Chapter Text
Cackles . Those are obvious, it's self-explanatory.
Bellatrix's cackles were just like those of the evil witches from stories her father would read her to sleep.
It was hard to explain that what she was hearing constantly wasn't the dark witch's laughter per se, more of a scratching, acute noise, like the pulling of a chair in an echoing chamber. It felt fitting, nevertheless, for she was the key factor to Hermione's deplorable predicament. Loudness disturbed her senses, activating such hypervigilance capable of hurting her spine with straightness; but the quiet, her worst enemy, drowned her in the numbness of feeling exposed. Maybe that was what triggered her tinnitus. Or maybe it was the other way round.
Her routine was adapted to face, rather than avoid everything that could trigger her newly noticed disorder (which was, basically, everything), as to hold on to the faint, persistent idea that she still had control over her own life and decisions. Decisions, her own, that brought Narcissa Black's life into hers.
Hermione could not avoid the soon-to-be-divorced pureblood in the aftermath of war. She didn't want to, it's the truth. The golden trio was crucial in the judgments that followed, and Hermione felt a sense of pride in never faltering when locking eyes with those who wronged her, and who wanted her dead. It fed her with enough willpower to just exist before them, to prove with body and soul that she still stands, taller than ever, stronger than ever.
Hermione has never tasted anything as delicious as Narcissa's supplicant ice blue eyes against the reddish of hers, fighting the unruly shiver of a defeated demeanour taking over someone who was once ruled royalty. Brave the evil witches , her father would put on his best knight in shining armour voice, while raising her to be her own saviour. It was his voice she heard when they brought them to the presence of Bellatrix Lestrange, brave the evil witches ; it was his voice she kept hearing while eyes, dead red, empty but never humiliated, first locked with the lady of the house that first heard her screams. She never asked for Narcissa's help. It was vengeful to be the one, out of the three, the older witch sought help from. Brave the evil witches .
Nobody ever entertained the possibility of charging her with the murder of Bellatrix Lestrange — some even considered rewarding her with a medal or something for freeing the wizarding world from such a devious creature of the dark. Hermione couldn't feel relief for escaping punishment, nor guilt for doing what she had to do. Instead, anxiety burned in her veins and tried to free itself through the uncontrollable bouncing of her legs while sitting on the benches of the ministry courtroom. Ron frequently mistook it for nervousness and placed a well-intentioned hand on her knee, and the Muggle-born would stop for a while to make him feel better for helping her. It didn't help at all. If anything, it only made her more agitated.
What she was anxious about, she couldn't name at the time. She blamed herself in some way, blamed an unknown source of insecurity that she wasn't as brave as she was trying to be. Before she could stop herself from worrying too much, the fear of breaking down controlled her nerves, her breathing, her posture. Unfounded fears as such, untenable, leaking through cold sweats, exposed the emptiness of a lack of trauma. Why wasn't she traumatised, for fucks sake ? Even in a world where she wasn't Harry's best friend, her life would be endangered by the mere fact of existing. She'd been facing dangers she had only heard from her father's stories before reaching puberty. She survived Bellatrix Lestrange, known for breaking the minds of witches and wizards with their frontal cortex fully developed; who had less to keep to themselves, who didn't have to come up with the boldest breaking in plan in the whole world while under the effect of an unforgivable curse.
She survived the belief that she would die, and the last thing she would've heard in her brief life was her cackles .
Narcissa Malfoy witnessed it all. Still she made the rational decision to seek the girl who withered on her marble floor for redemption.
She deserved trauma. She shouldn't have to be strong, stay strong. She shouldn't have to put up a show for anybody, not even herself and her insufferably stubborn mind. Running after suffering, suffering she found. And now a specific and terrifyingly ordinary background sound had the power to bring it all back. Suffering she wants, suffering she'll get. That poor thing, had the right to enjoy the agony of torture in its fullness taken from her. What a loss. Suffering she wanted, suffering she got .
