A/N: So, writing this one was... A TIME. Whew. Enjoy!

~Naralanis


Spring was slow to arrive at Hogwarts that year – March had come and was on its way out when a surprise snow covered the grounds once more, much to Hermione's delight. The snow made it seem like they were still in the clutches of winter.

The young Transfiguration Professor shuddered as her steps crunched the snow beneath. Every year, she wanted desperately to cling to the last cold winds of winter, the last delicate snowflakes that always lingered on her wild hair as they fell, covering the world in silence. If she could, she would gladly choose to stay in winter forever.

She looked over at the dark expanse of the Black Lake, covered in a thin, fragile sheet of ice. Thankfully, the bulk of the student body would return home for Easter break, and she would have some peace to deal with March, the worst of months. The month when her demons always returned, stronger than ever, when her nightmares became more vivid, and when her cursed scars throbbed most painfully.

What a macabre sort of anniversary it was.

Hermione walked aimlessly towards the lake, taking in what was most likely the last snow of the year, her memories stretching themselves out through her mind in slow motion. After so many years experiencing the same thing at around the same time of year, she had learned to ignore the dull throbbing in her arm that remained from March all the way through May. The real pain only came at night.

She reached the outskirts of the lake and sat directly on the muddy shore, without a care for the state of her robes and casting one of her famous bluebell flames more for the comfort of its blue hue than for warmth. The blue glow of the spell she had performed since childhood was comforting and safe, cocooning her in memories of a happier, more innocent time.

Every March, Hermione was reminded of the terrifying ghosts that would haunt her nightmares for as long as she lived – it was like her body had an internal alarm clock that rung with pain at this time of year. March reminded her that, no matter how far she went or how much better she was doing, there would always be that seed of fear that grew into a choking vine around her heart and soul as it was watered every year around this time. It felt a bit like failure, but Harry reassured her it wasn't, that there would always be others out there with scars and fears to match her own, and she was inclined to believe him. She knew of no one else besides him who could understand the demons she dealt with.

Although, she pondered as an errant snowflake settled briefly upon the tip of her nose before melting into nothingness and leaving a cold trail of water in its wake, there might be someone. The thought had not come to her out of nowhere – rather, it had been induced by the vision of a white fox scurrying along the banks of the Lake, further east of her. It rolled about in mounds of snow, momentarily disappearing from view before re-emerging to scurry along once more.

"I wonder what you think about in March." Hermione wondered aloud, fully aware that Narcissa's Animagus form was too far to hear. Despite their increasingly intimate conversations through the months of their reacquaintance, Hermione figured the night they had spent at Malfoy Manor that March in 1998 would not be spoken of ever again.

Plus, she thought glumly as the realization hit her for the third or so time that week, she was quite certain Narcissa had taken to avoiding her again. This time, however, it felt much worse than after their chance encounter at the greenhouse when term had just started, when Narcissa's hair glittered like silver in the moonlight. No, this time Hermione felt absolutely stumped – she had no idea what she had done to warrant the other woman's avoidance. Narcissa was still perfectly cordial, but their outings to Black Manor had nearly stopped completely; their walks around the Hogwarts grounds in the sunset had become non-existent, and even their nights of silent, companionable grading had all but faded to the background. All she saw of Narcissa nowadays came at meal times and the odd passing in the corridors.

The blonde's absence was made worse by Hermione's strange... fondness for the other witch. In the months spent getting to know one another, Hermione had been forced to come to terms with the simple, unequivocal fact that she liked to be around Narcissa and had come to value her as a friend.

It just made the Potions Professor's prolonged avoidance hurt much worse.

It was as she brooded over such thoughts that her eyes locked with the icy blue orbs of the lithe white fox several metres away in the farther banks of the lake. The animal stood completely still, graceful and elegant in its pristine white surroundings, and Hermione could find it in herself to chuckle. Even in her Animagus form, Narcissa was the picture of poise.

