Work Text:
Stuffy jazz played in a crowded and dimly lit atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
Narcissa sipped from the glass of white wine in her hand. Terrible wine. But she was a public servant now. Her days of decadence in Malfoy Manor were long behind her.
As were her days of being a Malfoy.
After the fall of the Dark Lord, Narcissa and Draco had admittedly got off quite lightly— the Wizengamot recognised that both had been forced into their roles and ultimately took actions that helped the Light Side win in the end. It had been a controversial decision at the time.
Lucius hadn’t been so lucky.
Tonight, the Ministry of Magic staff party was in full swing, despite the terrible roar of wind and rain battering the building outside like it wanted to get in. The mood was jovial, a far cry from the horrors of the war in years gone by.
The Ministry had always been grand— but had been rebuilt with even more lavishness since the war. During the war it had been destroyed during an epic battle with the Dark Lord and his followers.
Narcissa hadn’t wanted to come. She felt the eyes on her. Everyone judging her for having been on the wrong side of history yet again. Judging her for not being in Azkaban with her murdering ex-husband. Judging her for showing her face, even after the years had passed.
Narcissa inhaled sharply, noticing a crowd of witches nearby talking behind their hands and looking in her direction.
She would never let them see her sweat. She set her face stoically, taking another sip from her wine with practised indifference.
After Lucius had been apprehended, many of his assets were seized as part of reparations. Narcissa had been out of a home, and so had Draco.
Draco— bless that poor boy and the heavy guilt he carried on his shoulders— had decided he needed a fresh start and had immediately left to start anew in Spain. Narcissa couldn’t blame him. Too many of his schoolmates and peers hadn’t survived the Battle of Hogwarts. Draco couldn’t seem to look anyone in the eye after the war.
Narcissa, on the other hand, had a damnable part of her that refused to slink away. Sod Lucius and the irreversible damage he had caused to them. She would rebuild her life, piece by piece. Even if it meant dealing with public judgment and disdain. Even if it meant a lonely existence.
Narcissa pulled at her dress. It was cheap. But the best she could manage on her meagre salary. She thought it actually looked quite good on her, all things considered. The emerald green suited her pale skin and platinum blonde hair. It fit flatteringly on her body and fell elegantly for something that had been such a bargain.
It did nothing to ease her self-consciousness.
The room was too hot. Too crowded.
Andromeda, her dear sister, had been forgiving enough to take her in. Andromeda had always been the soft one in the family. Narcissa cringed involuntarily at the thought, remembering just how unforgiving Bellatrix had been during the war. A far cry from the soft and nurturing Andromeda.
As if on some dreadful cue, the Golden Trio walked past her. Narcissa suddenly felt like a large stone was sinking slowly in the pit of her stomach.
The Golden Trio.
Narcissa remembered when she had seen them in a corporate box at a Quidditch match in years past, back when the Dark Lord’s return was barely a whisper on the wind. They had been children then. Round faced and innocent.
Now they had grown into adults that had an oldness in their eyes far exceeding their years.
Harry Potter had always been an insufferably depressing child, small and slight, feral like he had been chronically underfed. Now he was a grown man, a burgeoning beard shadowing around his mouth, shoulders broadened and tall.
Ron Weasley, similarly, had shot up in height. He was also attempting to grow a beard, though it was a patchy pathetic attempt beside Potter’s. Both boys were dressed in tidy dress robes, looking strangely graceful for the scruffy, clumsy teens they had formerly been.
But it was the girl, Hermione Granger, who made a shiver run through Narcissa.
So many conflicting emotions whipped violently through Narcissa, causing her to grip her wine glass so tightly she was surprised it didn’t shatter.
Hermione Granger was dressed in a dark navy dress that complimented her tanned skin and brunette curls. She was taller now too, though not as tall as the boys. Her face was more thin and angled than when she had been a teen, giving her a beauty that had been mere cuteness in her younger years. Her dress was strapless, revealing her collarbones, toned back and arms. All eyes, including Narcissa’s, found themselves drifting to the Muggle-born’s arm.
