You guys have no idea how many versions of this chapter I wrote. It was so deceptively difficult. Thanks for your patience though.
It was cotton sheets. The sound of muggle automobiles in the distance. The honeysuckle smell of the sleeping drought bubbling on the table. It was familiar. It was foreign. It was the comforting ache of tired muscles resting in the sun. Her warm skin against slightly colder. It was rest while the city around them busied away like buzzing bees. She could stay like this forever.
A sharp movement on Narcissa's left woke her up from her decadent slumber. She opened one eye with the intention to glare down whatever had interrupted her sleep, but quickly opened both when she realised that Hermione's previously blissful face was scrunched up in pain. Narcissa gently propped herself higher on the pillows so she could comfortably pull the cold Gryffindor closer into the warmth of her arms. The younger witch didn't rouse from the movement, her left arm now securely wrapped around Narcissa's bare chest but the stress on her forehead was still visible under the tangled mess of her chestnut curls. The older witch trailed a lazy finger over the light scars that dotted about the milky expanse of Hermione's back, running through the toxicity of all the potions and enchantments Hermione had had in the past week and reminded herself that there was nothing more she could give her to soothe the pain in the coming days. On the other hand, Narcissa reckoned with a distinct flair of annoyance, maybe this would teach the Gryffindor that a jovial approach to her treatment was not in anyone's interests.
Experience told her there wasn't anything she could do about it. The muggleborn would have to decide whether to continue being this reckless with herself or not. She could nudge gently, politely remind her about treatment regimes; damage control. But denial was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Narcissa couldn't begrudge the Gryffindor's carelessness; she understood that for a woman so used to being a force of nature, being weakened was a concept hard to accept.
Resignation against the younger witches stubbornness won over. Narcissa closed her eyes and decided to focus on the sinfully sumptuous sensation of Hermione's weight resting on her; the steady rise and fall of her chest under her hand; the spring sun hinting at summer as it poured through the open window. Narcissa idly wondered when her good conscience would finally wake up and bring with it the crashing force of reality. Maybe they could elope to Paris, she thought whimsically - anything in an effort to avoid the catastrophic consequences this would bring, or at least avoid the messy questions of what were they to each other? A Modern Mistresses' Guide to Manners had not covered this particular topic: what should the relationship between a widowed, former follower of the Dark Lord, pureblood and a muggleborn war hero constitute? The sentence alone was an awkward mouthful. It seemed equally inappropriate to tell anyone as it was to keep it a secret.
Her mind wondered back to that bible of etiquette she had memorised as a child… "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 forever."
Paris was sounding more and more reasonable.
An amused smirk curled on the pureblood's lips as she sarcastically imagined how that would play out. First they would forsake their friends and family; then, take the train to Paris from St. Pancreas that left every hour at platform 7 and 3/9's; elope; vow never to return to Britain again; take lodgings in the 7th arrondissement; introduce themselves with pseudonyms; quickly realise that the muggle tourists are unbearable; realise even quicker that the French in general are unbearable; return to Britain; be officially shunned by good society; slowly come to resent each other; die alone.
Maybe Paris wasn't always such a good idea after all, she drawled in her mind. And not just that, she had Hermione's brazen promise to contend with. The memory alone of the way she had whispered the words into her ears was enough to disarm her and spike her heart rate. "You underestimate how shameless I can be…" she had vowed, her voice sounding like the auditory equivalent of bourbon mixed with honey and touched by smoke.
A gust of cold spring air blew in and Narcissa found herself quickly scrambling to cover the younger witch under the safety of the blankets. A well aimed wrist flick at the window closed the contraption, preventing further intrusion from the elements. Narcissa resumed her position with her head nestled behind Hermione's, her heart still beating rapidly from the onslaught of wind against Hermione's frail body.
Ice cold fear trickled down her spine and the memory of Hermione lying broken on Fleur's guest bed inundated her mind. It had been such a close call.
It was in that moment, for the first time, that Narcissa realised how scared she was, with Hermione's cold skin pressing against her own; the Gryffindor's hands clenched in fists like a fighter, with their earthquaking. Hermione was stunning - she smelt of vanilla and the opening of a flower and the magical residue of all the healing potions she had had. She wasn't going to let go of her, Narcissa concluded. This was what she wanted, this drowning. Although she supposed she still shouldn't have given in, it shouldn't have been this soon, not this blooming without words, without a cure, a plan A let alone a B or a C… without a fight. But Hermione's skin was battle worn; Narcissa's was soft and unmarred, the contrast unavoidable as she ran a soothing hand over Hermione's thinned body, adding to her worries that the younger witch wasn't eating enough.
"You're awake," Narcissa stated, pretending not to be surprised as she felt one of Hermione's hands sneakily roaming over her skin under the covers.
"Have been for a while," Hermione replied cheekily, an amused smile finally betraying her. "Didn't want to move. Too comfortable."
"How are you feeling?" Narcissa asked casually, trying to pass the loaded question as innocuously as possible.
