A/N: No, you're not hallucinating. :)
Crookshanks sat atop a mountain of clothes piled high on her bed. Hermione saw him eyeing her curiously as she contemplated yet another outfit in the mirror. She knew she seemed ridiculous, and she knew Crookshanks thought so too. It couldn't be helped. She'd been going through her closet for the past hour like some absurd version of musical chairs.
"Here's the problem, Crooks," she said while pulling another light jumper off and replacing it with the tee she'd had on about two outfits ago. "I'm going to her house for the first time, so I should look nice, right? But we're going to be working in the garden, so I should also wear something that can get dirty. There is literally no possible way to make this work."
Crookshanks merely stared at her for a few more moments and descended from his perch on the pile of clothes. Hermione huffed in frustration, then sank to the floor and began shucking off the slacks she currently wore. She looked over at the clock on her side table. Ten minutes 'til two. A string of curses flew from her mouth.
In her fury, she hadn't noticed Crookshanks moving around her room and arranging something near her. Then, she suddenly felt him nibble at her fingers and looked in his direction.
A small pile of three or four garments lay next to her, pulled there by Crookshanks. Her brow furrowed, then she started looking at what he'd put together. A pair of dark jeans, not loose and ripped like the ones she'd been trying on, but one of her nicer albeit still comfortable pairs. A crimson red cami with some lace bordering the top, and a cream-colored, v-neck jumper that allowed some of the red lace to peek through from beneath. She'd tried on all these pieces, but never together.
She jumped up, put them on in feverish haste, and checked herself in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. It looked a bit like the outfit she'd been wearing when Narcissa had first dropped by the shop to see if she needed a tea break. While Narcissa's response seemed mixed, Hermione knew that this look would be the best option for working and whatever else people did in aristocratic mansions.
After pulling on a pair of brown ankle boots and charming her pile of clothing back into the closet, she checked her clock again, and there were just five more minutes left. She ran to the bathroom, groaned at her hair, swiped some color onto her lips, and spritzed herself with perfume. With that done, she grabbed her belongings and walked over to her fireplace, taking a few deep breaths before entering.
Crookshanks stared at her from his seat on the couch, ready to reign supreme for the day no doubt. Hermione caught his eye.
"Thanks, Crooks," she said while grabbing a handful of Floo powder. "You're a lifesaver."
She heaved another deep breath, then said, "Black Hall!" And threw the powder down.
With great speed, Hermione was thrust into the Floo Network. The usual array of fireplaces zoomed past, and with each seeming exit, Hermione's heart stuttered. She expected the next one to be Narcissa's fireplace, but the kaleidoscope continued.
Finally, she was spewed out into a small antechamber with nothing in it besides the fireplace, a simple chair and table set, and a coat rack in the corner. On the table sat a wire basket with clean rags, a clothing brush, and even some shoe shine. The floor was made of black ceramic tile, and the dark walls were covered in mirrors of various sizes.
Hermione took a glance at herself in one and began brushing off the soot that clung to her during travel. As she did, a large clock in the room struck the hour, and just as the final chime receded into silence, a house elf apparated next to her.
She should've expected a house elf at Narcissa's home, but his appearance and his existence there in front of her still startled her. No matter how many times she'd seen and spoken to them, their homely, downtrodden look still set her on edge. If his twisted grimace and furrowed brow were anything to go by, however, the elf was none too pleased with Hermione's presence either.
"Hello, my name is Hermione Granger," she said and extended her hand down towards the elf.
Rather than take her hand, he made a disgusted noise somewhere between a growl and a gag.
"Whishee knows who you are," he muttered low, immediately reminding Hermione of Kreacher's dull tones. "My mistress bids me direct you to her. Miss Cissy awaits your arrival on the terrace."
Hermione wondered at the juxtaposition of this elf calling Narcissa his mistress in one sentence, then Miss Cissy in the next. It placed his understanding of her between reverence and dotage, which Hermione kept in mind to help soothe her immediate misgivings about Narcissa still keeping a house elf.
He led her out of the antechamber meant for those Flooing into the home, and they emerged in an entrance hall the likes of which Hermione had only seen in Muggle period films. She gasped as she craned her neck around the massive space. The floor was made of seamless black stone, while the walls were mostly bare except for three family portraits and a few sconces dotted here and there, unlit now in the afternoon. It was austere, to say the least. Daylight flooded into the foyer thanks to large windows surrounding the traditional front entrance. The front door itself was made of a mixture of glass and ironwork.
The portraits spanned across centuries, and like the photograph she'd seen in the book on purebloods, each portrait was eerily still — an anomaly that seemed even more out of place coming from a family that flaunted its magical lineage and prowess in every other respect. Apparently, decorum always wins the day.
Yet, as Hermione moved through the entrance hall, she noticed how the eyes still moved, not as Muggle portraits uncannily do, but quite literally. Her skin itched under their gaze, and she fidgeted towards the scar on her arm, covered by her jumper.