Perhaps she was thinking too much into things. Perhaps Narcissa also needed some time for self-reflection around this time of year. The thought gave Hermione a little hope.

"Maybe March isn't easy on you either." She murmured to the wind, her gaze still meeting the blue gleam over the murky dark waters of the Black Lake.


The students would be leaving for the short Easter Holiday break the day after the next, and Narcissa could not be more grateful for the respite. The days leading up to the holiday had been packed with assignments and tests and essays and practicals, much to the dismay of every student and professor within the castle, but everyone tried their best to get in the swing of things in preparation for final exams taking place soon after the break was over.

She hated this time of year with a passion she never knew she possessed, though the feeling had very little to do with the teaching and grading work. In truth, Narcissa had failed to anticipate how much the last days of March would affect her in the presence of Hermione Granger.

Said witch had just taken a seat by her side at the Staff Table for dinner, looking exhausted and, for lack of a better word, haggard. Her hair, which had been tamed into bouncy curls as she aged, was back to the frizzy mane Narcissa remembered seeing all those years ago. Dark shadows marred a face that had become significantly paler without its usual rosy tint, and even her lips were cracked and devoid of colour.

Narcissa wanted to say something, but could not offer more than a nod of acknowledgement as Hermione took her seat. There was nothing she could say or do to make the memories of Malfoy Manor more bearable for either of them.

"Is William White staying at Hogwarts for the Easter break?" Hermione suddenly asked, scooping a sad dollop of potato mash onto her fork.

Narcissa turned to the brunette in surprise at the question, then whipped back to look at her own plate.

"Yes," she confirmed.

"That's good." Hermione said simply, and neither of them spoke for a long time through dinner. Narcissa felt each bite turn to ash in her mouth; her gaze kept stealing to the forlorn brunette next to her, and her mind raced through questions she did not want the answers to. How was it that avoiding Hermione had been so much simpler at the start of term?

Because it had been for her own benefit, her mind told her. She could think of the nightmares that plagued Hermione, and having a hand in creating them would fill her with guilt forever. Narcissa wasn't just hiding from Hermione, she was avoiding her own guilt like the Dragon Pox.

"I was thinking of checking in on the Manor after supper" Hermione began after a long pause in which she mostly played with the food on her plate. For one moment of sheer insanity Narcissa thought she referred to Malfoy Manor and her mind relieved the young girl's screams so viscerally she couldn't align the Hermione sitting by her side with the teenager who writhed in agony on the marble floors of her old home.

"Narcissa?" asked the Hermione at the Staff Table, the one who had grown into a formidable woman, the one who was safe and sound by her side. She wore a look of concern in her sunken eyes, and Narcissa realized she had grasped her silverware in a tight enough grip that her knuckles had gone white and her hands started to shake.

"Oh" Narcissa let out in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," she tried to recover, setting her fork and knife down so that the tremors in her hands were not so apparent. "What was it that you said just now?"

Hermione spared her a comforting smile and Narcissa felt deep guilt and shame gnaw at her core again – who was she to deserve any comfort, from this woman in particular?

"I was thinking of going to Black Manor, to see if I can try out a tweaked version of my ward-tracking spell" the brunette explained, her tone free of any judgement. "If you would you like to come."

No, Narcissa's mind screamed at her. No, I shouldn't, I shouldn't take any of your time or my sanity. "Perhaps," she said instead. "What sort of tweaks have you made to it?"

Hermione gestured vaguely. "I'm trying to see how a ward-tracking spell could be adapted to track warding Runes instead. I have a hunch that we might be able to find some good examples of warding runes in some old parts of the house or outer edifices."

The brunette turned in her chair to face Narcissa more directly. "How old is the main house? Is it the oldest structure in the property?"

"The chateau finished construction in 1507..." she said thoughtfully, thinking back to her family's rich, dark history. "But it is not the oldest building on the land. There were several other buildings that were erected in the Middle Ages, though very few stand today..." a thought occurred to her.

