A/N: Oh hi. Long time no see!

~Naralanis


Hermione scarcely remembered the very first Remembrance Gala. At the time, barely a year after the war, it was not quite a gala—indeed, it was only called Day of Remembrance then. It was a sombre, ceremony, pointed with melancholy and hopes to rebuild the Wizarding World from the ashes. The War Trials were not even finished; there were still Death Eaters to hunt, fanatics who carried on fighting and killing until their last breath.

How foolish they had been, Hermione thought with the wisdom the years had given her. When Tom Riddle's body had fallen to the ground with a heavy, dead thud, Hermione—and all of those around her—had naturally dared to think that it was the end. The end of the war, the end of all the pain and heartbreak the man now lying dead before them had caused. When the infamous Lord Voldemort drew his last breath, the Saviours of the Wizarding World had allowed themselves a collective sigh of relief. They had given no thought to War Trials, to imprisonments, to manhunts for the Death Eaters who dared continue with their master's work. They hadn't even thought about the burials—they were just glad it was over.

Within a few days, however—the extensive renovations to their alma mater had not even begun—Harry, Ron and Hermione found themselves gainfully employed by the Kingsley's Ministry. While the bureaucrats of the new government tasked themselves with new laws, with trying and sentencing the war criminals, the newly formed Auror Division dedicated all of its resources and manpower to hunt down those that remained. Newly-trained Aurors and veterans alike, led by none other than the Golden Trio themselves. Who better to advance such a task-force than the three wizards who had spent an entire year of their lives valiantly trying to undermine Voldemort's war efforts?

It made Hermione laugh with sheer disbelief now, when she thought about the absurdity of appointing the three of them to such a task. Firstly, it seemed that the Wizarding World at large had formed entirely the wrong impression about their "secret mission." It had been a secret, of course, but that was about it. It was a year on the run—on a suicide mission, really, one given to children by a man whose unerring morality Hermione began to question later in life. She remembered nothing of bravery—she remembered despair, panic, a slew of bad decisions. She remembered dumb luck and bad, bad luck. Most of all, she remembered fear and aching loneliness. It had never been a mission, it had been a mad dash to capture smoke with their bare hands, relying on nothing but an old wizard's charades for guidance.

She had thought herself an adult—grown up, of legal age in the Wizarding World. Now, the mere thought made her terribly uneasy. They were nothing but children, sod the legal age law—they were teenagers, taking on a world's burden upon their shoulders, and as soon as the war was over, they were asked to keep on doing it. It was madness, but they did it anyway.

By the time that first Remembrance Day rolled around, Hermione was already exhausted, not to mention so deep in her Dreamless Draught hole that she could barely remember standing on that beautiful marbled podium with Harry and Ron. She could vaguely recall going to the Leaky Cauldron scant hours before the ceremony and polishing off about a bottle of Ogden's Finest, and Harry and Ron, discreetly holding on to her sleeves during the evens so that she would not sway on the stage.

Her memory was like a badly quilted blanket of snippets and scenes, some of which she could recall better than others. She remembered next to nothing of the ceremony itself, only the tears and the heaviness of grief in the air.

These days, Remembrance Day was not quite so sombre. Sure, there were still speeches and tears and grief still, but after so much pain, the Wizarding World finally allowed themselves the chance to heal—the chance to laugh and enjoy life again.

Hence, the gala. A massive, extravagant party with music, drinks, and revelry that went beyond remembering the fallen; it was all about celebrating their great sacrifice, relishing in the peace and happiness they had fought for.

Hermione didn't mind the party—in fact, she enjoyed it quite a bit mora than standing at that stage with Harry and Ron, listening to some speaker greatly exaggerate their achievements to a few hundred people dressed in their finest robes.

This year's speaker was the same pudgy man who had received the honour for the past two years, and Hermione could not fathom why. There was nothing inherently wrong with Willard Baxter, of course, at least not from their side of the stage. The audience, however, especially the front row, was getting a literal mouthful of Willard's spit.

"Friendsh! We shelebrate today one of the greatesht upshets in our hishtory; when these three heroesh shtanding before you rishked their livesh in a dangeroush, shecret mission, againsht all oddsh, shacrificing it all in a fight the likesh of which we shall never undershtand!"

Hermione heard Harry disguise his laughter with an ill-timed cough as the first row tried to sink further and further into their seats, trying in vain to avoid Willard's spray. At her side, she could feel Ron straining not to burst out laughing.

