Good evening folks. As those of you who reviewed already know, I have been very ill with a nasty virus. It is also the busiest time of the term for me, and between my own illness, work concerns, and now the fact that I have a sick child & spouse...well, suffice it to say that time for writing has been scant indeed. I'm sorry it has taken so long to get this posted. Next week I get a brief rest and hopefully that means I can crank ahead a bit. I have finished outlining the remaining chapters to the end (yes it is coming but we have at least 10 chapters to get through first), I just need time to write. Thanks to all for the PMs and reviews. I see we've lost a lot of anonymous reviews, but I just do not have the bandwidth to do individual responses here so I'm sorry. Lemon warning for those who care, and I do hope you enjoy this despite the wait.

November 16, 1981

"Augusta, it's the only way."

There was a finality to Phineas' tone that made Augusta shed even more tears than had already been shed. "Phineas, my love, there is always another way," she pleaded, but for once her husband was implacable.

"Do you think I want to leave you?" Phineas asked, touching her face tenderly. "You know what happened to James and Lily, Augusta! And now Frank and Alice…" He turned away and bit hard on his fist. "We know what he's capable of."

His voice was hard, resolute. Augusta tried again to reason with him.

"There are rumors that he was killed when little Harry lived—"

The conversation was interrupted by the wail from Neville's crib. Augusta turned her tear-stained face toward the stairs briefly. "Phineas, please listen to reason. Please, my love."

"Go tend the baby," Phineas said gruffly, keeping his back to his wife so she couldn't see the tears streaming down his face. He was so grateful that Herbert Beery trusted him enough to pass the plant into his care when it became obvious that he was afflicted with Gërryes Trurit syndrome. It would be quick, at least—the toxins worked quickly, but the resulting flowers would be unique, the potion rendered from them enough to protect their home for as long as Augusta lived. It was better than the Fidelius charm, rendering the house unplottable and unapproachable by anyone save those of their blood. It meant she would never be able to have friends over again, but it was worth the sacrifice if it meant they would be safe. He knew Miriam Strout—she would find some way to reverse what had been done to Frank and Alice. It was little price to pay to protect them all from a madman.

He could hear her now, talking softly above stairs to their grandson while she changed his nappy and soothed the aching tooth he was trying to cut. He kissed the parchment envelope in his hand and propped it on the table by the door, then slipped from the house to go to the greenhouse for the final time.

There it was again. The popping noise that heralded the arrival of a scant amount of food, and water. Minerva pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and backed up slightly so the house elf would deposit the tray on the floor. She had lost track of the days she had been here, but she was learning that food and water were not a given. It felt like it had been more than a day than any had been offered. Certainly her parched tongue and her stomach testified that it had been too long.

She sipped the water as slowly as she could manage, then ate as much of the gruel as she could as long as the house elf was there. After attempting to speak to the elf twice and having the food and water vanish, she had learned to be quiet. As well, the food was only offered as long as the elf was there, and the time varied by seemingly arbitrary amounts. While initially this had caused her to rage internally, the demands of her body had quickly ensured that she would comply with the unspoken command, for now. She had to eat to remain alive. She knew of the spells that could be used to keep her alive without food. She would rather accept the inhumane treatment and still eat than sink to that level, her body wasting away and her strength with it.

The elf disappeared and again Minerva was left alone. She paced, she sat, she stood. There was no bed, a filthy chamberpot her only companion in the room.

She didn't know how long she had been here. She wasn't being tortured, per se, but each time the gap between the appearance of the house elf stretched interminably, she wondered if she had simply been forgotten. And she was beginning to wonder if neglect wasn't the weapon of choice.

"Try again."

They were back to dueling practice, this time with the anticipation that came from both of them knowing that she was nearly ready to switch her casting style permanently. Voldemort was now insisting that she work on weather charms, making her manipulate wind and water with ease before playing with fire. He had her working with wind now, making it move in whatever pattern she chose, leaves swirling as the visual symbol of her spellwork. She was focused in that pleasurable manner on her magic, other thoughts tumbling in random order through her brain whenever she finished casting.

