I'm terrible, and I'm sorry. This fic went from weekly updates to kinda whenever, and I sincerely never wanted that. There's plan in place as far as storyline, the ending's already formed, so I hope that's at least a comfort to you guys as I struggle to bring the next chapters to life.


Chapter Twenty-Nine

She could hear them calling her name as she stumbled though the door of the cottage and out onto the beach, but she couldn't make sense of the words. How could they do this to her? How could they endanger themselves after all she'd done to protect them?

Hermione was barely aware of her legs moving beneath her. Of Crookshanks knowing better than to struggle in her hold as she walked, her wand out at her side.

She knew, numbly she knew, they were following her. She could make out Thorfinn and Father having a hushed conversation somewhere close at her back in Northumbrian—which somehow felt clearer to her in that moment than English, more distinct, more recognizable, despite that her mind refused to make sense of that language, as well—and Mum and Dad were muttering what were probably apologies for their deception. She imagined Draco, the lone silent tag-along, was trailing after them at a safe distance, merely observing the chaos in shock at all the drama that had unfolded so very quickly.

"I . . . I have to go."

The words fell from her lips with very little recollection of any thought to speak them. She heard a swell of sound behind her, forcing her to turn and look at them all.

Just as back in the cottage, whatever was—or perhaps wasn't—in her expression caused them worry. Each of them fell quiet, she imagined in wait for her to clarify.

Thorfinn was beside her nearly faster than she thought he ought to be able to move. "Where?" was all he asked, his eyes holding hers unblinking.

Hermione Granger . . . Sabina Slytherin, the bizarre amalgam-creature she was of those two people now . . . . She'd never like the sensation of helplessness. In fact, she loathed it—it made her uncomfortable in ways that she could not even begin to put into words.

Yet that was precisely how she felt now as she stared up into those familiar blue eyes. Eyes she'd known for a thousand years . . . .

In an instant, how fast this had all happened slammed onto her shoulders. It didn't matter that she'd known him since they were children, did it? Nor that they'd been put into slumber to end up together now like this. Only a few weeks had passed, barely scraping toward a month's time—and here they were so entrenched in one another that she honestly couldn't imagine having gone through any of this upheaval without him by her side.

His willingness to help her through should be a comfort. It should make her feel warm, cared for . . . . Yet it made her heart feel cold and heavy in her chest.

And that dead, weighty sensation was nothing to do with him. She recognized that, intellectually, at least. But emotionally? She could not get past that this was all her. Her letting rise—and give over control to—an uncertainty that terrified her.

Her life was changing and not a single person or thing she'd clung to before all this had been here for her to lean on.

Except one.

With a lifeless little shrug, she whispered, "Somewhere I feel safe."

Thorfinn felt it like a gut punch when she Disapparrated without him. She'd taken her damned squish-faced beast of a cat, but not him!

Yet, turning his attention on his former fellow Death Eater who was currently the living host of his potential father-in-law's long-dead spirit—Merlin, this was going to be a mess to keep track of—her Muggle adoptive parents, and little Malfoy, he knew he understood her reason for fleeing.

"I think," he said, addressing the meager assembly who indeed seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "She needs time, and we have to respect that. We should go finish that tea, clean up the cottage so no one knows it's been used in its owners absence, and then . . . . Apparate to Malfoy Manor."

"Oh, sure, yes. Let's bring this circus to my house."

Thorfinn hung back his head, glaring up at the sky as he groaned. He would ignore for the moment that he could hear Mrs. Granger trying to hide her sniffling, and Mr. Granger being just as quiet as he tried to comfort her. Honestly, they'd raised the woman the past ten years of her life, they should've known how hard their deception would hit her. He was perfectly cognizant that they had their reasons—reasons which were none of his business until after they explained themselves to Hermione, first—and knew she would settle down and hear them out once she'd sorted through her feelings in her own way.

But for now, he was stuck with this snarky little shit over here. Of course he knew he was thinking more harshly toward Malfoy than was necessary, knew they'd actually begun a grudging friendship over the last couple of weeks, yet his need to vent how useless he was feeling right now made it hard to care.

Setting his head level, he concentrated his anger on Malfoy's face. Though the Muggles didn't notice anything, in his periphery Thorfinn spotted the way Salazar flinched in his direction. Clearly the man recognized the gleam in Thorfinn's eyes from when he'd been young. The Hunter's Glare, Salazar and his father had called it, as if the title had actually been a thing.

Inhaling deep, he let said glare settle into a mere look of displeasure. "I am suggesting we go there because with your family turning on Voldemort and his followers at the end of the War, the manor is the last place the Ministry will come looking for an at-large Death Eater," Thorfinn said, nodding toward the Horcrux-possessed man in question, "or the Grangers. It's the only place they can stay safe while we figure out whether or not they're in danger. And your dad's got the resources and records handed down through your family. Between her father and yours, they might be able to come up find something that will finally set everything to rights. Isn't that what we all want?"

