Here it is, the end. Please, please leave a review. This has been thirteen months of work. I'm not sure I will post the epilogue. It seems fitting to end here; and will likely be my last fanfiction for quite a while. Thank you for reading.

"There now," Hermione cooed, soothing Orias as he fussed in her arms.

"This is a lot to take in, Hermione," her mother offered, while her father clenched his arms tighter around his chest.

"I cannot believe that you would hide something like this from us," Richard Granger snapped, causing Hermione's magic to crackle audibly around her body. She knew it was because of Tom's deteriorating condition, but her parents' eyes widened.

"Richard, that's not helpful," Jean chided. Her father had the grace to look ashamed.

"There are many things about this that you will not understand," Hermione said, calming herself down with some effort. The fact that she herself was still experiencing the magical swings from childbirth did not help. "What you do need to understand is that I am entrusting Orias to your care until I return. Our house elf Verity will help you, and Evan Rosier and Severus Snape will assist you with anything else."

"What could possibly cause you to leave your baby with us so soon, Hermione?"

As usual, her mother drilled right to the heart of the problem, her eyes perceptive as she studied her daughter. Hermione was tired, surely from more than a newborn's care.

"There is a ritual that needs to be done, and I have to perform my part," Hermione said, a small smile creeping onto her face as Orias settled into sleep. "There's my good boy…"

It had been a while since Jean Granger had held an infant, but some things were never forgotten. Hermione gently placed him in her arms, and Jean's eyes glistened slightly with tears.

"He is a beautiful child," Jean whispered, touching his clenched fist reverently. "How long will you be gone?"

"Hopefully not more than a few hours," Hermione replied.

"No longer than necessary."

Voldemort's soundless apparition into the room had been unnoticed by all save his wife. The Grangers still flinched at the sound of his voice. He ignored them utterly. Leaving Orias completely in the care of a house elf was unacceptable, even if Muggle grandparents were scarcely better. That they were so thoroughly intimidated by him was as it should be.

"Are you ready?"

The question was moot. With the potion ready, there was no time to lose. Hermione met Voldemort's gaze, reminding herself that it was better not to tell her parents the real extent of the risks involved. One of them would surely return regardless.

"Let's go."

The Ministry was busy, memos flying around and workers hustling between offices and meetings. People cleared out of their way, however, the deferential bows something that Tom ignored. Hermione caught a few curious looks, and wondered how much of her pregnancy and childbirth had made its way around the Ministry.

"My lord."

Walden MacNair was the only one who dared approach Lord Voldemort when he was clearly on a mission. Well versed in the manner of Death Eaters now, Hermione knew that Walden would be trading on his high status given his success at controlling what the Daily Prophet had published about the rebellion and Bellatrix's death. The fact that not a hint of Orias' birth had glanced its pages was impressive, although she was certain that rumors were swirling from the number of stolen glances she, and more particularly her midsection, were receiving.

Severus was oddly silent as they waited for Voldemort to finish his conversation with MacNair. Suddenly he turned to Hermione, offering her a small box from the pocket of his robes. Opening it to find a large bezoar, she raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"Sometimes the most dangerous poison is the one inside," he offered quietly, his expression troubled.

"Thank you." Hermione was not quite sure what he meant, but Severus was not one to offer advice lightly. Her thoughts were quite preoccupied with the ritual ahead. Severus Snape was no one's fool, and he knew more about what they were attempting than anyone else. She fingered the box in her pocket, wondering what he could intend it for.

Tom ended his conversation and glided to Hermione's side. "Shall we?"

They continued in silence down to the Department of Mysteries. There was no one about. Hermione didn't know whether that was by Tom's design or just the nature of the place, but even their footsteps had no echo as they made their way to the chamber housing the Veil. Finally they were there, the black door looming large. Hermione felt less emotions than she expected at being back at this chamber. It all seemed like a lifetime ago.

"The potion is warm, and should be taken as such," Severus said, offering a steaming phial to Voldemort.

"See that we are not disturbed."

Severus nodded, and exchanged one more glance with Hermione. Her brow furrowed slightly—she wondered what he had meant by his cryptic remark. The thought was swept away, however, as Voldemort took her arm in his and opened the door to the Death Chamber.

Her heart rate picked up as they crossed the threshold of the room, the door swinging silently closed behind them. He paused, then turned to look at her.

"You are prepared?"

It was a nonsensical question. They were both cognizant of the spells required, the wand motions, the likely effects on their magicks. He had asked it merely to help her calm herself.

"Yes, Tom." She took a deep breath, feeling the calm suffusing their auras.

"Good."

She didn't let go of him, instead lifted her face for one last kiss. He obliged her, then drank the potion. Wordlessly he handed the soul cage to her, his wand moving eloquently in time with the spell that began to release the fragments of his soul. They glowed, encircling Tom like living sparks, moving faster as he finished the incantation. His skin began to glow as well, his voice changing as he cast.

