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Chapter Text

The castle breathed around her. Stone walls whispered with ancient magic. A broom clattered somewhere down the corridor, first-years wrestling with Levitation again, and voices drifted through open doors, high and careless in the morning air. But for Hermione, everything passed behind glass. Sounds dulled. Colours faded. Even the sunlight pouring through stained windows seemed brittle.

She climbed the steps to the Great Hall, spine straight, eyes tired. Inside, breakfast buzzed. Cutlery scraped against plates. Laughter rose from the Hufflepuff table. At Gryffindor’s end, Ginny leaned into a conversation with Neville, her hands gesturing midair, toast forgotten in one.

Hermione slid onto the bench beside her, silent. She poured tea without meeting anyone’s eye, fingers careful, steady. The scent of bergamot curled toward her, but warmth didn’t reach the tight coil in her chest.

Timetable. She made herself think of it. Transfiguration. Charms. Free period before lunch. Simple, predictable, safe. But the names of the subjects felt like hollow shells. She couldn’t focus, hadn’t been able to in weeks. Flitwick had stopped mid-spell to gently remind her about wand movement. Slughorn’s brow had furrowed when she scorched her potion to ash. Still, no one had said anything out loud.

Until now.

“Hermione.” Ginny nudged her with an elbow, voice low. “McGonagall’s coming.”

Hermione’s gaze lifted automatically.

Professor McGonagall walked with purpose, robes sharp, eyes sharper. She didn’t scowl, but her focus hit like a spell cast directly between Hermione’s ribs.

“Miss Granger,” she said, voice calm, but unyielding. “A word in my office.”

Hermione nodded. Stood. Her chair scraped back, too loud. Ginny gave her a questioning look but didn’t speak. Hermione smoothed her robes with a practiced hand and followed McGonagall out.

Their footsteps echoed as they passed through stone corridors. McGonagall didn’t speak, and Hermione didn’t fill the silence. Her mind rushed to explain, poor marks? Insubordination? No. It wasn’t anything she’d done. It was everything she hadn’t.

The office door swung open on quiet hinges.

Books lined the shelves, spines worn from years of use. A tea service sat untouched on the windowsill. Morning light filtered through the glass, pooling across the desk like spilled gold.

“Sit,” McGonagall said, not unkindly.

Hermione sat. Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

Across from her, McGonagall lowered herself into the chair, elbows resting lightly on the arms. The lines around her mouth had softened.

“I’ve been watching you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione flinched.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” McGonagall added. “You’ve been… quiet. Distracted. Not yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said. Too quickly.

McGonagall tilted her head, silent.

Hermione’s gaze dropped to her hands. Her thumbs pressed into each other, hard enough to hurt.

“Just… adjusting.”

“That is a lie,” McGonagall said gently. “An understandable one, but a lie nonetheless.”

The words cracked something. Hermione looked up.

“You’ve always shouldered too much,” McGonagall continued. “And you rarely ask for help. But you don’t need to pretend with me.”

A pause hung between them.

Hermione swallowed. “It’s harder than I thought it would be,” she said finally. “Being back.”

McGonagall gave a small nod. “Of course it is.”

“It’s not just the work,” Hermione went on, slower now. “It’s… the silence. The pretending. As if we can just… return.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Yes.” The word came out more brittle than she intended. “And everything around me hasn’t.”

McGonagall leaned forward, hands folded atop the desk. “There’s no shame in needing time.”

Hermione nodded, but her throat tightened. The pressure in her chest wouldn’t ease.

“You’re not alone in this,” McGonagall added. “Though I know it must feel that way.”

“It does,” Hermione whispered.

McGonagall reached into a drawer and withdrew something delicate and golden. An hourglass on a chain, its glass glinting faintly in the light.

“You remember this?”

Hermione froze.

The Time-Turner dangled between McGonagall’s fingers, the chain coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Its hourglass held a sliver of sand, too little to see move unless you stared.

Hermione nodded slowly. “Third year,” she said, voice faint. “We used it to save Sirius.”

“And Buckbeak,” McGonagall added.

That had been different. Then, time had been a puzzle to solve, a tool to master. Now, it felt like something she’d lost hold of entirely.

“The Ministry has approved limited use,” McGonagall said. “For academic purposes only, of course. But I thought it might help, allow you some control over your time, ease your schedule.”

Hermione stared at the Time-Turner. The metal glinted in the light. She didn’t reach for it.

“I’m not sure I should,” she said after a beat. “I don’t feel… steady.”

“Which is precisely why I’m giving it to you,” McGonagall replied. “Not to overextend yourself, but to reclaim something.”

Hermione’s fingers closed around the chain.

Cold.

She tucked it into her palm and held it there, not putting it on yet. Her throat ached.

“I don’t know how to feel normal again,” she admitted. “Everything I used to care about. Exams, timetables, house points. It all feels… hollow.”

“You’ve lived through war,” McGonagall said softly. “There’s no going back to who you were. But that doesn’t mean you’re lost.”

Hermione looked at her then, really looked. McGonagall wasn’t just her Head of House or the formidable Transfiguration professor. Not now. Now, she looked like someone who understood. Someone who’d seen too many students broken too young.

“I keep thinking of Malfoy Manor,” Hermione whispered. “Of what happened there.”

McGonagall’s expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes darkened.

“That place left scars,” she said. “And not all of them visible.”

Silence. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“I see her sometimes,” Hermione said. “In dreams. Bellatrix. Laughing.”

“I’m sorry,” McGonagall said, and meant it.

Hermione nodded once. She didn’t expect an answer. There wasn’t one. But the words sat between them, shared now, no longer locked behind her teeth.

McGonagall stood and moved to the window. Morning bathed her shoulders in gold. She seemed older suddenly. Older than Hogwarts, older than magic.

“There is no syllabus for grief,” she said quietly. “No counter-charm for what you endured.”

Hermione rose too, slowly, as if her joints ached.

“I thought if I just… worked hard enough, it would feel like before,” she said. “If I stayed busy, I wouldn’t notice the difference.”

“And has that worked?”

Hermione laughed once, bitter. “Not even a little.”

McGonagall turned. “Then perhaps it’s time to try something else.”

Hermione nodded.

She slipped the chain over her head. The Time-Turner settled against her collarbone, its weight heavier than she remembered. It felt like a tether to something vast and unmanageable.

“You don’t need to be perfect, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “You only need to be present.”

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it again. Too many responses crowded her throat. She gave a shallow nod, the best she could manage.

McGonagall moved back behind her desk, retrieving a small folded note. “Your revised schedule,” she said. “With added flexibility. I’ve also arranged for your free periods to remain uninterrupted.”

Hermione took the note. “Thank you.”

“Also,” McGonagall added, “Professor Slughorn mentioned you’ve been absent from Slug Club meetings.”

Hermione’s lips twisted. “I haven’t exactly felt like sipping elderflower cordial and discussing cauldron thickness.”

“A fair sentiment. I only mention it because Narcissa Malfoy will be attending the next one.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“She’s taken a temporary position as a consultant for the Board of Governors,” McGonagall went on. “Part of the Ministry’s new outreach initiative.”

Of course she had.

“She’s re-entering society,” McGonagall said. “Reinventing herself, one might say.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

McGonagall met her gaze. “I thought you might want to know. In case you choose to attend, or not.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Hermione said.

And she meant it. This version of the world, the one they’d fought for, came with consequences no one had prepared her for.

Hermione stepped into the corridor, the door shutting behind her with a quiet click. She stood there for a moment, eyes unfocused, the Time-Turner pulsing against her chest like a second heartbeat.

She moved slowly, letting the castle’s sounds rush in. The murmur of portraits, the clatter of feet two floors up, someone shouting, laughter or frustration, it was hard to tell.

It felt like a different world now. A thinner one.

She didn’t head back to the Great Hall. Her stomach churned at the thought of food, at the forced smiles and normalcy everyone seemed so eager to perform. Instead, she turned down the long corridor that led to the library, steps soft, robes brushing the stone.

Books would never betray her.

Inside, the scent of parchment and dust wrapped around her like a familiar spell. Madam Pince glanced up, eyes narrowing as always, but didn’t say a word. Hermione slipped past her, weaving through shelves that had once been her refuge.

But even here, the ghosts followed.

She sank into her usual seat near the window, pulling her legs under her and setting the schedule McGonagall had given her on the desk. She didn’t open it.

Instead, she traced the edge of the Time-Turner through her robes.

Narcissa Malfoy.

The name had surfaced like oil in water, gleaming and sick. She hadn’t thought of her in months, not directly. Bellatrix, yes. Lucius, sometimes. But Narcissa had been… different.

A cool presence in the chaos. A quiet blade.

Hermione remembered her hand, pale and trembling, reaching for Harry’s chest in that final moment. A mother’s desperation wrapped in aristocratic silk. She remembered the way Narcissa had lied to Voldemort. For her son.

But that didn’t erase the rest. The house, the cruelty, the fear carved into Hermione’s bones.

A chair scraping across from her snapped her out of it. Ginny slid into the seat, brow furrowed.

“I figured I’d find you here,” she said.

Hermione didn’t speak. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.

Ginny leaned back, arms crossed. “Everything alright?”

“No,” Hermione said.

Ginny blinked. “That’s a first.”

“I’m tired,” Hermione muttered. “And I don’t think it’s the kind of tired a nap fixes.”

They sat in silence. Somewhere nearby, a first-year sneezed. A page turned.

“McGonagall gave me the Time-Turner again,” Hermione said finally.

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Isn’t that…?”

“She got it approved. For my schedule. So I don’t burn out.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Hermione stared at the table. “I don’t know. It feels like cheating.”

Ginny snorted. “You helped take down the most powerful dark wizard of the age. I think you’ve earned a few shortcuts.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

“What did she say to you?” Ginny asked after a moment. “McGonagall?”

Hermione hesitated, then, “That I don’t need to be perfect. Just present.”

Ginny tilted her head. “Smart woman.”

Another silence settled between them, softer this time.

“Also,” Hermione added, voice low, “Narcissa Malfoy is back.”

Ginny’s jaw clenched. “What?”

“She’s on the Board. Ministry initiative. She’ll be at the next Slug Club meeting.”

Ginny shook her head slowly. “So they’re parading her around now? Redemption by teacup?”

“She lied to Voldemort,” Hermione said. “Saved Harry.”

Ginny looked at her sharply. “You think that’s enough?”

“No,” Hermione said, too quickly. “But I think she’s trying to rewrite her story. And I don’t know what I’ll do when I see her.”

Ginny leaned forward. “Then don’t go.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked up. “And miss the chance to stare her down across a crystal glass?”

Ginny gave her a grim smile. “There’s the Hermione I know.”

Hermione looked away. “I don’t feel like her anymore.”

“None of us do,” Ginny said. “But we’re still here. That has to count for something.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed the Time-Turner again. Glass. Chain. Metal. Magic.

She couldn’t erase the past. But maybe, just maybe, she could carve out something new from its ashes.

“Do you want company?” Ginny asked.

Hermione nodded once.

Ginny leaned back, propped her feet on the chair beside her, and pulled out a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. They didn’t speak again.

But for the first time in weeks, Hermione didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

The Time-Turner pressed cold against Hermione’s sternum. Its weight was wrong, too light to matter, too heavy to forget. It wasn’t the lifeline she’d imagined, just another reminder of everything broken. The war, the dead, the parts of herself she couldn’t stitch back.

No one knew. Not about the fear that curled beneath her ribs like smoke, nor the dreams that left her gasping. She kept her mask in place, clever hands, sharp answers, but underneath, she drifted. Untethered.

Transfiguration blurred before her. Chalk tapped against the board. McGonagall’s voice cut through the room in crisp commands, but Hermione only caught pieces. Something about theory. Something about technique. None of it landed.

Her quill hovered, still. Blank parchment stared up like an accusation.

Footsteps. Whispers. The faint crackle of spells in motion. All of it faded into background noise.

“Hermione?”

Ginny’s voice sliced through the fog.

Hermione blinked. The quill in her hand dug into her palm. She looked up. Ginny sat across the table, concern etched into the tight lines of her mouth.

“You’ve been staring at that page for ages.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said, too fast.

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t look fine.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her eyes dropped to the parchment, still unmarked. Her throat worked around the truth.

“I don’t know if I am,” she murmured.

Silence followed. Not uncomfortable, just still. Ginny leaned back, studying her like she was something fragile but sharp.

“Maybe you don’t have to be,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

The words landed with unexpected weight. Not a fix. Not comfort. But real. And real was rare.

Hermione’s shoulders eased the smallest bit. She didn’t reply.

She didn’t need to.

When the bell rang, she moved by instinct; books into her bag, ink capped, quill wiped clean. Ginny waited, but Hermione lingered. Her hand brushed the chain beneath her robes. The Time-Turner pulsed like a second heartbeat.

“Hermione?”

“I’ll catch up.”

Ginny hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But you’re not hiding forever.”

Hermione managed a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She didn’t go to lunch. Didn’t even pretend.

Said she had a headache. Ginny let her go without pressing. That was happening more now, people not asking. Letting her drift.

The halls were quieter. Fewer questions here. No eyes to read the tension in her shoulders, the quickness of her breath. She walked beneath high arches and beside tapestries that whispered of old magic, her fingers grazing the stone. Hogwarts felt different now. Less sanctuary, more echo chamber.

Her path curved past the Defense corridor.

Her stomach tightened, not from hunger.

Memory.

“She’s taken a temporary position as a consultant for the Board of Governors,” McGonagall had said, words crisp, too carefully arranged.

Hermione hadn’t asked why. She didn’t need to.

Reputation. Reinvention. A polished return.

“She’s re-entering society.”

Hermione had hated the phrase. Hated how it made Narcissa Malfoy sound like a widow returning from a quiet exile, not the wife of a war criminal. Not a woman whose hands had been steeped in blood and privilege.

The thought of Narcissa back within these walls, walking the same corridors, sipping tea in staff meetings, made Hermione’s pulse spike. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fear.

It was something else.

Unresolved.

She ended up in the library, far from her usual table. Chose a seat near the back, swallowed by shadows.

No books. No notes. Just silence.

Somewhere beyond the stone walls, Narcissa Malfoy was preparing to return to Hogwarts. Not as a Malfoy matron, not as a name whispered behind cupped hands, but as something new. A role recast. A legacy reshaped.

Hermione didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust her.

She stared at the stacks, not seeing the titles. Her hand curled into her sleeve, covering old scars by habit.

She’d braced for the year ahead. For the weight of expectation. For pretending she was whole.

She hadn’t braced for ghosts.

Especially not ones who arrived dressed as guests.

Time slipped unnoticed in the library. Pages turned somewhere nearby. A cough echoed, then faded. Shadows bled across the floor as the sky outside dimmed to pewter.

Madam Pince moved between shelves, muttering under her breath, wand flicking to light the sconces. She didn’t look at Hermione, but her scowl deepened with each pass, a silent warning that closing time loomed.

Hermione didn’t move.

Leaving meant returning. To the noise, the eyes, the questions. To the pressure of being alright when she wasn’t.

She slipped out only when the lamps glowed full and the castle had begun its nightly shift toward silence. Her path meandered without aim, steps light on the worn stone. The usual hum of students at dinner buzzed faintly from the Great Hall. Garlic. Butter. Warm things. She avoided the scent like it might pull her under.

At the first-floor landing, she paused.

An arched window stretched tall beside her, glass cool beneath her touch. Lanterns floated in the courtyard below, suspended in neat, magical order. Each glow carved soft edges into the stone. Beautiful. Controlled. Easy to admire from a distance.

Behind her, a door opened.

She didn’t turn.

Footsteps. Measured. No hesitation. The sound of someone who didn’t need to announce their presence.

She knew before she looked.

Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the corridor like it still belonged to her.

No cloak of status, no crowd trailing behind her. Just a dark green dress under a black cloak, her heels silent on stone. Pale hair swept into something careful. Regal.

Hermione’s spine straightened, fingers still pressed to the glass. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched the reflection in the window sharpen.

Narcissa saw her.

Stopped.

Not dramatically, just enough. A pause. A calculation.

Their eyes met.

Hermione didn’t flinch. She let the moment stretch, heart slow and heavy, matching the rhythm of her breath.

Narcissa tilted her head the slightest fraction. Not a greeting. Not quite.

“Miss Granger.”

The words were smooth. Polished. Like glass with all the edges buffed down.

Hermione turned just enough to face her.

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

That was all. No accusations. No apologies.

No history spoken aloud.

Narcissa’s gaze lingered. Cool, unreadable. Then she turned. Her steps carried her down the corridor, cloak trailing like a shadow.

The silence she left behind wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed.

Hermione didn’t move for a long time. Her fingers stayed pressed to the window until the chill seeped into her bones.

It hadn’t been anything. A hallway. A name spoken aloud. But it left her unsettled. A storm signal just beneath her skin.

She returned to the common room late. Too late for questions. The fire had burned low, students thinned to only a few die-hards muttering over parchment or slumped in worn chairs.

She climbed the girls’ staircase in silence. Closed her door gently.

In the dark, the Time-Turner’s chain caught the moonlight.

She unfastened it. Set it on her bedside table with the same care one might give a sleeping curse.

Her hand hovered.

Just one turn. Just enough to pull her back a few hours. Back to when she hadn’t seen Narcissa Malfoy, hadn’t felt that subtle shift in the air. But it would still be there waiting.

Time didn’t forgive.

She pulled her sleeve over her arm. Laid down fully clothed.

Sleep didn’t come.

Only the whisper of footsteps and a voice, smooth as old silk: Miss Granger.

And underneath it, what Hermione hadn’t said aloud, what the war hadn’t stolen, but had buried deep:

She didn’t trust Narcissa.

But a part of her… wanted to understand her.

And that frightened her more than anything else.

Hermione reached the common room after most students had disappeared into dormitories or drifted toward the fire in small, laughing knots. The room glowed in shades of orange and shadow, low voices murmuring over the occasional flick of a page or pop of kindling. She crossed to the far corner without a word and dropped her bag beside an armchair that felt too large.

For a while, she sat without moving. Let the warmth settle around her without sinking in. Her fingers itched for something— quill, book, parchment—but none of them would have helped. Her thoughts were tangled too tightly for paper to contain.

The fire crackled. She stared at the flames until the shapes inside them blurred. Faces. Hallways. Echoes.

Footsteps padded nearby. Someone dropped into the armchair beside hers.

“I take it you saw her,” Ginny said.

Hermione didn’t respond at first. The room kept shifting around her, voices layered with laughter, distant footsteps overhead. None of it landed.

“I did,” she said.

Ginny shifted, legs folded under her, concern in the crease between her brows. “And?”

“She said my name.”

“That’s it?”

Hermione nodded. “Miss Granger,” she added, voice flat. “Like we were in some formal tea room. Like it had all been a dream.”

Ginny leaned back against the cushions, frowning. “You told me she was coming back, but I still can’t picture it. Narcissa Malfoy, here.”

“She didn’t look out of place.” Hermione’s fingers twitched, absently tugging her sleeve over her wrist. “She looked… like she’d always belonged. Like she never left.”

Ginny was quiet for a beat. “How did she look at you?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She turned slightly, eyes fixed on the fire. “Like I was supposed to be someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed, the words dry on her tongue. “There was something in her eyes. Like… recognition. But wrong.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Wrong how?”

“She knew who I was,” Hermione said. “Of course she did. But that wasn’t it. There was something else behind it. Like she was trying not to look too closely. Or like she already had, and wanted to hide it.”

Ginny tilted her head. “Well, yeah. You fought in her house. She’s probably trying to pretend none of it happened.”

Hermione didn’t reply. The look lingered in her mind: not surprise, not suspicion. A glimmer, like a candle caught in fog.

“Maybe you’re imagining it,” Ginny offered gently.

Hermione shook her head. “I’ve seen her lie. This wasn’t that. It wasn’t calculated. It was… faint. Almost too faint to notice. But I noticed.”

“Of course you did,” Ginny said, half a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “You always notice.”

Hermione’s lips didn’t move.

Ginny hesitated. “So what now?”

Hermione shrugged. “Nothing. She walked on. I stayed behind. That was it.”

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Ginny shifted forward. “You’ve looked like hell since the year started, and I say that with love. You’re barely eating, you don’t talk to anyone unless forced, and now you’re seeing ghosts in corridors.”

“I’m not seeing ghosts,” Hermione said quietly.

Ginny tilted her head. “Aren’t you?”

She didn’t mean it unkindly. That made it worse.

Hermione stood, restless, pulling her bag over one shoulder. Ginny’s eyes followed her.

“She looked at me,” Hermione said again, softer now, “like I was someone she used to know. Someone who mattered.”

Ginny rose too, but kept her distance. “You don’t owe her anything, Hermione. Not even space in your head.”

Hermione gave a thin nod, but it felt automatic. Mechanical. “I know.”

“You going up?”

“Yeah.”

Ginny hesitated, then stepped closer. “Try to sleep. Please.”

Hermione offered a faint smile, crooked and hollow. “I’ll try.”

She turned toward the stairs, shoulders stiff. Behind her, the fire cast shadows along the walls, reaching and pulling.

But her thoughts remained locked in that quiet corridor.

Not on the words spoken. Not even on the name.

Just on a look.

A flicker that didn’t belong. A silence too precise. A memory disguised as nothing.

She told herself it meant nothing. That Narcissa had always been good at masks.

But somewhere deeper, something pricked. Like being seen through a fogged mirror; distorted, but seen all the same.

And Hermione didn't want anyone to see her, not like this.

Chapter Text

The morning air had teeth.

Hermione stood at the edge of the courtyard, her breath ghosting white in the brittle November cold. Frost webbed across the stone beneath her boots, glinting faintly in the pale wash of early light. Overhead, the sky was a dull, iron-grey expanse, cloudless but flat, the kind of sky that gave nothing back. Around her, students moved in loose clusters, the muffled thrum of their voices weaving through the wind. Laughter drifted across the stones like smoke, too distant to touch.

She didn’t move. Didn’t join them.

The collar of her cloak was pulled high against the cold, but the ache inside her was deeper than winter. Sleep had been a thin, frayed thing last night, barely more than a series of half-dreams and fractured shadows. She couldn’t remember them. Only one detail remained, stubborn and sharp: Miss Granger, spoken in Narcissa Malfoy’s voice, soft and precise and splintering.

She hadn’t even seen her clearly. Just the outline of a figure in that corridor, composed and still, a voice too calm to be casual. And yet the sound had snagged on something inside Hermione, something that hadn’t stopped humming since.

She should’ve been ready. McGonagall had warned them weeks ago about the Ministry’s new outreach program. Had spoken of visiting consultants with carefully neutral expressions. Narcissa Malfoy had been listed plainly on the docket, her name uttered without commentary. But theory was one thing. Absence another. Reality, real presence, was something else entirely.

Now Narcissa wasn’t just an abstract threat from the past. She was here.

Here, in the same castle. Walking the same corridors. Sharing the same air. The thought made Hermione’s hands clench in her sleeves.

Tonight, she would be at the Slug Club event.

She could see it before it happened: a gilded chair, a crystal glass held delicately between painted nails. Narcissa’s eyes half-lidded in polite interest while someone asked her about the war, about the family estate, about recovery. And she would smile, because that was what was expected. Because she could.

Hermione turned from the courtyard sharply, her cloak catching on the low stone wall. She yanked it free with more force than necessary.

Classes passed in a blur. Her hands moved, her voice answered, her eyes tracked ink across parchment. She’d built the scaffolding of normalcy long ago, and it held. No one noticed the drag beneath her ribs. No one saw the fracture.

Until Arithmancy.

Padma leaned in close across their shared desk, voice low and light. “Are you going to the Slug Club thing tonight? I heard they brought in new house-elves from Versailles. Actual trained French cuisine.”

Hermione blinked, then frowned. “What?”

Padma smiled faintly. “You’re invited, aren’t you? Slughorn’s practically made a shrine to you. I thought you’d be at the top of the list.”

“I didn’t realize it was… important.”

Padma’s shrug was practiced. “Not officially. But McGonagall’s going. And one of the Ministry consultants is supposed to speak.”

Hermione didn’t ask which one.

She already knew.

She doesn’t belong here.

The thought slammed through her, too immediate to edit. It pulsed beneath her ribs like a bruise. Not here, not at Hogwarts. Not after the war. Not after what she’d done. Not after what she hadn’t.

And yet Ginny’s voice echoed faintly from the day before: Maybe we’re all just figuring it out.

Hermione wanted to believe that. She truly did. But she couldn’t. Not with the sound of Miss Granger still ringing like a bell.

The class ended. Chairs scraped. Books shut. She packed her things deliberately, letting the others leave ahead of her. Her fingers brushed the chain beneath her collar, cool metal, coiled like regret. The Time-Turner was a weight she didn’t wear well. It offered no answers. Only echoes.

By the time she reached Gryffindor Tower, the sky had begun its descent into dusk. The common room glowed with soft firelight. Fifth-years clustered by the hearth, a game of Exploding Snap snapping in bursts of color.

She didn’t go in.

Instead, she climbed.

The Astronomy Tower was colder than the courtyard had been. Wind swept the open balcony in long, biting waves, but she welcomed it. Up here, the air was thin and harsh enough to strip her thoughts bare. She wrapped her arms around herself and sat on the stone bench beneath the arch.

She didn’t want to go tonight.

But she had to.

Not for propriety. Not for politics. She needed to see Narcissa Malfoy again, not the ghost-memory that stalked her in dreams, but the woman herself. She had to measure it: the difference between then and now. The space between who they were and who they were pretending to be.

Far below, lanterns flickered to life along the castle paths.

It was time.

The Great Hall had been transfigured.

No longer austere or candlelit, it shimmered with golden enchantments cast across the ceiling. Soft evening light filtered through hanging lanterns that hovered in lazy arcs like drifting constellations. Clusters of students gathered in velvet chairs arranged along the sides of the room, drinks in hand, laughter trailing like incense. Tables gleamed with crystal flutes and platters of delicate hors d’oeuvres: miniature tartlets, sugared lavender petals, tiny phials of imported wine. Everything curated. Everything precise.

Hermione paused in the threshold, her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, posture too rigid to pass for casual. She scanned the room automatically, her eyes skipping past familiar faces; Zabini’s theatrical gesturing, Padma laughing into her glass, Slughorn’s booming chuckle near the fireplace, until they snagged, inevitably, on Narcissa Malfoy.

She stood with the composure of someone who had never once doubted the ground beneath her feet. Her cloak was trimmed with silver fox fur, her hair swept back in an elegant twist that revealed the fine structure of her jaw. She wasn’t speaking, merely listening, chin tilted at a diplomatic angle, nodding as an older Ravenclaw alum spun some clearly embellished tale. Every movement she made was controlled. Measured. Like she belonged here. Like she hadn’t once stood in a drawing room while people screamed for their lives.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

The sounds of the gathering receded, muffled as though she’d stepped underwater. Her hand brushed the Time-Turner beneath her jumper. It offered no comfort. Just the familiar, impersonal coolness of brass and chain, her own reminder that nothing could be reversed, and some things could not be outrun.

Ginny’s words circled in her mind again: maybe we’re all just figuring it out.

Except Hermione wasn’t. She wasn’t figuring anything out. She was avoiding, enduring, pretending. And now she was here, in this glittering room among the polished and the powerful, pretending again. Pretending she didn’t feel like her skin was made of paper.

A house-elf appeared at her side with a tray of spiced cider. She took one without thinking, just for something to hold. Something to anchor her hands.

“Miss Granger,” came a voice from behind her, silken and flat, the vowels clipped with refinement.

Her spine locked. She turned slowly.

Narcissa Malfoy stood just out of reach, her gaze unreadable, the tilt of her chin still faintly aristocratic. That cool, practiced smile had not changed.

“Enjoying the evening?” Narcissa asked, the words precisely modulated, as if gauged for weight and consequence before being spoken.

Hermione’s throat worked. “It’s… extravagant.”

That smile remained in place. “Slughorn’s taste has always leaned toward the theatrical.”

There was a silence between them. Not quite comfortable. Not entirely tense. Just long enough for Hermione to feel the shape of everything unsaid filling the space.

Narcissa’s gaze shifted subtly. Not overtly appraising, but deliberate. Hermione was used to being studied. Scrutinized by professors, peers, the press. But this was different. Narcissa wasn’t looking for proof of brilliance or weakness, she was looking for damage. As if reading the seams of a garment to see where it might split under strain.

Hermione’s grip tightened around the cider glass.

“You’ve changed,” Narcissa said, quietly. Not an insult. Not even a judgment. Just a statement. A fact laid bare on the table like a cut gemstone.

“So have you,” Hermione replied. Her voice was flat, but her hands trembled.

For a moment, Narcissa’s eyes flickered. Not surprise, Hermione doubted Narcissa could ever be surprised by anything. But something had shifted in her gaze. The faintest softening. A subtle pause.

But then it was gone.

“I suppose change is inevitable,” Narcissa murmured, her gaze drifting across the room again. “Especially after a war.”

Hermione felt her jaw clench. She wanted to say something. Wanted to ask what kind of change Narcissa thought she’d undergone, whether it was a compliment or an accusation, but the words wouldn’t come. Not with that voice in her ear. Not with the image of Narcissa standing in the doorway of Malfoy Manor seared into her memory, wand in hand, calculating who could be spared and who could not.

Instead, she said nothing. Let the silence return.

A server brushed past. Narcissa reached for a glass of champagne but did not sip it. She held it like a shield, the stem delicate between her fingers. Her poise was flawless, but Hermione noticed the faint tension in her shoulders, the way her knuckles whitened slightly around the glass.

She’s not fine, Hermione thought. Not as untouched as she wants them to believe.

That realization should have satisfied her. It didn’t.

“Do you ever…” Hermione’s voice caught, and she didn’t know why she was asking. “Do you ever think about it? The war.”

A beat of silence.

Then Narcissa’s head turned, and this time she looked at Hermione fully. “Every day.”

The honesty hit like a slap. Not because of what she said, but because of how easily it came. As if she no longer had the energy for evasion.

“I thought it would get easier,” Hermione said, before she could stop herself.

Narcissa’s smile didn’t return. “It never does. It only gets quieter.”

That silence stretched again. Not brittle now, but fragile. Porcelain-thin.

Hermione looked away first.

The silence between them cracked. Not loud, not sudden. Just a hairline fracture in the tension between two bodies too aware of each other.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. A tightness bloomed in her chest, sharp and sudden, flaring into something hot and suffocating. Her ears rang, not with sound, but with that high, hollow pressure of a mind beginning to slip its moorings. The edges of the Slug Club parlour blurred from memory, visceral and near. Too near.

Narcissa hadn’t moved. She stood still, composed, as though nothing had shifted.

But Hermione had. Hermione was unraveling.

She hadn’t felt this close to the edge in weeks. Not like this. Not since the night she’d woken gasping in the dormitory, clutching her sheets like lifelines, Bellatrix’s voice a phantom breath against her ear. The memory of blood; hers, Harry’s, Ron’s, beneath her nails had lingered long after she’d washed her hands raw.

Now it has surged again. Her body betrayed her.

The warm hum of conversation, the low drone of gossip, the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk and wool, faded like a retreating tide. Hermione’s hands trembled at her sides, one clutching the heavy fabric of her dress robes until her knuckles blanched. Her chest wouldn’t expand. Every breath was shallow, sharp-edged.

She didn’t need to look. Narcissa was still there.

The scent of her hung faintly in the air. It twisted in Hermione’s lungs like a hook. She couldn’t draw a full breath. The panic, never gone, merely dormant, curled up from the base of her spine like smoke.

Not now. Please, not here.

She stepped back. Just once. But it felt like surrender. Narcissa’s eyes tracked the motion with that clinical stillness. Always watching, never reaching. It made Hermione feel dissected, not seen. And yet… there was something else. A flicker beneath the surface. Not quite concern. Almost.

The world tilted.

Her legs moved without conscious decision. Her body responded to instinct, not logic. The walls pressed in, the chandeliers too bright, the firelight too orange, too alive. Someone laughed behind her, and the sound landed wrong, sharp as glass. She wasn’t part of the room anymore.

She found the doorway and pushed through it. One step. Two. The corridor beyond was dimmer, cooler, and quiet, but her knees buckled before she reached the end. Not collapsed, just gave, like something folded in on itself. She sank against the wall, tucked into a half-shadowed alcove curtained by a velvet drape. The stone was cold against her spine.

Her breathing shattered.

Gasps, ragged and fast, tore through her lungs. Her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. She pressed her palms against her eyes until stars burst behind them, a futile attempt to drown the rising tide with pain. But the memories were faster. Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix’s laugh. The way Ron had screamed her name. The bone-deep silence that followed.

And Narcissa.

Always Narcissa.

The image of her standing beneath a crystal chandelier, pale and composed, watching Hermione bleed into the rug, layered itself over the one from tonight. Narcissa again, just ten feet away, still and poised, watching her break open from within.

Hermione curled into herself. Arms wrapped tight. Head bowed. Her chest ached, a bruise blooming beneath her ribs. She could feel the tremble all the way through her spine.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

But she knew. Before sound, before shadow. Some instinct honed in battle whispered her name without voice. Not McGonagall. Not Ginny. Not Padma or Slughorn. No student. No teacher.

Narcissa.

The air shifted.

Hermione didn’t look up. Her whole body braced, not against danger, but the unbearable weight of being seen. Her shoulders tensed. Her breath caught. A shadow slid across the floor. Soft steps. The whisper of robes. She didn’t need sight. The knowing was bone-deep.

No words. Just the slow, deliberate movement of someone kneeling. Not clumsy. Not rushed. Narcissa Malfoy, even here, moved with surgical precision. She crouched just outside arm’s reach, her presence quiet but undeniable.

Hermione flinched as a hand hovered, hesitant, open. Not touching. Just… waiting.

Narcissa’s fingers brushed a curl from her temple. Light. Intimate. Inappropriate.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Narcissa said. Her voice was low, no longer polished or public. Not gentle either, but careful. Like she wasn’t used to saying things she meant.

Hermione didn’t respond.

Narcissa stayed still. Torchlight danced in her eyes. Blue, grey, unreadable.

Hermione stared at her knees. Her throat burned. Her heart thundered.

“Why are you—” Her voice cracked. The words broke in her mouth. Why are you here? Why did you follow me? Why do you look at me like you know me?

She forced herself to meet Narcissa’s eyes.

And there it was.

Just for a second. Barely a flicker.

The mask slipped.

Not pity. Not guilt.

Recognition.

Not forged in war. Not from Hogwarts or the Manor or the night in the forest clearing. This wasn’t about saving Draco or sparing Harry or feigning grief. This was about Hermione. About something Narcissa saw in her. 

Hermione’s pulse stumbled.

Narcissa blinked, and the expression vanished.

Her face was smooth again. Cold, even. Untouched.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Narcissa rose in one graceful motion. She didn’t offer a hand. Just stood, poised, unshaken.

“Don’t stay too long,” she said. Her tone was neutral again, with the faintest lilt. “The cold will catch you.”

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

Hermione remained frozen in the alcove. Her chest still heaved, but her mind had stilled, not calmed, just numbed. The corridor pressed in around her. The silence rang louder than the noise had.

She didn’t feel safe.

She didn’t feel whole.

But she no longer felt alone.

And that, somehow, was the most terrifying part.

Chapter Text

The library had always been a sanctuary, a place Hermione could count on to remain unchanged. But now even the rows of familiar shelves felt indifferent, indifferent and slightly off, as though some ancient enchantment had shifted, ever so slightly, just beneath her feet.

Her hand hovered above a copy of Hogwarts: A History, its spine cracked and binding softened by years of quiet devotion. She didn’t take it. Instead, she withdrew the hand and let it fall uselessly to her side. The hunger for comfort had dulled. Books no longer filled the void; they only echoed it back to her, in margins once scribbled with a younger version of herself she could barely recognize.

A scraping sound caught her attention. Madam Pince dragging a stool to reach the higher shelves. Hermione flinched before she could stop herself. The sudden clatter had sent her heart racing, faster than reason could catch up. She pressed her fingers to her chest, feeling the familiar flutter of something broken trying to behave like it wasn’t.

“Steady,” she whispered under her breath.

No one looked up. The few other students scattered throughout the library, mostly Ravenclaws buried in parchment, paid her no mind. She wasn’t famous anymore. Not really. Now she was just the girl who came back too soon and spoke too little.

Back in her dormitory that morning, she’d received the summons: formal attire required, attendance mandatory. McGonagall’s note had been brief, her script unusually elegant: Tonight, a dinner to welcome our guests and honor the new year’s intentions.

Guests. Plural. But Hermione knew who the note really referred to.

Narcissa Malfoy.

The woman’s presence had continued to ripple through the school, quiet but undeniable. She hadn’t appeared much since Slughorns party, seen only at staff meetings and walking the halls at off hours, always with purpose, always just distant enough. Hermione had seen her twice. The first time, Narcissa had passed her in the dungeons, and neither of them had spoken. The second time was yesterday, near the greenhouse. Narcissa had paused, eyes meeting hers for a fraction too long, before she moved on with a nod Hermione didn’t return.

And now this. A dinner. An apology. Some gesture to mark a shift in allegiance or guilt, or maybe something more calculated. Hermione couldn’t tell. She couldn’t trust what she saw on Narcissa’s face.

Still, as twilight descended and the castle stirred in preparation, Hermione found herself standing before the mirror in her dormitory, tugging at the hem of a dark green dress she hadn’t realized she still owned. It didn’t fit quite right anymore, nothing did. The war had changed her body, her posture, the way fabric touched her skin. Everything was too tight or too loose in the wrong places, like her grief had reshaped her without her consent.

Ginny appeared behind her, leaning on the doorframe, already dressed in deep burgundy robes that caught the candlelight like embers. “You look fine, Hermione,” she said gently.

Hermione gave her a look. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Ginny crossed the room and placed a hand on her arm. “Whatever this dinner turns out to be—it’s just one evening. You’ll survive it.”

Hermione nodded, but it felt like a lie.

The Great Hall was transformed when they arrived. The long tables had been replaced with round ones clothed in linen, enchanted candles hovering low to cast everything in soft gold. The staff table remained, slightly elevated and flanked with banners. Narcissa Malfoy stood beside Professor McGonagall, poised in slate-gray robes that shimmered faintly like storm clouds. Her hair was swept back, severe but elegant, and her expression unreadable.

Hermione’s stomach tightened. There was that look again, or the absence of one. Narcissa’s eyes passing over the hall, over everyone, until they paused for the briefest beat on her.

And just like that, Hermione forgot how to breathe.

She wasn’t imagining it. She couldn’t be.

That stillness—that pause—wasn’t indifference. It was memory, maybe recognition. Or something heavier. Narcissa’s gaze broke away a second too late for it to mean nothing.

Hermione turned quickly, choosing a seat at one of the student tables where she wouldn’t have to face the dais directly.

Across from her, Ginny noticed. “You alright?”

Hermione nodded. Another lie.

Above them, McGonagall tapped her wand against a glass, calling for silence. Narcissa Malfoy stepped forward.

“I’ll be brief,” she said. Her voice was smooth, practiced, cultured. “I come not as a representative of my house, nor of the war we’ve all barely survived, but only as myself, and as a mother.”

Hermione’s knuckles tightened around her fork.

“I offer apology,” Narcissa continued, her voice low but carrying, “not to rewrite what was done, but to acknowledge that harm, whatever its shape, leaves echoes far beyond its cause.”

A hush spread through the hall.

“I speak now only for myself. And for my son, whose absence tonight does not excuse the weight of his choices. We cannot be unmade by regret, but we can be remade by what we choose to carry forward.”

Her gaze passed over the room. Slow, searching, until it found Hermione. It held.

“And some debts,” she said, softer now, “are owed not to time or history, but to those who bore their consequences alone.”

Hermione froze. The weight of that look, piercing, almost tender, made her breath catch. It was as though Narcissa wasn’t addressing the room anymore. As if, for that suspended second, no one else existed.

Then it passed. Narcissa turned away as though nothing had happened.

Applause followed—delayed, uneven, not quite certain what had just been said. Hermione didn’t join in. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

What was that?

The meal wound down in courses, each one a little blurrier than the last. Hermione picked at a fig tartlet, absently arranging wedges of poached pear around the crust. The muted clink of silverware and idle conversation filled the Great Hall, but her ears strained toward silence. She couldn’t stop replaying Narcissa’s words, that flicker of something sharp and unreachable in her voice. Not grief, exactly. Not remorse. Something older.

Beside her, Neville murmured something about the stubborn winter bloom in Greenhouse Three, and Hermione nodded without processing a word. She kept her gaze carefully averted from the staff dais, until movement tugged at the corner of her eye.

Narcissa sat back in her seat now, hands folded on the white tablecloth, expression returned to its cool, distant equilibrium. And yet…

There it was again.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Narcissa’s left hand, gloved during the speech, was bare now, and her thumb moved absently over a ring. It was striking in a way that was almost difficult to look at directly: a forest-green oval stone nestled in warm rose gold, flanked by marquise-cut white gems like tiny, luminous petals. Beneath it, the band split and twined, woven with bright green stones shaped like leaves, giving the whole piece a strange, elven delicacy. Regal, natural, and strangely tender.

It wasn’t the ring that disturbed Hermione, it was the gesture. The absent way Narcissa’s fingers circled it, again and again, like a worry stone or a ritual. Not quite anxious. Not quite meditative.

Personal.

Hermione blinked, realizing she’d been staring. Her breath hitched when Narcissa’s eyes shifted, and caught hers.

The ring-hand stilled instantly. Narcissa’s gaze didn’t falter, but her fingers curled subtly inward, concealing the ring beneath the edge of her sleeve.

A moment passed, taut and soundless.

Hermione looked away first. Her cheeks burned, though no one else seemed to notice the strange little exchange. The hall carried on, dessert arrived, plates disappeared. Professors chatted about budgets and broom safety, but Hermione felt like she was watching everything through glass.

When the evening formally ended, the staff rose in staggered clusters. McGonagall said something to Flitwick, whose chuckle bounced across the table like a bell. Hermione stood to excuse herself, intent on disappearing into the library or her own rooms—somewhere quiet, anywhere quiet, when she felt a presence draw near.

Narcissa.

She moved like silk: noiseless, spare, composed. She approached Hermione with polite reserve, the sort of courtesy one extended to colleagues at funerals or ambassadors at tense peace talks.

“Miss Granger,” she said, tone precise.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, not quite curt, not quite warm.

They exchanged a short, civil nod, enough to pass for professional acknowledgment. No handshake. No lingering gaze. Hermione made an effort not to look at the hand still hidden beneath Narcissa’s sleeve.

Narcissa inclined her head, and her eyes flicked—just once—to Hermione’s collar. A barely-there glance, as if inspecting the cut of her robes, or something else entirely.

Then Narcissa turned to go. Her heels made no sound on the old stone floor, but Hermione heard something else.

Faint. Almost lost in the hush of movement.

“…did always look better in blue.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened.

She whipped her head around, but Narcissa was already walking away, her back impossibly straight, her face a mask of aloof grace. No one else had heard it, apparently. No one even seemed to notice.

Had she imagined it? Or had it even been meant for her?

She glanced down at her own sleeves. Deep green velvet, the cuffs embroidered with silver thread. She hadn’t worn this set since the spring.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. A strange weight settled in her chest.

