A/N: This chapter is nearly twice as long as my usual, and one of the scenes took me 2 months to complete (thanks, writer's block!). I'm very proud of it though, and I hope you enjoy it. For those of you impatient for plot, I have much in store, so sit tight.

Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of unhealthy thought patterns, semi-nudity

Narcissa's reaction to the knowledge of Horcruxes had been threefold: First, she had been aghast not to the reality that such magic exists, but that it was the obstacle which stood between Harry, and Voldemort's defeat. She'd spent her entire lifetime surrounded by all kinds of horrific Dark Magic, so its existence came as no shock, but she was well aware how difficult it could be when you were its adversary.

Second, she had been profoundly disturbed when Hermione told her that the diary in Lucius' possession five years ago had been a parcel containing a piece of the Dark Lord's shattered soul. That her family had safeguarded such a Dark object which had harmed an innocent girl was grieving, indeed.

And third, Narcissa had been nothing less than utterly fascinated by the psychological motivations behind the Dark Lord's selection of each of his Horcruxes. Her interest had prompted Hermione to lend more details than she'd originally intended, and it proved to be worthwhile.

"My cousin, Regulus," she whispered eagerly as her finger traced the word "locket" in Hermione's handwriting on the notebook's page. Her silvery hair fell forward and she tossed it back over her shoulder, oblivious to Hermione's watching her. "He discovered all this?" Narcissa's blue eyes were bright.

"He did more than discover it," Hermione explained, pointing to the word "sword" adjacent to Narcissa's fingertip. "He acted on it, too. He defected and found where Voldemort was hiding the locket. He died in the process of stealing it from Voldemort's defences."

"I had been lead to believe that he had died a faithful servant…" Narcissa was quiet for a heartbeat. "You are certain of this? You are sure it was him?"

Nodding, Hermione told her, "I held the letter myself. It was signed R.A.B. Who else could that have been, do you think?" Narcissa frowned and her gaze returned to the notebook. "Besides, we have proof from Kreacher."

"Kreacher! The house-elf?" Hermione nodded again. "I suppose they were very fond of one another." Narcissa was clearly reminiscing as she sat back on the rug, apparently thrown backwards by the force of all this new information.

"Voldemort had used Kreacher for experiments to test the defences for the locket," Hermione's nose wrinkled at this, "and I think that's what pushed Regulus to defect."

"The abuse of a house-elf sent a faithful Death Eater to betrayal?" Narcissa clarified sceptically.

Hermione pressed her palms on their little table and shook her head. "From what I understand, Regulus was initially put off by Voldemort's cruelty. He'd been uncomfortable as a Death Eater for some time; Kreacher was what finally convinced him to go through with it."

The expression on Narcissa's face was one of uncomfortable understanding and Hermione had the feeling that this is what Narcissa herself had experienced, though apparently in not as short a time frame as her late cousin.

"So if what you have written here is true," Narcissa gestured to the notebook page. "Then there is still at least one Horcrux which must be destroyed before the Dark Lord is mortal again."

"Yes, the snake."

Narcissa shivered at the mention of the animal. "I always despised that creature," she spat, tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders. "To know now that it houses a portion of its master's soul…" Her expression grew distant and her shoulders closed in. "I suppose it comes as no surprise… I wish now that I had done away with it when I'd had the chance."

A muted snort of laughter escaped Hermione. "You'd have done us all a favour, believe me," she murmured.

Narcissa smiled and re-read the list of Horcruxes a dozen times.

"I never would have guessed him to be so preoccupied with his past," she mused after a sombre pause and a few sips of tea. They both seemed to be drinking alarming amounts of the stuff, Hermione realised.

Shrugging, she answered, "He's a narcissist—no offence," she added quickly with wide eyes. Narcissa merely shook her head dismissively. "What else would he think of but himself?"

"One would think that it would make them easier to discover," Narcissa pointed out as she turned a page in the notebook to explore the rest of Hermione's writings which were no longer secret to her.

"Dumbledore theorised that it was Voldemort's aim to make seven Horcruxes in total." Hermione mentioned this as casually as one might the weather and a smirk toyed at her lips as she anticipated Narcissa's reaction. The witch did not disappoint.