The words of the trio were golden, unarguable. Their defendants got acquitted and no questions were asked, not to their faces. Harry was used to ignoring the scrutiny from wizarding media; not a week after, Ron was already at ease, comfortable in pretending the war was a long-ago event detached from their ordinary lives; Hermione had other, more daunting issues to worry about — made the more worrisome by the way goosebumps would creep under her skin, in the very places touched by Narcissa's arms around her. Probably she believed it was Granger, rather than Potter, the true responsible for her and her son's freedom. Or maybe there was something else behind shaky orbs when thrown in her direction. Something fragile. Something she never learned the word for, and for that reason was consuming her soul and burning her heart to a dreary degree. Something lacking in Hermione's irresponsible arms.
That year, Harry got to properly celebrate his birthday among family and friends for the first time. The Burrow felt even smaller and warmer with the number of people who showed up, though he was adamant about inviting people who truly liked him, not just any ally or acquaintance wanting to barge into the life of a war hero. Said and done, Harry did not hold back tears with the realisation that he had friends. He had a family. People have his back, not only to protect their own lives. He was an ordinary boy with the possibility of an ordinary life ahead of him. The day he turned eighteen, the war never happened.
That evening they lay together on the floor of Ron's bedroom, just like they've done thousands of times before. This time, they could stay silent for a while. They could talk about silly things. They could talk about the future as a sure thing, rather than a dream. That evening, Ron asked Hermione to be his girlfriend.
That evening, Hermione took a deep breath, incapable of spreading her arms wide or keeping her eyes open and stare at the ceiling. For a while, it wasn't exactly a memory. She wasn't seeing, hearing, or smelling anything. Her body simply felt wrong doing so. She kept her silence, and Harry took it as his cue to leave them alone. Yet, she didn't dare speak. Ron felt the weight of their experiences for the first time since that second of May. That evening, he hugged her tight, like her best friend in the world should.
Whispers . Those are classic and fairly common.
Hissing sounds everywhere, as the talking around you becomes indiscernible white noise. Everybody was talking about them — but then again, everybody has been talking about them since they were eleven. It's not like they had become celebrities overnight, overwhelmed by all the attention and praises sung to them whenever they step into a room. They deserve it all. Hermione shuts out words, smiles, and carries on with her day. She wasn't known to be a particularly sympathetic person, but at the very least, she's polite. Polite enough to nod when passing by Narcissa Malfoy — sorry, Black — in Diagon Alley as if she was but another extra in a crowd of figurants, placed haphazardly to turn her days into spectacle. Hermione, however, would never not see her as a key character to her development in the tragedy of a play she starred against her will. Part of who she was was shaped because of the cracks left by the blonde's unwanted participation in a rather oblivion-worthy chapter. Every regret she has was placed in her by Narcissa's kind.
But then again, some of the pride in the strong person she became, stronger than she ever believed herself capable of being, was also due to the woman's stain in her history. Some of her best qualities were developed (or discovered) in spite of Narcissa's rueful existence in the same microcosm. For that reason, she cannot bring herself to throw the memory of her in the Lethe. After a while, she could admit she never really wanted to. It started like this:
Narcissa, never known to be a sympathetic person, was anything but impolite . She always entertained small talk in shared spaces, as dull as they were, because she hates very few things more than painfully awkward silence. And was not surprised to discover that Hermione Granger had the very same stance. Great minds think alike, and all that.
When crossing paths for the trillionth time that week, they start the most bland conversation about the weather two people have ever engaged in in history. Neither looked at the other after realising their close position in line, staring straight ahead until they got what they came for or the strongest lightning the grey day promised to produce struck the building and they both died, slowly and painfully, side by side for dramatic purposes. The whispers of bystanders were gradually drowned out by Hermione's ingenious comments about clouds, and Narcissa's witty comebacks about lives being ruined by summer rain.
When no lightning struck them, Narcissa was the first to sort out her business and leave with an almost warm “ Have a nice evening, Miss Granger ,” sure to grab the golden girl's eyes all the way out. Her voice echoed in her mind, taking its time fading, slowly giving room to the whispers. It was the first time Hermione thought there might be something wrong with her. You see, she knew for a fact the people directly close to her were not speaking and said whispers were as if two people were having a sibilant conversation in another room. There was not another room she could eavesdrop from where she stood, and soon she concluded it was something created by her brain.
