Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling is our queen, undisputedly. I'm just a petty thief who enjoys tinkering around in another's world.
Rating: M/NC-17. Graphic femslash in future chapters. Shhhh. Just go along with me and pretend it's permissible on this site. I'm hardly the only one.
Warnings: Sex. Violence. Quite possibly some of both together; I mean, we are talking about Bellatrix Lestrange, here.
Pairing(s): Hermione/Bellatrix, Hermione/Andromeda, Hermione/Narcissa. Read author's note below for more information.
As she settled into her first week at Black Manor, a pattern began to weave its way into Hermione's days. She dove headfirst into the challenge of creating a menu of sorts for her employers; one which did not require an excessive amount of time on her part, but which would also draw no complaint from any one of her more intimidating superiors. The plates would disappear from her kitchen artfully arranged with her foods of choice and reappear almost entirely empty, to be met with a relieved sigh, knowing she had yet to utterly fail. She often tried to engage the two house-elves, Rommie and Atcham, in conversation, but unless addressed with a direct request for help they would respond only with varying degrees of "Yes, missus."
Andromeda made it clear she was welcome to dine beside her, but Hermione chose to take her meals in the kitchen, and the issue was not pressed.
Her morning lessons were fast becoming a highlight of her day. Andromeda never seemed to judge her by any semblance of a traditional magical standard; rather, she spent the first week merely feeling out Hermione's strengths and weaknesses. The young witch discovered much about herself in the process, often surprising herself with her own abilities. Her patchwork education may have been lackluster, but her strength was not. Even without training, she had built up a level of control quite beyond her age, which Andromeda speculated as a mixture of the repetitive tasks she had undertaken in her home and her self-inflicted fluidity within the world of magic.
/
Hermione thought Andromeda's testing peculiarly haphazard, and it was beginning to feel redundant, but it was this realization that led the younger witch to connect the dots and see the pattern Andromeda was weaving for her. It was in this pattern that Hermione found Andromeda's true genius at teaching. Without her realization, Hermione was beginning to… well… see the spells. No, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't physical, wasn't visual. It was something more than even perceptual. It was an unconscious categorization, an assignment of spells based on the tasks they performed. By leading Hermione's already known magical abilities into recognizing the similarities and differences in their purposes, Andromeda was teaching Hermione a new system for merging and creating her unbound spells.
When Andromeda saw that Hermione had figured it out, perhaps three days into their meetings, she graced her with one of the approving smiles Hermione was becoming almost dependent on. "Ah, so you've noticed the method to my madness? Excellent."
Though Hermione was still rather timid around the family in everyday interactions, she had developed a sort of rapport with Andromeda that existed within the four walls of her mother's study and allowed her to speak more freely.
"This wasn't really a test at all," Hermione mused aloud. "You could have gauged my abilities in a day at most, but… this was the first lesson."
Andromeda nodded and arched an eyebrow, prompting Hermione to continue.
"These spells… they're… related?" Andromeda made no more to reply, so Hermione continued, trying to sound more sure of herself. "I'm beginning to… anticipate the sort of spells that you're going to ask for next. I can feel how one spell will lead into another, or how the last two could mix."
Andromeda smiled once more and elaborated on Hermione's assumptions. "Precisely. While a school curriculum would teach you spells in broken, distinct divisions with names like Charms, Transfigurations, Divinations, Defenses, Herbals… magic simply isn't that—"
"—linear?" Hermione offered, then bit her lip. She always had a nagging habit of wanting to pipe up when she knew where a lesson was going, but interrupting was probably not the best idea, and it wasn't the first instance she had done so with Andromeda. "Sorry," she murmured.
Andromeda merely gave her an indulgent smile and a soft chuckle. "Correct, again, Ms. Granger. Five points to Slytherin!" At Hermione's confused expression, Andromeda was quick to add, "Not that you would have been a Slytherin, as such. I was one – merely a reflex to give points to my old house. I can't see you in silver and green, though. Perhaps a Ravenclaw… even a Gryffindor. Who can say?"
Hermione's mind connected the references to the stories from the other Diagon children, stories of a singing hat and house rivalry and common rooms in dungeons and towers. She had lived in her imagination back then, begging her friends for tales to feed her fantasies of a life she might have had.
Andromeda's eyes had darkened. "I must say, I'm having a hard time feeling charitable towards your parents, right now. It was absolutely criminal to not send you to school. I don't doubt that you could have been quite the brightest witch of your age."
