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Chapter Text

Prologue

The calls of the seabirds wheeling above made her feel like dancing along the pebbled beach. It was always so pretty in the afternoon light, as though the ocean was coming to greet her with kisses upon her toes. Hermione watched the tide roll in, seaweed and shells swaying back and forth through sparkling water.

She loved living on the coast. Her village survived on trade with other inland villages, selling their wares made from the sea and fresh fish from their nets. She had never gone further inland and could not imagine not being able to see the sea and the smell of salt on her skin.

Hermione had grown up as an orphan and been taken in by the resident healer, an elderly woman by the name of Minerva McGonagall. She could not remember much of her time before and guessed that she had been barely four when she arrived in Godric’s Hollow. Sometimes in the dark of night, she would feel a pang in her chest where her scar lay and wondered if it was like a mother wound, aching for someone who had long since gone. Minerva never did say much about how she came to care for her. It was common for Minerva to change the subject, or grimace and then look away. It was clear that the past was something that pained her and Hermione learned not to press. She instead chose to look forward, and shuttered her mind to the thoughts of who she had been, who had loved her as a child in the ‘before.’

Hermione had come to love the old woman as a mother. She was all that she had ever known after all. Far from teaching her just the basics, Hermione had also learnt to read not just her native language but the language of their greatest foes, the Vikings. Minerva believed that knowledge was power and did not shy away from teaching her as much as possible. It was common amongst the women to pick up trades. They would be the ones to carry the load of the work when and if the men went off to fight.

Hermione valued her intelligence. It was something precious and hers and did not depend on whether she was charming or smiled in the right way. She was self-conscious of her teeth and had endured teasing from the others but Minerva said that she had grown into them now and she liked to believe that Minerva would not lie simply for the sake of Hermione’s pride.

She was not considered the stunning beauty amongst the village’s young maids. Her hair was often referred to as a tempest and hung down her back in thick braids that she kept tied with loose leather straps. It would curl as soon as she set it free and some said sparked with magic when she was irritated. Often more than not she wore a loose shift over her underclothes and a heavy woollen throw in winter when the snow would cover the land so deeply that the men needed to shovel away the excess. This time of year it was covered with the autumnal colours of red, orange and gold as the trees shed the last of their leaves before an expected harsh winter.

She had used the odd lull in her work as an apprentice healer to venture down to the beach for a moment of peace. Their home of Godric’s Hollow was prosperous enough, and protected by villages and Lords to the South and East.

To the East was Gryffindor, a land of wealth and plenty and said to have a large castle that the Lords had lived in for time immemorial. To the South was the land of Lord Riddle, Mosmorde. She did not know much of that land and by all accounts from the elders in her village, was best not to travel there. Although Minerva had hinted that that was where the true knowledge and learnings happened. The Lord was said to keep a treasure trove of books and artefacts not seen in over an age.

 She knew that her village fell under the rule of Gryffindor although they did not often have visitors. It had been a surprise for all when the newest young Lord Harold had arrived at the village the spring before last, intent on finding maids for his promised bride. Hermione had been charmed by him, finding his green eyes a beautiful shade like the chipped malachite that came from deep within the earth.

Hermione had found herself striking up conversation with him and enjoying a delightful discussion on care of horses when he was interrupted by a squire. At the time she had not understood what was happening. One moment they had been standing together, probably too close by Minerva’s standards and the next, Harold was buckling his scabbard back on, ordering his guard to saddle the horses so that they could leave.

Harold and his retinue had left at first light back to the larger city, a tension lingering in the air long after the last of their horses could be seen. News by hawk came soon thereafter that there had been a raid and the Lord’s promised, Lady Ginevra had been taken by the Gryffindor’s greatest foes, the Vikings of the North.

Since then, aid and resources had been funnelled to the castle of Hogwarts as Lord Harold searched for his bride.

Hermione looked out to the sea, almost expecting to see the distant shadows of their longships, said to be hideous in design with carved monsters at the helm. She shuddered at the idea of them coming to her home. They were said to be huge, hulking warriors who could go into rages of bloodlust, carving their way through men, women and children alike. They had burned to the ground several villages and conquered lands to the North. Hermione struggled to reconcile the beauty of their written language with the stories of savagery.

