"You better have a plan, Antonin."
The girl's voice was ringing in his thoughts like a high, clear bell—no matter how forcefully he pressed at his ears or focused his attention elsewhere, her offhand, grouchy comment came circling back like a bird of prey over a barren wasteland. There was nowhere to hide from her—no trees to press against, no brush to bury under—and with each pass of her feminine, snappy tone in his skull he felt her metaphorical talons dig themselves deeper into his back. First it had been her fire, then the blood bond…but now, after so many interactions that have left him vivacious and wanting, the girl needed nothing but a toss of her hair and a prim retort to keep him ensnared.
The girl. His witch. Hermione.
He had banished the girl back to her rooms shortly after the conclusion of their little chat, and now that his bedroom was bereft of her he found himself unable to focus on anything but the pooling warmth near the headboard where she had sat and the snarled, tawny curl of hair that had shaken loose from her veritable mane to lay innocently on one of his pillows. He collapsed back against them and wound the single strand of her hair around his finger as he contemplated how to proceed with her—taking her before his Lord was one thing, but navigating the waves of her quick temper with the ship of his battered self-control was another thing altogether. Seven hells, he had kissed the girl.
With a lazy gesture of his hand, Antonin wandlessly bid the window against the far wall to open. A rush of cool, late-November air rushed in and pricked at his healing skin as he remembered a touch of a different kind; nothing about his witch had been cold. Her skin, her mouth, the soft plush of her form against his—she had been burning hot. He recalled the kiss with a knot in his belly and a discomfiting stir somewhere below his belt, a physical reminder of how depraved he was to lust for her. Two decades his junior and his effective prisoner of war…and he had never, not a single time in his entire wretched life, wanted something, someone, so fiercely. Warring desires perverted themselves into a snarled tie as he considered everything he wanted to do to her—he wanted to rile her up, hurt her, kill her, feel her—
Dolohov twisted her abandoned strand of hair so tightly around his fingertip that circulation ceased and the nail bed began to pale with the pressure. He didn't know what to do about his witch or what path to take beyond the obvious; he would take her before his Lord and attempt to buy them more time to find a way out of this bonding mess, but what would happen after? Assuming that the Dark Lord granted Antonin keep the girl for whatever purpose, what path would their immoral relationship take? It would end in death, of that Antonin was certain. The girl's blood was too pretty to not spill over his hands one last, final time.
And the way she said his given name—oh gods, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck. He could still remember bidding her to say it as a plea back in that cramped bedroom at Malfoy Manor. She hardly addressed him, and when she did it was always by his family moniker; but earlier, her tone sharp and warning him to have a plan? He had barely restrained himself from throwing her against the door once more. He wanted to explore all the delicious ways she would say his name if he touched her just right. Wicked, evil, vile man, he playfully admonished himself. He wondered idly what it would sound like for his witch to call him such things, a teasing lilt to her voice as she wrapped her legs around his waist. How would her voice hitch if I wrapped my hands around her neck just so, strangling her words and confirming them with a single gesture?
Dolohov released the girl's strand of hair from around his fingertip and rolled over on the bed to his front, his face pressed insistently into the pillows while his cock throbbed painfully against the mattress. Frigid air wafted from the open window and did nothing to cool the burning he felt at his every last nerve ending. Hunger panged in his gut. His healing skin pricked with discomfort. His mind, a raging hurricane of want and anger, begged for him to take his wand in his palm. He wanted to lash out. Hurt. Destroy.
All in good time. Lulled despite his dilemma, Dolohov sank into an uneasy sleep while the late afternoon sun crept in slow inches across the shadowed floor.
Hermione was crawling out of her skin.
Didn't the horrible man eat? she thought with exasperation and more than a little touch of venom. The early hours of the evening were beginning to creep closer and the insistent hunger that had been tugging relentlessly at her gut since lunchtime hadn't abated in the slightest. Dolohov's elf Dessy had brought her breads, fruits, cheeses, and most recently a thick stew at her request, but despite having gobbled it all down with an enthusiasm Ron would have approved of, the nagging hunger had stayed constant. Her emotions had been a cycling whirlwind after talking with her captor earlier, so she hadn't quite connected the feeling with its apparent cause, then. Snape's words back at Hogwarts came ringing back after what seemed like hours of deliberation—it's Dolohov.
