolohov the night at the Ministry were proudly on display. As she walked down the halls towards the dining room she ran her hand over her uncovered arm, her fingers tracing over the scar.

This dinner would also examine if her suitors would be able to handle her part in the war. She had been tortured, she was scarred, she still suffered from nightmares and the occasional panic attack. Ron had asked her several times to have muggle cosmetic surgery. Harry just looked at her with guilt in his eyes whenever he saw her scars. When she was in public people stared first at her face and then at her arm – even if the scar was covered. She no longer felt shame when she looked upon her scars; she felt vindicated. She defied everything Voldemort and his blood purists spouted and now she was alive while he and everyone who had hurt her was dead.

Her husband would have to accept her. All of her.

She paused outside the large double doors to the dining room and took a deep breath. Elf magic would open the doors for her once everyone was seated. As they started to open, Hermione heard the dregs of conversation from her suitors. Ah, so someone had recognized her table!

"King Arthur wished for each of his knights to be his equal," she responded, striding forward. Conversation halted as she glided into the room. She paused and waited for Severus to pull her chair out for her as protocol dictated (she was disgruntled to learn there were very few tasks she was allowed to do in public, but, in for a penny in for a pound as they say). "No man was valued above the other."

Magic noiselessly scooted her chair closer to the table while Severus introduced her to her suitors. She took a moment to examine the men she was inviting into her life.

Blaise Zabini had always been handsome but age, and…she supposed experience, had made him almost devastatingly so. He wore an all-black suite that only seemed to emphasize the dark mocha of his skin and the white flash of his bright smile. Oliver looked fit in his classic dark grey and green suite – she had heard he had been forced into early retirement and was now an assistant Quidditch coach for the Harpies. She hadn't had the pleasure of knowing Ernie Macmillan well in school but she knew he had received almost as good of grades as she had. Her gaze skipped over Draco – she had debated with herself for ages about accepting the Malfoy's suit. She had no good memories of either of the Slytherin males (in fact only horrible, nightmarish memories where she woke up covered in sweat) but she would never be a hypocrite.

And she could admit to herself that both Lucius and Draco cut quite the figure.

She turned her gaze to Theodore Nott who seemed to be studying her with bemusement. "Do you enjoy the classics, Lord Nott?" She tried not to let her surprise at his knowing a muggle author leak into her voice.

Theo shook out his napkin as the house elves apparated silently about pouring champagne and serving hors d'oeuvre. "I do, in fact. My first tutor was a wizard of profound brilliance and his muggle mother was a literature professor at Oxford. He would smuggle in White and Tolstoy and the Bronte Sisters and ask me if I could tell the difference between wizarding and muggle writing."

"And could you?" asked Draco. He too was surprised to learn his school mate had been an avid reader of muggle work. In had only been in the past few years that Draco himself had come to appreciate the work of the muggle author Shakespeare, the sad twists of tragic fate speaking to him on a profound level.

Theo shrugged as he took a bite of his salad. "Not at first."

Hermione herself was curious now. "But you were later able to discover a difference?"

Theo took a sip of champagne as he thought best on how to answer. He could, in fact, tell the difference between muggle and wizard writing but how best to use that difference to his advantage? "Muggle writing, no matter how dark and depraved the subject matter might be, always held a ray of…hope."

Hermione studied the handsome young man sitting across the table from her. His sharp blue eyes held a trace of a challenge in them and she wondered if he knew how much he believed his own words. "Well said, Lord Nott," she applauded quietly. Hermione quickly moved on to more banal topics of conversation: the weather, the current gossip in London, her choice of décor. It wasn't until the elves served the fruit and cheese course that Lord Morven Parkinson made his presence known.

"So, I think we're all wondering," he began, his voice dark like oil moving across water, "how is it a little mudblood like you could afford to have house elves?"

The guests froze at the forbidden insult, and Severus began to rise to his feet when Hermione laid a gentle hand on his arm and bade him sit back down.

She smiled at Morven but those men who had known her at school flinched to see that razor smile on her elven face. "They're displaced house elves, Lord Parkinson. They were forced to leave their families when they were locked up for war crimes and thrown into Azkaban."

A slight flush rose to Morven's face at the reminder that many of his family members were currently incarcerated. He moved to open his mouth when Amon Shafiq cut in, "And you have opened your home to them, Lady Granger? How kind of you."

She acknowledged his words with a slight nod and speared a grape on the end of her fork. "Yes, Harry – you know of him, of course – kept bringing them to me. In his work with the aurors arresting those war criminals who went into hiding after Tom Riddle was defeated – "

"You show him the proper respect, you filthy mudblood cunt!" Morven now had become a deep purple and he quickly shoved himself up from his seat and strode towards Hermione. "His name is LORD Voldemort and he had more magic in his little finger than – "

"His little half-blood finger I think you meant," Hermione pointed out coldly.

Morven made a strangled noise in his throat and drew his wand. "You – you…you are not fit to breathe the same air as the rest of us!"

"Careful there, Lord Parkinson," came Severus's silky voice. "You are outnumbered and severely outmatched."

Morven glanced around quickly, noticing several of his peers had stood and stood casually holding their wands. "You – you would defend this? This filth!" He tightened his hold on his wand. "She is the antithesis to everything we believe!"

"Then why are you here, Lord Parkinson?" Hermione asked, rising from her seat. "If my existence is so abhorrent to you, why did you ask permission to court me?"

"Because the damn Ministry won't see reason where your kind are concerned," Morven hissed. "Forcing purebloods to marry and breed with something like you…"

"Clearly then you would prefer Azkaban," Hermione responded meanly. "A little family reunion perhaps?"

Eyes bulging, Morven Parkinson raised his wand. "Ava –"

"Stupefy!"