"Seven!" Narcissa's mouth was open in a little O. Her mind seemed to digest this information for a moment before she stammered, "Is such a thing even possible?"

Hermione shrugged. "Theoretically, yes, and since seven is such a magically significant number it makes sense that he'd try. Merlin knows he's killed enough to have the opportunity to create that many."

Narcissa was biting her lip, evidently trying to keep herself from saying something and it made Hermione frown. They'd been getting along fine so far and she didn't want that to change—they could hardly afford it.

"Perhaps we can hope that that was merely the aged delusions of an old man," Narcissa said at length and Hermione was immediately incensed; all thoughts of cheerful, harmonious allyship quickly incinerated.

"What—you think Dumbledore was a daft old fool, then?" she snapped.

"Not at all," responded Narcissa coolly. "Or at least not in his earlier days. I do not hesitate to call him one of the most brilliant and powerful our kind has ever known." Sensing that this had appeased Hermione, she went on, "However, it is no secret that his health was in sharp decline before he passed and it would be irresponsible not to consider the effect this may have had on his faculties."

"He was declining," exclaimed Hermione, "because of the Dark Magic which infected him while he was trying to deal with the Horcruxes! He wasn't an idiot!" She wanted to add something along the lines of "And your son wasn't helping matters!" but held her tongue.

"My point exactly. Would it be wise to trust the assertions of someone so heavily influenced by the Dark Lord's very soul?"

Hermione bristled, momentarily unable to construct a logical counterargument. "There are seven." She declared stubbornly, finally.

"Very well, there are seven." And the disagreement was closed. Narcissa turned back to the list as though Hermione had not been yelling at her a moment before and said, "That leaves two to be discovered and destroyed, as well as the snake."

Hermione nodded. "We were thinking that they might be objects related to Hogwarts, since the school was such a significant place to him."

Frowning, Narcissa replied, "I don't think I understand you."

"You know—possessions of the founders, things like that. Things that are really important to Hogwarts' history."

"No, I understand you there; what I fail to comprehend is why a school would be so significant to the Dark Lord."

"Well, it was the first place he really felt accepted." Hermione said simply, thinking of Harry and trying to ignore the parallels. She couldn't help but think that Narcissa must be a little oblivious if she had spent so long being so close to Voldemort and not know anything about his past. Then again, it wasn't as if he boasted about his personal history. As a blood supremacist, what pride was there to be found in a Muggle parent?

Hermione leaned forwards and gestured as she eagerly explained, "Voldemort grew up in a Muggle orphanage, knowing nothing about magic. To learn that he was a wizard and that all his strange abilities had a reason, to find a place where he could belong and be celebrated, is one of the most essential parts of who he has become."

"You sound as though you've studied the Dark Lord's psychology very well," observed Narcissa.

Hermione answered plainly, "I have. We all have—it's the only thing we have on him, really. Without this information, we'd be utterly lost."

"Is the Dark Lord aware when one of these Horcruxes is destroyed?"

"We don't know. Our best guess is no, he isn't, because if that were the case, he'd have figured out what we're up to by now and more actively tried to stop us." She looked up to Narcissa with curiosity and found the woman hunched over the notebook. "You've spent months with him, haven't you? Don't you know if he's been… I don't know, angry, disturbed, in pain, occasionally?"

Narcissa pursed her lips in a grim replica of smirk, but refused to meet Hermione's gaze. Her fingers were trailing across the paper. "The Dark Lord is always angry and disturbed."

Suddenly very curious, Hermione leaned closer. "We destroyed one-the locket—a few days after Christmas. Did you notice anything then? A shift? Was he upset or weakened?"

Narcissa looked up with a kind of conflicted sadness in her eyes which irritated Hermione. "I cannot answer; his moods are so unstable and confusing that it is impossible to tell." She moved to place the notebook in front of a now very irked Hermione and pointed to a spot on one of the pages. "However, I believe I know where some of the others may be. Or, at least, may have been in the past."