The earliest portrait, at least judging by the ruffs surrounding the sitters' necks, seemed to come from the mid-sixteenth century and displayed a large family of mostly men with one woman at its center. It hung over the stairway that wound itself against the stone wall and up to the first floor. Over a mantelpiece on the opposite wall hung another portrait, this one dating from the Victorian era and featuring a serious couple, both exceedingly beautiful with inky black hair and faces seemingly carved from stone. Rather than the supercilious looks Hermione had grown used to after looking through many pureblood family portraits, this couple both possessed a paradoxical look of kindness mixed with cunning. They reminded her of Sirius actually, or at least the Sirius she'd seen in photographs. Then, as she followed Whishee through the entrance hall, another portrait commanded her attention and would draw the eye of any visitor coming in from the Floo or the front door.
It featured the most recent generation of Blacks and was the mammoth, original version of the photograph Hermione had first seen in that Sacred Twenty-Eight book she'd checked out from the library. In book-size, the portrait was impressive, but here, taking up the space of one large wall from corner to corner, Hermione could only stop in her tracks and look. It took her breath away, and she felt dwarfed by the size and the combined power of tradition that this entrance hall displayed. From one century to the next, this family demanded and gained the respect of their community until the years immediately after this last portrait was taken. Now, here she was — a Muggleborn girl standing in the middle of their Hall and on her way to meet the last living member of an old lineage.
"Miss Cissy put this back when she returned," Whishee spoke beneath her, startling Hermione from her contemplation. "It was taken away after the blood traitor Miss Andy left, but Miss Cissy had Whishee place it back where it first hung. I did not like it, but now Whishee is glad to see his old master again and to serve Miss Cissy again."
Hermione noticed Whishee continuing his shuffling through the hall and into another chamber. She hustled to catch up with him, and they entered a sumptuous drawing room, complete with multiple couches, chaises, and small tables. The atmosphere here was lighter, both in color and decor. From the dark marble of the foyer, guests continued on to this light golden room, and through the windows, Hermione began to glimpse the immense lawn surrounding the home.
French windows ran along the far wall, and Whishee led her through the central pair. From the parquet hardwood of the drawing room, Hermione's boots crunched on the gravel path that led around the border of the building. She looked up at the tall walls above her, noted the grey stonework, and judged that the house must be some relic from the Elizabethan period or perhaps even further back. Hermione suspected these stones were first laid when even Muggles still believed in alchemy and when pirates ruled the seas.
With her eyes directed to the walls rather than in front of her, Hermione tripped when the ground shifted from gravel to old brick. Jolted back to ground level, she noted the greenhouse off in the near distance. It was as large as any in Hogwarts. Then, her gaze reverted back to the brick terrace and to a long iron table where the mistress of this mansion sat.
Her yelp and stomp as she tripped no doubt alerted Narcissa to her presence, for the witch had her back to her, yet still stood for her arrival.
She wore her witch's robes, Hermione observed. Of course, she would; it's her house. Yet, having grown accustomed to seeing her in Muggle clothes, the change jolted Hermione's senses and distanced this woman from her just as much as that entrance hall had.
During the past few weeks since their first dinner date, Hermione had done her best to, as Ginny advised, not see Narcissa as some unattainable, almost frightening person, but rather as a human being who she could share her misgivings with, grow close to, and even flirt with. She thought she'd been doing a grand job of it so far, and Narcissa's growing interest in spending more and more time with her only confirmed her thoughts.
Somehow, while following her house elf from the Floo, through only part of her home, and outside to her in her robes, Hermione's slowly accumulated confidence began to crumble. In her large mansion and her expensive robes, Narcissa Black radiated all her true glory. In slacks and a blouse for a Muggle dinner, Narcissa made Hermione feel confident and comfortable. Now, she felt off-balance in more ways than one.
Narcissa seemed not to notice the minor crisis Hermione was undergoing and moved forward.
"Welcome to my home, Hermione," she warmly greeted and pressed her cheek to hers. Rather than move away again as was their custom after saying hello, Narcissa remained near her, tipping her chin down to gaze upon her and resting her hand lightly on her forearm. "I hope taking the Floo wasn't too troublesome. When we last spoke, I hadn't thought to ask whether your flat was connected to the network."
"It is," Hermione replied, still gathering her nerve that had only further weakened at Narcissa's proximity.
She could make out the pattern in Narcissa's robes: an intricate paisley design of burnished blues and oranges and greens that seemed to flow into one another. When Hermione gazed a moment longer, she realized they didn't just seem to flow, but the design really did move and each paisley swirled around another in a slow current. Was this woman dressed for gardening or for a garden party?
"What a lovely fragrance you're wearing."
Hermione snapped her eyes upward and faltered at how close Narcissa was. She could see those brown flecks in her blue irises. In them, she also noticed a slightly questioning look.
"Oh! Thank you," Hermione stammered out. "It's um…just…one I have."
Narcissa smiled softly, then guided Hermione towards the table with a hand resting softly on her back. A few more pleasantries were exchanged, but Hermione hardly heard them and trusted her good manners to supply the usual responses out of habit. Was Narcissa using wandless magic, or did it just feel as if her hand was burning through the jumper?
