Oh my goodness I have been so swamped with work, and I am sorry. I have replied to some but not all reviews, I believe. Really I have had quite a bit of work stress and I have just not been able to pull this chapter together until now. I will do my best to finish replying to your fantastic reviews tomorrow after work. A lot is going on with the story too as we are building toward the end, but that means lots of good stuff for you! Rest assured it's still a bit away and trust me, you will know when it is imminent. Thank you SO much for your reviews, favorites, and patience as I tried to get this next chapter up for you. I hope you like it, so let me know! :)

February 14, 1978

"Good evening, Olivia."

The words were whispered, but Olivia stiffened as if she had been hit by a Petrificus Totalus.

"What do you want?" she asked hoarsely, gripping the back of the chair to support her suddenly wobbly legs. The room was comfortable, her refuge in the house. Even her son would not dare intrude…but of course…

"Can I not drop in on an old school friend? And pay my regards to his wife?" The voice was sibilant, mocking, and Olivia steeled herself against the natural impulse to turn around. She had no desire to see what Lord Voldemort, as he called himself, looked like now.

She turned her head to the side and said as calmly as she could manage, "I thank you for the courtesy."

She wished she dared to add, 'You may consider your duty discharged,' but she was afraid of him, and afraid of what her husband would say if he found out she had said it.

"Oh, do let me see you, dear. It has been years," Lord Voldemort said, moving swiftly across the room so she was forced to look at him, with his waxy face and distorted features. She could not repress the shiver of fear now, and he read it easily in her eyes, her fingers gripping more tightly onto the back of the chair as if it were all that were holding her up. "That's better, wouldn't you say? Now, where is that lovely daughter of yours? So accomplished in the art of potion making…indeed I think she may rival Severus at her current rate, much to his ire."

He was even crueler than she already knew him to be, picking up the moving picture frame and eyeing its subject. "Such a good boy, your son, isn't he? There was a time when that was possibly in doubt…but of course those days are long behind us now, aren't they? He's so terribly eager now that he bears the Mark."

"Please…" Olivia whispered, her face blanching.

"Oh, but I think you understand perfectly well, my dear."

"But you told Evan—" Olivia began, and finally Lord Voldemort's wand came into play.

"Silence!" he said harshly, the simultaneous application of a silencing charm and a repulsion charm that sent her flying into the nearest chair. "Did you think I wouldn't know about her visitors? Did you really think that Aurors could visit your home, and I wouldn't hear of it?"

"I didn't know they were coming! I said nothing! She said nothing important!" Olivia stammered, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I swear!"

Lord Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, his wand whipping again. Olivia cried out from the pain of the laceration that slashed downward on her cheek, her continuing crying leaving a stream of saline blood running onto her throat.

"My patience is at an end, Olivia. This is long overdue. Summon her."

The scream that rang out in the house shortly thereafter cut off abruptly. Some minutes later, Lord Voldemort nodded to his host, who masked his reaction behind a callous countenance. As he was about to exit the house, Voldemort turned his head slightly.

"I wish to know if and when your daughter…recovers, Evan."

Evan's eyes wisely betrayed nothing of his thoughts even though his jaw was tight.

"Yes, my lord."

"And how is my favorite Gryffindor today?" Severus asked, his voice mellifluous and rich as he swept alongside a private bed at the back of the infirmary.

"That's quite enough babying, Severus," Minerva snapped smartly, waving away the matron with an irascible gesture. "I've had enough of being treated as if I were made of glass, notwithstanding the ruckus that is caused by the incessant interruptions of miscreants who are clearly running amok in several midyear classes. Now, exactly what deal with the devil have you struck in order to get me out of that cesspit?"

"No more than the usual deal with the devil," he replied sardonically.

"Severus—what of Harry?" Her expression was tight, but his stony face was all the answer she required. "You should have left me there to rot."

"And much good that would have done these children, and others," Severus retorted quietly but fiercely. "There is more than one Gryffindor with whom you should concern yourself, Minerva."

"I don't condone your master's new world order," she observed. "A principled stand, however futile, must possess its own merits…even if it should land me in a dungeon again."