The momentary surge of irritability was forgotten in the light of new information and Hermione looked at Narcissa's eyes with unconcealed excitement. She was met by the same expression in those uniquely pale irises and they smiled together before Hermione pulled away with a blush.

Tea grew into breakfast (although it was becoming difficult to name meals when they both had such haphazard and irregular sleep schedules), over which Narcissa revealed much of her involvement with that first Horcrux: the diary. She told Hermione how Lucius had been entrusted with the diary when Voldemort was at the peak of his power. "It was a great honour for him," she said gravely, and Hermione's mind was whirring, constructing this timeline of events while also analysing Narcissa's every possible signal as she talked about her husband. There was no identifiable emotion in her tone; she could have been talking about someone she'd never met.

No one had truly known the nature of the diary "and," she pondered, "I suspect that none of them know now, either, that it was a Horcrux or that such an object even exists. I had never heard of even the theory before today." Hermione felt a smug sort of satisfaction at being the one to have introduced Narcissa to something, even if it was appalling Dark Magic of the worst kind.

Only the most faithful of the Dark Lord's servants were entrusted with objects or assignments such as the diary. Lucius was not the only one and Narcissa was easily able to produce a list of a handful of Death Eaters who were in possession (or had been) of similarly significant items. Hermione's eyes were wide and attentive as Narcissa's elegant script committed the possibilities to paper while she commentated.

"There is a garter embellished with rubies, believed to be an heirloom of Gryffindor's, which was placed in the Carrows' vault. This was many years prior to his initial defeat. Then there is my sister's charge: a cup believed to have belonged to Hufflepuff. That resides in her vault as well, to my understanding. Now, I know that the locket was Slytherin's, but to my knowledge there are at least a few more relics of his which the Dark Lord bequeathed to his servants. Given his affiliation with that house and the significance of his heritage, I would not disregard the possibility that there could be numerous Horcruxes associated with Slytherin."

Nodding frantically, Hermione agreed. When Narcissa had finished her list, Hermione turned the notebook so she could read it over. Her handwriting was slender and curved, much like the woman herself, and steadily made its way across the page in even lines. In contrast, Hermione's was far more angular. It made her wonder what Ron would say; he'd always called her handwriting "girly" while plagiarising her essays. Narcissa's was probably too feminine for his comprehension.

Hermione looked back to Narcissa and saw her gazing out towards the open tent door. They were both energised and excited by the idea that they could be of use, that they could actually do something tangible rather than drift around the country in a tent that had been transfigured within an inch of recognition.

Narcissa turned back to meet Hermione's eyes and gave her one of the most earnest smiles she'd yet seen upon the witch's lips. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

Hermione smiled. "Alright."

They packed up their tea and breakfast and ducked out the tent. Warm, morning sunlight immediately accosted them and they let it be their fuel. Almost immediately, Narcissa wound her arm through Hermione's and Hermione felt herself grow even warmer in self-consciousness. She couldn't help but feel that they must look like a pair of ladies from a Jane Austen novel, except looking very much decrepit and far less elegant in their Muggle clothes and weary bodies.

"Look up there," Narcissa extended the arm which wasn't hooked with Hermione's and pointed to the sky where the glint of shimmering feather could be seen. Smiling, she said, "I believe our friend is still keeping watch."

Hermione followed the bird's flight, thinking that it was either circling them as a predator or as a protector. She hardly noticed the thrum of the wards against her mind anymore.

"If you were Harry," she said suddenly without preamble. "we would be breaking into Gringotts right now."

Narcissa laughed, not unkindly. "Why am I not surprised? That is very characteristic of you three, I understand."

"Well, not all three of us." Hermione answered, feeling a little defensive. "I'm always the one stuck convincing them to come up with a plan before running head-first into danger."

"Leave it to the ladies to save their men from their own foolhardy pride." Narcissa said wisely and Hermione didn't quite know how to answer that. She was stuck trying to match this Narcissa, the one who walked around a forest with their elbows linked, to the one who wore finely crafted robes and accessorised them with impenetrable hubris. And what could she mean by saving men from their pride? It hardly seemed that Narcissa had ever endeavoured to prevent Lucius or Draco from their schemes. Schemes which, she might add, were far more malevolent and deadly than Ron and Harry's adolescent recklessness.