Draco let his tensed shoulders droop a bit as reason settled over him. "You're right, I know. I just . . . ." He decided to be honest. "I just think it's fucked that we're all stuck like this, is all."

His words made Thorfinn think of Hermione. Yes, they were all 'stuck like this', but it centered on her and she knew it. She was feeling the weight of it, the fear of not knowing what might come next, of not knowing how her other loved ones would take learning who she really was, the pressure of trying to prove her father wasn't a monster.

It was no wonder she'd needed to flee just now.

"Anyway, c'mon, then." He sighed and gestured for them to head back into the cottage. "I think we could all do with that cup of tea, now."

As they started filing back inside, Salazar caught Thorfinn by his elbow. The younger man turned his attention on him, finding the odd haze of green over Antonin Dolohov's dark eyes unsettling. Little Salazar was curled upon his shoulder, so at least seeing the wee one so calmed in his presence was a comfort. "Sir?" he asked, arching a brow.

Salazar merely held his gaze for a moment, his look appraising, calculating, before he answered. "I always thought you were a good match for my Sabina. I am glad to see proof that I was right."

Thorfinn smirked, hoping that after this was all over and they weren't stressing and panicking every five minutes so she could think clearly, she would continue to see him that way, too.


"Well, that was pointless," Lucius groused as he and Narcissa—and the currently not-visible Helena, he imagined—exited the pub.

"And strange," his wife tacked on, nodding.

At first, Aberforth had not wanted to tell them a word, but when they reminded him that their son was with Miss Granger, so it very much was their business what had transpired, he finally conceded. With a fresh bottle in his grasp, he unleashed the entire bizarre tale, which ultimately told them nothing of where the children were now.

"Perhaps we should go back to the manor. They'll likely return there at some point, or at least he will."

Narcissa's lovely porcelain face creased in a frown. "I don't like this. This . . . not knowing anything." She went on softly, as if speaking to the air, itself, "Lady Ravenclaw? Are you still with us?"

Equally quiet, Helena's voice whispered around them. "Yes. I shall return to the castle and inform Minerva of your departure. Please send word if you hear from my sister before we do?"

"Of course," the blonde witch assured her. "And you, as well."

Helena spared one last—albeit wholly unseen—glance at Lucius Malfoy's dignified countenance and then thought herself back to Hogwarts.


Hermione didn't know if it was happy coincidence, or some divine power finally showing mercy on her that Professor McGonagall was coming down the castle's main staircase just as she barreled through the doors.

One look at the young woman's face had Minerva coming over to her side immediately. She gave the large, unhappy ginger feline tucked against Hermione's left side a wide berth as she circled to wrap a protective arm around his owner's shoulders. "Oh, my dear! What's happened?"

Her lower lip trembling, Hermione met the headmistress' gaze. "There's . . . there's just so much. I can't . . . . My mind is racing, I've lost track of what I'm even thinking."

Nodding, Minerva used her arm on Hermione to guide the younger witch with her back up the staircase. "Well, it certainly sounds like you could do with a quiet sit and a nice spot of tea; you don't have to say a word until you're ready."


"Sabina!" Helena's voice filled the room the moment Hermione and Minerva appeared in the entryway of the headmistress' office.

Even before Hermione met her ghostly sister's gaze, she knew that Helena's expression had gone from surprised and concerned to irritated in a blink from the pitch of her voice, alone. "And precisely where have you been? We were worried sick! We have to let the Malfoys know you're . . . ." She backpedaled at the sight of the cat in her sister's arms. "You have a kneazle as your familiar? My, times really have changed."

Oh, no, Hermione realized with dread as she let Crookshanks down. She'd left little Salazar with them. She trusted Thorfinn, and Father, and yes, even Draco, to care for her tiny basilisk perfectly well in her absence, but still. She was sure to get a hissing earful from her little darling when they reunited in a few hours.

In a corner of her mind, behind her joy at something so simple as her sister being annoyed with her, Hermione realized that it never occurred to her to think it odd that Helena did not default to Northumbrian the way Father did. It made sense, actually. While Father had only been 'alive' in this time for a few weeks, Helena Ravenclaw had existed in the castle all this time, she'd listened and observed and had the luxury of time to absorb all the changes to her world. Her easy use of modern English was a result of her time spent among the living residents of Hogwarts. It also explained why she had an accent that could easily place her as being from any number of regions in the UK—hers was a blending off those she heard on a near-daily basis.

"I'm—" Hermione started, but she was just as quickly hushed by a stern look from Minerva; the familiarity in that sharp-yet-motherly expression was a comfort.

"Let her have a moment, Helena,"

The specter glanced from one living witch to the other, and back. "Well, all right. You should know, however, the Malfoys have returned home."

Minerva guided Hermione to a chair and then turned her attention on Helena, mindfully sidestepping Crookshanks as he commandeered his witch's lap. "If your sister is here, alone, and they saw fit to leave, I'm going to guess your trip was pointless?"

