Chapter 7: Collisions at Noon

A stillness heavy, sharp and bare,

The taste of something in the air,

Both fragile hope and raw despair.

In the dim, secluded corner of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione sat alone, her presence obscured by shadows cast by the flickering hearth and the moving figures of other patrons. Around her, laughter and drunken murmurs ebbed and flowed, yet they barely registered. Her thoughts were louder, drowning out the pub's clamor.

Days ago, in a haze of alcohol-induced recklessness—a state that was becoming disturbingly familiar—Hermione had penned a letter to Andromeda. She'd asked her to meet here, in this unassuming, crowded place. But the letter… the letter had revealed too much. Hermione had emptied herself onto the parchment, confessed every terrible, aching truth. At the time, it had felt like a compulsion, as though the weight of her secret had grown so vast that it would crush her if she didn't unburden herself.

And now, regret twisted in her stomach. What if Narcissa finds out? She'll hate me. The thought struck like a whip, and she winced, dragging her hand through her hair. She cursed herself for her foolishness, for how alcohol always seemed to unravel her.

"Hermione?"

The voice, soft yet familiar, startled her from her spiraling thoughts. Her head snapped up, and there she was: Andromeda Tonks, standing just beyond the shadows, her warm brown eyes fixed intently on Hermione's face.

Someone knows. Someone finally knows.

At the sight of her, Hermione's composure crumbled. Tears surged forward, burning hot trails down her cheeks, falling faster than she could wipe them away. She tried to suppress them, to swallow the sobs rising in her throat, but it was like trying to contain the sea.

"Shh," Andromeda murmured softly, stepping closer. Her touch was featherlight as she swept Hermione's tears away with practiced care, her fingers cool against flushed cheeks. Her sharp eyes flickered around the room, noting the bustle of the pub and the ever-prying ears of its patrons. It would not do for their conversation to be overheard. "Come now, pet," she coaxed gently, her voice low and reassuring. "Let's find somewhere quieter, shall we?"

A moment later, they Apparated to Andromeda's home, and Hermione found herself in a sitting room that was a striking blend of two lives—one steeped in pureblooded Slytherin tradition, the other rooted in Ted Tonks's easy, grounded practicality. The deep emerald walls, adorned with silver sconces and intricate filigree, whispered of Andromeda's heritage, a nod to the house she was born into and the refinement she still carried. Yet, softened by touches that still spoke of Ted, the room exuded a lived-in warmth.

A mismatched throw lay draped over one of the velvet armchairs, its bold pattern an unapologetic contrast to the room's carefully curated symmetry. On the polished black marble mantle sat a silver vase, next to which was a small clay figure—childishly crafted, no doubt by Teddy, its charm undeniable. Hermione's eyes caught a glimpse of a worn corner of a book peeking out from the coffee table, likely one of Ted's well-thumbed Muggle novels.

"Teddy's asleep," Andromeda murmured softly, gesturing for Hermione to sit. Her voice carried the same ease as the room, familiar yet deliberate, inviting but composed. Hermione sank into one of the armchairs, the rich velvet cool beneath her fingertips. The room's careful balance of heritage and heart stirred something within her, a quiet realization of how two opposing forces could coexist.

(Could Narcissa and I ever truly coexist? she secretly wondered).

Hermione complied, sinking into a couch by the coffee table, but as Andromeda turned toward the kitchen, her voice broke through the fragile stillness. "Is Narcissa all right?" she asked suddenly, her words barely above a whisper.

Andromeda paused, her shoulders tightening before she turned back. Her expression was grave. "I've seen her a few times," she began, her voice calm but tinged with unease. "She's… thinner. Gaunt. She barely eats, barely speaks." She hesitated, and a shadow passed through her eyes. "It's understandable, given everything, but it's worrying. Very worrying."

Hermione bowed her head, her hands curling into tight fists against her knees. Guilt weighed heavy on her chest, an oppressive storm cloud that refused to dissipate. Since the night she had saved Narcissa—since she'd staunched the bleeding and forced her back from the brink—an unrelenting unease had taken root within her.

Something was wrong; Hermione could feel it in the marrow of her bones.

Narcissa's absence from the Hallowe'en Ball—the pinnacle of the pureblood social calendar, now expanded to welcome celebrities of any status—sharpened the edge of Hermione's growing unease. It was an event Narcissa had graced every year of her life, her presence as constant as the changing of seasons. Though Hermione typically avoided such ostentatious affairs, this year she had resolved to attend, driven by a singular purpose: to find her.

Amidst the glittering throng, Hermione's eyes searched relentlessly for the figure of Narcissa Malfoy, her poise and elegance unmistakable even in a crowd. She had hoped for a fleeting exchange, enough to confirm that Narcissa—and by extension, the child they possibly now shared—was safe. But Narcissa never appeared, and her absence hung in Hermione's mind like a shadow, dark and foreboding, a silent warning that something was terribly amiss.

