"All rise for the Wizengamot."

The silence of the courtroom was drowned by sound of a flurry of fabric as heavy purple robes cascaded, nearly touching the cold stone floors when members stood sombrely. A throat was cleared here or there, and in the stands, a sizeable crowd of witches and wizards hurried to stand as well—less in deference to the honourable members of the Wizengamot, and more in order to get a better look at the currently vacant chair sat in the middle of the courtroom.

"Presiding, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

The well-known old wizard stepped up to the podium, spectacles sitting low on his nose and beard braided to a more manageable length—though it still swayed in front of his robes with every step. He regarded his colleagues pensively, blue eyes like glass from behind his half-moon lenses. After a few moments of observation, he took his post, motioning for his colleagues to sit.

The clerk waited until all members were once again seated, and the room silent once more.

"The date is the twenty-fifth of November, 1981. This court is convened today to assess the charges of crimes perpetrated against the Wizarding community..."

As he spoke, heavy doors swung open. Their creak echoed through the room, and as Aurors held them open, a gaunt-looking wizard stepped through, feet dragging heavy chains over the stone. There were markings on the floor that made it apparent he was not the first one to make the walk from the mysterious corridor beyond the doors to the ominous chair in the centre of the room.

He was terribly thin and pale, his blond hair greasy and sticking at odd angles, product of a clumsy, heartless haircut. His clothes had once been very fine indeed, but the delicate embroidery of his black robes was lost to the grime he carried with him from Azkaban. All eyes were on his frail, limping form as he laboriously dragged his feet toward his destination.

"...in autumn of this year, pertaining to the accused, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. These charges include, but are not limited to, the dealing of illegal artefacts, the varied and extensive use of all Unforgivable Curses, conspiracy against the government, blackmail, fraud, kidnapping, torture, and murder."

Lucius was practically shoved onto the chair by one of the Aurors accompanying him; he landed with an 'oof' that was elongated into a ragged gasp as the chains magically surrounded him, curling tightly against his chest and arms. A light shone directly onto his face; it was riddled with bruises, and covered with an unkempt stubble. He blinked forcefully against the light, making an enormous effort to keep his head upright.

Dumbledore leaned forward on his seat, regarding the man with an inquisitive glance, like a child observing a curious insect from a safe distance. Lucius' eyes darted around the room, not focusing on anything in particular, only going madly from one side to the other as he craned his neck. There was silence, pointed by his panting breaths and the clinking of the chains against the chair at his smallest movement.

" Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began, his voice soft. "Do you know where you are?"

Terrified eyes met the Chief Warlock's; Lucius opened his mouth once, twice, managing nothing but gasps for long moments until he managed to form words.

"D-department... Magical Law... Ensor-enform... Enforcement," he breathed out through a hiss, throat muscles bobbing with effort at every hoarse syllable.

"And do you understand why you find yourself here, Lord Malfoy?"

Lucius' head swivelled madly, as far as his chains would allow. His eyes went to the stands above the Wizengamot, searching desperately. "N-n..." he groaned, straining against the chains. "Na-Narcissa...w-"

"Your wife is in audience, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, motioning to where Narcissa Malfoy sat in the stands, clad entirely in black and back ramrod straight, hands grasping at the arms of her chair.

Lucius' eyes seemed to have a hard time focusing; they darted in the general direction of his wife, and once he finally singled her out in the crowd, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. "Nar-Narcissa..."

"Mr. Malfoy," another voice called from the podium. Barty Crouch Sr. looked over to the accused Death Eater with clear disdain. "You are currently on trial—do you understand the charges levied against you?"

Lucius still looked desperately toward his wife, his chapped lips moving without making a sound. Crouch grunted as he flipped open a page of a heavy ledger in front of him. "You stand accused of participating in the torture of two respected Aurors—how do you plead?"

It was as if Lucius had not heard him; he continued to look to Narcissa, eyes wide with confusion and mouth agape, babbling incoherently whenever it was able to produce sound. His wife's gaze was pure glass—she did not acknowledge her husband in any way; there was not a tremor to her lips, not a twitch of her blue eyes, just gritted teeth and tension as she looked through him.

Crouch looked impatient; Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him, directing himself to Lucius with a gentler tone. "Mr. Malfoy. Do you understand the charges?"

The Wizengamot looked to the prisoner expectantly, breaths held in anticipation as Lucius' focus finally shifted away from the stands.