She told herself it was coincidence.

That maybe someone else had said it. That she’d misheard.

And yet, as she left the Great Hall and stepped into the corridor’s cool hush, the words replayed—soft, precise, threaded with something eerily familiar.

You did always look better in blue.

The corridors were quieter than they should have been for a Thursday evening. Hermione walked them anyway, restless in her skin, the air around her feeling too thin, too tight. The Great Hall had emptied long ago, but the echo of Narcissa Malfoy’s voice still lingered in her ears. Refined, resonant, steeped in that impossible emotion Hermione hadn’t been able to name.

She didn’t return to Gryffindor Tower. Not yet. The dorm would be full of warm chatter, the smell of soaps and parchment and firelight, and she couldn’t bear it tonight. Instead, she drifted to one of the small study rooms tucked along the fifth-floor gallery, a forgotten place she’d claimed weeks ago when the walls started pressing in too hard.

The lanterns were already lit. Her books waited on the table where she’d left them last. But she ignored them, slipping her bag down beside the chair and sinking into the cushion as if gravity had redoubled.

Her hands found the Time-Turner almost without thought. It was never far from her lately, never locked away as it had been at the start. McGonagall had warned her to be cautious, and she had been. Mostly.

She held it up to the light.

The chain caught the glow of the lantern, casting its own delicate shimmer. And the hourglass, so small, so intricate, twinkled softly between her fingers.

But then, as she tilted it, something flashed.

A hairline fracture sliced along one side of the glass, subtle as a whisper. It hadn’t been there before.

Had it?

She leaned closer. Her breath fogged the surface. The crack was narrow, almost invisible, but it was there. Uneven. Not clean. Like pressure had built up and nowhere to go.

Her chest tightened.

She should tell someone. Should hand it back to McGonagall, let her examine it. But instead, she sat frozen, the chain pooling in her lap. A low hum filled her ears. Not a sound, just a pressure, as if the very air had shifted minutely, like a held breath that never quite released.

Hermione looked around sharply. The room hadn’t changed. But the edges of her vision pulsed faintly, like ripples on water after a stone’s been thrown.

It was gone in an instant.

She exhaled shakily and set the Time-Turner down with trembling care. The surface of the table looked too smooth, too flat. Her fingertips ached with tension. That feeling, whatever it had been, clung like static, just beneath the skin.

It wasn’t the first time, lately, that time had felt…wrong.

Her mind, so quick with logic and order, couldn’t explain the prickling sense that something had shifted. The memory of Narcissa’s gaze flashed again behind her eyes.

Maybe she was tired. Maybe she’d imagined it all. The look, the glint, the crack.

Her thoughts snagged, breath shortening. Her body knew the signs before her mind did: heat in her chest, the dizziness starting, like an elevator falling beneath her feet. Her throat closed.

No. Not here. Not now.

Hermione pressed her palms flat against the table. Focused on the cool grain beneath her fingers. Four-count breath in. Four-count out. Again. Again.

The panic ebbed, slowly, reluctantly, like a tide retreating after a storm.

When she could move again, she reached for the Time-Turner and closed it carefully inside its velvet pouch. The chain coiled like a sleeping snake, heavy with something she couldn’t name.

She tucked it deep into her satchel.

The flicker in the air was gone. Her vision steadied.

Still, she sat there a while longer listening to the silence, to her own heart easing its rhythm. Whatever had shifted tonight, it hadn’t finished moving. She could feel it, like a weight just out of sight.

And when she finally stood and turned out the lanterns, the shadows seemed to press in just a little tighter. As if the world itself were holding its breath.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

The castle had always held its secrets, but lately it felt as though it whispered them too loudly.

Hermione walked the halls like a ghost tethered to habit. Her boots struck stone in a rhythm that ought to have steadied her, the familiar cadence of term-time life. Lectures, essays, schedules, the parts of herself she used to cling to like armor. But now, each moment passed without settling in her mind, as if the world had turned to parchment too thin to hold ink. Words slipped through her thoughts before she could hold them. Even time felt slippery. Disjointed.

“You don’t need to do everything, Miss Granger,” McGonagall had said, her voice gentler than usual. “Perhaps you simply need to allow yourself the time to heal.”

The words had nestled somewhere beneath Hermione’s ribs. They echoed there still, not as comfort, but as a splinter.

She had nodded then, like always. Smiled. Thanked her. Played the part of someone still whole. But the truth was rawer than words allowed. Healing didn’t come with timetables or syllabi. Some days she moved through the corridors without falling apart. Other days she barely breathed.

Tonight, she hadn’t lasted through dinner.

The noise had clawed at her skin, laughter too sharp, candlelight too bright, movement too much. Pudding had arrived, and Hermione had left. No one stopped her. No one noticed.

Outside, the castle’s noise faded into quiet.

The evening air greeted her with a hush, as if even the breeze understood that too much sound could wound. She moved instinctively, across the damp grounds, toward the only place that still felt still: the lake. Moonlight spilled over the surface in a thin silver sheen. The water didn’t sparkle. It brooded.

Hermione dropped to the earth and let it hold her.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. The wind pulled gently at her curls, carrying the scent of wet stone and autumn grass. There was space out here. Not the absence of things, but the presence of quiet. And that felt like a kind of mercy.

Her fingers brushed the chain at her neck.

The Time-Turner emerged, smooth and golden in the moonlight, its glass twin hourglasses gleaming like bottled fire. But up close, its flaws betrayed it. Tiny fractures webbed the surface, no wider than strands of hair but unmistakably wrong.

It wasn’t the Time-Turner she’d once used in third year. That one had been pristine, regulated, Ministry-sanctioned. This one had been salvaged.  Dug from ruins, scraped together by hands desperate to restore order in the wake of war. It was a compromise. A patched-together relic in a world still pretending it hadn’t cracked.

And still, she had said yes.

Because even a broken mechanism was better than nothing. Because part of her needed to believe that time could still be managed. That she hadn’t already slipped too far behind.

Her thumb passed over the crack in the hourglass. She hadn’t meant to rely on it so much. It had started with one hour here or there. A bit of rest. A missed class made up without consequence. But lately, the line between using and needing had thinned.

Maybe McGonagall had been right. Maybe strength didn’t always look like surviving at all costs. Maybe it was something quieter. Something slower.

Hermione closed her eyes. Drew a breath. Let it out.

Then, softly, she turned the dial.

Just an hour, she told herself. Enough to catch up. Enough to feel like she hadn’t wasted the day just trying to stay upright.

The hourglass spun.

Once.

Twice.

And then the glow shifted.

Hermione blinked. The mechanism began to hum awfaint, off-pitch, like a violin string pulled too tight. Light sparked inside the Time-Turner, not golden, but flickering white. Her grip tightened.

“Wait—”

The cracks widened. Magic surged between the glass panels, lurching with erratic pulses.

She tried to stop it. Her fingers scrabbled at the frame, but the gears spun too fast, jerking beyond their design. A high, unnatural whine built in the air, like metal screaming through space.

Then, a snap.

Light burst outward in a violent halo, and everything else vanished.

Hermione didn’t fall. She shattered.

Her body stretched, ripped through layers of time like cloth through thorns. Every nerve caught fire. Pain laced her bones. Her chest tore open with pressure, as though the air itself was folding around her and forcing her out of place.

She screamed. Or tried to.

Her voice dissolved.

A rush of sensation. Fragments of things that didn’t belong to her. A corridor with silver doors. A forest with trees that whispered in a tongue she didn’t know. Someone’s wand slashing through air, not hers.

And then: stillness.

And impact.

The ground slammed into her side, hard and unforgiving. Grass scratched at her skin. Her chest heaved once. Her ribs protested. She choked on air.

The Time-Turner, now a ruined tangle of chain and glass, lay beside her, glinting faintly in the dark.

And from somewhere, just at the edge of hearing, footsteps.

A voice. Feminine. Distant, then closer.

“…hello? Is someone—”

Hermione couldn’t move. The world spun. Her vision tunneled.

Then came the unmistakable rustle of robes, the crunch of leaves under boots, and a sharper voice—

“Oh, Merlin, what the—”

A figure dropped beside her. Pale hair. Green-trimmed sleeves.

Hermione’s lips parted.

But the pain crested again, white-hot and roaring. Her body gave out.

Sound receded, leaving only the rush of blood in her ears. Her eyelids fluttered, her limbs too heavy, her thoughts already slipping loose.

She felt, rather than saw, a hand press to her shoulder. Heard something urgent in the voice again, sharper now, less composed.

“Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me. Do you hear me?”

Hermione wanted to answer. But the night folded inward.

She drifted. Not gone, not yet, the world wass still there in fragments. A breath. A hand. A voice she didn’t know, saying her name without knowing it.

And somewhere behind it all, something ancient had shifted.

The air no longer felt like her own.

The world returned slowly, like fog lifting from a field.

Hermione’s first awareness was the pain. Not sharp, but dull and insistent, radiating from her neck and arm in a slow, pulsing rhythm. Her skin felt tight and sore, her muscles heavy. She shifted slightly and found herself trapped in her own body, limbs sluggish and unresponsive. It was like swimming up through syrup.

“…the scars will remain, Minerva,” said a voice, low and calm. Madam Pomfrey. Familiar. Reassuring, even through the haze. “I did everything I could, but the wounds were too deep, too uneven. Magic can only do so much with injuries like these.”

Another voice answered, quieter but firm. McGonagall. “And she’s been unconscious this whole time?”

“Three days,” Pomfrey said. “Her magic’s fluctuating in strange patterns. I suspect magical trauma. Whatever caused her to appear like that, it wasn’t just physical. Her magical core’s been disrupted, stretched, even.”

Three days?

Hermione’s thoughts tripped over themselves. Her body remained stubbornly still, but her mind was starting to spin, piecing things together. She’d used the Time-Turner. It had cracked. No, shattered. The burst of light, the scream of magic. She remembered it now in flashes.

“There was nothing on her,” Pomfrey was saying. “Just the broken device clutched in her hand.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

The Time-Turner.

Was it truly broken? Did they recognize what it was? Did they understand how dangerous it could be in the wrong hands?

“I’ve sealed it in a containment ward,” Pomfrey added. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Good,” McGonagall said after a beat. “When she wakes, we’ll need answers.”

Their footsteps moved away, the door closing with a faint click. Silence returned to the room.

Hermione seized the moment. She forced her eyelids open, though it felt like trying to lift stone. The ceiling above her was high and arched, sunlight streaming through narrow windows, a golden sheen glinting off polished flagstones. The hospital wing. Still Hogwarts. But not her Hogwarts.

She knew, instinctively, that she’d gone far further back than she meant to. The air felt different, lighter somehow, older. The magic here hummed in a different rhythm.

Her fingers twitched. She tried her arms, her legs. Everything hurt, but it moved. That was enough.

A moment later, Pomfrey was at her side, eyes wide with startled relief. “Oh, thank Merlin,” she breathed. “You’re awake.”

Hermione licked her lips. Her throat felt raw, the words barely scraping out. “Water.”

Pomfrey nodded, summoning a glass with a flick of her wand. She lifted Hermione’s shoulders gently, helping her sip. The water burned going down but soothed the worst of the dryness.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Pomfrey murmured, adjusting the pillow behind her. “Don’t push yourself. You’ve been unconscious for days.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her gaze swept the room, heart pounding.

She had to be careful now. Strategic. If they suspected she were lying, if they guessed, then everything could unravel. The timeline, the war, everything they’d won.

Footsteps approached. Professor McGonagall entered, her expression unreadable behind those familiar square glasses. “Miss…?”

Hermione’s pulse stuttered. She sat up straighter, wincing at the pull in her side.

McGonagall’s tone was brisk, but Hermione could hear the thread of unease running through it. “You were found collapsed on the castle grounds. Severely injured. Unidentified. We’ve waited for you to wake before asking questions.”

Hermione met her eyes. “I… I don’t remember.”

McGonagall’s brows lifted. “You don’t remember anything?”

Hermione shook her head slightly, choosing her words with care. “There was… light. Pain. I don’t remember what happened before. I don’t even know how I got here.”

Pomfrey shifted beside her, clearly not surprised. “Trauma like this often causes memory loss. Magical accidents especially.”

McGonagall didn’t look convinced. “And your name?”

Hermione’s breath caught. The truth hovered behind her teeth, but she couldn’t give it. Not here. Not now.

“Beaumont,” she said finally. “Hermione Beaumont.”

There was a flicker in McGonagall’s gaze, but she said nothing. “Very well, Miss Beaumont. We’ll let you rest for now. But you understand, this situation is… irregular. When you’ve regained your strength, I expect a clearer explanation.”

Hermione only nodded. She felt the weight of the name settle over her like a disguise, ill-fitting but necessary.

McGonagall turned to leave, her voice trailing behind her like her robes. “We’ll speak again.”

The door closed. Silence returned, save for the soft clink of potion bottles in the distance.

Hermione sank back into the pillows, her heart still racing. Her body throbbed with pain, her magic felt off-kilter, and her one anchor to her own time was now shattered and dangerous.

She had no idea how far back she’d gone. No idea if the war had even happened yet, or if it ever would.

But one thing was certain.

She was alone.

And the only way forward was survival.

The hours bled together.

Daylight shifted across the tall windows of the hospital wing, painting slow-moving golden stripes across the floor. Hermione lay still, muscles aching, body weak in a way that reminded her of post-Battle exhaustion, only this was quieter, deeper, like something had cracked in her magic and hadn’t yet remembered how to mend.

She turned her head carefully, eyes scanning the infirmary. Pomfrey had retreated behind her office curtain, murmuring to herself as she sorted vials. Everything looked exactly as it always had, and yet it didn’t. There were subtle differences, colors softer, the smell of antiseptic less pronounced. A few of the healing charts on the wall bore older handwriting, more calligraphic and less utilitarian. The beds didn’t creak in quite the same way. The blankets were heavier.

Hermione knew this hospital wing. She had slept here after third year’s Time-Turner use had pushed her too far. She had hovered here after Dolohov’s curse had nearly stopped her heart. But now, something about it felt just slightly… off-axis.

She forced herself upright. Her head swam with the motion, but she bit down on the wave of nausea. Her skin was clammy, and the bandages beneath her borrowed nightgown itched uncomfortably.

Her hand moved to her chest, fingertips brushing the chain.

Gone.

Of course. They’d taken the Time-Turner.

The memory struck hard: the twist of the dial, the glint of fractured gold, the scream of splintering magic. She closed her eyes tightly. No calculation, no logic, no arithmantic algorithm could explain what had happened. She had intended a shift of hours, maybe half a day to rest and reorient, not this. Not… whatever this was.

Pomfrey reemerged at the sound of the bed frame groaning beneath her.

“You shouldn’t be sitting up yet,” she said briskly, though not unkindly.

Hermione steadied herself with a breath. “I’m fine. Just… stiff.”

Pomfrey came closer, casting a diagnostic charm. Pale blue light swept over Hermione’s frame. The mediwitch frowned.

“Your magical field is still unstable,” she muttered. “Like a harp string stretched too far. You’re lucky you didn’t tear your core apart with whatever stunt you pulled.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, silent.

“I need to ask…” she began slowly, “what’s today’s date?”

Pomfrey blinked at her. “Pardon?”

Hermione forced herself to look the woman in the eye. “I meant, I’ve hit my head. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Just… humor me.”

Pomfrey gave her a skeptical look, but after a beat, said, “October 9, 1976.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

It was worse than she’d thought.

Nineteen seventy-six. A full twenty years before her first year at Hogwarts. Before the war. Before Voldemort’s fall. Before she was even born.

She nodded slowly, as if the words meant nothing to her. “Thank you.”

Pomfrey studied her face for a long moment, then sighed. “Rest, Miss Beaumont. We’ll see about transferring you out of here once you’re steady on your feet.”

“Transfer me where?” Hermione asked, voice too quick.

Pomfrey paused, as if realizing something for the first time. “You’re almost too young to be on your own. If you have no memory and no guardianship, the school may have to contact the Ministry. We’ve done it before for displaced students.”

Hermione’s pulse surged. That couldn’t happen. Not until she had a plan.

“I’d rather stay here,” she said, trying to sound meek. “Just until I’m stronger. Please.”

Pomfrey gave her a look she couldn’t decipher, curiosity maybe, or pity, but she nodded.

“Very well,” she said. “But no wandering. You’re still under observation.”

The matron turned to go.

Hermione settled back against the pillows, her mind already spinning.

She was in the past. No Time-Turner. No wand. No way of contacting anyone who might know the truth without unraveling the entire timeline. The war hadn’t started yet, and the people she loved were either children or not yet born.

And if she wasn’t careful, she would draw attention.

The sound of the door opening pulled her from her thoughts. Footsteps. Heels, slow and deliberate, clicked softly across the stone floor. She turned her head toward the sound.

Someone had come in.

A student stood just inside the threshold, speaking quietly to Madam Pomfrey. Hermione couldn’t see her face clearly, only the fall of pale hair and the elegant line of her posture. She didn’t enter the ward, just lingered in quiet conversation for a moment.

Then she left.

Hermione’s heart thudded harder, unsettled by something she couldn’t name. The girl’s voice. The way her hair caught the light. It stirred an echo she couldn’t quite place.

But she hadn’t seen her face. Not clearly. Just a blur of pale features and green and silver.

It could have been anyone.

Still, the moment left an imprint, like a smudge on glass. Faint, but there.

The past hadn’t welcomed her. It hadn’t even noticed her.

And yet, as the door clicked shut behind the girl, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something delicate had been set in motion.

Not a shift.

Not yet.

But the air had changed.

Like the pause before a page turns.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open just as Hermione had begun to pace.

She stopped instantly, spine straightening as Professor McGonagall entered, her robes crisp as ever, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Professor Dumbledore followed with a quieter step, his gaze soft but no less penetrating. The door shut behind them, sealing Hermione into the room with two of the sharpest minds of the age.

“Miss Beaumont,” Dumbledore said kindly, pausing a short distance from the bed she had just vacated. “I hope you’re feeling somewhat steadier today.”

Hermione nodded once, keeping her arms folded tightly across her midsection. Her wounds no longer burned, but the pressure of this moment, of what she would and would not say, pressed deeper than any splinching spell.

McGonagall moved to stand beside Dumbledore, her eyes sweeping Hermione in quiet assessment. “You’ve had time to rest,” she said. “Now we need to speak plainly. About who you are. And how you came to be here.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

Hermione let her gaze drop to the floor before lifting it again, forcing herself to meet their eyes. She’d rehearsed this in her head a dozen times since waking. Every word mattered. Every detail had to walk the fine line between truth and containment.

“I know how impossible this sounds,” she began quietly. “But I didn’t arrive here by choice.”

Dumbledore’s head tilted ever so slightly. “Go on.”

“I come from another time,” Hermione said, choosing her words with exacting care. “There was an accident. A magical object, unstable, experimental. I was trying to reset a single day, just a few hours. But it malfunctioned.”

She hesitated. She didn’t mention the Time-Turner by name. Let them draw conclusions on their own.

“It pulled me backward. I don’t know how far. I only realized I wasn’t in my own time when I saw the grounds.” She paused again. “And when I didn’t recognize anyone.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “No one at all?”

Hermione shook her head. “No one living.”

There was a flicker of something in Dumbledore’s eyes, not shock, exactly. Thoughtfulness. As though the shape of her story confirmed something he’d already half-suspected.

“And the magical object you mentioned,” he asked, “it’s the one Madam Pomfrey found with you?”

Hermione nodded. “It shattered when I arrived. Or during transit, I’m not sure. I haven’t touched it since. It might still be… dangerous.”

Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him, contemplative. McGonagall, by contrast, seemed deeply unsettled, her frown etched into sharp lines.

“This is highly irregular,” she said, her voice taut. “Time travel on this scale, assuming your story is truthful—”

“She’s telling the truth,” Dumbledore interrupted gently. He didn’t smile, but his tone was reassuring. “One learns to recognize the cadence of it, over time.”

McGonagall turned to him, her expression incredulous. “Albus, surely we can’t—”

“We can,” he said. “And we must.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until now.

After a beat, McGonagall folded her arms, glancing at Hermione with renewed gravity. “Then what do we do with her?”

Dumbledore stepped forward, resting one hand lightly on the back of the chair beside her bed. “We help her adapt. Quietly. Carefully. Miss Beaumont,” he said, glancing at her again, “we will need a new identity for you. One that can be shared without raising suspicion.”

Hermione nodded. “We already used ‘Beaumont’ with Madam Pomfrey. I thought it was safest to keep it vague.”

“A wise instinct,” he said. “We’ll expand upon it.”

He paused, then glanced at McGonagall. “Beauxbatons?”

She pursed her lips, but eventually nodded. “It’s distant enough not to raise many questions. Transfer students are rare but not unheard of. Especially in volatile times.”

McGonagall looked at her with something close to approval. “We’ll arrange a private Sorting. After that, we’ll introduce you to your housemates slowly.”

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, her voice barely audible.

Dumbledore’s eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw in them not only wisdom but trust.

“You are not alone, Miss Beaumont,” he said softly. “And though this is not the time you intended, you may yet find that it has something to offer you.”

He and McGonagall exchanged a final glance, then turned to leave.

The door closed gently behind them.

And Hermione was left with silence, her new name echoing in her mind like a spell spoken for the first time.

The room was small, circular, and empty save for a single stool in the center and the Sorting Hat resting atop it. Its frayed brim sagged slightly, as if dozing, but Hermione knew better.

Professor McGonagall stood at her side, hands folded tightly behind her back.

“This will be private, as we discussed,” she said, glancing briefly at Hermione. “Once the Sorting is complete, I’ll escort you to the Ravenclaw common room and introduce you to a trusted student who can help you settle in.”

Hermione nodded, her palms damp against her robes.

It had been years since she last sat under that hat. She remembered the feeling clearly, the voice curling into her mind, the way it had mulled over Slytherin before deciding Gryffindor. She hadn’t expected to face it again.

But then again, she hadn’t expected any of this.

At McGonagall’s silent gesture, Hermione stepped forward and lowered herself onto the stool. The Sorting Hat was placed gently on her head, and at once, the soft velvet of its magic slid into her thoughts.

“Ah… we meet again.”

Hermione’s breath caught. The voice was the same, low, amused, inquisitive.

“Well, now. Not every day I get to sort someone twice. Not like this. Older. Wiser. And with so very many secrets tucked away in those clever little folds of yours.”

Hermione clenched her fingers in her lap.

“Oh, I see what you’ve done,” it murmured. “Quite the tangle you’ve walked into, haven’t you? And yet, you’re calm. Focused. You always did favor reason when it counted.”

The hat seemed to go quiet for a moment, as if thumbing through the vast library of her memories.

“You still burn bright with Gryffindor fire,” it said at last, “but now there’s steel, too. Calculation. You’re walking a line that requires more than courage. It demands silence, study, and the ability to think five moves ahead.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

“Yes,” the hat agreed, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Ravenclaw is where you’ll need to be.”

A beat of silence.

“But you’ll have to watch yourself, Miss Beaumont. Ravenclaw minds are sharp, and sharp things cut.”

Then it lifted from her head.

McGonagall stepped forward. “Ravenclaw it is, then.”

Hermione slid from the stool, heart thudding. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to feel. Relief, regret, maybe grief. But instead, she felt suspended. No longer rooted in Gryffindor, nor truly belonging in Ravenclaw. Her house was no longer her home. Her name was no longer her own.

McGonagall led her out of the room in silence. They moved through quieter corridors now, ones Hermione recognized from her patrols as a Prefect. That, too, was gone. Another piece of her identity tucked away.

Eventually, they arrived at the spiral staircase leading up the west tower. McGonagall rapped twice on the wooden door with its bronze eagle-shaped knocker. The creature came to life immediately, its metal beak curving into a question:

“I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

Hermione blinked once, then answered softly. “An echo.”

The door swung open.

She stepped inside.

The Ravenclaw common room was as beautiful as she remembered it from brief visits during shared study sessions. A tall, airy space with domed ceilings and windows that arched like cathedral glass. Moonlight spilled across the floor in gentle pools. Books lined every wall, and stars glittered faintly on the darkened ceiling above.

It was quieter than Gryffindor had ever been. More thoughtful. Less firelight, more silver.

A pale-haired girl was seated cross-legged beneath one of the tall windows, surrounded by scrolls and what appeared to be an incomplete constellation chart. She looked up as they entered.

“Pandora,” McGonagall said. “This is Hermione Beaumont. She’s transferring from Beauxbatons and will be staying with us for the foreseeable future. I trust you can help her settle in?”

The girl’s expression lit up immediately. “Oh! A new Ravenclaw, how lovely.”

Pandora scrambled to her feet, parchment clutched in one hand and a quill behind her ear.

McGonagall turned to Hermione. “If you need anything, Miss Beaumont, you may speak with your Head of House or Madam Pomfrey. And remember, this is a chance to start quietly. Take it.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Professor.”

With a final glance, McGonagall left.

Pandora stepped closer, eyes bright with curiosity but not judgment. “Your accent isn’t French.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh, I spent most of my early life in England. My mother’s side is from Normandy, though.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Pandora smiled, turning to lead her toward the stairs.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you your bed. We’re not a particularly noisy bunch, except Emmeline snores when she’s dreaming of magical beasts, and Saira hums when she writes essays, which is either soothing or maddening depending on your mood.”

Hermione followed her up the narrow staircase, grateful for the quiet rhythm of words. Something about Pandora was oddly grounding.

As they reached the dormitory, Hermione caught sight of the four identical beds, the high arched windows, the pale blue hangings. Her own space. Small, temporary, and untouched.

She sat on the edge of the mattress as Pandora pointed out the wardrobe, the nearest bathroom, and where to find the best chocolate biscuits in the kitchens.

When the girl finally disappeared back downstairs, Hermione curled onto her side and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

Her name was Hermione Beaumont.

She was a Ravenclaw.

And she was starting over.

By the time the sun began to set, Hermione had managed to change into her new school uniform. The Ravenclaw crest sat neatly over her heart, stitched in blue and bronze. She traced it once with her fingertips. It didn’t feel wrong, exactly, just unfamiliar. Like clothing borrowed from someone else.

She descended the winding staircase from the dormitory and found Pandora waiting near the common room entrance.

“Ready?” the girl asked brightly.

Hermione nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

They walked in companionable silence. Pandora didn’t seem the type to fill every pause with conversation, which Hermione appreciated more than she could say. The corridors were quieter now, the latecomers to dinner trickling toward the Great Hall with books under their arms or tired yawns pressed behind their hands.

“I told the others you’d be joining us tonight,” Pandora said as they neared the heavy oak doors. “They’re curious, but I told them you’d just arrived and to try not to pester you.”

Hermione offered a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

As the doors swung open, sound and light spilled out. Bright chandeliers overhead, the clatter of cutlery, the hum of conversation. It felt the same and entirely different. The four long tables stretched across the hall, banners hanging above them: crimson, green, blue, and yellow. She tried not to look toward the one marked with Gryffindor’s golden lion.

Pandora guided her to the Ravenclaw table and slid into a spot near the end. Hermione sat beside her, folding her hands carefully in her lap.

The first few moments were a blur of names she barely caught: Emmeline something, Saira something else, a tall boy with a prefect badge who nodded politely and immediately returned to his Transfiguration notes. They were friendly, in a cool sort of way. The way Ravenclaws often were curious, but distant, assessing. Hermione didn’t mind. Blending in meant not being interrogated.

The food appeared on the golden plates, and Hermione picked at her roast chicken, trying to anchor herself in the present. The clamor around her had an oddly distant quality, like she was hearing it from underwater.

Then something shifted. A flicker in her periphery.

She looked up, and froze.

Across the hall, seated in the middle of the Slytherin table, was Narcissa Black.

Her blonde hair was gathered in a precise twist at the nape of her neck, catching the candlelight like threads of pale gold. Her posture was impeccable, chin tilted slightly, one hand resting delicately around a goblet. Her face was unreadable, beautiful in the way that made people nervous to speak first.

Hermione’s heart thudded once, hard.

She knew that hair. Had seen it framed against the dying light at the Black Lake. Narcissa hadn’t spoken much, just enough to keep her alive. But she’d touched her shoulder. Steadied her. Helped.

And now she was here. Whole, young, and unaware.

Hermione forced herself to breathe.

She couldn’t know. Hermione had never seen her face properly that night. Just light, color, fragments through pain. And Narcissa wouldn’t have recognized her either. Not yet. Not unless something lingered.

Still, something inside Hermione bristled, alert.

Almost as if sensing the attention, Narcissa turned slightly, speaking to the girl beside her. She didn’t look Hermione’s way. She didn’t glance across the room. She didn’t seem to notice her at all.

Good.

Hermione ducked her head, focusing fiercely on her dinner. She stabbed a carrot with more force than necessary.

Pandora leaned toward her, whispering behind her hand, “Don’t worry about them. Slytherins always look like they’re planning something dreadful, even when they’re just bored.”

Hermione startled, then nodded. “Right. Of course.”

“Ignore them,” Pandora added lightly, tearing a piece of bread. “They thrive on attention. Though that one—” she flicked her eyes subtly toward Narcissa “—doesn’t talk much unless she has to. Ice Queen of the dungeons, they say. Never seen her smile.”

Hermione gave a strained smile. “Charming.”

She made it through the rest of dinner by retreating into silence, answering questions with brief nods and small, practiced smiles. She didn’t look across the hall again.

Later, as the students began drifting back to their common rooms, Hermione lagged behind slightly, watching the sea of black robes blur around her. Her body moved through the motions automatically, feet guiding her toward the west tower, but her mind remained caught, hooked on the image of Narcissa Black, perfectly composed, seated among her own time like a ghost unbothered by the living.

This was real now. She couldn’t observe from a safe distance, couldn’t pass through like a whisper in history.

Time had become a landscape she was walking through, and every step carried consequence.

She would have to be careful.

Very careful.

Chapter Text

The first week in Ravenclaw passed like fog drifting through a narrow valley. Quiet, unpredictable, and strangely disorienting. Hermione moved through it carefully, as if each step might echo too loudly or send the whole fragile illusion shattering.

Classes had a slightly different rhythm in this time. Some spells were taught earlier, others later. The textbooks, though familiar, were older editions with footnotes she didn’t recognize. The professors were younger, though not all less intimidating. Slughorn, for instance, carried the same unshakable fondness for name-dropping and flattery, but he hadn’t yet developed the syrupy indulgence he showed years later. Professor Kettleburn was still clinging to the last of his fingers, all enthusiasm and chaos, and even Flitwick seemed spryer, more precise in his duels, quicker to challenge a clever remark.

Her housemates, while curious, were careful not to pry too deeply, most of them. Pandora had quickly taken up the mantle of self-appointed buffer, appearing at Hermione’s side without warning, drifting from conversation to conversation in her characteristically eccentric way. Her presence was a gift.

“She prefers quiet places,” Pandora explained on Hermione’s behalf one evening at dinner, in response to someone’s question about Beauxbatons’ social scene. “It’s the symmetry, you know. All that perfection, too echoey. Makes it hard to think.”

Hermione didn’t know what that meant, but it worked. Pandora always managed to deflect suspicion just enough.

Still, there were moments that caught her off guard. Moments when she caught herself searching the Gryffindor table out of habit, hoping for the sight of Harry’s untidy hair or Ron’s crooked grin. Instead, she found boys who bore only the barest resemblance. James Potter laughed loudly over something Sirius had done, his shoulders shaking with mirth, his wand twirling carelessly between his fingers. They were still boys, still arrogant and raw and full of fire.

Hermione forced herself to look away. That time hadn’t happened yet. They didn’t know who she was. And she couldn’t afford to remember them with anything more than distance.

By Thursday afternoon, she’d fallen into a routine: classes, meals, library. She buried herself in study, not just for her cover, but to chase something solid beneath her feet. The magical theory sections were richer here, more experimental, less filtered by Ministry interference. Even the library itself felt more alive, as though the shelves remembered being treated with greater reverence.

She was leafing through a text on theoretical spell anchoring, her mind only half on the page. A worn Beauxbatons grammar primer sat hidden beneath her Transfiguration notes, and every few moments she shifted the papers just enough to glance down and recite a silent translation under her breath. She was trying to commit key vocabulary to memory; conjugations, idioms, accent placements. She couldn’t afford to fumble basic conversation if someone switched languages on her unexpectedly.

She had just reached the phrase il fallait que je parte when a shadow crossed the table.

“You know,” came a voice cool as glass, “you’re always here at this hour. Every day since Monday. I was starting to wonder if you slept beneath the shelves.”

Hermione looked up, heart skipping a beat.

Narcissa Black stood opposite her, one brow slightly raised, her expression unreadable but composed. Her arms were folded neatly, and her head tilted just enough to suggest a question that hadn’t yet been asked.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Narcissa added, as if that were ever true. “The spot just seemed to find you.”

Hermione pushed the grammar text slightly deeper beneath her papers. “It’s quiet here,” she replied. “And the light’s good.”

“Mm.” Narcissa stepped around the edge of the table and gracefully took the empty seat opposite her, as if it had been waiting for her all along. “I thought the same thing, the first time I stumbled across it. The dust hasn’t changed.”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, even as her mind sped forward. Narcissa hadn’t mentioned her name, her origins, nothing about Beauxbatons, but her presence wasn’t casual, either.

“I don’t usually see other students in this section,” Narcissa continued, resting her hands neatly on the table. “It’s all a bit dense for casual reading. Unless you’re particularly ambitious.”

“I like to understand things thoroughly,” Hermione said evenly. “Theory helps me place the rest in context.”

Narcissa smiled faintly, not quite indulgent, not quite impressed. “That’s a Ravenclaw answer if I’ve ever heard one.”

Hermione hesitated. “You come here often?”

Narcissa gave a small shrug. “Not so much lately. But I remembered this corner. It’s where I go when I need quiet, and something more than idle gossip and endless essays.”

There was something in her tone. An almost personal admission, wrapped carefully in distance.

A pause followed, quiet but charged.

Narcissa glanced down at Hermione’s stack of books, her gaze catching briefly on the slight edge of the Beauxbatons grammar tucked beneath her notes. For a moment, Hermione thought she might say something, but Narcissa looked away just as quickly, as if disinterested.

Then: “The French educational system is said to be very… formal. At least in its magic.”

Hermione kept her breathing steady. “It is. Structured. Thorough. Very proper about pronunciation.”

Narcissa gave a faint, almost teasing hum. “You don’t seem particularly fond of that.”

“I like structure,” Hermione said carefully, “but sometimes it gets in the way of creativity. Hogwarts seems more… flexible.”

That drew a small tilt of the head from Narcissa, who studied her for a moment longer. Not invasive, but quietly exacting. Hermione felt the weight of her gaze as though it were cataloguing her inch by inch.

“Somehow,” Narcissa said softly, “I don’t think you came here to be ordinary.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

“I’m not sure what that means,” she replied, her voice quiet.

Narcissa didn’t answer. She stood smoothly, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve.

“I expect I’ll see you here again,” she said, then paused, her voice dipping lower. “It’s nicer, isn’t it? Meeting like this, rather than half-drowned in the weeds.”

Hermione’s heart skipped.

Narcissa offered a faint, knowing smile, not unkind, but sharp at the edges, before disappearing into the stacks and leaving only the lingering scent of bergamot and frost in her wake.

Hermione exhaled slowly, her fingers curled tightly around the page she had never turned. She waited several seconds before easing the French text back to the top of the pile.

She would need to study harder.

Narcissa hadn’t said anything directly. But she had noticed.

Hermione sat curled in a Ravenclaw armchair, one leg tucked beneath her and her charms textbook propped open on her lap. Inside it, hidden in plain sight, was a slim volume of translated French spells. She was trying, and failing, to memorize the phrasing of a particularly tricky incantation used in continental transfiguration theory. Her lips moved silently as she sounded out the passage again, attempting to smooth her accent into something passable.

She’d barely noticed how quiet the common room had grown until Pandora’s voice broke gently through the haze.

“You’ve read that page four times,” Pandora said from the floor beside her, parchment spread in a chaotic sprawl around her like a nest. “Is it written in code?”

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been frozen. “No. Just… thinking.”

Pandora leaned her chin into her palm, peering at Hermione with mild curiosity. “No, you’re brooding. There’s a difference. Want to take a walk?”

Hermione hesitated. “It’s past curfew.”

“So?” Pandora said simply, rising to her feet and dusting off her skirt. “We’ll be quiet. You need a break. It’s what Rowena would’ve prescribed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She was brilliant. Brilliant people always go for night walks.”

Hermione gave in with a quiet sigh. Her neck ached from being hunched over, and the words on the page had stopped making sense hours ago. She slid the French reader deeper between the pages of her textbook and snapped the cover shut.

“Alright,” she said. “Lead on.”

The corridors were quiet and dusky, torches flickering with low flames that painted gold streaks along the stone. Pandora walked at a meandering pace, pointing out carved runes that moved when you looked away and portraits that only spoke in rhyme past midnight. Her presence was soothing, soft, strange, and somehow anchoring.

Hermione let herself relax, her steps slowing as they turned a corner near the Charms corridor. Then a movement ahead made her stiffen.

Narcissa Black stepped into view from a side passage, her robe fastened high at the collar with a green-enameled clasp shaped like a leaf. The torchlight made her hair gleam like pale silk, and her expression held that familiar blend of serenity and edge.

“Well,” she said coolly. “What an unexpected stroll.”

Pandora offered a cheerful wave. “Moonlight makes the best thinking light.”

Narcissa’s eyes flicked to Pandora, briefly, and then landed on Hermione.

“You’re acclimating faster than I expected,” she said, her voice unreadable.

Hermione kept her spine straight. “I adjust quickly.”

Narcissa’s gaze traveled down to her satchel, then back to her face. “Is that so?”

Hermione said nothing.

“Most transfers take longer to find their footing. Especially ones from Beauxbatons.” Narcissa’s tone was casual, but too measured to be idle. “Their academic approach is… precise, but very different from ours. It leaves a mark.”

Hermione’s fingers curled slightly around the strap of her bag. “I suppose I’ve always had a talent for adaptation.”

Narcissa tilted her head, expression almost thoughtful. “Hm. And here I was wondering if it was simply that you’ve had more practice than most.”

Hermione’s heart thudded once, hard. She forced herself to give a tight-lipped smile.

“I suppose I’m lucky.”

A long pause settled between them. Narcissa studied her a moment longer, and Hermione could feel the weight of it—more observation than judgment, but unnervingly precise.

Then Narcissa stepped back, the shift in her posture almost imperceptible.

“I expect I’ll see you around, Miss Beaumont,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “It’s always… interesting to watch someone find their rhythm.”

And then, like mist dispersing under moonlight, she was gone.

Hermione didn’t move until the echo of her footsteps had faded.

Pandora let out a low whistle. “She definitely likes you.”

Hermione turned to her, startled. “What?”

Pandora gave a sage nod. “She’s only that sharp when she’s curious. Or hungry. Or both.”

Hermione managed a faint laugh, but her mind was spinning. Narcissa hadn’t said anything direct, but she had noticed. She always noticed.

Back in the common room, Hermione sat in silence long after Pandora had wandered off to bed. She reached for the slim French reader again and flipped it open.

She would need to study harder.

She couldn’t afford to misstep.

Not when Narcissa Black had begun to watch her this closely.

It had been nearly a week since Hermione arrived at Hogwarts, and while most students were still testing the edges of her story, life in Ravenclaw had begun to settle into a manageable rhythm. Her dormmates were curious but not cruel. Pandora was endlessly warm and strange. And Hermione had managed to keep her head down just enough not to draw the kind of attention that could unravel everything.

Yet she could feel the strain of the lie seeping into every hour. Speaking softly in classes so her accent wouldn’t betray her. Repeating little Beauxbatons anecdotes she’d memorized by rote. Dedicating long hours in the quiet corners of the common room to re-learning French spell pronunciations, something she’d once studied academically but now needed to mimic natively.

Still, despite the tangle of deceptions, there were moments of comfort. Breakfast tea shared with Pandora by the windows. Watching owls arc through the sky from Ravenclaw Tower. The ordinary rhythm of magical life pulsing all around her, unscarred by war.

And yet she could feel Narcissa’s attention sharpening.

Since their tense encounter earlier in the week, Hermione had sensed her presence like static in the air. Narcissa never approached again, not directly, but she lingered more often. Just a few steps away in corridors, at nearby desks in Transfiguration, at the edges of crowded hallways. Always distant, always composed, but never unaware.

Hermione didn’t know if it was simple suspicion or something more complicated. But she knew better than to underestimate Narcissa Black.

By the time Friday arrived, Hermione was mentally exhausted. The week had drained her. Not  just the coursework, which she managed with quiet efficiency, but the vigilance. Every step she took had to be careful. Every word calculated. She hadn’t even dared to write in a journal for fear of it being discovered.

So when Pandora threw herself onto Hermione’s bed after dinner, upside down and tangled in her robes, and declared, “We’re going to the dueling club,” Hermione didn’t protest.

She blinked at her. “We’re what?”

“It’s informal,” Pandora said, waving a hand. “Totally unsanctioned but totally tolerated. Flitwick turns a blind eye because someone has to encourage healthy spell-casting competition. And because he likes to eavesdrop and give people secret scores.”

Hermione laughed softly. “You’re making that up.”

“Only the last part,” Pandora grinned. “Come on, it’s fun. And don’t worry, newer students don’t duel unless they volunteer, so we can just watch. Unless, of course, someone’s feeling brave…”

Hermione gave her a dry look, but the smile lingered at the edge of her mouth. “Lead the way, then.”

The Great Hall had been rearranged for the occasion. Long tables vanished, leaving an open central dueling space bordered by flickering lanterns. A semicircle of students was already gathering, some in uniform, others in cloaks or even pyjamas, whispering eagerly among themselves.

Hermione scanned the crowd cautiously. Most of the professors were absent, but she caught the silhouette of Professor McGonagall near the side entrance, arms folded as she watched the growing group. So, it was sanctioned after all, barely.

“People say this is where half of last year’s romances started,” Pandora said conversationally, bumping her shoulder. “Sparks and spellfire are terribly good for tension.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m not here for that.”

“Oh, of course not. But if you disarm someone particularly elegantly, people do take note.”

They found seats on a bench near the front as two students, both sixth years, judging by their size and wand confidence, stepped into the circle.

The match began with a flurry of quick spells, mostly disarming and shielding charms, but one of them pulled off an impressive nonverbal Stunning spell that made the crowd erupt into cheers. Hermione found herself leaning forward without meaning to. It was fascinating. Less refined than a formal duel, but no less clever. Improvised, kinetic, and still very much about reading the opponent.

For a moment, she let herself enjoy it.

She watched three duels in quick succession, each one faster and messier than the last. The last match ended when a third-year accidentally set part of his opponent’s sleeve on fire. He was unharmed, though thoroughly embarrassed. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“I told you it’s fun,” Pandora said smugly. “You’re practically glowing.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she felt it too Something like adrenaline thrumming in her chest. Magic, pure and unburdened, had a way of making her feel briefly unshackled.

Then a voice cut through the noise. “Beaumont! Up next!”

Hermione froze. Her head snapped toward the circle. The speaker was a tall boy with a mischievous smile, flanked by a few older Ravenclaws egging him on.