"Are there any we could visit to try and test the charm? I have the feeling that the older the better – I want to get as close to the original runes as we possibly can." Hermione pressed; her tired eyes showed a glimmer of that excitement that had wreaked havoc with Narcissa's emotions a few weeks earlier. Much as she had been that one Tuesday before detention, Narcissa was helpless to stop them.

"Well," Narcissa began after a pregnant pause. "There is one edifice that, to my knowledge, is the oldest still standing in the property."

Hermione smiled through her chapped lips – Narcissa could see small rips forming on the plump skin as they quirked upwards to show teeth. "Great. Which one is it?"

Narcissa sighed deeply. "The Black Family Mausoleum. Its first incarnation was erected in the year 908. Its last renovation was in the 1500s."

"Great!" Hermione quipped, taking a final bite of her cold potatoes, clearly energized by the possibility of a breakthrough in their efforts. "Are you up to going?"

Narcissa felt a wave of discomfort. "Yes, but..." her words died in her mouth. She should tell Hermione; she should warn her of what awaited in that dark place. The Potions Professor took a deep, fortifying breath. "Bellatrix is buried there." She said solemnly; her hands started to tremble slightly again in waiting for Hermione's response.

The brunette looked away, up towards the enchanted ceiling that now showed grey clouds and mist that covered the once bright moon. It was a long moment before she turned to face Narcissa again.

"She's not at the Lestrange tombs?" Hermione asked softly, her gaze undecipherable.

"No," Narcissa confirmed, looking down at her plate. "I... I didn't want her so far from home."

Narcissa's discomfort was made unbearably worse by the look of understanding Hermione sent her way. The girl should have been the last person in the whole wide world offering her such a thing.

"It'll be alright." She assured the blonde, taking Narcissa's hand in hers. Had Narcissa been in any stronger a state of mind, she would have pulled away, but she wasn't, and wallowed in the guilt of having Hermione's touch comfort her so.

"When would you like to go?" Hermione asked, still smiling sweetly. It was infectious.

"I suppose there's no time like the present." Narcissa smiled back.


The idea of visiting the Black Family mausoleum should not have filled Hermione with the kind of excitement she felt when discovering new things, at least in her view. No, it should have filled her with fear and distress, or at the very least a healthy dose of pure and unadulterated dread.

And yet, as she took Narcissa's hand in hers to Apparate them to the grounds of Black Manor, all she felt was the tell-tale voracity for discovery she had experienced so many times with the blonde in particular. It made Hermione think the feeling had more to do with being with Narcissa than what she was actually discovering.

Which was ludicrous, yet simply felt true. She would certainly come to analyse the meaning of it all at a later time, but presently, all she could preoccupy herself with was Narcissa's hand in her own, which had yet to let go even if they had already popped into existence at Black Manor.

"The original tombs were nearly all destroyed in the twelfth century, if I am not mistaken" Narcissa spoke airily, as if she didn't quite care whether Hermione heard her or not. "That was when the Mausoleum began to take the shape it has today. My ancestor Bartholomew Black was the one responsible for its current architecture – from what I understand it, it was because of him that my family developed a fondness for the Gothic style. At some point..."

Hermione let Narcissa babble. Something told her that the other witch was trying to be as informative as possible for her benefit, to distract her from all the darkness she would face when they finally went in.

The mausoleum became visible after only a few minutes of walking down one of the manicured gravel paths leading away from the main house. Once again, Hermione had the feeling that the distance they covered was much greater than the passage of time would lead her to believe – she made a mental note to ask Narcissa about it some other time.

Gothic indeed, Hermione thought with a smirk. It stood as a stark contrast to the main house's Neoclassical construction with its hints of Baroque, looking much older and exceedingly severe. The building was bigger than she had expected – she wondered how she had never seen it before in her many excursions to the Black Estate. It was large enough that it actually featured flying buttresses, and its sloping towers nearly vanished in the fog despite being relatively small.

