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Chapter Text

Narcissa

Restraint is an art of tension—of wanting and not reaching, of knowing and not speaking, of choosing silence when the urge to confess burns hot in the chest. Restraint is a discipline that promises dignity, composure, and power. Yet, like any discipline, it falters when desire presses too sharply against its boundaries.

For Narcissa Black, restraint had always been her inheritance: trained into her spine, polished into her speech, etched into every decision. Until Hermione Granger mentioned her sister. Bellatrix. And in that instant, Narcissa’s restraint had cracked, jealousy slipping free, revealing possession she hadn't meant to expose.

It was the first time they had seen each other since that Friday. Nearly a week had passed, a week where Narcissa had replayed the moment with no small measure of displeasure at herself. Not because Hermione had recoiled. Quite the opposite. Hermione had taken the claim and welcomed it, fed by it, her response as reckless as Narcissa’s lapse. That was the danger.

And now, Hermione entered class with the same poise she always carried. A notebook at the ready, pen in hand, gaze bright with restless curiosity. She was the model student. Not merely diligent, but dazzling in her acuity. Quick to raise a hand, quicker still to challenge with sharp questions that pressed at the edges of the lecture. Always attentive, always engaged. Always, infuriatingly, looking, with the kind of intent that absorbed, questioned, and refused to be dismissed.

It ought to have reassured her, Hermione’s steadiness. Instead it only sharpened her self-reproach. Hermione was still the student: clever, ambitious, brilliant. And Narcissa had been the one to falter. To let jealousy twist her composure into something raw and possessive. 

She didn’t regret the desire itself. She could live with that, name it, discipline it. What she couldn’t stomach was the way it had escaped her, unseemly and hypocritical, after she herself had drawn the boundary.

When the class ended, she caught it again: Hermione’s reluctance to leave. And with that, Narcissa remembered with cruel clarity that Hermione was not just a student. 

Not to her. Not anymore.

The weight of it pressed down. Which was why, when the last of the room had emptied, she said, low and deliberate, “Miss Granger, stay a moment.”

She remained seated at her desk, posture immaculate, hands folded with deliberate stillness. Hermione turned at once, no hesitation in her step, a quiet energy sparking in her eyes as she approached. She stood before Narcissa’s desk, fingers interlaced tightly in front of her.

“I owe you an apology,” Narcissa began, eyes fixed on Hermione’s face. “What I said last week was unseemly. To speak of you as if you were mine,” her breath caught on the word, “was a lapse in discipline. It was forward and possessive. I had no right.”

Hermione’s voice came soft, steady, and far too dangerous: “I liked it. You know I did.”

Narcissa’s eyes snapped to hers. Hermione’s cheeks were pink, but her gaze didn’t falter. “I don’t want to be treated like an object,” she continued, almost defiantly. “But I liked it. I can’t stop thinking about it. And I hope you don’t regret saying it.”

Something low and hot pulled at Narcissa’s composure. Her restraint, so carefully rebuilt, trembled again under the weight of Hermione’s admission. Foolish girl, Narcissa thought, but the reprimand carried no real heat. Hermione was her distraction, her challenge, the single breach in the fortress of her discipline. She made Narcissa want to take, to disregard every carefully drawn boundary and claim what she had already slipped and called hers.

A long, quiet sigh escaped her. She lowered her eyes to her hands, then lifted them again, meeting Hermione’s gaze with steadiness.

“I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice low, deliberate. “I told you once — I am not in the habit of speaking words I cannot keep, and I meant it. The claim itself stands. What I regret is the way it came out — unguarded, driven by jealousy.”

Hermione’s lips curved. “So I did break your perfect composure.”

Narcissa’s mouth tightened, the faintest twitch betraying her reluctant amusement. She drew in another breath. 

“This is dangerous,” she said. “We can’t stoke fires we are meant to wait upon. Desire has a way of consuming everything else if it’s fed too soon.”

Hermione’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “I know it’s dangerous,” she murmured. “But you’re the one who lost control, not me.” The faintest lilt of smugness threaded through her tone, at odds with the flush burning her cheeks. “You said I was yours. You don’t get to take it back now. In fact I almost want to hear you say it again.”

Narcissa flushed, a soft bloom of color across her high cheekbones. She shifted slightly in her chair, as though the weight of Hermione’s gaze pressed physically against her skin.

Hermione

The sight was heady. The flush, the tightening of Narcissa’s mouth, the way her knuckles pressed into the polished desk as if to anchor her. Hermione noticed every flicker, every microexpression, catalogued each one like forbidden treasure. Narcissa was holding herself back, but Hermione could see it. The control fracturing, the composure trembling at the edges.

And God, Hermione wanted to know what it would be like if Narcissa ever stopped holding back. If she shattered. If she took. Hermione wasn’t sure she would survive it, but the thought made her pulse race in anticipation.

“I’m excited for the semester to be over,” Hermione said, her voice soft but deliberate. “So I can see what you’re like without all this restraint. If we could just… be.”

For a heartbeat, Narcissa said nothing. Her lips parted, breath catching audibly in the charged silence. Then, soft and almost pleading, she exhaled

“Hermione.”

It wasn't a command, nor a rebuke. It was a warning. It was want. It was the sound of a woman fighting to stay composed while everything inside her frayed.

And Hermione heard it. She heard the plea, the fracture, the line they both knew they couldn’t cross. As much as she thrilled at pressing, as much as she loved watching Narcissa tremble on the precipice, Hermione wasn’t cruel. She straightened, eased back half a step, her own pulse thundering with the restraint she now mirrored.

“Right,” Hermione said quietly, eyes still fixed on Narcissa’s. “Not yet.”

Narcissa’s shoulders loosened fractionally. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then she inclined her head, her voice lower, steadier.

“Thank you,” Narcissa murmured, “For knowing when to stop.”

Hermione smiled, mischief softening the heat in her gaze. “You’re welcome, but don’t think it lets you off entirely. I won’t say it again next time, but,” her voice dipped, intimate now, “I’m yours, whether we say it aloud or not.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her. She exhaled sharply, the sound almost a scoff, and at last, to Hermione’s delight, let a laugh slip free.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.

Hermione grinned, triumphant but softened with affection. “And yet,” she replied, “you like me.”

Narcissa rolled her eyes, as though summoning patience from the air itself. But the smile tugging at her mouth lingered.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione closed the classroom door behind her, willing her pulse to settle, her expression to smooth. It was no use. Her skin still thrummed with the echo of Narcissa whispering her name. Hermione.

And of course, the moment she stepped into the hallway, she found Kara waiting with Lena at her side.

Kara straightened instantly, bright blue eyes sweeping over Hermione’s face. “Oh,” she said, in a tone far too knowing, “well someone looks like they had a very engaging discussion about ethics.”

Lena’s brows arched, her smirk precise and merciless. “Engaging, was it? You’re flushed, Granger. I’d almost think Professor Black keeps you after class for more than your insights.”

Hermione groaned under her breath, though her lips betrayed the smallest twitch of a smile. “You two are insufferable.”

“That’s not a denial,” Kara sing-songed, leaning closer with all the subtlety of a Labrador retriever.

“And why should she deny it?” Lena added smoothly. “If I had Professor Black looking at me the way she looks at you, I’d be glowing too.”

Hermione pressed her satchel strap tighter to her shoulder, cheeks blazing, but her eyes glittered with something caught between pride and exasperation. “Honestly, between the pair of you, it’s a wonder I get any peace at all.”

Kara bumped her shoulder lightly as they fell into step together. “That’s because you don’t want peace. Admit it, you like us keeping you honest.”

Hermione huffed, but the smile finally broke through, wry and helpless. “Maybe.”

They walked back to the apartment together, Kara chatting brightly about an article she’d been assigned while Lena interjected with gentle corrections. By the time they reached the door, Hermione’s cheeks had cooled, only for Kara to announce that she and Lena were heading straight back out after she grabbed something from her room.

Of course.

Within minutes, Kara had darted inside, reemerged with a folder tucked under her arm, and was already tugging Lena back out of the apartment. Lena shot Hermione one last smirk, and then they were gone.

Bella, unsurprisingly, was with Rosalie. She had been most evenings lately, and Hermione was learning to expect it. Which left her, once again, alone.

The place was quiet. Hermione set her satchel down on the table, books spilling out in a half-hearted gesture toward studying. But her mind wasn’t on her notes. It hadn’t been, not really, since she’d left the classroom.

She sat, fingers tracing idle patterns against the tabletop, and let herself replay it: Narcissa’s eyes on her, the way her cheeks reddened, the almost-smiles. The way her name had been whispered.

The thoughts alone made her stomach flutter. She was counting down the weeks now, eager for the semester’s end, when they could stop tiptoeing at the edge of rules and finally try properly.

But waiting didn’t mean she couldn’t think about it. Fantasize about it. Plan for it.

Her gaze drifted to the little vase in the corner, where Bella sometimes left flowers from Rosalie. Would it be too much, Hermione wondered, to leave flowers on Narcissa’s desk? Or perhaps a book. Something well-chosen, scholarly, with a note tucked between the pages.

Hermione smiled to herself, cheeks warming. Am I allowed to woo her now? The thought was half-terrifying, half-thrilling. It wasn’t crossing the line, not really. Just a gesture. A promise of what was coming.

Restraint didn’t mean silence. And wooing, Hermione reasoned, was simply preparation.

She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head toward the ceiling, grinning at the absurdity of it all. Flowers and books and the thought of Narcissa Black with her composure finally unraveling.

“God,” Hermione muttered to the empty flat, pressing a hand against her racing heart. “I’m doomed.”

Narcissa

Narcissa left the classroom with her composure restored. At least on the surface. Her thoughts of Hermione Granger were archived swiftly, locked in her mental vault. There would be time, later, to contend with the frayed edges of restraint. Now, she was a professor once more, not a woman undone.

Her office was not empty when she arrived. Regina Mills had made herself comfortable by the window, a half-empty glass of wine already in hand despite the early hour. After that ambush at Café Cerise, where Regina had so inconveniently arranged for Hermione to appear, Narcissa had insisted on a new rule: if they were to have dinner together, Regina was to come by her office first.

It was meant as a safeguard. A way to prevent further surprises.

Naturally, Regina had turned it into an invitation.

Narcissa busied herself at her desk, sliding papers into neat order, ignoring the weight of Regina’s amused gaze. She knew her face betrayed nothing of what had transpired in the classroom earlier. Her mask was flawless, her composure intact. But Regina had a talent for sniffing out weaknesses where there was none. An evil witch, through and through.

The sharp rap of a knock cut through the room, followed almost immediately by the door swinging open. Annalise Keating entered, folder in hand, her presence filling the space like the crackle of a storm.

“Narcissa,” she said, with the kind of authority that left no space for pleasantries. “There’s a seminar next week—an intercollegiate series on applied ethics. Our department has been asked to send a representative. You’ll go.”

Narcissa inclined her head, smooth, composed. “Of course.”

“And,” Annalise continued, crossing the room to set the folder on Narcissa’s desk, “you’ll bring a student. Someone who reflects well on the department. The program insists on both faculty and student representation.”

Narcissa’s fingers brushed the folder’s edge, mind already narrowing into calculation. Who could bear the scrutiny? Who would not complicate matters—

“Why not Hermione Granger?”

The interruption came velvety and amused. Regina, swirling her wine lazily, had not even looked away from the window. The smirk in her voice was enough.

Narcissa’s spine went rigid. “Regina.”

“What?” Regina turned now, eyes bright with mischief. “She’s brilliant, is she not? Quick, sharp, fearless with her questions. Exactly the sort of student who makes departments shine at these things.”

Annalise arched a brow, gaze cutting between them with surgical precision. “Granger is yours?”

The phrasing struck like a blow. Yours. Not in the sense Annalise meant, but Narcissa heard it all the same—echoes of Hermione’s flushed face, her voice whispering I’m yours.

Her inhale was too shallow, her reply too quick. “She is one of my best students.”

Regina’s smirk deepened into triumph. “Then it’s settled.”

Annalise, apparently satisfied, inclined her head. “Good. Have her prepared by the end of the week. The seminar is on Tuesday. I expect nothing less than excellence from both of you.”

And just like that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence lingered.

Regina lifted her glass, dark eyes glinting like the devil’s own. “Well,” she drawled, “isn’t that convenient.”

Narcissa exhaled slowly, smoothing invisible creases from her sleeve, her jaw tight. “You,” she said, voice precise, “are insufferable.”

Regina only smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Narcissa

It was their second meeting of the week. Narcissa lectured as she always did. Notes precise, arguments sharp, voice even. Hermione, as always, sat in front. Attentive, diligent, and quick to raise her hand. The model of consistency

It should have been ordinary. Routine. And yet, as the room emptied afterward, Narcissa caught it, a murmur from the back, light but pointed: “Of course she’s staying after. She always does.”

The words were casual, barely worth notice. But they still lodged in her mind. Already there was a remark. Already eyes had begun to mark the pattern. And if mere diligence drew attention, what would come should the truth surface before its time?

By the time the last of the students filed out, Narcissa’s resolve had settled like armor.

“Miss Granger,” she said, her tone carefully even. “Stay a moment.”

Hermione obeyed without hesitation.

Narcissa drew a folder from the neat stack on her desk and set it before her. “There is an intercollegiate seminar next week,” she explained, tone formal. “The department is sending a representative. I have been volunteered. And I am required to bring a student.”

Hermione’s brows arched, curiosity lighting into a spark of mischief. She picked up the folder, fingers brushing against the edge like it was a gift. 

“You chose me.” The words were not a question so much as a tease, her lips curving into the smirk that always threatened Narcissa’s composure. “What is this, Professor? A chance to spend more time together?”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. Regina suggested you.”

Hermione bit back a laugh, though the smirk remained.

Narcissa pressed on, her voice steady. “That said, I’m not displeased. You are competent, diligent, and reliable. I trust you to represent the department.”

The humor softened in Hermione’s face, replaced by something steadier, fiercer. She closed the folder, her gaze fixed on Narcissa’s. “You can trust me. I won’t let you down.”

Narcissa studied her, searching for any trace of mischief. There was none. Only resolve, bright and unyielding.

She inclined her head, the smallest nod. “See that you don’t. This seminar is not an indulgence. If you are to come with me, you will behave yourself. You will focus on the work.”

For once, Hermione did not smirk, did not tease. She only said, firm and certain: “I will.”

And Narcissa believed her.