She turned to Pandora. “Did you…?”

Pandora looked as surprised as she did. “I didn’t say anything, I swear!”

The crowd had already parted. There was no easy way to refuse now, not without drawing even more attention.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione stood and walked into the circle, wand already warm in her hand.

Her opponent was a fifth-year Gryffindor boy who grinned at her with good-natured charm. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy,” he said with a wink.

Hermione raised her wand. “You shouldn’t.”

Their duel began in earnest. Hermione countering a Stinging Hex with an elegant Protego, slipping under a hex with a narrow dodge and retaliating with a clever tripping jinx that forced him off balance. The boy laughed as he fell, clearly enjoying himself, but Hermione didn’t let up. She cast with precision, staying measured even as the cheers grew louder.

She disarmed him on the fifth exchange.

His wand flew into the air, spinning in a graceful arc before she caught it with a Summoning charm, landing it neatly in her hand.

The room burst into applause. Hermione flushed and turned to return to the bench, but stopped cold.

Narcissa stood at the edge of the crowd.

She wasn’t clapping. She didn’t even smile. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were locked on Hermione with cool, steady interest. Like a researcher observing something she couldn’t quite categorize yet.

Their gazes held for a second too long.

Hermione turned and walked quickly back to Pandora, pulse still hammering in her ears.

“You didn’t tell me you were good,” Pandora whispered, eyes wide.

“I didn’t plan to be,” Hermione muttered.

From across the room, Narcissa was still watching.

Chapter Text

The week had been uneventful, at least, as uneventful as Hermione could hope for in this new and precarious reality. She spent most of her time balancing Ravenclaw studies, her hidden research into time magic, and the constant effort to deflect suspicion from Narcissa Black. Despite her best efforts, Narcissa always seemed to be near. It was never obvious, just enough to leave Hermione second-guessing whether she’d imagined it.

Narcissa had a gift for being precisely where she wasn’t wanted. Corridors between classes, the stairwell leading to the Astronomy Tower, even the shadowy alcove near the enchanted greenhouse. Sometimes, Hermione told herself it was all coincidence. But coincidences didn’t hold one’s gaze for long, didn’t linger in passing with just enough chill to raise the hairs on the back of the neck.

She wasn’t paranoid. Not exactly. But the way Narcissa’s pale eyes tracked her in passing, unreadable and sharp, reminded Hermione too much of how predators studied prey. Not with malice, but with unshakable interest.

“You know,” Pandora said at breakfast that morning, “it’s almost like she’s studying you.”

Hermione looked up from her half-eaten toast, though the name was already forming on her lips. “Who?”

Pandora’s eyes sparkled, and she tilted her chin toward the Slytherin table. “Narcissa Black, obviously.”

Hermione followed her gaze. Narcissa sat impeccably composed, her spine straight, her silvery-blonde hair catching the light like moonlit silk. She was surrounded by other Slytherins; Malfoy, Rosier, Avery, but there was a kind of distance in how she held herself, a poise that didn’t require company. And she wasn’t looking their way, not now, but Hermione knew she had been only moments before.

“She keeps glancing over,” Pandora continued, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of apple. “It’s not just today, either. I’ve seen her do it in class. And in the hall outside Ancient Runes. And during supper yesterday.”

Hermione frowned, trying to sound nonchalant. “Maybe she’s just bored.”

Pandora gave a soft, knowing laugh. “She’s Narcissa Black. She’s never bored, only curious. And right now, you’re her favorite unsolved riddle.”

Hermione picked at her toast, trying to push down the strange twist of unease that settled in her chest. “I don’t want to be anyone’s riddle.”

“Well,” Pandora said, “you’re doing a terrible job of being uninteresting.”

Hermione gave a dry huff of laughter at that, but the weight of Pandora’s words lingered. Narcissa’s attention wasn’t waning. If anything, it seemed to grow more pointed with every passing day. It was subtle. Questions that sounded like casual remarks, glances that seemed coincidental until they weren’t, and silence that stretched just a breath too long.

Even now, as they finished breakfast, Hermione couldn’t shake the sense of being under a microscope. She risked a glance toward the Slytherin table, just a quick one.

Narcissa was watching her.

Just for a moment, their eyes met. The look on Narcissa’s face was neither cold nor inviting. Simply… assessing. Then, as if dismissing her own curiosity, she returned to her teacup.

Hermione turned back to her plate, jaw tight. She needed to be more careful. She was blending in, yes, but it was a careful illusion. One misplaced step, one odd phrase, and everything would unravel. And Narcissa Black, it seemed, had made it her mission to find the fraying threads.

Later that afternoon, during Potions, Hermione’s nerves sharpened further. Professor Slughorn, with his usual buoyant mood, was assigning partners for a new round of brewing exercises.

“Miss Beaumont,” he announced cheerfully, “you’ll be paired with Miss Black.”

Hermione stiffened. A few Ravenclaws near her exchanged looks, while from the Slytherin benches came a quiet murmur of amusement.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Narcissa rise from her seat with the grace of someone descending from a throne. She approached Hermione’s table without a word, simply set her books down and began arranging the ingredients as though this had been the plan all along.

Hermione swallowed and forced herself to move, settling into the seat beside her. The scent of bergamot and something colder, like crushed mint, clung faintly to Narcissa’s robes.

“We’re working on a Fortitude Draught,” Narcissa said coolly, as if Hermione didn’t already know. Her hands were precise as she sliced a root into clean, symmetrical pieces. “Try not to muddle the ratios.”

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose. “I think I can manage basic proportions.”

A thin smile touched Narcissa’s lips, but she said nothing. For several minutes they worked in silence, the sounds of other pairs around them fading to background noise. Hermione kept her movements crisp and controlled. She wouldn’t give Narcissa the satisfaction of being rattled.

“You have excellent technique,” Narcissa said eventually, voice low. “Not quite Beauxbatons style, though. Yours is more… utilitarian.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. Her pulse had quickened slightly. “I studied privately before I transferred,” she said carefully. Not a lie, just not the full truth.

“I see.” Narcissa’s voice was unreadable. “Still, most who study privately lack polish. You’ve had formal training.”

Hermione stared down into the gently bubbling potion. “And if I have?”

Narcissa didn’t answer at first. Then, softly, she said, “Then it raises the question of where.”

Hermione’s hand hesitated just a moment before dropping the next ingredient into the cauldron. When she looked up, Narcissa was watching her, not accusing, but intrigued. And that, Hermione thought grimly, might be worse.

They finished the potion in silence, but Hermione felt the tension settle in her bones like winter air. She had learned long ago how to be careful. Now, she’d need to learn how to be invisible, even in Narcissa Black’s gaze.

The sharp scent of damp stone and parchment still clung to Hermione’s robes as she left the Transfiguration corridor, her steps brisk, deliberate. She kept her eyes forward and her chin high, but every part of her felt taut with tension. The encounter with Narcissa had left her unsettled. Those cutting questions, that gaze like a scalpel. Hermione had thought she could endure scrutiny, but Narcissa’s kind of attention felt like being studied under a wandlight, every secret vulnerable to exposure.

The crisp air bit at her cheeks as she crossed the courtyard, tugging her cloak tighter. She needed a moment to breathe, to gather herself.

“Beaumont!”

The voice stopped her in her tracks. Too familiar. Too smug.

She turned slowly to find Lucius Malfoy strolling toward her with deliberate elegance, robes fluttering behind him like a second shadow. Narcissa trailed just behind, her expression unreadable, though her gaze never strayed from Hermione.

“I hear you’ve been making quite the impression,” Lucius said smoothly, falling into step beside her. “Dueling prowess, top marks, a certain… mystique.” His lip curled in a faint sneer. “It’s all very theatrical.”

Hermione kept her tone flat. “I’m just trying to study in peace.”

Lucius laughed, a low, mocking sound. “Peace? At Hogwarts? Don’t be naïve.” His eyes glinted. “Tell me, Beaumont, how do you fare under pressure?”

Hermione frowned. “Is there a reason you’re bothering me?”

“Curiosity,” he replied. “Surely you’re familiar with it. Narcissa tells me you’re… interesting.”

Hermione’s heart gave a traitorous skip, but she ignored it. “I don’t duel for sport.”

Lucius tilted his head. “Then think of it as education.” He drew his wand in a smooth, deliberate gesture. “A practical exam.”

A hush swept the courtyard as students began to slow, drawn by the tension. Pandora, seated on a low wall nearby, stood and started toward Hermione. “You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.

But Narcissa stepped forward then, her voice like velvet over steel. “Unless, of course, you’re worried you might lose.”

The words hit their mark, the notion simmering in her chest. She wasn’t worried about losing. But the idea of losing to him, Lucious Malfoy of all people, stirred something sharp in her. Hermione drew her wand with an audible click and stepped into the center of the courtyard, chin high. “Let’s get this over with.”

Lucius smirked and bowed with exaggerated flair. “Ladies first.”

She didn’t oblige. Instead, she raised her wand and cast a quick Shield Charm as he lunged forward with a stinging hex. The spell shattered against her barrier with a sharp crack. Hermione countered with a silent Expelliarmus, which he dodged by inches, laughing as if it were a game.

Spells flew. Stuns, jinxes, deflections, and counter-charms in a dizzying array. Lucius moved with a duelist’s grace, but Hermione was faster. Sharper. Her wand cut through the air with purpose, each movement honed by necessity, not vanity. She dropped low, rolled, and sent a trip jinx beneath his feet, causing him to stumble. Gasps rippled through the onlookers.

Lucius recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he spat, flicking his wand in a sweeping arc. “Incarcerous!”

Thick ropes burst from his wand, snaking toward her. Hermione spun and shouted, “Diffindo!” The ropes slashed apart midair, dissolving into smoke.

She had him on the back foot now. Her wand moved like a conductor’s baton, guiding spell after spell, forcing Lucius back. He blocked an Impediment Jinx just in time, but Hermione was already on the next move. Her Expelliarmus hit its mark, and Lucius’s wand flew from his hand.

The courtyard fell silent. Lucius stood still, his face pale with disbelief.

Hermione lowered her wand, chest rising and falling with exertion. “It’s over.”

But something shifted.

Lucius’s expression twisted, not with defeat, but rage. He lunged for his wand, scooping it from the stones and snarling, “Expulso!”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She barely managed a shield charm as the explosive spell collided with her defense, bursting in a flare of light. The blast threw her backward a step, ears ringing.

He was coming at her again.

“Lucius!” Narcissa’s voice cut through the chaos. “Stand down!”

He didn’t listen.

“Diffindo!” he cried, sending a slicing hex toward Hermione. She twisted out of the way, the spell grazing her sleeve and tearing it open. Her skin burned, a shallow cut already blooming red.

The courtyard erupted in cries. Students scattered, and Slughorn’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, calling for order, but Hermione didn’t hear it.

The duel had changed. It wasn’t a match anymore. It was an attack.

Her wand moved on instinct, casting Protego after Protego, her limbs trembling as her mind began to unravel. The sound of spellfire, the rush of wind, the panic, too familiar. Too close.

Red light. Shouting. A stone wall. A wand to her throat.

Bellatrix.

No.

Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears. The air in her lungs turned thin. Every spell Lucius threw became another memory dragging her down. She deflected a hex and stumbled, her knees nearly buckling.

“Enough!” she cried, casting a wordless Repulso that slammed into Lucius’s shield with bone-jarring force, sending him skidding backward.

Still, he raised his wand until Narcissa stepped between them, her wand outstretched.

“That’s enough,” she said coldly. “You’re finished.”

Lucius looked like he wanted to argue, but the fire in Narcissa’s eyes silenced him. He turned on his heel and stalked away, his pride in tatters.

Hermione stood frozen, chest heaving, hands shaking.

She couldn’t breathe.

Pandora appeared at her side, worry etched in her face. “Hermione, are you—”

“I need to go,” Hermione rasped, shoving her wand into her sleeve. “I—I need air.”

She turned and walked quickly, too quickly, away from the crowd, toward the castle. Her pace grew more frantic with every step. Her lungs wouldn’t fill. Her skin itched. Her heartbeat thudded too loudly.

Up the stairs. Past the tapestries. Seventh floor.

She paced in front of the familiar stretch of stone, gasping, her thoughts spiraling.

I need somewhere safe. Please. I need to hide. I need to breathe.

The door appeared.

She yanked it open and stepped inside, into silence, warmth, and dim golden light. The Room of Requirement closed behind her.

And then she collapsed to her knees, breath hitching, hands shaking as the weight of memory crashed into her like a wave.

The door to the Room of Requirement sealed shut behind her with a soft click, but Hermione barely registered the sound. Her chest felt like it was caving in, her lungs refusing to draw a full breath. Her feet had moved on instinct, but it was her memories that had guided her here, to the only place in the castle that seemed capable of responding to the chaos inside her.

The room had shifted even before she stepped fully into it. The walls darkened, stone turning slick and cold, the air pressing against her skin like the chill of a cellar. A torch flared to life in the corner, but it cast long, eerie shadows that twisted across the floor. The light did nothing to warm her.

She dropped to her knees, trembling fingers clutching at her own arms, trying to anchor herself as the past bled into the present.

“Crucio.”

The echo wasn’t real, couldn’t be, but it rang through her anyway. Bellatrix’s cackling laughter chased it like a storm wind through the recesses of her mind. Her fingers dug into her sleeves.

“I’m not there,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, and the lie crumbled at her feet.

The scent of iron filled her nose. Her skin tingled where the cursed blade had cut into her years ago—no, months ago, she reminded herself. It hadn’t been long enough to dull the memory. Not even close.

She curled tighter into herself, pressing her forehead to her knees, rocking gently. “Stop,” she begged the room, or maybe her mind, or maybe the past. “Please, just stop.”

But it wouldn’t. Lucius’s face swam into her thoughts, rage twisted and wand raised. Not the polished, arrogant pureblood he was known to be, but a man unhinged. Reckless. The look in his eyes had unzipped something inside her, as if she’d been back on that drawing room floor with blood on her hands and terror coiled in her chest like a living thing.

Her wand slipped from her fingers.

She didn’t even hear the door open.

Pandora had followed at a distance, sensing Hermione’s unraveling before it had even reached its peak. She hadn’t meant to intrude, not at first, but as she arrived at the blank wall on the seventh floor and saw the door appear, she knew something was wrong.

And when she stepped inside, the sight of Hermione broken on the floor took her breath away.

The air was heavy with fear and magic. The walls seemed to pulse with Hermione’s panic. The light was too dim, the shadows too long. Pandora hesitated only a moment before kneeling beside her.

“Hermione?” she said softly.

Hermione flinched at the sound, her breath catching.

“It’s me,” Pandora said more gently, brushing hair from Hermione’s damp forehead. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Hermione couldn’t answer. Her throat had closed up. She kept rocking, kept breathing in short, shallow bursts that barely fed her lungs.

Pandora didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t question or try to pull Hermione to her feet. She simply sat beside her, anchoring them both with her calm presence. Her fingers laced gently around Hermione’s, grounding her.

“You’re here,” Pandora murmured. “Not there. Not wherever you were.”

Hermione choked on a sob.

“You’re at Hogwarts,” Pandora continued, voice steady and low. “In the Room of Requirement. And I’m here with you.”

The words seeped into Hermione slowly, like light bleeding into a darkened room. Her shoulders stopped trembling long enough for her to lift her head. The room had begun to shift again. The walls warming, shadows shrinking back. The oppressive weight eased just a fraction.

Pandora squeezed her hand. “Focus on now,” she said. “You’re not alone.”

Hermione managed to nod, though her limbs still felt like stone. Her breath was slowing, still ragged, but not gasping. The storm was passing, leaving wreckage in its wake, but she was still here. She was still Hermione.

The room, sensing the change, adjusted itself again. A small hearth flared to life across the stone floor, casting flickering amber light around them. The cold stone beneath them softened into a rug that smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione rasped. Her voice was barely audible.

Pandora shook her head. “Don’t be. You don’t need to apologize for feeling something.”

Hermione gave a hoarse laugh that caught in her throat. “It’s not just something. It’s… everything.”

“I know,” Pandora said. “I don’t understand all of it. But I don’t need to.”

Hermione looked at her, eyes red and rimmed with salt. “You shouldn’t trust me. I’m not—” Her voice faltered. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Pandora tilted her head, her gray eyes thoughtful. “Maybe not,” she said. “But you are here. And I think that matters more.”

Hermione didn’t speak again. She just let the silence hold her as she slowly pulled herself upright, her knees weak but her breathing steady. Pandora remained close, not saying a word, just keeping her steady. Her presence alone was enough.

Outside the Room, the corridor was quiet. The castle had settled into twilight hush, unaware of the storm that had just raged within its walls.

Unbeknownst to either girl, they had not been entirely alone.

Far down the hall, where the shadows deepened and the torches dimmed, Narcissa Black stood still. She had followed Hermione on instinct, curiosity sharpening into something far more complex as she witnessed the way Hermione had fled. And when the Room had opened for her, when she’d glimpsed the crack of light before it closed again, Narcissa had lingered.

She hadn’t expected to hear anything. But she had.

She had heard the broken whispers. The crying. The quiet comfort of another voice. Pandora, unmistakably.

She didn’t try to enter. She hadn’t even approached the door. But as she stood there in the corridor, her arms folded tightly over her chest, something strange coiled in her ribs. Not pity, she would never name it that.

It was… understanding.

And the sudden realization that Hermione Beaumont was more than a mystery to unravel.

She was a wound, carefully hidden.

And Narcissa had just seen it bleed.

Chapter Text

The door to the Room of Requirement vanished behind them.

Hermione walked beside Pandora in silence, their footsteps soft against the stone as the corridors of Hogwarts wrapped around them like an old memory. She hadn’t said much after the panic passed, just a murmured thank you, a few shaky breaths, and the look in her eyes that spoke of pain far older than her seventeen years.

Pandora didn’t ask for details. She didn’t press. She merely walked with her, a quiet, steadfast presence, until they reached the Ravenclaw tower. The common room was mostly empty, the fire crackling low in the grate as moonlight spilled through the tall windows. A few students studied quietly in corners, but no one looked up when the girls entered.

Hermione paused near the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister.

“You should sleep,” Pandora said gently.

Hermione’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You too.”

Pandora hesitated for a second. Then, in an uncharacteristically tender move, she reached out and gave Hermione’s hand a brief, grounding squeeze before slipping up the steps to the dormitory.

Hermione followed shortly after, shedding her robe and sliding beneath the covers. The warmth of the duvet was comforting, but it did little to quiet her thoughts. She stared up at the canopy overhead, listening to the soft breaths of the girls around her and the wind tapping at the high glass windows.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed her.

She dreamed of fire.

Flames licking the sky, the distant screaming of people she couldn’t save. Ron’s voice shouting her name. Harry falling. The Dark Mark stretching across the sky. Bellatrix’s laugh. Bellatrix’s knife. The sting of her wand carving lines of agony into her skin.

She ran. Through rubble, through war. Her lungs burning, legs failing, heart breaking. Over and over again.

A flash of green light.

And then—

She woke up with a strangled gasp.

Her body jolted upright in bed, a choked sob catching in her throat as she clutched her chest, heart pounding against her ribs like a caged thing. Her nightclothes were damp with sweat, and she couldn’t stop the tremble in her fingers.

It took her a second to realize someone was beside her.

Pandora sat on the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed and disheveled, hair falling loosely around her shoulders. One hand was gently stroking Hermione’s curls, the other resting lightly on her blanket-covered leg.

“I heard you,” Pandora said softly, voice scratchy with sleep. “You were crying in your sleep.”

Hermione couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Her throat was tight, her eyes already stinging as emotion surged unbidden through her chest.

Pandora didn’t flinch. She merely shifted closer, curling one leg onto the mattress and reaching to brush a strand of hair away from Hermione’s face.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

That did it.

A sound escaped Hermione. Half sob, half breath, and she bowed her head, hiding her face in her hands as the tears came in earnest. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t wail or cry out. But the quiet, broken sound of her crying was worse somehow. Like the echo of grief that had never quite healed.

Pandora didn’t try to hush her. She didn’t offer platitudes or awkward reassurances. She simply sat there, close and real and present, until Hermione’s tears began to slow and her breathing began to even out.

Hermione wiped at her cheeks, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Pandora shook her head. “Don’t be.”

A long silence passed between them. Then, quietly, Hermione whispered, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Pandora offered a faint smile. “Because it’s easier to carry something when you’re not doing it alone.”

Hermione looked at her for a long moment. Then she said, “I lied.”

Pandora blinked, but didn’t speak.

“My name really is Hermione,” Hermione began, her voice quiet. “But the rest? The transfer story, Beauxbatons, it’s all false.”

Pandora’s eyes searched hers, but again, she said nothing.

“I’m not from this time,” Hermione continued, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to explain it without putting things at risk, but I… I was sent back. By accident. I don’t know how to return, and if I mess up, if anyone finds out, it could ruin everything. History. The war. People’s lives.”

Pandora absorbed it without reaction, as if Hermione had merely told her the sky was blue.

“And that’s why you panic like that?” she asked gently.

Hermione nodded, her throat thick. “The war I came from… it changed everything. I’ve seen people die. Friends. Strangers. I’ve seen what magic can do when it’s used to destroy instead of protect. Sometimes, it feels like I brought the ghosts of that war back with me.”

Pandora reached for her hand again, curling their fingers together.

“I don’t understand all of it,” she admitted. “But I believe you. And I believe you’re here for a reason.”

Hermione gave a watery laugh. “That makes one of us.”

They sat there for a while longer in silence, hands clasped. Outside, dawn began to edge the sky with soft streaks of silver and lavender.

Eventually, Pandora leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s forehead. “Try to sleep a little more,” she said.

Hermione let herself lie back, the pressure in her chest eased just enough. “Will you stay?”

“Of course.”

When her eyes finally drifted shut, Pandora remained beside her, one hand resting atop Hermione’s as the pale light of morning bled into the dormitory.

For the first time in a long time, Hermione didn’t feel entirely alone.

By Monday morning, the rhythm of the castle had returned to its usual hum. Quills scratching in classrooms, robes swishing down the halls, the clang of goblets and cutlery in the Great Hall. But for Hermione, everything still felt just a beat out of sync.

She hadn’t told anyone else what she’d shared with Pandora. The guilt of it pressed heavily on her chest. Not regret, exactly, but fear. Telling anyone about the future carried risk, even someone like Pandora, who had proven herself trustworthy and kind beyond measure. Still, Hermione couldn’t deny the slight lightness in her chest when she remembered how gently Pandora had held her, the simple comfort of not having to carry the weight alone.

But comfort didn’t last at Hogwarts. It never did.

Narcissa had been quiet since the duel, studying her, yes, but from a distance. Now, however, Hermione began to sense a shift. In the library, she felt the phantom pull of Narcissa’s gaze again, sharp and assessing. In the corridors, Hermione would catch glimpses of pale gold hair disappearing just around the corner, as if she were being deliberately followed, yet never confronted. It wasn’t constant. But it was enough to fray her nerves.

She kept her head down in classes, kept her answers measured, careful. She spent less time in the common room and more hours buried in texts about magical theory and obscure time anomalies, even though much of it was painfully outdated. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Trying to research the future from within the past.

It was during a lull between classes that her routine cracked.

She was walking the long corridor toward the Transfiguration courtyard, clutching her textbook tight against her chest, when she felt someone fall into step beside her. She didn’t need to look. The silence was too intentional, too smug.

“Beaumont,” Lucius Malfoy drawled.

Hermione tensed but didn’t stop.

“I must say,” he continued, casually inspecting the emerald cufflinks on his robes, “your background is… fascinating. Beauxbatons, was it? How charmingly provincial.”

She grit her teeth, keeping her steps even. “If you’re trying to impress me with your grasp of geography, don’t bother.”

Lucius chuckled, clearly unbothered. “And to think someone like you managed to disarm me. I imagine you’re still dining on that little victory.”

“I’ve had more important things on my mind,” Hermione said coolly.

“Really?” he said, voice sharpening. “Because from what I hear, you’ve been making quite the impression. Flawless dueling. Perfect marks. Stirring up attention from… certain circles.”

Hermione stopped walking.

Lucius paused beside her, just a step behind, as if waiting for her to turn. She didn’t give him the satisfaction, just tilted her head enough to glance sideways.

“Are you upset you lost,” she said, voice low, “or are you upset that a girl from Beauxbatons outclassed you in front of your peers?”

Lucius’s smile thinned.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re not untouchable here.”

“No,” Hermione said. “But neither are you.”

Their eyes locked. Hers calm and cool, his simmering with insulted pride.

A soft rustle of robes behind them broke the tension.

“That’s enough, Lucius.”

Hermione didn’t turn, but she didn’t need to. She recognized the voice instantly. Narcissa Black stepped forward, her tone polite but biting. “You’re boring her.”

Lucius looked mildly affronted. “I was merely enjoying a conversation.”

“With yourself?” Narcissa arched an eyebrow. “How riveting.”

He glanced between the two of them, irritation flickering behind his eyes. Then, with a half-hearted scoff, he turned and stalked off, his boots echoing sharply against the stone.

Narcissa remained, gaze resting on Hermione. There was something unreadable in her expression. Curiosity still, but no longer edged with only suspicion. Something about it felt more… personal.

“You shouldn’t let him get under your skin,” Narcissa said after a moment.

“I’m not sure I have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Narcissa replied smoothly. “You just have to know how to control the board.”

Hermione studied her carefully. “Is that what I am to you? A piece on a board?”

Narcissa’s smile was subtle, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m still deciding.”

She didn’t elaborate. She turned with a soft sweep of her robes and disappeared around the bend, leaving Hermione standing in the corridor with the unsettling awareness that whatever quiet peace she’d briefly found was slipping through her fingers again.

That evening, she tried to focus in the library, but her mind kept returning to Narcissa’s words. Her tone, her calculated distance, the way she always seemed one step ahead. It felt like the Slytherin girl was laying the groundwork for something Hermione couldn’t see yet. And Hermione hated being the one without a strategy.

“You’re fidgeting again,” Pandora murmured, not looking up from the inked runes she was tracing.

Hermione stilled her hand, realizing her fingers had been drumming a tense rhythm against the tabletop. “Sorry,” she said, exhaling slowly. “I just… I don’t know what Narcissa wants.”

“She wants to figure you out,” Pandora said simply. “But not because she hates you.”

That earned Hermione’s attention.

“She doesn’t?” she asked, surprised.

Pandora looked up, thoughtful. “No. I think she respects you. Maybe even admires you. Narcissa’s never been one to waste time on people she doesn’t find worthy.”

Hermione wasn’t sure whether that made her feel better or worse.

Later that night, as she lay in bed, staring at the canopy above, the quiet crept in again. Not the soothing silence of sleep, but that suffocating kind that carried unspoken things. Warnings. Observations. Promises not yet made but already implied.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, willing the heaviness in her chest to dissipate. But it lingered, like smoke from a dying fire.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Narcissa.

Not just the girl she saw now. The sharp, poised sixth-year Slytherin with a cutting gaze and a tongue like a scalpel, but the woman she remembered from her own time. The mother who stood beside Voldemort, silent and cold, her beauty hollowed by the choices she’d made. The woman who had walked through blood and betrayal with her head high and her secrets buried deep.

But even then, even then, Narcissa Malfoy had surprised her. She had lied to the Dark Lord. Risked everything for her son. She had spared Hermione’s life by omission, that day in the Manor. There had been steel beneath the ice, but also something else. Something fragile, hidden like a blade beneath silk.

Now, seeing her younger, unweathered, and still full of edges not yet worn smooth by war, it was disorienting. This Narcissa was not the same. But echoes of her were there: the restraint, the calculation, the relentless need for control.

And something else, too.

Curiosity.

Attention.

A pull that Hermione couldn’t explain, much less silence.

It frightened her more than she cared to admit.

Because she knew what Narcissa was capable of becoming. But this version, untouched by the darkness of the years ahead, was still forming. Still choosing. And every interaction between them was another nudge along that path.

Hermione opened her eyes again, blinking up at the dim canopy. The darkness pressed in like a question she didn’t have an answer for.

Was she here to survive?

Or had she already started interfering?

The game was changing. And whatever Narcissa was playing at… Hermione had just been invited into the next round.

The following morning brought a heavy mist that clung low over the Hogwarts grounds, casting the castle in a soft, gray shroud. Hermione lingered in the Ravenclaw common room longer than usual, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea as the fire crackled gently beside her. The warmth was welcome, but her thoughts were already racing ahead. Assignments, cover stories, and the increasingly complex choreography required to keep her secrets hidden.

Pandora had long since gone down to breakfast, leaving Hermione alone with the quiet scratch of quills and the occasional page turning. She appreciated the solitude, even if it couldn’t fully calm the tension humming beneath her skin. She’d slept, but only lightly, waking often. The encounter with Narcissa, cryptic and calm as it had seemed, had disturbed her more than she wanted to admit.

Hermione didn’t trust her. She couldn’t. Not with the stakes this high.

By the time she arrived in Transfiguration, the classroom was already half-full. She took a seat near the front, pretending not to notice Narcissa two rows behind her. But she felt her. Like gravity.

Professor McGonagall strode in with her usual precision, her tartan robes billowing behind her, and within minutes, the lesson was underway. Today’s subject: human-to-object transformation. A deeply complex topic Hermione had studied extensively before. She forced herself to focus, scribbling notes with mechanical accuracy as McGonagall demonstrated converting a lock of hair into a quill.

As Hermione turned her attention to her own practice, she could feel Narcissa watching her again. Not constantly, not overtly, but just enough. As if taking her measurements. Hermione’s quill trembled slightly in her hand before she steadied it. She couldn’t afford to let herself be rattled. Not here. Not now.

“Miss Beaumont,” McGonagall called, inspecting her work after a few rounds of wand movements. “Excellent control. You’re clearly ahead of the curriculum.”

Hermione gave a tight smile. “Thank you, Professor.”

A few whispers floated behind her. She caught her name once. Twice. When she risked a glance, it wasn’t Narcissa who was speaking, it was one of her classmates, a dark-haired Slytherin girl with a pointed expression. Narcissa, for once, wasn’t looking at her. She was watching the transfigured quill with a curiously focused expression.

After class, Hermione gathered her things quickly and left without lingering. She’d grown adept at slipping through corridors quickly, moving like water around obstacles. Still, the growing sense that eyes were always just behind her made her nerves sing.

She ducked into a side hall near the second-floor landing and leaned against the cool stone wall, steadying herself. Just one breath. Then another.

The paranoia wasn’t unwarranted. She knew how these things started. Whispers. Questions. A pattern of glances. And once the right, or wrong, person decided to dig deeper, everything could unravel.

“Is this what it’s like to be prey?” she muttered under her breath. “Watched until you trip.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words echoed in the stone corridor like prophecy.

Hermione took the long way down to lunch, skipping the Grand Staircase in favor of a narrow servants’ passage that led into the back of the Great Hall. She didn’t want to be surrounded. Not right now.

The noise of the hall greeted her as she stepped inside, a hundred conversations blending into a constant hum. She slipped into her usual seat at the Ravenclaw table, letting Pandora chatter about a Divination reading that had gone wildly off-course. Hermione smiled where appropriate, nodding, but her eyes kept drifting.

Narcissa was not at the Slytherin table. Lucius was, flanked by his usual circle of pure-blood admirers, his laughter sharp and hollow as it rang out over something someone had said. But no Narcissa.

Hermione stared for a moment too long.

“You’re doing it again,” Pandora said softly, without looking up.

Hermione blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking for her.”

Hermione froze, the words catching her off guard.

“I’m not—” she started, but stopped.

Pandora didn’t push. She simply popped a grape into her mouth and continued reading from a folded-up parchment. But her words stayed with Hermione long after the meal ended.

Looking for her.

It wasn’t wrong. Not entirely. Narcissa’s absence had registered the moment Hermione stepped into the room, and that in itself was unsettling.

But the next class came and went, and Narcissa reappeared. Cool, poised, late but unbothered. She slipped into her seat in Ancient Runes like nothing had happened, and Professor Seshat didn’t so much as blink. Hermione couldn’t help watching her from across the aisle. Narcissa didn’t look her way once.

It would have been easier if she had.

Because it meant Hermione wouldn’t be left wondering what Narcissa had spent that hour doing.

By the time the final bell rang, Hermione was exhausted. She moved on instinct back toward the Ravenclaw Tower, letting the halls carry her through their shifting rhythm of footfalls and low voices. She reached the spiral stairs just before sunset, the light pouring through the high windows painting long gold streaks across the floor.

Inside the common room, Pandora was sprawled in a chair, a book upside down in her lap.

“You look like you’ve been chased by a banshee,” she remarked without looking up.

Hermione gave a dry laugh. “Feels about right.”

Pandora watched her for a moment before scooting over to make room on the armrest beside her. “Sit,” she said. “Talk. Or stew silently. Your choice.”

Hermione hesitated, then sat.

She didn’t talk, not at first. But Pandora didn’t fill the silence either. She just stayed beside her, comfortably present, and let Hermione sink into her thoughts.

The fire crackled quietly. Outside, the sky deepened into hues of indigo.

Eventually, Hermione murmured, “She knows something. Or she’s getting close.”

Pandora didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.

“Then maybe it’s time you stopped playing defense,” Pandora said after a beat.

Hermione turned to her, startled. “What are you saying?”

Pandora gave her a soft, strange smile. “I’m saying… puzzles go both ways, Hermione. Maybe you should start solving hers.”

Hermione didn’t respond. But her gaze drifted back to the firelight, and the reflection of gold flickered in her eyes like the beginning of something dangerous.

Something inevitable.

Chapter Text

The early morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of the Ravenclaw common room, casting long shadows over the scattered books and parchment strewn across Hermione’s table. The room was quiet except for the occasional crackle from the dying embers of the fireplace, but despite the calm, Hermione’s mind was anything but peaceful.

She sat hunched over a stack of ancient texts, her quill poised above a notebook filled with her careful, neat handwriting. Every so often, her eyes flicked to the heavy oak door as if expecting it to swing open at any moment. The day stretched ahead with the promise of more encounters with Narcissa Black,  the ever-present shadow she couldn’t seem to shake.

It had been two days since that charged conversation in the library, and though Narcissa hadn’t spoken to her since, her silent scrutiny was relentless. Hermione could feel it in every glance cast her way during meals, every class where their eyes met across the room. More than once, Hermione had caught Narcissa’s gaze lingering with that faint, inscrutable smirk, the kind that promised both challenge and something unspoken.

Hermione swallowed the irritation tightening in her chest and returned to her notes. The cryptic fragments she was chasing about ancient time magic and defensive charms seemed more elusive than ever. Her research was meant to be a refuge, a distraction, but the growing tension with Narcissa made it difficult to focus.

A soft voice broke through her thoughts.

“She’s still watching,” Pandora whispered, settling down beside Hermione with a casual grace that belied her keen awareness. “At breakfast, in class… even when you think she’s looking away.”

Hermione glanced up, meeting Pandora’s silvery gaze. “I know,” she said, a dry edge to her voice. “It’s maddening.”

Pandora grinned faintly. “It’s like a game to her.”

Hermione gave a humorless laugh. “More like a test. But for what? And why me?”

Pandora shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe she’s bored. Maybe she’s curious. Or maybe she just likes puzzles that don’t come with instructions.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but said nothing. The truth was, she didn’t know how to respond. Narcissa was a riddle wrapped in elegance and danger, and Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to solve it.

Their conversation was cut short by the sudden arrival of Professor Slughorn, who swept into the common room with his usual exuberance.

“Ah, Miss Beaumont, Miss Lovegood! A word if you please,” he called, beckoning them toward the door with a theatrical wave of his hand.

Hermione exchanged a wary glance with Pandora before following the professor down the corridor to the Potions classroom.

Inside, the familiar scent of herbs and simmering concoctions filled the air. Slughorn’s eyes twinkled as he announced, “Today’s project will be a partnered assignment, and I’ve taken the liberty of pairing some of you myself.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened as he added with a flourish, “Miss Beaumont, you will be working with Miss Black.”

From the corner of her eye, Hermione caught Narcissa’s graceful rise from her seat. The faintest flicker of amusement danced across her pale features as she approached.

“Fate does have a sense of humor,” Narcissa murmured as she took her place beside Hermione.

Hermione forced a polite smile. “So it seems.”

The first moments were awkward silence as they set about gathering ingredients. Hermione’s hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to focus on the task.

Narcissa broke the quiet, her voice smooth as silk. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“Focused,” Hermione replied curtly, eyes fixed on the cauldron.

A faint smile curved Narcissa’s lips. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

Hermione resisted the urge to glare. “I’m simply concentrating.”

“Of course,” Narcissa said lightly. “But don’t let that focus blind you to what’s around you. Sometimes the smallest details matter most.”

Hermione felt a flush rise to her cheeks but said nothing.

As they worked, Narcissa’s subtle provocations continued. Little comments that skirted the edge between teasing and challenge.

“You have a remarkable precision,” she said, watching Hermione measure crushed beetle eyes. “I wonder, is there anything you aren’t good at?”

Hermione met her gaze steadily. “I’m sure there is.”

“Doubtful,” Narcissa replied, a glint in her eye. “You’re quite the enigma, Beaumont.”

The rest of the class passed in a haze of simmering potions and thinly veiled tension. Narcissa’s eyes never strayed far from Hermione, and the unspoken game between them hung in the air like a charged wire.

By the end of the day, Hermione felt both drained and oddly exhilarated. Narcissa’s attention was a weight she could neither discard nor fully understand, but she sensed it was only the beginning.

As she walked back toward the Ravenclaw common room, Pandora fell into step beside her.

“She’s playing with you,” Pandora said softly.

Hermione sighed, her mind spinning. “I just don’t know the rules yet.”

Pandora’s mischievous smile was the last thing Hermione saw before the heavy common room door closed behind them, the flickering firelight casting shadows that promised more mysteries to come.

Professor Flitwick stood on his usual stack of books, beaming as he addressed the Charms class. “For today’s demonstration, we’ll be practicing advanced nonverbal charms in pairs. Concentration and coordination are key!”

Hermione had barely finished writing the date in her notebook when the words she’d been dreading left Flitwick’s mouth:

“Miss Beaumont, Miss Black, you’ll be working together.”

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat. Of course.

Narcissa rose from her seat across the room with the languid grace of someone who had expected this all along. She approached Hermione’s desk, chin tilted in a way that suggested she found the entire situation both amusing and inevitable.

“Again,” she said lightly as she stopped beside her. “It’s starting to feel like fate.”

“More like a cosmic joke,” Hermione replied smoothly, gathering her wand and standing. “One I’m rapidly growing tired of.”

Narcissa gave a soft chuckle, pleased. “Much better. I was beginning to worry you’d lost your tongue.”

They took their position near the center of the room, facing each other. Hermione kept her posture precise, wand at her side, her gaze fixed. Not defiant, but unshakable. Narcissa mirrored her, her expression calm, with just the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Flitwick clapped his hands. “First, simple Shield Charms. Alternate casting and blocking. Begin!”

Narcissa moved first. A wand flick, silent and sharp. Hermione reacted instantly, blocking it with a smooth upward gesture. Protego. The spell deflected with a faint shimmer.

“My, quick reflexes,” Narcissa said, her tone casual but focused. “Beauxbatons training must be rigorous.”

“Or maybe I just don’t like being hexed,” Hermione replied, sending her own charm forward, subtle and swift.

Narcissa caught it with a deft flick of her wrist. “Defensive and evasive,” she murmured. “Very diplomatic. But don’t you ever get bored playing safe?”

“I like to win,” Hermione said. “Without theatrics.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Winning’s easy. Winning gracefully is the real challenge.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Says the girl who tried to duel me with her hair still perfectly curled.”

That earned a faint huff of amusement. “You noticed.”

“It was hard not to, what with the dramatic wind and all.”

Their next exchange came quicker, spell after spell, subtle jinxes and counter-charms, parried without a word. They moved in rhythm now, balanced in power but opposites in style. Hermione was precise, economical. Narcissa was fluid, elegant, deceptively languid.

“Careful,” Narcissa said after parrying a Disarming Charm that sent a breeze ruffling her robes. “People might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’d have to be off my mind to enjoy this.”

“And yet,” Narcissa murmured, stepping lightly to the side, “you haven’t asked Flitwick to reassign you. Not once.”

Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened—but only slightly. “You don’t scare me.”

“I never claimed I did.” Narcissa’s voice was low, but it carried, dark silk wrapped around steel. “But you’re curious.”

Hermione hesitated for the barest second before replying. “Curious, yes. About how someone can be so intelligent and still waste her time with smug commentary.”

“Ouch,” Narcissa said, mock wounded. “And here I thought we were getting on so well.”

Flitwick’s voice called out above the murmuring of other students. “Wonderful work, Miss Black, Miss Beaumont! Now, reverse the dynamic. Miss Beaumont, you lead.”

Hermione’s wand moved before the final syllable fell from his mouth. A jinx, quick and clever, aimed low. Narcissa blocked it, but not before her foot slid half a step back.

Narcissa’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, gleaming. “Feeling bold today.”

Hermione smirked, and for a second, she saw something spark in Narcissa’s expression. Not anger, not mockery, but interest. Unsettling and undeniable.

As the demonstration wrapped up, Narcissa lowered her wand and stepped a little closer. Not close enough to breach decorum, but enough to ensure Hermione heard her next words clearly.

“You’re changing your strategy,” she said, voice low. “Not just reacting anymore. You’re probing.”

Hermione met her gaze. “Maybe I’ve decided I’m done playing defense.”

Narcissa studied her for a long moment. “Careful,” she said at last. “You might find you like the game after all.”

Before Hermione could reply, Flitwick dismissed them, and the classroom began to empty. Narcissa turned without waiting and walked away with that signature Slytherin poise, unhurried, entirely in control.

Hermione remained still, her heart beating just a touch faster than it should have been.

Later, as she and Pandora made their way through the entrance hall, the Ravenclaw girl cast her a knowing glance. “She’s not trying to annoy you anymore,” Pandora said.

Hermione sighed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“No,” Pandora said, grinning. “She’s trying to see how far she can push you. How sharp your edges are.”

“I should start charging admission,” Hermione muttered.

“You should start admitting she’s getting under your skin.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but she didn’t deny it either.

Because Pandora was right. This wasn’t just hostility anymore. It was something else. And as much as Hermione hated to admit it, she had started to push back. Not out of necessity.

But because she wanted to.

Hermione sat tucked into a far alcove beneath a narrow arched window, stacks of musty volumes rising around her like makeshift walls. The sun had dipped below the horizon an hour ago, but she hadn’t noticed. The only light came from the tip of her wand, balanced carefully in a goblet beside her parchment. Shadows stretched over the pages, curling like smoke across the ink.

It had been a long day of back-and-forths and subtle games with Narcissa. A day of glances, taunts, and questions laced in honeyed barbs. But Hermione had neither the energy nor the inclination to dissect Narcissa Black tonight.

Not when the deeper threat, the truth of her presence here, still loomed like a dagger suspended above her head.

She flipped the brittle page of a book so old it didn’t list an author, only the fading title: Chrono-Magicks: An Unverified Treatise. The section she’d marked was filled with inconsistent theories on temporal elasticity, causal loops, and something called “time compression slippage”, none of which were cited, of course. Most of the references were vague gestures to unnamed foreign scholars or long-lost prophecies.