The construction had Hermione gasping in awe, though its impressive size or even the grandiose flying buttresses were not to blame for the reaction. Rather, Hermione was astounded by the intricate stained-glass windows that were backlit by flickering green hues from within. The biggest of them, at the front of the mausoleum, depicted a bird in flight, in the usual style of a Phoenix, though the bird in question was entirely different.

A stained-glass raven seemed to beckon the two witches inside with its massive open wings. Below the intricate mosaic of glass, a familiar inscription in the stone, along with the Black Family Crest: Toujours Pur.

A wide-open arch was shuttered by iron doors that featured intricately carved figures inlaid with silver – they seemed to move, but Hermione could not tell if they did so magically or if the light of the moon coming and going due to the rolling fog was simply tricking her eyes.

Narcissa stopped her rambling as they approached the heavy black door. Hermione felt the other woman's hand tense in her grasp, and the comforting squeeze she gave in return was almost involuntary. It was enough for Narcissa to realize they still had their fingers woven together and delicately extract her hand in favour of unsheathing her wand. The brunette sent Narcissa a questioning glance.

"Three taps" the blonde explained, rhythmically tapping her wand onto some of the engraved figures Hermione could now see were ravens, wings magically fluttering in silvery glimmers.

The door creaked open tortuously slowly, gradually illuminating the two witches in the green light that Hermione could now see came from enchanted torches lining a room that looked a lot like a church's nave. The green glow gave the entire place a frightening atmosphere, and Hermione found herself wishing that she still had the warmth of Narcissa's hand in her grasp.

Narcissa surprised her with a gentle hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside with comforting pressure. The touch electrified Hermione's spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and sending a flush to her cheeks.

"You're shivering" Narcissa said offhandedly, not looking at Hermione. "Are you cold?"

"A little" Hermione lied, now torn on whether she still wanted Narcissa touching her. The hand-holding had been comforting, but the weight of the woman's hand on her back was... something else. She felt one of Narcissa's wordless warming charms envelop her being and regretted the lie immediately – she was suddenly sweltering in her robes.

"Thank you," she said despite her discomfort. The two made their way deeper into the gallery of tombs – there were several, everywhere – in the walls, in the corridor itself, in the ground upon where they walked. Some had simple engravings, other elaborate plaques, while others had full sculptures dedicated to the fallen Blacks. Hermione counted several names, several years, going back centuries, all lit by the same green-flamed torches and candles.

"Cheery place." She commented, and to her relief, Narcissa chuckled.

"You can see my family was very... dedicated to the aesthetic." She quipped, and Hermione was immeasurably glad to see her laugh. She stopped somewhere in the middle of the endless corridor – which had no doubt been magically extended.

"How would you like to start?"

Hermione took a few steps, taking in the silence of the tombs and the flickering of green flames. "I'm not sure. This place was magically extended, so it will be difficult to determine the origin point." She sighed. "I suppose we can just perform a scan, see if it yields anything."

"What is the charm?" Narcissa asked, and Hermione recognized the same eagerness for discovery she felt in that blue gaze.

"Refugium Reperio" Hermione said, taking her wand out of the sleeve of her robes. She demonstrated the move for the spell to Narcissa, who mimicked it effortlessly.

"The tip of your wand should light up in bright purple as you get close to an origin point – get close enough and it will direct a beam to the origin point." Hermione explained as Narcissa cast the spell and began to walk with her down the eerie corridor.

"Ingenious" Narcissa commented, examining the faint lilac glow at the tip of her wand, and Hermione couldn't help but feel the inflation of pride in her chest.

They walked together in silence, their shoes clicking and echoing over the tombs of generations of Blacks. Every now and again, their wands would glow slightly brighter, only to fade almost immediately. Despite the silence and the exceedingly strange location, Hermione felt more at peace than she had since the wretched month of March began.

It lasted just until she stumbled upon a tomb she had been warned was there.

