Chapter 3: Equivocations

Unspoken words linger, heavy with ache,
woven deep in the silence their gazes make.

Hermione had trailed after Narcissa as she stormed out of St. Mungo's, repeatedly calling her name, but the witch, caught in a haze of delirium, had refused to respond. They moved like lightning—Hermione, the cat in pursuit, and Narcissa, the elusive mouse.

The narrow alleyway they stumbled into was dimly lit, the city's faint hum a distant backdrop to their labored breathing. Now, in the quiet seclusion of the alley, they stood face-to-face, silver eyes blazing with defiance and brown eyes alight with determination. Just as Narcissa turned to Disapparate, her slender fingers twitching as she prepared the spell, Hermione's hand shot out, seizing her wrist and pulling her back with unrelenting force.

The sudden touch shattered Narcissa's concentration—and with it, her chance to flee. Her body stiffened at the contact, her gaze snapping to Hermione with a mixture of fury and shock, as if no one had dared touch her like this before. The tension between them thickened, the charged air heavy with all that had been left unsaid. For a moment, neither moved, both caught in the weight of the unspoken, their breaths mingling in the crisp, cold air of the alleyway.

Silver eyes smoldered with an icy intensity, catching the sunlight that played across her platinum hair, turning it to liquid silver. Dark streaks of mascara marred her alabaster skin, a stark contrast that made her appear both haunting and achingly beautiful—like a porcelain doll abandoned to the storm. A solitary tear slid down her cheek, carving a delicate path of quiet anguish, and Hermione felt a knot twist painfully in her chest, her breath faltering at the sight of such unguarded fragility.

(She couldn't help but remember the wand, again, trembling in those same hands, pressed to her chest).

"How dare you touch me," Narcissa hissed, her voice laced with venom as she regained her composure. Her pupils, sharp and feline-like, dilated with a feral intensity. The tear that had once betrayed her vulnerability was forgotten, replaced by a crackling ferocity that seemed to emanate from her very being. She straightened, her bearing once again regal, as though her indignation alone could reconstruct the armor she had momentarily lost.

"Sorry, I had to. You—you can't Disapparate," Hermione stammered, her breath catching as she struggled to recover. They stood uncomfortably close, and Hermione fought to ignore the sharp, lingering sensation of the woman's long, crimson nails pressing into her palm—a distraction that proved maddeningly persistent. "Because of your… condition," she added carefully, her voice softening. The witch's judgment seemed clouded by her desperation, and Hermione could only assume she had momentarily forgotten a critical fact: pregnant witches couldn't safely Apparate or Disapparate. The risk of splinching, both for herself and the life within her, was far too great. Narcissa's typical caution, as unyielding as her demeanor, had been drowned out by whatever storm was raging inside her.

"Let go of me!" Narcissa snapped, her voice sharp with impatience and laced with disgust. The thought of being restrained any longer was intolerable. Without waiting for a response, she drove her knee sharply into Hermione's abdomen, breaking free with swift, deliberate force before Hermione could even register what had happened.

Caught off guard by the unexpected blow—and by Narcissa's surprising strength—Hermione doubled over. Merlin's bloody beard… How is she so strong? She groaned and clutched her stomach, leaning against the cobbled wall for support. "Ow," she muttered, wincing. "Was that really necessary?"

"Do not ever appear before me again," Narcissa spat in dark tones, stepping back shakily. "Or I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do..." The icy threat sent a shiver through Hermione, sparking a distant memory of Madam Malkin's years ago—the same voice, the same venomous warning. Yet everything had changed. The context now was worlds apart, and Hermione could never have imagined their lives becoming so deeply intertwined, tangled in this morass of misfortune.

"Listen," Hermione said through gritted teeth, still doubled over. "You… need to use the Floo. There's a coffee shop nearby… with a fireplace. I'll take you there… and you'll never have to see me again." As the sharp pain subsided, she straightened up and added, in a calmer voice, "And maybe we can have a quick conversation about this."