"Merlin," he muttered under his breath. "I've half a mind to conjure them some umbrellas."

Hermione stifled a giggle. "I mean, look at the poor sods!" Ron continued as Harry continued to have a hard time hiding his snickers. "I've been less soaked after a dive in the Black Lake!"

"Ron, stop it," Hermione hissed through gritted teeth she hoped to pass off as an enthusiastic smile.

"But 'Mione, he's spewing it!"

It took a great deal of control to keep a straight face until the end of Willard's speech—Harry's shoulders were shaking with the effort, Ron was openly grinning, and Hermione's jaw hurt from gritting her teeth so hard to stop herself.

After an eternity, the final remarks were finally heard and the Trio posed for the reporters. The audience, blessedly free from the speaker's onslaught of saliva, began to disperse as the newly vacated chairs began to float away to make room for the dance floor.

Molly Weasley made a beeline for the three, and before Hermione could warn him, Ron received Molly's signature whack to the head.

"Oi! What was that for!"

The Weasley matriarch narrowed her eyes. "The cheek of it! Don't think I didn't see you lot giggling like children during the speech!" She huffed. "I thought I raised you better."

"Mum, the man was like a garden sprinkler!" Ron exclaimed, dodging another attack.

"It doesn't matter," she argued. "This is a solemn occasion."

Hermione smiled. "You're very right, Molly. Say, didn't you have VIP tickets to the front row this year? How come you were all the way at the back?"

Molly blushed to the roots of her greying hair. "I just thought Pansy Parkinson might enjoy the seats better."

The party was soon in full swing. People were eager to celebrate these days, and that was something Hermione could get behind after so much craziness. It was good to unwind. She would through and around the dance floor with a half-sipped flute of champagne in hand, trying to spot Narcissa. They had gone shopping at Diagon Alley a few days before, which had been a terrible, terrible idea all around, for Narcissa had found an evening gown that seemed to be made of cascading silver. It was quite elegant, if a bit modern for Wizarding standards, and it was very nearly backless, save for a few straps of glittering fabric that criss-crossed over her shoulder-blades down to the small of her back.

Hermione had come along for moral support—Narcissa had helped her with her own shopping, after all. But when she saw the blonde emerge from the dressing room in that silvery number, something inside her brain snapped. She had unceremoniously shoved Narcissa back in for a rather intense, absurdly risky snogging session right there at Madame Malkins'. Hermione had briefly feared a stern reproach, and when none came, she was ready to apologize profusely. But when they separated, breathless and flushed with hairdos askew, Narcissa had smiled wickedly and pulled Hermione towards her.

When they finally re-emerged, Narcissa bought the dress then and there with a wicked gleam in her gaze while Hermione could not even look Madame Malkins in the eye.

Well. Thankfully they were in the same page in that regard.

She had briefly seen Narcissa in the crowd during Willard's speech. She had been seated far from the stage, nearly in the last row and practically lost in the sea of people, but their gazes had connected while Hermione stood with harry and Ron. When the crowd dispersed, Hermione caught a glimpse of swaying hips draped in silver, but she had been side-lined by reporters and conversation.

She browsed the room, scanning the many familiar faces until her eyes landed on platinum-blonde hair, elaborately plaited and elegantly draped over those straps that had made her lose her damn mind in Diagon Alley.

Hermione hesitated—Narcissa was engrossed in conversation with quite a few women, some of whom Hermione recognized. Paola Zabini and Letitia McNair were among them, as well as another woman with blonde hair whose face Hermione recognised, but couldn't place. The rest were no doubt other Death Eater wives—they made quite the picture, all dressed to the nines in incredibly elegant, doubtlessly expensive evening gowns, each more extravagant than the next. Jewels glittered from their wrists and necks—diamonds, in great quantities, dangled from their ears and hugged their well-manicured hands in opulent rings.

The group gave Hermione great pause, mostly due to the fact that Narcissa, despite not associating with these women for a great many years, seemed to fit in seamlessly among them. Her attire was not as extravagant or ostentatious, but it was just as rich, and she carried herself in such a way to command their undivided attention—it was as if they followed her every movement and gesture in rapt focus. Even without seeing Narcissa's face, Hermione could tell that she was smiling politely as she conversed, champagne flute held delicately in a dainty hand that made an elegant, deliberate line to a softly crooked elbow, a river of silvery fabric that had Hermione staring openly with interest.

