I think I have hit all review replies! Please let me know if I missed yours, I hate doing that to people who have accounts. To all the wonderful, dedicated anonymous reviewers: thank you! Unbelievably it might be possible to hit 1000 reviews with this fic! If you are a regular reader but haven't reviewed in a while, please hit the review button for me. That would be such an incredible milestone for me as a writer.

Right, enough of that. More story! Thank you all for following & favoriting. You get "Outstanding"! Enjoy, and let me know what you think. Oh, and if you need a warning for lemons, consider yourself warned.

An hour earlier…

"You try my patience, young Malfoy! WHERE IS HE?"

Hermione bit her lip as Draco Malfoy twisted on the floor in front of her. Tom had been adamant: he wanted Harry. Hermione had pleaded for his life, but he was past being reasonable. He had endangered her, and he had to die. She wracked her brain for some avenue other than dueling Tom herself, but had come up with a blank.

"I don't know! I'm going to find him, I swear, I can find him, just give me time, an hour—"

"Crucio!"

Draco's spine gave a terrible crack, and blood leaked from his mouth. Hermione wasn't sure if he had bitten his tongue or his lip, but she had had enough.

"Tom!"

It was unforgivable to call him Tom in front of Draco Malfoy, but he did cease casting, his magic roaring in anger against her own. She couldn't bear to look at him, and as her eyes tracked down she noticed something peculiar about Draco. His eyes were almost liquid, and pure silver. He was still convulsing slightly, and not fully in control of his faculties, so he missed the indrawn breath as all the pieces fell into place in Hermione's mind.

"Do NOT interfere," Voldemort began in a hiss, but Hermione stopped him wordlessly with her magic, pushing back with equal strength despite all the rigors of the day. She had wondered if she were capable of sustaining herself as Tom did, and although it was brief and draining, it was enough. The full force of Tom's attention snapped to her, and Hermione cast a quick silencing charm around them both.

"I know he can find him. Let him go and do it. You can deal with him tomorrow."

Her voice was low and a bit rough, evidence of a rougher day.

"You will explain."

It was a command, not a request. Hermione nodded, and Voldemort swept around, his robes snapping over Draco's prone form. The silencing charm dispelled with a flick of the Elder wand, and Voldemort suspended Draco in front of him.

"You will retrieve Mr. Potter and cache him away where he can do no further mischief. I will summon you when I am ready to deal with him. Am I understood?"

"Yes…yes. Yes, my lord," Draco sputtered, his breath still wheezing in and out of his lungs against their permission. He felt lightheaded and weak, but he was alive. His gaze flickered over to Granger once. He knew he had her to thank for the fact that he was still breathing. The brief eye contact was the only thanks he could manage.

As soon as Draco left the room, Hermione sat down on the chair next to Voldemort's throne. Voldemort's attention was keen, and she felt him probing her mind and her magic. Her mind was closed, but he read all he needed in her magic. She was exhausted.

"I need some tea."

Voldemort's attention never left her. "Verity!"

The house elf apparated with a pop into the room, bowing abjectly low before Voldemort. "I lives to serve you, master."

"Tea for my wife. In our bedchamber."

"Verity will serve!"

Hermione allowed him to draw her to her feet. He eyed her skeptically, but her magic was ebbing, a testament to the willpower she was using to sustain her now. He walked them toward the opening to their bedroom that appeared with a wave of his hand. His voice was complimentary as he said, "Again you display why you were a wise choice, faes hi takēm kātha. I told you, you are very like me."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Hermione said stiffly, aware that he was still running at a high thrum while she was feeling quite tired.

"That little fit of pique was purely fueled by willpower, my pet, that is what I mean, and we both know that is what sustained me for many years in your absence."

Their eyes held while she settled on the divan. He pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand, a compliment sweeter than any honeyed words. If she weren't too tired to think about it, Hermione would have been amused to realize that his anger was disarmed whenever she behaved in a like manner to the manner in which he behaved all the time.

She watched him over the rim of the cup as he settled himself next to her, pulling her feet onto his lap with the grace that accompanied his movements whenever he was in control of himself. He raised his chin slightly and pulled her onto his lap. "You need to sleep. We will talk of this later."

Hermione wanted to disagree, but her eyelids were drooping against her will. She burrowed into his neck, her nose teased by the very faint scent of his skin, an echo of his youthful self that persisted despite the twisted journey of his body.

