The panic set in instantly.
Every muscle of her body had frozen and locked up. Hermione willed herself to move; willed just a finger to twitch, willed her lungs to breathe in deeply to scream.
She strained as hard as she could. She thought she might pass out from the pressure that was building. Surely, surely, something would give.
Surely, she would break free of the curse.
But she couldn't.
Her body was no longer hers to control.
She was completely helpless in Narcissa's grasp.
Narcissa eased her onto her side with surprising gentleness, and then rolled Hermione onto her back. Her hair had swung forwards in her fall; she could see nothing but a curtain of her own curls.
She felt the shuffle of fabric and the dip of the mattress beneath her.
Narcissa's face came into view shortly after as she leaned over Hermione. She sat cross-legged and lifted Hermione's head into her lap. Her long, slim fingers brushed away the hair out of Hermione's face, until her eyes were staring blankly up at Narcissa.
Narcissa's dark eyes met hers and Hermione could feel herself sinking rapidly. Down through her own body, her consciousness seemed to plunge: beneath the bed, beneath the floorboards, down and down and down it sank.
This didn't feel like Legilimency at all.
Not the Legilimency she had come to expect from Narcissa, at least. It felt like floating in warm water.
It felt like drifting off to sleep.
The process felt so deceptively easy that she began to wonder if she had already died. If, during dinner, Bellatrix had sliced the silver knife across her throat; had thrown her into the wall and broken her neck.
Hermione was vaguely aware as she seemed to take a step back from her consciousness, as Narcissa swooped into her place instead.
She watched as Narcissa shifted methodically through the memories with calm, surgical precision.
She treated Hermione's mind with such care that Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. If she had control of her body, her eyes would've flooded with tears.
Narcissa peered through her mind, flitting through and searching for her son. She saw him through Hermione's eyes that morning; his tortured expression, his longing.
She saw the future in Draco's eyes. How his gaze had softened as he stared at Hermione; he wanted to run away with her, he would have if he could.
Before Hermione's very eyes, the memory of Draco seemed to grow dim. His face was dissolving; his form gone. The memory was darkening.
Hermione gave a sob and tried to reach for it, to cling to him.
No, no no no.
Narcissa, no.
Please.
Please, I take it back, Hermione wept bitterly.
Draco slipped through her fingers, until he was gone.
When Hermione tried to reach for it again, it was like grasping at sand. The grains of memory ran through her fingers, but nothing was discernible. Nothing recognizable.
The loss was like a punch to her gut. Her body was breathing, but she couldn't. All air had left the room.
Hermione was suffocating.
It felt like drowning.
She couldn't breathe.
She blinked and squeezed her eyes shut.
This was a living nightmare.
This was worse than death — because surely, if she were dead, she wouldn't feel this wrenching, tearing pain in her chest. Surely, if Voldemort had just killed her, it would've been a mercy.
Compared to this.
Narcissa did not slow, pause or stop. She merely continued onto the next memory.
Hermione saw Draco's face hovering above hers.
The openness and utter adoration on his face as he stared down at her broke her heart. His eyes were the purest silver, his irises dark. "You're beautiful," Draco murmured. "I don't tell you that enough. I can never tell you enough; there aren't words that could ever do you justice." He pressed open mouthed kisses to her neck and collar-bone. Her heart fluttered; she was certain he could feel her pulse beneath his lips. " You're mine," he whispered. "No matter what happens. You're mine."
His face flickered, and the memory dimmed.
Please, Hermione was screaming in her head. Please. Narcissa, PLEASE.
She tried to cling onto it. The desperation in her chest felt like a wounded animal; it lashed, it screamed, it bellowed.
She reached for the memory again and her hands came back empty.
He was gone forever, again.
She would've done anything to keep him.
She was not so selfless, Hermione realized, as to let Draco go without a fight.
But now she was completely helpless. This was what she had begged and pleaded for, high on an adrenaline rush.
Regret bloomed in her chest like ink in water, until the entire vessel was tainted.
"Don't."
It was Narcissa that spoke this time, as Hermione sobbed bitterly in her own mind. She was the silent, dark passenger as Narcissa piloted through her memories.
"Don't."
Her voice was soft and gentle. Soothing, even.
"You can't win against me, Miss Granger. I am truly sorry," Narcissa murmured. Her tone was far too understanding, so much so that it was jarring.