The Death Eater was hungry, ravenously so, and for some godforsaken reason the bloody bastard wouldn't give her a rest and just fucking eat.
As if I needed any more reason to hate this bond, Hermione griped internally, her feet kicking at the assembled trinkets she had brought to the rug to practice her wandless magic on. The unsteady progress she had managed to foster in Snape's rooms at Hogwarts was already beginning to lag as her attention became more and more split due to the physical ache she couldn't get rid of; it reminded her of the hunger she had often felt in the tent with Harry and Ron, and that was not a memory she wished to linger on any longer than absolutely necessary. The thought of Ron brought on feelings of guilt so intense they nearly rivalled the burning ache in her belly.
"Dessy!" Hermione snapped, climbing to her feet and anchoring her hands to her hips.
The house elf popped into existence just a hair from the door, and her milky eyes were wide as they considered the Keep's irate prisoner. "Yes, Miss?"
"Assuming the awful bastard hasn't instigated any rules against it, I want you to take me to the kitchen. Now," Hermione ordered. She was too irritated and hungry to be appalled at her own lack of manners—perhaps later she'd recall this interaction and cringe in embarrassment for the return of her bossiness.
Dessy cocked her head and allowed her ears to flap comically at the jerky motion. Twisting her hands in front of her, Dessy asked, "What business does Miss have with the kitchen?"
"Take me and find out," came Hermione's snappy retort. "I'm going to help you serve your Master." She barely managed to restrain the eye roll that begged to accompany that statement.
Dessy, on the other hand, seemed very pleased. "Yes, good!" the elf squeaked, creeping closer and taking one of Hermione's small hands in its comparatively bigger one. "Miss Mudblood knows her place in the Keep, yes, excellent. Master wants after Miss's obedience, yes he does…"
A single breath and a nauseating crack later, and Hermione found herself apparated into the middle of a large, ancient-looking kitchen.
Hermione stumbled away from Dessy and caught her breath as she surveyed her new surroundings—side-along apparition had never been her favorite, and somehow, the squeezing sensation was amplified when brought about by an elf. Slightly out of breath and still aching with hunger, Hermione began to visually explore the kitchen in preparation for what she was about to do. Oh, if Harry and Ron could see me now, she mused. They would probably be horrified—and amused. Gits.
The kitchen had a vaulted ceiling supported by a crossing of several wooden beams, and the windows lining the far wall had diagonal panes that cut the lines of residual sunlight as it sunk beyond the horizon's final line. The countertops were dark marble, the floors bare flagstone, and the stove was an antique that Hermione's mother would have crowed over. No doubt it wasn't hooked up to any electrical or gas lines, not in this wizarding home—fire and heat could be conjured on command. The larder was a long cabinet on the far wall that resembled a small pantry, and the inside was cooled with charms to keep the vegetables and meats fresh. Flatware and glasses could be seen glinting in upper cabinets behind doors of stylized glass. Torches on the walls burned merrily in their sconces. A great fireplace, big enough to rival that of Hogwarts common rooms, was situated across from the stove. In front of it, a small table just tall enough to seat an elf and three crouched guests loomed quietly.
Hermione was disgusted by how utterly charming the space was.
"Right," Hermione announced, slapping her palms definitively against her thighs. "Let's get to it."
Ten minutes later, Hermione was holding an absolute monster of a sandwich. Multiple layers, meat, and nearly every cut vegetable Hermione could get her hands on—the layer of herbed goat cheese was spread so thickly Hermione felt her arteries clog just looking at it. She wasn't sure what brought about the notion, but Hermione hadn't trusted that Dessy would be able to apply the appropriate amount of insistence to get Dolohov to eat on command, as subservient as she was to her Master…Hermione, on the other hand, was ready to hand-deliver the fat stack of bread and filling and shove it down the surly Death Eater's throat if need be. She'd do it cheerfully. Humming all the way, perhaps.
Anything to abate this sickening hunger that was surely rotting her from the inside out.
"Alright, Dessy," Hermione addressed the joyful elf. Dessy was merrily levitating the unused ingredients back into the larder, but she turned at Hermione's light tone. "I want you to take me directly to Dolohov's rooms, please. Or wherever he happens to be in the Keep."