"Your principles could be better spent assisting the recovery of those Gryffindors who have already been heavily damaged by this war, and finding a means of communicating with the most highly placed Gryffindor of all, much to your dismay."

Minerva sighed and grimaced simultaneously. "I fear what he has turned that young woman into, Severus. I presume you have spoken with her?"

"I have been allowed limited access, yes."

Minerva leaned forward, her face impatient. "Well? What did she say?"

Severus could not help taunting her just a bit. "I don't know, Minerva, I am the headmaster now. I must have my secrets…"

He dodged the wandless stinging jinx she sent at him, hiding his relief at the return of her spirit by turning away to retrieve some documents that he had brought for her to sign. They were odious bits of paper swearing her allegiance to the new regime, but he knew she would find it to be far less onerous than the act of kneeling to the Dark Lord.

"So violent. One would think you had learnt your lesson as regards Death Eaters, woman. Now, sign these bloody papers so we can get down to real business," Severus said briskly, producing a quill for her.

"Dark lords, Severus, never Death Eaters," she retorted, but thankfully she donned her glasses and read the paperwork. She snorted after reading the language but signed anyway.

"Right, what the bloody hell is going on?" she asked bluntly. After casting a Muffliato and a broad Confundus charm, he told her, in detail.

"By the founders…that poor girl," Minerva whispered, looking back up at Severus. "Is there anything that can be done?"

"I believe she has reconciled herself to her fate," he said. "And, she has had a pronounced effect on him. I don't think anything else could explain the…softening of policy that has resulted."

"Quite." Minerva's brow furrowed as she considered the situation of her former prize student. "Are you sure she is still on our side?"

Severus touched her hand, a gesture he had received only once before from her on the eve of Harry Potter's Sorting. It caught her attention fully, as he intended.

"I believe it is time to accept that there are no sides any longer, Minerva. This is what Hermione is trying to do. There is only the ability to survive and protect those who matter to you."

Minerva McGonagall, for one minute, looked broken once again. The fact that Severus was using the girl's first name was a forceful reminder of the pep talk she had given him about Harry. It was tempting to cling to stubbornness, to insist things weren't that hopeless and deem Severus' gesture as another insidious trick of He Who Must Not Be Named. However, she forced herself to straighten up and address the problem head on, as any good Scot and Gryffindor would.

"Well then, how do we do that?"

By the time they had finished their chat, they were both resolved on a course of action that would, with any luck, see as few further casualties as possible. Enough had been lost by the Light.

Voldemort was in danger of losing his temper. This was a rarer occurrence than one would think, something that he was partially aware of. It was merely his frequent contact with his wife that allowed him to maintain some semblance of control over himself even in the face of great provocation.

And it was certainly great provocation that was facing him now. Evan Rosier was here, rendering in cold, clinical tones a dispassionate report of an unexpected pair of visitors to his estate. He himself had not been present, but his wife had dispatched them away with as much haste as she could manage, he assured the Dark Lord.

Voldemort eyed the man who had once been one of his most trusted followers. All of that had sublimated like a poisonous vapor when their daughter had given away a bit too much information to the Aurors. She was too much like her mother, loose-lipped when it came to her school friends and a bit thoughtless about the consequences.

She is certainly thoughtless now, he thought viciously.

"Why are you here?" Voldemort asked Evan coldly. "As I recall, my price was too high, and you chose to stand aside. You preferred to moulder away in Hertfordshire and let the Malfoys and MacNairs climb higher than you."

"The boy was marked, was he not?" Evan Rosier's face was lined, but his eyes were as sharp as ever, even if his countenance was wary. It was very dangerous to come here, but more dangerous to let it lie. "You would have known shortly, if you do not know already."

Voldemort's laser like gaze caught the tic at Evan's temple. They were closely matched in height still, although Voldemort had perhaps two inches on him. He leaned closer, well aware that Rosier hated it but he would take it, his brain overruling his impulses.

"And how do you think I'm going to respond to this?" he hissed.

The doors opened and Hermione walked in, her expression communicating clearly that she had something important to speak with him about. He had no time to wonder whether it was a negative or positive development, as her eyes lit upon Rosier and a flicker of recognition instantly passed over her face.