"Don't leave," she begged quietly as he laid her down on their bed. He nuzzled his face into her hair. He could not recall another soul that could dissipate his anger so quickly. He wasn't sure that it was purely due to their bond, either.

"I have an errand to attend, sweet one. I will be here when you wake."

"Not Harry!" Her voice was low but fervent.

"No, not Harry. I will wake you when I return."

The fillip of magic from their son as Voldemort caressed him once was not even enough to rouse Hermione again as she slipped into restorative sleep.

When he woke, Harry made no noise by dint of much inadvertent practice. He was lying on his back, fortunately still with his glasses on, and a minute clenching of his hands revealed a soft padded surface beneath him.

"I know you're awake, Harry."

Harry turned his head, and saw Draco crouched in front of a fireplace, his profile illuminated by the flickering flames.

"Where am I?" Harry remembered being hit with the stunning spell. He was surprised he wasn't in chains, or waking before Lord Voldemort.

"Somewhere safe."

Well that was a tad more hopeful, maybe. Harry tried to sit up and couldn't, a sudden rush of adrenaline his only visceral response. He tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, "What gives, Malfoy?"

"My apologies, Harry."

Harry felt the sticking charm loosen slightly, enough for him to sit up but not get up from the couch. He took another calming breath, then asked, "What's going on?"

Draco turned his face slightly to look at him, the shadows playing oddly on his countenance. "We need to have a talk, Harry. But you should know upfront that we are at a Malfoy property—under the orders of the Dark Lord."

Draco had thought long and hard about how he would begin to explain to Harry how everything had unfolded, how he had maneuvered and wrangled and bled to get them both this far, so close to safe and whole…he hoped. Because Harry was Harry, the best approach seemed to be the truth…mostly.

"What do you mean by that?" Harry asked evenly, but Draco could tell from the flaring of his nostrils that Harry was angry. Draco was a bit angry, too. His whole being had been waiting for this confrontation for months now, the tension digging impatiently inside him like a screw wound tighter with every turn. It felt painful and good to get it out, even if it bled with its release.

"Not exactly what you think I mean, but that's irrelevant." Draco's voice was suddenly sharp, piercing. "Don't you want to know why I saved you from the Dark Lord? How I tracked you to Longbottom's humble abode? Why you suddenly couldn't connect with Ginevra Weasley like you used to?" Draco leaned forward, so close that Harry could see the liquid mercury swirling in his irises. "Where has all your Gryffindor courage gone now? Ask me WHY, Harry! Ask me why I suffered the Cruciatus curse innumerable times for you, why I bled for you on the floor of my own home rather than tell him where you were."

Harry knew he was on the edge of a crumbling precipice. His heart was racing now, his magic was up, and the sticking charm was not going to hold him much longer. His voice was hoarse as he asked, "Why?"

He knew the truth before Draco said it.

"I'm a Veela, Harry."

Harry bolted from the couch then, his mind and magic rebelling against the conscious knowledge of what he had unconsciously realized months ago. He darted down the dark hallway, and found himself in the bathroom, throwing up into the toilet. When he had finished retching, he looked up and found Draco watching him from the doorway, his arms folded over his chest, tight, like he had done that night when he was summoned.

"Where's my wand." It was a statement, not a question. Harry disliked feeling so powerless and full to bursting with magic at the same time.

"I can't give it to you right now." Draco's voice was flat, and Harry couldn't help the burst of accidental magic that flared out, causing Draco to wince as he deflected most of it. He started forward and Harry backed away.

"Don't touch me," Harry said warningly, holding up a hand.

"I don't want to touch you," Draco snarled, then seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair nervously. "For fuck's sake, Harry, do you think I'm thrilled about this? Do you think this was my dream? To have some latent trait awakened and then find out that on top of manifesting as a full Veela, I discover my mate in none other than Harry bloody Potter, the ONLY wizard that has been at the top of the Dark Lord's hit list for all of his life? Do you think I wanted this? Do you?"

Harry's brain kicked in as Draco's words pierced the shock and panic his initial disclosure had prompted. Draco had his wand, and he controlled the wards. There was nothing substantive that he could do without a wand. Furthermore, Draco had saved him at the Manor. He didn't know what to think, or how to respond.