Hermione

Hermione held the folder to her chest like it was a prize, though she schooled her expression into something calmer. 

As much as she liked Narcissa, she wasn’t about to risk an opportunity like this by appearing reckless. An intercollegiate seminar was no small matter, and being chosen to accompany her professor was an honor she intended to prove worthy of.

Still, she couldn’t help the flicker of warmth beneath her ribs. Even if it hadn’t been Narcissa’s idea, even if Professor Mills was behind it, she was the one holding the folder. She was the one Narcissa trusted enough to bring. That had to mean something.

“I won’t let you down.”

Narcissa inclined her head, satisfaction flickering across her composed features. But then her expression shifted, more measured, almost wary.

“There’s something else,” she said. “You can’t stay after class anymore.”

Hermione blinked, her smile faltering. “What? Why not?”

Narcissa’s gaze was level, precise. “One of your classmates remarked on it today. They’ve noticed you linger. I won’t have rumors beginning before their time.”

Hermione frowned, reluctant, the folder still clutched tightly in her hands. “Fine,” she said slowly, though the word was steeped in disappointment. Then, after a beat, her eyes brightened with a spark of mischief. “But if I can’t stay after class, I’ll just have to find another way to see more of you.”

Narcissa sighed. “Miss Granger—”

Hermione smirked, leaning just slightly closer, savoring the crack in Narcissa’s restraint. “I’m very resourceful, as you already know.”

Narcissa’s mouth twitched, the barest threat of a smile she refused to give over to. She exhaled slowly, as though summoning patience, and said, “You are incorrigible.”

Hermione tilted her head, her gaze steady and a little too bold. “Is seeing me more not something you want?”

Narcissa stilled, and Hermione caught the flicker, the tightening of her mouth, the faint flush at her cheekbones. When she spoke, her words were careful. “Wanting and allowing are not the same. Whatever else may be true, we need to be cautious.”

Hermione pouted, the expression almost childish in its petulance. “God. When will this semester be over so I can take you on a proper date?”

One of Narcissa’s brows arched, elegant and sharp. “A date?”

“Yes,” Hermione said at once, a little smirk curving her mouth.

Narcissa leaned back slightly, voice cool but laced with the faintest amusement. “Hmm. A date. Very well. If we were to go on this hypothetical date, where would you take me?”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “Somewhere simple. A quiet café, maybe. Or a little bookstore. Nothing fancy. Just us, no eyes, no rules. And afterward, I’d walk you home. And kiss you.”

Narcissa’s composure cracked, not fully, but enough. A laugh slipped past her restraint, low and warm, edged in disbelief. “You are outrageous.”

Hermione’s grin widened, triumphant. “And yet, you’re smiling.” She tilted her head, studying her professor with gleaming eyes. “I think you’ll kiss me back.”

For the briefest moment, Narcissa’s gaze faltered. A flicker, quick and sharp, down to Hermione’s mouth. When her eyes lifted again, her voice was lower, roughened by the effort of control. “What makes you so sure?”

Hermione’s tongue darted across her lips, slow, deliberate, her pulse thundering at the way Narcissa’s eyes followed the movement. “I just know.”

The silence stretched, taut and charged. Narcissa’s jaw tightened, her composure trembling at the edges — and then, with a voice low and utterly serious, she struck back.

“Well then,” she said, “you had better take me on this date of yours. So you’ll find out.”

Hermione’s breath caught, heat flooding her face, but her grin returned, irrepressible. “Gladly. After this semester.”

For a heartbeat longer, Narcissa held her gaze, the air between them alive with everything unsaid. And then, at last, she looked away, smoothing her sleeve with practiced calm.

“Go,” she murmured.

Chapter Text

Hermione

“I’m going to a seminar with Professor Black.”

The announcement dropped into the living room like bait, and sure enough, both Bella and Kara bit at once.

“A seminar,” Kara echoed, her grin immediate, knowing. “Oh, that sounds very academic. Definitely nothing fun or distracting about going off alone with your very attractive professor.”

Hermione gave her a flat look. “It’s academic, Kara. It’s an intercollegiate ethics seminar.”

Bella closed her laptop halfway, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Wait, where is it being held?”

Hermione hesitated. “…Two hours away.”

Kara blinked, her grin widening. “Two hours? Each way?”

Bella leaned forward, clearly enjoying herself now. “So that’s four hours in the car, plus however long the seminar itself runs…”

Kara let out a low whistle. “That’s practically the whole day together.”

Hermione shifted the folder in her lap, cheeks warming under their twin stares. “Yes, because travel time and academic programming are so romantic.”

“Depends who you’re traveling with,” Kara teased.

Bella smirked. “And who you’re sitting next to all day.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, willing her expression back into neutrality even as the little thrill twisted sharp and sweet in her chest.

Bella grinned. “You could do something small. Like bring her coffee for the drive.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, but you want to,” Kara teased, eyes glinting.

Hermione pressed her lips together, but the silence was damning. Because of course she wanted to. She wanted to do far more than coffee. But she also knew Narcissa — knew that what would mean the most wasn’t boldness, but restraint. Excellence. Proof that she was capable of standing beside her, not just pining after her.

“Professor Black will appreciate me focusing on the seminar,” Hermione said firmly, more to herself than them. “Not… theatrics.”

Kara and Bella exchanged a look that said they weren’t convinced, but mercifully, they didn’t press further.

Tuesday Morning

Hermione knocked lightly on the door to Narcissa’s office, the familiar folder clutched to her chest.

“Come in,” came the smooth reply.

She stepped inside — and stopped dead.

Narcissa stood by her desk, slipping papers into a leather portfolio. Her blazer rested neatly on the back of her chair, leaving her in a sleeveless silk top that caught the morning light like liquid. It bared her arms — flawless, pale, elegant — and Hermione’s throat went dry before she could stop herself. Her eyes shot upward, only to catch the faintest trace of Narcissa’s perfume. Jasmine today, sharp and heady, tempered with something warmer beneath.

God. She looked unreal.

Narcissa glanced up, and Hermione realized too late she’d been staring. A smirk tugged at the professor’s mouth, sharp and knowing. “Shall I give you a moment, Miss Granger?”

Hermione blinked, heat flooding her cheeks. “No,” she said a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Narcissa slid the portfolio closed with languid precision. “We’ll want to leave promptly. It’s a two-hour drive, and I have no intention of arriving late.”

“Yes, Professor.” Hermione straightened, though her gaze betrayed her, darting once more to the curve of Narcissa’s bare shoulder before she wrenched it away.

Narcissa lifted the portfolio and reached for her blazer, draping it casually over her arm rather than slipping it on.

“We’ll wait downstairs,” she said, brisk and efficient. “The car should be here shortly.”

Hermione blinked. “Wait—you’re not going to wear that?”

A single brow arched. “This?” Narcissa glanced down at her silk top, then back at Hermione, her smirk widening faintly. “No. I don’t believe I shall.”

Hermione sputtered, fingers tightening on the folder. “But your shoulders—other people will see—”

A low, amused chuckle slipped from Narcissa. “My shoulders, Miss Granger?” she teased, her voice velvet over steel. “And what, precisely, is the tragedy in that?”

“I—well—it’s just—” Hermione’s words tangled uselessly as her ears burned. She clamped her mouth shut before she could reveal too much.

Narcissa tilted her head, eyes gleaming as though she were savoring Hermione’s fluster. “Careful,” she murmured, lips curving. “You’re perilously close to admitting something.”

Hermione huffed, burying her face in the folder for half a second before lowering it again, cheeks blazing. 

Narcissa

They waited just outside the main building, morning light catching against silver blonde hair as Narcissa adjusted the portfolio beneath her arm. Beside her, Hermione lingered with that same restless energy, folder pressed close to her chest, eyes flicking toward her bare shoulders whenever she thought it subtle. Narcissa pretended not to notice.

The sleek black car rolled up to the curb, and Narcissa’s spine stiffened before the window even lowered.

Of course. How could she have forgotten?

Bellatrix.

Her sister swung the door open and stepped out, dark hair tumbling wild over her shoulders, her grin too broad by half.

“Morning, sister.”

“Bellatrix.”

But her sister’s attention had already shifted, sliding to Hermione.

“Hello, pet.” Bellatrix’s smile curved sharper, her eyes raking deliberately from head to toe.

Hermione inclined her head, lips twitching faintly as though amused by the scrutiny rather than unsettled by it.

“Hello, Bellatrix.”

Narcissa’s jaw tightened. Of course she would meet Bellatrix’s provocation with composure. Of course she would make it look effortless. And yet, the ease of it only needled deeper.

“Whose car is this?” Hermione asked. 

Bellatrix tossed the keys once into the air, catching them with a flourish. “Narcissa’s. Borrowed it last night. Returning it now.”

Narcissa’s hand shot out, sharp and certain, snatching the keys from her sister’s palm. Bellatrix only laughed.

Hermione, in that unhelpfully earnest way of hers, offered lightly, “We could drop you back at the bar, if you’d like.”

“No,” Narcissa said at once, frost sharpening the word. “We’ll be late.”

Bellatrix’s grin widened, wicked with knowledge. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’ll walk.”

The glint in her eyes was unmistakable — she knew precisely what she was doing.

As Hermione circled toward the passenger side, Narcissa leaned in, her voice dropping low in French, each word precise as a blade.

“Cesse de la regarder comme ça.” Stop staring at her like that.

Bellatrix’s chuckle was soft, taunting, her reply drawn out in the same language:

“Pourquoi pas? Tu as peur que je te la prenne?” Why not? Are you worried I'll take her from you?

Narcissa’s composure held — barely. Her spine stiffened, mouth a hard line. She shut the door with sharp finality, the crack of it meant to end the conversation, even as her sister’s laughter followed her like smoke.

The first stretch of the drive passed in taut silence. Narcissa kept her gaze fixed on the road, fingers curled too tightly around the wheel, jaw set against the simmer that Bellatrix always managed to leave in her wake. Beside her, Hermione sat uncharacteristically quiet, folder still balanced on her lap. For once, she didn’t press. Sensible, Narcissa thought, though a small, traitorous part of her almost missed the sound of her voice.

Several miles blurred past before Hermione shifted, turning slightly in her seat. Her voice, when it came, was soft, careful, almost coaxing.

“You know… if you and your sister plan to conspire in French, you might want to make sure the other people around you don't understand you.”

Narcissa’s grip faltered, the wheel slipping a fraction beneath her hands. She cast Hermione a glance, startled despite herself. “You speak French?”

Hermione’s lips curved, faintly smug. “Fluently.”

For a moment, all Narcissa could do was breathe through the unexpected surge in her chest — part mortification, part reluctant admiration. How many times had she underestimated this girl, only to be reminded that Hermione Granger noticed everything, absorbed everything, and missed nothing?

“Of course you do,” Narcissa murmured at last, more to herself than to Hermione. She shifted her gaze back to the road. “Remind me, Miss Granger, never to assume privacy in your presence again.”

Narcissa paused, then glanced sideways once more. “And how, exactly, did you come by this fluency?”

Hermione hesitated only a beat before answering, tone almost too casual. “An ex taught me.”

A sharp flare of irritation sparked low in Narcissa’s chest, her jaw tightening. She pressed her lips together, eyes narrowing at the stretch of road ahead.

Hermione tutted, playful and knowing. “Oh, don’t be jealous. I’m yours, remember?”

Narcissa’s response was soft, cool, threaded with denial. “Jealous? I don’t know what you mean.”

Hermione smirked, leaning back in her seat, and replied in flawless French, her voice low but certain:

 “Tu sais très bien ce que je veux dire.” You know perfectly well what I mean.

The words sank through her like heat. Narcissa’s composure held, but the smallest curl tugged at the corner of her mouth, a smile she refused to give over to. She exhaled slowly, as though the road itself demanded all her focus.

And yet, the faintest thread of tension in her chest began to ease.

Chapter Text

Narcissa

The road stretched ahead, the morning still young enough that traffic hadn't yet grown insufferable. Narcissa’s hands rested steady on the wheel, her posture immaculate as ever. Beside her, Hermione sat with the folder balanced on her lap, eyes flicking between the program inside and the window view rushing past.

“You’ve looked over the program already?” Hermione asked.

“Of course,” Narcissa replied smoothly, eyes fixed on the road.

Hermione gave a little hum, almost like a suppressed laugh. “I’ve read through it twice. There’s a paper on applied justice I’m especially interested in. The framing is—well. I suppose we’ll see if it holds up under questions.”

Narcissa allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch upward. “Naturally. You’ll be asking them.”

Hermione smirked, unashamed. “Naturally.”

The banter softened the edges of the morning. After Bellatrix’s meddling earlier, Narcissa had been in a sour mood. But discovering Hermione’s fluency in French, and the ease of their conversations afterward, had softened her irritation. By the time the road gave way to the college where the seminar was being held, her composure had steadied. 

Narcissa turned smoothly into the car park, satisfaction curling low in her chest. Precisely on time.

Inside the hall, Hermione changed.

She had always been diligent, but here the shift was absolute. Her spine straight, her eyes sharp, and her focus unshakable. As soon as they took their seats, her pen was in motion, her attention locked wholly onto the podium.

Narcissa should have been equally focused. She told herself she was. And yet…

Beside her, Hermione bent over her notes, brows furrowed as she tried to capture a phrasing word for word. A strand of hair slipped forward, brushing her cheek until she tucked it behind her ear with absent precision. When a speaker clarified a point, Hermione’s lips moved silently, repeating the words as she scribbled. And when something clicked, her whole face lit, a soft smile blooming, fleeting, but bright.

She was radiant in her concentration. Oblivious to being watched. And Narcissa found herself watching anyway, struck by the quiet devotion Hermione gave to her work.

It had not begun this term.

Narcissa remembered the first time she noticed Hermione, truly noticed her, in a seminar before. Hermione had been a standout even then, and Narcissa had filed her away in her mind as “exceptional”. One to watch, one who would go far.

This semester, however, things had shifted. Hermione’s gaze lingered differently when their eyes met. Not disrespectful, not improper, but not entirely student-like, either. Narcissa had ignored it at first, dismissed it as imagination. But the look repeated. Grew bolder. And Narcissa had caught herself looking back.

It should have ended there. She was her professor. She had drawn the line.

But then Hermione had confessed — not timidly, not by accident, but with conviction. And in that moment, the restraint Narcissa had always trusted cracked, enough to let truth slip through.

At lunch, they sat together at a small table in the corner of the hall. Hermione laid out her notes beside Narcissa’s, eager to compare.