"Dessy cannot," the elf warned, stepping closer to Hermione and reaching for the sandwich. "Dessy has been ordered to return Young Miss to her rooms. Master Antonin won't like the intrusion, no he will not—"
Hermione held the plate beyond the elf's reach and cocked a single eyebrow. "You'd really deprive me of the chance to serve your favored Master, Dessy?" She knew she was laying it on thick—seven hells, she would have laced the sandwich with rat poison if she thought she could get away with it and live—but Hermione didn't want to take any chances. Dessy would most likely offer the food and do nothing else. Hermione fully intended to brawl the Death Eater if he didn't finish his meal.
For several minutes Hermione engaged the elf in back-and-forth. Hermione won the argument in the end, obviously, and seconds after acquiescing—the elf fully convinced Hermione only wished to serve as per her station—Dessy apparated them both directly into Dolohov's private chambers where the man himself was collapsed face-down on the bed.
"As requested, Miss!" Dessy bid as farewell, bowing out of the room with a final crack.
The sound had Dolohov on his feet with his wand extended faster than Hermione could focus her eyes on him.
"Chto za chert?" Dolohov growled, advancing on her without lowering his wand. "I told Dessy to take you to your rooms," he accused, his voice rough and thick from sleep.
A pang of empathy zinged unwanted through Hermione at the look of him—he was pale, tired, and clearly still healing from whatever had burned him. Definitely needs to eat, Hermione decided. The strong feeling of uncomfortable emptiness in her stomach, no doubt emanating from the man in front of her through their bond, seconded the notion heartily. She gestured impatiently with the plate and raised her eyebrows. "I can feel your physical hunger through the bond and it's driving me insane," she bit out, internally pleased that her voice didn't shake under the force of his angry stare. "I know better than to order your elf around, and frankly, I didn't trust her enough to just leave the food by your bedside while I go on in agony. I've eaten like a pig today and I can still feel the need for nourishment, so it must be coming from you. Now eat before I pounce and force you to." Once more, Hermione extended the plate. For all of her forwardness and bravado, Hermione was very aware she couldn't exactly force the man to do anything. The very real, present danger of him lashing out at her for her momentary bossiness was beginning to cool into tendrils of fear by the time Dolohov extended one finely-boned hand and took the plate from her shaking grasp.
His face was an impassive stone mask as he took the plate and turned back towards the bed. Hermione's breath was a fearful clog in her throat until he sat down and took a hearty bite from the proffered sandwich. "Spasibo," he mumbled around the bread between his teeth.
Hermione took the growl as a word of thanks and leaned back against the bedroom door, her head coming to knock against the wood as the horrid hunger began to subside the more he ate. Idly, Hermione tried to turn the knob on the door—as expected, it was spelled shut. Paranoid man, she thought with a strange fondness. Even in this fortress warded against all intruders he still felt the need to lock himself in his room to sleep soundly.
The fondness soured to sharp, bitter self-disgust and she pushed away from the door to drift closer to the fireplace. The room was cold—why was the window open?—and the flames dying on the hearth were just warm enough to chase away the chill. Fondness was not an emotion she should ever have for the terrible Death Eater, her captor and torturer. Yet here you are, mused a treacherous voice in the back of her mind, bringing him food and looking after him.
Only because I'm forced to feel what he feels, she snapped back to herself.
"This is certainly unexpected," his voice interrupted, something resembling mirth curling around his words as he swallowed. When Hermione put her back to the fireplace and faced him she saw he was nearly halfway through with the monster of a sandwich, and true to his Pureblooded upbringing, there wasn't a single stray crumb clinging to the unkempt scruff on his jaw as he smiled devilishly at her. "If I had known pressing you to the door with my mouth and wandering hands was all it would take to turn you domestic I would have done it days ago."
Hermione's cheeks flared with embarrassed heat, her stomach flipping, her arms coming to cross protectively in front of her chest. Her transfigured dress was too thin for the chill of the room, that was all—the goosebumps came from no other source, no sir. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, her eyes focusing on the open window on the far wall. "I'd sooner poison you than look after your needs of my own volition. I've been feeling your hunger for hours, now."
"I got used to hunger in Azkaban," he offered with a shrug, his voice thick once more around a bite of bread. For all of his efficiency and neatness, Hermione decided, other Purebloods—like the Malfoys—must find his eating habits particularly brutish. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had seen a Pureblood willingly talk with their mouth full…and Ron didn't count. Ron was…Ron. "Don't feel it quite like I used to."