There, as if proudly on display, the word MUDBLOOD was scarred into her arm. Though the scars had faded from the angry red they had been immediately after the war, they still stood out vividly.
If Hermione held any baggage about the scar, she certainly didn’t show it. Her face was smiling and relaxed as she spoke quietly to the two boys on either side of her. It was only that Narcissa had a habit of looking at Hermione’s pretty eyes that she saw the haunted shadows in their depths.
Narcissa turned away, shutting her eyes for a moment against the loud thump of her heartbeat.
She remembered. She remembered it all.
The dingy basement at Malfoy Manor, full of bloodied prisoners of war. Lord, the smell. The cries. The wooden floors of the Manor that she had once kept so impeccable and gleaming, dulled by Death Eater boots and filth.
The screams—
Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut tighter, her breath beginning to come in fast pants.
The screams coming from the northernmost room.
Narcissa remembered the day she opened the door and her blood instantly ran cold at the sight as of her sister bent over Hermione Granger. Bellatrix’s hands had been painted in the girl’s blood, a wild glee on her face as she turned to grin at Narcissa.
Narcissa had almost thrown up on the spot.
But instead, horrified, she had tried to calm the bloodthirsty mania of her sister. Talked her down into not finishing off the poor girl. Laughable— as if that were a better fate.
Hermione had lain on that floor, bloodied, groaning. Narcissa had been convinced she was going to die. She had snuck her some water and bread when Bellatrix was not looking, but there was nothing else that Narcissa could do for her. Not if she wanted to keep her family alive.
A fate worse than death, in a way— being left beaten and bloodied for days, not knowing if Bellatrix would come back or she would die from her injuries.
Most nights, Narcissa opened that door to the bloody mess again and again and again.
Narcissa exhaled slowly, opening her eyes again and trying to focus on her surroundings again. She couldn’t let her mind dwell on the nightmares of Malfoy Manor. Not while she was awake. She got enough of that in her nightmares.
A warm hand clasped around Narcissa’s wrist, causing her to jump.
“Mrs Malfoy, are you okay?” Hermione asked gently.
The brunette had spotted the blonde standing on her own. If anyone could recognise someone in the midst of a panicked flashback, it was Hermione. She had experienced enough of her own in the first year after the war.
There was a time when Hermione wouldn’t have given Narcissa Malfoy the time of day.
Those painful days in Shell Cottage, where Fleur painstakingly nursed her back to health and tried her best to restore Hermione’s spirit. It had been like the Frenchwoman was trying to tape together something that had been shattered into a thousand pieces.
Hermione had spent a lot of time in a bottomless pit of despair, doing anything to try and fight against the constant thoughts of Malfoy Manor. Of Bellatrix. Of anyone and everything related to her and what she had done.
In the time spent hunting for Horcruxes and after the war had ended, Hermione had found herself hurtled into a rage that had scared her at times. She had been glad Bellatrix died in the war, because if she hadn’t— Hermione would have been sorely tempted to get some blood on her own hands. She’d been angry at all of them. Everyone that had been there and let that torture happen to her. Everyone that hadn't been able to stop it, or take away the pain.
But after more time had passed — and a lot of therapy — Hermione had reached a point where she could at least live with what had happened. She’d let the anger go. She no longer shied away from the scar on her arm, wearing it as a point of pride. She was a survivor.
Hermione had noticed when Narcissa had started at the Ministry about six months prior. Hermione had supposed as a way of Narcissa finally rebuilding her life.
The first time Hermione saw her in the atrium one morning, it felt like her heart had stopped in her chest for a moment. She was surprised and more than a little alarmed at the thrill that had shot through her at seeing the blonde for the first time since the war.
With her post-therapy clarity, Hermione had realised for the first time that Narcissa had helped her during the torture at Malfoy Manor. Hazy though the memories were, she remembered the woman’s quavering voice convincing Bellatrix not to kill her. She remembered Narcissa holding a cup of water to her chapped lips in that dark and filthy room.