"It must be done."
Here she was, destroying all that Hermione had left.
Narcissa was hauntingly beautiful as she gazed down at Hermione. She looked pained by her own actions; devastated, even.
Again and again.
A third, a fourth, a fifth memory.
"We're going to make our way out of here and run away together. None of this will matter then, not anymore," Hermione said. Her heart fluttered, beating faster at the thought. Draco gave her a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He shifted forward, until they were sitting together, half facing one another. The hand that wasn't held in hers was brought up to cup Hermione's cheek, and his thumb ghosted across her temple. Hermione leaned into his touch, and Draco mirrored her, until their faces were only inches apart.
Hermione wept. She prayed. She screamed in her own mind, until she thought she might pass out with exhaustion and grief.
There was no other word for it.
It was grief that sliced her to her core.
Grief, as she watched him disappear before her eyes.
As every memory grew dim and dark, and disappeared into the ether, Hermione could do nothing but grieve.
He was lost to her, like grains of sand in an hourglass.
She couldn't reverse it. She couldn't slow it down.
She could only watch in agony as their every moment was repeated back to her, without the chance to savour it.
Hermione hadn't realized until now that she carried those tender memories, how often she thought of them like they were a carefully guarded, precious thing.
They were being stolen from her and she was entirely helpless.
"I worry that one day, you won't come back," Hermione whispered into the dark. Away from the light of day, cloaked securely in shadow, she felt safe confessing. It felt like the darkness of the room wrapped them both in a security blanket. Where they could simply exist and exchange words, independent of the going-ons around them. Where it was just the two of them; two ordinary people, living their mundane lives. Draco was silent for a few moments before he spoke. "I'll always come back. I'll always come for you," he said quietly. Hermione felt a sad tug at her lips. "That wasn't what I meant. There are more ways than one to lose someone," she replied quietly.
She was losing him.
Every moment Narcissa was in her head, she lost more of Draco.
Dimly, Hermione registered that the memories that Narcissa had flitted through had been changed. She knew there was more to them, but she no longer knew what.
In all of them. Hermione was alone.
She was alone in her bed. She was alone in her room. She was alone.
There was no one.
"I'll always come for you, because you're mine," he groaned, at the same instant he entered her with one hard thrust. "You're mine, you always will be." Heat and pleasure exploded in her core as she felt him moving inside her, filling her up and stretching her so exquisitely. She kissed him back with everything she had, and sobbed as he moved, overwhelmed by the sheer feeling of him — so pleasurable, it was nearly torture. Afterwards, when they could both breathe again, and their hearts had calmed, Hermione lay entwined with Draco. Forehead against forehead, noses nearly touching. " Tell me about your childhood," she whispered. "Tell me everything. I want to know everything about you."
When enough time had passed and enough memories erased that Hermione had exhausted herself screaming in her own mind, had no more fight left in her, she simply laid there.
She stared up into Narcissa's face and felt only regret and grief course through her.
It was death by a thousand cuts. The loss of every memory felt like being cleaved in half; being ran through and sliced apart by Bellatrix's knife would've hurt less than this.
After a while, it was Narcissa that broke the silence again.
Her eyes had a faraway, distant look to them as she spoke. She continued gazing into Hermione's eyes but slowly, she could feel Narcissa's presence shift. It was as if she had taken a step back from Hermione's consciousness.
"I had … I had long harboured suspicions about Bellatrix, but I brushed them away. I was— I was foolish," Narcissa whispered. Her eyes were bright as she gazed down at Hermione, without truly seeing her there.
Hermione nearly gasped.
She could feel herself being led away from herself, her own memories — into Narcissa's memory.
She could see Narcissa.
The older woman, whose beautiful face gazed down at hers, in deep sadness. Tears in her eyes.
And a young girl, screaming, shrieking in delight. Her small hand clasped in that of her older sister's.
Bellatrix was dragging her forward, through the handsome townhouse. Through the House of Black, in its heyday: richly painted tapestries adorned the walls, dark floors shone with fresh varnish, plush woven rugs in each room. Their bare feet slapped on the hardwood with each step; neither cared for stuffy clothes or proper shoes. House elves yelped in surprise as they pressed themselves to the walls, avoiding the hurricane of the two girls. Narcissa knew she would face such a whipping from her mother for this, but it didn't matter — the exhilaration of playing with Bella was worth it, each and every time.