Hermione turned back to face the fire as Dolohov finished his meal, and blissfully, the insistent hunger was gone. Hermione could have wept with relief.
Dolohov's voice was a wet blanket on the blessed reprieve. "You're more comfortable than I would have expected, caring for others the way you do," he mused. There was something about his voice that bothered her—when Hermione turned to look at him, Dolohov was staring hard off to a far corner of the room, his expression shadowed. The plate had been silently banished to a nearby nightstand, and his wand was nowhere to be seen.
Hermione scoffed and gave a particularly unladylike snort. "If it weren't for me, Harry and Ron would have starved on the run," Hermione bragged, a touch of warmth pulling at the corners of her mouth. "I was in charge of serving us dinner most nights. I guess it's payback for all the times they forced me to eat at Hogwarts when I'd sequester myself in the library."
Dolohov's expression, now sharp and contemplative, made her pause. Nothing she had said gave away too much information, she decided—it was common knowledge the Golden Trio had been on the run, and mentioning a tidbit about their dynamic couldn't hurt. Filling the tense silence with mindless chatter was more comfortable, anyway. "Ron in particular could eat a horse if we'd let him. The appetite on him was impressive if nothing else."
"Ron," Dolohov stated, trying the taste of the name and deciding it was lacking. Distaste touched at the dark wizard's face as he stared at his fidgeting captive, who was now regretting saying anything about her friends in the first place. "Ronald Weasley, correct?"
Unease made Hermione hesitant to answer. Perhaps her nervous chatter hadn't been as harmless as she assumed it would be. "Yes?" she confirmed, her tone lilting slightly as if questioning him.
Dolohov's expression continued to darken, and in the falling shadows of early evening it made him look horribly menacing. "You speak of this one with special regard. What was he to you?"
Dolohov's loaded question stunned Hermione for several reasons. What was Ron to me? she thought to herself, her internal musings echoing her captor's inquiry. And why did Dolohov care? "He was one of my best friends," she answered honestly, her discomfort keeping her voice tense and quiet. A vein of steel showed itself—"He and Harry both were. I would do anything to keep them safe, so that's all you'll be able to pry out of me willingly about them."
With dark eyes and a heavy brow, Dolohov regarded Hermione cuttingly as his previously lax hands curled to fists on his knees. The man leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, and from the position of his hands and his rolled-up shirtsleeves Hermione could make out the ghastly Dark Mark above his left wrist. Just another reminder of his wrongdoings, if you needed one, she thought to herself. Hermione knew her earlier words were cheap, but Dolohov couldn't torture her for information anymore, not with the bond protecting her from harm.
"I would press for more, but I've decided it doesn't matter," Dolohov growled, pinning her with his dark gaze from his perch on the bed. "It doesn't particularly matter what the Weasley boy was to you before you were brought to Malfoy Manor—you're mine now, and if he tries to take you away from me I'll take as much pleasure in killing him as I did in killing his uncles."
Nausea, cool and sudden, lurched in Hermione's gut. She reached out a hand and steadied herself on the mantle—what was he talking about? Mr. Weasley was an only child, that she remembered, and Molly's brothers—
Oh. Oh.
"You went to Azkaban for the murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett," Hermione stated flatly. How could she have forgotten? A memory of the summer before her fifth year as she and Harry seated in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place while Sirius pointed out figures in a photograph of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix rose to the surface. And this here is the Prewett twins, Sirius had explained, pointing out two men standing beside a much younger, thinner Molly Weasley. They had looked so much like Fred and George that it had made Hermione's heart ache. Killed by Dolohov, they were. Good men, too. Molly misses them. Charlie and Bill were still babes when they were murdered, it's a shame Fred and George never got to meet them.
Dolohov didn't smile in answer, this time, but the single, solemn nod confirmed her statement so completely that Hermione was almost afraid the man would take pride in his past crime. She couldn't take the sight of him smiling now. "All that red hair isn't so pretty when it's covered in blood," Dolohov continued, his accent thickening with residual anger at a private thought Hermione couldn't discern. "Can't imagine Ron's would look much different. He and Potter would be wise to keep away from you, solnyshko. I'm not letting you go back to them. You don't belong to them any longer."