"Oh my God," Hermione exclaimed, her face flushing from the thrill of getting it right. She whirled to look at him, and suddenly her mind imposed an image, a hazy memory, ill-formed from childhood. It was one of those memories which, as an adult, you are never quite sure if you remember yourself, or if it is merely one of your parent's memories that had been so often repeated that it felt like your own. The pieces of mundane inanities that had been flashing through her dreams suddenly coalesced and awareness burst through her brain. "You were there. In the park. My mother said I could move the leaves—but it was you, wasn't it? And again, that night in the Forbidden Forest, when I had detention with Draco. I felt you."

Voldemort's expression shifted as quickly as a serpent's tongue from a pleased regard for her success to a careful blank. "To what do you refer?"

Hermione let her wand arm drop, the whole progression of the stunning normality of her childhood being reevaluated in the frame of her bond to this dark wizard. "All of my new memories—they are different because they lack catastrophes, those odd accidents where the magical world and Muggle one collide! You changed my childhood…but how? Why?" He was striding toward her, but her mind was leaping faster than he could move, the connections snapping into place. "You were protecting me…from what?"

He had reached her now, and Hermione held out her arm in a vain attempt to stop him as her mind feverishly worked through the consequences of that thought. She looked at him just as his hand slid up her arm, for once reading the answer quite plainly on his face. "It was Dumbledore. You were protecting me from Dumbledore."

"I have been bound by this since you were born," he replied softly, his other hand taking hers, forcing her wand to clatter to the floor. It was his way of imposing his dominance, but she expected that from him now.

"What have you done?" she whispered.

"What I had to do to keep you safe. Do you think I would do any less?" His tone was arch but his expression was less than easy, and Hermione pushed because of it.

"Do you know where I lived? Where my parents worked?"

"Yes." He was giving nothing away, but Hermione was certain she was onto something important. The realizations tumbled quickly through.

"What did you do to my parents?"

"Do you want to know where they are now?"

"I Obliviated them—I sent them to Australia," she said wildly, and Voldemort arched a brow. That was what she had done before, but now she did not know.

"Really? How incredibly irredeemable of you. I had not known that you had gone to such lengths on their behalf. Tell me, did it hurt to know that you might not be able to reverse that sort of massive loss? I doubt any wizard beside myself would confidently attempt such a thing."

"You bastard! I did it because of you, and you know it! How dare you mock me!" Hermione blinked hard to keep the tears at bay, wrenching her hand away from him to strike him once on the chest before he captured her wrist in his strong grip and held it there. He held her firm at the hip, close enough so that she had to tip her head back to look at him. His expression was not angry, but surprisingly understanding. She didn't know what to make of it.

"You misunderstand me, pet, although I hardly find that surprising. You don't know where they are now, do you? You don't know if you went to such lengths to protect them again, and you wonder how I would treat them now that you are of age. It's not as if you need them, do you? They are hardly integral to your protection now that you are of age." A note of mocking had crept into his voice, almost as if he couldn't help being cruel, either from his nature or long habit.

"Go ahead and tell me, then! Tell me how you treated them once they were no longer necessary!"

He leaned in, then let go of her wrist and tucked her hair back behind her ear before his lips barely brushed it, letting the pause eat away at her before he spoke.

"I let them be." He let the words sink in, then added as he drew back, "I suppose they are still going about their business in that humdrum little place you called your home, where so many Muggles are wondering about these horrible events which never seem to touch them. I simply did not see it as worth the effort to remove the Confundus charm I placed the eve of your birth on the entire town. Of course, if you would rather I removed it…"

Hermione's breath whooshed out in relief, and then she got angry as he elucidated further. "How dare you play with me, as if I'm some wind-up toy you can crank and then laugh when I respond to your bait!"

