Chapter 2: An Imbroglio
Fate weaves its silken threads,
and we, its reluctant dancers,
spin and sway to an unyielding tune.
The waiting room was brimming with people, particularly individuals with raging hormones. Hermione Granger was pretending to flip through a magazine, but through the corner of her eye, she was studying the people in her environs, as she was wont to do. Large posters on the walls regarding female health caught her attention, and her nose curled up at one of them: A smelly vagina? it began. Hastily, Hermione ripped her notice from there, and brown eyes suddenly fell on icy grey.
Narcissa Malfoy.
Almost reflexively, Hermione lifted the magazine in an attempt to hide her face, but she was halted when she noticed the blonde nipping at her burgundy lips; her slender hands were clasped in a tight hold.
Was Narcissa Malfoy… tense?
It was such an unusual sight that Hermione found herself staring, her mind trying to piece together why this image unsettled her so much.
There was something familiar about the way Narcissa's shoulders hunched ever so slightly, the way her hands twisted together as if to anchor herself. Hermione didn't want to remember the war, but her thoughts flickered briefly to a time she didn't want to revisit—a time of smoke and screams and blood-streaked robes.
(And a wand cradled in Narcissa's trembling hands, its tip a whisper away from her delicate, porcelain skin).
Hermione blinked, shuddering, the memory slipping through her grasp like sand. It left her feeling uneasy, a strange weight settling in her chest. Stop thinking of that day, she thought to herself.
When Hermione had entered the clinic, she had noticed a vacant seat beside Narcissa, and was glad to have found one other remaining empty seat further away from her. She did not wish to sit beside her. They were not friends and never would be. Their lives had crossed in ways too tangled with tension, and Hermione doubted anything more than awkward silence or guarded civility could pass between them.
However, it seemed fate had something else in mind and she was destined to sit there. Just as she attempted to hide her face again, she heard a woman say, "Excuse me, but I was sitting there." She gazed upwards at the reddened face of a heavily pregnant female and decided it would be in her best interest to remove herself from the seat.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" said Hermione after languidly walking toward her and the vacant seat beside her. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
Startled by her sight, Narcissa Malfoy attempted to compose herself. "Mrs. Weasley? Yes, of course. You may sit here."
"Thank you," answered Hermione, grateful that she did not have to stand. A few minutes of silence transpired, but since they were acquaintances, Hermione found the quiet fairly uncomfortable. "How are you doing, Mrs. Malfoy?"
The pureblood responded with a gentle nod. "I'm well, Mrs. Weasley," she replied, but Hermione's intuition, which was usually rather sensitive, could not come to believe her. The witch was behaving in a peculiar manner; in fact, she seemed rather afraid. If Hermione had been in her shoes, she was certain she would have been much more jubilant.
"Are you also with-child?" asked the aristocrat.
Hermione shook her head. "No, but I'd like to be… in the near future, that is."
"Oh, good luck," said Narcissa.
"Thank you," answered Hermione.
It was rather evident that they were the type of individuals who found small talk terribly irksome. Narcissa removed a book from a small pouch that stored much more than what it appeared to be able to hold: Macbeth, it read.
Hermione's eyes widened at the sight, and they glimmered. "You read Shakespeare?" she asked.
The blonde lifted an elegant brow. "Yes. Do you take me for a philistine, Mrs. Weasley?"
Her cheeks reddened. "No—no, that's not what I meant," she began and hastily explained, "I mean—it's Muggle literature. I didn't think you'd read his work."
The pureblood felt taxed by her company. "It may be Muggle literature, but Shakespeare was most definitely not a Muggle, Mrs. Weasley," she said stiffly. "It just so happens that he found himself more welcomed in the Muggle world than ours, as he often portrayed us witches as unsightly hags in his plays."
Much to her chagrin, Hermione had not known this piece of information. "Oh, I didn't know that, Mrs. Malfoy," she replied.
"You'll find that you know less as you age, Mrs. Weasley," Narcissa remarked frostily. Her piercing grey eyes caught hold of her brown. "Do you know how the terms blood traitor and Mudblood have come about, Mrs. Weasley? They have arisen from a history of wizards and witches—often Muggle-borns like Shakespeare—exploiting our people. And worse, assisting Muggles in our extermination."
Hermione tensed and realized that sitting next to Narcissa might not have been a great idea. Something about the air around the woman felt heavy, suffocating even, as though her presence carried a weight Hermione couldn't yet name. Hermioned wished she could have come here another day, rescheduled her appointment, and avoided whatever strange tension was brewing between them.
She was about to excuse herself, planning to mutter something about needing the lavatory (though in truth, she intended to flee St. Mungo's entirely), when the secretary called after the two of them.
"Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Malfoy. Healer Finnegan would like to see the both of you. If you would like, you can come individually… or together."
Hermione froze.