She didn't catch herself—Hermione was so entranced by the group she failed to notice just how awkwardly she was standing in their periphery as if she had been frozen in time, surrounded by dancing couples. Her staring was noticed, not by Narcissa, but by one of her entourage—one with her black hair done in a dramatic updo, hands glittering with golden rings and long, red-lacquered nails.

"My, my, Narcissa," Paola Zabini drawled, her accent far heavier than Hermione expected it to be. "It seems your fascinating story has drawn an audience besides us."

Before Hermione could blink, every pair of eyes in the group snapped to her; several lips tugged into exaggerated, predatory smiles, and suddenly she felt like a goldfish dropped into a barrel of bloodthirsty piranhas.

She opened her mouth, but no sound was forthcoming. She wanted to disappear through the cracks of the Atrium's floor, but then Narcissa was turning to face her, and as soon as their gazes connected, the blonde's expression morphed from the mask she presented to the other Slytherin dames into pure delight. Her smile was warm and her blue eyes softened. It was almost enough to make Hermione forget about the others. Almost.

Paola Zabini seemed to pick up on Narcissa's-or more likely, Hermione's-change of demeanour. Her eyes, adorned with golden eye-shadow and impossibly thick eyelashes batter Hermione's ways as her grin stretched across her face.

"Why, Ms. Granger, don't just stand there. Narcissa was just talking about you—do come and join us."

Whatever Hermione was about to say, she choked on her words when Mrs. Zabini beckoned her towards them with a suggestive flick of her painted nails. The other women watched expectantly, doing a rather poor job of hiding their interest.

"Come now, dear, don't be shy."

Narcissa laughed lightly with Mrs. Zabini, closing the distance between herself and Hermione in a confident stride. She interlocked her arms daintily at the elbow, and the soft touch went a long way in grounding Hermione.

"Paola, that's quite enough; you're scaring the poor girl." Narcissa laughed. Her voice was playful, but Hermione sensed some kind of possessiveness in her touch and she didn't know quite what to make of it. "Do join us, Hermione."

The Gryffindor had no time to process that Narcissa had just called her by her first name in front of all these women—it was deliberate, it had to be. As soon as Narcissa brought her over to the group, Mrs. Zabini took hold of her other warm—Hermione could feel her sharp nails on her skin, and the sensation gave her goosebumps, though not of the good kind.

"Yes, Ms. Granger," the Italian drawled, awfully close to Hermione's ear and pointedly rolling the R's of her last name in discomfiting contrast to how Narcissa had said her first. "Narcissa was just telling us about how you so gallantly saved her from that awful horde of Dementors." She paused, smiling widely in a way that made Hermione terribly uncomfortable. "How very courageous of you."

"I... uh..." Hermione tried, she truly did try her best to form a semi-coherent sentence, but she was completely side-tracked by the information Narcissa had chosen to share with those women. "I... well, it was nothing."

"My, so eloquent," Mrs. Zabini quipped.

Narcissa smiled, patting Hermione's hand. "Not 'nothing,' Hermione, really," she said brightly, and the pointed way she said her name only served to confuse Hermione further. What in Merlin's name was going on? Narcissa shuddered dramatically at her side. "I dread to think what would have happened had you not been able to conjure that marvellous Patronus and Apparate us to safety."

There was clearly no need to correct Narcissa on the Apparation bit—they would have been well and truly screwed had it not been for Narcissa's locket, but Hermione failed to see the angle for the lie. In fact, she failed to see the point in sharing any of this information.

"Do not sell yourself short, Ms. Granger," said the woman with blonde hair a few shades darker than Narcissa. Elizabeth Nott, Hermione suddenly remembered. "Not many people would have thought to save someone like Narcissa—they would have been all too happy to leave her behind."

Hermione was certain her jaw had disconnected itself from its hinges completely. "W-what? Of course—of course not! I'd never leave Na-Ms. Black behind. Or anyone, for that matter!"

She had been utterly and furiously indignant at the mere suggestion, but the indignance gave way to sheer surprise as the women's looks shifted into approval and Paola hummed appreciatively at her side. Had she just... passed some kind of test?

"I see Ms. Granger is better than those other Ministry buzzards," Mrs. Zabini continued, her voice sweet—a little too much so. Her dark gaze turned to Hermione. "Narcissa tells us that you've been quite a great help in her... little project."

Hermione blinked. "Ah? Oh, Black Manor? It... it was nothing."

