Chapter 15: Most Sensitive Misfortunes of Life

L'amour fait les plus grandes douceurs

et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.

Love makes the greatest pleasures

and most sensitive misfortunes of life.

~ Madeleine de Scudery

She was engulfed in cold air. Her throat was parched and dry. The cell was damp and wet. Darkness permeated every corner. Fortunately, Shacklebolt had disbanded the use of dementors as guards; nonetheless, a prison was still a place poisoned by despair. Left alone in one's thoughts, and with the question of whether there would be any escape from cold, stony four walls, a cell would always be the home of sorrow; dementors were a profligacy. The truth was one could still fashion a prison as a place where happiness could be siphoned without their presence.

Hermione searched for beauty, as prisoners are wont to do. The only forms of beauty she could find in her surroundings were the thin light peering down from a small, barred window of a wall, and the memories of Narcissa, of her soft lips and her contradictory scent: dark and light. Her sandalwood and roses. Hermione wrapped herself tighter in a thin blanket she had wrapped herself around, while wondering if she would ever be freed, if she would ever see Narcissa, ever kiss her again...

If she could ever see the light again.

The light peering in from the window was a tease, a revelation of the limitations imposed on her freedom. Hermione suddenly despised it; she turned her gaze away from the wet floor, which was shimmering from the sun-ray, and looked at the guards marching in the corridor to her left. One of them stopped and nodded at her direction. No one in Wizarding England wanted her here, except for the law.

"Any news?" croaked Hermione from where she sat, a thin, worn mattress on a metal bed.

The guard, a female Auror named Marietta, frowned. "Not much has changed - everyone is still furious at your imprisonment."

Hermione frowned. "Well... That's good to hear." What Marietta had said didn't mean much in terms of whether she would be freed from this purgatory.

The guard frowned. "Yes, but you still destroyed governmental documents… and the law states..."

"I know, Marietta," answered Hermione.

The guard sighed. "Sorry."

Hermione was too morose and apathetic to respond. A sorry would not do. After all she had done for the Wizarding World, she would be imprisoned for twenty five years in prison for destroying a document on an abortion. At the absurdity of it all, she chuckled heartily. Life was a horrific jest - or perhaps hers was. Oh, how the gods loved to toy with her fate: A Muggle born with magic. A weakling who had somehow found the courage to kill the darkest wizard in Wizarding history… And then, she had married her best friend, a seemingly happy ending. But, it had been a deception - she had fallen off that path. Fate had taken her elsewhere on her journey: she, a Gryffindor, a Muggleborn, had fallen for a beautiful Slytherin, a witch from the most nefarious, bigoted pureblood family of England … a brilliant, twisted ending had almost been within reach.

But, a life with Narcissa and a little girl of their own was an ending that most likely was going to be destroyed as well; it appeared she was going to be in prison for most of her life. Twenty five years was the penalty for the destruction, alteration or falsification of records in governmental investigations.

How splendid.

A better twist, Hermione supposed. Far more dramatic. The gods were good writers. She would give them that.

She chuckled again; it was wild, loud and… insane.

Like Bellatrix's.

Hermione frowned and moved her fingers across the scar on her arm: Mudblood, it read. Through the years, she had begun to treasure the scar instead of despising it. Yes, she was a Muggleborn, and she was rather proud of it. She was a creature with feet in two worlds, with a mind that could see more than one reality. She no longer regarded it as a scar; now, it was her tattoo. And also, a reminder of what she had gone through, of her perseverance.

Perhaps, this too would pass.

I hope.

She prayed it would, as her eyes closed from exhaustion and lassitude.

How could she still breathe?

Narcissa had thought the aforesaid thought when Draco had died. But, somehow she had still breathed. So, she had decided to take matters into her own hands: she had wanted to kill herself. And, the same thought occurred to her when an owl flew in and dropped the Daily Prophet before her on the dining table, informing her that the witch she most likely loved would probably be confined inside a damp cell for twenty five long years. Twenty five long, dreary years…

The cup in her hand fell to the ground. Its shattering went unnoticed.

How was she still alive?

Narcissa's heart was pounding loudly, reminding her that she was still very much extant. Her breath had been stolen for just a moment. She wished it had been stolen forever, but guilt overcame when the fluttering began. But, how could she live… Don't you understand? she asked the life in her womb.