Hermione must have been quiet for longer than she should have been because Narcissa spoke again. "So if it is you that prevents your friends from going through with their plans without thought, who is the one that keeps you in check?"

Hermione opened her mouth, stunned. "I beg your pardon?"

Undeterred, Narcissa gave Hermione a quizzical look and reiterated, "Who is it that stops you from getting ahead of yourself, in all your impassioned logic?" Narcissa's tone wasn't cruel, but Hermione couldn't help but interpret her words as insulting, and she was surprised by the strength of the sting. It hijacked her thoughts and hit the accelerator. Her thoughts became incendiary as they leap-frogged over each other, flying off and crashing against her skull before imploding, the shrapnel wreaking havoc on everything below.

She had thought that Narcissa was on her side, had trusted her. But then why would she think that? Wasn't it far more likely that this mistress of Slytherin was tagging along to keep herself alive and silently laughing at Hermione's foolishness along the way?

"Are you saying you think I'm reckless? That I don't consider the dangers—the fact that my loved ones' lives are what's at stake, not to mention my own?" snapped Hermione.

Narcissa's eyes quickly flicked to Hermione's expression and it was obvious that she hadn't understood what effect her words would elicit. The physical distance between them broadened a fraction as Hermione took a step to the side like a wounded animal and Narcissa recoiled from her words. But together, they continued to stroll on.

Evidently weighing her response, Narcissa finally said lowly, "I do not mean to suggest that you do not value the lives of others."

Hermione nodded rigidly. "Thank you."

"Do you believe your judgement infallible?"

"Of course not," Hermione scoffed. "No one is perfect. But who do you suggest double-check our plans when my only options are two boys who are already halfway out the door?" Hermione said this with a kind of shrill, emotional wail in her voice and she hated it. She hated talking about this, hated that Narcissa had discovered one of insecurities like a leaf upon the ground and was now prodding it with her shoe, hated that her mind now behaved like a skittish horse which became spooked at the slightest disturbance; a horse which she was hopelessly unequipped to reign.

She missed Harry and Ron desperately.

"I don't mean to upset you, Hermione," Narcissa said, her voice determinedly even and careful. Once again, Hermione wondered when they'd got on a first-name basis. "I merely wondered."

"Are you worried that my plans won't keep us safe?" Hermione didn't bother trying to phrase it delicately; as far as she was concerned, they couldn't afford to waste time with politeness on the truly important matters. Veils of cordiality would only get knotted and distort the truth.

"Of course," answered Narcissa plainly. "But that is a possibility regardless of whose company I keep." Narcissa paused, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side as she composed her thoughts before speaking. "You see, I have heard much about you and the way you and you friends go about your adventures, and I merely wish to have a less obstructed understanding of events that I've heard of so frequently. To put the pieces together, so to speak."

Hermione mulled this over a moment. She could feel the horse begin to soothe, the dust to settle. "What do you want to know?"

"Whose idea was it to go to the Department of Mysteries two years ago?" Narcissa's voice sounded oddly tight and restrained.

"Harry's, absolutely. Voldemort had put images of Sirius Black being tortured in Harry's mind and he was so afraid of losing his godfather that he insisted we go to London. I wanted to communicate with the Order and make sure Sirius was really in danger, but Harry was..." Hermione's heart sank as she remembered Harry's frantic terror, the way he'd been near-hysterical in his grief. It was impossible to be smug about the fact that she'd been right all along, not when Harry's heart was being slowly decimated by loss.

"I see," was Narcissa's tactful answer. A handful of heartbeats passed before she spoke again with barely-concealed curiosity. "I'm very curious about this organisation you constructed. Dumbledore's Army, was it not called?"

Hermione had the feeling that Narcissa was asking questions that she already knew the answers to, but she nodded nevertheless. "That was my idea, actually. It took ages to convince Harry to do it."

"Do you regret it?"

