Good afternoon. All review replies are done I think, if you have an account. Thanks to juliaa and Anon, Relatela, and someone else whose name I can't recall but won't accept PMs-your reviews were lovely, and I loved reading them. I still have a head cold but wanted to post this today. Hopefully I haven't missed any glaring mistakes. I will also mention that those who are attentive to the differences between the books & movies should find enjoyment in this chapter-sort of a sly bit of humor/advantage-taking in here about that. Enjoy!

"Lucius."

"Severus." Lucius inclined his head, then looked around with a sardonic lift of his brow. "Oh, you tidied. You really shouldn't have."

Severus ignored the pointed remark about his house and swept ahead into the small room that passed for a study, books and potions notes scattered on nearly every surface. Snape's wand flashed and the only two semi-comfortable chairs in the room were cleared instantly, the notes littering their surfaces carefully moved in perfect arrangement to the desk.

"Tea? Or something stronger?" Severus despised entertaining, but there must be a reason for Lucius to deign to visit his humble abode and thus he felt obligated to make the offer.

"No thank you. I wouldn't turn down any spirits if you have them…" Lucius eyed a used cup with a rim of dried tea inside it and continued, "…then again, perhaps I should just stick to the purpose of my call."

"For Salazar's sake, you can perform a Scourgify if you doubt mine," Snape snarled, and Lucius' brows rose minusculely as he settled himself into the chair.

"Not at all, Severus, not at all…I wouldn't wish to insult you," Lucius said affably, when it was perfectly clear to both of them that he had just done so.

"What brings you to my doorstep?" Severus said, not liking the self-satisfied expression on Lucius' face.

"Well, as you know, I have been very disappointed with my avenues of inquiry concerning our lord's precipitous marriage to that jumped up mudblood. However, I recalled that Fudge had copies taken of all of Hogwarts records from the time when the Dark Lord attended the school up through nearly the present day. In his efforts to prove malfeasance on the part of Dumbledore, he created a very useful secondary repository of Hogwarts records, since so many were damaged in the battle."

"Yes, I was aware of your visits to the school," Severus said noncommittally. Since Lucius had been again appointed to the board of governors and he was still the headmaster, he had been kept run off his feet as usual trying to get the school into some semblance of order and assemble something resembling a decent teaching staff in advance of the school year's inception. He had a meeting with the Dark Lord later about that particularly thorny problem, and hoped he would accept his proposed solution.

"As you are aware, my father was in school with the Dark Lord," Lucius said, and Severus knew that now they were getting to the point. "As it happens, an unusual event occurred during his seventh year in school. Grindelwald was rampaging about the continent at the time, of course, so Hogwarts saw a larger than usual number of students transferring, particularly from Beauxbatons. There was one name on the records, however, which was erased. A seventh year student…sorted into Ravenclaw House. A female student. Now, why would that one particular name be erased?"

"Certainly an unusual blip in what are normally remarkably accurate records," Severus allowed coolly, while internally his mind considered where Lucius was going. "But such a change is permitted to the headmaster. It is possible that Dumbledore covered up a nasty little association to Grindelwald in this manner."

"Possibly," Lucius drawled. "However, I find it extremely interesting that so few of the Dark Lord's contemporaries are surviving today. I began looking at the faculty from the day, as well as the early Knights. None are known to be alive today save for Horace Slughorn…and many of the Dark Lord's classmates have likewise met with an early demise."

Severus sighed. "Really, Lucius, I thought better of you. There is the little matter of the dragon pox epidemic which carried off your own father. Additionally, several of his contemporaries were Kissed for their crimes after the Dark Lord vanished."

"True," Lucius replied, leaning back gingerly in the chair he occupied. "But please, do tell me how the Bloody Baron remembers a petite witch with long brown hair who was frequently in company with the Dark Lord?"

Now that made Severus straighten from his disinterested slouch. "It isn't a clear connection, Lucius."

"Not yet." Lucius' grey eyes glittered in the dim candlelight. "But I am hunting up my father's journals, Severus—and if I find so much as a hint that Hermione Granger was somehow transported back in time, I will not rest until I uncover every last detail."

