"Lady Malfoy, Lady Malfoy! Dobby has news, Madam, news from Master!"
Narcissa spun in place, minding the sleeping infant who dozed peacefully in her arms. The frantic House Elf immediately noticed the young Master was not to be disturbed; his voice was remarkably less shrill – though just as frenzied – when he next spoke.
"Master Malfoy is returning, Madam! Dobby's wards have just now warned him! Shall Dobby fetch Master's house robes?"
"Where is he now, Dobby?" Narcissa asked in a soft whisper, holding tightly onto her son. Draco slept soundly, oblivious to his mother's movement and worry.
Dobby shook his head energetically, filled with energy. "Master has just crossed the main gates, Dobby's wards told him so, Madam. Shall Dobby..."
"Lay out our finest whisky, Dobby, if you please." Narcissa commanded, lovingly yet swiftly placing Draco down into his plush crib. The little dragon mobile above him began to spin with a wordless charm. "Stay out of the way after that; keep an eye on Draco for me and don't come down."
Dobby nearly saluted her in his eagerness. "Yes, Madam, Dobby will see to it!" he squealed, nearly forgetting about the sleeping baby as he disappeared to fetch the whisky.
Narcissa steeled herself, hugging her robes more tightly around her thin frame as she spared her son one last loving glance before she willed her tired feet to move away from the nursery and into the dim corridor of the upper East Wing of Malfoy Manor.
Torches lit up as she made her way down the corridor, shuffling by and revealing generations of Malfoy portraits who spared her sympathetic looks as she passed them by. She heard their soft murmuring amongst themselves, in wonder as to why she risked leaving her chambers half-dead after bringing the Malfoy heir into the world; she resolutely tuned them out.
The air felt different at the top of the Manor's grand staircase—it was colder, and more humid somehow. Narcissa felt the chill of the open emptiness of the house envelop her; it made her teeth clatter and her hands tremble. She regarded the marble staircase with trepidation and dread; her knuckles went white onto the banister with the sheer panicked force she used to hold on to it. The steps seemed to multiply, eternal and perilous.
For long, hopeless moments, Narcissa Malfoy hesitated at the top of her stairs, shrouded in the silence of the Manor, grounded by her fierce grip onto the banister. Her body felt not quite like her own; it felt weak and frail, and the little strength she had recovered after weeks of bed rest had all but waned in the short trek from the nursery to the staircase.
She chanced a glance back towards the nursery, short of breath and deafened by the thunderous pounding of her blood in her ears. Narcissa's weakness despaired her – Draco slept not ten metres from where she stood, yet here she was, out of breath, nearly swaying with exhaustion, wavering in place and scarcely able to stand upright. The never-ending staircase mocked her with its interminable, winding, treacherous marble path – it stretched out in hundreds and thousands and millions of steps, daring her to move forward.
It was the soft, muted pop of a bottle being uncorked and the clinking of a glass onto a table that spurred her first tentative step. Lucius was home, where he hadn't been in weeks—at least not when Narcissa had been conscious.
She took that first step, then the next and the next, both hands grasping onto the banister like a lifeline, leaning as much of her weight as she could onto it in an undignified crawl down the menacing marble. Narcissa practically dragged herself downstairs, holding on for dear life, limbs aching and protesting the movement, burning with exertion. Her breath caught and released and was caught again at each reluctant step forward.
"Lucius" she called, her voice naught but a hoarse, muted, useless whisper, too weak to reach the parlour. "Lucius," she tried again, in vain.
Her anguish led her to try and hurry her steps; a fatal miscalculation with nearly disastrous consequences. Narcissa's body faltered onto the slippery marbled; her legs too unsteady to regain their footing at the misstep. She held on, just barely, onto the banister, but the fright of the moment ripped out a painful, startled yelp from her aching throat.
"Narcissa?" came Lucius' worried voice from the parlour. Narcissa heard the sound of glass clinking onto a table once more. She released her grip of the banister—her lifeline—and sunk to the floor as slowly as she could, ending in an ungraceful heap onto the marble, unable to trust her trembling legs. Her hand clasped around her tender throat, the pain of her outburst reverberating through the layers of muscle.
"Narcissa!"
Lucius was out of the parlour; he had spotted her. His boots made dry staccatos onto the exquisite tile as he rushed to her side in alarm.
"What are you doing down here?! You ought to be resting!" he chided, though his voice was too grave with worry to carry the admonishment as he meant it.
Narcissa couldn't reply; she was too overtaken by pain and relief all at once.
"Come along, let's get you back upstairs." Lucius said, bending down and effortlessly lifting Narcissa's small frame off the ground in one swift move. He took one step up.