The elders of her village had rallied all of the young men to arms that were not part of the Gryffindor barracks. She had taken in what training she could, learning to hold a dagger and string a bow. At first the village inhabitants had been fearful, running through drills and working hard to better their defenses. But over time the fear had lessened. Surely their village was too small to be worthy of an attack and after all they were in the middle of two great kingdoms. Hermione hoped that if they were raided the Lords would come to their rescue.

She looked back to the trail that led up through the forest to her village. It was blessedly quiet and she decided to linger for a moment more. Her thoughts turned again to the Lady Ginevra, said to be a great beauty with beautiful red hair and a slim waist, with prowess at hunting and archery. Hermione did not expect that she would ever be as cherished as the Lord’s intended was, but she hoped someday for a partnership that would fare better and someone from beyond her small village.

Minerva had already rejected the hands of several suitors on her behalf. A large, blonde fool named Cormac had failed to heed Minerva’s refusals and even now followed her about from a distance, complaining of aches and pains the moment that Hermione was not in Minerva’s company.

She half expected to see him walking down to the beach. He had an eerie way of knowing where she was. She turned to walk back towards home, knowing that the evening meals awaited her to help and clean.

She did not see the shadow of longships on the horizon behind her.

Chapter Text

Capture

The day had passed like any other. She rose at the light of dawn, feeding the chickens and tending to the animals that required feed to bolster their weight. She had taken over the more straining tasks as Minerva grew older and was happy to be of use.

She smiled and greeted people warmly as they rose. She loved being helpful to others and was known as knowledgeable. Most mothers now approached her first if their children grew sickly or they needed a concoction to help stave off winter chills or help with their pregnancies. Most of her work revolved around supporting and keeping the village people healthy. On occasion she treated more difficult wounds. It was not unheard for there to be an accident while hunting and she had grown in skill with mending bones from a bad fall or keeping away infection, which smelled so foul.

This morning she was due in the church. It was still in the process of being reconstructed after a particularly bad storm that spring had taken down part of the roof. She entered the church, pausing as she saw the bowed back of Father Slughorn bent over a large tattered book.

“Ahh, Hermione. Thank you for coming to see me.” Slughorn was bald but his face was covered in deep wrinkles, a sign of a life well lived. He ministered to the village wanting a quiet life in his later years.

“What are you reading, Father?”

“This,” said Father Slughorn with great enthusiasm, “is a text from Hogwarts Castle Library.” He ushered her close to the book. “It is said to hold translations of several languages including the alphabet used by the Holy Scripture. I am hoping that we can expand our texts so that we can read more. If we can understand what the Vikings speak of in their sacred texts, maybe we can better find peace between us.”

“Aren’t they savages though, Father?” Hermione bit her lip thinking of how kind he was to care about peace when all the Vikings seemed to do was warmonger. “I mean, their stories are surely full of ungodly things and they seem to care nought for anyone but their own.”

“Perhaps” Father Slughorn conceded. “Yet we must never stop trying to understand the other. When we close our hearts and take up the sword, we ignore that all are part of God’s kingdom and could be saved. It is our Christian duty to reach out to those, even if they turn away.”

Hermione shook her head. She looked above them to the open sky, now streaming with sunlight that lit up the dust motes so that they danced about her head. “You are too kind, Father.”

Father Slughorn patted her hand good-naturedly. “When you come to know people, Hermione and live amongst them, you find that most of what you read is not true. There was a time when I lived in the Court of Lord Riddle and the stories would suggest that it is a den of magic and depravity, godless. But even there, I found souls worth saving and good people trying their best.” He paused and Hermione wondered if he would say more. Minerva and Slughorn were the only ones she knew that had been outside of the village in many years. It was rare for the Father to speak of his time before Godric’s Hollow. She waited but it appeared that Slughorn was done speaking.

They leant forward over the book, fingers trailing the iconography. Colours that she would normally never see, red and blue and green ink detailed incredible creatures that could not exist in the natural world. She was about to comment on a particularly frightening looking beast, fire spewing from its maw when the bells began to clang loudly, signalling danger.

“Father, what is it?” Hermione grasped Father Slughorn’s arm as the bells continued to peel, not believing what her ears were hearing. There were only two main reasons why the bells would be ringing at this time of day and both meant disaster.