"Not nothing," Letitia McNair echoed. "Narcissa told us all about the work you've done with the Manor's wards, Ms. Granger. It was most impressive."

Hermione stopped herself from saying it was 'nothing' once more, momentarily distracted by the feeling of Paola's nails grasping at her arm a little more firmly. "A pity all of your hard work was flushed down a Ministry drain," she quipped.

Hermione didn't know how to follow the line of conversation—it felt as if most of what the women said was left unspoken between the lines of pauses and poignant silences, and she could not make heads or tails of it.

"You would think, given how eager the Ministry is to use them, that they would keep those monsters in check. How do all the Dementors of Azakaban disappear overnight?" Letitia pondered, shaking her head in clear annoyance.

"Don't be a fool, Letitia," Mrs. Zabini hissed through a dramatic cackle. "I do not buy that story for one second. The Ministry controls the Dementors. Do you think it mere coincidence that monstrous horde descended upon Black Manor? You must be as naïve as our little Gryffindor friend over here."

Hermione bristled internally, and Narcissa waved the other woman off—though Hermione could see, plain as day, that the gesture was half-hearted at best. Narcissa clearly did not mean a single word that came out of her mouth next, and Hermione was quietly amazed that she could tell the difference.

"Oh, Paola, it won't do to give in to paranoia now—I am quite certain there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for these rather... unfortunate circumstances."

"Reasonable my foot!" Letitia exclaimed. "Paola is right. The Ministry wanted to stop your work, surely. The last thing they wanted was the evil wife of a notorious Death Eater doing better than they possibly could for the community. It would just look rather poor for the current administration."

"What?" Hermione blurted out, unable to contain the reaction. What did she walk into, a conspiracy theory club discussion?

Narcissa smiled; Letitia rolled her eyes, and Paola cackled again. "Surely, little lion, you cannot be that gullible. The Ministry would never want someone like Narcissa to succeed."

Hermione gritted her teeth, looking past the woman's condescension for what felt like the millionth time—the blasé tone was really getting old. "But sending all of the Dementors to sabotage the building of a hospital?" she questioned, unable to hide her incredulity. "That's a bit... well, that's a bit much, isn't it?"

Paola tutted. "Narcissa, dear, I thought you told us your little friend was of the intelligent variety."

The Gryffindor bristled, but Narcissa merely laughed good-naturedly, patting Hermione's hand in a move that felt just as condescending as Mrs. Zabini's tone, and the brunette did not like it one bit—it was hard to contain herself when Narcissa was playing along.

"The very Brightest Witch of her Age," Narcissa quipped brightly, a little too much so. "No one else could have cracked those wards," she continued, with a slight pinch to Hermione's cheek that left her burning up in embarrassment as the rest of the women tittered. Narcissa then sighed wistfully. "What a pity that all of her hard work will be for naught."

Hermione turned to Narcissa, cheeks still burning. "What?"

Narcissa shrugged. "The Manor—well, there is no hope of rebuilding it now, is there?"

Hermione's eyes widened. She hadn't quite understood that when Paola had said her work had been 'flushed down a Ministry drain.'

"But... I thought..." she began, only to be interrupted, wordlessly, by a subtle change in Narcissa's gaze. There was a glimmer in her eye, and a soft squeeze to the brunette's arm, and Hermione immediately backtracked. "Ah, surely... it can be rebuilt?"

Paola laughed, pinching Hermione's cheek much more aggressively. "Hah! Narcissa, she's adorable—I have to find myself one just like her."

Hermione narrowed her eyes angrily, quite fed up with all the cheek-pinching and laughter about her supposed naivete. She wanted to leave—every single one of those women would not have thought twice about stringing her up during the war. They thought she was filth, after all—Narcissa among them, she thought bitterly. Why was she giving them the time of day? Her body tensed in preparation to leave, but Narcissa's grip grounded her.

"Forgive dear Hermione, ladies," Narcissa drawled. "Her expertise lies in Warding Chars of an exceedingly complex nature, one surely beyond our own comprehension—she has little time to concern herself with the entanglements of red tape knotted by Ministerial bureaucrats."

"Ah," Letitia quipped. "So, Ms. Granger, I take it you are not familiar with the Ministry's cap to charitable organizations?"

Hermione turned to face the witch; her confusion painfully evident. The what now?

"I'm not surprised in the slightest," Letitia continued, pulling out an elegant cigarette holder from somewhere within her robes. "No one knows about that ridiculous law, passed rather quietly a few years ago—why would they?"

