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Narcissa doesn't remember the first time she saw Hermione Granger, though she must have seen her sometime, and wisps of fogy memory in the Pensieve of her mind remind her of a blurry image of a girl—Muggle parents, unattractive, unimportant. She must have seen her ten years ago, when Draco still stood a head shorter than her and slept tucked beside his stuffed dragon every night. That day at Station 9¾, they'd been loitering, chatting, hugging and kissing, a degree and a glance away from the Grangers. Waiting until the last minute, until they were forced to part with her son. Lucius took the cooler approach, but it pained him, too. She remembered the Parkinsons' daughter and Zella's child—Zabini, was it now? She assumed Hermione had been there, looking every one of her eleven years.
The first time she meets Hermione, in a formal exchange of names, Narcissa is forty-three and Hermione is twenty. Draco has brought home another girl, she thinks, and the blushing little thing across from her does nothing to prove her wrong. She thinks Hermione is too plain for a daughter-in-law, too uncultured, too fierce.
"A pleasure to meet you," Narcissa says to her, and compliments her robes. The girl is at that age where blushes are still attractive, and it is no different with her, no matter the overly large mob of hair on her head. Narcissa smiles, and wonders absently if Draco makes her blush as much as he should.
"Good to meet you too." Her voice is too brisk, and she directs Draco to his own room with a wave. Draco and Narcissa share a silent moment, and Narcissa kisses the top of his head.
"If you're sure," Narcissa says.
"Granger?" He jerks, an unflattering expression on his face. "Merlin, no."
Narcissa is amused, and Draco heads upstairs, glancing down once and rolling his eyes to make a point. A fine line, Narcissa thinks, and invites the girl to breakfast the next morning when she sees her trying to leave. When she finds out the girl stayed the night, she despairs in Draco ever finding a proper woman, but when they talk, Narcissa finds her sweet enough, like white chocolate and soft petals, like a softly gurgling stream.
Oddly, Narcissa likes the companionship, and Hermione must too, because she relaxes at some point, and eats with less fervor. If she tries, she could almost pass for a mannered woman, Narcissa muses.
They share breakfast and small talk and a single blushing compliment.
Hermione says, "I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."
Narcissa can't help but tease her. "Of course."
"No, really, you are."
Maybe Hermione thinks Narcissa doesn't believe her, but she does. She was very beautiful, once, and she knows she still is, if more faded and lined. Hermione must have never complimented a woman, because she does it with the perpetual embarrassment that young women must all grow out of one day. Or perhaps, she's never complimented the right woman.
The comment pleases Narcissa, and when Hermione is gone and Draco comes downstairs, she only raises her eyebrow. She can see the girl's innocent appeal, now.
Draco just snorts. "She slept in a guest bed after we stayed up too late working on the Fortescue case."
Narcissa takes his words for truth. She's a little disappointed, at what she can't tell. Later, she thinks she might have wanted Draco to feel the same indulgent amusement as she herself felt for Hermione.
The case finishes weeks later, but by then they've shared lunch and dinner, too, and Hermione visits when Draco is gone, and they talk and laugh and flirt. Narcissa finds her heart afloat again, a single marble in a Gobstone ring.
When the girl kisses her, it comes as little surprise; Hermione is slightly young and slightly foolish, despite her intelligence, and Narcissa remembers the havoc a single seductive smile can wreak. She doesn't mind this havoc, so Narcissa kisses back, as is polite, and runs her fingers over Hermione's cheek. She touches soft, pale, pretty skin only a woman would have. Narcissa wants to brush a flower against that skin, to put it in her hair and have her wear it. She'd look as sweet on the outside as on the inside. It would be a lily, the same color as Narcissa's hair.
Hermione is the first to pull back, with a choked cry. "Oh god, you have a husband—I just— I'm so sorry!"
Narcissa soothes her fears, but the girl leaves looking guilty. Narcissa considers telling Lucius. He might be amused with the story, the tale of a young Muggle-born with a crush on a pureblood lady. It feels sour on her tongue, and Narcissa knows it's not the truth. Not the full truth, not the only truth.
"I've broken up with Ron," Hermione says later, looking at Narcissa with those brown eyes she'd let herself fall into, if she could.
"Are you interested in my son?" Narcissa asks. It's the only reason she can think of, that Hermione would tell her something so important, so soon. Except maybe—
"No. I'm... I'm interested in you."
Narcissa smiles and pulls Hermione closer and wonders if she could pull back time far enough that no one would get hurt, that she wouldn't have to leave Hermione brokenhearted. Hermione isn't truly interested in her—she's much too young to know love. She's interested in women and interested in beauty, and Narcissa has both in spades. But Narcissa remembers the pain of first loves, and she still wants to shield Hermione from the world.
The second time, it is Narcissa who kisses Hermione, and it is Narcissa who tells Lucius later that night. He laughs. He's hardly so insecure to think she might leave him for a woman. A man, perhaps, one forceful enough to convince her to leave.
But later that week, he says, "I think we should divorce," and sounds like he means it. She grows still for a moment, then relaxes.
"Is it that pretty young thing you're seeing on the side?" Narcissa's smile is more a smirk, but Lucius doesn't laugh.
"I'm always going to be a former Death Eater, no matter what I do. You're the woman who saved Harry Potter. You could do better than me."
Lucius has been very charitable lately, and Narcissa is amused it's spread into their marriage.
She declines his offer without a second thought, and he accepts it without surprise. What would she do it she were unmarried? She's a beautiful wife and a caring mother, but she isn't interested in any more children, and her beauty will fade in another few decades. She could remarry, but to whom? Besides, her heart's been caught by a too-young bushy-haired girl, who is as likely to break her heart as keep it.
Maybe she will write a romance novel, a guide to the dating world for young women. Rule one: never fall in love. It gets stale, old, withered. But that hope, that this time she'll fall in love forever, never fades, and she dreams of brown hair instead of blond.
The next time Lucius proposes divorce, it is not in jest.
"How much younger than me is she?" Narcissa asks. She hasn't seen Lucius in those robes in seven years. They bring out his eyes so well.
"How much younger is yours?"
Narcissa thinks of Hermione, who visits every day, and smiles.
Their divorce is an easy thing: Narcissa leaves with everything she came with and more. Her part of the Black fortune, a part of the Malfoy vault for her troubles, the antiques she put on display in their manor. She retires to the country, to a Black house gone unvisited for decades upon decades, one untouched by either war.
She kisses him one last time, soft and loveless, and pulls away before Lucius can. He's uncomfortable, nervous, and she leaves with the knowledge that he will be happy with his new wife. She sees Draco on the way to the Floo. He hugs her and whispers, "Granger loves you," in her ear. And the hard line of his mouth tells her just what he thinks of Lucius' new woman by comparison. Narcissa doesn't smile, but it's a close thing.
She leaves the Malfoy Manor, and knows that by now, her house-elves have cleaned the Black home and filled it with everything she needs, including a Hermione Granger sitting in her study.
Love is a Muggle-born idea, Narcissa's mother always said. Narcissa thinks she's right.