Chapter Ten

"I don't mind telling you," Lucius said with a shake of his head, "I believe this is a terrible idea."

"Well, with all due respect, Mr. Malfoy, I'm not really asking for your—"

"Ow! Bloody Viking thug!"

"If you'd only held still, you daft little man!"

Hermione's brows shot up and she barely held back a wince as her gaze darted from one parent of the 'daft little man' to the other, and back. Thorfinn really had exquisite timing, didn't he? Even when he wasn't in the room the know how serious the tone had gotten.

"While we're on the topic of things we don't mind telling you," Narcissa tacked on, as though the younger witch's statement hadn't been interrupted, entirely, "I would very much appreciate it if you and your betrothed could stop torturing Draco while you're here."

Hermione frowned, shrugging. "If he'd only cooperated when we made it clear we simply needed a lock of his hair, whatever the hell just happened out there wouldn't have been necessary."

When the pair had joined the family a few moments ago—though they were both suspicious about the glances Narcissa kept stealing at each of them as they helped themselves to the tray of food and coffee the housekeeper had brought them in the study—they had shared with the Malfoys Hermione's desire to speak with her sister, or, more appropriately, her sister's ghost. Given Thorfinn's very obvious protective behavior toward her, Mr. Malfoy had inquired as to how he intended to travel with her when he was currently sort of high up there on the Undesirables list. This had prompted Hermione to ask about the family's potion stores as Thorfinn turned to look pointedly at Draco.

At which time, Draco had excused himself from the room in something of a hurry, and Thorfinn had let out a particularly hearty chuckle before rising from his seat to follow.

Now, the two young men came trooping back into the room. Draco scowled as he rubbed at the back of his head, and Thorfinn was beaming—rather like a hunter proud of taking down his prey, Hermione thought—as he waved a silvery blond lock in the air.

"You could've asked," Draco grumbled as he took a seat on the chaise next to his mother.

Thorfinn shrugged lazily and he reclaimed his place beside Hermione on the sofa. "And you could've not run away. I's just a lock of hair, mate."

"As I was saying, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione repeated as she and the elder Malfoys returned their previous discussion, "I'm not really asking for your permission. In the understanding that we are working together in this, I am keeping you in the loop on what I plan to do, no more, no less. And because Thorfinn still remembers more of our past than I do, having him with me when I speak with Helena will be helpful—I don't know if she's still holding a grudge, I wouldn't know otherwise if she might try to lie to me about something I've not remembered, yet. And as he can only go as someone not currently wanted by the Ministry, I thought he could employ the same tactic Barty Crouch, Jr. used when he'd been masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody. You do have a stock of ready-made potion—as Thorfinn suggested, 'just waiting for the hair'—he'd simply have to put it in a flask and take sips when no one is looking."

"While it is a comfort to know you have thought this through to some degree, I still believe it an unwise move."

Lucius' words of caution drew a sigh out of Hermione. "No one outside this room knows I've remembered who I really am, and if Dumbledore truly believed my remembering was a threat to Gryffindor's legacy, he wouldn't have told anyone. It would've been too risky. On his own side there'd have been too many questions about why it was so important to keep me . . . blind, for lack of a better term, because if everything the Wizarding world had been taught about Hogwarts' founders was true, then my memories would only confirm that, wouldn't they? And from the Dark, well, if the information about who I really was somehow reached them—as such leaks are hardly unheard of—he couldn't know if they would also see me as a threat and try to kill me, or try to break the charms, themselves, with the natural assumption that as Salazar's daughter, of course I'd take up their cause." She sneaked a sip of her coffee, dampening her suddenly and mysteriously parched throat. "Regardless of whether he thought the biggest threat would be from the opposing side, or his own, I think it's clear that he believed my secret was too dangerous to share with anyone."

"That suggests that he wasn't acting out of some blind faith and devotion to Gryffindor's legacy, but that he knew there was a cover-up." Draco frowned, to his credit seeming unsettled by the entire scenario. "That he didn't do what he did to you to protect Gryffindor's legacy because he felt it was true, but that he was aware it wasn't and was knowingly trying to protect the cover-up."

