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...
The next days, we walk. It is a slow and difficult process for the both of us, be we do it. First the woods, marking every tree we pass by only to come to the conclusion there are not many of them. As suspected, if we walk to the right, we come by the left, and vice-versa. Moving forward drives us to the rear.
"It's like walking through the Petit Prince's asteroid," She mutters one afternoon. I don't understand, and don't ask for an explanation either.
The same happens, of course, when we walk by the beach, but it is infinitely more pleasurable. The sun kisses my skin, and Granger's hair is blown by the wind until it turns into a big brown mess. We don't talk about the canoe abandoned on the shore; we almost don't talk at all.
Today we don't walk; there is nowhere else to go. This fact takes a toll on me, yes, but I sense it takes a bigger one on her. The dark circles around her eyes grow deeper each morning, and her voice grows huskier.
"Come on," She murmurs to a glass of water. "Come on." Granger closes her eyes, holding the cup in her two hands.
Well, there is also this. The time inside the house she spends practicing spells without the wand. The girl is tireless, but watching her break glass after glass is really the only appointment on my agenda today.
There is a little trepidation and the glass is full of light for a split second. When it dissolves, the water became a dark red liquid. Granger opens her eyes and stares at her achievement in disbelief for a second, before raising the cup to her lips.
"In your face, Jesus!" She whispers after sipping the wine, and I find myself chuckling unwillingly. She raises her head to look at me and there is a smile on her face. It is the first one I have ever seen.
The moment fades quickly.
"Let me see it," I extend a hand and she passes me the cup. I sip the watery wine, the alcohol tingling on my tongue. "It is barely past vinegar," I say before taking another sip.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll work on a Merlot," She deadpans, while I rest against the living room armchair and cross my legs.
"Cabernet Sauvignon, if you may," I tell her, drinking a little more. It does taste awful, but wine has always made me warm inside.
Granger goes to the kitchen and brings back a full jar, which she lays on the center table. There she is again; closed eyes, hands in place, and that determined expression on her face, like nothing around would dare not to bend to her will. That is when I know the spell is going to work.
And it does.
It also tastes a little better this time.
Granger never acknowledges she is tired after these sessions of natural magic, but every time she has to stop after three or four spells that work, her eyes heavy with sleep.
Today she stops with the jar and fetches a glass to accompany me in empting it. For some time, we drink while reading in silence. But Merlin help me if those are not books boredom itself wrote when it was bored.
"You are not an auror, like your friends," I say at some point. There is no goal in the sentence, but she is the only living thing here to address, and I have had over three glasses of cheap wine by now.
"No, but we work in the same department," The answer comes easily, as if she has given it multiple times before. Her eyes never even leave the book.
"You are the head of the department, I heard."
"You heard right." Still looking at the book.
"Why not an auror?" I insist.
"Why a Death Eater?" She spats back, finally glancing up. That developed quickly. Granger sighs and shakes her head, like she doesn't expect an answer.
Well, lucky her, I am just bored enough to give one.
"Many people I was not used to question told me it was the right thing to be," I say before refilling my glass. "Once I was in, it became nearly impossible to get out." I don't bother saying I was never truly a Death Eater. I may not have a mark, but does it really matter? Sometimes I like to take comfort and I tell myself that it does, therefore I was not like the others who were marked. Other times, I knew it didn't. Looking at the haunted face in front of me, it didn't matter at all.
"I'm betting you didn't try too hard."
"Oh, of course, I am no Severus Snape, am I?" I snarl, shaking my hand. "The man helps the Dark Lord to kill the woman he loves, then he is miserable enough to believe his life is forever cursed and he is not afraid to risk it anymore. So touching."
"You're being disrespectful."
"I am being honest!" I almost bark back. "I was afraid, everybody was afraid. I made a mistake that was too hard to correct. Then he was gone and I did my best to erase what I could from that part of my life. To start over."
"You're a liar! I know you kept dark objects in your house for years and once Voldemort was back, you—"
"I begged Lucius to run. I begged him on my knees, and when he said no, I prepared myself to go after Draco, but… He convinced me it would be silly. That we would be found, that we would be hunted and killed. We wouldn't last a month, Lucius said, and I knew he was right. I was scared. For myself, for my son, I was scared."
