Good evening. Very late but wanted to post this, as it will answer some questions from some reviews. Lion's Wing, LOVED your review. Ah, so MANY great reviews-juliaa, Relent1ess, TheNewCompanion, ah, so many of you! I will try to reply to reviews tomorrow. Basically you will ALL find something in this chapter. More to come later in the work week perhaps, although it's work. Thank you all, you are brilliant readers & reviewers! A big shout out to all who have favorited or followed this week too! Enjoy!

"Harry, you have to get out of here."

Luna Lovegood's ethereal voice pierced his consciousness at last, causing Harry to turn from the scene of devastation before him.

"We can't give this up," he said fiercely, his hands gripping the stone rail of the cloister around the courtyard. The Weasleys were making arrangements to take Fred's body away, Slughorn and Flitwick had organized teams to comb the grounds for the injured, and Madame Pomfrey was hard pressed to treat the injuries that were already presenting in the infirmary.

"Harry. It won't be long before they come back. You must go."

"Right," Harry said. He had been so certain that Voldemort would fall today. He still wasn't sure what happened during the duel—he only knew that Voldemort had managed to break it off, vanishing as quickly as his Death Eaters, a satisfied expression on his face. Harry knew that could not be a good thing, but thus far they had not seen anything indicating some decisive event. "Does Professor McGonagall have a list of the missing yet?"

"No, Harry."

The voice was different, kinder. Harry turned to look at Ginny, her face etched with sorrow but also the stubborn resilience that was such a part of her. "Dad wants to talk to you. McGonagall has found something odd."

Harry nodded briefly to Luna, pressing his hand to her shoulder momentarily on his way past with Ginny. Professor Sprout was taking care of the burials with help from Kingsley Shacklebolt. She had chosen the Whomping Willow, as it would be difficult for the graves to be disturbed. He idly took in the sight of Sprout carefully lowering someone into a grave. The wind ruffled the sheet and he realized it was Parvati Patil.

"Harry." It was a gentle reminder, and Harry realized that he had stopped. He slammed his fist down on the stone, welcoming the different pain. He pushed it aside and began walking purposefully again, reaching Professor McGonagall, Remus Lupin, and Arthur Weasley in the front hall.

"Harry, Minerva has found that all of the portraits have been frozen," Remus said without preamble. He looked exhausted, streaks of dirt and blood across his face.

"Nothing I have tried will release the spell," Minerva McGonagall added. She hardly looked any better herself, but she was still clinging to the dignity that was as much a part of her person as a Weasley's red hair.

"I spoke to Dumbledore, you know," Harry said. "Before…all of this. Before I went to the forest. It must have been done since then."

"I don't know if there are any other portraits of him," Minerva said.

"It would be very helpful if you could tell us what happened, Harry, but that can wait until we get everyone to safety. St. Mungo's is out, and we will be hard pressed to find safe houses for all present, not to mention a place large enough to allow Poppy to care for those who will require continued treatment." Arthur Weasley said.

"So we couldn't reinstate the wards?" Harry asked, even though he knew it was not possible.

"I'm sorry, Harry. Everything is too higgledy piggledy to attempt it, and I don't think it would be wise. We would just be making things easier for him the next time."

Professors Flitwick and Slughorn, who had arrived mid-conversation but said nothing, now piped up.

"I recommend Northumbria. There are caves there which would suffice as shelter for those who are able bodied while we seek more adequate arrangements," said Filius Flitwick. His glasses were askew but he looked ready to go another few rounds, every inch the dueling champion.

"There is an abandoned Muggle sanitorium in Reading that would suffice as a hospital. Muggles avoid it like the plague due to certain unpleasantries, and we could protect it until the number of patients dwindles sufficiently to rehouse them elsewhere," Professor Slughorn offered, his voice tired.

"Thank you, Professors," Harry said, and Professor Slughorn nodded sadly.

"What about the missing?" Minerva asked, beating Harry to it.

"Luna is putting together a list with young Mr. Thomas," Remus said, then hesitated. "Harry, I'm sorry, but Hermione and Neville appear to be missing."

"Right," Harry said, his heart clenching painfully. "So two of the bravest and smartest people I've ever known are missing, and possibly dead, but he makes it through practically unscathed."