Hermione was surprised to find someone with Tom. He normally did not conduct meetings so early, as most of the Death Eaters had 'day jobs', so to speak. As the man turned his face to see who had entered Lord Voldemort's chambers without knocking, her mouth overrode her cognitive processes.

"Evan?"

Hermione was certain that it was Evan Rosier. She looked at Voldemort, but couldn't get a read on him so quickly. She had an impression that he was displeased, in that way he had when things were not proceeding according to plan, but she had no time to evaluate.

"Now is not a good time," Voldemort ground out, a clear command to Hermione to leave. She had no intention of doing so, however, and quickly walked forward to seize Evan's hand in a warm clasp of recognition. She threw a quick second glance at her husband, who was highly annoyed. She wanted him to know she wouldn't relinquish this renewed acquaintance easily or passively.

"Evan Rosier—I am so pleased to see you."

For his part, Evan Rosier had dismissed his wife's claims that the Dark Lord's new wife was the same woman they had known in school. It was too far-flung a possibility to be seriously considered, the passage of that much time something which no time turner could achieve without Ministry notice—and he had made sure that he would be the one to notice. He had thought she was a descendant, someone cunningly brought forth by Dumbledore to draw the Dark Lord's eye away from the Potter boy. Here, now, hearing her voice and seeing that flare of knowing in her eyes—he shivered involuntarily.

"Madame," he offered cautiously.

Voldemort's body language had changed to a vibrating hostility. He opened his mouth to speak again but Hermione beat him to it. She was extremely lucky that Evan's attention was fixated on her—he didn't even notice that she had interrupted her husband as he was about to speak.

"How is Olivia?" she said quickly, releasing Evan's hand.

Hermione wanted to figure out exactly what Tom had been up to in the decades before her birth, anything that might explain the subtle but important shifts in his approach that was resulting in such complete domination. She couldn't give credence to her own influence—she had not been born for so many decades, yet clearly he had been subtly maneuvering in her absence, his style and aims adapting just enough to allow this new path in the timeline. It was a wild stab in the dark on her part, a hunch that clearly hit its mark from the way Voldemort's eyes narrowed and Evan exerted visible effort to regain control of his demeanor.

"She is well, thank you. She insisted that it was you, but—"

"Your vow still holds you, Evan," Voldemort warned in a threatening tone. "It would be such a pity should anything happen to you after so many years, wouldn't you agree?"

Whatever had brought Evan Rosier back to Lord Voldemort, it had not made him happy. Hermione crossed to her husband's side, placing her hand on his forearm and then turning back to face Evan. Evan was very tense and Voldemort's wand hand twitched, but Hermione was not going to let this opportunity pass.

"Did you have children?" she asked.

It was precisely the blunt sort of question that exploded like a bomb in delicate social situations. Ironically, it was exactly what was needed to defuse Voldemort's anger.

"Yes, do tell Hermione about your children, Evan," Voldemort said coolly, although he covered Hermione's hand with his own. "I'm sure she would love to hear how they took after their parents."

Tom's tone was cruel and cutting, and Hermione was quite certain in that moment that it wasn't just Evan who had been hurt by whatever had passed between the pair of them, to render Evan's devoted allegiance asunder.

Evan flinched but remained upright. His expression was moody, bordering on defiant, as he began to speak. "Very well, I shall tell her. She probably already knows about my son, how he was cut down by that butcher Moody, but I doubt she's heard the story of Christine, has she? How my talented daughter was sacrificed for the crime of speaking?"

"Crucio." The wand was out and applied before Hermione could even pull her hand away. Voldemort broke contact first, taking two steps away from Hermione to cast a disdainful glare at Rosier as he finally ceased the curse. "I see the years have blunted the sharp edge of respect you used to have for my wand. Or perhaps it really was a suicidal wish on your part to inform me of your visit from Harry and his little minder."

Hermione couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips. Both pairs of eyes swiveled to her, and she thought desperately for something else to say. As much as she wanted to know why Harry had visited the Rosiers, she still felt the urge to protect him, even obliquely, from Voldemort's attention. "What happened to Christine?"