It was the nightmares, though, that Hermione had been enduring the cruelest. Dark dreams that dragged her back to the Great Hall, to a mother cradling her son's lifeless body. To hair the color of sunlight matted with blood. To the echo of a scream torn from a woman who had lost everything.

And after every dream, Hermione awoke with the same unbearable fear: that perhaps Narcissa was considering pressing her wand to her chest again, and uttering the words Hermione had only narrowly stopped her from saying once before.

No. Hermione exhaled sharply, shaking her head as though to cast off the thought. Her jaw tightened, and her resolve solidified. She would not allow it. Narcissa might have fallen into despair, but Hermione refused to stand by and let her be consumed by it.

"Thank you," Hermione murmured as Andromeda returned, balancing a tray with the effortless grace of someone who had once presided over drawing rooms filled with dignitaries. The teapot gleamed in the soft lamplight, accompanied by two delicate cups and an array of biscuits arranged with quiet precision. Hermione's gaze followed her as she set the tray down and took the seat beside her, movements refined and unhurried, the faint clink of porcelain punctuating the silence.

Andromeda poured the tea with the poise of a hostess who had once entertained heads of households and figures of influence—her deft hands steady, even now. But it was those hands that caught Hermione's attention: fleshy and robust, bearing the subtle marks of age and resilience. How different they were from her sister's hands, which had been willowy and cool to the touch, trembling on that night. Hermione could still feel the memory of Narcissa's hands: Icy with fear and slick with blood in the Great Hall; warm and fleeting, accidental in the bookstore.

Hermione wrapped her fingers around the steaming cup that Andromeda handed her, but the heat failed to ease the chill in her chest. "I'm terrified," she confessed at last, her voice a fragile whisper. She glanced down at the swirl of peppermint tea, watching as the steam curled into the air like fleeting wisps of hope. "Terrified of living this lie with Ron. Of never telling him—of carrying this secret forever." Her breath hitched, and her voice dropped to a thread. "Of wondering if I'll be alright—or if she'll be alright." She hesitated, then added, almost inaudibly, "And if fate will ever grant me… a child."

The words felt heavier spoken aloud, their weight pressing against her chest. She took a sip of tea, but it scalded her tongue and did nothing to soothe her nerves. "Oh gods, 'Meda," she stammered, her tone breaking. "I've been such a… wreck." She set the cup down, her hands trembling. "At work, I'm useless. My magic—it's failing me. I can barely cast anymore. My concentration is shattered. Even Ron, who never notices, has started asking if I'm alright. And Harry… Harry knows something's wrong. He doesn't say it, but I see it in his eyes. He's waiting for me to tell him, but…" She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Hermione gave a hollow laugh, though there was no humor in it. "And then, to top it all off, I've been drinking too much."

"I can tell," Andromeda responded dryly, a hint of Black derision curling at the edge of her tone. She had sat down before Hermione on the edge of a sofa. "You look like you haven't bathed in weeks."

Hermione ignored the jab, her exhaustion too profound to summon indignation. She exhaled shakily, brushing a hand through her tangled hair. "I promised Narcissa I wouldn't tell anyone," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "But it's too much. I couldn't keep it to myself anymore." Her gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers knotting together as though to brace herself. "I'm sorry, Andromeda. I shouldn't have told you. Please, just—"

"Don't fret, pet," Andromeda interrupted gently, her voice calm and measured, like a balm against Hermione's frayed nerves. "I shan't tell a soul."

Andromeda's hand came to rest over Hermione's, and it was then that Hermione noticed how violently her fingers had been trembling. The tea in her cup had been quivering with the same unease. Andromeda's touch stilled the tremor, grounding her in the moment.

"I want to tell you something. A secret," Andromeda said after a beat.

Hermione nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

"My sister," Andromeda began, her words slow and deliberate, "does not truly hate you."

Hermione blinked, startled by the absurdity of the statement. A soft laugh escaped her lips, though it carried a note of incredulity. "That's your secret?" she asked, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Andromeda's lips curved into a smirk, the mischievous glint in her eyes so reminiscent of Sirius that Hermione's chest tightened with an ache she couldn't quite name. "Yes," she replied with mock solemnity, though the sly twist of her tone betrayed her amusement. "Although…" She paused, a chuckle rumbling low in her throat. "She probably does hate you—but not as much as you think."

Her gaze softened, turning pensive. "Narcissa has always been the one among us capable of truly cold restraint. Bella burned with wildfire—anger, passion, hatred—it consumed her entirely. And me?" Andromeda's lips curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile. "I've always been better at burying my emotions than controlling them."

She gave a small shrug before continuing, her tone edged with quiet admiration. "But Narcissa… she learned long ago to wield her emotions like a blade—sharp, deliberate, and controlled. She uses them when they serve her, and only then. If she appears to hate you, Hermione, it's not personal. It's her way of keeping herself safe, of holding the world at arm's length."

Hermione's chest tightened further, Andromeda's words planting a seed of understanding she wasn't sure she wanted to nurture. Her brow furrowed as suspicion crept in. Andromeda was every bit as Slytherin as her sister. Her words were rarely idle and without meaning, and Hermione couldn't shake the sense that there was purpose behind them.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, her voice careful, as though testing the air for traps.