"I thought perhaps we could discuss my plans so far," Narcissa finally said as they both sat together at the table made of bent and curved black iron, and Hermione tried to follow. "I've been reading a number of herbology books, and I also included a few of the suggestions from the book you let me steal from you."
Narcissa granted her a devilish smile, and Hermione reciprocated with something she felt just barely passed the definition of a grimace. She moved toward the books splayed across the table and tried to find refuge in them, as usual. From her seat quite near her, Narcissa turned slightly and addressed the house elf still standing nearby.
"You may go now, Whishee," she said. "In about an hour, bring out the tea things." Then, directing her words toward Hermione, "That should be an acceptable time, I believe?"
Hermione nodded quickly, still trying to will her body into being present and confident near her witch. This witch. Merlin's balls, meeting alone came too soon.
But you've been going out with her for over two months now, screamed back another voice in her head, which sounded uncannily like Ginny Weasley.
Going out with her? Classic delusion, Granger.
The pop of Whishee's disapparition kicked Hermione back into the present. She shook her head, a habit that had only grown more pronounced during the aforementioned two months. Her warring thoughts kept dragging her subconscious, and she felt only physical shaking could rid her of the constant inner battle.
She felt Narcissa looking at her rather than the books she perused. Their shared silence was deafening, and Hermione suddenly felt as if she were back on that Muggle park bench during their first meeting to discuss To the Lighthouse. She couldn't and wouldn't have that happen. She'd worked too damn hard to get to where she was with Narcissa today. Before she could open her mouth to start a conversation, however, Narcissa beat her to the punch.
"I know you dislike house elves," she said, somewhat stiffly. "But Whishee is as much a part of this home as those stones are and as I am."
"Oh no," Hermione quickly responded, noting the hardened look that had replaced Narcissa's previously sportive demeanor. "I don't have a problem with him at all!"
"So you have a problem with me having him as a servant?"
"No! Well, I mean––Yes. But I get the whole…," she gestured wildly with her hands towards Narcissa, then the house, "...thing."
Narcissa squinted her eyes, and her head moved forward, silently asking Hermione what she meant.
"I just––What you do in your home is your business. Whishee doesn't look like he's being abused or anything."
"Of course, he isn't!" Narcissa gasped, obviously affronted. "What would make you think he's being abused?"
"Nothing!" Hermione was sinking fast in quicksand and didn't know how in the hell to get out. "I used to think all house elves were abused just by the fact that they're house elves! Now, I know that's not necessarily true."
"And what brought on that realization?" Narcissa asked, her voice expressed something between condescension and genuine interest.
You did, Hermione wanted to say, when your kindness to Kreacher made your plans for Voldemort successful. She knew she couldn't say that though because then she'd only make this situation even tenser. Yet, another part of her — the one that sounded a lot like Ginny — told her that she needed to start confronting those issues.
"I guess just being around Kreacher a lot," Hermione began, testing the waters. "Harry's officially his 'master' now that he owns Grimmauld Place. I think if you have a good master, then it's not too bad."
Narcissa raised an eyebrow, then seemed to gaze deeply into her eyes. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if this witch was as good of a legilimiens as she was an occlumens, as evidenced by her lie to Voldemort. She quickly looked back at the gardening books spread across the table, but still managed to peek at Narcissa from the corner of her eyes. The blonde witch's gaze rested heavily on her, as if she were trying to remember a word that had escaped her, but couldn't quite manage it. When she finally spoke again, Hermione was surprised by the question's mundanity.
"So you've turned in your pro-elf placards and pamphlets?"
Hermione chuckled in spite of her simmering anxiety.
"For the most part, yes," she responded, while daring to catch Narcissa's gaze straight-on this time. "I still have problems with seeing living beings turned into veritable slaves, but I've realized there's not much I could do to change it — at least with elves!" Narcissa's heavy look still weighed upon her skin. "That reminds me. I always wondered how you knew about S.P.E.W. Did Draco find out about it?"
"No, not Draco," Narcissa responded, lounging back against her chair and tapping her fingers against the iron of Hermione's armrest. "Around that time, I kept noticing the elves I sent to Hogwarts returning back home in some state of distress."
"Why were you sending elves to Hogwarts?"
"To make sure Draco was being properly taken care of," she said, as if the answer were obvious.
"But no one can apparate in or out of Hogwarts."
"No witch or wizard, but house elves are usually exempt from such rules."
"Merlin," Hermione mumbled half to herself, "I wish my mother would've found her own secretive ways to send me sweets."
When Hermione looked up again from the books, her smile at her own joke faltered. Narcissa seemed momentarily shaken; a slackened jaw and a wince were the only signs that some part of Hermione's words struck a nerve. Trying to save herself from she knew not what, Hermione quickly continued.
"So they told you about S.P.E.W.?"