All of their eyes darted to Draco Malfoy, who was sitting on the staircase, looking no worse for the wear other than being a little tired. Oddly, Tonks was sitting next to him and talking to him in low tones.

"Best to consider moving along," Arthur said. "Draco can come along with my family."

"No," Harry said. "I want him where I can keep an eye on him. And I've got a few questions for him about the family homestead."

Arthur exchanged a look with the other adults, but nothing more was said on the matter. Wherever Harry hid now, he would not be alone. They would keep an eye on how Harry responded to Draco.

It took quite a bit of arranging, but eventually portkeys started being created and people began vanishing to the cold sanctuary of Northumbria or houses that were known to still be safe under the Fidelius charm. Professor Slughorn went to the temporary hospital, making several trips to pack an increasing number of potions ingredients from the storeroom. He tasked the remaining house elves with moving the rest to an unplottable part of the dungeon. Only someone who knew precisely what to ask for would be able to get the house elves to retrieve them.

When Death Eaters were spotted in the Forbidden Forest by the centaurs, it was time to cut their losses, the portraits still frozen in their frames on the walls of the strangely empty castle. As the last of the Order portkeyed away, no one heard a lone portrait shouting in the greenhouses.

"My lord." Lucius kneeled and bowed, his arm across his chest respectfully. He had repaired some of the damage to his position with the capture last week, but he was not yet entirely back in the Dark Lord's good graces with Draco missing. After the Dark Lord's revelation, the Death Eaters as a whole were fascinated, repulsed, and morbidly curious about how Lord Voldemort came to be married to the most famous mudblood of the day. Lucius hoped he would be able to discover something during this meeting, but it was always a dicey proposition to try to wheedle information out of the Dark Lord.

"Lucius, so pleased you could join us," Lord Voldemort replied, as if Lucius had any choice in the matter. However, the Dark Lord was always one for observing the formalities of courtesy unless he was seriously pissed off.

Bellatrix sniffed at him as he took his seat at the table. Yaxley, MacNair, Dolohov—all were already there, sitting stiffly as they waited for the meeting. After Lucius was seated, Severus Snape came in, performing the necessary nod of obeisance before taking his own seat at the table. You could always tell who was in the Dark Lord's favor by how much groveling they performed before taking their seat. It was more telling who was not present: Rodolphus, the Carrows, Gibbon, as well as Draco. Lucius would have been beside himself if Narcissa hadn't assured him she had seen Draco alive during the duel—she had just been unable to get to him before they were all ordered out.

"Good morning, my faithful servants," Lord Voldemort began pleasantly. He folded his hands together on the table, then, after a brief pause, fixed his attention on Yaxley.

"Yaxley. Please bring me up to date on the actions of Thicknesse and the reorganization of Ministry departments to those more amenable to our agenda."

And so the meeting proceeded as such a meeting normally would, with everyone present wondering about the mudblood girl who was presumably still alive somewhere in the Manor, and their lord who had specifically requested her, and married her. An hour and a half later, Voldemort seemed satisfied enough with the progress in the Ministry, as well as the clean up from the aftermath of the battle for Hogwarts.

"Severus, I expect the school to be fully secured by this evening. Please tell me if the foundational wards are damaged. I can repair them if necessary."

"Of course, my lord. As soon as the rest of the debris is cleared, I will be able to ascertain the state of them."

Lord Voldemort nodded and swept his gaze over the assembled Death Eaters. "Is there anything else of which I should be made aware?"

These were the types of questions which they all hated. It was perfectly clear to all present what the Dark Lord was referring to, but it was impossible to tell whether he would cruciate the person who dared to ask, or celebrate their truthfulness for telling him what everyone else was saying. Lucius was considering that he perhaps should speak, when Bellatrix cleared her throat and said what they were all thinking.

"Well, my lord, there are quite a few individuals who are wondering how you came to be married to that mudblood girl." Bellatrix's tone was only a tiny bit whiny, which, for her, represented a remarkable amount of self-control.

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that descended on the room. Lord Voldemort's wand was in his hand so quickly that none of them observed him doing it, and he stood to circle behind Bellatrix's chair. Lucius tensed, but this was not a clear indication of punishment…yet. It merely meant that the Dark Lord had been waiting for it, like a lion waiting for its prey at the watering hole.