Narcissa did not respond. The pureblood's face was a mask of defiance, her pale brows knit tightly, and a faint flush coloring her otherwise ethereal pallor. Strands of her platinum hair had slipped free from their careful arrangement, glinting like spun gold in the sunlight as they danced in the gentle breeze. Her silver eyes, shadowed and stormy, held a rawness that made her seem both fragile and untouchable, like shattered glass catching the light. Hermione's breath caught; for a moment, she forgot herself entirely. Even unraveled, Narcissa carried a beauty that was unearthly, a delicate ferocity that made her impossible to look away from.

Hermione sighed (almost wistfully). "Listen," she said softly, letting warmth creep into her tone in the hope of softening the woman's stance. "We're both affected by this… we're both scared out of our wits, and I know it's probably affecting you even more since you're… well… you know."

Narcissa's brows furrowed further, but now with concentration. She was listening. Hermione took this as a good sign. "Let's talk about it. The coffee shop nearby is owned by a Squib. There's a fireplace there connected to the Floo Network. You need to Floo, anyway." She managed a cordial smile, though she doubted it would be returned. "Let's go there. How about it?"

Her heart pounded rapidly, each beat loud in her ears. When Narcissa spoke, the words were unexpected, and Hermione almost misheard her.

"Oh," Hermione sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Well. Goodbye then, I guess."

She turned to leave, but a deep, mellifluous voice stopped her. "I did not know you were hard of hearing, Mrs. Weasley. I said I would go."

Hermione spun around, startled, to see Narcissa striding toward her. Her black heels clicked furiously against the granite ground, her every step reluctant yet resolute. Her fierce silver gaze bore into Hermione, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Loose tendrils of blonde hair swayed with the wind, framing her stormy expression.

Morgana, help me, Hermione prayed as she struggled to steady her breathing.

"Wait," Hermione murmured when Narcissa arrived at her side. Brown eyes met grey, and she faltered.

The pureblood arched a brow. "What is it, Mrs. Weasley?"

Hermione reached for her wand, and Narcissa froze, her body going rigid as the tip was raised toward her face. Her silver eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering through them like a warning flame. But Hermione only murmured a charm, her movements careful, almost hesitant.

"Your eyes," Hermione said softly, lowering her wand and tucking it away with a hint of awkwardness. "Your mascara had smudged," she added, her voice quieter now. "I just… wiped it off. But I left your hair—it looks nice windblown. It reminds me of a painting I once saw of a Veela."

Narcissa's expression flickered, confusion melding with the faintest trace of indignation. Her silver eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing, and her lips pressed into a taut, unreadable line. She stared at Hermione as though she had suddenly grown a second head, her gaze unyielding and cold, as if daring her to speak again.

But then, just for a moment, the rigidity wavered. It was subtle—a fleeting relaxation of her brow, the slightest slackening of her lips. It wasn't softness exactly, but something less guarded, a trace of curiosity buried beneath the layers of frost. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving Hermione questioning if it had ever been there at all.

Meanwhile, Hermione's heart stumbled in her chest. Had she said too much? Had she crossed an invisible line? The stillness between them was charged, vibrating with unspoken tension, as Narcissa's gaze seemed to slice through her.

"You talk incessantly," Narcissa remarked at last, her tone cutting through the charged silence like a blade.

Hermione's cheeks flushed crimson. "Sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "I-I didn't mean to. I was just fixing your—" She trailed off, the words faltering as self-doubt crept in. Did she look foolish? The weight of her misstep settled heavily on her shoulders.

Narcissa's expression betrayed nothing, her features remaining cold and impenetrable. The aristocrat's practiced mask only amplified Hermione's discomfort, her thoughts spiraling. Oh gods, I'm an idiot, she chastised herself miserably.

Finally, Narcissa's sharp, impatient voice broke the moment. "Let's go, Mrs. Weasley. I don't like to dawdle."