It was time for Hermione's part. As she moved closer to the Arch, she could hear the whispers from the Veil. It hadn't been like that before. She raised her wand, aware that the voices were rising in volume, the swirl of deep, dark magicks behind her the source of their agitation.

The casting for the summoning spell was intricate, which was frankly helpful for her state of mind. She could feel Tom's magic behind her, twisting and then unwinding, his magic screaming with the searing pain of the soul fragments remolding, reminding him how he had achieved the splits in the first place. Hermione shook her head, pushing her awareness of his agony away. She had to focus on calling his missing soul fragment from the Veil. She could feel it, the dim echo of his magic behind the curtain, and she felt their bond calling out to it, bringing it forth. Its progress was difficult, an obstacle of some kind in its way. As she fought with her wand to bring it closer with the spell, she saw a dark, roiling mass pinning it down.

The cacophonous magic behind her suddenly ceased, and she realized Tom had fallen unconscious. It was entirely up to her now.

There was a growing noise from behind the Veil, things crawling over it, preventing the soul fragment from coming out. A decaying, fetid magic pulsed in waves in front of it, obscuring its passage. Hermione pushed with her magic and their bond, forcibly parting the magic with her wand and pulling the fragment forward, forward. It was just at the Veil's surface now, nearly through. She could see it, the small spark, and the dark masses surrounding it, tumbling over each other. A shiver crept over her spine as she realized what they were.

The Veil parted, the soul fragment finally passing through. Hermione saw the gaping mouth of one of the spectral Dementors. They were trying to eat it, but they could not. Whether it was because it was only a soul fragment, or because it was bonded to her, she didn't know. She could almost feel the wash of cold, rotting breath as the spark passed by her face, held by her wand. It made her sick, dizzy; and her wand wavered for a moment, as if held by the coldness of the Dementor.

This was the kind of magic that was attracted by this type of soul splitting. The darkness a whisper thin breath away was so very cold, so absent all light or good. Her breath came out in a puff of cold air, her magic wavering as a dark shape coalesced, slowly pushing through the Veil.

Finish the spell, she heard in Tom's voice, turning away from the thing crawling on the Veil's surface although every instinct urged her to fight it. She moved toward the body—Tom's body, her mind supplied, walking the few steps to his prone form. He looked…different, but it was as though she were viewing his form from a great distance—it was blurry, indistinct. The spark of his soul fragment was hovering now, above his mouth. A memory swam into focus in her head: the lake, and Sirius Black.

"I have to blow it in," she said audibly. This elicited a response from the thing latched onto the Veil, causing it to writhe sinuously. Somehow she knew it was pleased. Again she thought of how bad it was that this was necessary, how terribly wrong for someone to do this—no one should wrestle with such Dark things, like those creatures. It was wrong, and why should she fix it? She could be free of him…free to set things to rights, make it all better again...

Suddenly Severus' warning echoed in her head. This is what he meant. She twisted her mind away from the thoughts of revenge, of this twisted perception of fairness. This is exactly what Tom had done, and the price he paid was great. Instead she focused on holding the piece of soul where it belonged, her fingers fumbling for the box with the bezoar.

The closer she got to the soul piece, the stronger she felt the tug, to just breathe it in herself, dole out the justice that thing on the Veil and its ilk were demanding.

"I mustn't breathe it in," she whispered to herself, aware that she couldn't use any spells to aid her. This was as base and primal as magic could be. All the bitter, sweet, ebbs and flows of the bond between herself and Tom Riddle pulsed in the air, waiting.

She lowered her lips closer, sucking a large, steady breath of air before swallowing the bezoar, choking herself with the large stone. Instinct had her gagging, but she had to finish this, the creature straining against the gossamer threads of the Veil, waiting for her to make a mistake. The spark was just there, and she gulped air futilely, like a puffer fish, then blew as hard as possible into Tom's mouth.

"I understand." Draco's mouth was set in a hard line, his expression completely void.

"It was quite something to persuade the Dark Lord to allow this…" Walden MacNair's voice trailed off, but Draco had learned more than hauteur from his father. He fixed MacNair with an ice cold stare.

"I will do as agreed, and no more. Now, are you going to fulfill your part of our negotiated agreement, or am I seeking a new partnership for Malfoy Apothecary's distribution in Canada?"

Walden straightened imperceptibly. "This way."

It was no less than he expected: the dripping ceilings, the gloom and reek of bodily fluids.

"Harry."

He was cold, his shoulders shivering before he looked up at the sound of Draco's voice. Draco damned the circumstances for the millionth time in his head.

"Draco."

