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Chapter Text

Hermione had always loved Fridays. 

Before she went to Hogwarts, she would go to her grandparents’ house every Friday and spend the entire weekend there. When she was on a break from school, her parents would take a day off and they would go camping in the Forest of Dean. Always on Fridays. 

The first time she met Narcissa after the war, it happened on Friday, too, making it the true beginning of their story. That one Friday in the middle of September was the reason they got to where they were right now—namely, lazily moving around the kitchen, with Hermione flipping the pancakes on a pan while Narcissa was making coffee for the both of them. 

They would do it every Friday. Get up a bit earlier before work to have lazy mornings. they would cuddle in bed and just talk sleepily about silly, random things, and take a shower together, and then move to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. They had a vinyl player in their living room, and every Friday morning, Hermione would pick Nat King Cole’s When I Fall in Love and put it on. It was one of their favorite songs, making every morning twice as special as it would be without it. 

Narcissa would come up from behind her and press herself closer to Hermione, putting her chin on Hermione’s shoulder. She would leave a gentle kiss on Hermione’s neck, and they would sway for a bit in rhythm with the melody that was floating in the air from the living room, with Narcissa whispering the lyrics in Hermione’s ear. 

It was their routine. Dancing in the kitchen in the mornings, pressed close together, so close that Hermione had no idea where she ended and Narcissa began. A soft laugh, gentle whispering, a smell of coffee and blueberry pancakes. Narcissa’s short hair tickling Hermione’s sensitive skin, making her shudder from time to time and causing Narcissa to mock her for being so ticklish. 

Hermione had always loved Fridays.

Their life changed forever on Friday.

There are different ways your life could change—Hermione always knew that. Her life changed when her grandparents died when she was fourteen. The day Voldemort came back. When she erased every memory her parents had of her and spent almost a year on the run, having to say goodbye to most of the people she loved and cherished, and then, when she was forced to choose between two of her best friends. The day she went to the Chamber of Secrets with Ron to destroy one of the last horcruxes. 

But her life also changed the day she turned eleven and got her letter from Hogwarts, the day she first visited Diagon Alley, and the moment she set foot in Hogwarts for the very first time. Her life changed that evening when she cried in the bathroom for almost the entire day, saw a mountain troll for the first time, and when Harry and Ron came there to help her. That was how their friendship began.

Change could bring happiness, a lot of it. Hermione knew that more than anyone else. 

That Friday brought a different kind of change. All-consuming, mind-shattering. Heartbreaking. 

Narcissa was whispering “when i give my heart, it will be completely” into Hermione’s ear on a lazy Friday morning, their bodies pressed together, when they heard a knock on the door. Their heads snapped up, and both of them cast a quick glance in the direction of the hallway. Hermione swallowed hard, putting the last pancake on Narcissa’s plate. There was a strange, unexplainable feeling that settled in the bottom of her stomach, and for some reason, she wanted to ignore that knock. She wanted to get back to what they were doing. To cooking and swaying together and listening to Narcissa’s whispers of love, to the gentle hum of the melody vibrating against her skin as the older witch nuzzled her neck.

Hermione turned around, facing Narcissa. She frowned, her eyes flickering to the doorway. She could see the shadows standing on their doorstep. At least two people who looked nothing like Harry and Ron, or Andy, or Draco. They weren’t expecting anyone today. 

Hermione met Narcissa’s eyes, and it felt like sky-blue was the reflection of her warm hazel ones. She could see the same line of thought crossing Narcissa’s mind, the apprehension settling in her features. 

“I will get that,” Narcissa said calmly. Then, she leaned in, leaving a soft, quick kiss on Hermione’s lips. 

Hermione loved that kind of kiss. It was a kiss of habit, something they did dozens of times a day every time they parted even for the shortest while. It was one of these little actions that said i love you, you’re my home, you’re my everything without having to spell it out, put the words out in the open. One of these little actions that said i never wanna leave you and we’re forever every time one of them lingered even for a few seconds. 

And that’s what Hermione did now, for some reason. As Narcissa pulled away, ready to get the door, Hermione caught her by the arm and brought her closer, their lips colliding in a span of a few seconds. That kiss was a little more desperate as Hermione cupped Narcissa’s cheek. It was slow, gentle, and a little longer than their usual morning kisses. It was i love you i love you i love you in its purest form without the words actually being said out loud. 

When they pulled apart, Narcissa’s eyes were shining with something unreadable. She was a little confused, but she still looked happy and soft and ethereal in the morning sun rays that slipped into the room through their big kitchen window. Hermione loved that look on her; that tenderness in her features that Narcissa chose to show to only a few people in the entire world. And this one gentle expression that was only for Hermione to see, no one else. 

Hermione kept looking at Narcissa. There was a part of her that told her to just take in the picture before her, remember every little detail. As if she knew something would end soon, and she needed to have this last memory she could cherish forever. 

Narcissa was wearing her silk shorts and a top with straps, both of them with lace and of a navy blue color; the set she wore more often than the other ones. The color looked exceptionally good on her, bringing out her eyes and making them a few shades darker, but brighter at the same time. Every morning, she would throw a simple white bathrobe on to keep warmer, and it would only make her look softer. Her feet were always bare, touching the slightly cold hardwood floors that would creak every time she stepped on that one particular place next to the stove. 