With a surprising strength, she pushed him away and summoned the wand to her hand in one fluid move, her arm swinging a rapid arc as her magic burst forth, the heat and light of the spell cascading through the wand with a fluid precision that her previous casting had lacked, fueled by the clear lens of her determination to prove that she was not just a toy for his amusement. She knew her emotions were wavering between nadirs and summits these days, but she couldn't seem to help it. The chimera roared and pulled against the muzzle of her spellwork, but she increased the magnification of her control, forcing the Fiendfyre down, down until it was a white hot, writhing mass of flame that obeyed her order absolutely. Finally, spent, she drew it into itself until it vanished, leaving her spent and panting. She turned to look at Tom, who was still by her side. He had been watching her, his face its usual expressionless mask while his eyes danced with pleasure and, perhaps, a bit of pride. She was a bit proud that he hadn't even drawn his wand, a sign of his confidence in her.

"I didn't laugh at you, Hermione." It was a cold statement, rendered in that matter of fact way that was really a measure of some form of respect, the only type in which Tom had ever traded. Hermione's emotions veered wildly again as she looked at the proud wizard who was her husband. What did it say that he left her Muggle parents alone? He may even have interacted with them, and she was suddenly wild to know about this little mystery, one of so many that he held so patiently, waiting for her to uncover them.

"I know," she said hoarsely, then caressed his temple. Her fingers almost fluttered as if smoothing back his hair, one of the small intimate gestures that had sprung up unbidden between them during his dogged pursuit of her. "I'm sorry. You still surprise me."

There was a spark between their auras, a palpable tension behind the flare in his eyes at her spoken apology. They came together at the same time, her hands pulling his head down while his mouth met hers abruptly, lips and tongues sliding and bumping ardently as his hands gathered the fabric of her robes at her waist, holding her tightly. She could feel his arousal both between them and in the air, echoed by her own in the abandoned way she kissed him. She couldn't get enough of him, enough of his taste, the wetness of his mouth and wild strokes of his tongue while his hands kneaded her waist as their magics tumbled together, sliding into each other with a lust that was nigh uncontrollable. He turned them suddenly, a strong pulse of his magic moving them across the room where he slammed her conveniently against the wall, a cushioning charm hitting the surface a split second before Hermione. His mouth would not leave hers as his hands moved down, caressing the scalloped high lace back of her underwear and her bum while her hands shredded his robe over his chest, her fingers assertively parting the fabric and seeking the thin discs of his nipples. He was going to fuck her right here, against the wall, and she wanted nothing more, her breath escaping in loud gasps as he pulled her head to the side so he could bite and suck her neck.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she gasped as he thrust into her.

"Would you have listened?" he retorted sharply, swallowing her mouth whole to prevent further impertinence. She was so fucking beautiful, angry and passionate and caring all at once, about him. She met every thrust, twisting his head to claim his tongue, breaking it off to moan against his neck when he hit her sweet spot, the angle providing sharp pressure at just the right points, driving them both hard toward their peaks. This wouldn't be possible for much longer, the growing bump of their child making such acrobatics less than pleasurable. He exploded inside her just as Hermione saw stars, "Tom!" flying from her lips as she clenched her arms around him, her breath shuddering out against his neck in time with his quick breaths against her hair.

"My lord!"

The voice was distorted, but originated clearly from the other side of the door. Voldemort instantly straightened up, his hands letting her slip down until her feet touched the floor, his robe wandlessly repairing itself. He didn't say a word, simply met her wide gaze briefly, his eyes dropping down before he turned away, her robes repairing and straightening themselves at a pass of his hand as Hermione fought to gain control of her breathing again and adjust to the sudden parting of their auras.

"What is it?" His voice was cool, collected, but Hermione could still feel the agitation of his aura from here, and wondered if it was something that even his followers could sense when he was so ramped up. Her wand flew into her hand from the floor while he talked quietly with the Death Eater at the door. The voice was feminine—Bellatrix. Of course.

"I will take Lucius, Yaxley, yourself, Antonin, and Thorfinn. Tell MacNair to be waiting for us at the Ministry."

"Yes my lord."

Hermione had glided to his side, and she sent a cool look back to Bellatrix's surreptitious gaze. Voldemort turned his attention his wife.

