Warning: And I'm only doing this once, because there's a theme at the end of this chapter I swore I'd never touch, but this story is saying that's what needs to happen. So, mind the end of the chapter, it's a little bit of a gut punch. I can't say anything further without giving spoilers.


Chapter Twelve

"This is a fair bit messier than I'd have thought," Hermione couldn't help but comment as she and Thorfinn—now looking entirely like Thorfinn, a fact for which the real Draco Malfoy seemed eternally grateful, though he'd made it clear he was still not speaking to either of the offending parties and might carry on the silent treatment until the end of time—peered about the basement room. It looked very much like the depiction of some secret castle librar,y as she'd seen in black-and-white films.

Lucius pursed his lips and nodded. "The accounts I unearthed from this 'mess' thus far are over there atop the desk, but I am certain there must be more from the time your father was alive."

Her brow furrowed as she drew closer to the dusty stacks of leather-bound tomes. A few, if stood up, would be nearly as tall as she was! Then again, she knew some ancient texts were simply that large. She unwittingly mirrored Lucius' expression as she wondered. Perhaps she should take a page from The Princess Bride and consider such manuscripts BoUSs—Books of Unusual Size. Wasn't there a monastery somewhere with shelves full of books that size? Was it in Turkey, maybe?

Thorfinn's gaze leapt back and forth between the witch and the elder wizard. He cut off Hermione's wayward train of thought by slipping his hand around her wrist and gently tugged her a few steps toward him so that she was nearer to him than the Malfoy patriarch.

When she looked up at him in question, he lowered his head, whispering in her ear, "Maybe we shouldn't be taking advantage of their hospitality much longer. You're beginning to look like them."

It wasn't intentional that her responding face expression to this observation was a scowl—she simply hadn't thought it out—and he feigned a shocked gasp. "There you go again!"

Hermione shook her head, swatting at him to back away and returned her attention to the stacks. "For a family so dedicated to their own pure-blood legacy, I feel there is a shocking lack of care for these books." Of course, it was her humble opinion that no books should be left in heaps of dust like this by anyone, but she was also trying to be aware, and deeply grateful, that she was being permitted access to a familial trove of knowledge probably no one outside of this bloodline had even known existed for hundreds of years.

Well, that was a weighty way to think of things, wasn't it?

Shrugging, Lucius sighed; he didn't want to know what the young woman's barbarian prince had just whispered in her ear, and he was quite certain he didn't care enough to ask, anyway. "Yes, well, no one in the family actively kept accounts since late in the last century, I believe? But there was—at that time—some organizational method my ancestors used to help them keep things sorted for easier finding. However, the method was either deliberately difficult so only one purposefully told of said method could find what information they sought and has since been lost to the ages, or my ancestor who decided all this was a complete madman."

She echoed his sigh with one of her own. That explained why there were so few volumes on the desk, as well as why some of the stacks were toppled over. The accounts in question weren't dedicated to the life of Salazar Slytherin, they were simply the notations of people who'd been close to him and might know things not made public knowledge during his life. It was possible there were mentions and notes throughout many of these books, and none of it would be easy to find given that the potential madman organizational method meant there was no way to discern how the books were sorted. It was no wonder Lucius hadn't simply brought her down here and left her to it sooner—she'd been dealing with too much as it was and the state of this room, alone, might've added to her duress.

She didn't know what she'd been hoping for, perhaps to find actual books that focused on her father? How foolish that was. She knew perfectly well she hadn't been expecting any such thing, but even so, seeing how much there was to go through beyond the books Mr. Malfoy had already found, himself, made the idea of finding what she hoped for daunting. For a few heartbeats, even the breath she drew into her lungs felt heavy.

Swallowing hard, she pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down a bit heavily. A finger dragging gently along the spine of one of the aged books, she said, "Would it be possible if I could be brought some coffee down here? Seems this might take a while."

Lucius nodded. "I'll see that a tray is prepared for you."

"Oh, I have a question." She turned on the seat and looked at him, her chestnut eyes a bit dim. "My sister seemed alarmed when she thought I might be marrying a Malfoy. Is there some reason she dislikes your family that I should know about?"

His lips tugging downward in a thoughtful frown, Lucius offered a graceful shrug, and here Hermione thought he'd be affronted that anyone would turn up their nose at marrying a Malfoy. "I honestly have no idea. Perhaps you'll find the answer to that in your search, as well."

Thorfinn only watched the other wizard in silence as he pivoted to face the door and stepped out into the main floor of the basement. When he was sure Lucius was far enough away as to be out of earshot, he returned his attention to Hermione.

