There were times, usually when she read about Harry's arrests for the DMLE or Ron's historic saves for the Chuddley Cannons on The Prophet, that made Hermione think about whether the Wizarding World expected more from the so-called Brightest Witch of her Age.
Those moments were few and far between. Luckily, the doubt and insecurity that came with them vanished the moment she stepped through the threshold of the mahogany doors of her personal library—an admittedly impressive personal collection, boasting over five thousand volumes Muggle and magical alike, all nestled in the comfort of her historic town home in the centre of Wizarding London.
She had landed onto the real estate game in the Wizarding World quite by accident—she had merely helped Luna look over some paperwork before the quirky witch committed to purchasing The Leaky Cauldron. It turned out Hermione had a natural talent—both for the paperwork thing and the salesmanship thing. Who would have thought it?
Before long, she had her own letting agency, with no fewer than forty agents working for her. Granger Realty became a distinguished agency, both wizarding and Muggle. Hermione had set herself apart early on in her career, helping wealthy young witches and wizards purchase swanky apartments in trendy areas of Muggle London, getting everything up to code according to the Statute of Secrecy. Since money was no object to the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, her commissions were... well. Insane.
Post-war business had been booming, and with the help of rather intelligent investments, Hermione quickly, and rather unexpectedly, became a rather wealthy woman.
Hence the private library—a dream from childhood, in a bright, vibrant, spacious home. Yes, Hermione Granger was doing quite alright.
Once peaceful evening found Hermione enjoying an exquisite glass of Merlot from the comfort of a particularly bubbly bath. It all looked a bit cliché, with Edith Piaf crooning on the old radio and the blue bell flames surrounding her bathroom, encased in crystal, but Hermione had to admit she rather liked it. She had just closed an incredibly lucrative deal on an estate on the north of England for Cormac McLaggen and his wife, so the break was well-deserved.
Hermione had never been one for the finer things in life in her youth, but now in her thirties, she had certainly grown to appreciate some of them.
She would have liked to continue such appreciation in her blissful relaxation; however, she was rudely interrupted by none other than Dean Thomas unceremoniously barging into her lavish bathroom.
"Oof," he exclaimed, eyeing the elaborate set up. "Am I interrupting some down time?"
She narrowed her eyes, sending him her most withering glare. "Evidently," she drawled swirling the wine in her glass in impatience.
Dean was thoroughly unfazed. "Well, throw on a towel or something, Granger. We've got business to discuss," he quipped, leaving for the parlour with a snicker.
Hermione sighed, already hearing the tell-tale sounds of Dean rummaging through her liquor cabinet. She summed her fluffiest robe, throwing it on as a practice wave of her wand extinguished the blue flames that surrounded her tub.
"Why in Merlin's name did I think it a good idea to give you my house key?" she wondered aloud, frowning as she stepped through to the parlous, seeing that Dean had already made himself quite comfortable with her stock of Firewhisky.
"Because I'm your amazing assistant, and you would flounder without my grace, beauty, and skills."
Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping into his space and the glass of whisky he had just poured himself.
"This costs a hundred galleons a bottle," she scolded him, ignoring his dramatic protestations. "I'm keeping you on a tight leash after you and your husband depleted my stocks the last time you were here for a dinner party."
Dean feigned hurt. "Why must you blame me for what Seamus did... I have perfect self-control. I am perfectly innocent."
"Hm," she sipped at her pilfered drink, raising a sarcastic brow. Dean scoffed, waving her off with a smirk.
"In any case," he continued, slumping over his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "I wouldn't worry about your exorbitantly priced whisky for much longer, my friend."
"Oh?" Hermione motioned for him to continue as she took a seat herself.
He nodded excitedly. "You, sweet boss-lady of mine, are about to come into some serious money."
"How so?"
Dean leaned forward, the drumming of his fingers on the armrest becoming more pronounced as he smiled in excitement.
"Well, as you well know, my beautifully talented husband just closed the deal of a lifetime on a beautiful London apartment for a certain Mr. and Mrs. Draco Malfoy."
Hermione nodded. "Yes, and from what I understand, his commission will send you both travelling around Italy for a month or two. Congratulations."