"Do you recognize the names Frank and Alice Longbottom, Mr. Malfoy?"

His breath quickened and his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus; his mouth contorted in a scowl as if the mere recollection demanded physical effort.

"F-rank? Longbottom..." he shook his head, the gesture borne more out of confusion than denial. "I... Hogwarts? Longbottom? I... I don't" his hands strained against his restraints, head bowing down as if he wanted to hold onto his temples.

Crouch did not bother to conceal the roll of his eyes. "Frank and Alice Longbottom, Mr. Malfoy—two of our Ministry's finest Aurors, whom you tortured..."

"Allegedly tortured," Dumbledore supplied evenly.

Crouch's hands fisted over his ledger, knuckles turning white. "Allegedly tortured with the help of your sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange, and her husband, Rodolphus! Do you deny your participation, Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius' brows furrowed further; his hands gripped at his chair with trembling intensity. "Tortured? Bellatrix... I..." his gaze moved back to where his wife sat, impassive. "Narcissa... what..."

The slam of Crouch's hands against the surface of his desk startled all present; a collective gasp of surprise echoed through the chamber, and Lucius' attention snapped back to the podium in front of him.

"Do not feign ignorance!" the official shouted. "We have witnesses that put you at the scene with the Lestranges; we have the testimony of a Death Eater! Your wand was confiscated, and it had cast the Cruciatus Curse, among other unsavoury spells! How do you plead, Mr. Malfoy?!"

"Plead?" Lucius muttered, craning his neck towards the podium. "I... I don't- I can't..."

"Enough of this," Crouch hissed. "You won't get out of this, Mr. Malfoy. You will answer for your crimes!"

"Mr. Crouch," Dumbledore interjected, his voice extraordinarily serene. "Mr. Malfoy seems to be exceedingly confused."

Crouch scoffed. "Yes, he sure seems it now, but he won't be for long. Where is the arresting officer?!" he barked.

A young bearded wizard in grey Auror robes stood in the stands, not too far from where Mrs. Malfoy sat. He cleared his throat. "Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, sirs. I was the one who brought Mr. Malfoy in for questioning and subsequent arrest."

"And tell the Wizengamot, Mr. Shacklebolt, what was Mr. Malfoy's mental state at the time of his interrogation?"

"Mr. Malfoy was lucid, if uncooperative," the Auror said, holding his hat in his hands—he discreetly watched Mrs. Malfoy from the corner of his eye; she paid him absolutely no mind. "He was released, and twenty-four hours later, my team and I returned with a warrant for his arrest."

Dumbledore spoke softly. "And how was he at the time of arrest?"

Kingsley cleared his throat. "He... he was different, sir. He was conscious, but not entirely responsive. He was... Confused, I believe, is the best way to put it. He didn't seem to recognize me, or the other Aurors who had brought him in for questioning the day before. He was confused over the charges, over his surroundings, and didn't know what day it was." He took a deep, evening breath. "He kept asking after his wife—he claimed she was pregnant and needed rest."

"Let the record show that Mr. Malfoy's son, Draco, is two years of age as of this October," Dumbledore said, nodding to the clerk for confirmation. "And," his eyes turned to the impassive Narcissa. "Forgive the intrusion, Madam Malfoy, but I do not believe you are currently expecting, are you?"

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes narrowed; her voice was cold as ice. "I am not."

"Very well," Dumbledore mused, seemingly unphased by the woman's coldness or Crouch's impatience. "That would certainly point to memory loss, which coupled with the clear confusion, could be explained away by the Imperius..."

"There is no proof!" Crouch interjected with a bark. "It is mightily convenient that Mr. Malfoy's memory seems to falter only when there is no escape; when he knows for a fact he will be brought for trial."

"The Imperius is indeed difficult to prove," Dumbledore conceded. "One would assume, if Mr. Malfoy was in fact Imperiused, that none other than Lord Voldemort himself would have been the one to do it. Unfortunately, he has disappeared, along with his wand." He sighed.

"That is, if he was under the effect at all," Crouch retorted coldly. "I believe Mr. Malfoy might just be an excellent actor, or be under the passing effects of a Befuddling Hex— or even a Memory Charm."

"Or indeed, perhaps a combination of all three." Dumbledore added, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"If that is the case," Crouch snarled, "someone ought to end the charms!" He glared at the Chief Warlock, gaze burning. "Chief Dumbledore, would you not do the honours? I can think of no other wizard as powerful as you—surely you'd be more than adequate."