Evan's expression was bitterness personified. "She allowed a visit from an old school friend—a Ravenclaw, just like her, just like her mother. And your husband thinks she said too much."

The snap of the wand was predictable, but the intensity of the curse had Evan Rosier's back arching at a near impossible degree, the scream of pain apparently the price that Voldemort sought. Hermione clapped her hands over her ears, but she removed them quickly as she felt a roil from the baby's magic, instead caressing her belly in reassurance.

"She did say too much," Voldemort snarled. "I should kill you right here for birthing that mess which still haunts me to this day!"

He stopped himself when he saw Hermione's actions. He was too disciplined to give Rosier information he could parlay into a negotiation. The situation of Christine Rosier was information that Hermione did not need and it was downright dangerous for Evan to see or have time to think about Hermione's pregnancy. Distraction through pain or implied pain was an easy choice.

"What did you do to Christine?" Hermione asked again, but Voldemort ignored her, his attention firmly fixed on the wizard splayed on the floor, eyes blankly staring at the ceiling, interrupted by an occasional blink as the man forcefully reasserted control of his body.

"You will return, Evan, at the time of my choosing, to further discuss this matter—and you will bring Olivia with you."

"Of course," Evan said automatically, a wheeze barely noticeable in his address as he pulled himself to a kneeling, subservient position that was eerily reminiscent of meetings of the Knights. A bit too automatically… Voldemort grasped the man's chin and forced him to meet his gaze, not even needing the audible incantation anymore. Hermione closed her eyes in a long blink, relieved that when she opened them he had released his hold on Evan's mind and straightened up as he spoke.

"I wouldn't try to move Christine if I were you. So many unpleasant illnesses are passing through St. Mungo's these days, and so virulent…"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Evan said, smoothing his countenance into a mask of calm even though he was incensed to have been dragged backwards so far in consequence of one inescapable visit. History just loved repeating itself.

"And Evan?" Voldemort said softly, circling his wand gently with his wrist as he moved sinuously around the kneeling man, a green wisp of magic streaming forth to curl tightly around Rosier's wrist, "Be it known that another visit from my sworn enemy is considered a betrayal of your vow."

"Evan, please tell Olivia I am looking forward to seeing her again," Hermione said, throwing a glance at Voldemort. They weren't finished with this.

With a curt, affirmative nod, Rosier excused himself from the room, leaving Hermione to wonder how she had walked into the middle of a tsunami from the past.

"I grow tired of your games, Lucius."

Bellatrix prowled around him, causing Lucius to nearly hex her. He was nearly driven to drink by the current state of his little project, and she chose now to try to wheedle the contents of his father's journals out of him?

"Still listening at keyholes, I see, Bella. Naughty naughty—someday that is going to get you in enormous trouble," Lucius said, keeping his mind focused. Nudge, nudge, Mr. Longbottom. You didn't think I had gone away, did you?

"His entire programme is corrupted by that filth, and you lap it up at his feet like a dog. You don't even attempt to look for your son, or ensure that your family is well informed."

"I seek information which provides relevant context as I always have," Lucius replied with only half his attention, satisfied with the mental response of the blood traitor. Now to push him a bit further…

Bellatrix slammed her hands down on his desk, disrupting his train of thought. "Damn you, Lucius, this is serious! Our Lord is compromised, and you sit there and do nothing! Is this the behavior of a Malfoy, the scions of the wizarding world?"

"My information seeking activities are of no concern to you," Lucius snarled, pissed that she had interrupted him and broken the connection he had with the boy. "And don't be whispering in my wife's ear with your treasonous talk."

"I have been given details about the new 'education' of pre-Hogwarts children that allows mudbloods a chance to prove themselves! Which permits Muggle parents to interact more with the magical world at these supposed education centers! And you consider this irrelevant?"

Spittle was practically flying from her mouth as she shrieked, and Lucius thanked Merlin that he had married the sane sister of the three.

