Cynric was less than surprised when the witch appeared in his office out of nowhere. The letter from himself had been quite clear as to what was going to happen, while directing him to start his research on true time turners. He stood immediately. "Milady." He said, with a deep bow. "Welcome to 1978."

"No formalities, Cynric." Portia said, waving him off as her stomach roiled. "I'm not your lady. I'm Marked, same as you. I'm Portia Dagworth-Granger. You may call me Portia."

Cynric blinked, automatically comparing this behaviour to what he had expected, or even what Bellatrix would be doing if she had been 'blessed,' in such a way. "As you wish...Portia."

Portia smiled at him. "It's not about me, Cynric. It's all about the child. Trust me, you'll want to be hex me after about a month."

Cynric laughed despite himself. "I doubt that."

"You've never tried to pull me away from my lab or a book, yet." Portia shot back. "You'll be surprised."

"Bloody arsehole dark lords." A heavily pregnant Portia growled as she stalked through Nott Manor, entirely annoyed with everything. "Stupid Solstice fertility. Me and my sodding 'it's the longest night of the year, shouldn't we celebrate in the traditional ways'. I'm a bloody idiot!"

"No, you're not." Sigrid Rowle argued, rolling her eyes. "Men are the seductive idiots."

"I look like a whale." Portia wailed, despite herself. "I couldn't lean over my potion's bench to properly prepare ingredients today!"

"You're carrying beautifully, and the baby is healthy." Aseneth Malfoy argued, firmly.

"And ten points to Beauxbatons for hexing Abraxas into a peacock." Carlotta Nott agreed. "Cynric could hardly counter it for laughing."

"Once we found him, in the flock, anyway." Aseneth drawled, taking a drink of her water.

Portia slumped into one of the expensive antique loveseats. "I just want her to be born already. I miss my life."

"You miss the Dark Lord." Aseneth argued, wisely. "You know, you could have Cynric approach him early. It might be better than surprising him."

"Maybe." Portia said mulishly. "But I'm not exactly the fashion plate I was when I first met him, either."

"He won't care." Carlotta pointed out. "The legacy, the dynasty, the line - men care about that far more than what colour robes you wear."

Portia groaned into a throw pillow, and promptly threw it at Sigrid when she laughed.

"You what?" Voldemort hissed, the mien of the charismatic aristocrat falling as he looked at one of his oldest friends.

"It was by your orders, my Lord. It bore your handwriting, and an enchantment to burn the mark. It could not have come from anyone else, and my note to myself bore information no-one else knew." Cynric insisted.

"You're saying...I have a child, in the future." Voldemort growled.

"You have the beginnings of a dynasty, My Lord, a loyal, intelligent witch, a Potions Mistress in her own right, pregnant with your child, conceived on the longest night of the year. A continuation of the Slytherin line," Cynric explained. "The child is seen as such a threat, a partial prophecy was given, and so you sought to hide them here, away from Dumbledore and his Order to disguise the birth."

Voldemort considered this, attracted as always to rumours of power and intelligence, he gave in, just slightly. "I would meet with her, Cynric."

"Of course, My Lord." Cynric agreed. "My home is, as always, open to you. I believe she is with my father in the library." He waved his hand open in a welcoming gesture.

"Thank you, Cynric," Voldemort said with a nod, and disapparated. He knew the layout of Nott Manor well, and Apparated a few rooms away from the library, disillusioning himself before approaching the room in question. A silence dampening spell and a careful opening of the door, and he was sliding into the library none the wiser, wanting to observe this witch without her knowledge.

She was gesturing, surrounded by several floating books, her hair a nimbus around her head and crackling with magic. "I'm not trying to dismiss the importance of astronomy, Edward, only saying that with the right applications of a proper arithmancy web and appropriate bindrunes, one can simulate the proper environment and brew potions that are usually limited by astronomical timings without loss of power!"

"And I'm saying that even under the hands of a master, such potions would have fluctuations in efficacy, because they would not have the proper celestial energies imbued into them during the process, and only derivations of that power." Edward Nott argued back. The eighty-year-old wizard's eyes were shifting toward her citations. "If you read your Dee, you'd see that alignments are necessary to the true expression of power, as in the Monas."

"But if you look at Agrippa, you can clearly see that the celestial energies are always present, you merely need the power and the right calculations to direct them, regardless of time and relative phase or position!" Portia shot back.

"Perhaps the answer is that many lack the ability, the knowledge, or the will to do so." Voldemort commented, releasing the disillusionment. "Or they have no idea it is possible. It is certainly not taught at Hogwarts, even at N.E.W.T. level."

"This is why Beauxbatons tests early and allows you to specialise before you graduate." Portia grumbled, moving towards him out of habit, before stopping and seeming to realise what had happened. "My Lord." She said politely, unsure of her welcome, when this Voldemort had never met her.

"Mistress Dagworth-Granger, I presume?" Voldemort replied, making no secret of studying her.