Dumbledore sighed, reaching into his robes for his wand. "Very well. Let the record show this to be an attempt of the suppression of any confusion-inducing or memory-altering charm that may interfere with the absolute truth as we, of this order, seek it." He pointed his wand towards Lucius, who cowered in his chair. With a glance to Narcissa, he jerked his wand to the prisoner, his spell clamoured to the crowd.

"Finite Incantatem!"

It was as if a shockwave had hit Lucius squarely in the chest; his body was knocked back harshly, pinned to the back of the chained chair, his head hitting the wood behind it with a loud thump. His eyes widened madly and his chest strained against his confinements, labouring to rise and fall as he tried to catch his breath.

"There you are, Mr. Crouch—I believe that is the best my skills can provide," Dumbledore said, sliding his wand down his sleeves. The Death Eater's ragged breaths filled the silent room once more.

There was a smug, self-satisfied gleam to Crouch's eyes. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, what do you have to say in your defence?"

Lucius took several moments to even attempt speaking—his mouth contorted into a grimace as he fought to speak over the gasps that still ripped through his chest.

"I... how..." his eyes dashed back to the stands, finding his wife once more. "N-Narcissa... what did... you... what..."

"This will not stand!" Crouch barked, slamming his hand onto the desk.

"In the absence of proof to invalidate Mr. Malfoy's current state, Mr. Crouch, perhaps we ought to consider moving to a vote," Dumbledore suggested, fingers steepled as he cast another curious glance at Mrs. Malfoy.

"No!" Crouch growled. "The truth will out! He was there!"

"Mr. Malfoy's symptoms are in line with the after-effects of the Imperius," another Wizengamot member pointed out. "His presence is not the issue—we've got ample evidence that he did participate in the aforementioned crimes. But we cannot move on with a conviction before ascertaining whether he was of sound mind at the time."

"Of course he was! He is a branded Death Eater!"

"Mr. Malfoy's memory gaps do align with the well-known side-effects of prolonged exposure to the Imperius," Dumbledore quipped sagely. "Mr. Crouch, he can't accurately remember the birth of his own son."

"My... son?" Lucius rasped, brows furrowed, lips tugging downward in a pained grimace as he once again searched for his wife. "Draco. N... Narcissa..."

"In fact," the Chief Warlock continued. "He seems to have, at best, some incoherent recollection of the last two years."

"I refuse to not consider every avenue, every line of questioning before a vote," Crouch declared through gritted teeth. His fists shook as he bellowed to the court attendants.

"Bring the Veritaserum!"


The knock was rapid and insistent, as well as thoroughly unwelcome. Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose as the sound startled Lucius from his dozing, making him jerk back into his seat with a yelp, one loud enough to wake the sleeping child she held.

"For Merlin's sakes," she hissed as Draco squirmed with a cry. There was a muted crack in the air, and Dobby appeared, bowing so low his nose brushed the exquisite rug of the parlour.

"Madam Malfoy! Dobby sees Aurors at the door, Madam! What is Dobby to do?"

She stood, placing Draco on his father's lap. Lucius' arms cradled his crying son with a start, pulling him to his chest a bit more forcefully than necessary.

"Keep an eye on these two, Dobby. Make sure Lucius doesn't crush Draco, and for Merlin's sakes, see if you can stop him crying." Narcissa said icily, smoothing down her robes. She was in lounge-wear, which was entirely inappropriate for company, but at present she could not bring herself to care.

"Doesn't Madam want Dobby to..."

"I've given you your orders, Dobby." She said slowly, lips pressing into a firm line.

The House-Elf gulped and produced a silver rattle with a snap of his bony fingers, shaking it clumsily towards Draco.

Narcissa strode down the empty corridors of the Manor with purpose, gritting her teeth as the echoes of more knocks reached her ears. She opened the door with a furious flick of her wand, not caring that they slammed the stone walls with enough force to chip away at the blocks.

A hapless Auror stood, hand still in the air and mouth agape.

"It is not enough to have the Prophet's hounds pestering us at every turn," she drawled coldly, recognizing the same Aurors that had taken Lucius to his interrogation and trial. "The Ministry now sends their dogs to harass us further."

A young man stepped forward, flashing her the silver Auror pin on his lapel. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madam Malfoy. Forgive the intrusion, but we are here to search the premises."