Voldemort woke suddenly, Hermione's hand twitching on his chest the cause. His mind was instantly awake, a reflexive habit necessitated by the life he had sculpted for himself. She was breathing faster in her sleep—another nightmare. He cupped the side of her face with his hand, the contact enough to allow him to close his eyes and see what was disturbing her. It was actually quite interesting to him to see these memories from Hermione's eyes, as he only received reports that always exaggerated circumstances in his Death Eaters' favor. It was quite illuminating, and his followers had felt the effects of it as he identified and ruthlessly removed weaknesses in their dueling styles which had been exploited by these inexperienced children. It also taught him exactly how his Death Eaters liked to fabricate events, another useful piece of information.

Hermione was dueling with Dolohov now, and Voldemort knew the instant the memory shifted for her. As her mind grew more accustomed to the process of incorporating shifts in her memories, she would enter a state of almost lucid dreaming. She expected to be hit, the moment passing with a Stupefy instead of the curse she expected. She threw off the Stupefy quickly enough after Dolohov and Jugson rejoined the main fracas in the Death Chamber, the Longbottom boy chasing after her. They were quickly caught by the Death Eaters in the Chamber, Bella toying with Longbottom in order to force Harry to hand over the prophecy. Hermione was held by Dolohov at wandpoint, terrified until the Order arrived and shot everything to hell yet again.

Voldemort was bored and about to wake her up when he felt the difference in her mind again, the part that said this was different. He knew what this was, the ping of the elevator and sounds growing louder forming a curious juxtaposition with his own memories of those events. Hermione reached the atrium and stopped with a start, Harry's body thrashing quietly on the floor…this was interesting to him. Hermione's memory whirred with a haze of feelings—sorrow for Harry's suffering, the strength of feelings she had for her friend, a wish for Harry to keep fighting him, the unfairness that one boy should have to bear so much, and—there, there it was! Voldemort thought to himself, only a teenager and already so perceptive—a thought that this was only possible because Lord Voldemort made it so, had kept pursuing Harry over a prophecy, when he could have chosen to ignore Harry. His physical form coalesced from Harry's body before Hermione's eyes, the first time she had ever seen him. She was shocked by his appearance, but oddly it had been in his favor, her consideration that his physical form had been exaggerated, as he still looked remarkably human to her. The moment had slowed, spun out as Voldemort said something to Harry, then his attention snapped up, and he saw her. Her breath shuddered inward, the look he gave her so personal, so specific. She thought for a crazy second that he would come toward her, but the Floo network flared to life at almost the same moment, Aurors and the Minister arriving behind her, and then he was gone.

"Faes hi takēm kātha," Voldemort murmured, his hand soothing as she woke with a rush inward of breath, already slipping out of her mind before she was fully conscious.

"You looked at me—I was there and you looked at me…" Hermione's hand involuntarily rubbed her chest, the question of the absent scar now answered. "I thought you had healed it for me when I got here…"

"I told them not to mark any of the children."

It was better to hear such things in the quiet, in the dark. She thought about the implications of that, slowly said, "You couldn't single me out specifically because of Dumbledore."

"Did you realize exactly what you would receive when you required me to protect you in our vows?" His voice was curious, and Hermione burrowed her face into his neck for a moment. Did she really understand what that would mean, what it would require of him when she was ignorant of what lay between them in the future?

"In a sense, yes," she said quietly. "I hoped it would temper you, if only a little."

She couldn't see the expression that admission elicited. My cunning mate... He shifted both of them, bringing her above him, a paradoxical positioning as he was fully, completely in control, one hand behind her head and the other firm on her hip as her hair fell around them. "And do you find the price of that tempering to be agreeable, little lioness?" he said, nipping her lip then pulling back to let her speak.

"I'll tell you when the true cost has been revealed," she replied quietly. "And you? Are you satisfied with your purchase, or am I more troublesome than you anticipated?"

"I'll let you know as soon I've finished exploring my acquisition," he replied evenly, bringing her head down. It was nothing more than a snog session, lips and tongues playing quietly, their magics intertwining with a warm flirtation before she broke it off and laid her head down on his chest, quickly lulled back to sleep by the demands of a body that was pushed to its limits daily. It was the most pleasant resolution to one of her nightmares that either could recall.

