Chapter 11: The Thing in Her Heart

"Have you ever hoped for something?

And held out for it against all the odds?

Until everything you did was ridiculous? "

~ Ali Shaw, The Girl With Glass Feet

The library at Black Manor was enormously large and gigantic. In fact, it was so enormous and complex that to the unacquainted individual it would have appeared to have been a maze, for they would have found themselves lost within its labyrinth of towering bookshelves. It was laden with a thick sheet of dust, which gave it an almost unearthly quality. Once, it had been utterly clean, and not a speck of dust could have been found on its exquisite furnitures, and the dark mahogany woods of its floors and shelves (Narcissa's mother had made sure of that).

The dust was presently shimmering from the dim moonlight that was peering in through the rose tinted windows; Narcissa's tousled, whitish hair also glowed with the dust. With her legs tucked under her bottom, she was sitting pensively on a leather sofa in the sitting area. She was holding a book containing Wizarding poetry; poetry was often her method of escape, but tonight, she was facing a predicament: her mind was not willing to escape, for her thoughts were focused on a certain woman with sorel eyes and untameable hair.

This had been her predicament ever since her last meeting with 'the girl', as she often referred to her in her mind (Hermione was also often referred to as 'the bloody girl,' 'the damnable girl', amongst other titles, such as 'that imbecile', 'that bloody fool', etc).

Narcissa's presently disobedient mind was thinking about Hermione. Constantly. Those peeving, brown eyes of her kept on whirling into her mind's eye. What was this feeling in her heart that she could not be relieved of? It felt heavy and thick like bile, and it made her feel terribly sick and filthy and... guilty.

Wait. Was it guilt? Could it be guilt? Narcissa did not know if she could still feel anything for others. But this thing in her heart. It was a feeling. It felt like a feeling. It felt much like how she would feel when she would ponder over how much more she could have done for her little boy, Draco.

Oh, Merlin. It was a feeling. It was guilt.

Narcissa's fingers clenched the edges of the book harder; she despised how Hermione held so much control over her feelings. Rosy lips trembled. She wished she was made of ice (as many claimed). At times, she wished for the blood in her veins to turn cold. But, her blood was hot and passionate, and that imbecile was controlling its flow, and goddamn it!-

She flung her book at the floor, and just then, Narcissa thought she had heard something: footsteps. Perhaps, it was a house elf? One day, she had realized the manor was still a home to some of the house elves of her childhood; she had been walking down a corridor when she had seen thin, grey legs scuttling away. When she had caught the house elf by her arms and brought her near herself, she had discerned it was the elf that had taken care of her when she had been young; now, she was old and her skin was creased. "Please! Don't kick Wimpy out!" the elf had cried pathetically, whilst trembling in her arms. "Please don't!"

"What?" a confused Narcissa had whispered. "Why would I kick you - " then, she had come to recall the previous owners (that is to say, her parents) had had trouble with discriminating between a bludger and a house-elf. "This one stares too much," her mother had said to Bella once. "Go now! Shoo!" she had told the house elf, an old elf that had served the Black household for decades. The elf had then been thrown out. At this memory, Narcissa had frowned. "Don't fret," she had said gently to Wimpy. "I shan't be removing any of you from the estate."

The house elves had turned sickly and thin, as they had had little food around during the negligence of the manor. Upon this discovery, Narcissa made sure they had an ample amount of sustenance. Nevertheless, some of them persisted in their paranoia and distrust: they were stricken with the fear that she would change her mind, and shun them out at a moment's notice; so, some of the house elves still hid from her, and walked only in the shadows.

"Is anyone there?" cried Narcissa. Her rich, patrician voice echoed throughout the aisles. I'm such a fool, she suddenly cursed at herself mentally, as her higher mind had turned alert. What if it was an intruder? She should not have cried aloud. Now, being fearful and oversuspicious, she wondered if Lucius had paid some of the men he knew in Knockturn Alley a handsome fee to assassinate her. It was not a farfetched possibility. Lucius now knew the child was not his, as on the day she had left him, she had placed a letter on the bed in their chamber, in which she had stated:

The child is not yours.

Without regret,

Narcissa

One day, Lucius had mentioned over dinner how he could not approve of her visits with her sister: "I disapprove of your visits with the blood traitor. Do you wish for our image to be tarnished? What would your father say?" he had said in his lazy voice. So, the next day, enraged and furious, Narcissa had made sure that his image would certainly be tarnished. She had placed the aforesaid letter on their chamber's bed before flooing away forever from Malfoy Manor. No other explanation for her departure was given (well, leaving Lucius had not taken much forethought; then again, all those years she had spent with him had given her sufficient time to ponder over the failings of their marriage). Evidently, to torment him, Narcissa had left out important information pertaining to the conceivement of her child. Accordingly, Lucius naturally believed she had had an affair.

And fearful of ruining his name, pride and glory, Lucius being Lucius most likely wanted her dead now, thought Narcissa. She mentally chuckled; she couldn't even hold it against him. Having known him for half her life, she was positive being an egocentric git was his curse, and only the gods could help him.

Nonetheless, the footsteps had halted. There was no way anyone could have trespassed into the manor, save through Androomeda's fireplace, as there was ancient, protective magic placed on the manor. Narcissa picked up the book she had flung to the floor in her bout of fury, and settled back down onto the leather sofa. She was sure she was safe; but as she wondered if the footsteps she had heard a moment before had been a figment of her imagination, she heard them again: they were slow, and they would stop for moments. It seemed as if the person they belonged to was wandering in circles, lost; of course, they would be, seeing how her family's library was enormous, and not to mention, much like a maze. It had taken her many years to become acquainted with its complex networks, and even now, she at times found herself lost within its aisles and bookshelves.

