Chapter Text
Narcissa was not sure exactly when Miss Granger began to catch her attention. She remembered that first encounter during Draco's second year at Hogwarts, when they bumped into each other, and how amusing she found the dynamic between the "Golden Trio" and her son.
It was impossible not to recognize Potter and Weasley with their prominent characteristics: Weasley for his red hair, and Potter who, unlike what most people noticed, the scar on his forehead and his mother's eyes, had straight, spiky hair just like his father. But the female presence caught her eye, not because she was a "Mudblood," but because of her hair, which reminded her of her sisters. Not as dark, but definitely as voluminous. Besides, she knew about her intelligence; after all, Draco never stopped talking about how Potter and Weasley only passed the year because of the "know-it-all." She found the whole dynamic so funny, but she hid it to avoid provoking Lucius's wrath or making Draco uncomfortable. Still, she thought she felt someone watching her.
The second time she looked at her again along with the two boys, she thought it was just a blur, but the thoughts of young Potter and young Weasley were so loud that it was impossible to disguise. Facing Bellatrix and Severus, she couldn't show the fear that afflicted her. She could not allow the pair in front of her to notice the young people's eavesdropping. She tried again to read the boys' minds and failed. She looked at them in the reflection of a distant window, and the young woman was with them. She only found a strong, almost impenetrable barrier and understood that she must have helped the other two. She knew that if she couldn't hear, Bella and Snape couldn't either. She felt a great relief and was able to concentrate on the difficult mission that lay ahead.
The third time she saw her, she wished in every way possible that she had never seen her to begin with. Bella and her dagger were cutting the girl's arm, and Hermione's screams made Narcissa's body writhe, her head throb, and the fear of seeing the young woman die there terrified her.
"Bella, I think..." she tried to talk to her sister.
"SILENCE." Her sister yelled and cast a spell so that no one but the two of them could speak.
She felt every part of her body sweating; she needed to think of something urgently. Hermione was in a state where she couldn't enter her mind. She cast healing spells that Bella would never have imagined to ease her pain, but that wouldn't be enough; if something didn't happen soon, the girl would die. She remembered the boys downstairs, but there was no way they could help. At that moment, her domestic Alpha instinct kicked in, and an idea arose. She needed to implant the image of her old house-elf into Harry's mind, and she discreetly sent her elf to check on the young people. Her mind quickly switched from Hermione to the elf, afraid of missing something, but once Harry saw the elf, it would be a matter of time.
Seconds of tension hung in the air, between screams and contained tears. "She cannot die here, not like this."
Everything happened very fast. Suddenly, she and Draco were fighting against Harry and Ron, at least she was pretending, but Bella held Hermione tightly and made a small cut on her neck, causing the boys to drop their wands. She needed to do something quickly because Lucius was preparing to call Voldemort. She searched for Dobby's mind in the chaos: "Find a distraction." And in a second, her chandelier shattered on the floor, causing Bellatrix to let go of Hermione and the young people to have a chance to escape. She pretended to fight Dobby, and the elf captured her wand, provoking Bellatrix's anger. As they began to Apparate, she noticed the looks of the elf and Hermione at herself, and the cold metal of Bellatrix's dagger vanishing alongside everyone was the last thing her eyes could register before the vision dissolved into shadow.
The fourth time she saw her, eight years later, she never imagined herself in such an unusual situation.
The façade of number 12 Grimmauld Place materialized like a wound reappearing on the skin. The exterior of the location looked gloomy, grimy, and dusty. Narcissa already felt like sneezing and had the unpleasant sensation that the air got colder just by looking at the door.
Memories of her passing through there as a young woman, rigid, impeccable, always escorted by one of her sisters, Bella especially, who loved the stories of their shrill old aunt. Walburga received visitors as one would hunt prey. "Now girls, a Black must inspire fear, not comfort," she would say. Narcissa had once believed that.
She stared at the faded green door. Just with that glance, her head throbbed with echoes of adolescence. She couldn't believe Draco would call her here at this point, much less that Harry would agree.
A part of her almost turned her back.
But Draco, smiling like an idiot, opened the door before she could flee.
"Mother!" he greeted her, as if they were walking into an adorned coffee shop. "Welcome."
She stepped inside.
And stopped.
The reaction was involuntary, an internal sensor, like a magical alert that failed.
