There was a single ray of sunlight beaming directly onto Hermione's face. She tried her very best to ignore the abominable brightness that dared disturb her slumber, moving away to try and avoid the offending beam by shuffling along her pillow. However, as she tried to do so, she became aware of a considerable, comfortable weight upon her chest.

The vents of the previous night flooded back to her memory all at once, in rapid snapshots of occurrences and developments that seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago. The Amortentia mishap that filled her with hope. The total euphoria and amazement of finding the Black Family wards, all thanks to some Flickering Pixie that had triggered Narcissa's memory. Narcissa leaning forward in her arms, taking the plunge and kissing Hermione in a way that made her legs weak—literally.

And then Dementors, so many of them, in every direction. Narcissa's locket, imbued with Dobby's magic, saving their lives.

Hermione remembered what she had said at Grimmauld Place, in the heat of the moment—the guild she had felt returned full-force. It was just weaker than her anger—just barely. She was furious with the Ministry and with Kingsley in particular for detaining Narcissa for questioning as if she were a criminal, not a victim.

She sighed deeply, working the cricks out of her stiff neck slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping Narcissa.

The Gryffindor glanced down to where Narcissa's head rested upon her chest. Long strands of blond hair cascaded over her chest and shoulders in a blanket of gold. Narcissa slept soundly, her breaths deep and slow against Hermione's body.

Hermione resisted the nearly overwhelming desire to caress Narcissa's cheek, enthralled as she was by the other witch's peaceful features. She settled for softly running her fingers through those silky strands of gold instead.

She had seen so many facets of Narcissa. There was the indomitable Ice Queen mask that most of the world knew. There was the soft, easy-going Narcissa who made playful remarks and skipped stones on water with astounding skill. There was the grieving sister, consumed with guilt over her own grief. There was the doting aunt and grandmother, the poised Professor, and the excitable bookworm that rivalled even Hermione herself. There was the powerful witch and the defenceless, unloved child; there was the ruthless lady of wizarding high society, and there was the vulnerable, broken woman who broke into tears in Hermione's arms.

Even while knowing all those sides of Narcissa—and Hermione knew exactly how much of a privilege that was—Hermione could swear the witch sleeping against her would never, ever cease to surprise her.

It was the case even now: Hermione had never seen Narcissa so peaceful, so vulnerable and open as she was at this very moment, sleeping in her embrace. Disturbing such peace would be tantamount to sin.

Her blood boiled as she thought of Narcissa at the Ministry without her She was glad Harry had been there, but he didn't know—like Hermione hadn't until they landed at Charles House after their miraculous escape—how terrified Narcissa was of Dementors.

Even if she were not so terrified; even if Narcissa could produce the most powerful Patronus any witch or wizard could witness, Hermione refused to believe there was any reason why Narcissa would want anything to do with the monstrous creatures, much less summon them to Black Manor somehow.

That being said—Hermione furrowed her brown, deep in thought—there had to be a reason why the Dementors were so far from Azkaban, precisely where they ended up. Most importantly was the question: how on earth did the harrowing ghouls travel so fast? Could Dementors somehow Apparate? That certainly made for a terrifying prospect. Could they be summoned? If so, by whom, or by what?

Hermione shuddered. Her know-it-all brain did not like not knowing.

Her shudder caused Narcissa to shift in her sleep; a tired mewl escaped her lips as her lids fluttered, not quite waking yet.

The Gryffindor felt her heart melt. How precious it was to be where she was right at this blissful moment, especially considering the utter chaos they had been through.

Merlin, she thought. She hadn't gone through such an eventful night since she was a teenager.

Narcissa gave out a deep sigh—Hermione could tell she was close to awakening. She gently caressed the arm Narcissa had wound around her waist as they slept.

Blue eyes snapped open to meet her gaze. For a moment the shock in them was so intense Hermione thought Narcissa would leap out of the bed with fright; she felt the Slytherin's body go rigid where she lay. Narcissa's jaw clenched momentarily as fear and confusion took over.

