You guys have no idea what a fantastic job 'ithinkyourwonderful' did for this chapter! As always - my many thanks.

Chapter 26

A piping hot cup of tea, a heavenly comfortable armchair, and the carefully selected pile of books she had curated from Grimmauld's library. Hermione picked the first in her stack - 'A Modern Mistresses' Guide to Manners' - that sounded like Narcissa to the core, Hermione decided. With an annoyed eye-roll at the colourful cover depicting a laughing witch entertaining a small group of people, she opened the introduction and skimmed over the small lettering.

"…But it is more than this. The intercourse must be both active and friendly. Man is a gregarious animal; but while other animals herd together for the purpose of mutual protection, or common undertakings, men appear to form the only kind who assemble for that of mutual entertainment and improvement. But in society properly so called, this entertainment must address the higher part of man…"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. 'Society properly so called'? The book was so elitist it wasn't even trying to pretend otherwise. She turned the page, a torn piece of yellowing parchment falling out between the pages. The muggleborn immediately recognised the handwriting in playful green ink that still had enough magic in it to cheekily change through various shades of bright green.

"Is Sirius coming to the Fortress this summer or is he off with the Potters again? We do miss him, especially Bella. By the way, mother says we're to start learning how to waltz over the holidays. She's employed a Russian warlock to keep residence over the summer to ensure we're taught 'the correct postures' - you know how she is about these things. Thought you should have a copy of this book; the chapter on waltzing is… edifying, at the very least. You might also like to have a flick through the rest, give mama a run for her money."

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, the idea of Bellatrix Lestrange missing Sirius sat uncomfortably with her. Not to mention how different Narcissa sounded, or, well, read. She had grown to expect a certain level of crypticness from the older witch and it was certainly lacking here. Maybe she should have a look at the chapter on waltzing.

The book's pages easily gave way to the chapter where sooty fingers had marred the white paper and stuffed a little letter between a moving etching that showed people dancing and the introduction for 'Chapter 8: Accomplishments'. Hermione's eyes wandered to the text.

"…But to the waltz, which poets have praised and preachers denounced. The French, with all their love of dancing, waltz atrociously, the English but little better; the Germans and Russians alone understand it. I could rave through three pages about the innocent enjoyment of a good waltz, its grace and beauty, but I will be practical instead, and give you a few hints on the subject…"

The young witch rubbed her eyes as she remembered all those pictures of Narcissa dancing to soundless music in the pages of Tattler. Even with eyes closed she could see the pureblood swirling in those lavish ballrooms, smiling for the cameras, one hand resting on a faceless man's shoulder, the other entwined in his hand.

"…The position is the most important point. The witch and wizard before starting should stand exactly opposite to one another, quite upright, and not, as is so common in England, painfully close to one another…"

Common indeed, Hermione thought sarcastically to herself, her mind naturally bringing her back to that picture of Narcissa and McLaggen spinning on the dance floor until he slowed for a moment, whispered something to her and leaned in to kiss her. Of course he got to kiss her in front of the whole British press, she thought with a slight bitterness she refused to admit to. With trepidation, Hermione opened the envelope to find a muggle photograph and small note. The books pages folded closed.

"Regulus Arcturus Black! I know you took that picture! The flash completely gave you away! You better burn it or so help me I will curse you into next week! Mama would kill me if she ever saw it. Especially after what happened with Dro. I swear it was Lucius' idea anyway!"

Hermione picked up the picture and saw a startlingly young looking Narcissa, holding herself up against a wall, her head just turned to the camera, showing smudged makeup and a crumpled evening gown. What shocked Hermione, however, wasn't the despondent expression or the photographic proof of Narcissa's teenage indiscretions, but the muggle cigarette dangling expertly between her lips; captured with a muggle camera no less.

Hermione had no idea what to make of it. Half of her found it ironic that the picture had been squished between ten kilos of etiquette books and the other half of her wondered if Narcissa knew that Regulus had kept the picture. Who else had seen the photo, for that matter? Or had it simply managed to stay hidden all these decades in Regulus' second edition of 'A Modern Mistress' Guide to Manners'? Regulus… Hermione wondered what Narcissa would have been like had Regulus not died. Then she pondered what would've happened to her had the dark lord never entered her life… Had she not been wedded to Lucius… Had she not been born into that family. Had- Hermione stopped herself. What a pointless train of thought. She knew the answer to those questions: she wouldn't be Narcissa.

Tucking the picture and letter back into the envelope, Hermione opened the book again on a random page and began to read once more: "…No rank, no wealth, no celebrity will induce a well-bred English lady to admit to her drawing-room a man or woman whose character is known to be bad. Society is a severe censor, pitiless and remorseless. The witch who has once fallen, the wizard who has once lost his honour, may repent for years; good society shuts its doors on them once and for ever."

Hermione sighed sadly. The last two sentences had been underlined with bright red ink, and Narcissa had written a note to Regulus in her careful script on the margin. "Wonder how we haven't been shunned?"

She kept reading.