Narcissa didn't seem to be aware of how much Hermione could see. Her brow was furrowed and she was lost in her own memory. Re-living and savouring each moment like it was the sweetest cherry, bright and juicy on her tongue.
She licked her lips. The words hesitated on her tongue.
"When— … when I think of Bella, I think of … I think of the little girl that I knew. My older sister. She protected me, and cared for me fiercely," Narcissa whispered haltingly. Her face crumpled. Tears rolled down her cheek.
She continued on, as if compelled to. Her voice was hoarse.
As if she couldn't stop.
Hermione suspected she had never shared this with anyone before. Not Lucius, not Draco.
Narcissa carried her secrets and trusted no one. In turn, no one could ease her burden, or her pain.
"My childhood was spent with Bella and 'Dromeda. The Black sisters, they called us. We were a menace. It was only Druella's lashings that kept us from becoming complete savages."
Narcissa smiled, watery and bright for a moment.
In turn, Hermione saw a flash, a brilliant burst of happy memories.
Bella and Cissa and 'Dromeda. Sitting on the steps in front of the House of Black, all three kneeling down and trying to tempt a stray cat to enter their home.
"Just grab it! Just grab the stupid animal!" Bella had shrieked, her face alight with laughter.
"No! You'll scare it away, don't grab it," 'Dromeda had cautioned. She flicked a bit of sausage at the cat, and it sniffed at the offering.
Cissa, the youngest, the boldest, grew tired of the debate. She scampered forward and lunged at the cat. Her aim was true — her hands latched around the cat's silky midsection, but she mis-judged the angle. The cat leapt out of her hands, and Cissa went sprawling onto the pavement.
Tears welled in her eyes as she stared down at her scratched knees. Already, blood: bright and traitorous, oozing seductively.
"Cissa!"
Andromeda was on her at once, pulling her up. Her face was aghast; Druella had cautioned them against rough-housing. Narcissa would face such a lashing for this.
Narcissa stared down at her palms and knees, biting her lip hard to stop from crying.
The cat had gone.
They could hear the screech of Druella from inside the house.
"I told you girls! I told you girls, a million times, you are not to behave improperly!"
Druella stormed down the hall and onto the front steps, her wand brandished dangerously. Andromeda shrank back timidly, but it was Bella who spoke.
"'Cissa deserved it!" Bellatrix shouted. She waved her hand dismissively at Narcissa, who stared at her with a wounded expression.
"She was being annoying so I pushed her down," Bellatrix lied easily. "It's what she deserves, she's such a crybaby. I had to teach her a lesson."
Druella's backhand across Bellatrix's face was hard enough to echo. She yanked Bellatrix by her dark, curly hair and began to drag her into the house.
"You! You wretched, foul little girl," Druella hissed. Bellatrix teared up instantly, but her jaw was grit hard. She wouldn't cry.
Narcissa watched in admiration, relief and guilt as her older sister was dragged off, to be lashed in her stead.
Her blooded knees and palms were no match for the deep red welts across Bellatrix's legs and arse.
Druella had not held back.
But Bellatrix was tough.
"You owe me dessert for the next month," she hissed at Narcissa that night, wincing in pain. They laid in the same bed; the three girls were young enough to share a room still.
"You're crazy, Bella. I can't believe you did that!" Andromeda called from her own bed.
Bellatrix shrugged, as if it was her job to protect Narcissa.
"I— I couldn't choose. Between my son, and my sister. Between Bellatrix, and Draco. Surely, you understand," Narcissa murmured. Her tone was pleading as she gazed down at Hermione. As if willing Hermione to understand.
Hermione, against her will, was beginning to understand.
Fresh tears rolled down Narcissa's cheeks.
"I don't know what happened," she whispered hollowly. "We were … we were the Black sisters, until one day, we weren't. Not anymore."
Hermione saw a flash of memory. No longer bright and vivid, but dark and distorted. The colour had gone from these. The memories were in faded shades.
Narcissa and Bellatrix, returning home one day to find Andromeda's room empty. Her belongings gone. There was only a hastily scrawled note upon her desk.
"Cissa, Bella.I love him too much.
I am so sorry.
Please, forgive me."