The house was completely different.
Light.
Warmth.
Soft, colorful rugs on the floor, curtains that let the sun in, small enchanted plants scattered in the corners. There were photos, real, living photos of people smiling. Draco and Harry hugging while watching a Christmas carol. Teddy Lupin with blue hair hugging his godfather as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A recently taken photo of some former Hogwarts students; a familiar face caught her attention, but she chose to ignore it.
A bright fireplace, scented with tea and burning wood, filled the air. Soft cushions. An oversized armchair occupied a corner, with a folded blanket, no one kept decorative throws here; this was used.
Walburga Black's house had been... purified.
And that bothered her more than any dark magic.
"This is..." she began, trying to find a word. Profane was inappropriate, and Offensive was an exaggeration. "...unacceptably cozy."
Draco laughed.
"Harry said you would hate it."
Before Narcissa could decide whether to kill her own son, Harry's voice emerged from behind her:
"Hello, Narcissa."
She turned around. Potter wore a simple shirt, absolutely unruly hair, hands in his pockets. He was James in flesh and blood, and the thought startled her for a moment.
"How did you get Walburga to shut up?" She made a sweeping gesture, looking for the portrait. "The last time I was here, I had never heard so many insults before."
Harry blinked.
"Well... you see..." He seemed disconcerted.
"Hermione burned all the noisy ones and made a point of spitting on them first." Draco said with disdain.
Harry looked like he was about to join the ghost friends of Hogwarts; Narcissa had never seen him so red, and the boy had even come to her house to ask for her son's hand in marriage.
But her laughter seemed to impress everyone, even herself.
"My word, I would give anything to have seen that scene." She wiped away some tears that came from laughing so much.
"I think I have a Pensieve around here somewhere." Draco said, amused, patting Harry's back so he understood it was okay.
"I'm sure Mr. Weasley recorded everything on one of the cameras I gave him as a gift." The voice that emerged made her heart skip a beat for a moment. "How are you, Mrs. Malfoy?"
There she was, leaning against the door frame, a teacup in one hand and a document folder in the other. Her hair was tied up in an absolutely disastrous way, but it gave her an attractive charm. Her gaze was firm, experienced, and overly comfortable within that completely rebuilt house.
Narcissa took a deep breath.
"Mrs. Black, Miss Granger." She corrected with dangerous softness. "No longer Malfoy."
A little smile appeared on Hermione's lips, discreet, sophisticatedly petulant.
"Mm." She sipped her tea. "I'm sorry, old habits."
The reply was light, innocent... but Narcissa felt the hit. Hermione learned quickly. She used words like thin blades: harmless on the outside, sharp in the cut.
Draco had the good sense to intervene:
"We were discussing how you decided to burn all the racist portraits and how you spent months trying to figure out the type of magic that kept them stuck to the wall. We thought you were going crazy."
"I wasn't 'going crazy'!" Hermione interrupted, offended, making her lose a bit of that adult composure. "I just... got slightly energized by the idea of learning new magic."
"You cried out of anger." Harry reminded her, indifferent. "Twice."
"It was three!" Draco corrected, raising three fingers.
Narcissa blinked slowly, watching the three adults bicker like teenagers in the Common Room.
The contrast was so absurd that she was overcome by an involuntary feeling of nostalgia and... incredulity.
Then she smiled at the image of the young people in front of her.
"Is this how you saved the world?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Arguing about tears?"
Hermione looked up over the edge of her cup.
"It worked, didn't it?"
Touché.
Harry mumbled something like "don't start" while trying to fix his socks, which inexplicably had penguin prints. Narcissa pretended not to notice. She had to pretend, because admitting she found it adorable would be too much for her pride.
Harry and Draco went to the kitchen to prepare something for everyone to eat, leaving the two women sitting in the living room.
It was almost as if that house had been liberated.
She didn't know whether she approved or whether she wanted to set it on fire again out of family tradition.
Hermione noticed her gaze wandering and did not let it pass.
"You must find everything different, right?" she asked without waiting for an answer. "We had to redesign some structural spells. The stair curse was still trying to trap unauthorized visitors' feet."
Narcissa wrinkled her nose.
"I remember. Bella almost broke her leg once."
Hermione looked at her for a few seconds. Narcissa felt sweat forming on the back of her neck; she didn't know why she thought of her sister in the presence of one of the people she had tortured.