A loud crash echoed through the rafters and suddenly there were men swarming into the church. She shoved the Father behind her, terror seizing her and turning her body to stone. Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe. There was a tingling sensation running along her skin. She felt frozen like the ice lakes in winter. The warriors were far taller than she expected, their hair long and wild and with thick beards. Heavy leather armour covered their broad frames and each held a weapon of either sword, club or dagger. She pushed the book into the Father’s arms, screaming that he needed to hide and grabbed the ceremonial dagger that lay beside the cup of wine used for sermons.

“Back you heathens! I said get back.” She was screaming her rage and fear at them like a wild animal but they only seemed to laugh at her terror and stalked forward. She stabbed at one, sinking the blade into his forearm and twisting it with all her strength. The man looked at her in surprise. He had not expected for her to actually attack him back. Hermione grimaced in pain as the blade was wrenched from her hand and the warrior grabbed hold of her brains, tightening his hold until she could feel her hair ripping from the roots. He tossed her to the side of the building, her body making a sick thud as it landed against a wooden bench.

She was dazed and struggled to stand back up. She began to crawl forward, stumbling to her feet as the Vikings circled around Father Slughorn. She could hear the terrible sound of swords meeting flesh and rushed at their backs, striking hard with her fists, clawing at any skin she could see. Rage flooded her body and the pain faded to a dull ache as she sought to stop the murder of her friend.

One Viking, his face marred by horrible scars that were scattered about his face without rhyme or reason, shoved her back. “He’s gone, girl. On your knees.”

Hermione screamed her frustration. She spat into the Viking’s face. A blow to her face made her stumble again but she could not lay there and do nothing. She tried to launch herself at them again and was cuffed again. Hermione could barely hear over the roaring of fires and screams throughout the village. She crumpled to the ground as another Viking stalked into the church and felt dread settle over her like a cloak.

“Are you finished here?” Draco asked. He took in the huddled figure of a young woman who appeared to be wounded. Her hair was a mass of curls with blood and bits of dust caught in it. He watched as a beserker, Fenrir grinned up at him, pulling a bloodied blade from the back of the priest and then licking it.

“Yes. Just need to take care of the wench and then we can leave.” The other Vikings began piling the jewels and treasure into sacks. Fenrir started to move towards the girl and Draco stepped in front of him.

“No. She should be taken as captive like the rest of the women. We have clear orders from the kongar to bring back serfs and whatever else we can carry.”

Fenrir growled in frustration.

“Do you mean to challenge me, wolf?” Draco stared into Fenrir’s eyes full of bloodlust. He knew that he would have trouble taking on the Viking while he was in this state but he could not show fear.

Silence passed and then Fenrir said ‘nay, Jarl. I follow orders.” He stalked away after the others leaving Draco and the woman alone.

Draco knelt beside the woman. Her body was shaking and he could hear small sobs coming from underneath the heap of her hair. He reached out towards her and was bowled back in surprise as a fist landed against his cheek.

“Murderer! Filthy Viking scum!” Hermione leapt onto the Viking, throwing her fists with all her might.

Draco grabbed Hermione’s wrists and twisted them so that he lay atop her. She continued to thrash. “Hush little tove. Hush. I will not harm you.”

“Liar!” spat Hermione. “You have destroyed my home. You have killed my friends.”

Draco sat back on his haunches and gathered leather strips, binding her wrists and ankles. Hermione continued to struggle against him as he threw her over his shoulder and carried out into the village square.

The chaotic scenes of earlier had mostly died down. The defenders of the village had all been slain or knelt on the ground bound and bloodied.

Draco laid down Hermione amongst a group of huddled women and went to meet Theodore Nottson, his second in command.

Theo was tall and striking in the way of most Norse men, except that his hair fell in long curls that graced his shoulder. Many felt that Theo carried the spirit of Loki, he always had a grin ready when at home and was considered a flirt amongst the women. Now he was grim, his leathers covered in blood from skirmishes.

“All well, Theo?” asked Draco.

“Aye, Jarl. We have taken the village. There is plenty of food to keep us well fed for our trip home and a good many serfs that would be welcome for the harvest. I did want to speak to you about the healer though.” He beckoned to another Viking who stepped forward with an older woman, her severe expression reminding Draco of the elders who would each him lore as a child. “She claims to be the keeper of the records here and wants to barter her freedom for the young girls.”

Draco shook his head. “That is not a bargain that we can make.”