"I consider it to be of little priority at the moment, in the absence of a settled shift in our lord's favor," Lucius retorted, aware that he only had precious few minutes each day in which to prod the Longbottom boy along. "I am fixed firmly on actual events for my decision making; whereas you, Bella, only base yours on your dislike that someone other than you is warming the Dark Lord's bed—and that with Rodolphus hardly cold in his grave."

"DON'T," Bellatrix hissed warningly, her wand out in a flash. "I'm warning you Lucius…there is more to this than you, with your petty political mind, can comprehend. Not every revolution begins by whispering Imperio in a politician's ear or passing a hefty bribe. You'd better hope my sister is more sympathetic with actions than you appear to be!"

"What did you do to destroy the faith of one of your most committed followers?" Hermione asked as soon as the door snapped closed. Evan had been so loyal, as committed to Tom as Abraxas Malfoy. She had assumed him dead!

"That is none of your concern," Voldemort snarled, pacing as he thought. There was little chance of Evan reaching out in any respect to Augusta Longbottom, but with Potter in the picture he could not discount the possibility.

"It is my concern!" Hermione insisted, stopping him in his pacing by putting herself in his path. "Do you think I did not see the pieces falling into place with what little Evan Rosier managed to say? You punished their daughter and he broke with you because of it, didn't he? And you didn't mark him, so you couldn't make him stay."

Voldemort was aggravated that she dared to ask. He had purposefully kept those few remaining from their shared school days at a distance, and yet again the scourge that was Harry Potter fucked it up! He had no choice but to go on the offensive.

"What makes you think I'm going to tell all about the decades woven between us, witch? Do you think yourself entitled to an account of my deeds? That I am going to treat you like some father confessor ready to offer absolution for my sins? No. You are my wife, nothing more, not my partner. I do not require your counsel or your advice, and I certainly do not require your sympathy for what you perceive to be my many mistakes!"

Her eyes probably betrayed her emotional flinch at his harsh words, but she remembered her original purpose in coming to speak to him. Her words were controlled, her voice calm even though her emotions were twisting unpleasantly.

"But you do require my participation to seam your riven soul back together, Tom."

He was so still, her statement trickling into his brain and evoking a response on his face: an implacable, resolved, wary look. The commanding, conquering lord, humbled by a single fact.

"Yes."

Hermione's breath hissed out. At last, she knew what he had been hiding from her. "You knew I would find the soul cage eventually, and that the red feather carving would tell me exactly what it is. How long have you had it, Tom? Did you steal it from our Merrow?"

He broke away from her steady gaze, pacing again once before he fixed her with a look. He was so beautifully arrogant, so unyielding in his purpose and determination.

"You have no idea what he thought of you, that foul creature. You were so good at hiding things from me, but I knew that if I had been defeated, I had died. It seemed a natural fallback—just in case. And he had so much valuable information to yield about Azkaban itself before I ended his existence."

This was pure Tom, and still Lord Voldemort. They were irrevocably intertwined, facets of a very complex personality. She didn't have to ask why he had killed the Merrow. He had gone to great lengths to erase any memory of her time at Hogwarts, leaving no traces for Dumbledore to track. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Did your trial for Merrythought's class originally take place on that island?"

He drew closer again, tilting his head slightly. "No."

He had learned about Azkaban's weaknesses sooner, then. He had to have done. "How did you modify your preexisting Horcruxes to accept the soul cage's claim?"

"That is irrelevant, unless you are planning to create your own Horcruxes in the future," he replied tersely.

"Does it contain all of your soul fragments?" she pressed, aware that he was teetering on the precipice of an outburst of the emotions he concealed so cleverly and pretended not to possess.

"No. There was the one inside Harry, which I released in the Forbidden Forest."

The raw honesty of his discourse felt like such a pure and dangerous gift, such a strong representation of Tom, the human being, and not Lord Voldemort, the conquering lord of the Dark.

The pieces were falling swiftly into place now. He had sent her back to himself after that, suspecting he might, just might, be weak. Hermione felt the thud as the realization of what he planned hit her. She could see the ritual so clearly, outlined in the Maleficium. It was designed for calling back a broken soul, a twisted soul—but it would work for this purpose, could be shaped to suit Tom's needs, the way he shaped everything magical to suit his needs.