"What law?" Hermione interjected.

"The Galleon Transparency Act," Paola supplied, lighting Letitia's cigarette with a rapid flick of her wand. "Some stealthy legal manoeuvring on the Ministry's part to make sure rich witches and wizards didn't dump all their Galleons on one thing, to put it simply."

"It was meant to not allow... affluent individuals to control certain organizations solely due to their economic means," Narcissa clarified a bit more helpfully.

Hermione pondered it for a moment. "That... doesn't sound so bad," she said, because it truly didn't/ If anything, she hoped it also applied to Ministerial elections—to donors and whatnot.

"Of course someone like you would think so," Paola snipped. "Except that nifty little law, no doubt drafted by some heroic, pompous Gryffindor such as yourself, is not the only thing stopping dear Narcissa here from simply using her considerable funds to rebuild the Manor herself."

Hermione opened her mouth only to close it almost immediately, understanding nothing. She hadn't quite understood the need for investors and government funding in the first place, seeing as Narcissa was so wealthy, but now that particular kink in the plans was finally explained, somewhat.

"I see," she finally said. She patted Narcissa's arm this time. "Hopefully, with my help, we'll secure some more funding from the Ministry."

That apparently had been the right thing to say—Narcissa turned to look at her with a smile of approval. Ms. McNair, however, laughed.

"I wouldn't hold your breath," she snarked. "The Ministry and Narcissa are not exactly what one would call bosom buddies."

Hermione was undeterred, thinking she finally understood Narcissa's strategy. "Then we will procure capital elsewhere. I'm sure I could uh... use some of my influence." Narcissa smiled widely, murmuring an 'of course' under her breath.

"Perhaps," Ms. McNair began, looking to the other women around with a knowing glance. "Perhaps something can be done."

The other women seemed to nod in unspoken agreement, and Hermione didn't quite know what to make of it. "Expect an owl fairly soon, Narcissa," McNair continued. "I think it is high time we begin to talk business."


It took an unspeakable eternity for Narcissa to extricate herself from the group with a flimsy excuse to go to the powder room. Thankfully, she took Hermione with Her—the brunette didn't quite know how she would have escaped otherwise.

Hermione wanted to grill Narcissa as soon as they were out of the group's earshot, right there on the dancefloor. However, Narcissa had a dreamy expression on her face—it was as if she was walking on air as they weaved through the dancing crowd arm-in-arm. She looked blissfully content, and Hermione was confused enough to wait until they reached the relative safety of the Ministry's powder room.

She did not get a chance to speak once they made it. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Hermione found herself effectively pinned to the door with an armful of Narcissa. She barely had the time to register the feel of Narcissa's hands at her sides and her lips against her own—the blonde pulled away almost immediately, sounding utterly euphoric.

"Merlin, that was glorious!" She whispered against Hermione's lops, and then the onslaught began again.

Hermione wanted to allow herself to enjoy the –very—unexpected moment; Narcissa had never... attacked her in such a way, even though she was quite receptive to it at Diagon Alley. It would have been very easy indeed for Hermione to just allow herself to enjoy the softness of her lips and the urgency of Narcissa's grip. Were she any weaker—or less, for lack of a better term, high-strung—she could have easily brushed aside what had just transpired and lost herself to Narcissa's touch.

But, she wasn't, and curiosity—not to mention a not-negligible amount of her earlier indignation—won over desire.

"Narcissa," she tried, speaking over Narcissa's kisses. "Narcissa."

The blonde giggled against her. "Salazar, I thought we might be laying it on a bit thick, but oh, how they ate it up!"

"Narcissa," Hermione tried for the third time, doing her best not to sound too exasperated as she grasped the witch's shoulders with resolve, stopping the blonde in her tracks. Narcissa seemed to finally pick up on her frustration—the glee in her eyes evaporated, replaced by confusion as her gaze became guarded.

"Care to explain," Hermione said through a clenched jaw, trying to keep her tone even and calm. "What in Merlin's name happened back there?"

Narcissa cocked an eyebrow. "What? With Zabini and McNair, with the rest of the ladies?"

Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. "No, Narcissa, with those galloping Hippogriffs from earlier," she snarked. Narcissa narrowed her eyes at her sass, and Hermione took a deep breath.

"Sorry," she continued, running her palms up and down Narcissa's arms. "But... can you please explain what exactly I was doing back there? I felt like I was in a play and I wasn't given any damn lines!"