The memory became murky thereafter. Hermione suspected Narcissa couldn't quite remember everything that had happened. She watched as Narcissa drifted through her days, feeling nothing but emptiness.
The House of Black was empty of Andromeda.
The tapestry on the wall no longer bore Andromeda.
There was a hollowness in her chest, a pain, a void. It would never heal. This, Narcissa knew in her marrow.
When Druella told Narcissa she must marry into a proper pureblood family, to restore their family's ruined honour, Narcissa could do nothing but nod.
Her life had lost all meaning. What was a loveless marriage, if not another nail in the coffin?
Hermione stared up at Narcissa in horror.
The juxtaposition of the young girl, not yet a woman, still seventeen, with the indifference with which she spoke of her own future. The older woman who gazed down at Hermione, with sadness in turn. Her fate had been cemented, her life lived. It was jarring to see her face, now lined and exhausted. The vibrant, fresh-faced glow of youth had faded long ago.
Hermione's heart clenched painfully at the future Narcissa had lost, at what could've been.
"Lucius was deemed the most suitable match. I resigned myself to the life that was expected of me. Marriage, a child," Narcissa said.
Her gaze tightened.
She gave Hermione a sad smile; the same one that Draco often gave her. The corners of their lips twitched in the exact same way.
"I didn't feel anything for my husband. I didn't— I didn't feel anything at all, infact."
Lucius, so handsome and chiselled in his most formal robes. He lifted the fine goblin-made Acromantula silk veil from her face. His molten silver eyes glittered as his face wrenched with emotion, joy and awe flashing across it.
Distantly, Narcissa registered she should've been feeling something. Anything.
Wasn't her wedding day supposed to be the happiest day of her life?
Lucius slid a golden ring upon her slim finger. A gloriously fat, glittering emerald, set in yellow gold. The band was etched with something; Narcissa didn't care. She tried not to look at it.
"A Malfoy heirloom. The Malfoy heirloom," Lucius whispered. He gazed adoringly at her — the new Lady Malfoy.
She felt nothing.
She would've given anything to feel something, anything at all, but she felt nothing.
She felt nothing, as she pressed her lips to her husband's mouth.
She felt nothing, as she lay underneath him. He strained and pushed into her, mumbling his adoration, mumbling his love for her. His eyes were glittered; he truly meant it. She could see it in his face — the obsession, the possession.
She was his. For better or worse.
She stared up at the ceiling and wondered if she would ever feel alive. If she would ever feel at all.
Would killing herself days after their marriage bring even more shame to her family?
"I told myself I would produce an heir first, and then I was allowed to die," Narcissa murmured. She spoke it so casually that Hermione thought she had misheard, at first.
"I couldn't imagine anything more awful than motherhood, you know. The very idea of it."
Narcissa felt only chronic emptiness.
She had never felt anything else, not since she was a little girl. If she had emotions, they were of a baser kind; a malignant, unsettling kind.
"I delighted in— I delighted in pain. In causing pain. It was the only time I felt alive. It was the only time I felt something other than this painful, this crushing, this— this all-consuming emptiness. If I wasn't torturing someone, I didn't feel anything at all."
Narcissa blinked back tears.
Hermione felt only horror.
"It was an accident. The days blended together. I lost track of them. I forgot to take my Contraceptive Potion and suddenly."
Hermione could see it.
Narcissa, young and slim, terrified. Narcissa, staring at herself in the mirror. Her eyes darted down. She wasn't showing yet, but she couldn't keep it hidden forever. There would be a jut between her hips one day. Her stomach would no longer be perfectly flat. Something was stirring within her; a chain of events had been set in motion.
Nothing was in her control anymore.
Nothing had ever been in her control.
"I was caged. My entire life, I had been caged by obligation and duty and family. And here I was: pregnant. It was another bar on my prison. I couldn't handle it," she whispered. She sounded devastated.
"I wasn't— how could I be a mother? How could I love anything?" she begged. Her face was anguished. "I couldn't reconcile it. I couldn't cope. I was falling apart."
"I stepped back from my Death Eater duties. Long term Dark Magic use had already affected my health. I had to Occlude constantly, to keep it at bay. I felt like I was going mad. I felt so empty. My life would never be mine to live, but it was mine to end."
