Chapter 1: The Collision
When hands collided, worlds aligned,
a fragile spark of fate enshrined.
An owl carrying the Daily Prophet soared through the open window of Hermione's office, its wings slicing through the morning stillness. The bird released the paper onto her desk, landing near the rising steam of her untouched coffee. Hermione stirred the warm liquid absentmindedly, her spoon tracing slow, lazy circles, until her peripheral vision caught a sight that froze her. Her hand froze, releasing the spoon, which hovered motionless in mid-air.
With wide eyes, she read the bold headline splashed across the front page:
Malfoys' Expecting
Her breath caught. Earlier that morning, Hermione had knelt by the fireplace, tossing a pinch of Floo Powder into the flames and softly murmuring, "St. Mungo's, Fertility Department." The flames roared to life in a vivid green, and after a brief exchange with Healer Finnegan's secretary, she was connected directly to the healer.
Her heart had pounded as she hurriedly explained her request, the words spilling out faster than she intended. Healer Finnegan's voice, steady and gentle, delivered the truth that now echoed relentlessly in her mind, each word carving deeper into her fragile hope:
"I'm sorry, Hermione. There's been no progress. We'll likely need to retrieve more eggs. Perhaps it's time to consider trying again. Please, drop by the office later today and we can discuss your options."
Though his tone had been compassionate, the weight of his words had settled heavily on her chest, leaving her frozen by the hearth, staring into the fading embers.
Trying again. As if it were that simple. Hermione had poured all her savings into this treatment, a pioneering fusion of Muggle and magical techniques. It would be years before she could afford another attempt.
The procedure, a marvel of modern magical medicine, combined Muggle science with potions to fertilize eggs—sometimes even allowing two eggs to fuse and create life. Two sperms, however, couldn't achieve the same due to biological limitations. Once fertilized, the eggs were implanted using Muggle medical tools, and then it was left to time—and fate—to determine success.
Hermione exhaled, her gaze unfocused. But then a thought struck her, sharp and sudden: she had one egg left. One last chance. Why hadn't Healer Finnegan mentioned it? It must have been an oversight, she thought to herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the door to her office swung open, and Harry walked in. He looked tired, his tie slightly askew and his perpetually unruly hair messier than usual. Hermione bit back a laugh; he resembled a very harried porcupine.
"Morning, 'Mione," Harry greeted warmly, setting a half-empty coffee cup on her desk before collapsing into the chair opposite her.
"Morning," she replied, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
"How've you been?" he asked, his tone soft with familiarity.
Hermione sighed and slid the Daily Prophet across the desk toward him. "Looks like a Malfoy will be sharing Hogwarts with your child someday."
Harry leaned forwards and frowned at the headline, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Yeah, I saw this earlier. Figures." He then leaned back, smirking. "Don't worry. I'll make sure my son gives their kid a hard time."
Hermione blinked. "A son?"
Harry grinned, his face lighting up. "Yeah! Ginny found out yesterday. I came here to tell you."
"That's wonderful, Harry. I'm so happy for you," Hermione said sincerely, though her voice trembled slightly. Her gaze dropped back to the paper, to Narcissa Malfoy's elegant, impassive face staring back at her. A sharp pang of envy twisted in her chest.
How could someone like Narcissa conceive so easily while she—someone who had sacrificed so much for so many—couldn't? The unfairness of it stung like a wound that refused to heal.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, his brow creased with concern.
She forced a smile, shaking her head as if to dislodge the bitterness. "Sorry, I was just thinking about the case," she lied.
Harry studied her for a moment but didn't press. Instead, he offered a knowing smile. "You look overworked."
"So do you," Hermione quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "Ginny keeping you busy?"
He chuckled. "You could say that. Fancy a quick stroll through Diagon Alley? Clear our heads?"
Hermione hesitated, tempted by the offer, but shook her head. "I'd love to, but I need to stop by St. Mungo's today."
"Everything alright?"
"Yes, … something I just need to follow up on," she said vaguely, glancing at the Daily Prophet again.
Harry didn't press further, simply giving her a supportive smile before heading out.
Once he was gone, Hermione let out a heavy breath, her eyes lingering on Narcissa Malfoy's face. This time, she noticed what she hadn't before. The woman's silver eyes, usually fierce and unyielding, were hollow, almost lifeless. The trademark Malfoy arrogance was missing, replaced by a fragile vulnerability.
Hermione's mind drifted unbidden to the war, to the Great Hall, to Narcissa bent over her son's broken body.
