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Narcissa would never dare to call herself an artist. She does not paint or draw or sketch, although the temptation has often come to her. Left an itch in her fingertips.
She only observes.
She counts the trees. Watches the clouds. The way the sunlight hits. How the shadows fall over the fields. How…
How someone is walking up the hill towards her.
Bushy hair. Muggle clothes. Book under her arm, water bottle in hand.
Narcissa stands up. Brushes down her robes and wipes at her eyes, just in case.
Hermione Granger crests the top of the hill and stops. Smiles at her awkwardly. “Hello. I didn’t mean to…Well it seems like our…walking routes cross a little bit...” -
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