Trigger warnings: some aggressive language
Warmth again.
Body heat.
Suffocating and euphoric all at once. So many marvellous contradictions that sometimes left Hermione wondering why the world was now so much more difficult to live in just when she needed its stability most. Why would the universe deny her physical comfort for so long, and then rob her of her ability to endure it now that there were people here to touch her again? With gentle affection and not pain?
It wasn't fair.
But it didn't matter, she thought, not now, not with these arms around her.
As she pulled away and saw all that red hair, the matching pairs of eyes and foolish grins, Hermione felt farther away from the cool dampness of that cellar than ever before. Because surely there was no grief anywhere in the world if the Weasley twins were nearby.
"I can't believe it," said Fred, scanning her up and down. "I really cannot believe it. Can you believe it, George?"
"Not at all." He gave her shoulder a gentle prod. "Are you the real Hermione Granger?"
From Harry and Ron, that question had hurt, but now it made her laugh.
She sat on the sofa (sans frozen vegetables) and listened as the twins pitched new ideas for new products, most of which she was sure were quite illegal. Rings which bit your fingers off if you said the right word, a kitchen knife which cut everything into rude shapes, a pillow which stuffed itself into your mouth if you snored…
Hermione didn't know why Fred and George were here, what Harry and Ron must have told them, but it was clear they had come with the express purpose of cheering her up. Part of her did want to be angry, to insist she was not a child in need of entertainment or some kind of emotional invalid, but this time, just this time, it didn't matter.
It was like freedom.
Harry and Ron lingered, commenting only occasionally until George bellowed, "Oi! Brother! What's a bloke got to do to get lunch in this place?"
"Make it yourself!" Ron shouted back.
"Unbelievable," breathed Fred dramatically as he rose to his feet. "Doesn't he know who we are?"
"Yeah, you're the git who hid a gnome in my bed when I was eight."
"Precisely! One gnome! It could have been two, or three, or, Merlin forbid, four! And I think you really should—what the bloody hell is that?!"
Hermione winced at the metallic clanging noise which echoed through the lounge room. Gently getting to her feet with as much speed as she could muster, she cried, "Sorry! Sorry, that was just the cauldrons." Her bag lay on the floor, where Fred had knocked it from the arm of the couch with his dramatic gesticulating. She sighed, thinking of its newly disorganised contents with despair. "I'll just go put it in my room."
"Glad to see our Hermione is still toting 'round a full potions laboratory in her handbag," remarked George, his voice muffling as she disappeared behind the bedroom door.
"Don't worry, it's just me," she whispered when the door had shut behind her. Narcissa visibly relaxed and sat back onto the bed where she must have been reclining before Hermione barged in.
"Was that your bag that made that ghastly noise?"
"Yes; sorry. I want to add a silencing charm but—" she gestured around her. No magic.
"Would you like me to sort out the inside while you..?" Narcissa nodded in the direction of the door.
"Oh, no, it's all right. I'll do it later. Might make too much noise, anyway." Careful not to agitate the contents, Hermione tucked the bag beneath the bedside table. "I'm sorry you have to be stuck in here. I don't think they'll stay too much longer."
Narcissa waved her hand in a dismissal Hermione didn't quite believe. "If you are enjoying the company, then please do not send them away on my account."
Voices from outside suggested that the boys were making rather absurd sandwiches, yet, looking at Narcissa leaning against the headboard, Hermione had the sudden urge to stay here in the cluttered little room.
Narcissa gave her a look. "Go. Quickly, before they come looking for you."
With a sigh, Hermione slipped out the bedroom and back into the chaos.
Once Fred and George had finally left (after constructing culinary monstrosities which necessitated seven slices of bread each and unfortunately no magical aid) with bone-breaking hugs and winking promises to return very soon, Harry insisted they wait at least ten minutes before releasing Narcissa. Hermione personally thought this was a somewhat barbaric way of treating a woman, but let it pass; the atmosphere in the flat had been positively diplomatic and she didn't dare risk unbalancing the precarious civility.
Their strange routine returned, though no-one mentioned the Horcruxes. Sometimes, she would catch Harry frowning, lost in thought, and she wondered if he was thinking about the cup again, trying to resolve the way Dumbledore's suggestion was now so perfectly congruent with the advice of Narcissa Malfoy.
Hermione did not envy unravelling that kind of knot. She had made her choice—it was too late to stop trusting Narcissa now. She wouldn't have anything left if she did.
So she watched the telly and ate incrementally more until she thought her body might actually desire food rather than simply require it. In a way, it was like being at home for the holidays, when she would become a Muggle again and it was easy to forget the magical world even existed at all; that perhaps it had all been a spectacular kind of dream…
"Hermione? Hermione! Shh, hush now, it's only me—"
Hands—fingers, on her face—touching, gripping, grabbing—not right, not right, get away, get off me, go away—!