"Order, please!" Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice carried over the low hum of conversations, the assorted members of the Order of the Phoenix quieting down. Harry looked around the room, observing the pinched expression on Professor McGonagall's face, the worried, drawn face of Poppy Pomfrey, and the guarded expressions of the Lupins and the Weasleys.

"Thank you Kingsley," Remus said, standing up at the table. The cavern hosting the meeting was lit by ample torchlight, but there was no camouflaging of the perpetual smell of damp. "We have received confirmation that Neville Longbottom is being held at Malfoy Manor, and we have good reason to believe we might be able to rescue him."

"Who told us that he's there?" Bill Weasley asked, exchanging a look with his father. Clearly Arthur had the same question, and Harry noted it. It was interesting that Remus hadn't talked to Arthur about their informant. Harry had a pretty good idea of who it was, and he didn't like it one bit, but decided to hold his tongue until he could talk to Remus about it.

"There are still a few leaky mouths amongst You Know Who's followers," Remus said patiently, holding up his hand for silence. "Kingsley has confirmed that the Ministry is not officially involved in his detention, so it is likely that he is doing very poorly now."

"Why have they kept him alive then? He's very young, and not very senior in the Order," Luna commented, looking at the older adults around the table. "There must be some reason he's not dead."

Remus exchanged a look with Minerva McGonagall, who cleared her throat. "We have good reason to suspect that there is a past history between the Longbottom family and You Know Who that goes beyond Neville's parents."

"You mean his grandmother and grandfather," Harry said, swiveling his attention to his former professor, ignoring Ginny's squeeze of his knee under the table. "That's what you mean, isn't it, Professor?"

"Yes, Harry, it is. Augusta was not able to provide many details, but she was able to tell myself and Pomona enough to confirm that there is likely a grudge of long duration." Her eyes were sad, and Harry realized she did not hold out much hope for Neville's continued existence in light of whatever Neville's grandmother had told them.

"How are we getting in? Is Malfoy going to earn his keep then?" Ron asked, exchanging a glance with Harry.

"Yes. Draco is prepared to help us with the wards on the Manor," Tonks said. She and her mother were making some progress with Draco when Harry kept his mouth shut. It had only taken Andromeda cutting Draco off mid-snit with a boils hex to convince Harry that they had him well in hand. The two young men still bickered like flint to steel however, which Tonks feared was going to result in an eruption sometime soon.

"We will be using a strike on one of the new reeducation centers as a distraction on the same date, which should provide some cover for those who are tasked with retrieving Neville," Kingsley said in his deep voice. "We are choosing an afternoon when the Aurors are going to be busy elsewhere."

"You refer to the new business registrations," Luna said. "You Know Who is forcing all business owners to register the exact number of employees and business details with the Ministry. My father thinks it is his way of cracking down on things like black market potions ingredients and other supplies that are useful to the resistance."

"What about Hermione?" Ron asked, his eyes flashing with a combination of anger and deep seated worry. "Hasn't anyone heard anything about her?"

Harry, who was prepared for Ron's question, kept his attention fixed on Remus and Tonks. There was a brief downward pull of Remus' eyebrows, and he frowned to himself. Remus had only had time to share Snape's revelation with his wife, and they had agreed that breaking the news privately to the boys was the best method.

"That is another topic which would be best served—" Remus began, but Filius Flitwick arrived at the entrance to the cavern, a gust of wind swirling through the space as he passed through the wards that had been set. The dimunitive Charms master removed his cloak with a flourish, and bowed to the assembled company, clearly flustered.

"My apologies for being late. I was meeting with a contact of mine from Gringotts, and I wanted to bring the information he had to convey to the Order immediately. It concerns Miss Granger."

Every head swiveled in his direction at that, and Remus Lupin instantly knew that Snape's cautions were about to be all for naught. He barely had time to exchange a look with Dora before Flitwick said,

"Hermione Granger, as was, is now an official signatory on He Who Must Not Be Named's vault in Gringotts. In short, she is married to him."