Narcissa could practically feel the sparks of magic travelling through her arm as she gripped her wand tightly in a fist at her side. She fought to stop the trembling of her hand, narrowing her eyes to the Aurors facing her.

"You have got some nerve, Auror Shacklebolt. My husband has barely been home a week, after his trial—during which he was acquitted, if I must remind you."

"Ma'am," he tried, hat held awkwardly in his hands. "We are just doing our jobs. Part of your husband's acquittal entailed the return and/or disposal of any dark artefacts he may still possess."

"Which he has," she hissed. "We have complied with every rule, every requirement, every made-up regulation and fine you have concocted. Leave my house immediately."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mrs. Malfoy." Shacklebolt countered defensively. He reached into his robes, pulling out a thick roll of parchment. "We have a warrant to search the premises for any memory-altering artefacts or potions."

Blue eyes widened. "Is this some sort of joke?" Narcissa seethed. "My husband has been acquitted!"

"But you have not, Mrs. Malfoy," the Auror said, voice low. He motioned to his team with a quick jerk of his head, and before Narcissa could say anything, the team of Aurors marched into the Manor, wands at the ready.

"This is absurd—this is harassment! Who approved this worthless farce of a warrant?! I swear to Merlin, I will..."

"Alastor Moody, Ma'am," Shacklebolt supplied, stopping her angry tirade with an upturned palm. "Are there any Pensieves in the house, or elsewhere in the property?"

She whirled to face him with a disbelieving gaze. "A Pensieve? Don't be ridiculous," she barked, yanking the warrant parchment from his hand. He allowed her to peruse it, standing at attention while his team rummaged the Manor.

Her fingers trembled as she read the details of the warrant. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she slapped the parchment to his chest, returning a petulant glance. "Knock yourselves out," she drawled, walking away.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" the Auror fell into step behind her. "I would also like to request your wand for examination."

Her expression became impassive, but she quickly secreted her wand to her robes. "I don't believe that was covered by the warrant you've presented."

"It isn't," he admitted with a nod. "But I had hopes you'd volunteer it regardless."

Narcissa's laugh was cold, and if the young Auror were forced to admit it, it sent chills down his spine.

"Absolutely not, Mr. Shacklebolt."

He stopped in his tracks. "I could always get another warrant," he bluffed.

She turned to him, lips now tugging into a smirk that made him terribly uneasy. "Then I suggest you do that. Salazar knows that this worthless piece of parchment you have was only given to you because Bartemius Crouch is a zealot with no limits."

"Mrs. Malf..."

"And I assure you, after I sue your entire department for harassing a mother with a baby and a debilitated husband, the only warrant you'll ever get will be to search for knuts from under my couch cushions—are we understood?"

He froze, hands gripping the parchment with equal parts awe and suspicion. His retort died in his throat as Mrs. Malfoy turned to leave with a triumphantly cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

"Run along, Mr. Shacklebolt."


"Again."

She saw his movement coming from a mile away. What he lacked in finesse, Harry made up with ferocity, sending a rapid flurry of spells her way—six, seven, eight—one after the other, shooting from his wand before the swooping arches of his movements were completed, all meant to break her guard with the strength of sheer numbers.

It was a bit predictable—Harry knew he couldn't catch her off-guard with a simple attack, so he tended to rely on these rapid-fire tactics. He tried his luck, but Hermione deflected each spell with passive waves of her wand; a twirl and a turn on her heel were enough to cover her from the onslaught quickly enough to return the attack. Harry had scarcely finished his turn when her wand zipped through the air, sending a jet of blue sparks that hit him squarely in the chest.

The bell dinged, echoing through the empty arena to signal her point. Hermione returned to a started stance, left arm raised behind her, wand hand extended and primed, back straight. She felt a bead of sweat roll from her temple down her neck; on the other side of the room, Harry was huffing and gasping.

"Again," she called.

He rolled his eyes and waited for her invitation. With a deep breath, Hermione twisted in place, aiming for the flanks. Her blue sparks crackled with energy, zapping Harry's way from two sides simultaneously.

To his credit, Harry was paying attention this time; a well-timed shield charm blocked the incoming sparks to his left, while an unorthodox but entirely legal somersault saved him from the ones threatening his right side. He rolled with the momentum along the mat, taking the opportunity to send his red sparks flying towards Hermione as soon as he regained his footing, aiming them upwards and to her right. Hermione deflected, then saw Harry pivot.