Andromeda leaned back slightly, her hands settling with a calm grace on the arms of her chair. Her gaze, sharp and discerning, softened faintly, though the weight of her words remained heavy. "I am telling you this because Narcissa… She's also human, Hermione. Beneath the mask she wears so well, there is fragility. She feels more deeply than she would ever let on. And I know she needs your help."

Her voice grew quieter, almost tender. "I worry for her. My sister may be strong, but strength doesn't mean invulnerability. I can tell that this secret you both share … has shaken her. More than you realize."

Hermione looked away, her throat tightening at the thought.

Andromeda sighed softly, leaning forward now, her tone more insistent. "But I worry for you, too. You carry so much already, and now you're bearing this on your own shoulders, trying to protect her while shielding yourself. It's no wonder you feel like you're breaking under the weight of it." Her eyes searched Hermione's face, her voice growing even softer. "You're not meant to hold all of this alone, Hermione. You can't."

Hermione's gaze dropped to her hands, clasped tightly around the tea cup as though it might anchor her. The steam curled into the air like a wisp of smoke, vanishing before it could fully take form. "I don't know if I can do this — or face her," she admitted finally, her voice fragile and raw.

Andromeda studied her for a long moment, her expression a measured blend of empathy and quiet certainty. "You can and you will. Because you care for her. It's clear how much you care for her," she said gently, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "I saw it that night—the way you stayed by her side, the way you refused to let her go. It wasn't just duty or compassion, Hermione. It was something far more personal."

She paused, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips. "I'd been puzzling over it ever since. Then your letter arrived, and everything clicked into place." Her smile deepened, a touch of wry humor dancing in her eyes. "I can't say I was the least bit surprised by it, to be honest."

Hermione's breath hitched, her grip tightening on the cup as Andromeda's words struck closer to the truth than she wanted to admit.

"I see it in your eyes," Andromeda continued, her tone growing firmer. "You want to protect her, even from herself. But tell me, Hermione—when was the last time you thought about what you need?"

The words stung, but they resonated. Hermione closed her eyes, her thoughts spiraling as the silence pressed down on her. The dark emerald walls of the room seemed to grow closer, the air thick with the unspoken weight of Andromeda's question.

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Andromeda crossed the room and sat beside Hermione, her hand settling gently over hers.

"Hermione," she said softly, "you don't have to have all the answers. It's not a weakness to admit you're struggling." Her voice sharpened briefly. "But honestly, did you and Narcissa think you could hide this forever? That you could avoid each other? That it wouldn't matter?"

She sighed, her tone softening as she caught Hermione's tearful gaze. "You can't keep running from this. And you're allowed to feel, Hermione. Let yourself feel."

Hermione swallowed hard, her chest tight with dread.

Andromeda sighed, her voice softening further. "You know where I'm going with this."

"Yes. You want me to talk to her," Hermione whispered, the very thought of it sending a shiver of apprehension through her.

"Yes," Andromeda replied without hesitation. "And I know you want to talk to her too. It will benefit both of you." She set her cup of tea down with a quiet clink, then leaned forward, cupping Hermione's face with gentle hands, forcing the younger witch to meet her gaze. "Listen to me. You need to see my idiot of a sister. You need to talk to her. For both your sakes. You're clever—figure out a way to make her more receptive to you."

She bit her lip, a small, thoughtful gesture that struck Hermione with startling familiarity. Narcissa had bitten her lip in the same way that night in the Great Hall—troubled and deep in thought, her composure fractured. Hermione could still see her trembling hands, slick with her own blood, as they clutched at fragile life. The memory surged through her like a physical blow, and she shuddered.

Andromeda withdrew her hands and pressed on, seemingly unfazed by the turmoil brewing behind Hermione's eyes. "…But, of course, I doubt she'll agree to meet you if you ask her directly," she said, her tone calm but matter-of-fact." She ran her fingers through her hair, searching for a way to bridge the divide between the two witches.

"There's no point," Hermione whispered, shaking her head, drawing Andromeda out of her thoughts. "Talking to her … I am sure it wouldn't lead to anything."

Andromeda exhaled softly, a faint huff of exasperation flickering in her sharp gaze. "Hermione," she said, her tone firm yet laced with dry humor, "you're both brilliant witches, but when it comes to emotions? Utterly hopeless." She shook her head, letting out the ghost of a sigh before her expression smoothed back into its usual composed calm.

"Just try," she urged, her voice gentler now. "There's no harm in trying."

As if struck by a sudden thought, Andromeda's expression brightened slightly. "Oh, and speaking of trying," she added, her tone light but deliberate, "she's picking up a gown from Twilfitt and Tattings this Sunday at noon. I will be with her. You can meet her there."

Hermione's stomach twisted as the practicality of the plan settled over her. "So, you're sending me in under false pretenses?" she asked, her voice tight.