A Muggle doctor was her first choice. She went to an otolaryngologist with some suspicions of her own; the strongest and most obvious being physical trauma. However, it wasn't half a surprise to be told her ear canal was intact. During her research, she came across some other symptoms that she lacked, yet her time sharing a house with two health professionals taught her not to trust a self-diagnosis. On her way out, though, she could not stop herself from doubting ( just a bit ) the doctor's conclusion. Many things usually cross her mind when facing different situations. Medical ones bombed her brain with every piece of information she ever learned regarding malpractice and misogyny in the field. She's been practising reining in what she's now not afraid to call her paranoias . She has the right to be paranoid, after all.
Still, Hermione maintains her cool, avoiding at all costs getting ahead of herself. She'd been trying hard to live down her lately earned reputation of an impulsive person — even though said impulsiveness has saved many lives over the years, thank you very much. Anyways. Hermione is amazed to realise that the mysterious background noises aren't around when she's entertaining her inner monologues and soliloquies, and has never been more grateful for her messily loud head.
The noises also leave her alone whenever she bumps into Narcissa, which she quickly noted happens weirdly often. Free from a seemingly tiresome marriage and her most recent worries about hers and Draco's fate, the witch had lots of time she could spare to keep an unnecessarily busy routine — which is how she confessed to getting easily and constantly bored, alone in a house that never felt like home, once her small talks with Hermione progressed into actual talks.
“Are you stalking me, Ms Black?” Hermione couldn't help but replace greetings with that question when, for the sixth time in a week, Narcissa walked in her direction as soon as their eyes locked. She wasn't ready for the Slytherin's quick response: “Yes, I am.”
Hermione frowned, slightly disturbed by the other admitting to an offence. All Narcissa did was laugh, lightly, easily.
“Although I would not put it in such an ungracious term. I am merely trying to approach you without scaring you. You happen to have a routine that is not hard to follow.”
The Gryffindor kept her silence as an ally, signalling with her hand for the other woman to take a seat on the vacant chair in front of her. The restaurant was busy enough for the background sounds to prevent them from getting caught in a so hated silence, but Hermione's piercing, unwavering gaze was enough to make Narcissa talk.
“I guess, what I'm trying to say is,” Hermione noticed her sort of fidgeting, her fingertips restless. She didn't take Narcissa for a restless person. “I'm not very good with apologies-”
“Figures.”
Hermione was met with a reprimanding stare, immediately reminded of who was in front of her. She cleared her throat, unsure of what exactly Narcissa wanted to apologise for. If it was for the torture her sister put her through, Hermione would be sick. What a pathetic thing to apologise for. I'm sorry that I almost witnessed your murder . If Hermione had already gotten over it — her insides twisted —, it wasn't Black's right to reminisce; even worse, to seek the girl's acquittal for her well-deserved regrets. She might have helped them escape imprisonment, but she still found solace in the idea that their own memories would be their punishment until their very end.
“You can rest assured that I am not here to apologise for Bellatrix's wrongdoings.”
Her posture straightened, and so did Hermione's. Right, the legilimency. She forgot about that detail.
“You've already taken the… appropriate measure s to make her pay, if I recall correctly.”
Hermione closed her fists, feeling the tact memory of the dark witch's own knife against its master's flesh. Shivers ran down her spine. If Narcissa noticed how the topic affected the younger woman's pose, she dismissed without a sign. A probable conscious choice as to not make that conversation gloomier than it was doomed to be.
“I want to apologise for not coming to you sooner. I don't feel I properly thanked you for your help regarding mine and my son's freedom.”
“No need to thank me,” Hermione shrugged. “I didn't do it for you.”
“Who else would've you done it for, then?”