Bellatrix Black – for that was how her name was engraved onto a magnificent silver plate affixed to the marble floor in one of many alcoves that branched out of the main nave – had a prominent plaque in her memory, along with a marble sculpture of a raven in flight to memorialize her life. A wreath of white roses rested at the base of the raven, surrounded by candles emitting the same green glow that enveloped the rest of the burial chambers.

When she heard the choked gasp, Hermione was surprised it hadn't come from her own chest. Rather, it had come from Narcissa, who had just noticed what Hermione was looking at so pensively.

"Narcissa?" Hermione hesitated, turning to the blonde. Narcissa's wand trembled in her grasp.

"I'm sorry," Narcissa nearly whimpered; her eyes did not meet Hermione's, but were affixed to her sister's tomb. "Perhaps this was a bad idea. We can try some other time if... if this makes you uncomfortable."

Hermione tactfully chose not to point out that Narcissa seemed a lot more uncomfortable than she at that moment. It was strange – when Narcissa had warned her Bellatrix was buried at the mausoleum, Hermione had steeled herself against her darkest demons and chosen to face them head on. But then and there, face-to-face with her torturer's final resting place, she felt a bizarre but welcome sense of peace.

Here she was, strong, healthy, with her magic flowing hot and fierce through her veins. Bellatrix was – quite literally – beneath her.

"I'm alright," she said, and felt it ring true to her own ears. It was as if a massive weight had just been lifted from her shoulders.

"Good," Narcissa whispered, sounding pained. "Yes, good."

Hermione took a few steps until she was close to Narcissa, close enough to see the worry lines marring her brow and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "How about you?" she asked, tenderly reaching out and taking Narcissa's free hand in her own. It felt cold to the touch. "Are you alright?"

Narcissa jerked in surprise at Hermione's contact, but did not pull away. Hermione could immediately see she was desperately clinging to some vestige of the Ice Queen mask she had usually worn so effortlessly. It didn't escape Hermione's notice that it seemed remarkably hard for Narcissa to revert back to it whenever she was around.

"Yes," Narcissa began, but saw something in Hermione's gaze that made her backtrack almost immediately. "No," she finally admitted, anguished. "I don't..." a deep breath, and the mask crumbled to pieces as an errant tear escaped her control. "I don't come here often," she gasped. "Not like this."

Hermione wanted to ask what that meant, but whatever words she could possibly say evaporated into the air as she saw the tears flowing freely down Narcissa's cheeks. Not once, during the entire time they had worked together, had she seen the other woman so distraught, so broken and vulnerable. Hermione gave the hand she held what she hoped would be a comforting squeeze.

A sob wrenched itself out of Narcissa's chest, and the sound echoed sombrely amongst the tombs. The blonde shut her eyes tightly in an attempt to physically subdue her tears, and teeth worried her bottom lip as the last of her resolve crumbled in the failure to keep her grief and guilt at bay.

In a bold move, Hermione dropped her wand, letting it clatter noisily upon the marble that confined the body of Bellatrix Lestrange, and her hand tentatively came to rest upon Narcissa's pale cheek, tenderly wiping away at the tear tracks she found there.

The motion made Narcissa's blue eyes – now looking stormy grey and ethereal – snap open in surprise. Hermione was momentarily mesmerized by those eyes, by the tears pooled at the lids, by the diminutive reflections of green flames. Hermione heard the sound of Narcissa's own wand joining her own upon the eldest Black sister's tomb, followed by the uncertain pressure of Narcissa's hand delicately clasping her wrist.

"Hey," the brunette finally spoke, wiping away fresh tears from the other witch's cheek with her thumb. "It's alright."

Narcissa let out a sound, half a laugh, half a whimper. "Is it?" she questioned through a choked sob. "I think not. I think it is utterly pathetic," she admitted, her eyes fluttering closed as Hermione softly wiped away at her tears in gentle caresses.