"What's wrong?"

She pulled the first of the books to rest in front of her and eased open the cover. "I'm not sure what you mean."

His head tipped to one side and he folded his arms across his chest. "You know, I understand this may be hard for you to believe, since we've only become reacquainted with one another less than a week, but I think it's obvious we've gotten rather close in that time."

Affecting a tone that was bland and utterly disinterested, she leaned over the book to begin reading. "If you're going to say our parents were right to match us all along and now you're wildly in love with me, so why don't we forget all this and go elope somewhere, the answer is no."

He breathed a snicker. "Oh, if I wanted to marry you right this instant, you'd jump at the chance." Thorfinn graciously paused as she uttered a scoffing sound. "No, and don't assume to know what I'm thinking if you're going to deliberately be so far off about it, brat. I was going to say I can tell something is wrong. Something has changed, you're . . . deflated."

"Deflated?" she repeated, though she did not lift her eyes from the weathered page, despite that she couldn't really read the words . . . the aged, looping handwriting was perfectly legible, she simply could not focus on it.

The Viking crossed the room, his footfalls heavy despite that he was moving delicately—well, delicately for Thorfinn Rowle—and swiveled to put his back to the wall beside the desk. "You have been so eager to find out whatever you can, so sure answers have to be out there, or in here, or wherever. Positive you're going to uncover something so that you can tell the world your father was not the monster. Something so that when you tell those who've known you so long who you really are, they won't turn against you for something you had nothing to do with . . . and I think after speaking with your sister and learning nothing new, you were hoping whatever was down here would be easily identified."

"I do not mind doing research, Thorfinn."

"I wasn't suggesting that." He forced a gulp down his throat and looked away. She was so determined to ignore her own sinking feelings. "I'm only saying that you didn't consider the possibility that there might not be anything left to be found that can prove what Godric's crime, or that your father wasn't the man history dictates. And I think that just now, for the first time, you looked around here, saw all these books that still might not tell you anything concrete that you could offer up as evidence, and it hit you that you might be wasting your time."

Her throat was tight and the tip of her nose stung. "So are you . . . ?" God, why couldn't she speak? "Are you telling me I shouldn't try?"

He hmphed out an unhappy sigh and lowered to one knee before her. "Not at all." Reaching out, he took one of her hands between both of his. "This is something you need to do, and I understand that. I just want you to bear in mind the reality that it might not go the way you want, is all."

She watched her hand clasped in his, the way her fingers seemed so small and delicate compared to Thorfinn's. The way her skin was so fair in contrast to his, all sun-golden. He was this big, rough, rugged, mountain of a man and yet . . . . And yet he could be so gentle with her that it made her heart ache.

In that moment, she wondered how it was that he'd become a Death Eater. But she supposed it made sense, in light of all she knew now. If everything she'd learned was true, then even the Rowles had not been immune to the effects of what she was now thinking of as The Great Gryffindor Coverup. They must've believed in that old and embittered version of her father. They must've thought Tom Riddle the heir of Slytherin, just as everyone else did—literally all of Wizarding Britain, with the exception of Albus Dumbledore seemed to be have been under that same impression, why should the Rowle family have been any different? They probably believed Sabina would seek out Riddle, that perhaps he was keeping her a secret from the rest of the world until he'd secured her father's legacy.

Probably believed the bronze children had woken up when they did, right on the cusp of Voldemort's return, because he was meant to help them. No way anyone could've known he was simply a power-hungry lunatic using pure-blood idealism and his own hatred of Muggles to gain himself standing and followers.

Hermione always found it funny how Harry was either considered a pure-blood or a half-blood, depending on who you talked to. If it were someone on their side, he was a pure-blood, someone on the other side? He was a rotten half-blood. She always thought that he should be counted as a pure-blood because his mother was a witch, not a Muggle, but a Muggle-born. He technically had more magical blood than Voldemort, yet no one ever kicked up a fuss about Voldemort's blood status.

Huh. Just the same way no one ever seemed to take into account that those of mixed blood status—be they half-blood in the way of Voldemort or Professor Snape, or half-blood in the way Harry was—seemed to have more power.

"Thorfinn?"

"Hmm?" He'd been staring into her face all this time as she stared at their joined hands, waiting for her to suss out whatever was going on in that maddeningly bright head of hers and finally speak.

"Why wouldn't Godric agree to letting the half-bloods teach the Muggle-borns?"