Still, it was more than she’d had yesterday.

She dipped her quill and began copying the more coherent fragments onto her own parchment, frowning at a particularly strange passage:

”…whereby those who are unmoored from their origin point may find themselves increasingly untethered, chronologically, psychologically. The magic frays around them like threads in a loom, weakening the stability of the host timeline.”

Hermione paused, letting the ink dry as unease coiled in her gut. She didn’t want to consider what “psychological untethering” might look like.

She had already caught herself slipping in ways that frightened her. Dreams she didn’t remember upon waking, moments where the names of people she loved caught in her throat like foreign words. Once, she had written “Beaumont” without thinking, signing a page she meant to mark with her real name.

She couldn’t afford to lose herself. Not here. Not now.

She leaned back and rubbed at her temples, her mind aching with too many half-theories and dead ends.

No one in this era even knew what a Time-Turner was.

Which meant she was utterly, completely alone in solving this.

She bit her lip, glancing to the right, where another book, Harmonic Structures of Magical Interference, sat half-read. She’d chased down a theory yesterday that fluctuations in ambient magic might be tracked through resonant artifact patterns. If she could isolate the signature from the Time-Turner, she might be able to…

No.

That theory fell apart when she remembered how little equipment she had access to here. There were no Arithmancy detection labs. No Department of Mysteries. No magical harmonic scanners. And she couldn’t exactly waltz up to Dumbledore or Slughorn and ask for help without unraveling everything.

Hermione sat forward again and pulled another book toward her. This one was more promising, or at least more grounded: Advanced Theoretical Spell Weaving, by a witch who’d clearly taken her research seriously. The final chapter was dense with notes on magical stability matrices, the kind she had seen used in experimental anchoring charms.

If she could find a way to reinforce her temporal signature, perhaps she could stop the fraying—at least temporarily. Buy herself time. Create a magical tether that slowed whatever unraveling had begun the moment she landed here.

She copied several lines into her notes, her mind working faster now, chasing a thread of logic she hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t a solution, yet. But it was a direction.

And right now, that felt like hope.

A scraping sound startled her, just a shifting chair from somewhere across the library. She held her breath until she was certain it wasn’t footsteps. Madam Blishwick, the evening librarian, had already locked the main door. Hermione had quietly cast a mild Notice-Me-Not charm hours ago, just in case. She couldn’t afford interruptions. Not tonight.

She glanced again at the quote she’d copied earlier about being “untethered.” Her chest ached a little.

The truth was, she didn’t just feel untethered from her time, she felt untethered from herself.

Each passing day made it harder to remember who she was when she wasn’t Hermione Beaumont. She missed the war-torn bravery of her friends, the bitter strength of resistance, the quiet pain in Harry’s eyes that told her she wasn’t alone in her grief. She missed knowing where she stood. What she was fighting for.

Here, in this place and time, she had to smile and perform. She had to play a Ravenclaw. Play a student. Play a girl who didn’t already know how the future would break and burn.

And now there was Narcissa.

The way she watched Hermione like they were playing chess. Like she’d already made the first move before Hermione knew there was a board at all.

Hermione clenched her quill tighter and dipped it again in ink. Focus.

Answers existed. Somewhere. She just had to stay one step ahead of time, and two steps ahead of the people watching her.

She would not disappear.

She would not unravel.

She would find a way back.

Even if it killed her.

Chapter Text

Hogsmeade weekends were meant to be a reprieve, a chance to wander cobbled streets, sip warm butterbeer, and pretend, just for a few hours, that the world outside didn’t exist. For Hermione, though, this weekend was about one thing: distance. Specifically, distance from a certain Slytherin with a razor-edged smirk and eyes that saw far too much.

The October wind ruffled her scarf as she strolled beside Pandora down the high street, boots crunching on loose gravel and fallen leaves. Around them, students laughed, clustered around storefronts, and darted into shops heavy with sweets, quills, and practical jokes. Pandora was chattering beside her, hands moving animatedly as she described her latest theory about love potions and their possible link to divinatory compatibility.

Hermione was only half-listening, nodding where appropriate, trying to stay tethered to the conversation.

“No brooding today,” Pandora suddenly declared, jabbing Hermione lightly in the arm. “Fun only. Preferably involving sugar. And absolutely no mysterious Slytherin heiresses.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Agreed.” She slowed outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop and gave Pandora a small smile. “I’ll be quick. Meet you back here in ten?”

Pandora nodded, already craning her neck toward Zonko’s down the road. “Perfect. Try not to pick a fight with anyone over ink viscosity.”

Inside, the quiet hum of magic and the dry scent of parchment was a balm. Hermione drifted through the narrow aisles, picking out fresh quills, a new inkwell, and a small, hex-proof charm to keep her notes safe. The clerk gave her a knowing look when she bought the reinforced journal, but didn’t ask questions.

When she stepped back into the street, her eyes immediately scanned for Pandora, but stopped short when she spotted her friend halfway down the road. Pandora was laughing with a boy Hermione recognized but hadn’t yet spoken to: Xenophilius Lovegood. Tall, awkward, all limbs and windblown blond hair. His dreamy expression didn’t seem to bother Pandora at all. She was grinning, twirling a strand of her hair, animated in a way Hermione hadn’t seen before.

Hermione smiled faintly. They looked good together, oddly matched, but balanced somehow. She hesitated, debating whether to interrupt, then turned away.

Better to let her have her moment.

The further she walked from the village square, the quieter things became. Hogwarts’ silhouette still loomed far beyond the trees, but here, along the path leading toward the Black Lake, the sounds of chatter and shop bells faded, replaced by rustling leaves and the soft lap of water. Hermione let the silence settle over her, breathing in the sharp, piney air.

She didn’t have a destination in mind. Her feet led her along the shoreline, and when she spotted a cove nestled between two large boulders, partially obscured by trees, she followed her curiosity.

The space was small but beautiful. The lake’s surface shimmered gold with late afternoon sunlight, and the trees surrounding the inlet filtered the light just enough to make everything feel a little removed from reality. A sanctuary.

She sat on a flat rock at the edge of the shore, setting down her shopping bag beside her and pulling her knees up to her chest. The stone was cool beneath her, and the breeze lifted strands of hair from her face. For a while, she just sat there, watching the ripples move across the water.

No books. No timelines. No Slytherin stares.

Just quiet.

She kicked off her boots and dipped her toes into the lake, wincing at the cold before letting her feet sink in deeper. The chill wasn’t unpleasant, just enough to make her feel awake. Alive.

On impulse, Hermione rose and stripped down to her underthings, folding her uniform neatly beside her boots. She stepped fully into the lake, gasping at the way the cold wrapped around her legs like silk. It was a ridiculous idea, completely out of character, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

The water reached her shoulders as she leaned back and floated, arms spread wide, curls fanning around her. Above her, the trees swayed gently against the sun, and the water cradled her like a secret. She closed her eyes.

This was what she needed. Not just distance, but weightlessness. A moment without fear or pressure or eyes watching her every move.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the rustle of leaves behind her, like a shift in the wind. But then—

“Well, well.”

Hermione froze. Her eyes snapped open as she twisted in the water. A figure stood at the edge of the cove, leaning against a tree like she owned the world.

Narcissa Black.

Of course.

Hermione instinctively sank lower into the water, her arms tightening around herself as she leveled the most unimpressed glare she could manage in her current state of vulnerability. “Do you make a habit of lurking in the woods?” she asked tightly.

Narcissa raised a perfectly arched brow. “Not usually. But I find it pays to follow one’s instincts. They often lead to… interesting discoveries.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, though whether from embarrassment or irritation, she couldn’t tell. “This spot was supposed to be private.”

“Clearly not private enough.” Narcissa tilted her head, her silver-blonde hair gleaming like moonlight against the backdrop of green. “Though I do admire your choice. It’s peaceful. Tucked away. Discreet.”

She said that last word with meaning, and Hermione bristled.

“If you’re here to make fun of me,” she snapped, “you can turn around and leave.”

“But why would I do that,” Narcissa mused, slowly stepping closer, her boots crunching over damp pine needles, “when I’m clearly witnessing something so rare? A Ravenclaw letting her guard down. It’s almost… humanizing.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You say that like I’m usually robotic.”

“You say that like it isn’t true,” Narcissa countered lightly, her mouth curving into an infuriatingly elegant smirk.

Hermione groaned inwardly and glanced toward the folded clothes by the shoreline, just out of reach. “If you’d kindly look the other way, I’d like to get out.”

Narcissa made no move to turn. “I rather think the discomfort is the point.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Narcissa said with a slow blink, “you haven’t hexed me. Or screamed. Or summoned your friend from Zonko’s to come chase me off. Curious, isn’t it?”

Hermione ground her teeth. “It’s because I’m trying to maintain my dignity. Not because I enjoy your company.”

Narcissa’s eyes danced with amusement. “Oh, Hermione,” she said, drawing out the name deliberately. “Dignity isn’t the absence of chaos. It’s how well you wear it.”

Hermione sputtered, caught between rage and reluctant amusement. She hated how easily Narcissa could twist a conversation, how a single sentence could leave her off-balance and unsure whether she was being insulted or complimented. Possibly both.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

Narcissa smiled, but there was something quieter about it now, something less sharp. She stepped away from the water’s edge and finally turned her back. “I’ll give you a moment.”

Hermione stared at her, suspicious but grateful. She waded out of the lake quickly, drying herself with a quick spell and tugging her uniform back on with hands that trembled more from adrenaline than cold. By the time she fastened her robes, Narcissa was sitting on a fallen log a few feet away, idly plucking at a leaf.

“You could’ve just left,” Hermione said cautiously, approaching her.

“I could’ve,” Narcissa agreed, brushing leaf dust from her skirt. “But I didn’t.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Why not?”

Narcissa looked up at her. The mischief from earlier had cooled into something unreadable. “You intrigue me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m offering,” Narcissa said simply. “Don’t act so surprised, Hermione. You keep secrets, you deflect questions, you’re clearly more trained than someone your age has any right to be, and you don’t flinch when confronted, even in… compromising circumstances.”

Hermione froze, her breath catching.

“You’re not what you pretend to be,” Narcissa continued, her voice now softer, more speculative. “And I don’t know what the truth is, but I know it’s there.”

Hermione’s pulse thudded in her ears. “You don’t know anything.”

“Not yet,” Narcissa said, unfazed. “But I will.”

There was no malice in her tone, no overt threat. Just a quiet promise, like a chess player announcing check before the final move. It should’ve terrified Hermione. Instead, it sent a strange thrill through her. Half fear, half anticipation.

“I’m not your puzzle,” she said firmly.

“Oh, I disagree,” Narcissa replied, standing and dusting her hands. “You’re the most interesting puzzle I’ve encountered in years.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Narcissa stepped close. Close enough that Hermione could smell lavender and parchment and something faintly metallic, like old wards or lightning just before a storm.

“You should be more careful,” Narcissa said, her voice low. “Secrets have a way of slipping, especially when we’re not watching.”

Hermione swallowed, trying to keep her expression neutral.

Narcissa leaned in just a fraction closer. “Though I must say… you wear mystery well.”

Then she turned and walked away without another word, her departure as deliberate as her arrival.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, her breath shallow. The trees rustled gently, the lake behind her still rippling from her exit. The encounter hadn’t been loud, hadn’t escalated, but it had shaken something loose.

Narcissa wasn’t just watching her anymore. She was playing again.

And Hermione, despite every rational instinct, was already moving her next piece.

The walk back to Hogsmeade felt longer than it had earlier that morning. Hermione kept her hands tucked tightly into her robe sleeves, her shoulders tense, her pace brisk. The autumn sun had dipped behind a bank of clouds, casting a gray pall over the cobbled streets. It might have been her imagination, but even the air felt heavier now, like it had soaked up the weight of her encounter with Narcissa.

She passed by the edge of the crowd near Honeydukes, scanning briefly for Pandora, but found no sign of her. For a moment, Hermione debated looking, but her nerves were stretched taut and raw, and she couldn’t bear to smile and pretend everything was fine.

So instead, she took the long path back toward Hogwarts alone, keeping to the side of the road, away from groups of chattering students. Her shoes crunched over gravel. Somewhere nearby, a crow cawed once and fell silent.

Every so often, her thoughts flickered back to the lake. To the curve of Narcissa’s smirk. To the silence that followed her parting words.

You wear mystery well.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, irritated with herself. She’d handled Death Eaters and war generals and had stood across from Voldemort with a wand in hand. And yet Narcissa Black, seventeen-year-old Narcissa Black, had the uncanny ability to unravel her with a single look.

It wasn’t just the scrutiny, or the danger she posed if she ever uncovered the truth. It was something else, something deeper Hermione didn’t have a name for. Something that pressed against the inside of her ribcage and refused to be ignored.

By the time the castle came into view, the sharp ache behind Hermione’s eyes had started to spread down her spine. She crossed the Entrance Hall quickly, ignoring the muffled conversations drifting in from the Great Hall, and took the stairs two at a time up to Ravenclaw Tower.

Inside the common room, the fire burned low, and the early dusk cast long golden shadows across the polished stone. A few students were scattered in corners, flipping through textbooks or chatting quietly. Hermione made her way past them and up the winding stairs to her dormitory, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary.

Only once she was alone did she allow herself to breathe properly.

She sat on the edge of her bed, fingers clutching at the duvet. Her hair was still damp at the ends, curling wildly from the water, and her boots were flecked with dried mud from the lakeside. She stared at her reflection in the windowpane, watching her chest rise and fall too quickly.

“Get it together,” she whispered to herself.

This couldn’t keep happening. The back-and-forth with Narcissa, the subtle provocations, the smirks, the too-long glances, it was all dangerous. It was a game Narcissa was playing with elegance and confidence, but Hermione wasn’t here to play. She had a mission. She had a timeline to protect.

She needed to start acting like it.

With a new surge of determination, Hermione rose from the bed and pulled her trunk toward her. Beneath a neatly folded layer of books and parchment, tucked into a false bottom she had charmed herself, was the broken Time-Turner. Dumbledore finally agreed to return it to her, seeing as it was very obviously unusable. It glinted faintly in the dim light like something ancient and haunted.

Hermione took it out slowly, her thumb brushing over the jagged edges of the shattered glass. The device hummed faintly in her hand, less a sound than a vibration, like it was remembering what it had been. What it had done.

She didn’t know why she hadn’t buried it in the forest weeks ago.

Maybe some small part of her still hoped it could be salvaged. Or maybe, deep down, she was terrified that if she destroyed it, she’d also be destroying her only way home.

She opened her notebook and flipped past the pages filled with class notes and diagrams until she reached the section she’d started a few nights ago: “Temporal Magic: Theory, Decay, and Reconstruction.”

The handwriting here was messier, more rushed. More desperate. She skimmed her notes, notations on unstable magical feedback, on ancient rune combinations that might stabilize arcane relics, on magical resonance between enchanted metal and ley lines.

None of it was concrete. Most of it was speculation.

Still, she turned the page and began writing again, her quill scratching furiously over the parchment. If she couldn’t fix the Time-Turner directly, perhaps she could find a magical tether. A focal point. She’d once read about enchanted mirrors. Artifacts designed to reflect more than just the physical world.

What if there was a magical anchor hidden somewhere in Hogwarts’ long and shadowed history? A place or object that could resonate with her, someone displaced in time?

Her thoughts spiraled quickly, each new theory building on the last, until she had half a dozen lines of scribbled possibilities. She didn’t realize how much time had passed until the dormitory door creaked open.

Pandora peeked inside, her hair wind-tousled and cheeks pink from the cold. “You didn’t come find me,” she said softly.

Hermione hesitated, then offered a tired smile. “Sorry. I just… needed to think.”

Pandora stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She said nothing for a moment, then walked over to Hermione’s bed and sat down beside her. Her eyes fell to the open notebook, to the jagged metal in Hermione’s hand. “You’re still trying,” she murmured.

Hermione nodded. “I have to.”

Pandora didn’t press. She reached forward and gently took Hermione’s free hand, twining their fingers together. “Whatever you’re carrying,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

Hermione looked down at their hands, the contact grounding her more than she expected. She wasn’t ready to tell Pandora everything. But this, this small moment of shared quiet, was enough for now.

Outside the window, the sky faded into violet twilight. Inside, Hermione let herself breathe.

Tomorrow, Narcissa would return to the game. But tonight, she still had her own pieces left to play.

Chapter Text

The quiet of the library wrapped around Hermione like a second skin.

It was the kind of stillness only early Sunday mornings could bring. No rustle of gossiping students, no scraping of chairs or heavy-footed prefects pacing the corridors. Just the soft, papery hush of parchment turning and the occasional creak of a book spine as it surrendered to being opened once again.

Hermione sat curled in the back corner of the library, tucked beside the narrow window that overlooked the frost-silvered lawn. A stack of tomes loomed on either side of her, haphazard and uneven, their contents marked with floating bookmarks and annotated parchment slips. Ancient runes, theories on magical elasticity, obscure wizarding treatises on space-time paradoxes; none of them held the answer she needed, but all of them danced around it, like stars circling a dark hole of knowledge too dangerous to name.

She dipped her quill again, scratching furiously across a fresh scroll.

Temporal theory is inherently unstable without fixed anchoring. Magical loci, particularly ancient ones, might offer a stabilizing force. See notes on arcane tethers (page 486, Thistlewaite).

She paused, frowning. No. That wasn’t quite right. Anchoring wouldn’t solve the issue with the Time-Turner’s broken rotation. It was the rebound effect she hadn’t accounted for, the temporal recoil that had thrown her so violently backward and left her stranded in a decade that should have been lost to her.

She exhaled, the breath fogging faintly in the cold.

The table before her looked like a battlefield. Ink-stained fingers, sore eyes, cramped shoulders. A slightly crumpled sketch of the inner mechanics of the shattered Time-Turner sat near her elbow, ringed in jagged annotations and question marks.

“This can’t be it,” she whispered to herself, flipping through another volume. “There has to be something I’ve missed.”

Her stomach grumbled in protest, but she ignored it, leaning over the open text. The words swam. Her body ached. The scratch of quill and turning of pages were the only things tethering her to the present moment, such as it was.

A soft hum broke the silence.

Pandora.

She perched on the opposite edge of the table with the grace of someone who didn’t realize she was intruding, though Hermione suspected she absolutely did. The other girl had a knack for slipping in and out of scenes like a dream, only half-rooted in reality.

“You know,” Pandora said, twirling a strange blue quill between her fingers, “most people take Sundays off.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Most people don’t have to repair a shattered time-travel device using texts that were probably written before the invention of arithmancy.”

“Mmm. Fair point.” Pandora leaned over, tilting her head to scan Hermione’s diagram. “Is this the bit that nearly flung you into the tapestry last night?”

“Among other things,” Hermione muttered.

Pandora tilted her head again. “Well, if you end up exploding, I’ll make sure the Ravenclaw memorial statue they build is flattering.”

Hermione sighed, finally allowing a smile. “Thank you for that comforting thought.”

“Anytime.” Pandora hopped lightly off the table. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’ve decided I simply must investigate the sixth-floor ghost corridor. There’s something terribly poetic happening with a mirror and a poltergeist up there.”

Hermione waved her off halfheartedly, already diving back into her notes.

She lost track of time again.

The sun arced slowly overhead, filtering through the high windows and casting long stripes across her work. Eventually, the shadows deepened, and the golden hour began to stain the corners of the parchment. Hermione blinked against the gathering dim, rubbing her sore eyes. She reached for the next book, only to realize her hand trembled slightly.

She paused, registering the subtle tremor, and then the hollow weight in her belly.

Had she eaten today?

She looked down at the cold ink on her scroll and tried to remember the last time she’d had a proper meal. Breakfast? No. Maybe tea with Pandora yesterday, before the astronomy tower reading? But today, nothing. A half-forgotten cup of tea in the morning, maybe. Nothing else.

She’d missed lunch. She’d missed dinner.

Again.

Her quill rolled off the edge of the table and clattered to the floor.

Hermione pressed her fingertips to her temple, willing the fuzziness in her thoughts to retreat. She had meant to rest. She always meant to. But the work never ended. Every hour felt like one more brick in the wall she was building between herself and failure.

And she couldn’t afford to fail.

Not now. Not when she might finally be close.

The library was almost empty by now. Even Madam Pince had taken to glaring less frequently from her desk, resigned to Hermione’s presence.

Hermione sat back in her chair, letting her gaze drift toward the high shelves that circled the room like silent sentinels. She felt the weight of time again, her time, fractured and displaced, tucked like a splinter into the skin of this past.

She hadn’t cried in weeks. She wouldn’t cry now.

But the weight pressed in anyway.

She pushed back from the table slowly, fingers brushing over her scattered scrolls as if touching them could somehow summon the answers she needed. Just as she began stacking her notes to leave, perhaps to sneak to the kitchens or simply retreat to her bed, the soft sound of footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

Hermione froze.

Not the sharp heel-click of Madam Pince. Not the brisk shuffle of another student.

This was measured. Smooth. Familiar.

Her shoulders tensed before the voice even reached her.

“Well, well,” drawled a voice dipped in velvet and superiority. “Burning the midnight oil, are we?”

Hermione’s heart sank, but she didn’t turn around. Didn’t even bother to glance up.

“You’re a long way from your common room, Black,” she said coolly, brushing a curl out of her eyes. “Surely even Slytherins need their beauty sleep.”

“And yet,” Narcissa replied, rounding the edge of the table with slow precision, “here I am. No sleep lost, no beauty diminished.”

Hermione looked up, fighting the exhausted smile threatening to tug at the corners of her lips. Narcissa was as perfectly composed as ever. Sleek robes, hair tied back in a ribbon of muted silver, and not a strand out of place. She belonged in a painting, not wandering into late-night research sessions like a ghost haunting the archives.

“Don’t tell me,” Hermione said, leaning back in her chair. “You came all this way just to inspect my reading material?”

Narcissa arched a brow. “I was bored.”

“That’s a dangerous condition for someone like you.”

“Oh, I agree. Which is why I’ve come to see what’s keeping you so occupied.” Narcissa gestured toward the haphazard sprawl of texts and scrolls. “I must admit, it’s impressive. Most girls your age would spend a Sunday with friends or hiding sweets from Honeydukes.”

Hermione shrugged. “I’ve never been good at wasting time.”

Narcissa gave her a slow once-over, eyes catching on the ink stains smudged across Hermione’s fingers and the faint circles beneath her eyes. “Clearly.”

Her gaze shifted to the worn diagram of the Time-Turner, half-covered by a spare parchment.

Hermione moved to cover it.

“Ah, ah,” Narcissa said softly. “You wouldn’t be hiding something, would you?”

“I’m always hiding something,” Hermione replied, her tone dry.

Narcissa’s smirk deepened. “At least you admit it.”

She circled the table once, then pulled out the chair opposite Hermione and sat, one leg crossed over the other in a picture of casual grace. Hermione watched her warily, unsure whether this was a social visit or some new strategy in whatever game Narcissa seemed to be playing.

“You know,” Narcissa said after a moment, “there’s a sort of desperation in the air tonight.”

Hermione blinked. “Desperation?”

Narcissa tapped one of the scrolls lightly. “Your work. The pacing. The forgotten meals. It’s not just diligence, it’s hunger. You’re not searching for knowledge. You’re chasing something.”

Hermione’s jaw tensed.

“Whatever it is,” Narcissa went on, voice calm, “you’re wearing yourself out trying to find it.”

Hermione said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, she leaned forward. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”

“I’m observant,” Narcissa said, unbothered. “It’s in my nature.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. Hermione looked away, letting her gaze fall on the row of books she hadn’t yet touched.

“I didn’t eat today,” she admitted without looking at her.

“I know,” Narcissa said. “You looked like a corpse when I walked in.”

Hermione huffed. “Charming as ever.”

“You should be grateful I’m here,” Narcissa said smoothly. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Hermione finally looked at her again, eyebrows lifted. “You expect me to follow you to the Great Hall like some lost puppy?”

“No,” Narcissa said, standing. “I expect you to come because you’re smart enough to know you’ll collapse otherwise. And because…” she paused, smoothing the hem of her sleeve, “you hate the idea of needing help but hate being told you’re fragile even more.”

Hermione stared at her, something unreadable flickering in her chest. “You think you know me?”

Narcissa tilted her head. “I think I know enough.”

Hermione hesitated. Her legs ached from being in one position too long. Her eyes throbbed from reading in dim light. Her stomach grumbled again, louder this time.

With a sigh, she began gathering her things.

“I’m going because I choose to,” she said.

“Of course,” Narcissa said, stepping back with a little smile. “Lead the way, Beaumont.”

They walked in silence through the castle’s darkening corridors. The halls were quiet now, most students already finishing dinner or tucked away in their common rooms. The only sound was the soft brush of their footsteps against the stone.

As they neared the stairwell, Hermione glanced sideways. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Narcissa arched a brow. “Which one?”

“Why you were really in the library.”

A faint smirk tugged at Narcissa’s lips. “Who says I wasn’t just bored?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then maybe I came to see you.”

Hermione blinked.

Narcissa didn’t look at her, just kept walking.

“You’re a very curious little mystery, Hermione Beaumont,” she said lightly. “And I find myself rather fond of mysteries.”

“I’m not little,” Hermione muttered.

Narcissa arched a brow, eyes trailing down and back up again. “You barely reach my chin. You’re absolutely little.”

A playful pause. “Just… not where it counts.”

Hermione gave her a flat look. “You’re insufferable.” Narcissa only smiled, as if it were a compliment.

They reached the entrance to the Great Hall. Candlelight spilled out onto the marble floor, along with the familiar murmur of voices and clatter of plates. Hermione slowed, the warm glow suddenly overwhelming after the hours spent buried in shadow and ink.

Narcissa stepped in front of her, blocking the light. Her expression was unreadable.

“You could always pretend,” she said softly. “Smile. Say something charming. Play the part.”

Hermione straightened. “I’ve never been good at pretending.”

“Pity,” Narcissa replied. “You’d be brilliant at it.”

Then, with a final flick of her hair, she turned and walked inside.

Hermione followed after a beat, her heart strangely unsettled.

Whatever game they were playing, whatever truths Narcissa was slowly prying from her, it felt like the rules had just changed again.

By the time Hermione reached the Ravenclaw table, her pulse had slowed, but the conversation with Narcissa lingered like static in her chest. She spotted Pandora near the end, halfway through her meal, a silver fork twirling lazily between her fingers as she hummed to herself.

“There you are,” Pandora said brightly, scooting over to make space. “I was starting to think the books had eaten you.”

Hermione sat down with a tired smile. “They tried.”

Pandora studied her for a moment. “You look flushed. Did something happen?”

Hermione hesitated, reaching for a slice of roasted squash. “I… got interrupted.”

“By someone interesting?” Pandora asked, her voice lilting with amusement.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice, watching the amber liquid swirl in her cup. “By someone persistent.”

Pandora blinked, then leaned in slightly. “Narcissa again?”

Hermione nodded, lips tightening.

“Ooh,” Pandora said with a small grin. “What did she do this time? Sneak up behind a bookshelf? Cast a charm on your notes? Deliver a cryptic soliloquy about stars and shadows?”

“She made me come to dinner,” Hermione muttered, stabbing a green bean.

Pandora blinked. “Wait. You mean she invited you to dinner?”

“No,” Hermione said. “She commanded it.”

That earned a laugh. “That does sound more like her.”

Hermione didn’t smile. She focused on chewing instead, hoping the repetitive motion would clear the thick fog of unease, and something else, still lodged beneath her ribs. She wasn’t sure what Narcissa was doing, or why she seemed to be constantly weaving in and out of Hermione’s solitude like a thread. But the certainty with which she observed things, the unnerving accuracy of her assessments, had Hermione feeling increasingly like an exposed equation. A problem yet to be solved.

Or worse, already solved, and being played with.

“She said I looked like a corpse,” Hermione murmured.

Pandora choked on her water. “She what?”

“Her words, not mine.”

“Well, that’s practically affectionate,” Pandora said with a grin. “In Narcissa-speak, that’s a poem.”

Hermione huffed, but it came out more amused than annoyed.

They ate in a lull of quiet after that, the Great Hall a steady background hum of plates clinking and students laughing. Hermione let herself sink into the comfort of the mundane. The hum of shared space, the weight of food settling into her empty stomach, the way Pandora occasionally narrated dramatic backstories for every vegetable on her plate.

She was halfway through a bite of bread when she caught movement at the far end of the Slytherin table.

Her eyes flicked up and met Narcissa’s.

The other girl was seated between two pureblood boys, who seemed to be talking animatedly about something, but Narcissa wasn’t listening. Her chin rested delicately on her hand, and her gaze; cool, measured, was fixed entirely on Hermione.

This time, Hermione didn’t look away.

Their eyes held across the Great Hall for three heartbeats too long. Then Narcissa arched a single brow and tilted her head the slightest bit, as if asking a question she wouldn’t voice aloud.

Hermione’s fingers curled around her fork.

You’re a very curious little mystery, Narcissa had said.

She wasn’t sure which unsettled her more. That Narcissa was still watching her like a riddle with teeth, or that Hermione was starting to want to be watched.

Beside her, Pandora finally noticed the pause. “She’s staring again, isn’t she?”

Hermione didn’t answer. She took another slow sip of juice, letting the chill of it ground her.

“I don’t know what she wants,” she said softly.

Pandora leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “I think she doesn’t know what she wants yet. But whatever it is, it has your name scribbled all over it.”

Hermione let out a soft breath. “Great.”

“Don’t look so miserable,” Pandora said. “You’re clearly getting under her skin.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“No,” Pandora agreed. “But that might be why it’s working.”

Hermione managed a real smile at that, small but genuine. It faded quickly, replaced by the steady rhythm of thought that always followed her interactions with Narcissa.

Everything about her was too sharp. Her gaze, her words, her awareness of the cracks in people’s armor. Hermione knew how to handle adversaries. She even knew how to handle pureblood condescension. But Narcissa Black wasn’t playing at open conflict.

She was playing at something else.

And it was starting to feel like a game Hermione couldn’t afford to lose.

Later, after dinner, Hermione parted ways with Pandora and took the long route back to the Ravenclaw tower. The castle halls were quieter now, and with each step, her thoughts grew heavier.

She tried to remember why she was here, really here. What she was fighting to protect, to get back to. The timeline. The future. The people she loved.

But Narcissa’s voice kept interrupting those thoughts, curling around the edges of her memory like smoke:

“You don’t think small.”

“I find myself rather fond of mysteries.”

Hermione stopped in front of a window overlooking the dark lawn. The Black Lake glittered faintly in the moonlight. Her reflection hovered in the glass;, drawn, thoughtful, impossibly far from home.

She rested her palm against the windowpane and closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d return to the library. Return to the calculations, the runes, the questions.

But tonight… tonight, she’d admit it. Narcissa Black had managed what the Time-Turner and all its broken magic could not:

She’d completely unmoored her.

Chapter Text

The castle was still hushed when Hermione reached the stone gargoyle outside the Headmaster’s office. It stepped aside with no need for a password, revealing the slowly spiraling staircase beyond.

That morning she had woken with a letter on her desk. A summons from Dumbledore, probably to check in on her circumstances.

 She climbed quickly, her satchel thumping lightly against her hip, and paused only once at the top, bracing herself before knocking on the wooden door.

“Come in, Miss Beaumont,” came Dumbledore’s familiar voice.

Hermione stepped inside. The circular office was warm and golden with morning light, books stacked in high, haphazard towers, silver instruments quietly ticking or puffing smoke. Fawkes dozed on his perch, feathers ruffling gently with each breath.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk and smiled. “Ah, good. Right on time.”

“Good morning, Professor,” Hermione said as she took the seat he gestured toward.

“I hope I haven’t pulled you away from anything urgent,” he said mildly, reaching for a porcelain teapot sitting on a tray beside him. “Tea?”

She blinked. “Um. Yes, thank you.”

He poured a cup for her with steady hands, the scent of something floral, perhaps lavender, rising between them.

“I thought it was time we checked in properly,” he said, handing the cup over before pouring his own. “You’ve been here nearly a month now, haven’t you?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve adjusted remarkably well, all things considered.” He sat back in his chair, regarding her with a kindness that made her feel younger than she liked. “Though I imagine it’s been… complicated.”

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t want to lie, not to Dumbledore, but the truth felt heavy. “It’s strange,” she said finally. “Being in a place that’s familiar but… different. Everyone assumes I belong here, but it doesn’t feel like I do.”

“Because you remember a different Hogwarts,” he said gently.

“Yes.” She took a sip of the tea. It was warm and slightly sweet. “And I don’t know how to get back. Or if I even can.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back and studied her, the sunlight catching in the silver threads of his beard.

“You’ve been very focused on your studies,” he said after a moment. “I’ve heard no fewer than three professors comment on how determined you are. Minerva, in particular, suspects you’re trying to outwork the rest of the decade.”

Hermione smiled faintly, lowering her gaze. “I’m trying not to fall behind.”

“And,” he added with a raised brow, “I’ve heard from Madam Pince that you’ve made the library your second home.”

“That part isn’t new,” Hermione said lightly.

His smile widened. “No, I imagine it isn’t.”

For a brief moment, the silence between them stretched comfortably. The sound of a distant chime echoed from one of the spinning devices near the window.

Then, with the kind of casual air only Dumbledore could master, he said, “And I understand you’ve become… rather well acquainted with Miss Black.”

Hermione froze with her teacup halfway to her mouth.

“We’re not friends,” she said too quickly. “She just… appears. A lot.”

“Mm,” Dumbledore hummed, eyes twinkling. “Yes. That sounds like her.”

Hermione set the teacup down. “She’s been… difficult.”

“I imagine she would be.” His voice was gentle. “Miss Black is sharp and proud and rarely interested in anyone who doesn’t interest her back.”

Hermione blinked. “I don’t think I interest her.”

Dumbledore smiled over the rim of his cup. “If you say so.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Arguing felt like walking into a trap.

The headmaster set his cup aside and leaned forward, folding his hands loosely in front of him. “You’ve handled a great deal with remarkable grace, Miss Granger. More than most would, in your position.”

Something in her chest ached at the sound of her name. Her real one.

“I know this isn’t the life you planned,” Dumbledore continued softly. “But you are not alone. And you are not without help.”

Hermione swallowed. “You haven’t found anything, have you? About how to fix it.”

“Not yet,” he admitted, with a hint of regret. “But I haven’t stopped looking.”

Hermione nodded, though it did little to ease the heaviness inside her.

“I’d like to offer you something, if I may,” he added.

She looked up.

“Something normal. A reprieve.” His smile returned, warmer this time. “Would you be interested in helping me with the inventory of the Restricted Section this week? Madam Pince has agreed, reluctantly, to let a second set of eyes assist. You’re far more efficient than she’ll ever admit.”

Hermione blinked. “I… Yes. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He nodded, as if settling a matter far more serious than book logs. “Routine is often a better salve than we give it credit for.”

A few minutes later, Hermione made her way back down the spiral staircase, the last of the tea still warming her hands through the porcelain cup she hadn’t realized she’d carried out.

For the first time in days, the castle felt a little less foreign.

By the time Hermione arrived at Transfiguration, she was already regretting skipping lunch. Her stomach felt hollow, and her shoulders ached from tension she couldn’t quite shake. Professor McGonagall was in the middle of explaining the day’s task when Hermione slipped in, earning a sharp glance that carried more disappointment than scolding.

“Miss Beaumont,” McGonagall said, adjusting her spectacles. “Do take your seat.”

Hermione nodded quickly and scanned the room. Of course, only one seat remained, directly beside Narcissa Black.

Suppressing a sigh, Hermione made her way over and sat without acknowledging her partner. She pulled out her parchment, ink, and wand, focusing instead on the decorative goblet placed in front of her. Today’s task: transfigure it into a fine crystal chalice. Something precise. Predictable. A welcome change.

Narcissa didn’t speak immediately, but Hermione could feel her presence like static electricity, taut and humming. Eventually, the silence gave way to the soft rustle of Narcissa adjusting her posture and leaning just slightly closer.

“Running late, Beaumont?” she said smoothly, eyes fixed on the goblet as if commenting on the weather. “Not like you.”

Hermione didn’t look at her. “Life’s full of surprises.”

“Mm,” Narcissa hummed, amused. “You do enjoy keeping things interesting.”

Hermione gave her a sideways glance, catching the subtle curve of Narcissa’s smirk.

“I could say the same about you,” Hermione replied, her voice even.

“That’s because I am interesting,” Narcissa said lightly, flicking her wand to practice the required motion. “And terribly consistent.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Consistently arrogant.”

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Confidence, darling. Arrogance is just confidence without charm.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Then you must be skating on the thinnest of lines.”

The smirk faltered for half a second, just long enough for Hermione to see it, and then returned with more purpose.

“Careful,” Narcissa said, her voice dropping slightly as she leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Confidence is attractive. Arrogance…” She paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough. “Arrogance can be dangerous.”

Hermione met her gaze without flinching. “And what exactly am I in danger of?”

Narcissa’s smile deepened. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

Hermione gave a soft, humorless laugh and turned back to her goblet. “I would,” she said, wand poised over the object. “But I don’t think you’re nearly bold enough to tell me.”

That earned a brief flash of something in Narcissa’s eyes. Not irritation, exactly, but a spark of something sharper, something unguarded. It was gone quickly, masked behind a smooth, practiced expression.

Hermione flicked her wand, muttering the incantation with perfect precision. Her goblet shimmered and reshaped itself into a long-stemmed crystal chalice, delicate and gleaming.

“Well,” Narcissa murmured, eyeing it with a faint arch of her brow, “aren’t you full of surprises today.”

“I try,” Hermione said, tapping the rim lightly to test the integrity. It rang with a high, clear note.

Beside her, Narcissa repeated the spell with her usual elegant fluidity, her own goblet transforming just as effortlessly. But Hermione didn’t miss the faint tension in the set of her shoulders. Something in their usual back-and-forth had shifted. Hermione had struck a nerve, or at the very least, managed to knock Narcissa slightly off-balance.

They worked in silence for a while, the sound of wandwork and scribbling filling the classroom. When McGonagall passed by to inspect their progress, she nodded with terse approval before moving on.

Narcissa finally broke the quiet again. “I wonder,” she said idly, “how many others have seen this side of you.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. “What side would that be?”

“The side that doesn’t flinch,” Narcissa said. “The one that doesn’t back down, even when it would be easier.”

Hermione’s voice was quiet but clear. “Maybe it only comes out when someone’s trying to poke at it.”

“Oh,” Narcissa said, tilting her head. “Am I poking?”

Hermione turned to her, lips curving in a faint smile. “Constantly.”

For a moment, neither of them looked away. The air between them held a pulse of something unspoken, sharp with edges and yet strangely magnetic.

Then Narcissa gave a small, amused breath and turned back to her notes. “Well,” she said lightly, “if you ever tire of being difficult, let me know.”

“I’ll consider it,” Hermione said dryly. “Right after you tire of being insufferable.”

“Darling,” Narcissa purred, “I was born insufferable.”

Hermione snorted softly and returned to her work.

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the lesson, but something about the silence had changed. It was no longer avoidance or dismissal. It was coiled, waiting, almost charged. As though a line had been drawn in the sand, and both of them were debating whether to cross it.

When the bell rang and the class began to gather their things, Narcissa stood and smoothed down her robes with deliberate calm. Hermione was slower, methodical as always.

As Narcissa turned to leave, she paused just long enough to murmur over her shoulder, “Try not to miss next class. I’d hate to be bored.”

Hermione didn’t reply, but she didn’t look away either.

And as the door closed behind Narcissa, the faintest flicker of a smile touched Hermione’s lips.

The common room was quiet when Hermione returned. A few Ravenclaws lingered near the hearth, their murmured conversations blurring into the gentle crackle of the fire. No one glanced up as she slipped through the arched entrance and made her way toward the far corner by the window, her steps soft against the stone.

She didn’t light a lamp.

Instead, she sank into the window seat and stared out through the glass, the faint glint of starlight reflecting off the Black Lake in the distance. Her breath fogged the pane slightly, and she leaned into the cool surface, letting the silence press in.

It should have been just another day.

Transfiguration. Notes. Spells. A sharp exchange of words. Nothing she hadn’t done a hundred times before. But today had shifted something. And try as she might, Hermione couldn’t untangle it.

She’d matched Narcissa Black, and not only held her ground, but turned the game around on her.

It hadn’t been calculated. She hadn’t walked into class planning to unsettle Narcissa, or to answer her smirks with something razor-edged and daring. But it had happened all the same. And what lingered now wasn’t satisfaction or regret, but a strange, humming thrill.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Narcissa’s expression, caught just at the edge of surprise. The pause. The faint pink that had bloomed across her cheeks. Her silence.

Hermione had won, if only for a moment. But what troubled her most was how much she’d enjoyed it.

The lines between danger and allure were blurring, and that wasn’t just inconvenient, it was reckless. She wasn’t supposed to form attachments. She wasn’t supposed to provoke or invite curiosity. Especially not from someone like Narcissa Black, who noticed too much and held back even more.

Hermione exhaled slowly, rubbing at the tight space between her brows.

This was a mistake waiting to happen.

And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

She’d spent weeks folding herself inward, guarding every word, every look, every breath. Every step through this strange past had been measured and cautious. But today, in that classroom, she hadn’t been cautious. She hadn’t been meek. She had met Narcissa’s sharp edges with her own and watched the cracks begin to form.

Hermione opened her eyes and glanced down at her hands. Faint ink stains smudged across her fingers. The only proof that today had started with books, with logic, with control.

It hadn’t ended that way.

She shifted slightly, tucking her legs beneath her, and rested her chin on her knees. There was no pretending she didn’t feel the tension now. It wasn’t just academic interest or social rivalry. It wasn’t just curiosity, on either of their parts.

It was something weightier.

She didn’t trust Narcissa. That much was certain. But there was a fascination there, unwanted, uninvited, but growing nonetheless. It pressed at the edges of her restraint, whispering things she didn’t have time to entertain.

Because this wasn’t just a school term. This wasn’t her life.

She was stranded in a decade she didn’t belong to, trying to fix a broken timeline and return to a war that hadn’t yet begun. A war she wasn’t sure she could stop from repeating itself. She didn’t have time for complications. And Narcissa Black was the definition of complication.

Hermione pressed her forehead against the glass again, closing her eyes.

This wasn’t a game she could afford to keep playing.

But wasn’t that what Narcissa had called it? A game?

Confidence is attractive, but arrogance can be dangerous.

And Hermione had wanted to ask, dangerous to whom?

It didn’t feel like Narcissa had the upper hand anymore. Not completely. That balance had shifted, and Narcissa knew it. Her silence at the end of class hadn’t been surrender, not exactly, but it had been something close to disarmed.

Hermione felt the corner of her mouth twitch despite herself.

It wasn’t about power. Not entirely. It was about control. About staying one step ahead. About choosing when to speak, when to push, when to hold back. And if Narcissa thought she could toy with her and leave Hermione reeling, she was wrong.

Hermione knew how to survive in dangerous company.