Andromeda smirked. "Would you rather I warned her in advance?" she replied lightly. "She wouldn't come if she knew you'd be there. This way, she'll have no choice but to see you."

"Fine," said Hermione, grumbling.

Sunday had reached its noon hour.

Hermione straightened, forcing herself to focus. Gather yourself, she thought. Breathe in. Breathe out. But her attempts at calm were as useless as a leaky cauldron. Her nerves remained taut, coiled tight in her chest. Accepting that she would have to carry on in her current state, she tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. The green flames roared to life, and in moments, she was whirling into the warmth of a bustling shop in Diagon Alley.

When she stepped outside, the brightness of the day startled her. The sky was unusually clear for London, its pale expanse stretched wide above the cobblestone streets. Hermione wondered fleetingly if the weather was meant to be a good omen, though the sharp autumn air biting at her skin felt less forgiving. The chill mingled with the warm sweat trickling down her neck and back. She couldn't blame the perspiration on the weather—it was her nerves.

Unaccustomed to the stares that seemed to follow her these days, Hermione tugged the hood of her oversized sweater up, trying to shield herself from prying eyes. Keeping close to the shadows, she moved quickly through the alley, her hands shoved deep into her pockets to hide their trembling. A fleeting glance at her reflection in a shop window made her cringe. I look awful, she thought, a pang of regret flickering over her choice of clothing.

Then, the questions she had tried to ignore began to rush forward, unrelenting.

What if Narcissa finds my presence intrusive? What could I possibly say that wouldn't make things worse?

Hermione's stomach twisted as her mind reeled. Their connection—if it could even be called that—was tangled and fraught. Could it ever become something as simple as friendship?

Of course not.

Andromeda must be completely out of her mind to think otherwise.

How could someone like me—a Gryffindor with far too many feelings—be of comfort to Narcissa Malfoy? She's the epitome of control, cool and untouchable. And if Narcissa rejected her, Hermione wouldn't blame her. Though none of this was Hermione's doing, guilt clung to her all the same. She knew it wasn't rational—she could see that plainly—but her rational mind had always struggled to wrestle with her heart.

Finally, she arrived at the tailor shop, its cobbled exterior a charming facade. Pausing, Hermione took a deep, steadying breath, the air sharp as it filled her lungs. She told herself she was doing this for Andromeda. The older witch had asked this of her, after all. But as she stared at the door, Hermione knew that wasn't entirely true.

She wanted to see Narcissa. To ensure she was alright. To ensure she would be alright if she wasn't now.

The thought brought a short, bitter laugh to her lips. And how do you plan to help her, Hermione, when she barely tolerates your existence?

Pushing aside her doubts, Hermione stepped forward, her hand brushing the door. It creaked open, the sound breaking the quiet inside. The faint jingle of bells accompanied her entrance. She glanced around, her eyes landing on a single occupant: a thin, birdlike woman perched behind the counter. She wore bold, fashionable eyeglasses, and her silver hair was pulled back into a sharp, high ponytail.

"Um… hello?" Hermione ventured, her voice uncertain.

The woman barely glanced at her before holding up a bony finger. "One moment, madam," she said curtly. Her English was precise, though tinged with a faint French accent.

The sound of it stirred something strange in Hermione's mind. French… crepes… Narcissa. She blinked, startled by the absurd association. It was ridiculous, yet not unusual. Ever since this tangled ordeal had begun, her thoughts had been invaded by Narcissa Malfoy in the most unexpected ways. She found herself thinking of her at odd moments, in absurd contexts.

It was maddening. Maddening, and utterly distracting.

Hermione sighed quietly, shaking her head as she waited for the woman to finish.

She then absently let her gaze linger on a robe displayed on a mannequin, her thoughts wandering like loose threads. But then it came—a sigh, soft yet unmistakable, heavy with an unspoken weight. It was followed by a voice, smooth and rich like rain-soaked velvet, honeyed yet edged with darkness. The sound poured into the room, wrapping itself around her, impossible to ignore.

Her breath caught. That voice. That sigh. She knew them.

Her gaze snapped up instinctively, her pulse quickening as her eyes found Narcissa Malfoy. The witch stood just a few feet away, the very picture of elegance despite her clear frustration. She wore a fitted gown of deep viridian velvet, the fabric clinging to her figure save for the zipper, which refused to close entirely. Narcissa's back was to Hermione, her posture straight, her shoulders taut with impatience.

"Merlin's sake, I cannot fathom why this gown no longer fits!" Narcissa exclaimed, her tone sharp but not loud, a quiet fury that carried easily in the room. "The measurements were taken less than a month ago." Her exasperation felt almost theatrical as she gestured to the tailor behind her.

The zipper hung halfway down, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her back. Hermione's gaze flickered away, but it betrayed her almost immediately, returning to trace the faint rise of Narcissa's spine, following the elegant curve to her neck, where a strand of blonde hair had slipped free from her bun.

"Would you mind zipping this?" Narcissa asked the tailor, her voice clipped. "And did my sister mention where she was going?"