"…Society itself is the court in which are judged those many offences which the law cannot reach, and this inclemency of the world, this exile for life which it pronounces, must be regarded as the only deterrent against certain sins… Often is it given without a fair trail, on the report of a slanderer; often it falls upon the wrong head; often it proves its injustice in ignoring the vices of one and fulminating against those of another; often, by its implacability, drives the offender to despair, and makes the one false step lead to the ruin of a life…"

Hermione could bare to read no longer, each damning word the book hurled at her made her think of another burnt face on the tapestry in the room below her, and her heart ached for Narcissa. It was no wonder the older witch was willing to grin and bear any discomfort. So she flicked the pages.

"…we are not, we English, and nation of talkers; naturally our talent is for silence…"

The muggleborn bit her lip, trying not to recall the content and familiar quiet they had shared together in the Fortress' library. A few split seconds later and Hermione was desperately flicking the pages again as she tried in vain to block out the memory of the cold, pointed silence that filled the gaps between their polite exchanges in public.

"…when asked of something, if you do not intend to do so, refuse so more decidedly that you cannot be compelled; but the more decided the refusal, the gentler should the manner be. There is a style of saying 'No' that never offends…"

Again the cheeky notes in red ink cut in the text - "this man has clearly never met your mother, has he Reg?"

Hermione had had enough. The dramatic irony she was presented with when reading Narcissa's cheerfully innocent notes made her feel slightly sick. She closed the book and placed it next to her cold tea.

After a moments hesitation she opened the book again and pulled out the picture of Narcissa. The pureblood couldn't have been any older than sixteen and she already looked exhausted with the whole charade of 'good society'. Maybe their lives weren't so dissimilar. Hermione knew all too well that a pedestal was as much a prison as any small, confined place; and maybe that was why Narcissa had taken the muggle cigarette, she pondered, everyone needed to have the illusion that one was making one's own life.

Hermione's mind wondered back to her own childhood. Back to those patchy images and distant voices. Those scenes from now-hazy memories. But try as she might to revive them, the muggle world had lost it's former clarity. Perhaps she too no longer existed for the muggle world. It was gone, cast off. She was probably as surprised to have come out of the muggle world as it was surprised to have spawned her. Hermione's fingers traced the rim of her mug, magic humming through her skin and into the ceramic as her tea was warmed and she looked earnestly at the picture. To live like this you would have had to forget everything that came before. How else could she have managed to survive?

She put the photo down. That was not to say she had disowned her muggle roots. Her predicaments with the old ways were a stark reminder of where she came from. Of where she was proud to come from. It was just that… life gave priority to the living. The departed - their shadows, their silhouettes, their voices, scents and memories - slowly but eventually began to dwindle and recede. Humans, for their part, were hardly the most loyal of beings, especially when it came to the past. So, she concluded, she was dead to her parents, for being dead was tantamount to never have been born. She could live with that.

Hermione sighed and picked up the old colourful book and in a last ditch effort to gain some more insight into the pureblood's world, she flicked the annotated pages until the spine of the book naturally gave way to page 178. Ah… the chapter on fish. Hermione sighed, it was probably best she read it - more information was good information. Might even come in handy for that fancy conference she was going to in the evening to talk about the anthology.

"…it is essential to instruct your house elf that fish is cut with a large flat silver knife or fish-slice, never with a common one. Of small fish, the elf must send one to each person. All the larger flat fish, such as turbot, John Dorey, brills, &c., must be first cut from head to tail down the middle…"

Hermione could not stop looking at the still picture of Narcissa. Although the act captured was defiant, her cold blue eyes spoke of resignation. The dichotomy made Narcissa look like she was suffering from vertigo. Hermione had seen this expression on Narcissa far too many times. It was as if the older witch was forcing stillness in herself, despite knowing that it would not stop the world from continuing on.

If Hermione had learnt one thing about the pureblood, it was that Narcissa's goal in life was 'something higher'. Vague as the sentiment was, it made sense that if someone's goal was 'something higher' they would suffer vertigo. As Hermione observed the picture of Narcissa inhaling grey smoke into her lungs despite knowing she'd be lynched if she got caught, it occurred to Hermione that the vertigo Narcissa suffered was not the fear of falling. Rather, it was the voice of emptiness below her, tempting her and luring her. It was the desire to fall, against which, terrified, the pureblood held on to protocols and etiquette books to defend herself.

How then, was she supposed to convince her to jump with her? Narcissa would chalk it all up to her being a reckless Gryffindor in a heartbeat. It wouldn't matter that Hermione had her reasons, her passions. All that seemed to matter was that Narcissa couldn't see that she wasn't a bad person. That, in fact, she was a terrific person. Her favourite person. No, the pureblood seemed oblivious to all that.

The muggleborn sighed, forcing her attention back to the chapter on fish. "and then in portions from this cut to the fin, which being considered the best part, is helped with the rest…"

Hermione turned the page, her attention immediately drawn to the sentence that had been circled in the red ink. "We shall never know where Prometheus' Palace is, but we should all know how to open an oyster." Hermione's heart started beating as she read Narcissa's commentary: "Do we get bonus marks for knowing both things?"

Well, Hermione thought… wasn't that interesting?

With almost arrogant determination Hermione decided two could play at this game.

R&R!