She jumped violently at the little click and a whimper escaped without her knowing. Light, artificial yet warm and so marvellously clarifying in the shabby little bedroom which began to take shape before Hermione's eyes, replacing the hazy darkness filled with damp stone and cold air and the eternal certainty that someone was there, in the blackness, waiting, watching, always…
The duvet beneath her seemed so far away, her senses so dull and confused.
"A nightmare?"
Hermione licked her lips and found her mouth terribly dry. "I suppose."
"It certainly didn't sound like a pleasant dream."
Her head shook, glazed eyes closed; how could she explain when she was not really here at all…
"It felt… too real… not like a dream…"
The darkness lingered, the sounds of breaths and footsteps resonating through her skull.
"No, none of this now. Come, take my hand."
Hermione flinched when something brushed her fingers, held onto them.
"Open your eyes, come with me, right here."
A palm on her cheek, guiding her, and Hermione found herself staring blindly into the light as Narcissa held her gently against her chest. Fingers gently teased at her hair; it had grown so long and was still so ratty from all that neglect—perhaps she would cut it…
Narcissa's breaths below her moved so deeply and so evenly that Hermione couldn't help but follow it. The room had no clock, but Hermione thought that these gentle and easy inhalations were much better than the ticking of a hand.
The darkness had gone, but a bland emptiness had taken its place. She did not sleep, but then neither did Narcissa; her fingers kept drifting in gentle graces across Hermione's scalp, face, arms...
Hermione's eyes hurt from the light; she watched as her arm reached and switched it off.
"Why didn't you tell me about the wand?"
"I only discovered it a few minutes before imparting it to Mr. Potter."
Hermione hummed. Narcissa sighed, the even rhythm of her breaths broken.
"All my information is worth nothing if they will not believe it."
"They say they need time to trust you."
Narcissa hummed. Hermione sighed. "Do you trust me?"
Hermione frowned. "Do you think that I don't?"
"I imagine that it must not be easy, like this. I wondered if seeing your people again might… undo anything we may have built between us. Precarious though it may be."
Hermione sniffed. "If you think a few boys with short tempers can turn me against you, then you don't know me very well at all."
A sound that may have been a tired chuckle, and Narcissa rolled over, letting Hermione fall onto the mattress as they lay chest to chest, sharing breaths.
"Then I am most glad to be proven wrong."
Arms and legs, so much gentle heat, and though the darkness was still black, it seemed an entirely different colour than the haze which had drowned her in dreams.
"Good evening, everyone, and welcome. We're very happy to have you with us today. We will begin of course, with our latest intelligence on those we have lost…"
Though they were warm and fed and indoors, the atmosphere around the wireless was just as it had been in that little tent in the woods. The three of them sat huddled around the little device on the table as it announced names and names and names… Hermione waited, pen hovering above paper, ready to take notes, absorbing each punch to her gut as a familiar name emerged from the device. The last one, a half-blood Ravenclaw who Hermione had found marvellously clever yet too sweet for her own good… They had been potions partners in… fourth year? She'd had a younger brother, but Hermione's ears had gone deaf and she didn't hear what had become of her family.
There was no useful news from the frontlines; nothing had changed.
The world still travelled down that shallow decline, descending inch by inch beyond salvation.
The broadcast finished and Hermione shut her notebook.
"We need to do something. We can't carry on like this, it's useless."
Harry's hand came up to rub his eyes behind his glasses as he sighed. "The Order doesn't want to plan any offensive moves right now; they think we need to focus on damage control."
"Yeah, but if we do that the war will be over by the time we're ready to fight back!"
"I know, I know; we'll keep thinking…"
Hermione didn't offer her opinion; for once, she agreed with Ron.
No-one said anything as she packed up her notebook and stood, drifting to the back of the flat where she'd seen Narcissa retreat after lingering near the kitchen to hear the named dead. Their room was lit only by sunshine; Hermione found Narcissa gazing out the window by their bed, very still. The woman seemed unusually quiet—not in her usual manner of poised refinement, but a deeper, more consuming silence; this was not a noiselessness performed for the benefit of those around her.
With gentle footsteps which became more painless by the day, Hermione approached, coming to stand behind Narcissa and observing the sunlight over her shoulder. The afternoon shone brilliantly, all plush clouds and emerging green brightening the trees. Spring refused to be deterred by the war, it would seem.
When Narcissa didn't remark on Hermione's approach, the younger witch stayed quiet. She had learned that interrogation was not always the best first move, that a presence could be comforting in itself.
