OMG! Chapter 20, can you believe it? I can't! Most of my fics are done, or finishing up, at this point, but we've got a ways to go with this fic. Happy Holidays to those who celebrate, whatever you're celebrating.

A small plea from a writer? I'm aware you lot all know a new chapter is coming every week, and some of you don't feel like you 'need' to review because whether you do or not, in 7 days, there will be a new chapter, and you're right, no one 'needs' to review, it's not a necessity or an obligation, but . . . reviewing isn't just about trying to ensure the writer keeps producing. It establishes a rapport between reader and writer. It encourages us not just to keep up with the story being commented upon, but to go on and write others, to write things we might not have dreamed we could when we started out. Heck, some days, a positive word on a story is the one thing that pulls us out of a really negative place. And that's not just me, that's most writers. So, please, if you've the time when you finish a chapter, just leave that author a few words. I also know some of you don't review because you're afraid you don't know what to say, or you'll be repetitive, but us knowing you're there, simply knowing you're with us is really a big deal, and you don't have to stress yourself out over what to say. It can be small and simple. We can write to our hearts content for ourselves, but when we share it, we share it in the hopes that others enjoy reading the work as much as we enjoy writing it. If we feel like it's not being enjoyed by others, or if that enjoyment starts to dwindle, it can really make a writer wonder why they're bothering to share their efforts.

Whether it's simply 'thank you,' or 'good chapter', or a smiley face (I kid you not, I have a wonderful reader who reviews everything I write with 'good chapter', 'great chapter', or 'nice chapter' and I adore them for it, every single time I see their name on a review notification, it makes me smile) or just repeating a favorite line or scene, a short review that lets a writer know you're there, that you're with us, is so much better than feeling like readers don't care so long as they get their next chapter :( .

Chapter Twenty

If you don't believe me, go check out that old potions shop in Hogsmeade for yourself—the broken down one in the southeast most corner, Rabastan had said, his always irate voice as smug as it was bored. That was Dolohov's hideout when things got rough. It's the one place he'd go at a time like this. If this is anything to do with your Mudblood then you won't find him there—wouldn't surprise me, it's like I said, no one's seen 'im—but you might find something there to give you an idea where he's gone or what he's up to.

Draco frowned as he stared up at the closed-down shopfront. The edifice was so scarred and battered it made the more derelict buildings in Knockturn Alley appear homey and inviting by comparison. It was little wonder Antonin Dolohov thought no one would look for him here—no one would look for a dying rat here, let alone a very much alive Death Eater with a penchant for hurling curses first and asking questions later.

Don't you forget now, we made a deal. You go find whatever's there, then you make good on your promise. You don't come back, I'll go find you—Ministry or no Ministry.

Rolling his eyes at the memory of Rabastan's warning, Draco glanced back over his shoulder, assuring himself no one was paying him any mind. He completely believed Rabastan, but he couldn't focus on a threat with all the other varied levels of madness going on in his life right now. Not a soul in the village seemed to notice him, most weren't even close enough to get a good look at anything down this block—this entire cul de sac of Hogsmeade was just as rundown as the building before him. He would wager Dolohov'd selected this shop out of the entire area for the chance it offered to claim whatever might have been left behind in the long-forgotten ingredients stores. He might not be a potions man, but for someone hiding out, they could prove useful for everything from mending wounds and keeping from falling ill to creating traps to protect his little hideout.

"Creating traps . . . ." Draco whispered, returning his wary attention to the shop. Sure, most people would charm a building to keep out curious parties, but Dolohov was a man who liked to sidestep what people 'normally' did, less chance of circumvention that way. He was definitely the sort to instead use something incendiary—something to warn them away with a nice, lasting injury they would not soon forget rather than simply giving them a magical nudge to go back the way they'd come or to mysteriously lose interest in the location.

That unsettling consideration in mind, he once more assured himself no one was looking before drawing his wand and moving closer to the shop. Wary gaze darting every which way, he searched for anything that might be even a hint out of the ordinary about the walls, the ground, the windows, as he walked. His footfalls were soft and carefully placed, lightly testing for pressure triggers with every step before placing his full weight on his foot.

Paranoid as Dolohov could be, Draco was shocked to discover that in this instance, the wizard was a minimalist. The only thing he found was a single tripwire. Ignoring what horrific thing the line might trigger—something that undoubtedly more than made up for the simplicity of the trap—he stepped clear over it, but was no less cautious as he proceeded toward the rear exit of the shop.

The door was ever so slightly a jar, only enough to be able to peek inside at an acute angle. That seemed a strange oversight, but then Dolohov might've done it on purpose. People were less likely to feel curious about things that seemed accessible or out in the open.

Then again . . . .

Taking advantage of his slight frame, Draco illuminated his wand and slid his hand in through the gap. Peering in by way of the dust-caked window built into the door, he watched the spread of light across the space beyond. Only when he was satisfied no other potentially lethal, but most probably maiming, surprises awaited him there—making him more morbidly curious about how bad that initial trap tied to the tripwire must be—did he ease open the door, but just enough for him to slip inside.

