A/N: This is one of those scenes that's been in my head since day 1.
Trigger warnings: Nudity
"What did you think? Honestly."
George shook his head while Fred stared in shock at Ron soothing Bill on the sofa. "We really thought you had her here."
"Why the hell would we do that?!" Harry's whisper betrayed almost more fury than if he had shouted.
"I mean, you found Hermione that night, and that was a miracle! It didn't seem like that much of a stretch that you might've saved her, too."
"And keep her here? In secret while Bill loses his mind with grief?"
George shrugged weakly and Hermione thought the twins looked more grave than she had ever seen them. "Might've been a nice surprise?"
Harry's eyes disappeared behind his hand as he sighed again. "Bloody hell, we're not you," he muttered.
It was disgustingly voyeuristic to watch Bill sobbing like that, and Hermione saw it quite plainly that he had not truly accepted the reality his wife was—was gone in one capacity or another, until now. The same night Hermione had found her home again, Fleur had been taken from hers. Why must there always be a trade-off? Perhaps her cell was not empty, after all—but the thought of Fleur curled up in that darkness… cold, wet metal and endless fear—Hermione swayed on her feet, choking on sweat and quite sure she would vomit.
If anyone noticed, they said nothing, and Hermione thought she quite deserved it.
"We can't keep this a secret. You know that."
Harry shrugged. "Figured."
George nodded.
"She came with Hermione," said Harry flatly. "You didn't ask, but in case you're wondering. They escaped together."
George nodded again and Hermione wondered if she and Narcissa had ceased to exist.
"She knew too much already. We can't let her go."
George exhaled deeply. "Guess we'll sort it at the next meeting. Might need to call Dad for an urgent one, actually."
Fred hummed in agreement and leaned against the wall, swore under his breath.
The sounds of anguish quieted a little, pressed down by the heavy air which stifled all the words no-one knew how to say. Hermione thought this might be better than shouting and fighting, but it made her bones ache and pressed on her lungs. Narcissa's presence behind her shrunk, retreating, until she heard the soft closing of a door and knew the other witch had left the scene where she was not welcome.
Though in all honesty, Hermione was not sure she herself was welcome any more than Narcissa. The Weasley boys were all drifting to their older brother, perhaps drawn by a sense of sibling attachment which Hermione had never experienced. She and Harry stayed behind, not wanting to intrude on the family grief currently unfolding on the sofa.
"You can go, if you need," he told her without looking.
Shaking her head, she replied, "I feel awful."
"'S not your fault."
"Isn't it?"
Harry sighed and finally tore his eyes away from the spectacle of emotion to look at Hermione. After a moment's consideration, he pulled her into a gentle hug and she melted against his chest. "It'll be all right. And to be honest, you look terrible. Go look after yourself. No-one will be offended."
Pulling out of his embrace, she tried for a chuckle, though she didn't think it came out quite right. He didn't look full well, either, though she didn't say so. Surely he knew that himself already.
"Harry," she began, and she wished his eyes did not look so dull. "Why didn't you tell me Fleur had gone missing?"
The guilt pulled him down by the chin, curving his spine in a nauseating collapse of self. She knew what he would say, even agreed with it, but couldn't live without either absolution of any responsibility or affirmation of her shame.
"What could you have done?" He asked in answer.
What difference would it make?
Hermione nodded, because she knew that living the last weeks with that guilt upon her shoulders would have done absolutely nothing for anybody, especially not the young woman who was out there, somewhere. Or maybe not.
She drifted past, followed the sound of running water and slipped noiselessly into the bathroom; the clicking of the lock behind her promised to keep the expanding cloud of grief at bay for just a little longer, at least until it began to seep in under the door.
The humid air stuck to her skin as she saw new details in the little, quotidian space. And, yes, there by the sink glimmered two or three pale strands of hair, hardly noticeable and yet the most obvious things in the world. With gentle footsteps, Hermione approached and pinched each thready length between her fingertips and held them aloft, never losing sight of their fair sheen as she escorted them over to the toilet and deposited them in the water where they fluttered unevenly, distorting the surface where they landed.
Yet the sense of security did not come. Restlessness drove her back to the sink where she gently swept her palms across the surface, the taps, the mirror, searching for just one more fragment of betraying evidence—just one, and they would be finished all over again…
With soundless, methodical movements, she pried open the cabinet and scanned its disarrayed inhabitants. How many tubes of toothpaste was expected for three people? What could be excused and what was beyond explanation?
Tubes and little bottles and flosses all blurred, admittedly unremarkable, yet still she scanned, keeping the impatience at bay with a firm grip on the edge off the cabinet door until she halted, frozen and breathless and yet suddenly so assured in her conviction that impatience gave way to calm.
The scissors looked old and mistreated, with a hint of rust discolouring the blade, but she picked them up anyway, hand finding comfortable purchase in the plastic grip. With her other hand, she reached to her neck and carefully gathered her hair, now so coarse, at the nape. With careful, precise movements, evenly measured by the rhythmic showering of the water, she pulled the blades apart and guided them to her head. The metal chilled her skin as she pressed the dull edge against her neck for leverage, and for a moment her heart lurched at the magnitude of what she was about to do, but an instant later she scolded herself, It's not that important!, and cut.