And if Narcissa Black was going to keep circling her like a hawk. Well, she’d let her. Let her underestimate. Let her smirk and tease and try to get inside Hermione’s head.

Because next time?

Hermione would be ready.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall hummed with the usual early morning bustle: clinking cutlery, fluttering owls, and the murmur of sleepy conversations. Hermione sat beside Pandora at the Ravenclaw table, absently stirring her tea while pretending to read the front page of the Daily Prophet. She hadn’t said much since they’d sat down.

Pandora, halfway through buttering her toast, glanced sideways. “Alright, out with it.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Out with what?”

“That cloud hanging over your head. Something happened yesterday.” She gave her a pointed look. “Don’t act like I didn’t notice.”

Hermione hesitated. She’d been debating whether to bring it up at all, but keeping it in only seemed to make it more frustrating. “It was just another… interaction,” she said finally, voice low. “With Narcissa.”

Pandora perked up instantly. “Another? Do go on.”

Hermione sighed. “We were paired again. She spent the entire lesson doing what she always does, needling me. Pressing for a reaction.”

Pandora’s eyes gleamed. “And did she get one?”

“Not the one she wanted,” Hermione muttered. “At least, I don’t think so.”

Pandora leaned in, clearly delighted. “What did she say this time?”

“She made a few snide remarks, tried to be clever. I was tired and not in the mood for her games, so I—” Hermione paused, frowning. “I may have said something back. A little sharper than usual.”

Pandora looked positively thrilled. “You stood your ground?”

Hermione nodded reluctantly. “I didn’t let her corner me. She… she looked surprised, actually.”

“And then what?”

Hermione stirred her tea again, refusing to meet Pandora’s eyes. “Nothing. She backed off.”

Pandora hummed, clearly not buying that it had been nothing. “So let me get this straight: she pushed, and instead of just absorbing it like usual, you pushed back, and she didn’t know what to do with herself?”

“Something like that,” Hermione said carefully.

Pandora took a thoughtful bite of toast. “She’s probably not used to anyone matching her like that. Not without groveling or hexing her.”

“I wasn’t matching her,” Hermione said quickly. “I was… redirecting. That’s all.”

Pandora smiled into her teacup. “Redirecting. Right.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Don’t make it into something it’s not.”

“I’m not saying it’s anything,” Pandora replied, too easily. “I just think you got under her skin. And from the sound of it, she didn’t hate it.”

Hermione gave her a withering look. “She didn’t storm off in a rage. That’s the only win here.”

“Not quite,” Pandora said, her voice suddenly conspiratorial. “She walked in a few minutes ago. Don’t look yet, but she’s definitely scanning the room.”

Hermione stiffened.

“And… there it is,” Pandora whispered gleefully. “Eye contact. Ooh. And a blush.”

Hermione didn’t dare look, but her stomach twisted anyway. “You’re imagining things.”

Pandora beamed. “Hermione, you’re an excellent liar when it comes to Professors, but you’re dreadful when it comes to her.”

Hermione finally glanced up. Across the hall, Narcissa had taken her seat at the Slytherin table, but her posture wasn’t as poised as usual. Her eyes flicked toward the Ravenclaw side more than once. Hermione quickly looked back down.

“There’s nothing to interpret,” Hermione muttered.

“Then why is your face the color of that marmalade?”

“Because you won’t drop it,” Hermione snapped, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Pandora held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. It’s just… you’re acting very not-you about this.”

Hermione set her cup down a little too hard. “I’m not acting like anything. I don’t have time to unravel Narcissa Black’s weird mood swings.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And I certainly don’t care what she thinks she’s doing with all her… her smirks and one-liners.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Hermione gave her a sharp look, but Pandora only smiled, a quiet sparkle in her eye that said she’d already drawn her conclusions, and wouldn’t be letting go of them anytime soon.

A moment later, an owl swooped down and deposited a stack of letters in the middle of the table, effectively ending the conversation. Hermione busied herself untying the twine and sorting the post before handing it out to her fellow classmates, but her thoughts were still far away.

Pandora was wrong, she told herself. Whatever had happened in Transfiguration wasn’t a “moment.” It wasn’t anything at all. Narcissa had tried to provoke her, and Hermione had held her ground. That was it. That was all it was.

So why, then, did her heart still race a little whenever she remembered Narcissa’s expression; stunned, pink-cheeked, silent?

And why did she feel like she’d started something she didn’t quite know how to finish?

The next few days passed in a blur of deliberate avoidance. Hermione kept her head down, buried in classwork and study groups, and made a point of being surrounded by other students at all times. The few moments when her path did cross Narcissa’s in the corridors were brief with fleeting glances, a shared silence, or averted eyes. Hermione wasn’t sure if Narcissa was giving her space or lying in wait.

She told herself she was relieved.

The truth was murkier. Every time Hermione felt the press of Narcissa’s gaze from across a classroom or a crowded hallway, something in her chest tightened. Annoyance, surely, or residual tension from their last exchange. And yet the memory of Narcissa’s expression when Hermione had gotten the last word, something flickering in her eyes, like curiosity bruised with surprise, kept resurfacing.

Hermione hated how often she found herself replaying it.

Saturday morning brought a welcome break. Most of the school was headed to Hogsmeade again, and Hermione had promised Pandora she’d come this time. It would be good, she reasoned, to have a day without complications.

They walked together under the pale November sun, scarves wrapped tight and boots crunching in the frost. The Three Broomsticks was buzzing by the time they arrived, warmth and chatter and clinking mugs spilling into the air. Hermione let herself relax for once, accepting Pandora’s easy conversation and the comfort of familiarity. They took a small table near the back, away from the main bustle.

“I’ll be right back,” Hermione said once they’d ordered, gesturing toward the hallway.

Pandora nodded distractedly, fussing over a package she’d bought in Honeydukes. Hermione stepped through the swinging door into the corridor leading to the bathroom, grateful for the quiet.

The bathroom was empty and dim, lit only by sunlight spilling through the high, frosted window. She stood at the sink, pressing cool water to her face. Her mind wandered predictably to Narcissa, and she scowled at herself in the mirror.

It was fine. The tension would pass.

But then she heard it, the unmistakable click of the door behind her.

Hermione turned just as the door closed, and her stomach plummeted.

Narcissa Black stood in the doorway.

She was dressed in deep emerald wool, every line of her posture deliberate and elegant. Her eyes locked onto Hermione’s like a hawk sighting prey, and her expression was unreadable; somewhere between amusement and something quieter, more serious.

Hermione didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” she asked, too quickly.

Narcissa raised a single eyebrow, then stepped forward with infuriating calm. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Hermione crossed her arms, as much to hold the rising tension in her chest as to appear unbothered. “I’ve been busy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Narcissa’s voice was low and cool, her gaze sharp. “You ducked into a side hallway to avoid passing me on Thursday. On Friday you changed seats in the library. And today you all but sprinted away the moment I entered the common corridor.”

Hermione tried not to flinch. “Coincidence.”

“Be serious, Beaumont.”

Narcissa stepped closer, not threatening, but not exactly casual either. Her gaze was assessing now, and Hermione felt suddenly as though she’d stepped onto a stage without knowing the script.

“I wasn’t aware I owed you an explanation,” Hermione said, proud that her voice remained even.

“You don’t,” Narcissa replied smoothly. “But I expected more courage from you.”

That rankled. Hermione’s jaw tensed. “You’re one to talk.”

That earned a flicker of something, amusement, maybe, but it passed quickly.

Narcissa tilted her head. “You’ve been distant since that Transfiguration class. Was it something I said?”

Hermione’s mind flashed, unbidden, to the way Narcissa had leaned in, voice smooth and just shy of intimate, and the way she herself had pushed back. It had been a performance, she told herself. A power play. Nothing more.

“It was nothing,” Hermione said, her voice clipped.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “Strange. You’re not usually so… inarticulate.”

“I don’t owe you a summary of my thoughts,” Hermione said, heat rising in her cheeks. “Not everything revolves around you.”

A pause stretched between them. Narcissa’s expression shifted, and something like calculation gave way to curiosity.

“Perhaps not,” she said quietly. “But I find I rather mind being ignored.”

The admission caught Hermione off guard. It wasn’t playful or biting. It was… honest.

Hermione blinked. “Why?”

Narcissa said nothing for a moment. Then she stepped back, folding her arms.

“I’m not sure,” she said, almost to herself. “But it’s bothersome.”

Hermione frowned. “You cornered me in a bathroom to tell me I’ve hurt your feelings?”

Narcissa’s lips twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself. I said it was bothersome. There’s a difference.”

Hermione snorted, despite herself. “Clearly.”

For a moment, the air lightened. The spark of something familiar. A shared rhythm, that odd verbal dance they did so well, flickered back to life.

Narcissa studied her. “You’re not as unreadable as you think,” she said.

“And you’re not as intimidating as you think,” Hermione replied, deadpan.

That earned a real smile from Narcissa, brief and reluctant. “So you’ve  still got bite,” she said softly.

Hermione hesitated. “I never stopped. I just… needed space.”

Narcissa nodded slowly, the amusement in her eyes dimming. “That, I understand.”

Silence stretched again, this time less charged, more contemplative. Hermione found herself shifting awkwardly, trying to recapture whatever armor she’d walked in with.

“I’m not playing games,” she said suddenly. “If that’s what you think this is.”

“I never said you were.”

“You act like it.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Perhaps I simply enjoy seeing you react.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Narcissa said, though her tone was oddly gentle.

Hermione let out a slow breath, realizing her heart was pounding. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

Narcissa stepped toward the door but paused just before reaching for the handle.

“You’re more interesting when you don’t run,” she said without turning around.

Hermione stared at her back, lips pressed into a line.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said quietly.

Narcissa left without another word.

Hermione stood still for a long moment after the door closed behind her, hands braced against the sink. Her reflection looked flushed and uncertain.

She told herself it was just surprise. Frustration. Annoyance.

But deep down, a whisper of something else lingered—a taut, pulsing awareness she couldn’t seem to shake.

Hermione didn’t return to the table right away.

The moment the bathroom door shut behind Narcissa, silence settled around her like fog. She stared at her own reflection, trying to calm the flush in her cheeks and the rapid thud of her heart. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink. The cold porcelain grounded her.

Get a grip, she told herself.

It was only Narcissa. Narcissa, with her perfectly sculpted words, her frustrating composure, and her talent for unraveling Hermione’s thoughts with little more than a smirk. Narcissa, who seemed to have made a game of watching her flounder.

And yet… there had been something different this time.

Hermione wasn’t sure which unnerved her more, the confrontation or the gentleness that slipped in beneath the sharpness. The way Narcissa had looked at her, less like a rival to conquer and more like a puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted solved.

She splashed more cold water on her face and dried it with stiff paper towels, but nothing could wipe the moment from her memory: the heat of Narcissa’s gaze, the quiet edge to her voice, the feeling that something was shifting beneath their usual games.

It meant nothing. She told herself that, again and again.

It had to mean nothing.

Still, when she returned to the tavern and slid back into her seat, she could feel a phantom weight pressed against her skin, as if Narcissa’s attention still lingered on her like a hand not quite removed.

The rest of the visit to Hogsmeade was a blur. She let herself be swept along, back through the snowy streets, past the windows full of enchanted trinkets and floating candles, back up the hill to the castle. She said little, focused instead on the rhythm of her boots in the frost and the occasional chatter of other students around them.

The moment they reached the Ravenclaw tower, she claimed exhaustion and vanished upstairs.

Once inside the dormitory, Hermione shut the curtains of her bed and cast a muffling charm with shaking fingers. The four-poster’s familiar velvet offered a sense of safety, even if her thoughts still roamed.

Why did Narcissa care whether she was avoiding her?

Why had she followed her?

Why did her voice keep replaying in Hermione’s mind, “You’re more interesting when you don’t run.”

Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.

This couldn’t happen. Not with Narcissa Black. Not now. Not in this time.

It was dangerous. Dangerous in ways Hermione couldn’t even begin to name. And yet her mind kept circling back, not to the risk, but to the strange thrill that had flared in her chest when their eyes met. Not fear. Not anger.

Something harder to name.

She lay there a long time, curled on her side beneath the covers, the muffling charm thickening the quiet. When at last she drifted into sleep, her dreams were strange and disjointed. Sharp eyes and half-smiles, footsteps echoing down long corridors, a voice brushing the edges of her thoughts like smoke.

When she woke the next morning, the pillow beneath her cheek was damp with sweat. The dream clung to her ribs like a bruise.

The hours that followed were painfully ordinary: breakfast in the Great Hall, studying in the common room, more sidelong glances she tried not to notice.

She avoided Narcissa again. Less obviously this time; no darting around corners or feigned migraines, but the avoidance was there all the same. She sat farther away in lessons. Left early. Pretended to be absorbed in her notes.

It wasn’t sustainable. She knew that.

But it was easier than facing that strange, quiet moment between them, the one that still echoed like a secret she hadn’t meant to keep.

By late afternoon, Hermione found herself in the library. Books formed a wall around her, a barrier she didn’t want to breach. She scrawled half-legible notes on a page of parchment, most of them redundant. Her thoughts refused to settle.

She didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

“Beaumont,” came the voice, soft but unmistakable.

Her quill froze mid-word. Slowly, she looked up.

Narcissa stood at the end of the table, hands clasped neatly in front of her, eyes calm and unreadable.

Hermione’s stomach sank. “I’m busy,” she said flatly, returning her gaze to her parchment.

“I noticed,” Narcissa said. “You’ve been quite… immersed lately.”

Hermione didn’t respond.

There was a pause.

Then Narcissa pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, keeping her eyes on the parchment, though her vision had gone slightly blurry.

“Waiting,” Narcissa replied.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretending I don’t exist.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her quill. “I’m not pretending.”

Narcissa tilted her head slightly. “So you’ve genuinely lost interest?”

Hermione finally looked up, expression sharp. “Interest in what, exactly?”

A pause. Then, softly: “In talking to me. Challenging me.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Maybe I’ve realized there are better uses of my time.”

“Unlikely,” Narcissa said with a faint smirk. “You don’t strike me as the type to avoid something simply because it’s difficult.”

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose. “Not everything is worth pursuing.”

Silence fell again. Books rustled in the distance. A page turned. Somewhere down the aisle, Madam Pince muttered under her breath about misplaced volumes.

When Narcissa finally spoke, her voice was quieter. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Hermione opened her mouth to snap back, but found herself caught. Because she didn’t know what she would’ve said. That she didn’t enjoy it? That she hadn’t felt that spark, that taut, exhilarating give-and-take?

It would’ve been a lie.

But saying the truth out loud felt like stepping off a ledge.

So instead she said, “I don’t have time for distractions.”

Narcissa studied her, that same unreadable expression creeping back across her face.

“Very well,” she said at last, pushing her chair back with slow grace. “Then I’ll leave you to your books.”

She stood.

But before she turned to go, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping low.

“Just know this, Beaumont. There are very few things at this school that actually catch my attention.”

Her eyes locked with Hermione’s.

“And you happen to be one of them.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Hermione sat frozen in her seat, heart pounding in her ears.

She didn’t move for a long time.

Chapter Text

The days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the last, as Hermione poured every ounce of her energy into avoidance. It wasn’t a grand plan or a conscious strategy, it was simply what she did. She slipped through the corridors like a shadow, keeping her head down, eyes on the floor or on a book, hoping to become invisible. If avoiding Narcissa Black meant retreating into the farthest corners of classrooms or skipping meals, so be it. If it meant burying herself in research until her quill felt too heavy to lift, she would do that too.

She told herself it was necessary. Focus on time magic. On the spells and theories she could grasp, however tenuously. On the books and parchments whose contents filled her mind but never quite reached her heart. Anything to keep her distance, to keep Narcissa’s sharp gaze out of reach.

Pandora noticed almost immediately.

“You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” Pandora said one evening, voice steady but eyes full of concern. Hermione was sprawled across the Ravenclaw common room table, an ancient text splayed open before her, quill poised but unmoving. “You’re going to burn out.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione muttered, though the tiredness in her voice betrayed her. She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to banish the heaviness settling behind her eyes.

“No, you’re not,” Pandora said quietly. “You’re running yourself ragged, and for what? Avoiding someone who isn’t even looking for you.”

Hermione flinched at the bluntness, but Pandora’s silver gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not like that,” Hermione whispered, though the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Pandora didn’t press further that night, but the worry lingered between them, a quiet presence Hermione couldn’t ignore.

By lunchtime a few days later, Hermione was running on fumes. The dark circles beneath her eyes deepened, and the usual flush of life had drained from her cheeks, replaced by a pallor that made her look fragile, even to herself. She barely touched her plate, her appetite all but gone.

“Alright, that’s it,” Pandora declared abruptly, setting down her goblet and pushing her chair back. She turned toward Hermione, hands planted firmly on her hips. “You look like death warmed over.”

Hermione sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Pandora insisted, voice low but fierce. “When’s the last time you actually slept? Or ate more than a bite of toast?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but faltered when Pandora’s pointed finger stopped her mid-thought.

“Don’t lie to me,” Pandora said, voice sharp but caring. “You’re running yourself into the ground. And for what? For research that isn’t getting you anywhere? For avoiding someone who isn’t chasing you?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“It is like that,” Pandora snapped. “You need to take a break, Hermione. Before you make yourself sick.”

Hermione swallowed hard, cheeks flushing faintly despite herself. “I just—”

“Just what?” Pandora challenged, stepping closer. “What is it you’re so afraid of?”

Hermione looked away, unable to answer.

Across the hall, Narcissa Black sat at the Slytherin table, her sharp eyes flickering with the faintest curiosity as she watched the exchange. She noticed the way Hermione’s shoulders sagged, the way Pandora’s words landed like stones. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing, merely observed.

Hermione was oblivious to the watchful gaze. She sighed heavily, pushing her plate aside as if it were a barrier she couldn’t cross. Pandora’s voice softened, and her hand found Hermione’s arm, warm and steady.

“Just think about it, alright?” Pandora said quietly. “You deserve a break.”

Hermione nodded, but the exhaustion in her eyes didn’t fade. Later that night, she sat alone in the Ravenclaw common room, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows across the walls. The book in her hands was unread; the words swimming before her eyes. The weight in her chest pressed heavier than the silence.

With a frustrated snap, she closed the book and stood abruptly. Pandora’s words echoed in her mind and she needed to clear her head. The library would still be there tomorrow, but if she stayed cooped up any longer, she feared she might break.

She glanced at the clock: nearly curfew. The risk of sneaking out barely registered in her mind. Grabbing her cloak, she slipped out of the common room into the cold night.

Outside, the Black Lake stretched out, silvered and still beneath the moon’s soft light. The chill bit at her skin, but it was a welcome contrast to the stifling heaviness she carried. She stepped closer to the water’s edge, letting the cold seep into her bones as she waded in, clothes left neatly on the shore's edge. 

Hermione’s limbs ached with relief as the cold lake water wrapped around her. For the first time in weeks, her thoughts slowed, silenced by the icy hush of moonlight and ripples. Her breath misted in the air, sharp and grounding. The isolation was welcome, needed, even. Out here, there were no whispering halls, none of Pandora’s careful glances, and no piercing eyes trailing her from across a room.

She sighed and floated on her back, her hair drifting behind her like seaweed in the current. The stars above stretched wide and endless, scattered like distant memories across the sky. Her body moved with the gentle sway of the water. This, this was peace.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy being caught like this.”

The voice nearly made her sink.

Hermione jolted upright with a splash, whipping around just in time to see a familiar figure at the edge of the cove. Narcissa Black, cloaked in moonlight and smugness, standing with her arms folded like she owned the lake itself.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hermione breathed, already mortified.

“I rarely kid,” Narcissa said, arching an eyebrow. “You do remember this is the second time I’ve found you looking dramatically windswept and emotionally raw.”

“Glad to know I’m predictable,” Hermione muttered.

Narcissa’s gaze skimmed the dark water before returning to her. “Predictable? Hardly. You’ve been nothing but elusive since Hogsmeade. Ducking into corners, skipping meals, vanishing in class. Very dramatic, Beaumont. 

Hermione turned away from her, retreating farther into the lake until only her shoulders remained visible above the surface. “Maybe I like being alone.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who avoids people without a reason.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

The wind rustled the trees behind Narcissa, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Narcissa’s voice came again, quieter now.

“I’m not here to pick a fight.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the moon’s reflection on the water. “Then why are you here?”

A pause. “Because I’ve been patient, yet you're still running. And I want to know why.”

Hermione tipped her head back to look at the stars. The cold bit into her skin, but she didn’t move. The ache in her chest, the one she’d tried to silence with books and sleepless nights, pressed against her ribs like something trying to escape.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Narcissa asked.

Hermione’s throat tightened. “No.”

“Then what?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat. Too big, too complicated, too dangerous.

“I just…” Hermione’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what to do with any of this. I came here to get away from all of it.”

Narcissa didn’t reply. The silence stretched long and thin.

Hermione closed her eyes and let herself float again, turning towards the expanse of the black lake, her face tilted toward the sky. The stars shimmered above like distant answers. “Why do you care?” she asked softly. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

There was no response.

She assumed Narcissa had left. Part of her hoped she had.

But then she felt it. Arms, warm and sure, sliding around her waist from behind. A gasp caught in Hermione’s throat as Narcissa pressed gently against her back, chin resting just over her shoulder, her voice a whisper at her ear.

“I could ask you the same question,” she murmured.

Hermione stiffened, frozen in the water. She hadn’t heard Narcissa move, hadn’t realized she’d even entered the lake. And yet, there she was. Every line of her body real and close and impossibly calm.

“You, what are you—”

“I asked you first,” Narcissa said, her voice low but steady. “What are you running from, Hermione?”

Her name. Not Beaumont. Not some cutting nickname or clever deflection. Just her name, spoken like a secret.

Hermione’s breath came quick and shallow, the cold of the water suddenly nothing compared to the warmth of Narcissa’s skin against hers.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel around you.”

“Neither do I,” Narcissa admitted, so quiet it might’ve been stolen by the wind. “But I know what I do feel. And I know it’s real.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “This is a mistake.”

“Maybe.” Narcissa said.

The silence returned, thick with tension and unspoken truths. Hermione didn’t move, didn’t try to pull away. Narcissa’s arms were loose around her, not trapping her, just there, solid and steady.

After a long moment, Hermione found her voice again.

“You followed me out here.”

“I always find you when you’re about to disappear,” Narcissa said, a thread of amusement returning to her voice. “It’s becoming a bit of a talent.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Both.”

The tension cracked just a little. Hermione let out a breath, still trembling but no longer on the edge of flight.

“Do you ever stop playing games?” she asked.

“Not if I can help it,” Narcissa replied. “But this—” her voice softened, “isn’t a game. Not tonight.”

Hermione didn’t answer, not with words. She tilted her head slightly until it brushed against Narcissa’s cheek, barely touching. The smallest of acknowledgments. A fragile kind of trust.

And Narcissa didn’t push. She just stood there, holding her, letting the water carry them both.

Eventually, Hermione whispered, “This doesn’t mean I’m not still trying to avoid you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Narcissa said. “But you’ll fail. Gloriously.”

Hermione huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Narcissa murmured, “here you are. Letting me stay.”

They remained that way for a while. Two girls suspended between the stars and the cold, in a moment neither of them fully understood. Not surrender, not yet. But not denial either. Just something real, something unfolding.

And for once, Hermione didn’t try to name it.

She just let herself drift.

The walk back from the lake was a quiet one.

Hermione had dressed quickly, her clothes damp from the air and her skin still tingling where Narcissa’s hands had touched her. Narcissa didn’t follow her at first. She stayed knee-deep in the water, watching the ripples trail after Hermione like they were reluctant to let her go.

Not a word was exchanged. Not a farewell, not a taunt. Just the weight of everything unspoken trailing behind her like a second shadow.

By the time Hermione reached the castle and crept through the corridors, the surreal stillness of the lake had dissolved into a hundred racing thoughts. She was cold again. Not from the air or late swim, but from the way her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the feel of Narcissa’s arms around her. The way she’d whispered her name like it meant something.

She didn’t know how she got back to Ravenclaw Tower. Her feet moved on their own, muscle memory carrying her through dim corridors and past sleeping portraits. By the time she curled beneath the covers of her four-poster bed, her limbs ached with exhaustion and her mind throbbed with confusion.

Sleep didn’t come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the echo of Narcissa’s voice in her ear.

What are you running from, Hermione?

She didn’t know. Or maybe she did, and that was the problem.

The next morning was gray and drizzling, the sky outside streaked with wet clouds and cold light. Hermione didn’t bother with breakfast. She didn’t trust herself to sit through it, not with Narcissa likely just a few seats away at the Slytherin table, calm and composed as ever, pretending nothing had happened.

Or worse, not pretending.

So she slipped into the library instead, sliding into the same corner she always used for hiding. Books offered blessed silence, and ink offered distraction. She cracked open a volume on temporal anomalies and stared at the page without reading a word.

What had she done?

What had they done?

It hadn’t been a kiss. It hadn’t been a confession. There was nothing concrete to point to, nothing she could hold up to the light and say, this is what it means. But it lingered anyway, clinging to her like damp clothes.

The way Narcissa had held her, it wasn’t possessive or mocking. Just… steady. Real. Hermione couldn’t stop remembering it.

She slammed the book shut.

Footsteps approached from behind, light and unhurried.

Hermione tensed, already knowing who it was.

“You’re rather hard to miss when you disappear,” Pandora said, sliding into the seat beside her without asking. “Again.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Not in the mood.”

“Tough,” Pandora said breezily, setting her bag down with a thud. “I’ve been thinking all night, you know. About how you came back flushed and dazed from your ‘clear-your-head’ walk. And how you still won’t talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Pandora scoffed. “Please. You’ve been avoiding Narcissa for weeks, and then you go for a midnight swim and come back looking like you’ve been hit by a Confundus Charm.” She leaned in. “Did something happen?”

Hermione hesitated. “She found me.”

Pandora blinked. “At the lake?”

“She followed me. Again.” Hermione’s voice dropped. “She… came into the water.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Into the water?” Pandora echoed, voice tinged with disbelief. “Like… clothes off, into the water?”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Pandora whistled under her breath. “Merlin’s beard, Hermione.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Pandora raised an eyebrow. “Was it not?”

Hermione looked up sharply. “I don’t know what it was. But it wasn’t, there was no—” She bit the inside of her cheek. “It wasn’t anything.”

Pandora’s expression softened. “Then why are you blushing so hard you’re practically steaming?”

Hermione shoved her book back into her satchel. “Because I’m tired. Because I’m cold. Because she’s driving me mad.”

“Because you like her.”

“No.” Hermione’s voice cracked. “No, that’s not it.”

Pandora didn’t argue. She just watched her carefully, her silver eyes gentler than they had any right to be.

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione whispered, fingers curling around the worn leather of her bag. “You don’t understand. I can’t, I don’t have time to… feel anything. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

“Even if she feels something for you?” Pandora asked softly.

Hermione looked away.

She thought of the lake once more. A flicker of heat pulsed in her chest, and she hated how much it wanted to bloom.

“I don’t know what she feels,” Hermione said finally. “She’s Narcissa Black. She doesn’t make herself easy to read.”

“No,” Pandora said gently. “But you’re easier to read than you think.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She shouldered her bag and stood, her heart heavy with things she didn’t want to name.

“Where are you going?” Pandora asked.

“I have an essay to finish,” Hermione muttered.

“Is that what we’re calling emotional avoidance now?”

Hermione paused. “Pandora—”

“I’m just saying,” Pandora said gently. “You can act like last night didn’t mean anything, but that doesn’t make it true.”

Hermione turned away, clutching the strap of her satchel. Her thoughts stayed locked on last night. The sound of Narcissa’s voice close behind her. The way those arms had wrapped around her waist, slow and deliberate. The shock. The stillness. That look in her eyes.

A quiet intimacy she hadn’t been prepared for.

And she hadn’t pulled away.

“I don’t know what it meant,” Hermione said, almost too softly for Pandora to hear. “Maybe nothing. Maybe too much.”

Pandora didn’t push. She just watched as Hermione stepped into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind her.

But as Hermione walked, her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve. She could still feel the faint imprint of Narcissa’s hands, like a ghost of warmth in the chill of the morning air. And try as she might, she couldn’t shake the quiet truth pressing in at the edges of her thoughts.

Chapter Text

Breakfast in the Great Hall was unusually quiet for Hermione. Or rather, it was the usual amount of noisy, but it felt quiet. For once, her thoughts weren’t screaming. She wasn’t reeling from guilt or panic, or buried in time magic or trauma. Instead, she was watching Narcissa Black across the hall with a calm intensity she couldn’t explain away.

Narcissa was poised as ever, cutting her toast with unnecessary elegance and listening to something Lucius was saying. But every now and then, her eyes drifted, just briefly, to the Ravenclaw table. Hermione pretended not to notice.

“Good morning,” Pandora sang as she slid into the bench beside her, dropping a book onto the table with a thud. “You look suspiciously human today. Did sleep finally find you?”

Hermione reached for her tea. “I slept.”

Pandora’s brow arched knowingly. “And let me guess, no lake walks, no mysterious blonde girls, no emotionally fraught declarations beneath the stars?”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. “I said I slept. Not that I forgot everything.”

“Mm.” Pandora grinned and buttered her toast. “So we’re back to pretending we’re normal again. How charming.”

Hermione shot her a look, but there was no real venom in it. “Some of us would like to have a normal day.”

Pandora hummed as she bit into her toast. “Then maybe stop making eyes at her like you’re writing her tragic poetry in your head.”

Hermione froze, cup halfway to her lips. She didn’t look up. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Pandora said with delight. “And she’s definitely returning fire.”

Before Hermione could reply, Narcissa stood from the Slytherin table. She didn’t glance toward Hermione again, but as she swept out of the Hall, Hermione couldn’t help but feel it. the shift in the air. Something unspoken passing between them. A ripple of recognition. Maybe challenge.

Maybe something else.

They were paired again in Charms. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was coincidence, professor favoritism, or divine punishment, but when Narcissa took the seat beside her without a word, she felt her shoulders tense, then relax. It had become a rhythm now.

Narcissa arranged her books with precision. “You’re early.”

“I like being prepared,” Hermione said, not looking up.

“Of course you do.” Narcissa’s voice was calm, almost amused. “And here I was hoping you’d finally developed a rebellious streak.”

Hermione snorted softly. “Because that worked out so well for you last time.”

Narcissa’s gaze flicked sideways, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a slow smirk. “I don’t recall you complaining.”

Hermione’s quill slipped a little in her hand. She didn’t reply.

Class began, but their focus remained half on each other. They whispered sharp corrections, offered dry commentary, and compared results with the kind of casual ease that felt far too intimate. It was banter, yes, but something had changed. The edge wasn’t cruel anymore. It was something else. Curious. Testing. Enticing.

By the end of the lesson, Narcissa lingered.

“Your spellwork’s improved,” she said lightly, gathering her things. “I’d almost say it’s impressive.”

“Careful, Black. People will start thinking you’re being nice.”

“I am being nice,” Narcissa said with a flash of teeth. “By Slytherin standards.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Then remind me never to ask what ‘flirting’ looks like in your house.”

Narcissa’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, Beaumont,” she purred, stepping just a little closer, “you’d know if I were flirting.”

Hermione flushed and turned away too quickly, pretending to fuss with her satchel. “You’re impossible.”

“I hear that a lot.”

When Hermione looked up again, Narcissa was already halfway to the door. But she glanced back once. Just once. And Hermione felt her chest tighten.

By the time Potions came around, Pandora had caught wind of the shift. She didn’t say anything as she took the seat beside Hermione, but her eyebrows were doing something deeply accusatory.

“What?” Hermione asked flatly.

“Nothing,” Pandora said sweetly. “I’m just observing the weather patterns. It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it?”

Hermione refused to dignify that with a response.

Narcissa arrived late, sliding into her usual spot on Hermione’s other side like it was scripted. Their professor launched straight into instructions for a complicated brewing exercise, and all three girls bent over their cauldrons in silence, for the first five minutes.

“Careful,” Narcissa murmured under her breath. “That knotroot is potent. One wrong slice and this whole room will reek of vinegar and ego.”

“Your perfume already covers the vinegar,” Hermione muttered back, not looking at her.

Narcissa let out a delighted laugh, quiet and silken. “Now there’s the girl I’ve missed.”

Hermione’s wrist faltered just enough to make her scowl. “You didn’t miss me.”

“Didn’t I?” Narcissa said, too innocently.

Pandora made a choking noise behind her book.

By the end of the lesson, they’d brewed a near-perfect potion, despite the whispered insults and barbed asides exchanged over their cauldron. Professor Slughorn even gave a nod of approval, which had become common occurrence for them. 

As they filed out, Narcissa lingered a step behind Hermione. “I’m enjoying this new side of you.”

Hermione didn’t slow her pace. “Which side is that?”

“The one that fights back.”

“I’ve always fought back,” Hermione said.

“True,” Narcissa said. “But now you’re doing it with style.”

Hermione stopped walking. “Are you always like this?”

Narcissa tilted her head, a slow smirk spreading across her face. “Only with people who matter.”

Hermione’s heart skipped. She didn’t respond.

She couldn’t.

That evening in the common room, Pandora dropped onto the couch beside her with a dramatic sigh. “I take it back,” she said. “You’re not in trouble. You’re both beyond help.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her notes. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not,” Pandora said, snatching Hermione’s quill. “You’re flirting like you’re trying to outmaneuver each other in a duel. I’ve never seen anything so intense.”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione muttered, reaching for the quill.

“It’s not nothing,” Pandora said firmly. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, ‘I’m fighting for my life not to admit I like this.’”

Hermione didn’t answer.

But she didn’t deny it either.

The library was hushed and comforting, a sanctuary from the constant buzz of Hogwarts life. Hermione had claimed her usual corner table near the tall windows, where the late afternoon light spilled in golden pools across ancient tomes and parchment. Her nose was buried in a dense volume on advanced magical theory, but her thoughts weren’t fully there.

Pandora was nearby, sprawled comfortably across a pile of books, flicking through pages with one hand while the other idly traced patterns on the table. Her silver hair caught the light, and she glanced up, catching Hermione’s distracted gaze.

“You’re miles away,” Pandora said softly, closing her book with a gentle thump. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Hermione blinked, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Nothing important. Just… thinking.”

Pandora’s grin was knowing but gentle. “That’s not nothing. Spill.”

Before Hermione could respond, the soft scrape of boots on stone made her look up. Narcissa Black entered the library with her usual quiet confidence, scanning the room until her eyes settled on Hermione’s table. Without hesitation, she crossed the room and slid into the chair opposite Hermione.

The sudden closeness made Hermione’s pulse quicken. She cleared her throat and forced her expression to neutral. “What brings you here?”

Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Research. And, perhaps, a bit of curiosity.”

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

“Only if you don’t know what you’re looking for,” Narcissa said smoothly, folding her hands on the table.

Their eyes met, a silent conversation unfolding in the space between them. Hermione felt the heat of Narcissa’s gaze, both challenging and inviting.

Pandora, sensing the tension, leaned forward slightly but kept her voice light. “Well, since you’re both here, maybe you can help me with this ridiculous riddle I found.”

Hermione shot Pandora a grateful look. The interruption was welcome.

Narcissa’s smirk deepened. “I do enjoy puzzles.”

For the next several minutes, the three of them bent over the riddle, exchanging ideas and theories. Narcissa’s sharp mind was evident, and despite herself, Hermione found her attention drifting to the way Narcissa’s eyes lit up when she solved a particularly tricky part.

Between whispered comments and shared smiles, the tension softened into something more comfortable, though no less electric.

As the afternoon waned, Narcissa gathered her things to leave. Before standing, she fixed Hermione with a steady look, eyes glinted with something unspoken. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded, watching her walk away, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Pandora nudged her gently. “See? Not so hard to be normal.”

Hermione laughed softly. “Normal isn’t exactly what I’m aiming for.”

Pandora’s grin was mischievous. “Then what is?”

Hermione’s smile faltered for a moment before she met Pandora’s gaze with quiet resolve. “Something real.”

The Ravenclaw common room was unusually quiet for a late evening, the flicker of the fire casting soft shadows across the worn armchairs and stacked books. Hermione sat curled into one, her knees drawn up to her chest, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth was comforting, but her mind was restless, full of thoughts and emotions she hadn’t quite dared to face until now.

The day had unfolded in a strange new rhythm. With Narcissa, things had slipped back toward normal. Or at least, what passed for normal between them, but beneath the surface, everything felt charged, taut with something unspoken yet unmistakably present.

Earlier, in the Great Hall, their banter had taken on a new edge, lighter and bolder all at once. Narcissa had caught Hermione’s glance across the room, holding it just a moment longer, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Hermione had felt her pulse quicken and had quickly looked away, cheeks warm with something that wasn’t quite embarrassment, but something close.

In Potions, Narcissa’s teasing comments had been punctuated with a familiarity that felt like a private joke, meant only for the two of them. Hermione caught the sly look Narcissa gave her when she mastered a tricky potion step, as if daring her to claim the victory, and Hermione had met her challenge with a quiet smile that was both a reply and a question.

Pandora, of course, had noticed. She had perched nearby, pretending to be engrossed in a book but shooting Hermione knowing looks, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Hermione had rolled her eyes but hadn’t denied the truth: Pandora’s teasing was a welcome distraction and a reminder that she didn’t have to face all of this alone.

Now, in the quiet of the common room, Hermione allowed herself to breathe a little easier, but only just. The truth was, she was terrified. Terrified of what she was beginning to realize about herself.

What if she was falling for Narcissa?

The thought had snuck in, slow and steady, over the last few weeks. The way Narcissa’s eyes held a challenge that was both thrilling and maddening. The way her words could cut sharply one moment, then soften just enough the next to leave Hermione unbalanced. The way the world seemed to narrow when they were near, the noise fading until there was only the sound of their voices, their breathing.

Hermione had spent countless nights wrestling with the idea, pushing it away as impossible, as foolish, as dangerous. But denying it only made it grow louder.

Her gaze drifted back to the fire as the room grew colder around her. She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, the familiar weight grounding her. She thought of Narcissa’s smirk, that rare moment when her usual confidence had faltered and something vulnerable peeked through.

Was that for her? Or had she imagined it?

The question felt heavy, but she couldn’t let herself ignore it any longer.

A soft rustle broke her reverie, and Pandora settled down beside her without a word. The two sat in companionable silence, the unspoken understanding between them a balm for Hermione’s stormy thoughts.

Finally, Pandora spoke, her voice low and gentle. “You know, it’s okay to feel this way.”

Hermione glanced at her, surprise flickering across her face. “You think so?”

Pandora nodded, her silver hair catching the firelight. “Of course. It’s brave to admit it, even to yourself.”

Hermione swallowed hard, the vulnerability tightening her throat. “But what if it changes everything? What if it ruins… whatever this is between us?”

Pandora gave a knowing smile. “Sometimes, the scariest things are the ones that make life worth living.”

Hermione let the words settle, their truth resonating deep inside her. She was tired of hiding. From Narcissa, from herself.

Chapter Text

The days following Hermione finally acknowledging her feelings were a blur of sharp words and stolen glances. Their teasing, which had always walked a fine line, grew sharper, more heated, until it felt like an unspoken challenge with every interaction. The tension between them was almost unbearable, coiling tighter with every passing day.

And then came the moment Hermione didn’t expect.

It was a crisp afternoon when she stepped out of the castle, her books tucked under her arm. She had intended to head to the library, as usual, but a flash of blonde hair in the courtyard caught her eye. Her steps faltered as she took in the scene before her: Lucius Malfoy, leaning casually against the stone wall, his pale features smug as he spoke to Narcissa. He was clearly flirting, his tone light and confident, but what froze Hermione in place was Narcissa’s response.

She was flirting back.

Narcissa’s laughter, soft and melodic, drifted toward Hermione as Malfoy leaned closer. The sight of him brushing his fingers against her arm made something burn inside Hermione, a fire that started in her chest and spread, hot and unrelenting, through her entire body. Her grip on her books tightened as Narcissa tilted her head, her smirk teasing as she said something Hermione couldn’t hear.

It wasn’t until Narcissa’s sharp blue eyes glanced in her direction that Hermione realized she’d been staring. 

Narcissa’s smirk widened, her gaze locking with Hermione’s for a moment that felt like an eternity. Then, as if to drive the knife deeper, she leaned further into Malfoy’s space, her expression one of calculated amusement. 

Malfoy, emboldened, stepped closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, his smugness evident.

Hermione couldn’t take it anymore.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her away from the courtyard and the scene she couldn’t unsee. She didn’t know where she was going, she just needed to be anywhere but there. The burn in her chest didn’t subside, instead twisting into something darker, sharper, as her thoughts spiraled. 

Was that all it had ever been? A game? A distraction?

She didn’t stop walking until she reached the Black Lake. The secluded spot where she and Narcissa had shared a moment under the stars felt like both a refuge and a curse. Dropping her books to the ground, Hermione sank beneath the familiar tree, her arms wrapping tightly around her knees as she stared out at the water.

The hours passed, but Hermione didn’t move. The sky darkened, the stars beginning to peek through the clouds above, but the ache in her chest remained. She barely registered the sound of footsteps behind her until a voice broke the silence.

“There you are.”

Hermione’s body tensed, her hands curling into fists as she recognized the voice immediately. Narcissa’s tone was as smooth and amused as ever, but Hermione refused to look at her, keeping her gaze fixed on the lake.

“Not in the mood, Narcissa,” Hermione said flatly, her voice devoid of its usual fire.

Narcissa hesitated for a moment, her footsteps slowing as she approached. “Oh, come now,” she said lightly, though her voice carried a thread of tension beneath the usual confidence. “You can’t possibly be upset about earlier.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she refused to respond. She kept her eyes firmly on the shimmering surface of the Black Lake, willing herself to stay calm. 

Her silence, however, had a different effect on Narcissa. The blonde faltered slightly, her confident smirk slipping as uncertainty crept into her expression.

“Beaumont,” Narcissa tried again, softer this time. “It was harmless. You can’t seriously be—”

When Hermione finally turned to face her, the words died on Narcissa’s tongue. The look in Hermione’s eyes made her breath hitch. A fragile, raw pain that struck something deep within her. It wasn’t the fire Narcissa had come to expect, the unrelenting sharpness that had defined so many of their interactions. This was something different, something unguarded. And for a brief, startling moment, it reminded Narcissa of the way Hermione had looked in the Room of Requirement weeks ago, when her walls had crumbled under the weight of memories.

“I really was just a game, wasn’t I?” Hermione said, her voice low but steady, each word cutting through the night like a blade. “Something to amuse you. A distraction. Isn’t that what you do, Narcissa? You play with people because it’s easy.”

Narcissa blinked, visibly caught off guard for a moment before recovering. “What are you talking about?” she asked, though her voice lacked its usual edge.

Hermione stood abruptly, her anger bubbling to the surface. “Don’t play dumb, Narcissa,” she snapped. “You toy with people because it’s entertaining. And I was stupid enough to think it might be different with me.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Hermione’s voice rose, her words spilling out before she could stop them. “I saw the way you looked at him. The way you let him touch you. Do you think I didn’t notice?”

“It was harmless flirting!” Narcissa snapped, her composure cracking as frustration seeped into her tone. “You need to get over it. It’s not like we’re together.”