"No," Narcissa whispered hoarsely, fighting the burn in her throat and grasping the front of his robes in a desperate, pleading grip, needing tangible evidence that he was there, truly there, with not a hair out of place. "Not upstairs. The parlour."
Her husband gave her a look of protest, but she stopped whatever incoming protestations with a silent glare that shortly melted into a supplicative gaze.
Lucius shrugged, smiling slightly, then diligently and carefully turning back towards the parlour with his wife in his arms. He wordlessly lit up the fireplace, and the comforting glow of the dancing flames instantly filled the cold room, aided by another of his warming charms, doubtlessly the same one he had placed in the East Wing for Narcissa's comfort. He gently laid Narcissa onto the nearest sofa; Narcissa took deep breaths, never releasing his robes, unwilling to let him go even for a second. Lucius obligingly knelt by her side, waiting.
"You shouldn't exert yourself" he scolded, though his grey gaze was soft. He took one of Narcissa's hands in his own and dropped a fierce, protective kiss onto it. "Healer Fairweather made me promise I'd keep you in bed until well after Easter."
Narcissa rolled her eyes; Lucius let out a hearty chuckle. "Give me a moment, dear. I'll arrange for some tea" he said.
"Forget the tea" Narcissa croaked uncomfortably, her gaze pointedly traveling to the half-filled glass of whisky at the side-table. "Care to share, husband?"
He raised an eyebrow, but laughed all the same. "Healer Fairweather..."
"Isn't here" Narcissa interrupted with a knowing gaze, her voice hoarse, but recovering.
Lucius chuckled, but reached over to the side-table and retrieved the glass, handing it over to Narcissa with a playful look of warning.
Narcissa ignored it, taking a hearty sip and choosing to overlook the burning the liquor supplied, welcoming that pain over the other she suffered. A little cough escaped her, and Lucius tenderly wiped at the tears that pooled in her eyes with a laugh.
"I think that's enough, Lady Malfoy" he joked, prying the glass away from her tremulous fingers. "What are you doing down here, when you should be in bed?" His gaze suddenly took a turn to fear. "The baby..."
Narcissa reached a soothing hand to his arm. "The baby's fine, Lucius. He's sleeping."
Her husband visibly relaxed. Now, in the light, Narcissa could finally see how weary he looked, and was reminded of how long it had been since she had seen him. His hair was longer now, growing far past his ears long after he had cropped it short before Draco's birth. Dark circles rimmed his grey eyes that now looked sullen without any hint of their usual vibrancy, and his face was thinner, made to look even more so by the fine stubble covering his gaunt cheeks.
"Good, good" Lucius whispered, relieved. His eyes were contemplative. "Then why are you down here, my darling? You ought to be resting; you're not strong enough to be out and about yet."
Narcissa gritted her teeth. "You haven't been home, Lucius. Nine weeks. Nine weeks I have gone without seeing my husband" she accused, aware she sounded bitter but choosing to ignore the indignity of emotion. She could see his jaw clenching, then pulled out her ace. "You haven't seen your son in nine weeks."
Lucius' shoulders sagged, his guilt evident. "I come when I can" he defended weakly.
"Yes." She agreed, "I'm sure Draco loves the stuffed dragons you leave for him; all six of them. I know I enjoy waking up to a rose or two on the pillow next to me, where you're supposed to be." Narcissa took a deep breath, aware she sounded too harsh. "Home is where you must be. Draco needs you," she said honestly, and her voice lowered. "I need you."
Her husband sighed. "It is not so easy, dearest" he said, sounding distressed. "The Dark Lord grows restless. There have been... new developments, developments that required the full attention of those devoted to His service."
"What developments? Surely the Dark Lord must understand, you have obligations! Your child..."
"Narcissa" Lucius breathed out, weary. "The Dark Lord needs me."
"Then give him your money! Your connections! Merlin knows that should be enough."
"But it isn't!" Lucius hissed, and almost immediately stopped himself, taking a moment to breathe deeply. Narcissa felt his chest slowly expand under her hands; his robes were loose around his lean frame, confirming her suspicions that he had lost weight in their time apart.
"What is so important" she asked softly, "that requires you to be away from your wife and child?"
Lucius' gaze found hers, and it was filled with dread and indecisiveness. "Does Bella know?" Narcissa asked.
"All of us fortunate enough to be in the Dark Lord's inner circle know" Lucius answered. He rolled his eyes. "Of course Bellatrix knows."
Narcissa smiled. "Then tell me."