Dean beamed. "Indeed—I long to laze under the Tuscan sun. But worry not, I'll be back to you in no time at all; certainly before this company is lying in shambles."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Get to the point, Dean? Did you really interrupt my bath to tell me I can't run my own company?"
He laughed. "No, I can do that any other time. My point is—Draco was so very pleased with the service Granger Realty—and my brilliant husband—provided, that he asked Seamus to for some guidance on another matter."
"Which is?"
He smirked. "Draco's own very sweet mother is looking to sell the family home."
Hermione choked on her whisky—it burned through her throat and lungs, prompting a rather impressive coughing fit.
"Yes, go ahead, hack up that lung—I know this news is just that momentous."
She glared at him as she caught her breath. "She's selling the Manor?" she gasped in disbelief. "Malfoy Manor?"
"M-hm," Deam hummed, leaning across the coffee table and snatching the glass of whisky from her hands. Her glare did nothing to stop him from downing it in one satisfying gulp. "Indeed," he smacked his lips, handing the empty glass back to Hermione. "According to Draco dearest, she would only trust the foremost expert on this field for such an undertaking." He winked. "And that would be you."
"Malfoy Manor," Hermione whispered in absolute awe. It could easily be the biggest sale of her career—the Malfoys had owned the massive estate in Wiltshire for generations. It was terribly odd that Draco was not taking it—odder still that Narcissa had not insisted on keeping and maintaining the place for future Malfoy generations.
"Why is she selling it?" she thought aloud. Dean merely shrugged his shoulders, tapping the empty whisky glass in her hands with a loud clink.
"I dunno," he said with a smirk. "But you can look forward to Madam Malfoy's owl in the morning. Cheers!"
True to Dean's word, an owl did come to Hermione's home the very next morning. A big, intimidating bird with gleaming black feathers and the most frightening talons Hermione had ever seen zoomed through her window as she ate her breakfast. It carried a thick black envelope sealed with silver wax.
"You must be Madam Malfoy's," Hermione muttered to the massive bird. It let out an impatient squawk, holding up its leg and offering the letter to Hermione, as if she were wasting its precious time.
"Alright then." Hermione pinched the corner of the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. The letter detached easily, and with another angry hoot, the bird was on its way without bothering to wait for a reply.
Hermione quickly tore the envelope open and skimmed the letter. It was dry, polite—though not exactly cordial. It brimmed with the cold, practiced civility Hermione had become accustomed to seeing in the previous generation of Purebloods, one that was slowly being chucked by Draco's generation.
Narcissa proposed—not asked or demanded—a short meeting to discuss her wishes to sell the Manor, as well as her pre-requisites for a new living arrangement, which she would like Hermione to procure. She was short and to the point, which was something Hermione could appreciate.
It made Hermione oddly giddy. Selling off the Malfoy ancestral home filled her with an odd kind of happiness. Perhaps it would be closure for her last fateful visit—one she had overcome with much work over the years.
She penned a reply quickly, arranging for a meeting at her home office that very afternoon. She often met higher-profile clients in her home office—they preferred a more private setting, and it was normal to meet them there as opposed to the offices of Granger Realty. Purebloods loved some preferential treatment.
Her reply went out on a Wizarding Mail owl, and Hermione hadn't quite processed the fact that she was meeting with Narcissa Malfoy until she actually heard the doorbell announcing the witch's presence. She had about a million questions to ask, but thankfully the years had taught her to express her unbridled curiosity a lot more tactfully.
"Good afternoon, Lady Malfoy," Hermione greeted politely as she opened the door.
She was a bit floored by Narcissa's appearance. She realized she had never truly seen the witch up close. She was—for lack of a better word—stunning.
Narcissa stood ramrod straight, apparently held up by sheer poise alone. Her flowing black robes were minimal golden trims for decoration, but even so, Hermione could plainly tell they were rather expensive. Narcissa also wore a pointed hat—with what had to be a peacock feather—adorning it at the top. Her platinum-blonde hair came down in a single expertly braided plait that went all the way to the small of her back.
The witch's blue eyes were pure ice; her expression as she scrutinized Hermione's foyer was entirely impassive.