Draco paced in the tiny room, his own magic high. He had known it would be hard to tell Harry, but this was excruciating. His mouth was dry and he felt like throwing up himself, his mind and heart racing with nervous skitters at the thought that if Harry were going to reject him ever, it would be now, right now when he was processing all that Draco had done, how Draco had betrayed him but saved him. Draco hoped mightily that Harry wouldn't forget that last bit, that with time it would allow him to forgive the first. His mouth was still moving, a stream of consciousness as he fought to throw as much information at Harry as possible, overwhelm him with it so he'd have to stop and think and not act rashly.

"I couldn't believe it when I started showing the signs of turning…it was the stress of Dumbledore, that's what my father thinks. He has no idea I've found my mate, I've kept that from everyone…I think Snape has guessed, I don't know if the Dark Lord has figured it out…I've worked harder on my Occlumency than anything in my life…he almost broke me hours ago, I was so afraid I wouldn't be able to find you and he was inside that fear, I had to deflect him from how I intended to find you…"

Harry was in shock, listening to Malfoy—Draco—rambling about what he had been doing for all these months. It was like a series of blows hitting his psyche, and he simply couldn't assimilate it all at the moment. He fell back on the tentative camaraderie that had sprung up between them, suddenly aware of how tightly conscribed Draco's motions were by the small space, how close they were to one another.

"Uh, Malfoy, could we talk about this somewhere else?" Harry swept his arm around the small bathroom, clearly uncomfortable.

Draco blinked and took in the bathroom, suddenly recalling why they were there. He cleared his throat and gestured to the sink awkwardly. "Do you want to rinse your mouth?"

"Um, sure."

Harry swished the remaining taste of vomit from his mouth; keenly, awkwardly aware of Draco's presence. Draco was trying to be discreet, but Harry kept circling back to Draco's first statement: Voldemort had ordered Draco to bring him here, and obviously to keep him here. He wanted to know why, and said so as soon as they were back in the drawing room, each tentatively assuming their former seats facing each other.

"Why were you told," Harry spat out the word, the bitterness of Draco's betrayal still metallic in his mouth, "to bring me here?"

Draco eyed him warily. "I couldn't begin to guess. I only know it meant you would be safe for a while longer, so I took it."

"What about the Grangers?"

"They're with the Dark Lord and Hermione. I'm sure Hermione will ensure no harm comes to them."

Harry rubbed his face with both hands roughly. "And what about you? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing, Harry."

It was said so softly that he hardly heard it. It was tempting to leave it, to let it go and pretend they were still getting along by some mysterious miracle, not a magical wonder of biology. But he just couldn't. Malfoy had lied to him all these months, had shamelessly manipulated him and his emotions. Harry felt himself getting angry again.

"Well that's a lie, isn't it?" Harry said suddenly, his head shooting up so he could glare at Draco. "You want to mate me, bite me and do whatever it is that Veela do, don't you?"

Draco moved faster than should have been humanly possible. His face was an inch from Harry's own, a pure look of disdain and annoyance displacing his calm façade. "Oh yes, Harry, that's all I can think about. After all, why wouldn't I be thinking about biting you and buggering you when I have other trivialities to think of, such as keeping myself alive, alongside trying to keep you alive as well in the face of impossible odds? Two words: Grow. Up."

Harry couldn't help but notice that Draco's eyes practically sparked when he was angry. His breath smelled faintly sweet and minty. There was a sudden rush of blood through Harry's body, churning in that same world-tilting way as when he had first noticed Cho Chang. His lips parted slightly and he resisted the urge to lick them, although they felt awfully dry all of a sudden.

"All right, Draco. Sorry."

Draco's eyes flicked downward briefly, as if he knew what Harry wanted to do so badly. He drew back suddenly, composing himself visibly even if his insides still twisted with that sudden need.

"We have enough on our plates without that. Let's just figure out how to keep you alive."

Hermione felt the lush swirl of Tom's magic as it gently teased her to wakefulness. It was still dim in their bedchamber, and she detected a curious mix of exhaustion and drained magic in Tom.

"What have you been doing?" she whispered, touching the side of his face gently as he slid into bed with her.

"It will wait. I would hear your theory about Draco Malfoy. Explain."

Hermione blinked twice, her mind coming up to full speed quickly after however many hours that had passed in sleep.

"He is not afraid of you when it comes to preserving Harry. I think I know why."