Narcissa laughed despite herself, which did not help Hermione's mood. She suddenly felt so angry. "Darling, wasn't it obvious? We were regaling old Pureblood widows with our amazing tales of Dementors and near-death experiences... stoking the fires to their little conspiracy theories and consequently playing them all like fiddles for some much-needed funding to support Black Manor."

"I know that," Hermione reasoned, because she did, didn't she? Narcissa had told her as much.

"Then what seems to be the problem?"

Hermione felt herself deflate, because in truth, she wasn't quite sure she could tell what the problem was, only that there was one... or several. Why hadn't Narcissa told her about the Galleon Transparency Act? Why had she not clued her in to her little strategy for those unpleasant women? And why had she gone along and made Hermione so supremely uncomfortable with the condescension, the cheek-pinching and exaggerated laughter? Hermione could feel herself shudder, still feeling Paola's sharp nails ghosting over her arm.

"Just! I don't know, maybe give me some warning next time!"

Narcissa's eyebrows shot up. "Warning? Darling, how could I? I had no way of knowing you'd be there when you were. I was simply using all tools at my disposal."

That definitively rubbed Hermione the wrong way—she nearly flinched. "You could have told me yesterday! Any time before today! And I'll tell you something else," she gritted her teeth, painfully so. "I am not some... some tool to be used at your convenience!"

Narcissa closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she brought a hand to Hermione's cheek. Hermione allowed herself to feel the caress, timing her breathing to Narcissa's soft strokes.

"Of course not," Narcissa said. "That is not what I meant."

"Then tell me, what was the bloody purpose of this little charade? Am I supposed to play the dumb, naïve little Gryffindor Muggle-Born you have under your thumb to impress your Pureblood friends?!"

"What?" Narcissa exclaimed, incredulous. "No, of course not! Whatever put such a ridiculous idea in your hea-"

"Because that's what it felt like!" Hermione cried. She realised she was shaking—her body practically bounced from the door to Narcissa and back. Both of Narcissa's hands came to rest upon her face, and she took several deep breaths to calm herself down as the blonde slowly leaned into her space, touching her forehead to Hermione's.

"I'm sorry," Hermione finally said after a heavy pause, trying to concentrate on the warmth and softness irradiating from Narcissa. "I just... those women—not to mention their husbands—would have gladly killed me a few years ago. They thought they were above me then, and know you trot me out there like some simple idiot, and they think they're still above me."

"How could you think that?" Narcissa questioned, holding Hermione with unspeakable tenderness.

Hermione sighed. "Those women questioned my intelligence at every turn, my worth. The cheek-pinching certainly didn't help. And Mrs. Zabini..." she shuddered. "I was uncomfortable. It was very unpleasant."

"Forgive me," Narcissa whispered. "That was never my intention. You simply appeared at such an opportune moment—as if speaking of you summoned you my way. I thought it foolish not to take advantage of the situation."

Hermione let out a sharp breath. "Fair enough, just... I don't know. Clue me in to your little plan next time... or just leave me out of it. The less I have to speak to those women, the better."

Narcissa nodded. "I will keep that in mind. For what it's worth, I think you handled yourself rather splendidly. As for Paola..." her blue eyes darkened, and the hands holding Hermione's cheeks tightened ever so slightly. "I shall endeavour to keep her wandering hands as far away from you as possible, or I'm afraid I'll have to cut them off."

Hermione was effectively side-tracked by the statement and the clear possessiveness Narcissa demonstrated.

"I don't... I..." she smiled widely. "Narcissa. Are you... are you jealous?"

Narcissa released an indignant, utterly adorable little huff, and it oddly made Hermione feel better. "Is that so surprising?"

Hermione laughed. "Very much so!"

Narcissa sniffed. "It shouldn't be," she said haughtily, almost comically so. "I've told you before, I am an extremely selfish woman. The very thought of anyone else touching you is... decidedly unpleasant to entertain."

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. Generally, she thought jealousy to be a rather unattractive trait, but strangely enough, to hear Narcissa Black admit to it in such a way...

Well, it was almost adorable.

"I can put your mind at ease, then," Hermione quipped, the anger melting away. "I'd say my chances of running off with Mrs. Zabini are... zero."

Narcissa smirked, practically growling as she leaned into Hermione again.

"Good."