Another onslaught—six spells—this time aimed at her vulnerable left side. In the blink of an eye, Hermione turned sharply on her heel; it was almost a dance. In her half-twirl, her right hand released her wand, and her left picked it up on the upswing, surging up to grab it in mid-air. Her deflection and subsequent mirrored attack were far too fast for Harry to follow—his eyes were still on the finish of her previous deflection, and his footing changed, wavering as he tried to anticipate her retaliation, but his wand swung uselessly in the wrong direction as Hermione countered with her left hand. Her blue sparks caught him front and centre again, strongly enough to send him stumbling a few steps back.

Another ding, another point. For Hermione.

"Enough!" Harry groaned, his hands up in surrender. "Enough, 'Mione, you win. I'm tired of getting my arse kicked."

She smiled, twirling her wand and wiping at the sweat on her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. Harry walked up to her, running a thick towel over his face, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"Ugh. Nineteen to one. That's just humiliating."

Hermione smiled. "Not too bad after years off the arena, eh? It'll be good to not be so rusty when we reopen Duelling Club!"

Her friend rolled his eyes. "Rusty, she says," he bemoaned. "If nineteen to one is rusty Hermione, I don't want to see top form Hermione. Or rather, I'd love to see it, so long as I'm not on the receiving end."

Hermione laughed, wiping her wand before holstering it. It felt good to be back in the Ministry's Duelling Gym. She couldn't believe she had gone so long without the sport; now that she had picked it back up after a few years, she felt alive, electrified with an energy that had long laid dormant.

"Thank you for taking the afternoon to train with me," she said. "I've missed this place."

"Anytime," Harry grinned. "Just as long as you promise to stop that hand-switch thing. I swear to Merlin, that move should be illegal."

"But it isn't," she said, raising a cocky eyebrow. "So I'm afraid you'll keep falling for it every time."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry waved her off, sinking into one of the benches encircling the main arena, towel slung over his shoulders. "I'm honoured to be your punching bag and all... but why did you want to get back to duelling all of a sudden? I thought you 'didn't need the intensity' anymore," he finished with air-quotes and a questioning glance.

Hermione shrugged, lazily dropping to the seat next to him. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I've just got this... energy, like it's all pent up inside me and I've just got to let it out somehow."

"Stress?"

She shrugged again, unable to confirm it. For the past week or two, Hermione had been practically bouncing off the walls with energy, filled by an adrenaline of origins unknown. Ever since the Remembrance Gala, she had felt wired, primed and ready to take on the world... or to shoot sparks at a willing duelling partner.

She assumed part of it was due to the thrill of recent discoveries. Hearing Isobel unwittingly provide confirmation that the Black Manor wards had been tampered with... On a small level, it helped Hermione understand, at least a little, the how and the why Narcissa seemed to enjoy all the manipulation, the manoeuvring of conversations like pieces in a game of chess. But mostly, it was an overwhelming sense of vindication. She had done everything right—she had not missed anything in her research. That information had ignited a fire within her, propelled her to keep going, to keep digging until she had all the answers.

It was an exhilarating feeling.

Harry looked at her pensively. "Problems at work? Home?" He queried, his eyes kind. Hermione shook her head.

"No. Don't get me wrong—everything going on with Black Manor, not to mention Kingsley..." she trailed off, uncorking her bottle of water and taking a healthy swig before continuing. "All of that is plenty stressful, but... I don't think it's the reason why I feel so... wired. I just have to let this out."

"Huh." Harry pondered. "Have you tried sex?"

It was rather unfortunate timing—Hermione had just raised the bottle to her lips for another sip of water, but at Harry's quip she managed to spray her drink to an impressive radius.

"Godric's balls, Hermione!" He snarked, making a show of wiping his face with his towel. "I guess that answers what you've got so pent-up... Ow!"

She punched him lightly again, for good measure. "Git."

It wasn't Harry's fault, not really. Even if he had, quite by accident, hit the nail on the head, after a fashion.


After her illuminating conversation with Isobel, Hermione returned to Narcissa, buzzing with what she had just discovered and eager to share it.

She found the woman just where she had left her, gazing at the dancing pairs, expressionless. There was no sign of Andromeda, which was rather fortunate, for Hermione wasn't sure she'd be able to skirt around the subject with a third party around.

