HEY GUYS. I'm sorrrrryyyyyyyyyyy I haven't updated in forever, but... I'll explain in the end note. Hope you enjoy; I had to force this one out, but I'm pretty proud of it too!

One of the things Riddle hadn't attended to as much since the entry of Minerva into his life -she took up a good chunk of his time- was the group of students, most of whom also were in his -or technically Minerva's- dueling club, who were interested not only in passing the practical aspect of his DADA class, but also in the mysterious Lord Voldemort, a name known to the old pureblooded families privileged enough to share in his dealings. Up to this point, he had presented himself to the students more as an agent who could assist them in their quests to eventually serve the rising Dark Lord, but he felt he would have to let them know who he really was sooner or later. The difficulty would lie in only telling the students unlikely to gossip and brag about the knowledge, which ruled out more than half. He would have to tread carefully there.

Another issue that he had left unaddressed primarily because of its ridiculous nature was Mr. Lowther, the magical toucan. He had seen very little of him lately, something that indicated trouble. But he had seen more than enough of Lowther's forces, slowly increasing their numbers as they took up residence in Hagrid's cabin. He hadn't fed the basilisk lately either, and a mudblood here or there would not go unnoticed. A sudden thought occurred to him, and a cruel smile twisted his lips as he set off for the grounds before he met Minerva for their weekend in London.

0o0o0o0

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Quite."

"Within the year, there will be more than enough human meat for you to gorge yourself on." He stopped, feeling as though he ought to clarify. "Muggle-born only, and maybe half-bloods if you're particularly hungry. I can't have you killing off my followers' offspring. It's bad for recruitment."

The basilisk didn't bat an eye. Instead, it set about eating the thestral Riddle had brought. He was certain it was one of Lowther's lieutenants. "So," the snake said casually, "trouble in paradise? It's been a while since we last talked about the transfiguration teacher."

"Hardly paradise."

"That so?" The snake paused to swallow the rest of the unfortunate thestral. "What's going wrong?"

"Nothing, really," Riddle admitted. "I'm unsure as to where we stand. On the one hand, she's been very open with me about what she's expected to do, regarding Dumbledore's orders. On the other hand, she hasn't stopped, though she's doing an increasingly inadequate job for him."

"Are you achieving physical intimacy yet?"

Riddle stared at the basilisk. It stared back. Ignoring the implausibility of his being alive after that, Riddle demanded, "What are you, my therapist?"

"Even dark lords have relationship issues now and again."

He was reluctant to answer. "Not quite. I don't want to rush her... the timing has to be right, or she's going to think I'm an obsessive, lusty rapist."

"So I take it you won't be getting any this weekend."

"What the f*ck is wrong with you?" Riddle snapped. "Of course not. Timing here is everything! After that, I'll know she trusts me. If I rush it, she won't, no matter what."

There was an awkward pause. "So it's a no."

Riddle clapped a hand to his forehead. The echo filled the Chamber. "You're a terrible therapist."

"I know," the beast sighed, "but I know one thing that may prove helpful. Fawkes. Hear me out," it said when Riddle's expression turned sour, "because it makes sense. If there's one thing I know from the snakes that live in Hogwarts' plumbing, it's that Dumbledore has made Fawkes spend time with Lowther, so he can make Lowther spy on you and get news from Fawkes. But Fawkes can't stand the bird, and knows something isn't right about the whole thing. Get to the phoenix, and Lowther is yours."

"But I don't like birds. Of any variety." He was oblivious to how childish he sounded.

"It's for the greater good, Mr. Heir of Slytherin," the snake said matter-of-factly.

Standing, Riddle patted the Basilisk on its scaly head, and left the Chamber, hoping that he wouldn't run into anyone on the way out of the bathroom. It was pure bad luck, then, when he ran into Minerva after he left the bathroom and was in the hallway.

"Tom?"

"Evening, ma minette," he said casually.

"Why are your shoes dirty?" she asked slowly.

"I just paid Hagrid a visit."

"Why do the footprints only start from inside the bathroom?" she said, arms crossed and her foot tapping.

He closed the gap between them in two quick strides, silencing her with an open-mouthed kiss and staving off questions he was in no mood to answer. "Is this how you greet me? With the third degree?"