"WHAT?" Ron roared, standing up from his seat with such violence that his chair tipped over backward. All hell broke loose for several minutes as conversations broke out as to how such a thing could have happened, what You Know Who must have done to Hermione, what kind of marriage bond he had forced on her (because obviously it was under duress), and what must that poor girl be going through—

Harry had his hands full with containing Ron, who was about ready to sack Professor Flitwick, the unfortunate bearer of the bad news, while Kingsley and Minerva sought to obtain all the details that Filius had procured. Arthur, Molly, and George tried to calm Ron down after he stopped trying to get to Flitwick, muttering about murdering You Know Who with his bare hands. It was only then that Harry was able to think about it himself.

"It's because of me. It's because she is one of my best friends—that's why he's done this," he said to Remus, who had come over to try and minimize Harry's response.

"That is what we all assume, Harry, but let's first figure out exactly what he has done, and then we can determine the best course of action."

Harry looked at him as if there were no question. "We have to get her back, of course. He can't be allowed to do that to her, to use her that way. She must be going mad."

"Harry—" Ginny began to say, but Kingsley broke up all the simultaneous conversations with a Sonorous charm.

"Attention! Filius has a bit more to share on the matter of Hermione Granger," Kingsley said, ending the charm and turning the floor over once again to the professor.

"This change in signatories on the accounts is a few months' old. Because such things are not monitored daily, it is unknown precisely when the change occurred, but it can be said with confidence that it was very shortly after Miss Granger's presumed capture at the battle of Hogwarts."

Bill Weasley's expression was troubled. "And your source is quite certain about this? Because those types of changes happen automatically only when the bond that is used is one of mutual consent."

"I am aware, Mr. Weasley," Flitwick replied. "This is why I came straightaway to report it!"

Ron shook his head, his expression confused. "He must have done something to her, Imperiused her or something!"

Conversations were beginning to break out again, but Filius Flitwick could still be heard by most. "That is impossible, Ronald Weasley. In order for this type of change to occur, she must have willing participated."

The wand in his outstretched palm today was different. It was her own. Hermione made brief eye contact with Voldemort. His expression was watchful, neutral; as if he were unsure of her response. Hermione's fingers touched the wood, shifting to grasp it. The wood felt warm, the carvings familiar.

"Thank you." The smile was genuine, warm, and Voldemort did not want to concern himself with that.

"Well?" His tone was a trifle impatient, his forehead furrowed slightly as if considering a problem.

She stole another glance at him, then walked away to assume the proper dueling posture, the formal bow as natural as breathing to her now. She began to cast, throwing several nonverbal spells that he parried as easily as usual before she stopped again. This time it was her forehead that furrowed.

"It doesn't feel the same," she said, and his eyes gleamed just a touch.

"I wondered if that would be the case," he said. "May I?"

He held out his hand for her wand, and Hermione wondered at the courtesy. It was not as if he could not have used it at any time he desired to do so for the past months. She offered it to him, and he took it, causing a windstorm to rise with ease, the wind shrieking at hurricane force, shredding the crystal on the chandeliers and pulling trim and wallpaper from the walls. The change in air pressure made her ears pop, but he drew it down and handed it back to her, withdrawing the Elder wand once again.

"Try it again."

Since the chandeliers were already wrecked, Hermione sent a Reducto at the closest one, causing it to splinter apart with powerful force. Voldemort waved his wand once to flick the debris that was flung their way to the floor, then cocked his head to the side to look at her.

"Better, I trust."

Hermione frowned slightly. What had that been about? "Yes."

They resumed dueling postures and he shredded her offense with his customary ease, offering more correction on her casting as they went. It was almost pleasant, now that she could see the difference in casting. She was on the cusp of a permanent change in her casting style, she could feel it. Not today, however. He called a halt to their practice, walking over to the door to wait for her. Hermione stretched her back, then went over to him.

"What about my friend?"

His lips quirked up minutely. "You are welcome to accompany me now, if you believe you can stomach it."

Hermione's eyes hardened at that. "I would prefer to know exactly what you have done, rather than imagine it."

"As you wish, petal."

She made to give him back her wand, but he flicked his hand. "Keep it. Prove to me that you can control yourself."