She did not have an answer, proper or witty. It made her eyes darken with certain anger, anger that did not scare Narcissa away. On the contrary, the older woman felt comfortable enough to summon a waiter and order them both drinks, like she had known the younger woman and her taste for ages. When their Butterbeers arrived, Hermione had already come up with a fitting answer to Narcissa's remark, but knew it would be pathetic to give it now, after all the time she spent lost in the other woman's deep blue eyes; she could almost enter her mind through that passage. Besides, she didn't want the other to think she gave that much value to what she thinks about her.
So they talked about the weather.
Pitter-patter . It's the best way she can describe the rain against the enormous windows of the Manor.
Most of the time, they felt like the fingertips of the universe knocking on the doors of her conscience, trying to wake her up to reality and bring her back to her senses. She feeds this idea with a clear conscience that she should not be enjoying tea with Narcissa Black, formerly Malfoy, on a rainy day, in a house haunted by unwelcoming ghosts. She doesn't, or cannot care, because their ranting is locked behind the doors of the library they so often find themselves sitting in, chatting like good colleagues, talking about things other than the weather.
It started somewhat like this:
Nobody in the Wizarding Britain and their right mind would employ a Malfoy after the war. It wasn't a problem for Narcissa, who would still have enough money to live comfortably for the next hundred years, should she live that long, even after the hefty fine she had to pay to avoid prison — thanks to Hermione who, she would not admit now, was very disappointed with the fact that the woman would not even be tickled by the loss of that money. It was also not a problem for Lucius Malfoy, sent straight back to Azkaban for the rest of his life without a glimpse of the courtroom. It was, however, a huge problem for Draco Malfoy, who was determined to clean the family name by positively contributing to the rebuilding of society. Society, on the other hand, was adamant that a former, even if briefly, Death Eater could only positively contribute by hiding for eternity.
Hermione tried hard to not feel bad for him. Tormented by the remaining cacophony of war, she was entitled to rage and had the right to the selfishness of wishing Draco Malfoy nothing but the worst. Harry was the one to convince Ron and her otherwise. Like every other group project she got herself into with them, it was up to Hermione to try the hardest to defend Draco's dignity . As it turns out, being the Chosen One and asking the authorities to just trust him is not convincing enough.
And because she is who she is, Hermione got him to walk away a free man. And because Narcissa knew who she was, she could never repay the girl's selflessness. Not in the way she truly deserves.
So, now, Narcissa invites her regularly for tea. Lends her the Manor's enormous library and its seemingly endless catalogue for Hermione to do her research — what she is researching, though, Narcissa does not know. She seems to be on a new subject every week, devouring books (and still understanding them) with inhumane velocity. At some point, the older woman started to wonder if the research was even real, or just an excuse to explore as much as she could of the place that keeps her from all the tension of being the Brightest Witch of Her Age to the rest of the world.
She doesn't care if the latter is true. Cup after cup of tea, Narcissa is gradually more sure Hermione deserves that little world. And still, it never felt like it was enough. Not enough to see her shoulders fall when reading on her armchair; not enough to witness how lighter her demeanour was whenever words would make her smile, written by ancient wizards or spoken by the older witch, ever so close to calling Hermione something hers .
(Her friend , possibly?)
Still, it tasted like selfishness to keep the girl hostage to her company, locked inside this dungeon decorated like one of the things she loves the most. Still, Hermione’s presence is comfortably quiet, and the outside world is too loud, and Hermione is yet to refuse her invitations.
Part of her feels like she's abusing Black's kindness (it feels strange to think of Narcissa as someone kind ), and the other is still keen on this whole “you deserve to be selfish” rule. If she's being completely honest to herself, Narcissa often laughs at her jokes like someone pleased to hear them. And, if anything, she couldn't make it any clearer that the feeling of eternal gratitude was heavier than any negative feeling she might have held towards the girl in the past.
Hermione never needed her help — and now she doesn't even have to ask for it.
Knocks . Those are… real, actually.
Both Narcissa and Hermione raise their heads from their respective books when they hear faint knocks. Locked inside the library for the past six hours at least, it’s almost unbelievable to Hermione that they could hear the people outside the gates to the Manor. As so often, she forgets about the magic around them as Narcissa is already on her way down. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to follow, partly afraid of Narcissa’s possible reaction to such intromission, and partly afraid of who she might encounter at the Manor’s gate.