"I'm sorry I..."
"I would pay to see it." Hermione replied, without hesitation. "The past is gone."
Narcissa sighed with immense relief when the two boys returned to the room.
"Well." Narcissa cleared her throat. "I imagine I wasn't invited just to watch a childish dispute over tears and have an afternoon snack."
Draco and Harry looked at each other with that knowing, pre-catastrophe expression. Hermione glared at them before they could open their mouths.
"They need help with a case." she said, immediately taking control. "Compromised memory. Possible mental interference. We don't want to act without understanding the origin."
The word memory resonated within Narcissa's mind like a stone dropped into a lake.
She knew what it was like to enter someone else's mind without permission, with urgency, with fear.
Hermione continued, with a balanced, non-aggressive posture:
"Draco insisted that you have a... different precision."
Narcissa raised an eyebrow.
"He said 'different'?"
"He used 'frighteningly efficient'." Harry corrected.
"I used 'precise and very elegant and a living legend,' but he cut it." Draco added, unashamed.
Narcissa took a deep breath.
The boy had learned compliments over the years. Still exaggerated... but at least polite.
Hermione approached, pulling an envelope out of the folder.
Unlike Draco and Harry, she seemed genuinely interested in the matter.
"Where exactly do you fit into this undertaking, Miss Granger?" Curiosity outweighed good manners.
"Why do you ask?" Hermione seemed incredulous at the question and turned sharply to the two who were feigning innocence while arranging the table. "The two idiots didn't mention it, did they?" Narcissa was not understanding. "I'm the Head of the Auror Department, hence the boss of these two empty-headed individuals here."
For a few moments, Narcissa was simply... quiet.
Hermione Granger, Head of the Auror Office.
She was too young, in Narcissa's mind, but old enough for her eyes to carry weariness.
"Before we look at the records." she said. "I need a guarantee."
"And you think I will submit to childish trust tests?" Narcissa tilted her chin.
"No." Hermione stared at her, serious. "I want your word."
Narcissa was silent.
Hermione was not asking for submission.
She was not asking for control.
She was asking for mutual respect.
It was different from all the other times.
"When you enter his mind..." Hermione touched the envelope. "...do not exceed what is necessary. He is a victim. He does not deserve to be stripped bare."
The way she pronounced "victim" made something stir inside Narcissa.
The involuntary memory of a young woman tied up, a chandelier crashing down, blood on the mansion floor.
She turned her face away, just enough to hide her reaction.
"I am not my sister." Narcissa replied. "I never was."
Hermione relaxed by one centimeter. Just one.
"Then we are agreed." she concluded.
Hermione opened the envelope with a precise semicircle of fingers, handing her a set of files with blue and purple seals.
"The case is simple on the surface." she explained. "A wizard found in Knockturn Alley, memory completely fragmented. The Healers at St. Mungo's couldn't identify conventional magic."
Narcissa automatically analyzed the first document—names, dates, residual magical composition. It felt good to have her brain working beyond old memories.
"A botched Obliviation." she concluded.
"No." Hermione replied. "If it were, we would have found the traces in the magical cortex. This here was reconstruction... someone dismantled what was already there and rewrote it."
Narcissa read carefully and began to think. This required technique, patience, coldness. And... a skewed cruelty.
"Do you believe it was someone who was part of the Death Eaters?"
Harry appeared with a plate of hippogriff-shaped brownies and replied before Hermione:
"We believe you are the only person here capable of telling us."
Draco placed a pitcher of juice on the table as if toasting his own genius.
"That's not an accusation." he said cautiously.
Narcissa looked at Hermione, searching for something resembling distrust.
Surprisingly, she found none, but she also couldn't read anything more than that on her features.
Hermione crossed her legs, resting her elbow on her knee, without diverting her gaze:
"You are not here by protocol, yet." she said, with surgical clarity. "You are here because Draco and Harry trust you and because I need your reading."
The word "I" was not casual. It wasn't political. It was... choice.
Narcissa felt her defenses shift like a shield.
It was easier when she saw her as the little girl bleeding on the Living Room carpet.
Now, the adult woman in front of her demanded to be seen as an equal.
It was irritating.
And attractive.
Not in the cheap sense, but in the way intellect provokes.