Chapter Text
“I need your help,” Draco said after entering Hermione’s office.
Hermione lowered her quill and raised her head. “What?”
Draco and she had gotten over the past, but she wouldn’t call them friends. He was much closer to Harry than to her, and she couldn’t imagine the reasoning behind his request, or behind his pale apparition in her office. Were those blood-shot eyes? He surely wouldn’t show up drunk to work.
“OK. Help with what?” She asked, refraining from tapping her quill against her desk when Draco’s gaze dropped to his shuffling feet.
He heaved a sigh. “It’s my mother.”
“What about her?”
He avoided her gaze. “I need you to talk to her.”
Hermione opened her mouth before closing it again. “What? Why?”
Another sigh. Now he shoved his hands into his robe pockets.
“I don’t have all day,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know who to talk to, and you’re a woman, too, so I thought maybe that makes things easier? I don’t know!” He scuffed his feet against the floor.
“I still don’t know what this is about, or what you want me to do. Apparently, it involves your mother, and you need a woman to help?”
“Right. I… It’s hard to describe, but she’s in bad shape.”
“If she’s sick, why don’t you take her to St. Mungos?”
Draco scoffed. “As if. And no. She isn’t sick. She’s… lost. And she drinks. A lot.”
“She’ll come around.”
“She’s locked herself in the house and refuses to leave. I’m afraid she… I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“I believe you. I just don’t see how I can help. Your mother and I aren’t… we aren’t friends,” Hermione said. “And to be honest, I’m not sure I’m up for a visit to Malfoy manor.”
“No, no,” Draco rushed out. “She left the manor right after the war ended. Too many ghosts, she’d said. She’s at Black manor. Please, Hermione. I’ll owe you forever. Just stop by and talk to her.”
Hermione had never seen Draco in such a state, nor with such despair painting his features. “All right. I don’t know how I can help, or what’s really going on, but I’ll do it.” What was she getting herself into?
“Thank you! Thank you so much. Here’s the address.” He placed a piece of parchment on her desk. “Tonight?”
“Sure, why not?” Hermione said with a slight grimace. Not like she had any plans.
He smiled and left her office.
Hermione gazed around the room before checking her watch. Close to four. At least she didn’t have to wait that much longer, given that her nerves were suddenly going haywire. Narcissa Black belonged to a past Hermione had buried over the last couple of years; a past she refused to unearth ever again. It had cost her to even get to this point. Yet, she’d just promised Draco she’d visit his mother tonight. What was she thinking?
***
Narcissa gazed unmoving at the flames crackling in the fireplace. When was the last time she’d left Black manor? She couldn’t even remember. Once the war was over, once Draco was safe, once Lucius was in Azkaban, and they spared her, once the wizarding community had moved on, she’d found herself stuck between two worlds. Rather than dealing with either, she’d locked herself in her childhood home, which she hated, but not as much as she abhorred Malfoy manor and all that had happened there during the war. She still heard the screams.
Narcissa took a sip of her drink, enjoying the burn of the fire whiskey. She wasn’t drunk, though well on her way. She knew she drank too much. She knew she was a coward, and she knew Draco was worried sick. The latter weighed the heaviest on her.
But she was trapped in this loop of fear and loathing, fear of the world, of her future, or better, the lack thereof, and fear of herself, for she felt she didn’t even know who she was. After running the cycle of fear, she slithered into loathing, toward her parents, toward her sisters, toward the entire world, but most of all, toward herself.
All her life, whenever she’d wanted something so badly it almost hurt, she wouldn’t just not get it, no, that might have been bearable. She’d destroy it. If not through her own actions, then by association. This led to a life that never dared to want, to desire. She had been scared when Draco was born because he had been the only exception. She’d wanted him, and as such, lived her life in terror that someone, or something, somehow would tear him away from her.
She’d almost lost him, and her husband had allowed it. She’d have divorced Lucius for that alone, no matter how relieved he’d been that Draco survived the insane attempts on Dumbledore’s life, and the final battle. The moment he disregarded the life of their son, the moment he cared more about serving that sniveling no-nose bastard than protecting their child, Narcissa decided she’d leave him. She’d had a multitude of reasons over the years to end their marriage, but those only related to her, and she’d been so used to disregarding her own happiness that she’d never have left him for her own good.
Something had to give. She was going insane; worried that the wave of madness that had washed over Bella would swallow her, too. There were moments when she felt she was close to touching that shore, but then her dragon would visit, and she’d cling to the light in his eyes, to the love that one person in the world held for her. If only she could stop. If only she could find a way out. But the mere notion of leaving the manor, of stepping foot into the outside world, filled her with sheer terror.