It's best to remain quiet, Narcissa realized, for if this was an intruder, then drawing attention to oneself was not advised. A Slytherin, she was talented at self-preservation, and now that she was with-child, the instinct could be felt even more potently. Adrenaline flowed through her veins. Narcissa clenched her wand firmly in her hand, placed the book gingerly on the sofa, and slid away from the sitting area in the library.

She thought of ways to leave the library without drawing notice. There was another entrance in the back. The footsteps were coming from ahead; thus, she could leave from the back. Would she then floo to Andromeda? No, the intruder had most likely come from her sister's fireplace. Heart brimmed with worry, she frowned; she prayed her sister was out of harm's way.

She would have to floo somewhere else. Diagon Alley's pub, the Leakey Cauldron would do. There, she would then contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (and thinking of the department made her think of Hermione; she hoped she would not have to see even a lock of her feral hair).

Taking quick and quiet steps, Narcissa walked through an aisle, then another, and then a few more until she realized she was right where she had begun. The ancestor who had built this manor was said to have been somewhat of an eccentric (lunatic, more like); there were dead ends, and one could only make their way through the library if they had lived within the manor or if they had a map of it in hand. Unfortunately, Narcissa had lived decades outside of the manor, and it seemed her memory was failing her; she also did not have a map.

Well. Fuck.

Narcissa then mentally chastised herself for being so crass; but, she supposed being crass could be excused, owing to the predicament she now found herself in: she was lost, pregnant, and there most likely was an intruder in her midst. Wand held even more snugly in hand, she resumed her vigilant walk through the aisles. Perhaps, she should have gone left instead - yes, left -

When suddenly, she heard a cough. From her periphery vision, she caught sight of a large shadow with a seemingly large head (little did she know, it was dark and the lights were playing tricks; the shadow was a gross magnification of the actual person it belonged to. The individual's head was average sized, but their hair was quite untamed, so in shadow form, their head appeared to be exceedingly large).

A troll, Narcissa decided. She swallowed her saliva, and held her wand even more tightly; her knuckles blanched. She pointed at the shadow and wordlessly casted the first jinx that came to mind. Then, she ran.

Fear ridden and delirious, she had overlooked the fact that trolls were rather large creatures, so a troll could have not gone through her sister's fireplace. And besides, why would have Lucius paid a troll to assassinate her? Trolls were not the most intelligent magical creatures around, and Lucius would have ensured to have employed only the most cunning of assassins.

She stopped in her tracks. Narcissa's higher mind were pulling the reigns again; she realized that if it had been a troll, she would have heard a large thud, naturally. The floors and shelves would have shaken, and a few books would have fallen off of them. But none of that had occurred.

It was most likely not a troll.

Oh gods.

Narcissa understood the lights had been playing tricks.

What if it was Andromeda? Her hair was large and wild.

She turned around and started to run back towards where she had seen the shadow. Only, she found herself lost once more within the aisles. She huffed, breathless, before cursing her ancestor for building such a stupid library.

Just then, she heard a groan. Her attention whirled to where the sound had originated. There, her vision caught sight of legs peeking out of the side of a bookshelf. Without thought, she scampered towards the body.

There was blood.

A pale, young woman was lying down in the crimson liquid. Her thick, brown hair was in a tangled mess. Her eyes were unfocused and lazy. She was semi-unconscious.

She knew the woman.

"Her - Hermione?!" she cried as she fell onto her knees beside her. Narcissa's heart pounded against her ribcage. Oh gods. In her frenzied state, she had used the sectumsempra. She grabbed the younger witch's head and placed it on her thighs. Her cream nightgown was soon soaked in her blood. "Lumos," she whispered. She inspected her skin, and found a large gash on the side of her neck. Blood was spurting out of the cut in heavy loads. It had been hard to locate. She wrapped a trembling hand around the cut. Her thoughts were racing. "Morgana help me," she whispered frantically, as she brushed a stray lock of brown hair away from the younger woman's face.

The woman then stirred. A frail smile danced on her face. She whispered something, but Narcissa could not hear her clearly, as she was far too panicked and unhinged. If the woman died, she would be a murderer - oh gods. Oh gods. And worst of all, she would have killed her child's mother. How could she face her daughter?

Hot tears poured down alabaster skin. Narcissa's wet, silver eyes could not bear to see Hermione in such a terrible state. Out of her mind, Narcissa rambled: "Hermione," she croaked, "you are not a coward - I - I was attempting to deceive you," she divulged, "so that you would leave me." She gulped, astonished at the words that were flowing out of her. "I am sorry - I was frightened - I don't know why... but you frighten me," she revealed (to Hermione and herself), while hot tears continued to rush down her cheeks.

"Forgive me, please," Narcissa finally whispered.

As Narcissa had spoken, Hermione's smile had grown wider. She seemed slightly delirious from the pain; her agony was such that she was almost euphoric. Her lips moved. She was whispering something again. Narcissa neared her face to the woman's. Inches away, breaths mingling, she could hear her now:

"You said my name," murmured Hermione. Her tired eyes shimmered. "Twice."

At that, Narcissa's lips curled. She choked on her cry. "Oh," she whispered softly. "You stupid, stupid girl."

She had to do something.

(Because of the thing in her heart; it was a feeling. But it most likely wasn't just guilt).

Author's Note:

So sorry for the late update! I was on vacation, and I also simply felt like I needed a break from this story, as I was just feeling like I couldn't write it with my usual fervor and passion. I guess I was dealing with writer's block. But the vacation helped, so hopefully you'll be seeing quicker updates now!

And I feel such love and warmth from your reviews! Thank you for leaving them and taking the time out of your day to acknowledge that my writing has impacted you in a good way. Makes me feel amazing! :)

Hope you're all doing well. Sending love!