The resemblance was uncanny. Their outlines were nearly identical, each point captured with the same precision. But where Narcissa’s remained clean, Hermione’s margins were crowded with her own thoughts — questions, counterpoints, possible applications.

Narcissa arched a brow. “Ever unsatisfied, aren’t you?”

Hermione smirked. “I prefer thorough.”

Narcissa did not allow herself the indulgence of smiling. But inside, she was pleased. Deeply so. 

The afternoon brought panels, and with them, questions from the audience. Predictably, Hermione raised her hand more than once. Her questions were incisive, and they drew approving murmurs from the professors present. Narcissa sat beside her in silence, outwardly composed, inwardly alight with a kind of pride that bordered on dangerous.

The final speaker of the day was Rose Alver, a respected professor in the community, married and widely admired for both her scholarship and her presence.

Hermione engaged with her at once. During a discussion, Rose fielded Hermione’s question, only for Hermione to respond with a counterpoint so thoughtful that Rose laughed aloud, delighted, and carried the exchange further.

The room watched. Narcissa, too, watched. But where others saw a student shining, Narcissa saw the woman behind it. 

Hermione was clever and fearless. Meeting brilliance with brilliance.

Desire coiled low in her, sharpened by pride. She wanted to reach across the table, to claim Hermione in the open, and say: Look at her. She’s mine.

Instead, she sat silent.

By the time the seminar closed, the day had been long, the hours heavy with thought and discourse. And yet, as Narcissa packed away her laptop, she felt more undone than she had all week.

Admiration was perilous. Pride, more so. Desire… intolerable.

But Narcissa could not deny it. She wanted.

And wanting, when it came to Hermione Granger, was becoming impossible to resist.

Hermione

The moment they stepped inside the seminar hall, Hermione felt herself shift. Not because she’d promised Narcissa she would behave, though she had, but because this was what she loved. Knowledge, theory, argument sharpened into practice. She was here to learn. 

She slid into her seat, notebook open, pen poised. Her attention never wavered from the speakers, though every now and then she allowed herself a glance sideways, a quick smile, a silent hello across the small distance between them. Sometimes she caught Narcissa already looking, and something in her chest leapt each time.

The hours passed quickly in that steady rhythm of listening and writing. Hermione’s notes filled in with precision, each margin dotted with her own thoughts and questions. By the time lunch arrived and Narcissa drew her notebook out beside hers, Hermione felt a quiet thrill. Their notes were nearly identical, save for her own commentary where she couldn’t help herself. Narcissa’s eyes lingered on those additions, a flicker of approval that made Hermione sit a little taller.

The afternoon brought more panels, more papers, more ideas to chase. And then — Rose Alver. Rose Alver, whose article Hermione had practically memorized last year. Rose Alver, now here, speaking with the same brilliance that had captivated her on the page.

Hermione asked her a question. Rose answered. And then they fell into conversation, brief but real, exchanging thoughts that left Hermione flushed with exhilaration.

When she glanced back, Narcissa’s gaze was on her, bright, proud, alive in a way that made Hermione’s pulse stumble. 

By the time the seminar ended, she was exhausted in the best way. Notes full, brain buzzing, spirit alight. They slipped back to the car, silence comfortable around them until Narcissa said, “Shall we eat before returning? There’s a place nearby.”

Just like that, Hermione was no longer the composed student. She was a girl with a crush, suddenly aware that there was no paper, no speaker, no audience left between them. Only Narcissa.

And the realization made her stumble. “Right. Dinner,” she said, too quickly.

Narcissa’s lips curved, just barely. A smile that knew far too much.

The restaurant was understated, elegant but not ostentatious. Hermione recognized the kind of place that was simple in appearance and expensive on the bill. Her pulse quickened as Narcissa told the hostess, “Two,” with her usual composure.

Dinner with Narcissa. Not a lecture, not office hours, not a seminar lunch break. Dinner. 

Just the two of us, Hermione thought.

Hermione straightened her shoulders, as though that might help her feel less like the girl with a hopeless crush and more like someone who belonged here beside her.

“Your treat?” Hermione asked once they sat, aiming for casual but hearing the slight catch in her voice.

Narcissa’s lips curved. “Of course.”

Hermione’s nerves fizzed into something braver. She smirked, warmth bubbling in her chest. “This isn’t quite how I imagined our first date.”

The laugh that slipped from Narcissa was genuine. It softened the edges of her poise, made her seem, for a fleeting second, less professor and more… woman.

Narcissa reached for her glass of water, lifting it with languid ease. “I seem to recall you had rather different plans for our first date.”

Hermione froze mid-smile. “I—what?”

Narcissa’s eyes glinted. “Somewhere simple, wasn’t it? A quiet café. A bookstore. And then, if memory serves…” Her voice dipped, “You said you would kiss me afterward.”

Hermione’s face went scarlet. “I—well—that—yes, but—”

“Mm.” Narcissa set her glass back on the table, entirely too composed. “So I do remember correctly.”

Hermione pressed a hand to her burning cheek, torn between mortification and the giddy thrill of hearing Narcissa repeat it back. She wanted to disappear under the table and at the same time, she wanted to lean across it and prove herself right.

She cleared her throat, fumbling for courage. “Well, you didn’t finish.”

Narcissa’s gaze lifted. “Finish what?”

“The last part,” Hermione said, her voice soft but steady. Her stomach fluttered as she forced herself to hold Narcissa’s eyes. “The part where I said you’d kiss me back.”

Narcissa was quiet, but Hermione noticed the faintest hesitation, the curve of her mouth caught between denial and something warmer.

Their table was tucked in the corner. As dishes came, conversation flowed. Narcissa told her she appreciated her focus today. Hermione, unable to help herself, launched into a tangent about Rose Alver’s discussion, words tumbling, her hands gesturing despite her attempt to stay composed.

Halfway through she realized she was rambling. She faltered, heat crawling up her neck. “Sorry, I just—”

But Narcissa was smiling. Really smiling.

“Don’t apologize,” she said softly. “I like seeing you like this.”

Hermione’s blush was instant. She ducked her head, half-laughing, half-hiding, before blurting, “Thank you for wearing your blazer during the seminar. I wouldn’t have been able to focus otherwise. Not with—”

Her eyes flicked helplessly toward Narcissa’s shoulders.

Narcissa laughed again. Low, elegant, teasing. She slipped the blazer from her shoulders, baring the silk beneath once more. “These shoulders?”

Hermione groaned, covering her face with her hands, but her laughter spilled free all the same. She peeked at her through her fingers, half mortified, half thrilled.

Dinner passed like that. Easy, unforced, full of laughter and warmth.

But when they stepped out into the evening, their good mood was met by a wall of sound. Rain, sheeting down in torrents. The concierge rushed forward, umbrella in hand, and warned them quickly:

“A tree’s been uprooted on the main road,” he said quickly, voice raised over the downpour. “The highway is blocked. No one’s getting through tonight.”

Hermione froze. The words sank in slowly, one by one, until the full meaning hit her.

No one’s getting through tonight.

Her head turned almost on instinct, seeking Narcissa. Of course, her professor looked composed as ever, expression smooth and unreadable, as though even a storm couldn't touch her.

Hermione, meanwhile, was screaming on the inside. 

She was stuck. 

Overnight. 

With Narcissa Black.

Chapter Text

Hermione

She wasn’t entirely sure how she got here.

One moment, they’d been standing at the restaurant entrance, the rain lashing against the pavement, and the concierge pointing them toward the nearest hotel. The next, she was moving as if tethered, following Narcissa blindly to the car, sitting in silence as they drove, and now… standing in the hotel lobby, clutching her folder like it might anchor her, while Narcissa spoke to the receptionist.

Her mind was still reeling. Every note she’d scribbled that day, every brilliant idea, every answer from Rose Alver, all of it was carefully archived and shoved to the backseat of her thoughts. Because only one thing was at the forefront now:

She was spending the night with Narcissa Black.

The words looped endlessly in her head, gaining momentum until they drowned everything else out.

“We only have one room available.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. Her eyes bulged, heart tripping over itself. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it came out in a strangled rush.

“One room?” Narcissa repeated, her tone even.

The receptionist continued with professional calm. “Yes, ma’am. When word came earlier that the highway was blocked, many of the faculty and students from the seminar already booked their rooms. There are still hotels farther out, but the closest would be fifteen to thirty minutes away. With the weather as it is—” A meaningful glance toward the glass doors, where rain hammered the world into a blur.

Hermione’s pulse kicked harder. Narcissa’s profile was unreadable, her lips pressed thin in thought. “Another hotel might be wiser,” she said at last, though her voice lacked conviction. “But driving in this would be—”

“Dangerous,” the receptionist supplied gently.

Narcissa’s mouth tightened further.

Hermione startled herself by stepping forward, blurting before she lost her nerve, “It’s fine. One room is fine.” She bit the inside of her cheek, scrambling. “As long as there are two beds.”

The receptionist’s smile carried a note of apology. “I’m afraid not. A single king. That’s all we have left.”

The air left Hermione’s lungs in a rush, but this time it didn’t bring relief. Her throat felt tight, her skin hot, the truth pounding louder than ever.

She was spending the night with Narcissa Black.

In one bed.

The suite door shut with a soft click, and Hermione turned toward Narcissa, who was already setting her portfolio neatly on the desk.

“Would you mind if I went first?” Hermione asked, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. Her voice felt too loud in the elegant quiet of the room.

“Go ahead,” Narcissa replied smoothly, not looking up as she slipped her blazer from her shoulders.

Hermione froze, her breath catching. Bare shoulders, pale and flawless, the silk catching the lamplight like water. I’m spending the night with those shoulders.

Then she jolted, remembering herself — bathroom, Hermione, bathroom — and ducked quickly inside, flicking on the light and shutting the door firmly behind her.

Hermione braced her hands on the sink, staring at her reflection. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, like she’d sprinted here instead of simply walked.

A splash of cold water against her face did nothing to cool the heat crawling up her neck. She blinked at herself in the mirror.

I'm spending the night with Narcissa Black. In one room. In one bed.

Her stomach somersaulted. She shook her head sharply. No. She needed to reset, to breathe.

A shower. That would help.

The hot shower was mercifully quick, just long enough to wash away the heaviness of the day, the damp chill of the rain, and the lingering tension wound tight in her shoulders. She scrubbed with the hotel’s complimentary soap, rinsed fast, and stepped out into the fogged-up bathroom.

Then reality hit.

Her gaze landed on her neatly hung blouse and trousers, already wrinkled from the long day. The thought of pulling them back on, of crawling into bed in clothes that reeked of travel and rain, made her stomach twist. She groaned aloud. She hated sleeping in outside clothes. She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

Her eyes darted to the fluffy white robe hanging behind the door. Inviting. Clean. Safe. A small mercy wrapped in terrycloth.

She slipped it on, cinched the belt tightly at her waist, and clutched the lapels like they might hold her together.

She padded over to the sink, reaching for the complimentary toothbrush and paste. Routine. Normal. Something to steady herself. But as she brushed, eyes flicking up to the mirror, another realization hit her like a freight train.

I’m going to sleep beside Narcissa Black. In a hotel robe. Naked underneath.

The toothbrush clattered into the sink. She gaped at her reflection, foam at the corner of her mouth, eyes huge.

“No. No, no, no—absolutely not,” she hissed, rinsing frantically. “She’ll know. She’ll take one look and she’ll know.”

Hermione slapped her cheeks lightly, then groaned. “Okay, option one: put your clothes back on.” Her eyes darted back to the blouse and trousers on the rack. The thought alone made her skin crawl.

She shook her head violently. “No. Absolutely not. I cannot. I will not sleep in those. I’d rather fling myself out the window.”

She tightened the robe around her waist, pacing. “Option two: she won’t notice. She won’t even think about it. Just get into bed, stay very still, and she’ll never know.”

Hermione froze, then slapped a hand over her face. “Except she will know. Of course she’ll know. She notices everything.”

She groaned again, tugging at her curls with both hands, voice climbing higher with every word. “Maybe I could request separate duvets. Yes. Separate duvets. Totally normal. Not suspicious at all.”

Her reflection stared back like even it didn’t believe her.

Hermione buried her face in her hands and squeaked into her palms. “Oh my fucking god, I’m fucked.”

Narcissa

The quiet stretched.

Narcissa sat at the edge of the bed, posture flawless out of habit, though inside her composure was less certain. A single king. She should have insisted on another hotel. Should have braved the storm, the distance, anything but this.

Her gaze strayed to the bedspread. Crisp white linen, a small mountain of pillows arranged with precision. Too many for one, perfectly arranged for two. The sight twisted at her, both temptation and torture.

This was manageable. Of course it was. Two adults, two professionals. She would survive this.

And yet, the thought of Hermione Granger slipping beneath those sheets beside her sent something low and treacherous through her chest.

She rose abruptly, unwilling to linger on it. There was still time to put barriers in place. With deliberate hands, she pulled several of the pillows from their arrangement and set them in a neat line down the center of the bed.

Then, crossing to the desk, she lifted the phone and asked the front desk about boutiques within the hotel. Clothing, sleepwear, anything at all. Her tone remained smooth, clipped, but her hand was tight on the receiver.

“Yes, ma’am,” came the receptionist’s voice. “There’s a small boutique on the ground floor, open until midnight.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, already setting the receiver down. Decision settled. She would not spend the night wearing the clothes she’d had on all day.

Her eyes flicked again to the closed bathroom door. Hermione had been inside long enough.

Narcissa hesitated, then approached. She lifted her hand, meaning only to knock, to announce that she was stepping downstairs.

But the moment her knuckles brushed the wood, the door swung open.

Hermione stumbled forward, wide-eyed, robe cinched tightly, curls damp from the steam. Narcissa caught her without thinking, hands landing firmly at her waist to steady her. Hermione’s palms, startled, pressed against Narcissa’s chest instead.

The heat of Hermione’s skin bled through the robe beneath Narcissa’s hands, warm and disarming. Narcissa found herself looking down, caught off guard by the closeness, by the freshness of Hermione’s face, the smattering of freckles, and those impossibly earnest brown eyes gazing up at her.

Time stopped.

Her thoughts emptied. All that remained was sensation. The frantic rhythm of her own heart hammering against her ribs. The searing warmth of Hermione’s waist beneath her palms. The press of Hermione’s hand against her chest.

Narcissa couldn’t think. She could only feel.