"Told me would be putting it mildly," she replied, after a cough and a small rub to her temple. "I believe threw tantrums about it would be more accurate. I can't tell you how many conniptions I had to placate thanks to an elf accidentally touching a mitten or a scarf or whatever else you'd trick them into handling."
"I wasn't tricking them," Hermione defended herself. "More like…strategically guiding them towards freedom."
"Sounds an awful lot like manipulation, Hermione." A supercilious grin stretched across Narcissa's cheeks, which shed a part of their former weight from a moment ago. "I didn't know you had this side to your character. If it weren't in order to free house elves, I'd admit to being impressed."
With those words, Narcissa's gaze roamed across her face, seeming to take each feature into account and settling on her eyes with a soft albeit penetrating glance. Hermione suddenly felt as if a massive stone were crushing her chest. Narcissa had never looked at her like this before.
Or her nerves could be getting the better of her. Thrown off balance thanks to the house and the clothes and the elf and all the other accoutrements that signaled Narcissa's status, Hermione's ability to gauge her words and their intentions were lost. Indeed, she hadn't felt this way since their early book meetings.
"Yeah, well," Hermione began, while clearing her throat. "I learned a lot from S.P.E.W. that I hope to implement in my plans to help other magical creatures."
"And how are those plans coming along?" Narcissa asked. She moved from lounging in her chair to leaning towards Hermione.
"Very well, thank you," she murmured, trying not to stare as the heavy fabric of Narcissa's robes fell away from her chest slightly. Hermione noted the straight collarbone and the pallor glowing beneath the swirling fabric. "I've included your recommendations, and the changes you suggested have been very helpful. I feel like I'm finally moving towards something feasible."
"I'm glad I could help you, Hermione," she said in her usual low tones and looked with doubtful eyes at Hermione. "If you ever require my services again in the future, you'll let me know, I hope."
"Of course," Hermione replied and squeezed Narcissa's hand, the one that had ever so subtly been intruding on her chair's ironwork throughout their dialogue. "You're my werewolf, remember? It's always good to have an inside man."
With that, Hermione winked, although it felt more like a muscle spasm. She was trying to get over whatever anxieties had overcome her since her trip through the Floo, and the sudden dash of Gryffindor bravery seemed to do the trick. Narcissa's lips parted in one of those smiles Hermione first noticed when they sat on a park bench, reading Oscar Wilde's dialogue aloud. The weight in Narcissa's eyes was completely gone now, and Hermione felt a light squeeze against her fingertips. She finally let go of the breath she'd been holding.
"You still haven't divulged whatever joke you had in mind from that night."
"Nor will I."
"Never?"
Narcissa grinned at her, and Hermione's throat instantly constricted. She felt her heart stutter, then hammer back loudly. Some sense of befuddlement must have registered on her face because Narcissa's eyes sparkled with mirth.
"Perhaps we should get back to the plans," Narcissa commented, then rose from her chair and surveyed the books strewn across the table, waiting for Hermione to join her.
Hermione, for her part, sat rooted in her chair for a beat. Each time she seemed to close in on this shift in Narcissa's behavior, the woman slithered through her grasp (quite literally now). Like a wave coming in, Hermione stood braced to skim across these new waters, but then the wave receded against the sand and into the ocean again. With each missed opportunity, Hermione grew more mystified and also more frustrated.
All the back and forth, push and pull, of the last few weeks seemed to finally be reaching a head. Before arriving today, Hermione thought she was the only one who felt it: the leap moment. They'd reached a point where something had to happen, some blind act of faith or intention that distinguished a mouse turned into a glistening golden goblet from a furry cup with a rat's tail. She just didn't know the charm yet.
She finally joined Narcissa, standing over the table, right as Narcissa pulled her wand from her sleeve and waved it over the drawn plans. As if the parchment were soil, the plans sprouted into life, sporting small leaves and branches. Rather than a two-dimensional sketch, they could now work with a scale-sized model.
Hermione tried to keep her awe to herself, but she could feel Narcissa's eyes peeking through their lashes to see her reaction. Hermione chuckled.
"Impressive, Narcissa."
"Yes, I know," she replied. "Let's just say the Herbology teacher in my time was somewhat more refined than that dirty woman who taught you all."
Hermione's jaw slackened.
"Professor Sprout?" She gasped. "What did you have against her?"
"I did not raise my boy to fool around in the dirt with his hands like some pauper."
"Well, she was the one who taught me," Hermione said. "So I intend to get very dirty today, thank you very much." She clapped her hands together — startling Narcissa, if her slight jump was anything to go by — and hummed in excitement. "Where do we begin?"
They began with studying the plans, noting which plants needed clearing and which would replace them. Hermione listened as Narcissa discussed the Devil's Snare, Venomous Tentacula, Spiky Bushes, and Prickly Plants that currently occupied the space. All the potentially lethal ones, Hermione thought. On her three-dimensional plans, Narcissa pointed out how she planned to remove and replace them.
"We could scatter some Puffapods about," Narcissa explained, "just to get the process started. Then, Screechsnap over here for some liveliness. I know the plants we had before were dangerous, but there's no sense in ridding the garden of everything sentient."