"You need me to call it back through the Veil for you. You need a Bondmate."

He said nothing, just stared at her with that arrogant, defiant gaze, and she did not even dare to offer her aura to his. He was vulnerable, and now she knew exactly how and why.

"So you admit that the Horcruxes were a mistake," she said softly.

His eyes flashed and his wand jumped in his hand. She could sense the antagonism roiling inside him, the instinct to lash out strong, deep, and well cultivated.

She placed her hands on his chest, his robes parting easily for her to feel his flesh, feel the heart physically beating beneath. "You are dying."

Finally he was prompted to speak.

"Never," he vowed, his voice like steel. It was the plea in his eyes that cut at her, though. He was still that emotionally wrecked boy. "The more times I defeat Death, the easier an opponent it becomes. I do not yield to anything other than my will."

Words. That was all she had, all she had ever had with him. Words, and herself. She dared to clasp his wand hand. His magic was still almost feral with the magnitude of his anger at Rosier and Harry, perhaps even his situation; but, she was quite certain, not anger directed at her for finally solving the puzzle he had set her. She would have had to know eventually. She looked at him, then brought his hand to her belly, letting their child's magic speak for her.

"This is you, and me. Together. What threatens you, threatens this child, and threatens me."

The sight of his hand clasping the Elder wand against the distended shape of their child provoked a jarring mishmash of impulses in his brain as decades of rigorous control clashed with the abandon with which she embraced her emotions, allowing them their place without letting them control her or try to completely control them. How did she do it? His fingers relaxed, pressing the wand flat against her robes, his fingertips touching the round bump of their child. For a brief moment he wished he were making contact with her flesh, that warmth he had come to associate with her. He looked back at his wife's face, assessing her, the temporary flash of weak emotions overcome by a bone deep distrust, accompanied by its habitual scalpel-like dissection of weakness.

"And is that all I am to you? Your protector?"

"No. You know you are more than that to me," Hermione admitted, but he was not satisfied. He could not handle the thoughts she was provoking, so he continued to attack.

"Your lover? Your teacher? The father of your child? Your enemy? Surely you see the opportunity for you. It could be as simple as one mistake with your intent at the moment of my vulnerability, and you will be free of me. Is this not exactly what you wish for? A return to a simpler existence, albeit perhaps a bit wiser about the machinations of life? An existence where you no longer must suffer me?"

"I do not suffer you!" she said angrily, some heat in her voice. This was familiar; steadier ground on which to fight.

"But you wouldn't weep if I finally succumbed to Death's sting," he taunted. He should remove his hand from her, but he stubbornly ignored the part of his brain that suggested it. She kept bringing him to this…precipice, and he must conquer it, damn it!

Hermione could sense the morass of feelings in him as his magic shied back and forth with hers. He didn't understand it, kept focusing on her own tangled emotions with the unwavering precision of someone so talented in retrieving what he wanted from other people's psyches. She tried her best to pull back her emotions, to render the situation in cold, clinical terms and achieve some distance for her own sake. Her voice was suddenly quiet as she spoke.

"Gloat in your superiority if you must, but do not accuse me of being indifferent to your survival. I am not unaware of the threat to this child and myself if you die."

He responded instantly, his magic quivering now with a different sort of intensity.

"We both know that your intent must be absolute for that ritual to work, which means there can be no barriers between us left unburned when the time comes. The Bond must be pure. You must acknowledge what you have already given away, pet."

He wouldn't let her away with distance for herself. Hermione grew angry, and her aura flared before she was consciously aware of it. His own took it effortlessly in its already heightened state, seamlessly wrestling with it and placating it in a clash that would have been violent had it not become so familiar, so natural, such an extension of themselves. She blinked back tears through her anger, her voice choking with emotion and crackling with raw energy.

"Did I not agree that I saw what we have become? I am yours, fías hi takēm kātha! You needed a mate, not merely a partner—and you have one. I have one. What you suffer, I suffer." She paused, her eyes brimming with an emotion she didn't dare name. She ignored the ache that demanded she give it a voice. "I remember what you said about doing without me for five decades, Tom," she whispered. "I do not want to know what that is like, to try my willpower in that severe a test. You may define it as weakness—I define it as hope."