Hermione’s curls still damp from steam, the faint scent of soap clinging to her skin, the impossible pull of those wide, open eyes looking up at her.

And then—

“Narcissa,” Hermione whispered.

Her name. On Hermione’s lips. For the first time. Soft, trembling, achingly intimate.

The sound jolted through her like lightning. Narcissa’s breath caught, her composure cracking wide open. One step further and she would ruin everything. One step further and she would close the distance.

Damn the rules. 

Damn the restraint.

She had to move. Now. Before she lost the last thread of control.

Narcissa forced herself back, hands slipping away from Hermione’s waist like it burned to touch her. Her voice came rougher than she intended.

“I was going to the boutique,” she said, as though the words could anchor her, as though they might make her forget that she had nearly kissed her student in the doorway of a hotel bathroom.

Hermione’s lips parted, then pressed together. She cleared her throat.

“Okay. Um. Would you mind… maybe getting something for me too? Just something to wear for the night?”

The request hit harder than it should have. Narcissa’s gaze threatened to flick downward.

Naked. The thought screamed through her, immediate and damning. She’s naked beneath that robe.

No. Absolutely not. She would not think this way. She. Would. Not. 

Narcissa forced her eyes firmly on Hermione’s face. Composure. Control. Restraint.

“Of course,” she said, smooth again by will alone. She stepped back quickly, before her betrayal could show. “I’ll return shortly.”

And without another glance, she turned, heels sharp against the carpet, and left the room.

Chapter Text

Narcissa

She would not think about Hermione Granger.

Not about the warmth of her waist beneath her hands, not about the startled press of her palm against her chest, not about the sound of her name whispered like it belonged to her alone.

No.

Narcissa had one task: clothes.

She kept her stride brisk as she crossed into the boutique on the ground floor. Neutral tones, soft cottons, rows of practical comfort. Easy. Manageable. A simple errand. She seized two sets of plain sleepwear — shirts and shorts — without allowing herself to linger.

She wouldn’t wear shorts to bed herself, not usually. But if she thought too long about what she usually wore, then she might think about what Hermione usually wore. And if she thought about that, she’d remember that Hermione was naked under her robe right now.

NO.

No, this was simply a necessity. Efficiency. She would purchase, return, change, and survive the night with her dignity intact.

By the time she returned to the suite, her hands clenched tighter on the bag than necessary, her chest a fortress of restraint.

Hermione was perched on the bed when she entered, knees drawn close, the robe cinched tightly around her. She sat on the far side, toward the wall, leaving Narcissa the outer edge. The sight tugged at something in Narcissa’s chest.

“Here,” she said, her voice smooth despite the storm inside. She set the bag on the mattress beside Hermione. “Change. I’ll take the bathroom.”

Hermione’s grateful smile made Narcissa’s stomach clench. “Thank you.”

Narcissa inclined her head, retreating into the bathroom before the tension could split her in two. She closed the door, pressed her hands flat against the sink, and met her reflection.

Her face was flushed. Too flushed. Like she was some schoolgirl caught in the wrong hallway, not a woman in full command of herself.

“This is absurd,” she muttered at her reflection. “You are a Black. You are her professor. You will not—” 

She cut herself off, dragging in a sharp breath. A cold shower. Yes. That was what she needed.

Restraint, she reminded herself. Control.

Narcissa scrubbed the day away, let the water force calm into her body. When she emerged, dressed in her own plain shirt and shorts, she had her armor again.

Or so she thought.

Because when she opened the door and stepped back into the room, she stopped.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, already changed. The shorts were simple, the shirt plain white — yet too large, slipping loose over one shoulder, baring pale skin and damp curls brushing against it.

Narcissa’s throat went dry.

So this is what she meant by shoulders.

She had seen Hermione with less cover before — at Halloween, when she’d worn that ridiculous, wholly inappropriate vampire costume.

But this was different. There was no pretense, no costume, no excuse. Just Hermione in cotton and simplicity.

Soft. Intimate.

Narcissa couldn’t look away. And yet she had to. She forced her eyes elsewhere, anywhere, before the weight of her stare betrayed her.

It would be harder tonight. Because she wasn’t simply looking, she was about to lie beside her. 

The thought made her pulse kick hard in her throat. Absurd. She was an adult, perfectly capable of managing proximity. And yet…

Perhaps she could take the floor.

The idea rose unbidden, and she nearly scoffed aloud at herself. The bed was a king, big enough for two grown women with ease.

But Narcissa was used to kings. Used to stretching across their breadth in solitude. After Lucius, she had grown accustomed to claiming every inch of space as her own. Now, the thought of sharing it with Hermione Granger of all people made her stomach twist with something dangerously close to nerves.

Would she take up too much room? Crowd her? Touch her in her sleep?

Her gaze flicked back to the bed, to the neat line of pillows she’d placed down the center earlier. A ridiculous precaution, and yet the only thing that kept her spine straight now.

“Professor?” Hermione’s voice drew her back. She was watching her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I see you’ve constructed a fortress.” She gestured toward the line of pillows with a small, teasing wave of her hand.

Heat crept up Narcissa’s neck. “It seemed practical.”

Hermione’s smile softened. “Practical,” she echoed, laughter hidden in the word. “Well. At least we’ll both survive the night unscathed.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched at Hermione’s tone. It was preposterous, the way a simple tease could loosen something in her chest.

“Naturally. I couldn’t risk you doing anything inappropriate in the middle of the night.”

Hermione blinked, then laughed, bright and unrestrained. “Me? Please. If anyone’s going to crawl across this fortress, it’s you.”

Images assaulted Narcissa at once. The thought of moving across the sheets, of closing the distance, of pressing Hermione down against the mattress—

God. 

No.

She strangled the thought before it could bloom, forcing her tone back into its usual elegance. Moving deliberately, she crossed to her side of the bed and lowered herself onto the edge.

“I won’t be crawling, darling,” she said lightly, almost offhand. 

The words slipped out far too easily.

No, not a slip. A choice.

Hermione’s laugh rang out, startled but genuine, tumbling into the space between them. When Narcissa turned her head, she found her already sliding under the covers, tugging the duvet up as though nothing at all were out of place.

Hermione

The moment the word darling left Narcissa’s lips, Hermione thought her entire body had combusted. Her skin was on fire and yet cold all over, flush and pale all at once. The only possible solution was immediate retreat.

So she slid under the covers. Not gracefully. Not calmly. Just fast enough to hide her face and pray Narcissa hadn’t noticed that every inch of her had gone scarlet.

The duvet was a shield, a buffer, a poor excuse for composure. 

But Hermione kept on looking.

Even in the simplicity of a plain shirt and shorts, Narcissa looked regal. Hermione couldn’t imagine her in such ordinary sleepwear, not really. What did she usually wear to bed? Silk, probably. Something decadent. 

She tried not to picture it, because the reality in front of her was better. So much better.

Narcissa’s hair, loose and tumbling past her shoulders, softer than Hermione had ever seen it. Her face, bare of makeup, every line and angle laid plain, every trace of restraint visible in her expression. Her figure, long and elegant, pale and flawless.

And between them? A fortress of pillows. The only thing between Hermione and the dizzying truth of what it would feel like if she just… leaned across.

She was losing her mind. Truly.

But then Narcissa turned, her gaze catching her in the act.

“Where did you go?” Narcissa asked softly, as though she’d caught Hermione wandering off in her thoughts.

Hermione’s lips parted before she could stop them. “You’re so beautiful.”

Silence stretched. Heat climbed Narcissa’s cheekbones, faint but unmistakable, and she broke the moment by sliding neatly under the covers on her side of the bed.

The air shifted. Even with a wall of pillows between them, Hermione could feel her. The warmth of her body, the awareness of her presence, closer than they had ever been.

And Hermione had been close before. She’d stood inches away, close enough to see every fleck of blue in Narcissa’s eyes, close enough to feel her breath. But this, lying down this close to her, this was different.

Hermione turned onto her side, facing the fortress of pillows, facing Narcissa. “I mean it. You really are beautiful.”

Narcissa’s profile shifted. “Banter is less dangerous than this,” she murmured.

Hermione’s lips curved. “I know,” she whispered back. “But I can’t seem to help it. I feel like being honest tonight. More honest than usual.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain against the windows. Then Narcissa hummed, soft and thoughtful.

“In the name of honesty, may I ask you something?”

Hermione’s pulse kicked. “Anything.”

A pause. Then, “What happens next semester?”

Hermione blinked. Of all the things she’d expected, it wasn’t that. “You mean when our class ends.”

“Yes. How do you see us navigating this?”

Hermione inhaled deeply, her answer waiting on the tip of her tongue like she’d rehearsed it. 

“We start properly,” she said. “Dates. Time together outside campus. As public as you want — or as private. We can take it slow. And it won’t be unethical anymore. But if you want… I can speak to the department head. Make it clear that nothing began until after. I’ll do whatever I need to. Because I want this — us — to be something real.”

At last Narcissa turned onto her side, facing her. One arm bent against the pillow, her hand resting just close enough that Hermione could feel its nearness without the touch.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered. “Haven’t you?”

Narcissa’s composure faltered, just slightly. Her eyes softened. “I think about it all the time.”

Hermione’s gaze warmed, almost disbelieving. For a moment, she simply let herself bask in the weight of those words. Then, she shifted slightly. “And how do you see us navigating this?”

Narcissa’s gaze held hers, unwavering. For once, the mask slipped entirely. 

“It falls to me,” she said quietly. “I’ll have to speak with Keating. Make it clear the semester has ended, that you are no longer my student. If there are forms, policies, boundaries to be observed — they’ll be observed. I will not allow a shadow of doubt to fall on us.”

The conviction in her tone made Hermione’s chest ache. She swallowed, then gathered her own courage, inching closer by degrees. Slowly, she lifted her arm onto the pillow, just below Narcissa’s. Her index finger stretched out, brushing lightly against Narcissa’s pinky.

Narcissa’s eyes flicked down at once.

“May I hold your hand?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling but steady enough to reach across the fragile space.

Narcissa didn’t answer immediately. She only looked at her, gaze searching. And then, softly — “Do you really want this?”

“Yes.”

For a beat, neither moved. Then Narcissa rose, graceful even in her silence, and crossed to switch off the main lights. Darkness swept in, softened only by the golden glow of Hermione’s lamp.

When she returned, she resumed her place, lying on her side once more. She let her hand find the pillow again. This time, her pinky looped deliberately with Hermione’s finger.

“Good night, Hermione.” she murmured.

“Good night, Narcissa.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

She woke to the faint tickle of hair against her neck. For a drowsy moment, she thought it was her own curls, until she realized the weight nestled against her chest, the arm curled firmly around her waist.

Her eyes snapped open.

Narcissa.

Narcissa Black, asleep with her head pillowed against Hermione’s shoulder, her breath warm where it fanned across Hermione’s collarbone. Her hand rested lightly but securely against Hermione’s side, as though she’d been holding on all night.

Hermione’s first instinct was panic, but it fizzled almost instantly beneath the steady rhythm of Narcissa’s breathing. Calm. Unhurried. Trusting. The sound seeped into her bones.

She let herself bask in it. Just a minute, she told herself. Just one stolen minute.

Then, with all the care of dismantling a trap, she began to inch her arm free. Narcissa would panic if she woke up like this. Hermione knew it. She couldn’t risk it, not when Narcissa’s dignity and iron composure meant so much to her.

But just as she started to shift, Narcissa stirred. A faint hum against her skin.

“Don’t move,” Narcissa murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Hermione froze. “You won’t like this when you wake up.”

A pause. Then, softer still. “I know. But you’re comfortable. And I’m still tired. Don’t move.”

Hermione’s throat went tight. She swallowed, then chuckled quietly, pressing her cheek against Narcissa’s hair to hide the foolish grin spreading across her face. “Alright,” she whispered. And she let her eyes drift shut again, one hand resting lightly over Narcissa’s where it held her.

When she woke the second time, the bed was empty.

Narcissa was already dressed in yesterday’s silk blouse and tailored trousers, pressed to immaculate perfection as though sleep hadn’t touched her. She stood by the window, morning light gilding her hair.

Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten,” Narcissa replied smoothly, glancing over. “I had our clothes laundered and ironed while you slept.”

Hermione blinked at her. “You—what? You had both our clothes laundered?”

“Of course.” Narcissa gestured toward the neatly folded garments on the dresser. “It would have been negligent to leave them wrinkled. And breakfast is here.” She nodded toward the small table, already set with coffee, eggs, fruit, and pastries.

Hermione’s stomach gave her away with a growl. Narcissa’s lips twitched. “Go shower and change. Then you can join me.”

By the time Hermione had done exactly that, Narcissa was seated at the table, newspaper in one hand, teacup in the other. The picture of unbothered elegance. Hermione sat across from her, reaching immediately for coffee.

She stole a glance at Narcissa over the rim of her cup. “Do you remember this morning?”

Narcissa’s hand stilled on the teacup. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, quick but undeniable. 

“Yes.” She cleared her throat delicately. “I don’t regret it. You were comfortable.” Her gaze flicked to the side, as if weighing her words. “Though I do wonder… What happened to the pillows?”

Hermione nearly spat her coffee. She burst out laughing, setting the cup down before she could spill. “You shoved them away! You wanted to take up the whole bed.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed in scandalized denial. “I most certainly did not.”

“You did,” Hermione said, grinning. “All that effort to build a fortress, and you destroyed it in your sleep.”

“That’s—” Narcissa cut herself off, spine straightening, mouth pressed into the beginnings of a frown. “I would never. I am perfectly disciplined in my rest.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her grin only widening.

Narcissa held her ground for all of three seconds before she had to bite her lip, stopping the smile from breaking free. She looked away, shaking her head once, though her eyes still gleamed.

Hermione laughed again, bright and unrestrained, and Narcissa’s nearly-smile lingered just long enough to make Hermione’s chest ache.

Hours later, Hermione unlocked the door to her shared apartment. The moment it swung open, Bella and Kara were already waiting like two sentinels at the kitchen counter.

“Where have you been?” they demanded together, voices pitched high in scandalized, mock-accusatory unison.

Hermione froze, still holding her bag strap over her shoulder. “Oh, God.”

Bella leaned forward, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Regina mentioned during brunch with Emma that she hadn’t seen Narcissa all day either.”

Kara crossed her arms, attempting sternness but failing with the grin tugging at her mouth. “So? Care to explain, Miss Granger?”

Hermione groaned, dropped her bag, and promptly threw herself face-first onto the sofa. When she rolled onto her back, she was smiling — dreamy, dazed, entirely too soft.