So she doesn’t. She makes a point to not seem more curious than expected for an unimportant guest that had their meeting interrupted abruptly, but cannot hide the very characteristic curiosity that lights up the minute she is left alone in the Malfoy library — which is, somehow, even bigger than Hogwarts’ library. Her immediate thought was that they must've cast an extension charm similar to the magic tents, but she hadn't noticed before when all her attention was hostage to Narcissa's presence.
Looking further, she found sections with works from all around the world, divided by their specific time and place. There was a globe similar to a muggle one right in the middle of the one, and Hermione noticed that a certain region was shining in faint gold. Wales. Right behind it, the Medieval Welsh section. The globe didn't just move horizontally like a normal one (of course it wouldn’t be a normal one in possession of a pureblood witch), but also vertically and diagonally. Checking underneath it, it wasn’t really being held up by anything, but still strongly in place as not to fall off. Hermione comes to the conclusion that one wouldn’t be able to even if they tried hard. She found out as well that the shelf on display directly behind it was in accord with which location was positioned on top of it, but only some of them were outlined in gold. She tried a few others: Vietnam, Egypt, India, Iraq; particularly those she found it very hard to believe that any Malfoy would’ve been interested in reading about.
She daydreams about the woman she came to know below the surface, gets lost in the view of the literary worldwide journey in front of her. She doesn’t wait for her host to return before she dives right in. Looking back, she can’t even remember if Narcissa ever got back to the library before it was too late in the night, and it was high time for Hermione to go home.
Hermione stepped out of green flames directly to Narcissa’s study in a hurry even though she couldn’t be sure the woman would be there at that time — or even at home, for that matter. Her pacing reverberated a strong sound of combat boots against polished wood floor, along with the ashes from the fireplace. She left wet, messy footsteps on a square metre possibly worth more than her entire flat, but she couldn’t let that one, of all thoughts, consume her in a state bordering rage. The pitter patter was irritating. The hissing of the fire was irritating. The cackles that seemed to come from the still stained blade in her hand were maddening.
She could swear that, if Narcissa was at home, she had company. She could hear faint conversations from the floor below becoming part of the unchord symphony playing in her head, prompting her to storm into the living room and end their gathering once and for all. Narcissa would be livid by it — she learned well in the months their connection grew, slow but persistent like a Venus Flytrap, that there are few things Narcissa despises with intense passion more than those acting with the same manners as a Neanderthal. Maybe she could even get the ever poised Lady of the House to lose her cool in front of guests because of a filthy Mudblood , no less.
The prospect of embarrassing the previously dark witch in front of her (certainly) equally wicked friends is coldly comforting for Hermione, and the only thing capable of stopping her from doing so is Narcissa barging in the room before she could do anything else, looking at her with dreaded expression, as if in front of a dangerous criminal. The conversation sounds, however, did not stop; Hermione wondered if Narcissa didn’t bother dispersing her group, if Hermione— the intruder in her study wasn’t but a nuisance to be dealt with quickly, before she could rejoin her murder of crows.
“Hermione? Is everything okay with you?”
Narcissa didn't close the door, which could only mean that there is no one out there she could disturb if she lost her self-control and screamed, like she feels she needs to in order to not physically explode. Out of anger, out of frustration, out of fear. Narcissa’s attention fell to the table the minute Hermione threw a dagger on it; a dagger still stained with her sister’s now dried and darkened blood.
“Tell me you can hear it too.”
The woman did not move, or blink, or perhaps even breathe for a few seconds. As if she could hear it, too . But then her eyes decide to stick on the disturbing demeanour of the girl, almost out of breath, as if directly attacked by the weapon. Her choice to take a step to the girl’s direction, rather than the blade’s, resonated wrongly within Hermione, who took a step back without even realising doing so.
“What exactly can you hear, dear?”