"What has happened?" Hermione said, and Voldemort darted a sideways glance at her which Bella took as permission to take a subtle swipe at the Dark Lord's wife.

"The Order has decided to attack a Ministry facility," Bellatrix said with a sly look. "We received a tip from a loyal servant of the Dark Lord. Surely you celebrate this opportunity?"

"I do not celebrate dissonance in the magical community," Hermione replied icily. She saw a flicker of amusement in Voldemort's eyes as their gazes locked briefly before her eyes slid back to Bellatrix, whose expression darkened.

"My wife's opinions are refreshing to me, Bella. Now, do run along like the valuable servant you are," Voldemort said, an oblique but effective reminder to both witches of their positions. The witch had no choice but to retreat, leaving Voldemort to take his leave of his wife how he chose.

"We have unfinished business to attend when I return."

"Yes, my parents," Hermione retorted.

His lips curved into a cruel smile. "No, pet. We have a press conference to attend together."

The frisson between their magics had a blatant carnal edge to it still, and Hermione knew he could tell she was still affected by the sudden cessation of their intimacy. He turned her loose, causing her to stumble slightly, but his hand was there to steady her instantly, along with a warm flicker from his aura.

"Beast."

He turned back briefly and executed an elegant bow, wand outstretched. "Why, thank you."

"Another rousing success," Draco muttered when Harry arrived back to the cave from a less than successful effort against another reeducation center. He didn't even have to ask to know that some would not be returning tonight. Draco was now permitted to attend the Order's meetings, although he was excluded from the discussions by a Muffliato charm once the meeting got underway.

"Shut it, Draco," Harry said, making his way to the corner of the cave where Poppy Pomfrey was taking a shift watching over Ron. Ron's face was ashen, his chest barely moving. His wounds were covered by a blanket, but Harry knew that nothing was healing beneath them.

"Any word from Snape?" Harry asked quietly, and Poppy shook her head sadly. Harry put his hand briefly on the nurse's shoulder, then went back further to give and receive a hug from a teary Molly, who was determined to keep on feeding them regardless.

Ginny was helping her mum, and Molly gave her leave to talk to Harry briefly.

"Who is it this time?" Ginny asked. It was her way of breaking the ice that seemed to be slowly creeping between them.

"Professor Sprout and Lee Jordan," Harry said, and Ginny steeled her shoulders.

"This can't keep going on, Harry. Something is going to happen, one way or another," Ginny said quietly. Molly called her back over, and Harry went to sit next to Draco for the meal. The blonde seemed tired, the whole assembly having a subdued flavor. No one was keen to speak to Draco. Harry knew all of them were wondering when Malfoy would attempt to crawl back to the Dark Lord if things kept on as they were going.

"Shove over."

Malfoy moved along the bench without comment. He knew better than to say anything at these gatherings. Before the meal began, Kingsley Shacklebolt stood and offered a brief but grim toast to the two captured from the raid.

"I'm very sorry to report the capture of Lee Jordan and Pomona Sprout. We can only hope they will eventually be offered 'reeducation' instead of a lengthy stint in Azkaban. May their courage not fail them during these dark days."

Everyone drank, then the meal was consumed with only quiet snatches of conversation peppering the sparse tables.

"I heard there's an amnesty in the offing," George said under his breath, stealing a look down the table at Kingsley. "Noticed Slughorn's not been 'round much lately."

"Neither has Luna," Ginny said, meeting Harry's troubled eyes briefly before her gaze slid to Draco. Malfoy's pewter eyes were assessing and his comment was so quiet she barely heard him, "She'd know what is coming."

Harry looked at Draco briefly before returning his attention to his plate. Sometimes Malfoy's keen observations still surprised him. He was probably right—Luna would know what was going on. Odd as the workings of her mind seemed to be, she had a remarkable gift for spotting the hidden obvious.

"Time," Kingsley called, and Draco slipped his legs off the bench.

"Off to exile then," he said with a thin layer of bitterness, and Harry felt guilty for a second. Where had that come from?