The old woman stepped closer and lifted her chin which did not even meet halfway up Draco’s chest. She bristled with anger despite the fact that bodies lay around them. “I have knowledge that your Kongar would be interested to have. I have trained with the best in Gryffindor and can offer that same tutelage to your healers. All I ask is that you let Hermione go. She is of no use to you. She can barely boil water and will make a poor slave.”

Draco arched a brow. “Hermione? Your names are so strange. Which one is she?”

Minerva pointed to the woman that he had just carried from the half-built church. “She is practically a child in her mind. She is of no use to you.”

Draco shared a look with Theo. It was normal for the conquered to ask for mercy but this was an unusual request. Before he could ask for Hermione to be brought forward, the woman in question sat up, blowing the hair from her face in outrage.

“Minerva, no. You will not sacrifice yourself for me.” She shot a contemptuous glare at Draco. “She is lying. I am much more use than Minerva. She should be given safe passage to Godric’s Hollow and allowed to live.” She stared up at Draco and he held his breath, taken aback by her beauty in that moment. Her dark brown eyes the colour of fresh earth called to him.

In that moment, he knew that he could not leave her behind. “She will come with us.”

“No,” cried Minerva. “She is an innocent. Our village needs her to recover. Have mercy on an old woman.”

Draco turned his back to the old woman. He could hear the anguish in her voice. “I cannot leave someone here with such knowledge. If your Lord truly wishes for peace. He will treat for his bride and all of the captives.”

Turning to Theo, he motioned for him to follow him to a dwelling on the edge of the village where they could rest. “We leave at dawn.”

***

That night Hermione wept as never before. She knew with each minute that passed that her time at home was coming to an end and she did not know if she would ever see Godric’s Hollow again. Even if she came back it would never be the same again. The scent of fire clogged her throat and she was almost grateful when the Vikings began to carry the dead over to a field, taking the smell with them.

Just before daylight graced the horizon, she saw heavy boots appear before her and realised that it was time. They were really going to take her on their godforsaken ships. She closed her eyes, willing herself to ignore the hard muscular shoulder that pressed against her stomach as she was carried across the fields and down to the shoreline. He was so much taller than she expected and she felt the blood rush to her head as she swayed back and forth with his gait.

She could not say how much time passed before the Viking was lowering her down below deck, his hands brushing her cheeks gently.

“Sleep now little tove.”

Chapter Text

Journey

Hermione was running. Her breath fogged in front of her in a cloudy mist. It was freezing and far colder than she was used to. Her heart felt like it would burst from her chest she was moving so fast. Her legs were a blur beneath her, rushing past the ground until it felt like she was travelling miles.

She could not look back behind her. It seemed like each moment that she ran forward, a presence was gaining, catching up and coming closer.

To either side, the trees were twisting about, catch in some unholy storm. Lightning forked from the sky, exploding hills around her in great explosions of earth.

Tove. Tove, come to me.

A pair of arms circled her waist, stalling her movement. Warm hands pressed against her breasts, caressing the scar that trailed down her chest.

You are safe little dove. You are mine.

Hermione woke with a start in the darkness. Her dreams had never been so real. She touched her lips wondering whether all of the fear had simply overwhelmed her.

She felt the rocking of the ship as it moved along the waves. The size of the ship was overwhelming now that she could see somewhat. She spied many familiar faces and moved to rock a weeping toddler whose mother was finally asleep.

“You are good with them.” Hermione started at Draco’s low baritone as he stepped out of the shadows.

Hermione arched a brow in question as Draco came closer and knelt beside her. Her breath caught in her chest seeing him up close. He was so much larger than her with a broad muscled chest that was covered in scars. She could now see a long-grooved scar which ran along his collarbone suggested that he had been severely wounded in the past. His face was unmarked by war and beautiful in its simplicity – a roman nose, full lips and storming eyes framed by pale lashes. It was sinful how handsome he was.

“The child,” he said quietly. “Your touch is soothing.”

She hummed into the quiet. “It is a basic instinct to seek comfort when you are scared.”

“Who do you seek comfort from?” He peered at her. She swore that his gaze lingered on her lips. She licked her bottom lip self-consciously.

“I find my peace in reading and tending to others. When I can help heal someone I feel lighter somehow." She broke their eye contact which had become intense and looked away. “My parents have been gone since I was a little girl.”

“You are a woman after Frigg’s heart, little tove.” Draco brushed a lock behind her ear and then stood up abruptly.