Hermione blushed and shook her head. "Hardly," she replied, trying to brush off the compliment.
"I'm serious, Hermione. Not that I'm not thrilled to have you all to myself, but you would have thrived at Hogwarts."
Though years of seeing herself as the lowest end of society had taught Hermione little self-worth, she couldn't help but brighten at Andromeda's words. "Really?" she asked cautiously, as though afraid the words would be taken back.
"Of course. I could see you as quite the teacher's pet," Andromeda said with a wry smile. "McGonagall would have adored you… the librarian would have known you by name… I bet you would have been the only student awake in the entire classroom during History of Magic."
This drew a smile from Hermione. She had heard of the ghost teacher with the voice dry and monotonous as unsweetened rock-cakes.
Andromeda returned to the lesson in a matter of a moment. "But it does no good to dwell on might-have-beens. Where were we?"
"Magic isn't linear?" Hermione prompted.
Andromeda went on to explain that types of magic are much more circular. There are three broad categories, for convenience sake: Transfigurative; spells which change the form or purpose of an object or idea, Charming; spells which cause an object or idea to perform an action, and Engaging; spells of an offensive or defensive nature, most commonly used in dueling. All magic fell into at least one of these categories, but many fell into two or all three, hence, the only way – Andromeda insisted – to organize magic was to picture a loop where one type flowed into another and another and right back to the start.
/
By the end of the week, Hermione had added her own twist to this system for her sanity's sake. She began thinking of Transfigurative, Charming, and Engaging spells as the primary colors, red, blue, and yellow. When she needed a spell that both transfigured and charmed, she could reach into her mind and swirl her imaginary pallet, plucking out the proper shade of purple and casting a spell. It was trial-and-error, at first, to find exactly which end of the spectrum spells would fall into, but the longer she spent in that room with Andromeda, the more missing pieces seemed to fall into place, the more magic seemed to peel itself open to her, and the more enthralled she became.
Andromeda seemed to feed off of Hermione's successes. The first time Hermione managed a spell she had no name for, it triggered the older witch's eyes to gleam with a sort of biting joy. No matter how tired Andromeda appeared when Hermione entered, she seemed rejuvenated by the time the younger witch left, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders with each spell Hermione cast.
Magic was only one piece of Hermione's interactions with Andromeda, though. Andromeda Black, Hermione decided, was a very… physical person. She would often pace the room, her circuits leading her time and again to wherever the younger woman sat or stood. Many of these passing moments resulted in a quick brush of fingers across Hermione's shoulders or down her arm, or perhaps a lingering hand at the small of Hermione's back. In her moments of instruction, she frequented the chair across from the younger witch and had taken to picking up one or the other of Hermione's hands between her own, playing aimlessly with her fingers as she spoke.
It was distracting to say the least.
The woman moved in a way Hermione admired too much to envy, with a sort of fluid grace to her every gesture that drew the eye and snared it. As much as Hermione thirsted for learning, as much as she listened raptly to every piece of knowledge Andromeda could impart to her, she found that it took little more than a casual touch to fracture her attention and leave her scrambling to catch up to the last words.
The side-eyed smiles Andromeda gave her when she stumbled over her own tongue began convincing Hermione that Andromeda was quite aware of the effect she was having on the younger witch, and took some strange pleasure in setting her on edge, but she pushed the thought from her mind, thinking she must just be looking for something that wasn't there.
/
It took a nearly disastrous attempt at a simple unlocking spell for Andromeda to notice the decrepit state of Hermione's wand. Andromeda was having her cast spells she would typically use an incantation for, spells she already knew, but without speaking, something Hermione found rather more challenging than creating a silent spell she did not actually have a name for. As she flicked her wand while drawing out a shade of pale blue from the depths of her mind, a sliver of splintering wood from the handle pricked her forefinger and snapped off, slipping into her skin.
Hermione let out a muffled curse at both the sharp pain in her finger, and the state of the lock she had been aiming towards, which was now a steaming mess of melted metal. "Oh, bugger!" She slid down into the chair behind her.
Andromeda caught sight of a drop of blood as Hermione lifted her finger to her lips, sucking at the cut.
"Are you alright?" she asked, ignoring the faintly smoking floor and pulling Hermione's hand towards her.
