Chapter 8: Swept Away by the Tide

One claims the world is shaped by choice,

The other listens to an inner voice.

Between them, truth is hard to see,

A child, a bridge, what will they be?

The venomous words slashed through the bustle of Diagon Alley like a curse.

"Yeh bitch! Should've been sent to Azkaban!"

Hermione froze mid-step, the insult hitting her ears with the sharp sting of injustice. Her wand hand twitched reflexively, but her magic had grown unreliable, faltering since the night at Andromeda's home. Across the cobbled street, a man, red-faced and ragged, glared at Narcissa with a venom that could have curdled the air around him.

Without thinking, Hermione started forward, her anger blinding her to the truth she had yet to fully accept: her magic had abandoned her since the incident at Andromeda's.

"Don't, Ms. Granger."

The low, precise tone halted her steps.

Narcissa stood still, her posture poised as if carved from marble. Her expression was composed, serene even, though her silver eyes glittered like ice under harsh light. She didn't glance at her heckler, as if he were beneath her notice.

"Do refrain from indulging in brash Gryffindor theatrics," Narcissa continued, her words clipped but faintly tinged with amusement. "The effort would be wasted. I assure you, his opinions are of no consequence to me."

Hermione's hand dropped reluctantly to her side, but indignation burned hot in her chest.

"Brash Gryffindor?" she shot back, stepping to Narcissa's side. "If it weren't for us, the war would never have been won, Ms. Black."

"Won?" Narcissa tilted her head, her voice dry and cutting. "No, Ms. Granger. Wars are never won. There are only survivors," she stated before adding softly, "and the broken things they leave behind."

Hermione faltered, her retort caught in her throat. Narcissa's words landed like a blow, heavy with truths Hermione had spent years trying to ignore.

The war had been fought for a reason. But at what cost? The names of the dead—Fred, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks—were seared into her memory, their sacrifices a wound that still refused to heal.

"I… I disagree, Ms. Black," she finally answered. "There will always be war. It is human nature. But when there is war, one must hope that goodness prevails. Without that hope, there's nothing left."

Narcissa's sharp laugh cut through the crisp autumn air. "Goodness? A matter of perspective, Ms. Granger. Would you say that Dumbledore was good?"

"Yes. Of course. Without question."

"Would you?" Narcissa asked, her silver gaze slicing through Hermione's defenses. "He was willing to sacrifice your friend—Mr. Potter—all in the name of goodness. He left him with Muggles who broke him, shaping him to march to his death." Narcissa's voice dropped, measured but laced with an edge that cut deep. "Tell me, Ms. Granger, was that truly good? And how was it any different from what Voldemort wanted for my son?"

Hermione blinked, her thoughts a whirlwind of contradictions and doubts.

By the time they had reached the small café nestled on a quieter street corner, Hermione's mind was still spinning. The café's warm wooden interior and the scent of pastries were a reprieve from the sharp chill of Narcissa's words, but the tension between them lingered like a shadow.

Soon, they were seated at a table near the window, where outside the golden leaves drifted lazily through the crisp autumn air. The tension of the earlier encounter hung between them like an unspoken challenge.

They stayed quiet, save for when they made their orders. When their orders finally arrived, Narcissa began to sip on her hot chocolate with slow, deliberate precision, the faint smudge of her crimson lipstick marking the rim of the cup. Her lipstick also smudged slightly, revealing the natural hue of her lips—a soft shade, the colour of a Melrose bloom. Somehow, seeing that hint of natural color felt oddly intimate to Hermione, as if she had caught a glimpse of Narcissa stripped of her carefully constructed facade.

It was Narcissa who finally broke the silence. She placed her cup down, looking up at Hermione: "There are no universals," she declared, her voice even and assured, as if the earlier scene had only been a prelude to this inevitable discussion.

Hermione groaned inwardly, her thoughts scrambling for clarity. She realized she was stepping into a mental duel, where every word would be dissected by Narcissa's sharp intellect. The stakes felt high, and she knew she couldn't afford to misspeak.

