Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Ministry of Magic, always bustling with wizards and witches hurrying to their own destinations, was more packed than usual. They stumbled out of the Floo system, nearly piling on top of each other, and formed long lines at the elevators, all the while dodging particularly urgent memos. 

Two years, ten months, and seventeen days. That was how long it had taken the ministry to re-elect members of the Wizengamot and trial the most vicious Death Eaters captured since the battle of Hogwarts, the symbolic end of the second wizarding war. 

She kept meticulous count of time, out of subconsciousness, if not compulsion. It was a habit formed during those desolate days she spent on the run with Harry and Ron, their only outside contact being bad news after bad news on Potterwatch. 

Hermione had to dust off the thick layer of ash from her robes as she stepped out of the fireplace. With all the magical abilities concentrated in one place, somehow they still hadn't managed to make this travel process neater. The dirt-tracked floor had been long-neglected, ever since the majority of House Elves had left to seek private employment, rather than staying at an institution that had bound them to its service for centuries. While incredibly glad for the magical creatures, she was deeply disappointed and concerned by the reliance humans had developed on other’s uncompensated labour. 

For people to learn how to clean up their own messes, she pondered, might yet take another revolution. Muttering a simple Scourgify , she cleaned the year-long build-up of grot inside the chimney. With one glance at the next entryway, dirtier even, she positioned her wand again.

Might as well.  

“Hermione, there you are!” 

“Whatchu doing that for?” 

Came the exasperated voices of her two best friends. Harry and Ron swam past the sea of people between them to get to her side. 

She saw the look Ron was giving her, and rolled her eyes, “has it not occurred to anyone, that all this soot is quite harmful to your lungs? Muggles wear respirators when they clean chimneys. These—” she gestured broadly at the rows of Floos along the hall, “—need regular upkeep to minimize the carcinogenic effects!” 

“That’s a good point, Hermione, we are just running late for the trial. Perhaps we could come back to it, uh, after?” Harry said appeasingly, which led her to suspect that he was plotting something with the potential to annoy her. But before she could voice her thoughts, they were nudged by impatient court-goers behind and got pushed to the front of the elevator. 

Sardined between men and women dressed in serious outfits, they endured a jostling ride to the dungeons where formal proceedings were held. 

While she kept on nagging at Harry’s ear about getting in touch with Percy Weasley, the now head of the Department of Magical Transportation, the three of them filed into the large courtroom. 

It was surprising to see the amount of observers in the gallery at this stage of the court hearings. In the beginning, people were passionate to attend and give their opinions on the accused. (Hermione had come to understand quickly that the Wizengamot worked differently than muggle courtrooms. Not only did court appointed witnesses submit evidence, the audience also had the chance to provide supporting accounts for the Wizengamot members to decide on the ruling. Everything is confirmed by an Auror via viewing the memories, legilimency, or use of veritaserum.) However, their enthusiasm had died down over time as the crimes became less and less sensational. 

Today, nevertheless, the amount of people already seated murmuring to each other gave the court a subdued restlessness. 

Harry spotted Hagrid, who was sitting front and centre in the rows reserved for witnesses. He essentially took up a whole row. Hermione didn’t even see Luna until she came up the steps to greet Hagrid. 

“Hello Luna.” She sat down next to the blonde and said pleasantly. 

Luna gave her a ditzy but charming smile. “Interesting, isn’t it? One of such means doesn’t have nearly enough fortune to buy their way out of the public’s attention.” 

One of such means. Hermione felt a bit lost. “I’m sorry Luna, I must have lost track of the hearing schedules, who is the defendant today?” 

“Oh, you’ve been called as a witness for so many trials, that mustn’t be easy.” Luna sympathized. “I have only been to a handful.” 

It sent her head into overdrive, recalling all the instances where she and the other witch had been in a pinch together. A shiver crawled down her spine as the realization sunk in. 

“Suppose I haven’t answered your question. It’s Narcissa Malfoy on trial today.” Luna confirmed her dreadful suspicion. 

The scar on her forearm burned in delight. 

******

How people came to see the mighty fall. 

And what a tumble from grace she’d taken. The sole legal heiress of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, wife and mother of heirs of an equally ancient House of Malfoy, a woman whose biddings the Gringott goblins did with haste, was now made a spectacle in front of hundreds of onlookers and later to even more strangers no doubt by Rita Skeeter’s poisonous quick-quotes quill. 

“Auror Gallagher, please escort the accused to the dock.” She heard faintly. 

Liam Gallagher pushed open the side door to the courtroom and nudged her inside. Silence washed over the low hum of the space a few seconds before. 

Narcissa schooled her panic into practiced indifference, sat down, and held the gazes of a few curious Wizengamot members and then Kingsley Shacklebolt. She noticed that he had dispensed with his usual deep blue and purple robes, and was shrouded in the plum coloured garb with a silver “W” embroidered on the chest. His sudden, authoritative, booming voice echoed off the walls as he announced the commencement of her public humiliation. 

“… Criminal trial of the nineteenth of February, into offences committed by Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, between June 24th, 1995 and May 2nd 1998. Interrogators, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, and forty-seven elected members of the Wizengamot. The charges are as followed…” 

The laundry list of her accusations were a mixed bag. Some were completely bogus. “Aiding and abetting the reunion of Death Eaters and conspiracy to resurrect Voldemort.” Please, she thought to herself, Lucius never shared his agenda or excused how he used the massive Malfoy fortune in the early stages of Voldemort’s return. 

But others were accurate and to her knowledge, damning enough to warrant a single room in Azkaban. 

“Harbouring known Azkaban fugitives, namely Death Eaters Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Augustus Rookwood.” 

“Providing gathering space and finances to Voldemort and Death Eaters with intention of aiding the dark side in the second Wizarding war.” 

“Associating with magical creatures with the intention of war recruitment.” 

“……” The list went down the chronological order. After a good minute, Kingsley’s eyes rested on the last piece of parchment. 

“Accessory in the capture, torture and murder of innocent wizards and witches, goblins, and House Elves.” 

The grievous nature of her actions was made even more sinister by the silence that followed, a silence that threatened to swallow her into a dark vortex. Narcissa dropped her gaze to her hands that were clenched tightly around each other. Long-suppressed shame, guilt, and self-hatred bubbled over in the pit of her stomach, on the verge of rising out of her throat. The small of her back felt damp even though the dungeon was cold as ice. 

Kingsley let the room process the information for a while, then proceeded, “now the court calls the first witness.” 

******

One by one, the surviving witnesses took the stand and gave their accounts of encounters with Narcissa Malfoy. The witch was given a chance to dispute or deny any untruthful claims, or give her own version of the story. 

She spoke up only a few times, to point out when a witness misremembered the date or place, never to correct the important facts. 

Hermione waited behind Luna. Her nails dug deeply into the flesh of her palms as anger roiled in her blood. This… infuriating woman, arrogant, despicable, wicked! Hermione was expecting her to put up a fight, twist the stories and slither her way out of a heavy sentence. But she had to gall to just sit there, looking so, so defeated, tired, and… and sad. 

“The court calls the next witness, Miss Luna Lovegood.” 

Luna stepped into the little witness stand and faced the crowd. She nodded to confirm each of Kingsley’s questions about her capture by the snatchers and imprisonment at the Malfoy manor. 

“Miss Lovegood, could you please tell us your interactions with the accused during this period of time?” 

“Well, I didn’t really see Mrs Malfoy while I was kept in the cellar. Bellatrix Lestrange was the one to bring us meals and dole out punishments - she was fond of torturing hostages as a pastime. Except, one time, Bellatrix was on a mission for Voldemort and Mrs Malfoy brought us meals. The sandwich was cold and the ham a bit dry, but the tea was just the right temperature.” 

There were a few snickers in the crowd. 

“Thank you Miss Lovegood, I don’t need to know the details of the meal. Now, were you threatened? Cursed? Harmed in other ways?” 

“No, Minister. Mrs Malfoy was helpful. You see, Bellatrix had burned my hands badly the previous day with scalding hot tea. Mrs Malfoy gave me a dropper for them, essence of dittany, it smelled like.” Luna smiled good-naturedly at Narcissa, who looked up at her with wide eyes. 

The statement caused a small ripple in the crowd again. Narcissa shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She had forgotten those few drops of dittany given to the Lovegood girl, because how could that even begin to heal the traumas brought to her under Bella’s sadistic reign? 

Oh, Luna… Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Sweet, virtuous, forgiving Luna, she had to see the good in everyone, hadn’t she? 

There was a faint pang of jealousy, which was nauseating because surely, she shouldn’t feel this way. Jealous of how Luna was treated with a spectre of kindness by the Malfoy matriarch, while… 

Two years, eleven months, and twenty one days . Hermione reminded herself of how long it had been since that horrifying night at the Malfoy manor. But time didn’t stop Bellatrix’s manic laugh from ringing between her ears, and her rancid breath from grazing her cheek. At the memory, the hateful word carved in her skin ached so violently that she had to dig her fingernails into the meat of her palm to distract her mind from dwelling on the thought. 

With Luna gone, she was one of the last to give their statement. Steeling her mind, Hermione took the stand and looked at the mostly faceless crowd. Her eyes found Harry and Ron in the low light, and felt a bit reassured by their presence. 

“Miss Granger, you were captured by Snatchers while on the run with Mr Potter and Mr Weasley, and brought to the Malfoy manor?” 

“Yes, Minister.” She wasted no breath. 

“And at one point, you were separated from them? Who took them to the cellar?” 

“Yes, sir. Narcissa Malfoy, sir.” 

“And you were left to Bellatrix Lestrange’s device. Was Mrs Malfoy present then?” 

“Yes, Minister.” 

“Can you describe what happened then?” 

Hermione took a deep breath and ground her teeth. It wasn’t the first time she had to give her account about this particular event in court. The previous one had been for Draco’s trial. And it was easier, if she just narrated it like a textbook instead of an experience. “Bellatrix pushed me to the ground, held a knife at my throat while interrogating me about her vault. When I couldn’t give her an answer, she used the cruciatus curse on me repeatedly, and carved the word ‘mudblood’ on my forearm.” 

Kingsley now appeared apologetic, but followed up with one more question. “And what did Narcissa Malfoy do?” 

She slowly turned her gaze to Narcissa Malfoy, and found those piercing blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Another scheme to garner pity, perhaps?

A sick sense of satisfaction blossomed in her stomach because she wasn’t going to give in. Hermione broke their locked eyes and looked back to Kingsley. 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

****** 

Absolutely nothing . The two words sucked the air out of her lungs. Narcissa heard low murmurs in the Wizengamot rows as they debated the atrocity of her inaction. 

Leave it up to the Golden Girl to get these ancient sticks-in-the-mud riled up. Narcissa thought sarcastically. Might as well it be Hermione Granger to deal the deadly blow. Any trace of fight left her conscious when she saw the young witch discreetly cradle her arm. 

If she couldn’t prevent the hurt Bellatrix left on the woman, she shall then bear the cross for her to see justice. 

When she was sure the sentencing would come quickly, the Minister announced, “the court calls witness for the defense to the stand.” 

Witness for the defense!? 

There was a collective intake of breath in the courtroom, including Narcissa’s. She had not requested a witness for the defense, because she absolutely refused to drag Draco back to the British wizarding society after his tumultuous trials. 

Her son was tried as a minor, due to his induction as a Death Eater had been when he was underage. On top of that, Draco had thrown Harry the wand which he used to defeat Voldemort. It gave her all the comforts to know that he had been given a second chance, even though he chose a self-exile to live in France. Knowing her son lived as happily as he could with his soon-to-be wife, away from the judgement and resentment, was enough for her to carry on regardless of what happened to her. 

Under everyone’s speculation, one Harry Potter rose from his seat, and skipped down the rows in an almost endearingly awkward fashion. 

“ You are witness for the defense!?” She heard Hermione hiss as she left the witness’ box. 

“Sorry Hermione, Draco asked me.” Harry whispered back, imploring her to understand, “plus, it’s the right thing to do.” 

He cleared his throat, and without Kingsley’s prompting, started a speech that sounded well-rehearsed, but also sincere. “Let us not forget, it was Narcissa Malfoy’s decision to lie to Voldemort that made our victory a possibility. Without her defiance to the Dark Lord, I would have been dead the moment he found out that I survived the killing curse. The reason she did so was out of love for Draco. So too, was it the driving force behind Mrs Malfoy’s commitment of acts that aligned herself with the wrong side of this war… 

“I’m sure all of you can relate to that feeling when your survival instinct kicks in, when you are faced with a very challenging situation and feel desperate to make an impossible decision. Well, Narcissa Malfoy had to make many. I was honoured to have taken a glance at Professor Severus Snape’s memory, and learned about the decision she had to make when Draco was being used as a pawn in the Dark Lord’s scheme…

“Draco took the Dark Mark because he wanted his father’s approval. What kind of father uses his own child to gain favours in a war?” Harry’s voice broke slightly at this. But when he saw Narcissa’s eyes redden, he was certain the witch had similar feelings. He continued. 

“So Draco’s mother took up the role of his protector. Her son’s connection with Voldemort forced her hands. How could she have said ‘no’ when that monster threatened to kill Draco unless he killed Dumbledore? How could she have said ‘no’ when he requested money, a hideout place, and to play host to some of the most unpleasant characters? 

“Draco asked me to speak on his behalf today because he knew my words would be received much better than his. He said this to me, ‘if you and I shared anything in common, Potter, it’d be how we are both alive because our mothers’ love.’” 

He concluded with one final gentle look in Narcissa’s direction. Not surprisingly, tears rolled down her pale, gaunt face in twin streams. 

“I do have another observation that I want to provide you, Minister.” He stood, and leaned towards Kingsley to whisper something secretive, “something I found while viewing Mrs Malfoy’s surrendered memories. She didn’t bring it up when a previous statement contradicted this so I assume she’d want to keep it private.” 

The Minister nodded, and called for a recess. 

When the gavel struck for the last time, a final decision had been reached. To ensure the safety of the prosecuted, Narcissa Malfoy was escorted by Auror Gallagher out first. Then the rest of the courtroom let out like a school of sharks after blood, climbing on top of each other just to get a look at Narcissa Malfoy after her sentencing. 

“Narcissa Malfoy, do you think your sentence is too lenient?” A loud pop of flashlight shined in her face. 

Another journalist pushed to the front, “Mrs. Malfoy, what do you think about your son’s liaison with Auror Potter? Are they friends now?” 

More came. “Madame Malfoy, would you ever see your husband again?” 

“Do you plan on going to live with Draco?” 

Still in quite the shock at the Wizengamot’s decision, Narcissa felt the prickle of panic starting to needle between her shoulder blades. She avoided making eye contact, pushed through the best she could, and hastened to the nearest hearth. Auror Gallagher was more like a bodyguard than a bailiff, fanning out his long wingspan behind her to hold off the horde. 

With a quick thank, she disappeared in a roaring green flame. 

Dazed and aimless, Hermione let herself drift amidst the anxious waves of witches and wizards, carried all the way to the lobby and then a fireplace. 

Three years of house arrest, one for each year she knowingly fraternized with Death Eaters.

That’s it??? 

With the “dead time” she was awarded for being practically under house arrest pre-trial, Narcissa literally had only a few months left on her sentence! 

The surging bile in her gut added to the punch to her stomach that she had half the mind to heave up her breakfast. Then a hand steadied her. 

“Hermione, I didn’t mean to catch you off guar--” 

“Not now, Harry Potter.” She warned darkly, stepping into the grimy grate. The heavy layer of dust coating the bricks was the furthest thing from her mind. 

Chapter Text

It was nearly a week before she showed her face in the Leaky Cauldron. Not that she felt particularly keen on seeing Harry’s eager green eyes, she just needed a stiff drink after a gruelling day writing proposals and begging for funds at the Department of Magical Creature Protection and Welfare.  

Ginny found her first. “Hermione, hey!” She stood and hurried over, pulling her friend in a tight embrace. “I heard what my dumb husband did, how are you feeling?” 

“Gin,” Hermione smiled weakly. When everyone else would raise eyebrows at her strong convictions and stubborn streaks, as it was so unbecoming of a witch, Ginny always understood her. “Let’s not talk about it… I’m sure he felt like he didn’t have a choice.” 

“Yes, with that sodding big heart!” Ginny proclaimed. There was still a hint of fondness in her voice. 

Her friends’ loving marriage always made Hermione feel pleasantly warm. After everything the couple had been through, they deserved happiness. Hermione pulled back and rubbed the rising baby bump on Ginny’s belly, feeling immensely better already. “Come sit. You’re showing so much now! Tell me how you’re doing these days!” 

“Oof, don’t remind me. None of my pants can get zipped up, and I’m so gassy all the time.” The redhead wrinkled her nose. They burst into a gale of giggles. 

“Where is Harry anyways? Shouldn’t he be waiting on you hands and feet by now?” 

Ginny took a sip from her virgin Margarita and shrugged, “dunno, he mentioned some sort of missing person vaguely.” 

Her brows knitted together, “Missing person? How come there aren’t posters out?” 

“Not sure, maybe it’s still undetermined?” The young Auror rarely disclosed cases he worked on, forbidden by a few vows. By now, Ginny had learned to not ask. A quick scan around the pub, she perked up immediately at the sight of her husband making his way over. 

“Hi honey. Hey, Hermione.” Harry gave his wife a kiss, then sat next to them. He looked a bit disheveled, messy black hair windswept, resembling a bird nest. His tie was loose and his robes wrinkled. To both their relief, no tears or blood could be found on his person. 

Unable to tolerate lingering awkwardness, Harry spoke, “look, ’Mione, I’m really sorry about Narcissa Malfoy’s trial. I wish I’d given you a heads up, confidentiality be damned.” 

“It’s… fine. Don’t worry about it.” Hermione took a large gulp from her firewhiskey. The burn in her throat was much more welcome than the burn on her skin. Curious that the scar left by Bellatrix seemed sentient, acting up whenever memories of that night fluttered across her mind. 

“It’s also…okay, if you are not fine with it. We might come from different perspectives about her case… but I know that I can’t imagine the trauma you’ve gone through. And to see someone who was… involved on the night at the Malfoy Manor… I can see how it seems unjust to you.” He spoke gingerly, “So… if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” 

“Yes, we’re both here for you.” Ginny echoed. 

She regarded her friends, and thought about how Ron had never been such a sensitive and gentle soul, even when they were together. “Thanks, Harry, Gin, I appreciate it.” 

“There’s… something else.” 

Rolling her eyes at his hesitation, Hermione was secretly amused that despite the passage of time, he was always mildly intimidated by her bad mood. “Well? Out with it!” 

“Ok, ok. I heard Auror Gallagher say that Mrs Malfoy has been granted supervised outings. Nothing major, she could visit Draco’s residence, and a few shopping places in Diagon Alley.” 

It didn’t even surprise her, truth be told, that the pureblood matriarch could have pulled enough strings to get special treatment in whichever situation she found herself in. “Do you think that is wise?” 

Harry scratched his neck beard, “well… I don’t think we have anything to worry about. She hasn’t had any contact with her old running circles.” 

Ginny piped in, “With Lucius in Azkaban, and Draco away, I doubt she has the need to concoct evil machinations. Relax, ’Mione, she can’t hurt you. What can some old wallflower do that you can’t handle?” 

Hermione somehow doubted that Narcissa Malfoy was a mere wallflower. But she didn’t care to further this conversation. 

******

Somehow, the knowledge that she could just run into Narcissa Malfoy on the street didn’t inhibit her trips to Flourish and Blotts, or her near-daily visit to the Leaky Cauldron. Quite the contrary, she seemed to purposely stroll down the alley from one end to the other, pretending to browse the spring collection at Madam Malkin’s, or books she’d already read that were on display at the second hand book shop, all the while on high alert to her surroundings. 

Her head snapped to follow every fleeting sight of blonde hair, her eyes searched every pair of blue. They were never quite the right shade. 

A week turned into a month, and then some. Her nerves gradually settled as the weather turned mild and warmer. She laughed at herself. Chances of her catching Narcissa Malfoy doing something dodgy were infinitesimal - why was she so set on having a run-in with that cold, conceited woman? 

She would have been perfectly content with the boring stillness of her life. That was, until Ginny had dragged her along to raid Madame Malkin’s for maternity wear, then the sweets shop to satisfy her errant cravings. She sucked on a liquorice wand, watching mesmerized by the self-pulling taffy, while Ginny crossed items off her long list of baby things. Then, she heard her. 

Posh, very feminine, soft, but sounding inconvenienced by something. 

“Mr Gallagher, I couldn’t get everything on my list here. The court has granted me necessary trips to the apothecary for ingredients pertinent to my potions work, am I wrong?” The Malfoy matriarch, clad in mysterious dark robes, stepped on to the street. Her heels clicked crisply against the cobblestones. 

Hermione tuned out Ginny’s mumbling to listen more closely. 

“No, Mrs Malfoy,” Auror Gallagher followed closely behind, exiting Mr Mulpepper’s shop, and tugged at his tie nervously, “but you are to shop at Diagon Alley only.”

Narcissa glared at him indignantly, “what difference does it make? The one in Knockturn Alley is owned by the same person.” 

“There’s always Slug and Jiggers…” 

“No,” she refuted adamantly, “I simply cannot entertain the idea of procuring a single root that is not topnotch quality. My family has done business with Mr Mulpepper for decades, only his ingredients are trustworthy.” Without room for any more negotiation, she strode toward the fork way that turned into the dark art infested street. The Auror hurried after her in exasperation. 

Hermione stood so suddenly that she knocked over the hot chocolate on the table. 

“Hey!” Ginny snatched away her shopping list just in time. 

“Sorry, Gin, I just saw something I need to check out. Be right back!” She rushed onto the street, and quickly stalked to the twisted alley behind the two. 

Mr Mulpepper’s shop on Knockturn Alley was bigger than the location on Diagon Alley, probably due to the racks of barely-legal ingredients harvested somewhere obscure and capable of making some definitely not legal potions. The frog bone wind chimes clinked lowly when the door opened. 

Hermione ducked behind a tall shelf full of animal eyeballs, and peered over the top of some jars. There, she could observe as Narcissa spoke to the apprentice at the till. 

“Morning Nicolas,” Narcissa greeted the young man, “I owled earlier today for fourty flowers and twenty stems of aconite, four ounces of Black Quicksilver, and six jars of pickled myrrh, you know what type of brine.” 

“Mrs Malfoy!” The boy ducked behind the counter to pluck out a package, wrapped in wax paper and sealed with the shop’s logo. “I do apologize, we are short on aconite and… that kind of myrrh. This is all we have right now.” He shrunk under her gaze. 

Hermione quietly unsheathed her wand, an expelliarmus on her tongue. If Narcissa were to hex this poor boy, she’d make sure whatever leniency the court held for her would be promptly rescinded. 

“Well, that is definitely a disappointment.” Said Narcissa quietly. There was no anger, however, as she peered into the parcel, “but I appreciate you selling the last of everything to me. When is your next delivery?” 

“Next week, Monday.” 

“Wonderful. Would you kindly reserve the rest of my purchase? And have it arranged for pick up at the location on Diagon Alley? I’m not supposed to wander too far off course.” 

Auror Gallagher shot her a grateful look. 

“We could also express deliver to Malfoy Manor, ma’am.” 

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’d like an excuse for an outing, if that is okay with my supervising officer, that is.” She turned to the Auror who nodded like a chicken. “Fantastic, well, see you then.” 

With that, Narcissa scooped up the large brown paper bag. It was so full that a jar almost tipped over. Auror Gallagher immediately offered to help. 

“Don’t levitate that. Practical magic can ruin the properties of aconite.” 

So he painstakingly juggled the package in his arms. 

Psh, supervising officer? More like a glorified chauffeur. Hermione frowned in disdain. For one reason or another, people fell into Narcissa Malfoy’s orbit like insects to a Venus flytrap. She felt incredibly annoyed as the woman dropped a pouch of galleons with a heavy thud on the counter. 

When Gallagher pushed the door open for Narcissa, she glanced over her shoulder. Hermione wasn’t quick enough to duck. When icy blue eyes found Hermione’s brown eyes among jars of preserved eyeballs, the satisfied little smirk froze at the corner of those ruby red lips. A cold, unreadable expression took its place before she disappeared. 

******

Hermione was not quite sure what possessed her, but when Monday came around, she found herself reading a few pages of reports on werewolf sightings but not fully invested in her work. She couldn’t, not when she was perched in a window seat at the sweet shop again, “working from home”. She had a full view of the street outside, the Apothecary included. 

This is crazy , she mused to herself, but someone should make sure she isn’t up to something nefarious. 

With the amount of expensive, rare ingredients Narcissa had ordered, it was only logical that Hermione investigated exactly the reason behind her “potions work”. 

As expected, with a loud crack, two figures popped right in front of Mr Mulpepper’s Apothecary. The Auror surveilled the area for a few seconds, before escorting the witch into the shop. 

Hermione suppressed the urge to dash across the street. She paid for her hot cocoa, crossed the cobblestone road, and strolled in like any other customer. Concealing charms didn’t work in shops to prevent theft, so this time, a tall display shelf full of antlers served as her hiding place. She spied on the pair behind it. 

Narcissa was inquiring about the properties and shelf life of a few of her purchases, her brows knitted together lightly in concentration as she read the expiry dates on the bottles. Today, she had forgone the dark robes, and instead wore a velvet dress in a shade of signature Slytherin green. It was cinched tightly around her tiny waist, and clung like a second skin to her breasts and hips. 

Auror Gallagher, while keeping a straight face, stole glances at her figure every once in a while then quickly snapping his gaze up to check if she noticed. 

Hermione felt annoyance once again bubble in her chest - unsure whether at the witch’s seemingly oblivious allure or the wizard’s weakness of mind. She glared at the Auror, forcing his eyes away with the sheer power of will. 

“This is satisfactory. I would like to place an order in advance for next month.” Narcissa said. She dropped another pouch of galleons on the counter and announced, “may I take a look around…” she took notice of the young man’s name tag, “Marcus?” 

“Of course, Madame!” He blushed heavily at the attention. 

Hermione blanched as the blonde twirled around, approaching the displays she was hidden behind. Quickly maneuvering herself to the end of the aisle, she pretended to be invested in assessing unicorn horns. 

The clicking of heels slowed to a stop, and she keenly felt the pair of pale blue eyes rest on her. Gooseflesh broke out on her forearm. 

Hermione inhaled through her nose to compose herself, and put down the unicorn horn back to the box. She knew how flimsy of an excuse she had, that twice they’d “bumped into” each other in an apothecary in the span of a week was too much of a coincidence. Narcissa must know. She turned her head, bracing for an icy, accusatory, and demeaning glare. 

Except, the look on Narcissa’s face was not of indignation. It was more… curious and hesitant. 

“Miss Granger.” 

“Mrs Malfoy.” 

Locked in a moment stretched into an eternity, they regarded each other gingerly. Hermione couldn’t help but compare the woman who stood in front of her now to the woman who stood over her with a disgusted look on the night of her torture. The thought immediately brought on a searing pain on her scar. 

Narcissa must have noticed, her gaze falling to the younger witch’s robed arm. Her lips parted as if to say something, but not quite finding the words to form. 

“Good day.” Hermione couldn’t stand the prolonged silence, she backed away and turned to another aisle, heading for the exit. 

Once on the street, she was free to cast a notice-me-not charm, and retreated into the shadow of a big sign board. Not two minutes later, Narcissa came out of the shop, hands again empty because Gallagher was carrying all her parcels. She didn’t immediately take his arm for apparition, but searched left and right. 

******

Tuesday, she decided to head straight home after work. Just as she sat down with a novel and a glass of wine, she heard a light tap on her window. Hermione wasn’t expecting anything, her Quibbler already arrived yesterday. 

She tugged her window open, and in flew a great black owl. It dropped a small brown bag on her desk. Curiously, she undid the wrapper, revealing a large, pristine, top-quality looking unicorn horn. And a note, “Apologies for interrupting your shopping” , written in delicate cursive. 

Even without any signature, she knew who it was from. A bit shell shocked and annoyed, she flipped the note front and back. But there was nothing else to be detected. 

It clearly didn’t request payment, but Hermione wouldn’t allow herself to owe anything to Narcissa Malfoy. She counted out 21 galleons and approached the black owl. 

“Ouch! Hey!” It shrieked loudly, as if offended, and nipped at her hand. “Okay, you won’t take money, what do you want? Treats?” 

The owl blinked at her like she was dumb. So Hermione grabbed a handful of seeds her own little brown owl preferred, and offered it to the bird. It rooted around for a bit and picked one single seed out, but snapped its beak in complaint, then flapped its giant wings to fly away. 

“Oh, my owl treats aren’t good enough for you!? Spoiled beast!” Hermione huffed. Great, she got a unicorn horn that she had no use for, now what? 

******

The rest of April crawled by. In early May, Hermione attended a few customary parties commemorating the end of war. Otherwise, she was drowning in work. Papers and files consumed her desk and the unicorn horn ended up being a paperweight to hold down errant pages. The note, however, was lost underneath the messy piles. 

Whenever she visited Diagon Alley, she made sure to focus on her usual haunts, the bookstores, the Leaky Cauldron, the sweets shop. But as the calendar pages flew off, her faint apprehension returned. 

Would Narcissa come back for another pick up? The probability was high, since she indicated interest in another shipment. 

Her friends’ banters dragged her back to reality. In the pub, she browsed the leaflets of new plays and circled dates for book signing events. Ron and Lavender had joined their outings this evening. 

“’Mione, you been on any dates lately?” He asked, one arm wrapped around his now girlfriend. 

Hermione had to roll her eyes. Even though he had good intentions and was never malicious, he was quite tactless. “No, Ronald. I will make sure you’re the first to know if I do.” 

“Well,” he scratched his head, a little embarrassed by her sarcasm, “just wanted to see if you’d be down to go out with some lad from the department, ’s all.” 

Hermione wrinkled her nose, “no thanks. I’m stressed as it is, I wouldn’t want to constantly worry about what kind of danger my significant other is in at work. No offence, Lavender, Gin.” 

“None taken! We know they’re idiots.” Ginny laughed. “Speaking of danger, have you read the paper about those werewolf sightings last month? Wonder what’s going on now.” 

“Yeah! They haven’t been this active since Greyback’s pack got sent to Azkaban.” Ron mused. Then Lavender leaned in, speaking secretively, “you know, last full moon, Won-won and I were heading home and I had the strangest feeling, like someone was watching us. I turned around, but saw nobody, only the bushes were moving.” 

“That was just the wind, Lav.” Ron didn’t seem too concerned. 

“We heard howls in the distance, not two minutes after!” Lavender protested. 

Harry frowned, “well, make sure to report it if you’re sure it was a werewolf. It helps the department track their whereabouts.” 

“You reckon there’s a rogue wolf on the loose?” Hermione asked, closely looking at Harry’s face. He knew more than he was sharing, she could tell. 

“It’s not determined who the sightings were. The Ministry enforces registration more strictly now, but it’s harder to know when they’re transformed. Their magic signature gets wonky. And without an incident or an attack, the Auror’s Office can’t really interfere.” 

“What? I can’t believe my department hasn’t been informed of any of this. It’s outrageous! The Ministry can’t just make decisions without consulting those who their policies affect. You two from now on need to let me know every new rule concerning werewolves, they have been marginalized by the wizarding society for too long!” 

Harry gulped but nodded, while Ron waved his hand. “Ahhh! All this work talk is bringing me down. Let me get us another round. Gin, want a jar of gherkins?” 

It was Ginny’s newly developed cravings, so she looked at her brother with an affirming grin. 

“Ew, I love you Gin, but I might hurl if you are going to start crunching gherkin around me.” Hermione cringed jokingly, “seriously though, I should head home, early morning.” She went around and hugged her friends goodbye. 

The night air was damp and smelled faintly of spring blossoms. Most shops in the alley were closed for the night, but the bookstore was still brightly lit. Good ol’ Flourish and Blotts , Hermione smiled as she made a beeline towards the store, always in the mood to wind down with a new volume based on the adventures of Newt Scamander or retelling of Beedle the Bard fairytales. 

Inside, a few patrons milled about, baskets floating by their side to carry their purchases. Hermione breathed deeply, savouring the smells of parchment and ink, leather binds and cedar wood. Around books, she was so happy that she could burst into cheesy songs from Beauty and the Beast . Pulling a few legislature and history books for work-related research, she then promptly buried her nose in a novel, almost skipping her way to the till. 

Just turning a corner, she noticed another scent. Daffodil, dark and rich and woodsy, a bit like jasmine though not as sweet. This was when she realized a figure was approaching from the other side of the shelf, and by then, it was too late for her to veer out of the way. The person knocked into her shoulder, and the impact made them both stumble back. Her novel flew out of her hands and landed somewhere behind her. The other person didn’t fare much better, their basket of books also clattered to the ground. 

“I’m terribly sorry!” Hermione hurriedly bent over to pick up the mess. 

‘Potions for expecting parents: combating morning sickness, insomnia, back pain and more.’

‘Tending the bud, Madame Wu’s herbology for the trying trimesters.’ 

‘Magical traditions and sacred rituals for a blessed pregnancy.’ 

Merlin’s bald head! She did not just run over a pregnant person! In her peripheral vision, however, she saw them bend down with agility. Thank goodness no one was injured! 

“It’s quite alright, Miss Granger.” 

Merlin’s bulging bunions! She squeezed her eyes shut. It must be her luck then, out of anyone she could run into, she had run into Narcissa Malfoy, literally. Just as she had put this woman in the back of her mind for a few days, here she was, physically reminding her of her existence. 

What was Narcissa even doing here? Those pregnancy books… Hermione’s eyes snapped up, taking in the witch in front of her with burning intensity. 

The older witch looked her usual glamorous self, in a moss green corduroy pleated dress, decorated by a black leather belt and black buttons. Understated, elegant emerald jewelries rested against her earlobes and upper chest, contrasting her smooth, pale skin. Her blonde and black streaked hair was clipped in a half-up half-down style, and bangs fell a bit in her ice blue eyes. 

Did she always look this stunning? Was she glowing because she was with child? Who could the father be? Where was Auror Gallagher? Could they have been having an affair? He did look awfully enamoured with her…  

A million questions raced in her mind. 

Narcissa straightened herself up first, then levitated the books back into her basket. As if she could hear Hermione’s questions, muted amusement appeared in the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes. “I am shopping for Draco and Astoria, they just told me the good news.” 

Oh . That would make more sense . The weird anxiety in her stomach dissipated at this. “My congratulations to your family.” 

Narcissa nodded her thanks, but didn’t say anything, on her face the same searching look she had in the Apothecary. 

Hermione blurted out, “where is the Auror?” 

This made the witch clam up immediately. A glimmer of vexation froze over her previously open expression. “Auror Gallagher is no longer required to chaperone me as I had completed my home confinement, this past Saturday.” 

For someone who kept count of days as meticulously as Hermione, she really let this one slip right past. Embarrassment rose to her cheeks due to her faux pas, but any word to apologize or congratulate died on the tip of her tongue. 

“Good night, Miss Granger.” Narcissa brushed past her, taking away the world of warm flowery smells in her wake. 

Chapter Text

The days got longer and longer as summer approached. The wizarding London started to see more foot traffic in different pubs, stores, and attractions last till the late hours. 

One might enjoy the anonymity in the crowd. However, if anything, Narcissa felt more observed. No longer afforded the veil of darkness by the night sky, she had to catch the shop hours in broad daylight, or if she pushed it, at dusk. She tried to hold her head high, ignore the pointed glares witches and wizards sent her way, and mind her own business. But sometimes, it was just so bloody much. Even though from an early age she had learned to block out the incessant, fractured inner monologues of people close by, she was still aware of the emotions they held. 

Humiliating and demoralizing, never had she imagined this would be the reality some of her… stations would ever face. Was this how muggle-borns felt when the pureblood ideals ran rampant? No, much worse, it must have been. 

So she was determined to brave this reality. The alternative was to waste away, hidden in the shadows and live vicariously through Draco’s letters and visits. She had to try, re-integrate herself back into society. If not for herself, then for the faith Mr Potter put in her, she owed him at least that much. 

So she found herself painstakingly trying to strike up polite conversations with store owners, and a handful of fellow customers. They were at least pleasant, if not a bit intimidated by her reputation. 

She also started to notice the routine of a particular young witch. Hermione Granger was a predictable creature, popping in the Leaky Cauldron for a quick bite after work every day, and then loitering about the book shop before making the decision to splurge or just browse. Sometimes Ginevra Potter would be there to meet her, other times her Auror friends would also be present. Tonight only Mr Potter joined the women. 

At first, Narcissa felt certain that Hermione had been spying on her, to what end she could not discern. But after that bookshop run-in, she’d only spotted her from a distance. Their eyes met from time to time, and Hermione would look at her with a sort of… defiance that she heard much about from her son. So despite everything in her that cautioned “no”, she was still deeply intrigued. 

Another half hour in the baby section in Twilfitt and Tattings, she had found three cute infant outfits to send to Draco, and noticed a hollow pain in her stomach. Skipping lunch would do that to a person. Narcissa finally made up her mind to enter the Leaky Cauldron. 

It had been decades since she last visited, getting shit-faced and fooling around with her classmates before she was bound to Lucius Malfoy. The store from the outside looked almost exactly the same, dingy and grimy, so she really hoped the quality of their food had retained over the years. 

As she stepped in, and eyes fell on her, a hush descended over the crowd. She gulped, and weaved her way to a corner of the bar. A menu floated her way and landed in her lap. Finally, after she politely placed an order of pasta salad and a glass of Chardonnay, the rest of the pub had snapped out of the awkward silence. 

Even though she stuck out like a sore thumb, a lonely figure among groups of friends, her meal was satisfactory. The wine she paired with the salad was excellent as well. Just as she was about to order another glass and pick up the bill, someone slid into the barstool next to hers. 

“Narcissa, how are you?” 

She turned to look at the boy—a man now—with kind green eyes and messy hair. “I’m doing well, Mr Potter, thank you for asking.” 

“Please, call me Harry. Draco wrote me that he and Astoria are expecting. Congratulations!” 

At the mention of her son and his little family, she smiled, “yes, I am very happy for Draco. And… my congratulations to you too, I hear you are an expecting father yourself.” 

He nodded, “yes, I am so excited! Though we are both freaking out a bit.” 

“It’s completely natural to worry as new parents. Draco is the same, always owling me at odd hours in the night. Astoria had quite a rocky first trimester, and the second isn’t easing up either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Harry said, and casted a glance back. 

She followed his gaze, finding Ginny and Hermione sitting in the booth, largely obscured by a Chinese money tree. While the redhead had her back turned towards them, she locked eyes with Hermione over Ginny’s shoulder. 

“Actually,” Harry continued, “Draco did mention that you give great advice. He said no books could beat a mother’s experience.” 

The thought that her son and his schoolyard nemesis were commiserating on their nervousness for fatherhood was incredibly endearing. Narcissa shared a bit more, “yes, Draco was a very difficult pregnancy. I had all the unpleasant symptoms you could name. Thankfully I read up on potions to ease the discomfort and Severus brewed me draught after draught for nine months.” 

His eyes lit up, “well, do you think you could come over and talk with Ginny? I know she’s having heartburns and headaches, but she doesn’t want to tell everything to me or Molly, I reckon she thinks we’re too pestering.” 

“Um—”

“Please, Narcissa. It’ll do her good.” 

She didn’t have the heart to deny his earnestness. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” 

Harry beamed, and instructed the bartender to send Narcissa’s glass to his table. Then he led the witch through the pub, under many people’s surprised stare. 

“What took you so long?” Ginny turned her head up to greet her husband, and her eyes widened at the sight of the witch behind him. 

“Gin, Hermione, I invited Narcissa to sit with us for a while. She graciously agreed to share some pregnancy pointers with us.” 

Hermione’s eyebrow flew to her hairline at his use of the woman’s first name. She rose from her seat, ignored Narcissa, and dragged Harry by his robes sleeve. “A word, Harry.” 

Ginny blinked herself out of surprise, then gave the witch an awkward smile, “uh, please sit, Mrs Malfoy.” 

“I don’t want to impose.” Narcissa hesitated by the table. 

“It’s no imposition, really. They’re just retrieving our drinks, my husband the goldfish brained genius.” 

Meanwhile Hermione deposited Harry on the barstool where he sat talking to Narcissa, and whisper-screamed, “ what in the world do you think you’re doing!?” 

“I just want to help Ginny! You’re the one who kept looking at her all night, and mentioned that you saw her getting pregnancy books for Draco.” 

“That wasn’t an invitation for her to come over!” She threw her hands up in the air. 

Harry frowned, “what exactly is your problem with Narcissa? I thought you were mad at first because you believed she could pose a danger to society. But by now, she’d proven herself to be not a threat, don’t you think?” 

“I—” Hermione opened her mouth, but no argument came out. She hadn’t told her friends about her scar, and how it acted up when her thoughts drifted to the night she got it. In the immediate aftermath of the war, it hadn’t bothered her too much and she was determined to not give it any more attention. But over time, things had calmed down, so her indolent brain started to conjure up nightmares, and with it, a searing pain on her scar. While her friend had offered a listening ear, she had stubbornly kept her struggles to herself so it really wasn’t Harry’s fault for not knowing better.

“Just, give her a chance, please. Gin and I need all the help we could get.” 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut before exhaling long and hard. Fine, might as well call it exposure therapy. “You’re buying me drinks for a month.” 

They did return with drinks, and Narcissa’s glass of wine. Harry slid into the booth on Ginny’s side, which left Hermione to her side. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the younger witch lower herself gingerly and perch on the very edge of the booth. 

“So, Gin, why don’t you tell Narcissa what’s going on?” Harry promptly broke the silence. 

“Let me preface this, Mrs Potter, I’m not a mediwitch, so I’d rather you not rely on my advice in the case of anything serious.” 

“Her name is Ginny Weasley.” Hermione corrected. She had no patience for people who just assumed that Ginny would take her husband’s last name. 

It took Narcissa aback slightly, her posture stiffening. “Of course, I apologize.” 

Had it been a group of Slytherins, Narcissa mused, that would have triggered quite the snide verbal back-and-forth. But she truly realized that she was sitting with a table of Gryffindors when Ginny quickly recovered and moved on with the topic. “Never mind that, I’m waking at 4AM every morning and getting sick from all this bile! Ugh, it’s like someone spilled a jar of gherkin juice in my stomach - I’ve even quitted eating the damn thing!” 

Narcissa noticed a little squirm from the body next to her. Not a fan of pickled vegetables? “Well, heartburns and nausea are often quite common at your stage of the pregnancy. The baby is pushing everything up to your diaphragm, giving you indigestion and stomach upset.” 

“Did you get that too, with Draco?” 

“Indeed, it began at the end of my second trimester.” Narcissa remembered her tumultuous pregnancy with a sense of fondness and nostalgia. “I used a stomach calming draught, with liberal amounts of German chamomile and milk thistle. I could owl you the recipe?” 

“Merlin, please! That would be most helpful. My mom kept telling me to chew on licorice, helps a bit but it’s revolting!” Ginny said with a laugh.

The atmosphere soon relaxed into something, dare she say, pleasant. Ginny continued to explain to her how her body was changing and how it was making her feel. All quite ordinary and nothing of concern. Narcissa listened attentively while scanning the faces on the opposite side of the table. She could quite easily read Harry and Ginny’s emotions, content and relieved mostly, which made her very glad that she decided to join them. 

In this proximity, however, it was Hermione’s mind that she heard the loudest without meaning to. It was quite irregular, that she had trouble tuning out the whirr of someone’s thoughts. But this did provide her the opportunity to see whether her presence was wholly unwelcome. 

“Don’t think about scar… Safe now… Ginny pregnant… Heartburns… Gherkins… ew, no, not that… Narcissa pregnant… Draco… Git… less of a prick now…”  

Her mind was flitting between subjects, landing on nothing in particular. Narcissa wondered if the young woman always had such racing thoughts.

Ginny’s next inquiry, though, yanked her back into the physical. The redhead witch said a little deviously, “let me know if this is too much information, but were you this horny all the time?” 

Harry immediately went beet red in the face, and Hermione choked on her drink. 

The Narcissa from before would have gotten offended for propriety’s sake. However, with a few glasses of wine in her system and surrounded by an unusual circle, she was more amused than anything. “Well, Ms Weasley, if you must know, I was often too ill with other symptoms to experience heightened sexual urges. But I assure you, it is perfectly normal due to the hormonal irregularities when one’s pregnant. For that I can’t recommend a herbal solution, but may I suggest that you spend some quality time with your husband?” 

Ginny giggled, and complained, “would you just call me Ginny, you know far too much about me!” 

“As it pleases you, Ginny.” Narcissa rescinded, but her focus was entirely elsewhere. The thoughts she could hear in Hermione’s voice started to sound louder and more frantic. 

“Horny… Narcissa horny… sexual urges… damn it Ginny… Narcissa, attractive woman… what is wrong with me… attractive features… breasts… look soft… pale skin… smooth… dress nice colour… what perfume… smell good…” 

Well, this took an interesting turn. 

Hermione gathered condensation dripping down the side of her drink, and brought her hand to the back of her nape discreetly. The cold was a stark contrast to her burning skin, but it somewhat soothed her nerves. She wondered if her furious blush was noticeable in the dim lighting. 

She couldn’t believe the words out of Ginny’s big mouth. Now all she could think about was how sensual a woman Narcissa was. 

Of course, Hermione knew objectively that Narcissa was attractive, with her feminine looks, her impeccable fashion sense, and a youthful face that could pass for being in her early thirties. Wizards and witches would have made much more advances on her had it not been her family’s menacing presence or tarnished reputation. 

But knowing objectively was different from knowing viscerally . Sitting in close quarters, her eyes just happened to wander sometimes, the steady flow of alcohol in her system definitely not helping the matter.  

So it really wasn’t her fault that she noticed how Narcissa’s long, slender index finger would idly trace the rim of her wine glass. Or the movement in the column of her throat when she took a sip. The way her collarbones popped against the pale skin when she made certain gestures with her hands, and a hint of cleavage peeking through the neckline of her rather modest blouse. 

The worst—or the best, depended on how one viewed it—part of it, was her smell. Merlin, her rich, heady, flowery scent that was equal parts dangerous and inviting. As if Narcissa could sense her intoxication, she would frequently card her fingers through the silken strands of her black-streaked blond hair, sending warm waves that rushed Hermione’s head. 

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” Narcissa tilted her head inquisitively. 

Hermione nearly fell out of the booth, “ahem, yes, fine. It’s, uh, late. I should head back.” 

Harry nodded too, citing his early morning. 

“Very well. Thank you for the company, tonight has been most enlightening.” Narcissa said with a contained, mysterious grin. 

Hermione hummed noncommittally, said a quick bye to the rest of the table, and made her way to the Floo system. 

******

The tossing and turning eventually knitted into a restless sleep. Hermione kept waking up. Instead of being plagued by nightmares that left her bone-chilled, she felt hot and flushed all night, having to push her cover off or nudge Crookshanks away. It was getting ridiculous, truth be told, but she absolutely refused to give into the source of the heat. 

After two or three hours of shut-eye, a bright light hit her windowpane. She was startled awake by a loud bark. 

“What!?” Hermione sat up, disoriented. Rubbing her eyes until her vision cleared, she saw Ron’s patronus bounding at the end of her bed. “What’s going on?” She threw on her robes from yesterday, trying not to think too much about the ghost of Narcissa’s perfume lingering on its material. 

The patronus spoke in Ron’s voice, “Hermione, come quick, there had been an attack at Harry’s just now!” 

Instantly alert, Hermione accio ’d her pants and shoes, haphazardly tied her hair up, and dove into the hearth. “Harry Potter’s residence!” 

When green flames faded away, she was stepping into Harry’s living room. There were a few Aurors already pacing back and forth. 

“Over here, ’Mione!” She heard Ron call her, and pushed her way through the bodies milling about. On the sofa, she saw Harry holding an ice bag to his head, and his glasses sat askew on his nose. 

“Oh Merlin’s pants! Harry, are you alright? What happened?” She looked around, “where is Ginny!?” 

Ron said, “bloody hell, slow down, Hermione! They are both fine. Ginny is getting checked out by a mediwitch.” 

“But how? I just saw you two a few hours ago!” She knelt down beside him and repaired his glasses with a muttered reparo.

“Full moon,” The dark-haired wizard explained, “I heard a werewolf howl in the distance and I wanted to check out who was violating the isolation protocol.” 

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. The Ministry had always demanded werewolves to self-regulate, while not providing sufficient support for them to find housing, isolation areas, or potions. Their circumstances had hardly improved since the war, despite her department’s effort to introduce new bills. “Okay, I need to have a talk about that with Kingsley. And it attacked you?” 

“Yes, it saw me from a distance, and charged. I wanted to run away from the house, but Ginny came down to see what was happening. So we ran back into the house, then the wolf broke down our door.” 

She brought her hand to her mouth. The thought of her pregnant friend being in mortal peril was distressing to say the least. 

“Thankfully Ron was on duty, so I sent him a patronus. He showed up with those three,” he pointed his chin at the three Aurors who were taking inventory of the scratch marks, broken furniture, and fur in the room. 

“And no one is hurt? Scratched? Bitten?” Hermione nervously gave them a once-over each. 

They shook their heads. 

That slightly eased her anxiety. She slumped onto the carpet, and patted Harry’s pant leg, “I’m glad you’re okay. Did you find out who it was?” 

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it!” Ron exclaimed, and produced a mirror. It was a piece of a two-way mirror, similar to the one Sirius left to Harry. But the shard was broken more intentionally. In it, she could see a werewolf pacing in a highly enforced confinement. “It’s Logan Lisle. ’Member him?” 

“Logan Lisle… sounds familiar?” 

“Hufflepuff, two years behind us.” Harry supplemented. “He was turned by Greyback during the battle.” 

That jogged her memory of a 16 year-old with dark golden hair, freckles, and a meek face. The wolf now looked more like him, dark golden fur and specks of brown. “Logan wouldn’t purposefully hurt people. So it must be an accident that he wandered this close to a town.” 

“We can’t completely write it off as an isolated incident.” 

Hermione quirked a brow at Ron who sounded surprisingly professional. “How so?” 

“There were a few sightings in the previous full moons that matched his description. Now that I think about it, Lavender might have been right that it was a wolf that followed us home.”

“We’ll interview him at day break.” One of the Aurors came up and informed the trio. 

Hermione worriedly peered into the mirror again. Her heart clenched tightly for the poor young man who was going to wake up in a world of hurt. 