Bella’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god. You slept together.”

Hermione shot up halfway, horrified. “No! No, not like that!” She sank back down, cheeks pink. “But yes, we did sleep. In the same bed.”

Kara gasped. “AND IT WAS A ONE BED TROPE?”

Hermione buried her face in her hands, but laughter shook through her. “Yes. Fine. One bed. But listen—” She peeked at them between her fingers, grin breaking through. “I had the most incredible time at the seminar. And then last night… I was holding her. We woke up that way. And she allowed it.”

Bella collapsed onto a chair, clutching her stomach with laughter. “It’s always the bad girls, isn’t it? They put up all that front, but at the end of the day, they’re the ones who like being held. Rosalie’s the exact same.”

Kara threw her hands up, laughing so hard she nearly toppled off her stool. “Oh wow, Lena too!”

Hermione, already giggling, rolled over into the sofa cushions while Bella and Kara cackled.

When the laughter finally died down, Bella leaned forward, eyes wicked. “Okay, but details. Spill. How exactly did you end up in her arms?”

Hermione groaned into a throw pillow. “Must we?”

Kara and Bella, in unison: “YES.”

Narcissa

By the time Narcissa left her office, she had already stopped by Annalise’s. The dean listened with her usual serene efficiency, nodding as Narcissa explained the delay in their return, the impassable highway, the necessity of staying the night.

“No need to worry,” Annalise said, smoothing over Narcissa’s concerns with a flick of her hand. “I’ve already had three emails from colleagues who attended. They were quite taken with your student — her questions, her clarity of thought. More than one mentioned you must be proud to have her.”

Narcissa inclined her head, as if pride were a neutral thing, a professional thing, nothing to catch in her chest. “Yes,” she said simply. “She’s a remarkable student.”

The words were true. They had always been true. But they rang differently now, and Narcissa carried them with her long after she left campus.

Her flat was quiet when she arrived, tucked away in a small, unassuming building well beyond the university. It was the sort of place that appeared modest at first glance, yet only a handful could afford to own. She had chosen it both for comfort and privacy, and today, as she set her keys down and unpinned her hair, it felt like sanctuary.

She ran a bath, hot enough to send steam curling up the tiles, and lowered herself into the water with a sigh that seemed to spill out from her bones. Muscles unclenched, tension eased, but her mind… her mind betrayed her.

Hermione.

The way she had looked at the seminar, eyes alight with sharpness and certainty. The way she had looked in the hotel, flushed from steam, curls tumbling wild, laughter breaking loose like sunlight through clouds.

And that morning.

Narcissa shut her eyes, water lapping at her collarbones as the memory rose unbidden. Waking to warmth. To Hermione’s arm around her, her own head pillowed against Hermione’s shoulder, her hand curled shamelessly at Hermione’s side. She had let herself linger there. She had allowed it. And for once, she hadn’t felt the need to pull away.

Because she had been at peace. Utterly, impossibly at peace.

The truth pressed close in the quiet, inescapable. She had fallen in love with Hermione Granger.

And here, in the privacy of her bath, she did not fight it. She did not retreat behind the iron walls she had built through years of appearances, of being a wife whose worth was measured by perfection, by the sheen of a Black beside a Malfoy. With Lucius, there had been love, yes, but it had always been love second to reputation. Love hemmed in by presentation.

With Hermione, there had been no pretense. No masks. Just her smile, her laugh, her eyes meeting Narcissa’s like they saw everything.

Narcissa sank deeper into the water, letting it cradle her. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to want without shame. To name it for what it was.

Love.

What would it look like, when the semester ended? She had told Hermione the truth the night before that she thought about it all the time. And she did. In moments like this, alone, when her defenses lowered and her mind wandered to her.

She thought about the practicalities first. She always did. She would speak to Keating. She would make certain every line was observed, every formality completed, so there could be no whispers of impropriety. Hermione must never be shadowed by suspicion, never have her brilliance undermined by careless gossip. No one would ever reduce her to the cruel phrase of sleeping her way to success.

Narcissa would guard her from that, fiercely. She would guard them both.

But when her mind had traced the lines of duty, it always strayed elsewhere. To gentler imaginings. 

Would Hermione like flowers? She could see herself arriving at Hermione’s door, bouquet in hand. But what kind? Roses felt too obvious. Lilies, perhaps. Or wildflowers, fresh from a market stall, disordered and bright, something that might bring that delighted crinkle to Hermione’s eyes.

And art. Hermione would have opinions. She would linger over brushstrokes and talk about symbolism until the museum closed around them. Narcissa found herself wanting to know, wanting to take her hand in quiet galleries and learn her mind through what she admired.

And then, indulgent, dangerous, her thoughts drifted further still.

To France. To Bordeaux, to their family chateau. She could picture Hermione on the terrace, curls catching the late summer sun, a glass of wine in her hand as she laughed into the breeze. She could take her into the library with its high windows and dust-lined shelves, show her the balcony that overlooked the valley, the private garden Narcissa had always kept locked and untouched.

Hermione there, in her world. Not as a guest, not as an intruder, but as if she belonged.

The image was so vivid it ached. Hermione’s laughter in old stone corridors, her bare feet on marble floors, her voice filling rooms.

For once, she did not push it away. For once, she allowed herself to dream, to admit the truth she had already named.

She wanted this. She wanted her.

Chapter Text

Narcissa

It was the first week of December, nearly a week and a half since the seminar, and the air had grown sharper, laced with frost that clung to stone and glass alike. The season had shifted and so, quietly, had they.

Since that night in the hotel, things between her and Hermione had softened. Where before Hermione’s visits during office hours had been occasional, now they had settled into something Narcissa almost counted on.

The last half hour of her late afternoons, there would be a knock — brisk, familiar — and Hermione would step in. Sometimes with coffee or tea in hand, sometimes with her papers and questions, sometimes simply with her presence. They spoke of coursework, of her other classes, of books neither had assigned but both had read. 

Until recently, Hermione had always sat across from her, discussing essays and readings until the clock chimed the end of office hours. But during her last visit, she’d spread her work out on the floor, claiming it was more comfortable, despite Narcissa’s horrified protests. Which was precisely why, this morning, Narcissa had cleared the small table along the wall, the one usually buried beneath stacks of coursework, so that if Hermione decided to visit today (and she would), she’d have a proper place.

Narcissa told herself it was harmless. And yet, as the days darkened and the air grew colder, she found herself looking forward to it. Expecting it.

This afternoon was no different. The knock came and when Narcissa called her in, Hermione slipped through the door, hair wind-tossed from the chill, clutching two steaming cups.

“You’ll thank me,” she announced, setting one carefully at Narcissa’s desk. “It’s nearly freezing out there.”

Narcissa arched a brow, taking in the flush across her cheeks, the faint fog still clinging to her curls. “You look half-frozen yourself.”

“Worth it,” Hermione said, already tugging off her gloves. “They had gingerbread lattes. Limited for the season. I got us both one.”

Narcissa regarded the cup as though it had committed some small offense. “Sweetened coffee is an abomination.”

Hermione only grinned. “Try it before you condemn it.”

With deliberate slowness, to make her point, of course, Narcissa lifted the cup, tasted, and paused. It was warmer than she’d expected, pleasantly spiced, though still far sweeter than she preferred. She set it back down with regal finality.

“Undrinkable,” she said crisply.

“Liar.” Hermione’s voice came with the sort of satisfaction that suggested she’d already won. She shrugged off her coat and unwound her scarf. Narcissa’s gaze lingered longer than it should have — the fall of fabric, the easy reveal of her shoulders beneath the sweater — until Hermione’s eyes flicked up, catching her.

A slow smile curved Hermione’s lips. “Careful, Professor. You look like you’re watching me undress.”

Heat prickled at the back of Narcissa’s neck, but she didn’t flinch. “If you’re hoping to scandalize me, darling, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Hermione froze. Blush bloomed bright and immediate, climbing her cheeks in waves. She cleared her throat, busying herself with folding her scarf. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” she mumbled. “Is that something I should get used to?”

Narcissa allowed the barest smirk. “Perhaps.”

Hermione’s hands fumbled for her bag, crossing to the smaller desk along the wall. Once, it had been where Narcissa stacked coursework and stray essays. Now it was cleared, neat, waiting. A place made ready. Hermione set her bag down there as though it had always been hers.

“You cleaned it off,” Hermione said simply, pulling out her laptop and notebook. “Which means you wanted me here.”

“I wanted my floor free of students sprawling over it like commoners,” Narcissa returned smoothly.

Hermione only laughed, flipping open her laptop. “Mhm. If that helps you sleep at night.”

Narcissa reached for her cup again, another sip before she could stop herself. Still sweet, still cloying, but warming all the same.

Hermione’s eyes flicked up, catching her in the act. “I told the barista to cut the syrup in half,” she said smugly. “You’d have hated it otherwise.”

Narcissa’s lips pressed together to hide a smile. “Scheming suits you.”

“You like it.”

Narcissa lifted her chin, refusing to answer, and instead reached for her own work. But the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with the latte cooling beside her hand.

Hermione

The scratch of her pen slowed, her thoughts drifting. From her place, she caught the elegant line of Narcissa’s profile, the curve of her hand as she wrote, the way the light from the tall window haloed her hair in pale strands.

It hadn’t started this way. Before the seminar, her visits during office hours had been irregular, convenient when she needed them. But after that night, after waking up with Narcissa’s head against her shoulder, the impossible warmth of her in her arms, Hermione had made a choice. To come here. To spend time where she was allowed to. As much as was appropriate.

And Narcissa hadn’t sent her away. Not once.

Hermione glanced around the small desk she occupied, the one Narcissa had cleared for her. Once neatly stacked with graded essays and perfectly ordered files, now it was spotless, organized, with just enough space for her laptop and notes. A place Narcissa had quietly made for her.

A small, ridiculous thing, but her chest tightened anyway. Narcissa had done that. For her. Not because she’d asked, not because she’d needed to, but because she’d noticed.

She traced a finger absently over the grain of the wood, smiling to herself. It was absurd, how something so small could feel like being seen.

Which meant, Hermione thought, that coming here, staying here, was okay.

She bent back over her notes, lips pursed in focus, until movement drew her eye. Narcissa rose from her desk, the silk of her blouse shifting with her. She crossed the space with her usual grace, reaching for a stray paper on the edge of Hermione’s table.

Hermione’s gaze followed without permission. When Narcissa leaned forward, the edge of her collar dipped just slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the elegant line of her collarbone. 

And then it hit her. The scent. Soft, expensive, unmistakably her. Jasmine, maybe, and something warmer beneath it. Something darker. It curled through the air and around Hermione’s senses until it felt like she was breathing Narcissa in.

Before she could stop herself, the words slipped out. “What perfume is that?”

Narcissa straightened slightly from where she’d been leaning over the edge of Hermione’s desk, the movement slow, deliberate.

“My perfume?” Narcissa asked, voice low.

Hermione’s pulse jumped. “I—yes. It’s just,” She bit her lip, fumbling for sense. “You wear different ones. Sometimes floral, sometimes musky. I’ve noticed.”

A pause. Barely a second, but enough to feel it. Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, the hint of a smile ghosting at the corner of her mouth, a look that was equal parts amused and assessing.

“Have you now?” she murmured, her tone softer than before.

Hermione swallowed hard, unable to look away. “I notice everything about you. I can’t seem not to.”

Something flickered in Narcissa’s expression. Then she smiled, faint and knowing, and Hermione’s blush deepened until she wanted to sink straight into the floorboards.

For a heartbeat, Narcissa said nothing. And then the corner of her mouth curved, soft at first, then sharpening into something almost coy.

“Curious then,” she said at last, “that you didn’t notice at the coffee shop.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“That afternoon with Bellatrix. You claim to have been cataloguing my perfumes so closely,” she drawled, “and yet you didn’t notice me at the café when you first saw me with her.”

Hermione’s laugh burst out, startled and incredulous. “Oh my God.” She leaned back in her chair, covering her face with one hand. Then, lowering it, she met Narcissa’s gaze with a grin that was equal parts exasperation and fondness. “T’es encore jalouse?” Are you jealous again?

The French slipped out unbidden, light and teasing.

Narcissa rolled her eyes, turning away with a huff that was far too graceful to be real exasperation. But before she could retreat entirely, Hermione’s fingers darted out, catching her hand.

Narcissa froze.

Hermione’s palm was warm against her skin, thumb brushing over the delicate ridge of bone. For one suspended second, neither of them breathed. Then, impossibly bold, Hermione lifted Narcissa’s wrist and pressed her lips to it, soft and fleeting.

“Je suis à toi, chérie,” she murmured, her voice low and sure. I’m yours, darling.

Narcissa’s inhale was sharp, near soundless. Her pulse fluttered beneath Hermione’s mouth before she gently drew her hand back, not to pull away, but to tip Hermione’s chin upward with the same fingers, the gesture both tender and devastating.

“I know you are,” she said.

Hermione smiled. Then, with a gentleness that felt like a promise, she lifted her hand and removed Narcissa’s from her chin to thread their fingers together.

Narcissa’s gaze followed the motion, pausing on their joined hands. She didn’t pull away.

For a heartbeat, she simply looked, as though memorizing the sight, before her thumb brushed faintly against Hermione’s, the smallest concession, the quietest surrender.

Hermione’s smile deepened, half shy, half defiant. “But?”

Narcissa hesitated, just long enough for the mask to slip. A tiny, almost petulant furrow appeared between her brows, the sort of expression no one else alive would ever be allowed to see.

“I don’t like it when Bellatrix flirts with you,” she said at last. “She’s far too familiar. It irks me.”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “She just likes to tease. You don’t need to be jealous.”

Narcissa’s mouth quirked. “Don’t I?”

Hermione’s voice was gentle, steady and sure. “No. Because I want you. Only you. And I will remind you each and every time.”

Hermione let it linger, her pulse thrumming, before speaking again. “It’s only a few weeks until the semester ends. Then I can kiss you.”

Narcissa laughed. “You’ll have to buy me dinner first.” Her thumb brushed once more against Hermione’s hand before she finally pulled away, composure sliding neatly back into place as she returned to her desk.

Hermione watched her, warmth still thrumming beneath her skin. When Narcissa glanced up again, she caught Hermione’s grin.

“I can’t wait,” Hermione said, adding a small, conspiratorial wink.

Chapter Text

Hermione

By Thursday morning, Kara and Bella had declared an intervention.

