My apologies for not updating last week. For those who missed either the post on my FB page, or the notation I'd left in this fic's summary at the time (or even the A/N in my other fic Heathens mentioning it), I was struck with writer's block. First time in years that I've had to deal with that, but it broke 2 days ago, after which I proceeded to write nearly 9k words across two new fics, and here we are, so not only did the block break, but it seems more like a bursting dam now that I think about it? Anyways, welcome back for another chapter of Daughter of Slytherin. 😉
Chapter Twenty-Three
"I noticed him skulking about the other night," Aberforth said in a gruff whisper as the barkeep, who turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable about first aid and medicinal magic—the witch would imagine he'd tended many a drunken-brawl-related injury during his friendship with the Hogsheads' proprietor—checked the severity of his injuries. "So I followed him."
Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance at that, she thought she could even see a puzzled expression on Thorfinn's currently furry face. Draco, for his part, had yet to ask about the presence of a cat that at least he would recognize as not her familiar, and lack of one highly visible Viking wizard, but she thought he'd have questions as soon as the situation calmed a little. She was braced already for how he'd react to Thorfinn-the-giant-fluffy-cat.
And . . . further braced for how unhappy Thorfinn would be with said reaction.
Aberforth made his reasoning for whatever had happened sound so . . . spontaneous, which Hermione and Thorfinn knew did not match what the barkeep had told them of the younger Dumbledore brother's departure. Draco couldn't know that, however she thought perhaps his ability to detect half-truths had become well honed during his stint as the veritable prince of Slytherin House and that right now said ability was waving a giant red flag at him.
"You followed him?" Hermione asked, trying her best to make her tone merely curious and not suspicious. "I don't understand. If you believed you saw a wanted criminal 'skulking about', why didn't you alert the Ministry rather than trying to investigate the matter yourself?"
"Seems rather a dangerous line of thinking," Draco added, his expression grave with concern—which she thought was probably feigned to, like her, cover up any suspicious vibe he might be giving off. "I'd expect to hear something like this from her or myself, not a wizened elder wizard, sir!"
Hermione hid a wince, unsure if part of Draco's deception was intended to come across sounding as though he was scolding the old man.
Aberforth gave the pale-haired young man a once-over. "Oh, stow it, boy. There's not any age-limit on bravery or . . . foolhardiness, it would seem."
Well, they'd get nowhere if he got all spiky, would they? Frowning, she shook her head. "He doesn't mean anything by it. I still don't understand why you went after him yourself."
"Perhaps it's that I don't trust that the Ministry's as reformed as they're claiming."
Again, Hermione and Draco shared a look. They couldn't say they blamed him for feeling that way, but then he could simply be voicing whatever would make his reasoning look more sound than it appeared at first glance.
"Does beg the question, though," Aberforth said, waving away the barkeep as he muttered a demand that he be brought a bottle of Fire Whiskey, "I know what I was doing there—bastard caught me following him and, well, you found how he left me—but what were you doing there?"
"I was looking for Dolohov, too. Her parents are missing and the Ministry seems to think he might be responsible, so I went to check for myself. Maybe keep the attitude in check, old man. If not for me, you'd still be in a petrified heap in that basement."
Hermione watched Aberforth Dumbledore's face carefully for his reaction—not to Draco's snippiness, but to the mention of a pair of missing Muggle parents. Either he was a better actor than his brother, or he genuinely didn't have anything to do with all of this.
Aberforth scowled, grabbing the bottle the barkeep held out to him by the neck and taking a long swig. After a breath, he nodded. "Suppose you've a point, there. Thank you, then."
"Wasn't the first time you'd seen him around, was it?" she asked, taking a risk if he was being deceptive, but she thought she understood now what had happened.
Another drink and he shook his head, his scraggy grey hair rustling with the movement. "Thought I'd seen him about, lurking in the alleys, but I couldn't be sure. Finally, saw him heading down to the old cul de sac and decided I'd follow him, see what he was up to. Thought if he was hanging about instead of on the run, he had to be up to something, righ'? Told Henry to watch the place, but thought Dolohov would kill me soon as look at me for my troubles if he caught me following him, so I made it sound like I planned to be a way for a bit, in case I didn't make it back."