"Fine, I'm grand, really. It… it happens. Too often. I'm terribly sorry about your lock!" she added, wondering how much the silver-embossed thing had cost. "Merlin, I'm sorry, I should have thought before I cast on something that val—"
Andromeda held up a hand, cutting her off. "It's alright, really. I'm much more worried about having pieces of wandwood under your skin." She was inspecting the splinter in Hermione's finger with a critical eye. "Don't move," she ordered, kneeling down and resting Hermione's wrist on her thigh as she reached into her sleeve for her wand. She lifted the younger witch's hand once more and placed the tip of her wand beside the sliver of wood. With a muffled incantation, Hermione felt a soothing warmth spread into her fingertip and leak down into her palm. She felt no pain when Andromeda gently extracted the offending splinter, but she felt a different sort of warmth when her finger was tenderly lifted and brought to Andromeda's waiting lips. They closed about Hermione's fingertip in a leisurely motion, cheeks hollowing in a soothing pull, tongue flicking over her small injury in a teasing caress.
Hermione could not seem to pull her eyes away from those lips; she had no control over her own hand, Andromeda's fingers controlling hers as surely as her lips were controlling the very pulse that beat at her throat. When the lips slowly parted, allowing her hand to escape with a final, lingering brush against her lower lip, Hermione had to relearn how to breathe.
"Had to make sure there weren't any more… splinters," Andromeda whispered, voice entirely too husky for the safety of Hermione's stuttering heartbeat.
"T-thank you," she managed. She glanced down at her hand, noticing there was not so much as a lingering twinge of pain or a faint prick mark.
"Of course," Andromeda replied, rising once more and extending her hand to help Hermione from her seat. Hermione accepted the proffered palm with her now-uninjured hand and stood. Andromeda did not let go. She absent-mindedly toyed with Hermione's fingers as she picked up the old wand Hermione had dropped on the edge of the desk with her other hand. "By Merlin!" she exclaimed softly. "I can't believe you haven't killed yourself with this!"
Hermione ducked her head, embarrassed in a helpless sort of way whenever she had to watch as someone like Andromeda witnessed the things she lived with. It was one thing to wear the same three sets of house-friendly robes; after all, she was technically a servant here, and she kept them clean and well-fitting. It was another to have to use a wand that could easily do damage in this house, damage she certainly could not afford to repair, but what could she do?
"I'm sorry, really. I'm used to its… moods. It's been a long while since it bit me like that," she joked halfheartedly. "You can take the damages out of my pay, and I'll polish it tonight…"
Andromeda shook her head. "If you polish this twig down any further, you'll be casting with a toothpick!" She dropped the wand and Hermione's hand in one motion. Hermione nervously knitted her fingers together, fingertips drumming agitatedly against the backs of her hands.
In a swift motion, Andromeda cradled Hermione's cheeks in her palms and tilted her head up to meet her eyes. Once she had the younger woman's full attention, she let her hands slip to her shoulders instead. "Listen to me, Hermione. I'm not going to dock your pay for an accident. I would never do that. You needn't apologize to me; I couldn't care less about the bloody lock. I'm worried about you." Her hands squeezed Hermione's upper arms. "You can't know when something could go wrong! With a wand as old as that, the best you can hope for is that nothing explodes when you use it. I'm amazed you went these last few days without an accident." By this point, her palms had slid down Hermione's arms and were now grasping the younger witch's hands once more. "I know you have a… thing… about earning your keep, that you don't want charity from me, but the next time I'm near Ollivanders, I'm going to get you a new wand, one that will not only not kill you, but which will be made to answer to you, and I don't want you to say one word about paying me back."
Hermione wanted to protest; Andromeda had already done so much for her! But as the older woman raised Hermione's hands to her face, pressing her knuckles into her lips and looking down at her with pleading eyes, she could hardly deny her.
"I – alright," she muttered reluctantly. "I – thank you."
Andromeda's eyes brightened and she grinned. "Brilliant."
Her lips graced across the back of Hermione's hand in what could have been a butterfly kiss, but could have just as easily been a simple side-effect of letting go.
/
For all that she spent every morning with Andromeda, this was only one of the facets of the twisted family Hermione was living amongst, and she was beginning to find herself just as intrigued by a second Black witch, one whom she found herself crossing paths with more and more as time wore on.
