I'm so happy everyone loved the plot twist in the previous chapter. One tiny thing, though? I know some readers get really excited and when you review, you just kind of blurt things out in a rush of typing, but maybe next time you could please restrain yourselves revealing the big surprise I've been building up to for the last ten chapters? There's a good number of people who read reviews before taking a chance on a story, and to have a major plot twist stated in the open like that is kind of defeating to all of that build up.
The break DoS just went on was completely unintended, I'm so sorry about that. I think it's safe to say weekly updates are simply no longer manageable with this fic (I mean, I tried and kept it up for 20+ weeks which was more than I thought I could've done). It's just this story has really evolved and grown beyond what I thought it was going to be and I was sincerely not prepared for this to move from modern-novel-length into 'epic' status [there's this weird thing where a lot of fanfic readers believe fics that are several hundred thousand words long are 'novel length', but in reality, a modern novel averages between 50k-90k words long, so . . . yeah]).
Moving forward I will try to return to weekly updates, but this is your heads up that that simply might not always be doable.
ALSO, this chapter is short, I do apologize profusely for that, but I'm just so happy to get this story moving again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hermione felt strangely numb as her mother . . . as Mrs. Granger . . . as . . . Dahlia? Mum! As Mum set a cup of tea between her palms. After her father's—Salazar's . . . Dolohov's, oh this was going to be a heck of a thing to get the hang of—confession, everything became strangely fuzzy; diluted and water-colored.
She vaguely recalled everyone exchanging worried glances, which she imagined was on account of whatever face she was making . . . or a total lack of expression on her face, perhaps. She was certain either would be considered equally troubling under the circumstances.
Just as vaguely, she remembered being ushered into the cottage, where Thorfinn steered her toward a chair. Honestly, though, she could not seem to remember if she had sat down of her own volition, or if Thorfinn'd had to tip her backward by the shoulders until she fell into the seat.
And now, somehow, she was here. Here with her adoptive parents, the ghost of her long-dead father inside the body of a man who'd tried to kill her, and—because that wasn't odd enough on its own—the wizard to whom she had been betrothed for a literal thousand years, along with her childhood bully, who were all watching her with unveiled concern.
Father had taken little Salazar from around the young witch's neck and cupped the minuscule, still not-very-threatening serpent in a gentle hand as he stroked the smooth scales with the tip of one finger.
"I know you are confused," he started, "anyone would be. You may ask me whatever you wish to know."
The cadence of his words and change in his pronunciation stood out to her as being different from modern speech only after a few heartbeats had passed. Out on the shore, he had been speaking perfectly current English, but now she suspected that had been more for the benefit of The Grangers and Draco, as she and Thorfinn had both regained their Northumbrian fluency when they memories had been restored, she simply had not realized that fact until she'd heard it actively spoken.
Of course, this brought to mind a question that hadn't occurred to her before, but one that would probably have to wait as it was not pertinent to this conversation. If they spoke this ancient form of English, then it meant the original documents from their time should be equally tricky for modern English speakers to comprehend. Unless, of course, someone had translated them in more recent generations. That meant someone out there might still know of them. A relative, a descendant, might still be in possession of those original Northumbrian documents that had been intended to pass along through time with her and Thorfinn. But who?
Yet, she was distinctly aware that now was not the time for that particular question—it would only sidetrack as she'd so spectacularly done on previous occasions—and so she filed it away for the first opportune moment.
"Why him?" was the first actual question to fall from her lips.
Salazar's brows pinched together. "Him?"
Now that she was over that initial happy shock of being reunited with her father so unexpectedly, she had room in her heart and in her head to be troubled by the host body he'd chosen.
Hermione pointed squarely at the center of Antonin Dolohov's chest. "Him. Why. Did. You. Choose. Him?"
Looking down at himself and then lifting his head to meet her gaze once more, he said, "I did not. Not truly." He seemed genuinely unaware of why his current . . . appearance might be upsetting to her.
"Then how did this happen?" She set aside the cup and pushed up to her feet. She didn't want a nice spot tea or a comfy chair. She was angry and confused and knew that she had every conceivable right to feel both in this moment.
