Chapter 5: Two Paths
Two paths diverge, one safe, one unknown,
Hope blooms where courage is sown.
The late hours of the night cloaked Andromeda's guest room in a heavy, somber quiet. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering with the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp that bathed the space in a muted, golden hue. The curtains were drawn tight, muffling the sounds of the world outside, save for the faint patter of rain against the windowpane—a rhythmic whisper that seemed to echo the tension in the room. The air was thick with the mingling scents of healing herbs.
She had done all she could.
Hermione sighed, leaning back in the chair beside Narcissa's bed. Her gaze, heavy with exhaustion, lingered on Narcissa's chest as it rose and fell with a rhythm both fragile and steady. Andromeda had administered a potent blood-replenishing potion, one that forced its recipient into deep sleep to aid recovery.
Narcissa's pallid form lay against the pillows, her skin so drained of color it seemed to fade into the pristine white of the gown Andromeda had draped over her. The crimson streaks that had once painted her body were gone, erased by their desperate hands, yet their memory lingered in the silence, raw and unrelenting. The room held a brittle stillness, as if even the air dared not stir, suspended by the unspoken question that loomed over them: had their efforts been enough?
Narcissa was stable for now, but whether the child had survived was a truth only time would tell.
Hermione's brows furrowed, her fingers curling slightly as though trying to grasp hope from the void. She prayed that her desperate efforts had not been in vain.
"You shouldn't have done that, 'Mione," Andromeda's voice broke the silence, soft but weighted with disapproval. Hermione's head snapped up, meeting her gaze. Andromeda sat on the opposite side of the bed, her frown etched deeply, her concern unmasked.
She was speaking of the spell.
It was a spell Hermione had uncovered during her clandestine forays into the forbidden section of Hogwarts' library. The book had been unassuming: its black cover was plain, its edges frayed, but its title, Blôd Drýcræft — Old English for Blood Magic — had seized her attention. Translating the ancient text had been a summer's challenge, an intellectual pursuit she never thought she'd need. But life often mocked intention with cruel necessity.
There had been no time to craft an alternative. No potions could be brewed fast enough, no safer spells came to mind. Desperation had summoned the memory of Blôd Drýcræft, and Hermione had recalled one spell: a transfer of magic designed to heal by overwhelming the recipient's system with restorative intent. But the cost was steep. The caster's magic would be depleted, taking weeks—sometimes months—to fully recover. And in rare cases, the damage could be permanent.
Hermione had cast the spell without hesitation, pouring nearly all her magic into Narcissa. Now, she felt hollow, her essence drained to the point of fragility. The faint hum of magic beneath her skin was weak, flickering like the last ember of a dying fire.
She glanced at the fresh scar etched into the palm of her hand. The spell had demanded blood—a price she had paid willingly, even recklessly.
"I had to," Hermione murmured, her voice barely audible but resolute. The memory of Narcissa's silver eyes, gleaming with desperation, haunted her. Hermione sighed, chastising herself. Stop being so bloody self-sacrificing.
Andromeda's features softened, the tension in her brow easing as a bittersweet smile touched her lips. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling with gratitude.
Hermione nodded stiffly, uncomfortable under the weight of such sincere appreciation. Her gaze dropped back to Narcissa, her thoughts swirling in restless tides. "Meda," she began hesitantly, her voice low.
"Yes?" Andromeda leaned forward slightly, her attention unwavering.
"I think we shouldn't tell her," Hermione said cautiously. "About the spell, I mean. I don't want her to feel troubled, especially not in her condition…"
Andromeda nodded before Hermione could finish, understanding without needing further explanation. "I won't," she assured her.
The room fell into a profound stillness, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the soft sound of Narcissa's breathing. Hermione's thoughts drifted, dark and untethered.
She hadn't told Andromeda everything.
When she cast the spell, a golden thread of magic had formed between her and Narcissa, binding them in ways she hadn't anticipated. The connection had opened a floodgate, inundating Hermione's mind with disjointed fragments of Narcissa's unconscious. Memories, emotions, dreams—they had all poured into her, unrelenting and overwhelming.
She had felt Narcissa's greatest joy: the overwhelming euphoria of holding a newborn boy, his tiny form cradled in slender arms, his first cries filling the air with life. But just as vividly, she had felt the crushing agony of loss. The memory of that same boy—older now, lying still and pale on a cold marble floor—had stolen Hermione's breath. She had felt Narcissa's trembling hands clutching his bloodied robes, her scream tearing through the silence, raw and unending.
And then came the unbearable intent to end it all. A slim, pale hand reaching for a wand…
Hermione shuddered, the memory—Narcissa's memory—colliding with her own. She had been there that day, racing across the Great Hall to snatch the wand from Narcissa's grasp. The woman, once so composed and impervious, had been reduced to a shell of grief.
The spell had forged a bridge between them, and Narcissa's anguish had seeped into Hermione, clinging to her like a second skin. She felt it now, as vivid as if it were her own. It resonated with her own buried sorrow, stirring memories of her own losses, her own farewells that had come too soon.