The meeting was brief. There was no word on the location of Minerva—she had not been put through the Ministry 'justice' system as it was currently configured. Only time would tell if Lee and Sprout wound up there or not. People didn't always go straight from capture to the Ministry. Kingsley appeared to be running this meeting, much to the relief of Arthur Weasley and probably Remus too. Tonks was still recovering from her run-in with Voldemort, and both of them were distracted as a consequence. As the meeting broke up, Harry sought out Ginny again for a few brief moments before people began Apparating back to their refuges. He wanted to try to reassure her, even though increasingly all he felt was impotent and angry.

"Ginny!" Harry called, getting her away from a few friends near to their own age.

"What is it, Harry?" Ginny asked, a bit miffed to be deprived of a few minutes of normalcy, just talking over clothing challenges in the circumstances and other things that should be the most pressing concerns for teenagers instead of a grueling war.

"I just—wanted to tell you that we have what it takes to win this still."

"Really? Because the last time I checked, Harry, attacking You Know Who's forces hasn't exactly resulted in decisive victories of late," Ginny said. "He's diabolically clever."

"We can't give up," Harry said quietly but fiercely, and for the first time he was surprised to see a look of resignation in Ginny's face. She had always been pragmatic, like Hermione in that respect, now that he thought about it, but it was like a slap in the face to see a hint of quitting in her countenance. "We can't quit, Ginny! Think about what things they'd do to you, to the Muggleborns, to the halfbloods—what he did to you once! We can't stop fighting them."

"And what if we keep fighting, Harry? How many more brothers must I bury? How many more of the Order will disappear?" she retorted fiercely, looking away from him and swiping angrily at the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.

"I don't know, Ginny, but I know I can't stand idly by and let the man who murdered my parents take over everything," Harry said, agitated. "We can't let him win!"

Ginny turned her head to look at him, her face awash with tiredness. "How much do you have to lose before there's nothing left to fight for, Harry? Maybe Fleur is right, we should be thinking about when it will be time to leave, to start again somewhere else."

"You'd see the man who tormented you in power? The evil bastard who would have let you die so he could come back?" Harry knew he had gone too far as Ginny's face paled, but he couldn't take it back. He thought that of all people, Ginny would understand why you could never give up before a man like Voldemort.

"How dare you?" Ginny asked in a low tone, stealing a glance to be sure her mother wasn't watching them. "You'd put a price on my suffering and weigh it up next to George's, or Ron's? Everyone has lost something here, Harry, and I'll thank you to let each person decide for themselves when the price has gotten too high!"

She flounced off, and Harry felt powerless and angry yet again. He stomped off to the cave entrance, where Draco had missed none of the little exchange.

"Not a word!" he warned Malfoy, grabbing him by the arm.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Draco replied, feeling the jerk of Disapparation take hold.

The Ministry felt the same as it had before, an odd feeling for Hermione. She still remembered the changes to the Fountain of Magical Brethren, but at present it looked the same as it always had. Either her husband had changed or he had grown more subtle with his manipulations. She wished she had more time to examine it more closely, but Voldemort was moving her purposefully toward the Ministry conference room that was used for the press. She had no idea how many press wizards and witches were in it, or what kinds of questions they would ask. She took a deep breath, glad that at least her robes hid her pregnancy. She was not prepared to answer questions about that.

"You did say you were ready to assume a more public role," Voldemort said, nodding at the double doors. "Well?"

Hermione cocked her head to the side and replied, "I think that you are afraid to confirm you've done something as domestic as getting married."

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed, a sound that surely echoed through the chamber of assembled (and doubtless hand-picked) reporters and Ministry peons as he put his hand on her back and propelled her through the doors which had opened before them at a careless flick of his other hand. "Well played, my dear," he said to her privately as a murmur of surprise ran through the room.

"Lord Voldemort, we are honored by your presence," Pius Thicknesse said in a gravelly voice, bowing so low his nose practically scraped his knees. Voldemort nodded perfunctorily, utterly ignoring Lucius, Walden, and Calvin as he pivoted himself and Hermione to face the reporters.