Hermione cleared her throat. "May I take your coat, Mrs. Malfoy?"
Hermione's question seemed to catch Narcissa off-guard, interrupting her examination of the home. The blonde's eyes snapped to Hermione's, and she strolled in as if she owned the place. Her beautiful coat—made of a shimmering black fur that matched her robes—was passed to Hermione in one fluid movement.
Hermione waved her wand, sending it to the foyer closet. She followed Narcissa's movement out of the corner of her eye. The older witch walked slowly through the foyer and the corridor, eyes scanning every wall, every nook and cranny. Without another word, Narcissa continued through to the parlour as if she knew that was where she ought to go.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione tried quietly. The witch's quiet scrutiny was making her nervous.
"Black." Narcissa retorted softly, eyes transfixed on a few Muggle photographs Hermione had framed upon her wall. "As of yesterday, my divorce has been finalized. You may address me as Ms. or Madam Black."
"Oh." Hermione wasn't sure whether she should give the witch her congratulations or her sympathy, so she figured it was probably best to stick to business. "Well, thank you for meeting with me. I hear you're thinking about putting your home in the market."
"No," Narcissa deadpanned. "I have already thought about it, and I have already made a decision. Were that not the case, I would not be standing here in your..." her eyes scanned the room once more, and whatever she saw was deemed somewhat acceptable, it seemed, "your home."
Hermione bristled, holding to the happy thoughts of the possible commission on this sale to keep her temper in check. Sometimes she forgot just how prickly some Purebloods could be behind their practiced poise.
She pulled out a chair. "Naturally. Why don't you take a seat, Madam Black?"
Narcissa did so, lowering herself onto Hermione's plush armchair so regally it was almost comical. Hermione situated herself at the chair facing Narcissa.
"Tea, Ms. Black?"
"No, thank you. I don't anticipate being here for very long."
Hermione bit her tongue. "Pardon my asking, Ms. Black... but do you not have a solicitor to care for these matters?"
"Lucius had a solicitor," Narcissa sneered, saying her ex-husband's name as if it tasted foul. "He robbed him blind for years and Lucius never noticed." Her eyes narrowed.
"Fair enough," Hermione reasoned, not wanting to poke the subject again with a ten-foot pole. "When do you want to put the Manor up for sale?"
"As soon as you're able. I would also like to request your assistance in procuring alternate living arrangements."
"Very well." Hermione felt safe in assuming that meant she was hired. "And, just so I know where to start, where would you like to live?"
"Anywhere suitable in Central London," she waved Hermione off. "Don't bother me for specificities. Just keep in mind that money is no object—do not feel the need to narrow your search too much."
Hermione held in the urge to roll her eyes. "Duly noted. Now, there are a few things we must take care of before we list the Manor for sale." She flicked her wand, summoning her clipboard and quill. "We should set up a time for me to come and do a routine inspection—see what may need to be repaired or, you know, polished. Then I can make an estimate on price. After that, we'll need to file for a Ministry-mandated inspection so that..."
She was interrupted by another impatient wave of Narcissa's hand.
"The details do not interest me; that is why I am hiring you." She stood up before Hermione could get in another word. "Come anytime for your little inspection, Ms. Granger. Just be sure to owl me beforehand."
"B-but... Ms. Black!"
Narcissa was already walking through to the foyer, summoning her coat with a wandless charm. Hermione nearly had to ran to catch up with her. The blonde turned a menacing gaze once she finally did.
"As soon as possible, Ms. Granger."
And she was gone.
Hermione had a few choice words to say to Ms. Black the next time they met. She got them all out of her system yelling at her mirror, then lay for a long soak in her bath, meditating on the galleons that commission would add to her Gringotts vault. That calmed her down considerably.
Then, and only then, did she dare write to Ms. Black, offering a few suitable times for her to come inspect the Manor.
She got a reply within the hour. It read simply:
As soon as possible, Ms. Granger.
There was an address at the bottom. Hermione huffed, packed her clipboard, and Apparated.
Malfoy Manor looked... Well, it certainly looked rather imposing, even if it did not look as eerie and terrifying as it had on Hermione's last traumatic visit.