And besides, why did Narcissa think this way? Had life stripped her of any belief in constants? Perhaps it was the inevitability of war, the betrayals she'd endured, or the sacrifices that had left scars too deep to heal. Hermione couldn't fathom a world without some kind of anchor, yet Narcissa seemed to wish to exist in its absence.

At last, she said, "I disagree – that's a logical fallacy: the statement itself—"

"— is attempting to be a universal? It contradicts itself. I am aware of that, Ms. Granger," Narcissa interrupted, her voice cool. "But I am not concerned with semantics or word games. Tell me, with all you've seen in this fractured, imperfect world, can you truly point to one thing—just one—that remains absolute, unchanging, and untouched by human folly?"

Hermione's gaze faltered as she studied Narcissa. Her flawless composure, her alabaster skin kissed by the faintest hint of color, her wolf-like eyes framed by dark lashes… She was unreal. An absolute, Hermione thought suddenly. Narcissa Black was, in herself, an argument against the very doubt she professed.

She then frowned, momentarily unsettled by the depth of Narcissa's inquiry. Their conversation had drifted into philosophy, a space where Narcissa exuded the detached certainty of a Nihilist, while Hermione clung to her Platonist ideals as though they were a fragile thread holding her world together.

Her thoughts swirled and scattered, untamed as leaves in a gale. She reached for her glass of wine, her gaze catching on the way sunlight pierced the deep crimson liquid, casting broken patterns of gold and scarlet across the table. She couldn't quite recall—was this her third glass, or her fourth since morning?

"You never answered, Ms. Granger," Narcissa said, her tone soft but imbued with a quiet insistence.

"I was thinking," she replied. "My answer is the greater good," she answered at last, though her voice faltered. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass as if it could steady her thoughts.

Through the window, the sunlight danced against the panes, casting golden patterns that played across the table. Outside, the trees flaunted leaves of crimson and amber, swirling in the crisp autumn air. It was the kind of day Hermione might have savored—if not for the woman seated across from her.

She sighed inwardly. How was it possible that she, of all people, was sharing a table with Narcissa Black? And not just sharing it—debating philosophy with her.

Narcissa tilted her head, her lips curving into the faintest trace of a sardonic smile. "Ah, yes. The ever-convenient justification for sacrifice. How quaint."

Hermione bristled, her fingers curling tighter around the glass. "It's more than that," she argued, her tone sharpening. "It's what guides us when everything else falls apart—when there's nothing else to hold onto."

"Perhaps," Narcissa murmured, her tone as soft and unyielding as steel. "Or perhaps it is simply an abstraction—a crutch we lean on when the truth is too difficult to face."

The words hovered between them, a challenge unspoken but unmistakable. Hermione was about to respond when Narcissa, with deliberate slowness, reached into her bag. Her hand dipped into her bag, movements less graceful than Hermione was accustomed to, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as they searched.

When she withdrew the letter, its edges worn and curling as though the parchment had been handled too many times, her grip faltered for the briefest of moments. She placed it on the table, but her hand hovered there, her fingertips grazing the parchment as though it might leap away—or burn her.

"This," she said, her voice quieter now, frayed at the edges like the letter itself, "is not an abstraction. The results. From St. Mungo's." Her words seemed to teeter on a precipice, brittle and full of unspoken weight.

Hermione's breath caught and studied her carefully, the tension in Narcissa's shoulders, the faint tremor in her fingers. She thought of what Narcissa had said earlier—her disdain for ideals and absolutes, her belief that certainty was a myth shaped by human folly. This letter wasn't just words on parchment. It was truth, undeniable and unyielding, waiting to shatter whatever fragile equilibrium Narcissa had managed to construct.

"We could open it together," Hermione offered tentatively, her voice soft but steady.

Narcissa's silver eyes snapped to hers, sharp and mistrustful. "You think that would make it easier?" she asked, her tone biting but betraying the faintest quiver beneath the words.

Hermione held Narcissa's gaze, her own steady and unyielding. "No," she said softly but firmly. "But you don't have to face it alone."