Her platinum-blonde hair was wavy and not even reaching her shoulders. She got rid of her usual length about six months into their relationship and stopped straightening her hair altogether, and it greatly changed the way she looked. Now, Narcissa seemed more carefree, with some strands sticking out, but it made her look even more beautiful. 

Narcissa looked at Hermione like she was her whole world, her entire universe. Her face would light up in that special way every time their eyes met and sky-blue merged with warm hazel ones. It felt like they created a symphony together, the most beautiful kind of a song, or maybe even a poem. 

Hermione never saw any appeal in poetry before she met Narcissa. In the evenings, after a tiring day at work, Narcissa loved running her fingers through Hermione’s hair and whispering the words of Pablo Neruda or Renee Vivien into the space between them. Hermione would often fall asleep by the second or the third poem, sometimes the fourth one. Narcissa’s voice was warm and soothing, like a blanket. 

“I love you,” Hermione whispered out of nowhere, leaning in and leaving the habit kind of kiss on Narcissa’s lips. The quick one. Her words caught in her throat, and she found it hard to swallow. To simply breathe. 

These three kisses that Friday morning would be the ones Hermione remembered forever. She would call them the kisses from before . Before their life was turned upside down. It was the kind of memory she was ready to die for just to keep it close to herself, to her soul, to her heart. 

The knocking intensified, and it became clear that whoever it was, they were growing more impatient and irritated by the minute. Narcissa let out an annoyed, displeased sigh at having their morning interrupted.

“I love you too, darling,” she said, and then hurried towards the front door, tying her bathrobe. 

Hermione took over making coffee when the door opened. She heard two voices, male, one of them distinctly familiar, but it was too quiet for her to recognize it. She was pouring coffee into a mug when it happened.

“Hermione,” Narcissa called, the word catching in her throat. It was loud enough for Hermione to hear, meaningful enough to recognize the faintest glimpses of fear in these three syllables of her name. 

She dropped the mug and the coffee pot the second the sound reached her ears. The boiling hot coffee and the shattered pieces of a ceramic mug barely missed her bare feet. Hermione rushed to the hallway, and it felt like a bullet hit her in the heart when she laid her eyes on Kingsley, one Auror, and an unfamiliar woman in the Unspeakable’s uniform. 

Narcissa looked small standing before them, and Hermione moved closer, stopping a few steps in front of her. 

“Minister Shacklebolt,” she greeted him with a nod, her voice a little hoarse, a little too apprehensive for it to go unnoticed. “What’s the reason for your unexpected visit? It’s rather early.”

“I need to speak to Mrs. Malfoy about the crimes she committed during the Second Wizarding War,” he stated calmly, and that felt like a slap in the face as Hermione felt Narcissa flinch and step closer to her. “I’m afraid it can not wait.”

“It’s Ms. Black , and she didn’t commit any crimes,” Hermione replied defensively, matter-of-factory. For god’s sake, it’s been four years. 

“Her house was the headquarters for the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. And I’m not sure if you remember that, but she stood by while people were being tortured and did nothing. These are her crimes.”

Hermione’s lips parted in shock. That felt more like Kingsley throwing a brick right in her face than just a simple slap, and she visibly tensed at how low he stooped. She thought she heard Narcissa gasp behind her.

“From what I remember , she’s been pardoned for all of these due to her essential role in Voldemort’s defeat,” Hermione shot back. Her voice was calm and collected, but there were defensive notes in it, to the point when it felt like she was talking with her enemy, not with a person she once considered to be her ally. 

Kingsley ignored her statement entirely. 

“Is there a place we can wait while Mrs. Malfoy changes into something more appropriate?” 

Hermione gritted her teeth. “With all due respect, Minister, it’s Ms. B—“

Narcissa placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, effectively silencing her. She then took a few steps forward, her back ramrod straight, chin held up high. She didn’t look small anymore. Even in her nightgown, with messy morning hair, she still looked regal, her mask firmly in place, coldness coloring her features and settling in her icy blue eyes.

“Hermione will show you to our home office. We can speak there.” 

At that, Narcissa turned around and left. Hermione followed her with her eyes until the older witch disappeared out of her sight after turning the corner, and Hermione felt like she could breathe again only as she heard the door close behind Narcissa. 

She breathed in sharply, turning to look at Kingsley. She hated every second of it as she showed all three of them to their home office they merged with the library. It was Hermione’s favorite room in their apartment. Against three out of four walls, there were bookcases, from the floor to the ceiling, filled with different works of fiction and poetry or academic texts. There was a desk in the center of the room with a few chairs in front of it, and a couch Narcissa sometimes ended up falling asleep on while she was waiting for Hermione to finish grading essays on Transfiguration. Sometimes, they curled up on the couch together, throwing a blanket over their legs, and Narcissa would read out loud. She liked reading poetry, but as she discovered Muggle literature, she became rather fond of suspense novels. Her voice was perfect for it. The perfect amount of mysteriousness in every syllable. 

Hermione watched as the Auror and the Unspeakable woman stopped at both sides of the doorway, as if guarding the entrance. She didn’t really understand why.

