Chapter 12: A Different Kind of Pain

"You were a pain, then. You still are. You're just a different kind of pain to me."

— Amber Silvia, Unspoken

There were voices in the distance, familiar yet unrecognizable, for Hermione's mind was wrapped in a thick fog. She could not focus on them. She was somewhere else. A dream? A memory, perhaps?

Hermione found herself on a hill by the sea in a French town.

She heard voices. Young, tender ones.

She looked back at where they had originated. Two adolescent girls with thick, dark curls were behind her. They were running. She noticed she was running too, and though she felt everything—her feet as they thudded against the grassy ground, the wind as it swept through her hair—Hermione was not in control of herself. This was not her body. No. She was tall, lean and otherworldly pale. And from the corner of her eyes, she could see her hair: silvery blonde locks furling from the wind.

She was racing against the girls; they were striving to reach the top of the hill. And it was that bewitching time of day when both the moon and sun shined together. The weather was a lovely mix of warmth and chill. Overhead, the sun's rays had glazed the sky the colours of an apricot. The sunset was magnificent; every shade between red and yellow was to be seen.

She sighed dreamily, and thought peace was to be found in this moment in time.

Upon reaching the very top of the knoll, Hermione toppled to the ground. "I won," she stated while gasping for air. Her voice was tender like the two girls. She was young. Thirteen or fourteen.

"No you didn't," argued the girl with the darkest hair, who was just as breathless. "I did," she said firmly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Why does it matter? Death was the only winner, she thought philosophically. "Fine, if it makes you happy," she answered, allowing the other girl to relish an undeserved and trivial moment of glory, as she was not in the mood for arguments. Her notice had been taken by the sound of waves crashing gently against the shore, the seagulls, and the wind as it was sighing. The moment was intoxicating (Were these memories? Hermione wondered whilst adrift in the dream. And who was she? She did not feel and look very much like herself; her hair was smooth and blonde, and her conversations were partially in French).

"I can feel eternity here," she whispered in French to the two girls (Hermione could understand it peculiarly) while lying on the grass. She closed her eyes for a moment, and was able to feel the vastness, and the mysteries of the universe: the wind, the air, the trees, the dandelions, the grass— everything felt alive. Magic was to be found in everything. Perhaps, there was no difference between magic and life; she could even feel her magical core… or perhaps it was her soul, if there was such a thing. And her heart— it was beating rapidly, for it was brim with hope, dreams, curiosity, and the yearning for the most beautiful thing in all of the galaxies:

Love.

Suddenly, she was drawn out of her reverie. One of the curly haired girls had giggled. "You seem awfully buoyant, Cissy. Did you see the woman again in one of your dreams?" the girl asked. "Do you think it's true—past lives, that is?"

Cissy?

So, she was Narcissa.

This was another one of those bizarre dreams. Hermione mentally sighed; why had it come about? She could not remember the details of what had occurred before this dream had overtaken her. She thought hard, but only small scraps of information could be recalled. This dream wished to possess her. It was a magnet; it attracted all her focus.

"I am not sure," she replied. Not her. Not really. It was Narcissa. But it was her too… somehow. It was hard to remove herself from Narcissa's reality. "I see her with different faces," she said, "— at times, in a different time period." A frown frolicked across her face. "I suppose I shall never know who she is!"

Who was she talking about? If Hermione could, she would have raised a brow. But this was not her person.

The girl with the darkest hair, Bellatrix most likely, rolled her eyes and groaned. "Oh gods. Will the both of you stop talking about such rubbish?"

Andromeda, who was lying by her side, ignored her other sister and whispered to her: "Perhaps she is your soulmate?"

"Shut up, will you?" Bellatrix hissed from her other side, irked that they were lost in conversation about a topic she disapproved of. "And how the bloody hell can her soulmate be a woman— if you haven't noticed, our secretly Hufflepuff, Miss Sunshine, has a fanny."

Hermione snorted mentally. She couldn't believe Narcissa had been called Miss Sunshine. And a Hufflepuff.