"Tom! We're in a hallway!"

"Then let's go somewhere more suitable. London, for instance," he said. "There's enough time for us to visit the Tower of London tonight if we hurry."

"All right," she said, still checking for students in the area. "I'll go get my things."

"Do that," he called after her. The second she was gone, he destroyed all evidence of his having visited the Chamber with a quick "scourgify," muttering to himself as he left the hallway, "I need to clean that place, or at least make that snake a litter box."

0o0o0o0

"I'm loving nighttime London, Tom," Minerva said conversationally as they walked down brightly lit cobbled streets, "but I thought we were going to see the Tower."

"All in good time, Minerva." He had picked this particular route with a purpose in mind. First of all, a slight deviation from the course they took would bring them to a secluded spot from where they could Apparate to the Tower, and later his apartment. More importantly, the area was frequented by several of the benefactors -though the term wasn't even half deserved- of Wool's Orphanage, his first place of residence, and it was also conveniently close to the homes of two certain wizards, both half-bloods to his knowledge, who had vehemently spoken out against his cause. His sources had told him of their intent to discover the identity of the elusive Lord Voldemort, and of their heavy dealings in the underground circles where the majority of his recruitment took place. All would have to be exterminated; he needed to sever all ties to the Muggle world, and he would have the added pleasure of stomping out the beginning of a resistance movement. It was only natural that there would be a resistance once he rose to the forefront, but until then, all threats to his cause would have to be swiftly and silently annihilated. His walk with Minerva served a dual purpose, then. He could scope out the area for the operation with his Death Eaters next weekend, as well as fulfill relationship obligations. He was a master of multitasking. "Just up ahead, we can detour and Apparate to the Tower of London."

"I'll have to bring you to Scotland in the summer," Minerva said cheerily. "Caithness isn't as bustling as London, not in the slightest. But the skies are clear without the city lights and the smog, and the fields are so open. Have you ever slept under the stars on the Scottish highlands?"

"No, but I'd like to." He felt that now would be an appropriate time to take her hand.

"You'll enjoy it," she said, swinging their hands, fingers interlaced. "Oh, and the seaside is spectacular as well- so many ruggedly beautiful cliffs, and the mist rises up from the sea and makes the coast a shimmery grey."

"Here, up ahead," Riddle said quickly, and dragged her to a side road that led to an alley. "All right, let me lead-" and he Disapparated with her in tow.

"Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress," Minerva said delightedly once her head stopped spinning from the trip, surveying the castle from across the Thames. "You know, Muggles believe Anne Boleyn's ghost haunts the tower."

"That's ridiculous," Riddle said. "Hold onto my arm." She acquiesced, and they flew, specter-like, across the river, and before she had a chance to gasp in surprise they were hurtling into the sky until Riddle brought them to a stop at the top of the tower. "This," he said, leading her by the hand, "is the White Tower, the site of her execution. If there's a ghost to be seen, it'll haunt this place, not the Tower Green like the Muggles think."

"Um, are we allowed to have a private tour?" Minerva said skeptically.

"Probably not." They entered the tower. "Which gate do you suppose she would have used? The Traitor's Gate?"

"Your irreverence never ceases to amaze me, Tom. I'd say the court gate, just to disagree with you."

"Court gate it is, ma minette." He smiled in the dark when he felt her take his arm again. "Why don't you light our path?"

She scoffed. "Are you crazy? That'll ruin the fun." She cleared her throat as they headed to the staircase. "So, you seem to know a good deal of Muggle history... tell me about some of the reported hauntings."

He pulled her closer. "With pleasure," he said, barely audible over their footsteps, volume magnified by the cold stone. "In 1817 a sentry patrolling the White Tower suffered a fatal heart attack after encountering a ghostly figure on this very staircase." The continued down, towards Anne Boleyn's old chamber of imprisonment. "In 1864 a sentry standing guard outside of the Queen's House reported seeing a figure veiled in mist. She was wearing a Tudor dress and a French hood, but her face wasn't distinguishable. He challenged the figure, and when it did not reply and continued towards him, the sentry made a thrust at it with his bayonet. What happened next caused him to swoon – his bayonet passed through the figure, and a firey flash ran up his rifle and gave him a shock." He brought his lips to her ear. "Shall we go back?"