There was an undercurrent to that—an unwelcome reminder that her lover, her husband, was a cruel psychopath. That he spared her his cruelty did not negate its existence.

On that ominous note, he escorted her past their door and toward a different hallway. When they reached the bottom of a spiral staircase, they passed Bellatrix Lestrange, who inclined her head respectfully to the Dark Lord. Her eyes were dark and coldly calculating as she briefly locked her gaze with Hermione, whose own eyes were cool and, perhaps, slightly hostile. The moment broke naturally as they both carried on in opposite directions. Hermione did not see Voldemort's sideways glance in her direction after the little interchange.

"Now, my little wife, a few ground rules before I allow you inside. First, I do not care if you reference our marriage or not. Second, I will respond very poorly if you do not control yourself. You are not a fool, and you know full well how our 'guests' are treated. Third, if I am speaking, you will remain silent."

Hermione nodded, her stomach twisting nervously. She had thought of what they could have possibly done, who it could possibly be, and thought she was as prepared as one could possibly be for such a confrontation. It was perfectly clear what he meant by controlling herself—she now had her wand. If she reacted toward him at all, the consequences would be severe. She resolved, however, as Voldemort reached toward the door, she would do whatever she could for the wizard inside.

"Very well."

He reached past her and opened the door, the hinges creaking nervously as it swung open into the chamber. It was very dim inside, but Hermione saw enough to make her stomach wrench violently, her face paling. Neville Longbottom was suspended, motionless, in the fetid air that was thick with the smell of blood and urine and who knew what else. He wore only a tattered pair of trousers, his back a mass of gashes, bruises, and lacerations. Voldemort flicked his wand, and Neville rotated, displaying similar marks on his chest and arms. She could see "Traitor" carved into him in several places, including one that was freshly bleeding on his stomach, and the flare of anger at what Bellatrix had been doing down here nearly caused her to whip out her wand that instant. Her husband was not watching Neville, but was watching her, his expression both keen and cutting at once.

Hermione refused to give him the satisfaction of an audible response, but she practically bit her tongue in pieces to not say something instantly, to not call him the worst sort of bully, to rail at him about how torture was so self-defeating. The taste of blood from the cut she made on her tongue with her teeth was welcome, a small reminder that it would be Neville, and not herself, who would suffer more if she lost it. She threw a dark look of hatred at Voldemort, which was no less than he expected. She slowly withdrew her wand from her sleeve, and he watched her with a predatory eye. His silence was taken as permission.

"Tergeo," Hermione said, swiftly bringing her magic to bear on Neville's battered body. She would do as much as she could for Neville. It threw the bruises into glaring relief, and she followed it with a nonverbal Lumos. Her cleaning of his wounds had caused Neville's head to lift briefly, and Voldemort stopped Hermione with a raised hand.

"Ah, Mr. Longbottom. I see you wake at last. Please, do greet me properly." His voice was so cultured and polite, reminding Hermione of how he treated her in the Room of Requirement. It was such a sick contrast, the unbelievable education and talent meshed with unsurpassed, brutal force.

Hermione barely had time to cast a cushioning charm on the floor as the Elder wand flashed, causing Neville to collapse to the floor. She was behind her friend, whose attention was fully fixed on the Dark Lord. Neville hadn't noticed her at all, his eyes fixed on Voldemort's wand. Every time it twitched, Neville's eyes followed it.

"My…my lord," Neville croaked, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"It is so much better with the niceties observed, is it not, Mr. Longbottom? Now, I believe we were speaking of a particular hobby which your grandfather pursued—an interest which I believe you have picked up. At our last visit, you were rather recalcitrant to speak about the greenhouse in which he kept his more unusual specimens. I wonder, has your memory improved in the intervening time?"

Hermione's hand twitched, desperate to say something, anything; to heal the cuts on him, to let Neville know she was here, he was no longer alone in this friendless place. Voldemort's wand flicked slightly and Hermione felt its effect, the light buzz along her skin a warning even as Neville cringed visibly away from Voldemort's feet. She hated him at that moment, this ruthless side of him that stopped at nothing to obtain whatever he sought.