"That's the part I still don't get."
The old man's shoulders sloped downward. "If he killed me, he wasn't likely to stick with a corpse to worry about. Someone would eventually come looking for me. I wanted to make sure whoever that was didn't put themselves in Dolohov's crosshairs for my sake."
She was reminded of how different the Dumbledore brothers were with that sentiment. Albus Dumbledore didn't go out of his way to protect others unless it served a purpose only known to him, she thought. But then, she also considered that might not be entirely fair to the departed headmaster, yet she knew she was at least somewhat justified in thinking he was a master manipulator, because he was. For all of the man's positive qualities, he was one of the least trustworthy people in Wizarding Britain. Not unlike his wildly misrepresented ancestor, Godric Gryffindor.
The world seemed to sway beneath her feet a moment, and she found herself tipping sideways. Draco and Aberforth both made a move to catch her, while the poor cat let out a bizarre, anxious yelping sound. Just as fast, however, she steadied herself and waved them away. The way Aberforth had uttered an agonized hiss through clenched teeth as he'd tried to help her didn't escape her notice.
"Please, I'm okay," she said with a dismissive wave of one hand as she pressed the other against her forehead. "I just realized I've not been eating very much recently. Simply a little light headed, is all. But Aberforth, you're clearly more injured than you're letting on. Let Mr. Henry over their tend you, yeah?"
His eyes narrowing in appraisal, he looked her over before speaking. "I remember you from the Battle. Potter's friend, the clever one."
Smiling weakly, she nodded. "That'd be me, yes."
He nodded back. "Tell you what. I'll let that crabby ol' bastard tend my injuries—"
"Oi!" the aforementioned crabby ol' bastard called out from his place behind the bar.
Aberforth grinned in an almost malicious way and then continued on. "If you go have a lie down in the back for a bit. I'll have your whiny friend over here bring you something to fill up your stomach."
"Whiny, indeed," Draco said, folding his arms across his chest as he scowled. "Do you really not know how to talk to people without insulting them?"
The old man snickered a gruff, wheezy sound. "I haven't insulted her."
Draco flicked his gaze toward Hermione in acknowledgement. "Yeah, well, suppose that makes you smarter than you look. G' on, Granger, he's right, you should rest up a bit if you're not one hundred percent."
She blinked rapidly a few times as she locked her eyes on his. For a moment she thought perhaps she'd lost her ability to comprehend plain English. "What? No, no. I'm fine, really. I want you to show me where Dolohov was hiding out."
Exhaling through his nostrils, Draco Malfoy clamped his hands around Hermione's upper arms, his expression stern. "You. Look. Like. Shit." The witch let out a choked sound of shock at his bluntness, but he went on before she could reply. "It's just a few hours. Okay? You'll eat, rest, and then we'll go. I promise. You won't be any good to anyone if you collapse."
If the Norwegian Forest cat could wear an expression, she would swear he was severely arching a brow at her in agreement with Draco.
"Fine, fine, you're all absolutely correct," she said with a sigh, though she loathed admitting that to a group of men who were all basically telling her what to do.
She turned on and headed for the door Aberforth indicated. It weighed on her as she walked that there seemed no answers he could give her about all this, but maybe, after she'd eaten and rested, her brain would be up to optimum working order once more and she'd figure out how to subtly question him about what information his brother might've shared with him. After they investigated whatever clues Dolohov might've left behind.
"Granger?"
Hermione paused mid-stride, glancing back at Draco over her shoulder. "Hmm?"
"What's with the cat?"
Her eyes widened and she looked toward the floor beside her, where Thorfinn-the-Cat was staring up at her expectantly. "What?" she asked, returning her attention to the Slytherin wizard. "You remember my familiar from Hogwarts, don't you? Crookshanks?" Her brows pinched together in emphasis though she'd kept her voice flat.