"What happened to the sentry?" Minerva asked, feeling her way down the banister and letting go of his arm.

"He was court marshaled for falling asleep." He chuckled. "Eyewitness accounts saved him, though. One officer, watching from the Bloody Tower, testified that he had heard the sentry yelling at the figure to stop, and then saw him thrusting his bayonet through it. He saw the figure pass through the bayonet and then through the sentry as well." He stopped, noticing she wasn't there. "Minerva?" There was no answer. "Minerva, this isn't funny. Come here."

A scream from higher up the staircase startled him. "If she's gone and fainted out of fright..." he muttered angrily as he ran up the stairs, "so help me, I'll kill her myself. I can't bring her back with head trauma from hitting her head on stone.." He lit up the entire staircase, stopping short when she was nowhere in sight. "Minerva," he called again, wondering where she could be.

Cold fingers stroked his face from behind. "Who dares disturb my final resting place?" a voice called in an ethereal wail.

He spun around, slashing with his wand. "Oh, it's you," he said, not amused. "Don't do that, I was worried sick for my ca- for you," he hastily amended.

Minerva laughed delightedly, throwing her arms around his neck and making him catch hold of the banister to steady himself. "Did I scare you?"

"Yes, into thinking you'd fainted and were lying somewhere in the dark," he said. "I thought you wanted to see the chamber?"

"Lead on, my gallant savior," she teased, taking his arm again. "And put out that light!"

They were three-quarters of the way down the staircase, and not once had a spectral being crossed their path. "That settles it," Riddle said dismissively.

"Yes," she agreed. "Clearly, the sentries were on drugs."

"I was going to say drunk, but that works too." As he spoke, however, a figure passed through the closed door of the chamber. "Minerva!" he whispered excitedly, "did you see-"

"I did," she whispered back. "Hurry, let's catch it-" and she left him for the second time that night, running down the stairs -oblivious that she had left her wand with Riddle- and after the figure, which flew along the corridor to another room. "It's headed to the armory," he heard Minerva call.

Riddle couldn't help but smile as he ran after her. She was annoying, despicable, too morally rigid, and downright nosy, but absolutely enticing. Any other woman would never have let go of him so much as once in this location. "Don't get impaled," he called back, sliding to stop when he saw her standing before the open door, and the ghost inside, its head under its arm and a frightful scowl on its face.

Minerva backed up a few feet, stopping when she collided with his chest. "Oh, there you are, darling," she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Tom, this is the best outing ever." She curtsied to the ghost.

Riddle rolled his eyes, and, wand out, scrutinized the spirit. The clothes were right, from the grey damask gown to the ermine mantle. He turned to Minerva. "I'm not sure how to address her," he said to Minerva out of the corner of his mouth. "Tell me," he said slowly, "when you were living, were you Anne Boleyn herself?"

The ghost spoke, its voice accented. "I am she."

Minerva frowned. "How can that be? Only wizards or witches become ghosts-"

The specter laughed coldly. "Oh yes, of that I'm aware."

Riddle turned to Minerva as the metaphorical light bulb of epiphanic moments shone above his head. "She was a witch! It did say in the records that Henry married her due to sortilege, only I always took it to mean 'deception' rather than spells-"

The face grew livid. "I take it the both of you are among those that share our preciously rare abilities, wizard and witch of a future era! But hear this, sir," she said to Riddle, "I engaged in no such sortilege, of either meaning, to wed the king. It was an honor and a burden bestowed on me by his will and his alone. I was the only magical child born to my parents, and it was a secret shared betwixt them and I, the Lord rest their souls! I hid the knowledge from his Grace as well, knowing what would become of me should he know, though at times I would bewitch him and ease my sad existence. 'Twas only when I was condemned to imprisonment and death for false reasons that I decided to return in my spectral form, the imprint of my departed soul, to forever haunt him and foist on him the misery he once foisted on me. The Devil take him! I am glad his last Queen outlived him. But do not accuse me falsely! I will not take it quietly sir, not from anyone anymore."

Riddle and Minerva exchanged looks. "How terrible for you," Minerva said. "I'm sure you're quite justified in your feelings, but Tom meant nothing by it."

The ghost looked at Minerva. "The lady speaks well," she said. "How many years past is it since my death?"