"She said she'd forgotten her grandson's lunch for Montessori," the tailor replied briskly, moving to grip the gown's fabric.

Narcissa sighed, the sound barely audible. "That woman is terribly scatterbrained," she grumbled, whining. The tailor braced the material together, pulling at the stubborn zipper. Narcissa grimaced as pressure pushed against her chest. Her hand rose instinctively to her sternum, rubbing lightly with an uncharacteristic lack of propriety before she caught herself and straightened.

"Did she say when she would return?" she asked, the strain in her voice hidden beneath a veil of indifference.

"Non, Madame," the tailor replied, before switching seamlessly into a blend of French and English.

"C'est insupportable!" Narcissa exclaimed, her irritation cutting sharper in French. "I don't understand why this gown doesn't fit! It was made to measure, wasn't it? Pourquoi est-ce si difficile? Why is this so complicated?" Her voice, crisp and laced with aristocratic elegance, flowed seamlessly between the two languages, her frustration unmistakable in any tongue.

Hermione blinked, momentarily transfixed by the sound. Narcissa in French was something else entirely, the language wrapping around her words as effortlessly as silk.

The tailor tried again, tugging harder on the zipper. Narcissa's breath caught, her wince breaking her composure as she raised a hand to intervene. "Non! C'est marche! That's enough," she snapped, her tone sharper than intended.

The tailor withdrew, and Narcissa turned on her with a glare that could cut glass. "You've measured me incorrectly," she said coldly, each word precise, dangerous.

The tailor faltered, her confidence cracking beneath the weight of Narcissa's tone. "Madam, forgive me, but…" She hesitated, glancing nervously at Narcissa's unreadable expression. "One hears things, you see. And I have heard that you may… be with-child."

Narcissa's frame stiffened. Hermione, watching from the periphery, felt her own breath hitch as the air in the room seemed to shift.

The tailor hesitated before pressing on, her discomfort evident. "In such a condition, Madame, it is natural for one's measurements to… shift—around the bosom and… the belly." Her voice faltered as Narcissa's gaze turned icy, and she coughed lightly, as though to recover.

Narcissa froze, her body unnaturally still. The room seemed to hold its breath. Hermione, standing nearby, watched closely as tension rippled across Narcissa's usually composed features. Her shoulders were rigid, and her silver eyes darkened as though shadows had gathered behind them.

Hermione's chest tightened. She saw the subtle movement of Narcissa's hand, brushing instinctively, almost unconsciously, against her abdomen. The gesture was fleeting but significant. Could it be possible? Hermione thought, her heart pounding as her mind raced.

Then Narcissa turned.

Her sharp gaze swept the room, seeking to anchor herself against the flood of emotion stirred by the tailor's words. Instead, her eyes landed on Hermione.

For a moment, Narcissa faltered, her expression cracking as the sight of Hermione jarred her. Memories from the night at Andromeda's surged forward—blurred memories of the frantic way Hermione had cared for her, the hands that had steadied her while she'd thought she was losing everything.

The weight of it all crashed down on her at once: the tailor's insinuations, the implications of her own body betraying her, and now Hermione standing there, tethered to her in a way she could neither explain nor fully deny.

Hermione, meanwhile, froze under Narcissa's gaze. Her panic sent her scrambling to look preoccupied. She ran her fingers over the fabric of the mannequin's robe, her head tilting at an angle she hoped would look casual. But she'd been caught.

Not just looking at Narcissa.

Looking at her chest.

Narcissa's sharp eyes narrowed. In a swift, instinctive movement, she folded her arms across her chest, as though to shield herself from scrutiny. Yet the motion backfired spectacularly, emphasizing what she had meant to conceal. The fullness of her figure pressed against her arms, the deep shadow of her cleavage unintentionally accentuated.

Hermione's face burned as she quickly turned away, but the confirmation was already there in her mind: Yes, her figure has changed.

The air between them seemed colder, yet Hermione's palms grew damp, her breath shallow and uneven. She shoved her trembling hands into her sweater pockets, her heart thudding violently against her ribcage.

"I…" Hermione stammered, her voice loud and abrupt in the tense silence. "I saw you outside," she blurted, gesturing vaguely toward the window before her hand retreated to her pocket. "I thought I'd stop by," she finished awkwardly.

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing further. Her lips pressed into a tight line, her thoughts swirling in a storm of emotion and fragments of memory. The world felt precariously tilted beneath her feet. And then, her knees buckled.

Her breath hitched as dizziness swept through her. The counter behind her was too far, and her body, worn down by weeks of grief, stress, and now shock, betrayed her entirely. The ground seemed to pull at her, and she swayed dangerously.

"Oh," she murmured faintly, the sound soft and helpless as her legs gave way.

The fall never came.

Instead, warmth enveloped her. Arms steadied her, wrapping firmly around her back. Her cheek pressed against a soft surface that smelled faintly of sandalwood, jasmine, and something sharper, bitter like wine. The grip holding her was strong, grounding her as the spinning in her head slowly subsided.