But she would like to know why exactly Narcissa needed comforting to begin with.
It must have been a name, one of the confirmed fatalities. But who could Narcissa have cared for on that list of Muggles and blood traitors? Cared enough to make her now press her lips together until they turned white?
Still, Hermione didn't ask, just bit her tongue and hoped that her compassion travelled well enough without words.
"Do you know today's date?"
Startled, Hermione answered, "No." The days had all begun to run together as soon as she and Harry and Ron and run off on their own. She didn't want to be able to measure it, to know just how long this pain was lasting.
"No, neither do I." Narcissa took a gentle breath. "The days are much longer now. His birthday is the first week of June; I wonder if I've missed it."
For a second, Hermione endured the painful assumption that she was talking about Lucius, before the younger Malfoy man's face materialised in her head. Of course—she remembered him whinging about needing to revise for O.W.L.s. during his birthday.
They hadn't discussed Draco since that conversation in the tent and Hermione didn't know how to offer reassurance, not when she didn't even believe Draco could have survived long after their escape.
"Never mind. It hardly matters now," murmured Narcissa and she turned away from the window to sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees as she stared at the floor.
Hermione watched, a twinge of annoyance prodding her gut. "Don't say that. Of course it matters."
"Have you considered, Miss Granger, what might happen to me at the end of this war? Defection does not excuse me from earlier crimes."
Narcissa did not look up from the ground, yet Hermione stared at the woman with confused frustration. Most of all, she wanted to know when she'd become Miss Granger again. "Of course you will be given a trial, but you've never really done anything that should get you carted off to Azkaban, at least as far as I know, and your efforts on our side will absolutely earn you some kind of clemency!"
The laugh Narcissa emitted was bitter and dismissive and Hermione felt the first flicker of genuine anger now. Never in all that time in that damned cell, on the run with wildly different people, even when her head became a blackened cloud of relentless misery had she given up on the hope of finding her people again and perhaps even surviving to see her twenties. To have come as far as Narcissa and be so ready to—to give up was unthinkable!
Something must have been evident in her expression, for Narcissa stood when she saw her face and shook her head with a quirk of her lips. Her hands came up to rest on Hermione's shoulders, thumbs fluttering across her collarbones. "Don't worry, my dear." Her eyes grew fond, diluting Hermione's irritation into an easy warmth. "I've long come to accept that you are the only person I have left."
"That's ridiculous." Yet Hermione blushed nevertheless.
"Is it?"
Perhaps it was, but Hermione couldn't think of anything to say, so instead she brought her arms around Narcissa's waist and pulled her into a gentle hug.
Harry and Ron left for Order meetings (which, although they were aware of Hermione's return, she still was not allowed to attend), leaving the two witches alone in the flat for hours at a time. Sometimes they would try to read the few books found in the apartment; an endeavour which usually resulted in either mild amusement or boredom.
The telly proved to be much more fruitful, as it offered an easy way to pass long stretches of times and a good opportunity to teach Narcissa more about Muggle technology and culture. Hermione took great pleasure in sitting beside the woman on the sofa, tea and biscuits on the coffee table, and watching Narcissa's rather disgusted reactions to the various terrible films aired during lunchtime on a weekday. Though Hermione expected at least one critical remark on the rather outlandish behaviours of these fictional Muggles, Narcissa remained studiously silent, perhaps correctly assuming Hermione's giggles to be an indication that mediocre cinema was not an adequate representation of the average real-life Muggle.
Her blue eyes did light up at the pretty costumes and elegant manners of BBC period dramas, though.
Hermione took care to avoid the news channels.
The days ran together into smears of cloudy daylight, more and more elaborate meals as Hermione's appetite grew, and sometimes endless streaks of stars and city lights diluting long nights that passed without sleep. She couldn't hope to estimate how long she'd been in that flat, whether it was a week or a month, but it began to feel like she had never ever been anywhere else. The door became an object of restless curiosity and great intimidation.
Yet when she asked Harry and Ron if she might join them shopping one day, their evasive answers of "sure" and "why not" yielded nothing but "spontaneous" visits to the shops on the way back from Order meetings with a promise that of course she could come next time.
But the next time kept coming and going and Hermione found herself sitting on the couch, the table, the bed, flipping through her notebook and waiting for new information to materialise before the walls of the apartment became too small to escape.
"Hermione!"
Arm still tangled in the sleeve of her half-donned shirt, Hermione raced to the kitchen to find Ron frantically dashing about the lounge room.
"People on their way up! Make sure she's hidden!" He gestured to Narcissa who quickly moved to tip her tea into the kitchen sink. "Don't both with that—dammit, just get out!"