Hermione froze at the words, her chest heaving as a storm of emotions roared to life within her. The casual dismissal, the way Narcissa said it like it was nothing, it shattered something inside her that she hadn’t even known was fragile.

“Get over it?” Hermione’s voice was dangerously quiet, each word sharp as glass. “Get over it?”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, her defenses snapping back into place. “Yes, get over it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Hermione stepped closer, her dark eyes blazing with an intensity that made Narcissa instinctively step back. “You think I’m being ridiculous?”

“I think you’re overreacting to something that meant nothing,” Narcissa said, lifting her chin defiantly, but there was something uncertain flickering in her eyes now.

Hermione let out a harsh laugh. “Nothing? Is that what this has all been to you? Nothing?”

“This?” Narcissa’s voice rose, matching Hermione’s intensity. “What is ‘this,’ exactly? Because as far as I can tell, we’re just—”

“Just what?” Hermione interrupted, stepping even closer until Narcissa’s back hit the trunk of a tree. “Just what, Narcissa?”

Narcissa’s breath hitched at the sudden proximity, but she didn’t back down. “Just… complicated.”

“Complicated,” Hermione repeated, her voice dripping with bitter amusement. “Is that what you call it when you look at me like I’m the only person in the room? Is that what you call it when you follow me to lakes in the middle of the night?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Narcissa said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Don’t I?” Hermione’s hand shot out, bracing against the tree beside Narcissa’s head, trapping her. “Then tell me, Narcissa. Tell me what I don’t understand.”

For a moment, Narcissa looked genuinely shaken, her usual mask of confidence slipping. “I—”

“Tell me why you can’t seem to stay away from me,” Hermione pressed, her voice low and intense. “Tell me why you look at me like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle you can’t solve.”

“Stop,” Narcissa whispered, but there was no real force behind it.

“Tell me why seeing you with him made me want to burn the whole world down,” Hermione continued, her words coming faster now, more desperate. “Tell me why I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about what it would feel like to—”

“Stop!” Narcissa’s voice cracked, her composure finally shattering. “Just stop!”

But Hermione didn’t stop. She leaned closer, her face inches from Narcissa’s, her breathing ragged. “I can’t stop, Narcissa. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting you. I can’t stop falling for you even though I know it’s going to destroy me.”

The confession hung between them like a blade, sharp and cutting. Narcissa stared at her, lips parted, her eyes wide with something that looked like panic and longing all at once.

“You don’t mean that,” Narcissa whispered, her voice barely audible.

“I do,” Hermione said, her voice breaking. “I mean every word. And it’s killing me because I know, I know you don’t feel the same way. I know I’m just some amusing distraction, some game you play when you’re bored.”

“That’s not—” Narcissa started, but Hermione cut her off.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said, stepping back suddenly, her walls slamming back up. “It’s fine. I should have known better. I should have—”

“No.” Narcissa’s hand shot out, grabbing Hermione’s wrist before she could retreat further. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to say all of that and then just walk away.”

“Why not?” Hermione’s voice was hollow now, defeated. “What’s the point?”

“The point,” Narcissa said, her grip tightening, “is that you’re wrong.”

Hermione blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”

“You’re wrong,” Narcissa repeated, stepping closer again. “About me. About this. About everything.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You think you’re just a game to me?” Narcissa’s voice was fierce now, her eyes blazing. “You think I follow random girls to lakes for fun? You think I spend my nights lying awake thinking about someone who doesn’t matter?”

Hermione’s breath caught. “Narcissa—”

“I’ve been terrified,” Narcissa continued, her voice cracking with emotion. “Terrified of what you make me feel. Terrified of how much I want you. Terrified of how you’ve completely turned my world upside down.”

“Then why—” Hermione started, but Narcissa pressed on.

“Because I’m a coward,” Narcissa said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I’d rather pretend it doesn’t matter than risk having my heart broken by someone who could disappear from my life at any moment.”

They stared at each other, both breathing hard, the weight of their confessions settling between them like stones. For a long moment, neither moved, neither spoke.

Then, slowly, Narcissa reached out with trembling fingers to cup Hermione’s face.

“You beautiful, impossible fool,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Don’t you realize—”

But before she could finish, before Hermione could ask what she was supposed to realize, Narcissa’s lips were on hers.

Chapter Text

The world had narrowed to this single moment. Narcissa’s lips against hers, soft and desperate and real. Hermione’s mind, usually so quick to analyze and categorize, went completely blank. There was only the warmth of Narcissa’s mouth, the gentle pressure of her hands cupping Hermione’s face, and the way her heart seemed to stutter and then race as if trying to make up for lost time.

When they finally broke apart, it was only by inches. Narcissa’s breath was warm against Hermione’s lips, her grey eyes searching Hermione’s face with an intensity that made her feel exposed and vulnerable in ways she’d never experienced before.

“Don’t you realize—” Narcissa whispered, her voice barely audible, “—that you’re all I think about?”

The confession hung between them like a fragile thing, and Hermione felt her chest tighten with emotion. She wanted to respond, to say something equally vulnerable and honest, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she found herself leaning forward, pressing her forehead against Narcissa’s, their noses almost touching.

“Narcissa,” she breathed, and it came out like a prayer.

They stood there in the growing darkness, still pressed against the tree, still holding each other like they were afraid the other might disappear. The lake lapped quietly at the shore behind them, and somewhere in the distance, Hermione could hear the faint sounds of the castle. Students returning from Hogsmeade, the distant chatter of evening conversations. But it all felt worlds away from this moment, this bubble of intimacy they’d created.

“I’m terrified,” Narcissa admitted quietly, her thumb tracing along Hermione’s cheekbone. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be… vulnerable.”

Hermione’s heart clenched at the raw honesty in Narcissa’s voice. She pulled back slightly to look into those grey eyes, seeing the fear there, the uncertainty that Narcissa usually hid so well behind her composed facade.

“Neither do I,” Hermione whispered back. “I’m so scared, Narcissa. Of this, of what it means, of—” She cut herself off, unable to voice the deeper fears that plagued her. The knowledge of what was to come, the weight of the future pressing down on her shoulders.

Narcissa’s hands slid from Hermione’s face to her shoulders, then down her arms, finally intertwining their fingers. “What are you so afraid of?” she asked softly. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Hermione’s breath caught. She could see the questions in Narcissa’s eyes, the way she was clearly trying to piece together the puzzle of Hermione’s guarded behavior. How could she explain that she was afraid of falling for someone whose sister would torture her? That she was terrified of loving someone who was supposed to be her enemy? Someone who was most likely already promised to someone else? That every touch, every kiss, every moment of happiness felt like a betrayal of everything she knew to be true?

“I can’t,” Hermione said, her voice breaking slightly. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Narcissa’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Hermione thought she might push harder, demand answers that Hermione couldn’t give. But then her expression softened, and she squeezed Hermione’s hands gently.

“Then I’ll wait,” she said simply. “However long it takes.”

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow, and she felt tears prick at her eyes. She’d expected anger, frustration, demands for explanations. She hadn’t expected patience, understanding, unconditional acceptance.

“You shouldn’t,” Hermione whispered. “You shouldn’t have to wait for someone who can’t even tell you the truth.”

“Maybe not,” Narcissa agreed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But I’m going to anyway. Because whatever it is you’re hiding, whatever you’re running from, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Hermione felt a tear slide down her cheek, and Narcissa immediately reached up to brush it away with her thumb. The gesture was so tender, so careful, that it made Hermione want to cry harder.

“How do you feel about me?” Hermione asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Narcissa’s smile grew, becoming more genuine, more radiant. “Like I’m falling,” she said softly. “Like I’m falling and I don’t care where I land as long as you’re there to catch me.”

The confession was so raw, so beautiful, that Hermione couldn’t help but lean forward and kiss her again. This time it was softer, more tentative, filled with wonder rather than desperation. When they parted, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads still pressed together.

“We should go back,” Hermione said reluctantly, though she made no move to step away.

“We should,” Narcissa agreed, but her hands tightened on Hermione’s waist. “In a minute.”

They stood there for several more minutes, just holding each other, memorizing the moment. Hermione tried to burn every detail into her memory. The way Narcissa’s hair caught the moonlight, the soft warmth of her body pressed against hers, the way her eyes seemed to hold galaxies in their depths.

Finally, reluctantly, they began to walk back toward the castle. They didn’t speak much on the way, but their hands remained intertwined, fingers laced together like they were afraid of letting go. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was charged with possibility, with the knowledge that something fundamental had shifted between them.

As they reached the entrance hall, Narcissa stopped and turned to face Hermione. “This changes things,” she said quietly.

“Everything,” Hermione agreed, her heart racing again at the intensity in Narcissa’s gaze.

“I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen,” Narcissa continued, her voice firm. “I don’t want to go back to the way things were.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione said, and realized she meant it completely. Whatever the consequences, whatever the complications, she didn’t want to go back to the careful dance they’d been doing, the pretense that there was nothing between them.

Narcissa smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Good,” she said simply. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

The use of her first name, spoken so softly and intimately, made Hermione’s heart skip. “Goodnight, Narcissa.”

They parted ways at the stairs, Narcissa heading toward the Slytherin dungeons while Hermione climbed toward Ravenclaw Tower. Hermione watched her go, noting the way Narcissa’s spine was straighter, her step more confident. The kiss had changed her too, had given her a certainty that hadn’t been there before.

When Hermione finally reached her dormitory, she found Pandora sitting on her bed, clearly waiting. Her friend’s eyes were bright with curiosity, and she was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Well?” Pandora demanded the moment Hermione walked through the door. “You’ve been gone for hours. What happened?”

Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks, and she knew there was no hiding what had occurred. Pandora was too perceptive, and Hermione was too shaken to maintain her usual composure.

“We kissed,” Hermione said simply, sinking down onto her bed.

Pandora’s eyes widened, then she let out a squeal of delight that she quickly muffled with her hands. “Finally!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve been waiting for this for weeks! Tell me everything!”

Hermione found herself smiling despite the turmoil in her chest. “It was…” she paused, searching for the right words. “It was incredible. And terrifying. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

“Nobody does,” Pandora said reassuringly, settling cross-legged on the bed facing Hermione. “Love is supposed to be terrifying. If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Love?” Hermione repeated, her voice rising slightly. “I never said anything about love.”

Pandora raised an eyebrow, looking supremely unimpressed. “Hermione, you’ve been pining after that girl for months. You light up every time she walks into a room. You’ve been practically vibrating with tension whenever she’s near. If that’s not love, it’s something pretty close to it.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Because Pandora was right, wasn’t she? What else could explain the way her heart raced whenever Narcissa smiled at her? The way she found herself thinking about bright eyes and sharp wit at the most inappropriate moments? The way the thought of Narcissa being hurt made her feel physically ill?

“I don’t know how to do this,” Hermione admitted quietly. “I don’t know how to be with someone like this.”

“Like what?” Pandora asked gently.

“Openly. Honestly. Without hiding.” Hermione ran her hands through her hair, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I have so many secrets, Pandora. So many things I can’t tell her. How can I be with someone when I can’t even tell them who I really am?”

Pandora was quiet for a long moment, studying Hermione’s face. “You know,” she said finally, “I’ve never pushed you about your past. About where you came from, or why you’re so guarded. But I think… I think maybe you’re not as alone as you believe yourself to be.”

Hermione looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Pandora said carefully, “that secrets don’t necessarily make someone unlovable. And maybe, just maybe, the person who’s falling for you is falling for who you are right now, not who you were before.”

The words hit Hermione like a revelation. She’d been so focused on the lies she was telling, the truth she was hiding, that she’d forgotten to consider what Narcissa was actually seeing. The person she’d become in this time, the way she’d grown and changed.

“But what if she knew?” Hermione whispered. “What if she knew everything? Would she still—”

“Would she still what?” Pandora asked. “Still care about you? Still want to be with you? Hermione, I’ve watched that girl look at you like you hung the moon and stars. I don’t think there’s anything you could tell her that would change how she feels.”

Hermione wanted to believe that, desperately. But the weight of everything she knew; about the war, about the sides they were supposed to be on, about the future that awaited them, felt too heavy to bear.

“It’s complicated,” she said finally, the words feeling inadequate.

“The best things usually are,” Pandora replied with a smile. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting for.”

They talked for a while longer, Pandora extracting details about the kiss and the conversation that followed, offering reassurance and advice that Hermione found surprisingly helpful. By the time they finally went to sleep, Hermione felt marginally more settled, though her mind was still spinning with possibilities and fears.

The next morning brought a new kind of tension. Hermione woke with the memory of Narcissa’s lips against hers, the ghost of her touch still lingering on her skin. She felt different, changed in some fundamental way, and she wondered if it showed.

At breakfast, she found herself scanning the Great Hall for blonde hair, her heart jumping when she spotted Narcissa at the Slytherin table. Their eyes met across the room, and Narcissa smiled. Small and private and just for her. Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she smiled back, unable to help herself.

“You’re being obvious,” Pandora murmured beside her, though she sounded amused rather than critical.

“I don’t care,” Hermione replied, and was surprised to find she meant it.

The day passed in a blur of stolen glances and shared smiles. In Transfiguration, Narcissa made a point of sitting beside Hermione, their shoulders brushing as they worked. When their hands accidentally touched while reaching for the same quill, Narcissa didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her fingers linger, tracing light patterns on Hermione’s wrist that made her shiver.

“You’re distracting me,” Hermione murmured, though she made no move to pull away.

“Good,” Narcissa replied with a smirk. “I like having that effect on you.”

The boldness of the statement, said so casually in the middle of class, made Hermione’s heart race. This was new, this openness, this willingness to acknowledge what was between them. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

After classes, they found themselves back at the lake, sitting on their usual fallen log. The evening was cool, and Narcissa had conjured a warming charm that created a pocket of comfortable air around them.

“I keep thinking about last night,” Narcissa said suddenly, her voice soft.

“So do I,” Hermione admitted.

“I don’t want to rush things,” Narcissa continued, turning to face Hermione. “But I also don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t want to go back to dancing around each other.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione said, reaching out to take Narcissa’s hand. “But I need you to know… I might not be ready for everything. Not yet.”

Narcissa squeezed her hand gently. “I’m not asking for everything,” she said. “I’m just asking for a chance. For the possibility of something real.”

The word ‘real’ hit Hermione like a physical blow, because nothing about her life felt real anymore. She was living in the past, hiding her true identity, falling for someone who was supposed to be her enemy. But the way Narcissa was looking at her, the way her hand felt in hers, that felt real. That felt like the only real thing in her world.

“I want that too,” Hermione said quietly. “More than I should.”

“Why more than you should?” Narcissa asked, frowning slightly.

Hermione hesitated, then decided to be as honest as she could. “Because I’m not… I’m not the person you think I am. I’m not the person anyone thinks I am.”

“Then tell me who you are,” Narcissa said simply.

“I can’t,” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Narcissa was quiet for a long moment, studying Hermione’s face. “Is it dangerous?” she asked finally. “This secret you’re keeping?”

Hermione’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Narcissa said carefully, “are you in some kind of trouble? Are you running from something? Someone?”

The questions were too close to the truth, and Hermione felt panic rise in her chest. But she also saw something in Narcissa’s eyes. Not suspicion or judgment, but concern. Genuine worry for her wellbeing.

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione said finally.

“It never is,” Narcissa replied with a small smile. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone. Not anymore.”

The promise in her voice, the absolute certainty, made Hermione want to cry. She’d been alone for so long, carrying the weight of knowledge and secrets and guilt. The idea that someone might be willing to share that burden, even without knowing what it was, felt like a gift she didn’t deserve.

“You don’t know what you’re offering,” Hermione said quietly.

“Yes, I do,” Narcissa replied firmly. “I’m offering to stand by you. Whatever comes.”

They sat in comfortable silence as the sun set over the lake, their hands still intertwined. Hermione felt something shift in her chest. Not the fear and anxiety that had been her constant companions, but something warmer, more hopeful. For the first time since arriving in this time, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could have this. She could have happiness, even if it was temporary, even if it was complicated.

As they walked back to the castle, Narcissa stopped suddenly and turned to face Hermione. “Can I kiss you again?” she asked, her voice soft but direct.

Hermione’s heart skipped. “Yes,” she whispered.

This time, the kiss was different. Slower, more exploratory, filled with the promise of possibility. When they parted, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads pressed together.

“I could get used to this,” Narcissa murmured.

“So could I,” Hermione replied, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself to believe it might be true.

As they parted ways in the entrance hall, Hermione felt lighter than she had in ages. The secrets were still there, the complications still loomed, but for this moment, she was simply a girl who had kissed the person she cared about. For this moment, that was enough.

Back in her dormitory, Pandora was waiting again, her eyes bright with curiosity and affection.

“You look happy,” she observed.

“I am,” Hermione said, and realized it was true. “Terrified, but happy.”

“Good,” Pandora said with a grin. “That’s exactly how you should feel.”

As Hermione lay in bed that night, she found herself thinking about Narcissa’s words: Whatever comes. The promise felt both comforting and overwhelming. She didn’t know what was coming, didn’t know how long this happiness could last, but for the first time since arriving in this time, she felt like she might not have to face it alone.

The future was still uncertain, her secrets still weighed heavily on her heart, but something had fundamentally shifted. She was no longer just existing in this time, she was living in it. And that, she realized, made all the difference.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to Christmas break were buzzing with energy. The castle was alive with excitement as students made plans for the holidays, discussing family traditions and eagerly counting down the days until the term ended. For Hermione, however, the festive atmosphere only deepened the ache that had settled in her chest.

Pandora, ever perceptive, noticed immediately.
It was one evening in their dormitory when Pandora finally brought it up. She was sprawled out on Hermione’s bed, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her silvery hair as Hermione sat at her desk, feigning focus on the parchment in front of her.

“You’re not looking forward to the holidays,” Pandora said suddenly, her tone softer than usual.

Hermione paused, her quill hovering over the page. “What makes you say that?” she asked without looking up.

Pandora propped herself up on her elbows, her sharp eyes studying Hermione closely. “Because you get that faraway look every time someone mentions leaving. And you’ve been quieter lately.” She tilted her head.

Hermione froze for a moment before letting out a slow breath, setting her quill down on the desk. She hated lying to Pandora, but there was no way to tell the truth without unraveling everything. Still, Pandora had become too observant of her moods. There was no way to sidestep the question completely.

“Unlike the rest of the students, I have no family to spend it with,” she admitted finally, keeping her voice even.

Pandora’s face fell, and she sat up properly, folding her legs beneath her. “Oh, Hermione,” she said softly, her voice heavy with understanding. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione shrugged, though the movement felt stiff, forced. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s just how things are.”

Pandora was silent for a moment, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. She was rarely at a loss for words, but now she seemed to be searching for the right thing to say. Hermione could feel her friend’s gaze lingering on her, and it took every ounce of willpower not to squirm under the weight of it.

“You really can’t go back,” Pandora said finally, her voice soft with understanding. “To your time. To those you care about.”

It wasn’t a question. Pandora was one of the few people who knew the truth about Hermione’s situation—how the Time-Turner had malfunctioned, how she’d been thrown back decades without any way to return. They’d had this conversation before, late at night when Hermione’s carefully constructed walls had crumbled under the weight of her isolation.

“No,” Hermione admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t.”

Pandora frowned, her expression full of sympathy. She slid off the bed and crossed the room to sit beside Hermione at the desk, her presence a comfort. “I know this wasn’t your choice,” she said gently. “None of this was. But that doesn’t mean you have to spend Christmas alone. You deserve to have people who care about you.”

Hermione turned to face her then, her eyes betraying a flicker of vulnerability she hadn’t meant to show. “It’s not that simple,” she said quietly. “Everything I knew, everyone I loved, it’s all gone. I can’t just… replace them.”

Pandora reached out, placing a comforting hand on Hermione’s arm. “I’m not asking you to replace them,” she said gently. “But you’re here now. This is your life, whether you chose it or not. And hiding from it won’t bring them back.”

Hermione’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, Pandora,” she said softly. “But I’ll manage. I always do.”

Pandora sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her tone was laced with affection. “Stubborn as a Hippogriff.”

Hermione let out a small laugh, grateful for the shift in tone. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Pandora said, her grin returning. “But don’t think I’m letting this go entirely. Just because I can’t do anything about it now doesn’t mean I won’t figure something out.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“Absolutely,” Pandora replied, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “One day, Hermione Beaumont, I’m going to figure out how to crack that fortress of yours.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest surprised her. “Good luck with that.”

Pandora smirked. “Oh, I don’t need luck,” she said, standing up and stretching. “I have persistence.”

As Pandora returned to her bed and began rifling through her trunk for something, Hermione turned back to her parchment, though her focus was far from it. The ache in her chest hadn’t gone away, but Pandora’s words lingered, wrapping around her like a small, fragile comfort.

The days continued, and while the rest of the castle buzzed with excitement for the holidays, Hermione found solace in her routine. The one bright spot in her days was the time she spent with Narcissa at their hidden spot by the Black Lake. It had become their haven, a quiet escape from the chaos of the castle where they could be themselves, away from prying eyes.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the lake reflected the deep oranges and purples of the sky, Hermione found herself resting her head in Narcissa’s lap, her eyes half-closed as the blonde absentmindedly ran her fingers through her curls. The soft, repetitive motion was soothing, and Hermione found herself wishing, just for a moment, that she could stay here forever.

But the weight in her chest refused to lift, no matter how comforting the moment was.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Narcissa said, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft but tinged with curiosity as she glanced down at Hermione. “What’s wrong?”

Hermione hesitated, keeping her gaze fixed on the lake. She wanted to deflect, to say it was nothing and change the subject, but the melancholy that had settled over her was too heavy to ignore. “It’s nothing,” she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re a terrible liar, Beaumont.”

Hermione let out a small, humorless laugh but still didn’t respond. She tried to focus on the rhythmic touch of Narcissa’s fingers in her hair, but it wasn’t enough to silence the thoughts swirling in her mind.

“Tell me,” Narcissa pressed, her tone unusually gentle. “What’s bothering you?”

Hermione sighed, the weight in her chest threatening to spill over. “The holidays,” she admitted after a long pause. “Everyone’s so excited, and all I can think about is how alone I’m going to be.”

The hand in her hair stilled for a moment, and Narcissa’s brows furrowed as she studied Hermione’s face. “You’ve never mentioned your family before,” she said carefully, her voice softening.

Hermione froze, realizing her slip. She cursed herself for letting her guard down. “There’s not much to mention,” she said quickly, trying to sound casual. “They’re… far away.”

“Far away?” Narcissa repeated, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Where, exactly?”

Hermione swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice even. “It’s complicated.”

Narcissa’s fingers resumed their gentle motion, but her gaze didn’t waver. “You always say that,” she said quietly. “That it’s complicated. But you never explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Hermione said, a touch of desperation creeping into her voice. “They’re not… they’re not part of my life anymore.”

Narcissa tilted her head, her expression softening further. “Not part of your life? Did something happen?”

Hermione hesitated, her throat tightening. How could she explain the truth without revealing everything? How could she describe the world she’d left behind? Harry, Ron, the war, the future that might never come to pass, without sounding completely mad?

“They’re not here,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re… they’re somewhere I can’t reach.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Her parents, her friends, everyone she’d ever loved. They were decades in the future, living lives she could never be part of again. The truth of it hit her like a physical blow, and she had to look away to keep from breaking down completely.

Narcissa sighed softly, her hand stilling in Hermione’s hair once more. “You always deflect,” she said, though there was no malice in her tone. “You never let anyone in.”

Hermione sat up abruptly, brushing Narcissa’s hand away as she turned to face the lake. “Maybe there’s a reason for that,” she said sharply, though she regretted the edge in her voice the moment the words left her mouth.

Narcissa blinked, momentarily startled, but she quickly recovered. “You’re so stubborn,” she said, her tone half exasperated, half amused. “You act like letting someone care about you is some kind of crime.”

Hermione’s shoulders tensed, and she drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “It’s not about that,” she muttered. “It’s just easier this way.”

“Easier?” Narcissa repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. “How is this easier? Shutting everyone out, carrying everything by yourself?”

“It just is,” Hermione said quietly, her voice heavy with finality.

Narcissa studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, instead of pushing further, she leaned back against the tree, her voice taking on a different tone. Quieter, more thoughtful. “You know,” she said slowly, “I used to think that being alone was safer too.”

Hermione glanced at her, surprised by the admission.

“When I was younger, I thought if I kept everyone at a distance, I wouldn’t get hurt,” Narcissa continued, her gaze fixed on the lake. “My parents had their expectations, my sisters had their own lives, and I… I learned early that relying on anyone was dangerous.”

Hermione found herself listening despite herself, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Narcissa’s voice.

“But you know what I realized?” Narcissa said, turning to look at her. “Being alone isn’t safer. It’s just… emptier.”

The words hit Hermione harder than she expected, and she had to look away to keep her composure. “Some people don’t have a choice,” she said quietly.

“Don’t they?” Narcissa asked, her voice gentle but probing. “Or do they just convince themselves they don’t?”

Before Hermione could respond, Narcissa shifted closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t spend Christmas alone,” she said, echoing her earlier words to Pandora, but with a different weight behind them.

Hermione’s stomach clenched, and she shook her head “Narcissa—”

“Come home with me,” Narcissa said, cutting her off. “For the holidays.”

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Flashes of Bellatrix’s face, the screams at Malfoy Manor, and the oppressive darkness of the dungeons flooded her mind. Her chest tightened, and she struggled to keep her breathing steady.

“I couldn’t impose,” Hermione said quickly, her voice tight. “It’s a generous offer, but… your family doesn’t even know me.”

Narcissa’s expression sharpened slightly, as if she could sense the panic beneath Hermione’s carefully controlled exterior. “They don’t need to know you,” she said firmly. “They need to know that you’re important to me.”

The simple statement made Hermione’s heart skip, but it also made the panic worse. Important to her. If only Narcissa knew how impossible that made everything.

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Narcissa asked, her eyes searching Hermione’s face. “What are you so afraid of?”

Everything, Hermione thought. I’m afraid of your family, your house, your future. I’m afraid of falling deeper when I know how this ends.

“I’m not afraid,” she lied, but even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow.

Narcissa was quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving Hermione’s face. Then, she reached out and gently touched Hermione’s hand. “Whatever you’re running from,” she said softly, “you don’t have to run from me.”

The tenderness in her voice nearly undid Hermione completely. She wanted to lean into it, to let Narcissa’s words wash away the fear and the memories and the crushing weight of everything she carried. But she couldn’t. Not when she knew what lay ahead.

“I should go,” Hermione said abruptly, starting to stand. “It’s getting late.”

Narcissa’s hand tightened around hers. “Don’t,” she said, her voice urgent. “Don’t run. Not tonight.”

Hermione froze, caught between the desire to flee and the magnetic pull of Narcissa’s presence. For a moment, they stayed like that, suspended between what was and what could be.

“I’m not running,” Hermione said finally, though they both knew it was a lie.

Narcissa’s smile was sad but understanding. “Then stay,” she said simply. “Just for a little longer.”

Against her better judgment, Hermione sank back down beside her. They sat in silence for a while, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. The lake lapped gently at the shore, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted softly.

“Think about it,” Narcissa said finally, her voice careful. “The invitation stands.”

Hermione nodded, though she knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t, accept. But as she looked at Narcissa’s profile in the moonlight, she felt something shift inside her chest. Not hope, exactly, but something close to it. Something dangerous.

The next day, Hermione was sitting in the courtyard, flipping absentmindedly through a book when she heard the familiar sound of confident footsteps approaching. She looked up to see Narcissa striding toward her, her usual air of elegance accompanied by a brightness that made Hermione’s stomach drop.

“There you are,” Narcissa said, her voice warm with barely contained excitement. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Hermione closed her book slowly, already dreading what was coming. “What’s wrong?” she asked, though she suspected she already knew.

“Wrong?” Narcissa’s smile widened. “Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything’s perfect.”

Hermione’s heart began to race. “Narcissa, what did you do?”

“I wrote to my parents,” Narcissa announced, her tone triumphant.

“You didn’t,” Hermione said, horror creeping into her voice.

“Oh, but I did,” Narcissa replied, clearly enjoying herself. “And you’ll be pleased to know they’re delighted to have you join us for Christmas.”

Hermione felt the world tilt around her. The Black family home. With Bellatrix. The sister who would one day torture her, who would become everything dark and twisted about the wizarding world. Even if that future was decades away, even if this Bellatrix was still young and presumably different, the thought made her stomach churn.

“Narcissa, I told you—”

“You told me you’d think about it,” Narcissa interrupted smoothly. “And while you were thinking, I took the liberty of making the arrangements.” She crossed her arms, her smile becoming almost predatory. “It’s settled.”

“It’s not settled,” Hermione said, panic rising in her throat. “I never agreed to anything.”

“You didn’t refuse, either,” Narcissa pointed out. “And besides, it’s too late now. The owl’s already been sent, the plans are made.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to that silky tone that always made Hermione’s pulse quicken. “Unless you want to disappoint my parents, of course.”

Hermione stared at her, caught between fury and something that felt dangerously close to admiration. “You’re impossible,” she said finally.

“I’m determined,” Narcissa corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“This is manipulative, even for you,” Hermione said, though there was no real heat in her voice.

Narcissa’s expression softened slightly. “It’s not manipulation,” she said quietly. “It’s caring. I told you, I don’t want you to spend Christmas alone.”

The sincerity in her voice made Hermione’s chest ache. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like; a real Christmas, with people who cared about her. But then reality crashed back in, bringing with it all the memories she’d tried so hard to suppress.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t understand. I can’t go to your family’s house.”

“Why not?” Narcissa asked, her brow furrowing. “Hermione, what are you so afraid of?”

Your sister, Hermione thought desperately. I’m afraid of your sister, who will one day carve ‘mudblood’ into my arm and laugh while she does it. I’m afraid of walking into a house where I’ll see her face and remember every nightmare I’ve ever had.

“I’m not afraid,” she said aloud, but the words came out shaky and unconvincing.

Narcissa studied her face, and Hermione could see the wheels turning behind her grey eyes. “You’re terrified,” she said finally, her voice soft with realization. “But not of my family. Of something else.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” Narcissa said, moving closer. “You’re hiding something. Something big.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened to you, Hermione? What are you running from?”

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with possibilities and danger. Hermione felt the familiar urge to run, to deflect, to build her walls higher. But when she looked into Narcissa’s eyes, she saw something that made her hesitate.

She saw understanding. Not of the truth, but of the pain. And for one terrifying moment, Hermione wanted nothing more than to tell her everything.

“I can’t tell you,” she said finally, her voice breaking slightly. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Narcissa was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she reached out and took Hermione’s hand, her touch gentle but firm. “Then don’t,” she said simply. “But come anyway.”

“Narcissa—”

“Come anyway,” she repeated, more insistently. “Whatever you’re afraid of, we’ll face it together. But don’t spend Christmas alone because of something that happened in the past.”

Hermione looked down at their joined hands, feeling the weight of the decision settling on her shoulders. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to make up an excuse, to run. But when she looked up at Narcissa’s face, she saw something that made her resolve waver.
She saw hope.

“Fine,” she said finally, the word barely audible. “But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Narcissa’s smile was radiant, transforming her entire face. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, but her tone was warm with affection. “Though I have a feeling you might surprise yourself.”

As Narcissa walked away, practically glowing with satisfaction, Hermione buried her face in her hands. She had just agreed to spend Christmas at the Black family home. With Bellatrix. The woman who would one day become her torturer, who would laugh as she carved ‘mudblood’ into Hermione’s arm. Even if that future was decades away, even if this version of Bellatrix was still young and presumably different, the thought made Hermione’s skin crawl.

But as she sat there in the courtyard, surrounded by the excited chatter of other students preparing for the holidays, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just made the most important decision of her life.
That night, exhaustion finally overtook her racing mind, and Hermione fell into a fitful sleep.

The nightmare came swiftly, as it always did. She was back in Malfoy Manor, sprawled across the floor in the drawing room, the ornate ceiling spinning above her as Bellatrix’s wild laughter echoed off the walls. The Cruciatus Curse tore through her body, and she screamed until her voice gave out.

But this time, the dream twisted. Instead of Harry and Ron trying to rescue her, it was Narcissa who burst through the doors. Young, beautiful Narcissa, her grey eyes wide with horror as she took in the scene.

“Bella, stop!” she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. “Please, you’re killing her!”

But Bellatrix only laughed harder, her dark eyes gleaming with madness. “She’s a mudblood, Cissy. She deserves everything she gets.”

Hermione watched in horror as Narcissa tried to intervene, only to be struck down by her own sister. The blonde crumpled to the floor, her lifeless eyes staring accusingly at Hermione.

“This is your fault,” Bellatrix hissed, her face inches from Hermione’s. “You brought death into our family. You destroyed everything you touched.”

The scene shifted, and suddenly Hermione was standing in the Black family home, watching as a young Bellatrix slowly transformed into the monster she would become. And at the center of it all was Hermione herself, her very presence somehow catalyzing the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching out toward Narcissa’s still form. “I’m so sorry. I should have stayed away.”

She woke with a start, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding against her ribs. The dormitory was quiet except for Pandora’s gentle breathing, but the echoes of the nightmare clung to her like smoke.

Hermione sat up slowly, pressing her hands to her face as she tried to steady her breathing. The image of Narcissa lying motionless while Bellatrix laughed burned in her mind, and she found herself wondering if this was what she was walking into. If by accepting this invitation, by getting closer to the Black family, she was somehow setting in motion the very future she feared.

But as she sat there in the darkness, another thought crept in. What if her fear was exactly what would cause the future she remembered? What if by running, by keeping her distance, she was actually pushing Narcissa toward the path that would lead to her destruction?

The questions swirled in her mind until dawn broke over the castle, painting the walls in shades of gold and rose. And as she watched the sun rise, Hermione made a decision that terrified her more than any nightmare ever could.

She was going to stop running.

Not from the truth. She still couldn’t tell Narcissa about the time travel, about the future she’d come from. But from the possibility of something different. From the chance, however small, that her presence here might actually change things for the better.

Because the one thing the nightmare had made clear was something she’d been trying to deny for weeks. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Narcissa. Not to the darkness, not to the future she remembered.

And maybe, just maybe, she could prevent it.

Chapter Text

The last weekend before holiday break arrived quicker than Hermione had expected. She had spent the past week in a haze of exhaustion, the weight of her sleepless nights pressing down on her shoulders. Her nightmares hadn’t let up, and the image of Narcissa’s lifeless body still haunted her every time she closed her eyes.

But today, she had little time to dwell on it.

Pandora had decided that Hermione needed a proper shopping spree, and once Pandora made up her mind, there was no escaping her plans. The moment breakfast ended, she had grabbed Hermione by the wrist and all but dragged her to Hogsmeade, determined to find her something. Anything that wasn’t a school uniform.

“You’re going to be spending the holidays with the Black family,” Pandora reminded her, weaving through the bustling streets. “You can’t very well show up with nothing but Hogwarts robes and a few plain blouses. It would be a crime, Hermione. A crime.”

Hermione sighed, letting herself be led into the first store. “I don’t think they care what I wear, Pandora.”

Pandora scoffed. “Oh, but they will. The Blacks care about presentation, and Narcissa—” She shot Hermione a knowing glance. “She’ll care.”

Hermione’s face warmed at that, and she busied herself by sifting through a rack of wool coats.

She knew Pandora was right. She couldn’t spend the entire holiday looking like she had just crawled out of the library. It wasn’t just about appearances, it was about survival. The Black family wasn’t a place she could afford to stand out in the wrong way.

But the exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, dulling her reactions and making every movement feel sluggish.

Pandora noticed.

It started with subtle glances in Hermione’s direction as she examined scarves. Then came the long pauses where Pandora would stare at her, her expression unreadable. Finally, after watching Hermione rub at her temples for the third time, Pandora set down the gloves she had been inspecting and turned to face her fully.

“Hermione,” she said carefully, “you’re not sleeping, are you?”

Hermione froze, her fingers tightening around the sleeve of a coat. “I—”

“I know,” Pandora interrupted, her voice softer now. “You talk in your sleep.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

She looked up to meet Pandora’s gaze, her chest tightening at the concern in her friend’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

Pandora let out a quiet sigh, tugging Hermione toward a quieter corner of the shop. “The past few nights, I’ve woken up to you muttering in your sleep. Sometimes calling out. And…” She hesitated. “The things you say… they’re not normal dreams, Hermione.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Pandora—”

“You say names. You cry out like you’re in pain. Sometimes it sounds like you’re—” Pandora’s voice faltered before she steeled herself. “Like you’re reliving something awful.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, looking away.

She had known this was a risk. Of course, she had. The past haunted her, clinging to her like a ghost that refused to leave. But to know Pandora had heard, had witnessed even the smallest piece of it. It made her feel exposed in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

“Hermione,” Pandora said again, softer now. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. I know you won’t tell me. But—” She hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Hermione let out a shaky breath. “I do,” she admitted quietly. “I don’t have a choice.”

Pandora shook her head. “You always have a choice.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Instead, she turned back to the clothing racks, forcing herself to breathe, to focus. “Let’s just finish shopping, alright?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Pandora studied her for a long moment before finally nodding. “Alright.”

They moved through the rest of their shopping with fewer words but no less determination. Hermione let Pandora take the lead, allowing her to choose outfits that would help her blend in with the pureblood elite she was about to spend the holidays with. The idea of it made her stomach twist, but Pandora was right. She needed to be prepared.

After selecting a few outfits, Pandora suddenly turned down another street, leading Hermione toward a boutique Hermione had never been to before.

Hermione frowned. “Where are we going?”

Pandora didn’t slow her pace. “You need a dress.”

“A dress?” Hermione repeated, puzzled.

“For the Blacks’ annual winter event,” Pandora explained. “It’s a big deal. Formal. Extravagant. You need something suitable.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Pandora, I don’t think—”

“Hermione,” Pandora said flatly, “you are going to this event, and you are going to look stunning. Now stop arguing and let me work my magic.”

There was no use fighting her.

Inside, the boutique was warm and elegant, the racks lined with beautiful gowns that shimmered in the candlelight. Hermione hesitated at the threshold, suddenly overwhelmed. She had never been one for fancy dresses. She had spent so long in the middle of war, surviving on instinct, that something as normal as shopping for a gown felt almost absurd.

But Pandora was already flipping through the racks, her eyes alight with excitement.

“We’ll find the perfect one,” she assured Hermione.

And, after what felt like hours, they did.

The moment Hermione saw it, she knew.

The dress was breathtaking. Deep midnight blue, adorned with intricate gold embroidery. The bodice was sheer in places, delicate gold lace trailing over the fabric like ivy, while the skirt flowed in elegant layers, the embroidery cascading to the hem. A daring slit ran along one side, the entire piece radiating both grace and quiet strength.

Hermione hesitated, running her fingers over the fabric.

“Try it on,” Pandora urged, practically vibrating with excitement.

With a deep breath, Hermione took the dress and disappeared into the fitting room.

When she stepped in front of the mirror, she barely recognized herself.

For the first time in what felt like years, she wasn’t just a battle-worn witch carrying the weight of a past that didn’t belong here. She wasn’t the girl who had to be strong all the time, the girl haunted by the ghosts of a war no one else remembered.

She was just Hermione.

A girl in a beautiful dress.

A girl who, for one fleeting moment, felt like she belonged.

When she stepped out, Pandora let out a soft gasp. “Oh, Hermione,” she whispered. “That’s the one.”

Hermione swallowed hard, staring at her reflection.

For once, she wasn’t sure she could argue.

They purchased the dress, along with the other items Pandora had selected. Elegant robes in deep emerald and burgundy, a warm winter cloak lined with silver silk, and accessories that would help her blend seamlessly into the world she was about to enter. Each piece felt like armor, protection against the scrutiny she knew awaited her.

As they walked back toward the castle, their arms laden with packages, Pandora finally broke the comfortable silence that had settled between them.

“Are you scared?” she asked quietly.

Hermione considered lying, but the exhaustion made her honest. “Terrified,” she admitted.

“Of what?”

Hermione’s steps slowed. How could she explain that she was afraid of a girl who hadn’t yet become a monster? That she was walking into a house where every instinct screamed at her to run?

“Of not belonging,” she said instead, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

Pandora stopped walking entirely, turning to face her. “Hermione, you belong wherever you choose to be. Don’t let anyone, not even the Blacks, make you feel otherwise.”

The conviction in her voice made Hermione’s chest tighten. Pandora believed it so completely, this idea that belonging was a choice rather than something granted by others. If only it were that simple.

“What if I can’t do this?” Hermione whispered.

“Then you come back,” Pandora said firmly. “But I don’t think you will. I think you’re stronger than you know.”

Hermione wanted to believe her. More than anything, she wanted to believe that she could walk into that house and not just survive, but actually belong there. Belong with Narcissa, despite everything.

They reached the castle as the sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. Students hurried past them, excited chatter filling the air as everyone prepared for the holidays. Normal students, with normal concerns about normal families.

Hermione envied them.

That night, she packed carefully, folding each new garment with precision. The midnight blue dress went in last, wrapped in tissue paper like something precious. She stared at it for a long moment before closing the trunk, wondering if she would have the courage to wear it when the time came.

The nightmares that night were different.

She was in the Black estate, though she had never been there before, standing in an ornate drawing room. Bellatrix was there, but older, her face twisted with the madness Hermione remembered. She was laughing, that wild, delighted laugh that made Hermione’s blood run cold.

“Did you really think you could change anything?” Bellatrix asked, circling Hermione like a predator. “Did you think you could save her?”

Narcissa appeared then, but she was different too. Older, hollow-eyed, wearing the same expression of resigned despair Hermione had seen in her future self.

“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,” Narcissa said, her voice empty.

“That’s not true,” Hermione protested, but her voice came out weak, uncertain.

“Isn’t it?” Bellatrix’s grin widened. “Look around you, little mudblood. Look at what you’ve walked into.”

The room began to change, walls bleeding dark magic, portraits screaming, and Hermione realized with growing horror that she wasn’t just in the Black estate, she was trapped in it. The house itself was alive, hungry, and it wanted to devour her.

She woke gasping, her sheets soaked with sweat.

Across the room, Pandora was sitting up in bed, watching her with worried eyes. “The same dream?” she asked softly.

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“It’s going to be alright,” Pandora said, though her voice carried a note of uncertainty. “You’re going to be alright.”

But as Hermione lay back down, staring at the ceiling until dawn, she wasn’t sure either of them believed that.

Chapter Text

The morning of the trip to London arrived with a whirlwind of last-minute packing. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, folding a soft navy cloak into her trunk with mechanical precision, while Pandora paced back and forth, arms crossed over her chest like a guardian preparing for battle.

“You have to write to me,” Pandora insisted for what had to be the tenth time, her voice carrying an edge of genuine worry beneath the theatrical dramatics. “Even if you have to wrestle Narcissa into letting you borrow her family’s owl, I expect updates. I demand them.”

Hermione sighed, tucking a few books neatly into the corner of her trunk, carefully selected volumes that wouldn’t raise suspicions about her true origins. The weight of deception sat heavy in her chest, but she’d grown accustomed to carrying secrets. “You do realize I’ll only be gone for a couple of weeks?”