“You’re going again?” Kara asked from the kitchen, half-buried in her journalism notes and somehow still managing to glare over her mug. “You were just there yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.”

Hermione zipped her coat, feigning innocence. “What? She’s my professor.”

Bella arched an eyebrow. “Right. And you’re just diligently furthering your education over lattes and stolen glances.”

Hermione threw a balled-up napkin at her. “I’ll further your education in a second.”

Bella ducked, laughing. “I’m just saying, it’s starting to sound like you live in her office.”

“It’s not dangerous, is it?” Kara asked, more gently now, her teasing giving way to genuine concern. “You spending so much time there?”

Hermione hesitated. The question caught her off-guard. “No,” she said finally. “It doesn’t feel dangerous.”

Which, in hindsight, should have been a warning.

When Hermione arrived, Narcissa was behind her desk, a faint smile playing on her lips as she typed something on her laptop.

“You’re in an unusually good mood,” Hermione said as she crossed the room, setting her bag down on her desk — her desk, now — and it still made her chest tighten a little every time she thought about it.

“I am,” Narcissa admitted easily, turning in her chair to face her. “Draco called.”

Hermione brightened. “Oh! How is he?”

“Well,” Narcissa said, and there was something softer in her tone — fondness, unguarded. “He’s good. Busy. But he asked about Christmas.”

Hermione leaned against the edge of the smaller table, her curiosity piqued. “You’ll be spending it together?”

“I believe so.” Narcissa’s smile deepened. “Last year he spent the holidays with his father. This year he said he’d like to stay with me. He even asked if I’d cook.”

Hermione blinked, delighted. “You? In the kitchen?”

Narcissa gave her a look that was half amusement, half mock offense. “I can cook, Miss Granger.”

“I’m sure you can,” Hermione said, grinning. “But I can’t imagine you in an apron.”

Narcissa looked up, eyes glinting. “No? Can you picture me in something else instead?”

Hermione’s mind betrayed her instantly. Not an apron. Something softer, darker. Silk, maybe. A nightgown, thin straps sliding down pale shoulders, the delicate fall of fabric against skin—

She nearly fell to her knees.

Heat rushed up her neck. Narcissa’s laughter followed, smooth and delighted, like she knew exactly what image had just detonated in Hermione’s head.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite capable,” Narcissa said, still smiling, voice too casual to be innocent. “And I’ve no intention of burning the house down.”

Hermione exhaled a laugh, shaking her head as if to physically dispel the thought. “Right. Of course not. Entirely capable.”

The laughter that followed was easy, light. The kind that came naturally now.

To ground herself, Hermione latched onto the first safe thread she could find. “So you and Draco are close.”

Hermione had heard of Draco before, of course — little mentions here and there. The sort that slipped out in passing when Narcissa spoke of her week or an old story. But this… this was more.

“We are.” Narcissa’s expression gentled, her gaze going distant for a moment. “He’s grown into someone I’m very proud of. His father and I—” She paused, searching for the right word. “We manage. We’ve both made peace with the fact that we were better as parents than as partners. We still speak often. He and Draco are close as well.”

Hermione was still recovering from her embarrassment, the flush hadn’t quite left her cheeks, but when Narcissa spoke, something in her softened. She found herself smiling at how fond Narcissa looked. How open. 

She’d seen Narcissa’s softness before, in moments meant for her. For them. But this was different. This was Narcissa as a mother — tender in a way Hermione hadn’t witnessed before. She found herself cherishing it, grateful that Narcissa let her see it at all.

“That’s lovely,” Hermione said quietly. “It really is.”

Narcissa smiled, a small, private thing, and the sight undid Hermione.

The more she saw of her — the woman beneath the poise, beneath the restraint — the deeper Hermione felt herself falling.

Narcissa

“You’re staring,” Narcissa said, voice light but knowing. 

Hermione hummed, unbothered. “Can you blame me?”

“I suppose not,” she murmured, eyes soft but amused. “Though it does make it difficult to work.”

Hermione tilted her head, her grin small, earnest. “You look happy. I like seeing you that way.”

Something flickered in Narcissa’s chest at that. Unexpected, unguarded. “Do I?”

“You do,” Hermione said simply. “You always do when you talk about Draco.”

Narcissa’s lips curved, almost shy before she caught herself. “Careful, Miss Granger. Compliments like that will make me sentimental.”

“Would that be so terrible?” Hermione asked, moving closer, just enough to make the air shift between them.

“Depends,” Narcissa said, her tone teasing, low. “What do you intend to do with my sentimentality?”

And before Narcissa could reply, Hermione’s hand brushed the edge of her desk, fingers curling around it as she stepped closer. So close Narcissa could feel the warmth of her, the faint brush of fabric against her knees. When Narcissa shifted ever so slightly, Hermione’s knee nudged hers — a subtle, dangerous invitation.

Narcissa’s composure wavered, just for a moment. Her voice dropped, soft as silk. “Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Professor?” Hermione asked, pretending innocence, though her gaze lingered far too long on Narcissa’s mouth.

Narcissa leaned back, slow, deliberate, her knees parting just enough that Hermione’s breath hitched. “You’re playing with fire.”

Hermione smiled. “Then tell me to stop.”

The words hung between them like a dare. Narcissa should have. She knew she should have.

Instead, her voice came quieter. “Step back.”

Hermione stilled, eyes locked on hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, she obeyed.

Narcissa’s pulse jumped. It wasn’t distance she felt, but heat, curling tight in her chest at the sight of Hermione’s pupils blown wide, her breath uneven. The obedience wasn’t deference. It was trust. Willingness.

“Like that?” Hermione asked softly.

There was a knock at the door — soft, hesitant — but neither of them heard it. If Narcissa’s heart hadn’t been pounding in her ears, she might have.

Narcissa exhaled, low and steady. “Yes,” she said before she could stop herself. “Go ahead—”

The door swung open.

Chapter Text

Narcissa

The door swung open.

For a suspended, disbelieving second, no one moved. Narcissa’s head turned first, slow and precise, her body still angled toward Hermione. Hermione followed her gaze, the blood draining from her face.

A girl stood frozen in the doorway, younger, perhaps a sophomore, eyes wide and horrified. A file clutched to her chest.

“Oh— I— I’m so sorry— I thought—”

Narcissa’s tone cut through her stammering like ice cracking over a lake. “Our meeting is tomorrow, Miss Craven.”

The student squeaked again, retreating with hurried apologies before the door clicked shut behind her. Silence rushed in, heavy and suffocating.

Narcissa didn’t move. For a long moment, she stared at the door, her jaw tightening, her composure stitching itself back together one ruthless thread at a time.

And then, softer, but infinitely colder, “You should go.”

Hermione blinked, confusion and fear warring on her face. “She just— it’s not—”

“This,” Narcissa interrupted, finally standing, her voice sharp enough to draw blood, “is exactly what people will think it is. A student in my office, after hours, too close. Do you have any idea what that looks like?”

Hermione flinched. “I stepped back. We weren’t—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Narcissa’s tone didn’t rise, but it hardened, clipped and precise. “You need to leave. Now.”

Hermione’s throat worked as she swallowed. “Narcissa—”

The name hit like a blow, too intimate, too raw. Narcissa turned away, eyes fixed on the papers on her desk, her shoulders drawn like armor. “This was a mistake, Miss Granger.”

The words landed like glass shattering between them.

Hermione’s breath caught, one half-step closer, as though she could still fix it. But Narcissa didn’t look up.

Her hands were folded neatly before her. Perfect. Composed. Cold.

“Please,” Hermione said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

“There’s nothing to do,” Narcissa replied, her voice even, final. “We’ll simply finish the semester as we began it.”

“As we began it,” Hermione echoed, her voice cracking. “Like none of this happened?”

Narcissa’s silence was the only answer she gave.

Hermione’s breath trembled out. “Please, don’t—” She stopped herself, shaking her head, trying to find the right words, anything that could undo this sudden distance. “You don’t have to push me away. It was an accident. She doesn’t know what she saw, we can—”

“Hermione.” Narcissa’s tone was soft, but there was no warmth left in it. It was the voice of a professor, not the woman who had let Hermione hold her hand, who had smiled at her over coffee. Not the woman who had slept beside her, who had laid her head on her shoulder. “Enough.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Narcissa fixed her eyes on the papers as though they were suddenly of grave importance. Her fingers, steady now, straightened the top sheet with surgical precision. “I should not have allowed this to continue as long as I did,” she said. “You and I— we’ve let lines blur that should never have blurred.”

Hermione took another step forward, voice breaking. “You didn’t let them blur. We both did. And it’s not wrong to care about someone—”

“It is when you’re my student.” Narcissa’s words landed like frost. “It was always going to end this way.”

Hermione felt the sting behind her eyes, the ache in her throat. “You don’t mean that.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across Narcissa’s face. Pain, maybe. Regret. But when she spoke again, her voice was cold, absolute. “I do.”

Silence fell again. Thick, impossible.

Hermione’s hands trembled. Her next words came out small, brittle. “Right. Of course you do.”

She waited just one heartbeat longer for Narcissa to look up. To take it back. To say something.

But Narcissa didn’t.

So Hermione turned and retrieved her things. The sound of the door closing behind her was quiet but final, the kind of sound that hollowed a room out completely.

Narcissa sat alone, staring at the space where Hermione had been. 

When she finally exhaled, it was through clenched teeth, as if she could steady herself through will alone.

It had to be this way.

It had to.

Hermione

She didn’t remember leaving the building. 

Only the echo of the door clicking shut behind her and the way the cold hit her all at once. The wind stung her cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the ache hollowing out her chest.

By the time she reached the main walkway, the lamps had already come on, soft golden halos cutting through the early December dusk. Her fingers were numb, her thoughts worse. She walked faster.

She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in the open where anyone could see her, not after walking out of Narcissa’s office. She had to look composed. Normal. Just another student heading home after a long day.

So she straightened her shoulders. Kept her head high.

If anyone looked too closely, they might’ve seen her blinking too often, or the way her jaw trembled when she thought no one was watching.

By the time she reached the apartment, her hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped her keys. The second the door opened, the warmth hit her, the soft glow of their shared lamps, the sound of Bella’s laughter from the couch, the faint beeping of something in the microwave.

And then Kara’s voice: “You’re home already? Everything okay?”

Hermione froze in the doorway. For a moment, she thought she could do it — could smile, could say fine — but the words stuck somewhere in her throat.

Bella sat up, the grin fading as she really looked at her. “Hey. What happened?”

Hermione shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it, her fingers still clutching the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

“She—” Her voice cracked, small and broken. “She ended it.”

Kara was the first to move, crossing the room in quick, steady steps. “What do you mean, she ended it? What happened?”

Hermione’s eyes burned. “A student walked in. She saw us— not doing anything— but close enough, I suppose. Narcissa just—” She let out a bitter laugh that died halfway through. “She turned cold. Like none of it ever mattered.”

Bella stood now too, coming up beside Kara. “Oh, Hermione…”

Hermione shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I tried to tell her it didn’t have to mean anything bad, that no one would believe anything if we just stayed calm, but she— she said it was a mistake.”

That, somehow, hurt most of all.

Kara’s hand found her arm, grounding, steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She thinks she did.” Hermione’s voice cracked again, raw. “And maybe she’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.” Bella’s tone was firm, uncharacteristically sharp. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Hermione pressed her palms to her face, shaking her head. “She looked at me like she didn’t even know me.”

Neither of them spoke for a long while. The only sound was Hermione’s uneven breathing, the quiet hum of the heater, the faint beeping of whatever Kara had forgotten in the microwave.

When Hermione finally sank onto the couch, Kara sat beside her, looping an arm around her shoulders. Bella crouched in front, wordless for once.

Hermione stared at her hands. 

“I knew it was too good,” she whispered. “I just didn’t think it would end like this.”

Kara’s hand rubbed slow circles against her back, the kind that said I’m here, the kind that made it harder to hold herself together.

Hermione gave a small, broken laugh. “The student— she didn’t even see anything. We weren’t touching. We weren’t doing anything.”

Bella’s brow furrowed. “So she just panicked?”

“She’s… she’s terrified of what people will think,” Hermione said, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. “Of what it might cost us. And I get that, I do, but she didn’t have to pretend it meant nothing.”

“Maybe she thought she was protecting you,” Bella said. 

Hermione looked up, eyes shining with tears. “She hurt me instead.”

Silence. The kind that thrummed with the weight of it all. And then, quietly, fiercely:

“I’m not giving up.”

Kara blinked. “Hermione—”

“No.” Hermione’s voice was soft, but steady now. “She thinks she’s protecting me, but she’s wrong. The student didn’t see anything inappropriate. We weren’t crossing a line. And if she’d just stop panicking long enough to listen, she’d see that.”

Bella tilted her head, studying her. “You sound pretty sure.”

“I am.” Hermione’s hands curled into fists against her knees. “I’m in love with her. And I’m not going to let fear, hers or mine, erase that.”

Kara exchanged a glance with Bella, then sighed, squeezing Hermione’s shoulder. “Then you talk to her. But maybe not tomorrow. Give her a little time to breathe.”

Hermione nodded, though her throat tightened again. “Yeah. Time.”

She wasn’t sure if she meant for Narcissa to calm down or for herself to stop shaking.

Chapter Text

Hermione

By Monday, the air had grown colder — the kind that burned her lungs when she walked across campus. Finals week was close enough to taste, and yet all Hermione could feel was the silence.

Narcissa’s silence.

She still taught her classes as if nothing had happened. Still stood at the front of the lecture hall, posture perfect, voice steady, every word crisp and measured. Except now, there was no trace of softness beneath the surface. No faint curve of amusement when Hermione raised a point, no glint of pride when she answered correctly.

Just Professor Black.

Hermione forced herself to focus, taking notes with mechanical precision. Her hand hurt by the time the clock struck the hour, but she didn’t care. It was the only way to keep herself from looking at Narcissa too long, from remembering the way her hands had once brushed hers, the way her voice had softened when she said her name.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said, without looking up from her notes. “You’ll take the next example.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. Even the way she said Miss Granger sounded wrong now — stripped of its usual warmth, too formal, too safe.

She stood, answered flawlessly, and sat down again. Narcissa gave her the faintest nod of acknowledgment, the same nod she gave everyone else, and moved on.

When class ended, Hermione stayed seated, pretending to gather her things while the others filtered out. Her heart beat hard against her ribs.

Wait. Just wait.

