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Chapter Thirteen

By the time Thorfinn looked up from the midst of the antiquated ramblings of one Theodeus Malfoy, circa 930 AD—who the Viking was strongly beginning to suspect hadn't the sense to lay aside his quill when his mind started to go—to see through a high and narrow dust-caked window that night had fallen, he was certain his eyes would cross. That or his brain would turn to mush trying to discern the man's meaning about far too many things and dribble out his ears.

He couldn't even be sure how long ago the sun had set. This was when he noticed Hermione had fallen asleep over the desk.

A heavy sigh rumbled out of his chest as he closed the book in his hands. He turned his attention on the stacks. He was sure there was plenty of information in just the right volumes about her father, but uncovering anything they could actually use was going to be quite the feat, if it was possible at all.

His shoulders drooped as the weight of that settled on him. It might not be possible, what she wanted to do. A thousand years, concerted efforts to destroy the truth . . . . He said he'd help her, and meant it, but he couldn't help a little flickering concern in his gut that at some point, the only way to help her would be to tell her the cold, hard truth that there was no way to prove how Wizarding Britain's shining hero had betrayed his best friends.

It wasn't the truth yet—they'd only just begun their search, there was still hope—but he dreaded that it just might turn out to be so sooner than she'd be willing to accept it.

Worse, he knew she felt it. In the back of that brilliant mind, the fear, the doubt. She could hypothesize all day long, but no matter how plausible the notions she put forth appeared, without evidence, there was no use of any of it.

Setting the book in his hands atop the nearest stack—it would be easy enough to identify from the others when they came back down here tomorrow, as it was the one without a layer of dust or an oh-so-pleasant wreath of cobwebs between the edges of the covers, like some lacy blockade protecting its pages—he climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. It was no wonder she'd passed out mid-reading. The last few days they'd been in each other's lives had felt more like a few months, and that was only for him as an observer helping her through all this. He had all his memories, which he was starting to realize was a luxury in this situation. If only he'd paid more attention to the dealings of adults when they were younger, he might be able to remember something useful, himself. But even that was a blessing compared with Hermione's side of things.

Emotions attached to incidents she couldn't recall, memories assailing her whenever they deemed fit, everything she thought was true turning out to be only a sliver of reality, so covered in embellishments and outright falsehoods that the truth might never come to light. On top of it all, this speculation that her parents might've lost a pregnancy to Godric's curse?

His brows pinched together. That really was a lot for one person to deal with—and here he was, the one who was supposed to keep her from becoming mired getting all weighty, himself.

Easing her gently back in her chair, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her. It seemed quite natural, the way she curled up in his embrace as he turned and started from the secluded basement room with the witch cradled to his chest. He couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh when the often too-serious creature nuzzled her cheek against him and muttered some sleepy, nonsensical tumble of sound.

Everything was so quiet and still that his footfalls echoed off the stone steps leading out of the archive chamber. The creak of the door as he pushed it open felt far too loud, shattering the silence of the manor's ground floor.

His features pinched as he looked about. God, this place was creepy after nightfall. He nudged his elbow against the door and tilted backward, easing it shut as softly as he could manage.

Thorfinn's progress through the house was slow, not simply because of the adorable burden in his arms, but because of the unnerving, deathly stillness of the place. Yes, yes, he recalled how dark the sense of the massive house had been when Voldemort had claimed it as his base of operations during the Second War's end, but there was a difference. It was dark, but it was always filled with people. Life, noise, other Death Eaters plotting how best to carry out some task they'd been assigned, Voldemort moanin' about something or other at the top of his shrieky lungs, the werewolves making right nuisances of themselves because Greyback sometimes couldn't be arsed to mind the Dark Lord's hissed warnings of keeping his army leashed.

Huh, now that Thorfinn thought on it—making his considerations as he crossed the floor on gentle, measured footsteps toward the staircase—had the man meant that literally? Figuratively was one thing, but if he'd thought Fenrir Greyback, hater of wizards far and wide, was going to actually tether his creations on the say so of, well, a wizard, then Voldemort didn't understand the creatures as well as he thought. Oh, sure, it was likely he simply didn't care enough about werewolves to bother with understanding them, but it was common knowledge among the Death Eater ranks that Greyback only cooperated with any of them because the Dark Lord had promised him a world in which his kind would no longer be persecuted. Seemed the height of arrogance that he pushed his luck with a creature known throughout Wizarding Britain for his savagery, but no one had been about to tell Voldemort that to his face.