They vacated the powder room after a snogging session that frankly left Hermione's head spiralling; but alas, they couldn't exactly lock themselves in there for the rest of the party. Hermione was reeling as Narcissa dragged her outside by the hand—she felt lightheaded, flushed, and her lips were puffy and reddened.

Narcissa looked picture-perfect, naturally, with not a hair out of place. The only indicator she had just spent a good half-hour thoroughly ravishing Hermione's lips as she pinned her against a door was the wicked gleam in her eye.

If some successful scheming always got the blonde worked up in such a way, Hermione might be a little more willing to participate in all that plotting. Maybe.

Hermione took a deep, calming breath as they emerged onto the dance-floor again. Narcissa had just let go of her hand when they heard a familiar voice calling for them.

"Cissy! Hermione! There you are!"

Hermione froze at Andromeda's voice, but Narcissa turned gracefully to give her sister a hug as she approached.

"Andromeda. You look beautiful," she commented, as if nothing was amiss. Hermione only managed a nod—Andromeda was giving her a look eerily similar to the one she had sported when she found the two of them in Molly Weasley's pantry.

"Thank you, Cissy. So do you, I mean..." she motioned vaguely towards her sister's glittering gown. "You look stunning. Wouldn't you say so, Hermione?"

Hermione gulped. "Ah, y-well,"

"Ms. Granger went dress shopping with me," Narcissa quipped through a beaming smile. Unlike other occasions when she had referred to Hermione as 'Ms. Granger,' this time is felt different—not cold or distant or forcefully professional but... almost like an endearment. "I'm afraid this gown is not news to her in the slightest."

Hermione could tell there was something Andromeda wanted to say—she could also tell that Narcissa was being deliberately nonchalant.

"Right," Andromeda said, eyeing the pair suspiciously. "And did Ms. Granger help you with your selection at all?"

Hermione's ears were burning—surely she was as red as a tomato, and how could she not be, when it looked like Andromeda was reading her mind like a book as she nervously relieved what had transpired when she and Narcissa had gone shopping.

Narcissa was unperturbed. "Of course," she drawled playfully. Was she being this... obtuse on purpose? "I think you'll find, Drommie, that Ms. Granger has rather excellent tastes."

"Who wants a drink!?" Hermione practically shouted between the sisters, feeling a cold sweat coming on. Andromeda looked startled, Narcissa merely smiled.

"I would love one, Ms. Granger, if you would be so kind."

The Gryffindor nodded briskly and beat a hasty retreat towards the bar before Andromeda could say anything and circumnavigating the packed dancefloor as she caught her breath. There would be a time—a time far, far off into the future—when she and Narcissa would discuss the nature of their... relationship, and when they did, she had no doubt that Andromeda would be among the first to know, as was fair. But, right then and there, she had to get away from the other Black sister's suspicious gaze. Narcissa could handle her sister with witty nonchalance, but Hermione, not so much.

Her destination was unsurprisingly crowded, but Hermione chose to count it as a blessing—it gave her more time away from the two sisters and Narcissa ample opportunity to distract Andromeda. Plus, the extra few minutes to just breathe were more than welcome.

Hermione waited patiently for her turn when she felt a pair of eyes upon her. She turned discreetly, spotting the curious gaze of Isobel MacDougal from behind the girl's thick-rimmed glasses.

Hermione turned her head enough for Isobel to notice she was aware of her gaze; the other witch blushed profusely and immediately averted her eyes in a snap of her head tat threw the dark ringlets of her hair every which way. She became profoundly focused on the canapés neatly arranged at a nearby table.

Interesting.

Hermione waited until Isobel looked her way again—it took all of ten seconds—and flashed a polite smile. Isobel seemed to be at a complete loss; she opened her mouth without saying a word, then desperately looked around for an escape. There was none.

Hermione grinned. She acquired two flutes of champagne at the bar, but instead of returning to where Narcissa was, she made her way to Isobel. The witch seemed to turn a lighted shade of pale at every step Hermione took in her direction, and by the time they were face-to-face, she was noticeably shaking in her strappy heels.

Hermione offered the second drink she held with a smile. "There you go—the queue's just horrendous."

Isobel looked to her sides once more, blinking harshly as if she couldn't believe Hermione was standing right in front of her and engaging in conversation.

"Oh, oh! Ah, thank you so much Herm—I mean, Ms. Granger!" She barked out anxiously, taking the glass and downing half of it in one nervous gulp.

Hermione smiled over the rim of her drink. "Oh please," she quipped good-naturedly. "We were classmates. Call me Hermione."