Salazar's shoulders slumped as he watched his daughter, a frown creasing his face. "This man, Dolohov, put on the necklace. I had nothing to do with it, nor do I have knowledge of how it came into his possession. I have only been conscious in this time for a few weeks."
Hermione turned to face the Grangers, cognizant that Thorfinn had been translating, which was what had made her aware that she'd answered her father in the same old dialect he'd spoken. She was going to ignore that for now, because things were entirely too insane as it was. "Mum, Dad? What exactly happened before you arrived here with him?"
The Grangers shared a look, William took a sip of his own cup of tea as Dahlia placed hers down and stepped closer to her adoptive daughter. There was relief in knowing the girl still thought of her as 'mum.' Yes, there had been that first moment on the shore of warm hugs and loving words and tears, but now that things were calmer and Hermione was thinking clearly—if deservedly angrily—she had not changed a thing of how she looked at Dahlia Granger. There was no hint of darkness lurking in her tone, no attempt to backpedal at her closeness.
Dahlia hadn't realized she was tense, or that she'd expected any of those reactions to occur, and she found herself releasing a sigh that had the odd effect of taking with it those unconscious anxieties. "How far back shall I go?"
"I should think you'd start with why the bloody hell you left Australia," Thorfinn said in a grousing tone. Draco remained silent but nodded, his brows lifting in expectation.
Both women looked over at the Viking, their shared expression mirroring the years they'd lived together as mother and daughter.
Thorfinn sidestepped their scrutiny only to nearly trip over something. "What the . . . ?" He crinkled the bridge of his nose as he watched the puffy orange beast brush past him to trot over to his mistress. "Is that a cat?"
"Crooks!" The witch was distracted momentarily as she bent to scoop her overly-large familiar into her arms and lift him. Despite how tight she hugged the creature with his smooshed, so-ugly-it's-cute face, he didn't seem uncomfortable or eager to get away as most felines would. "I missed you!"
Thorfinn pointed at the Kneazle-cat. "That?" His expression souring, he turned to look at Draco. "That is what people were supposed to mistake me for?"
Draco shrugged and uttered an exasperated breath. "He's a big, puffy cat, you were a big puffy cat. Pretty sure she wasn't expecting anyone to look any closer than that, mate."
Blue eyes narrowing, Thorfinn returned his attention to the beast only to tip his head, a bit startled. Was that beast actually glaring at him?
He arched a brow, raking a hand through his hair as he straightened up to stand as tall as he could. "Like to think I had a more dignified appearance."
"Blimey. A cat's a cat," Draco said in a mystified whisper. Were he in the other wizard's situation, he'd hardly be upset that he was mistaken for some other ferret, now would he?
"Oh, sorry." Hermione pressed a kiss to the top of Crooks' head and set him on the chair behind her. The cat obediently curled up in her shadow, but did not peel his unhappy gaze from his mistress' betrothed.
"But Thorfinn isn't wrong," she continued, trying to ignore the sudden yet strangely welcome coat of orange fur she was now wearing. "Please, start from your decision to leave Australia. Preferably with the 'why'."
"Well, your dad and I have been under specific enchantments for a very long time. I dare say since you awoke from the bronze, in fact." Dahlia nodded, spreading her hands. She spoke cautiously, now, like someone trying to concentrate while navigating a faulty layer of ice. "These enchantments are a combination which only permits memory charms to take affect in the event that they're cast for our own protection. Once we were away from the War, the enchantments recognized us as being out of danger, and so broke the memory charms you placed on us. And we knew we had to return."
Hermione's heart plummeted into her stomach. "You returned after your charms broke?" Her eyes welled up quite without her leave. She'd missed them and longed to see them again and thought being separated from them—thought tearing her own heart in two to send them away—had been worth if it had meant they were safe!
"You . . . how long were you back in Britain?"
Dahlia lowered her head, sniffling. Yes, she knew she shouldn't have expected the sunshine and kittens phase of their reunion to last. It could come back, though, once this was all sorted, she was sure.
She looked back at her husband, who was hanging his head, his shoulders drooped low. Clearly they'd both hoped this was a question that wouldn't have come up in light of the much larger issues looming on the horizon.
But Hermione did have the right to know.
A watery, joyless smile playing on her lips, Dahlia returned her gaze to her adoptive daughter's. "Since about a week after you first sent us away."