Kingsley followed her into the library, quickly taking one of the chairs in front of the dark wooden desk. Usually, Hermione offered their guests tea or coffee, following etiquette rules her mother always emphasized. 

The coffee was spilled all over their kitchen floor, mixed with the shattered pieces of Hermione’s favorite mug Draco got her for Christmas last year. It said “Motherfucker” on it. They both couldn’t stop laughing about it for ten minutes while Narcissa’s face slowly became Gryffindor’s signature maroon color. 

Hermione didn’t offer Kingsley anything. Instead, she leaned onto one of the bookshelves, hands hidden behind her back, and waited, studying him. His posture was relaxed, too relaxed, as if he knew he would leave their apartment a winner. As if he knew there could be only one outcome, and it would be in his favor. 

Hermione didn’t like it one bit. 

About five minutes later, Narcissa exited their bedroom, and Hermione knew it for sure because the older witch’s heels were clacking on the hardwood floors. Thump, thump, thump. The sound matched perfectly to the heavy, erratic beating of Hermione’s own heart. 

When Narcissa entered their home office, she didn’t look soft or relaxed or happy anymore. She looked guarded, cold and defensive, but not overly so; defensive in some sort of a diplomatic manner. She carried herself perfectly, and even her choice of clothing reflected it. Narcissa was wearing classic black pants, matching high heels, and a silk blouse of a crimson red color that faintly reminded Hermione of the color of blood. She knew it was intentional, just like the slightest makeup on Narcissa’s face that made Narcissa’s eyes somehow even colder than they were before, back in the hallway.

Narcissa walked slowly and with grace, just like she always did whenever they were in public. She walked over the desk and stopped without taking her place on a comfortable chair, looking down on Shacklebolt instead. A power move in its purest form. 

Kingsley stared at her for about thirty seconds, his eyes narrowed, not saying anything at all. Narcissa didn’t even flinch, staring back. She didn’t blink for another minute until the Minister looked away, swallowing. 

“Ms. Granger, would you be so kind as to leave us alone for some time? This matter is highly confidential. I’m afraid your position as a simple Hogwarts Transfiguration professor doesn’t guarantee you access to it.” Shacklebolt tilted his head, giving her a fake, condescending smile. It was a very subtle way to belittle her and her work, obviously. A power move from him. Hermione knew it as soon as the words left his lips and she saw Narcissa stiffen. 

Kingsley kept looking at her, but she didn’t move. Her gaze was focused on Narcissa, and it took another minute before the older witch nodded almost unnoticeably, her eyes darting towards the door. She shot her a smile. It was soft and comforting, but as soon as Kingsley started turning to follow Hermione’s gaze, the smile disappeared, as well as any other emotion on Narcissa’s face. 

So Hermione left.

It felt like she was leaving a part of herself behind when the door was shut behind her, the Auror and the Unspeakable moving to shield it even from her view as she looked back at it. It felt like a decision that would have consequences. 

It felt like she was leaving something in there forever. Like there was no coming back from whatever was about to happen.  

Maybe, it felt like that because it was true.  

Two hours. That’s how long it took. 

At first, Hermione went back into the kitchen. She cleaned up the mess by drying the hardwood floor with a quick spell and repairing the mug before she put it back into the cupboard. The pancakes had gone cold, so she placed them in a container and put them away in the fridge. Maybe they could have them for breakfast tomorrow, or even for a late evening snack today. She could fry bacon tomorrow morning, too. They could invite Andy and Teddy and have a big breakfast. 

She checked for oranges, then. They didn’t have any, and Teddy loved homemade orange juice, just like Andy. She should probably stop by the market after meeting Narcissa in the evening today. They should buy more groceries. Especially oranges, because there couldn’t be a perfect breakfast with Andy and Teddy without orange juice. 

Hermione was supposed to leave for work in forty minutes by the time she was done with the dishes. She could’ve used magic to wash them, but doing it with her hands was a pleasant distraction. After wiping them with a kitchen towel and putting them away into the right cupboards, she headed for the bedroom. She lingered in the small corridor, looking at the far end of it, where the door to their library was still shielded by two people in black. Kingsley probably cast Muffliato on the room as soon as she left. 

She got dressed, but she didn’t register it. It felt like she was in some kind of a computer game, and someone else was directing her actions. She chose black slacks, a white cotton shirt and a loose maroon sweater Molly knitted for Narcissa. It still smelled like her perfume, something sweet and citrusy, and Hermione pressed it to her face before she put it on, breathing in. The scent that accompanied Narcissa every day was comforting. 

She styled her hair—nothing serious, just to make them look less messy—and packed her bag. She had some materials in the library, but she supposed she could do without them today; Hermione was pretty sure she had copies for everything in her classroom. That was one of the things Narcissa taught her. Always have a copy. 

When she left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen to make a coffee to go, her eyes lingered on the door as she passed it by. Two people shielding it were unmoving, not even blinking at seeing her. 

Hermione shuddered. 

It had been fifty minutes since she left the library. 

By the time she was ready to leave, a thermos with coffee in hand, the door still wasn’t open. Narcissa was still in there. 