"I . . . ." Now it was Hermione's turn to frown. "I hadn't meant to suggest that. I really want to believe that Dumbledore thought all the great things about Uncle Godric that everyone's been taught were true, and—"

"You just said Uncle Godric."

Hermione breathed in a quick, shuddering gasp at Thorfinn's interruption. Swallowing hard, she turned and caught his gaze before looking to each of the Malfoys, in turn. "I did?"

They all nodded, and it hurt her heart that they all looked terribly sad for her. "I . . . I suppose that makes sense. He was close with my parents for so long before my mother's illness. Even while Mother was sick, Father had convinced Godric to help find a cure because it was his fault anyway and the least he could do for them, and I was sent away not long after." She could feel herself staring about, her eyes watering a bit, but she couldn't really see anything. Her lips trembled, and she folded them inward for a few heartbeats before she could force herself to continue. "If they were that close when I was a child, and their schism was only starting shortly before the end of my time with them, then it would make sense that I referred to him that way."

Everyone was quiet, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed them for not knowing what to say. Even Thorfinn, with his penchant for keeping her from getting too mired in dark and weighty thoughts, seemed at a loss for what words would best fill the void.

"I really want to believe," Hermione repeated in a low voice, pausing to clear her throat, "that Dumbledore thought all the great things about Godric Gryffindor that everyone's been taught are true. But who really knows? He was a man of many secrets; I'm certain there are more than a few he took to his grave that will forever remain with him. All that being said, I don't believe anyone in the castle currently poses a threat to me."

"What about Dumbledore's portrait?" Draco wasn't sure how, but he was going to get Rowle back for that hair-pulling mess just now. "D' you think he might recognize that the charms on you have broken?"

"No, I don't. The Portraits are a copy of the people they represent, but it would not be possessed of his true depth of knowledge, or his full faculties. If I do end up in the portrait's presence, then as long as I don't do anything to raise his suspicions, or to suggest anything about me has changed, I believe he'll assume that what the real Dumbledore did still holds. As far as he was aware when he was alive, he's the only one who could know the truth about me, therefore, his portrait will be under the same assumption. I've thought about this. Really."

"Perhaps that's true, but it still seems like a risk." Narcissa was obviously not pleased with this plan, and while Hermione was touched that the Malfoys were expressing concern over her safety—they could simply act out of duty to her father's true agenda, but the feeling she got from them was more parent-like, which was wildly comforting in a strange way, given her current lack of 'real' parents—there was no way to proceed if they were set on protecting her from the world.

"Of course it's a risk, but really the most that might happen is Helena starts talking about her sister being alive. People will think the Grey Lady's gone 'round the bend, since there's no record of her having a sister, and how could any human possibly be alive after a thousand years without the Elixir of Life? Given that the destruction of the Sorcerer's Stone was made public knowledge, the Elixir is now the stuff of history books, just like the Stone. Helena doesn't know my Muggle name, I always avoided Ravenclaw Tower when I was a student, and . . . ." Hermione's brow furrowed as her voice trailed off.

The room's other occupants exchanged a worried glance.

"And?" Thorfinn echoed, reaching over to clasp his large, warm hand around one of hers.

Meeting his gaze, the witch chewed at her lower lip a moment before answering. "It's nothing really, I just realized something. I was all over that castle while I was a student there, even the places that were declared off-limits—"

"Yet, somehow, I was always the one getting in trouble with the professors. Unbelievable."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Draco. "Yes, well, maybe that had less to do with following rules and more to do with your unbearable arrogance."

He smirked. "We all have to excel at something."

She graced him with a snicker. "What I was saying was that somehow, even with all the places I've been to in that castle, never once did I have cause, or desire, to visit Ravenclaw Tower. Someone with my curiosity? You'd figure there wouldn't be a place in the castle I wouldn't want to at least see. Provided I wouldn't get expelled had I been caught there, of course."