Hermione stared up at him in confusion. That word… “What do you mean? What does tove mean?” She nearly reached for his hand which hung low next to her but refrained. She had no idea of what would happen when they reached his home.

Draco pulled the cloak from his shoulders and laid it around her and the little girl who slept soundly in Hermione’s lap. He tucked it under her gently and then stood. “I think the word in your language is dove. The Christians say it is a bird of peace.” He grinned down at her but the smile did not reach his eyes. “I hope you bring that peace with you when we reach my home.” He then turned and left.

Hermione did not fall back to sleep for many hours.

Theo came to stand beside Draco as they looked out across the vast expanse of the ocean. Out here, his namesake constellation could be seen in the night sky, shining brightly as though to lead them home. It was an odd naming tradition of his mother’s people. He did not know much of his mother’s history but had been told that her family were always interested in the heavens and had used chosen stars to bless their children. His own name was considered unusual amongst Vikings but then nothing about Draco was common.

He was not the tallest Viking but he towered over Saxon men at nearly 6”5. His body was hewn from years of drills and training. He knew that in the eyes of women his body was attractive, despite the multitude of scars that traversed his back and chest. His hair was the colour of snow and he wore it past his shoulders in thick braids. His beard was a short stubble now but he would shave as soon as he returned home.

In the distance he saw low clouds sparkle with the signs of lightning. It appeared to be far enough away but he would need to warn the night watch. Draco turned to look at his friend, waiting him out. It was unusual for Theo to remain silent for so long.

Finally Theo broke. “It was a good raid,” he said, clapping Draco roughly on the shoulder. “Barely any of the men were injured and we have taken a good number of serfs to help in the fields.” He looked across at Draco who was pensively staring away from him. The man seemed to brood more often than not lately. The threat of war with Gryffindor weighed heavy on the Jarl, especially when it would be Draco that would lead men to the battlefield. It was never an easy thing to do when knowing that not all would come home despite their best efforts. It was a blessing to die in battle but that did not stop men from dreading the wailing cries of the widows and children left behind.

At least this time there would be no funeral pyres needed.

“And you have another lovely young wench to add to the thralls.”

Draco stiffened beside him. He knew that his second in command had been waiting to address the issue of the healer amongst them. Any captive was helpful if able bodied but the men were always interested in beautiful women and Hermione had caught more than Draco’s eye.

Theo stretched his arms above his head, attempting to appear casual. “Interesting that you would take her considering the young redhead waiting at home to be declared your bride.”

Draco scoffed. “There has been no binding. Just because the girl wants to marry someone does not mean that I should be that man. Eventually we will have to deal with that Saxon lordling and I would rather not have bedded his intended.” He sighed as Theo arched an eyebrow in question. He would never leave him alone and would stay until the matter was fully resolved. “I cannot say why I took the girl. Perhaps Loki is making a fool of me but I could not leave her there. There is something about her. She is as clever as Freya and as beautiful in her anger as a Valkyrie.”

“That is indeed true” replied Theo. “I just hope you know what you are doing bringing her home. Women like that have a way of changing things.” He turned to leave, not wanting to add what they were both thinking, Draco’s interest in the girl was like a fork in the path and both led to an uncertain future.

The trip home was uneventful except for the occasional squall which reminded all of the warriors that their fate was ever in the hands of the gods. They had made sacrifices before the journey and it would be good to have further blessings from the gothi upon their return home.

In the nights that passed, Draco took time to cast his eyes over Hermione’s sleeping form, noting the way children and others alike huddled to her for comfort and warmth. He did not dare approach her for more conversation. Theo had already teased him for it but it would not be right for the other men to see him mooning over a girl when they were still in foreign waters. She was clearly loved by her people. In the daylight he could hear her voice, melodious and soft flowing in the conversations with the other captives. He could imagine how she would be in the village once she grew accustomed to it. She would do well with Lavender and bring much needed skills.

He was also curious about the book that Hermione and the priest had been reading. He regretted the slaying of her elder. It was to be expected in the heat of battle but it was clear that she had a close relationship with the man. He recalled the way she sobbed over his broken form as Draco had pulled her away. Perhaps one day she would tell him about her life before. He could not imagine that it would be anytime soon but he yearned to her voice speak to him gently and without scorn.