Chapter Text

At the first ray of daylight, the dark golden wolf shrunk into its form. Limbs and snout shortening, course fur disappearing, and gradually the nude body of a young man covered in bruises and abrasions emerged. 

They averted their eyes. One of the Aurors went inside to put a robe around Logan. 

Despite Hermione’s protest that they leave him to rest for at least a day, the Aurors were impatient to get the interrogation started. Harry decided to stay behind to make sure Ginny was alright.

“Fine, I’ll go with you then.” Hermione insisted, “he needs an advocate, and I don’t see he has a solicitor on file for him.” 

“He can’t afford one.” Ron said. 

“This is absurd. Muggles appoint a public defender for someone if they don’t have money to hire a lawyer. There’s so much we should learn from their judicial system.” She muttered, but took his arm and apparated to the undisclosed location where they held the boy. 

An Aurors was taking down his contact information. But Logan was so nervous that most of his words were intelligible.

It was all quite heartbreaking. Especially when he asked why he was detained, and the Auror told him what happened last night. 

“I… attacked Harry and Ginny? I— I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me! Are they okay? Please let them be okay!” He bawled, wiping snot and tears on his dirty arm. 

“So you have no recollection of the incident from last night?” 

Logan shook his head and cried some more. 

The Auror came out of the cell, and threw his hands up, “well, there’s nothing else for me to go off of.” 

Hermione suggested, “mind if I try?” 

He gave her a strange look, as if asking what business she had there. But with Ron’s vouching, he cocked his head toward the door, “knock yourself out.”  

She slipped in, and sat across the table from the long-limbed young man. Producing a wad of napkins, she let him gather himself. 

His eyes widened when he catch a glimpse at the exposed scar on her arm. 

It zapped her. She quickly rearranged her robe sleeve to cover it back up. “Logan, do you know who I am?”

“Her—Hermione Granger.” He said with a hiccup. 

“Yes, I’m Hermione. I work for the Department of Magical Creature Protection and Welfare, and I am here to see how I can help you. Now, could you answer a few of my questions?” 

Logan nodded, a bit star struck by her presence. 

“Great, so, tell me about yourself. Anything for me to get to know you.” 

So she learned that Logan Lisle was a pureblood wizard, from a long line of Hufflepuffs. Like Ron, his family was on the more frugal end of the scale. And they had never associated with fanatics or supremacists. However, frictions in the family arose when he was turned into a werewolf. While his mother wanted to keep supporting him with his lycanthropy treatment, the bills had stacked up too quickly. His father, a less understanding man, cut him off so that he would be “more motivated” to find a stable job. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that your family can’t support you financially. What have you been doing for the full moons?” 

“I… I signed up for this free wolfsbane potion list. A potion mistress brews me a batch each month.” 

“But, that’s not working as intended?” 

“I guess so…? I don’t know, the first few months on it had been great. I felt more lucid, and would turn back to my human body with fewer injuries. But then… something changed, and it all… went downhill.” 

She jotted down his confession. “Do you know who the potioneer is?” 

He blanched a little. “…I’m not s’posed to tell anyone.” 

“I’m not just anyone, Logan. You can trust me.” 

He deliberated in his own head for a long minute, and Hermione let him. Eventually, touched by her compassion, he murmured his secret. “It’s Madame Black.” 

“Madame Black?” 

“Yes, Narcissa Black.” 

Incredible rage rose in her chest. Why was Narcissa supplying impotent wolfsbane potion to a young man in desperate needs? “You mean Narcissa Malfoy.” 

“Um, the package owled to me each month says Black in the signature.” 

“Never mind that. Thanks for telling me, Logan. I’ll see to it that they don’t detain you illegally. Now, I've got to check on something.” Hermione stood abruptly, and bursted out of the interrogation cell. Her robes trailed after her, its flapping in the wind rivaling one hurrying Severus Snape. Ron knew when to duck out of her warpath when he saw it. 

“Where’s the exit of this compound?” She demanded the guard. 

“Not so fast, Miss Granger.” 

She whipped around, to see the trademark blue robes of the Minister. His expression was severe, but not enraged as she expected him to be. 

“Minister Shacklebolt, sir, there’s something you should know. Narcissa Malfoy—”

“I was aware of Mistress Black’s activities. It was me who sanctioned it.” 

“What!?” 

“She showed an aptitude for brewing particularly difficult potions using volatile ingredients since her school days. So after the trial, I recruited her to be a Ministry appointed potioneer.” Kingsley gestured to have her follow him into a meeting room. 

Inside, Harry, Ron and the three Aurors on duty were already waiting. 

Kingsley closed the door once they were all in, and casted a silencing charm. “I think you all heard Mister Lisle’s confession about his sourcing of the wolfsbane draught. Narcissa Black was appointed by me as a wolfsbane potioneer, which is not made public knowledge for several reasons. 

“One, I’m sure you understand, people have their misgivings due to her history of liaison with dark wizards and witches. It might be dangerous for her to be treating werewolves--let me finish.” He put his hand up when Hermione opened her mouth to add her two cents on exactly how dangerous it could be.  

“But I can assure you, all of Mistress Black’s potions are quality-controlled, and delivered to the recipient via Ministry courier. Each with a signed magical declaration of ingredient sourcing, brewing method, and intention.” From one of the million pockets in his robes, he pulled out a scrap of parchment paper that contained the official ministry order slip, and Narcissa's contract information. 

The meeting attendees passed it amongst themselves. 

“And two, her work is strictly charitable for youths and disadvantaged individuals. She refused payment or compensation for the ingredients. And since it is time consuming, skill-intensive and highly expensive to produce the wolfsbane draught, there is already a waitlist.” 

“How many werewolves are on her current list?” Harry asked.

“A dozen.” 

“Are you certain no one else is showing regression during full moons? All the sightings in the past few months, they had all been Logan?” 

This made the Minister hesitate. “That is inconclusive as of now. But any deficiency is not on Narcissa Black’s end. Like I said, every batch is tested before distribution.” 

Ron raised his hand, “so what do we do now?” 

“We place Logan Lisle under surveillance, and before the next full moon, take him into custody.” 

“You can’t just detain someone without probable cause.” Hermione pointed out.

“This is probable cause.” Kingsley’s voice darkened, leaving no room for negotiation. “And in the meantime, try not to play investigator, Ms Granger, let the Auror’s office handle things. Dismissed.” And with that, he strode into the nearest fireplace and disappeared in a woosh of green flames. The other three Aurors followed suit. 

The trio looked at each other in the ensuing silence. 

“Well…” Ron started, “I guess it’s out of our hands now.” 

That earned him a glare, “you can’t be serious! There is something suspicious going on and we need to figure it out for Logan’s sake.” She said with determination. 

“The Minister has made his position clear, Hermione. I don’t think it's a good idea for us to go against his wishes.” Harry reasoned. 

“He also said let the Aurors handle it. Well, aren’t you two Aurors?” 

“You know what he meant by that!”

“No, Ronald, do enlighten me.” 

Ron rubbed his brow in a more mature manner than she’d ever seen him. “He meant, drop the line of inquiry until he gives the next order on how to proceed. Hermione, the Auror’s office is under his direct supervision, he’s vouched for Malfoy so we shouldn’t interfere further.”

“I don’t care about your office politics,” Hermione disregarded his heeding, “I’m getting to the bottom of this.” 

Harry looked torn, “I… Ginny--” 

“Oh no, I’m not asking you to come with me. Go home to your wife. Just, if I’m not at the Leaky Cauldron tonight, report me missing and it’s Narcissa Malfoy.” With that, she grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and shouted, “Diagon Alley!” 

******

After getting spat out by the hearth, it was one apparition away from Malfoy Manor. She found herself spinning to a stop at the rusted iron gate. The main estate loomed in the short distance, and even under the crisp blue sky (she ignored how it was the perfect shade of cerulean for the eyes of the witch she was trying to find), the building appeared conceited and gloomy. 

It was in the sitting room of this house, where she often found herself in a loop of nightmares. Bellatrix’s cruel curse, blade parting flesh, her name echoing from the cellar, Narcissa’s disdainful look, passing out in pain, waking up to endure it all over again. 

The burning sensation started anew on her skin. So with practiced mindfulness, she took a few deep breaths and shifted her thoughts to focus on the questions surrounding Logan’s mysterious condition. 

Hermione stepped close to the gate, and pushed against the iron bar. It didn’t budge. Of course, why would it just admit anyone who sought entrance? She banged on it for another few seconds, but there was no movement. 

As she debated whether to wait till later in the evening to intercept its Mistress in Diagon Alley-a more public setting, a screeching noise like metal scraping on metal startled her out of her contemplation. Looking up to find its source, she stared with her mouth agape as one of the iron snake-head gargoyles stretched its wings and uncurled its body from the sitting position. 

It blinked, and Hermione could hear the shutter of its eyelids. “Sssstate your name and purposssse,” said the gargoyle. 

Amazed and disturbed by this magical feature, she had to roll her eyes at the dramatics. “My name is Hermione Granger, I’m here to see the Mistress of the estate, Narcissa Malfoy.” 

“EEEEKHSSSSS!” it shrieked and hissed, and slithered down the iron bar headfirst, and in a furious raspy voice, it spat, “Narssss-cisssssa Black, traitor to the Malfoy family! No longer livesss here! Cursssse her!” 

“I don’t… understand?” 

“Divorcssse. Broke ssssacred bond. Betrayed Masssster Malfoy… betrayed family!” 

So that was why Narcissa had been going by her maiden name, it dawned on Hermione. The witch had discarded her snake-head of a husband and broken their fabled pureblood marriage bond. Good riddance, she thought to herself, for once in approval of the older witch’s decision. 

“So where is she now?” She asked, though her hope for the gargoyle to disclose was not particularly high. 

To her surprise, it gave her a straight answer, “Ssssseventeen Grimmauld Placssse, where traitorssss belong.” 

17 Grimmauld Place? The Grimmauld Place block she knew of ended at number 16, but it figured that Black Holdings would invest in multiple invisible buildings in close proximity to each other. Typical purebloods, hoarding their wealth in unseen corners of the world. She wished Harry was more careful keeping an eye on the goings on around his inherited estate. 

“Leave now, and don’t ever come back…” It hissed once more, and spun onto its perch, turning back into a solid statue at last. 

“Gladly.” Hermione muttered under her breath, and apparated again with a better idea of where she was going. 

******

Narcissa woke at the first unreasonably loud horn on the street, signaling the start of London traffic. It was something she’d probably never get used to, the bustles of city life. Compared to the last few places she’d lived in, the Black estate, the Malfoy manor, the summer homes in the French Alps, and the winter holiday cottage in Greece, 17 Grimmauld Place was decidedly the humblest. 

It was purchased by Aunt Walburga as a babyshower gift to Bellatrix, which Bella subsequently abandoned when she miscarried, its ownership transferred to her as the closest living relative of both Bella and Walburga--not blasted off a damn tapestry, that is. It was also the only Black estate that didn’t contain painfully sweet memories of her childhood, tainted by Bellatrix’s descent into madness and her own betrayal to Andromeda. 

The House Elf who took care of the place found employment at a magical preparatory school. So she moved in by herself, and redecorated the whole of it. 

For a week, she worked hard, merging small bedrooms into one big office, tearing out the square windows and installing French doors to allow in natural lights, moving the awful kitchen from the basement to the ground floor, and remodelling the empty space into a well-equipped potions laboratory. Not to mention the magical family tree tapestry with mirroring charred holes as the one in 12 Grimmauld Place that Walburga painstakingly kept up-to-date, it had to go too. A layer of fresh cream colored paint, the space really lit up. What gave her a bit of twisted satisfaction was when she stowed away all the family portraits, Blacks and their spouses alike, in the attic. So Walburga and Druella, those two dreadful women, could scorn at each other, portrait to portrait, all day. 

It wasn’t much, but she delighted in the comfort of not being alone in a giant empty compound that her footsteps echoed. She could instead be alone in this small, cozy house, invisible to muggles while she could watch them go about their interesting little lives. 

The morning found her in a distracted mood. Narcissa went through the motions of bathing, making a cup of tea, whipping up some french toast, and sitting down at the sun-lit nook with some potion experiment notes in hand. Her mind was unquiet despite the utter silence. 

Last night was… unexpected, she thought back to the crowded pub. Being friendly with the young couple was definitely refreshing, for she had not been out with people in years, at least people who were kind and funny and open-minded. 

And although Miss Granger did not speak to her much, Narcissa was still glad that her presence did not bring up traumatic memories for the younger witch. And her thoughts, well, Narcissa would be lying if she didn’t find them quite thrilling. She cupped her hot tea between her palms and imagined the heat radiating off of the brunette. At one point she couldn’t help but play into her sensuality a bit, and the way Hermione got flustered was simply delectable. It had been so long since she’d felt an attraction towards herself that was not contaminated with malice or lewdness or intent to possess. 

A sudden tug on her perimeter ward jolted her out of the leisurely, inconsequential (had she been better at divination, she'd know it was not inconsequential in the least), mental stroll, her tea sloshed in the cup with a jerky movement. It was followed by a series of rapping on her door. 

This was highly irregular - no one except for Draco knew where she lived, but he would usually owl or use the Floo. And she certainly had not invited visitors as there weren’t any that she felt comfortable to have over. Narcissa wrapped herself tighter into her silk house robe. 

“Who is it?” She asked, inching gingerly to the entryway. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5. The interrogation (part 2)

“Who is it?” 

Hermione jumped slightly at the muffled voice coming from the other side of the door. It was Narcissa’s voice alright, only sounding somewhat raspy from disuse. She realised that it was just 9:30 in the morning, her hellishly early start was already distorting her perception of time. She called out, “it’s Hermione Granger.” 

The door cracked a bit, and Narcissa poked her head out, in much surprise. “Miss Granger?” 

“Can I come in?” She asked, but her tone left little room for refutation. 

The door fully swung open now, and the sight that greeted her had her freeze in her track as if hit by an immobulus . There stood Narcissa Black, clad in olive-green silk that dripped down her body smooth like oil. Casual, sinfully seductive and incredibly graceful. Her hair was down and tumbled over her left shoulder languidly. Her face was bare, devoid of the ruby lipstick she always wore like armour, which left her lips a light pink colour. And her eyes reflected the crisp cloudless sky. Under Hermione’s stare, she crossed her arms in front of her breasts a bit tighter, which made the subtle cleavage more apparent. 

“Miss Granger?” Narcissa spoke her name again, and turned her body slightly sideways, “I said you can come in.” 

“Oh! Right.” Hermione jogged up the few steps, feeling embarrassed for zoning out. 

The inside looked decidedly different from its neighbouring magical house, the layout, the furniture, even the air. Instead of dreary, rotting possessions that can be found littering every corner of 12 Grimmauld Place, everything here was bathed in a fashionably homey atmosphere. But she had no time to waste on appraising Narcissa’s interior design skills. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Narcissa had closed the door and turned to face her, standing in the hallway. 

Hermione just noticed that the blonde witch was barefoot. Without those impressive heels, the woman seemed to be an inch or two shorter than herself. The discovery strangely eased her nerves. Clearing her throat, she dove straight to the topic at hand, “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Can you tell me, what did you do to Logan Lisle?” 

A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. Narcissa shook her head, “I beg your pardon, Miss Granger.” 

“You’re the one who’s been supplying Logan’s wolfsbane potion.” Hermione stated. 

Narcissa paused, but recovered quickly. “That is not common knowledge. But you are correct.” 

“Well, you should know then that something went wrong. He was apprehended by the Aurors last night, after he went and attacked Harry and Ginny!” 

“Salazar!” She gasped, and asked keenly, “are they alright?” 

Hermione squinted at her, trying to decipher whether the reaction was genuine. “What do you care?” 

“Believe it or not, Miss Granger, I am fond of Harry and Ginny. Of course I am worried for their wellbeing. Although, I suspect that they came out unscathed, otherwise I wouldn’t suppose you’d be on my doorstep.” 

Pointedly neglecting her faultless deduction, the younger witch pressed on, “and what do you suppose happened to Logan?” 

“I don’t know the boy, Miss Granger, not personally.” She shook her head, still confused. “The only time I’ve interacted with him was during his health checks.” 

“How do I know it wasn’t you who altered something in his potion and inveigled him into attacking my friends?” 

“That is preposterous! Why would I want to attack someone who defended me during my most perilous hour?” Narcissa set her hands on her waist indignantly, but quickly remembered her state of wearing basically nothing underneath the robes. She crossed her arms again, a familiar haughtiness colouring her icy gaze. 

At this, Hermione choked lightly, and puffed up her chest to balance out the feeling of appearing stupid, “I don’t know? Maybe you’re still in contact with Voldemort’s shadow supporters, you spent all that money to support their cause, after all, why wouldn’t you want to see it through?” 

Ah, there it is . Her old crimes had deemed her irredeemable. Breathing in through her nose, the blonde witch schooled her expression into a calm one and softened her posture. “Miss Granger, I assure you there is no hidden agenda in my potions work, nor is there a secret dark cause with which I associate myself. I’ve learned from my mistakes. Now, would it ease your mind to inspect my laboratory?” 

“Lead the way.” Hermione squared her shoulders defiantly. Her bravado nearly faltered, though, as Narcissa came closer, brushing past her in the narrow hallway. She could smell her flowery scent, mixed with that of a lazy morning with piping hot tea and drying ink on parchment. 

She followed, albeit hesitantly, down the stairs to the basement. Fully expecting it to look like the drab, muggy potions classroom in Hogwarts, she was thoroughly amazed by the well-lit and modern-looking lab Narcissa led her into. 

There were cauldrons of various draughts bubbling and stirring themselves on burners, clocks running at different speeds keeping timers on them. Pestles were grinding busily in various granite mortars. A whole wall was decked full with rows and rows of potion books. The large desk taking up half of the room was covered in work orders with Ministry stamps on them. 

Most of the orders stated wolfsbane, detailing the patient’s name, age, height, weight, and other necessary information so its effect can be optimised. There were a few blood replenishing elixir and anti-paralysis draught orders in the midst. 

Hermione immediately went to work, taking down notes of the orders, and casting a revelio to see whether anything had been hastily hidden. To this, she heard the other witch scoff softly. 

“Miss Granger, I am not so obtuse as to use the most basic invisibility charms, had I really anything to hide.” 

She promptly ignored the prickle of heat at her nape, and proceeded to take careful stock of all the ingredients and draughts there were. Everything she’d seen Narcissa acquire at Mr Mulpepper’s was documented to be put to use in one thing or another. 

But there must be something amiss, anything, perhaps a curse used jointly to target Logan. Hermione contemplated the likelihood of a spell that could be imbued in potion and bypass the Ministry’s detection. 

With a clatter, she registered that Narcissa had put her wand on the desk, as if tempting her to test the theory. Fine, she would bite. 

“May I?” Hermione came near the desk and gestured at the polished, dark brown wand. 

“Be my guest.” Narcissa flicked her wrist nonchalantly. 

And it drove Hermione absolutely mad. Beside the initial indignation of her accusation, Narcissa had remained so bloody insouciant, complying to her every wish, even something as demeaning as having her wand inspected. At this point, she didn’t know if it was more important to reveal Narcissa’s evil scheme, or to simply get a rise out of this infernal woman. 

With said wand in hand, she felt its magic vibrate. 

“Ten inch, hawthorn, with dragon heartstring. Bought it from Ollivander’s after my house arrest.” Narcissa supplied. 

Hermione remembered that the blonde witch’s old wand was destroyed in Draco’s possession, by Vincent Crabbe’s Fiendfyre. Compared to the theatrical design on that one, this wand was much more simplistic. 

She wordlessly casted the charm that revealed any uncommon or self-designed spells. Orange runic letters floated from the tip of the wand into the air and stitched themselves together in strings of Latin. Even though some sounded foreign, they were all innocuous when deconstructed into affixes and roots. 

Autovolvebatio, she arrived at one burning brightly orange indicating its repeated use, in Latin, volvebatur is to vibrate, so this must be a self-vibration charm. It sounded familiar, too. Her mind started to piece together the memory of Gryffindor girl's dorm room, late at night, when innocent conversations turned suggestive, then raunchy. Under muffled giggles and whisper-shouts, someone had told her the use of a charm like this for a private activity. 

Godric Gryffindor’s sword! Hermione realised what it was and quickly banished the runes, but it was too late, because Narcissa’s eyes also widened with a realisation of her own. When she reached out to take - snatch, more like - back her wand, Hermione did not protest.  

Clearing her throat, which only made it more conspicuous, Hermione commented, “hawthorn wood is great for producing healing charms.” 

“I am well aware, Miss Granger.” Narcissa deadpanned, though a faint blush spread across her high cheekbones. 

In the awkward silence that ensued, Hermione forced herself to focus on the line of inquiry, disregarding the rising temperature within her own body. The hawthorn wand reminded her of Draco, whose wand was capable of doing so well for healing and transfiguration but was often misused in producing hexes and curses to his fellow students. She wondered if Draco had anything to do with the werewolf case, if he was pulling a fast one over the unsuspecting Hufflepuff, or worse, he knew what harm it could cause and still did it intentionally. If only she could find out how…

She was interrupted by Narcissa’s harsh tone, “I do not appreciate your accusation against my son!” Her expression became severe and distrustful. 

“You are reading my mind!” Hermione exclaimed. “Stop it right now!” she ordered, and with her best effort erected a mental wall against the intruder. Harry had taught her rudimentary Occlumency, much gentler than what he had experienced with Snape, but she still wasn’t in the habit of constantly guarding her thoughts which were surely racing a hundred miles an hour. 

Narcissa had the gall to roll her eyes, as if the flimsy block was an inconvenience to her. “It’s hardly mindreading when you’re practically screaming your thoughts.” 

“See? This is what I mean! How do you expect people to trust you when there’s always some kind of deceit?” 

“I registered myself with the Ministry as a natural Legilimens. It’s in my blood and I can’t always tune out the inner monologues of those in proximity. Don’t you find it a double-standard that you would assume the worst of one’s gift just because they are said to be a ‘dark witch’. As a matter of fact--” 

Hermione prepared to be well-chastised by whatever else Narcissa had to say, when the blonde witch cut herself off. In her crystal clear blue eyes, was a contained storm with the potentials of consuming everything whole. It was dangerous, but also so, so inviting. 

“That is beside the point. It was rude of you to barge in here and throw around unfounded allegations. I’ve only let it slide because I couldn’t care less what you think of me, but I must demand that you do not speak of Draco in such a manner. He’s long moved past your silly little schoolyard squabbles.” Her tone took on the protectiveness of a mother bear. 

“Silly little schoolyard squabbles? He called me a mudblood when we were 12!” At the mention of the slur, its marked counterpart on her skin seared victoriously. “He spent 6 years tormenting muggle-born children and carrying out dirty deeds for the snake face. Then he gets off scot-free and moves to France? What kind of privilege is that? What do you think that teaches him, that there’s no consequences to his own actions?” 

“No consequences?” Narcissa advanced on her, “He chose self-exile because he wanted to give people space to heal and move on, he left because he was agonised by his own conscience, and those who preach tolerance and peace are hypocrites who made him an outcast.” 

Hermione didn’t quite know at which point in their conversation she’d dismissed her posit that Draco was somehow involved. But she could feel their emotions being pushed to the precipice of something else entirely. And drowning in the furious blue gaze, she was too tempted by the leap to back down. 

“Well, maybe that’s why he has a personal vendetta. He delighted in making our lives miserable, always lurking about, always spiteful and incendiary. It wasn’t a secret that he had some twisted obsession with Harry.” 

And it worked, Narcissa had come face to face with her, their toes inches apart. The contained fury in the blue gaze bled into her features, her pink lips curled upward and pearly teeth bared to deliver a deadly bite. 

Hermione had never seen something so beautifully cruel. 

“Twisted obsession, you say.” Narcissa drawled darkly, “Well, one could say the same for you, darling .” 

Brown eyes blinked nervously, flitting momentarily to watch the words wrap themselves around a clever and venomous tongue. Hermione’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. 

“Oh yes, I heard it all, too. Your little obsession with me, you followed me, you thought about me, you think about me. Flattering as it has been, it’s getting quite old.” She batted her eyelashes mockingly, “if you aren’t going to do anything about it, Miss Granger, I advise you to refrain from watching me like that, lest other people misinterpret--” 

Her words were cut off by the forceful collision of their bodies. A surprised whimper never made it out of her throat as it was sealed by Hermione’s lips. 

The kiss was all teeth and tongue, messy, wet, and downright dirty . Hermione took hold of the slender waist and her fingertips dug into the silk, nails scratching lightly on the decorative lace patterns. The blonde felt heavenly soft and warm in her arms, vulnerable even. She sunk deeper into the desperate sucking and nipping. A hand came up to thread into curls at the back of her head, and yanked lightly. 

They broke apart, a string of saliva breaking obscenely in the new distance between them. Narcissa’s pink lips were kiss-swollen, her chest rose and fell rapidly to catch her breath, and the blue of her gaze was hazy, barely focusing. One hand rested indecisively against Hermione’s chest, but there was no real effort to push her away. 

“Say no.” Hermione croaked out, her hold loosening a smidge but not entirely. 

Despite the rational part of her brain screaming that this was perhaps the worst decision she could make in such a scenario, Narcissa casted away the last fibre of her sensibility. “Yes…” Her fist bunched around the material of Hermione’s robes, and leaned up to reconnect their lips again in a lustful, hard kiss. 

Then the floodgate broke completely. Hermione backed her up against an empty section of the desk, all the while letting her hands roam up and down Narcissa’s lovely curves. With a thud and a small cry, the blonde bumped the back of her thigh against the edge. But the pain was quickly forgotten when Hermione cupped her, then moved up to her arse and squeezed. 

The younger witch pushed till Narcissa was laid on the surface, leaned in and planted burning kisses along her jaw, then the spot under her ear, and then flashed her teeth on the column of her throat. The hand that wasn’t occupied with her arse was now palming her left breast. 

“Fuck…” Hermione cursed when she realised the blonde had no undergarments beneath the sleep robe. She easily pinched the pebbled nipple between her fingers and rolled. Narcissa let out a whine. It was so much stimulation that her jaw flexed and she tasted copper. She’d inadvertently drawn a few pearls of blood. 

Narcissa didn’t seem to mind. She arched into the strong body above her with more needy sighs. Blindly reaching out to anchor herself, her hand brushed Hermione’s forearm. 

The activated scar immediately welcomed the touch, sizzling. The brunette hissed and tore herself away. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling—” 

Not letting her finish, Hermione dragged her to sit up. The rumpled silk robe fell off one creamy shoulder and exposed Narcissa’s breast, capped with a stiff nipple and rosy areola. If she wasn’t in such a haste, she might have paused to admire the erotic view. But alas, she wanted to take in as much and as fast as she physically could. So she scooped the blonde off the desk and flipped her around, and pressed her chest into the half nude back. 

Hermione brushed the locks of black-streaked platinum blonde hair to the side and latched her mouth to the woman’s pulse point once more. Her hands sneaking to the front to massage the voluptuous breasts, weighing them and teasing the sensitive nipples. 

“Yes...” Narcissa tilted her head to grant her access, and mewled in approval. Her hips started to undulate uncontrollably, seeking any kind of friction that Hermione’s body could provide. 

The younger witch shared her impatience, undoing the belt that did a poor job holding the flimsy piece of garment together. The robe fell open in the front, and Hermione lamented the lack of a vantage point in this position. Regardless, she let her right hand trail down warm skin, caressing momentarily at the flexing abdomen, and then lower still to feel the coarse curls-covered mons. 

Narcissa’s grip on the edge of the desk became white-knuckled. “Please…” 

“Please what?” She nipped the shell of her ear. 

A violent quake raked her body. “Please touch me.” 

A plea she was only too happy to oblige. Her fingers parted those swollen lower lips and found a positively dripping wet mess. Hermione wondered exactly how long she’d been in this state and shivered at the thought that it was perhaps brought on before their kiss. Amidst the silken heat, unmistakable, was the little hardened nub that had its own heartbeat and begged for attention. She trapped it between her middle and ring fingers, rubbing it up and down in tight strokes. Almost immediately, the blonde started to tremble. 

“Cl-close.” Narcissa warned in a single broken word. 

No, this wouldn’t do. She quickly eased the pressure, and enjoyed hearing a disappointed whine. “Tsk.” She clicked her tongue and dipped her middle finger lower, first tracing light circles around the slick opening, then gliding in without a hint of resistance. 

Going boneless with need, elbows buckling, the blonde fell forward against the cool desk. It would’ve been mortifying, the way her innermost muscles fluttered so desperately around the slender digit, willing it to go deeper. Yet she couldn’t find a molecule of care, when finally a second finger entered her, and finally started to plunge in and out with purpose. “Hermione…” the young witch’s name fell from her lips in a moan. 

The pornographic sounds of skin slapping against wet skin, the smell of mingled arousal and perfume, and the velvety heat gripping her fingers assaulted her senses. She ached terribly. So she begrudgingly let go of Narcissa’s breast and tucked her hand into her own trousers to touch an equally sticky wreck. 

It was such a ridiculously vulgar image–Hermione thrusted into her left hand which was pressed firmly against Narcissa’s behind, while her right fucked the older witch with two fingers and the heel of her palm grinding into her clit. Neither had the capacity to ponder about propriety when they both hurtled towards their respective climax. 

Narcissa reached her peak first, her mouth twisting into a soundless cry. The unrelenting pressure that started at the joining of her thighs exploded, sending bursts after bursts of pleasure through her abdomen and spine and limbs. Hermione followed closely behind. In a second seemingly expanding to the size of a lifetime, her body tensed to the breaking point. Then the rush of orgasm mixed with pain descended upon her like tidal waves. She collapsed on top of Narcissa’s limp form.

Their laboured breaths mirrored one another, permeating the deafening silence. 

Then Hermione pushed herself up, wiped her hands on her pant leg, and stepped back. Narcissa straightened and clutched her ruined silk robe in an attempt to cover herself. She was fiercely ashamed for forgoing her self-control. It didn’t matter how much she wanted it, needed it , Narcissa had done something she shouldn’t. 

Panic filled Hermione’s chest as she witnessed the impassive mask slip back into place on the aristocratic face. In a matter of seconds, the pliant, vulnerable woman was gone. In her place, appeared a collected and inaccessible witch, despite her tattered clothes. It gave her whiplash so bad that she wanted to hurl. 

“I–I don’t know...” Words failed her. 

“I believe you’ve done enough for the day, Miss Granger.” Narcissa spoke coolly, as if not in the least affected by what had transpired just now, “feel free to show yourself out.” With that, she walked away and disappeared behind the spiralling staircase. 

Hermione stumbled up the stairs. She rushed out to the street in the middle of Muggle London, dazed and disoriented. The front door shut with a loud bang in her wake. What she didn’t notice, in her haste to find the nearest alley and disapparate, was Narcissa’s lonely figure in the window, hugging herself, conflicted blue eyes following the young witch till she couldn’t see her anymore. 

Chapter Text

“Madame Black, are you sure you’re alright?” 

The clerk was staring at her from behind the counter. More accurately, she was staring at the small mark on her neck. Once stripped bare of concealing charms by the anti-theft measures in the boutique store, a bruise surfaced, turning yellow in its final stage of healing. 

Narcissa brought her hand up to cover it, her breath taken away by the memory of how it came to be. “Yes, quite. Thank you.” 

Well, guess Rita Skeeter’s article was right. She sure moved on fast after Lucius Malfoy. Wonder who would want to get involved with her... old Death Eater perhaps? She heard the clerk think loudly and uncharitably. 

It so happened that the nuisance of a reporter caught wind of her divorce proceedings around the same week of Hermione’s visit. And the tabloid story spread like Fiendfyre on brocade curtains. She avoided going out for a few days, not wanting to risk more journalists lurking about. Either way, she cursed herself for not being careful. She’d disinfected the bite that broke skin, but had forgotten to heal it completely. 

No, forget was not the right word. Narcissa mused as her feet carried her out of the boutique, for once empty handed because her heart was not invested in shopping today. 

She didn’t forget. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, the hours spent on glancing at her reflection in the mirror. It should make her angry to see it. It should properly enrage her that the younger witch dared to mark her in a juvenile outburst, or that she had rendered her completely defenceless with fumbling hands and a harsh mouth. 

Yet, the kindle of fury always smothered itself in its infantile stage, never ablaze. 

At first, she thought it was guilt. The gnawing voice that she deserved to be loathed, because why wouldn’t Hermione hate her. From the younger witch’s perspective, Narcissa was a villain, Narcissa raised a prejudiced son that used to look down upon Muggles and Muggleborns, Narcissa called her scum when she was just an impressionable teenager, Narcissa stood by and watched her brutalization. 

But the longer she stared into her own eyes, recognizing the intense loneliness that had taken residence over the last two decades, the clearer it became. 

She couldn’t be angry because she’d let it happen. She encouraged it and she enjoyed it. Because it felt good to be taken raw and unbidden by an enthusiastic, albeit ruthless, lover. Because she got a taste of the kind of passion that she always craved and knew she could not have. Because despite the complicated feelings Hermione held towards her, and vice versa, their physical attraction was direct. When most people kept her at arm’s length, Hermione had touched her like she wasn’t untouchable. 

Her body had been put on stasis for so long that she thought all desires for another’s touch had eluded her, and that a few minutes late at night on her own would suffice. But Merlin, was she wrong. Once awakened by the intoxicating high, the fire threatened to incinerate her from within. 

Still, she detested other people putting their noses in her personal matters. Narcissa vowed to never return to the same boutique. 

However, despite changing up her shopping routines, her passion for luxury was nowhere to be found, her sense for the latest fashion trend felt dull, and her chest filled with an antsy feeling that she dared not meditate on any further. She came home the next week from the shopping strip, again, empty handed. 

Narcissa returned to her house, latched the front door and rested her head against the elm wood. A tiny shadow fluttered across the ceiling, light claws landed on her shoulder, and the small tawny owl nudged her with its curved beak. 

“Hello, sweetheart. What have you got there for me?” 

A letter attached to its leg. She untied it and rolled it out. 

Madame Black, as requested by concerned parties, please disregard the original work order of your experimental wolfsbane potion and instead use the standard formula for Mr Logan Lisle. Miss Hermione Granger had been adamant as Mr Lisle’s representative that a sample goes to her for additional inspection. Please attach the product to Miss Granger’s personal owl at your earliest convenience. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic. 

“My, my,” Narcissa felt the yarn ball of anxiety unravel by a thread, and the reassuring and comforting sense of control slipped back into her chest like a well-worn armour. She shared a look with the little bird, “how tenacious.” 

******

Rare were the cases where her strong will did not yield results, and this time she was proven victorious once again. Hermione had sighed in relief when the Minister finally gave her some leverage in Logan Lisle’s case. 

In the immediate aftermath of her… indiscretion with Narcissa Malfoy, no, Black , she had locked herself away in her apartment. Scenes of their messy affair playing over and over in her head, every minute detail inflated into a movie behind her closed eyelids. 

And it hurt, too, as she desperately tried to block out the icy, haughty look Narcissa gave her before they parted. The same eyes that had witnessed her trauma, the same lips that pulled into a stiff thin line, the same silence that sounded louder than Bellatrix’s deranged screams. 

It wasn’t until Harry and Ron showed up banging on her door, that she remembered they were supposed to meet at the Leaky Cauldron that night. 

They regarded her with strange, curious expressions that said they didn’t really understand what had happened but also had suspicions perhaps way too close to the truth. 

To distract them, and her own self-destructive mind, she produced the list of potion recipients on Narcissa’s work orders. 

They made plans to split up and interview each one, to get a better idea of the story. 

Werewolves weren’t easy to find. They lived in secluded, desolate parts of countrysides or deep in the woods, shunned by the mainstream populations. So it took nearly two weeks to find everyone and take their statements. After the final interview, they compared notes. 

The story was more or less the same. They registered with the Ministry and were referred to Narcissa Black’s charity work. Met with her for an initial assessment, got samples taken, and sent on their way. After that, one week before every full moon, they received a batch of quality wolfsbane potion. Every few months, they were requested to go in and give another sample. That was that. 

When asked about their interaction with the potion mistress, they said she was “professional, a bit stuck-up, but not unpleasant”. 

“So there had been no incidents during transformation? Any black-outs, memory loss? Or more injuries than usual?” Hermione had made sure to ask. 

“No, ma’am. Matter o’ fact, I’ve ne’er been so level-’eaded. Mistress Black been givin’ me the top-shelf stuff, I reckon.” An older werewolf sang praises of the potion, a sentiment echoed in other interviews. 

“And what’s the motive for her to do this, if you would take a guess?” 

“Dunno,” the old man said, “she prolly thunk us outcasts outta band toge’er, ya know?” 

Another werewolf mused, “maybe she’s lonely. Can’t imagine your world is ready to welcome her back with open arms. We know what it’s like to be on the outskirts of society.” 

“I think she just wants to help. She said one day there could be a cure for us.” A teenager supplied optimistically. Her mom wiped at the corner of her eyes when she said the young werewolf could even go to school now like a normal kid. 

She thanked them, promised to not out their secret arrangement, and camped out the Minister’s office. 

He at first had been indifferent, then quickly turned into annoyed. “Miss Granger, I don’t know what you want from me. The werewolves are doing well on Miss Black’s draught and no evidence suggests they are being recruited for a dark cause, you said it yourself.” 

“Yes, but there’s a common thread here. They’re doing better .” 

“I fail to see how that is a crime.” 

“Well, obviously Narcissa Black is experimenting on the potion, on the werewolves! Does she have the credentials to do so? Is someone overseeing the process?” 

“Miss Granger, again, Madame Black is more than qualified and I am not going to blacklist her work because you have a theory.” He waved her off, trying to head to the elevator. 

She firmly blocked his path. “Then at least request she stops giving the experimental potion to Logan. It’s possible that he’s having an adverse effect from it. Isn’t it most reasonable to put a stop to whatever is causing harm!?” 

His conviction wavered, and she saw it in the twitch of his mouth. So she hunkered down harder, “as Logan’s legal advocate, I insist that he goes back on standard wolfsbane draught. And I will personally inspect his supply. There won’t be extra work for your chemists.” 

“Fine. Just--” he relented, and grabbed a scrap of parchment from a pocket and scribbled down the note, “here, send it if you want. I don’t have time to hear more of this.”  

******

She had been a ball of nerves after sending Winston to Narcissa’s residence. Knowing it would take a few hours for his travel back and forth, she still obsessively checked her window for any sign of her owl’s return. 

Why did she insist on taking up the one task that would put her in direct contact with Narcissa Black again? Not to mention, her own expertise certainly did not lie with potions work. 

“I heard it all, too. Your little obsession with me, you followed me, you thought about me, you think about me.”

The witch’s lazy, taunting voice rang in her head. 

What a twisted obsession this was… Her suspicion and distrust had grown into fascination, and then blown into a primal kind of lust at the knowledge of how Narcissa’s skin tasted. 

At this spiralling thought, Hermione shuddered. 

But it was a one time thing, right? Get it out of her system and never to be thought about again. 

Finally, painfully, after a whole day of waiting, the small bird screeched outside her window and she all but jumped to let Winston in. As she so requested, there was a vial of thick dark liquid in the pouch attached to Winston. She carefully plucked it out and regarded the potion. 

Neville would be able to tell if it was tampered with, but he was on an expedition to Tibet for a rare Himalayan plant. Andromeda was her next best option, a healer and brewer who worked at St Mungo’s until she had to watch her grandson full-time. She had been meaning to visit her and Teddy anyways. 

With a pinch of Floo powder, Hermione stepped into her fireplace and stated “Andromeda Tonks’ residence.” 

Her sudden appearance gave the witch quite a start, as she was lounging on the armchair in front of the hearth, waving her wand at a pair of knitting needles. 

“Merlin’s bal—balloons! You scared the wits out of me Hermione!” 

“Sorry, Andy!” Hermione bit back a laugh at the older witch’s dramatic exclamation. And right away she heard excited little footsteps fast approaching. “Oof!” A small body slammed into her open arms, knocking the wind out of her. 

“Mione!!!” A little boy with puffy hair greeted her. 

“Hi Teddy!” She picked him up and swung him around. His hair rapidly turned from blue to orange and green and purple. Finally, it settled on neon pink. “Ooh I love this colour on you!” 

Teddy grinned widely, “present!” He noticed the pouch she was holding and made a grab for it. 

“No, no, Teddy, I’m afraid this isn’t for you.” She held it out of his reach and looked to his grandmother for assistance. 

Andy shook her head fondly and accio ’d the pouch from Hermione, as her grandson was quite uneasy to shake off once he attached himself to someone. “I assume your spontaneous visit has something to do with this?” 

Hermione scooped Teddy up and he busied himself with the Ministry employee badge pinned on her robes. “Erm, yes. I was hoping you could help me detect the properties of this product.” 

The older witch peered into the pouch and retrieved the vial. She unscrewed the top, taking a long sniff from the blue fume. “Oh Merlin, wolfsbane, quite a potent one at that. Let me get a flask and a burner.” With a flick of her wrist, the knitting paused. 

Hermione watched as Andy rooted around her crammed cabinets, carefully fetching some glassware from her enormous collection of dishes. Teddy wiggled out of her hold to observe. 

Andy put the content of the vial into a small flask, and lit the burner. She twirled her wand at the shallow liquid, whisking it to spin faster and faster. Hermione found it rather intriguing that this technique resembled a Muggle centrifuge. 

Once layers separated from the potion, Andy used droppers to suck up the distinct components. After inspecting them each for purity and quality, she concluded, “the draught is going to make one very tame wolf during the full moon. My question is, Hermione, why did you ask me to check my sister’s handiwork?” 

Shit . She didn’t take into consideration that there was a complicated history between the sisters when she made the impulsive decision to ask for Andy’s help. “I’m so sorry, Andy. I didn’t realise you could also tell who the brewer was, it was just… a case involving a werewolf and I just… I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” 

A few emotions flickered across Andy’s face, there was confusion, worry, but eventually, they all quieted and fused into a gentle smile.

Despite the resemblance with Bellatrix in her features, Hermione knew this was why she always felt so at ease with Andromeda. 

“I’m not upset at you, dear. It’s not your fault that after two decades of not talking, I could still pick up her magical signature in a heartbeat. Besides, how premium the ingredients are also confirmed it for me. Cissy never cared for impurities in her concoctions.” Andy put the vial back into the pouch, “I want you to know, I’ve made my peace with her, long ago. She was put in an impossible position. Do I wish she’d reach out so we could make up for the lost time? Yes. However, I don’t want to force her to do something when she isn’t ready. Cissy is more stubborn than her bloody hawk-owl. Now, I don’t know what sort of arrangement you have going on with my sister, but I hope she’s not in some kind of trouble.” 

Hermione nearly choked on her own spit when she heard the word “arrangement”. 

Andy squinted her eyes but did not comment. Her brows did, though, pinch together in a small frown when she felt about in the pouch. “It seems like there is a note in here for you as well, Hermione.” 

It was folded into such a tiny square that she’d completely overlooked it. Hermione took back both the pouch and the note. Gingerly, she unfurled the piece of parchment and floated it in the air at her eye level. Teddy stood on his tiptoes but couldn’t see anything. It hardly mattered since he hadn’t started reading, nevertheless, Andy beckoned him to her because it was good manners to not peek at other people’s letters. 

In the posh cursive handwriting that perfectly matched Narcissa’s demeanour, it read: 

Miss Granger, 

Please find a sample of standard wolfsbane potion. I am afraid I cannot send the whole cauldron as it would be impossible for your owl to carry. The rest is sent to the Ministry pharmacy. Hope it gives you a headstart on your investigation. 

I realise that I have not fully explained the advancements made in my potions work. If that casts doubts on my intentions to assist Mr Lisle in his recovery, I apologise. Should you desire to further discuss this subject, you may visit again. 

Narcissa Black 

In merely two paragraphs, Hermione felt like she’d been reduced to a bumbling buffoon. Heat rose to her cheeks and her heart pounded violently in her chest. 

“Well?” Andy was looking at her expectantly. 

Hermione forced the rush of memories away from the forefront of her mind and cleared her throat. “Don’t tell anyone, it’s supposed to be kept hush-hush. There was a case of a young werewolf attacking humans, and your sister has been working with them.” 

“Narcissa is helping your investigation?”

“It’s more so to rule her out as a suspect who tampered with the potion.” 

At this, Andy let out a cackle, “you accused her of a serious crime, got away with it, and she is still complying? Dear, dear, Hermione, what have you done to Cissy.” 

“Nothing!” Aside from completely ravaging her body in a heat-of-the-moment affair . Hermione tucked the note into her pocket, as if the act could negate its effect on her. “Andy, thank you so much, I owe you hugely for this. I really should get going, though, cases to represent and all.” 

“Well, if you plan on paying me back, babysit Teddy for a weekend then.” Andy gave her a grin that said despite her generosity, she was still a Slytherin. 

Kissing the little boy goodbye on the cheek, Hermione nodded with a smile, “of course, just let me know when! See you soon, Teddy. Bye Andy.” With that, she stepped into the grate, disappeared with the green flames. 

******

Madame Black, 

I appreciate your cooperation on this matter. The draught was verified - forgive my over-caution. 

It would be most enlightening to hear about the advancements you mentioned. If it is amenable to you, I could drop by after this full moon. 

Hermione Granger 

******

Miss Granger, 

That is acceptable. I will see you Wednesday the 7th at 6pm.  

NB

Chapter Text

The week before the full moon flew by in a blur of motions. Hermione made arrangements with the Auror’s office to secure an area with perimeter spells for Logan, and stopped by his residence to personally deliver the potion. 

The Auror who was surveilling him informed her that he “just comes and goes” during the day. It made her fume at the complete uselessness of his post. 

Logan answered the door and let her in cordially. But when he was told about the change in his potions order, a flicker of anger rose to his eyes. “Why am I taking the regular draught? I want to be on the advanced trial. It was helping me.” 

“Logan, we – I think your episode might be an adverse effect from the altered wolfsbane. Before we understand what is causing it, it’s best for you to – ”

“ You thought? But you are not a chemist. Narcissa Black is the expert here. How does a mudblood like you know what’s best for me?” The instant the word fell out, Logan slapped his hand over his mouth. 

But Hermione heard him loud and clear, and the shock did not put a stop to the immediate searing on her forearm. 

“ Helga’s hats! I am so sorry, Miss Granger. I don’t know what came over me! It’s never happened before, I swear! Are you okay? Can I…help? I’m terribly, terribly sorry!” Logan nearly keeled over, apologising earnestly. 

She held up her hand and he shut up right away. A few composing breaths later, the pain dulled to a forgettable ache. “It’s fine, Logan. While I don’t appreciate you calling me that word, I understand this is a stressful situation for you. But it is only a temporary measure, I am working with many parties to ensure safety for you and the general public. Once we can ascertain the cause is not the potion from the advanced trial, you can resume your place in it.” 

He hung his head low in shame for the rest of their meeting, then followed the Auror to his isolation area without any protest. 

How strange, Hermione watched on a two-way mirror when they arrived at the secluded forest. In his moment of uncharacteristic slip, Logan’s face looked hollow and old. She could swear his eyes had turned black, instead of their natural baby blue colour. 

She waited, antsy and worried for a week, and all night of the full moon. 

It all came to an anticlimactic end, nothing happened. The wolf slept through his transformation. 

******

Wednesday after the full moon, she was keenly aware that the calendar marked her meeting with Narcissa. At 5PM, she exited her office and Floo’d home. For half an hour, she contemplated whether she would show up in her everyday work clothes - dark wash jeans, white blouse that grew more wrinkly throughout the day, and the grey Ministry robes. It felt a bit… beneath the situation. But she also didn’t want to change into anything flashy, there was nothing more pitiful than the look of trying too hard. 

What was she trying hard for in the first place? Hermione didn’t let the thought linger. Finally, as the clock hand fast approached the time she needed to leave, she settled on a black jumpsuit with a maroon blazer and a pair of kitten heels - something she’d wear to a work meeting in the Muggle world, sharp, fitted, professional . 

As soon as she left her apartment building, she felt silly. She went back in and ditched the blazer and folded her robes on one arm. Now this was something she would wear to work and didn’t make her look like a careless slob. 

There was no Floo network near the Grimmauld Place, and the evening air was soothing on her face. So Hermione strolled the streets of Muggle London. 

She passed a few pedestrians, who gave the robes in her hand curious looks but not breach of Statute of Secrecy level of seriousness. Her heels clicked on the pavement rhythmically, it soon became the only sound in the quiet little neighbourhood. 

But there was an ill feeling that she was being watched. Slight pins and needles at the back of her neck. Hermione whipped her head around, only to find idle rustling of plants hanging out of window pots. She shook her head at her paranoia. Paranoia, it must be – the encounter with Logan calling her the dreadful slur weighed heavily on her mind all week, and she was more on edge than usual. 

Her scar zapped periodically. 

She hurried, trying to outrun the creeping apprehension. With a sharp turn, she all but jogged to the end of the cul-de-sac. The magical house was visible to her, shimmering with wards that repelled Muggles and unsuspecting passersby. 

Before Hermione could raise her fist to knock, the door slid ajar in a silent welcome. She slowly climbed the steps, and peered into the hallway. Narcissa was descending from the upper level. 

Their eyes met, and she drank in the sight. 

Obviously, the blonde witch knew of her arrival and prepared accordingly, and she definitely wanted Hermione to be aware of this fact. Her hair was coiffed in its usual way, black strands pulled into a twist while blonde tresses fell around her shoulders. She wore dark red lipstick, and had applied powder and blush to her cheeks. However, in contrast to her usual elaborate and frilly outfits she was obligated to wear to reflect her wealth and status, Narcissa chose garments that were, well, dare she say, practical. Her blue blouse had sheer sleeves, and was matched by cream-coloured pencil skirt, nude pantyhose, and a pair of heels that she handled with poise. 

Hermione’s mind still conjured up images of the woman clad scarcely in silk, which was torn so easily to reveal creamy skin… No , she scorned herself, be professional. She banished the flashback and focused on reinforcing her Occlumency shield. 

At her effort, Narcissa felt her tight nerves loosen. She even cocked an eyebrow in amusement, “the Leaky Cauldron’s weekly special… very detailed, albeit a little obvious, don’t you think?” 

Hermione gave a one-shoulder shrug, “sometimes people need an overt reminder.” 

Narcissa hummed, then turned into a room, beckoning the younger witch. “Do come in, Miss Granger. I’m afraid I haven’t the ingredients for a specialty cocktail, tea and biscuit?” 