Lucius looked as if the weight of the entire world rested upon his shoulders; Narcissa seldom saw him this drained, this lifeless. The sheer fatigue of his movements and the uneasiness of his demeanour worried her greatly; what could the Dark Lord be demanding of him, of Bella?
"We have recently received information about a prophecy" Lucius spoke with a tremulousness in his voice that was utterly foreign to Narcissa, nothing like his usual self-assure tones.
"A prophecy? Who made it?" she couldn't help but ask, intrigued.
"That is irrelevant" he retorted. "What matters is that the Dark Lord deems it important, and so does Albus Dumbledore. It concerns the birth of a child—a child who may come to destroy everything we have worked for."
Narcissa furrowed her brow, sceptical. "A child?" She could not help but wonder how a child would present any sort of threat to Lord Voldemort himself—she had witnessed his furious, exhilarating power first-hand. But if both the Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore, the two most powerful wizards of their time, trusted in the veracity of this prophecy, then it simply had to be true.
Lucius nodded gravely. "A boy, to be born at the end of July."
Narcissa froze. Her mind instantly wandered to the well-hidden stack of letters from Andromeda she kept; the ones Andromeda had insisted she burn, but Narcissa could never bring herself to because she was too weak to do so. Several of them, detailing little details of no consequence, even to a Death Eater's wife. Some of them, with information Andromeda most definitely should not have entrusted to Narcissa—even if she operated under the delusion Narcissa might still leave Lucius and Bella.
One letter in particular came to mind, exhilarated by the pregnancies of some of her friends—people Andromeda would be happy to help in their journey through expecting. Two new expectant mothers, due sometime as summer would draw to a close. Alice Longbottom. Lily Evans—no, Potter.
Narcissa had received that letter not three days ago.
Merlin, how could Andromeda have been so foolish. Narcissa felt panic rise in her throat. Andromeda! Blood-traitor and careless idiot! Entrusting her of all people with such information; it would now be Narcissa's burden to bear. How could she justify not telling Lucius and Bella about it? How could she justify telling them? She inwardly cursed the adamant shred of loyalty she still carried for Andromeda, despite everything. If only she weren't so weak.
"The Dark Lord wants us to gather all of our forces" Lucius continued, oblivious to her inner struggle. "He fears the Order may be emboldened by such a prediction. We must move, and we must move soon."
"What does that mean?" Narcissa asked, with bated breath?
Lucius' shoulders sagged. "It means, once this child is born—ideally before—we must neutralize the threat in the name of our Dark Lord. For the Greater Good."
Narcissa's blood ran cold; the hand that held onto Lucius' robes tightened considerably, and the other tremulously reached up to stroke his gaunt features.
"Lucius, what does that mean?" She dared ask, her voice quaking as her hands were, a whisper lost to the crackling of the fire. Lucius furrowed his brows with a scoff.
"You know full well what it means." He said.
The beat of her heart was deafening; Narcissa could feel it in her ears, her neck, and booming erratically from within her ribs.
"Lucius... You wouldn't... You wouldn't kill a child." She meant it as a statement, but her voice carried the inflection of an incredulous question.
Lucius averted his gaze. He remained silent; Narcissa's mouth went dry.
"Would you?"
Hermione left her Transfiguration classroom with a spring in her step; she had just administered her last practical examination – to her second-year class, which was always rather... eventful as they tried to transform mice into pincushions. She had been startled out of her wits when what seemed to be a hedgehog started scurrying about the classroom, which was understandable, as no second-year in the history of ever had ever performed a flawless animal transfiguration.
It turned out to be just a half-transformed little mouse. Hermione had been quick to fix the poor creature, and the student had received a passing grade – just barely.
While the end of the always chaotic practicals certainly contributed to the light-heartedness she felt at the moment, it wasn't the only reason why the young professor nearly skipped down the stairs on her way to the Dungeons. No, Hermione had done quite a bit of self-reflection in the past few days, and she had come to quite a few conclusions regarding a certain Potions professor.
The secrets could very well drive Hermione insane. Narcissa was a naturally secretive person, as Hermione had come to find out, but there seemed to be an innate willingness to open up. Hermione didn't think she was imagining it, not after so many deep, emotional conversations, not after so many inexplicably charged interactions that left her body and mind reeling with... with something she couldn't quite identify.
What puzzled Hermione the most was the simple fact that Narcissa did seem to want to open up. Hadn't the Slytherin said it herself, that she was the most at ease when she was with Hermione?
Hermione chose to cherish that feeling of trust, that mystifying bond they shared. She had come to realize that the reason Narcissa was still so secretive about so many things was simply fear. And Hermione would bet her life savings that such fear was not of disapproval, but quite the opposite – she was certain Narcissa felt undeserving of her acceptance.