"So you've all been wondering about my marital state, have you? I have to wonder if you would appreciate the same level of scrutiny in your own personal lives—" his wand flashed toward the unsuspecting MacNair, who crumpled from his chair from the painful entry of the Dark Lord into his mind.

"Or perhaps you, Dolohov?" His wand hopped and Dolohov stiffened in his seat, his fingernails literally gouging the wood in his attempt to stay in his seat under the force of Lord Voldemort's Legilimency.

"No?" he flicked his wand away and turned his hard gaze on them. "Everything which I do has a purpose. Miss Granger, as was, represents a very useful acquisition. All of you know better than to question me."

To demonstrate, he pulled Bellatrix from her chair with his Cruciatus, causing the witch to bite her lip, a bloody foam forming before he ended the curse, leaving her panting on the floor.

"Do not disrespect me or my wife again. I expect you know what this means for those not privileged enough to be personally tutored by my wand."

Lord Voldemort's voice was dangerously dark, and each of them knew exactly what he meant—any lesser Death Eater daring to bring it up would die. That word would certainly spread like wildfire, which is probably precisely what the Dark Lord intended, Lucius thought to himself.

Nagini, who had slithered into the room while Lord Voldemort was talking, began hissing at him in Parseltongue.

She is awake, and refusing to eat.

I will be right there to educate her, Lord Voldemort hissed back, and the snake slithered among the feet of the Death Eaters, a threatening gesture that they all interpreted correctly.

A flick of his wand saw Bellatrix and MacNair forcefully deposited back in their chairs.

"I trust I have made myself clear?"

They all nodded.

"I shall take great delight in informing you of how this is another nail in the coffin of the Order at another time. At present, my wife requires instruction."

Without another word, Lord Voldemort turned and left the room. Lucius' eyes flicked to meet Severus' briefly, a silent agreement that they needed to discuss this. More could be said where it was safe to do so.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Hermione stopped struggling with the tiny house elf who had been attempting to force soup into her, the pale creature surprisingly strong for her size.

"I is trying to feeds her Master but she won't eat!" the elf cried, tears threatening in her eyes.

"Leave," Voldemort ordered, the elf blinking away without hesitation. "I can see that you are determined to make your adjustment here as difficult as possible."

"You've left me incarcerated here for days on end," Hermione retorted. "If your aim is to kill me from boredom, you are succeeding."

Lord Voldemort smirked as he drew closer. Hermione backed up into the couch, then there was no room to negotiate away from him. "So what you're saying is that you would prefer my company to none?"

Hermione stood silent, and he cocked his head. "You are fretting because you are not receiving your memories as quickly as you would like."

Hermione turned away. She hated that it was entirely his playing field. Her mind still felt fuzzy, incomplete. "What would you know of it?" she asked in a low voice.

There was a spark that seared her when he grasped her hand and smoothly ran his other hand up to her shoulder, beneath her robe. "You haven't been allowed to use your magic, and you haven't allowed yourself this," he remarked, his eyes flicking upward to meet her own. "I would have felt it if you had sought me out. You are not only incomplete, you are stifled."

"Give me back my wand then," Hermione said doggedly. He continued to stroke her arm, aware of just how the frissons of pleasure were disconcerting her.

"Perhaps I might consider it, at times…if you admit you want to be in my company," he said smoothly.

"Relying on Stockholm Syndrome a bit too much, aren't you?" Hermione snapped, and his hold tightened on her arm.

"Would you prefer to be left alone? Or are you going to stop behaving like a petulant child and work toward the things you desire?"

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, focusing herself. Voldemort felt the familiar upswell of her magic as it began to seek out his own. He had a brief warning when it changed in flavor, for lack of a better description, as Hermione threw an incredibly focused amount of Heka at him. He was able to deflect some of it, leaving a smoldering hole in the carpet, and absorbed the rest with a bit of effort. He released her hand and grabbed her waist instead, pulling her flush against him where she struggled ineffectively for a few seconds before ceasing, her breathing hard as she stared past his ear, refusing to meet his eyes.

"There's my hellcat," Voldemort purred into her ear, leaning down to do so and causing his breath to feather against her neck. "I had wondered at your calm acquiescence with the terms of your position, but I see you have been practicing. That was quite good. Shall I give you an equal taste, my sweet?"