"Narcis—I mean, Mrs. Malfoy?" came a hesitant voice near her ear.

Narcissa stirred faintly, her lashes fluttering open. Warm, honey-brown eyes, wide with concern, gazed down at her. The face above her was tired—subtle lines under the eyes, tension in the jaw—but undeniably familiar.

Granger.

The name rose unbidden in her mind, slipping past her lips in a murmur.

"It's Weasley now, actually," Hermione said quietly, offering a tentative smile. "But… you can call me Granger. Or Hermione. If you want."

Narcissa stiffened, the warmth of the embrace abruptly becoming unbearable. Pride flared in her chest, and she quickly straightened, gripping Hermione's shoulders as she regained her footing.

"I had it under control," she said curtly, her voice regaining its cool precision. Her hands smoothed the fabric of her robes as she straightened to her full height. "There was no need for… dramatics." Her tone was clipped, but a faint flush betrayed the sting to her pride.

Hermione also flushed deeply, her arms still lingering awkwardly around Narcissa's waist.

"You may release me now, Ms. Granger," Narcissa added coolly, her tone clipped. "I am fine."

Hermione's hands dropped instantly, and she took a hurried step back. "Sorry," she muttered, her face still flushed.

They stood in an awkward silence, the tension between them palpable. Narcissa's hand briefly hovered near her abdomen again before she let it drop to her side.

"I… perhaps you should sit down," Hermione said after a moment, her voice quiet but sincere. "You don't look—"

"I said I'm fine," Narcissa interrupted sharply, though the faint tremor in her voice betrayed her. She turned sharply on her heel, addressing the tailor with an icy calm.

"Apologies," she said, though her tone was anything but apologetic. "You may set the gown aside. I will send an owl for alterations."

The tailor nodded quickly, her gaze flitting nervously between the two witches.

Hermione watched Narcissa retreat into the back of the shop, the silence she left behind thick with unspoken tension. When Narcissa returned, her coat was pulled tightly around her frame, almost too snug, the seams stretching faintly at her sides. Hermione's gaze lingered involuntarily, drawn to the way the fabric hugged her figure. She flushed and quickly looked away, embarrassed by her own lack of discretion.

Narcissa ignored her entirely as she passed by, her head held high and her steps as deliberate as ever.

For a moment, Hermione remained frozen, unsure whether to follow or let her go. But as Narcissa reached the door, she shoved it open with far more force than necessary, letting it swing shut behind her without a second thought. Hermione, who had begun to follow her, barely caught it in time to keep it from slamming into her.

"Mrs. Malfoy!" Hermione called, rushing out onto the cobblestones, her voice loud enough to draw glances from the passersby. "Wait—please, just a moment!"

Narcissa didn't stop.

Hermione quickened her pace, almost tripping over her own feet as she hurried after the aristocrat. "Listen, I know you hate me," she blurted, desperation creeping into her voice. "But, I want to make sure everything is okay! Please, just—just hear me out!"

That stopped her.

Narcissa froze mid-stride, her back stiffening. Slowly, she turned, her expression icy and unreadable, but her pale complexion betrayed the turbulence beneath the surface. Hermione stumbled to a halt, breathless, her words tumbling out in an unsteady rush.

"I was there," she said, her voice trembling as she approached her. "In the Great Hall. I saw you, Mrs. Malfoy. You had your wand in your hand, and you looked…" Hermione trailed off, unable to find the words. The memory of that night—the desperation etched into Narcissa's face, the way she had collapsed into herself as if she were already gone—had haunted Hermione ever since.

"I saw you," she repeated quietly, her hands twisting together as she stood before the older witch. "And I couldn't let you—" She choked on the words, her voice faltering.

Narcissa's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes flickered, a storm breaking behind the silver. Her lips parted slightly, as if she meant to speak, but no sound came.

Hermione pressed on, her voice raw. "I've been having nightmares about it. About you. I've been terrified you might… try again." She swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.

The unspoken truth settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

"It was you?" Narcissa whispered at last, her voice barely audible. Her gaze grew distant, her lashes fluttering as though she were recalling something from far away.

Hermione nodded slowly. "Yes. It was me. I saw you, and I stopped you."

"Why?" Narcissa asked, her voice cracking. Her question wasn't cold—it was desperate, frayed at the edges. "Why would you stop me? You, of all people…"

"Because," Hermione said, her voice steadier than she'd anticipated, "no one deserves that. Least of all you. I've seen the way you love your son—that kind of love doesn't lie. It's proof of who you are, Mrs. Malfoy. And I couldn't stand by and let that be lost." She exhaled softly, her gaze unwavering. "If you don't believe me, then use Legilimency. See for yourself."

Narcissa stiffened at the mention of Draco, her composure fracturing further.

"And…" Hermione hesitated, biting her lip before continuing. "This child—they're lucky to have you. I mean that. I'm glad they're yours. I don't regret sharing them with you—not even for a second. Imagine if it had been someone else…" Her voice softened. "Imagine if it had been someone who didn't care like you."

