Chapter Nineteen

The next morning—or perhaps afternoon, given how late she'd gotten to sleep the night before—Thorfinn found Hermione tearing, near literally, through the bookcase in the living room. His brows pinching upward, as he could swear poor little Salazar was clinging to his mum's shoulders with a mixed look of fear and utter bewilderment, he moved silently into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly warmed Scotch pancake speared on the tines of a fork with other. He'd buttered it while still in the kitchen, of course, but had forgone any of the cream or jam, as they might drip on her carpet—he wasn't that primitive.

Leaning a hip against the arched entryway between the living room and dining room, he took a hearty bite of the pancake. He chewed thoughtfully as he watched her pluck one book after the next from the shelves, paused to flip through it in a cursory search and then toss it aside. It was very unlike Hermione to be so careless with books and her current uncharacteristic disregard was troubling.

Several minutes—and a finished pancake—later, he finally spoke up. "This is like watching a rabbit on caffeine trying to escape a library. What are you looking for?"

She didn't seem at all fazed by his voice cutting through the room. "I am looking for something with the Granger family tree," the witch answered as she continued her search. "My parents had that thing lying about the house somewhere, many Muggles do, in fact. I just can't recall where I'd seen it. Basically? Any book that isn't an scholastic text or a novel is on the suspect list."

He nodded, frowning pensively. "So we are going ahead with the wizarding line protecting your family theory?"

"We are proceeding with any and all theories which have a high probability of being the truth. As far as my Muggle parents safety and whereabouts are concerned there are simply two, so I suppose that's lucky." Standing up on her toes, she reached for the top-most shelf. "Theory one, somebody with a nefarious purpose somehow learned where I sent them and is waiting for me to come looking for the Grangers myself to make good on said nefarious purpose—though that's seeming a little less probable now, as how could they have learned where I was sending them?—and theory two, someone is, and always has been, protecting the Granger line and that someone stepped in to swoop them out of harm's way. Of course, there's always theory three, they somehow vanished all on their own, but I think I'm leaving that one alone until we've ruled out any magically inclined interference, since two Muggles just happening to choose to wander off on their own should not be at all difficult for the Ministry to find."

Thorfinn smirked as he watched her stubbornly struggle to wedge the first book she could reach from that high shelf. His shoulders sloping, he pushed away from the wall. Setting down the fork and coffee mug upon the table, he strolled up behind her.

Reaching over her, he easily plucked the book free and placed it in her hands.

She settled her heels against the floor and exhaled a contented sigh. "Thank you."

"What would you do without me?"

"During all of this mess?" Hermione pouted, offering a shrug as she opened the book to flip through the pages. "I'd likely have lost my mind without you."

She spoke with nonchalance, but he knew her. He understood her—Hermione Granger, Sabina Slytherin, whatever name she found comfortable—well enough to recognize the gratitude in those simple words of acknowledgment.

When she closed this book and shook her head, he silently handed her the next, and so on, not needing any prompting. "Does your family tree state where the different family branches resided?"

"Approximately. Not all family trees catalog location, but this one did if I'm remembering correctly."

"Which you probably are, as this is you."

A smirk curved her lips at the praise of her capacity for effortless recollection. "If the Grangers started out as a Squib line serving the Slytherin family during the founding of Hogwarts, that means that somewhere between London now and France where they originated, they lived in Scotland. You follow my logic?"

"Strangely, I do." He handed her the last book. "Find which families—aside from the Malfoys, of course—traveled the same paths as your Muggle family, narrow down the possibilities on who could be protecting them."

Beaming, she looked up from her page-flipping long enough to tap the tip of her finger against his nose. "Precisely."

He crinkled the bridge of his nose and made a face at her. "You're lucky I fancy you."

Snickering, she returned her attention to this last book. "That I am." After a few heartbeats however, she snapped it closed with a growl. "Nothing. I could've sworn . . . ."

Blue eyes narrowing, Thorfinn simply observed her as she folded one arm under her breasts and pressed her opposite fist against her mouth. Her gaze was darting about the room while she lost herself in thought.

"This isn't the only bookcase in the house, though, right?"

"Of course it isn't," she said, her tone almost dismissive—Muggles they might be, but this was her family, after all. She knew the one in her room would prove useless, the one in her parents room was a likely suspect. And then . . . .

And then there was the one she should've thought of first.

Shaking her head at herself, she rubbed her temples with her fingertips. The notion to search for the documentation occurred to her as she'd left the kitchen to run up to her room and wake Thorfinn after she'd set breakfast and coffee. Laying eyes on the bookcase as she'd moved toward the stairs, the thought had struck, and suddenly she couldn't stop herself.

She should have, perhaps, started with the shelves in the basement. That was where she recalled coming into consciousness as Hermione Granger for the first time. It was entirely possible there was much downstairs she hadn't even thought of—she'd never felt much interest in her family's basement. Was never driven to go down there for anything, really. The realization forced her to wonder if that disinterest was anything like her lack of care about Ravenclaw Tower for so long—a diversionary charm to keep her away from things she was safer not discovering.