"More than four hundred years," Riddle said. "We came to see if your existence was the stuff of legend."

"You have the same look in your eyes as did his Grace, that devil in human form," the ghost said slowly, looking at him. "My lady, trust him not."

Minerva winced. "I..." She shrugged and turned to Riddle. "Tom, you're much more attractive than Henry VIII, I promise."

He laughed. "Little did I expect to be insulted by Anne Boleyn's ghost. I assure you, I would never do anything to Minerva," he said, drawing her close. "We'd better head out, Minerva, we've seen what we came in search of."

Minerva waved to the ghost. "Do try and contact some of the other headless spirits! Every Halloween they have the headless hunt, and it's said to a good deal of fun."

The ghost frowned. "I... I will look into it. I thank you, Madame, and even your courtier. Of all those who have visited my deathplace, none have been half so comely, nor well-mannered."

"Minerva, let's go," Riddle said firmly, and tugged her away. On the way to top of the tower, he teased her about her insistence on conversing with the dead. "I don't think there's a headless hunt in her area," he said, once they reached the top.

"Perhaps not, but I felt bad for her," she replied. "Now, what's next on the agend-" Her words were roughly cut off when he seized her and pulled her close, jumping off the tower's edge and hurtling to the ground in the pitch black of the night. At the last minute, he stopped their rapid descent, laughing aloud at her shocked scream and subsequent whoop of delight. The instant his feet were firmly planted in the grass he lifted her up and kissed her, feeling her hands at the back of his head and at his cheek and her face brushing his. He pulled back, feeling as elated by the drop as she seemed.

"Ever had a dive like that in Quidditch?"

"Not at all," she said delightedly. "Let's go back to the city, though. I want to see more of the night life." And once they were back to traversing the streets, she turned to him again, eyes shining, and repeated, "Best outing ever."

It didn't last, unfortunately.

"What's going on over there?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. Her hand found his wrist, clenching it tightly. "Tom, what is going on?"

Riddle felt a bit surprised when he realized that she was referring to his Death Eaters, tearing through the Muggle part of London with little care to who saw them. He was certain he had told them to hold off their operation until the following weekend, that he had pressing engagements and could not be present, and that he needed to oversee their carrying out of their assignment as well as do his reconnaissance before they did anything. Things had not gone as they were supposed to, to his great displeasure, and he felt a sense of rage building up in his chest that he hastily tried to quell when he felt Minerva's hand on his. "I..." he began, uncertain how he could possibly distract her. Her damnable morals had gotten in the way more than once before. His ethics lectures had sold his ideas of pureblood supremacy -a shield for his true aims, but effective nonetheless- and had been accepted with little questioning by the best and brightest of Slytherin house, and yet he had made little leeway with Minerva. "I don't think it's safe to be out in the middle of this, ma minette," he tried again. "Let's-"

"Oh god, Tom, those are Muggles! They- they can't know what's happening!"

"Muggles?" he repeated. Damn those morons, they don't even know what their assignment is.

She turned to him, her green eyes wide with anger and shock. "We have to-"

"I can't let you do that, Minerva," he said, pulling her against him. "Come on, let's-"

"No! Can't you understand, they don't know what's going on!" Her eyes were starting to fill with tears from frustration, even as she raised her voice at him in anger. "Let's go, there are children in there-" and she pulled her wand out from her purse.

"Minerva, that's far too dangerous!" The last thing he needed was for her to get too close and realize who exactly the 'terrorists' were. He was fairly certain Dolohov would have forgotten a Sticking charm for his mask again...

"Fine, don't help me," she snapped, and with a slicing motion, she inflicted a stinging hex on his hand that imprisoned her. Swearing, he let go, drawing his own wand as he ran after her.

0o0o0o0

Minerva was familiar with the rush of adrenaline that accompanied any high-stress activities, thanks to her many years of Quidditch, but nothing had prepared her for this, with curses flying over her head in the London night, aimed not at her but at innocent civilians surrounding her, children who likely thought they were nothing but a bizarre sort of poorly aimed firecracker-

A jet of light hit a small boy. As it neared his face she saw his small eyes widen, first in delight, then in fear.

She looked away before it made impact.