Stop thinking about that day.
Shoving the newspaper aside, Hermione buried her face in her hands. She exhaled deeply, willing the memories to fade.
Books. Yes, books. Perhaps a trip to the bookstore would help clear her mind before heading to St. Mungo's.
And elsewhere, another witch, seated alone before an ornate mirror in a grandiose manor, shared the same thought.
Narcissa Malfoy brushed her platinum hair with slow, deliberate strokes, each motion carrying the weight of years that had carved her into the woman she had become. Her wand glided through the air as she murmured a charm, watching her tresses twist into a flawless updo, elegant as a crown. Her reflection stared back, unyielding yet fragile, a portrait of perfection painstakingly crafted. She reached for her lipstick, its deep burgundy hue reminiscent of wine spilled over velvet, and painted her lips with care. Powder followed, a faint veil softening the shadows beneath her silver eyes.
Her mother's voice echoed, faint as the wind through old trees: Tend to the small things when overwhelmed. Brush your hair. Paint your face. Smile. Pretend.
Narcissa's lips curved into a bitter smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. Pretend. It had been her lifeline, her mask. She had worn it through every storm: the devoted wife, the complicit Death Eater, the untouchable aristocrat. Each role a brushstroke in the portrait of a life she hardly recognized anymore. And now, as she gazed at the woman in the mirror, her smile faltered.
Who am I?
Her gaze shifted to a silver frame perched on the vanity, its edges filigreed like frost on a windowpane. Inside was a photograph of herself and Draco as a baby. His tiny hand clutched her hair, his face alight with the wonder of a world still untouched by pain. The sight of it sent a pang through her chest.
Memories spilled forth, unbidden and relentless. She saw him in the Great Hall, broken amidst the chaos of battle. Blood had darkened his robes, his face had been as pale as moonlight. She had fallen beside him, her hands trembling as they had traced his features, desperate for proof of life.
His eyes had fluttered open, dull and heavy with pain. His voice, barely more than a whisper, had slipped through the chaos like a prayer: "Love yourself, Mother."
"You bloody fool," she had sobbed, her tears carving paths down her cheeks. "Do you have any sense, defying the Dark Lord like that?"
A faint, rueful smile had curved his lips. "Mother… did I ever tell you I was almost sorted into Hufflepuff? But I wanted to make Father proud."
His eyes had then closed before she could answer, the light in them dimming like a flame snuffed out.
"Draco… my dragon," she had murmured, leaning close to him. Her words had fallen into the stillness, unanswered.
A wild, guttural cry had then torn from her chest, raw and unrestrained. Clutching his limp hand, she had raised her wand with the other, pressing it firmly against her chest. If he was gone, she would follow, she had reasoned. The world without him held no meaning.
But before the incantation could form on her lips, her wand had been wrenched from her grasp. The world around her had blurred, reduced to the oppressive weight of grief. She hadn't registered the hand that had taken away her wand or the voice that had followed, soft yet resolute: "Take her somewhere safe."
She hadn't looked up. She hadn't cared to. Her entire being had been consumed by the boy lying before her, her dragon, her light extinguished.
Now, years later, his final words echoed in her mind, a refrain that haunted her: Love yourself, Mother.
Narcissa placed the frame back on the vanity with a tenderness that belied the turmoil within. Her silver eyes returned to her reflection, searching for answers in the cracks beneath her polished surface.
How can I love myself? she wondered. How can I bring another life into this damned world?
Her chest tightened, and with a sudden burst of frustration, she hurled her hairbrush at the mirror. The enchanted glass, charmed by her mother to remain unbreakable, held firm, reflecting her anguish back at her. The brush tumbled to the floor, landing with a muted thud.
Pretend.
Narcissa straightened in her chair, smoothing the creases in her robes as if ironing out the emotions that threatened to spill over. Her face returned to its usual mask, unreadable and imperious.
Books had always been her solace, a refuge from the storms of her mind. She needed that refuge now.
Yes, the bookstore. She would head there today.
Hermione stepped into Flourish and Blotts, the familiar scent of parchment and ink wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. The bustling chatter of shoppers faded as she made her way to a quieter corner, where shelves groaned under the weight of books on potion-making and healing arts. The shop, a fixture of Diagon Alley, had always been her sanctuary—a place where knowledge promised answers, even if it couldn't always deliver them.