Like a therapist, she posed as a listener rather than a mother, a protector. Hermione did not need protection from whatever it was the weapon was doing to her. Maybe from herself . But Narcissa was confident in what she came to know about Hermione from the moments they spent hours lost in deep conversations, moments where she showed both vulnerability and a peek to all the violence she was capable of. She was, after all, the one to take down Voldemort’s right hand woman without using magic. One would judge the choice as one made in the moment, when it’s kill or be killed; Narcissa knew it had been a conscious one, getting back on her torturer by making sure she was aware of her fate; Bellatrix had to be defeated by a Muggle-born in a very muggle way.
“She’s laughing,” Hermione said calmly. “Cackling, to be more precise.”
Realising how improper she looked, she tried to recompose.
“It’s like… Like she’s still there,” Hermione pointed at the dagger, stained and stopped on the table. A dirty figure over the luxury emanated by every single furniture in that house, clearly out of place; it did not belong to this world anymore — not even Narcissa could recognize such an object. Or at least, it seemed like she didn’t. But no amount of blood or rust could disguise the aura or silhouette of something that once belonged to Bellatrix.
Yet, the older witch didn’t know what to make of the situation presented to her so unprompted, stealing her from what should have been a mere encounter of old friends to reminisce and gossip over tea — the conversational noises had stopped, at last — to drop her in what could very much be a post-crime scene.
Judging by the fact that Narcissa didn’t hesitate to ignore the artefact completely in order to search for the history behind Hermione’s trembling eyes, she could not hear the cackles. Maybe there weren't even cackles to begin with, and Hermione was hearing things that just weren’t there — because Bellatrix managed to break her mind, after all. It just hasn’t been an immediate outcome. But it was inevitable nonetheless.
The cackles, the screaming, the whispers — all doomed to be real only in her mind, for it was now a cage to lock herself from the outside world.
Nevertheless, Narcissa managed to touch her shoulders before she roamed too far away from reach.
“You’re just traumatised, Hermione,” she spoke lowly, unafraid. “That’s alright.”
Hermione does not react, as if her body cannot not breathe and talk at the same time. Staying still felt too much of a burden — like relenting the control of her action to her muscle memories was a relief on her overwhelmed mind. Had she gone to her friends instead of Malfoy Manor, she would’ve been able to keep her composure, of that she was sure. She has been successfully veiling the most raw of her emotions in front of the boys from day one, after all. Being their unshaken lifeline is second nature at this point.
Maybe that’s why they didn’t even cross her mind when the cackles got louder. Except that they weren’t cackles; it started more like a buzzing coming from an empty room, distracting even from afar — lately, it feels like her flat belongs more to the sounds than to herself. She could not factually point out that the dagger was the source of it, but for the first time since that evening Hermione questioned its presence under her possession. Why does she keep it if not to punish herself? The compatibility of this decision with her predicament is, for the first time in a long while, irritating. She had been able to hold onto her logical reasoning triumphantly ever since she used the blade — once nearly slicing her throat — to drill a gory hole in her torturer’s very own. Both an icon of her suffering and a reminder of her victory, and how she could shoulder both with pride.
Except that right now she doesn’t feel she can.
“It’s alright to accept that you were affected by a life-altering event. Nobody got out of it unscathed, but it’s in the past. The only way now is forward.”
She doesn't know how to tell Narcissa that her comforting words are useless, more irritating than consoling. Doesn't know how to explain to her that she knows she's traumatised. She nurtured the trauma herself. She did not want to leave the war unscathed, or pretend it never happened, because it felt like it would be a betrayal to the child who gave up her peace to fight a war that shouldn't be hers.
She doesn't know how to tell Narcissa that, for the first time in a long while, she regrets her choices.
But she'll shoulder them. Carry them with pride. Be true to herself despite how heavy a burden it feels at this very moment.
Hermione takes a deep breath.
“I know I'm traumatised. I've been hearing things,” she dismisses Narcissa's concerned frown. “No, not voices or anything like that. I'm not that crazy yet .” She chuckles.
“I don't think-”
“It's alright, really. I'm already working on it, but I thought that… it's magic! You know that! It cannot be explained only by trauma, right?”