"Cissy?" asked a worried voice.

Andromeda had watched her sister's face pale. Narcissa's trembling hands had now stilled. She was in a state of catatonia. Narcissa was immobile, save for her softly blinking eyes. Andromeda did not have to guess at what the news was; it most likely concerned Hermione's imprisonment. Instantly, she rose and sprung towards her.

"Cissy?" she repeated. "You're frightening me."

Narcissa did not realize her sister had wrapped her arms around her. She didn't realize she was being pulled away towards the drawing room. Her consciousness was lost, and yet she was awake. Everything around her had become a blur, and yet she could still see. Andromeda sat her down on a sofa and brushed her hair gently with her fingers.

"Cissy. Hermione will be all right. I promised you. I promise everything- "

And then, at the mention of Hermione's name, motion returned to her. Andromeda quickly seized Narcissa as she shattered, letting her break in her arms. She drew circles on her sister's back, hushing her and cooing at her as if she were a child. This formidable woman was still a girl; but, wasn't everyone in truth still a child?

The elder sister parented. "No one in the Wizarding World is content to let Hermione rot in a cell, Cissy. It won't happen… "

She was responded with hiccups and the erratic sound of her breathing. Andromeda let her sister weep in her arms for as long she desired, knowing she could not calm her - only exhaustion would. When Narcissa's tears had slowed, and her erratic breathing spasms had lessened in magnitude, Andromeda kissed her forehead, and whispered, "Cissy, speak…"

A moment of silence passed until: "I hate her," she heard Narcissa whimper.

It was such a petulant thing to say, and too unsophisticated to have been said by someone like Narcissa, but it had been. And Andromeda understood. "I hated Ted too when he died. I hated 'Dora as well when she died. Hated them for dying."

Narcissa sniffled, and fell into French: "And, I hate myself for hating…"

"Ma petite seour," sighed Andromeda "You mean to say… you hate yourself for loving?" asked Andromeda like a sage in French. "At times, there isn't much of a difference between the two..."

Silence transpired. Narcissa bit her lips. "Love makes the greatest pleasures…" she whispered a French saying, but was too tired to say it completely.

"... and most sensitive misfortunes of life," Andromeda finished for her.

They sat like that: Narcissa was hidden in her elder sister's arms; her head was tucked under her chin, and set against her chest. She listened to her sister's rhythmic heartbeat, as she closed her eyes, and recalled her hand on Hermione's chest, untaming the woman's heartbeat.

She would do anything for that foolish witch.

And so, her higher mind suddenly took control; thoughts raced. The Slytherin in her awoken. Narcissa untangled herself from her sister's hold. Her eyes had turned icy. Her face was still wet, but it was clear that she had recollected herself. Her emotions were snubbed. Now, she was cool once more.

Narcissa sat still, pondering. Her face was utterly devoid of emotion. Andromeda watched her silver, pale eyes, and knew she was calculating.

"I shall be visiting Lucius," she finally spoke. Her voice had been laced with darkness, as if she were ready to kill.

"Why?" asked Andromeda, perplexed.

Pale brows furrowed while grey eyes gleamed from ire. "I am certain he did this," answered Narcissa.

Andromeda glared back in confusion. "How do you know -"

Her silver eyes had turned hard like metal. She stared back with fire dancing in her vision. "That… fucker knows Hermione is the mother," she gnarled.

It was the second time Andromeda had ever heard her sister say 'fucker'; the only other time she had heard it was when their father had married her off to Lucius.

"So, I shall be marrying that contemptible fucker?... How wonderful," an adolescent and drunk Narcissa had whispered many years ago to her in a ball in which they had been viewing Lucius from afar.

Only, Narcissa was drunk from love this time… not alcohol.

Author's Note:

It's on the shorter end - for that I am sorry. But since, I'm sure some of you are impatiently awaiting for an update, I decided to post this, because I don't know when I'll be done the rest of it, as I have my exams coming up.

Hope you enjoyed it. I'm sure it answered some of your questions regarding Hermione's imprisonment. As always, your thoughts & reviews are much appreciated. They give me the vigor and strength to continue :).