"Portia, please." The witch in question said with a little smile at the repeat of their first meeting, something she now suspected he did on purpose. "I shall start looking for my mother, otherwise, and would flee in terror."

Voldemort gave her the charming smile, the one that spoke of an aristocrat with hidden depths and reached for her hand. "Portia, then, though I confess you have me at a disadvantage, you know far more of me than I do of you."

Portia smiled at that. "I would like to remedy that." Did he love her? She didn't know. He certainly didn't in this time, but in her own? Perhaps. Could anyone ever be truly sure their partner loved them without abusing legilimency? Love was a mystery no one understood, least of all her. People said those who practised dark arts were incapable of love, and yet she did, and for now, that was enough.

Cynric Nott had never been one to walk on eggshells in his own house, but he had suddenly learned the skill. He had thought his mother a terror when she was pregnant, but she had nothing on Portia. The witch lost her temper or became upset and priceless antiques started smashing.

That, of course, was nothing compared to suddenly becoming afraid of coming across the Dark Lord at the wrong time. Since Voldemort had met Portia, again and for the first time all at once, he had started treating Cynric's house as an extension of his own, and Nott never knew which scene he would come across.

Voldemort and Portia, curled up in the library, passionately discussing some obscure magical fact or some theory of spell construction, or the Dark Lord concerned for the future of his dynasty, placing stronger detection charms on every dish, pot, pan, and utensil in the kitchen, or the Dark Lord, paranoid and disillusioned, watching the witch, trying to make sure that it was not all a trick meant to get close to him and destroy him.

That last one usually saw Cynric hexed for allowing the witch in his home and close to the Dark Lord. It was exhausting. He'd be glad when it was over.

Portia let out a long breath as Sigrid wiped her brow. "I think I know why my mother is such a harpy now."

Aseneth Malfoy chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want that potion now?"

"No!" Portia sputtered. "I've a bloody parchment strapped to one leg, I'm wearing a snakeskin as a girdle, and my knife is under the mattress, I'm doing this the old way, with all the old magic!"

"You allowed the other charm. It's only been around, what, a century?" Sigrid pointed out.

"Would you want the Dark Lord in the room while you shat the bed?" Portia demanded, her voice cutting off into a shrill noise of distress as another contraction rocked her.

Sigrid shuddered without answering. She was too nervous to admit that the Dark Lord frightened her. She wouldn't want him near her bed. She had no idea how Portia did it. He was charming and charismatic, of course, but there was something unnerving underneath. Luckily, Portia was distracted from the lack of answer by the doors banging open and the arrival of the terrifying dark wizard.

Even after, when she had turned her head away from the sight of Portia holding the newborn and handing it to him, Sigrid couldn't help but wonder how the witch did it. She was stronger than Sigrid, and that made Sigrid very glad the woman was on their side.

"The naming is yours, My Lord." Portia said respectfully. She didn't usually refer to him as her lord in private, but in this, with others around, she did. That, and she didn't exactly have the right to call him her lord husband, as was traditional. This was a good compromise.

"Hermione Jean." Voldemort declared. "Hermione for the Spartan princess, and following the Dagworth-Granger traditions, and Jean for someone I once knew."

Portia bit back on her curiosity, and nodded. "As you say, I affirm."

Voldemort took out his wand and drew a drop of blood from his thumb, pressing it to the infant's chest. "I recognise you, Hermione Jean, and bind your magic to my line. You are, now and forever, my firstborn, legitimate and whole."

The baby grizzled slightly, and other father might have smiled, but this was Voldemort, and he handed the baby back to Portia.

Portia smiled in return. "I had them save the cord blood and placenta, should you ever need it, My Lord."

Voldemort raised a brow at her. "Many gifts you have given me, this day, Portia, many gifts, indeed."

Einar Rowle carried his son on his shoulders into the nursery at the Nott's home. "I'm going to introduce you to someone very important, Tófi."

Thorfinn Rowle nodded his very blonde head seriously. "Yes, Pappa." He sat up a little straighter, as if one could be dignified riding on someone's shoulders. There was no one in the room, though, and he looked around in confusion. "Where?"

Einar chuckled, and walked the boy over to the cot that had been borrowed from his wife for the Dark Lord's child. "This is Hermione, Tófi."

Thorfinn scrunched up his nose. "Baby." He declared dismissively, then noticed the cot in which the child laid. "My cot!" He demanded angrily. "Not baby's!"

"Hush, Thorfinn." Einar rumbled sternly. "You are too old for the cot, and this is Hermione. You and I are going to guard her and make sure she stays safe, do you understand?"

The three-year-old was not well pleased. "Why?"

"Honour, son." Einar said, very seriously. "She is our lord's daughter. This is our job. Do you understand?"

Thorfinn grumbled, but hung off of his father's neck one handed for a moment, to touch the baby's cheek. "We keep you safe, baby."