"Must you speak that way?" she groaned. "And I'm not a Ms. Sunshine," she said while clenching her teeth and turning her head to her. "And I am not secretly a Hufflepuff. I got a hatstall between Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

She heard Andromeda chuckle. "Ah, half-truths are lies too, Cissy! You said the hat did momentarily consider putting you in Hufflepuff. Wouldn't be alarmed if you… were supposed..." Andromeda's voice had faded, as she had given her a penetrative gaze. "... on second thought, with that stare—" Andromeda smiled, "... you're a Slytherin through and through." Andromeda then turned her notice to Bellatrix, "And, oh please Bella, there's such a thing called homosexuality and I— like many others— believe it's entirely normal!" She groaned suddenly. "Stop being such a Muggle. It's unbecoming. We're witches for Merlin's sake. Our ancestors were pagans. They loved to make love... in all its forms. And besides, everyone knows papa did not have a preference for the fairer sex in his formative years; so, would you call him a lunat—"

"Shut up! Ugh. You talk incessantly. You're bloody annoying," Bellatrix rose her voice and sat upright. Her black eyes glowed with ire. "And they're lies. Just rumours. And we're not pagans anymore. Papa and Mama are irreligious. Religion is for peasants— they need something to believe in. We're above that sort of idiocy."

"Then why do we still celebrate Yule?" asked Andromeda. Bella's features turned sourer. And Andromeda beamed, overjoyed that she had annoyed her elder sister even more, whilst endeavouring to annoy her even more.

Bellatrix understood her sister's objective. Her obsidian eyes narrowed. "Do you wish to be jinxed?"

Andromeda sat upright as well and flared her nostrils at Bella."You are such a little shite sometimes."

Bellatrix gnarled. A walnut wand was suddenly pointed at Andromeda (Hermione shivered as she saw the familiar wand; now, it was in soft, smooth hands… then, it had been in hands thinned and creased by years of being tethered to metal chains in Azkaban).

"Stop it will—" she started, intervening, but they were not listening, so she gave up on being the mediator. Fuck it. There was no use. They were stubborn, hardheaded Blacks. And they would fight for the hell of it.

"Okay!" Andromeda yelled; relenting, she held her hands in the air. "I get it. I'll shut up."

That had been alarming. She was glad no one would be going home with a broken nose.

While Andromeda aimed various profanities under her breath at Bellatrix, she returned to looking at the infinite sky overhead.

She basked in its beauty.

Soon, Bellatrix's restless mind had gotten the best of her; fortunately, the eldest sister had decided to run down the hill towards the sea, where she was now throwing pebbles into the water.

Andromeda, who was still lying by her side, placed her hand against hers. "What are you thinking about?" she murmured.

A small smile emerged on her face. "Secrets," she whispered back. She could feel secrets wishing to be unearthed; the mysteries in the world were overwhelming and thrilling. Who was this woman who came to her dreams? She thought (Well, it wasn't her really. It had been Narcissa, but she was Narcissa now— and yet herself, too. It was all very much confusing).

Hermione found herself perplexed; who was this woman Narcissa was speaking of? Narcissa's thoughts were only partially clear. She could hear them, but they were muffled and not wholly revealed; perhaps, she could not make sense of them, for Narcissa had such an odd and complicated way of thinking; she did not really think, per say. She thought in words only sporadically. She felt the world intuitively, through feelings and moods— presently, in Narcissa there was life to be felt: something light yet heavy, magnificent and frightening… almost sacred and ethereal.

Was it… love perhaps?

And then, there was something else as well, hidden underneath it: It made her feel restless, and nervous and worried… as if waves of water were rolling past her lips, and pouring into her lungs.

It was fear.

Hermione wanted it to stop. All these feelings were overwhelming, paralyzing…

And not to mention, breathtaking.

She felt like she was drowning in Narcissa.

This woman lived intensely. No, she was intensity. And she was lost in all her layers, all the magnitudes of her intensity.

And Hermione loved it. And hated herself for loving it. By drowning in Narcissa, she was losing herself… she was … going… fading… maybe she was dying. Maybe this was death. (Or love, maybe, said the voice of her conscience ).

She sighed. Now, Narcissa. "I think the woman in my dream… warned me," she said gravely.

Andromeda raised a brow. "What about?"

"I am not sure— it was a feeling. At times, they don't speak in dreams. You simply feel them."

"What did you feel?" Andromeda probed.

"I felt frightened," she explained. "I was frightened … because – I – I believe one day I'm going to forget her somehow."

"Hmm," said Andromeda, puzzled. "Odd, seeing how you're gifted with a remarkable memory." Then, feeling unnerved by the agitation and worry emanating from her sister, Andromeda consoled,"Perhaps, you just have an overactive imagination? Perhaps none of it means anything?" Andromeda then clenched her hand. A gesture of comfort.