"What in Merlin's name is pathetic about any of this?" Hermione could not help but ask. "About grief?"

"Grief isn't pathetic," Narcissa retorted adamantly, even if the roll of her eyes indicated she thought otherwise right then and there. "What is pathetic is for whom I grieve. And with whom," her laugh was bitterer now, laced with cynicism and sadness all at once.

"There's nothing pathetic about losing a sibling," Hermione said earnestly.

"Perhaps not," Narcissa agreed. "But there is some cruelty in fate to have me mourn her in your company."

"Maybe," Hermione conceded, because if she was honest with herself, she half-expected their roles to be reversed at this moment. She had expected to be a mess, with Narcissa's comforting presence offering a glimpse of sanity and reassurance into her nightmare, not the other way around. "But she was your sister and she's gone. I'm right here" she reasoned.

She had meant to reassure Narcissa, but the blonde choked back another sob. "You are," Narcissa murmured before Hermione could say anything else. "By some kind of miracle. You were very close to not... so close. And I..."

"You need to stop this" Hermione beseeched, letting go of Narcissa's hand to cradle her face instead. "What's done is done, and it's not your fault."

Narcissa's responding snicker was her harshest yet. "My sister was gone long before you found yourself at Malfoy Manor" she said, her tone wistful. Hermione braced her body for the despair that would undoubtedly come with the direct mention of her capture as it always did, but to her shock, it did not.

At some point, she would come to wonder why she felt so strangely at peace with memories that had continuously haunted her for a decade. What had changed? What had made her stop imagining Narcissa's cold blue eyes staring unflinchingly as she writhed in agony beneath Bellatrix Lestrange? What had made her stop trembling at the mere mention of the name, here in all places?

Now, however, was not the time for such an analysis.

"Sit with me." She requested, out of the blue and surprising Narcissa enough to interrupt another sob.

"Sit?" The blonde queried, puzzled. "Here?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, taking Narcissa by the hand and leading her to the wall opposing the grandiose raven sculpture marking Bellatrix's tomb. She sunk to the floor as gracefully as she could, still holding onto Narcissa's hand while the other witch stood, teary-eyed and looking at her as if she had gone mad.

Hermione patted the marble floor next to her, beckoning. Sit, was the unspoken command.

Narcissa lowered herself elegantly to sit by Hermione's side, leaning delicately against the sculpted column behind herself and Hermione. She spared another look of befuddlement to the brunette. Hermione, for her part, would take the witch's confusion in stride if it meant any sort of comfort from her grief.

"Tell me about her." She pleaded once Narcissa was situated, legs stretched out in front of her and daintily crossed at the ankles.

Narcissa quirked a brow, deftly wiping errant tears away. "About Bellatrix?" she asked, bewildered.

"I know more than I care to know about Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione remarked, taking Narcissa's hand once more and cradling it in her own. "But I want to know about Bellatrix Black," she elaborated, motioning towards the silent tomb in front of them. "I want to know more about the woman who deserves every tear you shed mourning for her."

Narcissa opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if debating how to even begin to respond to such a request. "I... I'm not sure..."

"Let me help," Hermione said, flashing a beaming grin she was happy to see affected Narcissa; the blonde responded with a smile of her own. "You told me before that Bellatrix was fond of pranks. What was one of her most memorable ones?"

The Potions Professor laughed, evidently caught up in a memory. The sound, so out of place considering their odd location, rung like music in the desolate nave. Hermione ignored an increasingly familiar flutter in her stomach.

"Where to begin..." Narcissa wondered aloud, running a hand through her hair and releasing long blonde locks from the elaborate bun that confined them. "I think the time where she enchanted this wig..."


It was hours and hours of listening to the wild adventures of Bellatrix Black. It was late, but Hermione could not bring herself to care. She had heard about Bellatrix's exploits of Mr. Filch, of her hijinks involving enchanted suits of armour at Black Manor, of her tricks against the Black sisters' etiquette tutors. She heard about after-curfew escapades to the castle kitchens for a bounty of sweets, always to be shared with her sisters. She heard about the fiercely protective Bella, who let not a soul speak ill of her baby sister. She even heard of a vulnerable Bellatrix, heartbroken with the death of a pet, or saddened by the loss of a friend.