Now, the memories were a part of her. Narcissa's pain, her love, her despair—they had become an indelible mark on Hermione's psyche. She doubted she could ever forget them.
Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. An uneasy thought whispered through her mind:
Narcissa had become her muse.
When dawn spilled through the edges of the curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold, Andromeda and Hermione had drifted into uneasy slumber, their breaths rising and falling in rhythm with Narcissa's. The stillness was broken by the creak of the door as it cracked open, revealing a small, chubby boy clad only in a diaper. Teddy toddled in, his wide brown eyes searching for his grandmother. Spotting her beside the bed, he paused—then his attention shifted to the unfamiliar figure lying between the two women.
Curiosity sparked in his little mind, and he padded over to the bed, his tiny hands gripping the edge as he pulled himself up. He giggled softly, patting Narcissa's pale cheek with a feather-light touch. Her brow twitched, and she let out a faint murmur, but the boy, finding amusement in her groggy stirrings, continued his gentle taps. Another giggle escaped him as her silver eyes fluttered open, meeting his bright, globular gaze.
"Hi!" he exclaimed, his voice bright and full of innocent joy.
Though disoriented, Narcissa managed the faintest of smiles. "... Hello, little one," she murmured, her voice hoarse and weary. "What's your name?"
He beamed, his round cheeks glowing with pride. "Teddy!"
Her breath hitched. Teddy. Her nephew, Teddy. The name alone sent a surge of fragmented memories crashing into her, vivid and relentless.
She inhaled sharply, her hand instinctively moving to her abdomen. The faint ache there resonated with the events she dared not fully recall. Slowly, she traced her fingers along the length of her arms and over her torso, noting the absence of blood but feeling the raw tenderness beneath the clean fabric of her gown. The rhythmic thrum of her pulse reassured her—she was alive, though the same certainty did not extend to the child.
Her chest rose in a shaky breath as she gathered her strength and pushed herself upright against the headboard. Every movement was measured, her body sore and resistant, but she persisted. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes wandered over the room, absorbing the sight of two women slumped in chairs on either side of her.
To her left, Andromeda sat, her head tipped back against the chair, dark curls tumbling in disarray around her face. Among the deep brown strands, Narcissa caught the faint glimmer of gray threading its way through—the quiet whispers of time etched subtly into her sister's hair. Her features bore a similar testament, the faint creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth softening the fierce beauty Narcissa remembered. Her brows furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line, as though lost in the grip of a troubled dream. Yet even through the weariness that shadowed Andromeda's face, she was achingly familiar. The years had altered Andromeda, but they had not taken away the sister she had once known. Narcissa's heart clenched, a pang of longing and regret entwining in the silence.
To her right, Hermione lay with her head resting on her hand, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Narcissa's gaze lingered on the younger witch's face, noting the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Had she wept? There was also a small gash etched into her palm—a wound that had not been there before. She was asleep, but her lips were slightly parted, as though caught mid-thought, revealing a fragile vulnerability that softened her features in ways Narcissa had not expected. A rush of gratitude surged within her, unbidden and uncomfortable, mingling with an unease she couldn't place. She quickly averted her eyes, unsure whether it was the selflessness Hermione had shown or the quiet, persistent strength radiating from her that left her unsettled. The feelings were raw, tangled, and wholly unfamiliar, and Narcissa found herself unable to decide whether to embrace or reject them.
Her attention returned to Teddy as he began to bounce on the bed, his chubby hands clutching the blankets. "Nana!" he called out, his voice carrying a slight whine. "I'm hungwy."
Andromeda stirred, rubbing her eyes as she slowly woke. Her gaze fell on Narcissa, and her face lit up with relief and joy. "Cissy!" she cried, springing from her chair. In an instant, Narcissa found herself wrapped in a snug embrace, her sister's arms encircling her as kisses were peppered across her cheeks.
"You're… strangling me, 'Meda," Narcissa mumbled, her voice muffled by the fabric of Andromeda's blouse.
Andromeda pulled back, her hands cupping Narcissa's face. Her dark eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she took in her sister's features, searching for signs of recovery. "I've missed you so," she said, her voice trembling. "I thought this day would never come," she whispered. Her hand drifted to Narcissa's cheek, stroking it gently. "Cissy… will you forgive me for leaving you?"
Narcissa's breath caught. She exhaled softly, the weight of unspoken years settling heavily between them. What was the use of revisiting old wounds now? "You're still as melodramatic as ever," she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smirk.
"I'm hungwy, Nana!" Teddy interjected, his small voice cutting through the moment.
Narcissa's smirk widened. "I'm quite famished myself, 'Meda. Perhaps I'll be more forgiving on a full stomach."
Andromeda chuckled, rising to her feet and scooping Teddy into her arms. "Oh, I've missed your wit most of all," she said, her laughter warm as she carried the boy out of the room.
The door clicked shut, leaving Narcissa and Hermione alone. Silence settled between them, heavy and charged. Hermione, who had awoken from the noise, had been completely still during the sisters' interaction, and now shifted awkwardly in her chair. Her cheeks flushed under Narcissa's gaze, and she looked away, her fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.