This was a question Hermione did not know the answer to. Would they have been better off without Dumbledore's Army? Perhaps in the short-term, yes; Umbridge would not have been able to abuse them in the way she did and it was unlikely Dumbledore would have fled as he'd done. But then who knows what would have happened in place of those events? And how on Earth would they have fared without Harry's tutelage, without that family they'd formed in the Room of Requirement?

"No, I don't regret it."

Narcissa hummed in a pondering sort of way. The sentiment was echoed by a haunting coo through the branches.

"Forgive me, I'm merely trying to reconcile who you are with what I have heard. I was told that you cursed the girl who outed your secret."

Hermione didn't need to ask where she had learned this. However, her sudden dismissal of it was confusing. "…Yes, you heard correctly."

Narcissa tensed and her pace slowed. "You cursed that student? With that horrid deformation?"

"She betrayed us! We had to have some way to suss out the traitor!" Hermione's indignation spilled forward and she had to clench her jaw to keep her tongue in check. The horse reared up again. How dare this woman criticize the morality of her decisions in this way? Was this not the height of hypocrisy?

Narcissa was either ignorant to the extent of Hermione's temper or unafraid of it, for her voice was cool and composed as she probed further. "And you consider permanently cursing a child for an innocent mistake to be the appropriate action?"

"It was not an 'innocent mistake.' That group was… it was a family for us. You can't understand what it was like in that climate and how much we needed each other. What Marietta did was… she betrayed us."

"She was a young girl under the effects of Veritaserum and the Ministry of Magic! How do you suppose you would fare in her place?"

"I was in that situation! I didn't betray my friends." Hermione was struggling not to raise her voice.

Narcissa's, on the other hand, was eerily soft. "I see. So you deem it your right to brand her for the rest of her life for not living up to your own standards."

Hermione wasn't sure when they'd stopped walking, but now their frozen postures facing one another, toe-to-toe, suddenly felt very significant as the accusation hung between them.

"Did you not think of what she would endure for it? The humiliation of being forever scarred, a punishment for innocence? How do you imagine she might feel every time she sees her own face? How will she explain it to her children?"

The images curled into existence in Hermione's mind, a bitter mist depicting a middle-aged Marietta looking into the innocently curious eyes of smaller versions of herself. Hermione's gut contracted, twisting and knotting itself into a heavy rock of guilt which sunk low in her abdomen, black and putrid. She saw herself from those children's eyes: an incomprehensible monster who carved evidence of her own superiority into the dignity of others. There was no direct accusation in Narcissa's voice, and she did not call her names, but in a way that made it so much worse because it left the coils of Hermione's thoughts to unfurl and easily do that job without aid.

"I cannot understand how you can be painted as a hero of compassion and yet be so cold-hearted and ruthless."

"You don't know anything about me." Hermione declared bitterly, her tone frosty and dark. This conversation had not gone where she'd expected and she was desperate to have the last word and be done with it before it tore her apart.

"You're right—I know nearly nothing of who you truly are. But I think I should like to."

Hermione said nothing, kept staring stoically at the trees that seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. In the course of one dialogue, Narcissa had managed to single-handedly unearth some of Hermione's deepest insecurities and lay them bare for judgement. Doubts she didn't even know she had had been torn from her soul, leaving her to choke on the vacuum left in their place.

She felt stupid and juvenile and these were not adjectives Hermione often encountered or enjoyed.

With a stiff nod, just enough to convey her acknowledgement, Hermione stared very deliberately at a deep pond a few yards in front of them. In a last-ditch effort to save her pride, she bit out, "I'm going to go bathe over there, if you'll excuse me." Hermione began walking off before Narcissa could say "Very well" and in a matter of moments, she was alone in the woods.

In all honesty, she wasn't sure where she'd got this idea (or if it was terribly wise), but she went with it anyway and began to methodically peel away her clothes. She'd seen Narcissa duck in the tent in her peripheral vision and the forest was serenely quiet, but Hermione kept her wand in hand, jumping at every slightest sound. Her thoughts were still galloping ahead of each other, carrying on an invisible argument that spiralled out in a hundred different directions; a fractal of possible come-backs and witty retorts to rescue her pride and self-esteem. They became louder, more brutal and more out-of-character with each imaginary response.