His lips curved in amusement. "I seem to recall you warning me about this particular problem. 'What will you do, I wonder, when there comes a day when those you seek to intimidate aren't afraid to die before you? What good will fear be then?' Such insight, and all too true. Fear is a strong motivator, but there are better ones, aren't there, pet? A lesson you were most eager to teach me."

"You remember that?" Hermione was a bit incredulous—what seemed like months ago to her was over five decades for him. She clearly remembered that dangerous argument in the dark hallway, her heated defense of Muggleborns and castigation of the wizarding world's stereotypes after he had verifiable evidence of her heritage. Her heart was hammering in her chest the entire time, certain he would hex her to oblivion for arguing with him.

"I remember every conversation I've ever had with you, witch."

A little ribbon of pleasure curled through her magic at that, and he picked up on it, skillfully running his fingers lightly along her back, rubbing the ache. He arched a hairless eyebrow in a wordless order to continue, his gaze dropping to the tops of her swollen breasts peeking above her nightgown.

Hermione's body heated up at the lazy, lascivious tint his magic was taking, and her breath quivered. "You know he is a Veela."

Voldemort's eyes slid upward to caress hers. "I didn't know, until you just told me. I merely…suspected. I am grateful to you for that nudge, Hermione—so many traits, passed on from parent to child, just waiting for the right inducement to activate them."

The satisfaction that richly suffused his magic caused color to bloom in Hermione's cheeks. "How did you know the Malfoys had Veela ancestry?"

"The signs are there for anyone intelligent enough to look. Male Veela are rare, but Lucius certainly did not get his persuasive talents from Abraxas. His mother's family is rife with Veela, a fact which they carefully kept to Europe."

"And you would never have looked if I hadn't said something about traits and genetics." The unsteadiness accompanying an altered memory swelled within her brain, causing her hand to pause on his cheek. "You ordered Snape to instruct us on the genetic heritage of dangerous magical creatures, didn't you?"

"An Outstanding to Gryffindor's golden goddess," Voldemort purred, turning his head to capture her fingers against his mouth briefly. "What a wonderful insight you gave me, petal. Do you believe me now when I tell you my aim to mold young minds and wizarding society as a whole has shifted in a more…tolerable direction?"

"I had no idea you would take so much of what I said into account." She was shocked. Yet it fit in with what he had changed. The satisfaction of understanding more was a tilted rush of firing neurons, another heady thrill to think of how he paid attention to her words. She looked at his throat, wanting a moment to think as her hands absentmindedly noted the now familiar curve of his skull. Everything he had done was so calculated, so in line with the Tom she had known. It was as if their relationship, their bond, had allowed him to retain control of himself. He gently urged her head back up so he could meet her eyes, his own rich with satisfaction and, oddly, appreciation.

"Faes hi takēm kātha. 'She who completes me.'"

Parseltongue from his lips was a love language, Hermione decided. She wanted to kiss him, but he was still talking, and his words were so sweet to hear.

"Kātha means'balances', and takēm, 'completes'. Are we not an example of the fruits of a more balanced approach? Who would have predicted that I, Lord Voldemort, would go to such lengths to obtain you, a mudblood whose biggest claim to fame as carefully sculpted by Dumbledore was your friendship with Harry Potter? Oh yes, he did his best to downplay your talents, but Draco was quite jealous of you, and of course Severus kept me informed about Harry's best friends."

"And Harry and Draco would bring more balance."

He half-smiled. "Now you overestimate your generous influence. Let me ask you—what would you do if I said Draco was coming here tonight, and if I asked him to, he would bring me Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, so I could kill him here and now? Would you be very angry with me for doing that, pet?"

Hermione's heart jumped once, but reason reasserted itself in short order. "You won't do that. You need the public spectacle of his surrender."

"You are—" he paused to suck in a breath of her scent, his eyes closing briefly as he did so, "—intoxicating when you keep up with me. I so want…"

I want, too. Her reply was inaudible, but he felt it in his aura, softened from his exertions but still up for playtime, apparently. She felt his magic dancing, flirting with hers; so eager to sink into her and relish it, revel in it.

"You're not going to kill Harry," she breathed in a sudden flash of insight, pulling back from the kiss she had finally given him to stop him talking.

"I'm not going to kill Harry," he agreed, agreeably kissing his way along her cheekbone to her ear.