Narcissa's response wasn't immediate. Her eyes flickered to the letter as if it might spring to life and attack her. The silence stretched taut, and though her face was composed, Hermione noticed the subtle shift—her fingers twitched slightly, her posture grew more rigid, and her gaze darted briefly toward the door before settling back on the table.

When Narcissa finally moved, it was to sit back in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, as though physically restraining herself from touching the parchment. It was obvious. She couldn't bring herself to open it.

Hermione frowned, her chest tightening at the sight of Narcissa recoiling from the truth she clearly feared. The hesitation, the carefully maintained distance—it all felt too heavy, too fraught with avoidance. Without giving it another thought, Hermione's hand darted across the table.

"Ms. Granger—" Narcissa's sharp protest cut through the air as Hermione's fingers closed around the letter. Narcissa leaned forward instinctively, but Hermione had already unfolded it.

The words swam before her eyes, her pulse roaring in her ears. She blinked hard, focusing, and then her breath caught as her gaze found the line that mattered most. It seemed to glow on the parchment, a quiet reassurance written in stark black ink, but it carried the weight of something far greater.

"You're still pregnant," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of relief and disbelief.

Narcissa immediately froze, her body going rigid as though she hadn't heard correctly. "What?" she asked, the single word slipping out as soft and fragile as a bird's wingbeat.

"The baby is alive," Hermione repeated, her gaze steady as it met Narcissa's. "The letter says everything appears… perfectly normal. Except for some anemia, which might explain why you fainted earlier."

For a long moment, Narcissa didn't move. Her hand drifted, almost of its own accord, to her abdomen. Her breath hitched audibly, and Hermione could see the faintest glimmer of tears pooling in her silver eyes.

"Oh," Narcissa murmured, the words barely audible.

The café seemed suspended in time, the noise and motion of the world beyond its walls a distant memory. Narcissa's gaze dropped to the letter still clutched in Hermione's hands. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the parchment as if needing to see the words for herself.

She scanned the page once, then again, her eyes flicking back and forth as though seeking confirmation. Finally, she folded the letter with trembling hands, setting it on the table with deliberate care.

"I see…" Narcissa began, but the words faltered on her lips. She looked down at her lap, her hands clasping together tightly, the vulnerability in her posture so unlike the woman Hermione had come to know.

"It's good news, Narcissa," Hermione said gently, leaning forward. "It's hope."

Narcissa's head snapped up, and the fragile openness vanished in an instant. Her silver eyes hardened into steel, and her lips curled into a bitter line. "Hope," she repeated coldly, the word dripping with disdain. "You think this changes anything? That it somehow absolves the chaos of this situation?"

Hermione frowned, her chest tightening. "It's not about absolution—it's about possibility. About moving forward."

"Spare me the Gryffindor optimism," Narcissa said sharply, her voice cool but edged with weariness. "You speak as though this is some grand triumph, when it's merely the continuation of an already tangled mess."

Hermione sat back, stunned by the venom in Narcissa's tone. The older woman's composure had cracked only moments ago, but now, it was as if she'd rebuilt it entirely—harder and colder than before.

"This isn't just a tangled mess,' Ms. Black," Hermione said, her voice firm but measured. "It's a child. A life. Your child."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed, her gaze as sharp as a dagger. "Do not presume to lecture me about life, Ms. Granger," she said icily. "And do not mistake my silence for acquiescence. You had no right to open that letter."

Hermione stiffened, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "You weren't going to do it! You were too scared—"

"Scared?" Narcissa interrupted, her voice low and dangerous. "I am many things, Ms. Granger, but I am not scared. Do not confuse caution with fear."

"And do not confuse control with strength," Hermione shot back, her voice rising.

"Control," Narcissa echoed, her voice low and measured, as if testing the word's weight. She leaned forward, her movements precise, elbows resting lightly on the table, her expression carved from polished stone. "Control, Ms. Granger," she continued, "is what separates order from chaos. It is what tempers emotion, what ensures survival. Those who lack it," her voice dipped, slicing through the air like a whisper of steel, "cling to hope and impulse, mistaking them for bravery."