She sighed in return. "Perhaps," a whisper left. Hopefully, a part of her wished. She then gazed at the sun. It was at last setting. And she stayed there on the hill for a very long time. Darkness ate away the reds and oranges in the sky.

And when the first star twinkled in the night sky, a pearly tear fell down her cheek.

She had wished upon the star to remember.

Meanwhile, in the shadiest and most covert part of Knockturn Alley, there was a pub. Little did the government of Wizarding England know, this was a safe house for a new undercover group that had formed since the end of the last war. Its numbers had grown and now hundreds of people across Wizarding England had joined. No one spoke of it, as keeping it a secret was one of its rules. Their symbol was of an iron dagger with a circle around, a runic symbol for justice.

A man entered the pub wearing dark robes. His face was pale with freckles, and tufts of red hair emerged from his hood. Whilst standing on a table before the crowd that had gathered within, he spoke: "Those purebloods have ruined our lives," he began with forced passion. He then gulped, unsure of his words. Perhaps, he could not remember them. "We, here, today have amalgamated to serve – um justice. Every single pureblood – uh –that had been on the wrong side of the war will be… uh dealt with in a just fashion." He was remembering lines. This had been rehearsed. "We must do what is right. That is to say, they must die."

At this, the crowd roared and cheered.

"What do they deserve?" he then asked.

The people in the pub waited expectantly, knowing very well what was to be said. They were passionate fools. An eye for an eye, they wished. Being the fools they were, they had forgotten the rest of the saying (figuratively, that is).

"I'll tell you what they deserve! You see. Today," said the redheaded man, "we will lay down our plans: our goal is to get rid of the Wizarding World of pureblood ideals permanently, and it appears that the only way to do – to do so is to – uh get rid of them, as history has proved again and again to us that they will never be on our side. En–entrenched," he stuttered, unused to the word, "in their old-fashioned and – um outdated ways, they do not belong in our modern society. So, it is death that they deserve for having... um... made innocents suffer from their bigotry! Hundreds have died because of them and yet they still roam amongst us."

The croud cheered again.

"So, um yes. And our final… uh goal is to merge Wizarding England with the Muggle world," he continued. "It's time for us to no longer hide! We must no longer fear the Muggles. They are just like us. And besides, it is them who should fear us."

He was answered with nodding heads.

Invigorated by the approval he was receiving, the volume of his voice increased: "Imagine a world where you must no longer hide your identity! The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy is a great injustice to us all!"

At this, beer cups thudded against the grimy, wooden tables. More hollers and cheers were to be heard.

"It is time for justice to be served," the man drawled, suddenly confident.

Those voices had become clearer. Hermione was no longer dreaming; instead, she was now in some place between sleep and alertness.

"She's dying, Narcissa – She hasn't woken up. It has been two days already." A heavy sigh. "I cannot believe you used the Sectum –"

"Don't - 'Meda. Don't say that, 'Meda. Please don't," said another voice. This one sounded terribly exhausted.

"Don't say what?" whispered the other woman.

"... Not dying…" murmured the other woman, almost deliriously. "She's not. She can't," she said like a chant.

Another heavy sigh could be heard. "Cissy. You must sleep… in your condition. You don't want to put strain on the child."

Suddenly, there was a snivel. "What would she say to me?" whispered the voice that sounded terribly tired.

"Who?" asked the other woman.

"If her mother dies by my hand… this child would deplore me…" her voice waned. Her breath caught in her throat. "'Meda. What if she dies?"

"Shh. She's breathing now."

"I'm terrible… I'm horrid. Merlin! Oh gods," she said hysterically. "If she dies. I – I can't. I can't." A gasp and another snivel. "... Would – would you then please take care of my daughter for me, 'Meda–– "A hiccup. "I know it's– it's much to ask – but I shan't be able to face this child, you see…"

"Shh. You're feverish, Cissy. Calm yourself. Hermione is fine. She's breathing. See, look here – remove your head from my chest, look now – See? Her complexion has gained some colour."

Another sniffle. "Oh gods, Cissy. Although you look more endearing when you're sniffling, I still abhor seeing you cry. Here, wipe your nose with this."

"Are you certain she is improving, 'Meda?" the woman croaked weakly after a moment. "I – I cannot see a difference. A trifle moment ago, you thought she was dying –– Oh, I know you're lying to me, 'Meda!" She was overcome by breathing spasms. "What if she die–" A gasp. "What if she ––"

"Shhhh."