Shocked and appalled, Hermione turned back to the fireplace, putting her back to her captor in a bid for putting the illusion of space between them. Something severe and relentless tugging at the base of her skull—the bond, probably—told her it wouldn't be wise to step away from him at the moment, not literally. "You're wrong, Antonin. I will belong with them always, and you keeping me from them doesn't change that."
Guilt, as hot as the unwanted desire that had felled her earlier, stung somewhere in her chest. You've never reacted to Ron like this, that treacherous voice suggested.
"Let's get you back to your rooms before I do something we'll both regret," Dolohov barked, getting to his feet and startling Hermione with his sudden movement. He wouldn't meet her eyes when she turned, now, and she wasn't sure if she felt relieved or afraid. "This time I'll make sure Dessy doesn't take you outside of your chambers without my permission," he added grumpily. "Any more unannounced visits from you and I'm afraid I'll kill us both before I can take you before the Dark Lord tomorrow evening."
"We still have Vows to make to Professor Snape," Hermione reminded him. Panic was starting to claw up Hermione's throat—did they really have to do this so soon?
"Indeed we do." Dolohov made a lazy gesture with his hand and summoned his elf with a quick word, and his bedroom door eased open with a slight creak of the hinges. "Now out, witch. Back to your cage."
Pansy Parkinson wasn't one to explore the lesser-used halls of the castle usually, but even the most routine-driven witch would be enticed to pace the corridors of Hogwarts eventually. Especially when frustration stabbed through that witch's chest like a hot iron poker. Pacing was the cure-all of the ages, that's what her father used to say. Pansy didn't have a glass of firewhiskey in her hand nor did she don a velvet smoking jacket, but the sentiment was all the same. The evening was inching into the small hours of the morning and Pansy was abusing her status as a Slytherin Prefect to slouch about the halls after curfew, her pacing haven taken her to the seventh floor.
Her situation with Draco wasn't getting any easier—the boy was bothered by something, and more often than not he would be quiet, distracted, and withdrawn from her. Their romantic relationship was in its early stages, that was true, but their friendship spanned back over a decade; Pansy could tell quite easily when something was on the young Malfoy's mind, and this was the first time she could remember that he didn't outright tell her what it was. The matter required a delicate touch, no doubt; Pansy had a sneaking suspicion that Draco's uncomfortable demeanor had something to do with his status as a Death Eater, and that was not something she could ask after with any degree of grace. Pansy was many things—pragmatic, studious, sarcastic, usually in good humor—but daintiness was a trait she didn't possess. Her father would accuse her of having the forward attitude of a blunt wizard, and even then, he said it with more prideful admiration than any real reprimand. Her mother, on the other hand, was the sentinel of all things gracefully feminine in the Parkinson household. In her ladylike lessons as a child Pansy had always failed at tact, much to her mother's dismay.
It was maddening. She couldn't talk to anyone else about this problem—not even Millicent—and she didn't feel comfortable enough to ask Draco outright. Memories of her hounding Draco for his whereabouts and actions during their sixth year caused her to flinch; she never did find out what he had been up to at the Dark Lord's insistence, and all her questions to him only served to drive a wedge between them. I'm fine, Pansy, was a phrase Pansy dreaded hearing out of Draco's mouth. The blond git was not fine, she could plainly see that, because even if he had everyone else in Slytherin House fooled, he could never fool her.
The anxiety was messing with her sleep. Thus: pacing.
The classrooms on the seventh floor were seldom used, and the flagstones that made up the floors and walls were of a lighter color than that seen anywhere else in the castle. The tall windows along the western wall vaulted to high points many feet above their sills and weak moonlight spilled into the corridor, illuminating it with a pale grey glow; there were no statues, tapestries, or portraits decorating the walls, and the bareness seemed strangely fitting for Pansy's tired melancholy. Her slippers muffled the sounds of her padding footsteps and she stared dejectedly off into space—she hadn't wanted any portraits watching her, anyhow. The Carrows liked her, but not enough to have her avoid punishment if she were truly caught, given that she had no real business being out after curfew. The Prefect badge pinned to her night robe was only an effective shield against other wandering students, and the chances of coming across someone else were extremely slim. Not under the school's new management, anyway.