He shook his head. "That's . . . ." His gaze settled on the feline, he tipped his head to one side. A loud growl rumbled out of the blue-eyed cat's golden-haired body and suddenly Draco's mouth fell open. Just as fast, he clamped it shut, nodding with widened eyes. "Yes, Crookshanks! How could I forget?"
If the elderly wizards noticed anything odd about the conversation, neither of them gave any indication. When Aberforth had been hauled inside looking like hell warmed over, the few other patrons who'd been in the dank pub had mysteriously had better things to do with their time than hang around there all day.
Satisfied there'd be no more fuss, she continued to the room, the cat following at her heels.
Sabina knew what was going on, and yet didn't quite understand what was going on. She remembered that Helena still hadn't returned from her secret trip, she remembered that she'd found Mother crying last week, though she would not tell younger daughter why. She remembered the elves whispering about how Mother wouldn't wake up.
And now . . . .
Swallowing hard, she leaned into her father's side. She tipped her head back to look up at him. In turn, he tipped his chin down, meeting her gaze. Dropping his arm around her to hold her close, he gave a small, tight-lipped smile.
The expression was meant to be encouraging, strengthening, she knew that, but the tears gathered in his green eyes made it difficult. She forced a smile in response for his benefit.
Holding in a sigh, she returned her attention to the foreground of the church floor. For days now, people—wizarding folk and Muggle, alike—milled through to see the shrouded figure of her mother on a cushioned table before the dais. It didn't seem real. The candles everywhere, the spices that hung thick in the air for some reason, the constant procession of people with food and wine to the castle's kitchens, as if they needed it . . . . The way Father had spent sunrise to sunset seated right here and would remain until the day Mother was taken to the family crypt. Sabina wasn't quite certain when that would be, she was really only cognizant of the strange detachment she felt. She wondered idly if she would be laid to rest there someday, too. Maybe it was nice. Spacious, perhaps.
Everything was all right now, though, because Mother was still here.
For a time, they simply sat there and she went on pretending she didn't know that Father was hiding that he was crying.
It was near sunset when the sound of footfalls—many footfalls—approached the church doors. Only a few proceeded forward, however. Looking up, she saw Uncle Godric, Auntie Helga, and the priest whose name she could never recall coming toward them. Yet, only Auntie paused beside their pew, the men continued on to stand before Mother's body.
Father gave Sabina a gentle hug and pulled her back enough to meet her gaze. "It is time," he said, standing up as Auntie Helga reached to take the little girl's hands in hers.
"Time?" Sabina echoed, her brow furrowing.
Father's expression gave away everything in that moment. He looked . . . he looked like he was feeling so many things Sabina had never seen in him before. Anger, sorrow, loneliness. He was lost, and the very idea of that terrified his daughter.
"What?" she asked, her small voice sharp and shuddering in the echo chamber of the church. "No, please!"
Everything that hadn't been real to her yet came crashing down on her in that moment, closing around her heart and squeezing like icy fingers. She tried to pull out of Auntie's firm but gentle grasp, tried to run past the elder witch toward her father.
"Sabina, sweet little girl, please do not fuss so," Helga murmured, ginger in her movements as she tugged the child along, away from the scene.
"But they cannot take her! No!" Sabina stamped her feet, attempting to dig in her heels as she was pulled through the church. "Father, do not let them take her! I will not have it!"
At any other moment than this, the sound of the diminutive witch's assertive tone would have brought smiles and laughter from the adults who expected so very much from her all the time. Yet now, it brought about the most awful sound she'd ever heard.
Her father was sobbing.
Sabina's vision blurred with sudden tears and her throat ached as she tried, once more, to pull away from Auntie Helga's well-intentioned grip. This time she managed to slip free, the entirety of the church filled with the sound of her footfalls as she ran to her father's side.
She did not, however, hug him. Sabina threw her arms over her mother's body as best she could where the cold form lay. The lack of warmth shocked her, the horrible odor she could only smell now that she had her face pressed against the shroud that covered Mother shocked her, but she couldn't care.
"I need her, please," her voice choked out, broken and garbled, her words just barely intelligible.