Hermione's honey colored eyes flashed briefly in the dim light as she pulled back to look at him. "You think Harry is his mate."

"As do you." Voldemort turned her head with a nudge and breathed into her ear, returning to nipping it and sucking it alternately. "The irony is delicious, is it not?"

"Nearly as ironic as our marriage," Hermione remarked, and Voldemort let out a bark of laughter against her skin. Her fingers played along the line of his jaw, marveling at the smoothness of his skin. She missed the hair, she could admit it to herself; the stubble that so few had ever seen, a reminder of his humanity. But his skin was always warm when they were together like this. She felt the hushed edges of his tiredness again, pressed a kiss to his chest.

"You have drained yourself…whatever you have been up to? Will you tell me now?"

He groaned but raised up to his knees, angling her up so he could reach everything interesting. Hermione felt her nightgown vanish, his attention fully focused on her body.

"I'll take that as a no."

His gaze drifted up to meet hers, a slow, small smile appearing as his hand stroked down, then between her legs, caressing her smooth inner thighs. "So astute."

"I want your attention up here," Hermione demanded, her hand circling behind his head. She caught his mouth and wrapped his aura in a way she was no longer able to do with her body.

He allowed himself to enjoy the cushion of her magic, the way it soothed the jagged edges of his exhaustion and gave him a soft place to land. He sat and pulled her into his lap, intent on showing her exactly how intoxicated he was. He was plying her with tender kisses headier than any wine, caresses that did more to ramp up their magics than anything that they had done before.

When she broke her mouth away from his, Hermione was breathless and sparking with need. "You're making love to me."

"I am," he said, recapturing her mouth. "Do you like it?"

A moan was her reply. He wanted more of those sounds of passion from her, more twisting need and seeking hands and the wet heat her body offered. He even loved the squishy, wet noises their bodies made together. "You are perfection," he said quietly, the gush at his fingers the only answer he needed.

"Let me on top," she said, mourning the loss of his mouth from her breast.

"As my lady commands," he said darkly, helping her balance herself above his hips, then hissing with pleasure as she sank down. "Lean back a bit. I'll support you."

He was tired, but obviously not that tired, because he managed to support her at the right angle to permit him to keep up his lavish attention to her breasts while she moved her hips against him. Hermione was lost in the spiral of need, Voldemort's harsh cry and clenching hands the final push for her own orgasm. She came so hard she saw stars, her aura exploding with honeyed bliss against the more violent cascade of Voldemort's peak. His hands softened again on her back, stroking and gently supporting her as she disengaged herself from his body and lay down on her side. She felt the flick of a soft cleansing charm, then he arranged himself behind her, smoothing her hair away from her face. She turned her head to give him a kiss. He put away his wand—more proof if she needed any that he was exhausted. He would not use a wand for something so trivial as a cleansing charm under ordinary circumstances. She caught his hand as he was moving it back, kissing his fingers gently, then holding his hand between her breasts. His breath was solid against her hair, real.

"You have come to terms with how this will play out at last." He spoke quietly, but he was certain.

"You will never know the extent of the decay in your ranks if you make Harry bow to you so soon."

"Which is why Draco will sit on him if necessary to keep him out of the way for now." He sighed. Perversely it pleased him to be so exhausted he could only be honest with her. There was an odd pulse thumping between their magics, something minute but pure still inside him, and it was content at that moment in the swirl of his wife's magic.

"I still don't understand how we can have this," Hermione said softly. At times like this, the dreadful mess of the wizarding world seemed very far away and insignificant next to the enormity of the bond they shared. She couldn't encapsulate it properly in words: the solidity, the solid understanding, reliance, the love she felt for him. She felt him at the edges of her mind, let him in to see what she was trying to explain. She shivered as he gave her what could only be described as a mental caress before he left her mind.

"We do not have to fully understand something to appreciate what it can give us," he replied equally softly.

Hermione woke to a cool bed. Verity popped in immediately with a full breakfast tray.

"The master says eats and then be ready for appointments, Madame."

"Where is he?" Hermione asked, aware that the house elf knew her husband's movements better than other occupants of the Manor.

"Talking to the indentured, my lady—eats, eats!"