Which was a load of crap, but Hermione was just too diplomatic to phrase it that way.
She had laid awake at night, thinking, pondering, ruminating those thoughts over and over again. About the letters. About her parents. About the surveillance. About a great many things Narcissa was not telling her, surely.
The more Hermione thought about it, the more at ease she felt.
So what that Narcissa still received letters from Lucius? They were divorced and he was in prison. End of story. So what if she didn't want to tell Hermione how she had restored her parents' memories? They were there and they were alright, no thanks to Hermione, but to Narcissa. So what about all the other things?
Sure, Narcissa had a dark past, Hermione had come to see that its darkness was a lot more grey than she had initially assumed. And she felt so incredibly privileged to be trusted enough for Narcissa to feel comfortable sharing more about it with her.
And if the Potions professor never got to share some of it, Hermione had decided she would be perfectly fine with it.
She refused to let any remaining darkness from Narcissa's past to taint her future. Hermione would not allow it – because she wanted to be part of that future, in whatever capacity Narcissa would allow her.
And so she had decided it was time to share more, and to give Narcissa the opportunity to do the same, without pressure. It was Friday now, and Hermione wanted to spend the weekend working at that endeavour.
Hermione was halfway to the Dungeons when she spotted none other than Harry Potter himself, walking briskly through the castle.
"Oi!" she waved at him. "Harry!"
He turned at her greeting, breaking out into a grin. He jogged to where she was, encircling her in a bear hug for a 'hello.'
"You cheeky little jerk, why didn't you let me know you were coming?" She asked, ruffling his hair just because. He mock-glared at her, but made no attempt to rectify his mop of black locks—he knew full well it was a hopeless cause.
"I'm here on Ministry business" he said, and Hermione could detect a hint of worry in his voice. "I had to talk to McGonagall about a few... developments."
Hermione eyed him carefully. "Developments?" she inquired, not liking the way he smiled nervously, the left corner of his mouth twitching. She knew Harry too well—that particular tick popped up whenever he tried to downplay something. "Anything you can tell me, or is it just for the Headmistress' ears?"
Harry sighed deeply. "I suppose I can tell you—I'm pretty sure McGonagall is going to alert the staff anyway."
Alert. She didn't like that word. "Alert? What happened?"
His shoulders hunched slightly. "We're keeping it hush-hush at the moment, but there has been a breakout in Azkaban." Harry whispered, his eyes darting from side to side as if checking for danger nearby. His behaviour only served to worry Hermione more.
"A breakout!" she hissed. "Who..."
Harry shook his head. "Not who," he said. "What."
Hermione's blood ran cold. "No" she said, hating the way that Harry's grimace confirmed it. "Dementors? How many?"
"All of them" he murmured grimly, nodding when Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. "I know. We've got a shit-show in our hands, 'Mione."
"All of them? But... how is that possible?"
"That's the problem—we don't know. They were just gone this morning. No one saw anything. We have no idea where they went, or how they just... disappeared. There are no reports of any sightings either, nothing at all."
Hermione supressed a shiver. "And warning McGonagall... is there any reason to think they might come here?"
Harry shook his head. "Not really—Hogwarts is merely the nearest significant magical hub they might be attracted to. It's a precaution."
Hermione could not hide her relief. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Harry laughed. "I don't know, Miss Award-Winning Warding Engineer, I wonder what you could possibly do?" He teased as Hermione reddened. Harry sobered. "The Ministry is sending Isobel MacDougal up as the Warding Engineer to oversee some check-ups of the school wards." He winked. "She's good, but she isn't you, so would you mind checking her work, Professor Granger?"
Hermione blushed, remembering how she had used Isobel's name to avoid a certain portrait's wrath. "Of course, she croaked.
Harry looked at his watch, eyes narrowing. "I've got a meeting with my team in five. Sorry! We should catch up over some butterbeers later, before I have a screaming newborn in the house!"
Hermione smiled. "You bet!"
Harry took off in the opposite direction, and Hermione had to force herself not to overthink the situation. Sure, there were hundreds—perhaps thousands—of Dementors on the loose, but Hogwarts was safe. It was the safest it had been in years—she was responsible for wards that kept hundreds and hundreds of students away from potential harm, and she would make damn sure those wards included Dementors as potential harm.
She still felt uneasy, but had to remind herself they were not teenagers anymore—and when they were, they had taken down one of the most powerful wizards in the history of Wizardkind. Whatever new challenge lay ahead, they would tackle it head on.
Hermione did the best to forget the worry, or at least push it aside for a little while, and resumed her walk to Narcissa's classroom.