Hermione went back to the bedroom and sent an owl to Minerva, apologizing for taking a day off on such short notice, but explaining that she couldn’t leave the apartment due to personal reasons. She didn’t know how much she could say. She didn’t know if she should’ve said anything at all, so she didn’t. Better safe than sorry.

She thought of texting Harry, but she didn’t. She wanted to call Andy, but she was probably too busy, getting Teddy ready for kindergarten. Hermione considered calling Draco before she remembered that he, Astoria and little Scorpius were travelling, so it was around two in the morning for them. 

So she just sat there on their bed, knees pressed to her chest, her chin resting on them. The room was awfully quiet. Hermione didn’t really remember it being that quite before. There was always some sort of sound—Narcissa sang in her sleep sometimes, and Hermione could talk a lot of nonsense in her sleep. They were quite a pair. They liked chatting in the morning on weekends and on Fridays, this soft murmuring coming from the both of them. They read a lot before bed, shared the news they grasped from different news outlets, both Muggle and wizarding, during the day. From time to time, a comfortable silence would settle between them, but there was always a sound of their breathing. In and out. In and out. 

The only breathing Hermione could hear now was her own. She listened to her heartbeat, but it would just take her back to earlier today, when Narcissa entered their library, her heels clacking on the hardwood floors. She switched to staring at the clock on the wall, listening to its ticking as the seconds and minutes passed by. 

Then, one more hour passed. It had been two. 

It was then when Hermione heard rustling from the corridor. People moving. The door opening.

She jumped to her feet, stopping by the door and pressing her ear to the wooden surface to hear better. There were voices, Narcissa and Shacklebolt talking, but too quietly, too far away for her to grasp anything substantial. There was a set of heavy footsteps—Harry’s Auror boots always made that sound. Then, she heard the clacking of Narcissa’s heels, so Hermione supposed they went to the hallway. The front door opened, then closed. 

Then, there was silence. 

Hermione spent ten minutes by the door, waiting, before she heard Narcissa’s footsteps nearing their bedroom. She backed away, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

Hermione fidgeted with a ring on her middle finger. It was a sterling silver ling, with the engraving of two pinky fingers intertwined. A promise ring. Narcissa had an identical one. They won them in the amusement park three months ago and had been wearing them ever since. When Andy saw them for the first time, she was thrilled, because she genuinely thought Narcissa and Hermione got engaged. 

Their eyes met as soon as Narcissa entered the room. 

Suddenly, just by Narcissa’s expression, Hermione knew she wasn’t going to like what Narcissa was about to tell her. Because the older witch looked resigned and deeply, profoundly sad. 

Narcissa kicked her heels off, crawling on the bed barefoot. She sat with her back against the headboard, against about six pillows they had there, and spread her hands, inviting her. Hermione moved closer, lying down next to her, putting her hand on Narcissa’s chest. 

First thing, she listened to her heartbeat. Although Narcissa looked as collected as ever, her heart betrayed her.

Hermione’s question got caught in her throat, so she just wrapped her arm around Narcissa’s stomach, waiting to hear something. Anything. The older witch started running her fingers through her hair, and Hermione knew that was a tactic. It was too comforting for it not to work, though. So she relaxed against her own will, noticing how Narcissa’s heartbeat came back to a steady, normal pace. 

“He offered me a job,” Narcissa said ten minutes later, her voice a little choked. There was clearly more behind it. Something much more serious, something grander. “As a high-level Unspeakable. They need someone with my Occlumency and Legilimency skills,” she explained. 

Hermione nodded against Narcissa’s chest as the older witch’s fingers started caressing her scalp. They stayed silent for some time. Hermione let out a few soft, content sighs. 

“Was it really an offer?” she asked suddenly. 

Because she knew it wasn’t. 

Narcissa chuckled bitterly.  “No, not really.” 

Hermione pressed her body closer to Narcissa’s then, as if attempting to melt into her. Narcissa let out a ragged breath, and for a second, it felt like she was one step away from crying or sobbing. Hermione was afraid to look up, to speak, to ask anything. So she just waited, drawing star-shaped patterns on Narcissa’s blouse with her fingertips. 

She didn’t know how much time had passed when Narcissa finally started talking. 

“If I refuse to take on the job for the agreed time, there will be a trial for… my crimes. But without Wizengamot judges. Only one judge. However, there will be a jury,” she paused, swallowing hard. “Twelve people whose loved ones and family were tortured and killed by Bellatrix. And that by default guarantees me a prison sentence in Azkaban.” 

“How did he start the conversation?” she asked. 

“Offered me the job at first. I said no right away.” Another pause. A longer one, this time. “Then, he asked if I missed living together with my sister like we used to when we were children. Said he could arrange it if I refused his offer again. Told me he could easily make you testify against me.”

Hermione gasped in shock, abruptly pulling away and sitting up. She turned to look at Narcissa. Her face was stone cold, but there were tears welling up in her eyes, making them twice as blue as they usually were. 

“Narcissa…” Hermione breathed out.

The older witch threw her head up and stayed like that for a few minutes. When she looked at Hermione again, there were no more tears. Only determination and regret. The biggest amount of regret Hermione had ever seen. 

“I have no other choice but to take it,” Narcissa stated calmly. 