It was over like a brief gust of wind as recognition dawned in those blue oceanic depths. Hermione felt absolute relief once Narcissa's body relaxed against her own again.

"You stayed," was the blonde's first greeting. It was followed by a tinge of pink in her cheeks, and the sight made Hermione feel warm on the inside.

"Of course I did," she said, unable to stop her grin. "You asked me to."

Narcissa's cheeks pinked further. It was absolutely adorable.

"Thank you," she said, trying to get her flush under control.

There was silence, but it was the comfortable kind; the kind that made one wish it would stretch out forever.

"How are you feeling?" Narcissa asked after a few long, contemplative moments.

"Me?" Hermione asked. "I should be the one asking you." The memory of Narcissa breaking down in her arms was still fresh in her mind.

"I was not the one who passed out at the dinner table." Narcissa quipped, shaking her head. Her smile was so jovial Hermione nearly forgot to be embarrassed. Nearly. "Such awful table manners."

"I'm...I feel fine, thank you." Hermione finally complied. Her Gryffindor pride had been a little wounded she had not, in fact, been able to spring right back into action after her multi-corporeal Patronus.

Now that Hermione came to think of it, it had been many years since she last had to cast a Patronus to actually defend herself from Dementors. The charm had become second-nature for communication purposes, but using it for its actual defensive purpose could be mentally and physically taxing. She had forgotten exactly how taxing it could be.

"But how about you?" she asked, unable to mask the worry in her tone. Something had clicked between her and Narcissa the moment she burst into that interrogation room; Narcissa had never looked so simultaneously broken yet relieved.

The Slytherin exhaled deeply; her body sagged pleasantly against Hermione's.

"I'm alright now," she said, pausing for a moment. "Yesterday was... tiring." She finished with another sigh, fingers absent-mindedly drawing lazy patterns upon Hermione's side.

Hermione felt her breath hitch at the unexpected—but not unwelcome—touch. She had not expected the surge of heat it suddenly elicited.

"Yeah," she breathed out, trying to keep her tone even, because now was decidedly not the time to think about how beautiful Narcissa looked in the morning light, how mesmerizing her eyes were as they reflected the rays of sun, or how her own body tingled and thrummed with something indescribable at the sight of Narcissa in bed, in her arms.

Curse her overactive brain.

"Yeah," she said again, clearing her throat. "Quite uh... an eventful night."

"Indeed," Narcissa sighed, looking oblivious to Hermione's inner turmoil. She sighed again. "I suppose we must return to the Ministry."

Hermione frowned. "Not a chance," she hissed, narrowing her eyes just thinking about Kingsley interrogating Narcissa again. He would have to get through one seriously pissed-off Gryffindor first. "If he wants to put you through some inane line of questioning again, he can come to us. In fact, I'm certain he will, if the matter is so urgent."

Narcissa smiled wryly. "Don't be too upset with him. Despite the massive inconveniences he's caused me, at the very least our Minister is more thorough than any that came before him."

Hermione rolled her eyes. They had been through this dance before—Narcissa listing the reasons why she could not be trusted, and Hermione pointing out the exact opposite.

"Misplaced suspicion is not the same as being thorough or cautious. It's paranoia."

Narcissa propped herself up on her elbows, her gaze now level with Hermione's. She began to speak, but for a moment it was like she had forgotten what to say. Her hand came to rest upon Hermione's cheek, caressing it softly in gentle, tender touches. Hermione forgot how to breathe for a few short seconds.

"Hermione," Narcissa whispered, as if she had just snapped out of a trance. "Do you think Lady Avery or Lady Crabbe receive letters from their husbands?"

Hermione had to physically shake her confusion away, so blindsided she was by the question. This was not where she expected their conversation to go.

"What are you talking about?" She had to ask, failing to see what sort of point Narcissa was obviously trying to make.

"The other Death Eater wives," Narcissa clarified. Hermione shuddered at the designation—it made it sound like some kind of club or television programme. "Do you think any of them receive letters from their husbands in prison?"

Hermione gaped, still confused.