"Enter the Snargaluffs."
"Yes, precisely," Narcissa responded. "Just in a few corners. And finally some umbrella flowers for color."
Hermione recognized the names from her years in Professor Sprout's class, but then she noticed sections of flowers throughout the garden plans that didn't yet have names. She voiced her first suspicion.
"Earlier, you mentioned the book I gave you about Muggle gardens."
"Yes, I looked through it. I added some of the walks as a result." Narcissa stood and pointed to these walks on the model. "And also a few other features here and there." At this, Narcissa blushed slightly, which hinted at some hidden potential that Hermione was powerless to resist.
Hermione swiveled her hip against the table and rested her left palm against the model. In doing so, she sidled quite close to Narcissa, whose body was now cornered against the table and Hermione's outstretched arm. When Hermione spoke, Narcissa felt the girl's breath against her shoulder.
"Yes, those are nice," Hermione murmured and sneaked a sidelong glance at Narcissa, noting the flexing of her jaw beneath the tight, pale skin. "I wonder if…"
Her heart pounding, Hermione placed her right hand softly on Narcissa's lower back and reached with her other hand towards the far side of the table, picking up the book she'd given Narcissa. In the process, Narcissa flinched backward, further into Hermione's right hand, and Hermione could barely keep her lips from grinning. She was on to something.
"Excuse me," she whispered, once she set the book in front of them. "I just think this book," she flipped the pages, "which you shamelessly stole from my shop, by the way," smirking sideways to Narcissa, she ended, "might have some plans from Sissinghurst Castle."
"Yes," Narcissa rasped, her voice hoarser than usual. "It's here." She turned to the page instantly, as if she'd spent much time on this garden in particular. "You gave the book to me, Hermione."
She hummed softly in response.
"You like this one?" Hermione asked, smiling at Narcissa and thus finally looking at her straight on. Gods, she wanted to remember this.
From the slight, rosy tinge on Narcissa's cheeks after their werewolf moment, her cheekbones seemed dashed with rouge now. Hermione almost felt sorry for her. Perhaps she'd slammed on the gas when Narcissa was merely testing her, but Hermione could barely regret it now. She'd thawed out the Ice Queen further than she'd ever had before.
"Yes," Narcissa responded. "I was struck by the 'rooms' she created in the garden. With the walls and such. I thought I'd emulate a few of them here."
"She?" Hermione asked, feigning ignorance.
"Y-yes," Narcissa repeated, keeping her eyes firmly trained on the book and its pictures of Sissinghurst. "Vita Sackville-West. It's quite coincidental that you bring this castle up. You remember Virginia Woolf? From To the Lighthouse?"
Hermione smirked.
"I remember Virginia Woolf."
"You see, she had a female—well a sort of—how would you put it—a—"
"Lover?" The smirk widened.
"Yes, precisely. For all intents and purposes. Essentially. So this—"
"Lover."
"Created gardens," Narcissa continued, while clearing her throat. Hermione noticed how that blush from before had deepened. "I was impressed by her use of color and different architectural features. For instance, look at this." She flipped a couple of pages, then pointed out a garden bench that seemed to be carved from green shrubbery. "Imagine how our powers could enhance this."
"Certainly," Hermione agreed, while hiding a shiver at the words "our powers." "I'll admit to a satisfaction I get from doing things the Muggle way, but it's also nice when you can create a topiary like this with just a flick of a wand."
"Indeed, and we'd be mixing a Muggle invention with—"
"Our own spin," she finished, smiling and half-disbelieving the kind of conversation she was having with this woman. The ideas seemed a better fit for Arthur Weasley, and yet Narcissa kept pleasantly surprising her.
"Then when we focus on the floral elements," Narcissa began, pulling her plans back over the top of the pile, "I thought I'd also borrow her groupings according to color."
"Which colors did you have in mind?"
At this question, Narcissa hummed to herself and, somewhat involuntarily, leant back into Hermione during her contemplation. With this proximity, Hermione now sensed Narcissa's perfume. She almost concocted her own smooth line, just as Narcissa had when she arrived, but she decided to just relish the moment and stop thinking and planning too much. So instead, she finally noticed how Narcissa tapped her finger softly against the parchment plans every few moments and, with each tap, the garden model flicked between color palettes.
"Which do you think?" Narcissa breathed the words in Hermione's direction. Hermione gazed at her for a moment, enjoying the soft stillness, then watched again as Narcissa cycled through the colors.
"Shouldn't you decide according to the flowers' properties — how it will enhance the garden from more than an aesthetic standpoint?"
Narcissa pursed her lips and looked directly at Hermione with a disappointed expression, one eyebrow flexed upward. I've killed the moment, haven't I? Hermione inwardly chided herself, but Narcissa said the words for her.