Hermione nodded and went back to her previous position, settling by Narcissa’s side. The older witch’s hand found her hair once again. 

“Why you? ” she asked, the last word coming out as a sob. 

They were so, so happy. So happy Hermione had to pinch herself sometimes, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, that it really was her life. She caught Narcissa doing the same thing multiple times. 

Everyone knew what working as an Unspeakable could do to a person. For some people, even a year on this job was enough to drive them crazy, or to empty their heart entirely. To distance them from their loved ones as far as possible because of all the secrets, the confidentiality. 

“I think there was a breach on the highest level. Important, classified information taken forcibly from someone. Someone’s skills in Occlumency lacking. So now, they need a replacement. Someone they can control, but at the same time, someone with impeccable skills to prevent another breach. For instance, someone who got away with lying to the face of the most powerful Legilimens in the wizarding world.” Her voice was calm, measured. Collected. But Hermione could clearly hear the raw emotion behind it. 

“How long?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer. 

“Two years.” 

Hermione took a deep breath through her nose. A year was enough to change the person entirely. Just a year. Sometimes even less. And Narcissa was being forced into working as the highest-level Unspeakable for two . 

None of them said anything anymore, because there was nothing to say, not really. There was no other choice for Narcissa but to accept Shacklebolt’s manipulative offer, and Hermione knew it.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t eat. They spent the rest of their day together in bed, side by side. Hermione fell asleep a couple of times. Narcissa did, too, but her sleep was more restless. 

They changed into their pyjamas only in the evening, getting back in bed and into each other’s arms almost immediately. It was dark in the room. It was silent. 

“I’m afraid,” Hermione breathed out into the dark. 

The words danced in the space between them like glowing stars in the midnight-blue sky. 

“What are you afraid of, my love?” Narcissa asked tentatively, leaving a soft kiss in Hermione’s hair. It was supposed to make her feel better. Instead, she felt tears welling up in her eyes, threatening to spill any moment. 

“I’m afraid that if you stop sharing this one thing about yourself, then soon enough, we will stop sharing everything else too,” Hermione whispered, then paused. “And that’s how I lose you.” 

She closed her eyes then, feeling a few tears fall down. She licked her lips; they tasted of salt and this one sip of coffee she took in the morning, when she still thought she was going to work, and then meeting Narcissa in the evening, stopping by the market and buying groceries. 

“You will never lose me,” Narcissa said, and it sounded like a promise. 

It felt like Hermione’s soul was split in two. Like her heart was broken into sixteen different pieces. Like the air was taken away from her, and she was left with nothing, unable to breathe. It felt like the end of the world, because Narcissa was her whole world. 

They were so happy just this morning. 

It was a Friday. 

Hermione had always loved Fridays. 

She lost Narcissa on a Friday. 

Chapter Text

Month 1

Narcissa started working effectively immediately after accepting Kingsley’s manipulative offer. There were no days off in her ninety-page contract Hermione wasn’t allowed to see or come near. It was locked somewhere in their office, and she suspected Narcissa used all kinds of spells there were, because Hermione was stupid enough to search for it at least twice in the first month. 

At first, Narcissa left at nine every morning and came back twelve hours later. They still had breakfast and dinner together at home, but it mostly consisted of Hermione talking about her plans for the day and then, in the evenings, about how her day went. Narcissa smiled and listened, asked some specific questions to keep the conversation going, and although it wasn’t bad, per se, Hermione’s heart was still breaking a little every time it happened. 

Because she loved hearing about Narcissa’s job, about her day, and now she couldn’t have that. She couldn’t even know if Narcissa was safe — the Unbreakable Vow Narcissa was forced into that first day didn’t have any loopholes. The day she took it, a shadow settled over the older witch’s face, and it stayed there. 

Hermione loved their time after dinner the most. It still felt like them , the closest thing. They often curled up on the soft couch in their home library, a blanket thrown over their legs, and Narcissa read Dostoevsky's works or recited her favorite poems. Hermione thought she knew all of them by heart at that point—so often she heard them. They were always full of love, of light, of something soft and simple gentle, like sea waves and ocean breeze. 

They fell asleep earlier now, always side by side, pressed closer together, and it still felt like them . They whispered words of love and promises of forever, and it helped, but something inside of Hermione still hurt, because she saw it. The way a small part of Narcissa, of how they used to be, got taken away from her. 

They used to go grocery shopping together every Friday after getting off work early. Now, Hermione went grocery shopping alone. 

Month 2

They didn’t spend Friday mornings together anymore. 

It felt like Kingsley was doing it deliberately, on purpose. It felt like he saw them that one Friday morning, interrupted it, and then decided to take it away, but not right away. He waited, so Hermione could have something at first. 

She lost their Friday mornings. 

Narcissa would leave at six every Friday and come back in time for dinner, around nine in the evening. There was no cooking breakfast together, no listening to Nat King Cole’s When I Fall in Love on their vinyl player, no dancing in the kitchen. Narcissa wasn’t leaving slow kisses on her neck and humming the words of the song against her skin anymore. 

They stopped having that. 

It was taken away. 

Hermione stopped loving Fridays. 