Lucius pursed his lips in thought as he nodded. "Given what we know of your heritage, I would not be terribly surprised if there was a reason for that. If you'd been left to your own devices, even without your memories some part of you might've driven you to seek out the tower, the very location where your sister's ghost dwells, and in the early years of your attendance as a student, she no doubt would've recognized you given that you were not very much older than when last she'd seen you. A thousand years is nothing to a ghost, after all."

Hermione felt her stomach flip a little. "You're suggesting Dumbledore wove a compulsion to avoid the tower into the magic when he reinforced my father's charm?"

"At this point, very little would surprise me when it comes to what that man might've done to ensure you would stay Hermione Granger."

Sighing, she dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. Harry. She'd have to break all of this to Harry before anyone else outside of this room, she knew that. He'd already had some of the unhealthy hero-worship he'd felt toward Albus Dumbledore stripped away in learning all he had about the elder wizard and his plans—and just how far he'd go to achieve his goals—but Harry clearly still respected him. She wasn't sure how he'd take the news, making Harry one of the reasons she needed hard evidence. As bizarre as her story was, she was sure he'd believe her . . . until he heard that the Malfoys and a confirmed Death Eater were her allies in uncovering 'the truth.' Then he'd need a little more convincing.

And the Weasleys were so faithful to Dumbledore's cause, so steadfast in their beliefs about anything Slytherin-related. She was starting to think once this news went public, not only would there be upheaval in Wizarding Britain, but Ron would suddenly be unspeakably grateful she'd never slept with him, because . . . Slytherin cooties, whatever. She adored the Weasley clan, but they could be very bullheaded; they could deliberately refuse to believe truths that were right in front of their eyes with the best of them.

She loved them, but the words cognitive dissonance should be etched onto their family crest—ironically, just like all but the three Death Eaters sitting in the room with her, and the bulk of non-blood-traitor pure-bloods. There was a chance none of them would accept that Godric was not the saint they wanted him to be.

That Salazar was not the demon they needed him to be.

And somehow, because she would be the one who caused them to even think that might be questioned, she'd be to blame. That's how bullheaded believers could be, no matter how good at heart they usually were.

"Okay, I'll ask." Draco shrugged. "You and I were never exactly friends. How are you going to explain away the two of us just happening to want to take a tour through Hogwarts together?"


"I must admit, I was surprised to get your owl this morning," Professor McGonagall—now Headmistress of the school, though her title wouldn't truly go into effect until classes began on 1st of September—said as she greeted Hermione and 'Draco' at the boundary of the castle grounds. The elder witch made no attempt to hide how her gaze slipped over her favorite former student's traveling companion in question. "Mostly on account of with whom you said you'd arrive."

Hermione and the fake Draco Malfoy exchanged a glance. He'd opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione immediately gave him a quelling look. Even if no one else would immediately recognize Thorfinn Rowle's voice upon hearing it, a gravely baritone issuing forth from Draco Malfoy's lips instead of his usual silky, dulcet tone was likely to raise a few eyebrows.

Forcing out a raspy sound, he touched a hand to his throat and looked at McGonagall, wincing.

"Mr. Malfoy, are you quite all right?"

"He's got a cold, I'm afraid. His voice has been just awful." Hermione nodded toward the castle—still under restoration magic—and they all began walking up the path toward the bridge. With any luck, they could avoid an actual sit-down in the Headmaster's office, and she would not have to worry that she might've been wrong about just how much Dumbledore's portrait could pick up on about her recent changes. "I thought it was better to explain our situation in person."

"Yes," McGonagall said with a nod of her own. "It usually is."

The young woman nearly stumbled over her own two feet as she realized what Minerva McGonagall's tone insinuated. She thought—she actually thought—that Hermione and Draco were dating! That was impossi—oh, well, okay, given that Hermione was in something of an unofficial relationship with a Death Eater to whom she'd been promised in marriage a thousand years ago, she supposed dating the Malfoy heir probably wasn't really all that far-fetched.