"Drained. Both in a good way and a slightly concerning way, but that's probably just the magic," Hermione replied lightly, turning in the pureblood's arms so she could place a kiss on the Slytherin's neck. As Hermione's languid kisses slowly reached her mouth, Narcissa knew that her reason had surrendered to this force, these lips. The pureblood ran the tips of her fingers over Hermione's ribs, eliciting a gasp; the older witch felt a tug of fear in her bones: gasping sounded too much like not breathing.
"Didn't you have a hundred things to do today?" Hermione asked her mischievously as she straddled her hips, giving the pureblood a full view of Hermione's taut body. "A hundred people to meet?"
Distracted by the compulsion to touch and trail and tease Narcissa emitted a quiet groan at the reminder. "Why did you have to remind me?"
The muggleborn lowered herself to place a chaste kiss on the older witches lips. "Trust me - being headlocked by a Bulstrode is not as funny as it sounds."
"Fine," Narcissa acquiesced, somehow making the monosyllable sound like it was accompanied by a dramatic drop of a teacup back onto its saucer.
"I promise I won't do anything rash in the meantime," Hermione teased as she extracted herself off of Narcissa.
"You better not, Miss Granger," she drawled with a hint of seriousness, "zero magic."
"I know. I know," Hermione quickly defended herself, "not for a week."
"Or two."
"Or two," she echoed as a peace offering.
"Good," Narcissa said with unhidden satisfaction, standing up to find her clothes. "You need as much rest as you can get." The message barely registered as Hermione's lips twitched with appreciation, her eyes shamelessly absorbing the image of Narcissa's naked frame stretching as she slipped into her black gown, forgoing anything underneath. "Before I go," Narcissa began, turning around to catch Hermione's hungry expression. The pureblood smirked, amused at the obvious effect she was having on Hermione. "Would it be too forward for me to request to borrow a book from your library? I know where it is. I just need to pop down and get it."
Hermione laughed, burying her head in the pillows to stifle her laughter until she could reemerge with some semblance of serenity. "Cissy, after what we just did I don't think anything between us can be considered too forward."
Narcissa rolled her eyes but couldn't help the amused smile that played on her lips. "I'll take that as a yes," she said, bending down to press a kiss on the Gryffindor's forehead before straightening up and magically tying her hair back in an effective bun. "I'll be right back."
The Slytherin padded down the corridor, feeling the house's draft on the exposed skin her gown didn't cover. Time melted away as she quickly trailed down the stairs, taking a left before she encountered Auntie Walburga's portrait with practiced ease, and finally opened the door to the little but powerful library the Black family had hidden in this residence.
Narcissa smiled as she surveyed the cosy atmosphere of the library, from the pillows and throws that scattered about the room to the stacks of books that Hermione had undoubtedly added to the collection. It too did not escape her notice, the rich red Gryffindor banner that had been tacked over a Slytherin one above the fireplace. But above all, Hermione's warm presence permeated the previously austere room from her memories. It took no effort to imagine the young witch sitting on the table, sleeves rolled up and hands covered with black ink, signalling that Hermione was lost to the physical world. Within that bubble of concentration, Narcissa knew that Hermione could study for hours undistracted, eyes tracking from book to diagram to scribbled notes, lips sometimes moving soundlessly beneath the play of her eyes and eyebrows narrowing and focusing and parsing. Narcissa could see in those moments when Hermione drowned out the world how days and weeks and months of grinding research were carried out so diligently. The hours spent in her own head spent absorbing and listing information, breaking down established ideas and analyses into tidbits serviceable as building blocks for something new: bridges connecting the familiar in unfamiliar ways; pathways forging into the depths of the unexplored. How nights would bleed into mornings along the strings of sentences yielding into the page from her careful writing; "new possibilities" that would be revised and rethought and sometimes scrapped together in a more lucid state. The way her research would come to dominate every waking thought, even the spurts of dreaming snagged from the jaws of stress and exhaustion; how it would colour and dictate her every interaction and conversation, but in such a manner - Narcissa imagined, predicated - that would be captivating. It would be knowledge that Hermione needed to share, to explicate, to simplify and complicate; her hands punctuating points and theoretical knots, all of her frenzied with eagerness to impart understanding.
All Hermione needed was health.
Narcissa consciously straightened her posture and reorientated herself in the room, hoping that Hermione hadn't changed the order of the library too much during since her residency. She approached the bookcases, running her hands over the spines of the large leather-bound books she had played around with as a child. Titles stood out to her like old friends calling her name; encyclopaedias eliciting memories of weeks spent with Regulus trying to outdo each other with the most bizarre spells whilst they wondered what their siblings were up to at Hogwarts.
Still sitting in the place it had been left over thirty years ago, Narcissa levitated the small book from its place in the top corner of the second bookcase next to the window. The pureblood quickly flicked through "A Guide to British Wizarding Birds", relieved that the annotations scrawled throughout the text remained unchanged.
"Hermione, I was just wondering-"
Narcissa whipped round to face a stunned Mr Potter, standing by the door in boxer shorts and an overlarge shirt, a bowl of cereal in hand.
R&R!