As grand and beautiful as the house was, it lacked care. Vines grew rampant along the stone walls, which showed several cracks. The rood could use some maintenance, and the gardens—which surely had been immaculate once upon a time—were overrun by weeds.
It looked almost... sad. Hermione had no doubts it was a magnificent home. For whatever reason, the Malfoys had neglected it entirely.
She sighed, thinking of the work that would have to be done before they could even think about listing. The Manor would need to undergo a serious facelift if Narcissa was so keen on selling it 'as soon as possible.'
The heavy doors welcomed her in before she even had to knock. Hermione was greeted by little clouds of dust that floated in the sunlight the open doors let in.
"Hello?" she called, hearing her own voice echo through empty halls. "Ms. Black? Anyone home?"
"What are you, daft? Of course I am home."
Narcissa's acerbic voice came in a drowsy, annoyed hiss, as if she had just woken up. But that couldn't be—it was three in the afternoon.
"Ms... Ah!" Hermione squealed as the doors suddenly slammed closed behind her.
"Salazar's snakes, will you keep your voice down?" Narcissa barked in the sudden darkness. Were there no windows in this place? Hermione heard the distinct sound of a wand zipping through the air, and several candles—on sconces on the walls and various candelabra on the ceiling—came alight.
Hermione could finally look at Narcissa, and what she saw in the flickering light surprised her.
Narcissa looked terrible. She was pale, almost unnaturally so; there were dark circles around her bloodshot blue eyes, and her blonde hair was down, flat and mussed. She wore a delicate white nightgown beneath a silky green robe.
"Uh... Ms. Black, we can always do this at another time if you're feeling indisposed."
Narcissa's red-rimmed eyes shot daggers her way.
"Were I feeling indisposed, Ms. Granger, I would not have called you here. Your concern is quite misplaced."
"Right," Hermione conceded, shaking herself off. Business, and only business then. Where would you like to start?"
Narcissa shrugged petulantly. "You're the expert—do as you wish."
Hermione silently counted to ten, plastering her best saleswoman smile on her face. "Very well, then. We'll start downstairs and work out way up. How does that sound?"
Narcissa merely gave her a look, which made Hermione want to roll her eyes. "Right. I'm the expert. Off we pop, then."
She could swear she heard Narcissa groan.
Going through the home inspection with Narcissa was like pulling teeth. She made very few comments, offered absolutely no help in guiding Hermione through the labyrinthine corridors of the Manor, and generally seemed to be completely out of it, lagging behind on more than one occasion.
The Manor was quite in a state of disarray—portraits and furniture were missing, windows were broken and walls were cracked, and the entire place was covered in an unbelievable amount of dust. It certainly did not look liveable—Hermione could scarcely believe someone's of Narcissa's social calibre would—or even could—be living in such a place.
Of course, Narcissa did not look particularly representative of her social status at the moment. If Hermione had to hazard a guess, if she didn't know any better, she would dare say the Great Narcissa Malfoy was, well... hungover. Or still drunk.
"Alright, the south stairs will definitely need to be repaired before listing..." Hermione muttered, quill scratching away at her parchment. She had already gathered a ridiculously thick stack of notes, and they were barely getting started with the glacial pace they were on.
Narcissa made no comment. She had made very few in the entire time they had spent walking about the Manor. Sometimes Hermione wondered if the other witch was even listening to a word she said.
They made their way through the basement, then wound through to the West Wing on the ground floor when Hermione suddenly opened a heavy oak door, only to nearly collide with a brick wall.
"What the...?" She turned to Narcissa, who trailed far behind. "Ms. Black?"
"Hm?"
Hermione motioned towards the bricked off door. "What's behind this wall?"
Narcissa's eyes seemed to glaze over, then suddenly regained focus, zeroing in on the door and widening in something akin to panic.
"Nothing of importance," she murmured weakly. Hermione could feel magic radiating off Narcissa and curling around her, slamming the door shut with a resounding echo in an impressive wandless, soundless display.
"I think we are done for the day." Narcissa said, eyes glimmering with a sudden clarity that had not been there before.