He let a sigh hiss out from between pursed lips as he cast his gaze up toward the banister-partitioned upper level. "You thousand-year-old pains in my arse better be grateful for this," he said in a soft and breathy voice; speaking loudly in the dismal, silent space would've felt strange and somehow perhaps even as though it was inviting danger.

This place was creepy. The last rays of daylight cut in dust-mote-sprinkled lines across the room from the partially boarded windows up, dabbling strangely formed drops of brightness over wreaths of cobwebs that crisscrossed the interior, and the floorboards were layered near to white with yet more dust.

But that creepiness was also what made his search a touch easier. Through that thick layer of dust, there were footprints—all made by the same person, from the look of them—and those hanging webs were disturbed, here and there, precisely in places where a tall fellow like Antonin Dolohov might mindlessly swipe his hand to keep them from catching on his hair.

Trailing the path of footprints with his gaze, he noted they only seemed to come and go in one direction in particular. His shoulders drooped as he nodded to himself. Little chance that was a closet, wasn't there?

"And of course he'd have been in the basement. Because I need to experience a darker and creepier level to this place."

Giving himself a good, grounding shake, he started toward the door where the footsteps led.

"I can't believe the only memory I have of this room is waking up in it," Hermione said in a quiet voice as she stood at the bottom of the basement staircase, staring around.

There was nothing overtly bizarre about the lower level of the Granger house, perhaps that was why it felt so bizarre to her. After all, being barred from a place gave one reason to suspect the area would be rife with readily-visible things they weren't meant to see.

But her parents had been more careful than that. The room looked every inch the perfectly comfortable, furnished basement one would imagine in the home of an average, if somewhat well-to-do, family. Nice, cushy sofa, coffee table, television set, stubby stained glass-shaded lamps set on end tables on either side of the sitting area . . . . And tucked away on the far side of the large room, a reading nook.

Against one wall, there lay what appeared to be a simple velvet pillow—long, as though it were meant for napping. "Oh," she said simply.

He looked from her to the pillow and back. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just . . . that's what I was resting on when I first awoke. Like something in a museum. I would've thought they'd gotten rid of it." She ignored the feel of a lump trying to form in her throat over what it said that the Grangers couldn't throw it away.

"You had a big fluffy pillow?"

Sniffling, she breathed a laugh. "Yes, why?"

He curled his lip and shook his head. "I woke up propped against a wall."

Darting her gaze about in thought, she pointed out, "You chose to go into the bronze standing up."

With a strangely dignified pout, he arched a brow. "Still, for all they knew, I could've collapsed or something upon the bronze wearing off. Not a single bloody pillow in sight."

"Perhaps they simply knew you were built of sturdier stuff than that."

Chuckling, he shook his head. "You do know how to sweet-talk a Viking."

She grinned and offered him a playful wink, though she'd yet to budge from the foot of the steps. Honestly, she had no idea how she might've managed to make it sanely through all this without him, just as she'd told him upstairs.

Thorfinn didn't wait for her to lead the way, simply turning on his heel and heading for the corner-dominating bookcases. Frowning, he let his gaze wander the spines of the shelves contents as he drew to a halt between the cases and the soft, warn armchair situated facing the meticulously lined collection of reading material. Only one book was missing, but the work in question was hardly a mystery, as a book lay, marker still stuck in its pages, on the small, round table beside the chair.

He picked up the book and, careful of the marker's place, flipped through its pages before tucking it into the lone empty space among the shelves. "It seems strange how . . . normal this place is."

Finally, she managed to unstick her feet from the floor and cross the room to join him. "I know," she said with a nod, slipping Salazar from around the back of her neck and settling him on one of the armrests. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"It's possible they thought after waking up here before they used that book on you, seeing the room might compromise your memory charms."

Even with everything that had come to light, the awareness of her Muggle parents keeping something like this from her—going so far to keep something from her—twisted up her stomach in sour, anxious knots. "Like Dumbledore making sure I stayed clear of Ravenclaw tower, he must've woven this place into that charm, too. I think everything's the same as it was when I woke up for the first time."

Thorfinn was already looking through the shelves—taking the books out one at a time to go through their pages and delicately sliding them back in their place before moving onto the next—as he asked, "What is it you remember about that night?"

Her brow furrowed in question, but she remained silent.

Glancing from her to the book in hand and back, he said, "You're the brainy one of us—"

"Oh, I don't know," she interrupted, a wistful sigh coloring her tone as she stepped up in front of the second case and began searching the books. "You are pretty brainy yourself, there."

Feigning a wounded gasp, he pressed a palm over his heart. "And here I was hoping I was just another pretty face."

Snickering, she shook her head and returned her attention to their search. "Really, I only remember seeing my parents and maybe the ceiling? Then that book with the memory-alter charm in it."

"And that's not here, hmm?"

"No." She sighed through her nostrils, features pinching in thought. "How did we make it through all those centuries?"