Starting her second day, Hermione took to the library after lunch each afternoon, cleaning and organizing and flipping through pages in equal measure. On her second visit, she found that she was not always the sole occupant of the neglected room.
/
Standing atop the second-to-last rung on the ladder, Hermione used the tips of her fingers to slide a book into its proper place on the shelving. Reaching for its neighbor, she nearly tipped off when the library door opened with a creak to admit the frantic-eyed form of Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione froze, never sure what to expect from the withdrawn, volatile woman. Narcissa peered around for a moment but her eyes did not stray to the upper recesses where Hermione perched. Letting out an audible sigh, Narcissa grabbed a book from the nearest shelf and slumped down into a neighboring loveseat, kicking off her shoes and swinging her legs up and over the far armrest in a picture so lacking in grace or decorum that it drew a startled laugh from Hermione.
In the high-ceiled, echoing chamber, the sound carried, and Narcissa immediately jerked up into a standing position, drawing her wand and demanding, "Who's there!"
Not wanting to end up on the wrong end of a defensive spell, Hermione called out in a trembling voice. "It's just me, Hermione. Sorry if I disturbed you, ma'am."
Finally identifying the source of the voice, just visible above a row of bookcases, Narcissa gradually lowered her wand. "Whatever are you doing in here, girl?" she asked sharply. "No one comes in here," she added, voice lower.
Hermione debated climbing down so as not to continue the conversation at such an awkward angle, but felt oddly safer in the heights. "Yes, Andromeda told me as much," she started cautiously. "But… I… I've never been around so many books in my life, ma'am, and I… I do so like them. I hate to see them left untended. I thought… I thought to use my spare time to dust and put this space in order." Hermione was aware that she was babbling, but the unreadable, calculating look that was affixed to the other woman's face seemed to draw out almost pleading explanations. "I had no idea anyone else would come here. I can go…"
Though her face remained impassive, Narcissa shook her head. "Oh, don't leave on my account."
"No, really, it's no trouble… I—"
Narcissa cut her off. "—Stay," she said, voice firm, commanding.
Knowing better than to argue, Hermione was left to fidget awkwardly atop a ladder, unsure whether it would be rude to continue her work. Narcissa seemed prepared to ignore her presence once more, settling back into her seat, though with a great deal more grace and poise this time, so Hermione turned and pulled the next book from the shelf, resigning herself to having an audience.
Her organizing strategy was haphazard at best, rather like the solitaire card game Clock played by wizards and Muggles alike. Each time she came across a book in her dusting that wasn't where it belonged, she would pick it up, bring it to a more suitable category, and begin dusting there until she reached another book that needed a new home. In this way, she was often forced to traverse from one end of the chamber to the other and back again in only three books, but it was the only way she could think of doing this without leaving piles of half-organized books behind when she left later in the afternoon.
Today, she could feel Narcissa's eyes on her each time she crossed the space where the elder witch sat; sometimes even when across the room, but if she chanced a glance over her shoulder, Narcissa would appear engrossed in her book. Hermione made a game of attempting to see the title, either written across the top of the page, or along the spine, or even on the front cover, wondering what sort of books a true Lady read. However, despite many roundabout paths taken, Hermione couldn't quite grasp hold of the illusive words.
After a time, Narcissa rose gracefully, pocketed the small book in the depths of her robe, and departed the library, leaving Hermione feeling relieved, but oddly… alone.
The next day found Hermione once more tidying a row when the door creaked open and the same pale figure entered. Her eyes immediately locked into Hermione's. Narcissa gave a curt nod, acknowledging her presence, but said nothing. She settled into the same chair, and Hermione went back to work.
She couldn't help but cast a few glances towards the blonde figure, though. She was dressed as impeccably as ever, in a manner Hermione would have considered more appropriate for a luncheon than a chair in the library of her own home, but it was fitting for what little she knew of the witch. She wore light robes of a deep sea-green, which, Hermione thought, had they been a shade lighter, could have made her look as pallid as a drowned corpse. Instead, the rich shade leant her skin a pearl-like tone and darkened the crystalline blue of her eyes. She quickly glanced back to the shelves when Narcissa looked up, but watched from the corner of her eyes as the fair witch scanned briskly from side to side, as though hunting for an unseen observer, before casually toeing off her polished black boots and tucking her feet daintily beneath her.