The boy's assailant stood opposite her, a mask pulled over his face and a flash of white teeth apparent in the darkness as he laughed. "What level of sadism is this?" she murmured, steeling herself as she began to duel, refusing to be moved by the crumpling Muggles around her. "Where the hell is Tom?" she gasped as at last her opponent's spells broke through her shield charm, jarring her wand arm and knocking her back a few paces. The rest of the men had congregated, their original pursuits forgotten and the Muggles left to burn, their attention now focused on the witch who had decided to fight against them. "I - will - never - let him live this down," she said, her words strangled as she slowly was overpowered by the assailants. "Very brave, isn't it, ten against one?" she managed, swaying on her feet.

Dimly, she thought she heard her name. Took him long enough, she thought, before her own scream ripped the cold night air as the Cruciatus curse hit her in the small of her back and she collapsed, her head hitting the cobbled streets violently as she did so.

0o0o0o0

Riddle swore in disgust when he saw that rather than attend to the wounded, Minerva had decided to take on his Death Eaters in a streak of selfless gallantry. "Fucking Gryffindors," he muttered as he ran after her. This would prove to be a difficult incident to explain away.

As if the world had decided to not only inconvenience him with mortality and incompetent Death Eaters to work around, said Death Eaters now surrounded Minerva, apparently oblivious to the fact that the woman who challenged them was none other than the woman they had spent an evening with at Cygnus'. The sheer stupidity was appalling... there ought to be a law, he decided. And naturally Minerva was not one to accept that she was outnumbered and get out. No, the idiotic woman decided to stay and go out in a blaze of glory if that's what it took to save a few Muggles. How her own injuries benefitted anyone, he would never know. It would have been more economical and more effective if she had just helped the Muggles directly, rather than pull her martyr act. This would be the first and last time he became intimate with an observant Christian.

When the Death Eaters encircled her, he had rather hoped at least Cygnus would recognize her -they had after all been in class together- and signal the others to let her go discreetly. But naturally that wasn't the case. In a sense it was a sign of his effectiveness as a leader to have instilled such a sense of brute authority and sadism over those weaker, but really? When the victim in question was the dark lord's amour? The notion that these were men to fill various offices in his new world order struck him as a potentially bad idea for the first time. Minerva swayed in her place as she continued to duel, and he could tell it was only a matter of time before things could spiral out of control. But his temper was rising, and as he neared her and witnessed the stupidity of all assembled firsthand at such close range it boiled over.

He felt her name leave his lips even as he raised his wand, his own voice sounding mildly alarmed even as the jet of light from his Cruciatus curse sailed between two of the men and struck her back. He was quite certain she had turned slightly as she fell, more certain that they had locked eyes a moment before her head made a hideous crack as it struck the pavement.

In a moment he had pushed between the two black robed figures that stood between him and her, and he knelt beside her, gingerly lifting her up. "What an abysmal display," he said coldly, his voice deadly calm. "I made my instructions clear. This was to be done the following weekend."

"My Lord," Malfoy said hurriedly, "if I may-"

"Impedementa." Malfoy fell back, caught by two of the Death Eaters. "This degree of insensitivity to my plans, this degree of insubordination, this flagrant disrespect for my explicit instructions-" He shook his head, his lip curling. "There are punishments I could devise for you, consequences that ill befit even these Muggles that you terrorized despite my instructions. Tell me, what would you do in response to such... disobedience, Yaxley?"

"I... I don't know, my Lord."

"You don't know," he repeated, voice soft. "And you couldn't stop there, could you? I thought you knew better than to interfere with as delicate a matter as winning her over," he said, looking at Minerva, limp in his arms. "But Lord Voldemort is merciful. I will forgive this transgression.. for now. And a repeat offense will not be tolerated. Just as I forgive, I do not forget." He turned to leave, blasting aside Dolohov and Nott, too slow to get out of his way. "Fucking incompetency," he said, the first of many times that night.

0o0o0o0

"Minerva."

It was a new experience, Minerva decided, to wake up in Tom's bed in London, her entire body sore and bruised, and her head throbbing from the night before. It wasn't that the concept was completely outlandish. But the manner in which she'd arrived in this situation was fairly unexpected, to say the least. Still more odd was seeing Tom sitting on the edge of the bed, brow furrowed in concern, long fingers gently caressing her hand that lay on top of the coverlet. "Well, look who decided to show up." She tried to sit up, grimacing and lying back again. "How long have I been out?"