Hermione could feel his magic building to answer hers, a far darker upswell with sharp edges and precision that had not been there when he had played with her before.

"Why ask if you're going to do it anyway?" she said, and he smiled at that.

"Fair point, pet." Hermione could feel it the second he turned it loose on her, the sensation akin to a thousand small cuts across her magical consciousness, followed by the sharp sting as he shredded her control of her own magic. It was more than uncomfortable, but not quite pain.

"I did warn you, didn't I?" he said quietly into her ear, his warm breath eliciting a shiver in response. "I will not tolerate this pretense that your life is not now, and forever will be, substantially different. I chose you as my mate. You will accept it."

The word was hissed in Parseltongue, a word that somehow sounded almost pleasant. Hermione dared to look at him even as her magic continued to wrestle with his. She was losing, but the fight itself mattered.

"What does that even mean? You cannot demand my acceptance in one breath and treat me as a child the next."

Voldemort knew she was wavering, both physically and mentally, but she was still being recalcitrant. He mentally set back his plans for a few days accordingly—he knew this was an important battle to win with his strong willed wife.

"Have it your way."

His voice was so maddeningly calm, almost…patient? Hermione's control of her magic, which had been evaporating steadily under his attack, finally slipped entirely, and everything breakable in the room exploded in a cacophony, all the candles guttering out as her energy spent itself wildly. She was exhausted instantly, and her head dropped to his chest as she began to cry. Lord Voldemort simply let her cry herself out, neither comforting her nor retreating from her. When her crying had subsided to small hiccoughs in the dark, he relit every candle in the room with a wave of his hand, then cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair again. "Look at me."

Hermione was confused by his response. On the one hand, he had ruthlessly stripped her magical energy. On the other, he let her cry on his chest and waited for her to finish. She said exactly what she thought: "I don't understand you."

"And you still wish to understand me, don't you? Despite everything you think you know, you still seek to know me," he observed, his fingers soft as they untangled themselves from her hair. "Mate does not translate well, and can mean many things. For now, know that our bond holds for me as well—I cannot harm you, or seek to do you harm by the hand of others."

"You have to protect me." Hermione remembered that term from the vows, the flash of fire in his eyes when he'd agreed to it.

"Yes. Including from yourself." He swept her off her feet and put her on the bed, leaning over her briefly. "Promise me that at no time will you do anything that will endanger our child."

"I cannot be very far along. It's possible that I could miscarry through no fault of my own," Hermione said, her heart pounding loudly. She really could not imagine being a mother yet, and if he was so fixed on having this child, it would probably serve the wizarding world at large if she did not have it. However, Hermione had done some thinking on the subject, and found she could not think about it in such a dispassionate light. It was her body and her child as well, and she knew nothing of what had occurred in this version of the future. It seemed foolish to contemplate such a drastic choice without all of the facts.

"That is a slim possibility, I will grant you. However, I have done everything possible to ensure that will not be the case," he said. "And since your health is tied to that of our child, you will eat."

It was a statement, not a question. Hermione acknowledged to herself that although it rankled, he was correct. Besides, the purpose of her refusal had been served—he had finally come to her himself. She had been almost going mad, seeing only that tiny house elf with no means of passing the time or even counting it properly.

"Yes."

Satisfied, he flicked the tray over with his wand and watched her take the first sip, then turned his attention to repairing all the items which she had broken in her loss of control. It was easily done, and he sat back in the armchair by the bed and regarded her as she ate. Still too thin, that overactive mind whirring, trying to parse his motives and determine her own response yet again. It was a wearisome game that he hoped would be unnecessary soon.

Hermione studied him as he repaired the room. He seemed tired, and as if he had many things on his mind. When he sat back down, it almost seemed that he wanted only to look at her. She wondered if he had any human feeling left. Everyone on the side of the Order believed that not to be the case, but here with him, she didn't know that she would say that. It seemed that he had buried it so deeply that few, if any, ever saw it—but as she stole another glance at him while she ate the last bite of her dinner, she was certain she couldn't say that any longer, because it wasn't true.

"I do desire your company," Hermione admitted as she pushed the tray away. Hadn't she decided that absolute honesty was the safest path with him? She sighed and turned her head to look at him. "I feel like hell."

