Happy Halloween & Blessed Samhain!
Chapter Fifteen
"I will remind you," Thorfinn said with a snicker as he smoothed the palms of his hands across her shoulders, "the entire point of this is for you to relax."
Sighing, Hermione shifted a bit beneath his warm, wonderful kneading. "I am relaxing. Ouch!" She jumped a bit against the bed in response to the unexpected poke he gave her in the ribs.
"There, you see?" He shook his head and went back to massaging his witch. "If you weren't still tense, that would've tickled instead of hurting."
"Fine, okay? You win, I'm still tense." She shifted again, closing her eyes. "I don't think I like it much when you're insightful."
Laughing quietly, he devoted his attention to working along her spine and was rewarded with a tremor running through her body as she let out a pleading moan. "And I don't like it when you're not open with me about something bothering you."
She knew he was right. Any attempt on his part to help her unwind—his efforts toward which were valiant, to say the least—would be rendered ineffective if she refused to let go of the things causing her stress. The smallest among them being that she'd completely overlooked the contents of her fridge, most of which were now spoiled because she had not been home in two weeks. After disposing of anything that'd gone rotten, she phoned for a pizza. Thorfinn had never had pizza before, and she was rather looking forward to watching his reaction to tasting what was possibly one of the greatest Muggle culinary convention of all time.
As she set down the phone, he noticed how rigid her posture was. She only let him talk her into laying down on her bed—in naught but her knickers—so that he could give her a backrub because they had time before the food arrived, not that he would say why massaging her back required her to remove everything but an undergarment, but she thought this was hardly a thing she wanted to argue. Tomorrow morning she would worry about taking a trip to the market to restock the fridge for the few days they intended to stay here; for the time being, she was perfectly content to let coffee and pizza tide them over.
"It's not really . . . ." Again she sighed, shaking her head against her folded arms. "Tomorrow, after shopping, I'll check in with Kingsley. I'm not sure what to say, honestly. I know I'm supposed to want the Grangers to come home, to get their memories back, and even with all that's happened, with everything I am now aware that they knew about all this . . . I still want that."
He worked the tips of his fingers against the small of her back in circular motions as he nodded. "'S understandable, though, isn't it? They did raise you; even if they weren't who you thought they were to you, there's still love there."
"Exactly." Hermione held back a sniffle; she didn't really want to think about this, but she knew she had no choice—her only option if she wanted to get through talking to Kingsley about the search for her Muggle parents without becoming frantic or breaking down, and possibly letting slip things the Minister of Magic should not hear, was to think it all out now. "I don't know if it's okay to want that, like maybe I'm supposed to be okay with letting them go, since now I know the truth—which they always wanted me to know, which they were waiting for me to remember—so I'm a bit at odds with myself about it."
"Well," he said, wincing a little at how matter of fact the statement was about to come out, but there was no way 'round it, really. "You only have two options. The first is to let them be brought back, the second is to leave them where they are. That first one is what everyone expects of Hermione Granger, the second one might require a bit of explanation."
"I'm not trying to weigh those options heartlessly, Thorfinn." She reached out, gently prodding a sleeping Salazar to keep him from slipping off the ledge of the night table. The unhappy serpent shot his mum a withering look—which would have been startlingly fitting an observation if he was old enough to kill with a glare, yet—and slithered further along the surface, putting himself at a safe distance from the ledge and then coiling up again.
"Oi, someone's not pleased with you." Thorfinn didn't speak snake, but he was pretty sure the hissing sound the creature had let slip out was a string of cuss words.
The witch snickered. "Yes, well, seems to take after his dad in how he hates his sleep being interrupted for any reason."
"Because sleep. Is. Amazing."
"So, then, nap after we eat?"
Her Viking uttered a pained groan and leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Merlin, you know me well! This is why I'm falling for you."
She curved her hand around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair. "You spoil me. Letting you sleep at odd hours seems a small price to pay."
"We're getting off topic," he said, easing back from her to continue the massage.
"Ahem? That's not my back."
A wicked grin curved his lips as he worked his fingers in those same circular motions he'd used on her back across the line where her buttocks met her thighs. "Well, technically it is. I mean, they do call it a 'backside', and I was done with everything from the hips up. Your back is small, my hands are large, you do the math."
Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "What were we talking about?" God, it was difficult to focus on speaking with those aforementioned large, warm hands sinking into her knickers to knead her bare skin.
"Pros and cons of bringing your parents back," he said, pretending he wasn't completely aware of how she seemed to be having trouble talking just now. Of course he was aware, and he was loving every second of it.
"Oh, yes, of—of course." She gave herself a little shake, trying to focus. The man was a wretch, he knew perfectly well what he was doing to her. "It's not as simple as 'do it or don't', is all. I want them back, sure, but . . . they're safe where they are. Safe from whatever fallout might occur from this. The entire point of sending them away was for their safety. What if—what if their lives are better where they are now than they could be here? What if I bring them back here, their memories are restored, and they are put in danger? And there's no way to say 'they're better off down there, let's just leave them' without raising a whole lot of suspicions within the Ministry, because as far as I'm supposed to be aware, there should be no more danger from which I would need to protect them." She drew a deep breath, having gotten the words out in a rush because she feared that with the magic Thorfinn's hands were working on her, she would never get out all she needed to say otherwise.
"I must be getting used to you," he said, amusement edging his voice, "because I actually understood that entire jumble just now."
She bit her lip on a whimper as his fingers dipped between her thighs, the motion a bit rough. "That's . . . that's definitely not any back part of me, Thorfinn."
Curling his hand, he pressed his fingertips tight against her in a steady rhythm. "No, but it's still what I'd consider 'massaging.' Want me to stop?"
Unable to help a shuddering breath escaping her, she pushed herself toward his ministrations. "Don't you dare."
And of course, Hermione thought, that would be when the doorbell rang.
Groaning pitifully, she dragged herself off the bed and fetched her dressing gown and wallet. "That'd be the food."
When she glanced at him over her shoulder, Thorfinn arched a brow. "This 'pizza' you're making me try?" Lifting his fingers to his lips, he suckled at the tips and then winked at her. "Better be worth it."
She had no idea how she forced her legs into motion to head down the stairs and away from Thorfinn Rowle in that moment. "If you don't like it, I promise to make it up to you."
"Oh, well, then . . . by all means, off to fetch the potentially awful Muggle cuisine!"
Heaven help her, she was actually humming under her breath as she crossed the living room to her door. He'd been right, this little vacation was exactly what she'd needed. They'd only been by themselves for a few hours, and yet she already felt herself a million miles away from the harassed, emotionally wrought out creature she'd been for the past week while pouring over those damned archives.
Pulling open the door, she was so surprised at the face staring back at her, she actually let out a small cry of shock. "Neville?!"
Her friend, bundled down with an armload of books, lifted his free hand, his expression apologetic. "Oh, sorry, Hermione! Didn't mean to startle you." Though immediately confusion registered in his look, as he'd hardly done anything startling—she'd answered the door, after all, full well knowing someone stood on her porch.
Pressing a hand over her heart, she sagged a little to one side against the doorframe. "No, no! You, um, you didn't . . . exactly. We—I—I was just expecting a pizza, so the timing surprised me, is all." She fervently hoped the conversation was just loud enough for Thorfinn to hear so he'd stay upstairs and out of sight.
"Oh," Neville said again. His gaze moved over her, taking in the careless updo, the flush in her cheeks, and the way her fingers plucked nervously at the close of her dressing gown—well, that and the 'we—I' stammer she probably hoped he hadn't caught—which all told him something he believed he probably didn't want to know about why his friend might be shocked to find anyone from the Wizarding world portion of her life at her doorstep on some random summer afternoon. "Sorry." He grinned awkwardly.
"It's, no, it's fine." So much for Thorfinn's efforts to take away her tension, she thought, as now she could feel her vertebrae pull tight and the muscles in the small of her back bunching. If she refused to invite him in, that would only look suspicious. "I can spare a moment or two before the food gets here. Come in, and tell me why you've brought me what would appear to be an entire shelf's worth of books. Not that I'm complaining."
Same old Hermione, he thought, stepping past the threshold as she backpedaled to allow him inside. Given her current state, and what he'd heard through the Wizarding Britain rumor mill—or, as she was more frequently referred to as, Pansy Parkinson—he thought perhaps he was interrupting something she was up to with someone he didn't want to think about his friend being with.
