Weighted Hearts & Gilded Feathers

Thorfinn 

He knew he was just a recruit, not one of the senior members that had proven themselves in the First War like Antonin had, but the need to stand guard and protect that little slip of a witch was riding him harder than any other instinct he’d ever had. She had looked so broken during the ritual, that same girl who had embraced him in his animagus form. A veritable beastly visage of a mangy scarred wolf. 

At the bank of the Black Lake she was full of life, anguished for sure, but vivacious. It seemed unnatural. Her stillness during the ritual. 

He’d been furious when he found out that Antonin had harmed her. Nearly killed her at the ministry, so much so that he’d taken his pound of flesh with bloodied fists once the ritual was over. More surprising than anything, was that Antonin had let him, seemingly contrite for his part in the harm that had come to her. Thorfinn found himself screaming in Antonin’s face, “Fight back! You bloody coward! Slicing up teenagers but you won’t fight a grown wizard!” 

“I deserve it. I won't fight you. Not now.” 

He didn’t understand, not yet. Once his fists had started to ache, blood spilled down his forearms and sweat beat down his back that he demanded an explanation. He had come across her in the Ministry and she’d silenced him mid-curse. It wasn't until Antonin had told him what happened after that he understood the Russian’s resignation. 

Memories of his Freya came flooding back and determination filled him before he let himself fall into despair. She wouldn't end up like his Freya. He refused to find her cold and lifeless. He’d insert himself into her life until there was barely enough room for her to breathe on her own, and if she refused to do even that he’d breathe life into her lungs too. 

She was too much. He didn't want her to lose that indefinable quality that made her so enrapturing. It wasn't her beauty, though he did find her beautiful. It was the vitality in which she lived life, screaming at the world for all that it wronged her. 

He wasn't a good man. He’d never be a good man, not again, if he ever was. But he would be good to her. Join hands or stand on the sidelines and harmonize with the cadence of her scream. He wanted to kill Amycus, light him on fire like he’d done in the village. To watch his skin peel from his bones and listen to his wails until he choked on the smell of his burning flesh, but it wasn't his place. She deserved that honor. She deserved to bring his nightmares to life in his last hours. 

It was enough that she was in the castle, near enough. He’d heard her screaming the other night. Doors busted open and footfalls of running echoed through the castle. He and Antonin had run towards the sound before being stopped at the entrance to their Lord’s private wing of the castle. Wards. They'd slammed up against wards that sizzled against their skin in warning. 

Stay away. You are not welcome. 

They waited there. Sat up against the walls on either side of the large snakewood double doors for someone to come out. To reassure them that she was okay. He’d run his hands through his hair pulling at the root until Mrs Malfoy came out. 

“Is she okay? We heard screaming,” Antonin asked. 

Mrs Malfoy looked down her nose at them. “She’ll be okay. With time.” 

So they leaned back against the wall and waited. There wasn’t anything to wait for and yet they couldn’t bear the idea of returning to their rooms for the night. Finn absentmindedly ran circles around the golden feather that had appeared on the underside of his left arm. Antonin had one as well, that ran along an old scar on his lower back. 

They hadn’t spoken about it, though he'd caught Antonin eyeing it in curiosity before disappearing to the library for a few hours. He’d returned quiet and reserved, too lost in his thoughts to share what he’d found. Thorfinn was curious as well but the need for knowledge wasn't urgent, Hermione’s well-being was. 

At first, everyone just ignored them as they sat sentinel at the mouth of their Lord’s wing, snarling at any other Death Eater that got close. Whether it was because of proximity or something else, they were ordered to stand guard until further notice. 

“Antonin, since you're already here you and your pet can stand guard. Do not approach her. Do not speak to her. If anything is amiss, call for me through your mark. I’m giving you a chance to make up for your part in her injuries, do not fuck it up.” 

He’d dismissed them with a wave and left them once again. She had been screaming in her sleep, which left them to summon their Lord multiple times throughout the day. They were surprised by the urgency with which he arrived each time, as well as the bags that were steadily growing heavier under his eyes. On their third day, Thorfinn was over the odd glances and turned to Antonin. 

“You know something about the marks don't you?” 

Antonin looked away and pursed his lips, inwardly weighing the risk of sharing his information, but Thorfinn refused to be cowed. 

“It affects me as well, I deserve to know. We’ve been through enough together surely.” 

Antonin turned back at him with a quick jerk, his voice an angry whisper, “You have no idea the ramifications of this knowledge where to get out. It is not safe in your mind, so I will keep it safe in mine.” 

Thorfinn was caught between anger and hurt at his distrust. “We don't keep secrets Antonin, we haven't for years.” 

“When you find out everything will change, molodoy volk, and I am not ready. Not yet.” 

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Hermione POV 

Hermione woke up again, in the same room. Fresh bandages across her chest, and dressed in a new nightgown. Narcissa must’ve dressed her. She took a moment to gather herself, checking the room for another uninvited visitor only to find herself blessedly alone. A small potion bottle with a note attached sat on the bedside table beside what looked like a photo album, and Hermione drank it without suspicion. They were going through an awful lot of effort to keep her alive. If they wanted to kill her now that she’d woken up then so be it. 

She wanted to get up, and go to the loo. While she knew Mrs Malfoy was too meticulous to change her clothes without at least scourifying her, she needed to wash. Needed to scour the feel of filth off her skin, and burn it away with hot water. Too many hands had touched her recently without consent, too much magic had been draped over her skin without permission. It was unfair to be cross with Narcissa, but she should have known. She should have deduced that Hermione wouldn't want to be touched. 