She wandered down the familiar aisle of the bookstore, her fingers grazing the spines of books on healing through potion-making. The shelves stood like silent sentinels, filled with the promises of remedies and cures, but none held the answer she sought. This aisle had become a ritual, a futile hope that perhaps today, a title would leap out and offer her a solution—a miracle. Deep down, she knew better. No potion existed to mend her sterility. Experience and the blunt words of countless mediwizards over the past two years had taught her that.
Her gaze flickered across the covers, pausing on a title that gleamed under the soft, golden lighting: Dark Alchemy: Potions of Destruction and Dominion. Intrigued by its grim allure, she reached out, her fingers grazing the aged binding—only to freeze at the unexpected warmth of another hand brushing against hers. The touch was soft, deliberate, and fleeting, yet it startled Hermione, leaving her momentarily disoriented. Her hand lingered on the book as she turned, her eyes colliding with a pair of tanzanite irises framed by lashes that seemed to cast their own shadow.
The manicured hand withdrew with an effortless grace, leaving behind a subtle coolness that hung in the air like the fading notes of a spell.
Cerise lips then curved faintly before parting, a smooth, melodic voice cutting through the quiet. "My apologies, Mrs. Weasley. I tend to… lose myself in the stillness of bookstores." The words were polite, refined, yet carried an undertone of detachment, as if spoken from a distance.
Hermione's gaze traveled upward, tracing the lines of the woman's face—the platinum hair, gathered immaculately; the porcelain skin, flawless save for faint shadows beneath her silver eyes. Dark emerald robes draped her figure like armor, tailored to perfection but unable to conceal the faint weariness etched into her features. Hermione's breath caught. "Mrs. … Malfoy?" she murmured, her voice laced with disbelief.
Narcissa Malfoy stood before her, every inch the untouchable aristocrat, yet there was a fragility beneath the surface, subtle but undeniable. Hermione noticed it in the faint redness rimming her eyes, in the slight tension pulling at her shoulders.
Quickly gathering her wits, Hermione offered a reserved smile. They had never truly spoken since the war and certainly hadn't sought each other out. "Congratulations. Uh—I saw the Daily Prophet this morning," she said, the words tumbling out awkwardly.
Narcissa's expression flickered, her silver eyes hardening with a fleeting edge of displeasure. "Yes," she replied coolly, her voice clipped. "I'm sure many have."
Hermione caught the bitterness in her tone and realized that the news, splashed across the wizarding world's most-read publication, hadn't been shared willingly. Someone must have leaked it. The Malfoys were infamously private, and the idea of their most intimate struggles being aired to the public must have stung Narcissa deeply. The aristocrat's barely concealed irritation confirmed as much.
Hermione's curiosity flared but remained unspoken. "Well, congratulations all the same," she said cautiously.
The faintest twitch at the corner of Narcissa's mouth was the only acknowledgment she offered before returning to her composed mask.
Hermione searched for something else to say but found nothing. "Well, I must be going—" she began, stepping back.
"Will you be buying that book?" Narcissa interrupted, her voice sharp enough to halt Hermione in her tracks. "It is the last one on the shelf."
Hermione glanced down at the title in question: Dark Alchemy: Potions of Destruction and Dominion. The bold, ominous words seemed to stare back at her, daring her to respond. Curiosity had drawn her to the book, but now she hesitated. Would it be safer in her hands than in Narcissa Malfoy's? Her instincts whispered yes.
"I—yes," she stammered, her voice lacking conviction.
A faint frown flitted across Narcissa's otherwise composed face before she inclined her head. "Very well," she said with an air of finality, turning gracefully to disappear into another aisle.
Hermione watched her retreating figure, her mind a storm of questions. Why had Narcissa wanted the book? Was it mere curiosity, or had she harbored more sinister intentions? The thought lingered, heavy and unsettling.
Unable to resist, Hermione opened the book and scanned its table of contents. One chapter drew her eye immediately: Potions for Inducing a Miscarriage. Her stomach twisted at the implication, but she shook her head. No, she told herself firmly. Narcissa would never…
Her brown eyes flicked over the remaining chapters, pausing on another title: Potions for Ensnaring Minds. Instantly, her thoughts wandered to Narcissa—those grey eyes that seemed to pierce through every defense, the crisp authority woven into her every word. If the pureblood desired any potion, Hermione mused, it would undoubtedly be one to control and command.
Hermione closed the book, a knot of unease forming in her chest.
Narcissa's presence lingered, heavy with unspoken intent.
Author's Note:
Thoughts so far? Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Updated: January 21, 2025