"They operated under the premise that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, we were statues." His massive shoulders moved in a lazy shrug, as though unaffected by the idea, perhaps even bored by it. Maybe he'd simply been so familiar with the notion by now that it truly didn't bother him any longer. "Priceless family heirlooms. Bronze Boy and Bronze Girl."

"Funny, that's what I thought. Sad though, isn't it? A matched set purposely kept apart? Such things are supposed to stay together."

"History always misplaces heirlooms here and there." He cast her a sidelong smile. "Turned out right in the end, though."

"History . . . ." His witch echoed the word in an almost numb seeming whisper. She pivoted on her heel to face him. "We've neglected the books Professor McGonagall sent over!"

Now it was his turn to furrow his brow as he met her gaze. "Because we were looking for your Muggle family records which wouldn't be in any of those?"

Rolling her eyes at herself, she nodded. "Okay, yes, but that's not what I mean. One of us should search here for the records, the other one should be going through those books for whatever it is she wanted us to find."

"Hermione, Hermione . . . ." He gently pried the book she was thumbing through from her fingers and put it back in the shelf before clasping his hands around hers. Her voice was taking on that panicked, shrill edge and she hadn't even seemed to notice her nerves were beginning to fray again.

"What?"

"Look, I know you think finding the documentation is important to back up what you already know, but the point is you already know it." Thorfinn jutted his chin toward the bookcases. "This? Whether you want to think it or not, it's a stalling tactic—a way for you to come to grips with what you're going to do before doing it. It's not your fault and you're not trying to delay, but it's just something you seem to do in order to feel steady enough to act."

"That is not true! I've acted without preparation loads of times!"

His brows pinched upward and he merely held her gaze.

Hermione shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back. "Okay, maybe not loads of times, but I don't always do this, it's just . . . ." She forced a gulp down her throat and shook her head. "This is so important, Thorfinn. What if I'm wrong?"

"Just because we might be wrong about what information there is to find doesn't mean there isn't anything useful to be found there."

She straightened her spine a bit as she stared up at him. "That was a terrifyingly pragmatic answer from you."

A half-smile curving his lips, he shrugged. "You've been a bad influence. What I mean is instead of standing about looking for a document that may or may not even be here, let's just go. I'm not exactly looking forward to visiting the Rowles—I haven't seen or spoken to any of my relatives since before my memories returned, and I can't be certain what to expect—but we already know where to go, and whom to speak to, so let's just go and see if that leads us anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay, you're right. Let's go. Wait, we've been over this, you can't go to Hogsmeade looking like . . . well, looking like a wanted fugitive whose face is plastered all over Wizarding Britain, and you can't keep running about with Draco's face, either."

"To be fair, we only agreed not to keep letting his face end up in awkward situations. I don't see how else we're going to sneak me around a busy tavern in a Wizarding village. I'm not exactly travel-sized."

"No, you're obviously . . . ." Her eyes widened and her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line before she repeated the phrase, "Travel-sized, hmm."

"Why don't I like the look your giving me right now?"

"Because you're not going to like the idea that's going through my head, but it's both brilliant and a bit insane."

"All the best brilliant ideas are a bit insane, but when you say something like that, I find myself feeling ready to flee the room in terror."

She snorted a giggle. "You've never once in your life fled a room in terror."

"First time for everything." His forehead creased and his jaw slackened as the specific term she'd repeated back to him crossed his mind. "Oh, oh you wouldn't dare."

Pulling up the leg of her jeans, she withdrew her snakewood wand from her boot. "You wouldn't be recognized."

"I also wouldn't be able to talk."

Tipping her head to one side, she murmured, "You say that like it's supposed to be a deterrent."

His shoulders drooped as he scowled down at her. If it weren't for the fact that it absolutely was a brilliant idea, he'd be putting up much more of a fight about it. "I hate you."

"You adore me."

Scowl darkening, he folded his arms across his chest and looked away. "Just get on with it."

Salazar had taken nearly as much coaxing as his dad before he stopped rasping balefully at his mum, seemingly miffed his glare was still only an angry look, and allowed the possibly-mad witch to transfigure him into a necklace. She assured him it was only temporary—she'd only keep him in that form of pseudo-stasis for as long as was absolutely necessary for safe travel—and reminded him he was not the only one who was about to be altered for the sake of their own protection.

As they came out of Apparition on a street in Hogsmeade, the Hogshead within eyeline, she could feel the weight of an irritated gaze on her face.

Turning her attention to the notably large and weighty Norwegian forest cat in arms, with its thick coat of golden fur, she met the feline's distinctly displeased blue eyes. "Oh, now stop," she said in a soothing tone as she set him on the cobblestone road beside her feet. "I promised you I'll change you back as soon as we're safely inside somewhere no one will see you, didn't I?"

The 'cat' unleashed an impressive hiss and turned, trotting off in the direction of the pub with an angry flick of its bushy tail.

She was trying hard not to laugh at his circumstances—she wouldn't appreciate him giggling at her if she had to run about as an otter—pressing her lips together as she hurried after her visibly annoyed Viking-kitty.