Not that it mattered. Greyback was run off somewhere since War's End, probably holed up with his surviving werewolves in some forest cave. Thorfinn shook his head, frowning thoughtfully as he hit the top of the steps and turned in the direction of the Hollyhocks Room. Why was he even thinking about that now? He needed to find a way to help Hermione . . . .

Oh, bollocks. Her mad speculating was contagious, wasn't it? Because suddenly he was considering that over the years, Fenrir Greyback had hidden himself away from Wizarding society in places forgotten to time. There was a chance—however remote—that he might've come across something at some point that would assist them, or at least give them a direction.

Shaking his head at himself, he decided to put that out of his mind for now and save it as a last resort option. He eased open the door and went directly to the bed. The sheets were still in a bit of disarray from their adventure two mornings ago—he suspected that Narcissa Malfoy knew exactly what had happened between them, already, and had asked the housekeeper to leave this room alone when she did her rounds—making it a bit easier for him to lay her down and pull the covers over her.

He watched her for a moment, trying to think. His brain was turning to mush, he was sure. But he wanted to find something he could do for her to make this all a little easier on her.

Sighing, he turned on his heel and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.


"Merlin's arse," Draco exclaimed, pressing a palm over his heart. The house was madness lately, and he couldn't even begin to think about the sort of looks he'd get from 'half of Wizarding Britain' if he ever showed his face outside the Manor's walls again. Unable to sleep, he'd decided to come down to the study for a nice, calming drink.

He'd not expected to open the door and step in to find a ruddy Viking sitting on the chaise in the center of the study as it if were a throne.

"You startled the shit out of me."

Thorfinn blinked bleary eyes at the other wizard, lifting the bottle of Fire Whiskey by its neck, he took a long swig. "Not sure how sitting perfectly still is 'startling', but . . . sorry, I suppose."

"I meant I didn't expect anyone else to be awake at this hour," Draco said, grumping across the floor to the cupboard and fetching himself a glass. He uncapped an untouched bottle and poured. "Wha's got you down here? Did the princess finally have the sense to kick you out of her bed?"

Thorfinn was quite set to tell the other wizard off—as if a woman would kick him out of bed? Madness to even suggest it, that was—but oh, he was far too exhausted for verbally defending his sexual prowess. He returned his gaze to the flames roaring in the hearth as he answered, "No, she fell asleep down in the archive room, I just put her to bed and found I wasn't ready to turn in, yet. Came down here for a bit of a think."

Draco nodded, seating himself in the plush chair behind Father's desk. Resting his elbows on the polished surface, he raised his glass to his lips. After a quick sip, he asked, "What's the 'think' about?"

"What could it possibly be about, Little Malfoy?"

"Oh, right. Granger, of course. And stop calling me Little Malfoy?"

Giving him a mock toast with his bottle, Thorfinn nodded. "Grow a few inches and I'll consider it." He took a long drink.

"Arse," Draco said with a shake of his head, breathing out a snicker as he raised his glass for a sip. "But was this all really so different for you?"

Thorfinn pulled the bottle from his lips and looked at Draco. Processing the other man's words seemed to take him a moment. Even then, he still only managed to say, "What?"

"This whole . . . mind-fuck thing? Ya know, all the memories of who you were crashing down on you?"

"It really was, yes," Thorfinn replied with another nod. "Dumbledore didn't get his hands on me because I went to Durmstrang. My parents—well, guardians—didn't let me be part of the group that came to Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. They couldn't have realized Dumbledore knew about Sabina and me, but I think they worried something about the castle or the grounds might trigger my memories to unlock sooner than was safe." He uttered a mirthless laugh. "Changed their tunes real fast once word got out that Voldemort 'the heir of Slytherin' had returned. Since they believed he'd find Sabina, or vice-versa, suddenly going to Scotland and getting involved with the self-proclaimed Dark Lord was a brilliant notion!"

"Yeah. Parents do tend to make shit decisions when it comes to dark and evil wizard overlords, it turns out."

Thorfinn smirked at Draco's sour tone. It was hardly a secret that he would willingly die to protect his parents, and they for him, which made it even less of a secret how the Dark Lord held Draco's parents' very lives over his head.