The miserable plea in that had him gripping the bars between them—unwisely so, as he immediately dropped them again, his hands burnt by the guarding hex on them. "Damn it," he hissed. That would sting until it healed. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself together. "What has he asked of you?"

Harry hitched himself painfully to his feet, wavering slightly before he slowly made his way closer to the bars. "What you'd expect. Bow before him publicly. Suppose it's more groveling he's after now, really."

"How dare you be so flippant about this?" Draco hissed, then visibly worked to control himself. "Damn it, Harry! I was so close to having you safe—"

"Maybe I don't want to be kept safe, Draco! I want to live my life for myself for a change!"

"And look where that has gotten you!" Draco shouted back. They were inches apart, the bars a painful reminder of the gulf between them. The fight seemed to seep out of him, his shoulders drooping. "Never mind, Harry. Do what you will. You always do."

He was turning away. Harry's mind stopped, that one fact freezing him for a split second.

"Draco. Draco! Wait!"

Harry slipped his arm through the grid, grabbing Draco's sleeve despite the sear of pain across his already abused flesh as his shoulder brushed hard against the metal. Draco turned around, arching one eyebrow as he met Harry's gaze.

"Please. I…I need you. Please." Harry waited with bated breath, hoping he hadn't ruined the one good thing he had left. Apparently sneaky Slytherin brats had been hard-wired into his system. At least this one was on the opposite end of the spectrum.

"Harry." Draco gingerly slipped his fingers through the bars, brushing the hair back from his scar. "I need to bite you. Then maybe you'll think of someone other than yourself before you act so impulsively."

Voldemort returned to consciousness slowly, rubbing his chest with his hand reflexively. The searing pain was gone, a hollow ache all that remained. His hand was different, the fingers less thin. He took another deep breath and realized his fingers were not all that had changed. His eyes registered the presence of a nose, eyebrows beneath his fingertips. He laughed, a rich, low sound that echoed in the chamber. It worked!

He looked around then, and saw Hermione.

No!

He scrabbled to her side, pulling her roughly into his lap and his arms. "Faes hi takēm kātha…you sustain me…wake up, pet, please—" She was too limp, so still; a broken shell of a doll that was empty of life.

He had known there was a risk to her, but it seemed so insignificant, something he could handle as he had before. Why, then, was there this maelstrom inside? He couldn't comprehend the messages rushing through his brain. The sharp, clear pain was tied to her—he couldn't process it—that hollow ache is tied to her!—where did this whirling emptiness and sharp pains come from?

As he held the body of his dead wife Tom Riddle felt himself overcome with an overpowering rage. He would make this world pay for this loss. He could see it all stretching before him, exactly how he would destroy them all, the fools that had depleted her, left her vulnerable. Worse than the rage was the blame he placed on himself. Myself! I am blaming myself! He reeled, stunned by the revelation.

He had never felt so helpless since he was a child. HE HATED IT. He pulled her upward like a puppet, the smell of her hair beneath his nose, her skin still warm. Words slipped softly from his mouth against her cheek:

"If I could have loved anyone, it would have been you."

Suddenly he thrust Hermione's body away from him, Summoning his wand with a single flick of his hand.

"I am no longer helpless! No! It will not end like this! Renervate!"

She didn't move.

"Emendo!"

Her body shuddered with the force of the spell. Her heart was weak, but still going.

"Vivendo!"

Nothing still. What could have happened?

His thoughts careened wildly, and he gulped in great lungfuls of air, trying to think and not panic. All of these emotions—by Salazar, how was it to be born?

"I am better than this," he said through gritted teeth, ignoring the painful flood of feelings, rushing through the steps she would have taken in his head.

"Ah!" he cried, then tried desperately, "Anapneo respirant!"

Her diaphragm convulsed and her lungs heaved in unnaturally, the audible choke sending Lord Voldemort to his knees. His wand was forgotten as he pulled Hermione back hard around her midsection, burying his face in her neck as she coughed, then spat out something that landed on the floor with an audible, dull thud. Tom looked briefly, spotting a shriveled bezoar, fetid with the dark magic it had absorbed and still slick from her throat. He turned her and pulled her tight to his chest, listening as she took great gulps of air, stroking her hair. A noise escaped her throat, a sputtering cough followed by barely whispered words between gasps of air.

"It was the last soul fragment…I had to blow it into your mouth—"

"Shhhhhh," Tom said, pulling back just enough to place several kisses on her temple, then burying his head in her hair at her neck, needing to hear her heartbeat, feel it beneath his fingertips. The wild thud of his heart was tangible beneath her fingers as he clutched her to his chest. "Just breathe."

And she did, her mind still dizzy from oxygen deprivation. It took her a few minutes to process any other sensation than Tom's breath against her skin, his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and the shudder of her breath whooshing in and out of her lungs. She dimly realized there was wetness on her skin, finally pinpointing the cause. Tom was crying.