Hermione's gaze fell to the ground as she finished, her voice so quiet she wasn't sure if Narcissa had heard her at all.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Hermione dared a glance upward, only to find Narcissa watching her, sharp and unyielding, though her expression betrayed nothing.

"Legilimency, you say?" Narcissa's voice was smooth, almost curious, though the edge in her tone was impossible to miss.

Hermione nodded, her throat dry, as Narcissa stepped closer. For a moment, she thought the older witch might actually do it—her breath quickened as Narcissa's sharp gaze seemed to pierce through her entirely.

But then Narcissa stepped back, her face inscrutable. "I don't need to. I believe you," she said softly, her words careful, deliberate.

Hermione exhaled shakily, relief mingling with confusion. Was she telling the truth? Or had she used Legilimency? Her pulse thrummed with uncertainty, her mind racing to untangle the moment. Narcissa's silver eyes lingered on her, distant and searching, as though they had seen far more than Hermione could comprehend. Yet her eyes—so often cold and metallic—seemed softer, almost luminous now. For a fleeting moment, they appeared to shift to a shade of blue so vivid it made Hermione's breath catch. But the moment passed, and they returned to their usual silver, leaving Hermione to wonder if she had imagined it.

"Have you no discretion?" Narcissa hissed suddenly, her voice sharp as she glanced around the busy street. Her gaze darted between the passersby, searching for anyone who might have overheard.

When her attention returned to Hermione, it was with a look of exasperation, though her cheeks were faintly flushed. "Must you discuss such matters here?" she demanded. "In public, no less?"

Hermione flinched, guilt prickling at her skin.

Narcissa exhaled slowly, her fingers massaging her temple as though the weight of their exchange had settled there. Her tone was dry, cutting, as she said, "If you are truly the brightest witch of your generation, I dread to imagine the intellectual state of your peers."

"You're right," Hermione said, surprising Narcissa, her voice steady but betraying the flicker of nerves beneath her words. A faint, defiant smirk tugged at her lips. "My classmates were imbeciles. But at least they weren't drunk with blind ambition—didn't start a war that nearly destroyed wizarding Britain."

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Narcissa's gaze—surprise, perhaps, or faint amusement—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual cool detachment.

"I'd argue it takes more than mere ambition to start a war," she countered, her tone sharp and deliberate, fully prepared to continue their mental sparring. Yet, beneath the crisp delivery, faint traces of fatigue softened its edges. "It requires vision, calculation, and a certain… ruthlessness."

"And arrogance," Hermione added without hesitation, meeting Narcissa's silver gaze. "The kind of arrogance that leads to ruin."

For a moment, silence hung between them, thick with unspoken words. Narcissa tilted her head, her sharp eyes assessing Hermione with a precision that felt surgical. "And yet," she said finally, her voice smooth, "you Gryffindors have your own brand of arrogance—one wrapped in sanctimony." Her lips curved faintly. "You wear it like armor, though I suspect yours has been dented of late."

Hermione flushed, shifting on her feet, her confidence waning under Narcissa's relentless gaze. The memory of the older woman collapsing into her arms only moments ago played fresh in her mind, her words faltering. "I was only trying to help," she said quietly.

"I noticed," Narcissa replied coolly, though her voice carried an unfamiliar tremor. Her eyes lingered on Hermione's face as if searching for something she hadn't yet found. "And I suppose… I should thank you. For catching me. Though I'd rather not dwell on the indignity of it."

Hermione couldn't suppress a small smile. "You're welcome," she said softly, but her cheeks burned at the awkwardness of the exchange.

Narcissa straightened. "Well, I'm fine now," she said brusquely, though Hermione could see the faint tension in her shoulders. "So you may stop hovering, Ms. Granger."

Hermione hesitated, then ventured cautiously, "Are you sure? You were… unsteady."

"I am certain," Narcissa replied, her voice like cut glass. But after a moment, her gaze softened just enough to betray the weight of what lingered unsaid. "Though I admit," she added quietly, almost reluctantly, "the events of today have been… unsettling."

Hermione nodded slowly. "I can only imagine," she murmured. Her throat tightened as she thought of the tailor's words, the implications of Narcissa's fainting, the child they'd believed gone… yet might still exist. The weight of it pressed down on her, and she struggled to find the right words.

Narcissa seemed to notice her hesitation. "Say it, Ms. Granger," she prompted, her voice low and precise.

Hermione bit her lip, gathering her courage. "Do you think… Do you think it's possible?" she asked carefully. "That the child is still… that there's still a chance?"

Narcissa inhaled sharply, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Her gaze drifted somewhere distant, her silver eyes glassy as though she were watching a memory only she could see. The tension in her shoulders betrayed her, the slightest tremble in her hands revealing the crack beneath her poised exterior. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost fragile.

"I don't know," she said, the words barely audible. "But, the thought alone is enough to—" She broke off, the rest of the sentence slipping away as though saying it aloud would shatter her entirely.

Hermione took a cautious step forward, her voice soft and steady, a counterweight to the storm she could see brewing in Narcissa's expression. "Enough to terrify you?"