“Yes, tea would be great.” She followed, the door latched behind her with a click. She found herself in a home office. A set of French doors from ceiling to floor let in the soft dusk light. Tall bookshelves with glass casings lined the two sides of the room, fully stacked with ancient tomes, notebooks, and scrolls. There was a large oak desk in the middle of the room, on it, notes and post-its and scratch papers strewn about in an organised chaos. 

Immediately, Hermione felt a homey sense of joy once she took in her surroundings. Books, limited editions, elusive authors, highly specialised fields, more than she could buy from any public facing store, made her heart sing. 

Narcissa was content to let her explore. She was, too, prideful of the collection she’d personally acquired over the years, albeit it can hardly hold a candle to the Black Library. The glee in the brunette’s mind was louder than any Occlumency barrier she conjured, and that made her suppress a smile. 

“This copy of the Magical Properties of the Marshes is extremely rare.” With her nose almost pressed to the spine of a tome, Hermione breathed in disbelief. 

“The witch who translated it from Ancient Gaelic was a family friend.” Narcissa commented. 

“Not Fiona Fitheach?” 

“The very one.” Feeling slightly smug to see Hermione’s jaw drop, Narcissa gestured at the armchair for her to sit in, but leaned against the desk herself. Once situated, she wordlessly twirled her wand. Two cups on saucers came flying, then jars of cream and sugar, a pot of tea, and a plate of assorted biscuits. 

“I presume that there were no other irregularities this past moon?” She poured tea for them both, and nodded toward the sugar and cream. 

A bit surprised at how straight to the point Narcissa was, Hermione answered, “yes, it was quite ordinary. The potion put him to sleep for the whole night. The Aurors sent him back home the next morning and they plan to keep tabs on him for another few months. But everything is looking normal.” She tipped a dash of cream and a generous spoonful of sugar in her tea. Her cheeks pinked when Narcissa observed her take a sip of the tea, and couldn’t resist putting another pinch of sugar in. 

“I wouldn’t call that ordinary.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

Narcissa pondered, and Hermione discovered that she fidgeted by arranging little things around her hand. The biscuits on the plate were sorted by shape and colour into a circle. “The potion is meant to preserve humanity and give clarity. While it does make the wolf drowsy, it is not a strong sedative. You should remember your professor, Remus Lupin. He wouldn’t have shown up to class in such a tattered state if he could simply sleep it off.” 

“Could it be a withdrawal symptom from the stronger potion he’s been getting? He was upset that I proposed the change.” 

“Doubtful,” she picked up a notebook and leafed through the pages, “all changes I made to the wolfsbane draught are moderate at best. Unprovoked aggression, memory loss, and withdrawal to this extent are counterintuitive. I have not heard such complaints from any other patient.” 

“How exactly is your recipe different?” Hermione asked. When the blonde hesitated to answer, she put her hands up in the air, “only professional curiosity. It’s not like I’m going to steal your patent and open up a business myself.” 

At this, Narcissa chuckled. 

And it was such a deep, rich sound, it made Hermione’s spine tingle. 

“Very well. This is the most recent formula, in which I have likely maximised the dosage of black quicksilver. A touch more than, is potentially lethal.” The older witch plucked out a piece of parchment and passed it to Hermione. It clearly underwent several revisions, ink blots and notations littered the list. 

“Per 5 stones of weight: Aconite, 3 flowers and 1 stem (1.25 if root is broken off). Pulverised black quicksilver, 8.5 8.7 grams. 2 pods of moonwort seeds, finely crushed. 5 cubes of myrrh, pickled in carrow spider ichor, ground and heated to a honey consistency. Essence of ashwagandha root, peeled and steeped in Chinese bullfrog blood, 6ml…” She studied the ingredients and compared her own notes on the standard potion. “What’s this? Dimercaprol, prepared in arachis oil,12mg?” 

“It is an artificial chemical compound, developed by Muggles during the second World War.” At the widened brown eyes, Narcissa continued, “I admit it is unconventional. But black quicksilver is the single most effective wolf deterrent. Even for an altered anatomy such as a werewolf’s, the heavy metal is still very harmful. It is why its overuse could lead to poison of the human body and death. Dimercaprol is a clever invention, it is a metal chelating agent.”

“That’s how you maximise the dosage of quicksilver!” Hermione raced to finish for her. 

“Indeed, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor.” 

The gentle gibe did not put her off. Quite the opposite, it prompted her to ask more questions. “And the ashwagandha? I’ve not seen it used in wolfsbane potion, but due to its properties, are you using it to enhance the person’s consciousness during transformation?” 

“Right again.” There was a full smile on the ruby lips now. 

“None of the ingredients should produce reactions like his, even taking into account the chemical reactions to each other. And if the other participants are doing well on the potion, then it should eliminate the potion being the triggering factor.” Hermione mused out loud. “Another possibility is dark mind magic.” 

“What makes you think it is mind magic?” Her smile fell, a frown appeared in its place. “Mind magic is not always destructive, I shall have you know.” 

Hermione held up her palm, “I’m aware, no need to get snappy. I had An… someone help my parents with mind magic.” She almost let slip Andromeda’s name. 

“Help your parents?” 

“I hid them away in Australia during the war, and used a rudimentary obliviate so their memory of me couldn’t be used to harm them. After the war, I couldn’t risk scrambling their minds even more, so someone with expertise helped me get them back. Long story.” She saw disbelief and muted exasperation reflected in the cerulean irises, and realised that she’d shared much more than intended. But she didn’t owe anyone, least of all Narcissa, any explanation of her actions. “I suspect dark mind magic because his personality felt… off.” 

Narcissa inclined her head, showing she was listening. 

She carried on, “Logan was mild-mannered and sweet. He’s a pureblood, but he treated everyone with kindness and respect.” 

The implication of Narcissa’s past hung in the air unsaid. Hermione held her tongue, peeking to see if the blonde witch was offended. If she was, Narcissa did not let it show.  

So she feigned a small cough, secretly vowing to tread more carefully. “But when I went to deliver his potion, he… had an outburst.” 

“He was within his rights to be upset about his treatment.” 

And there it was, a cold dismissal in her voice. Narcissa was unimpressed. Hermione felt a compelling need to justify herself so she quickly protested, “that does not excuse him for calling me a mudblood.” Though she fully braced herself, the onslaught of hot knives dragging through her skin brought a full-body shiver. Fuck, she really got to stop speaking it in reference to herself. 

The look of irritation immediately broke. Narcissa paled, surging forward with her hand outstretched, but refrained from touching the younger witch when Hermione whimpered, “don’t. It’ll pass.” 

They were suspended in stillness together, the ticking hand of the grandfather clock indicated the passage of time. A few minutes, her pain burned itself out. Hermione cleared her throat, “excuse me.” 

“Not at all. Does it happen often? With such intensity?” 

Hermione sighed, “it’s been more reactive lately. I think it’s the repetitive agitation.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

She couldn’t manage an apology from Narcissa Black. Not now, she wasn’t ready to confront that significant part of their history. So Hermione ignored her and redirected their conversation. “What were we saying? Mind magic, that could explain the shift in his psyche, right?” 

Narcissa went along, albeit a bit reticent. “If he was under a spell at the time, yes, that would be possible. But it is extremely difficult to maintain a curse like that without contact and for a prolonged period of time. Were you able to detect another magical signature on top of his?” 

Hermione rubbed her forehead, “no. The Aurors didn’t find any other trace magic on him.” 

“Then the caster would need to possess the most malicious intent and unmatched skill to have a long-lasting effect on his subconscious. I cannot think of anyone, besides the Dark L–” she caught herself slipping into an old habit and quickly corrected, “–Voldemort, with this kind of ability.” 

“Excellent, now we’re back to square one.” Hermione laughed humorlessly, and sunk into the armchair. “I need to stop thinking about it for a bit. It’s giving me a headache.” 

The older witch’s posture softened, glad to get a reprieve from the rapid fire of their back and forth. She half sat on the desk and crossed her left thigh over her right. “So, seeing as how much information you’ve shared with me, does it mean I’ve been exonerated from manufacturing this elaborate scheme?” 

She could tell that Narcissa wasn’t all that serious, by the smug little curve of her ruby lips. “You were never under official investigation. Kingsley vouched so adamantly for you, the Auror’s office was too afraid to even touch you with a ten foot pole.” 

“But not you.” 

******

“But not you.” 

Holding her blue gaze, Hermione’s throat suddenly went very dry. “No, I guess not.” 

They were plunged into a strained silence. The intimate knowledge of each other in arguably their most vulnerable moment sat heavily in the atmosphere. Hermione didn’t suppose she could get out of talking about this one hippogriff in the room, she gauged the other woman carefully. 

Narcissa didn’t appear to be unnerved. If anything that gave away her calm and collected facade, was her fidgeting hands again, aligning the corners and edges of her notes. 

The small revealing of her quirks made her seem so human, so reachable, thought Hermione. When the silence seemed to stretch on forever, Hermione was simultaneously dying inside, impressed by how the older witch tolerated all this thick tension, and knew someone had to bite the bullet and be out with it. It might as well be the Gryffindor. 

She put down her tea cup, clink , and cleared her throat, “the last time I came here, things got a bit out of hand…” 

Narcissa blinked slowly, also careful in the way she measured her companion. “If you could call it that.” 

“Right, I erm… we got physically… intimate, I mean.” Hermione was sure her entire face had gone purple at this point. Heat beaded at her hairline. 

Narcissa, despite herself, felt relaxed by the younger woman’s bashfulness. An irresistible urge to make light of the situation, to provoke, to tease, filled her heart with warmth and her eyes with mirth. “C’mon, Miss Granger, you can say it. We had sex,” she tapped her chin, “or… more accurately, you fucked me on top of a desk.” This conversation, as predictable as Hermione Granger, was going to be under her control and her control alone. She dared not let herself get caught off guard again, Narcissa swore to herself. Besides, now they were on this topic, she had to fulfil her own curiosity. 

The unexpected profanity nearly set her on fire. Hermione stuttered, “I was… I was really sleep deprived and… it really came out of nowhere, all that pent-up frustration – it’s not an excuse! You probably think I’m some sort of ogre who has no control over herself… I know I crossed a line, and I’m terribly, terribly sorry.” 

Narcissa shook her head in disapproval. “Don’t apologise for it. Apology makes it sound like a mistake.” 

“It… wasn’t a mistake?” Now Hermione wasn’t too sure. She was never too sure to begin with.

“Not to me, no. Look, I had an equal part to play. I encouraged you, I can admit that. Besides, I enjoyed myself, dare I say the same for you. So long as we were both consensual participants, it can’t be chalked up to a mistake. We should face the truth.” 

Her gaze flitted across the other woman’s mesmerising blue eyes, elegant cheekbones, and ruby lips. She asked, voice cracking, “what do you mean?” 

“You are attracted to me, sexually.” Narcissa said, matter-of-factly, if not slightly pleased by herself, one hand playing with her earring. 

“I think that has been made plenty obvious.” Hermione muttered. 

“And I find you to be an adequate lover, Hermione.” She uncrossed her legs, and crossed them again in the other direction, her knee pointed toward the brunette now. Suddenly, a decision was made. Perhaps it was impetuous, perhaps she was digging herself a grave, but for once, she wanted, needed , to try something completely unsuitable for someone of her… station. “I wouldn’t oppose it, if that were to happen again.” And it was out, no way for her to take back. 

“You’re proposing that we… again?” The visceral images of her hands parting Narcissa’s legs and resting them on her shoulders intruded her mind. 

“Only if you are interested, that is.” Panic rose in her, so Narcissa attempted to backpedal. She cursed herself for foolishly relinquishing her control over the decision to Hermione, again, but she had been so sure the brunette couldn’t resist her proposition. It would certainly leave a charr on her ego if she’d read the situation all wrong. 

Hermione stood abruptly, unable to sit still with those erotic pictures, fabricated by herself. She fanned herself with one hand. “I mean, I shouldn’t be, should I?” 

Narcissa watched her pace about the office, keeping a tight rein on her composure. “But you are.” She said, coolly, hiding her small giddiness with expertise.

She ran her fingers through her hair, lifting her curls gathered at her neck that was making her so warm. “Yes. Yes, I am. Despite the rational side of my brain telling me it is an extraordinarily bad idea, I can’t deny that you are a very, very attractive person.” Then Hermione came to a stop in front of the blonde’s half sitting form. Call it Gryffindor courage, call it naivety, call it youthful defiance, but she refused to let this outrageous situation intimidate her. She looked Narcissa straight in the eyes. “Alright, but this doesn’t mean anything, like… like I have romantic feelings towards you. Well, I mean, of course I have feelings, but they are not all that positive to be perfectly honest.” 

Eyebrows raised, Narcissa was almost impressed. She recovered by standing to her full height. “I’m a grown woman, Hermione, it can be just sex. You’re not going to damage my self esteem for not being in love with me.” 

Hermione nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” There was a glimmer of something akin to hopefulness in the cerulean irises. Narcissa tentatively approached the younger woman. 

A shadow glided across the French doors, but neither noticed, entirely focused on each other.

The slur on her skin sizzled. Hermione flinched, “not today. My scar is too active… and when it does, my mind goes to a dark place… and you being there .” 

The hopeful glimmer dimmed, and she backed away to lean against her desk. The simmer in her lower belly started to die, “I understand.” 

“But there’s a way. To distract my mind from that memory.” Hermione added quickly, somehow desperate to mellow the sting of rejection that appeared on Narcissa’s carefully constructed expression. She strode to the bookshelf where she spied a copy of Advanced Potions textbook from Narcissa’s Hogwarts days, flipped to the index, found the page number, and presented it to the other witch. “Here, you’re a potion master, brew this.” 

“Amortentia? You do realise--” 

“Use a fraction of a dose, one tenth should do. And rose thorns only, no petals.” Hermione picked up a pen and a notepad, scribbling down the specifics. “It doesn’t impede the intendee’s jugement, hence there is no risk of non-consensual consequences, but it would temporarily erase any negative feelings or memories held towards the brewer.” 

Narcissa looked sceptical and puzzled. “I did not know of this use. How do you…?” 

The brunette finished the note, tucked it in the textbook, and explained, “in sixth year, Ron was doped by Romilda Vane’s love potion, which was intended for Harry. We had a mandatory lesson on it. But Slughorn only told us the dangers of overdosing. I got curious and researched its properties if it was microdosed, naturally.” 

“Naturally.” A small smirk tugged at her lips. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, “will you do it or not?” 

“You are absolutely certain?” 

“You have my consent.” Sharing a final look with the older witch, Hermione was off. 

She reached the door, and heard Narcissa agree quietly. “Very well. I shall owl you when it is ready.” 

Chapter Text

When Narcissa’s eagle owl, Stormy – “I named him when I was 15 and him a chick,” said Narcissa in a letter when Hermione complained about the bird and subsequently found out the unbefitting name for such a pompous creature – found her at work a week later, she was no better prepared with worthy owl treats than the first time it came. The owl gave her a haughty glare, dropped off the letter and flapped away. 

For the better part of her day, she ignored the envelope. Because she was at work , and she didn’t want to seem desperate, despite no one would actually know. It sat on top of the pile of memos, tempting her to open it. But Hermione resisted. 

It wasn’t until Ron came strolling in her office, bringing some inconsequential gossip with lunch, that she lunged for the letter to hide it away. It only made it more conspicuous. 

Ron squinted at her, “what was that?” 

“Nothing. Just a letter.” 

He’d seen it nevertheless. “From Narcissa Malfoy? I thought you dropped her as a suspect.” 

“Narcissa Black .” Hermione busied herself with unwrapping the sandwich. “And it’s not related to the case.” 

“Then what’s she writing you for?” 

Being with Lavender had made him really nosy, Hermione thought. “Nothing! Personal… matter. Witch’s health stuff.” 

Usually the talks of women’s reproductive issues would put him off her scent, but this time he just stared at her with suspicion. 

“What!?” She had the irrational fear that he somehow picked up Legilimency, so she feigned annoyance. 

“I had no idea you talked to her. Just… I don’t know, be careful, okay?” 

“Relax, Ron. It’s not like I see her socially. I know what I’m doing.” Hermione said, more so to convince herself than him. 

They ate lunch, shared some snippets of work-related subjects, then Ron left. As soon as the trail of his robes swished out of her office door, Hermione dug the letter out of her drawer and tore it open. 

Miss Granger, 

The potion is ready. Shall I expect you at 8:30 tonight? Use the Floo, my ward is open to you.

Narcissa

And in three simple sentences, her carefully constructed composure was undone. Hermione wasn’t even sure whether this warranted a response. What would she even write? 

“Great, thanks, see you naked at 8:30?” 

How absurd! But if she didn’t write back saying otherwise, then it would be painfully uncouth of her to not show up. It seemed obvious what her option was. 

Right? 

******

Knowing she was having a guest over was one thing Narcissa was reasonably familiar with. However, knowing what kind of activities she would engage in with said guest, well, this was uncharted territory in her 43 years of life. 

Narcissa tried to deny that she was nervous, but her feet carried her from closet to vanity, pacing the room in tense anticipation. 

She must have switched wardrobe for the umpteenth time, going from formal attire to semi-formal dress to casual house clothes back to a tea party dress, then deciding it wasn’t the right occasion. Her endlessly luxurious closet seemed suddenly too limited, too unimaginative, that its content failed to produce a suitable outfit in her moment of need. 

And what if Hermione decided to not show, and it was a bad idea after all? She casted glances at the clock every five minutes, starting the second the sky turned a pale blue colour. 

When the clock said 8:30, she began pacing in a different location, in the hallway outside her sitting room where the Floo was. Her ears were perked, for any little sound the hearth made. Five minutes turned into ten, and fifteen. She went up the stairs and perched in a window right above her entryway, in case the younger witch came from the street. But the neighbourhood remained obliviously empty. 

Narcissa sighed, and went to her bedroom, peeved and set on changing out of the emerald satin dress she ended up wearing. The dress was delicate, and one of her favourites. Its spaghetti straps showed off her angular shoulders and collarbones, and the material was soft but shapely, hugging all the right curves. So she always made sure to take extra care getting undressed without the vanishing magic, which might accidentally tear a seam or snag a zipper.  

Just as she slipped off her shoulder straps and unzipped the back, the telltale woosh of the Floo sounded in the next room, and followed by Hermione’s voice. 

“Hello?” The witch’s footsteps clunked against the floorboard, signalling her approach. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up at the Leaky Cauldron. Ginny was trying to set me up on some awful date and I–” 

The younger woman’s voice came to an abrupt halt as she stepped foot into Narcissa’s personal chamber. Their eyes met in the floor-length mirror while she was in the middle of pulling up her dress zipper once again. 

Heat rapidly rose to her cheeks, Hermione couldn’t help but take in the expanse of pale smooth skin, and the strap loops that fell around the blonde witch’s shoulders, giving her an unintended smouldering look. Narcissa’s incredulous exclamation, though, pulled her out of her daze and she quickly closed her eyes. 

“Miss Granger! Have you not the common sense to wait in the sitting room before inviting yourself in like you owned the place!?” 

“Sorry! I didn’t want to keep you waiting longer so I thought…” She backed out of the room blindly. “I can go back and wait.” 

“No matter.” Narcissa pulled the straps back in place and sighed lightly, “you can look now.” 

Hermione obeyed. The view was not vastly different. And as they gazed at each other again, hanging in the air was the fact that it didn’t really matter after all. A sheepish grin was all Narcissa needed from the brunette to completely forgive her for the faux-pas. 

“I didn’t mean to snap at you, I was merely under the impression that you would not show.” 

“I know. And sorry, I really tried to be on time. Ginny is pretty hard to shake, once you get to know her better, you’ll see.” 

“I believe you.” Narcissa walked toward the brunette, and gestured toward her sitting room, “shall we have tea first?” The implication was obvious. 

Hermione was all of a sudden keenly aware of the blonde’s perfume. Dark and rich and pleasantly floral, with a hint of greenery, she could almost taste it. Hermione nodded, and followed her hostess to the dining area. A pot of tea was set to brew on the stovetop. 

“So I was thinking.” 

“As always,” there was a smidge of amusement in Narcissa’s voice. 

“This might be late, considering, well, but I would like to establish some boundaries in our, erm… arrangement. We can proceed if we both agree.” She sat down opposite the blonde at the dining table. 

Narcissa looked at her thoughtfully, “yes, that would be prudent.” 

“Excellent. I have some thoughts I want to share with you, and you can tell me yours.” 

The blonde remained quiet, only a raised eyebrow indicating for Hermione to continue. 

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Look, truth is, I enjoyed our last time, a lot. More than I thought I would,” her face was getting redder as she stammered on, “and I liked touching you, because…” she let that particular thought trail off, “I liked touching you. But I don’t think I'd be entirely comfortable if that was reciprocated. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to just… be of service, for now.” 

“If it’s okay with me…” Narcissa cocked her head to the side, as if trying to comprehend an unfamiliar idea. “You don’t want to be taken care of?” 

“I could… myself.” She didn’t think she could blush any harder. “I mean, I think in the heat of the moment, especially with the effect of the love potion, I wouldn’t say no.” 

“You’re stating your limit now. I wouldn’t pursue it.” 

Hermione smiled. An exercise in trust, it felt like, and the blonde witch’s solemn blue eyes told her she hadn’t misplaced hers. “Right. So, are you okay with that?”

“If that makes you the most comfortable, then yes, I am okay with that.” 

Narcissa magically retrieved two sets of tea cups, and a small vial of pink liquid. In front of her companion, she used a dropper to suck up a drop, and showed Hermione it was precisely one tenth of a proper doping potion. She put it into one of the cups. The rising steam turned pink momentarily. The whole while, she was deep in thought. 

As Hermione reached out for the cup, Narcissa spoke, “alright. I do have one condition.” 

“Yes, of course. Anything.” 

“I’d appreciate it if we can refrain from kissing, on the lips, I mean.” 

“Oh, um, okay…?” Hermione looked puzzled. They’d kissed before, a spur of the moment kind of thing that felt good, hot, sexy. 

“It’s just a rather... intimate act, do you understand? For you, any tender feelings will pass when the potion wears off. But I prefer to make it easy for myself, to compartmentalise, lest things become complicated” 

It took a few beats for Narcissa’s words to sink in, but once they did, Hermione realised something. She realised that this woman, despite her appearance and reputation, was made of flesh and blood, and had feelings that were just as intense and complex as her own. “I understand,” she said, “I respect your boundaries.” 

“Excellent.” The blonde pushed the cup closer to her, “I hope you like chamomile.” 

They both picked up their own cup, and drank the warm tea, regarding each other over the top of the porcelain ware. 

Warmth spread in her chest, not just from the heat of the liquid, but the kind of heat that travelled down her spine to pool in between her legs. She’d come to recognise it as her lust for the other witch. 

Narcissa noticed the change in Hermione’s honey brown eyes. They didn’t glaze over with the vacant look typically indicative of someone being drunk on love potion, instead, they darkened, with a hungry and passionate fire. There was a promise residing in her wide and black pupils, eating away the beautiful irises, the promise to thoroughly devour her. “Oh…” she sighed. 

The brunette stood, and in two quick strides rounded the table. She held out her hand, took Narcissa’s in hers and tugged her to rise. Her arms circled the slim waist, and she murmured against the pale, warm skin on the blonde’s throat, “I like this dress on you.” 

Narcissa hummed in approval, then gasped when Hermione planted open-mouthed kisses along her jawline. A flush spread across her cheeks and her upper chest when she discovered that, once uninhibited, Hermione talked . 

“You smell good.” A kiss behind her ear, and a hand groped her ass with intent, “so fucking good...” It made her grasp on the woman’s shirt turn white-knuckled. 

“Your skin is so soft… and warm…” Hermione continued her praises, and with them went her mouth and tongue and hands. She touched a blazing trail from Narcissa’s shoulder to her chest, palmed the full breasts in her hands and massaged them. When her kisses were finally obstructed by the material of the dress, she grew frustrated because it was so unfair for Narcissa to (coincidentally) tease her with that partial view before. “As much as it suits you, this,” she plucked off the thin straps, “needs to come off.” 

This is ridiculous , Narcissa thought, panting. They hardly even left the table and Hermione’s hands were already up her chest. But oh Salazar her assertiveness felt exhilarating. “Do it then.” She gave permission, almost challenging. 

So Hermione grabbed a hold of the satin in both hands, and kchhhhhht , it ripped perfectly down the middle, like paper tissue, smooth and so damn easy. 

Narcissa couldn’t care less about her dress anymore. 

“Oh god,” the brunette whispered. Of fucking course , there was no bra, the dress simply wouldn’t permit one. But the way those snowy breasts bounded out of their confinement was positively lewd. It spurred her on. “I knew it, you’ve been waiting for me and you’ve been ready.” She dipped her head and captured one stiff nipple in her mouth--something she had missed out on previously. 

“Yes…” Propriety be damned, Narcissa casted away her last shred of decorum and careened into the younger witch’s arms, raking her nails through a mass of brown curls. She shimmied out of the torn dress, left in only a pair of lacy black knickers. 

Hermione was already sneaking a hand between their pressed bodies. Her fingertips brushed the top of the waistband and the blonde interrupted her with a light wack. 

“Not here.” 

Right. This didn’t have to be some kind of rushed affair poorly executed on the edge of a table. This was premeditated, this could take time. Yet, Hermione found it difficult to slow down. It might be from the heightened arousal from the potion, or that she was tightly wound from the week-long anticipation, probably a combination of both. In the corner of her eyes, she spied a luxurious chaise and an idea formed in her head. She hooked her arms under Narcissa’s thighs and practically carried her over. 

Her world turned horizontal. And Hermione climbed on top of her, pinning her arms down with a comfortable weight. The assault on her neck and shoulders and breasts resumed, undoubtedly marks were being sucked into her easily bruised skin. When deft fingers once again fondled her inside her underwear, she encouraged it by circling legs around the brunette’s waist. 

“Oh Merlin…” Hermione exhaled, breathing against the shell of her ear, and Narcissa grinned deviously. She was shaven, bare, and judging by the reaction she elicited, that was quite a nice surprise.  

It was a mad dash to get off the last piece of garment after that. Hermione slid down the length of her body, nipping her ribs, stomach, and hips on her way, and peeled off the black lace with a newfound eagerness. “You’re dripping, Narcissa.” She traced her middle finger down the slit, gathering a copious amount of slippery fluid, “so wet, so ready.” 

“Mmmm…” Narcissa squeezed her legs impatiently, urging the younger witch to get a move on. 

Hermione climbed back up her body and held her wrists in one hand above her head, restraining her movements, and she entered her with one finger first, then soon added a second one with zero resistance. 

A visible shiver raced across Narcissa’s naked body as she keened. 

After letting the witch adjust, she set a pace. Pushing in until she was completely buried, and dragging out with her finger pads scratching a spongy front wall, the movements were fluid and surprisingly natural as if she had been doing this for years. What sent her into a tailspin was when Narcissa broke free from her hold so she could toy with her own clit. Even though their hands knocked together from time to time, the act felt so good and racy and downright filthy. 

Hermione knew she herself was beyond stimulated, just by the sounds and the touch. She manoeuvred so she was straddling Narcissa’s left thigh, and grounded her hips down. The relief brought by the friction was blissfully sweet. 

They writhed together, gasped in synchrony, and chased their own orgasm with abandon. There was nothing soft or graceful about this, rather primitive and selfish. But Narcissa preferred it over some painfully poetic love-making she read about in romance novels. 

When they both ascended, peaked, and crashed down, Hermione lifted her head to look at Narcissa, and it almost seemed as if she was going to break the rule and kiss her. So Narcissa turned her head away. A few seconds later, a kiss landed on the spot under her ear. 

She knew their intimacy was an illusion only, merely using each other to scratch an itch. So despite the rush of hormones that had her yearning for a proper make-out session, she was glad that her heart hadn’t betrayed her yet. 

******

It was only a little awkward after. With the release of energy, gone was the haze brought on by the love draught. The gleam of frantic lust dulled in Hermione’s brown eyes, and the heat left her chest. 

They pulled apart. Hermione stood and turned around to give Narcissa some privacy as she summoned a bathrobe to put on. 

“Sorry about your dress.” Hermione picked up the heap of fabric on the ground, thinking this was the second piece of Narcissa’s clothing she’d ruined. It was starting to become a thing . “Can I take it somewhere for repair? Twilfitt and Tattings?” 

“Don’t worry about it, Miss Gran--Hermione, I don’t suppose you’d want to start the rumour mill. Madame Tattings never forgets a dress she sold.” 

Mortified by how it would come across to the shop owner, Hermione agreed. “Right, good point.” She hovered at the hearth, unable to keep her eyes on the blonde, or away from her for that matter, too long because of how satiated and lazy she looked. “So, I’ll come next week?” 

There was a ghost of a smirk on the ruby lips, “yes you will.” 

Somehow the insinuation made her blush more furiously than the fact that they had engaged in exactly the insinuated activity mere minutes ago. She tucked an errant strand of curls behind her ear and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and loudly announced her departure, “goodnight!” 

Narcissa’s darkly chuckled warning “be on time” followed her through the squeeze of the Floo travel. 

******

They ran into each other on the street over the weekend.

Hermione was out getting her books signed by a visiting scholar, with Ginny window shopping for baby toys that they no longer had space for in their nursery. She saw her from across the street. 

Narcissa, glamorous as ever, was clutching a package tightly to her chest. Her destination was Twilfitt and Tattings. Their eyes met. In the soft dawnlight, brown eyes glowed a golden colour, and a dash of redness flushed across sun-kissed skin. 

At the sight of the knowing grin, Hermione tripped unceremoniously over the lip of the sidewalk. Ginny bursted out laughing. 

What a perfect afternoon, Hermione thought, dusting herself off while looking on as Narcissa disappeared into the shop. Her face was pleasantly warm in the sun, her bag was heavy with newfound good reads, and her heart was light. Her scar, as sensitive and sentient it seemed these days, remained calm. 

Must have been a particularly strong pot of Amortentia it was. 

Chapter Text

As promised, she was on time the next Wednesday. There was an agitated energy buzzing in her body, and Hermione had trouble pinpointing its origin. A peculiar apprehension, akin to the nerves that she felt when she was on the run with Harry and Ron, tiptoeing around words and thoughts as to safeguard their plans. 

When she interrogated her anxiety in a mindful way that Andy had taught her, it didn’t seem that her arrangement with Narcissa was the source. If anything, this was the one night she looked forward to throughout her mundane and dreary week at work. 

Perhaps Logan’s mystery case had something to do with her poor mood. It somewhat concerned her that even thinking about the boy’s very brief hateful spout could cause cold shivers down her spine. The incident had left her weary to be Logan’s advocate, which went against everything she stood for. 

She was so distracted that she didn’t hear the hostess ascend the basement stairs. Narcissa’s sudden presence jostled her out of the contemplation. 

Narcissa was wiping her hands on an apron, her fingertips stained purple and a few streaks of black powder on her face. Her hair was escaping the loose bun, framing her reddened cheeks. What was more unusual was the pair of tortoiseshell glasses sitting on the bridge of her aristocratic nose. 

Hermione quirked an eyebrow in question. 

“Oh hush, I assumed you’d be running late. Stay here.” The blonde left her in the sitting room and headed to her bedchamber. 

She spoke after Narcissa’s retreating figure, “well, we both know what happens when you assume.” 

“Mhmm,” came the noncommittal reply. 

A few minutes of ruffling around, Narcissa re-emerged without her potions apron and glasses and her face clean. The only indication of her work was her purple fingers, courtesy of the vibrant colour of aconites. 

“Working on wolfsbane potions?” Hermione asked, though the answer was rather obvious. 

Narcissa nodded, “advancement is constantly being made, I am quite pleased with how far the patients have gotten. Say, when do you think Mister Lisle can go back to his treatment plan?” 

A zap. She winced, and quickly tried to disguise it as a cough. “In two months, perhaps. The Minister ordered a three-month probation, given no further incidents occurring.” 

Narcissa observed her attempt to recover contemplatively. Then she finally let up the pointed silence and spoke again, “Everyone else is progressing nicely, you see, I’m disappointed that he’d fallen behind.” 

It was clear that the older witch was a responsible potion mistress, she even cared about the werewolves, possibly. What should be a relief was tainted though, by the ill feeling she started to harbour against the boy. 

Hermione caught herself descending into a ruminative headspace once again, so she shook her head, “can we not discuss this now? I’m… pretty tired from work.” 

“Of course, I apologise.” Narcissa dropped her gaze to her hands. 

“I mean, maybe another time? You should know what’s happening with your patient, I’m not denying that.” She backpedalled, unable to stomach the dejected expression on the blonde’s face. 

This made Narcissa look at her again, her blue eyes shimmering with appreciation. 

“Very well, should I put on tea for us?” 

“Yes, please.” Eager to change the subject, she perked up. 

So a pot was made; so a small dose of Amortentia was stirred in Hermione’s cup; so they tumbled in a messy embrace, tearing robes and dress and underwear away. 

The sex was glorious, as it had been. Narcissa found release swiftly and readily, stretched around three of Hermione’s fingers, while the younger witch took care of herself by grinding against her thigh. Hickeys and nail marks marred their skin, due to the sheer intensity of their tryst. Narcissa didn’t kiss Hermione, didn’t cuddle afterwards, and definitely didn’t voice the small pang of regret in her chest when the brunette disentangled herself to get dressed. 

She did spy though, the angry red letters on Hermione’s forearm, one moment white like healed skin, the next red and tender as if it was tearing itself open. Hermione either did not notice, or was used to the temperamental nature of the cursed wound. But it left a gnawing guilt in Narcissa’s heart. 

******

Wordlessly, the agreement to meet every Wednesday carried on for several weeks. 

But after Hermione saw Narcissa once again in Diagon Alley purchasing potion ingredients, she’d owled to ask about the recent locust outbreak in the south-east of England that had affected many crops and gardens. Narcissa had written back about her own lush and vermin-proof vertical garden for emergency supplies on her balcony, “child’s play, in comparison to the greenhouse at Black Manor, of course,” and extended her invite for the younger witch to pick up a few stems of the Sopophorous plant to make her mild sleep aid. So that Sunday afternoon, one thing led to another and they found themselves making use of the jute woven chaise in more ways than merely tea sipping. 

Then they started to owl each other about small, random things they’d come across at work. Each letter, a badly disguised attempt, would casually mention that their evening had suddenly become free due to various excuses. “My colleagues cancelled the social,” “Draco and Astoria were supposed to come for dinner, but she is feeling a bit unwell,” “Harry and Ginny are at the Burrow,” “the Cardiff Philharmonic changed conductor–a disaster for the symphony, I better not attend…” 

Henceforth, besides their middle of the week rendezvous, another day secretly added itself into their mental calendar. 

It was starting to feel easy, natural, comfortable. 

******

On one of those randomly inspired days, Hermione suggested changing things up. 

“What’s your opinion on erm… paraphernalia?” The younger witch asked, rather out of the blue as they leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for the tea to steep. 

“I’m afraid you need to be more specific, Hermione.” 

A faint blush dusted the tanned skin. Narcissa found it as puzzling as it was endearing, that someone who was so verbose and self-assured under the potion’s influence could be so timid without it. 

“Well… I came with this…” Hermione undid the tie on her robes and the material fell open. She was wearing a pair of wide-legged jeans, appropriate for the weather, but there was a crookedness in the way she stood. 

Under further scrutiny, Narcissa noticed the slight swell of a cylindrical object–six or seven inches–against one of her thighs. “Oh my. Where did you learn such a spell?” 

“It’s not magic, it’s fake.” Hermione explained, “you see, muggles wear a harness, and attach the um, silicon toy to the base. It’s called a strap-on.” 

The blonde considered it, her head tilted to one side and a finger tapped at her lips. 

“Never mind, it’s a bad idea. I’ll banish it.”

“Wait, no!” Narcissa quickly stopped her, and held her hand out, hovering close to Hermione’s crotch, “may I?” 

“Um, sure…” Her breath hitched when the older witch didn’t just feel for it through her trousers, but slid the zipper down and reached in. A warm hand grazed her inner thigh, before gently pulling the purple toy out. “Oh…” a small jolt made her jump as the blonde tugged it, the muggle product behaving a bit strangely interacting with Narcissa’s magic. 

“Does it affect you as well?” Narcissa paused her motion, and looked up at her under her long lashes. 

Hermione realised how close they were standing together. She swallowed tightly, “ye-yeah, the seat has a fixture of its own… A vibrator. It stimulates the wearer when it’s turned on.” 

“I see.” 

The whistle of the kettle was a lifesaver. Hermione was on the verge of passing out, the air so staticky and sticky , permeated with Narcissa’s perfume, dark and rich and enticing. “Our tea is ready.” 

“So it is.” When their eyes met, the black of Narcissa’s pupils was quickly consuming the pale blue of her irises. She sprinkled the drops of Amortentia in Hermione’s cup and flicked her wrist so the tea cooled down immediately to a drinkable temperature. 

A small smirk rippled across Hermione’s face before she caught herself. The idea that Narcissa found her proposal arousing was quite titillating. Who was she kidding? The moment she saw this apparatus in the window of a muggle sex shop yesterday, she’d imagined railing the blonde witch fast and hard with it, and she’d owled her right away, arranging to see her today. 

Once their drinks finished, they pushed and pulled at each other’s clothes, stripping and tearing and stumbling and barely made it to a comfortable surface. With each moaned oh fuck , came a grunted I know. Then it was all nails scratching exposed skin, teeth flashing against neck, hips thrusting and thighs slapping. 

Only after Narcissa’s third orgasm chased the tail of her second, did the younger witch peak from the friction and vibration provided by the strap. But it was rather powerful and wonderful with both her hands kneading full breasts. Hermione’s elbows buckled and she slumped on top of Narcissa. Their skin stuck together, a shin of sweat covering their bodies. 

A shiver ran down her back at the thought of an inevitability. There would be a moment, when their lust-addled minds cleared, and any lingering affection disintegrated, they would disentangle themselves from each other. And Narcissa would feel so cold when a small breeze hit her drying skin. 

Hermione noticed. “Are you okay?” She propped herself up again so she could see Narcissa. 

“Yes, dear. Quite.” She lied, and closed her eyes, pretending it was exhaustion and not the imperative urge to keep her legs wrapped around another person’s body, to have someone’s comfortable weight on top of her while she recovered, to hold a lover in her arms after such a glorious conclusion. 

They fell quiet once again. And for the first time, Hermione didn’t spring up the moment the potion lost its effect. She stayed, on top of Narcissa, inside Narcissa, her chin resting against a bare shoulder and hips nestled between soft thighs. There was something vulnerable, something unsaid in the way Narcissa’s jaw clenched taut and her eyes squeezed shut. 

How did their simple desire turn so heavy in the span of a half hour? 

Was it ever simple? 

******

The silence stayed with her for days to come, like Narcissa’s perfume clinging to her robes. 

“Oi, ’Moine, where’d ya go?” Ron waved his hand in front of her eyes. 

Hermione blinked, her eyes watering slightly from spacing out and forgetting to blink. “Just thinking about work. What were you saying?” 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes.” No . Her thoughts were wholly consumed by doubts, emotions surging and waning during her waking hours. No matter the route they took, they all eventually strayed to her secret affair with Narcissa Black. 

Surely it was never a good idea. Surely she was being vindictive, surely she was using sex with Narcissa to prove a point: That she had gotten over her trauma. That she was above her inner demons residing in a painful scar. That she had the upper hand here, physically and emotionally. That she was, rightfully and self-righteously, punishing Narcissa for a history neither could change. 

But, the other small, selfish part of her clung to their unspoken routine of the past two and a half months. Because it made her mind feel in control and her body loose and warm and good . It made her forget. 

Ron suddenly seized her wrist, startling her out of her inner monologue. She hissed at him, “what is wrong with you?” 

“Hermione, your scar! It looks so much worse. What happened!?” He exclaimed. 

She snatched her arm back and tugged her robe sleeve down. “Well, yes. It gets agitated when I work on Logan Lisle’s case. The last time I saw him, he said something that was… triggering.” 

Ron frowned with concern, “you’re certain you’re up for this?” 

“I’ve got to be, haven’t I? He has no one else, not even his own family will help. The isolation can be just as damaging as what he goes through physically. I fear that if we don’t take care of him now, something worse is going to happen down the road.” 

“I’m worried about you, ’Mione, we hardly see you outside of work anymore. And where were you last Wednesday night? You knew it was Hogwarts History trivia at the Leaky Cauldron, your favourite!” 

His inquiry almost made her choke on the sip of tea. Hermione coughed, exaggeratedly, to stall for coming up with a good reason. In the end, she could only say, “I’ve been working, of course.” 

“Dean said he hadn’t seen you here in the office.” 

She rolled her eyes. Ron was becoming increasingly more observant. That, or she had been exceedingly terrible at covering her tracks. “I was collaborating… with a potions master from the ministry to figure out this wolfsbane business.” Not exactly a lie, but half truths told to one of her best friends still made her a bit queasy. 

“Well, who?” Ron wouldn’t let up. 

“What’s with you, Ronald? You’ve become nosier than Lavender.” 

Ron didn’t take the diversion, which Hermione was oddly proud of him for. Over the years, being an Auror had made him somewhat more inquisitive, and consequently, harder to distract. He simply crossed his arms in front of his chest and raised his pale eyebrows at her. 

“Okay, fine, if you really care to know my whereabouts, Ron, I was working with Narcissa Black.” 

“I knew it.” He slapped his lap, pleased about being right. 

“What? How?” She asked nervously. What else could he have found out? 

“That one time you got an owl from her, remember? I saw her name, and then every Wednesday you’ve been gone.” Ron said. Then he shook his head in disapproval, “I can’t imagine why you want to work with her. I mean, you didn’t need to take this case to begin with. Now you’ve associated yourself to this… despicable witch. No wonder your scar is all mad, maybe it’s because Malfoy is an evil pureblood fanatic? Surely you could’ve figured that much out!” 

To his animated exclamation, Hermione fell silent. Ron made a lot of sense, and she indeed felt the negative impact from her memories of interactions with Narcissa a few months ago. But how could she explain to him, that in her heart, she knew it had little to do with the witch? How could she tell him, that Narcissa assessed her scar every time they met up, when she thought Hermione wasn’t paying attention? How could she tell him, that each time Narcissa reached out to caress her, she took care to not touch the afflicted skin, lest she added more pain? 

In the end, she closed her eyes and exhaled. When she looked at him again, her voice became gentle, “Ron, I’m alright. Narcissa won’t hurt me. There’s something I need to figure out, and she is the only person who can help. Okay?” 

Perhaps he sensed that there was an underlayer of complexity that she wasn’t ready to share. Ron once again surprised her. He held her gaze for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “Mione, you know you can tell me anything, right?” 

“I know, Ron. Thanks.”  

He grinned at her, then moved closer to her, whispering as if he was asking to copy her homework in transfiguration again. “Now, are you coming to Trivia tonight? We’re losing to those Ravenclaw muppets without you.” 

“How many points are you behind?” Hermione shook her head, amused. 

“Se… seventy.” 

“You’re joking!” Exasperated, she quickly decided that she would send an owl as soon as Ron left, to inform Narcissa that there had been an emergency. 

******

When she received Hermione’s letter, she’d been quite concerned by this “emergency” the younger witch spoke of. Narcissa tagged a follow-up message on the small tawny bird’s claw. 

To her entertainment, she learned of the petty competition between the self-proclaimed trivia champions of Ravenclaw and the up-and-coming challengers from Gryffindor. “It’s a silly feud,” Hermione explained in the letter, “but given that Luna is single-handedly squashing Harry and Ron, I’d better attend this evening.” 

In the letter, it was not specified whether their weekly arrangement was still on, which, though she understood and thought it healthy for Hermione to catch up with her friends, Narcissa noticed the quiver of disappointment in her chest. 

This won’t do . She chastised herself. You’re acting like a hormone-addled teenager. Narcissa forced herself to concentrate on her remaining work on extracting the essence of dittany. But as the evening wore on, and her eyes grew tired from reading the small prints on Ministry orders, she found herself talking outloud in a different tone, “best to find out if she was still coming, so the evening is not entirely lost to waiting.” 

Besides , she pondered as she changed into an outfit suiting for a casual, spontaneous and definitely unpurposeful evening cap, the last trip to the Leaky Caldron wasn’t a complete disaster, was it? 

Steeling her mind before she could change it, knowing her own temperamentality, Narcissa casted one last glance at herself in the floor-length mirror, and spun through the tight squeeze of apparition to Diagon Alley. 

The Leaky Caldron was already boiling over with enthusiastic trivia lovers. Narcissa slipped past most of them unnoticed, and settled in the corner of the bar. She watched the quiz night participants with interest. 

They crowded around the few tables in groups of three or more, loosely sorted by the houses they belonged in during their school years, though inter-minglers were welcome. They adopted team names after legendary magical creatures. Each table was intensely discussing the question that was writing itself on the blackboard in hushed voices. Some had erected glimmering privacy barriers to prevent eavesdropping from their competitors. One table escalated to infighting, teammates trying to cross out each other’s answers. 

The hostess was a young-ish looking redhead woman with freckles and a snaggle tooth, whose name tag said “Rory”. “Ten, nine, eight…” Rory counted down for this round of answers to be submitted. “Thank you, team Mrs Norris, partial points for partial correctness.” She made her way around the tables collecting their pieces of paper. The scoreboard flipped itself to another page for said team. 

Narcissa spotted Hermione and her friends at the table towards the front of the makeshift stage. The brunette was dressed in a white work shirt and black slacks, she wore her hair down, wild and curly with a big wave probably made by a ponytail elastic. She was excitedly waiting for her paper to be collected. Beside her, Ron and Lavender were making eyes at each other, not contributing to the cause. Harry and Ginny, though engaged, were comfortable to let their bookworm of a friend take the reins. 

The lights danced and changed colour, and Hermione looked… so youthful, and confident, and happy. 

A smile crept up the corner of her lips. Narcissa took a sip from her wine and thought to herself, Hermione deserves this, she deserves all the light and happiness. 

Then, Rory made her way towards them. “Hello, team Fawkes.” She danced her finger across Hermione’s shoulders, and bent down to speak seductively into the brunette’s ear, “what is your answer, Golden Girl?” 

A knot tied itself around Narcissa’s stomach as she realised the whole ‘making rounds instead of summoning the papers’ business was a ploy for the redhead to come down and tease Hermione. Tighter still it grew as she watched Hermione being unfazed by the flirtatious gesture, she even laughed and rested her fingertips in Rory’s outstretched hand to pass her the note. 

“Right as always!” Rory proclaimed, and wagged her finger in Luna and Rolf’s direction in a mocking gesture, “Seems like Miss Granger is giving a run for your money, team Pickett.” Then she winked at Hermione before sauntering her way to the centre of the tables. 

How absurd, Narcissa downed her wine with as much poise as she could manage, don’t be a fool, Narcissa. Of course she’d have admirers lined up around the block, one like Hermione. Sooner or later, someone, far better suited, and appropriate in age, and much less notorious, will show up - not that Narcissa was putting her name in that race to court Hermione Granger, she thought with conviction . She summoned another glass. But not Rory, no, she glared darkly at the hostess, someone who doesn’t see just her as the celebrated “Golden Girl” figure, someone who wants to know her true self, someone who is her match. 

“Think of this last question as the golden snitch, the team that gets it first wins the whole tournament,” Rory announced, eyeing her endless scroll of riddles, “Here’s a good one: He who bore the magicless mind, heir of wealth casted aside by his kind. Servile quill to praise the Orange Prince, rhymes and lines none could withstand. William dies but the poems drone on, a pedant, preacher and a quack, dwells beside the Muggle Queen Anne.” She looked around the crowd, smirking upon finding her guests befuddled and perplexed, “who is he?” 

“What kind of riddle is that?” Came the murmurs from the crowd. 

Narcissa was admittedly impressed by the quality of the question, despite all the easy ones that had been doled out. Not only did it involve extensive knowledge of the history of the Wizarding society, but also the history of Muggles and those in between worlds. Had she not been a voracious reader and inquisitor of historical events both magical and not, it would’ve stumped her too. A smile played at her lips as the answer came to her. 

Then, Hermione looked up from across the room and caught her eyes. 

Her smile froze, and a wave of uncertainty and shame washed over her. It was not her intention to intrude on a pleasant evening the younger witch was having, surely, and her curiosity got the best of her. However, how Hermione would interpret seeing her here was another story. 

Though, instead of exasperation and anger, the brunette was more surprised. She self-consciously combed her hand through her tangled curls, then broke her eye contact with Narcissa, looking around to see if anyone had noticed who she’d discovered. A light flush rose up her earlobes. 

Narcissa knew she was supposed to turn away and leave. It was only respectful to retreat after being found out. But as if in a trance, she looked on, tracing the dusk of pink across Hermione’s cheeks with her gaze. 

And feeling the heat from the blue eyes, Hermione couldn’t help but look again. 

This time, suddenly the constant droning of thoughts and feelings and self-talks from the dozens of people in the pub dimmed to a barely audible hum and one single thought became so clear as if it was spoken directly into her ear. “ You know the answer? ” Hermione raised one eyebrow. 

Not expecting to be let in so readily into the brunette’s head, Narcissa nearly dropped her glass. But her default to manners made it easier than it looked to collect her composure. She nodded once, inconspicuous. 

“ Well? ” Hermione’s thoughts became louder and more eager, her competitiveness almost made the blonde chuckle. 

“ Isn’t it cheating to simply tell you? ” Narcissa fixed her with a look of suspicion. She was not sure the other witch could hear her thoughts as well, but she trusted her message was received when Hermione appeared a bit bashful. 

Hermione momentarily tore her eyes away to ponder, and then a brilliant idea came to her, lighting up her brown eyes, “ not if you just confirm when I am on the right track. ” 

Conceding to the mischief, Narcissa nodded once more. 

“ So, where to start with this riddle?” Hermione thought out loud, while Ginny recited the clues again. “ Born magicless, so he was a squib, a famous one at that since there is written history about him.” She was confident in this part and didn’t need to double check with the witch on the other side of the bar. 

“He was outcasted by his kind, so magic folks did not accept him. Historically, squibs were definitely discriminated against, but most still lived with magical families. The reason that an heir to significant wealth was rejected by his family…” Hermione mused dourly, “was probably because he was born in a blood purity clan.“ With this, she glanced up, and Narcissa’s embarrassed nod confirmed her deduction. 