Month 3

Something changed for Narcissa one day, and Hermione had no idea what. More than that, she couldn’t know. She tried asking once, during dinner, but Narcissa cut her off before she managed to say half of the sentence, so they never spoke about it again. 

But it was there, this darkness. It felt like the shadow was not only on Narcissa’s face, but now it was inside of her, too. Like it was eating her from the inside out, and there was no way to stop it. And Hermione couldn’t do anything about it because she simply didn’t know what to do, how to help. She had never felt so helpless and powerless before. 

So Hermione did everything she possibly could. By the time Narcissa came back home, with a loud, relieved sigh always leaving her lips as soon as she entered their apartment, there was a dinner waiting for her on the table. Hermione noticed that Narcissa started getting more and more irritated by the light every day, so the only sources of it were two candles. They had the scent of the fresh bath—Narcissa’s favorite. A small smile would grace Narcissa’s lips every time she stepped into the kitchen and breathed in, and Hermione lived for this moment. 

They talked about Hermione’s days at work, her conversations with Minerva, meetings with Harry and Ron and Andy. About how Draco was doing, traveling all over Europe with his wife and son. 

They used to discuss plans for the weekends. Before. Brunch at Andromeda’s on Sunday, going to the opera or the theatre. Picnics in the nearby park, when it was warm. Spending a few hours at the local animal shelter every Saturday—all cats were absolutely in awe of Narcissa; she was everyone’s favorite ever since their first visit. 

Narcissa didn’t have any days off anymore, so there was nothing to discuss. Just Hermione’s day. That was it. 

Month 4

Narcissa started coming back home more exhausted than ever. Even the candles with the scent of fresh bath couldn’t make her smile anymore; just Hermione’s silly stories about her days at Hogwarts could bring out a few chuckles every other time and sometimes even a rare, fleeting smile. It felt like all energy was seeping out of Narcissa with each passing day. 

Hermione wanted to scream. To punch something. To punch someone , preferably Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

She wanted to help Narcissa, somehow. More than anything, she just wanted to do something, anything so Narcissa could feel better. Smile more. Laugh every once in a while. 

“What can I do?” she asked once after dinner, sounding absolutely desperate. It had been four months since Narcissa became a high-level Unspeakable. Four months since the happiness they grew accustomed to, started taking for granted, even, turned into… this . Hermione just wanted to rewind. To get back to the way things were before . 

Narcissa smiled sadly, then. “There is nothing you can do, my darling.” 

Her voice was soft and hoarse, just like velvet. Hermione wanted to be enveloped in it; she barely heard it these days. Narcissa’s voice was one of Hermione’s favorite sounds. The other one was Narcissa’s laugh—it was more beautiful than every piece of music in the world. They used to laugh a lot, every day; so much that sometimes it felt like the walls of their apartment absorbed their laughter, and it lingered. Back then, it felt like it could stay there forever. 

Narcissa didn’t laugh anymore. 

Month 5

It got to the point where they switched roles, and now Hermione was the one to read her works of fiction out loud or recite the poems Narcissa recited to her multiple times. Before.  

Now, Narcissa was coming back around ten, and she was too tired for anything but eating. She still listened to Hermione’s stories about how her day went, but Hermione wasn’t sure if the older witch actually heard her. She was telling herself that it didn’t matter. That Narcissa was still there, with her, and she wasn’t going anywhere. 

They settled in bed, side by side, right after changing into their pyjamas. Hermione was half-seated, while Narcissa was lying down next to her, her head resting on Hermione’s chest. She noticed that the platinum-blonde hair grew out a little. Narcissa still looked beautiful, even ethereal, every single day, no matter how exhausted she was. 

Narcissa started disliking suspense novels out of sudden, so Hermione switched to something lighter, brighter. Most of the time, though, she read poems she liked the most from Narcissa’s own poetry books. They didn’t do it in the library anymore because Narcissa ended up falling asleep by the end of the second poem. 

Narcissa used to look peaceful in her sleep. Before.  

She didn’t anymore. 

Month 6

Although Friday breakfasts got taken away from them pretty early on, they still ate together on other days of the week. 

Until they didn’t. 

Narcissa started leaving at six in the morning every day, when she thought Hermione was still asleep. In reality, Hermione would wake up shortly after Narcissa got out of the bed to go to the shower. She was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open, so it felt like she was in this in-between state, sleep and reality. 

Narcissa slipped out of the bedroom, and then out of the apartment, without a sound. With such practice ease of the Unspeakable that it would have been hard for Hermione to recognize it even if she had been fully conscious, but just in a different room. Narcissa’s steps were soundless and cat-like, and it felt like she was floating a few feet above the floor at all times, because it would never creak. The doors wouldn’t make a sound when she opened and closed them. 

No sound. Nothing. 

Narcissa used to kiss her goodbye. Before. This habit kind of kisses, quick but meaningful. She still did that, sometimes, and from time to time, Hermione was awake enough to actually register it. Feel it. But it was different now. 

It told Hermione that Narcissa was slowly slipping away. At least that’s how it felt. 

And there was no preventing it. 

Month 7

Hermione stopped talking during dinner. 