“A couple of weeks with the Black family,” Pandora countered, dropping onto Hermione’s bed dramatically, her blonde hair fanning out like a halo against the dark comforter. “That’s practically a lifetime. I need to know you haven’t been turned into one of them by the time you return.”

The casual way Pandora said it made Hermione’s stomach clench. One of them. In the future, she would know exactly what that meant. The  pureblood supremacy, the casual cruelty, the way they could speak of muggle-borns as if they were less than human. The way Bellatrix had spoken to her while carving ‘mudblood’ into her arm.

Hermione rolled her eyes, forcing the memory away. “You act as if they’re going to corrupt me.”

Pandora shot her a look that was equal parts amused and concerned. “Lucius Malfoy exists.”

The name hit Hermione like a physical blow. In her time, Lucius had been imprisoned, broken, stripped of his arrogance by the war’s end. But here, now, he was young and entitled and utterly convinced of his own superiority. And he wanted Narcissa with the kind of possessive hunger that made Hermione’s skin crawl.

She groaned, shutting her trunk with a click that echoed through the dormitory. “You have a point.”

“Exactly.” Pandora sat up, her expression softening as she studied Hermione’s face. There was something almost intuitive about the way she seemed to read the deeper currents of Hermione’s distress. “Seriously, though, if anything feels off, if you feel trapped there, just send me an owl, alright?”

The genuine concern in her voice made Hermione’s chest tighten. Pandora had become her anchor in this strange time, the only person who knew the truth about her origins. Without her, Hermione wasn’t sure she would have survived the isolation of keeping such a monumental secret.

Hermione smiled, touched by her concern. “Alright.”

“Good.” Pandora stood, clapping her hands together with renewed energy. “Now, let’s get to the train before it leaves without us.”

The train ride to London was lively, students already buzzing with excitement for the holiday break. The corridors thrummed with laughter and conversation, trunks being dragged to compartments, and the general chaos that came with hundreds of teenagers preparing for freedom from academic responsibilities.

Hermione followed Pandora into a compartment near the middle of the train, settling beside her with a soft sigh. The familiar rhythm of the Hogwarts Express was oddly comforting. Some things, at least, remained constant across time.

Across the corridor, she had caught sight of Narcissa sitting with the usual Slytherin crowd, Lucius included, naturally positioned as close to her as propriety would allow.

She tried to ignore it.

Tried.

But as the train rumbled forward, wheels clicking against the tracks in their hypnotic rhythm, she found herself stealing glances toward their compartment whenever someone passed by. Narcissa sat composed, her back straight, her features arranged in that perfectly controlled mask of aristocratic indifference. Every line of her posture spoke of breeding and refinement, of a lifetime spent learning how to present herself as untouchable.

Lucius, however, was his usual self. He leaned in just a little too close, his voice carrying just enough for Hermione to pick up on his flirtatious tone. The way he moved reminded her of a predator circling prey, confident in his eventual success.

Hermione gritted her teeth, her fingers tightening around the book in her lap.

She knew Narcissa wasn’t entertaining his advances. Had felt the truth of it in their kisses, in the way Narcissa’s carefully constructed walls crumbled when they were alone together. But the way Lucius kept inching closer, the way his hand casually rested on the seat beside her, close enough to brush against her if she moved, was enough to make Hermione’s skin crawl.

The rational part of her mind knew that Narcissa was perfectly capable of handling Lucius herself. But the possessive part? The part that had been awakened by soft kisses and whispered confessions, wanted to march over there and make it clear that Narcissa was decidedly not available.

“You’re brooding,” Pandora noted, pulling Hermione from her increasingly dark thoughts.

“I am not,” Hermione said, turning back to her with forced nonchalance that fooled absolutely no one.

Pandora followed her gaze, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene across the corridor. She snorted when she realized the source of Hermione’s irritation. “Ah. Malfoy.”

Just hearing his name spoken aloud made Hermione’s jaw clench. In the future, she would know him as a Death Eater, a man who had allowed Voldemort to use his home as a base of operations. Who had stood by while she was tortured in his drawing room. But here, now, he was just an arrogant boy who thought he could claim whatever he wanted.

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying to project indifference. “Not worth my energy.”

Pandora smirked, clearly seeing through the facade. “Tell that to your scowl.”

Before Hermione could argue, the compartment door slid open with a soft whoosh, and Xenophilius Lovegood poked his head inside. His appearance was startling in its familiarity, the same dreamy expression, the same air of being slightly disconnected from the world around him.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar quality that would one day soothe his daughter’s nightmares and fuel her imagination.

Pandora beamed, her face lighting up with genuine pleasure. “Of course! Come in.”

Hermione studied Xenophilius as he settled into the compartment, momentarily forgetting her irritation over Lucius and Narcissa. He had the same otherworldly air about him that she remembered from the future; calm, unbothered by the world’s expectations, yet full of peculiar wisdom that often went unnoticed by those who dismissed him as eccentric.

But here, in this time, he seemed lighter somehow. Less weighed down by the responsibilities of fatherhood or the tragedies that would one day befall him. There was an innocence to him, a belief in the goodness of the world that hadn’t yet been tested by war and loss.

“You’re Pandora’s friend,” Xenophilius said, tilting his head slightly as he looked at Hermione with an open, curious expression that reminded her achingly of Luna.

“Hermione Beaumont,” she introduced herself, offering a small smile. The false name still felt strange on her tongue, but she’d grown used to the deception. “And you’re Xenophilius.”

He nodded, his dreamy expression never wavering. “I’ve seen you in the library before. You’re always reading something fascinating.”

Hermione blinked at him, surprised by the observation. Most people either didn’t notice her tendency to lose herself in books or simply dismissed it as bookish oddness. The fact that he had not only noticed but found it fascinating was strangely endearing.

“I, well, yes.” She admitted, a bit thrown by his directness. “I do tend to spend a lot of time there.”

Xenophilius simply smiled, as if that answer pleased him immensely. “Books are like windows into different dimensions,” he mused, his voice taking on that particular quality that would one day captivate readers of The Quibbler. “Each one carries echoes of the people who have read them before, like imprints of their thoughts.”

The observation was so unexpectedly profound that Hermione found herself tilting her head, considering his words with new interest. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

Pandora chuckled, the sound warm and affectionate. “That’s because you’re usually too busy absorbing every bit of information possible to notice the metaphysical implications.”

Hermione huffed, but there was no real irritation in her expression. “Well, if I’m going to be stuck in this era indefinitely, I might as well learn everything I can about it.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she felt Pandora’s sharp intake of breath beside her. It was too close to the truth, too revealing of her real situation.

Xenophilius perked up at that, his dreamy expression sharpening with interest. “You speak as if you don’t belong here,” he noted, his tone light but observant in a way that made Hermione’s pulse quicken.

Hermione stiffened, her mind racing as she tried to formulate a response that wouldn’t reveal too much. Pandora’s eyes flickered with something unreadable; worry, perhaps, or warning, before she quickly interjected.

“Hermione’s a transfer from Beauxbatons,” Pandora said smoothly, her voice carrying just the right note of casual explanation. “She’s still adjusting to British magical education.”

Xenophilius hummed thoughtfully, as though he found that explanation both logical and somehow insufficient. His pale eyes remained fixed on Hermione’s face, and she had the unsettling feeling that he was seeing more than she wanted him to.

“Beauxbatons?” he echoed, his gaze flickering over her features as if cataloging the details. “I see.”

Hermione shifted slightly under his scrutiny, offering a small, polite smile that she hoped would discourage further questions. “Yes. It’s been an adjustment.”

Xenophilius nodded slowly but didn’t press further, instead settling into the seat across from them with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in his own skin. “Hogwarts has a different energy,” he mused, his attention drifting to the frost-laced window as the train sped through the winter countryside. “Some find it overwhelming. Others find it… grounding.”

The word choice struck Hermione as oddly specific, and she found herself studying his profile with new curiosity. “And you?” she asked, genuinely interested in his perspective. “Do you find it grounding?”

Xenophilius considered this, his pale eyes following the blur of snow-covered fields and bare trees. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that seemed older than his years. “I think Hogwarts is what you make of it,” he said finally. “It’s full of ancient magic, full of stories that have been whispered through its halls for centuries. But in the end, it’s the people that shape your experience.”

Pandora grinned, clearly delighted by his response. “That’s quite poetic, Xeno.”

Xenophilius shrugged, but there was a pleased flush to his cheeks. “It’s simply the truth.”

Hermione found herself watching him with newfound fascination. In the future, he would be Luna’s father, the eccentric editor of The Quibbler, a man known for his outlandish theories about magical creatures and government conspiracies. But here, he was just a student, not yet burdened by the weight of loss or the desperate need to believe in impossible things.

And yet, even now, there was something about him. An uncanny ability to see past the surface of things, to notice the details that others missed. It was a quality that would one day make him a surprisingly effective investigative journalist, and it was currently making Hermione deeply uncomfortable.

“You should come to the Black family’s winter event,” Pandora said suddenly, leaning toward Xenophilius with renewed enthusiasm. “My family will be there, and it would be nice to have more people to talk to who aren’t—” She waved her hand dismissively in the direction of the Slytherin compartments. “them.”

Xenophilius quirked an amused smile, his expression both fond and rueful. “I appreciate the offer, but I think the Blacks would rather hex me than host me.”

The casual way he said it made Hermione’s stomach clench. Even here, even now, the lines were already being drawn. The purebloods who mattered and those who didn’t. The families who would be welcomed into the inner circles of power and those who would be tolerated at best.

Pandora pouted, her lower lip jutting out in a way that probably worked on most people. “You never know! I could convince my parents to extend an invitation.”

Xenophilius chuckled, but there was something almost wistful in his expression. “Perhaps in another life.”

The words sent a strange shiver down Hermione’s spine, and she found herself glancing away, unsure why they unsettled her so much. There was something prophetic about them, something that spoke to the fundamental unfairness of the world they lived in.

Sensing the shift in mood, Pandora nudged Hermione lightly with her elbow. “You should go to the restroom before we arrive,” she said with forced brightness. “You’ll need to freshen up before facing your gracious hosts.”

Hermione caught the underlying message:

Get yourself together,  and rolled her eyes but relented. “Fine,” she said, standing and smoothing down her skirt. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She excused herself and stepped into the corridor, immediately assaulted by the noise and chaos of students preparing for their arrival in London. The train was beginning to slow, and she could feel the change in rhythm beneath her feet.

As she made her way toward the restroom, she inevitably passed by Narcissa’s compartment. The door was slightly ajar, and she couldn’t help but glance inside.

And there, just like before, Lucius was leaning in too close.

She caught sight of his hand grazing Narcissa’s knee, the slight flicker of amusement in his expression as he continued his endless attempts to charm her. His fingers lingered against the fabric of her skirt, possessive and presumptuous in a way that made Hermione’s vision blur with sudden rage.

Narcissa’s face remained perfectly composed, but Hermione could see the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes had gone slightly distant as she endured his unwanted attention.

Hermione clenched her jaw and quickened her pace, the irritation bubbling up inside her despite her best efforts to ignore it. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and she had to resist the urge to march into that compartment and hex Lucius into next week.

She didn’t look back.

But Narcissa did.

Hermione had barely stepped out of the restroom, still trying to calm her racing heart, when a familiar voice murmured from behind her, “Jealousy is not a good look on you, Beaumont.”

She turned sharply, her pulse jumping, only to find Narcissa leaning casually against the wall of the corridor. Her arms were crossed, and there was amusement flickering in her stormy blue eyes, but something deeper lurked beneath the surface. Something that looked almost like satisfaction.

“I’m not jealous,” Hermione snapped, though the words tasted like a lie on her tongue. The heat in her cheeks probably wasn’t helping her case.

Narcissa arched a perfect eyebrow, her smirk widening slightly. “Mmm. Sure.” Her voice carried that particular aristocratic drawl that somehow made everything sound like a challenge.

Hermione huffed, crossing her arms defensively as she glanced away. The train car suddenly felt too small, too warm. “Why are you even here?”

“I noticed you storming down the corridor after subtly peeking into my compartment,” Narcissa drawled, shifting her weight in a way that somehow made the simple movement look elegant. “So, I thought I’d come check on you.”

The casual admission that she’d been watching made Hermione’s cheeks burn even hotter. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Hermione.” Narcissa’s voice was gentler now, cutting through her stammering denials. “What’s wrong?”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples as she tried to organize her chaotic thoughts. “I just, Lucius is insufferable.”

“That, I won’t argue with,” Narcissa said smoothly, and there was something almost relieved in her tone. “But you do realize I pay him no mind?”

“I know,” Hermione admitted, hating how small her voice sounded. She did know, had felt the truth of it in every kiss, every stolen moment between them. “I just…”

She trailed off, unsure how to explain the irrational frustration coiling inside her like a living thing. It wasn’t logical, this jealousy. She knew Lucius meant nothing to Narcissa, knew that Narcissa had already made it clear where her affections lay. But seeing him lean so casually into her space, touching her like he had any right to, had sent an unrelenting fire through Hermione’s chest.

It was possessive and probably unhealthy, but she couldn’t make it stop.

Narcissa studied her in silence for a long moment, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, more serious. “We need to talk anyway.”

The change in tone made Hermione’s stomach drop. “About what?”

“What to expect at my home.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. In all her anxiety about seeing Bellatrix, about surviving in the world of pureblood politics, she’d somehow managed to forget that the Black family estate would be foreign territory in more ways than one.

A weight settled in Hermione’s stomach, heavy and cold.

Narcissa took a step closer, her voice dropping even lower until it was barely above a whisper. “We need to be careful,” she stressed, and there was something almost desperate in her tone. “My mother, while strict, has some leniency when it comes to guests. My father? None.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “Alright…”

“There will be expectations. How you speak, how you hold yourself, how you interact with the other guests.” Narcissa’s words came faster now, as if she was trying to cram weeks of education into a few stolen minutes. “You’ll be treated as a guest, but that does not mean you are exempt from scrutiny.”

The way Narcissa spoke made Hermione’s stomach twist with something that felt suspiciously like dread. It wasn’t just about being polite or knowing which fork to use for the salad course. No, this was something more fundamental. A question of survival in a world that had very specific rules about who belonged and who didn’t.

“Cygnus Black is a powerful man,” Narcissa continued, her voice carrying a weight that spoke of years of careful navigation around her father’s temper. “He values control and composure above all else. He does not tolerate insubordination, nor does he appreciate outsiders, even those from supposedly respectable families.”

The word ‘supposedly’ hung in the air between them like a warning. Hermione felt her chest tighten as she realized what Narcissa was really saying; that her fabricated background as a Beaumont might not be enough to shield her from suspicion.

“So, what you’re saying is…” Hermione hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. “I need to pretend to be something I’m not.”

Narcissa’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, something almost like pain crossed her features. “I’m saying you need to survive, Beaumont.”

The blunt honesty of it was somehow worse than any elaborate warning could have been. This wasn’t about fitting in or making a good impression. This was about survival in its most literal sense.

Hermione exhaled slowly, trying to process the magnitude of what she was walking into. “Right.”

Narcissa continued, her voice taking on the quality of a military briefing as she listed off expectations, proper manners, and things to avoid saying. How to address her parents; “Lord and Lady Black, never by their first names.” how to behave at formal dinners, “wait to be seated, never reach across the table, speak only when spoken to unless you’re certain of your ground.” Even the way she should hold herself in conversation. “Confidant but not arrogant, respectful but not servile.”

It was a dizzying amount of etiquette that made Hermione’s head spin. Every rule seemed to have exceptions, every guideline came with unspoken nuances that could apparently mean the difference between acceptance and banishment.

She felt like she was being given a survival guide for navigating a minefield rather than a welcome briefing for a holiday visit.

“Are you trying to scare me?” Hermione muttered, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information.

“No,” Narcissa replied simply, and there was something almost sad in her tone. “I’m trying to prepare you.”

The distinction felt important, though Hermione wasn’t sure she understood why. She sighed, running a hand through her hair in a gesture that would probably be deemed inappropriate in the Black household. “This is a lot.”

Narcissa’s expression softened slightly, and for a moment, the careful mask slipped to reveal something more vulnerable underneath. “I know,” she admitted. “But you’ll be fine.”

Her voice carried a conviction that Hermione wished she could share. The rational part of her mind knew that she’d survived worse things, had faced down Death Eaters and lived through torture. But somehow, the prospect of navigating dinner conversation with Cygnus Black felt more terrifying than any battle.

Hermione let out a small, humorless laugh. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

“You should be taking notes,” Narcissa deadpanned, but there was an amused glint in her eyes that took some of the sting out of the words.

Despite everything, Hermione found herself smiling. Trust Narcissa to find humor in the most stressful situations. “Is there a handbook I can borrow? How to Survive the House of Black: A Guide to Pureblood Politics?”

Narcissa’s smirk widened. “Unfortunately, no. Though I suspect it would be a bestseller.”

The joke helped ease some of the tension, but Hermione’s anxiety remained. She looked up at Narcissa, uncertainty flickering in her eyes like candlelight. “What if I mess up?”

The question came out smaller than she’d intended, carrying all the weight of her fears about fitting into this world that seemed designed to exclude people like her.

Narcissa’s face softened just slightly, and when she spoke, her voice carried a gentleness that was rarely heard outside their private moments. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?” Hermione pressed, her voice threatening to crack. “What if I say the wrong thing, or use the wrong fork, or—”

“Hermione.” Narcissa’s voice was firm but not unkind. “You won’t.”

The certainty in her tone was both comforting and terrifying. Hermione wanted to believe her, but the weight of expectation felt crushing. She was supposed to be someone she wasn’t, navigate a world she barely understood, all while hiding the truth about her origins and trying not to think about the woman who would one day torture her.

Swallowing hard, she found herself overwhelmed by everything. The pressure, the rules, the unspoken dangers that seemed to linger beneath Narcissa’s carefully worded warnings. The corridor felt too small, too warm, and she could feel the beginnings of panic clawing at her throat.

And then, before she could spiral further into anxiety, Narcissa reached out.

Her fingers were cool against Hermione’s overheated skin as they brushed gently against her cheek, the touch feather-light but somehow grounding. Then Narcissa tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet her gaze, and Hermione found herself drowning in those stormy blue eyes.

“Just follow my lead,” Narcissa murmured, her voice soft and reassuring.

And before Hermione could respond, before she could think or analyze or panic, Narcissa leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

The kiss was brief but devastating in its tenderness. It tasted of promises and secrets, of stolen moments and desperate hope. It was enough to send warmth flooding through Hermione’s chest, melting away the tension in her shoulders and quieting the noise in her mind.

For a moment, nothing else existed. Not the train, not the approaching visit, not the weight of expectations or the fear of discovery. There was only Narcissa’s lips against hers and the steady beat of her own heart.

When Narcissa pulled back, a small smirk played at her lips, though her eyes remained soft. “Try not to look too scandalized,” she teased, her voice carrying that familiar note of aristocratic amusement. “I need you to keep your composure around my family, after all.”

Hermione let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as she tried to process the whiplash of emotions. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Narcissa replied, her smirk widening into something that was almost a real smile.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but the warmth in her chest made it impossible to summon any real irritation. She didn’t deny it, couldn’t deny it, not when the truth was written so clearly in her expression.

Narcissa glanced down the corridor, making sure no one was watching before taking a reluctant step back. The loss of her presence felt like a physical ache, but Hermione understood the necessity of discretion.

“I should get back before Lucius gets any ideas,” Narcissa said, though her tone suggested she found the prospect more annoying than threatening.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite suppress the flicker of jealousy that sparked in her chest. “Merlin forbid.”

Narcissa’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. “Indeed.”

But then her expression grew serious again, and she reached out to briefly squeeze Hermione’s hand. “We’ll be arriving soon. Just… stay close to me when we get off the train.”

The instruction felt loaded with unspoken warnings, and Hermione found herself nodding before she’d fully processed the words. “Got it.”

Narcissa gave her one last lingering look, her eyes searching Hermione’s face as if memorizing it. Then she turned and disappeared back down the hallway, and into her compartment, leaving Hermione standing alone with the ghost of her kiss still warming her lips.

Left in the sudden quiet, Hermione exhaled slowly and pressed her fingers against her mouth, trying to hold onto the feeling of safety that Narcissa’s presence had provided. The train was slowing now, the rhythm of the wheels changing as they approached King’s Cross Station.

Through the windows, she could see the familiar outline of London emerging from the winter fog, and with it, the reality of what she was about to face.

This trip was going to be complicated in ways she was only just beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

The moment Hermione stepped off the train, the familiar warmth and excitement of King’s Cross seemed to drain away like water through a sieve. The holiday chatter of students reuniting with their families became a distant hum as her eyes found the imposing figures waiting near the far end of the platform.

The Blacks stood apart from the crowd, not by distance but by presence alone. They commanded attention without seeking it, their very existence seeming to part the sea of students and parents like a stone thrown into still water.

Cygnus Black was exactly as Narcissa had described him. A man who had never needed to raise his voice to be heard. His sharp, calculating gaze swept across the platform with the methodical precision of someone cataloguing potential threats or opportunities. When those steel-gray eyes finally settled on Narcissa as she approached, Hermione caught the barest flicker of paternal approval before his expression returned to its neutral state.

Beside him, Druella Black embodied the kind of composed elegance that came not from practice but from breeding. Her posture was perfect without appearing rigid, her expression unreadable save for the faintest warmth that seemed reserved exclusively for her daughter. Everything about her suggested quiet authority, the kind of woman who could destroy someone’s reputation with nothing more than a perfectly timed pause in conversation.

Hermione’s stomach clenched when she spotted Lucius Malfoy standing nearby, speaking in hushed tones with his father. Even at seventeen, he carried himself with the same arrogant confidence that had made her skin crawl in her own timeline. The sight of him; younger, unmarked by the wars to come, but still unmistakably ‘him’, sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the December air.

She forced her expression to remain neutral, drawing on everything Narcissa had told her during their hurried conversation in the train’s bathroom, combined with her own knowledge of pureblood behavior from her own time. She could not afford to show weakness here, could not let her knowledge of what Lucius would become color her reactions. To these people, she was Hermione Beaumont. A well-bred young woman worthy of their notice, not a Muggle-born witch who knew exactly what kind of monsters stood mere feet away.

“Breathe,” Narcissa murmured beside her, so quietly that Hermione almost missed it. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Hermione managed a subtle nod, squaring her shoulders as they approached the intimidating group. The closer they got, the more she understood why Narcissa’s warnings in the bathroom had been so urgent. These weren’t just Narcissa’s parents, they were the gatekeepers to a world Hermione was desperately trying to infiltrate.

Druella’s sharp blue eyes, so like Narcissa’s, yet somehow colder, flicked toward her with the precision of a blade. The assessment was swift but thorough, taking in everything from Hermione’s posture to the quality of her robes in a single glance.

“You must be the guest,” Druella said, her voice carrying the kind of cultured authority that could make statements sound like royal decrees.

“Hermione Beaumont,” she replied, keeping her tone polite but measured. She had practiced this introduction during those precious few minutes in the train bathroom, ensuring her voice carried just the right amount of confidence without veering into presumption. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Black.”

Druella’s gaze remained steady for what felt like an eternity, as if she were attempting to peer directly into Hermione’s soul and catalog whatever she found there. Finally, she gave a small nod of acknowledgment; not quiet approval, but perhaps the absence of disapproval.

Cygnus, however, remained silent. His piercing stare lingered on Hermione with an intensity that made her skin prickle, as though he were evaluating whether her very presence was worth his acknowledgment. Hermione met his gaze without wavering, acutely aware that showing weakness now would be tantamount to social suicide. Every instinct screamed at her to look away, to defer to his obvious authority, but Narcissa’s training held firm.

After what felt like several lifetimes compressed into heartbeats, Cygnus finally gave a short, sharp nod. The barest acknowledgment of her existence, before turning toward the exit with decisive finality.

“We’re leaving,” he announced, his voice carrying the expectation of immediate compliance.

Druella fell into step beside him without hesitation, the picture of wifely deference despite the steel Hermione had glimpsed in her eyes. Narcissa exhaled almost imperceptibly, a sound that might have been relief or resignation, before following her mother with the fluid grace that seemed to run in the Black bloodline.

Hermione, feeling more like a specimen under observation than a welcomed guest, followed close behind, acutely aware of every step, every breath, every micro-expression that might be judged and found wanting.

A house-elf appeared at her elbow as if summoned by magic. Which, she supposed, it probably had been. The creature was ancient even by house-elf standards, its wrinkled skin hanging like poorly fitted clothes, its tennis ball-sized eyes reflecting decades of servitude.

“Mistress Beaumont’s belongings,” it squeaked, its voice trembling with either age or perpetual anxiety. The elf bowed so low its nose nearly touched the ground, clearly terrified of giving offense.

Hermione’s chest tightened at the sight, every fiber of her being screaming in protest at the creature’s obvious fear. In her own time, she would have immediately assured the elf that it wasn’t necessary, would have insisted on carrying her own trunk. But those instincts belonged to Hermione Granger, not Hermione Beaumont.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding stiffly, the gesture feeling like a betrayal of everything she believed in. The elf took her trunk with obvious relief and vanished with a quiet crack that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

This is how things are done here, she reminded herself, the thought tasting bitter in her mind. Don’t react. Don’t draw attention. Survive.

As they made their way toward the station exit, Narcissa fell into step beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The familiar presence was a balm against the cold assessment she felt radiating from the adults ahead of them.

“You survived,” Narcissa murmured, her voice carrying a thread of amusement that didn’t quite mask her concern.

Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Barely.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Narcissa’s lips before she stepped gracefully into the waiting carriage, her movements fluid and practiced. Hermione followed, settling onto the plush seats while trying not to think about what awaited her at their destination.

The carriage lurched into motion with supernatural smoothness, and Hermione watched London blur past the windows while trying to prepare herself for whatever trials Black Manor might hold.

-----

Everything about Black Manor was designed to intimidate.

The grand structure loomed against the darkening December sky like something pulled from a Gothic novel, all sharp angles and imposing stonework that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Wrought-iron gates twisted into intricate patterns that looked beautiful from a distance but revealed themselves to be subtle depictions of serpents and thorns upon closer inspection. Enchanted lanterns lined the pathway, casting dancing shadows that made the approaching darkness feel alive and watchful.

As their carriage rolled through the gates, Hermione caught glimpses of the grounds through the windows. Perfectly manicured gardens that looked stark and formal in the winter twilight, ancient trees whose bare branches created a canopy of reaching fingers against the sky. Everything spoke of old money, older traditions, and the kind of power that had been cultivated over centuries.

The manor itself was breathtaking in the way that avalanches were breathtaking; beautiful, overwhelming, and potentially deadly. Soaring windows reflected the carriage’s approach like watchful eyes, and the main entrance was framed by columns that seemed designed to make visitors feel appropriately small. This wasn’t just a home; it was a statement, a declaration of supremacy made in marble and stone.

Inside, the air carried a complex bouquet of scents that seemed to tell the story of the building itself. Old parchment spoke of centuries of accumulated knowledge, burning cedar provided warmth without coziness, and something faintly floral. Jasmine, perhaps, or honeysuckle that added a note of feminine refinement to the masculine grandeur. It was the smell of wealth, tradition, and carefully controlled power.

The entrance hall was a study in understated opulence. Ornate chandeliers hung from a ceiling so high it seemed to disappear into shadow, their crystal drops catching and fracturing the light into tiny rainbows that danced across walls lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors. The marble floors had been polished to a mirror shine that reflected everything while revealing nothing, and a sweeping staircase curved upward with the kind of architectural drama that suggested important conversations happened on its steps.

Despite its undeniable beauty, the space felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It was as if warmth had been carefully extracted from the very foundation, leaving behind a shell of perfection that prioritized impression over comfort. This was a place designed to receive visitors, not to welcome them home.

Druella led them through the entrance with the quiet authority of someone who had never doubted her right to command the space around her. Every step was purposeful, every gesture economical and precise. She paused only when they reached the base of the staircase, turning to fix Narcissa with an expectant look.

“Ensure that Miss Beaumont is properly settled,” she instructed, her tone suggesting that failure to comply would reflect poorly on everyone involved.

Narcissa inclined her head with practiced deference. “Of course, Mother.”

Those sharp blue eyes turned to Hermione once more, and though Druella’s tone remained neutral, there was an unmistakable weight behind her words. A promise and a threat wrapped in silk.

“I expect you to conduct yourself appropriately during your stay,” she said, each word precisely chosen and delivered with surgical precision.

Hermione dipped her head in what she hoped was the correct degree of respectful acknowledgment. “Naturally, Madame.”

Cygnus had already vanished into the depths of the manor like smoke dissipating into air, presumably retreating to whatever private domain he maintained within these walls. Druella followed moments later, her footsteps creating a sharp staccato rhythm on the marble that faded gradually into silence.

The sudden quiet felt almost oppressive after the controlled tension of the introductions. Hermione found herself standing beside Narcissa in the vast entrance hall, feeling simultaneously insignificant and painfully visible.

Narcissa exhaled slowly, the sound carrying notes of resignation and familiar exasperation. She shook her head with the barest suggestion of movement, as if responding to some private thought.

“It’s not personal,” she murmured, her voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond Hermione’s ears. “They’re always like this. It’s their natural state of being.”

Hermione managed a quiet huff of laughter, some of the tension in her chest easing. “Good to know I shouldn’t take the overwhelming warmth personally, then.”

A small smile ghosted across Narcissa’s lips. “Come on,” she said, gesturing toward the staircase. “Let me show you to your room before dinner. You’ll want to prepare yourself for the evening’s entertainment.”

The way she said ‘entertainment’ suggested it would be anything but entertaining.

-----

Dinner was an exercise in psychological warfare disguised as polite conversation.

The dining room was every bit as imposing as the rest of the manor. A long chamber dominated by a table that could have seated twenty guests with room to spare. Tonight, however, the group was intimate enough to make the space feel deliberately overwhelming. Hermione had been seated at Narcissa’s right, close enough to hear every carefully modulated word exchanged around the table, but far enough from the parents to feel appropriately excluded from the truly important conversations.

The Malfoys had joined them for the evening, presumably as part of whatever social obligations bound the ancient pureblood families together. Abraxas Malfoy was exactly what Hermione might have expected from Lucius’s father; distinguished, calculating, and possessed of the same casual arrogance that seemed to be bred into the bloodline. He spoke with Cygnus about Ministry politics and business ventures with the easy familiarity of men who had spent decades navigating the same circles.

But it was Lucius who commanded most of Hermione’s unwilling attention.

At seventeen, he already possessed the sharp-featured handsomeness that would serve him well in later years, along with the kind of effortless confidence that came from never doubting one’s place in the world. His pale eyes seemed to catalog everything with cool precision, and when they settled on Narcissa, there was an assumption of possession in his gaze that made Hermione’s stomach churn.

She hated the way he smiled at Narcissa, that particular expression of masculine satisfaction that suggested he viewed her as a prize already won. She despised the way his attention lingered on every gesture, every laugh, every graceful movement, as if he were mentally cataloguing the attributes of something he intended to own.

But what irritated her most was how utterly unbothered Narcissa seemed by it all.

She wasn’t particularly warm toward Lucius.That much was clear from the practiced politeness in her responses, the careful distance she maintained even while engaging with his conversation. But she also wasn’t avoiding him or showing any of the subtle signs of discomfort that Hermione had become expert at reading. If anything, Narcissa handled his presence with the same effortless composure she brought to every social interaction, treating him with the same courteous attention she might give any dinner guest.

It was maddening.

Hermione kept her expression carefully neutral, focusing on her barely touched plate while listening to every exchange between them with the intensity of someone deciphering a code. She dissected every glance, every slight smile, every moment of what might have been genuine amusement in Narcissa’s eyes. Her grip on her fork tightened with each passing minute, the silver handle growing warm under her fingers.

“Miss Beaumont,” Abraxas said suddenly, his cultured voice cutting through her internal spiral. “I understand you’re from France originally?”

The question hit her like a bucket of cold water. Every eye at the table turned to her, and she could feel the weight of their collective attention like a physical pressure against her skin.

“Yes,” she managed, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “My family relocated to England several years ago for business purposes.”

“Ah,” Abraxas nodded approvingly. “The Beaumonts have quite the reputation in international trade, as I recall. Your father must be quite pleased with the expansion into the British market.”

Hermione’s mind raced. This was exactly the kind of conversation Narcissa had warned her about during their brief but intense coaching session. The casual interrogation disguised as polite interest, designed to ferret out inconsistencies in her carefully constructed background.

“He is,” she replied, falling back on the vague responses they had practiced. “Though he finds the regulatory differences between the French and British markets rather… challenging to navigate.”

It was a safe answer. Specific enough to sound informed, vague enough to avoid detailed follow-up questions, exactly the kind of response she had learned to craft from years of observing pureblood interactions in her own timeline.

But when Hermione glanced unnoticeably to her left, she found Narcissa watching her with barely concealed amusement. There was something knowing in those blue eyes, a recognition of the performance she had just given and perhaps approval for how well she had managed it.

Their gazes held for a moment longer than strictly appropriate, and Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the embarrassment of being put on the spot. Narcissa’s lips curved in the smallest suggestion of a smile. Not the polite expression she had been wearing for Lucius, but something private and warm and meant only for Hermione.

The moment was broken when Lucius leaned slightly closer to Narcissa, his voice pitched to carry just far enough to include Hermione in the conversation.

“I was telling Father about the Ball,” he said, his tone suggesting this was a continuation of some earlier discussion. “I do hope you’ve been practicing your dancing, Narcissa. I’d hate for us to embarrass ourselves in front of the other families.”

The casual assumption in his words. That they would naturally be attending together, that her dancing was something he had a right to critique, made Hermione’s jaw clench involuntarily. She forced herself to take a careful sip of wine, using the motion to hide her expression.

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Narcissa replied with perfect equanimity, her tone giving away nothing of her own thoughts on the matter.

“Of course you will,” Lucius agreed, his smile carrying notes of both affection and ownership that made Hermione want to hex him into next week. “You always do.”

The conversation continued around her, touching on social events and family obligations and the kind of minutiae that apparently consumed the lives of the pureblood elite. Hermione contributed when directly addressed, maintained appropriate expressions of interest when expected, and tried not to let her growing frustration show in her posture or tone.

But beneath the table, her free hand had curled into a fist tight enough that her nails left small crescents in her palm.

-----

The manor settled into profound silence as the evening hours stretched toward midnight. The kind of quiet that only came to old houses full of sleeping occupants, where even the portraits seemed to doze in their frames and the very walls held their breath.

Hermione had waited in her assigned room until she was certain the household had retired, listening for the subtle sounds that would indicate it was safe to move through the corridors. Her bare feet made no sound against the cool marble as she navigated the path she had memorized during the brief tour earlier that evening, guided by moonlight streaming through tall windows and the faint glow of enchanted sconces that never quite went dark.

The guest room they had given her was elegant in the way that everything in Black Manor was elegant; beautiful, expensive, and somehow cold despite the luxury. Rich fabrics and polished wood, artwork that probably cost more than most people earned in a year, and a bed so large and perfectly appointed that it felt more like a museum display than somewhere she was actually meant to sleep.

She paused outside Narcissa’s door, raising her hand to knock softly against the dark wood. Before her knuckles could make contact, however, the door swung open with supernatural timing.

“Took you long enough,” Narcissa murmured, stepping aside to let her enter, amusement dancing in her voice.

Hermione rolled her eyes but stepped quickly into the dimly lit room, relief flooding through her as the door closed behind her with a soft click. Whatever else happened, at least here she could drop the careful performance she had been maintaining all evening.

Narcissa’s chambers were a revelation after the formal perfection of the rest of the manor. The space retained the same underlying elegance, this was still clearly the room of someone born to luxury. But, there was warmth here that had been carefully excluded from the public areas. Soft emerald drapes replaced the stark grandeur of the downstairs decor, silk bedding in shades of silver and green created an inviting haven, and a faint scent of cedar lingered in the air like a gentle embrace.

Personal touches were scattered throughout the room. Books stacked on a side table, a silver hairbrush left carelessly on the vanity, a silk scarf draped over the back of a chair. These were the traces of someone actually living in the space, not just occupying it for show.

Hermione barely had time to catalog the details before Narcissa’s hand found hers, tugging her toward the bed with practiced ease. The mattress yielded under their weight as they settled beside each other, and for the first time since stepping off the train, Hermione felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.

“So,” Narcissa drawled, shifting to face her with one eyebrow raised in expectation, “you looked absolutely murderous during dinner. Should I be concerned for Lucius’s continued wellbeing?”

Hermione groaned, letting herself fall back against the pillows with theatrical despair. “He’s insufferable. Completely, utterly insufferable.”

“He does tend to have that effect on people,” Narcissa agreed, settling beside her with graceful economy of movement. “Though I have to say, you hid it rather well. Only someone who knew what to look for would have noticed the homicidal thoughts.”

Hermione turned onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow so she could study Narcissa’s expression in the dim light. The question that had been burning in her chest all evening finally escaped before she could think better of it.

“Do you actually like him?”

Narcissa’s smile was slow and deliberate, carrying notes of mischief that made Hermione’s pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with anxiety.

“Now, what would be the fun in telling you that?” she replied, her voice carrying the kind of teasing challenge that had become familiar between them.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, recognizing the deflection for what it was. “That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?” Narcissa countered, her smile widening. “I thought it was rather elegant, actually.”

The casual evasion should have been frustrating, but there was something in Narcissa’s expression. A warmth beneath the teasing, a gentleness in her eyes that took the sting out of the non-answer. Still, Hermione felt compelled to push just a little further.

“He assumes he owns you,” she said quietly, the words carrying more of her frustration than she had intended. “The way he looks at you, the way he talks about dancing with you at the ball… it’s like he’s already decided you belong to him.”

The comment caused an image to hit her without warning. A flash of white silk and platinum hair, of Narcissa standing beside Lucius at an altar while cameras flashed and society pages celebrated the union of two ancient bloodlines. She had seen the wedding photos in her own timeline, had read about the “match of the century” in old copies of Witch Weekly that Ginny had found in the Burrow’s attic. In that other life, this possessiveness had won. This assumption of ownership had become reality.

The knowledge sat bitter in her stomach, a reminder of everything she was supposed to let happen, every tragedy she was meant to allow. But that was before. Before she had tasted the sweetness of Narcissa’s laugh, before she had learned the careful vulnerability hidden beneath layers of pureblood composure. That future felt like someone else’s nightmare now.

Something shifted in Narcissa’s expression, the playfulness fading into something more serious. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

“Does it bother you?”

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge. Hermione swallowed hard, acutely aware of how close Narcissa was, of the way those blue eyes seemed to see straight through every careful defense she had constructed.

“No,” she said, though the word came out less convincingly than she had hoped.

Narcissa hummed, a sound that conveyed gentle skepticism without accusation. She didn’t press further, but she also didn’t look away, holding Hermione’s gaze with the kind of steady attention that made it impossible to maintain the pretense.

After a moment that stretched like pulled silk, Narcissa reached out, her fingers brushing along Hermione’s wrist with feather-light touch before trailing upward to cup her jaw. The contact was electric, sending warmth racing along Hermione’s skin and making her breath catch in her throat.

“You shouldn’t let him get under your skin,” Narcissa murmured, her thumb tracing along the line of Hermione’s cheekbone with devastating tenderness. “He means nothing to me. Less than nothing, if such a thing is possible.”

The words were exactly what Hermione needed to hear. And the way Narcissa said them, with quiet conviction and unmistakable sincerity, finally allowed the knot of tension in her chest to begin loosening.

Narcissa leaned in then, closing the remaining distance between them with deliberate slowness. Her lips brushed against Hermione’s in a kiss that was soft and warm and utterly grounding, tasting of wine and promises and the kind of gentle reassurance that could chase away a dozen different fears.

It was familiar now, this particular alchemy between them. The way Narcissa could unravel her composure with nothing more than a look, then rebuild it with the simple press of lips against lips. The kiss deepened gradually, becoming something that spoke of possession in the best possible way, of claimed ground and mutual understanding.

When they finally pulled apart, Hermione’s breathing had grown shallow and her pulse was racing for entirely different reasons than it had been during dinner.

“You make it very difficult to stay angry with you,” she murmured, her voice slightly unsteady.

Narcissa’s smile was pure satisfaction. “That’s entirely the point.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, the sound carrying notes of exasperation and affection in equal measure. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to settle more fully against the pillows and the warmth of Narcissa beside her.

The contrast was striking. The cold formality of the evening’s dinner conversation versus this intimate sanctuary where she could finally let her guard down. Here, surrounded by silk and moonlight and the steady presence of the woman who had somehow become the center of her world, the challenges of navigating Black family politics seemed manageable.

She had survived the first night at Black Manor. The introductions, the dinner conversation, the careful performance of being someone she wasn’t; all of it had passed without major disaster.

But as she drifted toward sleep in the circle of Narcissa’s arms, something whispered in the back of her mind that this was only the beginning. The real tests were yet to come, and she would need every ounce of strength and cunning she possessed to navigate whatever the Black family had planned for their remaining time together.

For now, though, she was content to exist in this moment of warmth and safety, storing up the feeling against whatever challenges tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the heavy emerald curtains of Hermione’s guest room, casting a muted glow across the elegant furnishings. She sat up slowly, her muscles stiff from tension rather than sleep. The previous night had been draining in every conceivable way. Between the constant scrutiny, the unspoken expectations, and the effort it had taken to keep her expressions neutral, she already felt like she had run a marathon; and it had only been one day.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to ease the dull ache that had settled there sometime during the night. Every interaction from the evening before played on repeat in her mind: Cygnus’s penetrating stares, Druella’s cool assessment, Lucius’s possessive hovering around Narcissa. And beneath it all, the memory of Narcissa’s whispered reassurance in the darkness of her room, the warmth of her fingers tracing patterns on Hermione’s palm as she promised that Lucius meant nothing to her.

The contradiction between those tender moments and the performance she would have to maintain throughout the day made her stomach clench with anxiety.

She exhaled sharply, running a hand down her face before slipping out of bed. There was no time for wallowing. She had to be prepared for whatever the Black family threw at her next.

The guest room felt like a gilded cage in the morning light. Beautiful, certainly, with its polished mahogany furniture, plush Persian rug, and walls lined with tasteful artwork, but oppressive all the same. Even the air felt different here, thick with the weight of generations of Black family expectations and traditions.

After washing and arranging her hair into an appropriately modest style, she examined the robes Narcissa had set aside for her the night before. Deep blue with silver embroidery, the fabric was rich but understated. Refined yet modest. Narcissa’s eye for such things was impeccable, and Hermione found herself grateful once again for her guidance in navigating this treacherous social landscape.

As she fastened the delicate silver clasps at her throat, she caught sight of herself in the ornate mirror above the vanity. The girl looking back at her bore little resemblance to the Hermione Granger who had once spent her mornings rushing through the Gryffindor common room with her arms full of books. This version of herself was polished, controlled, every gesture calculated for maximum effect.

Sometimes she wondered if she was losing herself entirely in this masquerade.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hallway and made her way toward the dining room, her soft-soled shoes silent against the marble floors. The corridors of Black Manor seemed even more imposing in daylight, the portraits of long-dead family members watching her passage with expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright suspicion.