Hermione let her thoughts do as they please, as her limbs operated entirely on their own to pile her clothes on the ground.

She hadn't properly washed since that blissful bath at the hotel. While she tended to prefer magical methods to the questionable hygiene of the wilderness, right now nothing sounded better than submerging herself in this murky pool of spring rainwater. It would rinse her of the grime on her skin and replace the smell of fear with one of earthly balance and clarity.

Her toes tangled with the mud and she let the sensation push her screaming subconscious into silent submission. She could not afford to question herself, not now, not when confidence was the key to survival. She had been right with Marietta and she was right now.

She waded out, nude but for her underthings, and immediately her breath deserted her. The water was frigid and her skin prickled in protest as she moved deeper, feet numb and slippery underwater. The water crept up to her thighs. In a split-second of perhaps dangerous abandon, she tightened her grip on her wand and launched herself forward.

The water sliced at her as she dove, an endless sea of needles assaulting her at every turn.

When she could breathe again, she laughed.

This was all that mattered. This freezing pond which clawed at her flesh and soaked her meagre cotton provisions right through. As far as Hermione was concerned, the universe only reached as far as the water's laps against the muddy bank.

It felt strange to be back in the real world after a month of captivity. Time had become warped. It seemed as though she had been imprisoned forever and yet not long at all. And now, here she was with all the freedom in the world. It was a heady thing; all this stimulation, all the possibilities…

I am safe, I am safe, I am safe…

Narcissa will protect me.

Will she?

She had thus far.

That had to count for something, didn't it?

It was too easy to get caught up in confused second-guessing and suspicion. The Hermione that had been imprisoned and damaged desperately wanted to trust Narcissa, to keep her near and protect her; while the Hermione that was Harry Potter's ally and warrior for the Light had nothing but malevolent resentment for the woman.

Hermione expelled these thoughts with a sigh and leaned back in the water so that it just graced the nape of her neck. The water was made murky by the mud and grasses which polluted it, but Hermione found that she didn't much care and she observed the silhouette of her body through the grimy veil in mild fascination. As her gaze travelled upwards, she found herself staring at a smattering of acne across her chest, creeping up between her barely-there breasts like moss.

Really?! She wanted to shout at her body. After all this, with a war raging around us, you still bother to go through all this? She supposed in a way it should be reassuring; it was, after all, proof that she was alive and that her body was still operating, tugging her along through each frightful day. But at the same time, it seemed ludicrously unfair that she still had to deal with pimples on top of everything else.

With a determined huff, Hermione straightened herself in the water and bent her knees so that her chest was submerged. The frigid temperature stole her breath and she took short, gasping inhalations as she vigorously rubbed at the pink spots with the heel of her hand. After all, she hadn't been able to bathe properly during that month in Malfoy Manor. No wonder her skin was a mess.

She scrubbed at her face for good measure, though it felt smooth if a little oily.

Her teeth had begun to chatter rather frighteningly in the few minutes she'd been in the water. Realising that enough was enough and acknowledging this had been a poor idea to begin with, she waded to the bank where her clothes lay. The light breeze on her skin was a sharp assault on her flesh and Hermione hastened to cast a drying charm and a "Scourgify!" on her muddy toes, which turned out to be blue once the dirt was cleared away.

She hurried back to the tent where she found Narcissa wrapped up on the rickety sofa. The woman wasted no time speaking once their eyes met.

"Are you alright? I apologise if I offended you."

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. She'd half forgotten about their quarrel and she couldn't decide whether she wanted to pretend it had never happened and move on or cling to her tender pride.

"Yes, just cold," was all she said as she strode to the makeshift fireplace to light it again. She wasn't sure which option she'd chosen.

Narcissa seemed to accept that as the conclusion of the morning's disagreements, for she stood and unwrapped the blanket from her own shoulders. "Here," she held it out. Hermione took it with a nod of thanks, taking care to avoid brushing the woman's fingers.

And with that, an armistice was silently signed.