But now, she turned a guilty look on the books she'd discarded so haphazardly. "Oh, no! I can't believe I—" She cut herself off as she hurried to carefully pick up each book, check it over diligently for any possible damage, and replace it in the shelf. "Look what I did! I am just the worst!"

Her betrothed chuckled warmly and set to helping her. "No, you're simply stressed. Again. Pretty sure this vacation idea was bad from the start. I said a few days, and you've barely relaxed for longer than a few hours."

Hermione's shoulders slumped and she let him take the books from her. Shuffling backward a few steps, she perched on the arm of the sofa. Salazar ducked beneath her hair in retreat at the sudden movement. "You're right. Your heart was in the right place. I just don't think I can relax. Not now, at least."

Finishing up with the books, Thorfinn came over and sat down on the cushion. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. "I'm not faulting you for your concern—no one would. I do, however, stand by precisely my reasoning behind bringing you back home in the first place. You do no one any good by worrying yourself sick. Whether your parents are somewhere of their own volition, or being protected, or whether they're prisoners, they're not going anywhere or coming to harm—"

"If they're prisoners, how can you be sure—?"

"I didn't learn nothing from my time as a Death Eater, you know." He sat back and moved her gently with him, forcing her to ease the tension in her posture. "Now, Voldemort was definitely the sort to torture prisoners, and some of his minions, yes, but if this is Dolohov's doing, that's not his style. He tortures on orders, or for interrogation, sure, but he doesn't do it when it serves him no purpose."

She nodded, feeling her gut twist unpleasantly. Thank God she hadn't bothered to eat anything yet. "If it's him, and I'm his target, he'd want to wait for me to come to him. He wouldn't have kidnapped them to torture them, he'd have done it to torture me."

"Well, sure there's that." Thorfinn winced, disliking the words even as he said them, "I meant more that he's both intelligent and aware of his own capacity for getting carried away. If he started to physically harm them, he might not be able to stop himself from going too far and he knows it. He would not want to risk accidentally doing away with his own bargaining chip."

His witch flinched, gripping her fists into his robes and curling up against him. "God, I wish you hadn't said that."

Circling her with his arms, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd take comfort from the idea that if he does have them, they're safe for the time being."

"Well, sure," Hermione said, nodding. "That is a comfort, but it's the after 'the time being' that worries me. I have to find them, but if what really happened was that Dolohov took them, the moment I do find them, that's when they'll be in danger. But I can't not . . . God, this is a nightmare."

"Oh, no, no." He tightened his arms around her, holding her more securely. "Listen, whatever happens, you're not alone in this. If you track them down and he does have them, we'll take the time to plan out how we move from there. We will make sure the Grangers don't come to any harm. Okay?"

A reluctant grin played on her lips. "Thank you." She couldn't help but sniffle, even with the sense of relief his words of caution and wisdom gave her.

Lifting her head, she met his eyes. As she traced over his rugged, stubbly, Nordic features with her gaze, she considered that he had grown up to look like his father—which was not a bad thing at all, Jarl Dagfinn Rowle had been a very handsome, if intimidating, man.

"The Rowle line," she said, the barely audible whisper abrupt as the idea came screaming across her mind.

Thorfinn's brow furrowed as he held her gaze. "Sorry, what?"

"Your family, Thorfinn. Think about it." She sat up and shifted in his lap to face him more fully. Their little serpent-child made his displeasure at more annoying human movement known by lifting his head from under the mass of her wild mane and hissing at them both before disappearing from sight, once more. "They were, obviously, there when the Squib line of the Grangier family served my father. You're here now . . . not in London, but certainly close enough for your guardians to have been in contact with the Grangers. The Rowles had you, the Grangers had me. It would've been the wisest thing for the safety of both of us, for the assurance that when we got our memories back, we would be able to find one another, if they kept tabs on one another?"

"That would make sense. I don't remember anything like that, though. They pushed me to become a Death Eater, after all."

"No." She bit her lip on a grin—a grin that troubled him a bit, as it was the one she wore when her brain went into that dizzying whirl, snapping puzzle pieces into place before anyone was even aware what the information was. "They pushed you to keep up appearances. Remember, they thought I'd find my way to Voldemort, or vice-versa, since he was claiming to be the heir of Slytherin, thereby the surest path to reunite us was by pressing you to join the Dark Lord's ranks."

"But they couldn't know his intent, not for certain."

Hermione nodded, wide-eyed. She loved sound-boarding ideas with him—he knew her well enough, and was smart enough on his own, to offer hints and nudges to keep her going in the right direction. "Which would explain why they continued keeping me a secret from you. Our memories were still locked, it could've compromised things."

Thorfinn braced an elbow on the armrest and stroked at his jaw. "We would've woken at the same time. If the Rowles and Grangers had been in contact somehow then they had to know. They would have realized our memory charms holding meant we were still in danger."

"Right," she prompted him, nodding.