Hermione's wrist bent uncomfortably as she tried to yank her shirt the rest of the way on, feeling utterly confused by the proceedings and strangely unable to act.
"Don't look so frightened—it's his twin brothers, not Death Eaters," murmured Narcissa, and with a discreet brush of her hand against Hermione's, she disappeared into the bedroom.
Hermione's sleeve slid properly into place and she found herself sitting at the dining table, Narcissa's half-drunk tea in front of her just as Harry opened the door and a trio of redheads bound into the flat.
Standard pleasantries were exchanged, though Hermione could see the tension in Ron and Harry's postures. Surprise social visits were not supposed to be part of protocol. Hermione waved in greeting from the table and, for lack of anything else to do, sipped the tea. Creamier than she normally prepared it, and with a hint of sugar that made her tongue tingle.
"Bill! What are you doing here?"
Though she had not seen him since his wedding, Bill barely spared Hermione a cursory glance as he scanned the space. He looked, to be frank, quite terrible.
"He's part of the surprise," answered one of the twins on their older brother's behalf.
"Well, sort of. You know what we mean."
Harry frowned as he watched Bill anxiously prowl about the room. "Not really..?"
Narcissa's tea warmed Hermione's throat as she drank; she must have made it only a few minutes ago.
"We figure it might be some time for a bit of good news, you know?"
"Some spring flowers to brighten the end of winter, if you follow."
Harry and Ron stared from one twin to another, to Bill who seemed to be growing more frustrated with every second. "No, we really don't."
"Where is she?"
Bill's voice cooled Hermione's blood, its cold detachment yet frayed desperation promised her something was very wrong and there was no way to prevent it from becoming imminently worse.
"Where's Fleur?"
"What—?"
"I know she's here, Harry. Don't bother pretending."
"Bill…" Ron addressed his brother, "she went missing at the opera—"
"You think I don't know that?" Snarled Bill, approaching his little brother with an aggression which betrayed a shadow of his inhumanity. "You think I've been able to think of anything else for the past twenty fucking days?"
Hermione stumbled to her feet as Bill continued to advance on Ron, growls sending spit onto shirtfronts and collars. "Fred," she whispered, tugging at the twin's arm as he leaned against the bench-top and watched the proceedings with an infuriating smirk. "Fred, what on Earth is going on?"
"Don't worry, Hermione. He'll calm down when he sees her."
"Fleur?"
"Who else?"
"But Fred, she's isn't here."
"Oh, come off it. You had a good go of it, I'll give you that much, but we heard her voice last time. And forgive me, but—" he pinched one of her matted locks between his fingers, "neither you nor my brother nor the illustrious Harry Potter himself have hair like the sort we found in the bathroom. It's all over the bloody sink. Who else is that blonde?"
For a delirious moment, Hermione hoped he would come to the obvious answer himself, but his stupid smile remained fixed to his face as Bill struggled to contain his fear and anger with growing incoherence. Hermione's fingers slid against Fred's forearm as she shook him stupidly; clammy, cold sweats breaking out across her body—
"—do it myself!"
The flat was too bloody small and yet not small enough; she couldn't reach him, didn't have the strength or coordination to block an almost-werewolf from charging at the only closed door (why had they been so stupidly obvious?!) and throwing it open with a desperation that made Hermione sick.
There was a fraction of a moment where it seemed that the world would not end, that all would be able to continue as it had been, and then Bill disappeared into the room with a cry that made Hermione flinch in fear.
"Where is she?! Where is my WIFE!"
Hermione tripped on her own ankles, braced herself in the doorframe and saw Narcissa looking into Bill's eyes with a measured directness that was almost admirable as he held her in a crushing grip, one hand on her shoulder, dangerously near her throat, the other clawing her opposite bicep.
"I don't know."
Bill's breathing accelerated, all ragged gasps and his fingers tightened—
"Bill! Stop! Let her go! Please!"
The muscles of his back nearly made her spring back as she tried to offer gentle touches of comfort. She saw a sharp twitch by his shoulder blade and tried again, a light brushing of her fingertips; Narcissa's exhale of relief was quiet as Bill unwound, freeing her.
The poor man seemed to dissolve, all of the fight departing in a heavy rush and Hermione was glad when Ron appeared to catch his brother and guide him back to the living room with dragging footsteps and a sturdy shoulder. Two matching pairs of legs in the doorway stood frozen; Hermione wondered if their expressions of shock were also identical.
"She's gone…"
"Hey, come on…"
"She's gone, she's gone…"
And though the looming reality of Narcissa's exposure waited, gaping and terrible, for the moment all Hermione could feel were the visceral sounds of heartbreak drifting through the flat; landing on walls and furniture, surely never to come out.