"I don't see why not," she finally said, only now beginning to think about it. There were several Pure-blooded witches around with Death Eater husbands in jail; she knew a few of them by name, but never bothered to keep tabs on them. She had been too busy rounding up their outlaw husbands in her time at the DMLE.

She knew of a few in passing. For example, Amanda Yaxley had devoted all of her time and considerable money to non-profits curating pieces of magical history around Europe. Emma Crabbe was still very much a socialite—last Hermione heard she had invested in some wizarding fashion or some such thing.

She had never found much reason to keep tabs on those women—their husbands were the real threat. Most of them were just along for the ride with their Death Eater spouses—many of them married off as soon as they graduated.

They were an odd sort of enemy to have. Conceited, entitled, and irrevocably prejudiced, but they were not—as far as anyone knew, as far as it had been proven—criminals like their husbands. They were like enemies... once removed.

"They do. Now tell me, do you think any of those women is under Ministry surveillance?"

Hermione was prepared to answer, to say that was completely and totally irrelevant, but then...

"You're not the only one being watched," she gasped out, realization dawning. She immediately wanted to rebuke it.

"But it's completely different!" She started, not giving Narcissa the chance to interject. "They... they still communicate with their husbands willingly! You, you divorced Lucius! And you've changed, you've changed so much and you're doing so much, and they..."

"They haven't?" Narcissa interrupted with a quirked brow and a knowing smile. "I fail to see how what they are doing at present differs so greatly from what I doing myself."

"Of course it's different!" Hermione cried, understanding Narcissa's logic and now grasping at straws to find evidence against it. "You've built bloody hospital, Narcissa, for Merlin's sakes!"

"Amanda Yaxley has curated some of the biggest collections of wizarding art and historical artefacts—it is open to the public. Emma Crabbe provides clothing and supplies to wizarding orphanages. And I believe it is Letitia McNair, among others, who funds magical exchange programs for young wizarding graduates. So on and so forth."

"So they're 'philanthropists.' Doesn't mean they've changed!"

Narcissa smiled tenderly, stroking Hermione's cheek.

"Give me proof they haven't." She quipped knowingly. "For all we know, Lady McNair may also be in bed with a Muggleborn at this very moment."

Hermione snorted with laughter, involuntarily. She still didn't want to concede, out of sheer petulance, but the thought was undeniable funny.

"It's still different." She insisted, holding onto Narcissa's wrist and stilling her motion. "You're divorced."

Narcissa laughed sarcastically. "Yes, and that has worked out so well—even the Ministry, the institution that finalized my divorce, still addresses me by my married name."

"It is different to me," Hermione sighed, feeling deflated. It was so easy to forget about all the moving pieces when she wasn't in the thick of it. The nostalgia for all the action and intrigue hit her again, despite her better judgement. "I know you." she defended weakly. "And I know how much you have changed."

Narcissa's smile widened. Unexpectedly, she leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Hermione's mouth.

"Your faith in my supposed virtues will never cease to amaze me," she said, her tone cryptic. Hermione had a difficult time hearing—her blood had started thundering in her ears the moment Narcissa's lips made contact.

"But," Narcissa continued, beginning to pull back. "It does not erase some rather unpleasant truths."

Hermione stopped Narcissa from pulling back, encircling her more firmly with her arms. The Slytherin did not protest; she merely continued speaking in a defeated voice.

"For example, my family. Look at who my sister was—the Dark Lord's right hand. Then there's the matter of the Dark Lord himself—who was a... guest in my own home, where heinous, absolutely heinous crimes were committed. In my home. In my presence."

Narcissa sighed deeply, deflating.

"I may not like it—I hate it, in fact—but I understand the Minister's logic for the surveillance."

Hermione shook her head. "There may have been some logic to begin with, but it's been ten years. There's no reason to keep it up any longer."

Narcissa shot her a challenging glance.

"Would you still think so if you did not know me as you do now? Better yet—would you so vehemently defend Amanda Yaxley, or Lady McNair, or any of the others?"

Hermione opened her mouth to say yes, absolutely, because it was only fair and she would always and forever advocate for fairness and justice no matter what. But she stopped herself before the words could come out, coming to realize something about herself that she did not like at all.