“ The Orange Prince and William are the same person, William III, who became King of England in the late 1600s. And Queen Anne succeeded his reign.” Hermione recalled the convoluted family tree of monarchs she learned about in Muggle history books. “ The riddle alludes to a person who served under both monarch’s times, and he was a poet, but not a good one. ‘A pedant, preacher, and a quack," meant that people did not particularly like his work and political stance. ” 

She could think of two famous squibs, from a book she read during the summer between third and fourth year, that roughly fit the description of time, background, and notoriety, but which one was the political poet and which one was the tireless traveller, she could no longer remember. 

Hermione stole another glance at the blonde witch. 

“You’re very close.” Narcissa encouraged wordlessly. 

“ He was related to the Black family, the poor man, wasn’t he? ” 

“ Sadly, yes. ” 

One hand shooting up in the air, Hermione shouted out her answer, startling the whole room, “Sir Richard Blackmore is the answer. ‘With a magicless mind’, he was a squib born into the House of Black in the 1650s, and disowned by the family so he adopted the name ‘Blackmore’ to spite his parents. Later he became a physician and a writer who wrote political epic poems for King William and Queen Anne. But he had his own prejudices against poor people and opposed opening dispensaries for them, people disliked him and called him a ‘pedant, canting preacher and a quack’.” With that, the scoreboard clattered and exploded confetti over the tables. 

“Blimey,” Ron clutched his chest, “you’re a nutter Hermione, a brilliant nutter!” 

The room exploded into loud chortles and whistles, and someone started the chant “Granger, Granger, Granger”. Team Fawks got their plaque on the wall as the winners of the 23rd annual Leaky Cauldron quiz tournament, after a number of winners from Ravenclaw and Slytherin years prior. 

Hermione blushed brightly, cursing under her breath that her name as the ultimate nerd had been immortalised, in a pub of all places. 

Ginny laughed, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before announcing her leave, “you stay and catch up!” she said to her husband, a kiss for him in tow. Ron and Lavender made their way to the magic 8-ball pool table to join some work friends. It was just Hermione and Harry left at the table, chatting with their friendly competitors. She accepted drink after drink from congratulators, and the hubbub eventually started to die down. 

Deciding that it was enough drunken inner monologues for one evening, Narcissa tried to settle her tab. But she was soon spotted by none other than Harry Potter, who came over and engaged her in a polite conversation. Apparently, he and Draco wrote now from time to time. Narcissa hoped, against all odds, that a friendship with Mr Potter would be a reason for her son to return to the British Wizarding society. When he is ready . 

Whilst smiling at Harry’s telling of Draco’s horrified discovery of Muggle bedtime stories, Narcissa kept an eye on Hermione. Perhaps more importantly, she kept an eye on the ginger haired hostess who wasted no time sliding into the seat next to the brunette witch. 

Hermione was laughing at something Rory said, which encouraged the redhead to put a hand on her shoulder. Rory waved her wand at the bar, a bottle of firewhiskey flew off the top shelf and into her hand. She poured generously into Hermione’s half-empty cup, and carded her hand through brown curls with newfound intimacy. 

The witch’s intention was plenty clear. Narcissa swallowed tightly, and tore her attention away from the little display. 

Then, in the corner of her eyes, Rory rested her hand on Hermione’s forearm and Hermione jerked. Her hand shot out to hold onto the redhead’s wrist out of reflex, suspending their arms in midair. 

Her scar.

Narcissa saw Hermione making a reticent face and a stuttered excuse for her jumpiness, and Rory brushing it off with practised ease. “You need another drink.” Narcissa read the hostess' lips, suddenly furious that a person could be so utterly obtuse and selfish that they disregarded their companion’s visible discomfort. 

“Narcissa, are you okay?” Harry’s voice pulled her back. 

She rubbed her temples, and replied, “I think it is time for me to turn in, Mister Po–Harry. Though, I do hope you can keep an eye on Miss Granger, I’m loath to see her taken advantage of given how much alcohol she seems to have consumed.” 

He whipped his head around to search for his friend in the crowd, and heeded her caution. “Yes, I should probably go rescue her. Rory’s harmless but can be quite persistent.” Bidding his goodbye, he pushed his way through the crowd. 

In relief bordering disappointment, Narcissa stole out of the establishment, onto the cobblestone road dimly lit by a few light torches. Her dress swished in the wind as she brought forth her home to her mind for disapparation. 

“Wait!” She faintly heard a voice calling after her, but then she was already being pulled by her navel into the distorted in-between space of teleportation. On the other side, welcoming her, offering a nice reprieve, was the silence of the Grimmauld Place neighbourhood. 

Just as she was taking out her wand to let herself through the shimmering barrier of security spells, a cackle of another person’s apparition appeared behind her. She spun around just in time as Hermione stumbled disorientedly forward. 

Narcissa caught the brunette in her arms, and she immediately knew the young witch was quite inebriated. She gasped, “what on earth are you doing? You could’ve been torn to pieces, apparating in a state like this!” 

“You left in such a hurry! And I feel perfectly fine.” Hermione hoisted herself up right, and dusted off the invisible dirt from her wrinkled work shirt. She stepped through the Muggle repellent and went up the stairs towards Narcissa’s front door. When the blonde witch did not follow, she turned to look at her with a confused tilt to her head, which, Narcissa thought, resembled a lost puppy, “well?” 

Sighing, Narcissa threw a silent spell at the lock, and the door slid ajar. 

Once inside, Narcissa went into her walk-in closet to change out of the dress she chose with such foolish care, now banishing it to the depth of her wardrobe carelessly. She re-emerged from her closet, went to the sitting room but did not find Hermione there. Instead, the brunette was slumped over her kitchen, waiting on the kettle. 

As Hermione gave her a heavy-lidded look under her eyelashes, Narcissa cleared her throat. “If you think anything will happen tonight, other than you sleeping in the guest room before you can apparate without killing yourself, then you’d be sorely mistaken, Miss Granger.” 

“ Miss Granger ?” Her eyebrows came together in a knot. Hermione rubbed her forehead, starting to feel irate. “What is your problem? You’ve been sulking ever since the quiz tournament ended, you left without even letting me know. When I saw you in the pub, I thought you’d wanted to see me?” 

“I did… I do.” Narcissa admitted quietly, “It’s not that.” 

“Then what is it?” 

The blonde paced to one end of her kitchen space, putting some distance between them. “I don’t know– ” She paused, then in a smaller, gentler voice, she said, “I don’t know why you do this, Hermione. You could’ve taken anyone home tonight, why are you here?” 

Dumbfounded, Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Because I’m not interested in doing that. Not at all.” 

“But surely, the hostess, she is very beautiful.” Narcissa averted the searching brown eyes, the bile of something bordering jealousy was bitter in her throat. 

“Rory flirts, but we’ve got nothing in common. Plus, why do you care if I took someone else home? It’s–” 

Narcissa cut her off, “It’s none of my concern. I know, Hermione. I am clear on the extent of our… situation and trust me, far be it for me to intervene in your pursuit of other love interests and you owe me no explanation…” 

“That’s not what I mean!” Hermione hated when people misconstrue her words. She even dropped the guard to her thoughts, but Narcissa did not reach out with her mind. Stubborn witch. “I am here, aren’t I? And you just said so yourself that you don’t care about my other pursuits. So what am I doing that is making you upset?” 

She is here, isn’t she? Narcissa suddenly felt very tired. “Nothing–I can’t… we shouldn’t continue this conversation tonight, Hermione.” 

“I disagree. If you don’t let me know, how can we resolve the problem?” Hermione came around the little island separating them, trying to make her tone softer, trying to understand. 

With her movement, also drifted closer, the smell of firewhisky and cigarette smoke as if Hermione brought the entire bar with her. Narcissa calmed herself a million times over to not start an argument when her own emotions were so volatile that she might say something she’d regret later. She shook her head, and said a bit curtly, “I don’t think you’re ready to hear what I have to say.” 

This of course had the opposite effect than intended. Hermione immediately straightened, her soft edges disappearing entirely. “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do. If you have something to say, say it.” 

Bloody Gryffindors! Narcissa gritted her teeth, irate. “Fine. It dawned on me today that you’re running away from dealing with your trauma and you’re using this, us, as an excuse!” 

“What!? I am not running away from anything.” Hermione gripped the edge of the island counter forcefully, as if to show her own steadfastness.

It was too late to go back on what she said. When she wanted, Narcissa knew this about herself, she could be quite ruthless. “Yes, you are, dear. I realised it when the hostess made you uncomfortable tonight. Your scar hurt, didn’t it? It hurts, all the time.” 

“So what if it does?” Her knuckles became white from her grip. 

“So you haven’t told anyone about it! It’s not a shameful thing to admit that you need help, Hermione.” 

“You don’t know I haven’t asked for help.” Hermione gritted, “you have no idea. I’ve asked everyone and nobody has a single clue where to start!” 

“Not everyone. You haven’t asked me.” Narcissa wanted to pretend that she didn’t see the younger witch inhale sharply at the implication, and carried on, “now I don’t have the dagger, but if I spoke to the Minister, he might release it to me for a period of time. And Bella… she journaled. She kept a journal on everything, I’ve read something in her old journal about experimenting with a sharp object and it–” 

Hermione pushed off the counter, her wrist joints popping under the sheer force. Her brown eyes were red and brimming with angry tears. “You’re joking, right? Why would I ask you to do this?” 

“Because it’s starting to fester! It’s obvious you have been guarding it without healing it, and you’re going to keep hurting from it. Take it from a Dark Witch, ” her voice cracked as she pointed to herself, “this is blood magic, it’s a heavy, nasty thing.” 

“Don’t you dare tell me what it is. Your sister did this to me!” Hermione’s voice quivered, “I meant, why would I ask you ?” As soon as she said it, she’d wanted to take it back. She was being purposefully mean, Hermione knew. And yet, any word to backtrack was halted by what Narcissa said next. 

“Who else would you ask, hmm?” Dark red lips pursed into a straight line, her patience was waning down to a hair, ready to snap. “Not the hostess, I hope? Who do you think understands what you’re going through better than I do?” 

“You don’t understand me,” Hermione scoffed, “you’d be insane if you think that after a few times having sex.” 

That stung. Narcissa stopped herself from flinching, instead matching the younger witch’s indignation with cold logic. “And yet here you are, and here I am.” Narcissa gestured at the both of them, “who does understand you, Hermione? Tell me, who have you built a genuine, vulnerable connection with in the last three years? I know what I am to you, Hermione, I am not delusional. You don’t love me, you come to me because there is a pull,” she said with conviction, “it’s from that scar. Despite how twisted it is, it brings you here. When we’re together, when you fuck me, when you use me, you can have the control that you lost, and it feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, it does, alright? Why, have you suddenly grown a conscience, Narcissa? Then if you’re going to accuse me for using you, I’m sorry but you’re doing exactly the same.” Hermione’s tone took on a tinge of sadistic mockery even as she slurred her words, “c’mon, it was you who wanted it. You wanted to be taken, you craved it, or did you forget, that first time we were together, who became that whimpering, begging, wet mess–” 

“Miss Granger!” Narcissa cut her off harshly, no longer able to hear the rambling accusation. She must have been a fool when she thought her well-meaning concern would be received with similar kindness. “I caution you to refrain from speaking of me in this manner.” She warned darkly. 

“What are you going to do?” Hermione squinted, “hex me? Curse me?” The rage from the throbbing pain on her arm had crested to a new height, combined with the burn of alcohol thrumming through her veins, it made her feel like her magic was going haywire. Strangely, so did her craving to see Narcissa stripped bare and bent over on the counter and taken raw and fast.  

The blonde witch must have heard her unguarded, terrible, and terribly provocative thoughts. Instead of the reciprocal lust that she felt the first time, it had the opposite effect. She instinctively drew her wand when Hermione took a step closer. 

Brown eyes sobered up at the small movement. Her thoughts took on the flavour of disgust, at herself, at her own ill-disposed desire, at her state of complete and utter chaos. She hardly recognised herself anymore. 

“I don’t recognise you, either, Hermione.” Narcissa said, trying to compose herself. She put away her wand, but wrapped the robes tighter around her body, unable to meet Hermione’s eyes. “It’s not you. It’s the scar.” 

Hermione shook her head, and heavy teardrops fell down her cheeks in twin streams. “It’s hopeless.” Then she turned and ran. 

After a moment of hesitation, Narcissa followed, worried that the younger witch would try to apparate again. But instead, she heard the hearth roar to life, and Hermione’s broken voice calling out, “Godric’s Hollow!” 

Chapter Text

For the first time in her entire academic career plus employment history, Hermione owled in sick. 

She woke up sandwiched between Ginny’s pregnant belly and the wall. They’d fallen asleep in Harry and Ginny’s guest bedroom. Outside, the sky was just turning a pale blue colour, the time still early. 

Gently extracting herself from her friend’s limbs that lay heavily across her, she slid off the foot of the bed so as to not wake Ginny. On the nightstand, Harry had left a small tincture, it smelled like a cross between Pepper-Up and Wiggenweld . Hermione drank it, and felt a dozen times better. 

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, puffy-eyed, and quite pale regardless of the hangover potion her friend kindly prepared. She quickly floo’ed home to feed Crookshanks, who gave her unimpressed blinks, and tasked her small owl to send a letter to her department, though her coworkers hardly kept track of her whereabouts, something that could be attributed to her impeccable work ethics. With a fresh change of clothes, she appeared back in her friends’ living room. 

“Ah good, you’re up.” Harry put down the Daily Prophet in his hands, and smiled at her. At the breakfast table, three cups of steaming coffee were stirring themselves with the perfect amount of sugar and milk for the intended drinker. 

Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. Memories of her previous night were hazy, but she could venture a pretty good guess at what she’d blurted out while drunkenly crying to Ginny, Harry in the next room trying to get some sleep before work. “So…” Hermione lowered herself in the chair across from him, and began sheepishly, “how much did you hear?” 

“Enough.” He picked up his cup and took a sip to hide whatever facial expression he had. 

Hermione squinted her eyes at him. They looked at each other across the table for a few seconds before Harry reached out to pat the back of her hand. She could now see the mirth in his twinkling eyes. 

“Well done, Hermione.” 

“Ugh!” She buried her face in her hands, “that’s not–I can explain. Well, I can’t really but you have to see–”

He cut her off, “it’s alright, Hermione. You don’t have to explain yourself. And you know you can trust us, we won’t tell anyone, Gin and I.” 

“Thanks.” Hermione dropped her hands and slumped in the chair, “it’s all off now, anyways.” 

“How do you feel about it?” He asked. 

“What are you, my therapist now?” She quipped, an obvious attempt to divert but after a beat of his silence, she sighed. “You don’t seem very surprised by this.” 

He shrugged, “it was pretty clear to people who know you–with the emotional range larger than a spoon, that is–to figure out that you were attracted to Narcissa. I mean, you did pay extra attention to her after the trial. At first Ginny and I thought it was because of your distrust of her, but I realised that was not exactly it, when we were at the pub, the night before the werewolf attack.” 

She blushed, immediately remembering what had transpired after those events. (And all that had transpired on a regular basis since, for that matter.) 

“Yeah, I guess. It was just so… easy? Maybe that’s not the right word, but, being with her really was just that. There weren’t any sort of expectations I was supposed to meet because, well, you understand.” 

Harry nodded in sympathy, knowing all too well the burden of responsibility people have placed on him as the Chosen One , The Boy Who Lived Twice . 

“But, it obviously couldn’t go on.” She sipped her coffee, trying her best to sound convincing, final. 

Harry tilted his head to look at her, an unspoken question in his green eyes. 

“There’s just so much history… She was trying to, I don’t know, revisit everything? I couldn’t bear it, to feel that… helpless, and vulnerable. It took me to a place where I’ve tried so hard to not return to, you know? Somewhere so dark… and dangerous. I mean, I felt like I was losing control.” 

Harry let her continue, reciting the argument play by play. He listened quietly until Hermione finished, taking a big gulp from her cup. “I understand better now, Hermione. Thanks for telling me.” He poured themselves more coffee. “Can I tell you what I think?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, knowing he would say something completely contradictory to her logic but incredibly convincing, even enlightening. That was one of the reasons she loved him, his unique way of looking at the world and his invincible optimism. “Yes, I suppose I’d be wondering about what you really think had I said no.” 

“I think… Narcissa’s intentions are good.” Before Hermione could protest, he quickly added, “she might have not chosen the right time, or the right words, but her offer wasn’t out of malice.” 

It made her pause, feeling guilty. Sure, she was quite inebriated, and sure, Narcissa did want to stop the conversation a few times. Except, the Gryffindor in her had been much more blunt. 

“Plus,” he began again with a small smile as if he knew something she didn’t, “think about it. Your whole argument started after the quiz tournament. She saw you and Rory, even though you didn’t reciprocate the flirting, it did look like you were close, to say the least.” 

Hermione huffed in annoyance. “I told her, Rory and I have nothing in common. She’s definitely not the kind of person I would want to date. Did Narcissa listen? No! Instead, she’d lectured me about how I haven’t been able to ‘build a genuine connection with anyone’.” 

“Hermione, you realise that it’s sounding more and more like a lover’s quarrel?” Harry pointed out, as if it was obvious. 

Hermione gasped, incredulous, “What? Don’t be absurd, Harry.” 

“Have you considered the fact that she’s trying to push you away because her feelings were hurt, and well, she might’ve been reacting out of… I don’t know, jealousy?” 

She shook her head, still recovering from his preposterous suggestion. “You’re saying, what, exactly? That Narcissa, of ‘ the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black’- ” she did an air quote to emphasise her mocking, “-has feelings for me?” 

“Look, I don’t presume to know what is going on in her head. All I’m saying is that, from where I stand, I think she cares about you.” Harry said and reached across the table to hold her hand again, his habit of providing comfort. “There’s a lot more good in Narcissa than people give her credit for. Perhaps one day she will feel comfortable enough to show this side, or maybe she never will. Regardless, I believe she really wants to help. You should talk to her about it, about that night, there are things from her perspective, only she can show you. Please, consider her offer.” 

Hermione hugged her arm close to her chest subconsciously. 

“I’m really sorry, ’Mione,” his voice had become so gentle that she realised his eyes were a bit red, “I couldn’t help you more with the scar. It must’ve been really hard to have such a painful reminder of the war.” 

“Thanks, Harry, it’s not your fault. Remember what I used to say, ‘Fear of the name only increases the fear of the thing itself,’ … Only sometimes, the fear is actually too much to bear. I’ve come to understand that I’m not always right.” 

“I suppose. Still, I would’ve liked to help you with research.” 

“Harry, I’ve done research on this for two years and I couldn’t figure it out.” She squeezed his hand back, and then teased, “besides, you’re shite at healing charms.” 

He laughed, “and you’ve always been the brightest of us all.” 

She grinned at him for the timeless joke, transported back to the happy moments they’ve shared over the years. 

They finished their coffee in a companionable silence, each pondering over their chat. Around the time when Harry needed to go to work, Ginny woke up and joined them. With a few looks exchanged in the air, Ginny understood that a serious conversation had taken place. Instead, she brought up her plan to visit a muggle massage place for her sore hips and invited Hermione along. 

Hermione had always envied how in tune they were. That they seemed to read each other’s minds like second nature, an ask that could arise at any moment and a permission that was easily granted. At this, her thought went to a pair of piercing blue eyes, and her chest ached with a pang. 

******

Narcissa Black didn’t wallow. 

No, that would be unbecoming. 

She was never a wallower. She gritted her teeth and bore it when her marriage took a turn for the worse during her difficult pregnancy with Draco; she braved it with utmost deftness when Lucius invited Death Eaters to dine with them under the same roof; she was resolute and merciless to end their bitter relationship, unyielding when she received howler after howler from Azkaban via Lucious' solicitor demanding she joined him in his misery, by which point she saw how much of a despicable coward he truly was. No, she never wallowed, and she wouldn’t start now. 

Then why was she pacing numblessly through her home, listening for any slight indication that a letter might come through? 

She’d gotten so used to receiving casual correspondences from Hermione Granger throughout the week, that the complete silence was as grating as a merfolk’s song out of water. 

With a heavy sigh, Narcissa resigned to the knowledge that the brunette wouldn’t reach out to her, not even today, a Wednesday. 

Even if she did, what would she say? Apologise for overstepping the mark? For stating the obvious? For ending the illusion spell that they could just carry on and pretend like it was a normal relationsh–association that people have with other people? 

Her mind drifted through memories of the past few months, snippets of moments shared with the younger witch when she had felt… well, young. No matter which path she strolled down in her head, it all inevitably led to the less desirable conversation they’d had a week ago. 

Perhaps she went about their conversation with too much haste, and perhaps she let her own sullen mood get the best of her, she acquiesced. And Hermione’s reaction, her uncharitable assessment, and her brief lapse in judgement… they stung, quite horribly, and had almost left her in tears. But she also knew a part of it was the cursed scar, which she felt with utter conviction that she could help Hermione with, if only she’d let her try. 

A sudden noise from another room pulled her thoughts back to the current. Unmistakably, it was the sound of firewood popping. It can’t be… She gathered the hem of her house robe and rushed to her living room, “Hermio–” 

“Hello, Mother.” Tall and handsome, stood her son. 

“Draco!” She went to his open arms and kissed his face. “You didn’t write to say you were coming over.” 

He smiled, which was a much more common thing nowadays. She was so glad how his whole being felt softer, and easier, and more confident, after three years of living with someone he loved, and away from the scrutiny of the British wizarding society. 

“Were you expecting someone else?” He asked. 

Yes and no . She didn’t know how to respond to that. Surely, she couldn’t possibly divulge the incredibly scandalous affair she had been having with his schoolmate, the subsequent difference in opinions of whether it could continue, the complicated feelings she had developed toward said witch, and the absolute silence that had been eating away at her. “No one, darling. It’s just, well, I’m surprised, you normally write before visiting.” She was almost glad Hermione wasn’t here, lest Draco walked in on them doing Salazar knows what! 

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mother?” 

“Positive, Dragon, don’t worry about me. Come, sit!” Rare were the spontaneous visits from her son these days. Now he was working as a project manager in a French company that specialised in sourcing magical materials for high end furniture - the kind that could withstand transfiguration for a much longer time than normal furniture to suit the owner’s changing fancies. And, with a baby on the way, he was always running around doing errands. 

“Actually, I was hoping that you came with me, Mother, for dinner. It’s last-minute, but Astoria and I want to ask for your help on something.” He held out his hand to her, and added. “If you are available, that is.” 

She took his hand trustingly, “why certainly, I’d be glad to have dinner with my son and his lovely wife. You know this, Dragon, my socialite days are long past me.” 

He laughed lightly, and guided her into the hearth. On the other side, Astoria and their butler, a House Elf named DeeDee dressed in formalwear, had already set out their dinner table. “Narcissa, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Draco wouldn’t listen when I told him it’s way too late.” She welcomed her Mother in law with a kiss on each cheek and hurriedly apologised. 

“Nonsense, dear. It’s no trouble for me to come over.” Narcissa gave her a kind squeeze on the shoulder. She adored Astoria, and thought her the best thing to happen to Draco. 

They exchange pleasantries, and tucked into the small yet decadent feast. Though curious about the reason behind her invitation, she waited for the young couple to bring it up. Draco spoke about his work, “an audacious two-week trip to the Amazons for sourcing Brazilian mahogany to make wardrobes that prevented butterfly-moths, nargles, and other magical vermin”. She could tell that the two were still having a silent conversation with looks and possibly Legilimency - Draco was never very good but he tried. 

“When is this trip taking place?” Narcissa asked, sensing that his ramble would eventually lead to what he actually wanted to say. 

Draco looked down at his plate and flushed slightly, “the portkey to the Ministerio opens tomorrow.” He quickly added, “the project came up very suddenly so I couldn’t delay much longer, Mother, and you know how Astoria’s pregnancy has been for her, we would’ve asked Daphne but she’s got her hands full with two toddlers, really…” 

“Slow down, Dragon.” As surprisingly amusing as it was to see her usually unflappable son sweat, Narcissa felt for him. She offered, instead of him asking, “would it ease your mind if I came to keep Astoria company while you travelled?” 

Astoria protested with haste, “Narcissa, I’m sure you’re busy, we can’t possibly ask you to do that. Draco, I’ll be perfectly fine with DeeDee around.” 

Hearing her name, the House Elf stepped forward and bowed, but she didn’t say anything. 

“DeeDee doesn’t speak a word of English, Astoria, and let’s be honest, your French hasn’t exactly improved.” Draco shook his head, his tone gentle and teasing. He said something to the House Elf in French, to which DeeDee replied in earnest. Her French conjugation reminded Narcissa fondly of the old House Elf, Bonbon, her family had when they stayed at their vacation home in the Alps. 

“My darlings, I am delighted that Draco asked me to step in for a few weeks. In fact, I’ve been anticipating that you’d need a hand around the house once the baby is born, the opportunity just came sooner.” With a flourish of her wrist, she floated the very excellent Bordeaux to top up her glass, settling the matter. It might be nice , she mused, to have someone to speak with, given that now her one scheduled ‘social event’ had fallen off the calendar.  

Draco grinned victoriously at his wife. And that was that. 

After dinner, Narcissa insisted on inspecting his packing list. Even though he was well-travelled and quite familiar with emergency potions, she still made sure that he had an extra of everything. 

“You know, Mother,” Draco sat on the sofa, letting her add compartments of this and that to his trunk, “that extended bag magic reminds me of Granger.” He suddenly said. 

Her hand froze, hovering above the jar of bruise-removal paste. Of course, she and Draco had gone through Hermione’s belongings during the time she’d been held captive in the manor. “Why do you say that?” She tried to sound nonplussed, while hoping the tremble in her voice went unnoticed. 

Draco shrugged, “it is clever. Especially for someone her age, back then.” 

Narcissa busied herself with the rest of the tinctures again, and hummed in response. He was getting to a point, she knew him too well to believe that he just wanted to reminisce. 

“You were expecting someone else when I barged in, weren’t you, Mother?” 

“Draco–” She started, searching for an appropriate response to his inquiry, “it was called off, my meeting, but I thought somehow I missed an owl to say that it was back on…” Narcissa told a half-truth, and carefully reinforced her Occlumency shield in case he had improved on his mind magic. 

“Your meeting with Granger.” He concluded, and when she opened her mouth to tell him that who she was meeting was not important, he added, “Mother, I heard you almost say her name. Not many people’s names start with ‘Hermio’.” 

“Well, I suppose you are right.” 

Draco continued, “Potter mentioned in a letter that you were working with her on something.” 

She nodded, “Remember I told you in confidence about my contract at the ministry, primarily as a Wolfsbane potion brewer? Miss Granger is doing legal advocacy for a werewolf under my treatment. The young man was involved in an incident.” 

“Is that not going well?” 

Narcissa abandoned the task at hand, and came to sit next to him on the bench. “It’s challenging work, but I enjoy what I do, Draco, I think it is benefiting quite a few werewolves who wanted my assistance.” 

He pressed on, “then what is making you so cagey about this? You’re clearly bothered about your meeting when I brought it up.” 

“Miss Granger and I might have had a disagreement in our professional opinions.” She tried to put it as delicately as she could. A spat sounded too incendiary, and a quarrel too childish. 

He shook his fist in indignation, “was Granger harsh with you? Because I swear to Merlin, I would have a few words with her right now if–” 

“Draco, my darling, there’s nothing of the sort!” She held down his hand. Her son’s protective instinct was endearing, but she also would very much like to keep this between her and Hermione themselves. “Why would you assume it was Miss Granger who had accosted me?” 

“Well, Granger and I weren’t exactly best friends in school, but I know you, Mother. You’re kind, you’ve always taught me to try my best, you’ve changed and you’ve inspired me to change.” 

She ducked her head under his praise. It meant everything in the world that he held such positive regards for her. 

“I also know that Granger’s always been a self-righteous witch, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s holding onto our grudge and taking it out on you. Prejudice can go both ways.” 

“Thank you, darling, for defending my honour.” She ran her thumb over his knuckles. “But you’re mistaken. It was I who overstepped the boundary in our conversation and made Miss Granger upset.” 

Draco’s pale eyebrows flew to his hairline in disbelief, “you’re serious?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He blinked, still baffled by the idea that her mother, always so socially adept, so suave and dignified, would make anyone upset, let alone someone as brutish as Hermione Granger.  “Well, what’s it about?” 

Narcissa sighed. Though she’d much prefer to not involve Draco in this, it did feel good to finally have someone to speak with about this, irrespective of not disclosing the full extent of the situation she found herself in. “What do you remember from the day Miss Granger spent in the Manor, when she was captured during war time?” 

“I uh… I remember hearing her scream, Aunt Bella–” Draco swallowed heavily, unwilling to open the vault to that dark and twisted memory again. “Aunt Bella was with her for a long time. Is she still blaming you for what happened? But that’s not fair!” 

“Draco, I’d say that is more than fair. Bella carved that hideous word on her arm with one of her poisonous blades, you know, and it’d formed a cursed scar.” She rubbed her eyebrow, feeling ashamed of her oldest sister’s past crimes. 

His outrage quickly deflated at this information, “I didn’t know this…” 

“Well, I suppose she wouldn’t have brought it up to you. I doubt even her closest friends knew exactly how much it still hurts.” 

He shrugged, not denying the fact that he perhaps hadn’t tried hard enough to befriend Hermione Granger. “Why did she tell you?” 

“She– I needn't be told, Draco.” She left it rather vague, letting Draco assume that she’d heard the agony in Hermione’s mind like she did so many people that were tortured by Death Eaters. It would’ve not been a lie, as Hermione was rather loud in her inner monologues, but she’d been good with constructing an Occlumency shield each time they met, until the quiz tournament. However, Narcissa would sooner hurl herself over a cliff than divulging their disreputable affair–disreputable for Hermione, because what would people think of her involvement with such a disgraced character like Narcissa Black–to anyone, least of all her own son. 

“I see.” He considered her words and her face carefully, which made Narcissa nervous that he picked up on more than what she said. 

So she added quickly, “Miss Granger had seen many healers to treat it, but Bella was particularly wicked with her experimentations. It was not to my surprise that no one has been able to find a cure. However, I overstepped when I offered to research for one, it made her uncomfortable.” 

“Still, she shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” As he wanted to continue chastising his fellow classmate, Narcissa fixed him a disapproving look. “I’m sorry, Mother, it’s not a nice feeling to be rejected by someone you care about.” 

Narcissa felt a rock dislodge behind her breastbone. Care about … yes… she did care about Hermione. 

“Hermione–” she nodded, pausing to hear herself speak the name with such ease, “Hermione is such an incredibly bright and motivated witch, I’ve grown to enjoy her company.” 

“Also incredibly stubborn.” That pulled a small smile from his mother. 

“Indeed.” She shook her head fondly. 

He offered her a smile back, “You can be stubborn, too, Mother. It’s eating you up, you must have stayed up turning it over in your head for however long it has been.” 

“I suppose you are right about me as well.” She relaxed into the back of the sitting bench, and rested her chin in her palm, looking at Draco and feeling incredibly proud of the wise wizard he’d matured into over the last few years. 

“So why not just go ahead anyways? Research for the cure, I mean. There’s no harm in doing that on your own. Stubborn she might be, Granger is no fool, if you do find a way to heal her, she can’t pass that up.” Draco patted her leg before clicking shut his luggage, and he left the room, leaving her to mull over his suggestion. 

Right , thought Narcissa to herself, why not go ahead anyways. She hoped that Astoria would feel well enough to accompany her on a few trips to the library. 

Chapter Text

She trailed her tongue across the smooth expanse of pale, supple skin, catching salt and sweetness. The warm smell of flesh, sweat and a hint of perfume intoxicated her. 

“Come here.” The smooth, lustful voice called above. A hand held her shoulder and pulled her, pleading her to come up. 

She followed gladly, peppering kisses along the way, on the protruding rib bone, in the valley between soft breasts, and around the straining, pink nipples. The woman’s taste, feel, and pleasured sigh drowned her senses. 

Up and up and up… she nosed gently at the curve between her lover’s neck and jaw, and flashed her teeth on a small ear lobe, before finding a pair of slightly parted lips which were painted a rich, deep red. 

“Hermione…” The woman moaned. 

And she bent to swallow that heavenly sound and heated breath. Just as she was about to claim those pouty lips in a passionate kiss, she…

She awoke. 

Instead of the cool blue eyes that shimmered with want in her dream, there were two yellow eyes blinking lazily from his perch on the wardrobe. Crookshanks stretched out his paws and clawed the frayed edge of her furniture before hopping down to his food bowl, silently demanding breakfast.  

She pulled her duvet over her head and groaned. 

Three weeks came and went without a single word from Narcissa. She almost wondered if everything was her imagination, and that their paths never crossed to begin with. Except, the increasing frequency of her lustful dreams indicated the contrary. 

Hermione had talked with Harry and Ginny a few more times, though she struggled to tell the whole truth to Ron. Bless him , but Ron saw things much more black-and-white, so he was only let in on the fact that they had a fight which had resulted in the radio silence. Even as headstrong as he was, he sensed that there was something fragile in her. There had been no “I told you so”, or “good riddance” type of comments from him. They all gave her plenty of space and never pushed her to confront her feelings. 

Slowly, she’d started to have better insight. In the safety of her own home, Hermione could admit to herself that she missed her. If it was only her body that missed Narcissa, then it could be chalked up to her lack of a regular partner. But her mind also missed a mind that kept astounding her, a mind that, even without getting to know Narcissa on purpose she could easily tell, contained a breadth of knowledge, keen curiosity, and a wicked sense of humour. 

For three weeks, when her thoughts drifted to the blonde, there had been tiny, sharp pains in her chest. What if Narcissa had already replaced her – surely, beautiful and clever as she, any suitor would be lucky to get a minute of her time, and surely, she didn’t need a clumsy, brutish, angsty girl to antagonise her . Hermione snapped her eyes shut forcefully. 

And for three weeks, she stewed in her loneliness, refraining from reaching out. She felt shameful, for lashing out so unfairly at Narcissa. Her drunkenness or pain were not a good enough excuse. She felt intimidated by the potential cold glares and snarky remarks that would come her way if she did go knocking on the woman’s door. And she felt undeserving, of an easy forgiveness, of the intimacy and trust that they were building, of a gentle embrace with a soft whisper in her ear, “ you’re alright, darling .” She so, so wanted to hear it. 

But upon hearing Crookshanks’ scritching at her poor floorboard, Hermione flung herself out of bed and left behind the morning regret that seemed to be as constant as her three-sugared coffee. 

Today, there was another thing she had to face. 

After her morning routine, she floo’d straight to work, neglecting the rumble in her stomach that protested its emptiness - she couldn’t eat breakfast, her nerves feeling more tattered than ever. Her work calendar, though she didn’t need to check because of how many times she’d looked at it in the week leading to it, marked today as the date she was meeting with Logan to assess his readiness to go without detainment during the full moons. 

She familiarised herself one more time with Kingsley’s written order, and the protocols they came up with in the event that he was not cleared, before hearing a knock on her open door. 

“Miss Granger,” the department secretary popped his head in, “Logan Lisle is here for you.” 

“Thanks Eddie, please send him in.” 

The secretary gestured behind him, and in, shuffled the young man, who Hermione could hardly believe to be the same person that he was three months ago. 

If she was being honest, he even looked drastically worse off than the last full moon, which was only two weeks ago. She secretly chided herself for not arranging this meeting sooner. 

He had gigantic dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, as if he had not been eating or sleeping properly for days on end. Curiously, his spiky golden brown hair had grown longer and became streaked with inky, wiry strands. What was more startling was his mannerism, the soft, polite, even timid young man now stood charged with a dark and dangerous energy that she could pick up without being particularly great at reading auras. He walked with his head cocked to the side, and as if not used to using his limbs, he almost staggered into the seat before her. 

Hermione cleared her throat, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Logan, my apologies that we haven’t been able to meet for the past two weeks. How have you been?” 

Then, slowly, he peered up from under his eyebrow at her with black, hollow eyes. Her back suddenly became damp and her scar started to simmer with pain. “How have I been? What a question you ask.” He rasped, his voice also sounded strangely high-pitched, with a sickening sing-songy lilt. 

“Logan, what happened?” She was concerned, and more than a little scared. 

The side of his mouth stretched into a lopsided, sharp-toothed grin, “Oh, you know, once I realised how much I can control the wolf, I’ve never felt better, can’t you tell?” 

Hermione ignored the hissing heat on her forearm, and silently slid her wand out of her robe sleeve. She continued her questions because this was a very unexpected development, “Control the wolf, what do you mean by that?” 

“Some people are weak and stupid, weak and stupid people can’t control the wolf, the wolf controls them.” He said, “but I’m different. I became stronger, and now, I control the wolf.” 

“Logan, I don’t understand…” Her hand was almost shaking as she held her wand, but she tried to keep her voice even. 

“There’s nothing to understand,” he swerved on the swivel chair, his legs long and loose, his feet dragging on the floor, and pointed a finger lazily at himself, “I’m in better shape now, because I’ve gotten help from someone way more powerful and experienced, someone who could really show me the real gift of my condition.” 

“Who did you get help from?” 

But he ignored her question and continued, “you saw it yourself, no more attacks in the past three months, right? Isn’t that what you wanted to see?” 

“Yes, and it completely contradicted my expectation. That’s why I am concerned, Logan–” 

“If you just write up your little report to the Minister, and call off the Aurors on me, then I can be out of your hair.” He smiled again at her, but it was a smile that she thought belonged to someone who tried to mimic despite not knowing how to smile normally, it was fake, cold and calculating. “Three months under surveillance has been exhausting, I would very much like to take a vacation alone.” 

Hermione shook her head, unconvinced, “Logan, this is not the best idea. What happened while you were on Madam Black’s wolfsbane potion was still not clear to me. Now, I will put you back on the advanced trail, but I need to make sure that you are safe.” 

“No need.” He waved his hand, and scoffed dismissively, “Narcissa is pretty good at what she does, I’ll give her that, but I know more.” He grinned a cryptical grin. Hermione could tell that his patience was wearing thin though. She considered briefly what would happen if she let him loose like this but quickly banished the idea. 

Frowning, she proceeded to put away the piece of clearance report into her drawer. “I’m afraid I’m not convinced, Logan. We need to meet again and do a full assessment - I don’t have an adequate instrument today. It’s best that I consult my colleagues first before I can comfortably sign this report.” 

As she predicted, the fake smile disappeared. But what she didn’t foresee was his violent outburst. 

“You dare defy me, you filthy Mudblood !?” He shrieked, as if possessed suddenly by a malicious spirit. He jumped up from the seat, lunging forward with both hands reaching out in claws to strangle her. 

“Mister Lisle!” Hermione pushed herself back just in time. Her scar was now open and weeping, the pain amplified a hundredfold, but she didn’t have time to check it. She pointed her wand at him, “you need to compose yourself before I call someone to remove you from this area!” 

Logan barked out a laugh, “oh, but that wouldn’t be very fun, would it, pet ?” He held up his wand too, and tsked at the sight of her turning pale and sweaty in agony. 

She inhaled sharply. No one had ever called her that, besides… 

He flicked his wand without care, “Crucio!” 

“Expelliarmus!” 

They shouted at the same time, their magic meeting in a powerful stream of blue and red fires, punching through the office furniture, the tiles, and the door. Glasses shattered, vases exploded, wood splintered. Documents, letters, feathers, and artefacts went flying in all directions. 

The chaos drew the attention of her coworkers outside. Eddie was shouting on the inter-department telecom to call the Aurors. 

Confronted with a highly potent surge of magic, Hermione lost her footing. She took a tumble backwards and fell, but quickly rolled under her desk to avoid being hit by the unforgivable curse. A few more strikes came in her direction, all diverted by the sturdy marble, and then suddenly, her opponent stopped. Her ears rang from the explosions. 

Hermione raised her wand and poked out her head. She saw the retreating form of the young man out of her door. At the end of the hallway, a fireplace for the convenience of her department staff had been installed not too long ago. Knowing it was where anyone would be able to get out from the Ministry, she ran after him. At the secretary’s desk, Eddie lay unmoving on the ground. 

She quickly went to check on him. He was dead. By the look of it, he was killed in an instant by the unforgivable killing curse. 

And Logan - if she could still call him that, still smiling his sickening, fake smile, slithered back into the fireplace and disappeared in a woosh of green flames. 

****** 

“Where could he have gone!?” Shouted Kingsley Shacklebolt to the group of Aurors, Harry and Ron included, that gathered in Hermione’s ruined office. Then to the pair of Aurors - Sutton and Gemma -  who supposedly were on Logan’s surveillance duty, “How could you have let this happen?”  

They bowed their heads in shame. Hermione thought that they deserved the scolding, given no one deemed it worthy to mention the sudden peculiar changes in the boy until she found out in such an unpleasant way. 

“Sir, it seems the boy has accessed the floo network to a broom shop in Hogsmeade, after which witnesses have reported him going in the direction of the Dark Forest.” Gemma reported. 

“You, make sure Eddie Swanson’s family is taken good care of. You two, sweep the forest, ask the centaurs and giants if needed! You and you, go to Logan Lisle’s place and find out what we’ve been missing. You, owl Narcissa Black and request her to meet with me, at her earliest availability.” Kingsley ordered sternly, but he skipped Harry and Ron, so they could stay with Hermione. The Aurors scampered to get out and get started. 

“Ouch!” The mediwitch put a slather of healing salve on the reopened wound when Hermione was not paying attention. It stung so badly that she cried out, drawing eyes from those that were left in the room. 

Kingsley and Ron looked at her with concern. Harry, though also worried, seemed to have something to say. 

“Miss Granger, I’m sorry to have kept you this long. Your detailed statement has been very helpful.” Kingsley said, more gentle than he had been, “though, I wonder if you could elaborate more on the effect Mister Lisle’s foul name-calling seems to have on your scar.” 

She hesitated, unsure if she should share with him her hypothesis, which had the potential of inciting panic and unrest. She looked at Harry. 

As if hearing her thoughts, Harry put his hand on her shoulder, “Hermione, what you’re thinking, I have the same theory.” 

Kingsley eyed the two thoughtfully, and ordered the mediwitch and his personal assistant to take their leave. Then he gestured for her to speak in confidence. 

“Okay, during the war, Bel-” she felt herself choke, took a deep breath and restarted, “Bellatrix carved this word on my arm when she tortured me for information about her vault. Apparently, she’d used a cursed blade.” 

“The scar never healed.” Kingsley said, reminded of her testimony at Narcissa's trial.  

She nodded, feeling tears well up again. “And it seems to be sentient. Opens up from time to time. At first, I thought it responds when someone speaks it, or when I perceive the feelings or memories associated with it. It’d bleed.” 

“Blimey, Hermione.” Ron muttered under his breath, only now made aware of the extent of damage she’d endured from the war. Kingsley regarded her with sympathy. 

“Now I have another thought, about why it reacts to something more than others. For example, the first time I met Logan, even though he was never a part of that past, my scar still ached. But with Narcissa–” she paused at the mention of the blonde witch, weighing her next word, “when I met with her to discuss… work matters, its reaction disappeared – after I’ve gotten over my initial scepticism and equivocation about her, that is.” 

“And you think there is another explanation, than what triggers your emotions.” Harry stated more than asked. 

Hermione looked at each of them with conviction as she responded, “I’m positive there is. I think the scar responds to the other person’s intent, and more importantly, it responds to its creator worse than anyone else.” 

Silence descended on them after this revelation. They took her words in, considering the possibilities and what this could mean to their hard-fought era of peace. 

Ron frowned deeply, nearly sputtering, “you’re saying, Hermione, that Bellatrix is still out there? But that’s impossible! Mum exploded her to pieces!” 

“We thought Voldemort died as well, and we were wrong.” Kingsley held his chin with one hand, still wrapping his head around the whole thing. “Then how did Logan Lisle get involved in all this?” 

“He said he’d had help, from ‘someone much more powerful and experienced’.” Harry pointed out. 

Ron copied Kingsley’s posture, stroking his invisible beard, “I wonder if he’d had contact with her before the random attacks started.” 

“I’m afraid it happened much earlier than that,” she shook her head and gave Harry a look, which he returned. 

“You said ‘creator’, Hermione. Do you think enough dark magic and unforgivable things were done before Bellatrix’s death that allowed a part of her to persist in something, or someone?” 

“Like a Horcrux!?” Ron exclaimed and clamped his hands on each side of her arms, shaking her lightly and inspecting her closely, “Hermione, are you a Horcrux of Bellatrix Lestrange!?” 

She pushed him off, rolling her eyes at how he managed to perfectly miss all the hints that lead up to her point. “Not me, Ronald. Logan.” 

“Logan Lisle became a Horcrux…” Kingsley continued, “I suppose this isn’t unheard of. It’s just like when Voldemort faced mortal peril when his killing curse rebounded, a piece of his soul latched onto you, Harry.” 

Harry rubbed his forehead, where his scar remained but had become fainter with time, no longer alive. “Right. Though, I suspect that had I been much older, he couldn’t have done it without meaning to.” 

“It makes sense. At the moment when Bellatrix died, Logan would have already been bitten or severely wounded. Remember, he nearly bled out from his wound during the battle so it isn’t a far-fetched probability. Accidentally being made into a Horcrux, that person must be very defenceless or vulnerable.” Hermione concluded. Having talked through her suspicion, she finally felt like they were on the right track.

Kingsley sighed heavily. If they were right, it would indeed be disastrous. “The speculation about Bellatrix Lestrange stays between us for now.” 

“What should we say to the press, sir?” Ron asked. 

“That people should be aware of a dangerous werewolf on the run. Advise residents to keep clear of secluded areas and forests, if sighted, do not engage. And tell everyone at DMLE to detain on sight but kill if need be.” 

Hermione winced. “Sir…” 

A shriek announcing an owl’s arrival interrupted them at this moment. The gigantic hawkish looking black bird flapped its great wings. Hermione recognised Stormy, Narcissa’s snobby owl. She instinctively reached out to let it land, but it found Kingsley’s shoulder instead. 

Harry raised his eyebrow at her, which she pointedly ignored while hiding a blush. 

“Narcissa Black is available to meet me today at three in the afternoon.” The Minister read her letter. “I will have to tell her your hypothesis.” 

“Is that the right call, sir? We’re not worried about her colluding with Lestrange?” Ron raised his concern. 

“I think,” Hermione said cautiously, “she should know, we want to make sure she’s prepared for any contact from Bellatrix, if it hasn’t already happened. Besides, Narcissa and I… have an understanding.” 

Harry was the only one who didn’t look surprised. 

“Oh?” Kingsley took brief interest in Hermione’s change of heart from her previous stance on Narcissa’s guilt in the Logan Lisle case. 

“She’d offered to research and treat my scar. And I believe it to be a genuine offer.” 

“I think we can trust her.” Harry added in good spirit, and turned to Ron, “it’s not like you and I stand a chance at keeping a secret from her. She’s a darn good Legillimens.” 

“Thanks for the heads up, Harry.” Hermione said sarcastically, still peeved that she’d left her thoughts running unhinged around Narcissa for so long before learning of her abilities. 

“Then it’s decided.” Kingsley announced. “And you should come to the meeting.” He gestured at Hermione. 

****** The very same morning******

“Narcissa, you should take a look at this.” 

As it turned out, to her great delight, Astoria was a natural at conducting research. She gladly dove into the task, perusing book after forbidden book Narcissa retrieved from the vast collection of the Black estate’s library. It seemed to have taken her mind off her undesirable pregnancy symptoms. 

Narcissa herself had started deciphering Bellatrix’s diaries from her dauntless youth. While all entries proclaiming her devout faith in the Dark Lor– Voldemort had been confiscated and destroyed by the Ministry, she’d fought to preserve those that held valuable information on the various experiments Bella had conducted. Some were innocent little modifications used to cheat in class or seek petty vengeance on her siblings. Others, however, were dark and cruel. 

Kingsley had been unconvinced when he leafed through the few pages detailing inconspicuous unbreakable vows that made people do horrible things, a drink that ensured splinching during apparation, and other barbaric inventions of the sort. But she’d argued that they may lend insights to other dark magic artists and their lingering curses in the world. She’d even made an unbreakable vow herself to not use any of the knowledge from Bella’s work to do harm. So he let her keep them for records. 

Now, she thought with a little bit of arrogance, that it had proven her foresight correct. 

Astoria had found an unpublished book, a ledger more than a book, that documented the practise of infusing blood magic in cursed objects used by ancient pureblood families. In which, House of Black of course took more than its fair share of writing space. The recorders of the book events, to her complete surprise, were generations of House Elves. Their use of the English language was as mystifying as it was endearing. 

Narcissa had no idea they were the silent witnesses of centuries of magical history, unrecognised by the mainstream publishers to this day. 

The book had stopped at the name Dobby. Her eyes stung and face burned in shame. 

She read it carefully. 

Bella had gone through a period being obsessed with blood magic and cold weapons. In her second week of organising her extensive notes and cross-referencing dark magic texts, she found the most promising lead: dozens and dozens drawn designs of swords, knives, axes and arrows, all beautiful and intricate from an artistic point of view, yet intended for the most violent fantasies. It disturbed her to see the madness that was slowly taking over her eldest sister even before her fateful meeting with Voldemort. 

In the margins of her drawing of the blade she’d been almost certain was the one that maimed Hermione, Bella wrote: 

Part the flesh to remember; 

Pain to last as you wish; 

Scar to stay and reopen. 

Can’t be undone by a blood unworthy;

Can’t be reversed by a heart reserved;

Can’t be ended by a soul condemned. 

Bit of a head scratcher it was. She remained stuck on it, for a while. Time flew by as her mind was kept occupied in every waking moment to solve this riddle. 

Draco had gone on his trip and returned, pleased that the two witches had gotten along so famously. Astoria was energetic, full of new ambitions for furthering her studies, and Narcissa seemed lighter. It didn’t surprise him that she extended her stay with them as she approached a breakthrough in the research. 

“You adore Astoria more than me, Mother.” He had jokingly complained. 

She'd chuckled, and teased back, “well, I might very well do, since she’s the one who found me this!” 

What Narcissa pointed to with her quill so excitedly, was another entry of the text, highly similar to Bella’s notes, in the House Elves’ ledger. And luck must have been on their side, the Elf who recorded the instruction had also written an essay on their own interpretation of the curse. 

This gave her ideas. 

Just as she was about to write to the Minister and make a request to access Bellatrix’s blade, he surprisingly wrote to her first. 

“Uh-oh, a dove. Official.” Said Astoria. 

Ministry owls needed extensive veterinarian clearance to cross borders — the French were highly critical of the Brits ever since the second Wizarding War and made avian flus out to be a greater threat than it really was, an excuse just to make things difficult — so a French dove completed the second leg past the English Channel to Draco’s residence. 