"You moron. You insipid, damnable, disgustingly brave moron."

She smiled weakly. "That's much more in character. Have you been here the whole time?" He didn't answer, instead turning his attention to her temple, running his wand over the area carefully as though to check for damage. "Care to tell me what you're doing, Tom?"

"I don't associate with stupid people," he said tersely. "Good, you're doing a little better. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that someone needed to help those people," she said, easing her head back onto the pillows. "What I didn't think through was exactly how I'd go about that... in retrospect, that was not one of my smarter moves."

He snorted, not deigning to reply, but instead finishing his check on the status of her concussion and arranging her straggling hair into some semblance of order. "Oh no, it was brilliant, really. Taking on ten or more veritable madmen by yourself. Genius. By the way, your arm is broken."

"I had you as backup," she said sweetly, ignoring the sarcasm. "Even if you took your own time in helping me. How exactly did you get me out of there? I saw you right as that sod used the Cruciatus curse on me at point blank range. Remind me to report him later."

"I have my ways," he said, "and I may have to show you at some point, if you insist on being so stupid in these situations. Fearless and determined, perhaps, but indisputably stupid."

"Tom," she said, fixing her eyes on him and taking his hand, "thank you. Really. I knew you'd come after me, despite that Slytherin tendency towards self-preservation."

"How could I leave you to fend for yourself? You're rubbish at dueling."

"Ignoring that," she said, grimacing as an attempt to roll her eyes brought on a new wave of pain at the base of her skull. "But really, thank you. If you hadn't intervened, they'd be looking for a new Transfiguration teacher by now, and you and I both know how arduous that process can be."

"Don't say that," he said suddenly, a curious expression on his face as he seized her shoulders.

"What?"

"Don't joke about something like that. I don't want to think about what may have happened..." His voice trailed off, and he averted his eyes, decidedly staring at her hair as though it was much more fascinating than it really was, running his hands through it carefully, not wanting to aggravate her injuries.

"Tom," she said gently, "I'm fine. I'm perfectly all right."

"Oh, you say that."

"Darling," she said, turning his face to hers, "it's fine, nothing happened, thanks to you."

"Obviously," he said, looking away again, determinedly playing with her hair. "Whoever said something was the matter?"

Minerva pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I really am grateful, Tom. I'm doing a poor job expressing it, I know."

"Do you want to know how to express it effectively?" he asked suddenly, locking his gaze on hers.

"Sure," she said, and half closed her eyes, expecting some sort of 'favor' to be in order.

She was surprised then, when he said, "Promise that you will never do that to me again." He cupped her cheek. "I mean that, too."

Minerva smiled, feeling very moved. "I promise, darling." She turned, brushing the palm of his hand with her lips. "Don't worry about me."

"I'll hold you to that, Minerva McGonagall." His tone became businesslike. "Now, I don't think you're in any shape to see Karajan in concert tonight.. it's nearly four and we'd have to be at the theatre by seven-thirty if we want to see it, and you're in no condition to Apparate."

"Nearly four?" she echoed in disbelief. "Well... I came with the intent of a piano concert and I don't think I'm going to pass it up so easily. Help me up, I need to shower."

"Listen to me," he said, irritated. "For once, take my suggestion. Spend the evening quietly and rest a bit, or you'll face uncomfortable questions when we return to Hogwarts tomorrow night."

"Damn it Tom, I want a stirring rendition of a Chopin nocturne." She pulled herself up, using his arms as supports so she was half-sitting. "At least let's go tomorrow."

"I'll decide if you're able or not. And if there are any riots in the streets, we're staying in. You are not going to get another concussion." He checked her head again, running his wand along the length of the bruise that blackened her temple and extended into her hair for a sizable distance.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"That thing... with the wand."

"Oh, it's a method of checking for any tissue damage that I invented," he said coolly. "You don't need to be a healer to know basic first aid, Minerva."

"Oh, and of course you did nothing for the concussion itself. As if I'll believe that." She smiled knowingly. "When will you learn to stop upstaging me?"