The ugly truth was that she most likely would not have questioned it. She would have thought the surveillance fair and just—if not for Narcissa, at least for the other Death Eater wives who had not, in fact, switched sides, even if at the last possible second. The undeniable truth was that she could not help but harbour an intense dislike for the high-and-mighty, conceited Purebloods. There would always be an instant distrust.

It was shocking, not to mention highly unpleasant, to have her own prejudice pointed out so starkly. She hesitated to go as far as to compare it to the deep hatred Purebloods—some of them—harboured towards those of lesser birth, as they said.

"I guess not," Hermione finally responded, hating how the admission made her feel inside.

"Have any of them changed?" She asked, the question gnawing at her from within and the curiosity taking the best of her. "Yaxley, Crabbe... McNair?"

Narcissa snorted with laughter, rather ungracefully and rather unlike her usual poised self. "Most assuredly not."

Hermione waggled her brows, unable to stop herself from joining in on the laughter.

"Even if they had," she piped in, her tone as haughty as she could possibly make it, "I very much doubt any of them would have gotten to the point of sharing a bed with a Muggleborn."

Narcissa giggled, openly giggled—it was such an adorable sound Hermione was smitten all over again.

"They would never," the blonde declared, her mock-haughtiness coming across much better than Hermione's ever could. "Only I am allowed such pleasure."

It was something about Narcissa's eyes—it always was, with the way they reflected the light so beautifully, looking like tempestuous skies and deep oceans all at once. It was the way their gaze locked onto Hermione's; how they held so much promise and... and want.

Hermione allowed herself to drown in those deep blue pools. How was it possible that they looked as if Narcissa was also drowning?

"Narcissa?" she breathed out, suddenly aware that her throat had gone dry and her voice had grown husky.

"Yes?" Narcissa drawled, mirth twinkling in her eyes like she already knew what the Gryffindor wanted to ask.

Hermione swallowed, willing some of her famed courage back into her veins. Her other hand came to rest upon Narcissa's cheek, holding her tenderly.

"I... I would like to kiss you again."

Narcissa's smile widened, her cheeks pinked, and her eyes seemed to glimmer with hidden anticipation and desire. Hermione had never seen anything that beautiful.

The Slytherin pulled back only slightly, only enough to send the brunette a look of playful defiance.

"Why don't you, then?"

Hermione leaned forward tentatively, tilting Narcissa's chin upwards and capturing her lips in a tender kiss.

She didn't quite know what to expect this time. This time, kissing Narcissa was not an unknown sensation, but it was still something new and utterly breath-taking.

It wasn't earth-shattering like their first. Those emotions and many of their uncertainties had already been released along with the powerful warding magic back at Black Manor. But it was just as beautiful and intense, only in a vastly different way.

For starters, Hermione was not overtaken by shock and total euphoria—even if she were, this time the risk of falling backwards was neutralized by Narcissa's bed. She could take her time to thoroughly concentrate on the blissful sensation of Narcissa's lips moving against her own; she could relish in the feeling of Narcissa's arms tightening around her. This time, they could... languish, it felt like.

There was no explosion; the heat of the kiss was more gradual and controlled, at least initially, like embers being steadily blown into a roaring fire. It went slowly, torturously so as that heat began to build up, coursing through every inch of Hermione's body.

There was a soft gasp; Narcissa pulled back a little, hands still grasping at Hermione's robes at the waist. Their ragged gasps filled the space between them and Hermione saw a hungry version of her gaze being reflected onto Narcissa's dilated pupils.

The magnificent sight only spurred her on further; Hermione quickly sat up, bringing a startled Narcissa up with her.

This kiss was all fervour and raw desire. It was hunger and thirst in one frantic continuum of emotion and sensation that they had somehow ignited.

Hermione drank in Narcissa's moans and shivered when Narcissa devoured her breathless gasps. They were burning, but by Merlin, they were burning together and Hermione was all but certain they would be reduced to ashes once it was all over and done.

The end came much sooner than expected, with decisive knocks sounding at the door of Narcissa's adjacent office.