Hermione could have thought it amusing, but instead found it rather sad. She tried to imagine what sort of life this woman had led that would lead her to believe that being seen relaxing in her own home was a sign of weakness.
When Narcissa was settled into her book, Hermione began scaling the nearest ladder, holding two books on wizarding history which she knew belonged on the uppermost shelves, not down below with the healing texts. This ladder was rickety, and a bit twitchy, wanting to scuttle away like a shy puppy whenever she approached it, but it always seemed to settle down nicely once she was on it.
When the upper rungs made a particularly loud creak of protest, Hermione caught Narcissa's eyes darting over to her as she was nearing the top, but she pretended not to notice, focused instead on finding the proper brass plaque which labeled the section she wanted so she could come down quickly. She wasn't afraid of heights, per say, but she wasn't thrilled by them, either, especially when perched on a wobbly ladder. She spotted books of a similar nature to the two she carried and slid them carefully into their slots.
When the ladder Hermione had ascended suddenly slid sideways with a sickening screech, the ultimate form of toe-curling nails-on-blackboard magnified by the cavernous room, Narcissa cried out harshly. "Stop! Stop," she said again, tone calm once more. "Get down, now."
Hermione, frozen since the ladder had moved with a distinct lack of her permission, unlocked her limbs with a conscious effort and tried to slow her racing heart. She cautiously descended, wondering exactly which of her actions had triggered the Lady Malfoy's demand. She kept her chin down when she reached the floor, not approaching the figure in the chair, as though clinging to the shelved-in row would provide her some sort of buffer from any impending punishment.
"Come here," the older witch snapped, sounding impatient for the first time.
Stifling a whimper, Hermione cautiously approached until she was close enough to view Narcissa's footwear without raising her gaze from its submissive posture.
The blonde witch sighed. "Relax, girl," she muttered, though her tone was not encouraging. "I'm sure you'll go right back to your cleaning and climbing once I've gone, but for the moment I have no desire to watch you nearly kill yourself on these ancient ladders. Get a book. Sit," she added, gesturing to the chair opposite her own.
Hermione stood frozen for a moment, weighing out the words in her mind. Though spoken with a substantial degree of condescension, Narcissa still spoke with a semblance of true care for Hermione's well-being. A bit timidly, she picked up a book she had selected to borrow earlier on ancient runes and sat at the very edge of the chair the fair-haired witch had indicated, shoulders hunched inwards protectively.
Narcissa gave an amused sniff. "I don't bite," she said drolly.
Hermione flushed and forced herself to relax as she opened her book, but the letters seemed to swarm like so many flies on the page, darting in and out of her vision and only managing to point her attention back to the woman seated opposite her. By the time she had read the same page seven times, glancing reflexively up at Narcissa every few lines, the other woman finally spoke.
"What are you reading?"
Hermione jumped in her seat at the unexpected words, not actually able to comprehend that the Lady Malfoy was asking her a question in a conversational manner. "P-pardon?"
Narcissa sighed and closed her book. "I see little point in sitting here and reading when you cannot seem to keep your eyes on your own book and I cannot read when someone is staring at me, so I think an attempt at conversation should be made, to save us both a degree of… discomfort."
Hermione was sure her cheeks were a shade of pure crimson by that point. "Sorry I… I didn't mean to stare, ma'am."
Narcissa quirked an eyebrow. "Of course," she said in a tone so flat that the haughty cynicism could not even roll off of it.
Hermione was fairly certain her cheeks had impossibly darkened. She wondered idly what sort of spell she could cast with the color she turned at her most embarrassed. Shaking off her nervous musings, she decided her best bet was to scrape up some remnant of dignity and answer Narcissa's original question.
"Ancient Runes in the World of the Modern Wizard," she said, awkwardly half-lifting the book from her lap.
"Hmm," was Narcissa's only reply, though her other eyebrow had joined its twin, rising above her eyes in a way that spoke of grudging surprise.
When nothing further was offered, Hermione found herself speaking, though she was honestly sure she had not meant to. "There were so many books; I simply couldn't decide where to start! I've always loved languages, though – learned quite a bit of Mermish from a travelling fisher-wizard at the inn, and he always told me the best way to learn history is through language…" She bit off the words and looked down. When Narcissa still did not speak, she slowly raised her eyes, expecting a reprimand for her one-sided dialogue.