Hermione heard another little gasp.

"You cannot see a difference, as you're terribly tired and exhausted, Cissy. Look at you! There are dark circles under your eyes. You haven't slept in two days." She huffed. "I don't know how you've managed to do that in your condition… I loved to sleep with 'Dora as much as I could, even if the whole world was falling at its seams... And yet, you've been sitting in this chair for the past forty eight hours…"

"I – I must."

"But you can't, Cissy. You must sleep soon."

Another gasp, followed by a whisper: "I must,'Meda."

"Don't be impossible," said the calmer woman sternly. "If you don't sleep soon, Cissy, I will make sure you do – you'll be made to drink a sleeping draught! Now, breathe deeply, so you can stop palpitating… Take a deep breath."

Hermione heard an inhale.

"Good. Take another one"

After a few more inhlations, she spoke: "All right. Very well, 'Meda… if you insist, I will sleep. Nevertheless," weary, she paused for a moment to catch some vigor; her voice had become delicate and throaty from crying, "What was I saying? Ah yes, permit me to treat the wound again?" She yawned softly. "And, will you be able to stay by her side while I sleep?" she asked before yawning softly again. It was clear that she was exceptionally tired.

"Yes, of course, Cissy."

Then, there was silence for a few moments. Hermione could smell a fragrance: it was light yet dark, sweet yet spicy, a smell she had become accustomed to: roses and sandalwood. The fragrance then grew stronger, grew nearer. She felt something soft rub against her neck. Fingers. Delicate, long ones. They were rubbing an ointment against the tender skin of her neck; the hand was warm and she basked in the warmth it exuded. The scar on her hand tingled briefly in a pleasant way. She sighed mentally at the touch. Breathed in the fragrance. Soothed. The fingers stopped moving against her neck for a moment. Perhaps, she had not sighed within the confines of her mind? Had this woman, who smelled wonderfully and felt wonderful, heard her sigh?

She thought she might have blushed, but she couldn't tell. Then, sleep took her again.

After some time, her mind was partially awoken by a delicate, smooth hand holding hers. Hermione was not sure if it was a dream. She could smell roses and sandalwood again. And there was something wet falling against the skin of her neck. Tears.

Someone started to whisper near her ear. A woman with a dark, rich and memorable voice. Her warm breath touched her ears. The scar on her hand tingled again. "Severus told me a wound made by the Sectumsempra can be healed by incanting Vulnera Sanentur, but I could not recall the lines. He also mentioned how it can be healed with tears of…" She stopped herself; she could not bear to say the word (love, that is). "And when my tears fell on your wound, it somehow began to heal… " and then the voice waned. Moments passed in stillness. Then, the woman whispered, "However, it cannot be me. No. I shall not allow it. If there are gods, they are wrong." A sniffle. "You must know that it is best for you this way…" Hermione could feel her hair being gently tucked behind her ears. She heard the woman exhale a deep breath. "For I am heartless and cold and undeserving… "

And then sleep took Hermione again.

When she awoke the next time, she was entirely cognizant of her environment. Brown eyes peered into brown.

It was Andromeda.

Andromeda was looking down below at her. Her curly hair was put up into a messy bun. A warm smile was displayed on her regal features. Her eyes were shimmering.

"You're awake!" she cried.

Hermione could only groan. Her whole body ached.

And unfortunately, as is often the case when one becomes extremely ill, Hermione could not remember much of anything that had occurred during the period of her sickness: Narcissa's soft whispers by her bedside could not be recalled, and neither could the dream she had perceived––both were hidden somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

"You almost died," said Andromeda rather bluntly.

"Died?" croaked Hermione, not quite alarmed by the news. She had been in such a circumstance more than a few times. Being notified that she had almost died was not a first, in other words.

"We have been so worried!" exclaimed Andromeda. "Narcissa has not slept for days."

Narcissa was here? And she had been worried for her? And she hadn't slept for days?

Hermione snorted. Andromeda could be hilarious at times.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered, voice still weak from sickness. Narcissa would never sacrifice her sleep for her, thought Hermione (if only Hermione could remember…).

Author's Note:

Poor Hermione! Hopefully, she recollects her memories. And Narcissa must always make things complicated!

Thoughts? Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

And thank you sooo much for all the lovely reviews and comments. You guys are WONDERFUL, and know that your thoughts and constructive criticism are always appreciated. :)