"I've not seen the inside of it since I was a child," Neville said, a hint of stubbornness coloring his tone. Voldemort's wand flashed again, and Neville's head was sharply pulled back, as if by an invisible hand, his body twisting and a yelp of pain escaping him.

"I grow tired of this game, boy," Voldemort said coolly. Hermione felt a trickle of cool sweat down her back. She didn't think she could control herself if he really began torturing Neville in front of her. Neville was obviously aware that Voldemort's cool tone was not a good sign, because he began babbling in his cracked voice.

"My gran said it was gone, everything blown up, I swear. She said it was destroyed when he died."

"And you never received any unusual plants from your grandmother? Anything that was impossible to get, but which magically she produced for you? Plants such as the Mimbulus mimbletonia you had during your fifth year at Hogwarts?"

Voldemort was circling around Neville now, and Neville was starting to hyperventilate: clearly this had been a prequel to pain in the past. Voldemort had his wand at an angle Hermione recognized—he was preparing to cast.

"Stop! Stop!" she cried, throwing herself on Neville before Voldemort could cast further. His body was shivering underneath her, and she met her husband's flashing eyes with anger of her own. "Can't you see he won't tell you, even if he knew? Neville, it's me, Hermione—" She grabbed one of his hands, getting him to finally look at her, shock overtaking his features.

"Hermione? How—" His eyes spun wildly, taking in the Dark Lord standing there, letting her talk to him, his brain clearly confounded, rejecting the circumstances and events as a figment of his imagination. "Don't toy with me like this—what have you done with her, you bastard?"

She threw another look at Voldemort, whose eyes had narrowed, and turned her attention back to Neville, please just a few minutes, please let me, her mind cried out, "—I'm going to help you now, okay? It's okay, just let me heal you, please…"

Her voice nearly broke as she brought her wand to bear, her hand shaking as she recited, "Vulnera Sanentur…Vulnera Sanentur…" multiple times, her conscious mind too horrified by the mental catalog of injuries she compiled to attempt it nonverbally. His ribs were sticking out, and tears slipped from her eyes as she realized one of his legs was broken, "Ferula," falling from her lips.

"Enough." His tone was like ice, but Hermione could see the banked fire in his eyes, his wand twitching with impatient violence.

"Just let me talk to him, please," Hermione pleaded, throwing her wand to his feet. "Neville, is there somewhere that you remember going as a child, somewhere close to your home, which you haven't gone to since? Perhaps a place that is overgrown, or that your grandmother claims has too many bad memories?"

"I'm not telling him anything," Neville mumbled, his eyes darting to Lord Voldemort, whose eyes narrowed.

"Wait!" Hermione turned back to Neville, desperate. "Neville, I remember that plant. You covered Harry with Stinksap on the train—do you remember that Neville?"

Neville's mouth turned up infinitesimally at that, and he croaked, "Yeah, I remember that. Gran said it permanently stained her favorite yellow house robe."

Hermione cast a desperate glance at Voldemort, who inclined his head slightly to the side—a continued delay for Neville, and her implicit permission to continue. "I'm sure she wasn't best pleased. That robe is what she always wore when she…"

She trailed off hopefully, casting a small wandless Confundus charm on Neville in the process. She knew Voldemort didn't miss it, but Neville didn't realize, simply continued talking for her, "…when she was chasing the gnomes around the garden, or rounding up the chickens into the chicken coop. Those chickens drove her batty, they did. One always ran off, and it took her ages to get it back into the pen."

"Chickens are such silly creatures, aren't they? Running off into brambles, or hedges, or—"

"—the hawthorne. Sometimes she'd come back with scrapes from the thorns, but she always got that chicken back in the end."

"And you weren't allowed to go into the hawthorne hedge, were you Neville?" Hermione guessed wildly, hoping her hunch would hit its mark.

"No. It all went to pot back there when…when…" Neville began to cry then, wrapping himself into a ball and rocking.

"He's reliving his parents' torture now. One of Lucius' little gifts."

"What?" Hermione's tone was shocked, but Voldemort had what he wanted. He dragged Hermione away from the boy, preparing to take her out of the room.