"Aesthetics are never a secondary concern, Hermione. They are my primary ones, in fact. This garden was so ugly before. Truly hideous and unworthy of the home attached to it." Narcissa stopped and gazed at that home for a moment, her eyes landing with admiration upon the stones that had been steadily intimidating Hermione from afar. "I want this garden to exude beauty in every form and from every standpoint, including a Muggle one. What do you think of…," she tapped her finger against the parchment a couple more times, "…this?"
Hermione watched as small white blooms grew from the parchment, then amidst the white, to break it up, bursts of darkly shaded purples.
"The white to give it a sense of winter turning to spring," Hermione commented, her eyes roaming across the miniature groupings of hellebore, bloodroot, and the dashes of daffodils. A bit of Romanticism, she thought.
"And the hyacinths, pansies, and blue stars for more colors to blend with the umbrella flowers. I thought the richer colors would thwart the usual pretty, pastel spring palette."
"Yes, it does. Although I'm wondering: Why none of your namesake?"
Hermione smiled over at her and watched that blush return, the one that had receded as they discussed color variations.
"No," she sighed. "That would be—"
"Narcissistic?"
"Haha," came the dry response.
"You should include some. It is a good spring flower."
Narcissa seemed to ponder it for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth between the parchment and Hermione's amused face.
"It is, isn't it?"
Her mischievous, self-assured grin delighted Hermione. She'd seen versions of that expression before, but always tamed, and it thrilled Hermione that this woman was finally feeling comfortable enough to even be a bit Slytherin. But not the whole way, the voice that sounded like Ginny infiltrated again, reminding her of that other side to Narcissa that they kept skirting.
Before she lost herself to brooding, however, Narcissa finally intimated that perhaps they could begin working.
Narcissa wanted to start organizing the new plants, while Hermione thought it best to clear away the old, which would give them a better sense of the actual space they must tend. Hermione knew Narcissa wished to push the "dirty" part of the project back as much as possible, which is why she insisted. After a few seconds of lip-biting and brow-scratching, both of which Hermione observed in ill-disguised fascination, Narcissa agreed to Hermione's plan with a nod and a firm hand on her shoulder.
With that, they set to work. The stark differences in the manner of their work, however, made Hermione smirk to herself when she actually looked around to find Narcissa, who remained in her swirling robes and did most of the clearing with her wand, although the Severing Charms and Fire-Making Spells belied the placidity of her movements. She walked down the rows, and the old weeds followed behind her until a final evanesco ended their existence. Hermione, on the other hand, lived up to Narcissa's earlier words, using her "hands like some pauper." She dug, pulled, and tugged her way through the rows, except for the moments when, like Narcissa, she knew only magic would do. Granted, there were more dirt piles and ripped roots in her wake, but she was having fun.
That was one advantage Muggle activities often had over the magical. Working with one's hands, sweating, and sensing the burn of muscles made Hermione feel alive in a different way than her magic did. She thought of her father pulling a tooth when she finally managed to pry a deeply-rooted undergrowth of weeds and dead tentacles. The sweat gathered on her brow, and as her body worked, she watched the other woman and sometimes let her mind wander towards the differences between them. Earlier, those differences had momentarily stunned her, giving her a late start to the odd flirtations that had become a staple of their most recent meetings. Now, as she inhabited her body more than her mind, she felt optimistic about what possibilities the afternoon still held. Thankfully, the work kept her from getting carried away.
A stark pop amidst the stillness alerted them to Whishee's reappearance sometime later with the tea things. Hermione caught Narcissa's eye across the garden. She watched as Narcissa twirled her wand through her fingers and let it disappear into her sleeve again. With the last flourish of her fingers, she beckoned Hermione back to the table. Hermione could picture Ginny rolling her eyes at the elaborateness of it all.
When they reached the table, they both pulled off their gloves, although Hermione smirked to herself at the thought that Narcissa barely had a need for gloves. Narcissa sat again, but Hermione remained standing, her hip leaning against the table's edge. She knew it went against proper protocol, which is perhaps why she did it. In her time alone, rummaging through the garden, she lost the final remnants of fear and unworthiness that had crept into her nerves before. Narcissa didn't seem to mind either way and lounged in the chair again in that languorous way of hers, absentmindedly twisting her rings around her fingers.
Conjured to prepare the tea itself, Narcissa's set, which seemed as old as the house itself, clinked and tinkled softly. The small sounds sifted into the stillness of the afternoon, and for a moment, Hermione could almost hear the waves upon the shore somewhere beyond the hills behind her.
"How far is the sea from here?" She wondered aloud.
"Not far," Narcissa answered, while adding two cubes of sugar to her tea. "About half an hour's stroll, but much quicker on a broom."
Hermione nodded and added her customary dash of milk and single sugar.
"And which do you usually take? Broom or stroll?"
Narcissa hummed around her cup, as she moved it towards her lips.
"Depends on the day," Narcissa said, "and my mood. I've been flying quite frequently as of late."
"Really?" Hermione reacted.
"Does that surprise you?"
"Yes, actually. I suppose I never took you for the broom-flying type."
Narcissa then looked at her as if she were an idiot.
"I'm a witch, Hermione."