"Good morning, my fellow witches and wizards," Lord Voldemort said calmly, nodding to Pius Thicknesse who was practically falling over himself fawning over the Dark Lord. "I am delighted to speak with you all today on my ascension as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."

Hermione was keenly aware of the open stares she was receiving from the assorted press of not just wizarding Britain but other countries as well. She recognized Rita Skeeter, and the tall, wan face of Xenophilius Lovegood. Voldemort noticed the direction of her stare and inclined his head to whisper in her ear.

"Mr. Lovegood is representing the Quibbler, of course. He is a recent graduate of one of my reeducation camps—quite the model participant, I am told…but of course, he was quite enthused on the subject of a pardon for his daughter's activities last year."

"I don't doubt that you made it an offer he couldn't refuse," Hermione said, lifting her head to exchange a pointed look with her husband.

"Quite so," he agreed easily, sliding his hand from her waist to clasp her hand and raise it to his lips. She was attired beautifully, her robes gently drifting about her arms and ankles, the folds gently concealing her pregnancy. He was well aware that the press were drinking in their little exchange with avid curiosity, and he intended to feed it shamelessly. There were flashes from cameras and another murmur ran through the room, but the Dark Lord was clearly done playing, turning his gaze to sweep the roomful of reporters and garnering instant silence.

"As you are aware, the past few months have been a time of great change and consolidation for the wizarding community of Great Britain. Fortunately, the instability caused by this change of direction is drawing to a close, and I am quite confident in Minister Thicknesse and the capable junior ministers and department heads of the Ministry of Magic. While change is always distressing, it is sometimes necessary despite its disruptions. As a gesture of good faith, the Ministry of Magic is offering an amnesty to wizards and witches who wish to regain their former good standing in our community. Already, prominent citizens such as Garrick Ollivander and Horace Slughorn have decided to accept amnesty and retake their former, important roles in our community. I encourage all who are in…less than good standing with the Ministry of Magic to accept this extremely generous offer. It will not be repeated."

Voldemort's eyes had narrowed, and a temporary hush fell over the reporters in response to the barbed antagonism in his tone as he finished speaking. To his credit, Pius Thicknesse gamely stepped into the gap, clearing his throat nervously and offering, "The Dark Lord will entertain one question from the floor."

Hands shot up eagerly, and Lord Voldemort pointed to one, a wandless charm illuminating the reporter. The bright blond curls which were highlighted caused Hermione's eyes to narrow.

"Lord Voldemort, there is a rumor that you have recently been wed to the witch at your side. Would you care to comment on the veracity of this report?"

Voldemort's eyes slid to meet Hermione's, the slight crinkle at the corners telling her exactly what he was going to do as he opened his mouth to speak. "I would not be so ungallant as to deprive the lady of a chance to speak for herself."

Hermione took a deep breath then cast the Sonorous charm on herself, the attention of the press avidly fixed on her. "Yes, Lord Voldemort is my husband, and has been for some months."

The scratching of multiple quills and flashes from several cameras was a bit unsettling.

"That will be all," Pius said, cancelling the Sonorous charm on himself and bowing obsequiously to the Dark Lord again and again as he swept away, his hand still firm on Hermione's back.

"My lord, everything that you requested has been arranged," Walden MacNair said, smoothly cutting out Pius from the discussion as Lucius took the man in hand. "Just through here."

Voldemort nodded and Hermione threw him a questioning glance as they entered a conference room with a full view of the lobby and Fountain of Magical Brethren.

"I decided that a few more questions for a select interview in the Prophet would suit our purposes nicely," he explained as he leaned back against the conference table. His ease in this setting and the satisfaction of his tone told her all she needed to know about how things were going in the war. That he explained himself at all was a concession he seemed to grant only to her consistently, and she pushed her luck.

"Our purposes?" she asked, well aware that no one would enter the room or hear anything until he allowed it.

"Of course, pet. Your friends might be laboring under the impression that you are displeased with your marriage, and the wizarding world at large is eager to hear how I succumbed to your charms."