"Yes," Hermione replied quickly, her voice tinged with awkward relief. "Let's."

When they arrived at the coffee shop, Hermione couldn't help but notice the subtle, yet unmistakable, look of disdain on Narcissa's face. Her delicate nose crinkled, and her lips tightened as though the very air offended her. She seemed to struggle with each breath, her posture stiff as she scanned the modest interior.

"It smells… oppressive, like poorly brewed potions and burnt sugar," Narcissa muttered, her voice edged with disdain as her nostrils flared in quiet offense.

Hermione, puzzled, inhaled deeply. The air smelled perfectly ordinary—a blend of freshly brewed coffee, pastries, and perhaps a faint trace of cleaning solution. "It's your senses, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione explained gently. "I've read that they can become a bit… heightened when you're…" She hesitated, unsure if she should say the word aloud, "…expecting."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. Instead, she cast another disdainful glance around the space.

Hermione sighed, turning her attention to the menu board behind the counter. This coffee shop operated on a self-service system, so she scanned the options quickly and called out, "What would you like?"

Silence.

Hermione turned her head, only to find the spot Narcissa had occupied moments before completely empty. A sudden wave of panic washed over her. Had she left? Had she already Floo'd away? She hurriedly scanned the café, but her worry eased when she spotted a familiar blonde head outside the window. Narcissa, it seemed, had fled to the patio, unable to tolerate the shop's interior for another second.

With a relieved sigh, Hermione returned a few minutes later, balancing two steaming cups of tea and a plate of cinnamon buns. "I didn't know what you wanted," she admitted sheepishly as she placed the items on the table and took a seat.

Narcissa eyed the cinnamon bun with disinterest, her fingers closing around the teacup instead. She held it in her palms as though drawing strength from its warmth. For a moment, her silver eyes closed, and the tension in her face softened just slightly. Hermione sat quietly, observing her.

The wind whispered through the patio, soft and gentle, caressing the loose strands of Narcissa's platinum hair. The weather was far too beautiful for such a wretched day, Hermione thought. A single ray of sunlight filtered through the holes in the red umbrella above them, catching the diamonds in their wedding rings. Hermione stared at her own ring, the light refracting through the jewel, and felt the weight of the day press harder on her chest. How could she tell Ron? How would she tell him? Should she even tell him, given that this… error would likely be resolved soon? She sighed, her thoughts a tangled mess.

When their gazes finally met, the silence between them was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione cleared her throat, lifting her teacup nervously. "So…" she began awkwardly, grasping for something, anything to break the tension. "The weather is nice."

Narcissa's sharp glare cut through her, freezing her mid-sentence. The aristocrat's expression was one of utter contempt, her silver eyes cold and unyielding. "Mrs. Weasley," she said icily, "every second here—with you—is an unbearable burden, and one I do not wish to carry. Let us dispense with these pretenses. You asked me to come here for your own peace of mind. Did you not?"

Hermione flinched at the bluntness, her lips trembling. "I—I…" she stammered but faltered as doubt clawed at her. Was Narcissa right? Had she only asked her here to ease her own guilt, to ensure the problem would be taken care of and forgotten? Had her concern truly been for the other woman's well-being, or had it been selfish at its core? Hermione looked away, her guilt reflected in her silence.

Narcissa's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "The… complication will be handled swiftly," she said, her tone clipped and detached. "If that is your concern, rest assured you need not involve yourself further. I will speak of this to no one and expect the same discretion from you. As for the Mediwizard, I have no intention of pursuing legal action—confidentiality is paramount. I trust you will refrain as well." Her silver eyes locked onto Hermione's, sharp and unyielding. "If necessary, I am prepared to compensate you to ensure your silence."

She paused, her piercing gaze narrowing. "Look at me, Mrs. Weasley. Listen carefully."