"Like I said days ago, when Voldemort died, I got everything back in a rush. Dumbledore's meddling made that impossible for her. I have no idea what she'll remember, or when, or what sort of toll it's going to take on her when it happens. I just wish . . . ." Pausing, he chewed at his lower lip in thought and then lifted his free hand in a vague waving gesture. "I just wish there was something I could do for her, some gesture I could make that would at least give her some comfort."

"So, she doesn't find you shagging her particularly comforting then, I take it?"

His brows drawing upward, Thorfinn leaned forward a bit. Bracing his elbow on his knee, he glared daggers at Draco. "D' you really want to discuss what I get up to behind closed doors with the girl who just so happens to be the only person on the planet capable of making the clever Draco Malfoy seem thick?"

Draco pursed his lips, lowering his gaze to peer into his glass. "That'd be a 'no.'"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle, his expression softening instantly. "Besides, I was referring to something of sentimental value."

"Well, she's a woman, isn't she? Get her a present."

"Get her a present? Because she's a woman? Why do I feel like that sentence would have said woman hurling curses at you at you faster than either of us could blink?" That or kicking him square in the bollocks.

"Oi, I'm not being sexist about it. It's actually pretty simple. Women are taught from the time they're very young to expect presents as tokens of affection from suitors or their loved ones."

"Oh." Thorfinn frowned pensively. "I suppose that makes sense without screaming of misogyny."

"Right?" Draco shrugged. "We're not talking something vapid and emotionless, like 'you're upset? Here, have some shiny bauble,' no. Get her a present that will mean something to her. Something that shows you've been listening to her, that you've been learning about her."

"How is it you know so much about appeasing women?"

Sputtering a laugh, Draco said, "Do you want the 'you have any idea how many times I've watched my father have to appease my mother after he said something daft?' answer? Or the 'd' you have any idea how many times Pansy yelled at me before I started to get the hang of that?' answer?" He winced in hindsight; he so was not sorry they'd broken up.

Thorfinn nodded, stroking the dark gold stubble lining his jaw. He did seem to recall his father whittling and stringing a lyre for Mother after they'd gotten into a particularly heated row. And Thorfinn was never to speak on that—the Jarl, himself, crafting something so delicate with his own two hands that was essentially physical evidence of him admitting he'd been wrong about something. "Hmm. Now that I think on it, there is something that she's brought up a couple of times. Something I think she hasn't even realized she's missed so much. From, uh, I suppose we can call them 'the old days.' I . . . well, I can't get back what she had, of course, but maybe . . . . Nah, never mind. It'd probably be an impossible thing to find, now."

"What is it?"

His mouth twitching side-to-side, Thorfinn tried to discern if his idea of a meaningful present was brilliant, stupid, or merely presumptuous. Against his own better judgment, he shared what he was thinking with the other wizard.

Grey eyes shooting wide, Draco breathed out a low whistle. "Well, that is a bit of a tall order since the procedure to create one isn't exactly legal, it's actually highly illegal, but . . . you should speak with my father about what you want to do. He's still got contacts. Might be able to put you in touch with someone who can get you what you want."

"Really?"

"'S worth a try, isn't it?" Draco lifted his glass for a sip. "But maybe wait 'til morning to ask him, yeah?"


"What is our little princess doing in the kitchens all alone, I wonder?"

Sabina started, spinning on her heel to face the unexpected voice. She nimbly tucked her arms behind her as she moved, hiding the freshly baked sticky bun from view; the soft, doughy creation was still hot against her fingers. "Auntie Helga! I was just . . . talking to the elves. They're quite interesting creatures, you know."

Helga looked over the top of the girl's dark head, catching the eye of the head cook. The wrinkly, doting creature smiled and shook her head at the child's nonsense before returning to bespelling tonight's desserts to bring out their flavor.

The plump witch nodded, folding her arms beneath her bosom and tsking. "Are we certain you are not, perchance, picking at confections, again?"

Her shoulders drooping, Sabina knew there was no use in trying to trick Auntie Helga. Mother always said Helga was quite as smart as her, just as crafty as Father, and a sight braver than Uncle Godric, yet that perhaps she was better than any of them, because she never made anyone feel the inferiority of their skills to hers mattered. Nurturing was what Auntie Helga enjoyed most, whether it was a story by the fireplace—she told wonderful ones, full of dragons and princess-witches rescuing princes who'd mistakenly come to 'rescue' them and ended up just angering their pets—sneaking the girls sweets before dinner, or helping Sabina by magically mending a tear in her clothing from one of her many 'adventures' dueling Thorfinn with hefty sticks they pretended were wands or swords.