She expects an answer, Narcissa wouldn't give her any that could be satisfying.
“Bellatrix, she was an evil genius . She would not just accept death, right? Not by such a… muggle way. With her own weapon, no less! By a filthy Mudblood—”
“Hermione, please,” Narcissa flinches immediately, closing her eyes like it would hide a memory in front of her. “Don’t say that,” her eyes open dark. “Bellatrix was an exceptional witch, yes. But, as far as I know, the dagger is just that, a dagger. Nothing more. You defeated her and she’s gone for good, you can let it go now.”
Cold hands found their way to Hermione’s face at some point, but the shock wasn’t enough to save her mind from her messed up logic. She doesn’t want to say it out loud. She can’t. She won’t.
But she says:
“I will not let it go,” it comes out as a whisper. “I cannot let it go. I cannot just pretend that it didn’t happen. I will not force myself to get over this after everything I went through.”
“This is not forcing, this is healing .”
The fact that Narcissa doesn’t understand her reasoning makes her eyes burn red, angry; Narcissa reads them like an ancient tome and fiercely disagrees with what she encounters.
Heartbeats . Something changed once Hermione heard Narcissa’s when calming down from her manic episode, her head resting comfortably between the woman’s neck and left shoulder. She could hear her heart like it was stuck in her throat, and it sang like a peaceful choir. Like she would be safe as long as she could hear Narcissa's pulsating life. Like she would be at home in her arms.
She can't tell how long they stood that way. It was late in the evening and both laid on a chaise in the study, talking in whispers, agreeing in hums. Narcissa ran her slender fingers on her scalp, careful not to mess up her beautiful honey-coloured curls, and Hermione entangled herself between her limbs like they were born together.
Like their hearts synchronised.
“You are so precious, Hermione,” the younger witch could hear the whispering to her scalp. “You deserve happiness.”
They were already entangled themselves over the chaise in Narcissa’s study when Hermione regains her senses, but the woman had been holding her since way before. Never crosses her mind to call anyone else to deal with Hermione, to not take care of the young witch herself, to not make sure that she would be safe and sound. No not show Hermione that she is here for her, come hell or high water.
Not to let her know that she hopes, against all odds, that Hermione will come to her even when disturbed by the mess of positive emotions. Like she is right now, fighting hard against the loud beating of her heart.
“Can I ask you something?” Hermione raises her head from the woman’s chest to speak in a raspy voice. She looks Narcissa in the eyes, who frowns before she continues: “About the magical globe in your library.”
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
She moves to get herself more comfortably on the chaise, but regrets it when Hermione takes it as a sign to leave her embrace. Nothing about the young woman says that she had been emotionally in shambles mere hours ago. Narcissa almost gets lost in thought, until Hermione clears her throat as a sign for her to continue.
“Well. You know the Malfoys were never like other pureblood families, right?”
Hermione frowns at the seemingly off-topic comment, and Narcissa takes it as a sign to further contextualise her. She was never a prolix person, on the contrary — has always despised a circumlocutor — but right now she feels like excitedly recounting an epic journey.
“They have always despised inbreeding; particularly, so have I. That means they have a history of marrying half-bloods, even Muggles.”
Hermione’s jaw is on the ground. Narcissa laughs.
“ Noble Muggles, of course,” she quickly adds. “Well. One of those noble Muggles was the daughter of a French explorer back in the sixteenth century, who kept diaries on every culture he came across in her travels. Later in life settled for the fur trading business. Legend says that he never lost his passion for sailing around the world, and to win his support in courting his daughter, a young wizard worked on an enchanted topography globe capable of taking him wherever he wanted to go.”
“Why do I feel like he didn’t think this through, though?”