Hermione's chest tightened, her fists clenching beneath the table. She could feel the sting of Narcissa's words burrow beneath her skin, but she held her ground, refusing to look away.

Hermione bristled, her hands trembling in her lap. "Sometimes, hope is all we have," she said quietly.

Narcissa tilted her head, her lips curving into a sardonic smile. "How very Gryffindor of you," she murmured. Then, after a beat, her gaze sharpened. "Tell me, Ms. Granger—how many glasses of wine have you had today?"

Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat. "What?"

Narcissa's smile widened, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Four, perhaps five?" she mused, her voice light but laced with steel. "Or have I underestimated?"

"I—" Hermione's voice faltered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Narcissa's eyes glinted with a sharp, calculating edge, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting across her lips. "Tell me, Ms. Granger," she said, her voice a silken drawl as she reclined gracefully in her chair. "Are you truly as brave as you so desperately wish to appear? Or is this…" Her gaze flicked, ever so briefly, toward Hermione's glass, the gesture pointed and cutting. "…your method of escaping? Surely, someone so enamored with hope would have no need to seek refuge in such indulgences."

Hermione's fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, the sharpness of Narcissa's words cutting deeper than she cared to admit. "I'm not escaping," she said, though the words sounded weak even to her own ears.

"A Gryffindor's courage," Narcissa said, her voice soft and mocking, "is only as strong as their conviction. And yours, Ms. Granger, seems to waver the moment things grow uncomfortable."

"That's not true," Hermione whispered, though the knot in her throat made it hard to breathe.

Narcissa's gaze bore into her, unrelenting. "Isn't it?" she asked.

The challenge hung between them, sharp and unyielding, as though Narcissa had peeled away Hermione's armor and laid her bare. The silence between them was thick, heavy with unspoken truths and the lingering echo of Narcissa's challenge.

Hermione's fingers itched to say something—anything—that might shift the power back to her, but Narcissa had already straightened in her seat, smoothing her coat with practiced grace.

Then, without a word, Narcissa reached for her purse. Her movements were deliberate, elegant as always, but there was a distinct finality to the gesture, as though she were closing the chapter of their conversation with the clink of coins.

Hermione blinked as Narcissa placed a handful of gleaming galleons onto the table—far more than was necessary. Nearly double the cost of their meal. The excess shone under the soft afternoon light, mocking in its opulence.

"That's too much," Hermione blurted, her voice breaking the tense quiet. "And I can pay for my own meal, thank you very much," she added.

Narcissa glanced at her, one perfectly arched brow lifting in mild amusement. "Consider it a contribution to your future endeavors, Ms. Granger," she said airily, though her tone carried a subtle edge. "Perhaps you might use it for something… practical."

Hermione's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "Practical?"

"Indeed," Narcissa murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "A haircut, perhaps. Merlin knows your galleons would be better spent there than on more wine."

The words landed like a slap, though Narcissa delivered them with the poise of someone handing out compliments. Hermione's hand flew instinctively to her curls, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment and indignation.

"I don't need your charity," she snapped, her voice low but fierce.

"Charity?" Narcissa echoed, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she rose gracefully from her seat. "Hardly. Consider it… a reminder." Her gaze lingered on Hermione, cool and deliberate. "And rest assured, Ms. Granger, I have no intention of sharing this development with your husband. This remains between us—exactly where it should."

Hermione bristled, the words twisting in her chest like a knife. A reminder of what? That Narcissa Malfoy—Narcissa Black—was untouchable? That no matter how far Hermione had come, there would always be an invisible line between them? Is that why she wanted to continue to keep this a secret?

The older woman's heels clicked against the floor as she made her way toward the exit, her stride unhurried but commanding. For a moment, Hermione could only watch her go, her chest tight with unspoken frustration.

At the door, however, Narcissa suddenly paused, her silhouette framed by the amber light spilling in from Diagon Alley. She turned her head just enough for Hermione to see the sharp line of her profile, her voice drifting back like a thread of silk, deceptively soft.