“This can’t be good.”  Draco observed as she read them the very vague, urgent-sounding letter, seeking her immediate return to London. 

Narcissa penned a quick note back to the Minister and sent her own owl. She gathered the papers strewn about the desk in Draco’s study with a flick of her wand. They floated into the open face of her folder, sorting themselves chronologically. “Another werewolf incident,” she explained the gist of the whole investigation while assembling her luggage, “I’m needed back this afternoon.” 

“Do you want me to join you?” Draco asked, deep concern in his voice. 

“No, darling, I’ll be alright.” She kissed him on both cheeks, then hugged Astoria, “Thank you so much, my dear, for helping me. I wouldn’t have found these useful clues on my own. I truly am sorry to leave on such short notice.” 

“I loved having you here.” Astoria returned the hug affectionately, “I hope you figure out this mystery, Narcissa.” 

“Soon, I have a pretty good hunch about it.” She gave them each one more hug before stepping through the hearth. 

Chapter Text

In the Minister’s office, Hermione wrung her hands together. Her heart pounded with each muted jump of the clock hand. Waiting, anticipating, expecting Narcissa’s arrival. It would be the first time they were face to face in over three weeks, and she half-dreaded, half-longed for this moment. 

When the door finally opened, came striding in the woman she’d thought about… dreamed about … more times than she cared to admit, Hermione was almost taken aback by how awkwardly subdued it was. 

“Minister Shacklebolt, Miss Granger.” Narcissa bid them good afternoon. 

Fahad, Kingsley’s assistant, a dashing young wizard with bronze skin and dark curls, was clearly enamoured by the witch. He all but took off his robe to be Narcissa’s welcoming carpet, and busied himself fetching her tea cup, taking her overcoat to hang, and pulling out her chair. 

She sat down, without batting an eye, in the chair next to Hermione. All the while thanking Fahad for his chivalry. 

Hermione’s heart sank. She felt rising annoyance toward the foolish wizard who glowed brightly with Narcissa’s praise. 

Fahad hovered close, hands at the ready to help Narcissa with her purse, trying to glean another second of her attention. Kingsley silently regarded them, and gestured for his assistant to exit. With considerable regret, Fahad moved slowly out of Narcissa’s periphery, oblivious to the glares that Hermione was sending his way. 

Kingsley greeted her with a nod. “Thank you for agreeing to meet so quickly. I thought you should know about the matter regarding Mister Lisle. You see, it is quite delicate, I would rather not discuss it in a letter.” 

“I agree. It was best for me to come in person, given your letter had travelled to Paris,” here, she looked at Hermione out of the corner of her eye, but the brunette seemed preoccupied with seeing off the handsome young wizard. 

“Draco?” Kingsley asked. 

“Yes, and to look after Astoria as he was called to travel.” 

“Sorry for the interruption.” 

“It’s fine, he’s returned.” 

Their pleasantries didn’t last long. Kingsley was rather direct in getting into the agenda. “I’m afraid the situation has worsened. Miss Granger had a confrontation with the boy earlier.” 

At this, Narcissa’s eyes widened. She turned fully to look at Hermione, the calm, collected facade crumbling ever so slightly. Now, she noticed the dust on her trousers, and worried what injuries lay underneath her clothes.  

Feeling the searching gaze, Hermione wanted to sigh in relief. Harry was right. Despite how they left things, despite how horrible they had been, despite how stubbornly withdrawn they became, Narcissa still cared . She turned to face Narcissa as well. 

“Hermione, you’re hurt.” Blue eyes zoned in on the abrasion above Hermione’s eyebrow. She raised her hand as if to touch, but stopped, only hovering by the wound. 

Hermione swallowed, with a sudden urge to rest her cheek against Narcissa’s palm. But they both refrained from making actual contact. “It’s nothing, just a scrape.” 

If Kingsley picked up on the sudden change in demeanour, he didn’t let it show. He just quietly observed their interaction. 

“What happened? Are you alright?” She did a head-to-toe inspection closely, and found the edge of bandages sticking out under her left sleeve. 

“I had a meeting with Logan to assess his readiness to be off probation. He was… acting bizarre. I didn’t feel comfortable clearing him, and that made him angry.” Hermione started, but quickly looked to Kingsley for direction, “Sir, should I try to explain my theory?” 

“It would be easiest if you can show Madame Black.” He replied, “to view it from your memory will give her the best perspective. Of course, you’re free to decline, Miss Granger, you’re not obligated to share this with anyone.” 

“I want to.” She decided quickly. Because so much had happened, she was overwhelmed and exhausted. She didn’t trust that her words would suffice for such an earth-shattering discovery. At this point, she didn’t care what else Narcissa would find in her head, she just wanted her to believe that Bellatrix was real , was there . She said to Narcissa, “you have my permission to look.” 

“Think about your interactions with Logan, Hermione,” Narcissa instructed, “it’ll show me all the moments with him. I promise I won’t probe your other memories.” 

Hermione took a deep breath and brought the thoughts to the front of her mind, “okay, I’m ready.” 

Piercing blue eyes were gentle as she held steady the gaze into Hermione’s brown eyes. “Legilimens.” Spoke Narcissa softly. 

Somehow, she’d always known it would feel like this. Her mind being penetrated—no, caressed—by Narcissa in a manner that was as cool as the breeze on a bluebird day, left pleasant little goose flesh rippling across her skin. Hermione was instantly flooded with a strangely familiar sense of calm. 

“That’s it.” She heard the smooth voice in her head. “You’re doing so well.” 

Snippets of memories flashed across the back of her retina like frames of cine film: Her first time meeting Logan, her investigation around his mysterious change in behaviours, her rising apprehension about him and her eventual duel against him. Though distressing events to say the least, her emotions were held steady by Narcissa’s powerful control, reassuring her safety in the journey down a perilous memory lane. 

When the spell ended, the blonde withdrew from Hermione’s mind as reverently as the way she entered. Whereas the younger witch tumbled out of the blue eyes, missing, craving their focus on her immediately. She only snapped out of the daze when Narcissa sobbed quietly. 

“Bella… she’s back.” 

“You believe me?” Hermione blinked, all the while wanting to catch the string of tears rolling down the older witch’s pale face. 

She dabbed at her eyes, “of course I do. I can see her. In him.” Narcissa paused to take a breather, and what she said next made her lips quiver even more, “only it isn’t her… It’s not my Bella, no. It’s some kind of monster… an ugly, dark soul that broke itself into pieces so it could survive the pulverising! And it’s very angry, very desperate.” 

“I know this is difficult, so thank you for confirming our suspicion.” Kingsley offered a napkin box kindly. “So you haven’t received any form of contact from her?” 

Narcissa shook her head. 

Kingsley looked at Hermione, as if asking if she could verify this. To which, she said, “I realise only now that the change was happening when he first slipped up and used that horrible word, but it happened slowly. Somehow it picked up in the past two weeks.” 

He hummed in thought, “I wonder why.” 

They sat in silence, each contemplating possible explanations. After a few minutes, Narcissa spoke in a tear-logged voice, “I suspect the fluctuation in Mister Lisle has something to do with the wolfsbane potion.” 

Under Hermione’s encouraging gaze, Narcissa collected herself, slipping on the mask of poise and logic. The transformation was so natural, it made Hermione warm with attraction, simultaneously, a strong desire to reach out and hold her until she softened, until she felt like she could freely express her sorrow. 

“The attachment of one’s soul to another living being is precarious, and exactly as Hermione had thought earlier, she’d only been able to do this because of Mister Lisle’s compromised state of consciousness. Bella was successful because of the werewolf bite, and consequently, the Horcrux is inextricably intertwined with the animal.” 

“You think it’s possible that Bellatrix somehow tamed the werewolf?” Kingsley asked. 

Nodding, Narcissa continued, “Now, I would’ve had a hard time imagining anyone, least of all a fractured piece of soul, could control the spirit of a werewolf. But after looking at some of the most advanced and… despicable dark magic in her journal, I fully believe the darkness of what remains of her could’ve overpowered an animal instinct.” 

Kingsley pondered this, and agreed, “Mister Lisle is otherwise a young wizard at the prime of his strength, with a strong moral compass. It would’ve been difficult to exercise this level of control on his subconscious, had his humanity not been weakened by his condition during the full moons.” 

“So the advanced trial potion was helping preserve his humanity, thus containing Bellatrix’s influence. And the regular draught only allowed her to take over more and more.” Hermione pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, feeling intensely guilty. 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, Hermione. It was only a matter of time that Bella poisoned his mind entirely.” Narcissa laid a hand on the brunette’s shoulder, “remember, there had already been an attack on Harry and Ginny before his capture. Whatever effect my potion had on suppressing the Horcrux, had been too late.” 

Kingsley mused, “the weaker draught gave Bellatrix an opportunity to further strengthen her power over the werewolf, but the surveillance and possibility that he is put back on the advanced trial threatened her. Your meeting with Mister Lisle, Miss Granger, must’ve been the final straw, it pressured her to make a move.” 

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Narcissa removed her hand when Hermione re-emerged from behind her palms, “now we know what we’re dealing with.” 

“Another Horcrux.” Kingsley shook his head, “and Bellatrix’s real soul? The research on Horcruxes is only theoretical, and the true form of one’s actual soul after splitting has always been a mystery. She could be anywhere.” 

“Somehow I doubt she’d remain disembodied. It’s dangerous, isn’t it, if the Horcrux is decimated?” Hermione sought affirmation from the witch who knew Bellatrix the best. 

Narcissa considered carefully before saying, “yes, you’re right. She is too smart to risk relying on a Horcrux as her only tether to the world. A corporal form would ensure her survival if her parasitic attachment with the boy is destroyed.” 

“And there’s the precedent with Voldemort. He created a fragile, infant-like body with a potion before using a sacrificial ritual to regain his full body. Voldemort used Harry because he believed it was Harry who defeated him, which means…” Hermione blanched at the thought. 

“Molly Weasley is in danger.” Narcissa finished her sentence. “We need to get ahead of Bellatrix.” 

“It’s obvious Logan has been doing her bidding. He was probably sourcing her body potion and taking care of her weak corporal form during the times he went missing.” Hermione added. “But we can’t kill him, he’s the only person who knows of her whereabouts.” 

“Then it’s decided.” Kingsley tapped his chin, and summoned a quill to write out an order, “the Auror’s office will direct concentrated effort to apprehend Mister Lisle. Molly Weasley will be placed under protection, and all Order members’ families should reinforce their security charms, and that includes yours, Madam Black. And as for you, Miss Granger, while I’m confident you were not made a Horcrux yourself, that scar is a liability. I cannot have you compromised again in case Bellatrix finds you.” 

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sudden attention. She stammered, “yes… sir, I uh… I was going to…” 

Narcissa cut in, “my offer still stands, Hermione. In fact, Minister Shacklebolt, I wanted to request access to the blade that Bella used, there’s been a development in my research on the countercurse.” 

“Anything you need.” Granted Kingsley. He stood, concluding their meeting, “excuse me, I need to call in my team.” Then he left the office, leaving Narcissa and Hermione to their own devices. 

In the wake of Kingsley’s flapping robe train, the witches looked at each other, dazed by the fast escalation of events. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry.” 

They spoke at the same time, then both paused. A beat of awkwardness passed, and both chuckled. 

Hermione started, curious about what the older witch had been up to, “you’ve been researching my curse?” 

Narcissa ducked her head, “yes, I apologise. You asked me not to, but–” 

“No, no. I should be apologising.” Hermione reached out and took Narcissa’s hand in hers. The touch made blue eyes look up, and she held them, hoping that they saw her honesty. “I’m sorry. I was awful to you, I said horrible things that aren’t true.” 

The sincerity in those deep, honey brown eyes was a balm on her frayed nerves. Narcissa’s posture eased, she turned her hand in Hermione’s hold, their fingers loosely tangled, and gave the younger witch a small smile. “It’s quite alright. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“It wasn’t your fault either.” Hermione frowned, “All this time, I was so stupid to think you had something to do with this.” She looked down at her gauze-wrapped forearm, traces of blood had seeped through the white material, she heard the blonde inhale sharply at the sight. She squeezed the slender fingers gently. “But it wasn’t you. It was never you.” 

The warm sting of tears painted Narcissa’s lower eyelids red once over. “It was my fault that it’d happened to you in the first place.” She whispered, thinking Hermione’s generous forgiveness could never redeem her, for the lasting consequence of her cowardice was right before them. 

Hermione opened her mouth again, but she was interrupted by Fahad knocking on the door. They jumped at the noise and their hands broke apart. 

“Apologies, Madame Black, I’m told to deliver this.” The young wizard held a small package wrapped in brown wax paper, in the vague shape of a knife. He asked eagerly, directed primarily to Narcissa, “is there anything I could do for you?” 

“No, thank you.” Narcissa was pleasant, but brief with him. 

Finally reading the room, Fahad noticed the way the witches were facing each other, their knees almost touching. A blush of embarrassment rose on his neck. “I’ll just… leave it here for you. Please, continue.” He placed it on the desk, and made his exit despondently. Narcissa saw in her peripherals that he lingered, stretching his neck until his body had moved behind the wall and only his eyes were peeping over the door frame. Though disappointed, he wasn’t going to miss out the opportunity to glean gossip for office circulation. 

“Excellent, we should take a look at this, Miss Granger . Perhaps referring to my notes would be helpful?” She tilted her head in the direction of the poorly disguised assistant. 

Hermione picked up on the hint quickly, “Yes, let’s relocate the conversation. Lead the way, Madame Black .”  

******

It felt both grounding and surreal to be back in Narcissa’s study. So much had transpired in the span of three weeks that they had to sit in silence for a while, letting it all sink in. 

Hermione palmed the tea cup between her hands, and soaked up the warmth radiating from the porcelain ware. The french doors were closed, while orange rays of early evening sunlight were allowed to pour in, stretching their shadows into thin wisps on the hardwood floor. A sense of calm returned to her wildly fluttering heart, which she wondered if Narcissa had something to do with, but she didn’t have the mental energy to question it. 

After finishing her tea, Narcissa set down her cup and with a flick of her wrist, it flew back on the waiting tray that was trafficking the tea kettle and a plate of scones to and from the kitchen. She retrieved from her magically-extended small handbag a leather-bound notebook, heavy and bulging with loose pages and ink-stain wrinkles, and she tugged lightly at the binding string, the notebook unfurled itself eagerly. “I want to show you something.” She said, and painted nails trailed across the notes that spilled from its confines. 

Brown eyes widened at the content. She quickly put away her own cup and scanned the scattered notations around the drawing of a blade, and exhaled shakily, “this is the one…” 

“‘ Cicatrix perpetuum ,’ permanent cut. Each time it opens, the wearer experiences pain like a small Crutiatus - one might go mad from it over time. A manifestation of Bella’s evil genius, yes.” 

“And what are those, the verses?” Hermione mouthed the mysterious lines that were found in Bellatrix’s diary associated with the knife, though she already could venture a guess. 

“They are the specifics of the curse, Hermione, the conditions, the bounds, and the hidden message on how to undo it.” 

She’d deciphered so many hidden messages to last her a lifetime, Hermione thought tiredly. The ones from her earlier days in Hogwarts were riddles that were easy, low-stakes, fun, but as time went on, they became darker and heavier, lives depended on her ability to solve them. Just as she was trying to pucker up and put on a brave front that she could do with another riddle, Narcissa spoke up again. 

“And I think I found the counter-curse, well, Astoria helped me find it.” 

Her nerve broke like an elastic band stretched to its max. Emotions flooded her again. There was elation, there was relief, there was grief and pain. Hermione had to blink hard a few times for her eyes to focus again. This woman… this… prideful, conceited, cunning, pureblood witch… this intelligent, skilled, powerful, beautiful woman… had dedicated her time to research for a cure, to help her. “How…?” She whispered with a breath that she didn’t realise she was holding, in awe. 

Blue eyes softened as they turned to the copied text from the House Elves’ ledger. “Our last House Elf documented the runic structure of the curse, which helped me decipher how it’s used and how it’s broken. It requires a salve made from very specific ingredients, one of which is another’s blood drawn by the same blade.” 

Despite her state of overwhelm, Hermione couldn’t help but feel intrigued by a piece of obscure magic. “And I’m guessing, the person has to be a pureblood? From the blood unworthy part.” 

“You’re right about the pureblood part. But both the Elf and I suspect that she was more stringent with this rule, and families who were Muggle-friendly like the Weasleys might be entirely excluded.” 

Figures . Hermione rolled her eyes internally. “What about the two other stipulations, ‘heart on reserve’, and ‘soul condemned’?”

Narcissa paused, thumbing at the frayed edge of her notebook. She had pondered the probabilities of what they meant, and landed on a conclusion that was both self-deprecating and wistful. “I think it means that the blood used in the countercurse has to be offered by someone with genuine love to give freely, and someone who’s… someone with a clear conscience. At least that’s what the Elf interpreted to be.” She swallowed, “Bella made the conditions impossible, or so she thought, as she didn’t believe that a pureblood wizard could genuinely love someone who isn’t.” 

“And she thought even if they did so, they wouldn’t be able to do it with a clear conscience, as it is deemed to be a betrayal of family traditions?” 

“That’s probably the way she intended it, yes,” Narcissa nodded, “however, it could also have a broader meaning, which would exclude people who hold guilt in their heart…” Like me . She stopped, the lump in her throat stifling her voice.

Hermione didn’t catch the trailing off of her words, too occupied with piecing together the conditions. “A pureblood, who can…” bright brown eyes flickered up, catching the azure gaze, “love a Muggleborn, with a clear conscience, can undo the curse.” There was an unspoken ask in the air, a daring question. 

Narcissa despised herself for the crestfallen look on Hermione’s face when she averted her eyes, and suggested, “I can make the salve, but I am certain that Andromeda’s blood is better suited as the primary ingredient.” 

Hermione took a deep breath and picked herself up from the disappointment. “Andromeda?” 

Still not meeting the younger witch’s eyes, Narcissa busied her hands with rearranging her papers. “She fits all the criteria. She’s a pureblood, she genuinely loves you, and she holds no guilt in her conscience.” 

“How are you so sure?” 

“She healed your parents, didn’t she?” At Hermione’s confused silence, Narcissa confessed, “when you mentioned someone brought back your parents, you thought of her with such intense fondness. I give you credits for using Occlumency quite competently, Hermione, but you often drop it when your mind amplifies an emotion.” 

“Oh…” Hermione deflated slightly, not elated to hear that her mind magic skills needed work, but no longer annoyed with the blonde for picking up on her thoughts so easily. Another concern came to her, “but Andy had run away with Ted. She was deemed a ‘blood traitor’ like the Weasleys. Wouldn’t Bellatrix want to exclude her from the worthy list?” 

The older witch let out a sigh, shaky, nearly imperceptible. “Bella developed the curse before Andy’s elopement. And… she loved us. Despite…” her voice became choked, “despite the atrocities she committed, and despite the abominable person she became, she loved Andy and me til the very end.” 

“She never altered the parameters of the curse on the blade.” 

“No.” Narcissa shook her head, “I suspect that she thought about it. But I suppose the thought of doing so was too painful. Then she wound up in Azkaban, and well, never got around to it after her escape.” After a beat of careful consideration, she added, hoping to reassure Hermione, “besides, it would be incredibly difficult to do, considering how their Deena must be very similar.” 

Hermione tilted her head, “Deena?” 

“You know, what is the Muggle term for it, genetics? They look so much alike.” 

The genuine confusion was adorable on the blonde’s face. Hermione couldn’t help but burst into giggles, “D-N-A, Narcissa. Not Deena.” 

“Oh,” a faint blush crept up on porcelain skin, “I’ve only read it in books.” She went on to refer to publications from famous Muggle biologists like Darwin and Franklin, but stopped herself when she met the gentle, amused smile from the younger witch, “don’t mind my drivel. I’m sure you’re much more familiar with their works.” 

“Not at all. You keep surprising me, is alll.” Hermione said, and wanted to ask Narcissa… ask her if the thought of giving her own blood crossed her mind. But the potential of being told outright that no, Narcissa didn’t love her, she couldn’t be the one , sent waves of stabbing pain in her chest. So she swallowed her question, cradled her heart a bit tighter, and mused, “so Andromeda would be a safe bet. Would you come with me, to see her?” 

A look of uncertainty flashed across Narcissa’s face. Nerves and mixed emotions spread their fluttering wings in her stomach. 

“If it’s an impossible ask, I’ll go by myself.” Hermione reached out instinctively, and wrapped her fingers around Narcissa’s slender hand. “I just think Andy would appreciate you being there. She never stopped loving you, either.” 

She found her anchor in the honey brown eyes that regarded her with understanding and earnesty. “I will go with you, Hermione.” With the strong, warm hand on hers, she would go with her anywhere, Narcissa thought. 

******

The small yellow-roofed house bordering a sleepy Muggle village in Somerset stood proudly on the acreage. Surrounding it were lush apple and plum trees heavy with juicy fruits of red and purple. Peeling white paint on picket fences and the rust ridden swing could not dampen its lived-in charms. 

Somehow, never having been to the Tonks residence before, Narcissa knew this place in her heart. She could picture her sister meandering amongst the garden beds, tending to her vegetables, or recruiting the local children to harvest the fruits and giving them out to the villagers. She could see Ted, though his face no longer a clear image in her mind, building a treehouse for Nymphadora, mending the shingles of the yellow roof, and trimming back the weeds forever encroaching on their walkway, all done in his Muggle ways. 

The thought of Andy’s late husband and daughter brought up a great surge of sorrow. She stopped in her tracks, loose gravel crunching under her shoes. Narcissa wanted to melt through them like the witch in rain from those Muggle tales. 

“Hey, you alright?” Hermione, who was walking beside her, turned around once she felt her halting. 

She opened her mouth a few times, struggling to find her voice, “I– Andy– are you sure this is fine…?” 

“I owled last week. If Andy really is opposed to it, she’d have plenty of time to let me know beforehand.” Holding out her hand, she waited patiently for Narcissa to decide if she was going through with the visit. It made her heart thump when the blonde took her proffered hand with trust, squeezing tightly as if she depended on her for support. 

The few steps leading up to the door were littered with abandoned toys and newspaper delivery. Hermione picked up the fold of the London Times and knocked. The hand in hers squeezed even tighter. She squeezed back for a moment, and lamented its loss when footsteps approached and they finally let go of each other. 

Behind the door, Andromeda stood, she had a calm, unreadable expression. “Morning, Hermione.” She greeted the younger witch with a smile, and then her grey eyes landed on her sister. “It’s been a minute, Cissy.” 

A whimper lodged in her throat. Narcissa suddenly was transported back in time to when she was very small. Bella was the first to leave home for Hogwarts, and she had Andromeda for two years before she was left on her own for another two. Bella, from a young age, travelled extensively, audaciously, dangerously, with older students and teachers of suspicious affiliations. She didn’t want to waste any school vacation to entertain her younger siblings. But Andy was different. Andy came home after each term, dropping her trunk on the front porch with open arms for Narcissa to jump in, and whispering her favourite greeting by her ear, “ it’s been a minute, Cissy .” 

How Narcissa wished she could be that girl again, small and innocent and happy just to be in her older sister’s arms. But now, she could only speak her name shakily, “Andy.” 

“Do come in,” Andromeda turned her body sideways and gestured to her foyer, which also had a few Lego pieces strewn about. As they made it to the sitting room, a light pitter patter of footsteps barreled down the stairs, and a young boy with blue hair announced his appearance. “Mione!” He giggled happily, throwing himself into Hermione’s waiting arms. 

“Hi Teddy,” Hermione made a straining sound from her throat while hoisting him up to sit on her laps, “my goodness, you’re getting soooo big! Ah-ah, what’s this? Have you been eating chocolates?” She poked at his cheek that had a questionable brown stain. 

“It’s kitty!” He said proudly, which made the brunette wince and hold him away from her. Narcissa looked on at the scene with fondness and a tiny prickle of jealousy.  

“He means the clay cat he’s making, after Crookshanks.” Andy explained, glancing at her sister, “I don’t let my grandchild eat cat litter.” 

So, a bit defensive . Both Narcissa and Hermione picked up on the slight discomfort from their hostess. “Then you’re doing better than me with Draco.” Narcissa replied, offering a tentative smile, “owl droppings.” 

The self-deprecating quip magically eased the tension in Andy’s brows, as she let out a chortle at her dear nephew’s expense. It also drew the attention from the boy who just now realised there was a stranger in his house. “Who are you?” He pointed at the blonde. 

“Hello, my name is Narcissa.” She held her breath, waiting for his response. 

“I’m Edward Lupin.” He reached out a pudgy hand, dirty from clay, for her to shake. 

Narcissa had to smile at the adorable gesture. She shook his hand with propriety, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” A small sparkle of magic popped at their touch, “oh!” and she looked on in surprise as he took her hair colours, pale blond with streaks of black, like a mischievous chameleon. Though, with his short spiky hair, he looked half like a punk-rock star, half like a startled skunk. 

It had Hermione doubling over in laughter. Andy caught him under his armpits and took him into her lap, ruffling his hair until it changed back to blue. “Sorry, he does that. Teddy, remember what I told you about your great aunt Cissy? That’s her.” 

“Aunt Cissy!” He parroted, not making the connection and solely occupied with pinching mud bunnies from the coat of clay stuck in the webbing of his fingers. 

Andy let him scamper down from the couch and toddle away, and she redirected her attention back to her sister, “he’ll learn.”  

Already moved, to hear her name had been mentioned to her great nephew, like she wasn’t a dirty secret, like their relationship was not a stain on Andy’s family history, Narcissa couldn’t have asked for more. She nodded gratefully. 

Once Teddy moved out of their earshot, Andromeda tilted her head at the brunette sitting a little awkwardly on the couch section that was between Andy’s usual cushion on the left and the single chair Narcissa situated herself in on the right end of the coffee table. “I heard you figured out a way to help our Hermione, is it true?” She reached out and patted the young witch on the leg. 

Blue eyes snapped to the hand but quickly came back up to find the small squint Andy wore. Narcissa felt caught, exposed under the all-knowing gaze of her all-knowing older sister. “If my research led me in the right direction, then yes.” She pulled out her leatherbound notebook and Bellatrix’s dagger wrapped in magically enforced cloth. 

“And from Hermione’s letter, your course-breaking needs my blood?” Andy summoned the notebook from Narcissa and a pair of reading glasses. She tutted softly at the laborious, painstaking recording of her younger sister’s study into the subject. 

“After deliberation, that is our conclusion.” Narcissa said, “With the lengths Bella went to designing the stipulations, you’re the safest person whose sacrifice would be most powerful.” 

“My, my, always so diplomatic, Cissy.” Andy snapped shut the notebook, “relax, I’m not here to check your homework, not like that other time.” She winked at Hermione, who flushed. At Narcissa’s confused blink, she grinned, “oh, you don’t know. No matter, do what you gotta, I’m all up for a little blood magic if it can indeed reverse Hermione’s curse.” Andy rolled up her left sleeve, ready to receive the cut then and there. 

“Oh woah, woah, wait,” Hermione rushed to stop her friend, “you’ve not even read the whole thing! Are you absolutely sure?” 

Andy just shrugged, “what’s the worst that could happen?” There was a small glint in her grey eyes, an often occurrence when she had learned a secret that Hermione didn’t know of. 

Exasperated, Hermione looked between the two sisters who were exceptionally calm in such an exceptional situation. “Wha–what’s the worst? You could be maimed! You could be badly hurt! How are we sure cutting another person isn’t going to leave the same cursed scar on them?”  

“It won’t.” Narcissa said matter-of-factly. “I’ve tested it.” 

“You what!?” 

“Without the spell and malicious intention, it’s just a normal blade. The cut it made closed very easily, a few drops of dittany did the trick.” The blonde rolled up her own robes sleeve. On her forearm, there was a scabbed outline of the words Death Eater on her pale skin. “Death Eater.” She said with distaste, and the healing wound did nothing to react. 

“How could you have done that?” Hermione cried out, holding Narcissa’s arm in her hands and inspecting it closely. “Are you mad? That’s so reckless and dangerous! You should’ve told me, at least I could… I don’t know, stopped you from doing something so stupid!” 

“It was hasty of me, I admit, but now we’ve learned what’s safe to do and what’s not, haven’t we?” Narcissa folded her free hand on top of Hermione’s, squeezing her fingers in a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry, I used an analgesic charm and have a serum to rid the scar.” 

“Please don’t do something like this again.” Hermione exhaled to steady her wild heartbeat. Worry and anxiety slowly melted away, until only an intense fondness remained. She traced her thumb over the bump of Narcissa’s wrist bone. 

Andy was observing this interaction with interest. Only when she felt like they might spend the whole day gazing into each other’s eyes like two idiots , she cleared her throat, “ahem,” and amused herself with the way they jolted apart and back to reality, “well, I appreciate your caution, Cissy, and the fact you’re here to ask for my help, means a lot to me.” 

“Of course. You deserve to know what is being done with your blood.” 

“Does it put your mind to ease now, Hermione, knowing my dear sister made herself a lab rat for my benefit?” Andromeda raised her eyebrow at the brunette. 

Marvelling at how nonchalant the Black sisters were treating this, as if it was some run-of-the-mill potion experiment instead of an attempt to combat extremely dark magic, Hermione admitted that there was so much she had yet to learn about the purebloods and their… morbid and complicated traditions. She acquiesced. 

“Excellent. Now, would you mind watching Teddy while we do this? I don’t want him to walk in on the bloodletting.” Again, she exposed her wrist while Narcissa busied herself with preparing her instruments to collect the blood and to mend the wound after. 

Swallowing thickly, Hermione complied. She stood, and gave the blonde a look to see that she was okay to be left alone with her sister, after a confirming nod, she headed in the direction where Teddy disappeared. 

“This won’t take long.” Narcissa said, and moved closer to Andy. She poured some alcohol on cotton and followed her sister’s finger pointing at a prominent vein, going on to wipe the skin clean. Once satisfied with the lather of alcohol on Andy’s skin, she casted a numbing charm, and sighed, feeling her sister’s grey eyes on her, “what is it?” 

“You’re certain it shouldn’t be me doing this to you?” 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Narcissa averted her gaze by focusing on the sharp edge of the beautiful dagger. 

“Narcissa,” Andy’s said her name in a way only older sisters used to chide their younger sister, and it worked. It made blue eyes look up. “You know what I mean.” 

“Andy… it’s… complicated. Can we just do this first?” Narcissa pleaded, trying to buy herself some time. 

“Fine, but you’d better spill after you cut me open. It’s only fair.” Andy jested darkly. 

Narcissa ignored her, and proceeded with the ritual. “Do you, Andromeda Tonks, trueborn daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, agree to give your blood freely, with unconditional love for the witch it will attempt to cure?” 

“Yes, I give it freely with my love for Hermione Granger.” Andy became solemn as she consented. The slash accompanied by a low chant of “ aperite vos ad sacrificium sanguinis ” came quicker than she anticipated, and dark red blood welled up from the split vein. She swore under her breath but held still as her younger sister positioned her arm over a vessel that was filling up quickly. Then Narcissa muttered a healing spell over the wound, which sealed itself shut like a zipper, for good measure, she added a few drops of essence of dittany that sizzled on the skin. 

“This should be enough.” She eyed the sloshing red liquid in her flask before casting a stasis charm and sticking an oak stopper on the glassware. As Narcissa put the precious ingredient and her equipment back into her bag, they heard stumping and giggles from upstairs, the young witch and the boy engaged in some kind of make believe. She looked over to her sister. “How do you feel?” 

“I am craving a cup of hot chocolate.” Andy wiped away the traces of blood on her arm with a towel. 

“You more than deserved it.” Narcissa smiled, which Andy returned. 

“Come, sit.” Andy patted the cushion next to her, and the blonde obeyed like a docile little sister from their childhood. “Loosen up, Cissy, I’m not going to chew you up.” 

“I was prepared for a lot worse, to be completely honest.” Fiddling with the ring on her index finger, Narcissa admitted sadly. 

The older Black sister let out an unladylike snort, “don’t get me wrong, I was angry with you. I’d been angry with you for a long time, and Bellatrix of course, when Mother cast me out of the family. You stayed with those awful people, you never wrote, you didn’t come find me after the war. Let me finish–” she cut off the apologies and self-flagellation that were about to tumble out of Narcissa, “but I’ve forgiven you for all that. I came to know the kind of pressure you were under as Mother and Father’s last chance at a well-matched marriage, and the shackles you got locked into with that Malfoy scum.” 

Mouth agape, she was at a loss for words for a long minute. The drafts of long letters that she wrote and rewrote and still ended up in her bin, the urge to look up the Tonks contact information in the Muggle white pages, the attempts to glean any word on Andromeda and Teddy from random acquaintances, all her scheming and hesitation and back and forth, all crumbled like sand in the revelation that she was forgiven, just like that. She could only stutter out, “... How? How is it so easy for you?” 

“Cissy, I’ve lived long enough and lost enough people…” A slight quiver in her voice, Andy took a moment to close her eyes. 

Narcissa followed her instinct to cover her sister’s hand on the cushion with her own. “Andy, I’m so sorry for your losses. They’re… they’re unimaginable.” 

“They are. And they also made me understand that, most of the time, things are not as complicated as we make it out to be. Seeing my little sister again is as easy as… this,” she gestured to the already healed wound on her arm, “stings, but only for a minute.” She turned her hand and connected their palms. “At the end of the day, I love you. I loved you for being a little tail who followed me everywhere, and I loved you for staying quiet when Mother interrogated you on my whereabouts after I started dating Ted. Now, I love you even more for becoming this compassionate person who would do anything to right her wrongs. But my heart breaks for you, Cissy, because you’re such a silly witch who can’t seem to forgive herself over things that were out of her control.” 

Narcissa dipped her head, suddenly raw and self-conscious.

“I see how you look at her, you care for her.” Andy stated. She didn’t have to name names for them both to know who they were discussing. 

“Yes, I do.” An understatement, Narcissa thought, and the admission didn’t startle her as much as when Draco first pointed it out. 

A frown crept up Andromeda’s forehead. “It might well be your blood in that flask.” 

Narcissa shook her head, “but the cure requires someone with a clear conscience. I was a part of the reason that it happened to her. It’s… too complicated–too uncertain, and I need to be sure.” 

“No one has a clear conscience one hundred percent of the time, Cissy!” Sighing, Andy shook Narcissa’s hand in hers, a bit reprimanding. “You think everything is complicated because you live so much in your head. If it’s a matter of love, a matter of the heart, then you gotta shut those thoughts up and take a listen to this.” She prodded at Narcissa’s sternum with two fingers. “Alright?” 

Through the thin fog of tears, Narcissa smiled. Her older sister, still bossy, still boisterous, still cared deeply for her. “Alright, Andy.” 

******

Despite Teddy’s tentacle-like grip on Hermione, and Andromeda’s insistence on feeding everyone an elaborate meal, they managed to conclude their visit by nightfall. Narcissa had to walk to the nearest travel phone booth as Andy’s fireplace was not set up to commute to hers, but they had planned to amend it with the transportation department. The country road was unlit and not paved, a good excuse for Hermione to accompany her. 

Outside the little phone booth, Hermione gently bumped her shoulder to Narcissa’s. “That went well, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, dear, I agree.” There was a lightness in her. She felt like a feather, giddy even, to have had such a meaningful reunion with her sister. “I want to thank you,” she looked at her with the glint of pale moonlight in her eyes, “if you hadn’t persuaded me to come with you, I never would’ve gone on my own.” 

“You would have, when you felt ready.” Hermione grinned, then she inclined her head at the handbag that probably contained half of Narcissa’s lab equipment. “Besides, it should be me thanking you. You’re here to help me.” 

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t healed you.” Narcissa quipped gently, and stepped into the red telephone box. 

“You will.” Hermione leaned against the side, her foot serving as a wedge to keep the door open. 

A slight shake of her head at the younger witch’s confidence, Narcissa fished out a Sickle and deposited in the slot. “It’ll take me at least two days to cure the antidote.” 

“Then you’ll heal me in two days.” Hermione watched as the blonde flipped through the yellowing address book, and dialled in the Floo passcode corresponding to the one closest to her home on the phone’s keypad. 

There was a slow whirr after the phone booth gobbled up the magical token. Then a countdown started, warning the passenger to keep their limbs inside the box. 

Narcissa turned to face her, eyes of clear blue waters meeting rich brown. “You have too much faith in me.” What she wanted to say, was, “it means the world to have your trust,” was, “everything about you is warm,” was, “I don’t want to wait two days until I see you again.” 

“Just the right amount.” Hermione said, and let go of the door. What she wanted to say, was, “you look beautiful tonight,” was, “I wish you weren’t leaving right now,” was, “I would very much like to kiss you.” 

******

The alarm that she placed on her wand buzzed, startling Narcissa from her brief snooze. It was hour 40 of her endeavour to brew the potion to counteract Bellatrix’s curse which will eventually be cured into a paste-like consistency. With an interval of two to three hours, she needed to stir the content in her caldron vigorously for fifteen minutes. 

Adding finely ground camphor leaves, pulverised peony roots, safflower essence, and massicot to the mix, she finally ticked off the long list of ingredients for the concoction. The liquid stayed a deep red, the same colour as her sister’s blood, only now, it was congealing slightly, becoming thicker and harder to whisk. She let out a small relieved sigh, knowing she was doing it right. Not long from now, she would turn off the burner and wait patiently for the remaining heat to gel it up. 

Though exhausted, she did her task with utmost attentiveness, before setting another alarm for the final step. Then she emerged from her laboratory to retrieve another cup of tea, and hummed happily when she found the letters left by her owl on her counter. One from Hermione and one from Andromeda. She read her sister’s letter first, updating on the security details Kingsley had set up for her house, and checking in on whether the healing ritual needed her presence as she would plan to arrange childcare. She replied, thanking her but she was okay to go ahead with it alone, and proposed to have her and Teddy over after things had settled down. 

Then she picked up Hermione’s letter. The fourth one she’d written in the span of two days.

She’d omitted the fact that the brewing process was this laborious and painstaking, but somehow the brunette sensed it by the random intervals it took Narcissa to reply. Hermione offered to watch over the caldron so she could rest, but she’d insisted that it was fine – the younger witch had a day job and was already busy assisting the DMLE to find Logan… Bellatrix’s Horcrux. 

She unfolded the letter and breathed in the familiar scent of high-end ink on parchment, a rare luxury that Hermione allowed herself, she once admitted. The younger witch wrote an update on the location the werewolf was last spotted, in the wilderness of the Lake District and had a brush-up with some backpacking Muggles, who were now in a hospital with their altered memories of being mauled by a bear. The Muggle Minister had nearly blown a vein in his head learning of this. Hermione had gone to the meeting and bore the brunt of legal ramifications on behalf of the Ministry, but she was optimistic that the DLME team was closing in on the werewolf. She wrote, joking, “ if only they brought me. The scar could probably pick him up .”

Narcissa sighed with a small, fond smile, which quickly formed into a frown as she read along. 

As well, Hermione was busy dealing with the panicked law enforcers and further marginalisation of werewolves and other non-human residents of the Dark Forest who had nothing to do with the attacks. She drafted an open letter to the DMLE to ensure transparency in their investigation, ensuring no brutality to be sanctioned when it came to interviewing the centaurs and giants. Yet, the public opinion was a harder thing to control, as many were already protesting her department’s efforts at protecting the werewolves’ identities. 

Narcissa was constantly amazed by the younger witch’s resilience and drive. Hermione never seemed to stop trying her best to help others. Even as her own life was in danger, even as she had all the reason to retreat to somewhere safe, to rest while she healed, she chose to press on with such conviction and resolve. And now, feeling renewed with purpose, she, Narcissa, whose instinct had always been to prioritise her own survival and agenda, could finally do something to help Hermione, if not in achieving all that she was after, then at least in returning to a state of wellness. 

She checked the clock, and penned a reply to Hermione’s letter: 

I’d much rather that you not become a Horcrux detector, darling. To that end, could you come by 8pm tonight? We only have a small window to use the potion. 

On the other end, Hermione had to blush when she read the note - 8pm, Narcissa’s , it conjured up sinful memories that she probably should not revisit during her working lunch with the DLME. Auror Gemma was sharing a report on their field search efforts, which was lulling a few overworked staff to sleep. Ron was chowing down his lunch and stealing crisps from her paper plate on her right, and Harry on her left was somewhat paying attention until Narcissa’s note, folded into a paper plane memo, found her lap. He craned his neck to read it over her shoulder. When she found him peeking, he wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively and mouthed, “ darling ?” 

She shoved him gently, her movement jostling Ron’s grasp on the crisps and he wailed, drawing eyes to the small commotion. Chastised by Kingsley’s disapproving look, Hermione grumbled, but she couldn’t help the giddy feeling that tugged at the corner of her lips for the rest of the day. 

It was pure adrenaline that carried her through the churn of endless meetings until her feet carried her to the Grimmauld Place neighbourhood. Sleep suddenly seemed less important in the prospect of seeing Narcissa’s face. 

When the door opened for her, Hermione let herself be embraced by the scents of flowers, herbs, and the smokeyness of a cauldron fire. She took in the blonde witch, basked in the soft lights pouring from the ceiling. Her heart squeezed itself tightly when she saw the shadows of gruelling long days under those striking blue eyes, which could not be concealed by any charm, and she wanted nothing more than to take Narcissa into her arms. 

The blonde’s voice calling her name snapped her out of her mental meandering. Hermione blinked a few times, and wondered if Narcissa had heard that little thought. Even if she had tried, she was far too tired to conjure up the Occlumency wall. 

“It’s alright, dear. I won’t hold anything against you.” Narcissa confirmed her suspicion, and winked at her. 

If only you would hold that body of yours against me , Hermione’s thought strayed again to a less appropriate place, and she quickly shook her head, blushing hard. “I’m sorry, I’m quite delirious by this time nowadays, it seems like.” It earned her another chuckle from the older witch, and that made her want to say even more silly things. 

“Don’t feel badly, Hermione. If it wasn’t for the Pepper-up potion, I’d be in a worse state than you.” She led the younger witch further into her living room, where a chaise was transformed into a wider and softer lounger that resembled a Muggle therapist’s furniture.

Hermione was grateful because she had such unpleasant memories of the hospital beds in Hogwarts. On the side table, Narcissa had seemingly put out her entire stash of various healing pastes, cosmetic droppers, analgesic creams, and a bottle of fire whiskey. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the display. 

“They’re here just in case, I will only use this to start.” Narcissa gestured at the caldron of paste on the other side of the lounger, bright blood red and steaming from the low bubbling heat underneath it. She then retrieved a glass with a wave of her wand, “though, I don’t want to sell you the magic bean, so to speak. It is designed to end the curse, the scar and the infection will need healing with subsequent treatment, and since there is no such precedent, I cannot speak to the side effects you might experience during this.” She poured a finger of fire whiskey in the glass and handed to Hermione, “nothing topical, but a little alcohol won’t interfere.” 

Hermione scooched herself on the sofa to a comfortable position, and gulped down the amber liquid, squeezing her eyes shut at its slow and smooth burn down her throat. “Thanks,” she said in between coughs, “I understand, and I’m okay with the unknown part.” 

“Excellent.” With a snap of her fingers, a circle of candles lit themselves up while the overhead light snuffed itself out. 

It was enchanting to watch Narcissa work. She was confident, but meticulous. Her movements had an allure that Hermione had never found in another witch. She set up protection charms all around the room, making the candlelight flicker warmly. 

“To ward off any malintent and unwanted visitors during the session.” Narcissa explained, before summoning her patronus with a moment of concentration. “To break a curse created with deep hatred and prejudice, one must set their intentions with utmost care. Light magic such as the patronus charm helps.” 

Hermione breathed in awe when she finally laid eyes on the bounding creature that was sprinkling light blue pawprints around, an arctic fox. “It’s beautiful. I haven’t been able to… with this curse.” Hermione rolled up her sleeve to reveal the weeping scar, Narcissa’s fox came up to her and nuzzled her hand gently. 

“Then let’s rectify that.” Narcissa sat on the chair next to the lounger and cradled Hermione’s face, the pad of her thumb tracing her cheek, swiping away a pearl of tear that Hermione didn’t realise was falling, “trust me?” 

“With my whole heart.” Hermione savoured the cool touch. She watched as Narcissa ladled the thick, blood red concoction into a smaller container, then positioned above her arm. She braced for it to be scalding hot, but was surprised when it landed on her skin, it only felt mildly warm. Some ran off to the side but most stayed in place, and started to seep into the words like water on cracked soil. Then, she started to feel it, a kind of sharp, tearing pain like knives carving into her flesh. Sweat quickly gathered on her brows, and she let out a little whimper. 

Narcissa quickly held her hand, gentle but firm. She poured more onto Hermione’s skin until the scar stopped absorbing the substance, all the while whispering to the younger witch in a hushed voice, “I know, sweetheart, I know it hurts. I need to perform the curse breaking ritual now, please, just hold on for a bit longer.” Gripping her wand white-knuckled, she reinforced her patronus, and then directed it at the scar, now blood-red and welling and steaming vapour. She chanted, “ Et sana intentione pura et affectione, sine dolore, sine agendis, sine salvis, contra omne malum in ac cicatrice (1). ” over and over, until there was a glimmer of light that started at the tip of her wand. It grew stronger, brighter, its thin beam of light tracing the words of the scar and making them also burn brightly. 

It was painful, so painful, that Hermione would be keeling over had she been standing. It hurt more than all the times she felt it hurt combined. And it would be almost bearable if it was only the pain on her body. No, it was a pain that reached her psyche, a pain she’d never imagined could be real. It was taunting her, digging up all the times she felt insufficient, all the memories of loneliness and unhappiness, all the fears that she harboured in her heart, making it last for a lifetime, as if she would never be enough. 

Hermione being shoved away by other children when she was five because she was ‘weird’...

Hermione being so lost at eleven, watching as all the other Magic-born students chat about Quidditch, about wizarding chess, the gifts owled to them from their magical parents, then overhearing Ron’s ridicule, "it's Levi-oooo-sa, not levi-o-saah"... 

Hermione being called a Mudblood for the first time when she was twelve…

Thirteen-year-old Hermione spending three times the effort to try to prove herself among her peers…

At seventeen, Hermione obliviating her parents because they were Muggles and didn’t understand the danger of the war…

At eighteen, Hermione being tortured for information, pinned on the cold marble floor, Bellatrix’s breath grazing her face…

Hermione, this day, continuing to disappoint everyone… at her work, facing her parents, to herself…

Hermione feeling so angry, so sad, so lonely, so, so tired… 

She was shaking uncontrollably now, drenched in cold sweat. All that hurt and trauma resurfaced, everything she thought she’d moved past with nothing but sheer power of will. The sudden onslaught of emotions caught her wholly off guard. But outside of her own mind, she was anchored. By a hand squeezing hers tightly, by a voice that called to her, and by a mind that held her agony. 

“You’re doing so well, darling… I’m right here…” It was Narcissa’s voice, “our world hasn’t treated you fairly, I know… I’m so sorry…” 

When the pain finally plateaued, Hermione floated back into her body, and watched as her scar started to bleed darkly, volatilely, like ink spilling from her. 

“Finite maledictio!” Narcissa raised her voice, enunciating with such force that she didn’t even think she had in her. The spell shook the foundation of something, setting the candles ablaze in their last moment of life, and her patronus shining so brightly that it was blinding. 

Hermione closed her eyes in the light, letting it overtake her. Then the inky blood sizzled, evaporating under the light. What was left behind was normal, bright red blood streaming from Hermione’s forearm. Her pain also disappeared, with it, went her anger, her sadness, her grief and her despair. 

It felt… hopeful, as if she’d always had something to live for, as if she’d always been worthy, as if she was loved. 

“Oh…” She started to sob, and laugh. She started to see, for the first time, in a long time, without a veil before her eyes, and to feel, without the heaviness that threatened to crush her. 

Narcissa drew her in, letting her burrow her face in the crook of her neck, and cooing sweetly when she felt the cold tears sliding across her collarbone. 

She registered Narcissa wiping the blood away with a towel, and putting a few drops of dittany on the split skin. It took a few minutes to knit the deep, old wounds, but afterwards, it looked no different than a normal cut. 

Raw, but pink and healing. 

Chapter Text

A dreamless, deep sleep, something people crave but rarely get. 

Before she fully welcomed the pale light of dawn, she smiled, having had such an uninterrupted and fulfilling slumber. Her whole body was warm and loose, wrapped in a soft comforter, and the dim chirping of early birds lured her slowly into consciousness.  

Awareness of her right arm came back. There was a soft puff of warm air grazing her peach fuzz, creating little gooseflesh on her skin as she paid it more attention. Then her sense of smell woke, greedily taking in the pleasant and cosy mixture of rich leather, candle wax, spent fire, green things, and daffodils. 

It was unfamiliar, but not startling or concerning, Hermione decided in her half daze. But she was curious. So she peeled her eyes open, and her breath halted by what she saw. 

Narcissa, sleeping soundly, curled on her side and turned towards her, looked like something out of this world. In the soft morning glow, her blond hair shined a silver colour, released from its usual updo and fanned out, and her face was lax, the tiny lines around her eyes smoothed out and her expression so innocent, so serene, so free. One of her hands was tucked under her chin, the other was resting so close to Hermione’s stomach that if she breathed hard enough, the back of her knuckles would touch her shirt. 

The events of the previous night came to her. Hermione remembered the curse breaking ritual, and her heart skipped a beat as she lifted her left arm to check. The scar, still pink and healing, looked so strangely benign that she almost didn’t recognise it. 

After the ritual, her memories were somewhat hazy - she had been beyond exhausted. The emotional toll combined with her punishing work days had caught up to her and she essentially cried herself to sleep… in Narcissa’s arms. She remembered gentle fingers carding through her curls and scratching at her scalp, warm lips pressed to her temple to soothe her shaking, and she’d felt so safe. She certainly didn’t expect the witch would stay with her, but now watching the peaceful rhythm of her breath and the flutter of her blonde eyelashes in dream, she couldn’t imagine any other way of waking up. 

Intense, fond feelings surged in her chest and she had to hold her breath to calm herself. She traced the back of her fingers across the high cheekbones, taking care to not disturb her slumber, and stared at Narcissa’s lips, still painted wine red but gone were the haughtiness and vigilance she often wore, looking incredibly soft, and kissable. 