There is a silence after I shut my mouth. I don't know if everything I have just said is the truth or a big emotional lie to wrap around this girl. For any of the options, I don't have much of an excuse. But tonight, as we stand in this room with the waves crashing outside, the idea of her hate churns my guts more than the fever.
I don't know who I am anymore.
"You know," She starts, putting the book down. "I grew up with your son. You did a crappy job as a mother. Or maybe you just didn't have much good material to work with."
In a blink of an eye, I am standing and gripping her arm so hard my fingers deepen in her skin.
"You won't talk about my son."
"Then you won't talk about being scared," She says through gritted teeth. "Not to me, you fucking coward. Not to the woman you locked in your house and let your sister torture. Not to someone who lost loved ones because your parents didn't teach you and you didn't teach your son what it is to be a good person. You won't talk to me about fear. It's no excuse, it's just garbage. You're just garbage."
"You know the pride you take to say it?" I grin, and it almost splits my face in two. "You will grow out of it. You will learn to admit your own fear. I have learned to smell it. It is all over you right now."
"I am not afraid of you!"
"No, not of me, of course. But of everything else. Because I am the only one here. We are alone, and nobody is coming. You think of it at night, and you can't sleep. You wonder if you can someday forgive me. If you can understand me enough to even like me, because I am all you have got. I am your family and your friend and your partner and your other half. I am everything to you, and you are so afraid of this it stinks the whole house."
She is very still for a moment, even when I let go. Every word struck true. I can read it in her eyes. I hope she cannot read in mine the reason I know all of this is because it is happening to me too. Almost two weeks and not a sign of life. Were we abandoned?
"I will get out of here if it is the last thing I do," She states, those brown eyes burning mine. I hear the truth again, it is clear as a bell.
"I know you will. I am talking about all the things you will do before that." I get back to the armchair, to the wine. My heart is thumping in my ears and I feel hot and dizzy. It is the alcohol, but it is also the fever. It has been getting worst.
"There is this game muggle kids play," She says with a bitter chuckle. "Who would you take to a desert island? You are supposed to choose one of your mates, or maybe your little crush, or your favorite celebrity. You are supposed to pick one person in the whole world." There is a void in her stare, and it could suck me dry. "I am not saying you are the last person I would choose… But you're close."
Then she leaves me alone with the wine.
…
I don't leave the bed the next day. I believe the girl thinks I am hungover. Poor child. The day half a jar of wine leaves me bedridden, I will know true shame.
It was not the wine. I just lack the energy to move. By the beginning of the afternoon she comes to see if I am alright.
"Do you need anything?" She asks by the door. Is she relieved to find me awake? Alive?
"No."
Either way, half an hour later she brings me lunch. The broccoli is undercooked and the fish is salty, but I try not to make a face as she watches me eat. I don't know if she did it on purpose, but I won't give her the pleasure to see me complain.
"You are sick, aren't you?" She asks when I put the plate aside.
"I am fine."
"Your cheeks are red all the time, you're always wearing a coat, even if it is not cold." Granger splays a hand on my forehead and nods as if her point is proven. "This fever is taking too long to go away."
"I told you I am fine."
"Are you wounded? It could be an infection."
"I am not."
"Is your throat sore? Your stomach hurts?"
"Stop it, Granger. Take care of yourself."
"I feel well. My wound is closing."
"Good for you, now go work on that Cabernet Sauvignon."
She frowns, looking intently at me for a moment, then leaves the room. But the night brings her back – with supper, Merlin help me.
This time she sits on the edge of the mattress while I eat – the soup tastes like lightly crab-scented water – and wets her lips a few times before actually saying anything.
"What do you think is happening out there?"
It is useless to pretend I have not been thinking about it too. The fact someone took all this trouble to kidnap and keep us makes less sense every day that nobody uses us to accomplish anything. If they were negotiating our release, by now we would be free – or dead.