"Probably when you learn to start listening to me. And yes, you'll be fine with rest by Sunday, though I'm not sure if the bruise will have cleared up by then."

"Touché." She sank back onto the pillows. "I hate to be needy, but help me up? I really want to shower, Karajan or no."

"Fine." Ignoring her outstretched hand, he carefully lifted her, supporting her head with a hand at the nape of her neck and a sudden glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Want help with the shower, too?"

"Ha ha. I think I'll manage."

It was getting easier to play the role of attentive lover, Riddle decided. Clearly, even the most sensible and independent of women were still susceptible to the whole protective act. Yes, he had made that little inconvenience into quite the asset; Minerva's forced light demeanor did little to hide the depth of how she felt towards his soft advances. She had appeared quite touched when he had feigned distress at the idea of her death, and it was obvious that she was flattered by the attention she received in her injured state. Perhaps his Death Eaters' incompetence had resulted in unforeseen benefits.. the fact that his heroic rescue was unplanned made the whole thing all the more believable to Minerva as a freak accident. It had certainly helped a great deal in his quest to gain her complete trust. But it made breaking the news of what the Death Eaters did still more difficult. Perhaps he could pass them off as a fascist political party? No, that was what Grindlewald tried to do... he had to be original.

Ah well. He'd find a solution eventually.

Back in the bedroom after managing to dress herself with minimal assistance, Minerva inched her way back onto the pillows, closing her eyes. "Okay. We should probably write to Dumbledore about this... I'm quite certain that this particular attack wasn't an isolated incidence. There have been stories about things of this nature in the papers lately, and we may have gotten a lead onto who the culprits are."

Riddle was startled. "What can Dumbledore do about it, exactly?"

"Oh, he has influence in Ministry matters, you know. He could likely get something done." She played with her damp hair. "Why? What would you do about it?"

"Forget about it for now, and focus on keeping your activity to a minimum."

"A valid point," she conceded. "Any idea on the status of my arm?" she said, as Riddle zipped up the skirt.

"Haven't checked it yet." He chuckled softly. "How will you explain that to everyone?"

"Um, I'll just say what happened, obviously." She snorted. "Stop acting like this is something we're never to speak of again."

"Maybe it should be."

Minerva smiled. "You're taking the whole thing worse than I am," she said softly. "Nothing happened, Tom, isn't that what's important?"

'Nothing happened'? His Death Eaters nearly exposing themselves, completely bungling his operation, and seriously injuring a key person in his plans did not constitute nothing happening. But he feigned a sigh, combing his fingers through her wet hair and said, "I suppose you're right." He tilted his head. "I still haven't received a proper thank you, you know."

"Well, I wasn't in any condition to give you one."

"Feeling up to it now?"

"Maybe." She pulled him down on top of her with a mischievous smile, as best as she could with one hand. "I could give it a go."

0o0o0o0

The cool evening breeze blew in through the open window, lifting the blinds and causing them to jounce against the sill. "Do you want me to close that?" Riddle asked softly, shifting his position to look at her.

"No, I like it. It's... soothing." She tilted her head, a coquettish expression on her face. "You're being really unlike yourself."

"Forgive me my concern for your newly fragile state."

Minerva laughed. "I thought it was sweet."

"God forbid."

"Really, though," she persisted, "you've been nothing but thoughtful, and attentive, and... well, Tom, I'm starting to think you're up to something."

"Impossible," he murmured into her hair, her head against his chest. "I thought I was the epitome of straight-forward, compliant behaviour."

"Yes, because raiding absinthe from Dippet's office isn't underhanded, or anything."

Riddle inhaled the scent of her shampoo. "Is that lilac?"

"Oh, nice subject change. And yes, it is." Minerva frowned, curling her hands around his shirt.

"My memory of that evening around the time I fell is very fuzzy. I have half a mind to see Poppy about it over at Saint Mungo's."

"You had a severe blow to the head," Riddle said easily. "I'm sure it will all come back to you. What do you remember?"

"Oh, dueling those men, obviously," she said slowly, "and then someone hit me with a cruciatus curse, and I fell. I think it was one of the men behind me."

"Hmm. Did you make any sudden movements that would prompt them to do that?"

She frowned. "Yes, I turned back a moment. I heard you call me."