Hermione wanted to protest, but that icy blue gaze stopped her.
"Good day, Ms. Granger."
Hermione's second meeting with Narcissa only served to puzzle her further. Uneasy about their encounter at the Manor, Hermione decided to change gears and focus on the other part of Narcissa's plans—finding her a new place to live.
She reserved a table at one of her usual restaurants in London. Understated, quiet, and most importantly private, it was perfect for a business lunch.
The Narcissa that strolled into the restaurant was much more reminiscent of the elegant witch Hermione had met at home. Her cheeks were dusted with pink from the cold air outside, and while her skin was admittedly pale, she looked quite healthy. Her hair was up in an elaborate up-do, and her lips were plump, painted over in a soft shade of pink.
"Hello, Ms. Black," Hermione greeted her warmly despite her confusion, standing as soon as Narcissa approached.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Granger," Narcissa spoke coldly, not sparing Hermione a glance. She took a seat and immediately began tapping her manicured nails on the table.
"What is the purpose of this meeting, Ms. Granger?" She drawled impatiently.
Hermione held back a sigh as she took her own seat. "I thought it would be good to go over your requirements for your new home. It'll help me get a head start with my search," she explained, trying to keep her tone as civil as she possibly could.
"Spacious, lots of natural light, private. I would prefer a Wizarding area, though I am not opposed to a Muggle-populated area—as long as I have my privacy."
Hermione opened her mouth, then immediately closed it. How could that woman tell her so much while telling her so little? The simple fact that Narcissa Black was willing to live in a Muggle area spoke volumes. Her preferences, however, did very little to help Hermione.
"Right," she said through gritted teeth. Her quill scratched a little too strongly over her clipboard as she wrote. "Spacious, private..."
"With sufficient natural light," Narcissa interjected, still tapping at the table in impatience.
Hermione forced a smile. "Yes, of course."
Narcissa's eyes narrowed as she peered over Hermione's notes. Hermione had an inexplicable but thankfully controllable urge to hide them.
"Was this meeting really at all necessary, Ms. Granger?" she drawled acerbically. "We could have easily accomplished this over own."
Hermione forced her smile to keep tugging at her lips.
"I find that discussing a client's preferences in person gives me a better idea of what they want."
Narcissa did not look convinced. "If you say so."
Hermione's second visit to Malfoy Manor went very much the same way as her first. Narcissa met her at the door, looking at lot like she had that first time—entirely different from the poised, elegant witch Hermione seen at home and at the restaurant.
This time, Narcissa was a little more proactive; she led Hermione through the East Wing of the Manor—far away from the bricked door in the opposite wing—going through the kitchens and guest quarters instead.
Down in the kitchens—the dusty, dilapidated, and very clearly abandoned kitchens—a sudden thought occurred to Hermione.
"Ms. Black," she started, eyeing the mass of cobwebs sprawling over the exposed rafters on the ceiling. "Where... where are all the House-Elves?"
"Hm?" Narcissa hummed, distractedly swiping a finger over a dusty counter, leaving a trail that exposed the exquisite granite beneath the thick layer of dust.
"House-Elves," Hermione began again, pieces slowly clicking into place. No wonder the Manor was in such a state—there were no signs of any servants anywhere. "Where did they all go? Surely the Manor had more than a few uh... employed here."
"Oh," Narcissa spoke airily, examining the dust on her finger. "I freed them all before the divorce," her lips tugged into a smug little smirk. "Lucius was absolutely furious. Serves him right, the bastard."
Hermione's eyes went wide. She tried to process what Narcissa had just told her, but found that she couldn't quite do it. It just left her with more questions.
She did not have the opportunity to ask any of them. Narcissa's eyes seemed to glaze over once again, and she turned away from Hermione, wiping away at the dust on the counters as her fingers trailed limply along the granite, leaving marks on the dust.
"I think we are done for today, Ms. Granger."
Hermione had hopes that procuring a new place for Narcissa to live would be comparatively easier than the ongoing Manor inspection. At the very least, Narcissa seemed somewhat human when they met outside the Manor—this morning she had Apparated at Hermione's door in an exquisite set of emerald green robes and coat embroidered with golden silk. She held her head high, walking with grace and poise on heels that clicked onto the pavement.