Instead, she received a calculating look and a small, dry smile. "And here I thought my sister said you were uneducated," Narcissa mused, half to herself. She cocked her head in a very birdlike manner. "But ancient runes are hardly light reading."
Hermione haltingly replied, "I… You would certainly consider me uneducated, ma'am. But… I like to think that I've learned more than some my age have read in all their fancy schooling."
Narcissa hummed again, blinking slowly. "I'll admit, you're… intriguing… for a Mudblood." Hermione did not flinch at the word. She had been called worse, and, coming from the Lady Malfoy, it was almost too expected to be insulting. "It's not often I have someone who can speak as well as a highborn calling me 'ma'am'."
It was a compliment, in a roundabout way. Hermione had always prided herself on sounding as learned as she could, purposely avoiding the commoners' talk her mum and dad conversed in by paging through the dictionary in the mop cupboard whenever her dad wasn't around and the drunkard who always stayed upstairs tried to get frisky with her, as well as by listening to people around her who spoke with that little lilt to their words that told of a different upbringing. She could sound as demure and polite as she needed to work for purebloods and Ministry-folk, but she never had to sound ignorant.
"Well… I try, ma'am."
Now, Narcissa's lips quirked into something almost real. "I think I could like you," she said, voice almost too soft for Hermione to catch the words. "Or at least your taste in pastimes," she added, voice growing more distant again. Still, she spoke to Hermione, and that was more than she had expected, away from Andromeda's mediating presence. "I had a taste for languages when I was younger; nothing like the half-breed tongue Merpeople speak, but I did enjoy high Elvish, and the many dead wizarding languages provided some amusement."
Hermione's eyes brightened. "High Elvish? Why, I thought the last of the Elvin Scrolls were lost in the Archives Fire at Athens?" One of her favorite presents she had ever received had been a used copy of A History of the Ancient Races her father had found when a long-departed guest had never returned to claim his belongings. It had been her tenth birthday, and she had read it over so many times since then that she had had to re-stitch the bindings by hand on three occasions.
Again, Narcissa's face slipped into a mask of grudging respect at Hermione's apparent interest. "Something can be said for having private libraries passed down through generations of pureblood families."
"You have Elvin Scrolls in here?" She had yet to even approach the oldest parts of the library, those against the far wall, afraid to damage the racks of scrolls and tablets, remnants of a time long since passed.
"Among other things," Narcissa replied. "I've been reading through these shelves since I was a girl, and I have yet to run out."
Hermione glanced around the room once more, unable to comprehend how Narcissa could have spent her time in here without having it cleaned. "If I may, why have you let everything get so… run down?"
"Disorganized, dusty, filthy, you mean?" Narcissa's face, which had become almost animated when talking about the books, seemed to be shutting in upon itself. "If the space looks as though no one has entered in years, no one thinks to come in."
"But—" she started.
"—This is a place I go when I do not wish to be found, Hermione." It was the first time, Hermione realized, that the youngest sister had addressed her by name. Despite the harsh tone of the words, it was a pleasant change. Narcissa's voice was brittle. "I will explain this to you once, and only once," she continued. "Because if I am to share this space with you, I had best be able to trust your… discretion."
Hermione nodded her head quickly. "You don't need to explain anything to me, Lady Malfoy. I know better than to betray any confidence of my employers."
"Mm," Narcissa mused. "Perhaps. And still… I find I'd rather you not think I've neglected these halls needlessly."
Though she would never have spoken that thought aloud, it had crossed Hermione's mind.
"As I'm sure you're aware, my husband and I are not on the most… congenial of terms, at the moment."
Judging from the many times Hermione had rounded a corner to find the couple quarreling at wand-point, that was an understatement.
"He has his reasons, I have mine, but he is more fond of confrontation than I. When I am not in the mood to deal with his… petty grievances and childlike pride, I come here."
Hermione felt torn. Part of her felt real fear, fear that some piece of what Narcissa was telling her could come back to haunt her, that if she ever reconciled with Lucius, Hermione would become someone who knew something she did not want the rest of society to know, and that would make Hermione very… disposable. But another part of her – a foolish, soft-hearted part – kind of wanted to give the cold, distant woman a hug and tell her that she understood perfectly, that she, too, found comfort and safety in books, though in a different manner, of course. Still, Hermione did not have a suicide wish, so she merely sat and tried to keep a neutral, understanding expression on her face.