Narcissa's head turned sharply, her silver gaze snapping to Hermione's. The vulnerability there lasted only a moment before she tucked it away, retreating behind the mask she wore so effortlessly. "Enough to make me wonder," she corrected, though her tone lacked the cutting precision it usually carried. Her hand brushed against her abdomen, a movement so fleeting it might have been imagined, though the tension in her frame spoke volumes. "And wondering," she murmured, "is a dangerous indulgence."

Hermione studied her carefully, the knot in her chest tightening as she watched Narcissa's composure hang by a thread. "Maybe," Hermione said gently, her voice like a whisper against glass. "But isn't it worth wondering? Isn't it worth hoping?"

A bitter laugh slipped past Narcissa's lips, low and mirthless. "Hope," she said softly, her words more breath than sound, "is the cruelest indulgence of all. It is a candle too easily snuffed out." She paused, her gaze dropping to the cobblestones as if the ground itself might offer her answers.

After a long moment, she continued, her voice quieter, fractured. "St. Mungo's sent an owl earlier today." Her fingers toyed with the strap of her bag, the gesture betraying her unease. "The results of the tests… they're here."

Hermione's breath caught. She watched as Narcissa's fingers stilled, her pale knuckles brushing against the edge of the bag where the letter lay tucked away, unseen but heavy with possibility.

"I haven't opened it," Narcissa admitted, her words faltering like a broken spell. Her gaze lifted to the horizon, as though looking anywhere but Hermione might keep the moment from breaking her. "It's easier to leave it untouched. To wonder… to imagine that there might still be something left to hold onto." Her voice softened, almost to a whisper. "Once I know, there will be no more wondering. Only answers."

Hermione stepped closer, the weight of Narcissa's words settling heavily in her chest. "What if the answer isn't what you fear?" she said softly.

Narcissa's gaze flicked back to her, sharp at first, then softening as though the question had caught her off guard.

Hermione hesitated, her own voice trembling slightly as she continued. "We could open it together," she offered. "You don't have to do it alone."

Narcissa stared at her, the air between them taut and silent. For a moment, Hermione thought she might refuse, but then Narcissa's fingers curled against the strap of her bag, her grip loosening slightly.

"You're insistent," Narcissa said at last, her tone brittle but not unkind.

Hermione smiled faintly. "It's a Gryffindor trait, I'm afraid."

Narcissa huffed softly, though the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips. "That much is evident."

The silence between them softened, though the weight of the unopened letter lingered, a quiet specter between them as they resumed walking.

"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked abruptly, the question tumbling out in a sudden bid to lighten the air. "Let's eat somewhere, and open the letter together."

Narcissa blinked, the shift in conversation clearly catching her off guard. She tilted her head slightly, regarding Hermione with a faintly quizzical expression. "Famished," she admitted after a moment, her voice regaining some of its usual poise. "Why else would I have been walking through Diagon Alley with such… unseemly urgency?"

Hermione stifled a laugh, relieved by the dry humor in Narcissa's tone. "What are you craving?"

Narcissa's lips parted, but she hesitated, her teeth catching her bottom lip in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty.

"Did I say something wrong?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing.

Narcissa exhaled slowly, her hand brushing absently against her coat. "No," she said softly. "I simply don't know." She paused, her gaze distant before she added, almost reluctantly, "Perhaps a lobster frittata… or biryani. Or…" Her voice trailed off, her silver eyes brightening slightly. "A crepe."

Hermione's smile returned, warm and knowing. "A crepe," she said, as though the decision had already been made.

Narcissa's lips curved faintly, the corners tugging upward with a reluctant grace. "For once, Ms. Granger, you may be right."

They walked in silence for a time, the tension between them loosening slightly but never fully dissolving.

After a while, Hermione ventured, her voice hesitant, "May I call you Narcissa—"

"No," Narcissa interrupted sharply, her tone regaining its usual crispness. She paused, her gaze flickering with something unspoken before continuing, "That said, I believe neither of us wish to dwell on our husbands at the moment…" Her voice softened, and with a sigh, she added, "You may call me Ms. Black. It seems only fair."

Hermione nodded, the tension in her chest easing slightly. "Thank you, Ms. Black. You may call me Hermione … or Granger."

Narcissa's lips twitched, the gesture teetering between amusement and irritation. "How generous of you," she murmured dryly, her stride steady though her hand drifted to the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the leather as though the letter inside might burn through. "Let us find this crepe," she continued, her voice quieter now, resignation creeping in, "and open the letter—before you inevitably test my patience further."

Hermione caught the flicker of unease in her tone, the way Narcissa's fingers briefly tightened around the bag, betraying the calm she tried so hard to maintain. A pang of sympathy twisted in Hermione's chest, but she said nothing. Instead, she smiled faintly to herself, letting the jab pass—for now.

Author's Notes:

Updated this. Mostly the same as before, but has a better flow now (in my opinion) and is fleshed out more.

Updated on: January 23, 2025