His massive shoulders moved in a shrug. "Fucked if I know. I was just shy of starting my first year at Hogwarts when we were put into the bronze sleep. By then, the schooling was already established. Why?"

"I'm not sure, but . . . something just occurred to me."

Whatever it was, it seemed to be exactly the salve her wounded pride needed. The light had come back into her eyes and he thought he could feel the sudden rabid curiosity gnawing at her. "And do you want to share?"

She chewed at her lower lip a moment in thought before she nodded, shook her head, and then nodded again.

Thorfinn pursed his lips. "Which is it?"

"Oh, no, no. I mean I don't mind sharing, it's just I'm not sure if it's even anything, yet, but I think I am onto another piece of the puzzle. From what my sister told us, it seems whatever happened between my father and Godric, it wasn't just one thing that was a deal-breaker for their friendship. Like I said, even after his curse afflicted my mother, Father was still able to go to him to ask for his aid in trying to find a cure. So, it makes sense that there were a lot of small things that added up and then, of course, the one big thing, but I think somehow it starts with the idea of half-bloods teaching Muggle-borns."

"Why could that possibly be that important?"

"I don't know, but . . . ." Her eyes narrowed as she thought back on the Battle of Hogwarts. "I remember dueling Bellatrix at the end of the last battle. It was Luna, Ginny, and me against just her, and she was holding us off. Now, the three of us are all pretty good, that she could handle that duel without giving up any ground is a bit mad, but—I never realized it before now—Voldemort was more powerful than Bellatrix."

Thorfinn's gaze darted about. He vaguely recalled that. He was a bit busy himself at the time fighting the new Minister of Magic. "Of course he was or that mad bat wouldn't have bent knee to him, but I take it you're going somewhere with this?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure, but Harry took on Voldemort by himself. I mean, yes, it turned out he was trying to use a wand that recognized Harry as its true owner the entire time, but if the wand's power—if his power—had been truly dampened by that, you'd think Voldemort, of all people, would've noticed sooner than a teenager wizard who couldn't recognize his own teacher's handwriting after five years of staring at it on a blackboard explaining it to him."

His brows pinching together, he asked, "Really?"

Hermione waved a hand dismissively. "It's sort of a long story. My point is, even with his power somewhat diminished by trying to use a wizard's own wand against him, according to how Bellatrix was handling fighting off three witches, Voldemort should've been able to best Harry. But he couldn't. Harry was too powerful. Voldemort was powerful enough, so that even with his magic diminished, he didn't notice that he was outmatched until was too late."

"I'm so not following anything."

"The only reason Harry was able to beat Voldemort was because the Elder Wand answered to Harry. That's all, the literal sole reason," she said, marveling a bit over how that simple fluke was what had won them the War. "Yes, if Voldemort had a wand that was only his, he'd have won, but the fact remains that there is no way someone of our age and experience should have been able to stand up against the likes of Voldemort on his own. The diminished power put them on a level playing field, but Harry still should've had some trouble."

"So half-bloods have more powerful magic than pure-bloods is what you're saying?"

"Essentially, yes." She shrugged. "I can't really know if I'm right, now yet, but what if that was why Godric didn't want Muggle-borns to be taught by half-bloods? He didn't want their magic to be influenced by those who were more powerful than pure-bloods."

After a few seconds of gaping at her, he shook his head. "If that were the case, do you think it was because he didn't want anyone to know mixed blood were more powerful than pure blood, or because he thought the power of the teacher could actually have an affect on the power of the student?"

A shock of cold settled in the pit of her stomach. "You mean did he fear that Muggle-borns could become stronger in magic than pure-bloods?"

"If he knew Muggle-borns needed to be taught to wield their magic properly, lest terrible consequences come about due to their uncontrolled power, but he didn't want them trained separately, he wanted them with the pure-bloods, knowing they were different, knowing they were not quite like those whose lineage was magical?"

Even with all she'd learned so far, the notion they were playing at caused her to force a breath—for a moment there, her lungs had seemed to refuse to work. This was . . . this was madness, and not only far from what history taught, but nearly the opposite of what history taught.

"So then . . . ." She licked her lips, they were parched from her nervousness and the dry, musty air of the room. "If he wanted to keep them somewhere they would always feel out of place, if he wanted to ensure they were never more powerful than their pure-blood peers . . . then that would mean Godric was the one with something against Muggle-borns."

He could see this was still a hard pill for her to swallow. Thorfinn wasn't even certain he was ready to buy this all, himself, they could be completely off about this entire thing.