Then again, Pansy had told him that in a shocked and somewhat drunken whisper that was mostly giggles whilst in the confines of his bedroom, so maybe he shouldn't be judging who anyone kept company with post-war.
"Right, um, these are from Professor McGonagall."
Hermione's brows lifted as she turned to watch him carefully place the armful on her coffee table. "What?"
He straightened and waved an arm toward the stack. "I was helping out at Hogwarts and she asked me if I could drop these with you on my way back home. Something about some research project you're doing?" He would leave off mention that who the elder witch had said her research partner was lined up with the rumor mill's information. "She said each of these has some bits of information about the castle that aren't typically considered part of the castle's history, but that you might find them useful."
"Oh, right!" Well, now she just felt even more wretched. It had seemed a harmless lie at the time, but now Professor McGonagall was having materials sent to her to aid in her fictional research project. Oh, and there went that knot at the base of her spine, again. "That was so sweet of you, Neville, but you didn't have to do this. I'd have been happy to go and fetch them from her, myself."
"It wasn't any trouble, Hermione. I thought it would be nice to see you, anyway, yeah?"
Good old Neville. Even thinned out and taller and actually kind of dashing, now, he still had that same lopsided, goofy grin. Inhaling deep through her nostrils, she smiled back. "Yeah. Thank you, Neville."
"You're welcome. Have you heard from Harry or the Weasleys, at all?"
She'd checked when they'd first come in for any post from the vacationers. In a way, she was as crushed as she was relieved to find nothing. She wanted to hear from her friends, of course, but she was happy they were so distracted with their trip that they weren't thinking of home. George needed to not think about Wizarding Britain for a while, just as Mrs. Weasley had suggested, and if that meant she didn't get post from Harry or Ginny while they were gone, so be it.
"No. I suspect they've got their hands full. Hopefully with enjoying themselves."
He drooped in relief. "Oh, good. I haven't heard from them, either. I was hoping it was a general thing. I hate feeling left out."
"I was away a few days, myself; you're lucky you caught me, actually." She shrugged, itching to get him to the door yet not wanting to seem like she was throwing him out. "I think a lot of people were of the same mind about getting away for a bit."
"Sure." He returned the shrug, wondering if he could tell Hermione about him and Pansy. No one else knew, and if Hermione was with who everyone seemed to think she was . . . . His thoughts trailed off as his gaze shot over her shoulder, the wizard in question appearing seemingly on cue. "Oh, um . . . ."
Hermione's stomach clenched as she realized he was looking toward the staircase. Wincing, she turned her head to follow his eye-line. "Oh, no," she said, the words tumbling out in a breathless whisper.
There he stood, his attention locked on her guest. His hair dripping wet, water dappled across his skin, and a towel slung carelessly around his hips, as though he'd just stepped from the tub—though, Hermione knew it was more likely he'd heard that they had a visitor and decided to put on a show to get said visitor to leave. Except that it wasn't Thorfinn Rowle staring back at Neville Longbottom from his place on the stairs.
The bastard still had that flask of Polyjuice potion! No, no, no. Rather than the towering height and broad muscles of her golden Viking, she was instead staring at pale and sleek lean-muscled limbs of a figure that only stood a handful of inches taller than her. Platinum hair slicked a dark silver from the water dripped down in front of narrowed grey eyes and she wanted to kick herself that she thought Draco Malfoy fresh out of the bath was actually a rather pleasant sight.
Damn Thorfinn Rowle!
He didn't say a word—and Hermione was blessedly grateful for that, as he wasn't sure the 'he has a cold' excuse would work with Neville—as he strolled down the steps, his gait lazy. What she was not blessedly grateful for was how he continued that stroll, right up to stand behind her. Draping his arms over the witch in a possessive hold, 'Draco' simply stared at Neville, the line of his jaw pressed lightly to her temple.
"Malfoy," Neville said, clearing his throat as he forced a nod.
Fake-Malfoy returned the nod but remained silent. Hermione, for her part, sort of wanted to curl up and die. Right there. On the spot.