After that moment in the atrium, Hermione had watched Narcissa curiously from afar.
Narcissa no longer walked with an indignant pride. She was still proud, but she had more of a quietness about her. She scarcely seemed to talk to anyone, and nobody seemed to talk to her.
All those from Death Eater families were pariahs after the war. Shunned, judged, friendless.
Hermione knew that a part of her should be glad that Narcissa was facing a long fallout for her part in the war. The Malfoys had long been a bigoted and pureblooded family— Lucius had, at least. Narcissa and Draco obviously went along with it and parroted his views.
But a part of Hermione felt for the lonely blonde.
And now, when Hermione saw Narcissa at the staff party, she felt drawn to her.
The blonde stood alone with a glass of wine, looking painfully beautiful in a dark green dress. Hermione couldn’t help but admire the older woman’s figure and how striking she looked.
It was messed up, really.
Did Hermione have some kind of complex?
She had engaged in a brief, yet passionate, affair with Fleur Delacour the previous year. The Frenchwoman had reconnected with Hermione following her divorce, and something just snapped within Hermione. Maybe she had a thing for older women who saved her life?
Or maybe she just had a thing for beautiful blondes.
So Hermione excused herself from the conversation with Harry and Ron— she’d barely been paying attention anyway.
The bookworm had stepped boldly towards Narcissa.
What was it her therapist always said? Sometimes it was more productive not to overthink things.
Narcissa’s breath caught in her throat as her blue eyes locked with deep brown flecked with gold. Hermione Granger.
“Narcissa,” Narcissa corrected quietly, “I go by Narcissa Black now.”
Narcissa wondered if she imagined the slight smile on Hermione’s face at her response. She wondered what she was even doing talking to her, her warm hand still wrapped around Narcissa’s wrist.
Hermione seemed impervious to the looks cast their way from other partygoers.
“Are you okay?” Hermione repeated. Her eyes had an intense, steely edge to them. It unnerved Narcissa, despite being considerably older than the brunette.
“I’m… I’m fine…” Narcissa replied shakily, though her heart was still pounding. There was something about Hermione, something other than the crushing guilt inside her. A strange feeling that lit something inside Narcissa that she thought had died with the war.
Narcissa shook her head slightly, not allowing herself to entertain further thoughts.
Hermione smiled at her then, squeezing her wrist slightly.
“Do you want to get a drink?” Hermione asked, cocking her head to the side.
“I have a drink,” Narcissa replied, though a part of ached to accept.
“We both know the white wines here taste terrible,” Hermione said with a good-natured smile and glance at the wine glass in Narcissa’s hand, “But there’s a red on offer that isn’t half bad.”
Narcissa was conflicted. She was sick of being lonely.
But Hermione Granger?
Maybe there was an awful catch. Maybe the brunette just wanted to humiliate her in front of the partygoers. Or make a scene and scream at her about her damned husband and her awful sister.
The worst part is, Narcissa would be okay with that. She would take it all, every bit of rage and hate and hurt that Hermione Granger threw at her. Because that’s what she deserved.
Even as she walked to the drinks table with Hermione ‘Golden Girl’ Granger, the people around them gave Narcissa a wide berth. Not even Hermione’s fame and likability could counter the curse on Narcissa’s name, Narcissa noted darkly.
Hermione curled her warm fingers around her wrist again, causing Narcissa to release a short, sharp gasp. She hadn’t expected the physical contact again. Smiling as if she knew, Hermione used her other hand to easily pluck the glass of white wine from her hand.
Narcissa suddenly felt mute.
She’d never been at a loss for words. Growing up she’d always had a quick retort or barbed comment at hand, never one to let people see her as weak. But she was feeble in the wake of Hermione Granger.
Hermione procured them a glass of red each, before ushering Narcissa over to a secluded table. It was at least away from the judgmental looks— far in the corner where the light was even dimmer and tables littered with abandoned glasses.