"Is that all you remember?" he asked intently. This last answer would tell him just how effective his memory charm was.

"Yes, I think that's it," she said without a moment's hesitation. "You called me, one of the men had the cruciatus on me, and I blacked out before I hit the ground." She laughed. "The concussion is an accessory, when you look at it that way."

Riddle smiled back, satisfied. "As is the broken arm."

"No, that happened during the duel. But I wasn't sure if it was broken at the time."

They were silent for a few moments, Minerva playing with the buttons on his shirt idly. "Why did seeing that upset you so much?" he asked at last.

"My father was a Muggle, Tom."

Riddle ran a hand through her hair. "Why do you say 'was'? Did he die?"

"Killed, actually, by one of Grindelwald's followers in a mix-up following the end of his reign of terror in '45." She bit her lip, pulling at stray threads on his shirt, tensing as his arm enveloped her. "He had quite a bit of exposure to magic, and even then he was... He had no control over what happened to him, and was completely helpless-"

"Shhh," Riddle said softly, kissing her temple. "You don't have to talk about it. But Minerva, the Avada Kedavra is the most humane, it's so quick-"

"They turned his blood to acid."

He stopped. "What?"

"They made his blood highly acidic, with a pH of hydrochloric acid. Do you know what that does to you?"

"I...can imagine ." Riddle was unnerved; as far as he knew, that had been a spell of his own invention and shared with precious few. He did not like being the second to discover anything.

"By the time someone -someone who could help- got to him, it was too late." She refused to turn her face to his, and he could feel her holding back tears against his chest. Her breath came in soft gasps, as she tried to moderate her breathing without seeming obvious.

"Minerva, don't cry," he said, stroking her back and hair. "I don't want to see you this upset," he added, feeling he may as well do the thing properly.

She lifted her face to his. "Do you want to file for sainthood now, or later?" she asked in a wavery voice with an attempt at a smile.

He closed the gap between them. "Sainthood is no fun, ma minette," he whispered. They were still again.

"What a wasted Saturday," she said at last. "I'm afraid I spoiled our plans, didn't I?"

"Hardly. Again, you're incandescently beautiful when you're angry," he said evenly. "And even though I never want to see you do it again, you were terrific when you confronted those men."

She smiled. "Thank you. I'll remember to use that as my excuse whenever we argue after this." She paused. "The Tower of London was nice."

"Very. So was meeting Ann Bolyn's ghost. That was a history lesson I hardly expected."

She sat up. "I think I'm going to dry my hair." As she pushed herself to sitting, her hand pushed Riddle's shirt open to one side, exposing a jagged line of scar tissue. Mildy alarmed, she unbuttoned it a bit further, finally making short work of the buttons and spreading the fabric wide. She leaned over him.

"Minerva, I am not going to make love to you when your arm is broken and you're weak from a duel. Stop that right now."

"It's not that, it's... that. I thought it was only a small..." She trailed off. "You only showed-"

"I didn't think it necessary to show you the entire thing," Riddle said nonchalantly. "It's a fairly ugly scar." He looked at her pointedly. "Muggle inflicted, I may add."

"Both sides have their victims and persecutors, Tom," Minerva said slowly, trailing her finger along the jagged length, from clavicle to pectoral.

"But which side has more, ma minette?" he asked her quietly, guiding her hand to the thickest line of scar tissue, and then to the Dark Mark on his arm. "Which side deserves more?"

She didn't know how to answer. "I'm not sure.. there's no hard and fast rule for that."

"I think I am." He buttoned his shirt up again. "I think we both are." Standing, he pulled her to her feet. "Need any help with the hair?"

"I'll manage. I'm a lot better by now. Amazing what rest and no concert can do for you."

"Tom?" she asked later, hair freshly dried, "How can you call the killing curse humane?"

He kissed her, taking her face in his hands as he answered. "Because I saw it used."

She swallowed. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

She curled up against him. "I don't blame you."

Unseen by Minerva, Riddle smiled. There's a start.

A/N: Oooooh yes, now HERE'S a chapter I'm rather proud of, even if it's like a book long. Shout-outs are in order to my wonderful friends who gave me the inspiration for that Tower of London bit. You both are so creative! Anyway, hope you all enjoyed, and here's to more updates in the near future! Please review!