She watched Narcissa stack her papers, close her laptop, slide it neatly into her bag. Hermione waited until the last student left before speaking.

“Professor?”

Narcissa didn’t even look up. “If this is about your final paper, you may email it to me.”

“It’s not.” Hermione’s voice came out softer than she meant it to. “I just— can we talk?”

That made Narcissa pause. Just barely. But she didn’t look at her. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“There’s everything to discuss,” Hermione insisted, standing now, her fingers tightening on the edge of her desk. “You can’t just pretend—”

“I’m late for a meeting,” Narcissa said, her tone flawless, polite. Unmovable.

Hermione’s chest caved inward. “Please,” she tried again, the word cracking mid-breath.

But Narcissa had already turned away, her heels clicking neatly across the floor, the door shutting behind her before Hermione could take another step.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

When she finally emerged into the hallway, Kara was waiting just outside the classroom, leaning against the wall. Her expression softened the moment she saw Hermione’s face.

“I saw her leave,” Kara said quietly. 

Hermione nodded once, numbly. “Yeah.”

Kara hesitated. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Hermione said automatically, even though her voice was barely more than air.

But she wasn’t fine.

She tried the office later that day. The door was locked. The lights were off.

She tried again the next morning. And the next. Each time, the same. The neat little nameplate reading Professor N. Black, the same polished brass handle that didn’t turn.

No trace of her.

By the end of the week, Hermione had started to memorize the rhythm of disappointment.

She’d linger for a few minutes anyway, standing outside the office as though the sheer force of wanting might be enough to make the door open.

It never did.

Narcissa

Narcissa didn’t know if Hermione still came to her door.

She had no way of knowing — she made certain of that.

Narcissa hadn’t worked in her office a single afternoon since that day. The moment her last lecture ended, she gathered her things with clinical precision and left the building before anyone could stop her. She brought her documents home instead, arranging them in immaculate piles across her home office table. On other days, she found a quiet café off campus, someplace anonymous where no one would think to look for her.

She told herself it was safer this way. Cleaner. Necessary.

And yet, even tucked into the anonymity of a café or the silence of her flat, she never quite managed to take a full breath.

Avoiding her office didn’t make it easier.

It only made the ache sharper.

Each lecture was an exquisite kind of torment. Hermione sat in front as always, posture straight, notes aligned, but the light was gone. The spark that made her speak with fire, the little flashes of amusement they used to share, the softness she saved only for Narcissa… all of it had been extinguished.

Narcissa had done that.

She kept her tone even. Professional. Impenetrable.

She answered Hermione’s raised hand with the same clinical detachment she offered every other student. She dismissed the class without letting her eyes linger. She walked out quickly, heels sharp, breath locked in her chest, never allowing herself to look back.

Because if she did — if she saw Hermione’s face — she would crack.

She avoided her office except for mandatory hours. Slipped away before Hermione could arrive. Made herself unavailable. Each choice was a wound she pressed into herself deliberately, as if the pain would make her resolve stronger.

It didn’t.

Tonight, she had stayed later than she ever did anymore — long after the hallways had emptied, long after the last TA had left the building. It was safe now, she told herself. Hermione wouldn’t be here this late. No one would.

She was buried in unavoidable departmental forms when the door swung open without warning.

“Alright,” Regina Mills announced, shutting the door behind her. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Narcissa looked up, startled. Regina never barged anywhere. “Excuse me?”

Regina folded her arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I assure you,” Narcissa said coolly, “I have no idea—”

“Oh, please.” Regina stepped closer. “Something happened between you and Hermione.”

The air in the room froze.

Narcissa’s spine straightened. “That is an outrageous accusation.”

Regina’s eyebrow lifted. “Is it? Because I overheard her not long ago. Hermione, Bella, and their blonde friend — talking about her crush on you.”

Narcissa’s mouth went dry.

Regina continued, relentless. “And that night at the restaurant? When I asked Hermione to dinner? That was teasing. You should’ve seen her face.” She paused. “Actually, you probably did.”

Narcissa’s pulse stumbled.

Regina’s voice softened, but only slightly. “I saw the two of you talking when I came back from the restroom. Quiet. Close. It wasn’t inappropriate, but it was something.” 

She held Narcissa’s gaze.

“You knew,” Narcissa said suddenly, sharply. “You’ve been pushing this from the beginning. Volunteering Hermione for the seminar. All your little comments. Teasing.” Her voice tightened. “Or was it manipulation?”

Regina blinked, startled but not offended. “Manipulation? Narcissa, it was obvious.”

“Obvious?” Narcissa repeated, fury rising. “That my student was—”

“That you cared,” Regina cut in simply. “That both of you cared.”

Narcissa’s nails dug crescent moons into her palms.

Regina’s voice gentled further, losing its bite. “Look. I didn’t do it to trap you. Or embarrass you. I just…” She hesitated. “I’ve been where you are.”

Narcissa frowned.

Regina’s expression softened — something warm, quietly vulnerable. “When I met Emma, it wasn’t what I expected. Or planned. Or wanted, at first. It didn’t fit the rules I built my life around. It terrified me. But I almost missed it because of that.” She shook her head. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake.”

Narcissa’s heart twisted, aching sharp. “This is not the same.”

“No,” Regina agreed. “It’s different. But that doesn’t make it less real.”

“You are mistaken,” Narcissa said sharply. “Hermione Granger is infatuated. She has been for some time. Rejecting her outright did not work, so I entertained her— briefly — in hopes she would eventually lose interest.”

Regina stared at her, stunned. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do,” Narcissa snapped, even though the words tasted like poison. “And in any case, the matter is now resolved. I ended it. She will… recover.”

Regina just stared at her.

“Narcissa, if this is you trying to protect her, you’re doing a terrible job. She looked devastated in class today. I thought she was going to cry.”

Narcissa’s breath faltered.

She forced herself to look away. “Then she will not make that mistake again.”

Regina exhaled, something between disbelief and heartbreak. “You’re lying through your teeth.”

Narcissa didn’t respond.

She couldn’t.

Because she’d felt the truth of it like a bruise beneath every word.

Regina shook her head. “She’s in love with you. And you—”

“Enough.” Narcissa’s voice cracked like a whip. “This conversation is over.”

But Regina didn’t back down. “You’re in love with her too.”

Narcissa went still.

Then she laughed — a quiet, elegant, cutting sound. “Regina. Really.”

Regina held her gaze. “Am I wrong?”

“You are,” Narcissa replied, her tone turning glacial. “Catastrophically.”

She straightened, every line of her posture sharpened into aristocratic disdain — the old armor she hadn’t worn in years settling over her like steel.

“Me?” Narcissa said, each syllable precise. “In love with a student? With Hermione Granger?”

Regina lifted an eyebrow, but Narcissa didn’t let her speak.

“Yes, she is clever. And earnest. And… eager. But that hardly elevates her. You seem to have mistaken courtesy for affection. I humored her because rejecting her directly only encouraged her.” 

Regina looked unconvinced but Narcissa pressed on.

“And the notion,” she said, “that someone of my position would ever be romantically entangled with a girl barely navigating her early twenties… It’s laughable. Hermione Granger is admirable, in her way. But she does not meet the standards required for anything beyond academic mentorship. Certainly not mine.”

The final blade slid in, smooth and merciless:

“How could I ever fall for someone like her?”

Silence.

Heavy. Shattered.

And then—

A sound at the doorway.

A breath curled inward on itself.

Narcissa turned.

Hermione stood just outside the threshold, utterly still.

Her eyes were glassed with hurt, her lips parted in a silent, broken inhale.

And Narcissa realized—

Hermione had heard everything.

“Silly little me then,” she said, letting out a small, broken laugh. “To think someone like you could ever fall in love with someone like me. How embarrassingly stupid I’ve been. Don’t worry. I won’t ever bother you again.”

Chapter Text

Narcissa

Hermione didn’t wait.

The moment those words left her lips — 

“…I won’t ever bother you again.”

— she turned and walked away.

Regina was the first to move.

“Hermione—” she called, hurrying down the hall after her.

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. Narcissa stayed completely still.

It was the only way to keep standing.

Her hands braced the edge of her desk, knuckles bleaching white, every inch of her body vibrating with tension she could not release, not here, not yet.

She waited until the hallway went silent.

Waited until she could no longer hear Hermione’s footsteps.

Waited until she was sure she was alone.

Then she sat.

Slowly. Carefully. As though any abrupt movement would undo her entirely.

Her breath hitched, sharp and unsteady.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. It shook.

She had done the right thing. She had protected Hermione. She had ended it before it could destroy them both.

So why did it feel like she’d carved her own ribs out one by one?

She straightened her papers with an unsteady hand.

Left the office.

Rode a cab home.

And only when the door to her flat shut behind her, only when the silence wrapped around her like a shroud, did she finally break.

Narcissa curled onto the sofa, fingers pressed to her lips, her breath trembling like something fragile and wounded. She didn’t cry but the shaking wouldn’t stop, the ache wouldn’t stop, the hollowed-out, harrowing sense of loss would not stop.

Hermione was gone.

Because she’d made it so.

Because she’d said the most vicious, calculated things she had ever spoken — not to Hermione, but about her — and Hermione had heard every syllable.

She pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes.

It had to be done.

It had to.

So why did it hurt like this?

Finals week arrived. Hermione kept her promise. She didn’t look for Narcissa. Didn’t appear at her office.

And Narcissa felt every second of it like a fresh incision.

The days blurred into white noise — grading, meetings, end-of-semester protocol — all of it mechanical, empty, threaded through with a single unbearable constant:

Hermione was gone, and Narcissa had no right to want otherwise.

She told herself she should feel relieved. She told herself Hermione was safer this way. She told herself distance was good. Necessary.

None of it made the pit in her chest any smaller.

By the time the final exam arrived, she had almost convinced herself that the worst was over.

But then Hermione arrived early. Took a seat in the front row. Did not look at Narcissa once.

Narcissa’s pulse jumped painfully, but she kept her voice level as she distributed the exam.

The room settled. Pens scratched. Pages turned.

And then, Hermione stood.

She was finished.

She approached the desk with her exam papers in hand.

Narcissa’s breath caught as Hermione stopped before her — the same place she had stood a hundred times before, but now with a distance that felt cavernous.

Hermione set the paper down with a quiet, perfectly polite,

“Thank you, Professor.”

No tremor in her voice. No redness around her eyes. No exhaustion etched into her face.

No trace of the girl who had broken open in Narcissa’s doorway.

She looked… steady.

Composed.

Whole.

Recovering.

And Narcissa hated the sharp, gutting stab of grief that pierced her at the sight.

She should be relieved. She should be grateful that Hermione was healing. She should be proud of her resilience. Instead, something inside her splintered.

As Hermione turned away, as she walked steadily out of the room without a single backward glance, Narcissa felt it hit her:

This was the last time she would see Hermione that year.

Hermione

She didn’t make it far down the hall before Regina followed her.

Hermione remembered the sound of footsteps behind her, quick and uneven, and the way she’d already known who it was without turning around. Regina had caught up to her just as the hurt settled into something heavier.

Regina apologized. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to acknowledge the damage.

Hermione told her she understood.

She understood why Narcissa had said those things. Narcissa had been backed into a corner. She had panicked. And when Narcissa panicked, she reached for control. For distance. For words sharp enough to end the threat entirely.

Hermione understood all of that.

She loved Narcissa enough to recognize it for what it was. Enough to know her patterns, her reflexes, the exact way she turned fear into authority and vulnerability into disdain. Hermione hadn’t been surprised by Narcissa’s reaction — not really. In a terrible way, it was exactly what she had expected.

That knowledge didn’t soften the blow.

If anything, it made it worse.

Because understanding why someone hurt you did not erase the fact that they chose to do it. Narcissa hadn’t merely closed the door — she had slammed it, bolted it, and scorched the ground in front of it. She hadn’t just protected herself or Hermione, she had gone further than she needed to. She had made sure there was nothing left to reach for.

Hermione understood that Narcissa loved her. She still believed that — fiercely, stubbornly. Loved her enough to be afraid. Loved her enough to sacrifice herself. Loved her enough to say the ugliest things she could think of if it meant ending the danger.

But Narcissa had still said them.

Out loud. Deliberately.

And that mattered.

Intent did not undo impact. Love did not excuse cruelty. And even if the words had been armor, they had still cut just as deeply.

Regina didn’t argue with her. She didn’t defend Narcissa or contradict Hermione’s certainty. She only placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, a quiet, grounding presence that acknowledged the hurt without trying to fix it.

Hermione left shortly after.

That night, she went back to the apartment and told Kara and Bella everything. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just in pieces, as if laying the story out carefully might keep it from collapsing under its own weight.

They listened. They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t tell her what she should do or how she should feel. They stayed close.

Hermione cried herself to sleep with her face turned into her pillow. When she woke the next morning, her eyes were swollen but dry. Something inside her had shifted — not healed, but set.

She would keep her promise.

She wouldn’t seek Narcissa out again.

By the time finals week arrived, Hermione had learned how to hold herself together in public. How to look composed. How to finish an exam early, place it neatly on the desk, and walk away without looking back.

And even now, standing on the other side of it, she knew two things to be true at once:

She understood why Narcissa had done what she did.

And it had still broken her heart.

Hermione didn’t plan it.

She left the building with her hands still cold and her head oddly empty, the kind of emptiness that followed after everything important had already happened. Kara and Bella were still buried in finals. Ginny had texted three apologies and a promise to call later. Hermione had replied with a heart.

She walked without thinking. Let the city lights pull her forward.

Black & Red glowed softly across the street from where she stood. Christmas lights were already strung along the windows, blinking lazily. Hermione hesitated for half a second, then walked forward and pushed the door open.

Heat. Sound. The low murmur of voices, glasses clinking, music humming just loud enough to blur the edges of thought.

She took a seat at the bar and ordered something simple. 

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t think, not really.

She just existed.

“Wow,” a familiar voice drawled from beside her. “It’s been a while.”

Hermione blinked and turned.

Bellatrix Black leaned against the bar, dark hair loose, eyes sharp and amused in that way that always made Hermione feel like she was being appraised.

“Shit,” Bellatrix continued lightly. “Did my sister break your heart or something?”

Hermione stared at her for a second.

She didn’t answer.

“Ah,” Bellatrix said. “That bad, then.” A beat. Then, with a wicked tilt of her mouth, “You know, you really should’ve chosen me instead. Better hair.”

That did it.