Narcissa looked haunted. She was breathing faintly, on the edge of a panic attack. Just remembering her past had triggered something frightful within her; an internal conflict that had laid dormant for decades.
Her fingers were trembling as they brushed across Hermione's forehead.
Suddenly, her eyes flickered down to Hermione. Surprise flit across her face. She had lost herself in her memories.
Her expression tightened.
"I was planning to kill myself after childbirth," Narcissa said. Her voice was flat. There was no emotion behind her statement; it was a simple observation to her, like the colour of the sky.
She paused.
"I counted my basilisk eggs before they hatched, I suppose — childbirth nearly killed me."
Narcissa let out a Draco-like snort of derision.
"My Occlumency walls wavered during the final push. It's a miracle we didn't both die. I sustained permanent damage to my health but Draco—…"
It was like seeing in colour, for the first time.
Every moment of her life before this had been bland, drab shades of grey.
And every moment after …
Hermione was left speechless by the intensity of emotion that came from Narcissa.
A tiny infant with a squished face, held in her arms and peering up blearily at her, with the same silver eyes as Lucius, but with her mouth and nose and cheeks. The cold feral rage, ruthless hatred and utter obsession that had driven her all her life … seemed to fade into background noise, as she looked down at her son. Clutched in her desperate grasp, the hollowness and emptiness that she had felt for most of her life had seemed to quiet. In its place, she instead found … yearning. Longing. A gentle adoration. She brushed an errant wisp of hair out of Draco's face and leaned down to press her lips upon his forehead, and breathe in the soft, comforting smell that only seemed to radiate from newborns.
"I don't know what happened. I don't know how it happened. I never expected it to. I couldn't describe it to you if I tried," Narcissa whispered. Her voice was awed; she spoke with reverence.
In her dark eyes, Hermione saw something distinctly human for the first time.
She watched as it bloomed, magnified, became huge.
Draco, tiny and chubby, toddling around the estate. Narcissa's heart clenched painfully. She had made this tiny thing. She had brought it into the world.
It depended on her.
It needed her
It saw her, not as a Black sister, or a Malfoy wife. A Death Eater, a murderer.
It saw the best in her, and only the best. It saw everything good in her, that didn't exist quite yet — but he saw it, so it must be.
Draco saw the good in her, so she had to be that.
For him.
Narcissa was weepingly openly now. She smiled down at Hermione. A smile so radiant, a smile so pure, filled with love and light.
"I stepped back from my Death Eater duties. I assumed the role of pureblood wife. I didn't- … I didn't enjoy it, but I played the part, for my son. For my son, I would do anything. I was the perfect wife."
She wiped a tear from her eye.
Her voice was thick as she spoke.
"It was the first time I saw Lucius, too, as someone I could come to care for. I indulged him in his obsession, his possessiveness of me. I let it happen. He would follow me anywhere, into the grave. He is mine, and I am his."
Narcissa's fingers stilled, and a curious look came over her face. She seemed to be considering.
"Do I love him? I don't know. I believe he is my fate."
She gave a tiny, sad smile.
Hermione could only stare up and wait.
"For my son, I would do anything," Narcissa whispered. She looked completely spent. As exhausted as Hermione felt.
They had both suffered death by a thousand cuts. Minutes, hours, days. Pause, rewind. Weeks, months, years.
Memory transcended time. It felt as if their entire lives had sped by in the span of mere hours. Hermione felt exhausted; she had suffered the cumulative heartaches and heartbreaks of her entire life that evening, relived it all.
Narcissa was silent for a long time after that as she worked. Hermione had long stopped fighting; she simply lay there and watched mutely. The memories were fading rapidly.
She couldn't turn back time.
She couldn't claw back her memories.
Even the face above her was growing dim.
The image lost the sharp quality to it, as if stretched and distorted.
She was hardly aware of what had transpired that evening. If she focused hard, and fought against the tide, she could see three girls standing in front of a handsome townhouse.
But like shifting sands, the image was wiped away before it had fully formed.
Hermione stared up into the beautiful, cold face of a stranger, until it blurred and darkened.
She closed her eyes and felt hot tears leaking down her cheeks.
She wasn't sure if they were hers.
A soft voice echoes through the blackness, before Hermione drifts off.
"I would beg your forgiveness, Miss Granger, but I don't believe in salvation for someone such as myself."