“Because he didn’t. People in love can rarely think straight,” Narcissa shrugs before continuing. “The magical authorities were furious with him and ordered him to destroy the globe. Fearing he would never win the grace of his hopefully future father-in-law, he didn’t. In the end it wasn’t needed. He married her and they had a son, whose Muggle grandfather absolutely adored. He would tell the boy about his travels and his diaries and all the wonders he encountered when he was young. His grandfather died before he was accepted to Hogwarts, sorted into Ravenclaw, but the boy carried his passion for books and travels with him. Once he graduated, he started working on the globe once again — but now, instead of taking the person to said part of the world, it would bring that part of the world to the person via books he collected from there. He successfully installed it in the library and went on to personally collect the books about the story and culture from every nation he could reach on a ship. As you can see, there weren't many. But enchanting nonetheless.”
By the end of the tale, Hermione was speechless. One could see the cogs in her mind working overtime to make sense of all the new information she just obtained on one of the oldest pureblood families she knew: one, they communed with Muggles (she imagined a tiny Draco learning that he had “dirty” blood in him); two, they would go to great lengths to please those Muggles (equally awful, prejudiced, and certainly slave owner Muggles, but Muggles anyway); three — and most shocking —, not every Malfoy was a Slytherin.
What a world they were living in, right?
Narcissa laughs despite herself at Hermione’s mental babbling, and the girl realises immediately with a blush that the woman was inside her mind right now.
“I apologise,” Narcissa thinks she made Hermione uncomfortable, but the girl — not a mind reader, but a very observant person — dismisses her with a wave of her hand.
“So… the library is filled with stolen books? Is that right?”
“Well, yes— But not all of them! I’d say a very small parcel was stolen. Those in the native language to the land, obviously-”
“Because why would a coloniser learn the colonised language, right?”
“But the rest are either the grandfather’s diaries edited into books, or books his descendants who shared his passion went on to write, or books they acquired legally along the centuries.”
“That was, wow,” as if she had just finished running a marathon, Hermione even looked out of breath. “That was definitely a story…”
Narcissa chuckled, earning the same reaction from her company. Both bursted into laughter not many seconds after.
“Of all the things that would leave Hermione Granger speechless, I must admit I wasn’t expecting some Malfoy family tale to be one of them.”
“How often do you think of things that would leave me speechless?”
It is Narcissa’s turn to be red, at a loss of words. Such an adorable and unexpected sight that made Hermione laugh even harder, hard enough to bring her to tears. This sight brought Narcissa the words back, but words she had no reason to say out loud: You’re so pretty when you cry for the right reason . I wish we would stay like this forever. I wish I could give you the world.
Instead, Narcissa clears her throat and straightens her posture, and then offers:
“If you wish to, despite the story behind it, you can have the globe.”
“But isn’t it useless without the library?”
“You’d have the library as well, of course.”
“Well, I thought I already had the library in a way…”
“Hermione Granger!” She throws a cushion at her. “Won’t you just accept a present?”
Her laughter is so much louder now that her belly aches.
“It’s not my fault that the globe has a history of being a very difficult gift to deliver!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Hermione,” Narcissa jests, “I’ll try harder next time!”
“Should I get used to receiving presents from you, then?”
Hermione slides closer, amused, she takes in every inch of reaction in the twitch of her muscles; as if robbing the words from the older woman was enough of a gift for her. Very briefly she wonders how far would Narcissa go — what, beside a treasured family heirloom, would be the most intimate thing she’d gift her. Wonders the same about herself — how far would she go to leave the woman speechless?
“Why not?”
Before their faces could be only a breath away from each other, Narcissa gets up in a slick motion. She has her back turned to Hermione for seconds which, to the young woman, feels like an eternity in purgatory. She scolds herself for pushing, for making the woman uncomfortable, for indulging herself in thoughts that would only arise late at night.
Thoughts she couldn’t possibly know if matched with Narcissa’s own.
Hermione is on her feet immediately, apologies ready to fall from her tongue when Narcissa turns back to her. On her lips, a smirk.
“Despite what people might say about me, I do love pampering dear friends of mine.”
Hermione smiles genuinely, grabs both of Narcissa’s hands, and speaks softly:
“Being called a dear friend by you is the most precious gift so far.”
Before she could react, the older witch is pulled into a tight embrace. Hermione has her head close to Narcissa’s neck, and from there, she can still hear strong heartbeats.
“I don’t know where I would be without you.”