Although Hermione still had no liking for chiding from a house elf, she was hungry, and the breakfast was more than substantial. There was a spark of approval from the baby, and she wondered if Muggle mums also knew as clearly when their child liked something. In quiet moments she could wonder what it would be like to hold him in her arms, this child that represented the joining of herself and Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort. Tom was slyly curious about her pregnancy and the baby, stroking her belly enough to recognize his son's aura and for his son to likewise recognize his father. He kept his thoughts about fatherhood to himself, however, and she had to believe he would, as he had said, be ready for it when it arrived.

Hermione couldn't imagine who Verity meant by 'indentured', but when she saw Miriam Strout it made perfect sense. Tom was seated on his pedestal, deliberately being intimidating, and clearly questioning Strout about Christine Rosier.

"I suppose it is possible that it will work. I would prefer to consult with your potions master about the potion she was working on as well."

Miriam had by now had ample practice at the art of discretion, and she wisely kept to herself any thoughts she had about the impact the knowledge of this potion might have had on her treatment of Miss Rosier. Nonetheless, if she were being fair, she could equally fault her parents. If anyone should have deduced what their daughter had been up to, it was an Unspeakable.

"When will you summon the Rosiers?" Hermione asked, announcing her presence to Madame Strout. Tom had known she was there from the second she entered the room.

"Once Madame Strout has assembled all of the things she requires, and brings Christine here."

"It might be better if the Rosiers simply brought her home. Given the climate, this would be perfectly understandable." Hermione did not add that it would be predictable, too. Some patients had been removed from the long term care ward once it got out that Death Eaters had paid several visits to the ward.

"Well, I am sure Evan will be all that is accommodating."

Hermione was aware of the undercurrent of sarcasm, but it apparently went over Miriam's head.

"Excellent. I will contact Headmaster Snape, then, with your permission." It grated, but Miriam said it perfectly politely. The unaltered visceral memories of how the Dark Lord plied his wand were apparently potent enough to muzzle her thoughts.

Voldemort arched a brow, his eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. "Yes, you have my permission, Madame. I expect to hear from you both no later than this evening with your conclusions."

Hermione visually chastised him for being a demanding bastard, but he ignored her utterly. Demanding the impossible proved often enough how low most set their definition of 'impossible'. It was amazing how much was achieved when he was making the demand.

"Of course."

Voldemort unwarded the Floo in the room, a feature that Strout knew existed but didn't remember quite clearly. It was a hint, and Miriam took it, leaving in a whirl of green flames under her own steam for once. Voldemort turned to his wife.

"Are you ready to see your parents?"

Hermione's heart tripped a bit. "Where did you put them last night?"

"Narcissa Malfoy is an excellent hostess. I am sure the little Confundus charm will go unnoticed by all except perhaps Lucius, who will not dare to comment on it."

Hermione sighed with displeasure, but it was hard to be irritated at a gesture meant to safeguard her parents. With all the unrest among the Death Eaters, the fewer who knew of their presence, the better.

"Before you say another word, you were in no fit state to see them last night." He drew her arm into his own, turning them to face the doors to the hall.

"No," she admitted, turning her nose up haughtily.

He was always amused when she affected his mannerisms. She was too young still to have them perfected, but in about a decade he could easily picture her commanding a room with her presence. The fact that he pictured her by his side a decade hence was something he did not dwell on. "Is there not some formulaic ritual, to meet the parents of one's spouse?"

"Typically, yes." Hermione was nervous, and attempting to cover it. She felt the dark swells from her husband, who was doubtless reminded of the perfidy of his parents. "But you have never been typical, have you?"

"No. But perhaps it would be best if they were not confronted with this—" he waved his hand and cast a glamour over her ripe form, "—at first glance, hmm?"

Their conversation ceased as the doors opened. Voldemort would not sully himself to test the minds of Muggles, but there was no need. It was clear from the terrified expressions of the Grangers that they were well aware of who they were facing. Their eyes sought Hermione's for reassurance, and she nodded minutely.

"Richard and Jean Granger. Parents of Hermione Jean Granger, born at 2:33 pm on Thursday, September 20th, 1979." Voldemort paused, then threw a picture of their house into thin air, his wand circling lazily, causing the image to rotate. "This is your home."

"Y-yes."

It was the woman who spoke, Jean, and Voldemort turned his head to look at his wife before facing her parents again.

"And it has been protected by me. You have been exceptionally fortuitous, have you not, in your little town? No strange happenings, even while the world went mad around you?"