Hermione made it to the Potions classroom just in time for class to be let out. Several upper-level students were busy turning in projects; Hermione could just spot Narcissa ducking into her private office as she walked in. She patiently waited for the students to clear out, hit with a warm feeling of nostalgia as she remembered turning in projects much in the same way.
She missed it a little.
The Potions classroom smelled of a delicate eucalyptus scent; the kind that Hermione had come to associate with Narcissa and her potion-making. It seemed to permeate the classroom more strongly than usual – Hermione assumed it had something to do with some of the projects now neatly arranged on the class benches. Thankfully Narcissa had taught her students how to cover the smells of the more foul Potions, Hermione thought. If only Slughorn had been more insightful.
She waited until the last students walked out to call for the blonde.
"Narcissa? All done here?"
"Almost!" she heard the other professor's voice carrying through the half-open door. "Let me file these, then I'm all yours."
Hermione smiled as she looked through the classroom. Despite still being in the Dungeons, Narcissa had done something to it to make it... lighter, airier, and far less stifling than it had been during her student years. She supposed Snape and Narcissa had different aesthetics.
"Hello," Hermione heard from behind her. She turned, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach—she didn't think they would go away anytime soon; they always attacked full force when she saw Narcissa for the first time, on any day.
The blonde wore a deep-blue set of robes with a magnificent silver trim; the colour brought out the lighter blues of her eyes beautifully, making them utterly mesmerizing. A white undershirt showed beneath the heavy robes, and upon Narcissa's exposed collarbone rested the silver Time-Turner Hermione had gifted her.
Hermione felt her heart skip a beat and felt embarrassed. She had already acknowledged to herself the level of her attraction to Narcissa, but this was getting ridiculous. It only got worse when Narcissa's lips tugged into a happy grin.
"Hi there," Hermione responded, hoping her voice didn't sound too husky. "I see you're finished with practicals as well?"
Narcissa nodded. "Yes, finally." She motioned towards the bubbling cauldrons placed on students' work benches. "My seventh-years just turned in their projects; I have to say the results are already more promising than I expected."
The blonde stopped, seemingly distracted with something. She looked quizzically at Hermione, and the brunette was about to say something when the Potions professor took resolute steps in her direction.
"Wha..." Hermione began, but then Narcissa leaned desperately close, and for one panicked moment Hermione thought the blonde was about to kiss her.
Instead, Narcissa leaned close to Hermione's neck, inhaling softly. "A-ha." She murmured, mere centimetres from Hermione's skin and making it erupt in goose-bumps Hermione prayed she wouldn't notice. "I was wondering what that delightful scent was. Seems to be you" she quipped, and Hermione felt herself blushing. Narcissa inhaled deeply once more, and Hermione thought she'd have an aneurysm.
"Lavender," Narcissa declared, seemingly oblivious to Hermione's predicament, still sampling the scent in deep breaths that made Hermione try to supress few gasps. "But also..." another inhalation "jasmine and... peony."
Hermione let out a nervous laugh. "You know your flowers" she croaked, fighting her flush. Narcissa stepped back with a smile, and Hermione gave her an impressed look. "I think that's nearly every ingredient of my perfume."
Narcissa tapped her nose. "A good potion maker must always have a good sense of smell—anything off with a potion's scent can be disastrous."
Hermione laughed, a little more at ease. "That's mightily impressive, I put it on very early this morning. And this room really smells of eucalyptus" she pointed out.
Narcissa raised a brow, puzzled. "Eucalyptus? I haven't used it in any brews today—I need to be able to spot if my students are doing things correctly."
"Really?" Hermione asked, genuinely puzzled. There was no way Narcissa couldn't smell the eucalyptus, not if she had just broken down Hermione's perfume by ingredient. Maybe the blonde had grown used to it? "Then how..."
"Ah! Professor Black!" called a student, bursting through the open door panting and red in the face. "Oh, hello, Professor Granger. Sorry to interrupt. Professor Black, I'm so sorry, but I accidentally forgot to submit my ingredient analysis! May I put it with my sample?"
"Your sample?" Narcissa asked, and Hermione was confused by how the woman suddenly stiffened in place, eyes widening in something akin to terror.
"Of course, Mr. Greyson" Narcissa said hoarsely, nodding to the young man, who hurriedly deposited a roll of parchment by a copper cauldron that bubbled away. The potion there was of a mother-of-pearl sheen; its smoke rose in dainty spirals. Hermione froze. She felt her heart pumping away furiously, and the butterflies in her stomach returned in a frenzy. A label hastily applied to the rim of the cauldron read, in clumsy capital letters: AMORTENTIA.