The two witches jumped apart, scrambling off the bed. Hermione noted with a mixture of smugness and horror that Narcissa's lips were pink and swollen, her eyes glimmered, and her hair...

She looked like she had been thoroughly ravaged, and Hermione was certain she was in a similar state of dishevelment.

It was remarkable to see Narcissa school her features so easily. From one second to the other, her expression changed from eager and breathless to perfectly calm and collected—albeit with cheeks still slightly red.

Hermione set their hair and robes right with one decisive flick of her wand. Better not risk it—for all they knew it could be Kingsley himself at the other side of that door.

She watched as Narcissa stoically walked to her door. The blonde had her wand on hand—Hermione couldn't decide whether she was relieved by Narcissa's presence of mind or whether she was unhappy with the necessity of having such foresight.

Narcissa opened the door in one smooth movement. Minerva McGonagall stood, eyes widening in surprise as they immediately spotted Hermione standing by the door of Narcissa's personal quarters.

"Headmistress," Narcissa said politely. "Good morning."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Afternoon, Ms. Black." She looked pointedly at Hermione, the very picture of confusion. She straightened—a feat in itself, considering her usual ramrod straight posture.

"The Minister of Magic is here. He wishes to speak to both of you, regarding the disappearance of Azkaban's guard of Dementors."

Minerva directed an odd look to Hermione. It was oddly reminiscent of her school days, the brunette realized—it was exactly the kind of look she, Harry, and Ron received whenever she thought something along the lines of 'Why is it that whenever something happens, it is always you three?'

"We'll be up in a minute." Hermione said quickly.

"Actually," Narcissa interrupted Minerva's incoming response. "The Minister is welcome to have this discussion in my offices," she said. Her tone and serious gaze made it perfectly clear—the Minister would not be seeing her otherwise.

"Very well," Minerva replied, clearly oblivious to what had truly happened the night before, which Hermione did not like. News about the massive breakout was bound to come out. Minerva had to know at the very least that the Dementors did not pose a serious threat to the school—at least not when they were all the way in Cambridgeshire. She should know about it—not only because she was Hogwarts' Headmistress, but because she was a friend and long-time ally to the Minister.

Minerva levelled the two women with a look that said 'this can't be good, can it?'. Hermione could only respond with a gaze of confirmation before Minerva excused herself with a poorly concealed grimace.

Narcissa saw Minerva out with a polite smile, but when she turned to face Hermione once more, her features were grave.

"Minerva has not been informed about Black Manor."

Hermione nodded, not liking the implication.

"Harry told her about the breakout, but they haven't updated her. I don't know what Kingsley's up to," she said, her frustration evident. "But the Ministry clearly does not want people knowing about how quickly those Dementors are moving, and I don't like that at all."

Narcissa sighed. "I suppose we must wait to hear what he has to say."

Hermione merely frowned.


Kingsley arrived not five minutes after the Headmistress had left, accompanied by Harry and two other wizards in tow. Hermione did not recognize them, but they wore uniforms not unlike Harry's Auror robes, though they were of a deep, shimmering black colour as opposed to grey. They were emblazoned with an insignia Hermione had not seen before.

Narcissa welcomed them into her small private sitting room politely, but coolly.

"Minister. Mr. Potter." Her eyes narrowed as she looked the two unknown wizards over. Her tone became biting, with no effort to be civil. "Officers."

Hermione whipped her head back to take another look at the grouchy-looking wizards.

"Officers?" she asked out loud, aware that she was being tactless but not caring in the slightest. If Kingsley had brought some kind of Auror reinforcements with him, what exactly did he expect to do?

"Yes," Narcissa quipped, faking an exceedingly cheerful tone. "I believe these two gentlemen are the Unspeakables tasked with my surveillance?" she directed her question—her statement, really—to Kingsley with a knowing look.

Hermione felt her jaw unhinge, Harry let out a bark that was equal parts laughter and shock, and Kingsley clenched his teeth.

"Yes," he hissed in confirmation. "Agents Willow and Birch have been in charge of monitoring you for the past few years."