Narcissa greeted her with a cocked eyebrow once she spotted her, glancing questioningly towards the solitary drink Hermione brought back.

"I take it your foray to the bar was not exactly... fruitful."

"Sorry," Hermione said, extending the half-drunk champagne to Narcissa, who took it with a questioning look. "I ended up giving your drink to someone else."

"Oh?" Narcissa took a sip, looking intrigued. Hermione was momentarily mesmerized by the pale column of her neck and how her delicate muscles moved as she swallowed, by the way her plum-tinted lips left a faint imprint on the crystal. "And who should I hunt down for intercepting my long-awaited refreshments?"

Hermione could not have stopped her wolfish grin if she tried. "Isobel MacDougal."

Narcissa's eyes lit up. "And how is our dear friend Isobel? I do hope you two had a..." her fingers curled so elegantly around the stem of the glass, nails tapping softly at the body, producing soft, muted clinks. "Pleasant conversation."

Hermione took the glass once more, brushing their fingers together. She finished the champagne in one swift gulp. "A riveting one, I would say. Incredibly informative."

The twinkle in Narcissa's eyes matched her own, Hermione knew it. The blonde worried her bottom lip with her teeth, eyebrow still cocked, and the expression made Hermione want to drag her back to the powder room and lock themselves in there for the foreseeable future.

Narcissa seemed to read Hermione's mind; her lips tugged into a knowing smirk.

"As much as I have enjoyed the festivities," she drawled, her voice sultry and low. "I am beginning to feel rather tired." She finished, not sounding tired at all.

Hermione offered her arm. "Lead the way, Ms. Black."

They disappeared from the Atrium without saying any goodbyes—a great breach of tact, undoubtedly, but Hermione could not bring herself to care, not even a little, because Narcissa was already nibbling at her neck and pulling her close by the time they Apparated to her Potions classroom.

Hermione held back a gasp when she felt Narcissa's caresses, letting herself be led to the nearest wall and nearly collapsing against it. They had been thrown in such a whirlwind after an eternity of dancing around one another, but now it felt like there was nothing holding them back, even if only for a little while. A little piece of the puzzle was in place, some of the dust had settled, and it was like they were given permission to enjoy what had been building up between them.

"Isobel told me about the wards," she breathed out once Narcissa moved from her lips to nip at her jawline.

"Yes..." the word was hissed out through a whimper when Hermione's hands held tighter onto Narcissa's waist. "And what did she tell you?"

"She... Merlin," Hermione gasped, mind going haywire as she felt the warm swipe of a tongue against her skin. Narcissa chuckled, a deep rumble in her chest that Hermione could feel in her own. A hand grasped Hermione's chin, tilting it just so, just enough for Narcissa to look at her through hooded eyes.

"What did you learn?"

Hermione made a Herculean effort to concentrate, but Narcissa was deliberately teasing, lips lowering to her neck, then her collarbone, teeth grazing the skin. "The w-wards, ah... The provisions are—fuck—the provisions are bullshit."

"Is that so?" Narcissa pondered aloud, fingers dancing over whatever exposed skin Hermione's gown allowed. "And I hope to assume" she drawled; her breath hot against Hermione's skin. "Ms. MacDougal is not aware of your... entanglement to Black Manor?"

The question was accompanied by a hand seeking Hermione's own, and then a sharp nail lightly tracing the faint scar on her palm. Hermione's eyes zeroed in on Narcissa's matching scar before she laced their fingers together, bringing Narcissa's hand to her mouth for a kiss.

"She has no idea," she whispered, lips ghosting against Narcissa's knuckles, and the blonde's smile was blinding—a beaming grin mixed with a victorious smirk, bringing soft crinkles to the corner of her impossibly blue eyes.

Hermione held tighter against Narcissa's waist, feeling the fabric fold and crimp under her palm, and spun them around. Narcissa's back made contact with the wall, and the action yanked a soft 'oof' from her chest that Hermione swallowed in a kiss.

"Marvellous," Narcissa whispered against Hermione's lips. Whether she was talking about Isobel or about their present situation, Hermione did not know or care to find out, because her confidence now flew high enough to drive her hands to skirt over Narcissa's sides, over her ribs, under the swell of her breasts with caresses that made her whimper.