"Hermione then, but only if you call me Isobel" she conceded, raising her drink to the Professor's. She seemed calmer, but her free hand fidgeted with the folds of fabric pleating her dress skirt. She wore a rather simple navy-blue down, but judging by the way it was exquisitely tailored to her figure, Hermione could immediately tell Isobel came from money. It was odd to note how much differently she—and most likely the rest of her family—showcased her wealth so differently than the Slytherin women she had the displeasure of conversing with earlier.

"So," Hermione began, swirling her drink. "I'm glad that catastrophic mess back at Black Manor didn't keep you from attending the festivities tonight."

Isobel laughed a little, but her gaze was cautious. "I'm afraid I'm technically on-duty tonight," she said, moving the sash that complemented her gown to reveal her Ministry badge. "Monitoring the Atrium wards, and whatnot."

"Ah. I'm afraid I'll have to take that drink back then," Hermione said with a raised eyebrow. "Can't say that Hermione Granger inebriated a Ministry agent on duty."

Isobel's laughter was freer this time, free of her earlier nervousness. "I'm sure my superiors would not begrudge me one drink," she argued. "It is, after all, a special occasion."

"And cheers to that," Hermione quipped, tapping their glasses together. "To special occasions."

"To special occasions," the other witch echoed with a chuckle.

"I'm sorry again for Black Manor," Isobel said after their impromptu toast. "It must have been heart-breaking."

Hermione nodded. "You could say that. It was... difficult, you know, to see all that word reduced to rubble."

"I can only imagine," Isobel said with a sympathetic nod. "It was so unfortunate; devastating for Mrs. Malfoy too, I bet."

Hermione smiled, holding herself back from correcting her with great effort. Hearing 'Mrs. Malfoy' from anyone's lips irked her a great deal.

"It was unfortunate," she agreed. "I... I blame myself, in a way."

Isobel's brows shot upwards, and for a moment Hermione wondered if her gambit would work. She was no Narcissa when it came to these matters—manipulation had never been her forte, but there was something about Isobel that just... called to Hermione. As if she had the answers to the Gryffindor's questions, whether she knew it or not.

"What? How? Unless you personally summoned the Dementors there, I can't see how any of it could be your fault.

Hermione sighed, perhaps a bit too dramatically, but she felt like she was hitting a groove.

"Let's not kid ourselves, Isobel. You're a Warding Specialist—you'll understand. If I had noticed those warding provisions... then maybe..."

Isobel shook her head vehemently, and her hand came to rest upon Hermione's shoulders in a sympathetic gesture.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Hermione. Those provisions were some of the most complex I've ever, ever seen. Even then, I was only there after they had already been triggered." She levelled Hermione with a stern look. "Honestly, if the great Hermione Granger couldn't spot them, I doubt I could have."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The 'great' Hermione Granger hasn't really worked with wards for quite some time." She tried for a self-deprecating smile. "She's been too busy teaching children. I shouldn't have gone messing with warding charms again in the first place."

Isobel looked almost outraged. "Uh, hello? You're Hermione Bloody Granger! You single-handedly re-designed geometric patterns and dimensional proportions for dozens, if not hundreds of security wards! You literally wrote the book on the subject—your work was the subject of my thesis. You're... you're the best of the best!"

"And yet, I couldn't spot them."

It was Isobel's turn to deliver a monumental eye-roll. "Hermione, that's not on you," she argued. "Those provisions were put in by the Black Family—they're kind of notorious. Think of all the Dark Magic that may have gone into building those wards in the first place!"

Hermione pretended to consider the witch's point—as if she had not meticulously tested those wards, as if Gryffindor's Golden Girl didn't have a surprisingly vast amount of information on Dark Arts, courtesy of Narcissa's library.

"I suppose you're right. Who knew not being familiar with the Dark Arts would put us good guys at a disadvantage?"

"Exactly," Isobel nodded enthusiastically. "And..." she looked around them as if checking no one was interested in their conversation. "I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but..." her voice dropped an octave as she whispered. "The wards were designed by some crazy blood purists. So..."

"So...?"

Isobel narrowed her eyes. "They were designed with a blood enchantment. Of course the Blacks wouldn't want some Muggle-Born—no offence—digging around their ancestral home. They designed the provisions so only someone bound by blood to Black land would be able to go past them."

"Oh," Hermione gasped, eyes widening as she feigned surprise. The faint silver line scarring her palm seemed to tingle. "You don't say."