Breakfast was an affair unlike any meal she had ever experienced.

The Black family dining room was nothing short of intimidating. A long, polished ebony table stretched the length of the room, set with pristine silverware and fine china that gleamed like moonlight. The chandelier overhead flickered with enchanted candlelight despite the morning hour, casting a soft glow across the pale faces of those seated around the table. Heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows that looked out onto the manor’s frost-covered gardens, but even the winter sunlight seemed muted here, as though the very walls absorbed warmth and light.

Druella and Cygnus Black sat at the head of the table, their expressions unreadable as they observed their guest. Narcissa sat beside Hermione’s designated seat, already dressed in robes of deep forest green that complemented her pale complexion beautifully. Across from her, Lucius Malfoy lounged in his chair with his usual air of self-satisfaction, having apparently stayed the night in one of the manor’s many guest quarters.

The weight of expectation settled over Hermione like a cloak as she took her seat. Every movement, every glance, every breath felt scrutinized. She was acutely aware of the way Cygnus’s dark eyes followed her as she arranged her napkin across her lap, the way Druella’s pale gaze seemed to catalog each gesture for future reference.

She hesitated only for a moment before reaching for her utensils, ensuring she selected the correct fork from the bewildering array laid out before her place setting. Narcissa’s coaching from the train bathroom came back to her in fragments; work from the outside in, never reach across another person, keep your movements small and precise. But it was her own observations of pureblood behavior from her original timeline that truly guided her now.

Narcissa’s gaze flicked toward her, then subtly beneath the table, a delicate touch ghosted over Hermione’s knee.

The touch was fleeting, gentle, but Hermione’s breath hitched all the same. The simple contact sent warmth spreading through her chest, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone in this performance. She resisted the urge to glance at Narcissa, instead keeping her expression impassive as she focused on cutting her fruit with the same measured precision she had once used in Potions class.

“You are rather well-mannered for a Beauxbatons student.”

Cygnus’s voice cut through the quiet conversation at the table, making every muscle in Hermione’s body tense. She lifted her gaze carefully, finding his dark eyes fixed on her with mild curiosity. There was something calculating in his expression, as though he were solving a particularly complex puzzle and she was merely one of the pieces.

She had expected this kind of scrutiny.

She had prepared for it.

Still, the weight of his attention was suffocating, like being examined under a microscope by someone who knew exactly what to look for.

Hermione allowed a small, polite smile to curve her lips. “Beauxbatons holds its students to a high standard, Monsieur Black.” She made sure to keep up a trace of a French accent on the words, a subtle detail she began to slowly slip in here and there to add credibility. The accent felt strange on her tongue, but she had practiced it enough times in front of her mirror that it came naturally now. “Proper etiquette is instilled in us from an early age.”

Cygnus studied her for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. When he finally gave a slight nod, Hermione felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. “And yet, you chose to transfer?”

The question was casual enough, but Hermione could hear the probing undertone. She kept her shoulders relaxed, her hands steady as she reached for her teacup. “My family believed a more diverse magical education would serve me well in the long term. There is much to be learned from different magical traditions.”

“A wise decision,” Druella commented, though her expression remained as unreadable as her husband’s. Her voice was soft, cultured, with the faintest trace of her own French origins coloring her words.

Lucius tilted his head slightly, eyeing Hermione with renewed intrigue. “And your family?” he asked, as though peeling back a layer of a mystery he had only just discovered. “I don’t believe you’ve spoken much about them. Which of the French magical families do the Beaumonts ally themselves with?”

Hermione’s fingers clenched subtly around her napkin, though she was careful to keep the movement below the table where it couldn’t be observed. This was dangerous territory. The kind of specific detail that could unravel her entire story if she wasn’t careful.

“I prefer to keep my personal affairs private, Monsieur Malfoy,” she said smoothly, lifting her teacup to her lips to buy herself a moment to think. “My family values discretion above all else. I’m sure you understand the importance of such principles in our world.”

It was a deflection wrapped in flattery, and from the way Lucius’s eyes glittered with something like appreciation, she thought it might have worked. He smirked faintly, but to her relief, he didn’t push further.

Druella set down her own teacup with deliberate precision, her pale eyes focusing on Hermione with newfound interest. When she spoke, it was in fluid, elegant French. The kind spoken in the most refined circles of magical society, each word carefully enunciated and perfectly pronounced.

“Et comment trouvez-vous l'Angleterre, ma chère ? Elle est si différente de la France, n'est-ce pas ?”

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat, but her years of studying the language, both for genuine love for French literature, and more recently to play off her made up back story, served her well. She had always been gifted with languages, and French had become one of her favorites to master in these past months. The grammar came as naturally to her as breathing, and she had spent countless hours reading French magical texts in the Hogwarts library.

She responded without hesitation, her accent flawless and her phrasing appropriately formal for the social register required. “C’est un changement rafraîchissant, Madame Black. L'Angleterre a sa propre beauté, même si j'avoue que la cuisine française me manque terriblement.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Druella’s lips. The first genuine expression Hermione had seen from the woman since her arrival. There was something almost maternal in the way her eyes softened, as though Hermione had passed some crucial test she hadn’t even known she was taking.

“Ah, une réponse diplomatique,” Druella continued in French, her tone warmer now. “Vous avez été bien élevée, je vois. Votre accent est parfait. Du sud de la France, si je ne me trompe pas?”

Hermione felt a flutter of panic. She had studied standard French, not regional dialects, and she wasn’t sure she could maintain the deception if Druella pressed for specifics about her supposed origins. But she had learned long ago that confidence could carry her through situations where knowledge failed her.

“Ma mère insistait sur ce point,” she replied smoothly, allowing a note of fondness to enter her voice. “Elle disait toujours qu’une dame doit pouvoir s’exprimer avec élégance dans toutes les circonstances.”

Druella’s smile widened almost imperceptibly. “Une femme sage, votre mère. J’aimerais beaucoup faire sa connaissance un jour.”

“Ce serait un grand honneur,” Hermione responded, though the words felt like ash in her mouth. Her mother, her real mother, was a Muggle dentist who would never set foot in a place like Black Manor, would never understand the complex web of lies that had brought her daughter to this table.

Cygnus glanced between his wife and their guest with obvious approval, and even Lucius looked mildly impressed, though he quickly masked it with his usual smirk of superiority. Narcissa, Hermione noticed from the corner of her eye, was watching the exchange with something that looked almost like pride flickering in her pale eyes.

“Your French is quite impressive,” Cygnus said, switching the conversation back to English. “One can always tell when someone has been properly educated in the language from childhood.”

“You flatter me, Monsieur,” Hermione replied, allowing just a hint of pleased modesty to color her tone.

The rest of breakfast passed in relative peace, though Hermione remained on high alert for any other tests or probing questions. She ate sparingly, her stomach too knotted with nerves to handle much more than a few bites of fruit and a single piece of toast. The coffee was rich and bitter, stronger than anything served at Hogwarts, and she found herself grateful for the caffeine despite her already heightened state of alertness.

Lucius dominated much of the conversation, regaling the table with stories of his recent business dealings and social engagements alongside his father. Hermione listened with half an ear, more focused on observing the family dynamics at play. She noticed the way Cygnus’s expression grew slightly more animated when discussing certain pureblood families, the way Druella’s eyes would narrow almost imperceptibly when Lucius mentioned names that apparently didn’t meet with her approval.

Most importantly, she watched Narcissa. The other girl was a study in perfect composure, responding to Lucius’s comments with just enough interest to be polite without appearing overly engaged. But Hermione was beginning to learn Narcissa’s tells. The way her fingers would drum silently against her thigh when she was bored, the slight tightening around her eyes when Lucius said something particularly insufferable.

When Lucius reached across the table to refill Narcissa’s juice glass without being asked, lingering just a moment too long as his fingers brushed hers, Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral. The possessive familiarity of the gesture made her stomach churn with a emotion she didn’t want to examine too closely.

“How thoughtful of you, Lucius,” Narcissa said smoothly, though Hermione caught the way her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied with that insufferable smirk of his. “I simply noticed your glass was empty.”

The subtext was clear to everyone at the table: he was marking his territory. It was a display of ownership that made Hermione’s skin crawl, even knowing what she did about their supposed future marriage from her original timeline.

Cygnus gave her another assessing look, then returned to his meal, seemingly satisfied with what he had observed. Hermione exhaled discreetly, relieved that her performance had apparently been convincing enough to pass their scrutiny, at least for now.

But beside her, Narcissa continued to watch her closely, an unreadable expression on her face that made Hermione wonder exactly what she was thinking.

The remainder of the morning was spent in the manor’s elegant sitting room, where Druella had apparently decided to continue Hermione’s assessment under the guise of polite conversation. The room was decorated in shades of deep blue and silver, with a crackling fireplace and tall windows that looked out onto the frost-covered gardens. Despite its obvious beauty, Hermione found the space somehow oppressive, as though the very air was weighted with expectations and unspoken judgments.

She answered questions about her supposed education at Beauxbatons, her family’s business interests, and her impressions of various aspects of British magical society. Each query felt like stepping carefully through a minefield, requiring her to balance just enough truth to be believable with the necessary fiction to maintain her cover. Her throat was dry by the time Druella finally seemed satisfied, though Hermione suspected this was merely the first of many such interrogations she would face during her stay.

Lucius remained for lunch as well, much to Hermione’s dismay, continuing his not-so-subtle campaign to demonstrate his relationship with Narcissa. He sat closer to her than was strictly necessary, laughed just a little too loudly at her polite responses to his stories, and generally conducted himself like a man who considered himself in possession of something valuable.

The worst part was watching Narcissa navigate it all with such practiced ease. She was clearly accustomed to his behavior, responding with just enough warmth to avoid giving offense while maintaining enough distance to avoid encouraging him. It was a delicate balancing act, and Hermione found herself both impressed by Narcissa’s skill and deeply disturbed by the necessity of it.

By the time the evening shadows began to lengthen across the manor grounds, Hermione felt wrung out from the constant performance. The suffocating nature of the day had left her desperate for air, for space, for somewhere she could simply be herself without worrying about every gesture being catalogued and analyzed.

She had barely spoken since the meal ended, choosing instead to observe, to memorize, to ensure she didn’t step out of place. But the weight of it all was beginning to settle into her bones like a physical ache, and she knew she needed respite before she did something to blow her cover entirely.

That was how she found herself in Black Manor’s grand library as the sun set beyond the tall windows.

The room was vast, easily twice the size of the Hogwarts library, with towering bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling and disappeared into the shadows above. Ancient tomes and preserved magical texts filled every available space, their leather spines gleaming in the light from the massive fireplace that dominated one corner of the room. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, old magic and older secrets.

It was the first place in the manor that had felt remotely like home.

Hermione ran her fingers over the spine of a worn leather book, inhaling the familiar scent that reminded her so strongly of the Hogwarts library that her chest ached with sudden homesickness. Here, surrounded by knowledge and learning, she could almost pretend she was back in her own time, in her own world, where her greatest concerns were examinations and essays rather than maintaining an elaborate deception that could get her killed if discovered.

She shut her eyes, allowing herself a rare moment of weakness, and tried to imagine what her friends might be doing at this very moment. Were they worried about her disappearance? Had they even noticed she was gone, or had the malfunctioning Time-Turner somehow erased her existence from their timeline entirely?

The uncertainty was almost unbearable.

“Escaping already?”

Hermione startled, spinning around to find Narcissa leaning against one of the towering bookshelves, arms crossed, an amused glint in her pale eyes. She was still dressed in her morning robes of forest green, though she had loosened the formal styling of her hair so that pale strands framed her face in soft waves.

Hermione exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her racing heart. “You have a terrible habit of sneaking up on people.”

“I prefer to think of it as moving with appropriate discretion,” Narcissa replied, pushing away from the bookshelf and gliding deeper into the library. Her footsteps were nearly silent against the plush carpet, a skill that had probably been trained into her from childhood. “Besides, you didn’t answer my question.”

Hermione shook her head, turning back to the bookshelf and trying to calm her nerves. “I needed a moment.”

Narcissa studied her before stepping closer, near enough that Hermione could catch the faint scent of her perfume, something floral and expensive that seemed to cling to her skin like a promise. “My family can be… exhausting.”

The understatement was so profound that Hermione let out a soft laugh, though there was little humor in the sound. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“They like you,” Narcissa said, tilting her head slightly as she observed Hermione’s profile. “Which is more than I expected, honestly.”

Hermione turned to look at her, studying the expression on her face. There was something almost vulnerable in Narcissa’s eyes, as though she had been genuinely concerned about how this meeting would go. “Does their approval matter so much to you?”

Something flickered across Narcissa’s features, too quick to interpret, but unmistakably significant. “In this world, their approval determines everything,” she said quietly. “Who I can associate with, where I can go, what choices are available to me. My father’s word is law, and my mother’s opinion shapes his decisions.”

The honesty in her voice caught Hermione off guard. For once, Narcissa wasn’t performing, wasn’t calculating her words for maximum effect, she was simply speaking from the heart.

“You handled yourself well today,” Narcissa continued, stepping closer until they were standing side by side in front of the bookshelf. “The French especially. I wasn’t certain you would be able to manage that test. Seeing as you’ve never deigned to use it in my presence.”

Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I wasn’t entirely certain myself. Your mother is very perceptive.”

“She is,” Narcissa agreed. “She caught me off guard with that particular gambit, but you responded beautifully. Seeing you slip into French so effortlessly was… unexpected. One wonders why you keep your native tongue so well hidden.”

The question was casual, but Hermione could hear the genuine curiosity beneath it. She shrugged, running her fingers along another row of book spines. “It isn’t something I think about, really. French was the language of my childhood. English took over once we settled here.”

It was a practiced lie, delivered easily by now. Still, the cadence she’d mastered was convincing enough.

Narcissa’s lips curved, her tone softening just enough to unsettle. “It shows. You sounded as though you haven’t gone a day without speaking it. And I must admit,” her gaze lingered a beat too long, “French is an exceptionally alluring language on the right tongue.”

Hermione’s breath caught at the remark, heat blooming unbidden at the base of her throat. She ducked her head quickly, letting her fingers trail across the nearest shelf as though the texture of cracked leather and gilt lettering demanded her full attention. Best to pretend she hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in Narcissa’s tone, or the way it set her pulse racing.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both pretending to examine the books before them while being acutely aware of each other’s presence. The firelight cast flickering shadows across the spines of the ancient tomes, creating an atmosphere that felt almost magical despite the oppressive weight of the manor around them.

“I thought you thrived in this world,” Hermione said quietly, voicing the thought that had been nagging at her throughout the day.

Narcissa hesitated, a flicker of something vulnerable flashing across her face before she could hide it. “I was raised in it,” she said finally. “That doesn’t mean I always enjoy it. Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to simply… breathe.”

The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that neither of them seemed ready to address directly. Hermione found herself studying Narcissa’s profile in the firelight, noting the way her jaw was held just a little too tightly, the faint lines of tension around her eyes that spoke of years spent performing rather than living.

“Is that why you were so interested in me?” Hermione asked softly. “Because I represented something different?”

Narcissa turned to face her fully, and for a moment her mask slipped entirely. What Hermione saw beneath it was raw and honest and achingly beautiful; a young woman who had spent so long being what others expected her to be that she had nearly forgotten who she might be underneath it all.

“Perhaps,” Narcissa said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or perhaps it’s because you look at me like I’m real.”

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers finding Narcissa’s wrist and tracing the delicate bones beneath pale skin. The touch was light, hesitant, but Narcissa didn’t pull away.

“You are real,” Hermione said fiercely. “You’re the most real thing in this entire manor.”

Narcissa’s breath hitched, and for a moment they simply stood there, caught in the space between what they wanted and what they dared to take. The library around them seemed to fade into insignificance, leaving only the warmth of skin against skin and the crackling of the fireplace in the corner.

Hermione wasn’t sure who moved first. If it had been her stepping closer or Narcissa leaning into her touch. But suddenly the space between them vanished entirely.

Narcissa’s lips met hers in a kiss that was nothing like their previous encounters. There was no teasing, no calculated seduction, just raw need and desperate honesty. Hermione’s free hand came up to cup Narcissa’s face, feeling the soft warmth of her skin beneath her palm as the kiss deepened.

It was different this time. Where their previous kisses had been charged with playful tension and careful exploration, this one spoke of something deeper, more profound. Hermione could taste the vulnerability on Narcissa’s lips, could feel the way she trembled slightly as their mouths moved together in perfect synchronization.

Hermione’s fingers curled into the fabric of Narcissa’s dress, anchoring herself as the firelight flickered around them like something enchanted. The scent of parchment and jasmine filled her senses, mixing with the warmth of Narcissa’s body pressed against hers until she felt dizzy with it.

When they finally parted, both breathing heavily, Narcissa rested her forehead against Hermione’s. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment she looked impossibly young and vulnerable.

“You really should be more careful,” she murmured, though there was no real reproof in her voice. “Someone might catch us.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, her thumb tracing across Narcissa’s cheekbone. “Then I suppose you should stop finding me in secluded places.”

Narcissa’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Hermione’s gaze with an intensity that made her breath catch. “I can’t seem to help myself where you’re concerned.”

The admission was soft, honest, and it sent warmth spreading through Hermione’s chest like liquid sunlight. She wanted to respond, to say something equally vulnerable and true, but before she could find the words, the distant sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor outside the library.

They sprang apart as though burned, both smoothing their robes and attempting to school their expressions into something appropriately innocent. By the time the library door opened to reveal one of the house-elves bearing a tea tray, they were standing at a perfectly respectable distance from each other, apparently absorbed in examining different sections of the vast book collection.

“Mistress Narcissa,” the elf squeaked, setting the tray on a small table near the fireplace. “Your mother is requesting your presence in the blue sitting room.”

“Of course,” Narcissa replied smoothly, her voice betraying nothing of what had just transpired between them. “Tell her I’ll be along momentarily.”

The elf bobbed its head and disappeared, leaving them alone once again. But the spell had been broken, and the weight of reality came crashing back down around them.

Narcissa turned to face Hermione, and for a moment her composure wavered. “I should go,” she said softly. “Before anyone becomes suspicious.”

Hermione nodded, though every instinct she possessed wanted to reach for Narcissa again, to pull her back and damn the consequences. “Of course.”

“Will you be all right here on your own?”

The concern in Narcissa’s voice made Hermione’s heart clench. “I’ll be fine. I may stay and read for a while, if that’s acceptable.”

“My father would be pleased to hear it,” Narcissa replied with a small smile. “He believes there’s no better indicator of good character than a love of learning.”

She moved toward the door, but paused at the threshold to look back. “Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens during the rest of your stay here, whatever my family may say or do… remember what I told you last night. Lucius means nothing to me. The expectations my parents have, none of it changes how I feel.”

Before Hermione could respond, she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of cedar and jasmine, and the memory of soft lips against her own.

Hermione sank into one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, her legs suddenly unsteady. The events of the day; the scrutiny, the testing, the constant performance, had been exhausting enough. But this moment with Narcissa had shaken something loose inside her, something she wasn’t prepared to examine too closely.

She had come to this time by accident, with no plan beyond survival and finding a way home. But somewhere along the way, the mission had become secondary to something else entirely. She was falling for Narcissa Black, and falling hard, despite knowing exactly how dangerous such feelings could be.

In her time, Narcissa had married Lucius Malfoy, had borne his son, had lived a life of privilege and complicity with the Dark Arts. She had been the enemy, someone to be defeated rather than loved.

But this Narcissa? Young, vulnerable, trapped by expectations she had never chosen, was someone entirely different. Or perhaps she had always been this person underneath, and Hermione was simply the first to see it.

As the fire crackled in the grate and the shadows lengthened across the library floor, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had shifted something fundamental between them. Something neither of them was ready to name, but that would inevitably demand to be acknowledged.

The question was whether they would have the courage to face it when the time came.

Chapter Text

The smell of cedar and jasmine still lingered on Hermione’s senses as she finally made her way back into the drawing room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. The library had felt like a sanctuary, a stolen moment suspended outside of time and consequence. But now, stepping back into the cold grandeur of Black Manor’s main gathering space, reality crashed over her with the weight of a tidal wave.

The moment she crossed the threshold, something vile and suffocating filled the air, settling into her skin like poison seeping through her pores.

Bellatrix had arrived.

She stood by the massive marble fireplace like a dark queen holding court, draped in deep burgundy robes that seemed to absorb the flickering light from the flames behind her. Her wild black curls cascaded over her shoulders in an artful chaos that Hermione knew was anything but accidental. Every strand had been arranged to maximum effect, beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

This was Bellatrix before Azkaban had claimed her. Before years of madness and war had hollowed her out completely, leaving only rage and devotion to a mad wizard in their wake. Her face was fuller, her dark eyes bright with an intelligence that made Hermione’s stomach twist with recognition. She looked almost…normal. Human.

And somehow, that made everything infinitely worse.

The Bellatrix who had carved into her skin at Malfoy Manor had been a broken thing, mad and slavering and predictable in her unpredictability. This version was something far more dangerous: cunning, calculating, and entirely in control of her faculties.

Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe.

The conversation in the drawing room halted the moment Hermione stepped through the doorway. All eyes turned toward her, but it was the new presence by the fireplace that made her blood turn to ice in her veins.

Bellatrix was mid-sentence, gesturing expressively with one pale hand as she spoke to Narcissa, but her words died as she caught sight of the newcomer. Her dark eyes swept over Hermione with predatory interest, cataloging details with the thoroughness of someone accustomed to sizing up potential threats, or victims.

“Ah,” Bellatrix purred, her voice a honeyed drawl that raised every hair on Hermione’s arms. “And here she is now.”

Narcissa, who stood poised and graceful near the center of the room, turned to give Hermione a small, encouraging smile. Her posture was perfect. Spine straight, hands clasped elegantly before her, not a single blonde hair out of place. But Hermione caught the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes, the subtle tension that suggested she had been fielding questions about her guest.

“Bella was just asking about you,” Narcissa said smoothly, her voice carrying undertones that Hermione couldn’t quite parse. “I was telling her how delighted we’ve been to have you stay with us.”

Bellatrix laughed; sharp, delighted, and completely unhinged. The sound sliced through the air like breaking glass, sending a shiver racing down Hermione’s spine that had nothing to do with the manor’s perpetual chill. It was a laugh she remembered too well, had heard echoing in nightmares for months after the war ended.

“Oh, I’m sure you have been,” Bellatrix said, her gaze never leaving Hermione’s face. There was something calculating in her expression, as if she were solving a particularly interesting puzzle. “Cissy always did have such exquisite taste in companions.”

Druella and Cygnus were seated near the ornate tea service, watching the interaction with the mild interest of parents observing their children’s familiar dynamics. Lucius Malfoy stood off to the side with his father, Abraxas, both men offering polite inclinations of their heads in acknowledgment of Hermione’s arrival. The air was thick with the kind of tension that came from too many powerful personalities occupying the same space, but it was Bellatrix who controlled the room. Her presence, like a storm system that bent everything else to its will.

“So, you’re the delightful creature I’ve been learning so much about.” Bellatrix continued, taking a step closer to Hermione with fluid grace.

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Her mouth went dry, her palms instantly slick with perspiration despite the room’s chill. She knew what was coming, could feel it building in the air like electricity before lightning strikes.

Narcissa gestured toward her with fluid grace, her expression giving away nothing of whatever thoughts might be racing through her mind. “This is Hermione Beaumont,” she said, her voice steady and warm. “She’s spending the holidays with us. A dear friend from Hogwarts.”

The word ‘friend’ shouldn’t have stung the way it did. It was the truth, after all. At least, it was the truth they had to present to the world. But something in Hermione’s chest twisted at the casual dismissal of everything that had passed between them in the library mere minutes ago, no matter how necessary.

She forced herself to step forward, schooling her features into what she hoped was an appropriately composed expression despite the way her entire body screamed at her to run. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she managed, her voice emerging steadier than she had any right to expect.

Bellatrix’s smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth that somehow managed to look predatory. “Oh, the pleasure is entirely mine, chérie.” She extended one pale hand with theatrical elegance, her movements carrying the fluid grace of a dancer, or a duelist.

Hermione stared at the offered hand as if it were a snake coiled to strike.

Every instinct she possessed told her not to touch this woman. Not to make contact with skin that had once held a silver blade, fingers that had carved a slur into her flesh with the careful precision of an artist signing their work. Her body remembered the pain even when her conscious mind tried to push it away; phantom fire racing along her forearm where scar tissue lay hidden beneath her sleeves.

But she had no choice.

To refuse would raise questions she couldn’t answer, suspicions she couldn’t afford. Hermione Beaumont, pureblood French transfer student, would have no reason to fear Bellatrix Black. No reason to recoil from a simple handshake as if it might burn her.

Forcing herself to move through what felt like molasses, she reached out and clasped Bellatrix’s hand.

The moment their skin met, something inside her shattered.

Pain.

Screaming.

The sharp edge of a blade carving into her skin, the copper scent of her own blood thick in the air, choking her.

“This will hurt you more than it will hurt me, mudblood.”

The words echoing in a voice she knew too well, spoken with the casual detachment of someone discussing the weather.

Hermione’s breath hitched, a small sound that she prayed no one else could hear over the crackling of the fire. She barely managed to pull her hand away without jerking it back like she’d been burned, her fingers clenching into fists at her sides as she fought the overwhelming wave of memories threatening to drag her under.

The drawing room wavered around her like heat shimmer, past and present bleeding together until she couldn’t tell where she was or when. For one terrifying moment, she expected to look down and see blood seeping through her sleeves, to smell the metallic tang of her own mortality coating the back of her throat.

Bellatrix tilted her head with the eerie stillness of a predator that had caught an interesting scent. Her dark eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement, or hunger. “You look rather pale, chérie,” she purred, the endearment dripping from her lips like poison sweetened with honey. “Something wrong?”

The mockery in her voice was subtle but unmistakable, as if she could sense Hermione’s discomfort and found it delicious. As if fear was a wine she could taste on the air.

Hermione swallowed past the taste of copper and forced her voice to remain level. “Not at all. Perhaps it’s only the adjustment to new surroundings.”

It was a weak excuse, but the best she could manage with her thoughts scattered like leaves in a hurricane. She could feel Narcissa’s eyes on her, but she didn’t dare look in her direction. Not yet. Not until she was certain her face wouldn’t betray everything she was desperately trying to hide.

Her hands were shaking.

She needed to get out of this room before she did something that would destroy everything.

Bellatrix’s smile lingered like the aftertaste of something bitter as she let her gaze linger on Hermione for a beat too long; cataloging, measuring, filing away details for later examination. Then, with the theatrical flair that seemed to characterize her every movement, she turned back to Narcissa.

“You always did have exquisite taste in companions, Cissy,” she said, her voice carrying implications that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “I do hope we’ll have time to get properly acquainted during my stay.”

The words were spoken to Narcissa, but Hermione felt the weight of them like a threat. Like a promise of interrogation to come.

“I’m sure you will,” Narcissa replied smoothly, though Hermione caught the slight edge beneath her composed exterior. “Hermione has proven to be quite…fascinating company.”

If Bellatrix noticed the pause, she gave no sign. Instead, she launched into animated conversation with her parents about some scandal involving a distant cousin and a particularly scandalous affair with a half-blood. Hermione tried to follow the thread of gossip, tried to look appropriately interested in the social machinations of wizarding high society, but her mind kept drifting back to the phantom pain in her arm and the sound of Bellatrix’s laughter echoing in her memory.

The conversation flowed around her like water around a stone. She was present but not participating, visible but not really seen. It should have been a relief, this temporary reprieve from scrutiny, but instead it felt like the eye of a storm. Calm before inevitable destruction.

Eventually, when the grandfather clock in the corner chimed eleven, Druella rose with queenly grace and announced that it was time for the household to retire. Hermione had never been so grateful for social convention in her life.

She managed to offer appropriate goodnights, to accept Bellatrix’s lingering kiss on both cheeks without flinching too visibly, to maintain her composure until she could finally escape up the grand staircase toward the sanctuary of her guest room.

But the moment her bedroom door closed behind her with a soft click, her legs gave out.

She collapsed onto the Persian rug beside her bed, her hands clutching at her arms as she struggled to draw breath into lungs that felt too small, too tight. The panic seized her with vicious claws, tearing at her chest until she was certain something vital must be rupturing.

The memory of Bellatrix’s voice rang in her head like a curse, overlapping with echoes from a future that might never come to pass. This will hurt you more than it will hurt me. until she couldn’t tell which timeline she was living in, which pain was real and which was not.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, drawing herself into as small a shape as possible, as if she could somehow disappear entirely if she just made herself compact enough. Her whole body trembled with the effort of containing the screams that wanted to tear themselves from her throat.

She hated this. Hated how powerless she felt, how thoroughly that woman could unmake her with nothing more than a handshake and a smile. Hated that despite all her knowledge and preparation, despite all her careful planning, she was still just a frightened girl who had been broken by war and trauma.

Time moved strangely in the grip of panic. She might have been sitting there for minutes or hours, she had no way of knowing. The world had narrowed to the ragged sound of her own breathing and the phantom burn of silver against her skin.

A soft knock at the door barely registered through the haze of her distress.

She barely had time to lift her head before the door opened with careful quiet, warm candlelight from the hallway spilling into her darkened room like liquid gold.

Narcissa stepped inside, closing the door behind her without a word.

She was still wearing her dress from the day, deep blue silk that brought out the pale silver of her eyes. But her hair had been loosened from its elaborate style, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. In the dim light, she looked almost ethereal, like something conjured from dreams rather than flesh and blood.

Hermione didn’t look up, didn’t trust herself to speak. Her throat felt raw despite the fact that she hadn’t made a sound, and she was terrified that any attempt at words would break the fragile dam holding back her tears.

For a moment, there was only silence broken by the soft whisper of silk against silk as Narcissa moved closer.

Then, without preamble or explanation, she was there. Narcissa lowered herself onto the rug at Hermione’s side, silk pooling around her knees as though the gesture cost her nothing.

For an instant, something flickered through Hermione’s mind. A memory she couldn’t quite hold. A memory from her time, of Narcissa once before kneeling close, the same careful precision in her movements. A small familiarity, gone almost as soon as it surfaced, but enough to steady her for a breath.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations or probe for details that Hermione couldn’t give without revealing everything. Instead, she simply reached out with gentle fingers. Her hand hovered for a moment, not quite touching, before it found its place, carding gently through Hermione’s curls, pushing the wild strands back from her damp forehead with infinite care.

The touch was feather-light but grounding in a way that Hermione hadn’t expected. Each slow stroke of Narcissa’s fingers through her hair felt like an anchor being thrown into stormy seas, something solid to hold onto while the world tilted and spun around her.

Hermione’s breathing began to slow, the iron bands around her chest loosening degree by degree. The panic was still there, would probably always be there, lurking in the shadows of her mind. But Narcissa’s presence made it bearable. Made it something she could survive rather than something that might destroy her.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence, marked only by the soft whisper of fingers through hair and the gradual evening of Hermione’s breathing. The fireplace had burned low, casting the room in warm amber light that made everything feel softer around the edges.

When Hermione finally managed to lift her head, Narcissa was watching her with something complex in her expression. Not pity. Thank Merlin, not pity, but something deeper. Understanding, perhaps. Or recognition of a kind of pain that needed no explanation.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

There were some things that existed beyond words, some forms of comfort that could only be offered in silence. Narcissa seemed to understand this instinctively, offering presence instead of platitudes, touch instead of talk.

Hermione exhaled shakily, closing her eyes and leaning into the gentle pressure of Narcissa’s fingers against her scalp. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her with such careful tenderness. Not since before the war, perhaps. Not since her parents, before she had erased herself from their memories to keep them safe.

The thought should have brought fresh tears, but instead it only made her more grateful for this unexpected gift. For Narcissa’s willingness to sit with her in the darkness without demanding explanations or trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed.

Eventually, she wasn’t sure how long, her breathing evened out completely. The panic receded into something more manageable. The phantom pain in her arm faded to a dull ache that she could push aside if she concentrated.

Narcissa’s hand lingered for a second longer before she finally pulled away, rising to her feet with the effortless grace that seemed to characterize her every movement.

“Try to get some rest,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper in the quiet room.

Hermione nodded, her throat still too tight to trust her own voice. She wanted to say thank you, wanted to express the depth of her gratitude for this unexpected kindness, but the words felt inadequate. How did you thank someone for keeping you tethered to reality when your own mind tried to drag you under?

Narcissa hesitated for just a moment at the door, her hand resting on the ornate handle. In profile, lit by the hallway’s candlelight, she looked like a Renaissance painting, all classical beauty and mysterious shadows. Hermione wanted her to stay, needed her to, but no words were spoken. 

Then she was gone, slipping out of the room as quietly as she had entered, leaving only the faint memory of fingers through her hair, and the lingering warmth of human connection.

The door closed with a soft snick, and Hermione was alone again.

But somehow, the solitude felt different now. Less threatening. The room was still shadows and flickering firelight, but it no longer felt like a prison. Narcissa’s presence had transformed it back into a sanctuary, a place where she could rest and recover rather than merely endure.

Hermione remained sitting on the floor for what felt like hours after Narcissa left, her mind slowly processing the events of the evening. The panic had ebbed, but it left her feeling raw and exposed, her emotional defenses worn thin as tissue paper.

Sleep should have been the obvious next step. Her body was exhausted, wrung out from the adrenaline crash that always followed these episodes. But every time she looked at her bed, every time she considered closing her eyes, Bellatrix’s face swam up from the darkness of her memory.

She knew what would be waiting for her in dreams. The silver blade, the sound of her own screams, the helpless rage of being trapped and tormented by someone who viewed her suffering as entertainment. The nightmares had been manageable lately. Better, even, since she’d started sleeping more soundly at Hogwarts. But seeing Bellatrix again, touching her, had torn open old wounds that had never properly healed.

The thought of facing those demons alone in the dark was more than she could bear.

Before she could second-guess herself, before rational thought could override desperate need, Hermione stood on unsteady legs and moved toward her door.

The manor was silent around her as she padded down the dimly lit corridor, her bare feet soundless against the marble floors. Portraits dozed in their frames, and the ancient house settled around her with the soft groans and sighs of aged wood and stone. She should have felt exposed, vulnerable, creeping through unfamiliar halls in nothing but her nightgown, but instead she felt strangely purposeful.

She knew where she was going. Her body seemed to move of its own accord, guided by instinct rather than conscious thought.

She paused outside Narcissa’s door, her hand raised to knock.

For a moment, doubt crashed over her like a cold wave. This was foolish. Worse than foolish, it was potentially catastrophic. What if someone saw her? What if Bellatrix decided to take a midnight stroll and found her lurking outside her sister’s bedroom? The questions she would face, the suspicions that would arise…

But the alternative? Returning to her empty room, to the cold sheets and darker memories, was unthinkable.

She knocked softly, barely more than a whisper of knuckles against wood.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Narcissa in a silk nightgown that caught the candlelight like moonbeams on water. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, softer and more touchable than Hermione had ever seen it. She looked younger somehow, less guarded, though her grey eyes sharpened with concern the moment she saw who stood in her doorway.

“Hermione?” Her voice was hushed but alert, laced with the kind of worry that suggested she hadn’t been sleeping either.

Hermione felt her courage faltering under that concerned gaze. How could she explain this? How could she ask for what she needed without exposing the depths of her brokenness?

“I—” She swallowed hard, gripping the fabric of her sleeves like lifelines. “May I stay here again tonight?”

The words came out smaller than she’d intended, barely more than a whisper in the quiet hallway. She sounded young and scared and desperately vulnerable. Everything she’d spent months trying not to be.

Narcissa blinked, caught more by the fragility in Hermione’s voice than by the request itself. Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering before being replaced by something softer.

She stepped back without another word, opening the door wider in silent invitation.

“Come in,” she said simply.

Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and slipped inside before she could lose her nerve.

Narcissa closed the door behind them with careful quiet, the soft click of the latch unnaturally loud in the peaceful space. When she turned back, she was watching Hermione with that same expression from earlier; part concern, part curiosity, part something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to ask,” she said finally, her voice carrying layers of meaning that made Hermione’s chest tight with unnamed emotion.

Hermione let out a small, humorless laugh that caught in her throat. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome.”

Something flickered in Narcissa’s eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or hurt that she would even question such a thing. “You’re always welcome here,” she said with quiet sincerity that hit Hermione like a physical blow. “Always.”

The simple certainty in her voice sent warmth spreading through Hermione’s chest, chasing away some of the lingering chill that had settled in her bones.

She moved toward the bed before her courage could desert her entirely, sitting on the edge with careful precision. The mattress was impossibly soft, the sheets smooth and cool against her skin. Everything about this room spoke of luxury and comfort, of a life lived without the constant specter of violence lurking just beneath the surface.

She twisted her hands in her lap, suddenly uncertain. What was she doing here? What did she think would happen?

Narcissa seemed to sense her hesitation. She approached slowly, as if Hermione were a skittish animal that might bolt at any sudden movement, and settled onto the mattress beside her.

“Lie down,” she said gently, and it wasn’t a command so much as an invitation.

Hermione obeyed, sliding beneath the covers with a grateful sigh. The silk was cool against her overwarm skin, and the mattress seemed to cradle her aching body with perfect support. But despite the physical comfort, the tightness in her chest refused to fade entirely. Her muscles remained locked with tension, her breathing still too quick and shallow.

She closed her eyes and tried to will herself to relax, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Every time she let her guard down, even slightly, Bellatrix’s face swam up from the darkness behind her eyelids, sharp and cruel and far too knowing.

The mattress dipped slightly as Narcissa settled beside her, but Hermione kept her eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to acknowledge the way her presence made everything feel safer.

Then, slowly and with infinite care, she felt Narcissa’s arms wrap around her waist.

Hermione’s eyes flew open in surprise, but before she could speak, Narcissa was pressing gently against her side, her body a warm and solid presence in the darkness. She rested her head against Hermione’s chest, just over her heart, her soft breath ghosting across the exposed skin of her collarbone.

The contact was immediate and overwhelming, intimate in a way that stole the breath from Hermione’s lungs. It was comfort in its purest form, human connection offered without expectation or agenda.

For the first time in hours, the panic clawing at her ribs began to loosen its grip.

Her breathing was still too fast, too shallow. But then, slowly, gently, she realized that Narcissa was breathing in steady, measured intervals against her chest.

In. Out.

In. Out.

It took Hermione a moment to understand what was happening, to recognize the subtle guidance being offered. Narcissa was giving her something to follow, a rhythm to match. Not obviously or dramatically, but with the kind of unconscious care that spoke of someone who understood panic intimately.

The steady rise and fall of Narcissa’s breathing against her ribcage became a metronome, guiding Hermione’s own chaotic rhythms back toward something approaching normal. 

As her heartbeat began to slow, a question that had been lurking in the back of her mind finally surfaced through the haze of panic and relief.

“How did you know?” Hermione whispered into the quiet darkness, her voice barely audible even in the hushed sanctuary of Narcissa’s room.

Narcissa’s breathing paused for just a moment before resuming its steady rhythm. “Know what?”

“To come find me. How did you know I wasn’t… that I needed…” Hermione trailed off, unable to articulate exactly what she was asking without revealing too much about the demons that haunted her.

There was a long silence, filled only by the soft crackle of the dying fire and the whisper of silk against skin as Narcissa shifted slightly in her arms.

“I could feel it,” Narcissa said finally, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the space between them. “In the drawing room. Your distress, it was like a scream that only I could hear.”

Hermione’s blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?”

Another pause, longer this time, weighted with the kind of hesitation that came before significant revelations. When Narcissa spoke again, her words came slowly, carefully chosen.

“I’m a natural Legilimens,” she admitted, the confession carrying the weight of a secret long held. “It’s not something I can control entirely, especially with strong emotions in play. Your stress, it was just too loud not to hear.”

Panic flared fresh and sharp in Hermione’s chest, cutting through the fragile calm they had built together. But before that panic could spiral, Narcissa continued. 

“I’ve never had a problem with anyone else’s thoughts,” Narcissa said, her voice softer now, as though confessing something private. “They press in constantly, unbidden, and I’ve grown so used to holding them at bay that I hardly remember what silence feels like anymore.”

She began to absentmindedly trace patterns across Hermione's hip, lost in her own confession. “But you… you were different from the start. Your mind was the first I could not breach. Your walls are impenetrable, stronger than anyone our age should be capable of. And instead of frustrating me, it drew me to you. It made me curious.”

Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “And now I think it’s one of the things I cherish most. With you, there is no noise. No effort. Just peace. For the first time in my life, I can simply be, because I’m not drowning in the thoughts of someone else.”

“I knew you needed me. I knew, because I recognized what I was sensing. I’ve felt it from you before,” she continued, each word measured and gentle. “That day you disappeared after the duel with Lucious. I followed you.”

“You followed me?” The words came out sharper than Hermione intended, edged with renewed alarm.

“To the Room of Requirement,” Narcissa confirmed, and there was something almost apologetic in her tone. “I was still stuck on my fixation about what you were hiding. After the duel you acted strange, and then you just rushed off. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.”

Hermione’s mind raced back to that afternoon, to the overwhelming panic attack that had driven her to seek solitude in the one place at Hogwarts where she knew she wouldn’t be found. Or so she had thought.

“I saw you,” Narcissa whispered, her confession barely audible against Hermione’s collarbone. “I saw you break. Saw how the panic consumed you. I watched as Pandora coaxed you back from it, and it struck me then. You were just another person, carrying wounds no one should have to bear. And in that moment, I stopped trying to solve you. I just wanted to understand you.”

The admission hung between them like a bridge spanning dangerous waters. Hermione felt exposed,vulnerable. Narcissa had witnessed her at her most broken, had seen the cracks in the carefully constructed facade she presented to the world before she was even aware. 

Hermione let out a strained breath, a humorless edge creeping into her voice. “Not exactly the impression I wanted to leave.”

A muscle tightened in Narcissa's jaw, the only outward sign of the tension threading through her voice when she finally spoke again.

“It wasn’t an impression,” she said quietly. “It was the truth of you. And whether or not you wanted me to see it… I did.”

The words settled heavy in the space between them, neither accusation nor comfort, but something far more complicated.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She forced herself to breathe, to find words past the ache in her chest. “I hate that you saw me like that,” she admitted, the confession slipping out before she could stop it. “I hate that anyone did.”

At last, Narcissa looked at her, truly looked, and her expression softened into something unguarded. “And yet it only made me see you more clearly,” she replied, her voice low but certain. “It didn’t lessen you, Hermione. It never could.”

Hermione blinked, caught between disbelief and something warmer she couldn’t quite name. She managed a whisper, fragile but sincere. “Thank you.”

For a moment neither of them moved, but the silence that followed was different now. Less jagged, more like shelter.

After several long minutes, she felt her body beginning to release its death grip on consciousness, her muscles finally unclenching from their defensive posture.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into the warmth of Narcissa’s embrace. The phantom pain in her arm faded to barely a whisper, and the sound of Bellatrix’s laughter grew distant and unimportant. There was only this, soft silk and gentle breathing and the incredible luxury of feeling safe enough to lower her guard.

For the first time in months, sleep didn’t feel like a battle waiting to be lost.