"Maybe the people who took us died without revealing our location," I suggest casually, as if I am talking about the weather. Granger nods.
"I thought about that too. It's a crap development for us, but part of me hopes for it. It means our side won." I don't think she realizes she just put me in the same team as her. Last night I was garbage, but today I am garbage in her trash can. "And I'm sure Harry and Ron would keep looking, anyway. They would."
Not if they think you are dead.
I don't say it, but I don't have to. She stands and takes the plate away. Then she comes back as I prepare myself to sleep – what I did most of the day.
"Here, let's see if this works," She says before laying a cold and damp cloth on my forehead. "It should help to low your temperature."
"For Merlin's mercy, Granger…"
"Raise your head," She demands, as if I have not said a word, and stuffs another damp cloth under my nape. It makes intense chills run down my spine. Her face turns preoccupied. "I'm sorry, I know it is uncomfortable."
I wonder if that is just why she is doing it. In seconds, I am cold from head to toe, shivering as the fever breaks, and then sweating like a bottle in the sun. Granger changes the cloths a few times, renewing the cycle of torture under my mute complaints.
"It's lowering, I think," I hear her say in the distance. My eyes refuse to remain open. There is warmth in my face and I turn my head in that direction, wanting to suck it in. "Are you ok?" I brush my lips against the source of heat, finding the softness of skin, the smell of soap, the food for loneliness. "Mrs. Malfoy, are you ok?"
I am Narcissa, I try to say, but it comes out, "I am alone."
"No, I'm here." I don't open my eyes to verify. I am afraid it is a lie. "I'm here."
It all feels like a feverish dream, but in the morning she is there still; yellow pajamas by my side on the bed.
…
"It looks good, right?"
I glance up, not sure if this remark is some kind of mockery. It does not look good; it looks like a piece of poorly patched up rag. But it is a piece of her abdomen.
"I mean, it's closing. The redness around it is almost gone, and it isn't even swollen anymore," Granger goes on, as I restart cleaning the stitches.
Yes, she is right about all that, and she has not bled in days, but it is still a barbaric method. I cover it the fastest I can, wrapping her middle in cleansed bandages. Once we are done, she thanks me a little less stiffly than usual and follows me to the kitchen.
It is late afternoon and I start dinner absent-mindedly. Granger sits at the table and practices spells, making random objects float all around the kitchen. A few of them don't make all the way from the cabinet to the table, but I do not jump anymore to the sound of crashing glass.
I restore one cup with a casual gesture; yes, the littlest things I manage, at this point, but trying to go any further than that is to ask for a migraine. Our magics dance their little dance in that tiny kitchen. It is, I believe, our way to be aware of each other.
I cook, she does the dishes. Most of it without using her hands.
"What is your plan?" I ask once she is finished. Drops of sweat line up on her forehead. It is still tiring.
"I will make myself stronger until I can search around for isolating spells," She replies, propping her hip against the sink.
"Those are complex spells to make, and even more to break."
Granger tilts her head, those brown eyes analyzing me for a moment, before she says, "All I have is time."
We are silent again; other thing that is now as familiar as my own voice. Or hers. I scavenge my brain in search of something to postpone the moment I dread. There is nothing. She opens her mouth to say goodnight, but that is not what comes out.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Yes." Is it the truth? Is it a lie? Will it postpone the moment a little longer? "No."
"Yes or no?" She smirks, arches an eyebrow. Tries to look friendly. Maybe she dreads the moment too.
"I was wondering if you could heat my bedroom," I was not. At least not the way she understands it.
"Changing temperature is a sensible thing, but I can try."
"I would appreciate it."
We walk together to my room, to my small, cozy room. It turns into a whole wing every time I am alone in it. But tonight it is small and cozy. I close the door, the windows, the curtains. Granger feels the walls with her bare hands, whispering to herself.
It is not long before a wave of warmth envelopes the atmosphere. It is a little vaporous, it smells like the sea and feels like a hug.
"Is it good?"
I only nod, sitting on the edge of the bed and eyeing her for a long moment. Granger approaches me and her hands land on my shoulders like they belong there.