"Hermione." There was something in his face, the tone of his voice as he finally sheathed his wand and threaded his fingers into her hair, cradling her upturned face in his hands. Every part of him was focused intently on her, something that made her almost dizzy as his magic suffused completely through hers, another part of herself now. "You sustained me long before I even started to contemplate the Souteni potion, to wonder if it were possible. A seed was sown before we were mated, its tendrils woven through our Bonding."

Oh God. He knew.

"You have to be honest with me as well," she whispered, forcing her eyes away from his, trying to distract him from the declaration writhing unspoken between them. She wasn't ready for this, felt herself growing terrified at the certainty in his eyes.

"Faes hi takēm kātha," he said, forcing her to look at him, truly look at him. "No more lies or omissions between us, sweetling. No more delays. Your soul is screaming at you through our bond, mate." He dropped his head, his lips whispering across her ear. "I can feel it. Shall I compel you to say it, or will you call forth your inner lioness to answer my serpent's challenge?"

Her eyes snapped back to his, their faces so close to one another. Again she refused to be less. "I can demand an equal oath from you for this."

"Agreed," he purred. "Now, finish paying your price, Hermione. Our bond magic will not be satisfied with anything less."

"Tom," she whispered, a plea for delay that this time would go unrequited. How had this become his playing field once more?

Somehow it was more than fitting to him that they were back to his old name, to the original dance between them. She would return to his vulnerability, he knew; but for now, she was considerably distracted by the power of the gift she was about to give him.

"Hermione."

She could feel it, the hum of their bond beneath her fingertips, making his skin and her skin warm from the pleasant expectation of another obstacle to its unfettered flow being removed. Her scalp tingled from the power at his fingers, but he was patiently waiting. It was his patience that was her undoing.

"I love you."

The whisper of those words danced between their blended auras, dissolving into them, binding them more tightly together. It didn't feel like a victory to say it, or any sort of sweet fulfillment given who he was. But her magic clearly disagreed with her, as did Tom's. She felt something more powerful shudder through them both as his magic accepted it, a powerful segment of their magicks aligning without pause.

"Thank you, my prize," he murmured, claiming her lips. Hermione couldn't help the tears that fell as he kissed her. He felt them, and drew back, wiping them away.

"I am not the warlock with the hairy heart, my sweet Hermione. You feel my heart beating beneath your fingertips," he said.

"But you have no respect for others' lives! You use them, destroy them, it matters not to you. I should not be able to give my heart knowing this!" Her fingers clenched on his chest, but he held fast, forcing her head up to look at him.

"I care for those who care for me, in proportion to the care they offer." He paused. "As you see."

"You take care of them, but do you actually care?" she replied fiercely, the strength of her convictions bubbling through her magic and rousing their son in her womb. Because he did not want to contemplate the question, he diverted her again.

"You have woken him," he said, laying a hand on her belly, this time of his own choice.

"It's a boy?"

The surprise was evident in her voice. Why did he have to be so kind? He was distracting her from the monumental implications of what she had just done, and she was allowing him to do it. Her mood shifted, an ephemeral bubble of happiness suffusing through him as well as her aura reflected the way she reacted to this new piece of information.

"Yes. He's quite strong for his age," he commented, unwilling to acknowledge the pleasant response this evoked from him. "A testament to his parents."

"Here." Hermione moved Voldemort's hand, and he felt the kick of his child against his palm. "You should talk to him. Babies recognize their parents' voices in the womb."

"He already recognizes me," Voldemort drawled, the lazy curl of magic from his hand through the walls of her uterus provoking another kick. "He knows both of our auras instinctively. It's a powerful survival instinct, and it will tie him to the birthplace of his forefathers, to his magical roots."

"And what of his Muggle roots?" Hermione retorted, and he gave her a supercilious look.

"Let's not pretend they are equivalent pet. Your magic in every way supersedes your inferior parentage."