He had lived for so long seeing his role as a fighter and a leader. His father had trained him from an early age to take over the role of kongar and it was something that he had always accepted. His line was one of warriors. When people did not bend then they would take what they needed and it was always for the good of the clan. His mother had passed when he was eight and since then he had rarely felt the soft caress of a mother’s hand against his forehead, the gentle embrace of a soft hug. He had grown to used to taking his pleasure with willing women and looking for friendship amongst the men. He envied men like Blaise who had true friendship with their wives and were able to seek comfort not just in the act of sex but by being together.

Until now he had not questioned his father’s actions. It was his role as Jarl to fight and the kongar’s to direct.

He had followed his father’s orders to raid the city of Hogsmeade and taken the betrothed of the local lord. Her advances had not surprised him and the Lady was beautiful and strong.

He recalled Ginevra’s teasing smile to him as she leaned against the railing of the ship after they had abducted her and three of her maids. Ginevra would often wait to meet with him when the rest of the crew were asleep.

“Cannot sleep my lord?” She flicked her long red locks back, exposing her cream neck. She was slight of frame and was wearing a dress that emphasised her slender curves.

“It is my job to make sure that we travel home safely.” Draco came to stand next to her, keeping a noticeable distance in case one of his men happened upon them.

“And where is home, Draco?” Ginny fluttered her eyelashes at him, leaning closer than was proper for someone being held hostage. “May I call you Draco?”

Draco hummed. “It is my name. You may call me whatever you wish. Home for me is the village of Northbrook. It has been the home of Vikings for generations.” He paused for a moment, “I do not know if it will end up being your home though, my Lady. I have a feeling that your betrothed will soon seek an agreement for your swift return.”

“Harry can do as he wishes,” replied Ginevra. “But he is not the only one who has a say in where I go. My father and brothers are the captains in the Gryffindor army and would consider a match between us most advantageous. You must agree that marriage has a lovely way of settling blood feuds.”

“Do you not love this man, this Harry?” pressed Draco. The name sounded so foreign on his tongue and he watched as Ginevra beamed at his odd pronunciation. Draco was surprised by how swift her allegiances could shift. From all the information they had been given, the marriage contract between Ginevra and Harold had been founded on a love match. It was part of why he had been content to take the young woman. He did not think that someone in love would cast aside their husband to be for a Viking and enemy of their family.

“Harry has been part of my family for as long as I’ve known him. For years I waited for him to see me but I was always the annoying younger sister, spoiling their fun, tagging along on their adventures. It was not until I was presented to the Court that Harry noticed me. I am no longer sure whether his attention now is enough. In another age I could be a warrior like one of your women and ride into battle. I could be a queen. Perhaps the life in Hogsmeade is too small for me now.” She leaned in now, so close to Draco that he could feel her breath against his lips. “I look forward to learning more about you and your people, Draco.”

He stepped back, once more finding distance. Normally he would have taken the opportunity and seduced the Lady before him but something made him pause. If he bedded Ginevra now it would set into motion a whole series of events that he could not foresee. He would need to consult the gothi and take their counsel.

“I must say goodnight Lady Ginevra.” He waved to one of her maids who had appeared, no doubt looking for their mistress. “The journey will not be too much longer if you sleep now.”

Draco shook his head, tossing away the memory.

He had made a point of bedding Ginevra’s maids in the time since she came to his home, hoping that it would show that he was not a man looking for a wife. It did not seem to bother her and she continued to sit close by him and to find moments when he was training and in the hot springs to force a connection.

Draco did not know if his father intended to set up another village and overthrow the Gryffindor lords or whether it was simply spite that had pushed Lucius to take the girl. Either way, it would have not concerned him until he had happened upon Hermione. Now his thoughts were taken with her. Hermione was bold yet shy in the face of her beauty, as though none had ever thought to tell her that she was as stunning as the rising sun. He longed to run his fingers through her thick ringlets and feel them tickle his chest as they fell together on a bed of furs. He could imagine her moans and cries as he sheathed himself inside her. Draco inhaled deeply knowing that his arousal would not abate for awhile as the boat rocked along the waves. If he was a lesser man, he would go below deck now and drag her to a secluded spot, sake his lust and try to focus on the match his father was all but forcing him to make. Instead he forced himself to keep watch, praying to the gods for a safe journey home.

Chapter Text

The Village

Hermione woke to the sounds of bird cries and the smell of salt water. The boat they had travelled on was no longer rocking with large waves and now swayed gently side to side. She swallowed down the desire to dry retch. She cursed her weak stomach. She had not known before that she did not like being on a boat, now she had no doubt.