Why were they both being seen simultaneously? Her stomach twisted as a strange, inexplicable sense of dread crawled up her spine. Appointments at St. Mungo's were always meticulously private—so why would Healer Finnegan need to see her and Narcissa at the same time?
A wave of déjà vu swept over her, sharp and disorienting. It was as if she had already lived this moment before, standing on the brink of something monumental. The air felt heavier, weighted with an unspoken anticipation that pressed down on her chest. A nagging sense told her that this was no ordinary day—that something life-changing was about to happen, something that would shift the course of her world in ways she couldn't yet fathom.
Slowly, Hermione turned to her right while in a daze. Narcissa was as still as a statue, her elegant features pulled into an expression of restrained confusion. She could sense a similar feeling had washed over the aristocrat: Her brows furrowed faintly, and for the briefest moment, Hermione thought she saw something else flicker across the pureblood's face. Something almost like… fear?
The sight unsettled her even more. Narcissa Malfoy did not show fear, at least not outwardly. But here she was, looking almost as perplexed as Hermione felt, her pale hands clutching the folds of her robes tightly.
Hermione's pulse quickened as an irrational thought began to gnaw at her. What possible reason could there be for both of them to be summoned like this?
"I would like to go individually," said Narcissa, after a pregnant pause, her voice cool but noticeably strained. Hermione wasn't surprised by her decision. Of course, the pureblood would choose privacy—it was as much a part of her persona as the carefully tailored robes she wore, a barrier to ensure no one saw more than she allowed.
"Alright," Hermione replied in a small voice. "Would you like to go first?"
Narcissa did not respond immediately to her query and hesitated. Her silver eyes, usually so steady, flickered with a faint wariness. "Why exactly do I need to meet with Mrs. Weasley in the first place?" she asked, her tone laced with suspicion as she turned toward the secretary.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. "I'm afraid I don't have any information, Mrs. Malfoy," she said quickly. "Healer Finnegan will explain everything when you meet with him."
Narcissa's lips thinned, but she said nothing further, her fingers tightening around the folds of her robes. Hermione couldn't help but notice how her normally rigid composure seemed to waver ever so slightly, her frame taut like a bowstring.
"Would you like to go first?" Hermione offered again, a note of genuine concern creeping into her voice.
But Narcissa shook her head sharply, pressing a hand to her lips as though willing herself to stay composed. "You may go first," she said, her voice brisk and clipped. She rose from her chair with practiced grace, though the faint wobble in her step betrayed her effort.
Hermione blinked, the realization settling in. Narcissa was still in her first trimester—nausea, of course.
"Oh, yes—yes, Mrs. Malfoy. Of course," Hermione stammered, her tone tinged with understanding as she grasped the woman's reasoning.
For a moment, Narcissa hesitated, her hand pressed firmly against her mouth, as if battling something within. With a curt nod, she finally stepped aside, her gaze averted and fixed intently in the direction of the lavatory. Hermione watched her retreat, the unease in her chest tightening with every passing second.
As Hermione then walked toward the office, her mind churned with questions. Her footsteps felt heavier with each step, the sterile hallway stretching longer and more foreboding than it had moments ago. A knot tightened in her chest, a strange mix of dread and curiosity swirling within her. Why had Healer Finnegan summoned them both? What could possibly require the two of them to be addressed together?
Her heart raced as scenarios began forming in her mind—none of them good. Every inch closer to the office seemed to amplify her discomfort, the chill of the air lingering like a shadow over her. She clenched her fists at her sides, as though bracing herself for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.
Once the secretary had ushered her into the Healer's office, Hermione noticed that the Mediwizard's cheeks were awfully red and that his forehead glistened with sweat. He appeared quite uncomfortable and stiff. His hands were clasped and resting atop his mahogany desk.
"Healer Finnegan?" Hermione asked nervously as she stepped into the room. "Are you okay?"
"Please, sit down," the healer said, pointing to the chair before him. "Is Mrs. Malfoy with you?"
"No. She wishes to come here on her own," Hermione replied, her brows knitting together. "What is it? Why have you called both of us here?"
The healer sighed heavily, a deep furrow forming between his brows. "After our earlier conversation, I started reviewing the records more closely. You see..." He paused, rubbing his temples as though the weight of his next words was too much to bear. "It occurred to me that you may, in fact, have had one remaining egg."
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, but before she could speak, Healer Finnegan held up a hand, his expression pained. "However, in my review of our records, I uncovered something... something I can scarcely believe myself." He drew in an even deeper breath, his voice tight with regret and hesitation. "Mrs. Weasley, you might be having a child."
The words hung in the air, heavy and surreal, as Hermione stared at him, her mind struggling to catch up to the impossibility of what she had just heard.
A child?