No one could say if it made the situation more awkward or less that this was the moment there came a knock at the door. All three swung their attention toward the sound. When Hermione'd invited Neville inside, she'd left the inside door open. Now, there stood a Muggle, holding up a pizza box. His free hand frozen against the screen door as he stared in at them.
What a sight they must've made. The young woman looking as though she'd just rolled out of bed, one young man soaked and wrapped in a towel, another young man gaping at them in a clear state of discomfort.
"Um . . . ." The Muggle cringed. "Hope I've got the right address."
The deliveryman speaking snapped Hermione back to her senses. "Oh!" An awkward laugh bubbling out of her, she remembered that she still held her wallet in her hand. "Of course."
Though she was a little afraid to move from between the wizards—she had no idea what might happen, but she also refused to think on it, despite that that wasn't actually Draco Malfoy—she slipped out of fake-Malfoy's arms and came to the door.
Thorfinn, still in his Draco disguise because his potion had yet to time out, frowned thoughtfully as he chewed his first mouthful of pizza. "Huh."
As amusing as it was to witness Thorfinn Rowle's huh come out of Draco Malfoy's mouth—she would never get used to him pulling this on her, but she had to admit it was clever of him to have thought to bring the potion flask along as a precaution—she was a bit disappointed that she was seeing 'Draco' react to the food and not Thorfinn. "Huh?" she echoed. "Is that a good huh or a bad one?"
He shrugged. "It's good. I think maybe I'm disappointed that you won't have to make anything up to me."
She couldn't help a laugh. Now that Neville had left—and had seemed shockingly understanding about Hermione's company, which was even more shocking, given that 'Draco' had been acting a tad surlier than was typical of him, even from the perspective of the person who'd received the worst of the real Draco Malfoy's torments during school—the tension had drained from the atmosphere of the house.
"I'm sure that even if you'd hated it, you'd have wanted me to wait a little while on making it up to you, yeah?"
His brows pinched together before he realized that he was not taking his, ahem current state of being into account. Taking a second bite, and chewing even more slowly and thoughtfully still, he ducked his head while lifting a corner of the towel around his hips.
"Thorfinn Rowle!"
He looked up, dropping the towel back into place over his lap. "I was just curious!"
"I can't believe you," she said, laughter edging her words.
Again, he shrugged. "Seems I've underestimated him. Probably should stop calling him 'little' Malfoy."
"Oh my God, stop!" Dropping her slice onto her plate, she rose from her spot beside him on the sofa and made a bee-line for the desk. "I really don't want to know what any man other than Thorfinn Rowle's got under his proverbial towel, thanks very much."
"Smooth-talker," he murmured, winking.
"Will you please not flirt with me until you look like you again?" With a sigh and a shake of her head, she set out a bit of parchment and uncapped her ink bottle. "Anyway, I'm going to write the real Draco Malfoy a letter just to let him know you had to borrow his appearance again."
"Must you?" His shoulders slumped. "But it was so much fun watching him go 'round the bend like that last time!"
"You, Thorfinn Rowle, are officially a bad man."
He snickered, finishing off his slice and reaching for another as she puttered about. "What're you looking for?"
"My quill." Oh, that seemed ridiculous, as there were perfectly working Muggle writing implements all over the place, but something felt wrong about writing a missive to a wizard with anything other than a quill.
Nodding toward the coffee table beside the stack of books, he called out, "Over here."
"Thank you." Hurrying over, she snatched it up. She turned back toward the desk a bit too fast, accidentally knocking aside the first few books from atop the neatly ordered pile. "Oh, bollocks."
Stooping to pick them up, she noticed a slip had fallen from between some of the pages. Hermione set down the books, unfolding the parchment as she rose.
"Oh, my God!"
Thorfinn-Draco was on his feet in a blink and practically bounded over the table between them to see what caused her surprised shout. Peering over her shoulder at the note, he gasped in spite of himself.
"Are you sure we can trust this?"
The witch had to draw in a steadying breath and read the words aloud before she could believe them. "Minerva knows. Place your trust in her. ~H."
Oh, the relief that swept through Hermione's chest in that moment was actually painful. "It's my sister's handwriting. I recognize it. What other living person would?" She could feel tears of joy beading in the corners of her eyes as she met that temporarily grey-eyed gaze. "Professor McGonagall is on our side."