Narcissa's silver eyes softened, though her voice remained steady. "You've been quiet," she remarked.
Hermione's lips parted as if to respond, but the words faltered in her throat, leaving an uneasy silence that stretched between them. Her expression revealed a quiet battle—one that spoke of guilt, exhaustion, and an unspoken need for reassurance. "I haven't told Andromeda… about us…," she finally whispered, her voice trembling, each word teetering on the edge of breaking.
Us. The word landed like an unwelcome guest, and Narcissa recoiled inwardly at its presumption. It felt intrusive, an attempt to define a connection she had neither consented to nor fully understood—a connection she wasn't certain she desired at all.
Hermione's hands then fluttered briefly, as if searching for something to hold onto, before settling at her temples. Her fingers curled into her hair, tugging lightly as though the act might anchor her to the moment. "I'm sorry—I… I don't know if the baby… if it worked," she admitted, her voice cracking beneath the weight of her confession. The anguish in her tone was raw and unrelenting, filling the room like a storm that refused to break.
Narcissa watched her, her silver eyes narrowing as she studied the young witch's trembling form. Hermione looked utterly undone—her complexion pale, her hands trembling, and her gaze darting as though searching for answers she feared would not come.
She once more noted the dark smudges beneath Hermione's eyes, the weight she seemed to carry in every motion. Had she slept at all? Or had she been consumed by the endless loop of what-ifs and imagined outcomes? The sight stirred an ache in Narcissa's chest, one that she couldn't suppress, no matter how much she tried to reason herself out of it. The younger witch's presence was both a comfort and a confrontation—a reminder of debts unspoken and the fragility of life that tethered them both. Narcissa looked away, the tumult of emotions too raw to face.
Her hand moved instinctively to her abdomen, her fingers resting lightly against the faint swell. The image of a little girl flickered in her mind—a child with unruly curls and warm brown eyes, her laughter ringing through a sunlit garden. The vision clung to her, fragile yet persistent, as though daring her to hope.
But she was too afraid to.
When Narcissa finally spoke, her voice was barely audible, each word quivering under the weight of uncertainty. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for saving my life," she murmured softly. "As for the child… perhaps it simply wasn't meant to be."
Hermione's hands fell from her face, and she turned her tear-streaked gaze to Narcissa. Their eyes met—silver meeting brown, sorrow meeting sorrow. In that shared moment, words were unnecessary. They simply watched one another, their breaths syncing in an unspoken truce born of mutual pain and fragile hope.
Then, the door opened with a soft creak, and Andromeda stepped in. Her steps faltered as her eyes took in the scene before her: Narcissa's tear-streaked face, Hermione's red-rimmed eyes, the quiet intensity hanging in the air. Her brows knitted in confusion, her gaze darting between the two women. "What's going on here?" she asked softly.
She placed a hand on Narcissa's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "I made your favorite: chocolate and strawberry crêpes with a warm latte on the side."
Narcissa opened her mouth to respond, but her voice faltered. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Andromeda's waist, burying her face against her sister's stomach. Andromeda stiffened for only a moment before her hands came up to stroke Narcissa's hair, her touch gentle and reassuring.
"Do you remember what Maman used to say?" Andromeda murmured, her voice laced with fondness. "Much of it was nonsense, but one saying stayed with me."
Narcissa looked up, her tired eyes searching her sister's face. "What was it?" she whispered.
"One day at a time," Andromeda replied, her lips curving into a soft smile. "One day at a time, Cissy."
Narcissa nodded slowly, her trembling hand clasping Andromeda's. "One day at a time," she echoed.
Andromeda straightened, her warm smile returning. "Now, come on, the both of you," she said, her gaze flicking to Hermione. "Let's eat."
Hermione shook her head gently. "I'd love to, truly, but… I'm late for work." It was a lie, but she sensed she was intruding, and that Narcissa needed privacy with her sister. Rising from her chair, she offered a small smile. "Thank you, Meda, but I'll grab something on the way."
As Hermione floo'd away, her thoughts churned, conjuring an image of two diverging paths before her. One led to a life with Ron, where quiet weekends stretched into routine. He would immerse himself in the camaraderie of his friends, their conversations circling endlessly around Quidditch, while she would sit alone, wondering. Wondering if he might have been happier without her, if she had somehow fallen short, if he even saw the silent effort she poured into holding their life together.
The other path was an enigma, full of uncertainty yet brimming with possibility. It was a life painted with the laughter of a little girl, her round, inquisitive eyes lighting up at the wonders around her. A life where Hermione could nurture that light, watching it grow, a testament to the love she carried deep within—a love that longed for something new, something beautiful to take root and flourish.
But as the thought lingered, bittersweet and fragile, she couldn't escape the question that shadowed her hope: would Ron want to walk that path with her?
Hermione pursed her lips as she stepped into her office.
It would be a long day, but the bar stand in her office would at least offer its silent solace, a small comfort in the midst of her restless mind.
Author's Note:
What do you think? Reviews are love!
Updated: January 21, 2025