"Well, we ran into each other at the bookshop the other day, and realized we were both researching the same subject. Hogwarts." Hermione shrugged. She'd only briefly laid out for Thorfinn what their cover story was, so it really did suit her plan best that he had an excuse to not offer a single word into the conversation. "I was thinking to write a memoir, you know, my times as a student, what I went through during the war. I thought it might help some people to better understand how terribly the Muggleborns were really being treated. It turned out he was thinking the same thing, only . . . his motivation was to help people understand how some who—despite their beliefs—might not have wanted to support Voldemort ended up serving him. Like himself and his mother. The Malfoys may not be the upstanding citizens of Wizarding Britain the world once believed they were, but even I can see they're far more maligned than they really deserve."

As she spoke, Hermione realized they weren't simply empty words. She honestly felt that, especially now that she'd gotten to know them. She'd heard, since War's End, how people in Wizarding London spoke of the Malfoys. Not even in hushed tones, like most gossip. They openly called the family wretched for following Voldemort in the first place, horrible for rejoining his cause when he reappeared after the Triwizard Tournament, cowards for ultimately betraying him and crossing battle lines. No decision they'd ever made had been the correct one, according to the popular opinion. It seemed no matter what the family did, their escaping a sentence in Azkaban only left them to be scapegoats for all the negative emotions left in the War's wake. Really, when thinking on it like that, Hermione thought it no wonder the Malfoys barely set foot off Manor grounds lately.

Oh, God. She felt sorry for them.

Clearing her throat and giving her head a shake, Hermione went on. "I realized that a lot of people might not care for what a Malfoy has to say these days, especially if it might make them feel sympathetic. So, I thought we could combine our accounts. Telling two sides of the story." It also occurred to her that the notion she'd come up with as a mere cover story was actually brilliant. If she didn't get herself murdered trying to prove her father wasn't a villain, she should actually discuss the idea with Draco. "But we also realized that perhaps before we do any bit of reminiscing on paper, we should come back. Sit in Great Hall, wander the corridors. Stand before the entrances of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers. Maybe pop down to the Dungeons so Draco can lounge in the Slytherin common room a moment, that sort of thing."

The Headmistress smirked, one eyebrow arching upward ever so slightly. "And perhaps pop through the kitchen and grab a bite of something on your way to the Hufflepuff Basement, hmm?"

Hermione feigned an affronted gasp before laughing. "I wasn't thinking that, but you do remind me why you were always my favorite teacher!"

It was with a warm grin that Professor Minerva McGonagall parted ways with the pair in the entrance hall, back to her office to tend to yet more paperwork in preparation for September. Hermione watched the woman go, her heart light to see that even with her new perspective, she still felt the same toward the elder witch. She knew—she knew in her heart—that had Minerva McGonagall been aware of Albus' treachery, regardless of his motives, she'd not have supported it. There was a reason that as much as he trusted her, he had kept things from her.

As Hermione turned to start for another staircase that—from the way it was moving—seemed most likely to take them directly to Ravenclaw Tower—she found 'Draco' scowling at her.

The uncanny expression actually caused her to jump a little. "Good God," she said in a whisper before darting her gaze about. Thank the Lord she had brought someone with her. The castle was quite intimidating when it was so empty. She was also mildly impressed. "You really have gotten your Malfoy impressions down-pat, haven't you?"

At her question, that trademark Malfoy scowl turned into an unhappy visage that was entirely Thorfinn Rowle. "What did you think you were doing? Mentioning that you wanted to go to Ravenclaw Tower like that?"

Hermione's brows pinched together, and her lips folded inward, but try as she might, she could not hold back a laugh.

His expression darkened.

"I'm sorry," she said, despite that her apology was edged by amusement. "It's just hearing your voice come out of Draco Malfoy is . . . oh, it's just so wrong."

"Yes?" He paused, glancing around before he slipped the silver flask from inside his robes and took a quick sip. Cringing at the taste—something for which she did not envy him, as her memory of the taste brought that entire half-cat fiasco from second year screaming to mind—he put it back before going on. "Well, get used to it. Answer the ruddy question."

