They were somewhere in the south of the country when the clouds broke and for two whole days, sunshine poured strong and pure from the sky. Narcissa, insisting that they take advantage of the unnaturally good weather, donned a pair of linen trousers and procured a wicker picnic basket out of nowhere.
"It's a surprise," she said, when Hermione nagged her about what was inside. "Be patient." But her tone of admonishment was severely undercut by the Cheshire-cat grin spread across her face.
The receptionist at the motel they were staying at gave them directions to a picnic spot that was popular in summer but promised to be quiet this time of the year. Following the directions took them along a forest path dappled in sunlight, Narcissa ushering on a Hermione who seemed far more interested in the plants and mushrooms they encountered along the way than their end destination, rattling off Latin names and long lists of medicinal values.
Finally, they arrived at a large clearing which seemed inexplicably, magically, to have been almost untouched by winter. It was beautiful. Golden green grass grew tall at their feet and all around them was the pleasant buzz of birds and insects. At its centre was a clear pond, reflecting the clear blue sky above and surrounded by white flowers dipping their heads gently into the water.
Hermione laughed as they unfurled their blanket. "Narcissus flowers, can you believe it?" she asked. "It's as if this place was made specially for us."
Narcissa smiled. The idea appealed to her.
"Come," she said playfully, adopting a dramatic voice that earned her a delighted laugh from her companion. "Let me reveal to you the secrets of the picnic basket."
By noon, they were full on fruits and nuts and cheese and bread, drowsy from wine and sun and watching birds wheel over the surface of the pond.
"What will you do after this?" Hermione asked.
"After what?"
"After the divorce, what will you do?"
Narcissa considered the question. "I don't know, nothing in particular."
Narcissa laughed at Hermione's raised eyebrow.
"I'm not like you, darling. I'm old and simple. I have no grand ambitions, I aspire only to be free and happy," she said.
Hermione lay down, flat on her back, her arms crossed behind her head in a sort of pillow.
"Freedom and happiness," she mused, shutting her eyes. "I think those are grand, so far as ambitions go."
Narcissa turned, lowered herself so that she was propped up on an elbow and raked her eyes over Hermione, drinking in the girl while she could, unobserved. "And you?"
"Me? I am satisfied," Hermione said, smiling to herself, eyes still closed. "I see, dance, laugh, sing."
Narcissa tilted her head in query. She was a lover of poetry but though she heard immediately the rhythm in the line, she did not recognise it.
"Whitman, Song of Myself," Hermione answered the silent question. "It's very good."
Narcissa hmmed. "But, surely you aspire to more?"
"No," Hermione mused. "I've had enough adventure and glory for one life. I want my books and my cat, and whatever freedom and happiness I can get."
Narcissa considered the answer. Hermione's cheeks were full and rosy, she was flush with youth but sometimes she spoke like a disillusioned grandmother. It was amusing, so long as Narcissa did not think too hard about the experiences that might have led to her developing this particular perspective.
Hermione, in the time being, had opened a single, serious eye and fixed it on Narcissa. "You probably think I'm selfish," she said.
Narcissa shook her head and shifted her attention to a blade of grass just besides Hermione's head, plucking it from the ground and rolling it between her fingers. "I don't think I have any standing to call you selfish," she said.
Hermione frowned, closing her eyes again. "I used to think that I'd earned the right to be selfish," she said, speaking to the air above her. "That there was still so much to do but that I'd done enough, that someone else would take the fight further."
"You've done your duty," Narcissa nodded, understanding.
Hermione sighed. A long moment of silence passed.
"The thing about duty," Hermione said eventually, "is that so long as the work isn't done, you can't quite shake it off."
Narcissa fought the sudden urge to take Hermione's hand, to hold the younger woman to her chest. She sounded exhausted, wearier than she had any right to be at her age. But of course, she was no ordinary 24 year old. She had more than earned her world-weariness.
Instead, Narcissa spoke, carefully: "I know our experiences are not exactly comparable, but duty, I'm learning, need not always be a burden. And when it is, you may cast it off."
Hermione turned her head and met Narcissa's gaze fully. Encouraged by the rapt expression on her face, Narcissa tried to explain. "My duty to my family for instance. Often it has been a weight around my neck, but sometimes it has been a joy - my greatest joy, in fact. My marriage, well, you know that I am more than happy to leave that behind, but I would not trade motherhood for anything in the world. So I think we can choose what duty looks like, sometimes."
Hermione nodded, slowly. She seemed to be seriously considering Narcissa's words. Her eyes had not left Narcissa's and the older witch found the strength of her attention flattering, unfair even. Narcissa found it overwhelming to be taken so seriously, overpowering to be looked at as if nothing in the world existed beside her. What Hermione was doing went far, far beyond the light, deniable flirtation Narcissa had indulged in with her. When last had someone listened to her like this? Narcissa could scarcely remember.
"A little selfishness is alright, I think," Hermione said, nodding. And then she reached out and ran the back of her hand down the line of Narcissa's jaw.
Narcissa's breath caught. Hermione pulled back her hand, far too soon, Narcissa thought.
"You were blushing," Hermione said, sheepish but defiant. "I've never seen you blush."
And of course, that only made it worse.
The air between them was heavy after that, fat with expectation, the way it gets on some summer afternoons when the day's heat has brewed thick, pregnant clouds and every living thing can feel the promise of a summer storm about to break. It had been like this in a way for some time, this tangible tension, but something was different after the meadow. Hermione had reached across the space between them and turned the spark into a strong and undeniable undercurrent present in every moment.
They went to the theatre, watched Macbeth - Hermione's favourite. Narcissa scoffed at the witches, dressed in tattered robes with warts and beaked noses. Hermione barely noticed any of it - her universe had shrunk to the exact size of the space where Narcissa's knee touched hers. She'd never exactly thought of knees as erogenous zones, but for those three hours in the dim theatre lights, that point of contact felt intoxicating, intimate, almost erotic. Warmth seemed to radiate from Hermione's knee all the way up her inner thigh to the point between her legs.
Hermione felt almost dizzy from the intensity of it.
She thought, at first, that she alone was affected by their closeness. Narcissa's attention seemed entirely focused on the stage. But then, though Narcissa continued to stare straight ahead, she lifted her hand, resting it open and tentative on the armrest between them. An invitation.
Hermione swallowed.
She looked at the actors running around on stage - a battle scene of some sort. Looked back at the armrest. Summed up every bit of Gryffindor courage she'd ever possessed, and placed her hand in Narcissa's open palm.
Narcissa, still not looking at Hermione, twined her fingers through Hermione's. Hermione saw her smile – softly, shyly almost, no canines at all.
After, Narcissa had to run an errand, one of those errands she preferred to run alone. Hermione found an empty park bench and sat there, drinking in large gulps of cold, head-clearing air.
Hysteria. Hermione mulled over the word. It had always seemed rather dramatic to her. Perhaps, she thought wryly, she had been too harsh on the female heroines of period dramas who went feverish from excitement, fainted after a proposal by some tall, Byronic figure. She understood now how a person could make you feel that way.
She waited there until the thought of Narcissa's knee didn't make her heart leap into her throat. It was a long wait. The park stilled, settled down for the evening under a thick blanket of snow and lengthening shadow. The winter sun began to dip below the treeline. A flock of birds made their way home, crying harshly, an arrowhead across the sky. And the whole time, Hermione thought only of Narcissa's hands.