"I think," he ventured in a tone of caution, "that we don't really know anything. At least, like you said, not yet. I think it's entirely possible, sure, but that doesn't mean that's what happened."

Hermione nodded, cognizant that part of her wanted to believe the absolute worst things possible about Godric Gryffindor now that she knew how much had been take from her because of him. But . . . she was also painfully aware that another part wanted to salvage what she could of his legacy just as she wanted to bring her father's to light. There was still that memory in there of Father saying that he'd asked Godric for help. Still that memory that their friendship had somehow endured her mother falling ill. She wasn't sure it would be possible to do both, the Wizarding world had made it perfectly clear they were a people who could not function without distinct heroes to praise and villains to blame.

How could she possibly have thought upending a thousand-year belief would anything but the most challenging task of her life?

But the memory brought another possibility to mind.

Curling the fingers of her free hand around one of the books on the desk, she held it out to Thorfinn. "Only way we'll find out anything is by starting. We need to go back, before the founding, and work our way up to Father's death. We need to look for anything that mentions him, my mother, or Godric. And I think I've realized something else."

He relinquished his hold on her hand, accepting the book before he settled on the floor cross-legged at her feet. "You're just full of sudden realizations today, aren't you?"

The witch couldn't help but smirk. "I usually am. But I think when we find information about the curse that became Dragon Pox, we're going to learn that Godric didn't mean for that to happen."

Thorfinn's brows shot upward.

Immediately, Hermione held up her hand. "I'm not defending him. Hear me out. Since my father and mother were still on speaking terms with the man who was basically responsible for slowly murdering her, it only makes sense that it hadn't been his intention. He . . . he tried to help father fix it, maybe that was when they realized the curse could carry over to me. I think he was trying something else, entirely."

"Like what?"

"My father was the one who's agenda he wanted to stop, so . . . ." She shrugged, chewing at her lip in thought a moment. "So it must've been meant for my father. He must've been trying to stop him with a curse."

Her betrothed frowned. "I'm not sure how that would keep them friends."

Oh, God, her brain was starting to hurt. "Okay, if he was casting that curse in a fit of anger, as we all know anyone can act incredibly stupidly and selfishly when angry enough, and he realized too late that the magic missed its mark. Maybe it wasn't intended to kill, but to deter him. And if my father's conviction was half as strong as mine, if Godric, even just somewhere deep down, believed my father wouldn't stop unless he was dead, that could have been enough to turn a magical deterrent into a death curse. Intent is almost everything, after all."

"All right, but this was magic, and a curse he crafted and sent out, not an arrow or some direct-fire spell like the Avada. It wasn't as though they were standing too close together and whoops, Godric happened to hit your mum instead of your dad."

"Right." Her gaze darted about as she tried to consider how such a mistake could come about. "I imagine it might've taken him getting some of my father's blood or hair—yes, hair was probably easier to collect unnoticed—to direct it completely, so—" She cut herself off with a gasp, her heart thundering in her chest at the realization. Hair. Her mother and father had the same rich, wavy black hair, they might've even used the same brushes. If Godric had collected their hair without their knowledge, that's how he'd have gotten it. There'd have been no way for him to distinguish between the two making it entirely possible he'd used samples from both of her parents mixed together.

"Genetics," she tacked on in a near-soundless whisper, aware she was able to see the matter from a perspective allowed her only because she'd been raised in the Muggle world.

"What?"

Her eyes welled up as the answer came crashing down on her. Why Father was so convinced the curse would come for her, why he had no fear of it striking him. The nonsense about the curse seeking out anyone who sought to bring forth Salazar Slytherin's political agenda was a red herring; it only seemed that way because his wife was a vocal advocate of his views.

More so, it would explain how the succession of events that ended with Sabina going into the bronze sleep had so fractured her father as to make him such a different person from the one she knew.

"There's a very simple explanation for why I had to be sent away to escape the curse. For why my mother fell ill." Forcing a hard swallow down her aching throat, she managed in a small, strangled voice, "You said it yourself, only you didn't realize what it meant. Despite its initial intent, the curse became a weapon meant to strike those of both my parents' bloodlines. That could only mean the children born to Salazar and Rowena."

Thorfinn's face fell and his shoulders slumped as understanding dawned. "So if Rowena fell ill when he unleashed the curse . . . ."

She sniffled, the tears falling free from her eyes, now. "It means—" Her throat closed on the words and she had to struggle to speak the notion aloud. "I think it means my mother was pregnant."