"Can I try on you?" She asks, her fingers pressing my shoulder blades. "To balance your body temperature."
"You could end up baking me from the inside out," I tell her, but surprisingly, it is not a no.
"I won't," Is all she says.
If I shake my head, she will be out of the door, out of my sight. The moment I dread. I nod. Her fingertips grow hot over my coat, until their heat meets my flesh. There is a sparkle in the pit of my stomach, but it is barely there before it is gone.
"Did it work?" She looks into my eyes as if to read the answer.
"Sit down for a moment, you are tired."
"It didn't," She sighs. She sits. Her disappointment is like an aura.
"Maybe in a couple hours," I throw the card recklessly. "You may lay down a little."
We stare at the ceiling while outside a thunder roars.
"It's going to rain," She muses, glancing at me. It will be the first time since we got here. Suddenly the whole house feels intangible. This bed is all the land we can claim. Out of here is the dark and the profound solitude of the dead. Lately I came to believe that to be alive is to be acknowledged. Away from Granger, I am lifeless. The moment I dread.
The rain starts to pour. For a second. For a year.
"Tomorrow is my birthday," She says. "I think so, at least."
"I will make you a cake."
"You don't have to."
"I think I can make the time."
"It's silly. I don't know why I told you this. It's not important."
"Chocolate or vanilla?" I ask, my eyes leaving the ceiling for a brief second, spying her tense expression. The cake is not important. The birthday is not important. She is not important.
Not important, only everything.
"Chocolate."
…
I bake the cake, and she produces another jar of wine. It is not Sauvignon, but help me Merlin if I don't taste a Cabernet.
"We don't have any candles," I tell her as we stare at the cake in the living room's center table.
"I don't believe in having wishes granted, anyway."
"Are you not too sceptic for your age?"
"Perhaps," Granger looks at me. "What would you ask?"
"It is not my birthday."
"No, and we wouldn't have candles if it was. I'm just making conversation."
"You would ask to find a way out of here."
"Of course, wouldn't you too?"
"No."
She frowns, but I don't offer any more information. I cut the cake and I could not tell you why, but it is the best cake I have ever baked. Granger actually makes a sound once she tastes it. It is a small, deep sound. It is a moan.
I feel like grinning, all of a sudden.
"You would wish for Draco to be safe," She announces suddenly, like that is a charade she spent the last hour trying to crack. "He was there the day we were taken. You are worried something happened to him."
She is so right I want to deny it all.
"Draco is fine," I whisper, serving her more cake. "I would know if he were not."
Granger looks at me doubtfully, but does not argue.
"I think about Harry, too," Another piece of cake in her mouth. No moans this time. "But he is a really good auror. Whatever happened, I'm sure he escaped."
"He is famous for his surviving skills," I shrug, and Grander giggles. Today she is full of new sounds.
"You didn't wish me a happy birthday," The sentence comes more curious than accusingly.
"It would be pointless," I start to collect the plates and the tableware.
"It is polite, is all I'm saying." She follows me down to the kitchen.
"I wish you a happy birthday, Granger."
"You can call me Hermione."
"I wish you a happy birthday, Hermione," I comply, holding in a sigh. "Happy?"
"No. You were right. It was pointless."
We stare at each other.
"I wish you have many happy birthdays to compensate this one."
"It is also pointless," She makes a cabinet door slam shut behind me. "Everything is pointless."
"Close your eyes."
"Why? We don't even have candles!"
"Close them," I demand, and she obeys. I cannot have her losing her way like this, it is too dangerous in this situation. Once we are lost, we might never again be found.
I step closer and kiss her on the lips. Her eyes fly open, but she does not back away. Granger knows all she will get is what I have to give her.
And I am everything I have to give her. Luckily, for now I will be all she needs.
"You do the dishes," I say against her mouth, and we break apart.
She does.
…
It is sunny again and we have lunch outside, on the beach. Hermione floats the canoe upside down and it serves as a table. We sit on the sand and have sandwiches and juice while the sea sings to us.
"You really like it, don't you?" She questions, half a sandwich in her hand. "The beach, I mean."