"I know that," she laughed. "I guess I'm biased. Against flying, I mean. I'm not very good at it. Or I guess, I don't enjoy it."
"You probably haven't been properly trained," Narcissa replied, almost authoritatively. "No doubt you think flying must look like the acrobatic stunts your friend pulls on the Quidditch pitch." Whatever look Hermione gave must've told Narcissa she was correct. "I thought so. While a diverting sport, Quidditch has done much to rid flying of its original elegance, replacing it with athleticism instead. Yet, there's something quite primal to flying. Only a witch's connection to her wand outdoes it, I believe." She took another sip of her tea, seemingly lost in her own musings. "Perhaps we might fly to the sea together one day."
She was looking out into the distance as she said it, then looked up at Hermione when she finished, shielding her eyes from the setting afternoon sun — or perhaps shielding Hermione's eyes from the blush on her face. Narcissa's whole being radiated ease and comfort, but again Hermione noticed something extra that was put on specifically for her that day.
"I'd like that," she said, then took another sip of tea and decided to go out on a limb. "So I guess you weren't lead chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team?"
"Beater, actually."
Hermione nearly choked on her tea and still coughed slightly. Narcissa watched her in barely disguised humor
"You're serious?" Hermione gasped, once her coughing subsided.
"Where do you think Draco learned all his moves?" Narcissa's eyebrow arched.
"Well, to be honest—"
"You thought Lucius," Narcissa interrupted, waving her off. "But it's no great secret that he went out for tryouts every year we were eligible. He never even made it onto the bench."
Hermione laughed, enjoying the joke at the elder Malfoy's expense and Narcissa's derisive take on him even during their Hogwarts years. But Hermione didn't want the conversation to be about him. She'd finally cracked the surface of Narcissa's usual personal reserve and was determined to see what else she could pull from the past. Not to mention the thought of Narcissa in Quidditch gear was an image she never knew she absolutely needed.
"Narcissa Black, the Slytherin beater," Hermione nodded. "Any other extracurricular activities I should know about?"
"Such as...?"
Fair enough, Hermione thought. You want me to go fish. She put her cup down and rubbed at her chin in mock contemplation.
"Slug Club?" An innocuous first question.
"Yes," she groaned, "but I was forced. He had an obsession with gathering the set of Blacks. When Andromeda hinted that he may take it out on my grades if I refused to attend his tacky parties, I made brief appearances. I was never a regular attendee, Merlin forbid."
"I can imagine," Hermione replied. "He was practically ravenous for Harry when he taught us. Did you enjoy Potions, though?"
"Somewhat," Narcissa mused. "It wasn't my favorite subject, by any means."
"What was?"
Narcissa smiled at the question. Hermione couldn't help but smile back; this witch's mood today was infectious, for better or worse.
"Transfiguration," Narcissa finally replied. Hermione's brow furrowed instantly, not because of her answer, but rather because she wondered what had caused that secretive smile beforehand. Then, it dawned on her.
"McGonagall was already—"
"She was," Narcissa finished, then took a sip of her tea. "My year was her first as professor, and she rather liked me against her will, I think. By the time I left, I was an obvious favorite, even over her cherished Gryffindors in my NEWT-level class."
"I'm sorry, Narcissa," Hermione laughed, "but I find that hard to believe."
"Believe it or not; it's the truth." Narcissa grinned, but there was something strained behind it. She placed her empty cup on the table, then sat back in her chair again, her posture slightly more rigid than before. The wave was receding back again just as quickly as it had come in. Hermione decided to move forward fast.
"Okay, next one: Head Girl?"
"No," she whined, almost. "He gave it to some Hufflepuff girl my year. I can't even remember her name. I was Prefect though."
"Prefect is good. Did you ever abuse the privileges?"
"Nothing beyond the usual: I took more points from a Gryffindor than a Slytherin for infractions. But you'll have to speak to my sister for the abuse of privilege."
Narcissa said this in a half-absent tone, so when Hermione replied in silence, she looked up and quickly added: "Andromeda."
Hermione took a biscuit from the tray that had replaced the used cups on the table. Narcissa still watched her, slightly more pale than before, but seemingly committed to continuing the conversation.
"I will," Hermione said, while chewing on a biscuit and also trying to pass over that crack that had emerged. "And did you all have a Dueling Club?"
"No," Narcissa replied, almost instantly. "Well...not by the time I could have joined."
Whereas before Narcissa seemed capable of still catching Hermione's eye, she kept her gaze downward now, tracing her fingers along the edges of one round biscuit before snapping it in half.
If I were an adept legilimiens, Hermione thought, I'm sure I'd hear an echo of what you'd said just before. Only this time, it would be Bellatrix who had abused that privilege.
It was a quiet moment, both women fidgeting with their snacks. Yet, Hermione's mind teemed with the whistles, screeches, and shouts of an impending car crash. The momentum of the conversation seemed destined to reach this point now. How could they discuss Narcissa's past without mentioning her eldest sister?
Perhaps, rather than a crash, Hermione should view this as an opportunity. Finally, an organic way to discuss that woman in private and in the comfort of Narcissa's home.