"He doesn't look for me here – I doubt the man has ever set foot in this space, and he would not suspect it of me." She gave a self-depreciating chuckle. "He has never bothered to notice that his wife has a brain in her head to match the face he married for the public's sake."
For the first time, Hermione was able to let go of some of the deeply-buried envy she had for the life of a wealthy pureblood. She had never truly wanted to be one, but some part of her had still longed for the security, the money, the education; but this, to have to marry someone based solely on blood, not love, not passion, not even intellectual compatibility… it was not a pleasant thought.
"So this is where I come, when I can get away without his notice. All of the books have a basic wear-and-tear protection spell, as well as numerous anti-aging charms, so I've let the dust… stay. It makes for a useful little deterrent to most visitors."
"Does that mean you'd… rather I not clean in here?" Hermione inquired.
Narcissa shook her head. "Ah, no… no. The place deserves a good cleansing. If Lucius expresses the slightest interest in what you've been doing, don't mention this little project of yours, and I quite doubt he'll push the matter."
Hermione nodded earnestly.
Narcissa's confession created a semblance of peace between the two witches, a façade of trust and an interesting illusion of respect that allowed for the trappings of conversation to grow up around it. For the next hour, words were traded on-and-off.
Hermione, feeling a change of subject was needed, judging from the fragile look on Narcissa's face when she was speaking about her husband, nervously inquired what the Lady was reading.
Narcissa appeared amused that Hermione had the gall to actually attempt to initiate a new topic, but she did reply. "Light, leisure reading at the moment. Just a little old-fashioned wizard fiction for a change. Nothing I'd recommend."
Hermione's curiosity was piqued, but she didn't want to push her luck, so instead she asked, "What would you recommend, ma'am?"
Much to Hermione's astonishment, Narcissa seemed perfectly willing to discuss literature with her. By the time Narcissa stood to leave, more than an hour had passed in a quiet exchange about the noteworthy contents of the Black family's legacy library.
/
Throughout the week, Hermione fell into a system with the blonde Black. She would arrive perhaps an hour or two before Narcissa and work at her cleaning and sorting, but she would hop down from the ladders the moment the older woman arrived and settle into her usual seat. Narcissa seemed to have two moods: talk, or read. Hermione could tell between the two because, if she felt like talking… she would start talking. And so, her afternoons became full of companionable literature, either in reading side-by-side, or talking quietly of what they read.
She became much more comfortable in the fair witch's presence, as long as her husband was not around. In fact, when she finally remembered the letter she wanted to send to her mother, it was Narcissa she asked first.
"I think Andromeda keeps a bird in her rooms. I just use the house-elves, though," she replied flippantly, as though the idea of sending elves to Diagon with the mail wasn't even an inconvenience for them. She made a mental note to inquire with Andromeda, next.
Outside of the library, Hermione almost never caught more than a glimpse of Narcissa, perhaps talking in emphatic whispers with Andromeda, arguing at wand-point with Lucius, or disappearing up the third flight of stairs. Still, as little as she saw the two Black sisters outside of their nearly scripted times in the study and library, she still knew generally where they could be found at most times of day, still heard heels echoing on flagstone or marble. Andromeda and Narcissa were presences in her life, which made the absence of the third sister that much more noticeable.
It weighed on Hermione in her moments of free thought that there was a fifth presence in this house that she had absolutely no true awareness of. She had never heard so much as a whisper from the rooms above her, let alone caught a glimpse of the mysterious, maniacal third sister. The stairwell became a guilty obsession for her. She would linger on the second-floor landing for longer and longer pauses each time before entering the halls leading to her chambers. She would sit in the little stairway window ledge with a book borrowed from the library, rather than read in any of the more comfortable settings; the library chairs, her own bed. Narcissa had seen her there once, but had merely given her an implacable look before moving on without a word. Andromeda's chambers were closer to the other stair, so she had not discovered Hermione's strange pastime.
She couldn't seem to help herself – she was curious by nature.
Her curiosity only grew worse when she received concrete proof of the final sister's presence, on a night exactly a week since her first in the Manor.
/
Hermione woke to darkness in a moment of gut-wrenching panic, something solid, heavy pressing down on her stomach, restricting her breath. She froze, eyes wide and unseeing, not daring to so much as breathe. When the weight remained unmoving, she inched quivering fingers beneath the sheets, layers of the finest cloth beginning to feel like a prison. Feeling cold air against her fingertips, she wrapped a grasping hand around the well-worn handle of her wand, drawing it back towards her.