Helena narrowed her eyes, waiting patiently as Minerva poured Hermione some tea from the silver service the elves had brought up earlier. With a flick of her wand, she warmed the cup's cooled contents and held it out upon a saucer for the young woman to take.

When Sister had her fingers closed around the cup's delicate handle and was taking her first sip, Helena answered, "Mostly, yes. We encountered a horribly inebriated elderly gentleman with the most dreadfully unkempt grey whiskers—"

"Aberforth," Minerva and Hermione offered in the same breath.

"Yes, him." Helena nodded, settling herself in the seat across from her sister's. "And his story did not make very much sense at all. You discovered the recent whereabouts of some man the Malfoys knew, who had pummeled said elderly gentleman, and then after he told you some rubbish about hearing water, you left. And we did not know what to do with such strange information, so we left, as well. They felt their dear Draco might return home, so . . . ." She trailed off with a simple shrug.

Hermione set her cup against its saucer and placed them upon the nearest level surface. She felt a little calmer now, and she most certainly did feel safe. Even if her heart was still shredded to bits in her chest. Even if her mind was still more scrambled than she could recall in a long while.

She was safe. And so, with her sister and a woman so dear to her she may as well be her grandmother seated close, Hermione broke down and told them all that had happened.

By the time she was finished, Minerva was beside her, holding her hand in a tight, comforting grip despite her own quite visible disbelief over all that had happened in a single afternoon.

"He's alive?" Helena's voice, oddly thin and reedy, sounded the incredulous silence that followed her sister's last word. "Salazar is alive?"

"In a manner of speaking." Hermione gave a sideways nod.

"Do you . . . do you think I could see him?"

Brows shooting upward in surprise, Hermione exchanged a glance with Minerva. "I . . . I don't see why not, but he can't come here, not in the body of a wanted Death Eater, and I don't want to risk you going so far from the castle. Hogsmeade is one thing, but if he goes to London or Wiltshire . . . ." She left off with a shrug.

The specter's ashen lips pursed. "Hardly seems fair, does it? He was a father to me, too, if not by blood then certainly by circumstance."

Hermione carefully lifted an unhappy Crookshanks from her lap—he did not want to be moved, and wasn't exactly pleased that he hadn't a choice in the matter—and set him on the floor. Slipping from her seat, she knelt beside her sister's chair. "I know it's not fair, and I'm so sorry, but it's not safe for either of you right now."

"Miss Granger, about this . . . host body situation," Minerva interrupted the young women, speaking as she claimed the seat Hermione had vacated. "I, well . . . ."

"What, Professor?"

For a quiet handful of seconds, Minerva tapped a finger against her chin in consideration. "I . . . have a thought. You might even call it a plan."

Hermione turned were she knelt and sat on the floor, facing the headmistress. Crossing her legs beneath her and folding her hands in her lap, she afforded the elder witch her undivided attention. Helena turned in her seat as well, propping her elbows on the arm of the chair and resting her chin on her palms so that her face hovered above her sister's.

Both of Rowena Ravenclaw's daughters stared at her with open curiosity, rather evidently expecting to be marveled by her clever brilliance.

Well, as if that wasn't a mildly intimidating thought. Clearing her throat, Minerva McGonagall gave herself a subtle shake and began to explain.


Drawing a deep breath as she wound her way toward the boundary of the castle grounds, Hermione turned Minerva McGonagall's plan over in her head. It was mad . . . completely, utterly, unquestionably mad. And yet, it would work. She knew it would, she could feel it in her bones. It was Crookshanks, trotting faithfully at her heels, letting out one of his grumpy meowmph sounds that drew her attention.

Looking down at him, she saw his attention was fixed on the boundary. She followed his cranky gaze to find herself looking at a familiar hulking blond figure in the distance.

Quite without the permission, her heart leapt, feeling lighter than she thought it could after learning of her adoptive parents' deception. A smile was forming on her lips and her own mouth wouldn't behave when she tried to make it stop.

He only watched her approach, his hands clasped before him and his bright blue eyes narrowed in what might be speculation.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

Those wonderfully broad shoulders of his moved in a shrug. "You said you needed to go somewhere safe. That couldn't mean the manor, and that wasn't going to mean your Muggle house, not when its the residence of the people who'd upset you. I thought 'she's probably going home.'"

Her smile faded and she swallowed hard. Just as without permission as her heart, her eyes disobeyed her whims by welling with tears. Of course. She'd considered it home before because she'd spent the better part of her teen years here, but she kept forgetting a very simple truth. Hogwarts castle was where she'd also spent her childhood. Where she'd been born, where her beloved mother had died, where she'd been raised until her father had put her into the Bronze Sleep.

Where she'd returned without even realizing she'd been coming home all the while.

"Oh, shit," he said, chuckling warmly. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "Please tell me you're not crying because of something I said."

"It's certainly not you." She sniffled, resting her cheek against his chest. "Thank you."

Thorfinn granted a half-grin as he gently dropped his chin atop her head. "For knowing you so well?"

She breathed a laugh. "Exactly."