Hermione immediately thought of a baby with bright brown eyes and fiery red hair. She imagined years of memories, of laughter and small hands gripping hers. She thought of Ron and how joyful he would be if he heard this news. A small smile began to creep onto her face. Had she heard him right? Had her wishes finally been granted? Was fate at last on her side? Merlin's beard.
"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked, her voice quivering with cautious hope. "But you just called earlier today and said that I—" She stopped herself, a sudden thought dawning on her. "Wait. Why might I be having a child?"
"Well, you see..." The healer's voice trailed off as he shifted uncomfortably. "It's... quite a complex story." He cleared his throat. "Please, sit down."
Once she was seated, Healer Finnegan began. "You can't have another treatment, Mrs. Weasley, as your egg is... no longer available."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "What? It wasn't fertilized?"
"No, no. It..." He hesitated, and more perspiration seemed to bead on his forehead. "The problem is, it has been—just not in the right way."
Utterly perplexed, Hermione leaned forward. "What do you mean?"
"I... uh... Well, you see, right after your visit, another patient came in. And I... wasn't paying attention. I accidentally took this woman's egg and yours and added the potion..."
Oh no.
Hermione had the sudden, dreadful hunch that Mrs. Malfoy was somehow involved in this debacle.
"Are you saying that a chromosome from my egg and another egg were joined, and then this fertilized egg was put into..." She trailed off, her voice faltering.
"Yes," the mediwizard admitted, nodding sadly. "I am so sorry, but I need to inform you that the woman your egg was implanted into is with-child. This is, of course, highly sensitive information, but given the peculiar and delicate nature of the situation, you may want to discuss it with her."
He gulped, hesitating before adding, "The woman is..."
"You mean Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione interjected, her voice rising with exasperation, anger, and no small amount of dread. She felt utterly petrified by what had occurred—and what was yet to come.
"How did you know?" the mediwizard asked, blinking in surprise.
Hermione barely suppressed a groan. How did this man ever become a healer? "You called both of us in," she said flatly. "Remember?"
"Ah, yes," he said, his brow furrowing as though the memory was only now surfacing. "Mrs. Malfoy is not yet aware of this particular information, which is why I had called the both of you in, hoping it would foster communication between the both of you. However, she has expressed to me that she is not inclined to keep this child. In fact, she's here today to discuss the possibility of terminating the pregnancy."
He paused, his voice lowering slightly. "As you may already know, abortion is not currently permitted within the Wizarding world. That said, I believe strongly in a woman's right to make decisions about her own body. After sharing this information with her, I intend to provide resources that will allow her to pursue this option through a Muggle clinic, should she choose to proceed."
"And what am I supposed to do?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not the one carrying the child."
"Well," the healer stammered, "you are a biological parent. You may want to consider what role you wish to play in the future of this child. I felt it was important to inform you of the situation."
Hermione let out a deep breath. She ran a hand through her hair, lifting her gaze to the ceiling. Although her eyes were fixed intently on the asbestos, all she could see was Narcissa's piercing silver eyes—on a child with bushy hair.
This had to be a bloody joke.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a quiet sniffle. Hermione's head snapped toward the door. There, she caught sight of a slim hand slipping away from the doorframe and the shadow of a lean, curvaceous figure.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione called hesitantly, though she already knew the answer. "Is that you?"
Narcissa stepped into view, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She must have gone to the lavatory, Hermione surmised, likely due to her nausea. The lavatory was nearby, adjacent to the office room, and perhaps she had overheard their conversation by chance.
The aristocrat's carefully composed mask was cracking. Her pale skin appeared ghostly under the harsh lighting, and her silver eyes, usually cold and unyielding, were rimmed with unshed tears. For a moment, her expression flickered—vulnerability, weariness, and a deep sense of despair all intertwined—before her lips pressed tightly together, as though she needed a moment to recompose herself.
Hermione's anger at the mediwizard briefly surged. The thought of suing him—or taking this absurd, negligent mistake to the highest authorities—flared in her mind, but she shoved it aside. That confrontation could wait. Right now, there was something more pressing, something far more fragile in front of her.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" Hermione said again, her voice softening slightly. "Are you alright?"
Narcissa's head tilted upward, her chin set in the same regal manner Hermione had seen countless times before. Yet the slight tremble in her jaw betrayed her. She stood motionless for a moment, as though considering whether to speak, before turning abruptly, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she stormed away.
Hermione stared after her, heart pounding. It was surreal—this woman, who once represented everything Hermione had opposed, now tied to her by something as profound as a child. The irony stung.
Without thinking, Hermione rose from her chair, brushing aside thoughts of blame and bureaucracy, and ran after her. The mediwizard's mistake could be dealt with later—this conversation couldn't wait.
Somehow, in this terrible, absurd twist of fate, their lives were now inextricably entwined.
The gods had answered her wish—but they had mocked her in the process.
Author's Notes
Updated: Jan 20, 2025
- Added a few tweaks so it would flow better :)
- What do you think? Reviews are love!