"Deservedly so; but believe me, you know little of hell." It was a rebuke, but a mild one. She could tell he was pleased by her admission, even curious. She was pleased in turn when he asked about it. "Why have you decided you desire my company?"

"You cannot expect me to yield so readily to your curiosity," she replied, the air humming with a curious tension.

"Indeed not."

His eyes glowing like dark rubies hung beneath her eyelids as they drifted closed and she fell asleep. She may have murmured, "I miss your brown eyes," as Orpheus claimed her.

"Hermione!"

"Harry!"

Hermione screamed and struggled, sitting up straight in bed, her chest heaving. Reality slowly returned, and she registered a few things in rapid succession. One, the person who had called her name had not been Harry. Two, she wasn't in Bathilda Bagshot's home, confronting a very angry Nagini. Three, Voldemort was sleeping in the bed with her. Well, he had been, until she had woken him up with her nightmare. The warm weight on her lap was his arm.

"You were dreaming one of your memories," he said, his eyes glittering in the very dim light that suffused the room at his thought.

Hermione had suspected that he had been sleeping in the same bed, but every morning that she had awoken since arriving a week ago, she had been alone and the bed had been cold. Since he came to bed after she fell asleep, she only had the vague notion that he was sleeping there, too, but had no proof until now. The conscious knowledge of it made her uncomfortable and extremely aware of him.

"Yes," she said, her breath still irregular.

"Which one?" he asked, and Hermione had a decision to make. He was the only one who knew the events of both timelines, and this memory was frightening by its very stark difference from her original experience. It really wasn't a decision at all—he could probably use Legilimency easily on her now, given the amount of time he'd had to practice and hone that skill.

"At Bathilda Bagshot's house. I was bitten by Nagini," she said hoarsely.

"And that is when you woke up?" Voldemort asked, his voice laced with nuances that Hermione wanted to ignore, but could not.

"Originally it was Harry who was bitten, but this happened sooner. Was he bitten? Did he survive?" she asked, turning at the waist to face him. "Please. Tell me."

Voldemort looked at her thoughtfully. "I remember that. I was highly displeased with Nagini. She was not supposed to bite you that night, but snakes will be snakes."

"I don't remember what happened after that," Hermione said, and turned her face away from him. Voldemort noticed, of course, but simply watched her.

"Would it bother you so much to see the Boy Who Lived dead? I would think that recent events should have given you a very healthy dislike for prophecies."

"Stop taunting me!" Hermione said, looking at the unfeeling monster that she was married to. "Harry has been my best friend for seven years, of course I would be devastated if he were dead!"

Voldemort looked bored with her vehemence. "Well, he's not dead, despite multiple attempts on my part." The look of relief that flooded her face at this irritated him enough that he continued to goad her. "He is disgustingly adept at evading Death's sting. Killing him is a privilege I reserve for myself alone. Now go back to sleep."

Hermione flinched when he said that, and tried to get out of the bed. However, Voldemort's arm was unyielding, and she felt the added pull of a sticking charm unexpectedly keeping her adhered to the bed.

"Desist, wife. Go back to sleep."

"I don't want to sleep in the same bed as the man who just said he wanted to kill my best friend!" she hissed. Voldemort mentally sighed. This is why he'd avoided coming to bed when she was awake.

"Enough!"

Hermione heard the bedcurtains snap closed, but more than that she felt Voldemort's magical aura utterly envelope her, restraining her and gentling her far more effectively than a sticking charm and his arm. He leaned over her and captured her face in his hand, holding it gently but firmly.

"No more of this. You are still woefully ignorant of the current state of affairs. You are my wife, therefore you will sleep in my bed, regardless of your feelings on the subject. My intentions regarding Harry Potter, the Order of the Phoenix, Hogwarts, or any of the other individuals or organizations that interest you will remain a mystery as long as your proper past remains unknown to you."

Hermione felt short of breath again. It had nothing to do with the way he was leaning over her, and everything to do with the way her magic was falling over itself to entwine with his. It was disgustingly familiar, and Hermione wriggled uselessly to try to dislodge him. Finally she ceased, acknowledging the futility of the effort.

"Stop fighting it," Voldemort whispered. Hermione was unquestionably brave, but she had to get past what had gone before in this time. Until she was more up to date, she would remain skittish unless he showed a firm but patient hand. No one else would receive such patience from him. "You know this bond is unbreakable. Let it be, and accept that your magic is meant to be with mine."