Hermione herself had not contributed a word. She leaned against the cold wall, content to listen to Narcissa tell tales of childhood shenanigans involving her sisters. Narcissa had cried, laughed, then cried some more, and now continued to speak through whispers as her head rested against Hermione's shoulder, her hair draping a curtain of the finest gold over the young professor's chest. Hermione had finally broken her resolve and taken one of those silky locks and had been occupied with twirling it in her fingers for the past half-hour. If Narcissa had noticed, she made no mention of it.

Narcissa heaved a deep sigh, then remained silent for long moments. Hermione shared the silence happily.

"I think she could have been saved, before... before the worst." Narcissa said pensively, her voice heavy and tired.

Hermione nodded, though truly she had to admit she lacked perspective. "Before Azkaban?" she dared ask, because she was still Hermione Granger and, as such, curious beyond measure.

She felt Narcissa's subtle shake of her head. "Before that, in fact." Another deep sigh. "You might as well know. In March 1976, Bellatrix lost her daughter."

Hermione sucked in a breath of surprise. "She had a daughter?" she yipped, a little louder than she intended, though she couldn't help it. She had never heard of Bellatrix and Rodolphus having any children before.

"Yes. Ophelia." Narcissa motioned towards a plaque affixed to the wall behind Bellatrix's tomb. Hermione squinted to see the name Ophelia Black, along with a single inscription of the year 1976. "She was stillborn; Rodolphus didn't want to bother with a memorial at the Lestrange burial chambers" Narcissa explained. "So Father had her brought here. But losing Ophelia was the beginning of the end for Bellatrix."

Before, Hermione would never have been able to imagine the madwoman who tortured and killed so many with glee as a mother. Right then and there, after so many sweet stories about her sister, Narcissa had painted the picture of someone who could have been one – perhaps even a loving one.

So March marked the beginning of the end for Bellatrix... and the anniversary of Hermione's scars by her hand.

"Merlin" the brunette quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "No wonder you look so glum in March."

Narcissa laughed – it was tired and heavy with emotion, but it was also real, and Hermione counted that as a true victory. "I can't say it is my favourite time of the year" she said, that sarcastic faux-haughty tone Hermione liked so much returning word by word. Narcissa sighed again. "It's been so long since I... since I've felt so much, I suppose. I'm used to keeping my feelings at bay, but sometimes..."

"Sometimes it's good to have a good cry and let it all out." Hermione interjected, craning her neck to look at Narcissa directly. The blonde chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose." She conceded, taking the hand that twirled her hair in her own with a grateful glance. Hermione could not have contained her smile if she tried.

"Thank you." Narcissa said after a pregnant pause.

"Anytime," Hermione said truthfully, rubbing circles onto the back of Narcissa's hand with her thumb in lieu of twirling her hair.

She pondered March, she pondered Bellatrix, she pondered sitting right where she was, with Narcissa Black, surrounded by the dead and enshrouded in comfort and warmth. Suddenly, the thought occurred.

"Narcissa?"

"Yes?"

Hermione fumbled over her next words. "I was wondering... and you don't have to answer, this is just my curiosity talking. When... you see, back when we were on the run, it was easy to lose track of time and..." she took a breath. "What I mean to say is that, I know it was March, but I don't know when exactly... Would you... do you know when... Do you know when we were taken to the Manor?"

She felt Narcissa's body tense, only to relax into her again after a moment of consideration. When the Potions Professor next spoke, she sounded spent, exhausted beyond belief.

"Yes. It was March 19th," she said gravely.

"Oh," Hermione croaked as it dawned on her. "Today is..."

"March 19th" Narcissa confirmed.