Auntie Helga was, of course, of the opinion that Sabina should learn to choose her battles, as Thorfinn was becoming tall enough to possibly pick up a small branch sometime soon and wield that into battle, instead of a measly stick.

Her face filling with guilt, the girl held out the sticky bun. "I am sorry. I was hungry." She had not yet given in to her parents' insistence that she eat her meals, but that left her ravenously hungry some evenings and she knew a growling stomach would not help her sleep.

Auntie Helga's blue eyes sparkled as she swept her little princess up and set her to sit upon the nearest counter. "Then how about you stop this nonsense with avoiding the food on your plate at mealtimes?"

The little witch's features dimmed. "You know?"

"It is not hard to see, my dear. But your parents are right." Frowning, that sparkle left Helga's eyes a moment as she pushed a generous wave of her rich brown hair behind one ear—Sabina knew the woman usually wore her locks braided, so this loose business she was trying out was probably quite the nuisance to her. "With your mother in . . . in such a state, the best thing you can do for them is see to your own health."

Sabina pouted, nodding. "All right." She held out the sticky bun for Auntie Helga to take.

"Oh, no." Helga smiled and pushed the girl's hands back toward her. "I think you need that, even with dinner soon. You have been playing with that Viking boy, again—"

"We were not playing, we were fighting."

Helga smirked. "It is adorable that you believe there is a difference. Call it what you like, your robes need mending, yet again."

Looking down at herself, Sabina gasped, which drew a laugh from Helga. She genuinely had not noticed the state of her pretty, robin's egg blue gown.

"That . . . wretched boy! He told me it was fine!"

"He lied to you, did he?" Auntie Helga propped one fist on her hip and made a 'eat up' gesture with her free hand.

"He absolutely did!" Sabina gave a firm nod of her seven-year-old head—she was quite proud to be seven, now, as she had grown a little bit and fewer people looked at her strangely when she spoke in ways deemed 'too old for her age'—and took a large bite of the rich, sweet dough in her hands.

"And . . . is there a chance it might have been in return for a recent kick to an unmentionable area?"

The girl's chewing slowed, and she swallowed hard. Her brown eyes cast downward, she said, "There is a . . . chance, a small one, of course."

"Of course," Helga echoed, a mischievous half-smile plucking up one corner of her mouth. She drew her wand from within her sleeve and gave it a testing wave. "Now, let us see about fixing it up before your mother catches you looking like this."


Hermione awoke, glancing immediately toward the window to see the curtains were not yet trimmed by splashes of sunlight. It was still the middle of the night. Last she recalled, however, they'd been in the archive chamber. She thought she had a pretty good idea how she'd gotten to her room.

She shifted a little and felt Thorfinn's arms tighten around her reflexively in response. He muttered some sleepy tumble of sound in her ear before giving into a snore.

She snuggled back against him, ducking her head so that it was tucked beneath his chin. She hadn't thought she'd be able to smile at all in the wake of her speculations just that afternoon. Yet, the memory of that conversation with Helga Hufflepuff—Auntie Helga, the kindly, mischievous, clever witch who did, indeed, prize friendship above all else—had her mouth curling in spite of herself.

It was a good reminder that just as she had some terribly painful recollections lurking in the corners of her mind, hidden behind the fading strains of magic, there were also bound to be surprisingly pleasant ones.

She was sure in the morning, Thorfinn would be happy to listen as she recounted the memory. Especially the bit about him being tall enough to wield a tree branch like a sword when he'd been all of nine years old.


By the fourth day of their archive research, Hermione's spirits were buoyed a little by several mentions they'd come across of her parents. She and Thorfinn had set those accounts aside, deciding the most effective and least time consuming method would be to separate the books that might contain useful information from those which were useless to their search and then comb through the leftover volumes.

Still, though, she did not try to get her hopes up. Constantly reminding herself that this might all be for nothing was becoming an unimaginably miserable hobby of hers.

She was stirred from her skimming by an awkward throat-clearing at the door. Looking up, she saw Draco standing there.