"You said the first time you saw Dumbledore was before you even received your acceptance letter from Hogwarts. Where does him getting close enough to reinforce your memory charm so early on fit it with all this?"

"He knew who you and I were all along." His witch shrugged. "He might've used the knowledge he had to convince the Grangers he was acting in our best interest."

"And he only focused on you because you're the true heir of Slytherin. I'm just . . . extra."

She tipped her head to one side and frowned. "Oh, you're so much more than that!" With delicate hands, she cupped his stubble-lined jaw.

"To you," he pointed out, resting his hands over hers—her fingers were so small and slender in comparison. "But as far as history, true history, is concerned? You're the one who matters. The child the world was made to forget. The whole of the Wizarding world, no one even knows your parents were together. That erasure didn't happen without reason."

"Do you . . . do you suppose, then, that there are two families who know about the Grangers?"

He arched a brow. "The Rowles and the Dumbledores?"

"Yeah." She slipped from his embrace and climbed to her feet. "We have just given ourselves two very good leads. We're going to find that family tree to confirm it, and then we're going to talk to some people."

She was already moving through the kitchen door on her way to reach the basement by the time he was on his feet. "So . . . we're actually doing this? Where to, first? After another bookcase-pillaging, of course."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him as she pulled open the basement door and reached into the stairwell to switch on the light. "We'll go to the Hogshead. Just so happens I know Aberforth Dumbledore. Even if he hasn't a clue of the Grangers' whereabouts, I might be able to get him to share whatever he knows—if he knows what his brother was up to. The Dumbledore brothers didn't get along after some painful family history involving their sister." Her tone was somber and she took a few seconds before continuing, "It's likley Aberforth can be convinced to part with the information without very much effort."

He let out a grating sigh, cringing as he followed her down the stairs. "And then we're going to talk to my family, that it?"

"Exactly."

Thorfinn halted mid-step. He hadn't seen his family in a while. Sure, he might have his memories unlocked and the daughter of Salazar Slytherin in tow, but he couldn't be certain how warm of a welcome they'd receive until that was all clear.

"Visiting my family. Great," he said in a rough tumble of sound.


"Something troubles you?"

"Hmm?" Minerva looked up from the missive in her hand. The Grey Lady stood before her, the wispy form of her just inside the doorway of the Headmistress' office. Since Hermione's visit, Helena had taken to leaving Ravenclaw Tower on occasion. Occasions which usually led to her checking in with Minerva McGonagall . . . and staying for chats that lasted hours. The still-breathing witch joked about it, how they were just two lonely old souls keeping one another company.

"Your expression . . . it would seem you are upset."

"Oh, no, no." Clearing her throat, Minerva stood from behind her desk and rounded it. Crossing the room, she held up the simple, seemingly friendly letter for the ghost to view. "Merely surprised."

"I do not see why." Helena shrugged, taking a seat. How funny it was that ghosts were able to easily interact with things like floors and chairs, yet passed right through walls and doors and could not hold onto anything without monumental amounts of concentration and effort. "I told you what she said." They had reached an unspoken agreement to never say her sister's name aloud as a precaution.

"I am aware, Helena." Sighing, Minerva shook her head and returned to her desk. She set down the missive, Narcissa Malfoy's perfect script staring up at her. "I am simply . . . unsettled at the thought of being on the same side as the Malfoys in, well, anything."

"You do not trust them?" Certainly, Sabina's sister had a reason for her personal distaste of Malfoys—but then if she'd married that Malfoy wizard who'd pursued her during her school years, she might not have been 'free' to meet such a tragic and grisly end at the hands of that ridiculous, self-important Baron—but that was not a true reflection on the family as a whole, and she understood that. She did not know much of their house now, but in her time, the Malfoys were social climbers and she had wanted to be loved for herself, not her status as the daughter of a Founder.

"Of course I don't," the headmistress laughed. She was still in shock, she thought, over the Grey Lady's revelations, but looking in just the right places had helped her come to grips the initially wild-seeming tale. If the Malfoys had felt threatened by Hermione—or Sabina, as the case was—as there was no way the young woman would give into their former hardline views of pure-blood supremacy, no matter the revelations brought to light about her heritage, they'd had plenty of opportunity to do something about that quietly before anyone would've been the wiser. No one would've had cause to suspect them, either, which was all the more reason to believe they were in support of the girl. She didn't like it, but she was a pragmatist. "However, my feelings toward them are irrelevant. I only care about being there for her if she needs me."

Helena smiled. The warmth in the living witch's voice as she spoke her concern for Sabina was heartening, indeed.

"You wish to feel more at ease with this tea you are to share with them?"

Minerva arched a brow. "Of course."

"Then answer." With a determined look on her face, the specter reached toward the desk. Her features pinched hard as she slipped her fingers around a quill, managing to lift the writing implement. She placed it in Minerva's hand and then nearly collapsed with relief once the task was done. She spoke haltingly as she regained her strength—she was getting better at this, though. "But invite them here for it, instead. I wish to feel at ease about them, myself."