“Thanks,” Narcissa croaked. She hadn’t expected her voice to come out so hoarsely. She inwardly cringed.
“No problem,” Hermione replied, “Tell me, why didn’t you leave the country like Draco did?”
Narcissa laughed at that, a sudden bark of a laugh.
“Straight to the point, you are,” Narcissa commented, partially amused. She supposed Hermione was about to give her an earful. Berate her for showing her face in good society again. For not keeping to the shadows of the world where she belonged.
Hermione didn’t reply, merely smiled slightly, and sipped at her red wine.
“I… I couldn’t bring myself to,” Narcissa admitted, “It felt too much like running away from my mistakes.”
It was oddly easy being honest with the brunette. Hermione nodded, seeming to digest Narcissa’s words.
“You’d rather stay here and deal with the repercussions of those mistakes?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow, “Even if the majority of those mistakes are on your husband and sister?”
Narcissa was grateful that Hermione hadn’t uttered Bellatrix’s name. In the recesses of her mind, she was still replaying opening that door in Malfoy Manor again and again. The grin on Bellatrix’s face. The wet blood on her hands.
Narcissa swallowed painfully, inclining her head to feign indifference.
“I’m not about to shirk my accountability,” Narcissa replied. She took a deep drink from her glass. Hermione had been correct, the red wine was far and away more pleasant than the dreadful white wine.
Hermione drummed her fingers on the table across from her. Narcissa’s gaze fell to the long and graceful fingers. They were tanned, had neatly trimmed nails, and the shadow of ink stains that had been scrubbed off. When she raised her eyes back to Hermione, the brunette was looking right at her. Narcissa blushed as if she had been caught.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you saved my life?” Hermione asked, as casually as if she were inquiring about the weather. Narcissa felt an unpleasant head rush.
She had always assumed Hermione Granger hated her. Blamed her for what her sister had inflicted on her. But was it possible… That on some level… Did Hermione think she had saved her life?
“Hardly,” Narcissa said bitterly, looking down at her dark red wine, “I left you in pain. I couldn’t… There wasn’t anything I could do for you… I didn’t know how. I didn't know what she would do to Draco if I tried to get you out. If you would even survive a move. I was scared. I was a coward! Scared of my own damned sister.”
Hot tears escaped Narcissa’s eyes and she brushed them away angrily. She hated how weak she had been in the war. How she had been painted into a corner by her own family. Stuck in an impossible situation with Lucius and Bellatrix — all because she had been too naive and trusting.
“You kept me hydrated,” Hermione said plainly, “You held my hand. You brought me back. You kept me going until help came.”
Narcissa didn’t raise her eyes from the glass of red wine, as if willing it to disappear out of spite. Hermione Granger shouldn’t feel gratitude towards her. She didn’t deserve it. She’d done the bare minimum.
“Dance with me,”
It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. Hermione had moved to stand directly beside her, and was holding out her hand expectantly.
Narcissa snorted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa said, “Go have fun with your friends instead of entertaining some damned Death Eater.”
“Former Death Eater,” Hermione corrected, smiling, “Unless I am mistaken? I wouldn’t want to dance with a current Death Eater”
“You’re not mistaken,” Narcissa snapped, grabbing the brunette’s hand to prove her point, “I would never stay in that godforsaken group.”
Hermione smirked, as if she had intended the reaction all along. Before Narcissa could ask why she was so amused, the brunette had placed her hands on Narcissa’s shoulders and begun to dance with her.
Damnable girl. But Narcissa found a slight smile on her face despite herself.
Accepting defeat, Narcissa let her arms gently rest on the brunette’s waist and swayed to the music. It was the least she could do.
Hermione’s brown eyes seemed to be warmer and livelier now they were dancing. She smiled at Narcissa in a way that made the older witch’s knees weak.