She hardly felt her father's hands close over her shoulders. Rather than trying to remove her from her mother, though, he merely held onto her for a time. He carefully lowered to kneel behind her, letting her have this final moment.
Sabina Slytherin did not make a sound as she cried. Not a sniffle, not a shuddered breath. Helga pressed a hand to her mouth to hold in a sob of her own as she watched. Godric hung his head, unable to look upon the scene at all, guilt etched in his features.
Her father's fingers trembled in their hold on her. Something in that drew Sabina's attention. Lifting her head, she looked to her father's face. For the first time in days, his eyes were closed. She could see his throat working as he forced a gulp; he was trying to stop crying.
With another icy, crushing grasp around her heart, she realized she was making this harder for him. She couldn't do that. No. Without Mother, only she was left to protect him now. And the best way she could protect Father in a time such as this would be to show him she would be all right.
Even if she felt like she wanted to curl up and die so she wouldn't be parted from her mother.
Raising her hand, she wiped away her own tears with a crooked finger. She turned beneath her father's palms and lifted her gaze. Those familiar green eyes had just opened, bleary and damp, they fixed on hers.
"I will go with Auntie now, Father and leave you and Uncle to what must be done." She nodded, continuing in a low voice, "I am sorry I made a fuss."
Salazar's lips pressed together in a shaky smile. Wrapping his arms around her in a hug, he held her for a few silent heartbeats. "Thank you, my brave little serpent."
"Hermione?"
Thorfinn's gruff whisper in her ear woke her. Blinking a few times—goddammit, her cheeks were wet—she met his gaze. After she'd eaten and been left alone, she had locked the door and dispelled the transfiguration on Thorfinn and little Salazar. Now both of them watched her with worried eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, shifting to lie on her back and wiping at her tears. "I really do hate crying."
He pulled her tighter against him, playfully slapping her hands out of the way to wipe at her cheeks, himself. When she uttered a teary laugh, he smiled gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I remembered my mother's funeral. Not much to talk about," she said with a sniffle. "I just . . . I think this situation with the Grangers coaxed out that particular memory."
"I wasn't allowed to attend," he said, nodding. "At least not for longer than a few moments when my father and mother visited the church to pay respects, though English funerary customs were very strange to them. They were fond of your mother and her wit."
Hermione laughed once more, a lighter sound this time, and sniffled again. "Well, she was known for it. Why weren't you allowed?"
"Your father thought I would distract you, and not in a good way." Thorfinn shrugged against her. "I was a disruptive influence and he well knew it. I was angry back then—"
"You were?"
"Of course!" He sighed. "You were to be my wife someday, my place at a time like that should've been by your side."
The iciness in her chest left by her dreamed memory faded, his words warming her so effortlessly. "You said you were angry back then. What changed?"
"I got older." He frowned pensively. "Got perspective. I understood that were I in your father's place dealing with a little Viking prince who only seemed capable of making his betrothed laugh hysterically or scream in anger, I'd have probably made the same decision."
"He knew us both so well," she said with a smile.
"I think he did, yeah." He sat up, moving her gently with him. "So, you ready to go check out Dolohov's hideout"
She reached toward the night table, scooping up Salazar in a delicate movement. "I think so, as long as we don't forget to come back and try to talk to Aberforth about his brother afterward. Oh, but . . . you know what leaving this room means . . . ."
Thorfinn groaned and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Cat. I get it. Oh, by the way, thank you for the Fire Whiskey."
"I know it's not ideal, but we're getting away with it and once we're out of public sight, I'll dispel the transfiguration again."
"You had better make this up to me," he said in a low, rumbling tone that was loaded with all manner of suggestiveness.
"I will." She granted him a smug grin, grateful once again for how easily he distracted her from her pains and helped her focus on matters at hand. "Already have an idea on that."
"Oh? Care to enlighten me?"
Hermione leaned close, nibbling playfully at his bottom lip before answering. "Locking us up in a bedroom for a weekend of drinking and shagging when this is all over?"
His brows drew upward and he pursed his lips. "Ooh, you are good." He kissed her breathless, then closed his eyes and unwound his arms from her. "All right, I'm ready. Cat me."