Hermione huffed, cracking a small smile, and shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

Bellatrix grinned, pleased. “And yet, here you are.”

Hermione exhaled, something loosening in her chest. “Is it that obvious?” she murmured.

Bellatrix snorted. “Please. I’ve seen that look before. Usually right before someone swears off love forever and orders another drink.”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to her glass. “I don’t think I’m swearing off anything. I just… needed somewhere to be.”

Bellatrix studied her, the humor softening just a fraction. “Fair. This place is good for that. You don’t have to explain yourself. Not even to me.”

Hermione nodded, eyes flicking briefly to the lights, the people, the warmth. Then she hesitated, just slightly.

“It’s just…” she said carefully. “You’re her sister. And I don’t want to make things awkward. Or disrespectful. I don’t know.”

Bellatrix barked a quiet laugh. “Jesus, you really are in deep.”

Hermione flushed faintly but didn’t deny it.

Bellatrix leaned in closer, voice dropping. “Listen to me. This is a safe space. And you don’t need permission to exist in a bar just because my sister has the emotional range of a glacier.”

That earned another small smile.

“So it’s not weird that I’m here?” Hermione asked more softly.

Bellatrix shrugged. “Only if you make it weird.” Then, “But let me know if you want a rebound, yeah?” 

Hermione shook her head again, her smile bigger this time. “Bellatrix.”

“Fine, fine,” Bella said, holding up her hands in mock surrender.

She straightened, then shot Hermione a slow, exaggerated wink. “Drink up. Next one’s on the house. Occupational hazard of being related to emotionally constipated academics.”

Hermione snorted despite herself.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Her third glass sat untouched in front of her, condensation beading along the rim as she slowly swirled it between her fingers. She wasn’t drunk. Not even close. Hermione had never been the type to drink her way through heartbreak. Drinking, for her, was celebratory. A shared bottle, a toast, laughter that lingered.

There was nothing to celebrate tonight.

The low hum of the bar wrapped around her. It was grounding. Anonymous. A place to exist without having to explain herself.

Her phone buzzed against the counter.

She glanced down.

Kara: Where did you disappear to
Bella: We finished hours ago btw
Kara: Are you alive

Hermione blinked, then checked the time.

Oh.

Her brows lifted slightly as the realization settled in. They’d finished their exams. And instead of immediately tracking her down, Kara and Bella had given her space. Let her sit here alone with her thoughts until they figured she’d had enough.

The thought warmed something in her chest.

She typed back quickly.

Hermione: Alive
Hermione: At black & red
Hermione: Heading home now

She slipped the phone back into her coat pocket and reached for her bag, already shifting off the barstool when Bellatrix appeared at her side, as if summoned by instinct.

“Heading out?” she asked, tone easy.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, offering a small smile. “I didn’t realize how long I’d been here.”

Bellatrix glanced toward the door, then back at her. “I can walk you. For company.”

Hermione hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Okay.”

They stepped out into the cold together, the door closing behind them with a familiar thud. The night air was sharp but clean, the kind that cleared your head whether you wanted it to or not.

They walked in companionable silence for a block before Hermione glanced sideways at her, lips twitching.

“You’re not going to try to seduce me on the walk to my apartment, are you?”

Bellatrix barked out a laugh. “God, no. I promise.”

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “Even if I asked you to?”

Bellatrix stopped dead in her tracks.

Hermione barely managed to keep a straight face before she broke, laughing softly. “I’m joking.”

Bellatrix let out a breath, rubbing a hand over her face. “You’re dangerous,” she said, shaking her head as they resumed walking. “For a second there, I thought I was going to have to hate my sister for having your affections.”

Hermione smiled, fond and faintly tired. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bellatrix said easily. “It was almost worth it.”

They walked on, the conversation drifting naturally.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Bellatrix asked.

Hermione tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. “Tomorrow my friends and I are going gift shopping. Then our little Christmas dinner. Just us. We do it every year before we all scatter.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is,” Hermione said softly. “I fly out the day after. Just my parents and me, but we’ll spend most of it with my mum’s side of the family. You?”

Bellatrix nodded. “We’re all going to the vacation house. Me, my sisters. Andromeda’s coming with her daughter. Cousins too.”

“No parents,” Hermione said gently.

Bellatrix shrugged, but there was no bitterness in it. “Just us. It works.”

They reached Hermione’s building a few minutes later. The lights in the windows glowed warmly against the dark, familiar and safe.

“Well,” Bellatrix said, stopping at the steps. “This is you.”

Hermione turned to face her. “Thanks. For the walk.”

“Anytime,” Bellatrix replied. Then, after a beat, “Take care of yourself.”

Hermione nodded. “You too.”

Bellatrix watched her go, waiting until the door closed behind her before turning back down the street.

Hermione climbed the stairs alone, her footsteps quiet, her heart steady in that careful, held-together way.

Tomorrow, she would pack.

The next day, she would leave.

Tonight, she would rest.

The mall was a war zone.

They’d arrived the moment the doors opened, armed with coffee, lists, and the grim determination of people who knew procrastination would only make everything worse. Within minutes, Kara had somehow acquired more bags than seemed physically possible, the straps cutting into her hands as she marched forward like a woman on a mission.

“I don’t understand how you do this every year,” Bella said, eyeing the haul. “You look like Santa if Santa hated capitalism but still participated aggressively.”

Kara adjusted her grip. “It’s called love,” she said solemnly. “And poor planning.”

Hermione laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days. She already had gifts for her parents tucked safely in her bag. Thoughtful, practical, chosen weeks ago. Now she was drifting between shelves, fingers brushing scarves and notebooks and little things that felt like Bella or Kara.

They split up eventually — Bella heading toward a boutique for something she refused to explain (“Dad stuff, and Rosalie stuff, and don’t ask”), Kara disappearing into what looked like a stationery store but would somehow result in five more bags.

Hermione lingered.

That was when she saw the hair.

Silver-blonde.

Her heart leapt violently, breath catching before she could stop it.

She turned—

—and immediately knew it wasn’t her.

The woman was shorter. Her posture relaxed, her movements almost floaty. And when she laughed, the sound was soft and lilting, unmistakable.

“Oh,” Hermione murmured to herself, exhaling.

Luna Lovegood, an old classmate, passed by with a shopping basket full of something pastel, humming to herself. Hermione smiled faintly, the tension easing from her shoulders.

Get a grip, she told herself.

She turned down another aisle.

And froze.

This time, the woman was tall.

Very tall.

Silver-blonde hair swept back neatly, posture impeccable, every step measured and elegant in a way that made Hermione’s pulse stutter. For a split second, her mind betrayed her completely, hope flaring sharp and dangerous in her chest.

Then an auburn-haired woman reached out, looping an arm through the blonde’s.

“Rhaenyra,” she said fondly. “Come on, you’re going to miss it.”

The name shattered the illusion.

Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to breathe as the two disappeared into the crowd. Her hands trembled slightly, and she shoved them into her coat pockets to steady them.

This was ridiculous.

She moved on, more carefully now, eyes deliberately lowered to shelves and price tags, until she caught sight of one last familiar silhouette.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed entirely in black.

Blonde hair at the nape of his neck.

She only saw him from behind, and she didn’t stop walking this time. Didn’t let herself hope. Didn’t let herself turn her head.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly.

She wouldn’t see Narcissa again before she left. She’d already accepted that. Seeing ghosts in strangers didn’t change anything.

Hermione exhaled, squared her shoulders, and headed toward the café where Kara and Bella were supposed to meet her.

When she reached them, Kara immediately shoved two bags into her arms. “Hold these. I need my hands back.”

Bella looked between Hermione’s face and the crowd behind her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay?”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah. Just ready to be done.”

“Same,” Kara said fervently. “I’m running out of limbs.”

They fell into step together, laughter and noise closing in around them again.

Hermione didn’t look back.

She didn’t see the man turn slightly, didn’t see the familiar sharp profile, didn’t see the elegant woman beside him reach for his arm.

If only she’d drifted just a few steps to the left instead of straight to where Kara and Bella were, she would have known. She would have caught it immediately, that unmistakable trace of perfume. 

Narcissa

They were only just past the glass doors when Draco laughed, breath fogging faintly in the winter air.

“I still think it was a brilliant idea,” he said, shifting the shopping bags in his hands. “You should’ve seen your face when we walked in.”

Narcissa shot him a withering look that held no real heat. “It was chaos,” she said. “An absolute circus.”

“You navigated it beautifully,” Draco replied, grinning. “Very regal. Like a general advancing through enemy territory.”

She huffed despite herself. “I would not have gone near that place if it weren’t for you.”

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “That’s why I suggested it.”

Narcissa shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line that tried — and failed — to hide her fondness. She had raised her son better than herself and his father had ever been raised, and moments like this only confirmed it. Lucius would have loathed the crowds. Narcissa herself had once found them intolerable.

Draco, on the other hand, had thrived. He’d laughed at the noise, ducked around people with easy charm, complained loudly about being nearly trampled by a child wielding a candy cane like a weapon. He had made the entire ordeal… bearable.

More than bearable.

He had arrived the night before, earlier than planned, turning up at her door with a sheepish smile and a hastily packed bag. He’d said his term had ended cleanly, that he’d wrapped up his obligations sooner than expected. That he wanted to spend more time with her.

She hadn’t asked a single follow-up question.

She’d simply pulled him into a tight embrace and thanked whatever grace still existed in the world.

Because until Draco arrived, all Narcissa had been able to think about was Hermione Granger placing her exam paper on the desk.

The calm politeness of it.

The lack of hesitation.

The way she hadn’t looked back.

Now, with Draco beside her, she could focus on something else. Someone else. She could be a mother instead of a woman dismantling herself in private.

And yet.

As they’d moved through the shopping centre, Narcissa had found herself faltering in places she couldn’t explain. Pausing too long at certain displays. Letting her gaze linger on items she would never buy.

A scarf in deep burgundy — Hermione would have liked that.

A fountain pen balanced just right in the hand — Hermione would have appreciated the craftsmanship.

A ridiculous novelty mug with an academic joke printed on the side — Hermione would have laughed, bright and delighted, and pretended not to keep it on her desk.

Each thought landed uninvited.

Each one cut.

Draco had chatted easily beside her, filling the space with stories from school, complaints about professors, plans for the holidays. Narcissa listened, responded, smiled at all the appropriate moments.

All the while, a quiet part of her wondered — uselessly, painfully — whether she would ever tell him that she had once thought she might be seeing someone.

Not now.

Not ever.

She told herself she was glad she hadn’t.

As they reached the car, Draco leaned against it, still smiling. “See? Not so terrible.”

Narcissa met his eyes, her expression softening despite everything. “You enjoyed yourself.”

“I did,” he said simply. “And you came with me. That counts.”

She inclined her head, conceding the point.

What she did not say — what she would never say — was that somewhere inside that building, she had felt something tug at her with aching familiarity. A presence just out of reach. A certainty she refused to examine too closely.

She started the engine.

And drove away.

A few days later, Narcissa’s flat was full again.

Andromeda arrived just before dusk. She stepped inside with a soft smile already forming, eyes sweeping the familiar space with instinctive awareness.

Nymphadora followed close behind, all restless energy and mismatched gloves, a travel mug clutched in one hand and a battered work bag slung over her shoulder.

“Aunt Cissy!” she said brightly, already shrugging out of her coat. “You would not believe the week I’ve had.”

Narcissa felt something in her chest ease, just slightly.

“Andromeda,” she said, stepping forward. They embraced — warm, brief, but grounding. The way family hugs were supposed to be. “You made good time.”

“We did,” Andromeda replied. Her gaze flicked to Draco hovering nearby, then back to Narcissa. “It’s good to see you.”

Draco leaned in to hug his aunt next, earning a fond squeeze to the shoulder and a quiet, “You’ve grown again,” that made him laugh.

Nymphadora was already halfway into the living room, peering at the bookshelves. “You still alphabetize by author, not genre,” she said. 

“I see your observational skills remain unmatched,” Narcissa replied dryly, but there was fondness there.

They settled in easily. That, more than anything, struck Narcissa — how little effort it took to fold Andromeda and her daughter into the rhythm of the house. Coats were hung, bags set down, tea put on without discussion. Draco took it upon himself to ferry luggage upstairs. Nymphadora kicked off her boots and immediately began recounting a story about a colleague mishandling a report so catastrophically it had nearly ended in litigation.

She spoke quickly, animated, hands moving as she talked. She’d finished her graduate degree the previous year and moved seamlessly into a position that demanded long hours and a steady spine. Andromeda listened with quiet pride.

Narcissa listened too. Asked questions. Offered commentary where appropriate.

She kept busy.

Dinner was simple but warm — pasta, salad, bread still faintly warm from the oven. The table was full, voices overlapping, laughter threading through the air. Draco and Nymphadora bickered amiably over whose turn it was to clear the dishes. Andromeda sipped her wine and watched them both with something soft and knowing in her expression.

Narcissa moved between kitchen and table with practiced ease, directing, correcting, smoothing over minor chaos. She welcomed the noise. The movement. The necessity of attention.

More to focus on.

That was what she told herself.

Later, when the dishes were done and the house had settled into a quieter hum, Andromeda stood beside her in the kitchen while the kettle boiled again.

“You don’t have to do everything,” Andromeda said mildly, reaching for the cups.

“I know,” Narcissa replied. “But I prefer to.”

Andromeda didn’t argue. She rarely did. She simply accepted the cups and poured the water once it was ready, handing one to Narcissa without comment.

They stood there for a moment, steam curling between them.

“You seem well,” Andromeda said at last.

Narcissa inclined her head. “I am.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

Andromeda studied her over the rim of her cup — not piercingly, not intrusively. Just attentively. The way she always had. As if she were cataloguing small changes she would not yet name.

Draco’s voice drifted in from the other room, laughter following it. Nymphadora responded with something sarcastic and affectionate.

The house felt lived-in. Full.

Narcissa let herself breathe.

That night, as she prepared the other guest room, folding blankets and adjusting pillows with precise care, she told herself she was grateful for the company. Grateful for the distraction. For the simple logistics of hosting that left no room for indulgence.

And she almost believed it.

But as she turned down the bed, smoothing the sheet flat, a thought quietly slipped in. If these were distractions, then what, exactly, was she being distracted from?

She pressed the thought down, neatly, the way she did everything else.

Tomorrow, they would all travel together to the family vacation home. There would be more people then. More voices. More structure.

More to focus on.

And for now, that would have to be enough.