"I couldn't risk being turned into a Dementor…"

Her voice was still a bit hoarse, rough, even twenty-four hours after the ritual. They were home, apparated directly there by Tom without notice to anyone. He hadn't even let her see her parents, simply sent Verity to retrieve Orias and notify them that all was normal. Tom wouldn't let her speak of what had happened until now, focused instead on checking her over for any lingering effects. He wouldn't summon a healer, insisting on doing it himself.

"I do not believe they were Dementors per se." Tom's voice was different, a curious blend of the voice he'd had as a teenager and the voice of Lord Voldemort as Hermione had always known him. It was still distinctive, but more mellow in timbre. She turned her attention fully from Orias, who was in a milk coma and blissfully drifting off to sleep in the cradle that rocked itself.

"I would not wish that fate on anyone," Hermione whispered, and Tom pulled her back against him as soon as she got back into their bed. His arms tightened around her momentarily, and she leaned her head back in a gesture of comfort. It was easier to talk like this, where they didn't have to confront the raw emotions both were still processing, but which were emblazoned in their eyes like an open book.

"Who gave you the bezoar?"

"Severus. He warned me in a way—said the most dangerous poisons were those within."

"I know how to reward him."

"Something good, I hope." Her tone was wry, and he flipped her over to caress her cheek, his eyes still glowing with that faint ruby red.

"Something he would never expect from me."

It was a month later that Harry Potter surrendered to Lord Voldemort. Well, perhaps surrendered was the wrong term, as Rita Skeeter reported that the Boy Who Lived had been under arrest for months prior. It took place in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, with wizarding reporters from all over the globe present to document the occasion, and as many Ministry employees as could find a good vantage point to watch.

Harry held his head high as he approached the dais. It was a kind of play, really, the sort of melodrama that Voldemort had always thrived on. As he passed close to a group of jeering Snatchers, a few Death Eaters among them, he caught the eye of the only one who could have persuaded him to do this. Those quicksilver eyes flashed encouragingly at him, giving him the resolve to make it the last few steps.

"Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived…Twice. Tell me, Harry, why are you here?"

Trust Tom to drag it out, Hermione thought to herself. She was happy, though, that Harry had relinquished his pride. Her eyes drifted to Draco Malfoy, who was waiting with well hidden, controlled impatience. He had been tasked with Harry's rehabilitation, although anyone with knowledge of the circumstances knew precisely what was meant by that term. Draco was to bite and bed Harry as quickly as possible, thereby putting an end to any further Harry escapades into botched martyrdom.

"I relinquish my opposition to this Ministry, publicly and finally," Harry said. It was a good line, well-rehearsed. That's all it was now—a hollow sham to placate the masses and ensure that everyone could get back to normal, just slightly—bent.

"Do you now? How very sensible of you, Harry. Was there anything else you wished to say?"

Tom—Hermione thought warningly, but Harry was obviously prepared for this bit of groveling, too. A flash flood of murmurs went through the crowd as Harry kneeled, the bulbs of multiple cameras going off.

"I apologize for any distress which my actions have caused to yourself or your family." There. It was done, the final line delivered.

"Very good, Harry Potter." Voldemort was about to continue speaking when there was a louder rustle and a fresh horde of camera flashes, only this time directed behind Tom's shoulder. He turned and saw that Hermione was now holding Orias, the baby cradled over her left shoulder as she cooed to him, his chubby cheeks flagged with glorious color.

Hermione met his gaze with an innocent shrug of the other shoulder. "He was getting fussy."

Tom sighed, returning his attention to Harry Potter. "Draco Malfoy! Come forward!"

The press witches and wizards picked their collective jaws off the floor and resumed covering the main event.

"Draco Malfoy, I hereby charge you with the rehabilitation and parole of one Harry Potter. You will provide proof of his rehabilitation within six months or face my wrath."

"Yes, my lord. It shall be done." Draco grabbed Harry's arm in a way that appeared very brusque, but was anything but. Voldemort refrained from rolling his eyes, then turned back to his sassy wife, holding his arm out imperiously.

Of course, no one had the temerity to question the Dark Lord's new appearance…although Rita privately remarked that a great many witches would lament the lost opportunity to pursue the Dark Lord for themselves now that he had been shown to be quite the handsome dish.

As they walked away from the atrium, Voldemort pulled Hermione closer, remarking casually, "So, about our little immortality problem, faes hi takēm kātha...it occurs to me that poor execution does not negate a good idea."

Hermione pulled her arm free, patting Orias with more agitation than required. "Tom…" she began in a warning tone. He drew a finger down her cheek, resting it on her lips to shut her up.

"Tell me, pet, what do you know about the Philosopher's Stone?"