Hermione wanted nothing more than placing a kiss on them. So she let herself be led by that want. Scooting close until their noses nudged together, she touched her lips to Narcissa’s. 

It was a chaste, brief, little stolen thing of a kiss. Having had it only intensified her desire to make it into two, three, more, to make it last longer, last forever. 

But Hermione also remembered Narcissa’s boundary. So despite the way Narcissa, still asleep, responded with parting her lips slightly open that made Hermione want to pour her whole self into them, she retreated, and carefully untangled herself from the blanket. 

Narcissa woke to the smell of coffee and toast, and light clattering from her kitchen. She sat up slowly, taking in her surroundings with a calm curiosity. Burnt candles littered the floor and the potion bottles occupied the side table. 

Fleeting were her dreams. At the edge of her waking, she dreamed of a tender touch on her face, something she’d not felt or yearned for in a very long time. And with it, she was almost certain a kiss had been bestowed upon her. She let herself luxuriate in the softness, and wished the dream did not come to an end. 

She smiled to herself when she sensed the light mood of her guest, and felt assured that their curse-breaking ritual had worked as intended. She thought it good manners to not keep the young witch by herself for too long. Silently, she went back to her room to change and freshen up, then she announced her presence to a coffee-sipping Hermione. “Good morning.” 

“Oh, you’re up!” Warm brown eyes found bright blue, and they gazed at each other in greeting.

There was something between them, something unnamed but not unwanted, and it shifted, subtly, but comfortably and slowly falling into place. 

“Thank you,” Narcissa said quietly, taking her seat opposite of Hermione, who poured her coffee. 

“It’s just breakfast, Narcissa.” Hermione displayed her newly healed forearm. “I need to be thanking you, please know that I’m truly grateful.” 

“It’s what I needed to do, Hermione, you don’t ever have to mention it.” 

Seeing that the blonde was adamant, she let the subject drop and nodded to their food. 

It made Hermione chuckle when she saw Narcissa cut up her toast into perfect little bite-sized squares and raise an eyebrow when she left the crusts. And Narcissa in turn teased her gently about the three sugars in her coffee, sweet enough to count as desert. All in all, a simple affair, but it felt immensely intimate. 

“So, I was thinking,” Hermione started, but paused to consider her words. 

“As always, my dear.” Narcissa didn’t feel the need to probe into the brunette’s mind, she simply waited and let her gather her thoughts. 

Hermione grinned, “I was thinking, we should talk.” 

“We’re talking now.” 

Shaking her head lightly, she ran a hand through her curls, “I mean another time. Given that I need to run to work in fifteen minutes and Crookshanks is probably howling for food at home… I just… don’t want it to be a rushed conversation.” 

The blonde inclined her head in acceptance, “that is sensible.”

“It’s nothing bad, I just want to… know you more.” Hermione reached across the table and touched Narcissa’s hand, “I’d like to take you to dinner.” 

Narcissa stared at their interlaced hands, at Hermione’s dark, sun-kissed skin contrasting her own. Her heart was a wild beast. Was this… did she mean… as in a date…? She didn’t have the courage to ask out of fear in case the answer was “ no, don’t be a fool, it’s just dinner. ” So instead, she composed herself masterfully, and said, “alright. When?” 

“Saturday?” Hermione positively beamed, looking at her with such fondness that it made her want to agree to anything she suggested. 

“I would love to, darling. Only, Saturday is a full moon.” They had a shelter-in-place directive for the foreseeable night of full moons; all members of the Order and people implicated in the Bellatrix-Logan incident were advised to follow. 

Hermione screwed up her eyebrows, thinking hard. Then an idea came to her and a mischievous light entered her eyes again. 

It was endearing to Narcissa that Hermione wore her emotions so candidly, despite her magnificent mind still being an enticing mystery to her. 

“No one said we couldn’t shelter in place together.” She said, “Come to dinner at mine, Narcissa.” 

Unable to refuse such a sincere offer, Narcissa smiled back, “okay.” 

“Okay?” Hermione asked one more time, to be certain.

Certain she was, “Okay.” 

Hermione nearly leapt up from her chair with excitement. She stood next to Narcissa, their hands still linked. She felt so compelled in that moment, that she bent down and printed her lips to the back of the smooth, dainty hand, right on the patch of skin between index finger and thumb. When she realised what she’d done, she flushed, but she was also made giddy by the same shade of crimson on Narcissa’s cheekbones. She nearly wanted to repeat her action, but her wand buzzed impatiently in her robes, signalling the approach to an early work meeting. So she let go reluctantly, taking her leave, “See you Saturday!” 

It was the woosh of the fireplace that finally brought her out of her daze. Narcissa, still red-faced, cradled her hand with the other, and rested her cheek against the ghost of those warm lips on her skin. 

The rest of the week found her in a distracted mood. Narcissa paid a visit to Andromeda and Teddy to ensure their home was set up to withstand any form of attack the full moon might bring. 

“What are you going to do for Saturday night?” Andy had asked, concerned for her safety. So she told her the truth. 

Then for the rest of her visit, her older sister more than once insinuated while grinning that the upcoming dinner arrangement she had with Hermione was, indeed, a date. She almost, almost regretted telling her their plan. 

In the end, however, she couldn’t be too mad. The way Hermione occupied her waking thoughts, and increasingly, embarrassingly, nighttime mental strolls was probably all she needed for confirmation. Her cheeks warmed and her heart pounded anytime the younger witch was at the forefront of her mind, and the way she greedily replayed the memories of the small touches, the smiles, the looks they had shared. Her body was on the verge of bursting into flames by the end of the week. 

Hermione’s last owled letter said that she could arrive at 7pm. Ever socially savvy and proper, Narcissa stepped through her fireplace precisely at 6:59pm, bringing along an exquisite bottle of red, so she could make her appearance at 7pm on the dot. 

It didn’t startle the younger witch when she popped in. Actually, it looked like Hermione had been expecting her, hovering next to her own fireplace. The forethought of waiting and the gesture of helping her out of the grate drastically eased her nerves. Narcissa sighed internally, feeling well-received, welcome, wanted. 

“I’m not one to boast about my cooking skills, so I’ve ordered takeaway from my favourite Thai place, hope that’s okay.” Hermione gestured in the vague direction of the restaurant, feeling a smidge self-conscious as Narcissa surveyed her surroundings. 

They were standing in the living room, facing a set of sofas with a floor light on one side, and a side table that held a stack of half-read books. A languid purr was all she heard before a fluffy ginger cat brushed up against her calf, surely leaving fuzz and hair on her robes. But Narcissa was not in the least bothered, she bent to trail her hand on the cat’s back, “Well, hello Krookshanks, I’ve heard much about you.” 

“He’s keen to meet you as well.” Hermione stepped aside to allow her guest a better view of the flat. 

“Where are we?” They came upon the dining area next, with an open-plan kitchen on the north side and doors leading to a bedroom and another room, both south-facing. 

“Brixton, near the village market.” A predominantly Muggle neighbourhood, not too far to commute to the Ministry, and full of quirky characters that a witch could blend in without much as a raised eyebrow. 

Nodding, Narcissa peeked into the room that looked like a study. There was live music coming through the window from the bar down the street. Inside, it had a spacious desk and a few mix-and-match bookshelves strategically placed to allow a maximum amount of shelf space, filled to the brim. She took notice of the volumes on policies and history, magic and non-magic alike. It was clearly Hermione’s ambition to make it far in the Ministry. 

The room next to it contained the more intimate part of Hermione’s life. A queen sized bed with calm, earth-toned sheets, a few pots of low-maintenance plants, a dresser with its top taken over by Krookshanks’ bed and a few cat toys. Picture frames of lovely Muggle photos, some were clustered on her nightstand and some nailed to the walls. Despite wanting to take a closer look, Narcissa remained just outside the door, for it would be terribly uncouth to enter a woman’s bedroom without invitation. 

“Feel free to explore, I’m just going to meet the delivery person.” Hermione placed a light and brief touch on her elbow before heading to the door. 

With the brunette’s permission, Narcissa let her curiosity take over. She walked up to the frames, and took in the snapshots of Hermione’s life in their frozen moments. There she was: a toddler with unruly curls, adored by her parents who had kind smiles; a schoolgirl, a certain defiance and stubbornness already apparent in her wide honey brown eyes; a teenager, embraced by her best friends, Harry grinning mischievously while Ron’s hands were blurry in motion, used to the way magical photos captured all his movements… A woman now, experienced and self-assured, but still vulnerable and delicate as she reunited with her parents, tears shining through their smiles. There was a certain charm about Muggle photos. Their stillness, their finality, felt comforting. 

She heard Hermione come back, quickly followed by the sounds of rummaging through kitchenware, setting things on the table, and popping the cork from a bottle of wine. Then she sensed the brunette’s presence behind her. 

“Ever got a Muggle photo taken of you?” 

The question made her chuckle. “Why, yes. I might’ve been born a pureblood, but I was a teenager once.” Narcissa turned around just so she could see Hermione’s widened eyes, “Andy and I frequented the Westfield shopping centre when we could slip away from Hogwarts and our parents. There was a tiny photo booth next to the chocolatier. We had our fun with some transfigured Muggle money.” 

“No way!” Hermione laughed, “a proper young witch from the House of Black breaking wizarding and Muggle laws? You’re joking.”  She held out her hand, as natural as breathing. 

“You underestimate me, darling.” Narcissa took the outstretched hand and was gladly led to the dinner table. 

“Now you’ve got to tell me about all the shenanigans you and Andy were up to as kids.” Hermione waved her free hand and the overhead light dimmed, the candles she placed in the centre of the table lit up, and she ushered her companion to the seat that was pulled out just right. 

They tucked into the delicious and flavourful takeaway while Narcissa told outlandish stories of her youth that would have all of the pureblood society clutching their pearls. Hermione recalled the troubles and mysteries she found herself in, especially before her family received her Hogwarts letter. Along with the flowing wine and dancing lights, they traded laughs and smiles and looks across the table. 

Oh, it definitely felt like a date. 

The hubbub outside gradually died down and the restaurant transitioned from pop music to soft jazz as they finished their dinner. Hermione gathered the dishes they used and put them in the sink, to be dealt with later. Narcissa was leaning against the balcony railings, gazing up at the full moon breaking through the thick clouds. Hermione rejoined her with a topped up glass of wine for them both. 

“Beautiful night.” 

“Yeah.” But Hermione was not looking at the moon. 

Warmed by the heat from those sweet brown eyes, Narcissa didn’t want to probe with her mind, it was becoming easier to refrain from slipping into Hermione’s thoughts the more time they spent together. So instead, she stated, more than asked, “earlier this week, you asked that we talk.” 

Sensing the shift in their topic of conversation, Hermione took a gulp of her wine. “I did. I’ve just… had been wondering for a while, you see, it’s about the trial. Don’t–don’t get offended.” 

Studying the younger witch’s face, Narcissa felt her chest squeeze tight for a second. But her anxiety eased quickly, because she had an idea of where this was going. “Of course not, darling.” 

“At your trial, I was not in my right mind… I was angry, at the whole war criminal proceedings, at everything, at you. My scar, and my sleep disturbances certainly didn’t help.” Out of habit, she glanced down at her arm, still somehow surprised to not see the weeping reminder of trauma on her skin. “So, when they announced your sentence, I just felt… I mean…” 

“You felt it was too lenient.” 

“Yes–but only at the time!” Hermione quickly added, “then I started going through the day at the trial, then Harry said something to me when you and I had the argument… He said, I should talk to you about that night, at the manor. There are things from your perspective only you can show me.” 

Narcissa closed her eyes. Hermione’s hand covered hers on the railing, she opened them again. 

“When you performed the ritual on me, your magic… it felt so… familiar, like you’ve done it before. Did you? What did you show Harry at the trial? Help me understand.” It was the one thing that she was missing, the one thing that kind of niggled at the back of her mind, the one thing that she knew would change everything, yet make no difference at all. 

Breathing in deeply, Narcissa hesitated. “I don’t know where to start, Hermione, it’s a hard thing to put into words.” 

“Then let me see it. Your memory.” 

“Are you sure? It was so traumatising for you and I don’t want to–” 

“It can’t hurt me anymore. You’ve healed it, remember?” She insisted, “please, I promise it’s okay.” 

Narcissa worried at her wine red lips for a moment, then nodded, making a decision. She led them to sit down on the small patio bench, and put down their glasses, then she turned face to face with the brunette. Gently distangling their hands, she reached up to tip Hermione’s chin so they were looking into the other’s eyes. Moonlight pooled like tranquil bodies of water in the cool blue irises. 

She thought she was going to be kissed. But instead of warm lips, Hermione stumbled into Narcissa’s mind. 

She saw the manor, she saw that night, she saw herself.  

Hermione was lying on the cold marble floor, surrounded by looming figures, screaming, thrashing, begging for help, begging for Bellatrix to stop. 

She could still remember the cruciatus curses hurled at her, slamming her firmly into the ground and twisting a blade through her body repeatedly. But there was no physical pain anymore, no burning scar to remind her of exactly how much it hurt. 

The panic, hopelessness, sadness had a copper taste, which hadn’t completely left her mouth, years later. Hermione breathed deeply to calm herself and block the sensations from her own memory. She wanted to focus on Narcissa’s. 

There was a panic, a hopelessness, a sadness that wasn’t her own. She started to realise. It was Narcissa’s sadness and hopelessness and panic. It was blossoming like inky flowers in her chest. 

A surging disgust, not from Bellatrix spilling “mudblood” on her marble flooring, but from the cruelty her sister held towards the young witch and the atrocities she committed during this lifetime. 

Then, a thin shield, visible only now, stretched from the tip of Narcissa’s wand, discreetly held under her robes, towards Hermione’s listless body. It coated her in a light veil. 

Bellatrix’s crucio immediately seared into Narcissa’s consciousness. It was painful, burning, and intolerable for a second, but quickly Narcissa’s mind conjured up images of wild flowers in open fields, of snowy mountain peaks in the Alps, of giggling little girls with Puffskeins, of Draco’s baby feet and the smell of the top of his head, the bright laughs when he flew on a broomstick for the first time, the time he confessed that he liked a girl from school… Her mind retreated into a place that was safe, secret, and entirely hers. Eventually, after what seemed like decades, but it could’ve only been a few minutes, the pain dulled to a level that the outside world became clear again. 

Faintly, there were voices, Harry and Ron’s screams in the cellar. They were screaming her name, Hermione knew, because she remembered hearing them, which sustained her until Bellatrix finally gave up. 

“Hermione! Hermione! Hermione…!” It was faint, too faint. Narcissa reached out with her mind in that direction, amplifying the voices for her to hear. And as the physical pain worsened, she let the boys’ voices play louder still… 

She fell out of the memory with a harsh breath, coming up for air as the suffocating pressure from just the memory itself was nearly unbearable. 

Narcissa’s eyes were glistening with tears, and looked impossibly blue. 

Hands on her shoulders steadied her, she held onto the blonde’s slim waist out of instinct. “It was you. I should’ve gone mad from Bellatrix’s curses, but you protected me. You saved me. Why… why didn’t you want people to know? Why didn’t you want me to know?” 

“I… It didn’t change anything, Hermione, so I thought… I thought it’d make you feel better… to see justice done to the person who let blameless young people get hurt so badly. With Bellatrix gone, it must have been hard to find closure. You deserve to have that… you deserve so much better.” 

Hermione shook her head, letting tears stream down her cheeks. She slumped forward and buried her face in Narcissa’s neck.

“I always believed…” Hermione mumbled through her hiccups, “I believed I was strong. I was stronger than anyone… who… who had gone through the cruciatus curse.” 

Narcissa’s hands came up to hold her behind her head and rub slow patterns down her back. “You are strong, darling. It wasn’t something that anyone could endure, with or without assistance.” 

“But you knew what it would be like, you had a choice! Yet you still put yourself in the middle of something so heinous.” Her tone suddenly took on a red tint of rage. She pushed herself to stand, breaking their touch, and moved to the railing, wiping her eyes roughly on her sleeve. “Why did you do that?” 

Confusion and worry clouded the cloudless moonlight in Narcissa’s eyes. She blinked quickly, stood as well, and held her arms across her chest against the night breeze. “Hermione, I didn’t mean to upset you by showing you this. I had no choice either, I couldn’t just stand by and watch my sister torture you to death. I’m sorry it made you feel… unjustified in your anger.” 

Pushing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, Hermione let out a deep sigh, the tangles of her own emotions were causing a pulsing ache in behind her eyes, “no, no, no,” she shook her head, “I’m not upset because of that.” 

“Why are you upset, Hermione?” Narcissa asked, gentle. 

She felt the edge of Narcissa’s mind reach out to her, trying to understand. It was a caring, comforting presence. It made her furiously beating heart slow down. As if everything was moving in slow motion, she could finally see plainly and clearly, a revelation came to her and drew her back into the normal moving pace of reality. Hermione stepped closer to Narcissa, again, and this time, softer, said, “It’s not that.” 

The heat emitted from the younger witch’s body drew her in like a moth to flame. Narcissa waited patiently, for the fire in the brown eyes to consume her, for the embers in the air to reignite an all-consuming passion. 

Hermione finally spoke, her words were harsh but there was no real bite in her tone. “I got upset because you kept the truth from me. You let me resent you, you let me use it against you, and you let me use you.” 

The images of their tryst crossed both their minds. Narcissa dipped her head in shame. She did let all of that happen, but she didn’t feel so used. How could she, when it was also her using Hermione to stave off her crushing loneliness. But ‘ use ’ was such a cold word, much too cold after all they’d been through together, after all the smiles, looks, touches, thoughts, hopes, desires that had transpired between them. 

“You let me go on for so long, fighting my own feelings, when this whole time, I could’ve just let myself… feel this.” Hermione traced her index finger along Narcissa’s jawline, making the blonde look at her again. Relief flooded her heart when her tenderness and longing were reflected back to her in the cool blue gaze. She rested her thumb against her wine red bottom lip, and whispered, mesmerised by the warmth under her fingertips. “I have feelings for you, Narcissa.” 

Eyes fluttered shut, Narcissa felt the distance between them close. Their noses touched first, but Hermione didn’t push, letting her make the final move. So she did, trustingly, willingly, gratefully. Their lips connected, light, small pecks at first, a gradual introduction. Then their kisses became longer, deeper, heavier. Hands moved on their own accord, holding, cupping, caressing. Breathes warm and laboured, tongues seeking their counterpart, someone’s whimper swallowed by the other and came out as a throaty moan from someone’s chest. 

There was hooting and whistling below them. They jumped at the raucousness. A group of drunk Muggles was cheering at them from the street. Cheeks aflame in embarrassment, they ran back into the flat. Hermione waved her arm and the curtains drew themselves shut. 

Giggling, they returned to each other’s embrace. A long repressed fire of lust roared to life as if a match struck in gasoline. Dark painted nails raked through brown curls, lipstick marks peppered the side of a slender neck, tasting the heartbeat underneath the skin. Narcissa, never before, had given into her desire as much as she did in this moment, and she was elated by it, freed by it. She tugged and clawed and bunched her fists in Hermione’s shirt, which came off after a small amount of struggle. She kicked off her heels and stepped over pants that fell from Hermione’s hips. She backed them into the direction of the bedroom with a familiarity and assertion that made the younger witch hiss in pleasure and anticipation. 

Their world turned horizontal as they fell together into bed. Only now, Narcissa had some time to pause and regard Hermione. Hair tousled and clothes rumpled, a blush high on her cheeks and brown eyes soft with haze, Hermione looked… simply delectable. For the first time in their entire knowledge of each other, she was the one on top, but the brunette’s open expression made it feel incredibly natural. 

There was little time to be reverential, though. Hermione was already sneaking her hands under Narcissa’s robes, groping the smooth and supple skin wherever her fingers went. Soon the exquisite fabric loosened and she found the clasp of Narcissa’s bra. With a flick, the little garment got flung open and the straps slipped down slender shoulders. She stared, mouth agape, as the blonde straddled her, light golden hair escaping the updo and falling into blue eyes, and Narcissa peeled off her top, then lingerie, pinching the black lace between her fingers before tossing it aside. She reached up, itching to take the bare breasts into her palms, but her wrists were captured and gently restrained on either side of her head. 

Narcissa bent down to kiss her, on the lips, then her chin, and her jaw, below her ear, down and down to her sternum. Between kisses, she asked, “I never got to… for you. May I do this first?” 

Nodding eagerly, Hermione arched her back off the bed slightly so her bra could be undone. Her pulse ran so fast, not from anxiety but from the recognition that tonight, everything changed between them. They broke their rules and crossed their boundaries, and it was not an accident, not an unwanted consequence. It was genuine, natural, a mutual decision based on feelings . Her eyes welled with happy tears when Narcissa sighed upon seeing her naked body with a murmured praise, “you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve seen, dearest.” Had she had her wits with her, she would’ve teased, “you clearly don’t own a mirror,” but alas, her brain was too scrambled by the sensation of a hot mouth wrapped around her left nipple. 

There was a grace to everything Narcissa did, pleasing her lover was no different. She paid attention to every small ripple of gooseflesh across the younger witch’s body, investigated thoroughly, teased and manipulated to extract the maximum amount of pleasure without pushing her over the edge too soon. When her chest and ribs and navel were entirely covered in lipstick marks, Hermione was writhing with need. Her underwear was drenched by a flood of herself, but she was too wild with abandon to feel embarrassed, “Please… Narcissa, touch me.” Finally, cool fingers tugged her last piece of clothing down her legs, and returned to where she needed them, where she was burning. Narcissa traced the slickness and parted her, like picking tender buds off of the most precious flowers. 

She threw her head back into her pillow and clutched a handful of blond hair. Just the slightest of exploration, Narcissa’s thumb brushing her oversensitive clit, and she nearly came. “ Oh … Narcissa…” She shuddered and keened, lifting her hips in search of more pressure. 

“Shhh…” There was amusement in her hushing, but Narcissa relented after suspending Hermione in her state of almost-there, she entered her with two fingers. Warmth and softness and wetness fluttered around her digits, drawing a loud moan from Hermione and a gasp from herself. It was nearly too much, too stimulating, too enticing for her to endure. But she set a pace, slow and steady at first, but built and built and built, towards a point of tension that would inevitably break. Hermione was clamping down harder, squeezing her sides with her thighs, heaving and panting faster, and she knew they were there. “It’s okay, darling, I’m right here,” she kissed her once again, “I have you. You can let go.” 

A whine, bordering the volume of a small cry, broke free from the brunette. She was flung over the precipice, crashing from the highest peak through the clouds, into free fall. It was the most wonderful, exhilarating and mind-blowing release she’d ever found, as aftershocks wreaked through her body like little earthquakes. Her heart, one moment afloat in the air, was gradually and gently reeled in by the tender way Narcissa held her. Her taut, shaking muscles softened, loosening up into small uncontrollable jumps. Hermione finally opened her eyes, meeting the smile in Narcissa’s blue gaze. She almost felt the urge to bury her face in her hands, vulnerable and completely undone as she was, but instead, she let herself be just that, tilting her head up to ask for a kiss. Her wish was granted immediately, warm lips muffled her coarse groan when Narcissa withdrew her fingers. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around the lithe body on top of her, pressing their sweat-slick chests together. 

“You were marvellous, my darling.” Narcissa laid a kiss against the shell of her ear, still pink from exertion. “I bet you taste as sweet as you sound, perhaps next time…” she whispered, with a small self-satisfied smirk by the whimper it drew from the younger witch. When she tried to push herself up and tease Hermione again, she shrieked in surprise as the strong, lean arms tightened around her, and they rolled together. 

“Hmmm, I wouldn’t be opposed to that idea, but later, I think it’s my turn to do this.” Hermione pinned her down, brown curls spilling over the pale skin underneath her. It made the blonde laugh, and she decided the sound was better than music itself. Hermione kissed down the side of Narcissa’s throat, feeling her fluttering pulse and rising body heat, nosing at the ticklish point under her ear. “I want to taste you.” 

Swallowing in anticipation, Narcissa guided the brown head down, “yes, please.” Her mouth slackened into moans as Hermione’s eager mouth painted a wet trail down her front, stopping to nip at her breasts and tease her nipples, then onward to trace across her ribs, swirl a tongue in the dip of her belly button, biting the prominence of her hip bones. She let her legs fall open, and shuddered when cool air and warm breath grazed her dripping centre. Her own breath hitched when Hermione took her time, kissing the inside of her thighs, the light golden curls of her mons, around her and near her but not where she needed the most, “Oh, Salazar …” Her clutch tightened around Hermione’s hair. 

Giggling at her mischief, the brunette finally dragged her tongue through the pink, glistening petals and “ ohhh–” Narcissa’s hips almost bucked off the bed. She held her down still, zeroing in on the small bundle of nerve that sought attention with its own pulse. Every flick of her tongue earned her a noise from the blonde and a quiver in her thighs. The flow of slickness nearly covered her chin, and she continued to draw even more. The sounds, the taste, the texture, all were so intensely stimulating and sensual. She freed one hand and reached down to find herself in a similar state. Though she’d be more than happy to let Narcissa take the reins again, her current lust-addled mind could not delay her own gratification any further. It took no more than a few strokes to thrust her towards another climax, but she held out longer, determined to please her beautiful, and beautifully ravaged lover first. 

Hermione didn’t need to wait long, though, as the flexing of the pale abdomen became more desperate, it was clear that Narcissa was right there. Her small noises grew louder, her fingers dug harder into the brown hair, her whole body seized up to the most tension and then it was broken down by a single suckle. With a cry, she came undone. Wave after wave, she let the tides of orgasm wash over her. “No more…” She reached and guided Hermione away from her centre. She vaguely registered Hermione’s shaking before the younger witch collapsed on top of her. Their bodies stuck together with sweat, but she felt too gratified and jellied to unstick themselves.       

A few minutes passed, it might have been longer, they regained their breath. Hermione propped herself up with a shaky elbow, then gave her the laziest little smirk. Fondness surged between them, and they traded soft kisses and light caresses. Slowly, they detangled and laid face to face on the bed, a haphazard cleaning spell was all Narcissa could muster to rid themselves of the stickiness. Hermione would give anything to keep the night going, but her eyes were becoming heavy-lidded and unfocused, her body being relaxed and exhausted, she had to blink herself awake when she heard Narcissa’s deep chuckle. “Sorry,” she said, sheepish. 

“Don’t apologise, sweetheart.” Narcissa tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and drew her in so Hermione could find a comfortable position nestled in the crook of her neck. “We should get some sleep.” 

“Mmmkay…" nuzzling close and greedily inhaling, "you smell like those white daffodils with the yellow pistils… Narcissus poeticus… ” Hermione murmured, on the verge of incoherence. 

Narcissa whispered, “you like it?” 

“I love it…” 

When Hermione woke up, held in the same position as she dozed off, she knew it wasn’t a most wonderful dream. But she didn’t get to appreciate the feelings of comfort before she noticed the reason she was disturbed from her slumber - a blinding light circling her room before it took the form of a graceful and gleaming lynx. 

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up, held in the same position as she dozed off, she knew it wasn’t a most wonderful dream. But she didn’t get to appreciate the feelings of comfort before she noticed the reason she was disturbed from her slumber - a blinding light circling her room before it took the form of a graceful and gleaming lynx. 

She startled, fully lucid now, sitting up and jostling the blonde awake by her side, “wake up, Cissa!”  

“What’s happened?” Narcissa’s voice was hoarse with disuse, and she rubbed one hand over her eyes. As soon as she discovered the patronus standing at the foot of the bed, she let out an unladylike squeal and pulled the covers up to her chin. Hermione would’ve found it comical if not for the direness of the situation they were in. 

But the patronus didn’t allow them the time to gather themselves before speaking, in Kingsley’s deep voice, “Calling all Order members, an attack on Molly Weasley is taking place at the Burrow. Help is needed! Stay hidden if you are unable to fight.” It went on to repeat its message three more times. Then it collapsed into itself, forming a bright ball of light before zipping through the room and out the window, most likely flying to the next Order member’s home. 

It took a few seconds for the message to sink in, and when it did, they both jumped up into action, pulling on clothes with shaking hands and grabbing their wands. Narcissa quickly sent a patronus of her own to Andy, “don’t you dare come to the Burrow, Andy, you have to keep yourself and Teddy safe.” 

Hermione stopped in her tracks. She turned to Narcissa and cupped her face, “I don’t want you to come, either.” 

“Hermione, I have to. It’s Bella, I know her.” She covered the brunette’s hands with her own. 

“It’s too dangerous.” 

“That’s exactly why I need to go.” Narcissa said firmly, “Don’t think me helpless, darling, I promise I can hold my own.” 

With a sigh, Hermione knew there was nothing she could say that would change her mind. “Sorry, I know that. Just… make sure you buddy up with an Order member if we’re not together.” She leaned in and rested their foreheads together. 

Narcissa pressed a short kiss to Hermione’s lips, “I will.” 

“Ok, hold onto me. I’ll apparate us there.” 

They spun together through the tight space of apparition and landed in the squishy mud field adjacent to the piece of land owned by the Weasleys. In the short distance, they could see red and green streams of spells flying in the air, clashing in explosions and sending sparks to the grass, small fires were starting to encroach on the property. Aside from wizards and witches, there were shadows of creatures, too, werewolves and centaurs were entangled in physical fights, elves were distracting a slow moving troll, screams in human and nonhuman languages sliced through the silence of the dark night sky.  

“Harry!” Spotting her friend who repelled a werewolf from a centaur, Hermione ran towards them with Narcissa in tow. They were immediately engulfed in smoke, and a strange tightness wrapped itself on their bodies. Narcissa observed with suspicion how the fighting crowd seemed to be confined in a perfect circle, unusual. 

“Hermione! Narcissa, you’re here.” Harry met them half-way, grabbing the witches by their elbows out of the way of a stray curse. 

“Where is Molly?” Narcissa asked. 

“Ron was with her!” He shouted over the loud explosions, and searched into the chaos of the battle. “There they are!” He pointed in the direction of the house. Two cloaked figures were circling the redhead wizard and his mom, locking them in a duel on either side. 

“Why is she still here?” 

“There is some kind of forcefield that’s sealing whoever gets in. You can’t apparate or force your way out without taking it down!” Narcissa looked up at the sky, pointing at a translucent dome over their heads, shimmering a peculiar red light. “This is an organised attack.” Certainly Bellatrix was behind it, one of the oldest tricks in her playbook for keeping victims from escaping, as clever and evil as it was. 

“Can you undo it?” Hermione surveyed their surroundings. At this rate, a lot of people and creatures would perish before anyone could escape. 

“I can try to dissolve the thinnest part.” Narcissa replied not too confidently. Without Bellatrix’s journal at hand, she’d have to improvise. “Might need help through this mess.” She gestured towards the fighting before them, thick and dense and fierce. 

“I’ll cover you,” Harry grabbed Narcissa’s wrist again, preparing to make their way to the middle of the dome where the magic was weakest. 

“Keep her safe, Harry!” Hermione knew the Auror was the best duelist out of all Order members and it was a better bet to entrust Narcissa’s safety in Harry’s capable hands. With a final glance at Narcissa, she ran towards Ron and Molly with her wand at the ready. “Stupify!” 

“Hermione!” Ron looked up from the stunned wizard and found her. They both raised their wands and blasted away another who was moving in on Molly. The three of them quickly huddled together. “We can’t get out of this bloody field!” 

“How did Kingsley send his patronus?” Hermione asked. 

“Dunno, you’d have to ask the man himself!” Molly shouted over the sounds of another explosion. “Oh bloody hell! There he goes!” She screamed as the blue-robed man was flung through the air by a troll holding his leg, but an elf caught him at the last second, levitating his listless body before it crashed into the ground. 

“The floo!” Ron suddenly exclaimed, “maybe it found its way through the floo.” 

“Good thinking, Ron.” The house was just a few paces away from them. It looked half demolished, fires roaring through the roof and bricks falling down like dominos, but the ground floor hadn’t entirely collapsed. 

“Oooooh~ Molly~~” Suddenly, a sickly sweet, sing-songy voice came through the haze of the battlefield. It was distorted, very deep, rumbling as if spoken through a tunnel, but somehow feminine nonetheless. “I see you… old gal…” A dark figure, giant despite its hunched posture, stalked towards them. An Auror was charging at it with a vicious Bombarda , but it rebounded off the creature, barely breaking its stride. It turned, quick as lightning, and lunged at the poor wizard. With one swipe, the man was rendered unconscious and a dozen metres away. 

“It’s her! It’s Bellatrix… no, Logan, whatever, bloody Horcrux werewolf freak!” Ron pushed Molly and Hermione towards the burning house. “Get in there and try to get away, I’ll hold her off!” 

They rushed inside, the door frame giving out right behind them. “Ron!” Molly wailed desperately, but she couldn’t go back out, not with Hermione’s firm grip on her. 

“Come on, Molly, help me with this!” Hermione shoved her own weight against a falling cabinet that was blocking their way to the sitting room where the hearth was located. Molly snapped out of her trance and hurried after her. Together, they made it through the entrance. “Oh no…” The sight of the destroyed fireplace was all they saw. Half of the structure was still embedded in the wall, but the other half was mere bricks at this point. The tin of floo powder lay broken on the ground, spilling its content across the charred carpets. 

“Maybe it’s still functional!” Hermione casted a reparo in an attempt to mend the fixture. But the bricks were too crumbly and fell to pieces upon being stacked back to place. Her own magic felt shaky from the brief sight of the werewolf. 

Molly looked up in horror as the ceilings started to cave. She caught the chandelier that was about to fall on top of them, “Hermione, we can’t stay in here!” 

Windows shattered from the pressure of the fire and the torsion of the frames. Without a word, they ran towards it. “Reducto!” The jagged glasses turned to dust, and the witches all but dove out. 

Once outside, the battle had become even more intense. Ron received help from a centaur and an Animagus in the shape of a lion, but was still locked in a fierce fight with the werewolf. Hermione spotted Harry, who was deflecting curse after curse while Narcissa worked away at the runes of the containment dome. A chip in the barrier started to reveal itself. Soon, small orange cracks appeared and a hole with frayed edges above their heads gave way to the true colour of the night sky. 

Woosh! A cloaked figure, overwhelmed by an elf, dropped their offence and twisted themself into a puff of black smoke, shooting out of the hole and disappeared. Then quickly a few more joined the escape. But only wizards could do that, the creatures did not have the chance to apparate away. 

“No!” They heard the werewolf howl, “you stay! You stay and obey me!” But it soon forgot the traitors in their rank, finding Hermione and Molly, and with a furious bout of violence, it swatted the Animagus away. 

The beast then started charging towards them, covering the field as if in an instant, Hermione shoved the older witch out of the way, “Molly, go!” 

“Hermione!!!” Ron was screaming her name so loudly, drawing attention from many. And as if in slow motion, Hermione felt a blow on her back with the power to knock out a giant, and she was slammed into the ground. 

“Stop!” It was Narcissa’s voice, coming from afar but piercing through all chaos. And as if bewitched, everyone did. They stood, human and creatures alike, suspended mid-motion, watching as she crossed the field to where the werewolf had clutched the young witch beneath its paws. 

Hermione felt foul, hot breath grazing the side of her cheek. Sharp and bloodied claws the size of her head, enclosed on her neck and arm. The sickly, distorted voice rumbled from the werewolf, “why, why, why, isn’t this a familiar scene…?” Teeth were dangerously close to Hermione’s throat. “Little, itty, bitty, mud-puppy.” 

“Bella,” Narcissa called, stopping a few paces away from them. Harry and Ron also followed closely behind her. Ron snuck in and tugged on Molly’s arm. 

The werewolf’s head snapped up, confused at first. Then recognition shone in the dark, wild eyes. It cackled, “my oh my! Cissy dear, fancy seeing you here! Everyone, look, it’s my little sister!” A few cloaked figures moved behind the werewolf from farther sides of the field, and the battle ground split into distinct sides with Bellatrix and Narcissa facing each other. “Come, Cissy, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” Bellatrix said, though her words were innocuous enough, her eyes betrayed her twisted barbarity. 

“Let her go.” Narcissa came even closer, her hand almost being able to touch the werewolf if she reached further. “Bella, let her go, and I’ll come with you. I’ve… really missed you.” 

It made the werewolf pause. The look of surprise and hesitation crossed its face. Its clutch on the younger witch loosened ever so slightly. “Cissy,” Bellatrix hissed, “whatchu doing with this lot? Huh? You trynna sabotage me!?” 

“Bella, I’m trying to help you. Your friends were losing, and if I didn’t break the barrier, you’d be wasting a lot of manpower.” She gestured around the stragglers, most of them in a tattered state and many were knocked unconscious. 

“Well, s’ppose you’re right. They’re not very good, are they?” Bellatrix tutted, “not half the strength as His army.” 

Nodding, Narcissa touched her hand to the werewolf’s chest, “you’re right. It’s a shame that this is what’s left of the believers. But we can restore the army, Bella… just… let her go, and we can leave together.” 

“Narcissa… don’t…” Hermione choked out, but she was cut off quickly by the paw stepping harder on her back. It was becoming difficult to move air into her lungs. 

Seeing the brunette struggle to breathe, Narcissa rushed to offer, extending her hand even further to the Horcrux controlled werewolf, “I’ll help you get your body back, I’ll help you get everything back, big sister.” 

With a snarl, the wolf looked down at the witch pinned under her. “No, I can’t do that, the mudpuppy is my insurance.” 

“They’ll come after us, if we take her.” Narcissa reasoned. “She has no use to you, Bella, she’ll just be a burden.” 

Weighing it in its head, the werewolf loosened its paw on Hermione little by little. Hermione came up for breath with a sharp inhale. 

“Yes… that’s right, Bella. We’re going to be just fine. You and I, together.” Under Narcissa’s encouragement, the wolf finally relinquished its hold on the younger witch and allowed her to stand up while still keeping a sharp claw around her arm. “She comes too.” It pointed its snout at Molly, “the bitch killed me, I need her to make my fucking body.” 

“No bloody way!” Ron ground through his teeth and directed his wand at Narcissa, “if you want your sister in one piece, you leave Hermione and my mum alone.” 

Ignoring Ron, Narcissa looked at the Weasley matriarch and mouthed to her. “Molly, please, it’ll be okay.” 

Molly hesitated in that second – she hadn’t seen Ginny’s baby yet. 

Narcissa begged, she never begged, but she’d do it now, through her eyes. 

It was a look that Molly had never seen on Narcissa’s face, and in that moment, she knew she could not sit and watch the young witch, who she always saw as her second daughter, in danger. She turned to say something to Ron, along the line of taking care of her grandkids if she didn’t make it back. 

Narcissa couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she saw that Ron was glancing above head at the hole in the dome. Her heart seized in her chest as she realised what he was about to do. Silently, she casted an imperio on Molly. It made the Weasley matriarch push off her son, and slowly, robotically walk towards Narcissa’s outstretched hand. 

“Mum! Mum!!” Ron yelled after his mother, confused and infuriated, “you can’t be serious!” Harry wrapped his arms across his chest, keeping him in place to not jostle the delicate balance of their standstill. 

Narcissa met her halfway, took Molly’s hand and went back to stand beside the werewolf. Bellatrix, satisfied with their obedience, shoved Hermione aside and instead laid a claw on Narcissa’s shoulder, not digging, but also not gentle. 

Now being able to see Molly’s vacant gaze, Ron realised that she was under a spell, and screamed, “screw you, Malfoy scum!” He raised his wand and pointed it at the witch, mouth twisted spitefully to deliver a curse. 

“Ron, no!” Harry and Narcissa both saw it coming. 

She raised her wand to block his spell, but it was too late. Harry twisted Ron’s arm, the painful sting of a particularly forceful Stupify, meant for Narcissa, changed course and landed squarely in the werewolf’s chest. The effect was immediate. It let out an enraged, deafening howl. 

The control Bellatrix had on the werewolf wavered ever so slightly and it was all hell broke loose. Its pupils were quickly consuming the whites of its eyes, moonlight reflected brightly and savagely in them. 

Immediately, spells and curses and screaming flew above head again, meeting in powerful streams of red and green. Chaos engulfed the field anew. 

“Run, now!” Narcissa released Molly from her imperious curse and pushed her into Hermione’s direction. She herself had to duck out of the heavy claw that rested on her shoulder. The werewolf growled and snapped its jaw angrily towards any moving target it could find. It swept aside Narcissa like a speck of dust, and bit off the arm of a cloaked wizard that stood too close, then it changed course, locking onto Hermione and Molly, who were scrambling towards the line of Order members. Foaming at the teeth, the wolf was inches away from catching Hermione’s leg. 

There came a dark shadow of a figure in flight, with a powerful force, it pulled Hermione and Molly into a vortex of wind and pressure, breaking through smoke and debris and battle, up and up out of the crumbling containment dome, leaving behind the deafening and furious howl of the werewolf. In less than a second, they tumbled out of the torsioned space of apparition and landed–rolled–in the damp grass of the surrounding marsh. 

“Oh Merlin!” Hermione held herself up on one elbow, and rubbed her head. The dull pain made her think she acquired a concussion, but Molly’s scream snapped her back into high alert. A few feet away, she saw the figure that snatched them, unmoving in the shallow water. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light, until she was able to make out pale blonde hair. Her body went cold as if she just walked through a frozen downpour. Realisation dawned on her. It was Narcissa, laid in a puddle of muddy water, blood blossoming from her, spreading below her and staining the water black like ink. 

“Cissa!” She ran towards her, stumbling and falling onto her knees. 

“Did… did she splinch?” Molly crawled over and felt for Narcissa’s clothed body with shaky hands. 

No… All her body parts remained attached to her person. Hermione held the unconscious witch in her arms and felt the warm blood seep through her clothes. Her vision was becoming blurred with tears. She wiped her dirty sleeve across her eyes – now was not the time to panic. “Molly, give me a hand.” 

Together, they peeled Narcissa’s robes from her upper body, and it revealed her wound. Two gaping holes pierced through the right side of her flank, mangled flesh concealing the organs and broken ribs for now, smaller, bloody lacerations accompanying them, forming a larger half circle stretching from the underside of her breast to the top of her hip like an enormous mouth. 

It was unmistakably a werewolf bite. 

******

The stench of sweaty bodies, blood, and dampness was the first clue that something had gone terribly wrong. Then it was made even clearer by the hushed conversations, layered with anxiety and anger, bouncing against one another, scattered words and broken pieces of sentences echoing off walls. 

Narcissa had never felt so paradoxically lucid while being wholly unconscious. She attempted to rouse herself out of this strange dream, but despite how hard she tried, her eyes remained shut. 

Hours passed, days, even. The warmth of the light from the windows changed its angle across her face, and people came and went around her, yet she stayed still. 

She thought this was some kind of a cruel afterlife, where she was stuck to feel the movements and passage of time around her, serving penance for all her crimes and guilt. And she was almost ready to accept this fate. But then, a warm hand slipped into hers, and a familiar, soft voice spoke to her through the fog of chatter. “Take your time waking up, Cissa. The healers had to put your body under stasis to prevent too much blood loss. But you’re going to be alright… I’m so relieved. You’re going to be alright.” It calmed her so much that she let herself glide into a blissful oblivion until the next time she was ready to try to open her eyes again. 

“Mother!” Draco’s low exclaim drew the attention of the people in the room. The moment he noticed her gaze on the ceiling, he all but shoved Hermione out of the way and slid into a kneeling position next to her bed. “Oh, Mother, you’re awake!” 

Blinking hard, she focused on his face. Her head pounded upon the strong waft of cologne he brought towards her, but she managed to croak out, “Draco…” She didn’t quite understand why he was here, and why he seemed so worried. 

He raised a glass of water to her lips, and assisted her to take a sip. 

Half sitting now, Narcissa finally saw the other two people in the room with them. Hermione and Andromeda. Andy also came up to fuss over her, but she couldn’t help the smile that crept up on her lips as she met Hermione’s sweet brown eyes, which were also filled with concern and worry. She wondered why Hermione had that effect on her for a few seconds, then memories, streaked with tender love making and violent curses, interlaced with warmth and comfort and fear and pain, welled up all at once. Her face turned pale and her clutch on the glass almost gave out. “What happened? Is… is everyone okay?” 

With a sigh, Hermione came closer. She sat on the side of the bed not occupied by Draco. Feeling a bit awkward under his curious gaze, but wanting to touch the blonde regardless, she laid her hand gently over Narcissa’s, “you saved us, Ci–Narcissa, remember? We fought Bellatrix and her followers at the borrow. She tried to take Molly, and lost control of the werewolf. Molly and I were almost caught. But you apparated us out of the battle. After that, Bellatrix regained control eventually, her advantage was lost, so she retreated. We lost two Aurors and one centaur. Many others are wounded. The Order is regrouping now at the Grimmauld Place headquarters, which is where we are.” She gestured around the room. 

Nodding as most of the events came back to her, Narcissa felt a sliver of relief. Easing her sore body back into the headboard, she closed her eyes, screwing her eyebrows together as drifting voices clouded her, dim conversations, furniture screeching on squeaking floorboards, Kreacher’s incessant mumbling and sweeping and clattering and arranging… 

“Are you alright, Mother?” Draco asked, nervously eyeing her pale face. 

“Yes… it’s just… Why is it so loud here?” Narcissa rubbed her forehead, her patience wearing dangerously thin with the pain amping up in her head, “don’t you wish people can just… be quiet?” 

The other three shared a look amongst themselves. Andromeda cleared her throat, hesitant and careful, “Cissy, what can you hear?” 

“Everything! It’s been nonstop, even when I was unconscious. Salazar knows - Kreacher!” She hissed, and with a pop, the House Elf, ever obedient despite his head-to-toe fresh attire, appeared at the foot of her bed. 

He bowed deeply, “Mistress Cissy! How does old Kreacher be of service?” 

Upon seeing the elf that she regarded with fondness, Narcissa deflated slightly, “Kreacher, just leave the silverware for now, okay? Do something quieter.” 

Flustered and confused, Kreacher sputtered, “oh, oh of course Mistress, Kreacher is terribly sorry for disturbing you, Mistress. Kreacher will… Kreacher will mend the tapestry instead!” 

Hermione felt sorry for him, and suggested, “actually, Kreacher, could you cast a charm to block the noise from the rest of the house?” It earned her a dirty look from the House Elf but he obeyed under Draco’s stern look. With a snap of his thin fingers, the room was coated in a strong silencing charm. Then he bowed again and backed out of the room deeply bent over. 

Narcissa continued to hold her pounding head, but she was grateful for the respite, “thank you.” 

“There’s something you should know,” Andromeda said after a few minutes of silence, “it will explain what you’re experiencing… yet,” she looked down with anxiety and regret, “I wonder if we should delay that conversation til you’ve perked up a bit.” 

“Why are you speaking in riddles, Andy,” Narcissa reemerged from behind her hands, “if I should know it, then tell me now.” 

“Mother–” Draco chimed in, looking as if to intervene. 

“I want to know.” She cut off her son and studied her sister, both having their eyes casted away. She subconsciously felt for the bandages that wrapped around her torso, her fingers brushing the thread of the gauze and the adhesive tapes starting to peel at the edges. Dread, like the damp cold of the marsh, started to seep into her bones. She looked to Hermione, who was the only one watching her, and there was a steadfastness in the brown eyes even as her own realisation slowly sunk in. “Tell me, Hermione.” She still wanted a confirmation, for such things deserved a sentencing and not to be swept under the rug like how her family always dealt with bad news. 

“You were bitten by the werewolf when you apparated us out. It caught you in your flank and…” Hermione choked slightly, tears welling up, “you almost bled to death. I tried to limit the contamination but I could… I could see your organs and bones. The only thing I could do was stop the bleeding.” Her voice became smaller. 

“And she had done an admirable job before the healers could work on you, Cissy,” Andromeda added, her eyes flitting between the brunette and her sister, “your wound had been too deep and because of the location, you see…” 

“You couldn’t simply cut off the infection.” Narcissa reclined her head, “ I know.” She wanted to say to Hermione that it wasn’t her fault, she wanted to reach out and touch her face and hold her and say that she knew she’d done everything to save her life, she wanted to do it all. But she found herself frozen, motionless and emotionless, as if her true self was peering through a glass out of her own eyes like a mere passenger. She closed her eyes again, letting the exhausting condamnation wash over her, and said, “please, I would like to be alone now.” 

Andromeda looked like she wanted to say more, but after trading another wordless look with Hermione and Draco, she nodded, “we’ll leave now. But don’t try to get out of bed on your own, you’d rip the stitches.” Then she placed a bell within reach on the nightstand. 

For the next few days, she slipped in and out of consciousness, ate when food was brought to her, took potions when offered, and endured the humiliation of getting assisted to use the loo and endured a sponge bath. But besides Kreacher, who did her bidding with absolute delight, she refused visits from everyone else. 

The House Elf brought enough chatter though, against her will, to update the whereabouts of Order members. Andromeda had returned home to take care of Teddy, but sent freshly brewed healing potions to make sure she was on track for growing back her liver. Draco returned to make sure his household was in order, given the late stage of pregnancy Astoria was in. She learned that Hermione had come here everyday to ask after her, but she had not been here for two days in a row. 

Trying to sound nonchalant, she asked Kreacher, “where has Miss Granger been?” 

He mumbled, “Mistress Cissy shan’t concern herself, Kreacher has done learnt that the Weasley witch was adding another one to the litter, about time that lot go back to the swamps, Kreacher recons!” 

Right , Ginerva Weasley’s due date had been right around the corner. It was a miracle that she didn’t go into labour that night but held off for as long as she did. Though Narcissa doubted they went back to the Burrow, Godrick’s Hollow was more likely. 

By the time she could walk a few metres out of bed without assistance, she knew she had to get a hold of her hypersensitivity. It was not unknown for new werewolves to experience heightened senses of smell, hearing, and vision in their human forms, which was one of the reasons some werewolves spiral out of control very rapidly. No, she was not going to let that happen to her – Narcissa pushed the thought of her lycanthropy condition as far away from the depth of her mind as possible – she would work on her adjustments, she would allow no one to see her breakdown, and she would get through this atrocity on her own, that was that.  

Little by little, she asked Kreacher to reduce the silencing charm. Every little creak in the floorboards alarmed her, the piping of the old house groaned all through the night, and Order members using the house as a headquarter with their daily communication through the fireplace had been no less than maddening. But by the end of the week, Narcissa had forced herself to tolerate the noises and keep a straight face when she smelled something unpleasant. 

The Order seemed to have forgotten that she was stashed in the upper level of the home, as they kept having short meetings with small crowds in the dining room. She could hear clearly what they discussed. 