"It reminds me of somewhere."
"A happy somewhere."
"Not necessarily," I say, meeting her stare. "But somewhere I was happy for some time, yes."
"Tell me about it," She asks, lying down. Her hair will be full of sand.
"An island in Spain, a place called Ibiza," I lay by her side. My hair will be full of sand. "I used to spend summers there as a teenager. The bluest ocean I had ever seen. It looked like this one, I suppose, but it felt different."
"Different how?"
"Infinite," I say without thinking. "My sister Andromeda would charm both of us with the bubble-head, and we went scuba-diving."
"Sounds fun," She whispers to the sky. I feel her hand moving on the sand and I know what it is looking for even before it reaches mine. I don't know if she is comforting me or herself.
"Where is the place you were the happiest?" I question, not exactly because I want to know, but because it seems fair to let her go there for a moment too.
"Hogwarts, of course."
"Of course."
She chuckles lightly, then stops too soon. My hand is pressed against her lips when I am not expecting it. I don't know how she feels, but suddenly I want to. I close my eyes and imagine what taste do I have in her tongue; her tongue that barely brushes my wrist. What is she feeling? Why is she doing it? Does she want more?
I don't know the answers, but those are the best questions I have asked myself in sometime. Is she giving me a little of herself or taking a little of me? Is there any difference between these things, at this point?
"Did you know the Room of Requirement?" She asks, her mouth moving against my palm to form the words.
"I don't think so."
"In the seventh floor, the left corridor."
"Oh," I grin. "The Come and Go Room."
"Yes," Hermione stops, breaths into my hand. "What did you use it for?" I don't answer, and she sneers. "Yes, just what I thought."
I am grinning wider.
"What form did it take for you?"
"A beach," I lie in a soft voice. "With a blue ocean, warm sand, woods in the distance. It was always sunny, it smelled like coconuts, and the girls always loved it."
She smiles against my hand, sighs. "Thanks," She murmurs. "Thank you for that."
…
We don't sleep apart anymore. One night she just follows me when I say goodnight, and tucks herself in the left side of the bed. I don't question it, not on that first night, not in any night that comes after.
I have been sleeping better.
"Why are you still feverish?" She asks, as we are lying in bed and her hand comes up to my forehead. "I have tried everything."
"It is ok," I tell her. The days here don't demand much effort, and if the fever makes me tired and slow, well, Hermione never complains.
"Maybe it's emotional," She suggests, and I feel her expectant eyes waiting for my reaction.
"Maybe you cut yourself that first morning when you woke up in a strange place," I reply, turning on my side to stare at her. "Did you? Do you auto mutilate?"
She narrows her eyes. "You always make fun of serious things."
"Do I?" I don't avert my eyes, but I wonder when will she find out the aligned scars on the inside of my thighs.
"I don't mutilate myself," Hermione whispers, her fingertips playing across my face. She touches me for a few seconds, a homeopathic treatment that has been working so far. Then we go to sleep.
…
There are three colors in her hair; brown for the most, golden where the sun touched it, and white hidden amongst her curls, like the tears she doesn't let me see.
When the second month comes and goes, Hermione has perfected her magic to levels I can only dream of. It is not enough, howsoever, to identify any spells that is keeping us here. For a week, she has been trying to build a broom, but I cannot let her take it to a high fly. I just cannot take the chance she will fall.
This morning I wake up to the sound of the shower, as it is almost every morning. Every move is mechanic as I get up, put on my robe and walk to the kitchen to start breakfast. Then I stop.
The cabinets are full again. Last night they were half empty; today they are full. I don't know how long I stand staring, but it is enough for Hermione to walk in. She halts behind me, as we try to make sense of the senseless.
Did somebody come? Were we not forgotten, then? Are we here for an even longer run? I could make a thousand questions, but I will not find an answer.
I don't try to stop her when Hermione wreaks havoc on the house to find any piece of evidence I already know will not be there. I make breakfast, I sit, I wait. Until she is finished, until she broke and mended things, until she tired herself with the broom, until she gets hoarse trying to convince me it is secure for us to try flying away. I wait, I wait and I wait.