So imagine her surprise when she heard not one, but two sets of footsteps advancing down the corridor toward her.
Heart in her throat and pulse pounding like a solid fist on a metal door, Pansy whipped out her wand and cast a quick disillusionment charm over herself, the sensation of a frosty egg cracking over her hairline causing her already-firm goosebumps to raise more adamantly. She stumbled back against the windowsill and crouched down, her hand clenched anxiously in both hands. Good gods, why didn't I huddle by the wall instead? she bemoaned silently, suddenly aware that the soft moonlight might call attention to her shimmering, not-quite invisible outline. Before she could scuttle across the hall to the blank patch of shadowed wall opposite, two dark figures materialized around the corner.
Out of context and half shrouded in shadow since the wall sconces weren't lit on this floor, Pansy didn't grasp the identities of the two intruders until she heard their voices. "Are you sure that's what Aberforth meant when he said they were coming?" asked Ginny Weasley, the Gryffindor girl's normally brash tones tempered by the want to stay quiet in the creeping night. The bright sweep of the Gryffindor's gorgeous red mane confirmed her identity—but what would she be doing on the seventh floor with—
"I'm certain of it," confirmed Neville Longbottom. Both Gryffindors were approaching ever closer with a light, sure step, stopping every few feet to peer cautiously behind them as they came closer to the middle of the long corridor. "He actually stepped through the portrait tunnel this time to tell us in person. Seamus said he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it for himself."
Weasley and Longbottom came to a halt just mere feet from where Pansy crouched, both of them facing the blank stretch of wall. Pansy couldn't breathe for how close they were to her hiding spot. There was no real reason to hide since they weren't other Prefects or a Professor—Pansy had the power to give them both detention, in fact—but their topic of conversation was too curious to interrupt. Why had they come all the way to the seventh floor to discuss someone named Aberforth? And what was this about a portrait hole?
"I'm not sure I believe it, either," the Weasley girl mused wistfully. "I sure hope Aberforth is up at this hour, because I have a million questions I want to ask him."
Longbottom's hand clapped down on the shorter girl's shoulder in a friendly gesture. "I'm sure he won't mind even if he isn't, Gin."
Then, amazingly, a door materialized into existence on the previously blank wall before the pair. Within seconds the two Gryffindors had retreated inside the secret entrance, and as soon as the ornate door clicked shut behind them it dissolved into untouched flagstone once more.
Pansy was so startled that her magic failed her and the disillusionment charm dissolved away completely—she was left crouching in front of the window, tendrils of her dark hair mussed in front of her face as she gaped after where the door had been. That wasn't possible, she thought wildly as she pressed to her feet. The Room of Requirement is a myth. Dad always said so.
For the first time in several weeks Pansy forgot all about her troubles with Draco—now embroiled in a mystery of her own, she spared no thought to her troubled, brooding boyfriend.
No doubt come morning she would go back to worrying about him. But for now…now she would camp here and wait for Longbottom and the Weasley sister to return. I'm going to find out what they're doing in there and what this mess about Aberforth and 'someone coming' is, she decided. Resolute and given purpose, Pansy recast the disillusionment charm and again crouched down against the wall, ready to wait all night if she had to.
Add curiosity to another list of her traits—she never liked cats, anyway.
A/N: Long time, no see! I apologize for the super late update; I am currently in the middle of my last semester of undergrad before I graduate with my biochemistry degree in May, so things have been insanely busy! I haven't had as much time to devote to writing as I'd like, but rest assured that this story has not been abandoned and is just getting started. So there we have it: Hermione and Dolohov continue to navigate what it means to be bound to one another, Dolohov's intentions towards Hermione are slowly beginning to change, and the long-awaited Pansy Parkinson POV is here. What did you think? I said in earlier chapters I'd like to explore her character further...I have many, many plans for our dear Pansy. Have any guesses to what Ginny and Neville were talking about when she caught them? The last line of this chapter was inspired by the old saying, "Curiosity killed the cat." Satisfaction brought it back, though, am I right?
Next Up: our ill-fated pair makes those Vows to Snape so they can go before Voldemort as planned and Draco finally gets a hold of Hermione's wand. Big Brother Thorfinn will make another appearance.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and put this story on your alert lists! I feel insanely spoiled by your attentions and appreciate your thoughts immensely. Be safe and take care, everyone xx