No word on Bellatrix’s whereabouts, but the captives they had did give them information on how she had recruited her army. Old Voldemort followers, Azkaban escapees who faked their deaths and lived in exile, and werewolves of Bellatrix’s own creation. She more or less coerced and manipulated creatures into following her, as the giants and trolls had very little intelligence to discern her ingenuine offers of wealth and abundance.  

She smelled Ginny and Harry’s baby boy, young James, wrapped in a soft blanket and had the sweet scent of a newborn. Heard him coo and gurgle, being shushed and put down for naps when the adults talked. 

Andy was here, too, fussing over the small baby. 

The meeting was for a larger group, and she could hear Hermione’s voice. Hermione was reporting on her interviews with the captured werewolf, a poor Irish wizard who was turned by Bellatrix, and was threatened that she’d turn his whole family if he did not comply. 

Molly was cooking everyone a delicious meal in good spirit. 

She listened and listened, and they had forgotten her. It was for the best, Narcissa slumped further in bed, and did not touch the food that Kreacher sent up. 

There were footsteps up the stairs, once the Order adjourned their meeting. Quick, light, but determined. The sound made her heart thump, because unbeknownst to her, she had come to recognise Hermione’s footsteps. 

“No visitors. Mistress Cissy sleep.” Kreacher croaked out, stopping the witch’s advance on the staircase. 

“I just want to see how she is, Kreacher.” Hermione sighed, “I promise I won’t wake her.” 

“Mistress sleep, no visitors.” Kreacher did not budge. 

Narcissa almost wanted to call him off. 

The sound of another set of footsteps stopped her. It was clunky, heavy, thudding. She didn’t recognise them, but she knew the voice. 

Ronald Weasley was walking up behind Hermione, and he called her name. Narcissa was not sure whether it was for her benefit, but the two started to speak in hushed voices. 

“Hermione, hey. How did Malfoy’s mum take the news?” 

“She has a name, Ronald.” The irritation in her voice was evident. “And as well as one could expect to learn that they’d been turned into a werewolf, which is, I don’t know, probably not well?” 

“Why’d you get pissy at me? It’s not like it was my fault that her sister is a mental case.” 

“Ronald, do you not realise what you’d done had direct consequences on how things turned out?” 

He shifted his weight and the stairs squeaked. “How should I have known? Hmm? She was gonna kidnap my mum!” 

“It’s called a tactic, Ron!” Hermione pushed back, “Narcissa would never put Molly in danger.” 

“Psht,” Ron scoffed, “you can’t seriously believe that. Mum got really spooked and she’s still talking about how she could’ve died if Bellatrix got a hold of her.” 

“I know, it’s a horrible situation, but it was also Narcissa who saved her. She saved us .” 

“And I’m glad she did, because otherwise she’d have a lot to answer for.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“She’s a dark witch, Hermione! She’s done a lot of damage to a lot of people, surely you remember the freaking snake face that she harboured in her mansion?” 

“People are capable of change, Ronald, unlike you, she’s worked on herself over the years. If you’re refusing to see the kindness in her, then that is entirely on you.” 

“What’s with you, Hermione?” He said acrimoniously, “one second you’re collaborating on a work thing and the next you’re rushing to her defence. It’s almost like she’d bewitched you.”

“No one’s bewitched me. You’re the one who’s accusing Narcissa of something she did not intentionally do!” 

“Whose side are you on?” 

“Nobody! There are no sides, Ronald, don’t you get it? We’re all trying to get through this, and it is especially hard on Narcissa.” 

“Narcissa this, Narcissa that, you’re always talking about Malfoy’s bloody mum. Why do you even care?” 

Hermione fell silent for a minute, and Narcissa held her breath. 

“I don’t expect you to understand it, Ron, but we’ve grown to have a connection. She’s… she’s important to me.” 

“More important than your best friend and the family that basically took you in when you had no one?” With that, he stomped away, leaving her no room to continue the conversation. 

With a thud, Hermione sat on the stairs. Narcissa heard a sniffle at first, then it became sobs, and her heart squeezed so tightly in her chest that she wanted to fling herself out of bed, burst out the door, and wrap the brunette in her arms. But the floorboards creaked again, and Harry Potter’s gentle voice rang, “hey, Hermione, we’re heading out, want to come over?” 

“I shouldn’t. You and Gin–” She said in a water-logged voice.

“Could use a hand.” He replied good-naturedly. 

After a minute of silence, the floorboards creaked again, indicating that they both went down the stairs, and the only sounds left were Kreacher’s muttering and sweeping. 

Narcissa breathed out shakily, running fingers through her unwashed, tangled hair, and made a decision. “Kreacher,” she called, and the elf popped in right away, “apparate me to my house, please.” 

Chapter Text

“Narcissa Irma Black, what in Salazar’s hell do you mean Kreacher apparated you home!?” Andromeda ground through her teeth, trying to not alarm her grandson as she vehemently spoke into the howler. “You understand people can die from the extent of injuries you sustained? It’s a miracle the healers stitched you back up as it is, and you gotta be careful. Did you listen to anyone, nooo, you do the complete opposite!” She paced in her house, snatching toys and clothes to stuff them in a bag. She’d need to offload Teddy to a neighbour while she smacked some sense into her brooding littler sister.

She should’ve seen it coming, she really should. Even as a child, Narcissa had an aversion to being perceived as weak, to showing her true emotions, and receiving help when she needed it. The minute they told her the unfortunate outcome of her lycanthropy infection–Andromeda was regretful now–she should’ve forced herself by Narcissa’s side. But instead, they respected her wishes to be left alone. And just as predicted, Narcissa retreated, building a thickening ice shell to freeze out those that dared to come close, even at the expense of her own fragile health. 

Andromeda had almost been sure that something happened between her sister and Hermione, given how hysterical and scared the young witch had been, and had banked on it changing Narcissa’s disposition to self-isolate. But she must’ve read the whole situation wrong.

“I am coming over right after dropping off Teddy.” Sighing at the end of the howler, Andromeda scooped Teddy from his bed and hushed the sleeping boy until he fell back in dreams, and travelled to the kind elderly Muggle couple in the village who offered to babysit him for the night.

Narcissa had dealt with her affliction of being a natural Legillimens for most of her life. Ever since six years old, she’d been accidentally or purposely slipping into other people’s minds and eavesdropping on private thoughts.

I wish Druella could just shut the hell up. Thought Father about Mother when they were on a holiday in the Alps. To be helpful, she’d politely asked Mother to “shut the hell up”, which earned her a great beating until Father stepped in and discovered her talent.

Thereafter, she’d become his little spy. He trained her to socialise with competing business associates, to learn their secrets, to squash them using their own thoughts. And people’s thoughts were, lightly put, disgusting. One would be surprised to learn how many men in their fifties and sixties would leer at a young witch barely fifteen years old, thinking uncharitable thoughts about her family while simultaneously imagining her in compromising positions with them alone. She’d known how to block out the buzzing inner monologues that could drive someone insane.

She’d learned to live with such an affliction. So Narcissa had no doubt that she’d learn to live with these intense, heightened senses eventually.

Yet, just getting through the day had been so bloody hard.

It was as if her physiology had changed. Everything around her, furniture, beddings, clothes books, paintings, had a smell. Foot traffic, her potions lab, the grandfather clock, even blood in her veins… carried a sound. The dreamless draught barely touched her anymore and the circles under her eyes grew darker.

Twisted as it was, she had enjoyed Father’s attention. It made her feel helpful, against the incessant chatter and voices. It gave her hope that her little condition could be good for something. But Father wasn’t here anymore to exploit this now, was he?

She wanted to run away from it all, but no one could outrun themselves. 

Narcissa sought refuge in the small garden on her balcony, where most scents came from herbs and flowers and most sounds were wind and small insects. So, in the cool breeze and the floral perfumes and the bees buzzing, she revelled in the temporary peace where she could properly miss her.

She missed her - Merlin, she did. Missed the curve of her lips in smile, missed the shining gold flecks in her brown eyes, missed the way her sharp tongue and quick wit always kept her on her toes, missed her warmth, her passion, her blatant desire, her unabashed affection. But, this was another affliction she’d have to live with now. Because deep down, she convinced herself shortly after her awakening, and Hermione must also have realised, that the younger witch deserved to be with someone who was not so difficult and dark and shackled by the weight of her past, someone respected and welcome by Hermione’s found family, someone easy, young, full of light.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks at the thought of Hermione finding love in a youthful, perfect, full-of-light, other-than-her person. She must understand this is how it will be, her beautiful, intelligent Hermione, she must–

Woosh!

“Narcissa Black, you’d better be home!” Came the impassioned voice of her sister.

Narcissa sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stave off the ache that threatened throbbingly behind her eyes. She took some calming breaths, wiped away her tears, and held herself up gingerly to not agitate her still tender wounds. By the time she made her way down to the sitting room, Andromeda had apparently gone through every other room in her house.

“For the love of Circe, are you trying to kill yourself!?” Andy clutched Narcissa on her shoulders and inspected her younger sister.

“I’d fared better without your abuse.” Said Narcissa sarcastically, and eased herself out of Andy’s hands. “Why are you here?”

Unimpressed, Andy glared at her, “I sent word that I’d come to check on you.”

Curious, since she had not received any letter aside from Draco’s this morning. Then she realised something, stating in a flat tone, “you sent a howler.”

“Well, yes, how did you not–” Andy’s eyes widened in disbelief, “you set up a howler deterrent. Of course, I should’ve known.” She felt slightly guilty for a second from remembering the reason Narcissa had to barr howlers in the first place. There had been a lot of angry people after the war that would send nasty mail to those who were spared from a stay in Azkaban, among whom the most vicious had been Narcissa’s ex-husband.

“Now you’ve seen me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Narcissa turned around, feigning composure even though every fibre of her nerves was on fire at this point. Perspiration gathered along her hairline. She went to her kitchen to brew herself a cup of senses-dulling tea. She felt Andy’s piercing gaze follow her.

“Cissy.” Andy sighed, leaning against the wall and studying the carefully constructed expression on her sister’s pale face and deliberately slow movements. “You’re not well.”

Narcissa did not deign to respond. Peering into the tin where she kept dried devil’s claw roots, she cursed inwardly that the bottom of the container had become visible. Her hands shook when she tipped the last of it into the strainer, knowing it would not brew a tea strong enough to stave off the maddening sensitivity.

“Here,” Andy was by her side, fishing out of her robes a vial of ashy liquid, “white willow bark essence. Just as good.” Then she snatched the kettle from her sister’s hands, heating the water inside to a boil with a wave of her wand. She pointed her chin at the kitchen table, “sit.”

Reluctantly, the blonde accepted her assistance, and was grateful that her sister did not speak again until she held the cup between her palms, sipped the last drops of the concoction, and felt her agony recede to an amenable dullness. She had not been able to meet Andy’s grey eyes.

After long minutes of silence, where either sister did their best to bend the other’s will, Andromeda finally gave in. “This lycanthropy affliction… It's a difficult thing to reconcile with, Cissy, but it’s not the end of your life. You know that, right? ”

Screwing her eyes shut, Narcissa really rather not have this conversation. She brushed it off harshly, “of course. I’m not some helpless ninny.”

“Remus was able to lead a somewhat normal life, he held a respected profession, and eventually found love with Dora.” Andromeda went on, hoping that her history with her son-in-law would shed a light of wisdom on her sister.

Upon hearing the names of her sister’s family, with whom she never had the chance to build a relationship, Narcissa visibly softened. “I know, Andy.”

“Then you must also know the kind of support Remus had. From his family and his friends. The lowest point of his life were the years when he had nobody, no James or Sirius, no me or Dora, he didn’t even have Severus!”

“Andromeda–”

She cut her off, “your body may heal, dear sister, but you will need help to get through the transitions. The first one would be the most difficult, but every time after isn’t a walk in the park either. You’ll need preparation, you’ll need a contingency plan, and you’ll need care after. Trust me, even for one as seasoned as Remus, he nearly died during those years living alone.”

“I will manage.” Narcissa countered, albeit weakly, “I’ve made advances on the wolfsbane potion that surpass decades of research.” She was aware that her experience was limited to second-hand knowledge of those she treated, and when it came to herself, she was terrified – not that she would divulge this now.

“I don’t doubt that, Cissy. But please, let us help you. You have a family, and we’re worried about you. Draco and Astoria are planning to move back–”

“No!” Narcissa protested vehemently, “I will not let them do that for my sake. They’re expecting a baby any day now. I’ll sooner kill myself than put them in harm’s way.”

Rolling her eyes at her sister’s dramatics, “fine. Then come live with me.”

Her brows furrowed deeper, “I don’t think so, Andy. You’ve got your hands full with Teddy.”

“Which is precisely why I can’t keep hauling my behind to come here, it’d be so much easier if you just stayed over.”

“I can’t, Andy. I have…” she was warmed by the generous and kind offer, but she declined still, gesturing around her home vaguely, “a lab to tend to. I’ve fallen behind on my ministry orders.”

Huffing in frustration, Andy was determined that they reached a compromise. “Okay, how about, at least, you let me and Hermione visit, we’ll alternate the days. She’s really worried about you, too.”

The young witch’s name plunged her into a cold dread that robbed her right away of the breath in her chest. Instead of giving Andy an answer, she simply shook her head.

They descended into a stretched-out silence, where Narcissa focused on her breathing and heartbeat so she didn’t break down in tears, and Andromeda frowned and frowned as if her brows would never smooth out again in an attempt to read her sister’s expressions.

“Are you angry with Hermione?” Finally, Andromeda broke the tension and asked.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Because if you are, you’re misguided. Hermione tried her darndest to keep you alive after the attack. She doesn’t deserve the blame for what happened.”

Narcissa held her head with both hands, feeling another type of ache arise. This time, instead of in the scarring flesh on her flank, she felt it in her chest. “No, Andy, I do not blame Hermione at all. If anything, I–” She paused mid-sentence, choked up and unsure how she could continue without spilling all the inky pain in her heart.

For once, Andromeda relented, reaching to pull her sister’s hands away from her face. “Tell me, Cissy. Tell me what happened between you and Hermione.”

Narcissa’s bottom lip quivered despite the effort she put in to remain indifferent. “Hermione and I shared a night together.” She omitted the fact that it was not the first night they shared, but it was the first time they assigned any meaning to the night.

“That’s… that’s great, isn’t it?” Andy looked concerned.

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Then why are you turning her away?”

Shaking her head, she wanted to put the conversation to a quick end. “It won’t work out.”

But Andy pushed, “for what reason? Did you decide that on your own?”

“Forget it, Andy.”

“No, I won’t!” The older sister squeezed her hands tighter, not letting go. “I can’t because I love you and I love Hermione. I won’t let you throw away something precious and good, because… because what? You got bitten by a werewolf? Hermione won’t care and you know it.”

“That’s exactly why! Hermione won’t care because she doesn’t know what she deserves!” Nowhere to hide, Narcissa finally broke and sobbed. “Hermione doesn’t deserve this… she… she doesn’t deserve someone so… difficult. Hermione…” she hiccuped between her sobs, “Hermione should be with someone that brings light to her life… All I’ve done was cause her heartache.”

“I’m afraid you’re making no sense, Cissy.” Andy produced a wad of napkins and started to dab gently at Narcissa’s face.

“I overheard her conversation with Mister Weasley. He was… so harsh to her… because of me. I can’t be the reason that she loses her family.”

On Andy’s face, first there was confusion, then across were the looks of consideration and realisation. “You’re an idiot.” She said at last.

Narcissa looked at her blankly through teary eyes.

“You’re such an idiot, Cissy! So what if she and Ron had a fight? They’re practically siblings. He got rattled because of Molly, and took his misgivings to you out on Hermione, but that’s none of your fault. You should’ve been angry – I would if I were you! Instead, you’re holed up in your own house throwing yourself a pity party.” Andromeda stood, scrunched up the napkins and tossed them aside, making a show of her indignation. “Besides, had you just talked to her, you’d know she went and gave Ron a piece of her mind.”

“She did…?”

“Heck yeah. And you know what, Ron apologised and they made up. Because siblings do that! They fight and they make up.” She came around the table and crouched next to her younger sister, tipping the pale face towards her. “Hermione is not losing her family, and you’re not the villain you make yourself out to be, Cissy. So don’t go and decide all by yourself what she does or does not deserve.”

Tears flooded anew and her cheeks felt raw from the salt. Narcissa held her sister’s hand against her face, leaning on Andy’s strength to gather herself.

Andy tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “that witch cares a hell of a lot for you, Cissy. She’s been out there the whole week talking to werewolves so she could find ways to help you. White willow bark essence? It was her idea.” She fetched a small note from the folds of her robes, in Hermione’s handwriting. “Now, I’d like to think, whatever this… stupid self-enforced separation is, that it’s as hard for you as it clearly is for her.”

“It isn’t just hard, Andy.” Narcissa croaked out, her voice broken by the emotions she had been holding in, “it is unbearable.”

“Would you like me to get her?” She asked, displaying in her palm an enchanted galleon. Upon seeing her litter sister’s nod, she rubbed the coin with her thumb and sent off a message.

Within minutes, the fireplace roared to life again. And came the footsteps that Narcissa remembered in her heart.

“In here!” Andy called out.

Narcissa held her breath. She had rehearsed in her mind a thousand times how she would school her expression when she finally saw Hermione again. But she clearly did not prepare remotely well enough for the thunderous hammering in her chest at the sight of the young witch.

Hermione looked a bit wind-swept, as if she had been plucked from the middle of running around in the woods, curly hair up in a messy ponytail. There were flecks of dirt on the bottom of her robes, her sleeves were pushed up her elbows, and her tie had been loosened around her neck. Still, Narcissa didn’t think there would be another person who could manage to appear so lovely while dishevelled.

And oh dear, her scent. She smelled like the forest, like pine needles and dewdrops, but underneath, there was her own smell, leather binds of books and rich sweetness of ink, the slightly spiced scent of her lotion–pink peppercorn and bergamot–mingled with warm sweat and musk. For the first time, Narcissa could actually detect every little trace of Hermione as if she held her on the tip of her tongue. It rendered her flushed and dizzy with elation. And for the first time, she let her feelings show, tears welling up again from her already puffy eyes.

Hermione saw, and in quick strides she closed the distance between them. She exchanged a nod in greeting to Andromeda, then came to the blonde’s side, dropping into a kneeling position and taking her hands with her own. “Hey, it’s good to see you.” She gave her a gentle smile that said more than words.

“Hermione…” Narcissa suddenly felt embarrassed by the unfortunate state she must be in. She wanted to say so much, say, “I know I worried you,” say, “I wanted to make sure you were alright, too,” say, “I should’ve let you in,” but in the end, all she could manage was a small, quivering, “I’m so sorry.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then with great care, she pulled her into an embrace. “It’s alright now, Cissa.”

The dam broke entirely as she buried her face in Hermione’s shoulder. She clung to the younger witch’s robes, folded herself into the strong arms as closely as physics allowed, and greedily took in the comforting, lovely smell of her skin like a drowning person sucking in their last breaths.

And just like that, Hermione felt the fist clenching around her heart loosen. All her turmoil and anxiety from the previous week melted away, with the simple fact that she had Narcissa in her arms again. She turned her head and pressed a kiss on Narcissa’s temple. Over the blonde’s shoulder, she met Andy’s eyes, who gave her a permitting nod and said quietly, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

They did talk, once Andromeda left. Over a steaming pot of tea, they huddled close, fingers interlocked.

Narcissa cleared her throat, a bit flustered and bashful seeing the wet patch she left on Hermione’s shirt. “I was trying… I was avoiding you, Hermione. I’m sorry.” She admitted shamefully.

Tilting her head to one side, Hermione indicated that she was listening.

So Narcissa confessed that she overheard her argument with Ron, how her physical agony – though not a good excuse – clouded her judgement, and how she let her pessimistic outlook led her to the conclusion that their connection – she hesitated to use the word relationship, because if she wasn’t uncertain before, she would be even more so now on where they stood – would only be a detriment to Hermione’s other important relationships. She decided foolishly and unfairly, without consulting the brunette, to remove herself from the picture. “But this entire time, all I could think about was you, dearest. Please believe me.”

“I do believe you.” Hermione rushed to say, squeezing the slender fingers in her hand. “I understand, it must’ve been so overwhelming, Cissa. I learned a lot these past few days talking to the werewolves. It sounds awful how much one can feel right after the infection. I’m sorry you need to go through all this.”

“You’re too forgiving to me, Hermione.”

Shaking her head, Hermione stated with conviction, “you’ll learn one day, Cissa, that people who consider you important to them won’t just let you walk away. You need to trust that they will be there for you, no matter how much you disagree at the moment. It’s like I always trusted Ron would come around, after he learned how important you are to me.” When watery blue eyes peered up at her with so much unvoiced hope, she didn’t equivocate, “you are important to me.”

Reaching out, Narcissa caressed the younger witch’s cheek, she could see her own reflection in the clear brown eyes as if she was all Hermione could see. “You are important to me, too.” She said, and leaned in.

Hermione cradled her jaw with her free hand, and welcomed the kiss. It was meant to be a chaste, unhurried kiss. They both sighed with contentment just to feel close at first, then it grew slightly heavier. Hermione’s heart fluttered and picked up pace when it took on a hint of lust. Narcissa could hear it and thought it to be endlessly endearing.

Breaking it before it got out of hand, Hermione stuttered, “we should stop… you’re still… uhh, I came here to help… Can I – how can I help?”

“You’re helping plenty, darling.” Despite the soreness and exhaustion, Narcissa felt a million times better already. She picked up the white willow bark tea and let herself relax against Hermione’s body. The brunette’s pleasant scent and steady heartbeat soothed her, and she wanted to surrender to the heaviness of sleep with someone by her side. “If you don’t mind, would you stay the night?”

“I’d love to.”

******

Hermione was living a dream she never thought she’d dream for herself. For the third day in a row, she flew away early from work, first to her home to feed Crookshanks, then to Narcissa’s house. She would check the blonde’s healing progress, and help brew the Ministry potions orders Narcissa stubbornly held onto. Then they’d have dinner, talk over tea, and get ready for bed–together. 

Last night, she’d helped wash her hair because it required movement that aggravated pain for Narcissa to do all by herself. She undid the intricate updo, lathered her hair with shampoo, ran her fingers through the silken strands under water, dried and brushed until her hair was a waterfall of pale gold and dark night. Toward the end, unable to stop herself, she kissed her deeply.

Hermione smiled to herself at the memory. There was a comfortable domesticity to it, and she was starting to become addicted to the simple intimacy.

Today, though, she brought news that would disrupt this quiet little two-person bubble they hid away in.

Hermione found the blonde whisking a pot of thick concoction in her lab. She came up to drop a small kiss on Narcissa’s shoulder from behind. “The Order is having an all-member meeting at the end of the week.”

Narcissa hummed in acknowledgement.

“Do you feel well enough to make an appearance?”

There was a slight pause in the movement of her hands. “You think I should join?” Her voice was even, but a small amount of tension was clear in it.

“Yes, you’re one of the most crucial parts of this… operation… and the Order knows they need your help.” Hermione moved around her so she could study Narcissa’s profile while she considered her words. “I want you there with me.”

Narcissa stared at the bubbling caldron. Her mind racing a hundred miles a minute. She had no prior connection to the Order, and as much as she didn’t concern herself with anyone else’s opinion of her, their opinion would affect Hermione by association. But Hermione wants me there, with her. She mused the meaning behind it. They hadn’t discussed where they stood. They were important to each other, that much was established. What did that make them? Were they girlfriends? No, too juvenile. What about lovers? Partners? Were they in a relationship? Did Hermione want to disclose what they had to the Order, thereby to everyone? Everyone included Draco. Draco. Did Draco suspect? How would Draco react to learning her involvement with a witch two decades younger and his schoolmate?

“Hey, hey, Cissa, you’re thinking too hard.”  Hermione reached out and touched the blonde’s elbow, hoping it was a reassuring gesture. “It’s just a strategic meeting. No one is going to question why you’re there. The Order members hold you in very high regards now – not that they didn’t before! But, you know, since you saved me and Molly.” She gauged Narcissa’s reaction keenly.

“Right.” Came the reply, both indifferent and very telling.

Hermione smiled gently, feeling that she was starting to read Narcissa better, in everything that she didn’t say, in the minute details of her slightly deflated posture, in the small ripple of self-consciousness in her blue eyes. All so easily missed, so fleeting, so hidden behind her wall of perfection, poise, and pride. She ventured, “you’re worrying about how to tell people about us.” 

At this, Narcissa turned to look at her, eyes wide in wonder. So, there is an us to tell people.

Hermione moved closer, and cupped her face with both hands, thumb tracing her cheeks with care, “I understand your hesitation, and I will follow your lead if that’s what you need. But Cissa, please know that I am not in any manner ashamed of what we have. I want to be with you, and how quickly, or slowly, we announce it to the world has no bearing on my feelings for you.”

She didn’t realise there was air suspended in her lungs until now. Hermione’s honesty and sincerity felt like a fresh breath. Narcissa nodded and leaned in to rest her forehead against Hermione’s shoulder, feeling a surge of braveness nudging at the corner of her mind. “Andy knows. Draco should hear from me first.”

Now smiling from ear to ear, Hermione kissed the blonde hair. “Harry and Ginny, too. And I agree, Draco should know from you. He’s coming to the meeting.”

******

Narcissa observed with nervous curiosity as witches and wizards piled into the gloomy dining hall, meeting each other in friendly handshakes and low greetings. Even with a mind-numbing, sense-dulling potion, she could still hear their chit chat perfectly well and tell who was sleeping with whom the night before by scent. Hermione, with a squeeze to her hand and an apologetic smile, was swept away immediately to strategise in an employee-only meeting upstairs.

People who came later danced around her, as if she were a piece of ornament positioned in an unfortunate location – well, most did, but bless sweet Luna Lovegood, who struck up a strange, yet much needed conversation about pocket picking Bowtruckles that relocated her goggles. Her bemusement didn’t last long, until the fire roared green, revealing Draco and a very-pregnant-on-the-verge-of-bursting Astoria.

“I hope you’re not telling my mother that her head is full of Nargles, Luna.” Draco spotted them and made his way over.

Narcissa flinched, wanting to chide him for being impolite to her only companion. To her surprise, Luna laughed and gave Draco a side hug, “as if yours is any better.” Then, she gave Astoria two quick pecks, before bounding off.

“I’m so relieved to see you well, Mother.” Draco leaned in and kissed her on her cheek. Pulling away, he saw the shock still on Narcissa’s face, and shrugged, “Luna? Our paths crossed here and there at pest repellent conventions.”

Her chest filled with warmth to see her son’s effort at reconnecting with the British wizarding society.

When Kingsley and the Ministry employees came down the stairs, people started to find their seats at the table. Hermione found the blond heads in the crowd, looking slightly lost. Trailing behind her were Harry and Ron.

With a gentle hand on Narcissa’s elbow, Hermione slipped herself into their small circle. “Hey, nice to see you here, Draco, Astoria.”

“You too, Granger.” He dipped his head in her direction, courteous, if not a bit stiff.

Harry came and shook his hand, then gave Astoria a small hug, while Ron hung off the back, rocking on his heels awkwardly. When they finally included him, he rubbed the back of his neck, flushing a shade of pink, and blubbered, “good day, Missus Mal–Madame Black.”

“Good day to you, Mister Weasley.” Poised despite amused, Narcissa returned his greeting.

“Shall we sit?” Holding her swollen belly, Astoria suggested, and readily plopped herself down when Draco pulled out a chair for her. He then pulled out another chair for his mother on his other side. Harry wiggled his eyebrows at Hermione, choosing to sit down the line next to Astoria. Ron eagerly followed to escape the remnant of his cringeworthy exchange with Narcissa, whom Hermione naturally ended up sitting next to.

When they let their hands fall under the table, brushing lightly before interlocking their pinkies, Narcissa could swear that the whole table could hear her giddy heartbeat. It was like trying to sneak around in front of your parents with your teenage paramour, except, she was doing the sneaking around at a ripe age of forty and some change.

Though, the commencement of the meeting quickly turned their mood dour.

With the captured being either under the imperius curse, or creatures of lesser intellect, Hermione’s department had to step in and ensure due process for those that needed representation. That being said, none could provide much help in their investigation of Bellatrix’s whereabouts.

A few Order members looked at Narcissa expectantly, thinking that she somehow had a magical telepathy with her deranged sister. But beyond granting permission to the Aurors to search the abandoned Black Manor, she knew no more than anyone.

The subject of a safe house was brought up. Determined to prevent children from being involved in yet another battle with a sadistic, power-seeking, war-mongering maniac, the Order members recognised the fact that they all had important loved ones who cannot fight.

As everyone racked their brains to come up with a location big enough to house the wounded, the children, and the vulnerable, Draco cleared his throat beside Narcissa and held Astoria’s hand. “We have a property in the Pyrenees that might suit your needs.” He went on to describe a great house just shy of being classified as a castle, with modern appliances, an army of well-paid House Elves, he added pointedly, and a location that is easily defended.

Hermione secretly rolled her eyes. Even when he was being generous and practical, his pompous demeanour still made it sound like a brag.

“Is the estate unknown to Lestrange?” Kingsley asked.

“It’s a vacation home from the Malfoy side,” Narcissa explained, “Lucius despised my sister, he would’ve never let it slip.”

Rubbing her belly with the other hand, Astoria gave Draco an encouraging smile before looking at the fellow members. If she was unnerved being one of the few Slytherin attendees, her charms did not falter. “For what it’s worth, I will stay there as well, longer if the threat hasn’t been neutralized after the baby comes.”

Impressed by their confidence in the security of the estate, Harry nodded along, “alright, I will bring Ginny and James. Draco and I can work on setting the perimeter spells together.”

“Molly should come with,” Aurthor chimed in, “trust me, lass, nothing beats the experience of a Mother.” Molly nodded in agreement, winking at Astoria.

Narcissa swallowed, trying to not wince at the pain his words unintentionally brought to her. She knew it was the best that she stayed away from the safe house, especially as time approached her first transformation. Still, she was a mother, too, and would give anything to be a part of welcoming her first grandchild into the world.

Sensing her melancholy, Hermione lightly tugged their linked pinkies. It made the blonde look up at her, and they shared a gentle look.

Draco caught their fleeting interaction from his peripheral vision. With narrowed eyes, he silently filed it away, and went back to taking down names for the members that would join them at the safe house.

After a long and, at times, heated discussion on how to proceed with the crisis at hand, Kingsley declared to reveal Bellatrix’s return to the public, and cautioned the group to watch out for a resurgence of Voldemort loyalists. As soon as he dismissed the gathering, the Minister was swarmed by Order members with pressing questions and concerns. Hermione watched as the crowd obscured his purple and blue-clad figure. Her questions can wait, now, she was more concerned by the tight grasp Narcissa had on her palm, as if fearing she would drift away in the current of people. She turned to the blonde, whispering, “are you alright?”

Nodding despite the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, Narcissa whispered back, “yes, darling. Just a headache coming on.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Let’s get you out of here.” Sympathetic to her state of overwhelm, Hermione stood.

“Mother, let me see you off.” Draco followed suit as well, squeezing Astoria’s shoulder first, then pulling the chair out for Narcissa. He parted the crowd at the end of the table, moved past a few chatting Order members, but instead of leading them to the foyer, he turned the corner and walked to the quiet sitting room. He guided them into the room, and gestured with a tilt of his head for Hermione to follow.

Blood rushed behind her eardrums and her face heated as Hermione realised her presence was expected. Closing the door behind themselves, she took a deep breath before collecting her composure and turning to face her old school yard nemesis, the son of the woman she lov–

Draco’s voice interrupted her train of thought, “Granger, what’s your plan for my mother on the next full moon?”

Caught wholly off guard, Hermione blinked at him, “I beg your pardon?”

He considered her for a long beat, seemingly also confused. His eyes flitted between the witches, “I thought you were… nevermind, I don’t know what Astoria and I were thinking.”

“Wait, Draco.” Narcissa rushed to his side and clasped her hands around his. “You’re not mistaken.” She carefully watched him, hopeful for his approval.

Draco’s Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He took in the fact all over again as it was spoken, confirmed, substantiated. “So, it’s true then. You are… involved.” Albeit awkward with his words, there was no malice or disgust in his expression, which greatly impressed Hermione, given the fact that he had perpetually worn a sneer at the mention of her name during the entirety of their Hogwarts days.

“Yes, Draco, Hermione and I are together.” Narcissa looked over her shoulder to catch Hermione’s eyes, trying to convey reassurance.

“And you’re happy?”

“Yes,” Narcissa answered with ease, “I am very happy.” Then she squeezed his hand in hers, making him look at her in the eyes. “Alright?”

Squeezing her hand back, he offered her a slight, but genuine smile, “alright.” It meant, they both knew, there would be a discussion later, which was more than appropriate given the importance of this. But for now, equally importantly, there was a tentative acceptance.

It was quite amazing to witness such a tender interaction between two people who were reputed to be conniving and pernicious. Hermione, despite feeling a bit left out from the whole thing, was glad. She didn't hold it against Draco for not immediately welcoming her with open arms. The loving way he spoke with his mother, though, showed more than enough of his character. 

After a pause of them exchanging their silent acknowledgement, Draco spoke again. “We ought to plan, Mother, prepare for the full moon. I have some ideas. Granger, that might need your help to execute.” His eyes finally flitted over Hermione’s face, with a determination to get back to business.

“Of course, anything you need.” 

Chapter Text

To say that she was not nervous about her first transformation, it would be a blatant lie. Narcissa worried at her bottom lip while crossing off another day on her wall calendar.

Three more nights till the full moon.

They’d prepared as much as they possibly could. Draco secured a sizable piece of the woods in Scotland. Harry helped set up safety perimeters and drafted a contingency plan, drawing from what he’d learned from Sririus and Remus. Narcissa and Andromeda oversaw the wolfsbane potion production themselves.

What brought her comfort was Hermione’s steady presence. The care she took with her, Narcissa felt it like a warm stream of sunlight, parting storm clouds. Whenever she basked in its heat, the ice of her apprehension melted away.

Though, she didn’t get to see her all these days. Hermione was splitting herself in four, keeping tabs on every part of the operation as well as holding down the fort at work. She channeled all her anxiety towards being productive, so when she eventually returned to Narcissa at Grimmauld place every few days, she bore only a soft smile and a softer kiss.

Tonight, Narcissa glanced at the clock hand approaching midnight and sighed. Hermione had owled not too long ago to update her about a potential lead in her interviews with the werewolves and needed to organise her notes while things were fresh. It was very likely that the younger witch was held up at work, again. Despite her wish to crawl into bed with the brunette and be held in her warm embrace, Narcissa wished even more that Hermione would take care of herself. She penned a quick note, “please try to get some rest at home, darling, I will retire to bed soon myself,” so as Hermione wouldn’t feel concerned about making an extra trip to look in on her.

A few hours later, Narcissa stirred awake. She smiled upon her realisation of what disrupted her slumber. Her nose was filled with the lovely scents of parchment and ink, too-sweet coffee, anti-frizz hair cream, and green things. In the dark, she reached out to the other side of her bed, “Hermione?”

Curiously, she was alone in the room. Though she didn’t feel panicked or scared, as the scent was so distinctly Hermione that it put her at ease immediately. She just couldn’t tell where the brunette was. So Narcissa held her breath and listened. Her heightened hearing quickly picked up on small movements, two stories below, from her laboratory in the basement.

Hermione, in fact, had planned on popping by in the morning after she received the note from Narcissa, not wanting to disturb her. She felt entirely tapped out and was eager to get a few hours of shut eye at home. But as the nearly full wheel of moon shined down on her through the window, her mind was unquiet despite her exhaustion. When she stumbled out of bed to root in her cupboards for some sleep tonic, she found the little bottle untimely depleted. She glanced down at her wristwatch – two thirty in the morning. She could sneak into Narcissa’s lab and whip up a little batch of tonic in no time, and perhaps without waking the blonde, she could slip into the same bed with her after all. Narcissa wouldn’t mind, she was given the proverbial key, in their case the permission from Narcissa’s powerful wards, after all. The prospect of seeing Narcissa, at this point, seemed more enticing than merely obtaining the draught for a power nap.

That was the reason she found herself zoning out in Narcissa’s basement, stirring a phial of chamomile and lavender, and staring at the bottle of pink liquid tucked away in a corner. The container was capped, put on stasis, and chilled that a thin layer of frost crept up on the side of the glassware, but it was, unmistakably, pure, undiluted amortentia. Memories of her and Narcissa’s early days flooded her mind and a warmth spread throughout her inside. As if in a trance, she released the charm preserving the liquid, and pulled off the oak stopper. The pink potion sloshed gently, and quickly warmed up to room temperature, releasing heart-shaped bubbles. One rose up in the air, she popped it, and the fabled scent instantly reached her. It was a scent as warm as it was cool, as comforting as it was exciting, rich and seductive as much as it was dignified and reserved. It carried hints of early spring flowers, bitter herbs, and something that could only be described as the icy feeling of moonlight. It was so Narcissa that it almost felt like she had buried her nose in the woman’s well-worn robes.

“Hermione, are you down there?” The blonde’s voice came from the spiral staircase, sounding a bit sleep-addled.

Hermione put the stopper back on the bottle and turned, a little sheepishly, “yes, hi. Sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s quite alright, darling. I thought you’d been upstairs.”

Shaking her head, Hermione raised the phial of her sleep tonic in her hand, “I was going to, after I finish up with this.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa cocked her head to one side, “perhaps my senses are getting sharper with the full moon approaching, I really thought I smelled you in my ro…” her eyes fell to the bottle of pink potion beside Hermione. A few lingering pink bubbles burst, and a strong waft of what she had been scenting hit her fully. “Oh…” She flushed as realisation hit them both at the same time.

The temperature in the lab suddenly rose. Narcissa’s cheeks became a shade of pink almost matching the potion. She wrung her hands together, uncharacteristically nervous.

Despite how utterly endearing she looked, Hermione relented and closed the distance between them in a few quick strides. Standing toe to toe, she put one hand on the slim waist before her and rubbed the lace patterns with the pad of her thumb. “Hey, Cissa.” With her other hand, she grazed Narcissa’s cheek, then earlobe, then her neck, feeling the quick flutter of her pulse under her finger pads, and finally tipped her chin up until blue eyes met hers. “Just to be clear, it’s you, for me, too.” 

Blushing to the tip of her ears, Narcissa shyly admitted, “I’d forgotten about it.”

Hermione smiled, admiring the way icy blue eyes turned so soft and loving. “We have no need of it anymore, don’t you think?” Then she dipped her head and drew Narcissa in a long kiss. She savoured the intimacy and dared to let it inflate and blossom.

With the revived memories of the last time they made love, Narcissa felt a rush to her head as she eagerly drank the younger witch in. The heat in her chest was pulsing and blood thrummed behind her ear drums, a sensation that she had never felt before. She felt a stinging ache along her gum line and realised in horror that her canines had lengthened. There was a low and dangerous rumble in the back of her throat, nothing short of a growl, her pupils wide and round and her vision sharpened, her muscles and bones vibrated with a force that felt like she was losing control of her own strength. She wanted to devour Hermione, and in a way, she knew she could. It would be oh-so-easy to just… sink her teeth in the plump, puckered lips, and to dig her nails into Hermione’s supple skin, and… and embrace her so deeply she might crush her bones… So, despite her instinct that screamed to continue, she slowed her movement, then gently pushed herself away from the younger witch. “Hermione, we shouldn’t.”

“What is it?” Brown eyes, lust-filled in one minute, quickly took on the colour of concern, “did I hurt you?”

“No, no you didn’t hurt me, darling.” She shook her head, “it’s just, getting so close to the full moon. I can feel the changes… I’m worried that I could hurt you.”

“I wouldn’t care, you know.” Hermione protested, almost whining.

“I would.” Narcissa printed a kiss on Hermione’s cheek, “there’s nothing I want more than taking you to bed, darling. But we should exercise caution.” She gestured to the phial of sleep potion in Hermione’s hand, “besides, the hour is late. One might feel inclined to reserve enough time for what I plan to do to you, don’t you think.” 

Narcissa’s dark chuckle left a shiver in her spine. Hermione rolled her eyes slightly before swallowing the soothing potion in one swig. “You realise that you’re not being helpful at all, witch!” She said as she trailed behind the blonde’s retreating figure, following her pearls of laughter that echoed in the dim hallway.

******

The night had come.

The ground beneath her bare feet was damp and cold, though to her feverish skin, it was more of a relief than a bother. Narcissa peered at the setting sun through the dense trees. Not long now, she knew that the sun would disappear and the moon would shine bright and full, and she would go through her very first transformation.

The shimmering magical barrier was barely visible to the naked eye, but it was strong. It should work similar to a Muggle electric fence, Hermione told her, that it would sting any creature that came close to it, but it would be particularly painful for a werewolf. At this, the younger witch appeared regretful. “Sorry, Cissa, try to stay away from it.”

Of course, Narcissa had no complaints. She would rather take the precaution of confinement over the freedom of roaming the woods by herself. 

Draco, looking paler than usual, had held onto her hand tightly, as if he was the one being sent off for the night. Andromeda was ahead of them, alongside Hermione, who waved her wand and created a small opening to the barrier. The four of them stepped inside and felt soon engulfed by the complete quiet of the forest devoid of another soul.

“Here, drink this.” Andromeda brandished a phial of thick, dark liquid, and to Narcissa’s disgusted expression, she tutted in sympathy, “have some confidence in your own invention, Cissy.”

Pinching her nose, Narcissa complied and swallowed the wolfsbane potion. The metallic bitterness almost made her hurl, but she schooled her reaction into a neutral one. “Thanks, Andy. You should be heading out soon. It’s nearly time.”

Draco’s chin wobbled in a way that it looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Mother…” his voice quivered, “you will be okay.” It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than to reassure her. 

Narcissa cupped his face in her palms, “my darling Dragon, of course I will be.” 

He sniffled, accepting the weak reassurance and squeezing his mother’s wrist before letting her withdraw. Then he looked at Hermione, and for the first time, he sounded soft towards her. “Granger, be careful out there.” His words earned him a grateful smile from the brunette, which, if he had been in a flippant mood, felt more bizarre than a punch to his face. He didn’t avert his eyes when Hermione gave Narcissa a chaste, parting kiss, before pulling on the invisibility cloak she borrowed from Harry. 

“Time to go,” Andromeda peered at the sky turning a darker blue at the horizon. She exchanged one last look with her sister, then apparated herself and Draco out of the woods. 

No longer able to hear anyone else beside her own thundering heartbeat, Narcissa sat atop a tree stump, closing her eyes as she waited. The full moon crept up silently, and at first, she hadn’t felt anything besides a slight tingle on her cheek from the bright, cool moonlight. It almost deceived her into thinking that if she just kept her eyes closed, the werewolf wouldn’t be awakened. But she was wrong. The tingle became something fiery, burning, blazing across her skin. The thrum of blood rushed to her eardrums, and she felt the stirring of an ancient instinct. It was like a call, bewitching her to open her eyes and welcome the inevitable. 

As soon as the light poured into her irises, she cried out in pain. The transition was torturous as the bones of the witch contorted and shattered before knitting together into an enormous figure, tearing robes at the seams. Her hair, turning wholly white, became coarse and crept all over her skin. Her teeth sharpened, lengthened, cutting through her gum and she tasted her own blood, copper on her tongue. Her hands and feet bent at the joints with alarming pops, carefully manicured nails morphed into great claws that burst through her skin. Pain engulfed every nerve, and Narcissa’s last thought was that she might just die from this. 

Hermione held her breath as she perched on a rock near a small pond. Three days ago, the little incident with the amortentia potion had given her the idea. They theorized that even as a werewolf, Narcissa was likely to be drawn to Hermione’s scent, which, ideally, could help orient her in the woods. The extent of how much it may navigate her or preserve her mind was unknown, which might serve as important data later on in tweaking Narcissa’s wolfsbane potion. They had agreed to approach it carefully. A few sponges holding small drops of the potion were hidden along a trail off the beaten path, leading to the pond with Hermione at the end. She was to only reveal herself if the werewolf seemed tame, and to apparate immediately at the first sign of danger. 

A shiver ran through her as a chill breeze rippled the small body of water. And then, she heard it – a primal, resonant, eerily mournful howl, as chilled as the wind. Goosebumps broke across her back. Hermione covered her mouth with a hand, not wanting to make a single noise. 

But time dragged on, every minute stretching into eons, and there was no sign of any disturbance in the depth of the woods. She checked her wrist watch, fifteen minutes had gone by. It shouldn’t have taken a raging werewolf on the hunt more than ten to tear through the whole forest. 

Perhaps their plan had failed. Narcissa had not cared for her scent, so she’d meandered off the trail. Hermione contemplated whether she wanted to deliberately draw Narcissa’s attention. 

Then, she heard a soft rustling of the underbrushes, and grass giving way under paws, a slow and measured gait of a large creature. 

Through the heavy twist of roots and vines, the werewolf emerged. Hermione had to refrain from gasping as she laid eyes on it fully. It was an elegant, snow white, wolf, with blue eyes that shone in the dark like crystals. It–she, she was beautiful… ethereal. 

And calm. Like a lone wolf that lost its pack but didn’t mind the solitude. She tilted her head, her muzzle twitched slightly, scenting the air. She must’ve picked up on the witch fairly easily as she padded softly closer. Then she stopped, sitting down on her haunches, a good ten yards away from the rock that Hermione was perched on, and stared into her direction. 

There was no way that she could see her, but it seemed like Narcissa knew exactly where she was, and was… trying to not frighten her. This was a good sign, fantastic, even, that the werewolf had kept a lucid mind. Hermione decided to proceed to the next test. She cleared her throat gently, and called, “Narcissa?” 

With perked ears, the werewolf stared more intently at her, though still made no move to attack. 

Sighing relief, Hermione lifted the invisibility cloak from herself. “Hey, Cissa. It’s me.” 

As if amused by her weak explanation, the werewolf cocked her head, eyes twinkling in recognition and mirth. 

“You’re still in there, oh, I’m so glad.” Hermione stood, keeping her movement slow as she did not want to disrupt the control Narcissa was holding, not knowing how strenuous the effort was. She dared to close the distance between them, one small step at a time, all the while talking in her calmest, softest voice, “this is really good, Cissa. You’re doing so well. Just keep right there, okay, let me come to you.” 

The werewolf huffed in consent. 

Drawing even closer, Hermione took mental notes on a few things for later research. Narcissa’s werewolf seemed to be on the smaller side, though her only comparisons being Remus from a distance, and Logan’s enormous, monstrous creature Bellatrix commanded. Still, a werewolf was a werewolf, which was significantly larger than any known species of wolf. Hermione stood at the same height as the wolf’s shoulders, and those paws were probably the size of her face. The wolf also felt warm, like a stove, turning the vapor around her body into fog that made her appear hazy at the edges. 

“I’m going to touch you, okay?” Hermione lifted her hand to the wolf’s shoulder, and gingerly grazed her gleaming white fur. “You feel very soft,” she murmured, “and warm.” She fantasised burying her face in the soft warm body, perhaps one day. 

The rumble in the werewolf’s chest reverberated faintly beneath Hermione’s palm. She shivered – not a snarling vibration of a predator on the verge of attack, nor a feral warning of a cornered wild animal. No, it was something almost… contemplative. She marveled at the raw power, and restraint. 

As she raised her hand to stroke the snout, however, the wolf leaned away. Her pointed ears flicked back, as if disapproving her boldness. 

Hermione’s hand hovered, uncertain how to proceed at first, then she dropped it. Narcissa was right. It was far too hasty to presume nothing could fracture Narcissa’s control. She chuckled to herself, even as a werewolf, Narcissa was the picture perfect portrait of reason. “Alright, Cissa. No petting.” 

The white wolf blinked slowly, then exhaled in a long huff that stirred the leaves at their feet. She stood, padded toward the pond, and peered into the water. Narcissa was conducting her own research. 

Hermione strolled quietly back to the rock she was sitting on, also looking into the water. The three of them – a witch, a wolf, and the moon – together in this moment of absolute peace. 

Though, peace never lasted, not in their time. A thin sound threaded through the rustling leaves and travelled across the pond. 

The wolf’s ears shot up and her fur puffed as if spooked. 

“What is it?” Hermione whipped her head around, trying her best to see. But the dark veils of trees obscured her sight. 

Then a howl. Distant, fractured, layered wrong and eerie, pierced the quietness. It rose and fell in uneven cadence, like a twisted melody sung by a crazed musician. It was a lone call, no pack, unnatural. 

It carried… intention. 

The white wolf snarled, her head snapped toward an invisible point in the distance. 

“Narcissa…?” Hermione’s voice shivered, breathy. 

The wolf’s lips peeled back, not quite a snarl at first. Her nose lifted, twitching. Her shoulders tightened as if her entire body became a coiled spring. 

Then, Hermione smelled it too. Her own sense was nowhere near werewolf-sharp, but she was still able to catch the sudden wrongness in the wind. 

Smoke, cold iron, rotting flowers. And beneath it, the metallic taste of blood. 

The second howl was even bolder, and stranger, with a laughing quality as if a sneer. 

The wolf’s pupils enlarged, threatening to swallow most of the blue. She rose in one smooth motion, towering over Hermione. 

Hermione moved off the rock, heart hammering. 

“No,” she said softly. “Cissa, look at me.” 

For a moment, the dark gazed eyes flickered, returning blue, and clear, and hers. It was like a moment of a hand reaching through a closing door. 

Then the third howl came, not from a distance, but a guttural, resonant response from the white wolf. It was loud, powerful, deafening. Hermione felt its vibration, like magic, inside her skull. 

The wolf’s gazed turned back once more to the distance, and with it came a shift. It was subtle at first, but unmistakable. The tension in her shoulders of wariness and composure snapped, and her claws dug into the soil, her ears pinned back. She was lost. 

Hermione reached out, without thought, trying to grasp fur. “Narcissa–” 

The wolf leapt over Hermione’s head, breaking into a mad dash. 

“Wait!” Hermione watched as the white flashed through the underbrush in a blur. She stumbled, chasing after her, boots slipping on mud and damp leaves. She could still hear the frantic paws and the wolf’s body breaking branches and vines, but she knew the distance between them was growing quickly. The direction where Narcissa was heading in, Hermione knew she would happen upon the magic barrier fairly quickly. 

As she predicted, another minute or two, the perimeter glimmered faintly between tree trunks, barely visible at all. Until the wolf hit it full force. 