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t Tuesday, was it? That was the day Draco would visit, but he’d been here just a few days ago.
“Go away,” Narcissa croaked and slammed her fire whisky on the coffee table.
An elf showed up at her side. “Mistress Black, there’s a young woman at the door wanting to speak to you.”
She’d tried to fire her, or set her free, whatever. But she’d refused to leave.
“Send her away,” Narcissa said and closed her eyes.
The elf nodded and disappeared with a pop, only to reappear a minute later.
“I’m sorry, Mistress. She insists on talking to you. She said to tell you her name.”
“It won’t matter, but sure, tell me who’s so keen on seeing me.”
“Hermione Granger,” the elf squeaked.
Narcissa’s back straightened. What was she doing here? Had she finally come to extract her revenge? How fitting.
“Let her in,” she whispered. Curiosity wrangled with despair, but Narcissa hated delays. She might as well get it over with.
***
Hermione marveled at both the cold and dark that draped the inside of Black manor while a house-elf led her through hallways, deeper into the property. Then she halted, and Hermione almost ran into her.
“Through here, Ms. Granger. Mistress is through here. Be kind to her,” she trilled and disappeared.
Hermione took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in,” a modulated voice rang out.
Hermione opened the door and stepped into the darkened living room. Fire blazed in the hearth, and she was relieved that this room at least wasn’t as cold as the rest of the manor seemed to be. Dark green, heavy curtains hung on tall windows and would have drowned out any light during the day. The hardwood floor beneath her squeaked when she stepped farther into the room.
“Madam Black,” she greeted Narcissa. One look at the other woman and she understood Draco’s worries. The ghostly pale woman in front of her didn’t look well. Gone was the impeccably dressed and coiffed women. Instead, her blonde, dull hair hung loosely around her face, with deep shadows cast under blue eyes, which usually gazed at their surroundings with utter disdain, now shone glassy, almost lifeless. Most worrisome was her frame, though. The blonde woman had always been slender, but now she looked frail, so thin a strong wind gust might topple her. Her hands trembled, grasping a glass with smoking liquid in it. Fire whiskey, Hermione assumed.
She stared at Hermione, still and in silence.
“May I sit down?” Hermione asked after a moment.
Narcissa shook her head. “Yes, of course.” She stepped back and sat down on the love seat closer to the fire, while Hermione chose the sofa chair across from her.
“Draco asked me to come here tonight,” Hermione said.
Narcissa startled. “He did? I didn’t know you were close.”
“We’re not, but we work together, and let’s say, we’ve buried the past.”
Narcissa fidgeted, pulling a lock of hair behind her ear before drinking a sip of her whiskey. “Do you… Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Hermione said.
“So you didn’t come here to… to kill me?” Narcissa voiced, after another moment of silence had passed between them.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “What? Ki… What… Why would I do that?”
“I didn’t help you. I wanted to, but…”
Hermione closed her eyes. She was so not ready for that conversation. “Let’s not talk about that. Please.”
“Of course,” Narcissa said, and with shaking hands, placed her glass on the coffee table. “Why are you here, then?”
“I think maybe Draco thought you could use some company. He said you’ve not left the manor in a while.”
Narcissa tilted her head. “Why would he choose you, though?”
“You mean since I’m not a pureblood witch?” Hermione struggled to keep from snapping.
A frown marred Narcissa’s features. “No, because you hate me,” she said in a voice so soft and fragile, it shifted something inside Hermione. Tension she hadn’t been aware of eased, and she breathed lighter.
“I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you.”
“Then again, why are you here?”
“I don’t know, but… maybe I can get to know you. We can get to know each other,” Hermione said, somewhat surprised at her own suggestion. That hadn’t been part of her plan, but sitting across from the blonde witch, who looked so forlorn and lonely, Hermione wanted to help. She felt the urge to ease the strain that was surrounding, almost suffocating the other woman.
Narcissa’s eyebrows raised. “That’s something you’d want?”
“Why not? We could meet here every Friday.”
“And do what?”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “Talk? Play games. Do you like chess?”
“Chess?” Narcissa looked at her with an expression like the one she must have worn when encountering Hagrid’s three-headed dog, Fluffy.
“We don’t have to play chess. That was just a suggestion.”
“No, no. It’s fine. We can play chess next Friday,” Narcissa said.
“OK,” Hermione said and clasped her hands in her lap. “Same time, or shall I come by earlier?”