"It's so much…more," Hermione finally whispered back. Her cheeks burned, perhaps because she felt ashamed for feeling that connection to him, for feeling comfortable sleeping beside him in his bed. She noticed that he only wore an old fashioned night robe of some kind, and wondered briefly if that were some kind of concession to her presence before thinking that he would no more make allowances for her than he would for anyone. He always did what suited himself.

"I have matured, as well as push my magic to extremes," Voldemort said. "You must do the same. I will not accept complacency from you—you must push yourself, so that your magic will grow. Then you will be better matched to me once again. Your pregnancy will help speed that process along."

He was still nearly suffocating her with his magic. Hermione realized that he was waiting for her to accept it.

Hermione was still partly caught in the fear from her nightmare, her heart still beating fast, her adrenaline levels up. Voldemort was able to slip into her mind so easily she knew he could see whatever he wanted. He watched her reactions to Nagini in the memory, then pulled out again as painlessly as he had entered. Hermione saw more flickers in his eyes, but he shared only one of his thoughts.

"You still drop your wand slightly with slicing hexes. You'll learn not to do that, starting soon. Perhaps tomorrow, if you've recovered sufficiently from your outburst earlier."

"You're going to train me?" Hermione was so surprised by that that she forgot to fight the instinctive draw of his magic, and instantly felt the calming and smoothing effect of their magics mixing and blending together. Lord Voldemort drew her hand against his chest as their magics mated again, his smooth, pale skin oddly warm, his heart beating beneath her hand. He finally let her go, satisfied now that she wasn't struggling against it, simply allowing it to exist. Hermione felt a flood of heat, making her almost physically hot from the rush of his magic as it melded with her own. She could feel his satisfaction, and she realized that she felt far more content than she wished to admit.

"I've already begun training you. But yes, I am going to continue. Now, go to sleep."

It wasn't a suggestion this time. Hermione felt herself be pulled under, a wordless sleeping spell. Satisfied by her even breathing, Voldemort returned to sleep.

"Get up lazybones."

The voice infiltrated her brain as easily as the magic that hummed and suffused the air, rousing Hermione to consciousness and awareness of the powerful wizard who was studying her. He was lounging lazily in the chair next to their bed, his posture negligently relaxed. She had seen many people disarmed by that apparently lazy posture in the past when he was younger. It was striking that beneath it all, he was still the same person at his core in some ways, and horribly twisted in others. Or was he? Hermione wasn't sure any more. She felt as if she were on that same tightrope, not knowing how he was going to respond to her. And yet…last night he had been almost tender with her.

"What do you want?" she asked bluntly, a hair tie flying to her hand from the nightstand so she could tie back her hair until she had time to see to her morning ablutions.

"Get dressed. I'm taking you to the practice room."

Hermione did jump out of the bed at that. Finally she would be allowed to leave this room! She knew he was smirking at her, but she didn't care. She was curious to see what other parts of the dwelling he would let her see. It was impossible to tell whether they were at Malfoy Manor, or elsewhere. She hoped to get some sort of clue by being allowed to leave the room that had become her prison.

"Oh now, it's hardly a prison, pet. You could have asked to leave it at any time in the past week."

"You're insufferable," Hermione said, going to the armoire to retrieve robes. She turned and found he was still watching her with his sharp eyed gaze, and she felt suddenly shy. "I'll…be right back," she blurted out, rushing to the bathroom. Inside she let her head drop to the door. He couldn't really want that, could he? It had only been to get her pregnant—Hermione cut herself off. She couldn't think about that. It was bad enough trying to figure out what he really wanted from her.

When she exited the bathroom he was carrying on another conversation with Nagini, who then slithered over her feet as she passed by. She refrained from cringing, but only just, and when she darted a look at Lord Voldemort it was clear he was amused.

"Shall we?"

Hermione exited the room behind him, letting her curious eyes take in the furnishings and as much of the layout of the dwelling as possible. They passed Narcissa Malfoy in the hall, who inclined her head with a soft, "My lord," as they passed. Her blue eyes locked with Hermione's briefly before she broke eye contact, continuing on her way.

"So we are in Malfoy Manor," Hermione said, and Voldemort turned his head briefly to reply.

