Hermione hesitated nervously outside the breakfast room. She could hear voices coming from inside, one definitely belonging to Snape, the other a male one she didn't recognise. While she had braced herself for the usual, uncomfortable breakfast in Snape's presence, she wasn't sure she could deal with another Death Eater on top of that.
With a sigh, she resigned herself to her fate. She could always summon a house elf to bring her breakfast in her room, but she felt wrong using them that way. The less she had to rely on the labour of slaves, the better.
Trying to keep her face as neutral as possible, she entered the room. Snape sat in his usual spot. To his immediate right, a very thin dark-haired man held a big pot of coffee in both hands, slurping loudly as he fixed his eyes on her. Hermione was sure that she had seen him before.
"Ah, the infamous Hermione Granger," the man greeted her cheerfully. "What a lucky man I am to see the witch who has everyone in this house in such a tizzy."
Snape shot the man a glare before turning to her. "Miss Granger, may I introduce Rabastan Lestrange to you? He is the younger brother of Rodolphus, who you have met before."
Like the mornings before, she chose the chair furthest away from Snape to sit down. She was not yet sure whether she preferred having someone else here aside from Snape or not. With a curt nod, she replied, "Thank you for the very formal introduction. I believe we have met."
Lestrange's eyes grew big. "Indeed, we have! Why, I am so proud to be recognised by someone of your greatness. Two years ago, shortly after I said my final good bye to Azkaban."
Finally, she was able to put a memory to his face. "Ah, right. The Department of Mysteries. Tell me, Lestrange, what did it feel like to be beaten so thoroughly by a couple of kids?"
She could see that Snapes face grew dark, but the other wizard looked positively delighted by her question. "Oh, I can see why everyone here loves you so. Usually, I would humour a good girl like you, but our lord informed us that we should be truthful with you. So, to be honest, it didn't really feel like any of you could stand against us. As far as I remember, you were all practically dead if not for the heroic adults that arrived just in time to save you."
A cold knot formed in her stomach as she held his gaze. His tone still sounded light and his lips showed a smile. But his eyes sparkled with a malice that betrayed his actual thoughts. In an instant, she understood that his presence was not something she would welcome, ever.
Because in all his fake cheerfulness, she could see a man who delighted in defying everyone, including Voldemort.
"Nothing to say to that?" She could hear the laughter in his voice.
"What can I say? I was 16 at the time, what chance would I ever have? It was probably also just luck that I survived the deadly curse that your fellow Death Eater threw at me. I'm just a lucky girl."
Lestrange snorted. "Yeah, right. Dolohov never did know how to land his spells."
"I have to disagree," Snape interjected at that moment. "I had the misfortune of having to treat her afterwards. The curses definitely hit its mark. I believe it was your foresight to silence him, Miss Granger, that saved you."
"Oooh, what's that I hear? Not just our lord is singing your praises, but the ever-unimpressed Severus Snape?" The dark-haired wizard slapped his hands together. "You must have the tightest pussy ever to ensnare these two men so easily."
Heat shot into Hermione's cheeks as she opened her mouth to bark out a reply. But before any words came to her, Snape cut in. "Watch your tongue, Rabastan. Our lord will not take kindly to your mockery. He expressly stated not to harm the girl, neither physically nor verbally."
Chuckling, Lestrange got up. He turned from the table, putting one hand on Snape's shoulder. "You should have said that I was interrupting your breakfast tête-à-tête. I will not bother you any longer. But do make sure you leave something for our lord. We wouldn't want him to go thirsty, right?"
Not even Snape had a reply to that. Rabastan Lestrange left the room, his laughter ringing in Hermione's ears. She hated that she couldn't even deny that Voldemort was interested in her like that. She hated that Snape of all people was here to witness such a crude comment. And she hated that she even felt ashamed in the first place, as though she welcomed Voldemort's advances.
"I apologise, Miss Granger," Snape said after the laughter subsided. "I don't think his time in Azkaban did anything for Rabastan's mental state. I will make sure the Dark Lord hears about this."
She shook her head. "I'd rather you didn't. This is already uncomfortable enough. Can we just ignore anything ever happened?"
Snape raised an eyebrow, but instead of questioning her words, he simply shrugged. "If that is what you prefer."
She inhaled and exhaled slowly. Then, she finally felt able to grab a toast and pour herself a cup of tea. They sat in silence for several minutes, an almost comfortable one after the chaos that Rabastan Lestrange created.
"Why do you defend me?" Hermione couldn't help herself, she had to ask.
He studied her for a moment. "I am following the Dark Lord's orders. Others might not take his words seriously at times, but to me, they are law. He told us to not harass you, so I will make sure everyone complies."
"So you're always doing what you're told?"
"That is correct."