“That’s up to you. I have no plans,” Narcissa said, and a bottle of fire whiskey zoomed by, landing on the table in front of her.
Did Narcissa summon that silently, without a wand? Or was there some secret communication with her house-elf?
Narcissa poured more of the steaming liquid into her cup. “You’re sure you don’t want to join me?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Hermione said.
“Oh, well, you can have something else. I can ask Dottie to bring you—”
“No, no. It’s fine, really. Thank you. May I ask you a question?”
Narcissa nodded while swallowing a gulp of her drink.
“Why don’t you leave Black manor? What do you do all day?”
Narcissa stared at her. “Two.”
“Excuse me?”
“Those were two questions.”
Hermione held her gaze, remaining silent.
Narcissa sighed. “I do nothing. Waste my time,” she said with a dry chuckle. “I used to read and study a lot. But nothing holds my attention anymore. I can’t even brew potions because my hands shake too much,” she muttered.
“And why don’t you leave the manor?”
“Do you always go straight for the jugular, Ms. Granger? Don’t people getting to know each other usually start by asking more benign questions? Like what’s your favorite color? Or your favorite season? Food?”
“Why waste time like that? Isn’t it better to right away know what you’re up against?”
“Interesting word choice. Am I a project of yours? Are you trying to redeem me?”
Hermione canted her head. “Do you need redemption, Madam Black?”
A visible tremor ran through the blonde witch across from her, and Narcissa dipped her head, breaking their eye contact. “That’s usually for others to decide, isn’t it?” She finally breathed and raised her head.
Narcissa’s eyes held an expression so full of despair, Hermione felt all air flee her lungs. “I’m not sure. Sometimes others forgive us, and that’s still not enough to feel that we’re deserving of their forgiveness. On the other hand, how would you redeem someone who doesn’t believe in it?”
“Doesn’t believe redemption is possible?”
“That would be complicated, but not impossible. I meant a situation where someone doesn’t believe they need redemption. Voldemort surely never thought so,” Hermione said, remembering what Harry had told her about his meeting with Dumbledore at King’s Cross, and the deformed creature on the floor beneath the bench.
“And you suppose I’m like him?” For the first time, something other than misery glowed in Narcissa’s eyes. Indignation.
“No. Do you?”
Narcissa chuckled.
***
Friday #1
The next Friday came too soon, while also taking too long. Depending on the day, Hermione would have argued one or the other. Draco had been pleased that she’d set up a schedule to meet with Narcissa. Personally, Hermione questioned her sanity. Still, she’d always had the urge to help people, and it was blatant that Narcissa needed help. And food.
Hermione hadn’t come up yet with an idea on how to bring up that topic. Maybe she didn’t have to? She could bring along food, arguing that she thought they might share a meal first? An exploration of Muggle takeout cuisine?
That was what had brought her to her favorite Thai place. She’d ordered her usual, and a blander dish for Narcissa, since she didn’t know if the other woman liked spicy food. Also, since it seemed that she hardly ate, Hermione didn’t want to bring something too heavy or greasy.
With a bag of takeout food in one hand, and a Muggle chess set in the messenger bag swung over her shoulder, she rang the doorbell of Black manor.
“Mistress is waiting in the living room, Ms. Granger,” Dottie chirped and ushered Hermione inside.
“Thank you, Dottie,” Hermione said and followed the house-elf.
Narcissa looked better, maybe because she was expecting company. Her hair was braided in a ponytail, and while her clothes, black lounging pants and a crème-colored blouse, still hung light on her frame, they seemed more aligned with the Narcissa Black she knew than the ensemble she’d worn the previous week.
“Ms. Granger,” she greeted her. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“I said I would,” Hermione said.
“That you did. What... What’s that?” Narcissa asked and pointed at the brown paper bag in Hermione’s grasp.
“Oh, I got us something to eat. I thought we could have dinner before playing chess.” She placed her messenger bag on the floor. “Is it OK if we sit on the couch to eat?”
“That’s fine. I already had dinner, though,” Narcissa said, watching Hermione while she unpacked the food and placed it on the coffee table.
“Liquids don’t count as dinner,” Hermione quipped, undeterred.
Narcissa raised her eyebrows, and a small smile played on her lips. “I wasn’t aware of such rules.”
“Now you are,” Hermione said and sat in the same seat as last Friday. “Come on. Sit down. Here,” she said and handed Narcissa a container.
“What exactly is that?” Narcissa asked, but accepted the food.