"Well, dueling club didn't go too well for us either," Hermione remarked. "I'm sure you know the story though."
"From Draco's point of view, yes," Narcissa responded, surprising both Hermione and apparently herself. Both women seemed to notice that Narcissa called Draco's account a perspective rather than the truth. Hermione would've thought this enough candor for the moment, but Narcissa surprised her again when she continued. "But conjuring a snake is quite tame compared to what my sister did." She spun the broken biscuit with the tips of her fingers, her gaze transfixed and the lines of her throat strained. "My sister Bellatrix."
A blush returned to Narcissa's cheeks, but rather than flirtation or daring, nerves brought on this blush, which resembled more of a blotch across her usually smooth cheekbones. Hermione imagined her face looked somewhat the same. The ice was very thin, so she tread lightly, but then she recalled that walk after their first dinner date and those words Narcissa had whispered into the stillness before she apparated from her.
Ask me things...
"What was it like," Hermione swallowed, still trying to decide upon her words as she spoke, "being the youngest after your two older sisters?"
Narcissa gazed upward, her brow furrowed.
"What do you mean exactly?"
Be specific, Hermione. Follow the advice she herself gave you when it came to sensitive topics.
Following the voice in her head, Hermione took a moment to gather her thoughts and sank into the chair next to Narcissa as she did so. She stretched her legs out and looked at the half-cleared garden as she spoke.
"I just wondered what it meant for you to be the last sister to make an impression on your professors after having your two older sisters make their mark," Hermione explained, taking a bite of her biscuit. "I remember watching Ron have to navigate that during our time at Hogwarts. He had the celebrated eldest brothers, the perfectionist, the troublemakers, then came Ron."
"Are you comparing me to Ronald Weasley?"
The dry question made Hermione laugh through a nervous gasp. She didn't mind the bit of levity though and neither did Narcissa, it seemed.
"No," Hermione quickly rejoined, waving her hands for emphasis. "No, no, no. I'm comparing...your experiences?"
Narcissa laughed shortly now, apparently enjoying Hermione's discomfiture.
"I suppose if we're discussing experiences, then yes, there are similarities. I would, however, add that perhaps the impression my older sisters left was more—," she paused, searching for the word, "—extreme."
"Good and evil."
Hermione regretted the words as soon as she saw Narcissa wince at them. She braced for the inevitable abrupt close to the conversation and watched as Narcissa's neck twisted with her wince. Hermione's heart pounded, and she poised herself to begin standing again, getting her things, and returning to the Floo. Her flight response hadn't seemed so immediate since her adventures with Harry and Ron, but like those times, she stilled herself and tried to breathe through the momentary freak-out after a burst of Gryffindor idiocy. Narcissa's eventual response came with another start.
"And which do you think was the good and which the evil?" Hermione knew she looked stunned by the question; never had she predicted that Narcissa would broach this subject so bluntly. "Before answering that, take into account the time, right before the first war. Then consider what Hogwarts must have been like during that period and add onto that what Slytherin House was like. Alongside those considerations, think of my family and their thoughts on my sisters' decisions."
She stared directly at Hermione now, her face betraying neither guile nor superiority. Her expression opened up in a way Hermione only noticed for brief moments before, while discussing her favorite lines in a poem or after their film viewing. This time, however, she bore this expression about a deeply personal subject. Hermione felt simultaneously nervous and electrified.
"Now combine all that, live with it every day, come to different conclusions each day as to who was the good and who the evil, and you'll have an answer to your initial question, Hermione." Narcissa dropped her chin and gazed at Hermione more piercingly than she ever had. "The impressions or judgments of others regarding my sisters were nothing when my own mind seemed in a constant riot. The rest was just background noise."
Hermione stared silently back at her companion. She wanted to say she understood now, but she knew such a phrase would fall flat because she didn't understand, couldn't. Before this moment, Hermione might've claimed to see the other side of things, taking in as many perspectives as she could, but she now realized that there was only so much one could understand about another person, particularly one whose experiences were so foreign to her own.
And yet, she wanted to understand more, craved it with every part of herself, because maybe if she did, then she could understand the attraction to this woman that she felt she could no longer deny.
While she knew she was just learning the barest surface of Narcissa's past, she felt certain that these conversations and where they would lead held the key to something more between them. That is, if Narcissa desired it as well, which, considering her energy earlier, the mild flirtations, and the shocking intimacies she seemed ready to explain, Hermione thought may not be as far-fetched as she once believed.
Lost in these thoughts, Hermione barely registered Narcissa rising from her seat and twisting her hair into a charmed bun, a look she'd never worn in front of Hermione. She traced the lines of Narcissa's newly bared neck, bent slightly to one side as she surveyed the garden, then turned slightly to reveal her profile to Hermione.
"Should we try to clear the rest before the sun sets?" Narcissa asked.
"Yes," Hermione replied, rising as well to stand next to Narcissa. "I think we could manage it."
A/N: I make zero promises...