She looked him directly into the eyes, unblinking. "Including when asked to murder someone? Professor Dumbledore, for example?"
He didn't flinch, he didn't blink. But she could see him swallow before he replied. His tone remained flat. "Obviously."
She nodded to herself. He didn't deny that he murdered Dumbledore. It was the least he could do, but strangely, it felt good to hear. She hoped that he felt some guilt. Even if he never was on the Order's side, he did betray someone who looked after him for a decade. It was murder, plain and simple. Nothing could ever change that. At least Snape was well aware. It was something. More than she expected.
She resumed her breakfast, concentrating fully on the buttered toast in front of her. Maybe she would grow accustomed to his presence one day.
"Miss Granger." The brittle voice of Narcissa Malfoy startled Hermione out of her reading. "May I have your attention for a moment?"
Blinking, she realised that she never heard the woman enter the library. Too deep was she in the books that she hoped would tell her more about what was going on between her and Voldemort. With a thin smile, she closed the heavy tome in front of her.
"What can I do for you?"
The blond woman studied her for a moment, her face as expressionless as Snape's. Then she pulled out a chair and set down next to her, carefully folding her hands in her lap. "I believe you are in need of a new wardrobe."
Hermione looked at her comfortable sweater and well-worn jeans. "Excuse me?"
Unmoving, Narcissa shot her a tight smile. "I understand that you prefer the clothes you are currently wearing. From what I observed, you do not own many changes of clothes, and most of it is old. Showing signs of wear."
"I'm sorry my plain clothes offend your pureblood sensibilities. I will make sure to keep out of sight whenever I can." Hermione had no patience for this discussion. She could feel the not-so-subtle insult in the other woman's words.
Narcissa leaned forward a little, putting one arm on the table, as if reaching out to her. "You misunderstand my intentions. This is not about your blood status. Not entirely, at least. This is about you as a witch. As a woman."
Hermione could only scoff. "If you're trying to make me appetising to your lord, spare yourself the trouble. I'm not interested."
Annoyance flickered over the other woman's face, but still, she did not leave. "Again, you misunderstand. My intention is to help. For better or worse, our lord made it clear that you are to be treated as a guest. Not everyone in this house agrees with this, but we would never openly defy his commands. But this does not mean that there are no ill-intentioned people out there."
"So what? You want me to believe you're here to protect me against those? By insulting my clothes?"
Narcissa sighed. "Let me speak plainly then. Your current attire is that of a little school girl. A muggleborn witch. Whatever you say, whatever you do, nobody will take you seriously like this. You might have the protection of our lord, but this will not help you if you want your voice to be heard in his absence. There will come a time when you have something to say, and he will not be around to make others listen."
She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The expression in her eyes when she looked at her again changed. There was a steeliness in her gaze that made Hermione shiver. "We women don't have many tools to make men listen. Clothes aren't just something to keep you warm or to cater to your fancy. They can be an armour. Projecting precisely the image to others that you want to project. Giving you confidence. Helping you put on a mask to protect your true self."
Hermione swallowed. She never thought about clothes like that before. The one time she tried to change her appearance, put on a dress and do her hair nicely, she experienced shame and heartbreak like never before. Ever since, she stopped thinking about clothes at all, just wearing whatever was easiest to move around in. Especially during their time on the Horcrux hunt, she didn't have time to consider what she was wearing.
"Why are you telling me this? I have a hard time believing you are doing it out of the goodness of your heart."
"If you want a reason that makes sense to you, just assume I'm trying to convince you to dress better because I am ashamed of having a hideously dressed mudblood in my house." Her tone was icy as she said this. "But if you have the capacity to look beyond blood status and sides in the war, you might discover that sometimes, witches simply want to look out for each other."
Hermione had nothing to reply to that. She knew that she couldn't trust Narcissa Malfoy. She was not only the wife of Lucius, but also the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange. Nobody encapsulated poor blood supremacy quite like she. She had to assume that there was more to this than she let on.
But she also couldn't argue with the logic of wearing clothes as armour. Despite the war, despite her encounters with Voldemort, she only ever thought of herself as a girl. A clever girl that had a lot of knowledge at her disposal, but still only a girl. Maybe it was time that she turned into a woman.
Maybe it would help her deal with wizards like Rabastan Lestrange. He made her feel uncomfortable in a way she couldn't quite describe. As though she had to fear him on a basic, animalistic level. Maybe she felt more confident when she played a grown witch, a woman with experience and power.
"Fake it till you make it," she whispered to herself. Maybe there was truth to that saying.
Narcissa Malfoy still sat across from her, her body unmoving, her eyes unwavering. She was patient, Hermione had to give her that.
"Okay," she finally said with a nod. "Let's assume I agree to this. What do you have in mind?"