She shot down every single option Hermione had painstakingly researched and selective.
One particular flat had "an odd window facing South." Another had a "most displeasing set of stairs." A beautiful, recently renovated historic town-home from the Victorian era had the misfortune of being located on a "rather abhorrent little mud path passing as a street." Muggle or Wizarding, nothing held up to Ms. Black's confounding standards.
Hermione was terribly annoyed with Narcissa's oddly specific and entirely unpredictable feedback. Narcissa liked columns until she utterly despised them; she wanted wide, spacious flats until she wanted something cosy and comforting; she wanted a garden until she wanted no plants or greenery at all.
She was utterly impossible to please, and Hermione almost began to prefer the nearly catatonic Narcissa that followed her around the Manor to this insufferable woman.
"Were any of these to your liking, Ms. Black?" Hermione asked through gritted teeth at the end of the day, clipboard nearly shaking in her hand with the force of her grip.
Narcissa turned up her nose in distaste. "Most of these were inadequate. I thought I was quite clear at our redundant little meeting last time."
Hermione held back the urge to whack her with her clipboard.
On Hermione's third visit to Malfoy Manor, Narcissa did not even bother greeting her at all. There was merely a note on the door, instructing her to inspect the gardens and the outside of the Manor.
A bit miffed, Hermione got to work, cataloguing every crack on the walls, every broken window or roof tile, every growth of cumbersome vines. There was a lot to be done—the list of repairs and improvements began to grow rather long indeed, and they were nowhere near done.
She was nearly finished cataloguing the last few odds and ends in the gardens when she noticed light at one of the windows on the second floor, at the West Wing.
Hermione glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time—after all, Narcissa was nowhere around to say "I think we are done for the day, Ms. Granger." She would have to inspect the upper floors and the West Wing eventually—why not get it started now? Sooner was better than later, she decided.
The house was utterly silent when she walked in—there was no sign of Narcissa anywhere.
Hermione was briefly tempted to by the bricked room, but her curiosity pulled her upstairs. She ascended the grand marble staircase, and even her most careful steps echoed through the empty, dusty halls.
The West Wing extended into a wide, seemingly endless corridor. All along the walls, there were faded spots on the wallpaper, where several portraits had no doubt been. Hermione wondered what happened to them.
There was light coming from the end of the hall, just a sliver through a door that was cracked open.
She knew she should not have come up. Even if Narcissa had never explicitly forbidden her from doing so, the witch was quite clearly going through something Hermione couldn't quite comprehend. Worrying about it was in no way part of Hermione's job description.
The thought gave her pause. She was indeed worried—but why? And for Narcissa Black, of all people—the woman had never once been friendly towards her. Quite the opposite, in fact.
There was a sound—a moan, a whimper of distress through the open door.
Something was wrong, and it was enough for Hermione to throw caution to the wind and rush through the door in a panic.
"Ms. Black?" she called as the whimpers grew louder.
Narcissa was in bed, tangled in an absurd number of blankets and sheets, writhing as if she were fighting off an invisible enemy. She had her eyes closed and lips pulled into a tight grimace; beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, and platinum blonde hair stuck to her skin.
"Ms. Black!" Hermione rushed to her side in worry. There was a loud noise of glass hitting glass—she looked down to see dozens of discarded potions phials littering the floor around Narcissa's bed. She recognized the label as Extra-Strong Dreamless Draught.
"Ah, shit!" she muttered, approaching Narcissa's side. The woman was drenched in sweat—her nightgown clung to her skin.
Now Narcissa's odd behaviours started making a whole lot of sense. Without thinking, Hermione took hold of Narcissa's shoulders—Merlin, how think and frail they felt. Her skin was incredibly cold, and Hermione could feel her shivers as she desperately tried to shake Narcissa awake.
"Ms. Black! Narcissa! Wake up!" she barked, shaking Narcissa's shoulders desperately.
Blue eyes opened just a little, looking dazed, confused, absent. It didn't seem like they recognized Hermione at all.