Allowing herself a moment, and a few steadying breaths, to sober up as they began climbing the staircase, she spoke. "The mention was deliberate. I was trying to gauge her reaction."

"Oh," he said, barely refraining from slapping his forehead. Draco's form was decidedly more delicate than his own, Thorfinn wasn't sure if he'd end up hurting himself. "I see."

"She had no reaction to it. If she'd known about the charms, she'd have to wonder if my appearance here following the War was because Voldemort's death had unlocked my memory—just as Dumbledore feared it might, even with all those extra layers of magical protection he cast. I thought she didn't know anything about this entire mess, and I desperately wanted to believe she wouldn't have a thing to do with it, but now I know for certain."

He couldn't help noticing the gentle smile that curved her lips as she talked. "You really have a soft spot for the old woman, don't you?"

Hermione shrugged. "I do. She's probably the strongest woman I know. Well, aside from my birth mother, and now Narcissa Malfoy. I've always admired her, I'd have been devastated if she'd had any sort of response other than the one she'd given."

All too soon, it seemed, they were at the floor before Ravenclaw Tower. She felt glued to the landing as they stepped onto it.

Thorfinn-as-Draco—which she now realized looked a bit odd walking, because Draco Malfoy had, of course, a gait that suited his lean stature, while Thorfinn had a stride that matched the fact that he was both taller and broader, so Draco appeared to amble about like his body was too light for him—was already starting through the corridor when he stopped short, realizing she wasn't beside him.

Sighing, he turned and looked at her. "C'mon. She won't bite. Can't, really, seeing as, you know, ghost and all."

A half-smile curved her lips. There he went again, being silly for the sole purpose of making her feel a tiny bit better. And damn him that it worked.

Nodding, she let out a breath and forced herself to step over to where he was. She fell into step beside him.

After a few moments of walking in silence, he said, "This whole big, silent castle. Makes me want to drag you off into a dark corridor."

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, what? You're afraid the ghosts might tattle on us?"

She scoffed. "How quickly you forget." Halting mid-stride, she turned to face him. "Do you really want to have me in some dark little castle nook, making all those same sounds and expressions I made this morning . . . while you look as you do right now?"

Immediately he scowled, and it was all she could do not to let out another laugh at the resemblance. "No, no, you're absolutely correct, I'd rather not do that."

Nodding, she playfully slapped his arse and started walking again. "C'mon then, the sooner we get this done, the sooner you can stop nursing that flask."

"Oy," he said, trailing after her. "So, wait . . . who's got the better bum?"

She shook her head, her eyes closing in a pained expression. "You're not seriously asking me that."

Thorfinn-Draco shrugged. "Well, can't help being curious."

"You're so odd." A chill ran through her as they turned the bend and came into very-near view of the Tower entrance. She stopped, aware that this entire time, she'd been letting his presence distract her from how different the castle felt now that she had different, older memories of it. "We're here."

"How do you want to do this?"

"I don't know, not exactly. I suppose I'll just try talking to her. Maybe she's somewhere near enough to hear me?"

"Do you want me to just stay ba—?" Her hand on his wrist cut off his words and stopped him mid-backpedal.

"You stay right where you bloody are," she said in a hissing whisper. Hermione raised her voice a bit before she called out. "Helena? Helena Ravenclaw?"

Nothing.

Shaking her head, she tried again—after all, the last time Helena had heard her voice, she'd been a child, she had not sounded as she did now. "Helena? Helena!" She stamped her foot as she could just barely remember doing often when they'd argued as children. "You come out here and speak to me this instant! I never told Mother it was you who broke her favorite vase. The least you could do is comes speak to me!"

He turned a wide-eyed look on her. Hermione was wide-eyed, too. She met his bewildered gaze with a shrug. That particular memory had come out of nowhere. She'd considered it before, but perhaps behaving as she recalled Sabina behaving could trigger slips of memory like that. Of course, she should really wait until she was in private, then, before throwing any temper tantrums.

"Sabina?"

Hermione wasn't ashamed to admit she nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice behind her. Pivoting on her heel, she came face-to-face with the Grey Lady, herself.