Don't panic, don't panic, she told herself.
The weight shifted, a sinewy motion, and something sharp pressed against a line of bare flesh on her side. She shuddered. Her motion triggered a strange sound to peal into the room, a garbled murmur, not threatening, but certainly not human. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the faint starlight dripping in through the window, and she caught a glimpse of a flame-orange eye peering intently at her through the darkness.
Voice quavering, she whispered, "Lumos."
There was a bird on her chest, and it wasn't a small one, either.
The eyes were closer to yellow in her wandlight, hooded enough to seem to be glowering menacingly at her. Its head shot forward, trying to bite the ball of light off the end of her wand, but she jerked her hand back, making the bird squawk and hop backwards, spreading wings to a distance nearly as wide across as Hermione was tall. She let out a rather undignified squeak and scuttled upright until her back was pressed against the headboard. Then, she proceeded to have a staring contest from one end of the bed to the other.
It was a pretty bird, she thought, once she got over the sheer size, the sharp talons, and the demonic eyes. It was some sort of owl; coloring similar to a calico cat, all blacks, whites, and greys interspersed with a tawny orange-brown. Tufts of black fuzz stuck up from the corners of wide, round eyes, forming little fluffy horns. In its threatened posture, the head had tucked back into a frame of raised wings, and its small black beak looked almost comical amidst all that feathery indignation.
After a moment, the owl relaxed and raised up its foreleg, revealing a bit of rolled-up parchment grasped in its talons.
Hermione swallowed nervously, wondering if she were in some sort of trouble. A bird this big usually meant business, and not of the pleasant sort. Still, she knew better than to ignore a mail-bird, so she clutched the uppermost blanket protectively around her shoulders and crawled rather clumsily towards the owl. When she stretched out her hand to take the parchment, the owl darted that smallish beak down and snapped it closed about the meaty part of Hermione's hand with surprising strength.
She yelped, snatching her hand back, luckily taking the parchment with her. Expecting the bird to leave now its job was done, she was left to glare at the owl when it simply continued to sit at the foot of her bed, looking very satisfied with itself.
Letting out muffled curses and cradling her lightly bleeding hand against her stomach, she undid the little piece of ribbon holding the roll closed with her teeth and shook it out flat. It was little more than a scrap; fancy paper covered in only a few sparse lines of hasty, childlike scrawl.
A little birdie told me my sister's pretty Mudblood wanted to send a letter. I thought it a perfect chance to say 'Hullo, I know you're here!'
You should come and see me sometime. It's awful lonely on the third floor.
Have the bird; doesn't like me, and he bites like the bastard he is.
Best regards, pet,
Bellatrix.
A/N for the chapter: I'm a rambler when it comes to author's notes; that's why I put them at the bottom, so you don't have to scroll through them to get to the story. This one is especially long. Feel free to ignore my comments here, though some of them may impact you, darling readers.
Firstly: Everyone wants me to update sooner, which is to be expected after my apparent reasonless hiatus last time. I swear to do my utmost to acquiesce, but it isn't going to be, "once or twice a week," as one…enthusiastic reviewer demanded. I'll try to keep it to every-other-week at the longest, but I have a busy, busy life. I'm not a casual writer. I'm a huge proponent of quality over quantity. I don't spew out words on cue to meet a deadline, I write during the moments of my life which will provide you with my best work, so feel free to scold me, yell at me, curse my snail-like pace… it motivates me… but I'm not likely to actually change. (Sorry about having to reread, believe me, I felt the same way when I started writing again.)
Secondly: I seem to have some quite differing demands as to where this story should go. I cannot, sadly, accommodate all of you. This author's note has been edited in May, 2015, to accompany the direction I've grown as an author. Some things are still the same. There will be no Blackcest in this story. Bellamione will not be the sole pairing. There will be Andromione and Cissamione before Bellamione, but Bellamione will be both the primary pairing, and the endgame pairing. There will be ABSOLUTELY NO HET anywhere in this story – I can't write it, can't read it, can't ship it. I know I previously promised some offshoot of this tale involving less conventional combinations of pairings, but to be honest, I feel I've spent too much time in this particular world as is. I will certainly write other stories exploring the various potentials for relationships with these ladies, but probably not in this universe.
At your service!
- Zarrene.