It was a lot, and it was blissful, and it was so much so fast that before Hermione knew it, she had carried Narcissa all the way to her desk, and had been preoccupied with marking her neck with reverent bites for the better part of an hour. Narcissa tilted her head to kiss her again, this time languorously, drawing out Hermione's breaths softly.

Her heartbeat still thundered in her ears, but the frantic moments had passed. Narcissa's arms were loosely draped over her shoulders, and her hands held onto the woman's waist. They kissed gently as the frenzy dwindled and the burning receded to embers.

"We have quite a lot to talk about," Narcissa said, breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together.

"M-hm," Hermione hummed, relishing in the breaths they shared, in the warmth of their proximity, in the feel of Narcissa's legs around her.

"And..." Narcissa played with a rogue strand of Hermione's hair. "I must admit, though I enjoy our present activities, I would like to... pause for the time being."

Hermione's eyes snapped open, and suddenly she was very, very worried. "Oh. Oh! I—oh, Merlin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push... I mean, I was definitely, y'know, into it, of course, who wouldn't be, but..."

A kiss that melted into a chuckle stopped her rambling, and a roll of Narcissa's hips did wonders in assuaging her fears of maybe having pushed Narcissa too far, too soon.

"Don't apologize; I've thoroughly enjoyed them," the blonde said with a gleam in her eye, "and honestly encouraged them."

Hermione grinned from ear-to-ear. "Is that your way of saying you enjoy snogging me?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes and laughed, shaking her head. "Yes, I suppose so, though I detest the word..."

"What else would you call it?"

"Thoroughly ravishing you?" Narcissa pondered aloud, and then a furious blush crept up her cheeks—she hid in the crook of Hermione's neck and the brunette felt like she could fly. "I mean, why argue over semantics? What matters is that we have both enjoyed ourselves."

"And one another," Hermione added with a smirk. She tried to take a step back, only to find herself held captive by Narcissa's legs around her. Her calves pressed onto the Gryffindor's back, bringing her closer, and Hermione simply couldn't argue.

"Would it be too much to ask..." Narcissa began, and she sounded so shy, so vulnerable, Hermione to hug her—it was adorable. "Would it be too much to ask for you to spend the night?"


"Hello? Mione?"

Hermione shook herself from her momentary reverie, nearly colliding with the hand that Harry waved right in front of her face. She felt herself flush up to the roots of her hair and hoped to Merlin Harry would chalk it up to the physical exertion of duelling.

"Sorry," she rasped, taking another gulp of water immediately after. "I spaced out for a second."

"Mione?"

She turned to Harry with a cocked eyebrow, noting the sudden change in his tone. To her surprise, he was not looking at her, but to the far side of the duelling arena, where a tall, looming figure stood by the doors, silent, as if waiting for them to finish their conversation.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Hermione waved him off, standing up. "No, go on home."

Harry nodded, taking his gym bag with him and striding away, not before sending her one more questioning glance. Hermione did not see it.

"Minister," she spoke softly. "What brings you here?"

Kingsley rolled his shoulders. "Same as you, Hermione. Are you done practicing?"

She was done, but noted Kingsley's attire. He wore sweats and a jumper that were barely recognizable as part of an old Auror's uniform, designed for athletic exercises. It was old and ratty, but the insignia on the left was unmistakable.

"I could always go another round or two," she said evenly.

"Splendid. Do you need a sparring partner?"

Hermione nodded, and immediately stepped back, assuming the starter position. She zipped her wand through the air experimentally, with no magic, getting a feel for the muscles that were now pleasantly sore after her training with Harry, concentrating on the flex of her fingers around the sculpted handle.

At the other end of the arena, Kingsley craned his neck in a stretch, rolling his shoulders and shaking his arms.

It had been many years since she last duelled with Kingsley. At her prime, she could beat him, and now, he would certainly make for better practice than Harry.

They both raised their wands in preparation, each with their own added flair to the starter position; Hermione had her left raised, fingers splayed in the air, and Kingsley had his angled downward and across his back, hand closed in a loose fist.

Where Harry was brash, Kingsley was calculated. Just from observing the changes in his gaze, Hermione could tell the Minister was already thinking two or three moves ahead. From what she remembered, he was a precision dueller, with no flair or dramatics, just deliberate, incredibly accurate hits timed to near perfection.

They hadn't pre-determined the starting order, so Hermione assumed it would be a free-for-all, which were some of her favourite ways to start a sporting duel. The anticipation, the bluffing, the strategizing—all pieces of what made the sport a great fit for her. She watched Kingsley like a hawk, remembering he liked to false-start as a way to trick his opponents.

