Given last chapter's revelations, the next few chapters are (obviously) going to be Hermione dealing with all she's just learned as she struggles to make sense of her own feelings, and takes in new information. I mention this because there will be moments of seeming to rehash points she's already said/thought, moments of this all seeming like it's the furthest thing from her mind, and moments when she seems to be fussing over things that are small/petty in comparison to the larger picture. This is intentional for the sake of staying realistic to how people process information of this magnitude.
Chapter Five
"How are you holding up after last night?"
It took Hermione a moment to realize the question was directed at her. Lifting her gaze from the truly delightful looking brunch plate set before her—Narcissa Malfoy might not have house elves, but she had managed to locate a Squib housekeeper who was a wonderful cook and, as some Squibs did, adored working for pure-bloods when she could, like Filch, having some strange sense that pure-bloods being in charge should be the natural order of the Wizarding world—she looked about the table. In a strange way, she was grateful said housekeeper only worked from just after sunrise until after she cleaned up from dinner and dessert and then retired to her own home. Hermione couldn't have imagined what even a Squib would make of last night's events.
When she awoke a short while ago in the guest room, Hermione noticed it was the first time since the War that she felt she'd actually rested. As she'd sat up, she realized her hand had been curled around the snakewood wand the entire time as she slept. Perhaps it had brought her comfort, now that she knew some of the truth. Now that she had seen, firsthand, enough to question the history she'd believed all these years.
This wand didn't feel like her old wand. No. This was different. Unique . . . well, she supposed all wands were meant to be unique, but this one? When she'd held it last night before her memories had surfaced, it had merely felt the same as picking up another wizard or witch's weapon—a quiet energy thrumming through it, sure, but that was it. Her original wand had felt a bit like that, only a little more potent. Like she was stronger, her magical potential bolstered just for having it in her hand. But the snakewood wand? Now as she turned it over in her grasp, examining it with her gaze, it felt alive.
She understood without question in that very moment that this was why Thorfinn had broken her old wand. There would be no connecting to the weapon her father had left for her while her old wand still held that connection for her. Of course, he could've been a little less of a prick about it, but she was beginning to suspect that part was just Thorfinn.
Aiming the wand at an ornate glass tissue box on the vanity table across the room, she defaulted to her very first successfully cast spell—the one over which Ron had given her such grief back during their first year, when she'd tried to help him cast it correctly. "Wingardium Leviosa," she said in a mere breath of sound, moving her weapon in the practiced swish-and-flick maneuver.
She didn't feel like anything was happening at all. Yet, the box lifted as easily as it should if this was truly intended to be her wand. It wasn't that nothing was happening, she could obviously see the spell was working. No. Hermione set the box back down and let her hand fall into her lap. It was that the magic from the wand worked so naturally with the magic inside her, there was hardly any effort at all behind it.
Strangely, she trusted that no danger would come to her here. Despite this, she took the wand with her as she climbed out of bed. Of course, this was also when she realized she was still in her nightclothes. A short cotton shirt and thread bare flannel bottoms . . . . Not the most shameful thing she could've been caught in, but still, it did make her feel wildly under dressed for her surroundings.
As for how she felt in the wake of last night's revelations, however?
The jury was still out on that. She supposed she still needed time for everything to sink in, and to get more information about her circumstances, before she could really decide her feelings on any of it. But she was rather sure that she was headed for a complete, and quite messy, meltdown, she simply wasn't 'there,' yet. Maybe her current nearly-at-ease state was a form of shock?
Aware it was rather far into the morning—possibly already the afternoon, given how late into the night everything had gone on—she'd readied herself to face an unknown day ahead as best she could and made her way downstairs.
She'd found Thorfinn sitting at the foot of the main staircase. His head tipped to one side, he leaned against the banister. He'd nodded off, hadn't he?
A smirk curving her lips nearly before she even realized she was making the expression, she crept down the last few steps to stand behind him. Wincing, she reached out, tapping the tip of her wand to the nape of his neck.
The man jumped up and forward, whirling on his heel to face the offending object. What she found interesting was that though her trick had triggered his instinctive combat reflexes, he'd not drawn his wand, he'd lifted his fist.
His arm hovering in the air as he saw her, his broad shoulders slumped. He buried his face against his palms a moment before speaking. "A thousand years and you're still such a brat."
Hermione folded her lips on a grin as she clasped her hand around the wrist of her wand-arm behind her back and bounced in place. "Did I do that sort of thing often when we were children?"
"All. The. Time," he said, his blue eyes narrowing.
"Then it's a wonder you tried so hard to get my memories back, hmm?" Oh, she was feeling a touch feistier and more playful than she recalled being just last night. Like she was . . . freer, somehow, lighter.
"I recall asking you not to be a brat when the spell wore off."
Her brow furrowed as she moved down the steps. On level ground with him now, she peered up into his face. Had their height difference remained static as they'd grown up? It seemed so. A thousand years ago, she'd be considered a tall woman, but he effortlessly and naturally towered over her. Bloody unfair rubbish. "Does that mean you're regretting not dying in your sleep?"