"That does not mean a Muggle heritage never has anything of value to offer," Hermione shot back.

"Please, do not imitate Dumbledore for me. I am weary of such protestations. I will concede that the possibility exists for a muggleborn to exceed the natural expectations of their parentage. This merely reinforces the superiority of magic over muggle, in my view."

"Why can you not acknowledge that the wizarding world makes as many mistakes as muggles? You claim to be trying to fix the problems caused by inept wizards, and yet won't make any allowances for inept muggles!" Hermione said.

"The problem with Muggles, my little mate, is not the inept ones, but the competent ones."

Hermione knew what he meant by this. "That is why the Statute of Secrecy was enacted."

"So the superior should hide from the inferior?"

"It's a simple game of ratios, and you know it. We need Muggle genetic diversity." Hermione paused at his smirk. "Do not think I have forgotten that you owe me an oath, Tom. I reserve that right."

"Oh no, pet, I insist you complete your expectations now," Voldemort said, smoothly changing gear yet again. "I will not have an undefined expectation left loose when our bond has tightened so appreciably between us. It renders your mind even more opaque to me, sweetling, as you are doubtless aware…because you present far less of a threat to me, the one you love."

He was doing his best to distract her either by needling her or probing for how much she understood of the implications behind admitting she loved him, or both. Hermione, however, had had plenty of time to think about this sort of question in the hours she had been left to her own devices. If she were ever in a position to demand anything of her husband, she had decided to ask for something that she was certain he would never do himself, but which he would agree to in principle. The key lay in understanding his principles.

"I want your oath that you will not only allow, but also help if required, should I have to repay a life debt."

He studied her carefully. Interesting. "Excluding any between us…I agree."

Hermione let out the breath she had been holding. "Good."

Her fingers tapped involuntarily on his chest, and he claimed her mouth again, this time, softly. She could feel her heart speeding up in that flushed manner associated with attraction, and more than that, connection.

"Please, Tom," she said as she broke off, nuzzling into his neck.

"Will you not even accept tenderness in lieu of words we both know I cannot offer?" he asked quietly, the slow movement of his hands on her back and neck generating a relaxing blur of nerve impulses.

"When did you learn to be tender, Tom?" she murmured against his skin. It was reassuring to be in his arms, and she had stopped berating herself for it.

"Perhaps I have a good teacher."

"This meeting of the Order of the Phoenix is called to order."

Kingsley Shacklebolt had a way of commanding attention. The appearance of Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall caused a murmur to run through the assembled company. Harry noticed how haggard everyone looked, stretched past their breaking points. And there was no denying that there were less of them, the tracking charms on nearly everything taking their toll as the deadline for the amnesty ticked closer.

"I turn the floor over to our recently restored colleague, Minerva McGonagall."

Professor McGonagall looked smaller, frailer as she carefully stood, casting a Sonorous charm on herself.

"I am here tonight thanks to my colleague, Severus Snape. I am not proud to say this, but I have accepted the amnesty offered by…the Dark Lord. And I am here to urge you to do the same."

A dull roar circled the cavern, but Minerva caught and held Harry's gaze. He nodded, once, and she cleared her throat to draw attention once again.

"I will explain my reasons for doing so, but first, let me say that those of you who will continue the struggle must do so wisely—as the apes in Africa," she added in a moment of inspiration. "And trust that whatever we each must do to survive, we will never abandon those in need."

Harry's gaze slid to the faces around the room, some engaged in whispered conversations, some paying close attention to McGonagall as she continued to speak, Snape a silent black shadow behind her left shoulder. He caught a look of profound sadness on Professor Flitwick's face, implacable resolve on Kingsley's, and torn indecision on Remus, and Tonks. Finally his gaze came to rest on Draco, who was waiting for it.

"It's time, isn't it?" he said quietly.

The grey eyes were strangely calming. "So long as I get a wand, yes."

Harry nodded slightly. "There's just one thing I have to talk to Kingsley about."

*Just a little note: soul cages are part of the mythology associated with the Merrow. I found it an interesting tidbit when researching folk creatures way back in the beginning of the story. Supposedly they trapped the souls of the drowned in them.