The Grangers did not know what to say. Hermione bit her lip in her nervousness, and Voldemort's eyes slid to her. He inclined his head and whispered in her ear, "Patience a little longer, pet. I must live up to their expectations."

Hermione knew rationally that it was his sardonic sense of humor. However, he lost nothing meaningful if anything happened to her parents. He had no conception of what a proper parental relationship was. Her fingers itched to touch the baby, if only to reassure herself that they would work it out, but Tom was correct. Seeing her pregnancy would have driven them over the edge and their response would probably have tempted his temper. She desperately wanted to hug them, but first they had to gain their compliance with any measures required to keep them safe from interference from here on out.

Voldemort was aware of the quivering tension in Hermione. He sent a reassuring thrum of magic to her as he lifted his head away from her ear, then tilted it as he studied the Grangers. Well to do, thin like their daughter got when she was stressed, no doubt intelligent for Muggles. Hermione's father was keeping an eye on his wand, which he clasped in his left hand at his side. Wise man.

"And whom do you think I am?"

Richard Granger finally spoke. "You're the one they call the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort." His hand clenched, and he added, "And we were told you married our daughter."

"A rather quaint but inadequate Muggle expression that doesn't really convey what has passed between myself and your daughter," Voldemort began, letting Hermione's hand slip from his arm as he glided toward them. "Tell me…what have you heard of me?"

Hermione's heart ached to hug her parents. "It's all right. Be honest with him," she said quietly, knowing they needed a bit of courage.

"Hermione herself told us about you. She said you set your Death Eaters on the World Cup, that you were kidnapping and—," Richard began boldly, then shrank as Voldemort flicked his wand again, the image contorting to reflect the Quidditch World Cup, the camps on fire and masked Death Eaters casting spells. "—and killing people," he finished, his eyes glued to the images.

"She said you had tried before to—" Jean flinched as Voldemort's gaze shifted to her, but continued, "—to take over, but you were stopped. And…you came back."

She swallowed hard on that last bit, and Voldemort wondered exactly how much Hermione had told them about Harry's role in that event, and the exact nature of what had been happening in the wizarding world. He dispelled the images with a flick of his wand, moving a bit faster before them.

"You have made the acquaintance of other wizards, other witches. In fact, you were recently in the company of Harry Potter himself, among others. Doubtless they were responsible for conveying the happy news of your daughter's marriage...I would very much like to know how they did so."

The Grangers did not know what to think of the Dark Lord, nor his questions.

"Yes, they...told us about Hermione," Richard said. "I couldn't believe she would do that, but they had a—"

Voldemort cut him off, abruptly coming to a halt before them, his wand conjuring a copy of the paper with the article about their marriage. "A newspaper. The Daily Prophet. As you see. And doubtless they told you I would not allow Hermione to leave. That I have somehow coerced her, that she is here against her better judgment. That she longs to be rescued from me."

"Please, we only want to see Hermione, to talk with her," Jean begged.

"Mum, Dad—" Hermione began, but Tom was not done.

"You see her! There she is! But let me assuage your worries still further. You may touch her. You may talk to her. But I am not naïve, and nor should you pretend to be. We all know that if she were magically coerced…if there were some way I had bound her here, to me…if she were, in fact, not exercising her own free will," he was pacing around them now, his rate of motion speeding up with his speech, "there is absolutely no way for you to detect it. In fact, any evidence Hermione offers will, for the rest of your lives, be subject to that grave doubt, the lingering 'what if' that will poison every interaction with her. Is that not so?"

Twin tears fell from Hermione's lashes as her mum's breath hiccoughed and her father's eyes grew moist.

"No, it is not so," Richard said stoutly, his eyes finally fixed on Hermione only.

"We love you no matter what, sweetheart," Jean said.

"So be it." Tom stood still to the side. It did not take long.

Hermione moved toward them at last, first embracing her mother, then her father. They were quick hugs, and she doubted they noticed her distorted abdomen as the hugs morphed into a group hug.

"I have missed you," she said, incapable of saying anything else to reflect the gamboling emotions inside.

Voldemort tolerated the display of emotion, but held out his hand to her. There was a very clear change in Hermione's situation, and he wanted her to acknowledge it in front of them. Hermione gave her mother a kiss on her cheek and walked back to Tom. He drew her to his side, his fingers intertwining with hers in an unmistakable sign of familiar intimacy.

"Now, we may talk about what is to be done."