He offered her a strained smile and then gestured toward Thorfinn. "Could I borrow him a moment?"

"Um . . . ." She exchanged a glance with the wizard in question. "Sure."

"You'll be okay here by yourself?"

Hermione snickered. "I'll be alone in a room full of books, there's no place I'd be more okay."

Thorfinn laughed, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her wild hair before following Draco through the door and starting up the stairs.

The witch braced her elbow against the desktop and went back to her reading. A useful volume, and an unuseful one later, she heard his familiar footfalls returning. But she didn't hear him step into the room.

Again looking up from her skimming, she saw Thorfinn had poked his head in through the doorway.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a curious half-grin.

"I want you to come with me a moment, okay?"

Though she rose from her seat and followed him out the door, she couldn't help speaking cautiously. "First Draco wants to speak to you upstairs, now you want to speak to me upstairs? Have to tell you, that scares me a little."

Grasping her hand in his, Thorfinn guided her up the steps behind him. "Oh, hush you little Slyther-Claw."

Pursing her lips, she held in a laugh at the moniker. Yet, when they reached the top of the staircase, he said, "When we step out, can you just . . . shut your eyes a moment?"

She stopped short—so short, she probably would've tumbled backward down the steps were it not for his fingers gripping hers, she was sure—and gave him a look. "Shut my . . . ? Thorfinn, what have you done?"

"Are you just . . . programmed to be ruiner of surprises?"

Her shoulders sloped as she pouted. "You got me something?"

Oh, Merlin's left tit, she looked like she was going to cry. "Yes, now shut up and close your eyes or I swear I'll return it."

Sobering her features, she did as he asked, well, demanded, but he knew if she allowed herself to acknowledge that he wasn't exactly asking, she'd never comply.

Leaning closer, he stared at her lowered eyelids a moment. Screwing up his face into the most ridiculous expression he could manage, he waited.

No response. Good, she really wasn't peeking.

With a nod, he straightened up and guided her out onto the ground floor. He was glad the timing had worked out as it had, though he was rather certain their hosts were none too pleased about it.

Hermione found herself led further along and then he took hold of her free hand, guiding her to investigate through touch. Her palm brushed something and she recoiled.

"It's okay," Thorfinn reassured her.

Reaching out again, she felt scales . . . small, smooth, almost like the skin of an newborn infant. A snake? No, not a simple snake. She brushed her fingers along the tiny, coiled body, her closed eyelids burning with sudden tears. "You got me a basilisk?"

"Just hatched last night. I was actually hoping to give you the toad and the egg and let you hatch it yourself, but—"

"But last night was a full moon, and that speeds the process," she said, unsure if her ready answer was a result of her surfacing memories or still recalling the information from that torn page Draco had handed her on that day that felt so long ago, now.

"Yeah. You can open your eyes, he won't be able to kill or petrify until he's fully matured. Not . . . not sure if you remember that."

Hermione was a little afraid to open her eyes. She wasn't sure she wanted to see a baby basilisk, not without feeling that mingling of joy and pain she knew would be inevitable.

But it seemed the tiny serpent had made up his mind for both of them. He curled around her finger, slipping out his even tinier forked tongue to search along her skin for her scent.

She uttered a tear-choked gasp at the sensation and opened her eyes. There he was, his glossy green and brown scales shining under the light from the chandeliers overhead.

Her features crumbled and she could feel her tears falling, but she made no move to brush them away, instead cradling the little serpent to her. She was aware of Thorfinn watching her, of the Malfoys—who must've had something to do with this—beyond him watching her, as well.

"So, you like him?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but had to shut it and swallow hard before she managed to form an answer. "I love him, he's perfect."

"What will you call him, my dear?" Narcissa asked, sounding genuinely curious for someone who hadn't seemed terribly happy over the notion of having this particular guest. But he was small, and sort of cute, she supposed . . . for now. They didn't use the main portion of their basement much, anyway, surely the younger witch would be satisfied with making a suitable home for her new pet there.

Lifting the serpent, she took advantage of the current ability to look into its beautiful green and gold eyes with their teensy slit pupils. He strained forward in her delicate grasp, touching the tip of his nose to hers for a quick second.

Forcing back a sob, she smiled. "His name is Salazar, of course." Once more, she hugged the serpent, close and gentle. "And I'm never going to let anything happen to you."