And then I kiss her.
It is different this time from the first one, although it is the same. It is the same medicine, but it is a different dosage. It is life or death for the both of us. It is everything, but I don't know if it is enough.
She parts her lips for me, and I kiss her. My mouth trails through her jaw line, then finds hers again. My tongue invites itself in, and Hermione welcomes it. Nothing else exists, only her, is what I want her to understand. Nothing else exists but me. Why worry? I am the universe and I am here. She is the universe, and I will kiss her.
"Your lips were made for kissing," I moan against her face, and she locks my tongue again with hers.
We kiss so much my lips become sore. It feels so good my heart wants to groan when I think of the full cabinet. I have months more of kissing. The thought vanishes when we are not kissing, so we kiss more. She tastes as sweet as any obsession would.
…
In the end, it is very simple: I tell her to spell the broom to fly alone. Hermione does not want to, although it is clear my suggestion only makes sense.
"It could fly away out of reach, and I would have to make another," She argues as we have lunch.
"If it happens, then it is because you cannot control the broom. We will not fly a broom you cannot control."
"It is easier to control if I am sitting on it than with a spell."
"You are better with spells than you are guiding a broom," I know this as I know most things about her now.
"We will fly over the sea, at maximum we will fall in the water and swim back."
"I don't want you to get hurt. Your wound just closed for good, and you are still sore."
"I am fine, but you have been feverish for two whole months. Do you have any idea of what that can do to your organism?"
"Hermione, it will not work," I say at last. I am too tired for this.
"You don't know that."
"We both know that."
"I can't not try, Narcissa."
We finish lunch, she does the dishes, and then goes outside. It pains me not to be by her side for the smallest of moments, but I do not follow her to the beach.
I hear a little exclamation and the sound of something cutting the air. She comes back half an hour later, wet from the sea. I open my arms to her. My universe. My obsession.
…
I cook. She does the dishes.
A week later, I can make her laugh again.
…
Her hand on my breast, the nipple becoming hard under her touch. I hear her breath catching, and I grin, my stomach contracting. I try to call her, but her fingers interrupt me by sliding down my abdomen, trespassing my belly button until they reach my pubis. My body softens; it is a kind of surrender cry.
I don't think she knows her fingers on my venter causes a moist wave nearby. All I want is her fingers on me. The mere idea causes me to moan, and Hermione looks at me with surprise. She is curious.
We stare at each other. There is hunger in her brown eyes, and I want to feed it without ending it. She feels me in her fingertips, and I let the sensation overcome all else.
There is nothing more than this. I moan when she finds the right spot and massages it, before going to look for the wettest point.
"Is it here you like?"
"Use your both hands."
She likes to learn. And something about the discovery aura around her, her curiosity, her fumbling ways – something about her putts me off of myself. Until it feels so good I cry out, shivering. Until I bite my lip and cut myself. Until all I can think about is this, now.
There is nothing more than this.
She pulls me closer when I ease down, looking at me as if I am a demon that came to tempt her by sundown. She kisses me like I have not been kissed before. I let her have me, I could not deny her if I wanted to. I am moaning in her mouth with any caress, I am burning myself in her mouth.
"Let me show you," I beg into her lips.
"What?"
"Everything."
I am everything. Hermione nods, and I undress her. Each inch of her skin is different under my tongue. Her chin, her neck, the curve of her breasts. When I mouth a nipple, she grabs my hair.
The noises she makes me will someday drive me mad.
I turn her on her back, our skins gluing, merging into each other. I kiss the line of her spine, raising chills I want to drink. Up under her thighs, my hand, and her hands that seize the sheets desperately.
My tongue finding way inside. She is groaning nonsenses.
On her back again, Hermione's eyes set mine into flames. Our hips meet to explode into a climax that leaves me on the brink of unconsciousness. I lay on her chest for two lives and more.
"We were not supposed to be happy here, were we?" She mumbles into my hair.
I am glad she has learned to lie.
My universe. My obsession. My love.
…
One day I wake up in an empty bed.
…
She is nowhere to be found.
…
I am alone.