"Don't leave him like that!" Hermione said furiously, Accioing her wand to her hand and casting Finite incantatum on Neville, an action that caused Neville to shut up instantly and recoil from the pair of them. Voldemort was pissed, his wand flashing in a familiar way that Hermione didn't attempt to block, her wand flying to his hand.

"Please give him some food—" Hermione begged, but his patience was at an end. He pulled her from the room swiftly, the door clanging shut with a finality that brought tears to her eyes again. She rounded on him swiftly, her arm smarting from how she pulled it away from him, but it was another welcome pain as his wand flicked, casting a Muffliato and broad silencing charm. She rounded on him and unleashed her anger.

"How many times must you hear that pain is not the best way to achieve your ends?"

"How many times must you hear that not everyone can be deluded into cooperation, but instead insist on mutual antipathy and antagonism?" His tone was deadly sharp, but she had bought herself some negotiating room by not fighting him over her wand.

"Because your method was working so well!" she shouted back to him, the urge to wandlessly hex him strong. He was circling her, and Hermione circled in the opposite direction in pure self-defense.

"It was working. He revealed the gift of that plant himself during my last visit—or do you think I kept minute records of everything the children of my enemies were up to at school?" His voice was deadly hard, but Hermione was unafraid of what he would do to her, and the danger to Neville seemed lessened with their exit from the cell. Voldemort's attention was fully fixed on her, his magic crackling around him, her own ire raised and reflecting itself in her aura as well.

"I wouldn't put it past you," Hermione hissed, and he had the gall to smirk at that. "Don't you dare take that as a compliment, you puffed up peacock!"

"Watch your tongue, faes hi takēm kātha. You are still bound by your oath of respect!" He was getting truly pissed now, but Hermione was too upset about Neville Longbottom to be as wise as she ought to be.

"I challenge you because I respect you enough to try to teach you! Even the great Lord Voldemort cannot know everything—and this is one thing that you are still miserably bad at! You do not know how to massage people into giving you what you want, you simply crush them and destroy them in the process—and half the time you are left with nothing! Furthermore, it never occurs to you that the world does not belong to any one person! Simply wanting something is not sufficient justification to take it, or have you forgotten that particular debate in Magical Theory?"

Her words were impassioned but not as well thought out as he demanded when she argued with him, which annoyed him. However, it was her parroting of his own words against him that did it, his control snapping. His wand flashed instantly, imprisoning her against the damp wall with her arms up by her head, leaving her just enough freedom to move her head. He pressed himself close to her, his wand pressed against the inside of her forearm.

"Is that so? Tell me, how would you categorize the way I have 'massaged' you, hmm? Or do you think that what I have done with you, for you, to you, has been crushing you? Do you think I find it pleasant, the way you spit fire at me after seeing that boy, even when you knew his likely condition, knowing that I do not compromise, nor do I forgive?" His wand moved in the pattern of the Dark Mark as he spoke, more hissing the words at her in his anger. Hermione felt the tingle, and was afraid he was marking her.

"What has he ever done to you?" Hermione cried, unable to resist the temptation to look at her arm any longer and turning her head to see the tip of the yew wand he had pressed against her skin, the magic he was channeling within it making her nerves alight with mixed feelings of pain and pleasure.

"I should Mark you, you insolent creature, because you have crossed the line," he said hotly. "However, your little performance in there was impressive, and did provide me with useful information. So let's consider this a reminder that insolence is a violation of our bond, little wife, and see how you deal with it for the next few days."

He abruptly released the charm sticking her to the wall. She did have a Dark Mark, of sorts, but it glowed silver and faded into her skin, visible when she turned her arm. Stepping back as if nothing had happened, he gestured toward the stairway at the end of the corridor. Hermione didn't know what he had done, but suspected she would find out quickly enough if she attempted to use her magic.

She waited until they were close to their bedroom before attempting anything. As they walked toward the doors, she began to gather her magic into herself, as if she were preparing to use Heka. The serpent writhed sinuously, its motions producing a feeling of terrible loss that shot like ice across her veins. Lord Voldemort felt it race across his skin, turning in time to see her collapse to the ground.