It took three chops to get it all and the job was surely crude, all uneven lobs of hair hanging about her face. But fashion was hardly the objective of her impulsiveness, and, as she marched over to the toilet to drop her handful of ragged, tangled locks which had seen so much she wanted to forget, it felt like exoneration rather than indignity.
The bathroom air felt so much warmer now; it slickened Hermione's skin beneath her clothes. Prying herself from her jumper, she let it fall in quiet heap on the mat, her trousers and underwear following. No longer long enough to be braced by her shoulders, Hermione's hair fell forwards into her face as she leaned over and she shook her head experimentally to try and clear it from her eyes.
A strange new gesture, yet the lightness of her scalp made it feel like adventure.
She held her breath as she moved the shower curtain enough to admit herself—she didn't want to make too much noise and cause any alarm, and she couldn't quite shake the niggling doubt that this was incorrect somehow. But more than anything she knew she did not belong out where the men mourned, yet the desperate need to not be alone had singularly overruled every other thought in her head.
Narcissa's gasp echoed softly off the wet tile, though whether it was caused more so by Hermione's presence or the fact that her hair, once reaching mid-back, now barely graced her shoulders, could not be said for certain. Hermione didn't say anything, only stepped beneath the scalding water and let it soak through her skin, her hair, waking every square centimetre with heat that bordered on painful. She could see Narcissa, usually so pale to the point of looking almost ill, now flushed pink from the temperature. Her hair, too, was a few shades darker, more gold than platinum as it hung slickly down her back.
Hermione didn't stare, not really. She hadn't come to be a voyeur and did nothing to hide any part of herself as the water beat against her back.
Objectively, Narcissa was quite beautiful, of course. Her proportions were lovely, all pleasantly relative to each other in just the right amounts. That part was rather boring, Hermione thought. Predictable. Her eyes instead lingered just a little bit on the way her left breast hung slightly lower than the right, their sides brushed with little bands of discolouration. The softness of her stomach, too, was decorated with faint, twisting ribbons which told of fruitful pregnancy.
Hermione's hair dripped into her eyes and she blinked it away. When she refocused again, she saw Narcissa looking at her oddly, as though she were a curious and unknown creature requiring careful treatment. She shook her head.
"Here," she breathed, and her hands come up to tug Hermione out of the spray by her wrist. Narcissa turned a moment; when she faced Hermione again, her hand cradled a palmful of shampoo. Hermione could think of no objection as she stood there and let Narcissa's hands come up to her head, press the syrupy soap into her hair and scrunch it until it lathered into a tickling foam. Her fingers were gentle yet pressured against her scalp, coaxing the bubbles evenly through the strands. Shorter now, her hair required half as much product as usual, and Hermione could feel the excess dropping onto her shoulders. She wondered if she looked ridiculous with a soapy meringue on her head. She didn't really care.
Momentary touches to her shoulders guided her back under the heavy water and she surrendered to it readily, tipping her head back to let the foam wash away from her eyebrows. She felt her hair grow lighter as the heavy bubbles fell down her back, diluted by water and washed away along her legs. Hermione swayed, lost in the darkness behind her eyelids, felt her centre of gravity wander until it landed somewhere in front of her and she followed it, leaning, until hot skin slid against her own.
Narcissa's arms came up around her and Hermione's own filled in the space around her waist, finding her long, dripping hair just grazing her fingertips. All the heat seemed to amplify between them, suffocating and thrashing against their need for closeness, yet Hermione only held Narcissa closer and felt the other woman do the same.
It felt like an impossible intimacy, surely, to be embracing skin against skin, slickened by steam, yet it felt the most obvious thing in the world. As Hermione pressed her face against Narcissa's neck, she wasn't sure whether she was offering comfort or taking it, but knew for certain that it was essential for both their survival that she stay here, like this, for as long as she could.
She never opened her eyes, only breathed in the humid heat and felt Narcissa's softness and rigid angles slide against her front. On her back, Narcissa's fingers traced absent patterns, raising gooseflesh against the hot water.
Her thoughts dwindled until every bit of her contained only the smell of Narcissa's skin in the warmth.
With time, her skin grew papery and the water turned lukewarm. Without words they separated, slick skin sliding and leaving behind blotches of muted red. As Hermione dried herself beside Narcissa, she almost marvelled at the miraculous quietude soaking through her bones, keeping her safe from the crisis mounting on the other side of the wall. Narcissa's languid movements of the towel matched her own, and she wondered how they had managed to build such a perfect tranquillity for just themselves.
Hermione's clothes stuck to her damp skin as she pulled them back on, her movements slow and even. Her shorter hair dripped onto her shoulders and clung to her neck, activating new and curious sensations below the base of her skull. And how easy it was now to pull on her top without having to swing her hair out of the way.
She tugged at the hem of her shirt, setting it correctly along the top of her trousers, and Narcissa's gaze slid into contact with hers.
So blue, was all Hermione could think.
Nothing was said, yet Hermione could sense that thread of serenity between them, holding them close even though they were now dressed and dry, touchless. If she reached out, Hermione thought maybe she would feel that ribbon of emotion tying them together, a sturdy cable of peace which would keep them close even as the madness outside strove to tear them apart.
They put the towels back on the hooks and stood by the door. Soft buzzes of noise promised conversation still ongoing and mounting in anxiety.
Narcissa gave her a nod.
Hermione exited first.