Down in the hull of the ship Hermione could see the other captives also stirring. She shifted back, twisting in her bindings as one of the Vikings crouched before her with a ladle and bucket of water. She slurped up the water for a moment, avoiding eye contact and then waited as he moved onto the next. She could hear children whimpering in the shadows, the cries of scared women.

The journey had taken a number of days but now reality was setting in that home was an ocean away. They were about to be taken to their enemy’s stronghold.

The air was cold compared to their home, Hermione’s breath coming out as white wisps. Fear raced through her veins. She had no way of knowing exactly where they were, no way of keeping her people safe. She stifled a sob welling in her throat and made to stand slowly.

Rough hands pushed her and the other captives forward and off the ship. Cold seawater soaked the bottom of her dress as she stumbled onto the shoreline. A crowd had gathered to welcome the warriors home. She could not make out the faces individually. The harsh sunlight was overwhelming. She could see hair of every shade from brilliant white to fiery red. The soft voices of women mixing with welcoming responses from the Vikings that had abducted her.

It appeared that they had arrived at the jarl’s home.

The day passed in a whirlwind. They were loaded onto wagons and then taken to the middle of a large square. There was a raised platform off centre. Two smaller children, Carla and Finn, no doubt orphaned by the raid on her home, cuddled against her skirts, their soft hands burrowing and curling against her knees. She could see most of the women were still crying but a few of them had chosen to stand tall. She lifted her own chin. It would do nothing good to show their fear. She glanced at the other women, nodding briefly in recognition.

The low sound of a horn drew their attention to a man who had come to stand on the platform. She did not catch most of what he said but it was clear that they were going to be sold off. The welcoming crowd had come to watch the sorting as it were. Now she was able to focus on them. There were old women as well as young, more children than she had expected. It was thriving village and the smell of smiths and fires lingered in the air.

“Silence.” The man on the platform was as large as her captor and boasted the same long white hair as the Jarl. She could see that he was similar in stature but leaned heavily on what looked like a cane on his right side. If Draco was the Jarl then surely this was his relative, perhaps his father. A half circle of men came to stand behind him, a council of elders perhaps? She could see one man that was almost giant-like and he smiled warmly at her, his thick dark beard covering everything other than his big grin and winking dark eyes.

“We have been successful in our raid as prophesised by the gods.” A roar went up from the crowd and she could hear weapons thumping against shields. The older Malfoyson for surely he was the leader continued on: “Now we will enjoy the spoils of our venture and claim thralls and helpers.” He gestured to the children who huddled near Hermione and she glared at him, reciting all the curses she knew from her god. “We will raise these younglings in our ways and teach them how to pillage the non believers.” Hands that Hermione had not noticed before reached out towards the children and pulled them away from her and into the crowd. She tried to hold onto them but was shoved roughly back. Hermione saw a young woman with brilliant red hair usher Finn, Carla and a handful of others away from the crowd. Her movements were kind and gentle but it gave Hermione little peace. She did not know when she would see them again.

“And now to the women!” Whistles and catcalls rang out and Hermione felt her knees grow weak. If only she had been born a man, she would be back on her homeland, buried with kin and not knowing what fresh hell waited for her here.

She watched as one after another, the women were pushed forward, their shifts pulled from their bodies to expose their undergarments and forms. Some women who were older were herded over to a group of matrons, no doubt to form part of the servants who washed and cared for the village warriors. Younger women were tossed over the backs of warriors and carried away into the throngs of people who watched on. Finally, it seemed that it was her turn to face the crowd.

“Who claims this woman?” The senior Malfoyson looked only at her face but Hermione could feel the heated stares of others upon her bosom. The travel and rough handling after her abduction had rent her clothes and she felt naked before everyone.

“I claim her.” The crowd parted to reveal Draco. His face still showed the bruise from her fist but he appeared otherwise unharmed. Dread coiled up her spine seeing him again. There was no good that could come from being under his control. Would he extract his revenge upon her?

“Let me go with the old women,” she begged. She fell to her knees before the senior Malfoyson. “I can read your runes. I can translate. I was the keeper of healing knowledge in our village. I can be useful.” She shifted forwards on her knees, not caring how she looked, but desperate to evade the Viking that was now so close to her, his storming grey eyes fixed on her. “Do not give me to him.”