It happened slowly, over the course of a few weeks. Narcissa would come back home, sit down, and roll her food all over the plate, eating only a few bites at best. Hermione would still tell her about her days at work, teasing arguments with Minerva about curriculum, and tons of new animals Hagrid brought onto the school grounds. They weren’t dangerous, so Minerva allowed it, and all the students were extremely happy about that development, spending a lot of time with them in-between classes. 

Hermione talked about her meetings with Harry and Ron, her visits to Andy’s house on Sunday. She marvelled at how fast Teddy was growing, and told Narcissa that once, when she stopped by, Teddy’s hair turned platinum blonde, just like Narcissa’s, and he asked Hermione about her. 

It took some time for her to notice that Narcissa wasn’t really… She was still nodding. Humming from time to time. But that was about it. Her eyes were empty, glassy. And Hermione knew that she wasn’t here, that she was somewhere else. It felt like she was picking at the insides of her own mind. 

Narcissa stopped listening to her talk during dinner. 

So Hermione stopped talking. 

From now on, they ate in silence. 

Month 8

Narcissa’s eyes used to shine every time Hermione told her she loved her. It would become the brightest shade of blue Hermione had never seen, and it was one of her favorite things about their relationship with Narcissa. The way the older witch’s whole face lit up at every i love you Hermione whispered into her skin. 

That evening, Hermione managed to read only one poem—at least it was a long one—before she felt Narcissa’s breathing evening out. So she put away the book but fixed her eyes on Narcissa before turning off the bedside lamp. The older witch was curled up next to her, her head pressed to her stomach. She didn’t look peaceful or carefree or relaxed. She looked guarded, exhausted, hurt.

And Hermione couldn’t know why. 

“I love you, Narcissa,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat on the older witch’ name. “Forever kind of love. Please, remember that.” It was some kind of a plea, a desperate one. She wished she could do more, say more. But there was nothing she could do. 

“I love you too,” Narcissa said all of a sudden, very quietly. She sounded broken, and when she looked up to meet Hermione’s eyes, Hermione realized that she looked broken, too. “Forever kind of love. I promise,” she whispered, and Hermione saw a lonely tear roll down Narcissa’s cheek. 

Narcissa’s eyes weren’t shining anymore. Except for when they were shining with tears. 

Month 11

There was no radical change in these three months, not like before, and Hermione cherished it, but it made her apprehensive. It felt like a calm before the storm, like something inevitable was about to happen. 

They were lying in bed one evening, just like usual. In the position that became their usual shortly after this madness began. Hermione was running her hands through Narcissa’s hairit was well below her shoulders now. With her other hand, she was holding up a leatherbound collection of poems, reading random ones to lull Narcissa to sleep when the older witch’s hands suddenly closed the book. 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up as she looked down on Narcissa who sat up, supporting herself with her hands. She looked thinner these days, as if she stopped eating altogether when she wasn’t with Hermione, which was… most of the time. Hermione tried to bring it up a few times during dinners, but Narcissa wasn’t there . Physically, she was, but her mind… it felt like it was in an entirely different galaxy. 

“This poem, about the sisters,” Narcissa began, and her voice was extremely hoarse, as if from the lack of use. “It reminded me of something.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, holding her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time Narcissa was the one to start a conversation. 

Narcissa nodded, humming quietly. “Did I ever tell you that Bella and I were bound by blood magic? What is interesting is that it’s quite different from just being bound by blood. That’s how Andy and I are, but Bella and I… that was different. She bound us when I was fourteen, before she married Rodolphus and left. She wanted us to have a connection, always; a way to find each other, no matter what happened,” Narcissa explained. She sounded oddly passionate; Hermione hadn’t heard that much passion for months. That many words, too. 

Hermione nodded, letting out a small, sincere smile. She could have never thought that the mention of Bellatrix Lestrange would make her smile, but God, it did. 

Narcissa lied down then, cuddling Hermione, pressing their bodies closer together, as close as it was humanly possible. 

“Bella was always like a compass when it came to me,” Narcissa whispered so quietly that if Hermione wasn’t waiting for Narcissa to continue, she wouldn’t be able to hear it. “She will always be.” 

It was the calm before the storm. 

Month 12

It was a Friday when Narcissa didn’t come back home after work for the first time. 

Hermione had the dinner prepared and Narcissa’s favorite candles lit up, just like usual. She was seated at the table when the clock in the kitchen hit ten in the evening, and Hermione watched the hallway. The light was supposed to be turned on any second—Narcissa was very punctual and hated tardiness, so she was always on time. 

Until suddenly, she wasn’t. 

Because it was 10:01, then 10:09, then 10:16, and Narcissa still wasn’t there. 

Around ten-thirty, the dinner had gone cold, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to put it away in the fridge, so it just stayed there, on the plates. She sat at the kitchen table until it was midnight and the candles burned out, leaving her in complete darkness. Then, she moved to the library and spent about an hour simply looking through everything to find at least anything . Maybe Narcissa left her a note saying she would be held back at work. Maybe she was going to spend a night at Andy’s place—they hadn’t seen each other in a while. Maybe Draco was back in England with Astoria and Scorpius, and she went to visit them. 

But it wasn’t like Narcissa to just… forget. To not tell Hermione things. 

They shared everything with each other. Before.  