"And the good PR will help make the amnesty more palatable." Hermione said, picking up his left hand in both her own. She turned it over and studied the faint line that ran from the base of his ring finger to the middle of his palm, her thumb caressing it gently. "I am selfishly glad this is still here. It means I have left some sort of mark on you, fías hi takēm kātha."

Her face was open and honest, a winsome quality that she would never age out of, he suspected. Her Parseltongue was pleasantly passable, even if it was shaded by Nagini's death. Now she was trying for his benefit alone. "You have left your mark in more ways than one, as you well know, faes hi takēm kātha."

He was caressing her cheek now, and neither gave a damn that they could hear the voices of MacNair and the lucky press agent who was going to get the scoop of a lifetime. He leaned down and kissed her, slowly, leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world—which they did, in a way. He tasted sharp and citrusy, the evening's potion. A part of her mind noted that, triggering some association that she would recall later. She shouldn't have been surprised that they were interrupted by a flash and coo. Her eyes flashed a wordless rebuke to her husband who was completely unrepentant, his hand loosening only slightly on her waist as he directed MacNair and, by association, the reporter and photographer.

"Poor timing as always, Walden." He kept his wife in his grasp, coolly eyeing the photographer. The wizard would know to take no more photographs.

"My apologies, my lord," MacNair said perfunctorily as Voldemort finally let Hermione turn around to see the chosen interrogator. Rita Skeeter was sketching a deep bow, and simpered as she straightened, "My lord, I am so very honored to have been chosen for this occasion! I am delighted to share the beautiful story of your courtship with the wizarding world at large!"

Voldemort didn't even have to speak to shut her up, a brief narrowing of his eyes doing it for him. Hermione vacillated between her pique at her husband's choice of reporter and amusement at his supercilious manner of dealing with the venomous witch. He urged his wife toward the only comfortable chair in the room, a quick swish of his wand transfiguring it into a loveseat where they could both sit. Rita arranged herself neatly on a plain chair, her Quick Quotes quill at the ready. She smiled saccharinely at them both, then began her questioning at a nod from MacNair.

"With the former Miss Granger's associations, could the Dark Lord offer any insight as to his choice of bride?"

"Certainly," Voldemort said smoothly. "My wife is an extremely talented witch, and she is intelligent enough to understand the implications of the new direction the Ministry is taking. As a Muggleborn, she is naturally eager to see such changes come to fruition."

"Of course!" Rita agreed readily, turning her beady eye toward Hermione. "And how did you feel when the Dark Lord offered his hand?"

Rita's breathless, dramatic upturn at the end of her question left Hermione in little doubt as to what type of story would appear the next day in the Daily Prophet, but she was determined not to offer more than the minimum amount of information. "I was quite unable to refuse him, naturally."

She caught the warning look from Voldemort at her answer, but Rita was pressing on with her next question, heedless of their exchanged glance.

"How did you two meet?"

"Under very unusual circumstances," Voldemort replied dryly. "Next?"

With that line of questioning obviously shut down, Rita turned again to eye Hermione speculatively.

"Has your wife completely severed all associations with her former friends?"

Hermione met Voldemort's red eyes seamlessly. Of course he wanted her to answer this question. She cleared her throat merely as a pretense to give her time to think of an acceptable reply.

"I am sorry to be caught between my husband and my friends. Naturally I miss them, but I believe there have been some misunderstandings about my husband's intentions. With time I hope that my friends will see that."

It was not a strong endorsement, but it was not a lie either. It was obviously not quite enough for Voldemort, because he sat forward and smoothly took her hand in his, adding, "My wife has been fortunate in her upbringing, but she is also aware of the pain that comes from not being part of the world to which she belongs from an earlier point in her childhood. We are in agreement that this situation should not be allowed to continue, for the health of all wizarding society."

Rita's fascinated gaze shifted back to Hermione, who agreed, "Indeed."

Satisfied, Voldemort pressed a kiss to her hand, making the press witch's eyes glow with satisfaction. Internally Hermione groaned. She could only imagine the drivel that would cross the wizarding world's breakfast table tomorrow.