She had remembered correctly; Kingsley whipped his wand in one direction, sending rogue purple sparks her way, only to suddenly dip his arm lower, directing them elsewhere mid-flight. Hermione was prepared for it; she deflected with a sway to the opposite direction and a well-timed shield charm.

Kingsley shifted his feet to the defensive, anticipating her retaliation. She sent three waves of spells his way, purposefully off-cadence so he would have to adjust his shields.

Her sparks were extinguished without difficulty. "I'm afraid we began our Black Manor business on the wrong foot," he said gravelly, studying the changes of her gait and analysing her gaze. A flurry of purple surged towards her, and her sweeping shield wiped it out without trouble.

"You could say that," Hermione said, trying to concentrate on her movements as opposed to her words. Kingsley was nearly hit her counterattack this time—she sent four short bursts of blue, deliberately delaying them and changing directions mid-spell.

"One could also say," he continued, narrowly avoiding her last volley and quickly regrouping in an easy pivot. "That you do not currently understand the motivations behind my actions and decisions."

"Indeed," Hermione breathed, ducking from a storm of sparks and redirecting them back at Kingsley. "But does the Minister make it a habit of explaining his thought process to anyone who questions them?"

His dodge was awkwardly timed, but he managed to avoid her redirection, pivoting in place to counter it. "No," he admitted, sending a rapid-fire of spells her way. "But to a friend who seems to question the very fibre of my character without the full picture..."

Hermione almost botched her defence at his words; she regained her footing at the last minute with a hop to the side and an arching sweep of her wand, protecting herself from Kingsley's purple sparks. She sent him a confused glance and another flurry of blue.

"Then you might see why I thought some explanation was warranted." He finished with a firm curving of his arm, draping a shield charm in front of him. Hermione watched her sparks die mid-air, a bit miffed she had given him so much time to foil her attack.

Her knees locked lower to the ground, feet apart in a defensive stance, already prepared for his next attack. When none came, she straightened. "Well? You have the floor. What is the full picture?"

A cheeky little purple spark shot through the air between them, Hermione deflected it without a glance. Kingsley smiled, but his eyes were heavy with something she couldn't identify. In that moment, he looked a great many years older.

"Do you trust Ms. Black, Hermione?" he asked, his voice grave and his gaze guarded.

"Implicitly." Hermione didn't have to think—the truth just came tumbling out of her lips; there was just nothing else she could say.

She tried not to dwell too hard on the way Kingsley's shoulders sagged at the certainty in her tone. The gesture indicated defeat, but his eyes were now resigned.

"And I understand. But I also need you to understand that there is a reason for the surveillance."

"And what reason could that possible be, Kingsley? She was exonerated—from all of her crimes, or whatever you want to call them."

Kingsley shook his head. "Hermione," he said, and from exasperated, his tone took a turn to pleading. "She was not even charged for all of her crimes."

She was in the middle of restarting their sparring, but the words froze her wand arm to the spot. "What?"

"Hermione," Kingsley ran a hand over his head, looking uncomfortable. "I was the Auror assigned to the Malfoy case in 1981." He let out a breath; it was almost a grunt of frustration. "I was the one who brought Lucius to trial."

Hermione felt her lips pressing into a tight line. "What does that have to do with Narcissa? She wasn't charged then."

Kingsley shook his head. "We didn't have enough proof, back then. Maybe we don't even have it now. I just want you to be aware, Hermione, that I am not accustomed to making rash decisions."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "It doesn't look that way, Kingsley, not from where I'm standing." She took a deep, fortifying breath. "There is nothing you could say that would make me second-guess Narcissa's honesty."

"Then don't listen to what I have to say," he said, and it was clear he was trying quite hard to keep his voice calm. "See for yourself."

Hermione steeled her body to defend herself from another flurry of purple sparks with the way Kingsley's wand zipped through the air in a harsh arch. The sparks never came, but a large parcel popped into existence a few feet before her, thudding softly onto the ground of the arena.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath. "What is this?"

"Copies of my case files from 1981."

He holstered his wand as Hermione stared at the package without words, eyes fixed upon the worn DMLE insignia stamped in bold red ink at the top.

"Read through them, and then tell me whether you can still trust Narcissa unconditionally."