Hermione hesitated but slowly lifted her eyes. Narcissa's grip on her teacup was vice-like, her knuckles as white as the cup. Her silver eyes, usually so composed, were frantic, almost pleading beneath their sharp exterior.

"My image shall not be tarnished," Narcissa continued, her voice low and fierce. "Word of this complication will go to no one—least of all that puerile and brash fool you call a husband."

The casual insult made Hermione pale. Was this how others saw Ron? Or was it just Narcissa's scorn?

"Can I trust you to keep this matter silent, Mrs. Weasley?"

Hermione swallowed hard, her voice weak as she croaked, "Yes… of course. And compensation will not be necessary."

"Good," Narcissa said simply, sipping her tea as though the conversation had been no more significant than discussing the weather.

Then, a long silence followed, one heavier than before. Hermione's gaze wandered to the street beyond the patio, where passersby strolled casually. A woman pushing a stroller caught her attention. Inside, a tiny infant no older than a few weeks slept peacefully. From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Narcissa's gaze fall on the same scene, only for her silver eyes to dart away abruptly, almost as if the sight burned.

The universe, it seemed, would not let them escape the weight of the matter.

Was there life in Narcissa? Could it even be called life? And did the distinction matter, given that they had no other realistic option but to… Hermione's thoughts stumbled, forcing her to replace the word before it formed—eliminate the error.

A breeze swept through the café's patio, carrying with it the mingling scent of earth, and the faint chirp of birds in the distance, a cruel reminder of life's enduring march forward. Both women continued to remain silent. Hermione's gaze lingered on Narcissa, and Narcissa's, in turn, rested on hers.

Hermione couldn't help but see herself reflected in the older woman—though worlds apart, both were stripped bare by the weight of this moment. Narcissa, her silver eyes lined with unspoken grief, bore herself with the grace of someone who had weathered countless storms but still bent under this particular burden. Her carefully constructed elegance seemed fractured, each subtle curve of her posture betraying a vulnerability she likely abhorred. Hermione's chest tightened as her reflection emerged—tired brown eyes etched with shadows of the war she had survived, a past filled with battles fought to protect life. Now, she found herself questioning her own worth, tangled in the cruel irony of having once fought for a future she could no longer understand.

Two women sat in that silence, each trapped in their own perception of failure, their own quiet war with shame, yet tethered to one another by a fragile and unavoidable thread.

Hermione finally set her teacup down with a faint clink. There was no point in these spiraling questions. What must be done had to be done. Her mind flickered to the book she had bought earlier in the bookstore—a moment that felt distant, as if from another lifetime. Could she ever return to being the person she was before?

It has to be done.

Hermione reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small pouch, a magically expanded bag capable of holding far more than it appeared. From it, she retrieved the solemn black book she had purchased earlier that day and placed it gently on the table between them.

Both women's gazes fell on the title, Dark Alchemy: Potions of Destruction and Dominion, its words heavy with implication.

"I imagine the idea of going to a Muggle clinic is… unpleasant for you," Hermione began—her voice, quiet and measured, gently shattering the silence. "If you'd rather not, I can accompany you, but…" She trailed off, her fingers brushing the edge of the book. "There's a chapter in here that might be… useful."

Narcissa's fingers moved slowly, pulling the book closer. Hermione noticed the way her long, elegant fingers lingered over the word Destruction, tracing it lightly as if the gravity of the choice was etched into the very letters.

When Narcissa lifted her eyes, Hermione saw a glint of restrained tears. She didn't need words to understand that whatever sorrow she felt, Narcissa bore it tenfold.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, unsure whether her apology was meant for herself, Narcissa, or something else entirely.

But she stopped herself abruptly, gulping down her thoughts before they strayed into dangerous territory—thoughts that conjured an image of a girl with silver eyes and unruly brown hair.

Meanwhile, Narcissa's lips, painted the deep color of wine, quivered faintly at the unspoken innuendo in Hermione's apology.

Author's Note

Updated: January 20, 2025

Reviews are love!