It happened faster than Hermione could shout “no!” The fence flared, a lattice of pale light snapping into solidity as if the forest itself had become barbed wire. The sound accompanying it was sicking, magic cracking like whip. The wolf was flung a good fifty yards away, as if she ran into the whomping willow, and shrieked a wounded shriek. 

Blood drained from Hermione’s face. The barrier’s sting was meant to deter, to repel, like an electric fence, as she had explained to Narcissa. She had not intended that it would catch her like this, at full speed. 

The wolf twitched on the ground, smoke curled from singed fur where the magic burned. Dark blood seeped through the white coat, black like ink in the colorless moonlight. 

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Narcissa!” 

The wolf twisted and scrambled up, limping, sparing a look at Hermione with blood-shot eyes. For a terrifying moment, Hermione thought she had become the wolf’s target, in her blinding rage, pain and confusion. 

But the wolf did not charge at her. She was latched onto whatever that beckoned her in the distance. And she ran again, straight at the barrier. 

Hermione screamed. She rushed forward, wand out already, throwing every charm she knew to stall the wolf and to keep the ward in place. 

The barrier shimmered brightly as the wolf hit it a second time. 

This time, she did not bounce off. 

This time, she forced it. 

Magic sizzled as if offended. The barrier spat sparks and fire, scraping the wolf’s gleaming white fur without mercy, slashing the strong muscles until her skin split open. But under the wolf’s determination, it gave. Just enough, a crack with jagged, unforgiving edges, but enough for a desperate creature to tear herself through all the same. 

The wolf vanished into the dark. 

Hermione stood frozen, the smell of burned fur and flesh sharp in her nose, her limbs useless.

She raised her wand with shaking fingers. She could hardly comprehend what just happened. 

Narcissa had run. Narcissa had run like she was being compelled. 

Then instinct took over. 

“Finito!” The barrier dissolved. 

Soon, the stag patronus found her, in Harry’s voice, “Hermione, what happened?”  

“Bring the broomsticks and meet me at the pond.” She quickly returned Harry’s message. 

“Hold on,” looking into the vase span of the forest, she whispered into the night. “Cissa, please, hold on.” 

******

Hermione heard the crackle of apparition before she saw them. Andromeda, Draco, and Harry, all pale in the face and clenched jaws, they huddled toward her. 

“Are you mad, Granger!? Why did you terminate the barrier spell?” Draco loomed over her, his upper lip curled in a familiar manner of contempt. 

“She went through it.” Hermoine said. She was too worried about Narcissa to deliver a retort to Draco’s hostile tone. “She just… ran. Like… like she was being called to something. I couldn’t distract her. She didn’t care at all about the fence at all.”  

“We must find her.” Andromeda positioned herself between Hermione and Draco, restoring a semblance of civility. 

“Which direction did she go?” 

She pointed. Draco hopped on the broomstick, and without wasting a word, he disappeared into the night sky. 

Harry looked concernedly at her, “Hermione, you can fly with me.” 

“No, go with Draco.” She shook her head, “I’d slow you down.” 

Hermione and Andromeda stuck to the ground, for neither felt at ease flying. They tracked the subtle signs of broken twigs, disturbed moss, faint streaks of blood on fern. The trees grew even denser, gnarling roots and vines, sometimes locking into a solid wall before them. It must’ve slowed down Narcissa, too. They saw claw marks that mauled through the particular thick cluster of devil’s clubs, strands of white fur tugged off and left on the sharp, poisonous branches, and the muddy footprints on the far side of a marsh, a vicious struggle to free herself from the sinking wetland. Hermione felt tears rush to her eyes at the thought of Narcissa, a mindless creature, helplessly trying to overcome the pull of the swamp, scared to death, probably. 

Overhead, Harry zipped through the branches, “we found her!” He grabbed her forearm, helping her on his broomstick, “you’re right, she’s definitely compelled by something. Draco is trying to stall her. We must hurry.” 

Andromeda pushed her, “go! I’ll find you later.” 

They rushed over the treetops, Hermione spotted the blond haired wizard on his broomstick. He was balancing precariously on it, leaning back as if he was pulling a rope with his entire weight. “Potter! Give me a hand!” 

Looking down, she saw the white wolf, whose fur was now matted and blood drenched, pushing against something. Segments of rope clung to her as she had broken through nets. She pulled herself with the tight knot of muscles, claws sinking into tree bark, hind paws digging deeply into the ground, but only inching forward a few paces. Hermione realised that Draco was casting a levitating charm on the wolf. But judging from the sweat beading at his hairline, he was exhausting his magic faster than draining the werewolf’s strength. 

“Let me down, I need to try something.” She said to Harry. 

Her friend was putting his force into holding the werewolf as well. So Harry did not argue, and dipped his broomstick until they were on the ground. Once he hopped off the broomstick, he grabbed his wand with both hands. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, then focused her concentration on the tip of her wand. Pointing not at the werewolf, but the tall vine-snared fir. The vines squiggled, slowly unwrapping itself from the tree, and transformed. It snaked up the werewolf’s limbs, reaching across her chest, tangling itself around her shoulder and body, expanding and lengthening until it was as thick as an arm. At first, the wolf was able to break through with sheer force, but as the vines grew stronger, she lost the ability to move, until the plant covered her whole. And then, there was no movement anymore. 

Draco and Harry finally released their levitation charm. 

“You transfigured a devil’s snare?” Draco jumped down from his broom. “Wouldn’t it suffocate her?” 

Hermione answered, sounding unconvinced, “not if she stops struggling...” 

“It’s brilliant.” Harry said, breath laboured, “if she stops struggling, the snare will let go, but as soon as she tries to escape, it'll hold again." 

As if demonstrating his point, the vines wiggled, loosening around the choke it had on the werewolf. She gasped for air. The wizards raised their wands in preparation. But as soon as the wolf caught her breath and started to snarl, the plant tightened and engulfed her again. 

Draco wiped the sweat from his face, “now what?” 

“Now we wait for the sun.” Caught in a wave of exhaustion, Hermione slumped to the ground. 

Chapter Text

The first light stirred the mist from the damp ground. It reached pale fingers through the branches and leaves, spilling its warmth stringently, tentatively, to the tortured souls that huddled close to fend off the night chill.

Hermione and Harry shared a little warming spell, watching the periodic movement from the clump of thick vines. Andromeda had wrapped her nephew in her charmed shawl, the two dozed leaning against each other after taking a turn at the watch. The night had been long. The wolf had almost managed to chew its way through the devil’s snare a few times, but eventually tired from the unrelenting pressure. 

As the tendrils of sun curled around the vines, the devil’s snare shrunk immediately as if burned. 

“Narcissa!” Hermione jumped up as she saw the wolf, with her final few seconds, emerged and stumbled away, all the while her limbs shortening and fur disappearing, body morphing into the fragile, porcelain of a woman. She could not get far. 

Chasing after her, she found Narcissa slumped against a fallen tree. 

Human again. 

She was bare, looking so… thin, and broken. Her hair was tangled and damp with sweat, pale gold stained darker in places. Her face was bloodless, lips parted. Her fingers were curled around her side where an angry burn streaked across her ribs. 

Hermione’s knees hit the ground, “Narcissa.” She took off her robes to wrap around the witch. 

Long, golden lashes fluttered at the pleading sound of her own name. Narcissa’s eyes opened a fraction. 

Blue, the same shade of the boundless icy water of the Arctic ocean. Still blue. Still her. 

Hermione exhaled a sob that did not fully form. She pointed her wand at Narcissa’s wounds, healing the nasty burn that looked like it was about to weep from the blisters. 

Draco made a sound behind her, an inhale with a broken quality. Hermione heard him kneel too. She couldn’t bear to look at the man’s expression. 

Narcissa’s gaze drifted, unfocused, then, sharpened slightly as if she recognized the voices among the ringing in her head. 

“Hi.” She rasped. 

“Hi, I’m here,” Hermione said through a tearful smile, “we’re here. It’s okay now.” 

“We’ve got to get her home.” Andromeda approached to help them prop Narcissa upright. 

“I’ll apparate us.” Draco gathered his mother into his arms, holding her as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Meet us back at Grimmauld’s place.” With a pop, they disappeared. 

Looking at a disheveled Harry and Andromeda’s sleep deprived eyes. Hermione sighed. “Go back to the safe house, Harry. And Andy, Teddy’ll probably ask after you soon.” 

“Find out what happened, Hermione.” Andromeda said gravely. “The first night is always bad. But this? This is most definitely not normal.” 

Nodding, Hermione conjured the lovely sun-lit sitting room in Narcissa’s home to the front of her mind, and apparated away. 

Back at the house, Draco had already tucked his mother in bed. Narcissa was passed out. 

He gave Hermione a glance when she came through the doorway. Shaking his head, “don’t. She’s too weak to speak right now.” 

Hermione, though feeling a little jabbed, understood he was coming from a place of protectiveness, rather than malice. “I know, Draco. I just want to be by her side.” She said with honesty. She was too tired to deny her own need to be close to the blonde, to feel her breathe, to warm her up. 

Sniffing, he acquiesced, and shuffled a little to make room for her at the side of the bed. Hermione took Narcissa’s hand in her own, rubbing gently at the pale, cold skin. She rested her cheek on her other arm, and let the pit of utter depletion consume her. 

With a hand on her shoulder, she jolted awake. Squinting at the bright sunlight, she took a beat to recognize Draco’s tall figure. 

“Relax. She’s still sleeping.” He pointed at the side table with his chin, “I found those in the lab. They should help.” 

Blood replenishment, salve for wound healing, lotions to reduce scarring, and a wideye potion, likely meant for Hermione. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

“We had a long night.” He shrugged. “I wish I could stick around, but you see, Astoria was worried and she’s gotten some cramps. Likely they’re Braxton-Hicks, still, I need to be there.” 

Hermione blinked, seeing the concerned, doting husband side of this man. “Of course. Go. Don’t worry.” To demonstrate, she slammed back the wideye potion. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“Owl if she needs anything.” He bent to give his mother a kiss on her forehead. And a concerned, doting son. 

Before he left, he paused, turned, and regarded her with an unreadable expression, “thanks, Granger.” 

Huh, who knew, Draco Malfoy did contain multitudes. 

Finally alone with Narcissa now, Hermione eased herself beside the sleeping witch, careful to not jostle her. She could see the faint bruise starting to solidify under her collarbone, and the dried blood flaking off from the sealed laceration along her hairline. There would be more injuries, more signs of the beating that Narcissa took. 

But she was doing so well… 

In her slumber, Narcissa’s fingers twitched weakly, grasping a handful of Hermione’s shirt. She whimpered, her brows were knitted together, lost in a bad dream. 

Gently shushing her, Hermione put as much light magic as she could behind a kiss at the blonde crown. Right now, finding out what happened didn’t matter. Right now, what mattered was nursing Narcissa back to health. 

For two days, Narcissa slept more than she was awake. 

Hermione took off entirely from work. Funny how the blonde had been the sole reason for all her absenteeism since they’d collided into each other’s orbit. But she found that she did not mind it at all. 

So she hovered, in the spaces between breaths, between sips of potion and applications of salve, between the quiet moments where Narcissa sat up against the headboard, deep in thought, her hand still subconsciously reaching out to Hermione’s. 

On the third day, Narcissa was finally strong enough to be up. She even received a visit from Andromeda and Teddy, and owled Draco to ease his constant letters of worry. 

Once the chatter of the young boy faded through the floo, she brewed another pot of tea and found Hermione, who scribbled with a fierce concentration in her notebook. 

“You’re working too hard, darling.” 

Looking up from her writing, Hermione showed her the page. “Just a few thoughts for research.” In her detailed recount of the events of Narcissa’s transition, there were a few words in small print that she had not revisited without eliciting the feeling of panic right before chaos broke out. She knew me, I’m sure of it. Her mind had been lucid. She was still in there. 

Despite her own need to make sense of it all, Hermione had not pushed Narcissa to remember. There was something fragile about her ever since the full moon. 

After a few beats, Narcissa lowered herself into a chair opposite of the desk, “I ran, didn’t I?” 

She nodded, and asked carefully, “how much do you remember?” 

“Enough.” Blue eyes became misted with apology, “it must’ve been frightening. I’m sorry, darling.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

“It felt like it was.” Narcissa sighed, “I had control. You know I did.” 

So, she indeed had preserved her human mind. Hermione felt the stone of suspense drop behind her breastbone, the tiniest sense of relief. “There was a howl, from a very far away place, and something… something compelled you to run.” 

“I don’t recall the specifics. But yes, it was a compulsion. My body… the werewolf was acting on a strong pull, and I could merely watch… like…” 

“Like you were in the passenger seat of a car crash?” Hermione supplied. 

Narcissa gave her a blank stare. 

Realisation hit her, “you’ve never been in a car, have you?” Hermione giggled. “I should take you on a ride, it’s fun.” 

“I do get the analogy, my dear,” Narcissa smiled too. She loved it when Hermione’s face lit up with a mischievous idea. “Muggle transportation with questionable safety aside, I was going to say, it felt like a hook.” 

Hermione’s smile faded. She closed her notebook gently, as if any sudden movement might spook the thought away. “A hook,” she tested the word on her tongue, “tell me what you mean.” 

Narcissa stared at the steam curling up from her untouched tea. “It wasn’t pain, at first. Not mine.” She paused, brow furrowing as she searched for precision. “It was… pressure. Like barely keeping your head above water while something is trying to pull you down.” 

Hermione leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. “Logan?” 

Narcissa nodded. “Yes, Logan. I felt him before I heard him. His… distress.” Her fingers combed through her hair. 

“It’s like pack magic. I’ve only read it in theory.” 

“It’s real, Hermione. The pull to one’s own, especially when they are in immense pain.” 

Hermione swallowed, “you felt him suffering.” 

Narcissa’s mouth pulled taut into a thin line, “not in any comprehensible words. In sensations. Pain. Rage. Fear.” Her voice shook slightly. “Agony.” 

Her chest ached, for the boy, and the witch. Hermione reached across the desk to cover Narcissa’s hand with her own. 

“He was being… suffocated,” she continued quietly, “submerged. Like someone holding him under water and refusing to let him surface. Every instinct in me – every instinct, needed to find him.” 

Hermione nodded, “that’s why you ran like the devil.” 

“Yes. It wasn’t bloodlust. It wasn’t hunger. It was… rescue.” Narcissa let out a small, humourless breath. “And that’s what frightened me the most. It felt right.” 

Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly, “and her?” 

Narcissa hesitated. “That part was different,” she said at last. “Logan’s mind was in pain. Raw, honest pain. Hers was… calculated.” She closed her eyes briefly, “the moment I turned toward him, I felt her notice me.” 

Hermione went very still. “Notice you how?” 

“Like cracking a door she hadn’t known was there. Once she saw it, she pushed, hard.” 

“Like Legilimency?” 

Narcissa shook her head slowly. “Not in the way I know her. Not like slipping into water, like how we were taught. There was no finesse, no ask. It was force, and pressure. A wedge between thoughts.” 

“She tried to invade you.” 

“Yes.” Narcissa opened her eyes again, blue sharpened by sadness. “And I fought her.” 

Hermione gripped her hand tighter, “you held her off?” 

“I tried to….” She inhaled carefully. “I wouldn’t let her see – not clearly. But containing my… connection with her took everything. I could feel your magic trying to stop me, but I was no longer in control. I was being pulled, in opposite directions yet somehow they all lead to the same…” 

Mind racing, Hermione pieced the fragmented thoughts together. “A part of you was reaching for Logan, the more animal part, I suppose, while the human part tried to resist Bellatrix. It would be convenient for her to get a hold of you. Cissa, it could all be a trap.” 

“Premeditated or not, Bellatrix’s learned things. Not everything. But enough.” 

“Enough to know pack magic worked on you, and she could exploit it.” 

Narcissa nodded, lifting her gaze to meet Hermione’s with a nervousness. “And…” she hesitated, but forced herself to continue, “something else she could use against me.” 

Hermione felt the familiar cold bloom in her stomach, spilling from her core to her limbs. “Me.” 

“I don’t know how much she sensed.” Her voice was laced with guilt. “I hate the idea that she might’ve brushed against my thoughts of you.” 

Hermione rose from her chair and in one smooth motion, she came around the desk to kneel in front of Narciss’s chair. She took the pale face between her hands. “Listen to me, Cissa,” she said, firm, “you didn’t betray anything.” 

“I should’ve been stronger.” The redness that tainted her eyelids made the cerulean of her eyes extra blue. 

“No.” Hermione shook her head immediately. “You were extraordinarily strong. Cissa, you resisted a horcrux while transforming under a full moon. Your first full moon. That is not weakness.” 

Narcissa leaned into the brunette until their foreheads touched, letting herself be comforted by Hermione’s steadfast reassurance. 

“And I don’t give a damn that she saw me, love. She’s got no power over me anymore – you made sure of it, alright?” 

Love, the term of endearment slipped out so naturally that Hermione seemed to have missed it. Not Narcissa. Warmth filled her chest like no hot tea could, and she closed her eyes to savor the sensation. Miraculously, against all odds, despite her complicated self, regardless of every terrible event, Hermione might love her. She wanted, with some level of animalistic instinct, to bury this treasured moment in a special place, a place in the safest garden of her mind palace, a place that is full of sunlight and green things, a place so far from… her eyes snapped open. “She showed me a place,” she said suddenly, as if afraid to lose the thought if she didn’t speak it now. “Or, Logan did?”

Hermione straightened, “what kind of place?” 

“It’s in fragments, and hazy.” Narcissa replied, tapping her temple to try to remember, “a forest. Old.” 

“Like the Dark Forest?” 

“Much older. There were stone ruins. Snow, or… perhaps ash. And water, running water, bending sharply, like a snake. I couldn’t… see clearly. Every time I tried, she’d attack me from a different angle.” 

Hermione summoned her notebook into her hand and jotted down the description of this place. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more.” 

“You gave me plenty.” Hermione leaned forward and placed a kiss on her cheek, “this is a good starting point.” 

Later, when Hermione climbed into bed, eyes glazed from the strain of scanning maps, Narcissa turned to her. “Now that I’ve given it some thought, I’m not opposed to taking that car ride with you.” 

It made her pause, confused for a second. Then she bursted into laughter that lit up Narcissa’s world. 

******

The days that followed settled into a rhythm that was… placid. 

Hermione wrote new legislative bills, mostly from home. Narcissa was back in her potions lab, catching up on the wolfsbane potions that so many relied on. They researched, discussed, debated in careful stretches. 

They worked together. They laughed. They slept in the same bed. 

And yet. 

Hermione felt it in the way Narcissa no longer reached out first. In the way she kept her kisses light, chaste, glancing only for a second. In the way she woke up in the night and lay very still, as if afraid that moving, touching, on purpose or by accident, might stir something else entirely. 

Hermione didn’t say anything at first. She waited, and watched, and learned the shape of Narcissa’s retreat. 

It wasn’t rejection. It was vigilance. It was a defensive mechanism that she had seen before. It was the ice shell that had always served the blonde in the hard times of her life. She, in the most un-Gryffindor fashion, waited for Narcissa to acknowledge it first. 

On the night of the new moon, something fell quietly into place. 

Hermione had fallen asleep first, curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow, breath warm and even. Narcissa lay awake, perfectly still, cataloguing the familiar sensations – the weight of Hermione’s arm across her waist, the scent of parchment and soap, the slow cadence of sleep. She, once again, denied herself the luxury of sinking into the younger witch. 

She was doing it again. 

The realisation did not arrive with panic, but clarity. The old instinct, to step back before being stepped away from, to protect by absence, had risen without permission. 

You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this again. Narcissa closed her eyes. You promised her. 

Hermione shifted in her sleep, murmured something unintelligible, and tightened her grip reflexively. 

Narcissa inhaled slowly. She did not pull away. 

The next morning, Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, poring over maps, when Narcissa spoke. “I need to talk to you about something.” Her voice was even, but a sliver of anxiety still made its way in the timbre. 

Hermione put down her pen and looked up, “alright.” 

Narcissa sat opposite her, hands folded loosely in her lap. “I’ve been… pulling away.” She fidgeted with the edge of her robes, but did not avert her gaze. “It’s not because of anything you’ve done, darling. I think… I think it’s me preparing to disappear.” 

The brunette blinked, surprised, not by the truth of it, but by the fact that Narcissa was saying it so plainly. 

“And I realised… that this is a habit.” Narcissa continued, “a habit that hurts people. Hurts you…” 

Hermione reached out and gave her knee a reassuring squeeze, but she didn’t say anything. Again, she let herself settle into a patience, something she was starting to trust in Narcissa’s presence. 

“I’m trying not to.” Narcissa said, “I’m just… scared of the silence in my own head right now.” 

“You told me Bellatrix pushed at your mind,” Hermione finally spoke, “your thoughts must feel very precarious right now.” 

Nodding, Narcissa agreed softly, “they are. I can feel… I can feel the cracks. She’s… she knows how important you are to me. And… I don’t want her to see more of you.” 

“It feels unsafe to be intimate.” Hermione mused. 

“That’s the point,” Narcissa covered the hand on her knee with her own, “it doesn’t feel unsafe. It feels… vulnerable. There’s a difference.” 

Hermione felt a quiver of relief in her heartbeat. She smiled despite herself. “There is.” 

Narcissa exhaled, tension easing from her body. “I didn’t want to wake up one morning and find that I’ve retreated from someone I love – again – without even meaning to.” 

Hermione’s breath caught. Before she could respond, there was a strong gust of wind that rushed through the half-opened window. 

Both of them jumped and turned. 

Draco’s house elf, DeeDee, clambered down the windowsill, with trembling voice and glistening eyes, she delivered the news, “Astoria est en travail. Veuillez vous rendre immédiatement au refuge!” 

Astoria was in labour. And Draco was asking for her to go to the safe house. 

Narcissa went still. 

For a second, Hermione thought she’d smile, joy blooming instantly, and overpack in under five minutes. 

Instead, Narcissa’s shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight had settled onto them. Her voice came out quiet and defeated. “Je ne peux pas.” She gave DeeDee no room to argue, and the house elf disappeared with a bow. 

Hermione’s heart cracked a little. “Cissa–” 

“I cannot risk it.” Narcissa said, her eyes a stormy blizzard of conviction mixed with sorrow. “I’m already risking you. I cannot put a newborn in her line of sight, or all the other children, not until I can be sure that door is shut, forever.” 

“You’re protecting them.” Hermione whispered, understanding. She cupped Narcissa’s face gently, “you’re doing what’s right, Cissa. Still, you’re allowed to grieve that.” 

Narcissa’s composure broke, so did the strings of tears. “I should be there. I should be holding my grandchild.” 

“You will be.” Hermione said. “Just not today.” She stayed, still cradling the blonde’s tear-streaked face, brushing away the warm droplets before they could cool against her skin. 

Narcissa leaned her forehead against Hermione’s shoulder. “I didn’t expect it to hurt like this,” she admitted, “I thought if I understood the reason, it would feel… easier.” 

“Knowing why doesn’t make it smaller.” 

Narcissa breathed out, “no, it doesn’t.” 

They remained like that for a while. The room fell hushed, as if the house itself was guarding them against further intrusion. 

“This,” Narcissa pulled back just enough to look at her, “is where I would normally excuse myself, tell you that I’m fine, thank you for listening, and go be alone with it.” 

If not for the tear streaks on Narcissa’s face, Hermione might’ve laughed at her gentle self-deprecation. Instead, she affirmed quietly, “but you won’t.” 

“No. Not with you. Not anymore.” Narcissa’s fingers wrapped around Hermione’s wrist, not grasping, more anchoring. “Even when staying feels frightening.” 

“You are not alone with it.” 

Narcissa’s voice softened further. “That’s… new for me.” 

Hermione smiled, “you’re doing well.” 

Narcissa studied her face. The steadfastness, the patience, the bravery, the way Hermione had held her, the way she trusted with all her heart to be held by her. The words surfaced before she could weigh them. “I love you. I have for some time.” They landed softly, a truth that she had already accepted. 

Hermione didn’t move at first. Her eyes flickered, filled with a light warm and bright. “I know,” she said, “I love you, too.” 

Neither of them spoke after that. There was no need. 

Somewhere far away, a new life was arriving into the world. 

Here, Narcissa stayed. Present, grieving, in love, and she did not disappear. 

Chapter Text

The idea did not arrive all at once. 

It came in pieces, like most mysteries Hermione had solved, the truth revealing itself only when she took a detour here, a stumble there, in the most painstaking, unconventional and creative ways. 

She was cataloguing the failures, when she noticed the heart of the issue. The wolfsbane worked, as it was designed, even more so when it was tailored specifically to the individual. In Narcissa’s case, she had made adjustments for herself, which was shown to have been extremely effective in the first half of the night during her transition. However, the descent into a mindless rage was quick, and tremendously difficult to reverse. 

“If only the werewolf could take a dose of wolfsbane each time before the mind starts to slip, it’d keep the concentration in the system consistently high.” She thought out loud, sitting beside Narcissa in her potions lab. 

Narcissa hummed in reply. She bottled up another order for the ministry and organised the packages on the counter, wiping her purple-flower stained hands on her apron. 

“Don’t suppose you’d be agreeable to drink a potion as a werewolf?” Proposed Hermione. 

The blonde pondered it. “It’s not a far-fetched idea, my love. But from what we know, werewolves are quite resistant to the effect of potions.” 

Hermione’s heart sang when Narcissa spoke her affection so naturally these days. She intercepted the woman in her path and reeled her in for a kiss. “It’s the digestive system, and a significantly larger body habitus.” 

“Mm, digestive system and body habitus, what sensual conversation we have.” Nevertheless, Narcissa lingered in her embrace. 

It made Hermione laugh. “That’s right, werewolf stomach acid is strong enough to melt bones within a few minutes. Their biology essentially renders the active ingredients in the potion ineffective. What little is left is too weak to combat the instinct.” 

“So it’s the issue with the bioavailability of the brew.” Narcissa considered this. “Perhaps we could design a formulation that can bypass the stomach. Something… like a coated pill, I’ve read in Muggle medicine journals about those.” 

Hermione’s brows knitted, “I can’t think of any compound right now that can do that.” Her eyes fluttered close when the stained-purple fingers scratched lightly against her scalp and raked through her curls in a soft massage. A kiss landed in the middle of her forehead. 

“But I think you are onto something, darling.” 

Relaxing slightly against the blonde, Hermione nodded. “Have I told you that I love the fact that you read Muggle medical publications?” 

“Once or twice,” Narcissa chuckled, “Muggles have very clever inventions indeed. I find it especially fascinating that they stick a needle in their children to prevent infections. Had there been something like that against the werewolf bite…” 

Brown eyes flew open. Hermione stood up quickly and put her hands on Narcissa’s shoulders. 

“What– darling?” 

“It’s the delivery method, Cissa!” Hermione nearly jumped up the work bench in her excitement. “What if the wolfsbane formulary wasn’t a pill? What if it was done by a needle?” 

“An injection…?” 

“Yes! An injection, directly into the system, bypasses the digestive acid entirely. And it will act so much faster than anything given orally!” Her thoughts raced in the endless possibility of this revelation. She pushed the loose papers of calculations, textbooks, and her sticky notes haphazardly to the side, put down a new piece of parchment, and proclaimed, “I need to get a few more books!” Before rushing up the stairs, she remembered something, turned back and printed a deep kiss against Narcissa’s wine red lips, “thank you. I love you. You’re an inspiration!” 

Well, Narcissa felt a little bit of her old Slytherin smugness resurface, an inspiration, that I am. 

More good news filtered in gradually. A big bust of Voldemort loyalists recruiting in France, Draco had written, his warning to the French Minister of Magic acted on with an unparalleled efficiency. A group of Red Caps that aided the wanted witch were arrested in Italy. Then, a pack of newly turned werewolves defected, seeking pardon for their families. Bellatrix’s control, slowly but visibly, was crumbling. 

It spurred them on to work faster at the new discovery. 

A complete pivot from a potions solution was unorthodox, to say the least. But when Hermione wrote to Minerva and Neville, seeking their expertise, they had marvelled at her ingenuity. 

They had both, though, quirked an eyebrow in question, at the sight of Narcissa opening her front door to invite them inside. 

For a week, they lived in the rushed yet calculated labour of reformulation, suspension agents for the injectable, binding charms with the Black Quicksilver, magical buffers to prevent its leakage into the tissue. 

There had been curiosity towards the nature of Hermione and Narcissa’s relationship. 

Neville, on his way out after a grueling session of herb curing, had expected to walk Hermione to the transport phone booth. He hadn’t quite understood what she meant by, “oh, there’s no need for that. I’m staying here tonight.” 

Then he had to rub his eyes, because he could’ve sworn he saw it – in the reflection of the glass beaker, Narcissa was feeding Hermione a spoonful from her own soup bowl while they worked through lunch. 

Finally, he had turned beet red, as he caught the two exchange a kiss – not a peck, not on cheeks – a lingering, loving kiss, when a solution passed a preliminary test. 

Minerva observed the easy familiarity between the witches, who had been her brightest students in their respective time at Hogwarts. She saw two minds that met in a firework of intellect, innovation, exploration, and something more profound than the bond of professional commitment. It was odd at first to think about, but the longer she watched, the more it made sense. Hermione was softer around the edges, less argumentative, less prickly, more accommodating and malleable. What used to be an impatience burning white hot in her aura had mellowed out to a steadier fire. And Narcissa, the ice queen of Slytherin back in her days, still poised, unflappable, and held the practised elegance of her upbringing, now exuded a warm protectiveness that she’d never felt in her before. Not the maternal kind she’d always possessed, which was a tightly coiled rattle snake that could strike down a threat to her son at any moment, no. It was a warmth, tender as the spring blossoms of her name sake, flowering from the light of devoted love, reserved for someone deeply treasured. 

Minerva sat across from the couple in the sitting room during tea, smiling to herself as they quietly argued over a calculation. Hermione said, “I’m sorry, love, but I am right on this,” and brought Narcissa’s hand to her lips in consolation. Narcissa conceded with a soft laugh. Putting down her cup, Minerva caught Narcissa’s eye, and gave her an approving wink. 

******

The moon grew plumper each night. They raced time with their plan. 

They would leave before nightfall to a different piece of land, somewhere in Wales. It was charmed to the teeth in hope to prevent what happened last time. 

Hermione insisted on heavier security and installed her friends at posts around the barrier field. Draco insisted on being there, and Narcissa insisted that he not. 

“You’re a father now, Draco. You ought to put Scorpio first.” Narcissa uttered the newborn’s name with a fondness and longing. She had not seen the baby yet, but from her son’s proud look, she was already in love with her grandchild. 

They were ready. 

Until they were not. 

Narcissa felt it first — the subtle shift in the house’s magic, like a pressure change before a storm. The windchime shivered with an eerie tune, from a breeze that carried a sweet, metallic taste of rotten flowers and blood. 

Her face paled. The grip holding her wolfsbane potion tightened. 

“They’re here.” She said quietly, drawing her wand. 

Hermione tensed up. No, they can’t be here, smack dab in Muggle London, with charms repelling unwanted visitors. “How…?” 

The wards vibrated against a push, and easily, too easily, gave in. 

It was the first wrong thing. 

The second was the sound of a door opening. Unhurried, creaking, intimate, as if the house had recognised the hand that turned the knob. 

Narcissa’s jaw clenched, reading the invisible changes of attitude in the perimeter spells. “This was her house. It was never going to betray her.” 

Hermione quickly muttered a spell, testing the loyalty of the spells. What came back from the air was the stench of burned fur and ash. “No…” It was undoubtedly dark magic, closing off their exits. 

“She trapped us.” Narcissa held onto Hermione’s hand, fear starting to bleed into her body. 

“The floo! It’s a different system.” Hermione grabbed the alloy case holding the injection devices, and rushed themselves into the direction of the living room fireplace. 

As soon as they reached the doorway, a slice of curse cut them off in their path. It cut through a piece of curtain, and the window reflected Logan’s dark, hunched form. 

“Tsk tsk tsk…” The voice, however, belonged to Bellatrix. “You shouldn’t have touched what was mine, Cissy.” Her presence, looming and menacing, engulfed the space like the cold moonlight threatening to break through the sky. Like certainty. 

“You have no dominion here.” Narcissa said, terse and firm. The tip of her wand spat out a forceful light, directly at the figure in the hallway. 

Logan’s body was hit, his clothing torn where the spell hit and a gash of wound welled on his chest. However, he did not falter. Instead, a wicked, deranged laugh broke his gaunt face in half, full of rotted teeth and malice. 

At this, Naricissa halted her attack. Clearly, Bellatrix had very little regard to the boy’s physical body. 

“Ahahahah, oh my, little sister. How you have changed.” Bellatrix hissed bitterly. “Legillimens!” 

Hermione threw a protego to divert the spell. “You’re not going to find out where Molly is, Bellatrix. We don’t have that information!” 

“Crucio!” Enraged, Bellatrix put her whole force behind the curse, screaming, “How dare you speak to me! You filthy mud–” 

“Expelliarmus!” 

“Avada Kadavra!” 

“Reducto!” 

Spells were shouted, furniture exploded, glassware shattered, lights snuffed out. The house descended into chaos of a war zone. In the corner of a broken window, a white wheel rose. 

This could get ugly. 

Narcissa pushed Hermione out of the way of another killing curse, they tumbled together under the fallen cabinet. The injection case dropped with a thud. “We’re out of time. I’ll hold her off. You need to get out of here.” She held Hermione’s face, “you hear me?” 

Nodding, she knew this was not the time for heroism. “I’ll get help.” With a kiss, much too short to be their last – Merlin, Hermione prayed, don’t let it be our last – she threw a spout of fire towards Logan, buying Narcissa a few seconds to step out into the moonlight. 

Logan changed first. His skeletal body growing impossibly long, bones cracking, joints twisting, bloody and foaming at the corner of his mouth. His werewolf was no longer the right shape, no longer the right colour. It was mangled, with protruding ribs and spines, sparse black hair covering the skin stretched taut against its frame. 

Narcissa’s transformation came slower, though not less painful. Her werewolf was much smaller. 

Logan’s deformed werewolf steadied itself, and let out a howl that was half a tortured cry and half a cruel chuckle. Then, it charged. 

Caught at the very tailend of her change, Narcissa was not yet on her feet. Logan’s large paw had already swiped across her face, nearly taking out her eye. She let out a yelp, which was immediately cut off. 

Hermione watched in horror as Logan’s werewolf clamped his teeth in the thick fur around Narcissa’s throat. “No!” She climbed out of the rubble and sent curse after curse in the direction of the abomination of a creature. 

With a whip of his head, Logan tossed Narcissa across the room. Her body smashed through the wall with a sickening crunch. 

Hermione ran towards the blood-covered werewolf slumped on the ground, and heard Bellatrix’s cackle rumble out of the creature. “Narcissa! Oh, Cissa!” 

The werewolf breath was laboured, a dangerous quality coloured its growl. Her crystal blue eyes, dripping blood at the corner, flickered with hopelessness, and black pupils ate away at the margins. 

She knew what this meant. Narcissa’s control was slipping. 

Bellatrix’s laugh became even louder. From the creature’s throat, the layered voice squeezed out bloodthirsty words. “Yes, Cissy, you can’t fight me…” 

Narcissa rose onto all four, shaking her head as if to clear the voice out of her skull. The muscles in her shoulders taut, blood oozing from the claw marks and teeth marks. She was still holding on, but barely. 

Hermione scooched back, gingerly putting distance between herself and the wolf losing control. Her hand touched a cold metal case. 

“Now, what are you waiting for…” Bellatrix spoke again, “kill the mud puppy. You know you want to.” 

The werewolf turned to the witch. White, long teeth gleamed in the only source of light, through them, a low snarl came out. 

“No, Cissa. Please.” Hermione pleaded. She searched the blackened eyes, and for a moment, there was nothing but pain and instinct. 

Then, she did the only thing she could, which, in hindsight, could have very well cost her an arm. She reached out. “Narcissa.” Her voice was shaking, but clear. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re scared. But you’re not alone.” 

The snarling had not stopped, but her pupils trembled. 

“I am here. You know me.” Hermione placed her hand on the werewolf’s white fur, and commanded, “look at me.” 

The wolf froze. Blue flickered beneath the hollow abyss. 

The manic laughter also faltered. 

Hermione seized the opportunity and plunged the needle into the wolf’s chest. 

Magic burned through the wolf’s veins. Like fiendfyre, white-hot, crackling, fierce and unrelenting. The wolf let out a shriek, collapsing onto her hindlegs, body trembling violently. 

In the few seconds that expanded into an eternity, Hermione did not waiver. The injection should work, all the calculations were correct, all the tests passed. It must. 

When Narcissa rose again, she was steady. Blue eyes, shone with recognition, were focused. She stepped around the witch, and looked at the other werewolf with a snarl that was no longer mindless, no longer panicked. It was protective. 

Infuriated by the sudden interference, Bellatrix let out a howl of her own. Then the twisted creature leapt in the air. 

Narcissa met it head-on. But instead of being caught off-guard, she was agile. Bodies collided in a blur of fur and blood, claws and teeth. They thrashed together in the confines of the living room, mauling wallpaper, breaking what was left. 

Hermione crawled, holding her side that was smarting awfully, towards the grate. But sparing another glance at white wolf, fighting so bravely, yet still at a disadvantage in size. She hesitated. Then, remembering something, she accio’d her wand, and aimed at the floo. 

“Expecto Patronum!” 

For a terrifying moment, her mind flashed only war – fire, screams, death, searing pain, her cursed scar. And nothing happened. 

Then, she saw Narcissa in her memory. Pale and prideful, softened only with Hermione, ice-cold and distant, warmed by Hermione. Narcissa’s fingers brushing her cheeks, wine red lips against hers. Narcissa speaking her name like it was a prayer, like it was to be revered. 

Light surged from the tip of her wand. It took the shape of an otter that she had not seen in years. Hermione’s vision swam. “Harry, Ron, help!” Then, it floated into the chimney. 

Within minutes, the wizards arrived through the floo. First Harry and Ron, then Kingsley, and finally, two more aurors with drawn wands. 

They filled the space with shouted spells, binding charms, and light magic. 

“Don’t hurt her!” Hermione shoved herself in the midst of the fight, placing her body between Narcissa and an enthusiastic auror whose spells clipped the white wolf’s ear. 

Ron’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched the calculated way Narcissa moved, dodging the stray curses, aiding the aurors, “she’s on our side?” 

“Yes, she’s lucid.” Harry shouted from the other side. 

“Bloody hell.” Ron muttered under his breath, and drilled his magic harder against the distorted werewolf. 

Thrashing and screaming, Logan was pinned into a corner. His limbs were bound by thick vines transfigured from potted plants, and his neck was choked with iron and crystals originally belonging to a chandelier. He gagged, tearing against the restraints, rabid and desperate. 

Kingsley glanced at the syringe in Hermione’s hand. His eyes narrowed. “What did you do?” 

Hermione had no time to explain. “Keep him pinned!” 

Recovering from a blunt kick Logan doled out, Narcissa pushed herself up, turned her attention to the bloodshot, maniacal eyes, and went rigid. And then, impossibly, miraculously, she struck not with her claws, but with her mind. 

The air changed again, electricity crackling, the scent of bitter herb and caldron fire singed away the sweetness of rotting flowers. 

Logan, or Bellatrix, twisted and screamed. 

Hermione’s breath caught. Something, cool and smooth, slid into her mind with a gentle warning. She’d felt it enough times before to know who was reaching in. 

Could it be… Legilimency, through a werewolf…? 

Images flashed in her mind, of a forest as old as time, stone pillars and ruined structure guarding tombs, snow covered mountains, and a winding stream, frozen in places. A trap door, an abandoned dungeon behind a gravekeeper’s hut. It was such a clear picture that she did not need its coordinates on a map. 

“I know where Bellatrix is.” She announced. The white wolf gave her a glance that told her everything she was to know. “It’s our chance to take her out, for good.” She pressed the metal case into Kingsley’s hand, a few more syringes left in the foam holder.  “Use this if her mind starts to slip.” 

Kingsley consented, “Potter, Weasley, go with her. We’ll hold down the line here.” 

Ron swallowed, a bit uneasy with the vagueness of the task, but he still followed Hermione to the fireplace. 

Harry gave the white werewolf a nod, “we’ll finish this.” 

Hermione looked back one last time, finding blue eyes on her now. The cool sensation again coated her mind for a second. 

Come back to me. 

She replied without words. I will. 

******

The three of them landed squarely in the middle of the ruins. Defaced headstones littered the graveyard. Harry recognised the name on a crumbling piece of plaque. It belonged to the werewolf that turned Fenrir Greyback, some forty years ago. 

Bones, piles and piles of bones, some animal, some human, some… misshapen and undeterminable, rested against the burial ground, silent but not peaceful. The magic in the air was dense and oppressing. Hermione shivered. 

This must be where Greyback gathered his pack, known to only a few living souls. Now, it was used to harbour Bellatrix’s corporal form. 

Of course, there were still a handful of loiterers guarding the location. But without the pull of Logan, the werewolves had not come to her aid. The aurors immediately stung three cloaked wizards, binding them in preparation for a trip to Azkaban. The remaining trolls were more than easy to be confounded. 

They found the trap door leading to the dungeon. 

And then, her. 

A pitiful, frail, shrunken thing, wrapped in parchment skin, eyes too bright in a face too hollow. Stringy dark hair was dull and tangled, leaving large gaps of her ash-coloured scalp visible. She could hardly move, propped up by some musty looking pillows and wrapped in wolfskin. In her brittle fingers she held a cup of silver liquid – Harry immediately recognised it as unicorn blood – sloshed with her slow movement. 

She possessed no vitality, only hatred with nowhere left to go. 

Bellatrix laughed a wet, raspy laugh. “Well, you’ve found me, mudblood.” Her ghoulish eyes widened, though, when Hermione showed no reaction to the cursed word. 

“Well, go figure.” She sneered. “Cissy scrubbed you clean of my parting gift to you.” Her mouth twisted. “Always so sentimental. Always so eager to ruin herself for things beneath her. My sister, that dumb little slut.” 

There had been no fondness left when she spoke of Narcissa’s name. No intimacy. Not even possessiveness. Only rot. 

Hermione raised her wand. 

“Do it, little lion.” Bellatrix hissed. “You’ll be just like us.” 

For a heartbeat, every moral law she had clung to throughout the war pressed against her ribs. But then she remembered Narcissa burned by wards, Narcissa compelled by an intruder in her mind, Narcissa fighting for control with blood on her fur. She remembered Narcissa’s sorrow, her resignation when she stopped calling her “Bella”, her memories tainted, the bond with her sister entirely destroyed by this vile thing born out of pure hate. 

Her wand hand steadied. Her voice came out clear and final. “No.” 

Then she spoke the curse. 

******

Night loosened its grip slowly. 

When the trio returned to Grimmauld Place, somewhere beyond the rows of townhouses, the sky began to pale. Dark thinned into bruised violet and grey. Birds stirred. The world remembered how to exhale again. 

The Muggle side of the street was quiet. But as soon as they crossed the magical barrier, they heard Logan’s scream. 

Hermione rushed through the door. 

Everyone had been frozen, watching in horror as the twisted thing of a werewolf shrunk back to a twisted frame of an emaciated boy, crying out in agony and pain. The sound was unfiltered, raw, bleeding. 

Hermione ran towards Narcissa, who was already on her knees. 

Her transformation back was violent in its own way — bones shrinking too fast, fur receding unevenly, breath tearing from her chest as her body reclaimed its human shape. She collapsed forward, catching herself on trembling hands, blood streaking porcelain skin, her chest rose shallowly. 

Summoning robes, Hermione blocked the views from the aurors. “Cissa, you’re okay. I’ve got you.” Her hands shook lightly, but they were quick and gentle. 

The boy continued to convulse, the wolf tearing itself from him and leaving him sprawled on the floor, ribs heaving, fingers clawing at the floorboards. HIs eyes were wide, unfocused, and flooded with terror. What was even more terrifying, was the mix of crazed cackles and sobbing that fell out of his lips. 

“No… No… let me go…” Blue eyes trembled with tears. “You fools! You cannot destroy–” Black took over his eyes. “I can’t–” Blue again. Then, “kill them, kill them all!” 

“Oh, Merlin…” Narcissa stood, wobbly. She clung to Hermione’s shoulder, together, they approached the boy thrashing on her floor. 

Kingsley charmed a torn piece of curtain to bind his hands. “Is Lestrange still in him?” 

“She’s in pieces, but yes.” 

“And Logan?” Hermione asked, but she already knew the truth by the pained look on Narcissa’s face. 

“He’s awake, and trying to take control. But her damage has been too extensive, his mind is… fractured and…” 

A broken sound tore from the boy’s throat. “Please!” He reached out to Narcissa, “I can’t go back. Please don’t leave me alone with her again!” 

“He’s asking to be released,” Narcissa said through tears. “Truly released. There’s nothing left for Bellatrix to use. She’s just… torturing him. She’s poison, soaked into the walls.” 

Kingsley’s jaw tightened. He looked at the boy — at the way Logan shook, the way dawn light caught on tear-streaked cheeks, too young, far too young. “If we leave it, she will linger.” 

Narcissa nodded. 

His eyes steeled. Kingsley said quietly. “I will do it.” 

The sun crested. Gold light spilled in the window, touching Narcissa’s bloodied hands, Hermione’s soot-stained robes, and the boy who had been used as a vessel and left hollowed. 

Logan looked up one last time, eyes glassy, exhausted. 

“Thank you.” He whispered, not to Kingsley, to Narcissa. 

Then a bright light. 

The magic was swift. It was clean. It was… mercy. 

What little remained of Bellatrix Lestrange, the very last, pitiful echo of her, was finally extinguished. 

******

Ron watched as bodies flitted in and out of the house, in the frantic aftermath of the final stand against Bellatrix. 

News spread quickly. One minute, they were covering the limp body of the boy with reverence, the next, ministry staff, press, and family rushed through the floo. 

He saw them. Hermione was using a wash cloth to dab at Narcissa’s face, then she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, whispering something with a tender expression. The warm, gentle gaze was reciprocated, as Narcissa touched her earlobe. With a flick of her wand, Hermione summoned a pair of understated, diamond studs through the air, previously lost in the rubbles. 

Then, Draco stepped out of the grate, who immediately turned around to offer his arm to Astoria following him. She carried a small bundle in her arms. 

Hermione spotted them first, she quickly nudged Narcissa to look behind her. The blonde witch made a noise of sharp inhale, rushing to stand up. She nearly tumbled, and Ron instinctively took a step forward. But Hermione was quick to catch her. He watched as the new parents presented the cooing newborn to the witches, Narcissa sobbing with joy as she held her grandson, and Hermione gave Draco a congratulatory hug. When she gave back the baby, Narcissa threw her arms around Hermione’s shoulders. 

Then, the interviewers wedged in their intimate reunion, all wanting a piece of the narrative from the witches. He watched Hermione stand close to Narcissa. Watched Narcissa slouch subtly and lean on Hermione. Watched the way Hermione’s eyes never left Narcissa’s face for long, tracking any flicker of pain, exhaustion, and the invisible aftershock. 

Obtuse as he sometimes pretended to be, Ron stopped pretending. “Oh,” he murmured, too quietly for anyone but himself. 

Later, not soon enough – after healers had finished their assessments, after Kingsley had taken Narcissa aside for a brief, solemn exchange, after the house had been cleared of all traces of the battle – someone snapped a photograph. 

It caught Hermione mid-sentence with Kingsley, hair disheveled, one hand holding up a syringe with dark liquid. Narcissa stood beside her, an arm wrapped loosely around Hermione’s waist, fingers resting with a natural belonging. 

The headline ran the next morning: 

BREAKTHROUGH IN WEREWOLF TREATMENT – INJECTABLE SHOWS PROMISE

The article mentioned the discovery, the science, the implications. 

The photograph did the rest. 

Soon comments came, speculations, a few ugly words flung by people who knew neither of the witches. Inconsequential natter. 

But their families filled the blanks where nasty rumours couldn’t reach. 

Astoria’s quiet, unwavering support, Draco’s public endorsement for his mother’s achievement, Andromeda’s sharp dismissal of anyone who dared question what had been earned, Harry’s refusal to engage with gossip, and the Weasleys’ awkward but sincere invites for everyone to join dinner at the Burrow. 

Acceptance did not arrive overnight. But it did gradually, uneventfully, as most truths do, once they stop being secrets. 

******

The scar was faint. 

It curved delicately along her left cheekbone, just beneath the outer corner of her eye, a silver seam on the porcelain skin. It caught light in certain viewpoints, and disappeared entirely in shadows. The final whisper of a fateful fight that refused to vanish despite her best ointments. 

Narcissa pretended not to notice. Which, in practice, meant she noticed it constantly. 

She adjusted her hair more often, angled slightly in conversation, and selected accessories that drew attention elsewhere. Old habits of presentation returning in small, unconscious corrections. 

Hermione noticed that, too. 

After the dust had settled, they finally tumbled into bed together, reacquainted through the most intimate acts. Sated and happy, limbs tangled, hair wild and lipstick smudged, Narcissa shied from Hermione’s gaze, and turned her face into her pillow. 

Tutting lightly, Hermione reached out, gently tipping her chin until she looked at her again. “Don’t hide.” And she leaned in, placing kisses first on Narcissa’s lips, then her nose, her chin, and grazing the silver mark at last. 

Narcissa melted a little in the tenderness. 

Almost bashful, Hermione pulled back and said, “it makes you look dead 'ard.” 

Narcissa blinked. “What…?” 

The corner of her lips twitched up mischievously, “formidable. Battle-hardened. Like someone who fought a horcrux and won. It's very attractive.” 

Narcissa huffed a small laugh. “You are incorrigible.” 

“I’m serious.” Hermione’s voice softened, “it doesn’t take anything away from you.” She looked at her lover with fondness. Narcissa, who spent a lifetime cultivating perfection, using beauty as armour, elegance as strategy, now lived with a mark that asked no permission. Hermione caressed Narcissa’s face gently. “I love you. Your beauty, your mind, your elegance,” she murmured reverentially, “your sharp edges, your stubbornness, the wolf, the scar. All of it.” 

Narcissa looked right back and believed. 

Narcissa had been a nonbeliever of love for so long. 

She had turned her nose up at frivolous love potions as a child, endured vapid declarations with cool disdain in her youth, and severed her own stifling marital bond with ruthless clarity many years later. She had never dared to imagine it, never wished for it — being loved like this.

And yet, here she was, all her imperfections held steady in those beautiful brown eyes, loved nonetheless.