Thorfinn Rowle tried to maintain that unhappy expression, but a half-smile appeared. "You really do remember now."
She shrugged, marveling over how what felt odd about being so informal and comfortable with him was that it didn't feel odd. "It's still the same as after the charms broke. I recall the night we were put into the bronze, but I can't remember anything further back than that."
He nodded. "That part might take some time, but it will happen, and it will happen on its own, now that the magic barring the memories has been stripped away. C'mon, they're waiting for us in the dining room."
Hermione fell into step beside him as they moved through the house. There were so many things she should be asking right now, but as they crossed the floor and the delicious scents of baked food and rich coffee filled the air, her thoughts fled.
Yet, just as they reached the gold-knobbed double doors, she stopped, not even thinking of the gesture as she placed a hand on his arm. The way he'd acted so protectively, threatening Lucius like that last night . . . .
"What?"
"We were really betrothed? Like, you and me? Supposed to be . . . married?" She did vividly recall little Thorfinn saying that he was to be her husband, and so whatever rules applied to him applied to her—she supposed that made sense given his background. The Vikings'd had more equality than most other European cultures of the day. Goose and gander, and all that.
He nodded, seeming utterly unfazed by the notion. "If you think about it, had we stayed where we came from, we'd already be married." He paused a moment, a thoughtful look gracing his features as he stroked the dark-gold stubble dusting his jaw. "Probably already have our firstborn, and more than likely be working on making our second by the ages we are now."
Hermione's eyes shot wide. "How can you speak of this so casually?"
Those massive shoulders—good God, could she stop noticing how nicely built the man was for five bloody minutes?—rose in a shrug. "I would think because I remember it all?"
"Is that really why?" She hated that she was honestly curious about his thinking.
His gaze searched her face and his brows drew upward. "You and I were promised to each other on your fifth birthday. We spent three and a half years with the notion that we were one another's future. So, yeah, I think that's probably what it is." He tipped his head to one side, that half-smile broadening a little. "Unless you think I should have some other reason for being able to easily imagine what the wedding night might be like."
The witch felt warmth bloom in her cheeks as she stared up at him. Wedding night? Oh, he was mad after all!
"You hear me now, Thorfinn Rowle, I've no intention, or desire, to marry you."
Again with that narrow-eyed look, he answered, "Let's be clear on this, Sabina Slytherin—" He ignored the way she cringed and made a rumbling sound of disgust in the back of her throat—"wondering what shagging you might be like is worlds away from actually wanting to marry you."
"So then, we're in agreement? We don't want to go through with that stupid ancient betrothal?"
He pulled himself to stand taller, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't think anyone in the history of time has wanted to marry someone less than I want to marry you. Good enough?"
She didn't know if it was her pride bristling at his tone, or if her feelings were actually hurt by his presumptuousness. As if she'd care that a . . . a brutish prick like him wouldn't want to marry her! Mirroring his stance—with the clear exception that she still held her wand, but then it was hardly as though the too-loose pockets of her flannel bottoms were ideal for holding the weapon, now was it?—she scowled up at him. "Oh, no. See, that's not possible, because I want to marry you way less than you want to marry me."
Thorfinn barked out a mirthless laugh. "I don't bloody think so. If there's one of us who wants to not make good on our fathers' promise, it's me, Sabina!"
"There you go again! Don't call me that. I hate that name!"
"Really? You want me to stop?"
Oh, when had they devolved into pointless bickering? It was nonsense! As if they were arguing for the sheer sake of arguing.
Even with that realization in mind, it appeared she was simply unable to help herself. His very presence seemed to goad her into snapping back at him. "I did just say that, didn't I?"
"Okay, how about we make a deal." He dropped his arms to his sides, propping his fists on his hips. "I'll stop calling you Sabina if you stop being a brat. Sabina." He hissed the name like a curse.
"Ooh!" She grimaced before puffing out her cheeks in an angry exhalation. "I am not being a brat!"
"Agree to disagree? Sabina."
"Are you two quite finished?"
They both turned startled gazes on the double doors. When had they opened? How long had Lucius Malfoy been standing there, taking in the way they bickered like a couple of children?
The pair exchanged a wincing glance, perfectly aware how horribly immature they were both being.
"Now, as entertaining as this has been to watch, your meals are getting cold." Appearing the perfect host, Lucius sidestepped and swept his arms back toward dining room table.
Hermione cast an uncertain sidelong look at Thorfinn. "Were we like this when we were little?"
Thorfinn returned her look, nodding. "Oh, yeah."
Settling at the table, she could feel the gazes of the Malfoys darting between her and Thorfinn as she accepted coffee from the housekeeper and dug into the food waiting for her. She hadn't realized it before, but she was famished—it was more than clear that last night's ordeal had taken a lot out of her.
As she got about half-way through her plate, that was when Narcissa inquired with regard to how she was faring.
Offering the other witch a small, tight-lipped grin, Hermione shrugged. "I honestly have no idea how to feel about any of this. I had a life stolen from me, but it was done by someone who—while he undoubtedly had his own agenda, because it seemed like he always did—presumably assumed it was also 'for my own good.' I don't know if I should be heartbroken, or grateful, or angry, maybe all of them?"