“It’s Thai food. Muggle takeout food, well, it’s regular food, but since I got it to go, it’s takeout, so I suppose you can still call it takeout food.”
“You’re babbling,” Narcissa said, still not opening the container.
“Sorry. I just...” Hermione sighed. “It’s a dish called Pad Thai, and I ordered it mild since I didn’t know if you like spicy food.”
“I do. Although... mild might be the better choice right now,” Narcissa said.
“Go on. Open the container. You can eat it right out of it. Or we can get plates, I’m fine either way. You can use the plastic fork or the chop sticks.”
Narcissa’s gaze followed Hermione’s movements as the dark-haired witch opened her own container and grabbed a pair of chop sticks.
“I’ll stick with the fork,” Narcissa said. “Are you eating the same dish?” She asked, inspecting her noodles.
“It’s a similar one, Pad Kee Mao. It’s a lot spicier and has chicken and shrimp along with vegetables. I didn’t know if you eat meat, so I ordered yours with just vegetables.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” Narcissa said, trying a bit of her food.
“So?”
“It’s... tasty,” Narcissa said after swallowing.
“No, I meant, do you eat meat?”
“I’m not a vegetarian, but I also don’t eat a lot of meat. I prefer fish.”
“I shall remember,” Hermione said, and they continued to eat their meal in a silence that was much more comfortable than Hermione had expected.
***
Narcissa had been sure Hermione wouldn’t join her tonight. Why would she? It had been a sweet idea of Draco, if somewhat unorthodox. Why would he ask Hermione Granger, of all people, to visit her? He’d only shrugged his shoulders when she’d asked before changing the topic. She didn’t want the other woman here, and she’d only agreed to it to please her son, or better, to ease his worries.
Still, she’d been preoccupied with this day approaching, and a restless energy had stayed with her all day. It felt odd to have energy again, and so she’d taken a bath and followed a long-forgotten routine to get ready. For what, though? To play chess? She’d paced the living room before the doorbell rang, then she’d sat down, trying to restore her unaffected air. Why did she care what that woman would think of her?
Then she was here. She brought food and even considered her dietary preferences. What a strange witch.
“I thought we could make it a theme tonight and play Muggle chess,” Hermione said.
Was she testing her? Narcissa was so tired of the strain between Muggleborn and pureblood witches and wizards. What did it mean in the end? One just had to look at the two wizarding wars. Not to mention, the Dark Lord himself was a Muggleborn. Of all the hypocrisy. “What’s the difference?” Narcissa asked.
“You move the pieces physically, and well, they won’t fight, or you know, destroy each other.”
“But the spells on wizarding chess rebuild them back to the same state they’re in when you start the game,” Narcissa said with a little frown.
“True, but it’s still... barbaric. And I thought maybe we play a version that involves less... dismemberment. But if you prefer the wizarding version, then—”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
“Where shall I set it up?”
Narcissa pointed toward a set of chairs and a small table in the room's corner. “Let’s move over there.” She rose and ambled over with Hermione right behind her.
***
“You’re cheating!” Hermione cried. She was the brightest witch of her age, or so people claimed, yet she had a habit of getting trounced in chess. Well, to be fair, that was only the case when she played Ron.
“I most certainly am not!” Narcissa’s outraged expression made Hermione laugh out loud.
“All right. I believe you,” she said and moved her rook and king.
Narcissa smirked. “You think castling will save you?”
“I’m not sure anything can save me here,” Hermione said. “But what counts is trying, right?” She caught Narcissa’s gaze and held it, hoping the blonde witch would pick up on her meaning, and given how her azure eyes narrowed, she assumed the message was received.
“Trying isn’t always as easy as it sounds,” Narcissa whispered before moving her bishop forward. “Check,” she said.
Hermione groaned. She was doomed. Only two moves later, Narcissa’s smile widened.
“Checkmate,” she said, with a grin and more light in her eyes than Hermione could remember seeing all evening.
Hermione sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You should play Ron. You could give him a run for his money.”
Narcissa tilted her head. “Why would I want Mr. Weasley’s money?”
Hermione laughed. “It’s just an expression. He’s fantastic at this game, and I’d say you’d be evenly matched.”
Narcissa raised one eyebrow. “No one has ever beaten me in chess. Though Draco came close one time when he was sixteen. He’s given up ever since.”
“Now you tell me,” Hermione said with a pout.
“Why would I reveal a strategic advantage?”
“True. Very Slytherin of you.”
“And yet we always seem to fall at the hands of Gryffindors,” Narcissa said, a faraway expression on her face.