“Faðir,” Draco said, much too calmly. “She is mine by conquest.”

Lucius laughed at his son’s steely expression. Most women fell at their feet wanting to fall between his son’s furs. It was comical to find one that was desperate to avoid him. Perhaps he would let this play out. After all it was coming into winter and the maid would have trouble avoiding his son forever. If there was something that Draco thought as his, then there was no way of distracting him from it.

Lucius nodded at his son and then pulled the girl to her feet, taking in her dark honey-coloured eyes and riotous brown curls.

“Nay Draco.” He held up a hand as Draco started to protest, silencing him. “The wench has spoken her piece and she did land a blow on you after all. Let her go with the other thralls and see if that suits her better.” He turned away from Hermione and watched as she was pulled from the stage and into the main longhouse where the thralls were kept.

“This is not over.” Draco said quietly and stalked off to his own abode. He was growing tired of his father meddling.

***

Back in his own quarters, Draco shed his clothing and lowered himself into a hot bath. It was clear that the women had anticipated his return and had recently drawn and heated the water for him. He dismissed the thrall that waited with a bucket of ice water to temper it and sank in until the water reached his chest.

He had enjoyed the spoils of war and taken the smith-maker from a Ravenclaw held village to make him the beautiful forged tub. It was a delicacy and unheard of amongst the outer clans but he rarely used it except when he had a successful raid. Most people preferred the hot springs which were scattered over the land.

Now he let himself simmer much like the water, anger boiling at the hide of his father. He knew that physically he could overthrow and kill Lucius. It was the way of most kongars that they were killed by a rival but he did not want to take that route. He liked the freedom of being able to go out raiding and leave the domestic politics and responsibilities to his father. They worked well together overall.

Yet Lucius had gone too far today. Draco had been expecting to take Hermione back to his home, to bathe with her and finally explore her skin that had teased him throughout their journey home. He did not expect her to fall into his arms but now there was not even the shared bed to help their connection. Instead, she was somewhere in the longhouse with the other thralls, no doubt cursing his name to her lesser god and catching the eye of every virile Viking in sight.

Frustration at his predicament grew and before long he stalked back out of the bath, drying himself roughly. He put on new clothes and nearly ripped the door off the hinges. It was a time to pay a visit to the gothi.

***

Draco made his way to the base of the mountain where the priests kept their altar house to Thor and his god-father, Odin. It was a large wooden structure, with delicate carvings in every aspect. If one looked closely they could see fine detailings of Loki, his ice giant kin and the battles between him and Thor.

Draco made his way further inside, laying the gold and furs specially selected from their raids for the gods at the feet of Sirius. He was his uncle by blood but here Sirius was part of the divine. To go against a priest was to wage war upon the gods themselves.

“I bring gifts in tribute.” He laid out the silver goblet taken from the heathen church, silks and tapestries that depicted the Christian god being born and then taken back to the heavens as the Saxon’s called it. He knew that it would please the gods. Draco made sure that the best of his raids always went to the gothi first and then to his father’s coffers.

Sirius nodded in acceptance. Like Odin he only had one eye after a particularly brutal duel had led to his opponent gouging it out. Now Sirius led the priesthood and guided their warriors across the celestial expanse to Valhalla. When out in community it was covered by a patch but here he left it bare, the puckered flesh red and scarred.

“You have done well, Draco Malfoyson but I sense that more still troubles you. Did Odin not bless you enough with your recent venture?” Sirius settled himself into a seating position before Draco.

Draco looked to the ground, covered in furs. Although it was a cold and sometimes inhospitable country, the wealth of the Vikings showed in the gifts they gave to their religious elders, the gothi. Apprehension roiled in his gut. Draco did not know if he could say the words, feeling as though he was being ungrateful but still they came out. “I do not wish to complain. I wonder if there is anything that Frigg would share with the gothi?”

Sirius stared at him with his one eye, the colour now changed to a golden hue. “Your path is yet to be determined. Frigg is the goddess of more than futures, she speaks to the heart of the family, to matrimony. You must see with your heart. There are many paths that will keep you on Odin’s path. You will need to decide if you can live with the blood of your kinsmen on your blade.”

Frustration built in Draco’s heart at the gothi’s words. He knew that he would receive no more clarity but it felt as murky as the bogs that covered lands to the south. He bowed before Sirius and made his way back outside, it was time for a drink.