“This music is a bit too pretentious, isn’t it?” Narcissa said, merely to fill in the silence and try and draw attention away from how much the brunette was making her melt.
“Narcissa Malfoy saying something is too pretentious,” Hermione chuckled, “Let’s call the Daily Prophet to get that momentous occasion.”
Narcissa swatted Hermione playfully, smiling despite herself.
Was she having fun? When was the last time she had even had fun? Not for a long, long time with Lucius.
“Narcissa Black,” Narcissa corrected again.
Hermione smiled coyly.
“That’s right,” she responded, “You’re single now.”
Narcissa all but choked on her own saliva. Hermione couldn’t mean what she thought she meant.
“I… Erm… Well… Yes,” Narcissa struggled, mentally berating herself for sounding like an idiot, “Any plans for the rest of the evening?”
“Are you asking?” Hermione asked, arching an eyebrow.
Damn it. Damn it all to Hecate. Hermione Granger was flirting with her. Flustered and blushing, Narcissa desperately tried to backpedal.
“I-I— uh, of course not! Not that you aren’t… you are very… of course…” Narcissa stuttered, reddening more, before finally finding her words, “It wouldn't be proper. Too much bad blood under the bridge.”
“Too much water under the bridge?” Hermione corrected, her eyes dancing with laughter.
Narcissa winced. She hated sounding like an idiot. But she needed to get her point across. She didn’t want to inflict herself and all her baggage on Hermione. She was a pariah, deservedly so. She was paying back the sins of her former years, and would be for many years to come.
Was she attracted to women? She always had been. She’d never had a real preference between men and women, she only showed interest in people that made her feel alive. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed Hermione’s beauty. The passionate fire about her. The calm and authoritative way in which she held herself. But it wasn’t right. Not after what Bellatrix had done.
“I…” Narcissa let her eyes meet Hermione’s, “I was merely asking if you had plans other than attending this.” She waved her hand meaninglessly at the room.
Narcissa exhaled, relaxing. She had brought the conversation back to safer waters.
She would allow herself the small pleasure of dancing in Hermione Granger’s arms, of conversing with her, but that was all.
“I did have one other plan for the evening,” Hermione said quietly.
“What was that?” Narcissa asked curiously.
“This,” Hermione said, before leaning forward suddenly.
And then there were fireworks as Hermione’s lips pressed against Narcissa’s. It was as if Narcissa had simply been sleep walking for her whole life and now she was finally awake. Hermione’s lips were so soft, so earnest. Narcissa found herself leaning into the kiss despite herself, and deepening it.
The atrium was gone as far as Narcissa was concerned. The other people in the room were gone. All that existed was Hermione. Narcissa chased the high on Hermione’s lips. She sought the sweetness and salvation she found there. Her hands tightened on Hermione’s waist, pulling her closer. She felt short nails drag against her shoulders. Narcissa let out a small moan. The fires within her were stoked higher as Hermione moaned softly too.
And then Narcissa realised what she was doing.
She broke the kiss, panting, trying to push down the arousal coursing through her body.
“What?” Hermione asked, similarly struggling to breathe evenly, her chest flushed and pupils blown, “What’s wrong?”
“I am,” Narcissa replied, hating herself for not just allowing a moment more of pleasure, “Just… Why? Why me? I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve anything.”
Hermione’s face shifted to one of sympathy and she moved her hands from Narcissa’s shoulders to cup the blonde’s face, moving closer again.
“Narcissa, you can’t live in the past,” Hermione said gently, “You can’t let yourself get hurt again and again by things that have already happened long ago.”
“My family caused so much pain and suffering,” Narcissa let out in a choked sob.
Hermione made a soft shushing noise.
“Once upon a time you kept me going,” Hermione said, smiling at her, “You brought me back. Let me do the same for you.”
Narcissa crumpled into Hermione’s arms then, allowing the younger witch to hold her tightly. Whether they stayed like that for a minute or for hours, Narcissa didn’t know.
But from that day forth, Narcissa had some joy in her life.