Getting out of bed was deemed a futile effort, so Hermione grabbed the photo album off the table. Bound in beautifully smooth dragon skin leather, she couldn't help but run her fingers over the cover a few times before opening it. This felt like an intrusion, looking through this private album, the first few pages full of Hogwarts photos, a beautiful girl with tawny skin and sleek brown curls. She traced her hands over the woman's face each time she came across her in the photos. Transfixed the photos played like a movie, displaying the girls' growth, and friendships with familiar faces including Mrs Malfoy. It wasn't until she came across photos of the now woman with a young man that she recognized her as Mattheo’s mom, and she cursed herself for being so daft. It was in the shape and color of their eyes, the way they crinkled when they laughed that she saw the resemblance. She was beautiful, this woman. Intriguing even through photographs in a way that made you want to know her. She was the sun and all these people basked in her orbit. It was easy to see through the moving photos. 

“What happened to her?” Hermione asked herself aloud. 

“She was murdered by the Order.” 

She startled at the sound, pain vibrated through her at the jostle of her still-wounded frame. Once again, standing in front of her was Lord Voldemort. He looked slightly more put together than the last time she encountered him haunting her room. 

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” 

His red eyes widened at her impertinence but she was beyond caring. She didn't have the strength to cater to some megalomaniac's ego at the moment. 

He raised a brow at her, but did not seem put off by her brash questioning as he walked over to the far window and looked out, arms folded behind his back, her snakewood wand clasped in his hands. 

“My wand! I don't suppose you'll be giving it back? It's very dear to me.” 

“Do you know who this wand belonged to, Miss Granger?” 

Of course, she knew who it belonged to, it was hers. “Yes, me.” 

He chuckled at her response while twirling the wand in his hand. “It isn't your only wand, quite rebellious of you to own two by the way. Before you.” 

“No,” she stammered, “I purchased it from Borgin -” 

“And Burkes?” he interrupted, “bloody Burkes. I should've checked his store at some point when I returned, but I was otherwise engaged,” he mumbled mostly to himself but that didn't stop Hermione from replying, “why yes, I suppose that planning out the murder of a teenager and genocide keeps you quite busy.” 

A rumbling laugh spilled through the room and his shoulders visibly shook, he turned around but did not advance on her. He was staring at her, examining her, she shored up her occlumency as well as she could, bracing for invasion. 

“I won't use legilimency on you, for now at least. I’m going to tell you a story and answer more questions than you know to ask. All I require is that you listen and I will return your wand.” 

It was simple enough but she knew better than to believe him at his word. “Vow it on your magic. Vow that you will return my wand to me today, directly after your story.” 

He shook his head at her, lips tugged into a slight smile. “I, Tom Morvolo Gaunt, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort swear on my magic that I will return Hermione Granger’s wand today at the conclusion of this conversation.” Golden magic swirled through the air before dissipating. 

She squinted at him in suspicion. “You’re given surname is Riddle.” 

“I changed it at the acceptance of my Gaunt and Slytherin Lordships.” 

She didn't trust his easy acceptance of her terms or his answer, but relaxed nonetheless. She was basically defenseless anyway. No point in being uncomfortable as well. 

“I'm sure you have deduced that the woman in the photographs is Mattheo’s mother.” 

She nodded affirmatively. 

“I’m not exactly sure where to start but I’ll try my best. I've never told this story in its entirety before.” 

• -   -  -  -  -

Hermione didn't have any expectations for the tale he wanted to weave for her, a snare no doubt to trap her in his web, but she was undoubtedly unprepared for it. 

Questions raced through her so much so that she wished for a piece of parchment to write them down. The photo album seemed heavier in her lap as she searched for the question she wanted answered first. Everything she’d known about this man had led her to believe he was evil and incapable of feeling the mundane emotions the rest of humanity felt, but as she looked at him visibly withered from the tale of his wife, his children, she knew it to be untrue. He may still be a terrible person but he was broken. Much like the rest of us. 

Finally, she decided on the question she needed answered the most. “Why did you need to tell me this story?” 

His voice was soft when he answered, softer than she thought him capable of. “Because you are Khalida Shafiq Gaunt.” 

Silence stretched between them, his answer spearing through her. She took a moment to recount the events of this year, her sporadic magical outbursts, the feeling of comfort when she was around Mattheo. Moody and Dumbledore’s strange conversation at Grimmauld. But that wasn't enough. She needed proof. Evidence. This sounded like the fleeting hope of a damned man. 

“How do you know? Where is the proof? I am just an insufferable know- it-all mudblood from Hampstead Garden!” 

“When you were taken from your Mother’s arms, Dumbledore bound your magic and placed you with a muggle family. I doubt he thought you’d have any magic at all, but he’d only bound the ancient magic, not your innate magic. When Mattheo arrived at Hogwarts and you began spending time together, the seal on your magic began to break. The attack at the ministry and subsequent ritual to save your life shattered what remained. You are and always will be Khalida Shafiq Gaunt, daughter of Nadine Shafiq and Tom Morvolo Gaunt.” 

He walked over to her and handed her a small silver heirloom hand mirror, nodding his head at her to look. 

Her mind told her it could be a trick. Someone of his skill could easily charm a mirror but she was too shocked by the visage reflected back at her. An unfamiliar face stared at her, lips and eyebrows mimicking her movements. She touched the glass letting a bit of her magic out to feel for spells but found nothing. 

She didn't know what to do with this knowledge he’d imparted on her. She needed time to digest. Time to comb through all he’d told her. 

“I’ll give you some time to come to terms with your new reality. I imagine it's been quite a shock and you're still not fully recovered. I only ask that you do not attack anyone in the castle. There are wards to keep everyone aside from myself, the Malfoys, and Mattheo from entering this wing of the castle. There are anti-apparition wards as well.” 

He approached her slowly and held her wand out to her. “This is Salazar Slytherin’s wand little Khalida. Only an heir would be able to wield it.” 

Once she held her wand, he turned and strode from the room.