"I don't believe any of those things would be an incorrect response," the blonde said as she paused to lift her tea cup for a dainty sip. "Your life would be different had you known, certainly. It's only natural to wonder if you actually are better for not having known. Your own friend, Mr. Potter, might not have grown into the fate he claimed had he been raised knowing who he was. You're the closest thing our corner of the magical world has to a princess. I suspect you'd be an entirely different person had you been raised with the pure-bloods of Wizarding Britain treating you like the nobility you are."
Hermione set down her fork carefully to spare herself from letting the utensil slip out of her fingers and clatter noisily against her plate. Narcissa Malfoy's words had been intended as a gentle observation. It wasn't the elder witch's fault her statement had dropped Hermione's heart into her stomach. A pure-blood princess? Her? Yes, just what every once literally tortured Muggle-born wants to learn she was all along.
Oblivious to her moment of discomfort, Lucius piped up. "Surely, you must have dozens of questions?"
Draco snickered at his father's inquiry. "Her? She's Hermione Granger. However many questions you think it'd be logical for someone to have, double it, and then add twenty."
Thorfinn chuckled as Lucius and Narcissa both cast their son a quelling look. Hermione, for her part, looked around the table and shrugged. "Well, he's not wrong," she said, perfectly aware of her often too-inquisitive nature.
She realized something as she looked around at the family of pale-haired pure-bloods seated across from her and Thorfinn. There were being . . . not the terrible people she recalled them as, and they had been quite terrible at times, but it seemed rational to her that their almost warm demeanor toward her now should seem forced, or at least unnatural. But it didn't. It merely felt like a side to them she'd not been permitted to see before.
It reminded her of the side of Salazar Slytherin she'd experienced in her own memories. Not the cold, ruthless, traditionalist who cared for nothing so much as blood purity and whom the bulk of the House named for him seemed to idolize. But that hard, icy old man in the portraits was who they truly thought of, and they didn't even know there was a difference between them. In a way, she'd been right when she'd thought the man from her dream and the one told of in the history texts could not be one and the same.
He'd lost his wife to a terrible disease that had, at that time, not yet been named—that still had no cure—and he'd sacrificed his daughter to time, itself, in order to save her. He could not be the same man she recalled after that.
Yes, it seemed like that. They were following only that second, hateful, twisted up version of Salazar Slytherin—at least those like Tom Riddle had been. Was it possible the Malfoys somehow knew there had been a different version of him altogether before he'd lost such treasured pieces of his heart?
In the silence that followed, her throat closed and she blinked back tears at the idea. So much was so clear to her now.
A hand closing over hers snapped her back to her senses and she looked up to see Thorfinn watching her. Lord help her! There he went appearing concerned, again. Like last night before her memories had been unlocked.
'You're crying."
"No I'm not."
His brows shot up as he gave a sideways nod. "Well, then you might want to have a chat with your face, because it's saying otherwise."
Forcing a smile, she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and set it down beside her plate. Rising from the table, she almost jumped at all three men also rising. God, she hadn't been expecting manners from them!
"I um, I do have a lot of questions, but I also realize I'm still in my nightclothes. I think I'd like to pop home and freshen up before we go any further with this."
"Perfectly understandable," Narcissa said with a nod. "See you in a bit then, dear."
As she started out of the dining room, she heard footfalls behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she met Thorfinn's gaze.
"Oh." He stopped as well, looking perfectly awkward as he cast a glance about. "Should I go with you?"
For a moment, she only gaped at him. It was still a lot to process, and him being thoughtful on top of everything else seemed in danger of making the whole thing almost too much for her bear. But then she didn't particularly want to be alone just now, either.
She couldn't even think on what her friends' responses would be to this mess when they returned from their trip abroad. That was more than definitely a meltdown of its own waiting to happen. But that wasn't for two months. Plenty of time to sort things privately before she had to face them and potentially destroy their image of her forever because of genetics that didn't change a bloody thing about how she felt toward them, or everything she'd done for them over the past seven years!
Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slow, trying to release her suddenly frenzied stream of thought with the air in her lungs. "Sure."
Turning on her heel, she stepped through the doors. As he joined her just outside the dining room, they heard both Narcissa and Lucius hiss words of admonishment at their son. Neither Hermione nor Thorfinn had heard what he'd said, but his response to being scolded told the pair everything they needed to know.
"Look, all I'm saying is," his voice filtered through the doors, "if they're not back for a while, I think it's fairly obvious what would be keeping them."
Hermione bit hard into her bottom lip, her wand gripped tight as she pivoted on her heel.
Thorfinn's hand closed over her shoulder and he whirled her right back around. "Just keep walking," he said, nudging her to fall into step beside him.
"Was this an unusual thing?" she asked as they moved through the house toward the entryway. "You know? You stopping me from fighting rather than the other way around?"
His brows pinched together as he exhaled loudly, his cheeks puffing out. "You've got so much to remember, still."