"Narcissa," Hermione hissed, hoping to force some recognition. She looked worriedly at the great number of discarded phials, her mind running over the side effects of a Dreamless Draught overdose and not liking what she remembered.
Narcissa's eyes closed again. "Narcissa!" Hermione yelled, holding the witch's cheeks in her hands. "Listen to me," she gently shook Narcissa a bit more forcefully as the blonde's eyes opened once more. "Listen to me—listen. How many did you take?"
Narcissa blinked, struggling to focus. Her eyes were clouded and distant. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she could finally string together coherent words.
"N-nine. Nine, I... I think."
"Bloody fucking hell," Hermione muttered angrily, knowing full well the prescribed dosage was not to exceed two phials before bed. "Why would you do such a thing?!"
Narcissa only whimpered, hands weakly batting at Hermione's arms, fighting some frightening vision that did not exist. Hermione began to panic.
"I'm taking you to St. Mungo's." She declared emphatically, looping Narcissa's weak arms over her shoulders, ready to carry her out herself. She didn't know how to help if Narcissa was in a hallucinatory stage.
The mention of the Wizarding Hospital sent a shiver of momentary clarity to Narcissa's eyes—with it came sheer and unadulterated panic.
"No," she grasped, grabbing at Hermione's arms with sudden, bruising force. "N-not the hospital," she cried, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.
"Ow! Ow, alright, alright, no hospital." Hermione conceded, thinking quickly, frightened by Narcissa's state. "Oh, oh, oh! Bezoar! Do you have bezoar? Narcissa!"
The witch's answer was a weak nod. "K-kitchen," she whispered through gritted teeth.
Hermione freed her wand arm from Narcissa's grip, unsheathing her wand as fast as she was able and whipping it through the air in a panic.
"ACCIO BEZOAR!" she yelped, waiting for a few tense seconds during which her panic and anxiety mounted. Finally, a bezoar stone whizzed through the door, zipping through the air with extraordinary speed. Hermione caught it as if she were a trained seeker, pushing it past Narcissa's cold lips immediately after.
Hermione had to stop and wonder how—and, of course, why—in Merlin's name did she end up in the situation she presently found herself in.
At the moment, she was in Narcissa's admittedly decadent bathroom, holding the witch's silky strands back as Narcissa hunched rather inelegantly over the toilet bowl, vomiting a nasty, reddish brown viscous substance—an excess of Dreamless Draught.
Hermione could only sigh and wait for it to be over. Never had she been so thankful for her invasive curiosity—she dreaded to think of what might have happened if she had not intruded.
Eventually, Narcissa's vomiting stopped and her breathing evened out. She hid her face in the crook of her elbow, taking deep, long breaths.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked with a soft pat to Narcissa's back. Her only response was a weak, subdued nod.
Hermione practically carried Narcissa—she was so weak, scarcely able to stand upright—back to bed. She tucked the witch into bed, under fresh blankets and tidied up the room a bit, vanishing every empty phial of Dreamless Draught she could find. In Narcissa's nightstand, she found several full phials, hidden away. After debating the decision for a moment, she vanished those as well.
She turned to Narcissa, who lay awake but only just, curled into herself under her covers.
"Is there anyone who can stay with you? Just for the night?" Hermione asked tentatively.
There was no response. Narcissa's eyes were barely open, looking at something far, far away. Hermione sighed.
"I could owl Draco... maybe he could..."
"No."
It came in a hoarse, utterly dejected whisper, so low Hermione was not entirely sure she heard it.
"Can... can I call anyone else, then? Andromeda?"
"Thank you for your help, Ms. Granger," Narcissa said with a terribly weak voice, though she sounded a little more like herself now. "I feel better now. You may go—thank you for you assistance."
The dismissal hurt, unexpectedly so. "Pardon me if I am overstepping, Ms. Black... but I don't think you should be alone tonight." Hermione said, trying to keep the tremor in her voice at bay.
Narcissa's eyes turned to glass. "You are overstepping. Go."
Hermione opened her mouth, ready with a retort, but Narcissa closed her eyes and murmured a single word, her tone full of dejection and deep, deep anguish.
"Please."
Hermione swallowed her worry and left, leaving Narcissa alone in the darkened room.