Hermione wanted to snort at the codenames, but her blood was boiling. What was Kingsley playing at, bringing Unspeakables with him?

Narcissa merely leaned back in her chair. "So nice to put faces to names" she said sarcastically. Her look turned to ice as she regarded Kingsley intensely.

"Shall we get this over with, Minister?"

Kingsley straightened in his seat. Willow and Birch stood by the door, looking impassive as always. Harry looked to the Minister, who nodded as if to give his permission.

"Ms. Black," Harry began, looking a little nervous. "We would like to update you on the status of Black Manor." He took one long breath. "After you alerted us to the invasion, several Auror teams were displaced to the location. We managed to detain a handful of the Dementors."

"A handful?!" Hermione interrupted, eyes wide. "There were hundreds!"

Harry grimaced. "We were unable to secure the rest."

Hermione felt Narcissa stiffen next to her. "How?"

The Boy-Who-Lived visibly sagged in his seat. "I have no idea. One minute they were there, and then... they weren't."

Hermione felt the blood rush away from her face. "Like... like they apparated?"

Harry merely shrugged. It began to make sense why the Ministry hadn't said anything—they didn't know what the hell was happening either. Hermione turned to Narcissa, who hadn't spoken; she could see the tension in the blonde's jaw and wished she could reach over and take her hand to offer some comfort.

But she couldn't; not with Kingsley and Harry present, and certainly not with Unspeakables in charge of monitoring Narcissa in the room.

"We did manage to secure a few Dementors," Harry began again, his tone deflated. "But as you know, it's not as if we can... interrogate those Dementors."

Hermione nodded.

"Ms. Black," Kingsley spoke, his analytical gaze never leaving Narcissa's features. "You said you and Ms. Granger were doing research on some old wards in the property?"

"Yes." Narcissa confirmed in a disinterested whisper. Hermione, however, could still feel the tension rolling from Narcissa in waves.

"And am I to understand you were not able to Apparate out of the property once those wards had been revealed?"

"Correct."

"What is going on?" Hermione interrupted. "What do the wards have to do with the Dementors?"

Kingsley finally turned to look at Hermione. His eyes were set in stone. "We believe the Dementors were attracted by a surge of magical energy coming from the property. Luckily, the entire perimeter is safeguarded against Muggles—another of the Blacks' tricks—so no one besides you and our Aurors saw the warding lights."

Hermione sucked in a breath. Had they diverted the Dementors' journey somehow? Was it really sheer coincidence they happened to show up where they were?

"As soon as the Auror squads arrived, they began to retreat" Harry began again, brows furrowed.

"None of our Aurors could Apparate out of the property once they arrived via their modified PortKeys" Kingsley explained. His eyes narrowed. "How were you two able to leave the premises?"

Hermione turned to Narcissa, gauging whether the Slytherin wanted to answer the question.

Narcissa reached into her robes, taking out the locket that had saved their lives the night before. Hermione couldn't believe it had been a matter of hours—it felt like an eternity ago.

"A modified PortKey. It was created by a House-Elf." She explained succinctly.

Harry's eyes widened, evidently guessing as to which House-Elf had created such a thing.

"Very well. I will ask you more about that at a later time. The main reason I wanted to speak to you was to tell you that, as of today," Kingsley's gaze turned pointedly to Hermione—a mixture of warning and pleading that the brunette could not quite decipher. "The Ministry will cease its surveillance of your person."

Hermione wanted to jump, but the atmosphere in the space was too tense. Finally!

"Thank you." Narcissa said simply. It didn't sound like she believed a word of it, especially with the way she eyed the two agents that still stood stoically by her door.

"The other thing would be to alert you of the current situation at Black Manor."

That caught Narcissa's attention; her gaze snapped back to the Minister.

"What do you mean?" Hermione interjected, confused. "The Dementors disappeared, you caught a few. What else is there?"

Harry looked rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. He was the one to speak.

"In the ensuing skirmish... well" he raised his eyes to Narcissa in a clear apology. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Black. I'm afraid a significant portion of the Manor was destroyed."

Hermione only heard Narcissa's gasp by her side.