"Oh, and Ms. Granger?"

Hermione stilled, her breath catching as Narcissa spoke.

"You Gryffindors," Narcissa mused, her tone thoughtful yet barbed, "are so quick to charge into fire, yet so easily swept away by the tide."

Without another glance, Narcissa stepped into the bustling street, her figure swallowed by the golden crowd, leaving Hermione rooted in her seat, the words echoing in the hollow spaces of her mind.

Hermione's gaze remained fixed on the door long after Narcissa had disappeared into the golden haze of Diagon Alley. Why did she always have to speak in riddles? Hermione thought, her shoulders sagging under the weight of frustration. Defeat and fury churned together, leaving her feeling hollow.

So easily swept away by the tide.

The words clung to her, slipping beneath her skin and settling somewhere deep, where they festered and needled. What had Narcissa meant? Was it a condemnation, a taunt, or something else entirely? Hermione couldn't tell, and that uncertainty made it worse.

Her eyes dropped to the glass of half-filled wine before her, its surface gleaming like a pool of secrets under the waning sunlight. The warmth of the café pressed around her, but she felt none of it. Instead, there was only the bitter tang of Narcissa's words, their barbed edges curling around her thoughts.

She reached for the glass without thinking, her fingertips brushing the delicate stem. She hesitated, though she didn't know why. It was just wine—something mundane, she told herself, something she'd turned to for a fleeting sense of calm. But Narcissa's words lingered, and suddenly the act felt heavier, as though the glass itself carried the weight of her choices.

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line.

Am I swept away by the tide? she wondered, the question as sharp as the edge of a blade.

She thought of the war, of standing firm against Voldemort's forces. Had that been courage, or had she simply been carried by the tide, doing what was demanded of her?

And now? Was she brave enough to face the quiet battles—the ones that didn't involve spells or wands, but the parts of herself she'd rather avoid?

She exhaled slowly and lifted the glass. The wine was rich and biting, the taste grounding her in its bitterness. It offered no clarity, no solace, but she drank it anyway.

Her eyes fell to the letter left behind on the table, an unexpected oversight from a woman who seemed incapable of such errors. Somehow, its abandonment softened the sting of Narcissa's parting words. It made her feel less hurt, as though, in her hurry to retreat, Narcissa had left behind not just the letter, but a small piece of her carefully guarded armor.

Her eyes lingered on the letter, its presence somehow grounding and unsettling all at once. The fragile parchment seemed to mock her with its simplicity, a vessel for truths she wasn't sure she wanted to confront. She pushed it aside slightly, her fingers brushing against its edge before retracting, as though the weight of it might seep into her skin.

So easily swept away by the tide.

The words haunted her, reshaping and twisting themselves into a mirror she couldn't quite bear to face. They felt less like an observation and more like a challenge—one she hadn't been prepared for.

Hermione's eyes drifted to the half-empty glass of wine, its surface catching the golden light spilling through the window. Her fingers curled around the delicate stem, the coolness of the glass grounding her as she lifted it. The rich crimson liquid swirled lazily, its color uncomfortably vivid—a shade that brought to mind the curve of Narcissa's lips, the precise smudge of lipstick left behind on her cup. Hermione inhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. The wine felt like an escape, a fleeting reprieve from the sharp edges of Narcissa's words and the labyrinth of her own tangled thoughts.

The wine went down smoothly, its warmth spreading through her chest, but it did nothing to dull the question that lingered.

Am I brave?

Her reflection stared back at her from the polished surface of the table, distorted and blurred by the remnants of her drink. She set the glass down sharply, its base clinking against the wood, and exhaled a slow, unsteady breath.

She didn't have an answer—not yet.

And she wasn't sure if she wanted one, not when the truth felt as fragile as the ideals Narcissa had torn apart.

Author's Notes:

Reviews are love! Updated this so it's a bit different than the last iteration of this chapter but has the same kind of philosophical banter it :)

Updated: January 23, 2025