Hermione didn’t know what to say to that, so she remained silent, her gaze steady, while Narcissa dipped her head, idly playing with a pawn in her hand.
“Is this who we are, Ms. Granger? Pawns in someone else’s game? Easily sacrificed and replaced.”
“I struggle to believe you’ve ever seen yourself as a pawn in life.”
Narcissa laughed, but her laugh contained no joy. “We’ve established that we don’t know each other, because if you did, you’d never make such a statement.”
Hermione held her gaze, hoping the blonde witch would continue, though her expression clarified that this was a challenging topic.
“You also need to learn the difference between appearances and reality.”
“What’s the difference? For you?”
Narcissa’s eyes widened. “That is a... very forward question.”
“I apologize. I don’t mean to offend you,” Hermione said.
“It’s brash, and brave, quite befitting your House,” Narcissa said, and now Hermione saw a trace of amusement flicker in her eyes.
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment, at least not the way you say it.”
Narcissa waved her off. “Do you mind if I have a glass of wine? Do you want anything?”
“I’ll have some water,” Hermione said.
Narcissa rose and poured red wine for herself before adding water into a glass for Hermione.
“Here,” she said, and motioned for Hermione to follow her back to the couch.
Hermione accepted the water and sat down in the sofa chair.
“Maybe I’m jealous,” Narcissa said after taking a sip of her drink.
“Of what?” Hermione asked.
***
There was no way Narcissa would have been able to have this conversation sober. She’d almost followed her instinct and asked Hermione to leave, but something stopped her. How could she explain this to the dark-haired witch? Why would she?
The notion of them becoming friends was beyond ludicrous. She loved her son, but there were limits. Why should she bare herself in front of a stranger? A stranger with whom she shared such a fraught history, no less. She didn’t confide in people, not since she’d lost her sisters, and even that had been quite ill-advised.
“Your freedom,” Narcissa whispered and closed her eyes. Perhaps talking to a stranger had its advantages. Alternatively, Narcissa had lost her mind. She felt good about both options.
“Freedom in what way?” Hermione asked.
“I don’t know your parents,” Narcissa started and filed away the younger witch’s flinch at her words. “And I’m not terribly familiar with Muggles,” she added, and this time, Hermione offered her a weak smile in response.
“You don’t say.”
“Hmm. How familiar are you with pureblood families? Their traditions, rules, and regulations?”
Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched up. “A bit more familiar than you are with Muggles, but that’s all coming from books, not personal experience or even the word of a friend. I doubt the Weasleys are the typical pureblood family you’re talking about.”
“No, they are not.”
“Sirius alluded to a few... issues.”
“I’m sure he did. His family disowned him because he was not acting the right way.”
“Have you always acted the right way?”
Narcissa stared at her. Was she serious? “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Directness has its advantages,” Hermione said.
“Why would I confide in you?”
Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “You don’t have to, but isn’t that part of getting to know each other? Of establishing a friendship? Intimacy only works if it’s reciprocated.”
“Are we doing that? Establishing a friendship?”
“We might as well.”
“All right. But in honoring your proposal, you’ll have to share something as well,” Narcissa said.
“OK,” Hermione said. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened to your parents?” Narcissa asked, regretting her question when all color drained from Hermione’s face and the hand holding the glass trembled and paled, her knuckles standing out. “Forget it,” she said. “I’ll think of something else.”
Hermione didn’t react for a long moment, just stared straight ahead, then placed her glass on the coffee table. “I’d erased their memories to protect them from Voldemort. They’d moved to Australia and… I found them, but… I cannot restore their memories. I’ve tried everything, but nothing works. I’ve lost them,” she muttered.
Narcissa closed her eyes and pressed her tongue against her teeth to keep from snapping at the younger woman. Thankfully, she wasn’t as drunk as she desired to be, and so she could hold back or simmer down her outrage over what Hermione had just said.
When she opened her eyes, the sorrowful and hopeless expression on Hermione’s face made her ache in a way she thought she’d lost a long time ago. Compassion filled her, and she was too tired to stop herself from reaching out and hesitantly, she grasped Hermione’s hand and squeezed it before letting go. “I’m sorry,” Narcissa said.
Hermione wiped her eyes. “Not your fault,” she mumbled and cleared her throat.
“Yes. I’ve always acted the right way, at least according to whatever I thought that was, yet the end results were never what I’d hoped for,” Narcissa said.
“I’m sorry, too.” Hermione said, and her sincere expression warmed Narcissa.
“Thank you.”