"For now."

With that cryptic statement, he opened a set of double doors into a very large paneled room. Perhaps it had been a ballroom at one time, the large crystal chandeliers an opulent reminder of a more docile purpose.

"I will need my wand," Hermione said pointedly, looking at the Elder wand as it lay, quiescent, in the crook of his arm as he studied her.

"I am aware," Lord Voldemort replied, then drew forth his yew wand from his robes, flipping it to offer it to her. "Do you dare?"

He waited. He had her wand, and she knew it. He wanted her completely divorced from what she had lived before, and this was another tool to force that change. The question was whether she would choose that for herself, or retreat to the past.

"I know you wouldn't offer if you didn't think me capable," Hermione said with more ease than she felt.

His wand was formidable, with sharp points and a history steeped in dark deeds. She did not know if she dared to wield it. She crossed the two steps to him slowly, raising her eyes to meet his as she grasped the wand and felt that first meeting between wand and witch or wizard. This wand was sizing her up, and she did the same to it. It was hard and unyielding, like its master, but there was a tremendous rush associated with it as well. Her hair blew up briefly in a sudden breeze which died down equally quickly.

"I thought it might accept you," Voldemort said, his expression cool while his eyes were alive with many thoughts. "Try it."

Hermione looked around the room, eyeing the chandeliers thoughtfully before she cast nonverbally. A chandelier exploded in an arc of shattered crystal. She turned back to Lord Voldemort.

"What is different from your wand?" he asked precisely, and Hermione knew the lesson was well underway.

"It is much more demanding to master. I have to be absolutely intent on the spell for it to perform for me, but it is extremely powerful." Hermione would not deny that the wand was a powerful one, but the willpower of the caster and master of this wand must be absolute for it to give its allegiance. She sensed that the wand was grudgingly obeying her, but she had little doubt that it still worked beautifully for Tom. She realized that in offering the use of his wand, he was giving her another insight into him—which confused her even more. She would have to think about that again later.

"Correct," he said, circling behind her. "Now, I was trying to teach you control. I believe given your difficulties that it will be easier for you to learn how to cast again."

"What do you mean?"

He was close behind her again, almost a mirror of their practices for DADA. "You've already moved more toward wandless magic with Heka. Now you must relearn how to cast with a wand. You summon your magic, form the intent, channel it, and then summon the wand to direct it."

Hermione thought for a minute about this. "I don't follow you."

He drew alongside her, meeting her gaze with a sideways glance. "Put your hands on top of mine."

Hermione had to stand between his arms, pressed quite close to him, in order to put her hands on top of his. His wand poked her uncomfortably in the pocket of her robes, but she paid it no heed.

"Now," he said, his voice warm and close to her ear in the manner he seemed to prefer for instructing her, "Close your eyes and allow your magic to blend with mine. Then you will feel what I do before I cast."

She was a bit more prepared for that warm, dark rush as his magic claimed hers, the interweaving beginning to feel welcome, necessary. "Now," he breathed, and she felt him gather his magic, building it effortlessly before funneling it and fusing it through his wand. She heard the roar of flames, and felt the heat buffet against them.

"Open your eyes," he said, and Hermione saw a chimera of flames rampaging around them, a hydra morphing into a gryphon and then a snake.

"Fiendfyre," she breathed, and he answered her. "Yes. A difficult spell to control unless you have controlled your magic before casting."

She could feel him controlling it still, but it was hard to describe it, as if the wand was giving his natural control structure and form. He diminished it easily, the flames growing white hot as they shrank until, finally, he ended the spell and the flames disappeared with a shriek like the whistle of a tea kettle.

Hermione's eyes closed, her breath coming out in soft exhales through her open mouth. He was more intense, his magic endlessly deeper, flavored with nuances that made it even more attractive to her, like the perfect complement that drew out the depth in her own. He let his hands drop slightly and her own instinctively followed them, the magic that had risen unbidden at her fingertips in response to his casting playing with his aura. His breath hissed inward quietly, a telling reaction.

"You see."

His voice was a welcome interruption of the cascading effects that lingered between her hands and his own. Hermione knew that he was speaking of more than just the spell or the casting.

"Yes, I see."

She folded her arms in, bringing his with hers, an embrace that both accepted. This time she knew it when he pressed a kiss to her hair.