They didn’t anymore. Not for the past year. 

By two in the morning, Hermione rummaged through their entire apartment. There was no note, no secretly-coded magical message, no anything. She had no idea where Narcissa was, and had no idea how to find out. 

Then, she came back to their bedroom, pulling Narcissa’s maroon sweater Molly knitted her two years ago. For some reason, it still smelled like Narcissa. She crawled into the bed, curling up like a beaten up animal, and pressed it to her chest, taking a breath with her whole chest. Tears started rolling down her cheeks as soon as she felt it—a sweet and citrusy smell—and it seemed like she couldn’t physically stop crying. 

She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t move. For a few hours, it felt like she was paralyzed; like the only thing she could do was blink and breath. At some point, even breathing felt like too much. She felt pain and fear and love. Always love. Because it was Narcissa. No matter how drastically things changed between them in the past year, Narcissa was still hers. Her everything, her whole world. The love of her life. Her forever kind of love. 

It was past six in the morning when Hermione heard the front door open. She didn’t think she ran that fast ever before, not even the day she was running away from the Snatchers. Absolutely nothing could compare. 

She was still clutching the maroon sweater in her hands when her eyes met Narcissa’s.

“Hello,” the older witch said, a little surprised. Somewhat confused. 

“God, you’re okay,” Hermione whispered, looking her up and down, searching for injuries. It didn’t seem like there were any, so she closed the distance between them, pulling Narcissa into her arms. 

The older witch stiffened briefly, and the way her whole body tensed for a few seconds felt like Hermione’s own heart breaking. She was just about to pull away when Narcissa actually melted in her arms, letting out a loud, relieved sigh, and putting her chin on Hermione’s shoulder. 

“I was so worried,” Hermione whispered into her hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

“I am,” Narcissa nodded briefly, wrapping her hand around Hermione. “And I’m sorry.” She sounded truly guilty, then. Like something was eating her alive, from the inside out. Like she knew this would happen. 

A quick realization hit her, then. She pulled away very slowly, her eyes fixed on Narcissa’s, and suddenly, Hermione knew.

“It… it wasn’t unplanned,” she drawled, her lips parting in shock at her own realization. “You knew that would happen. You knew you would be gone for the entire day. Twenty-four hours. ” 

Narcissa ducked her head. “Yes.” A pause that lasted five of Hermione’s heartbeats. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“Can you tell me when something like that happens again?” she asked, because she knew it probably would. “I was worried out of my mind, for a few hours, I even thought you died . I don’t—I—please—”

“I’m sorry,” Narcissa repeated again. She sounded pained. Like saying this was physically hurting her, just as much as Hermione had been hurt. “But I can’t tell you anything. I really can’t.” 

They didn’t really share things. Not anymore. 

Month 13

Hermione had dinner ready, just like usual. She started using products with more nutritional value because it felt like Narcissa was disappearing right before her eyes. Simply fading away. The candles were lit up, too. It was ironically cute, the fact that their kitchen smelled like a fresh bath at all times these days. These months. Hermione had grown used to it. She liked it, even though it didn’t even make Narcissa smile anymore. Not in a long time. 

Narcissa came home neither by ten like she was supposed to nor by eleven. 

It was midnight when Hermione felt the faintest touch to her cheek and jerked awake, inhaling sharply. She blinked sleepily and looked around. Narcissa was standing on her knees before the kitchen table, looking up at Hermione with an unreadable expression, her hand—the one she touched Hermione with—hanging in mid-air, still reaching out. Hermione must have fallen asleep right at the kitchen table, she mused. 

She looked at Narcissa then. 

“Hi,” she breathed out. The older witch cupped her cheek again, caressing it with her thumb, and Hermione let out a content sigh, her eyes closing briefly. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” Narcissa replied quickly, breathlessly, as if she was biting down on these words for days, weeks, months. It was probably true. They hadn’t really said it these days. “I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

Hermione opened her eyes, shrugging and giving her a small smile. “It’s okay.”

Narcissa didn’t say anything—there was only guilt brimming in her blue eyes. It hit Hermione like a brick in the face, and she hated it; the fact that she immediately knew what it was about. 

“It’s… permanent… isn’t it?” Hermione forced out. 

“I won’t be home for dinners anymore,” Narcissa whispered a little brokenly, like it was paining her to say it. To take that away, too. “I’m sorry.” 

Dinners were one of the few things they still had.

They didn’t have dinner together anymore. 

Month 14

When they were settled in bed and Hermione reached for the book that was lying on the nightstand, just like she did every evening, Narcissa grasped her wrist and stopped her. Hermione looked at her, a little confused, and there was this familiar look. A pained, guilty one. She knew it better than anything else.

“Please, don’t,” Narcissa forced out, the words catching in her throat. She took in a deep breath to steady herself. Then another one. Two more. “I just… can we stay in silence from now on?” 

Narcissa didn’t want Hermione to read for her anymore, so Hermione stopped. 

They spent their evenings in complete silence. 

Narcissa started falling asleep to the sound of Hermione’s heartbeat. 

Month 15

Narcissa began locking herself in their library right after coming back home around eleven or closer to midnight. Hermione had dinners alone for two months now, but she still stayed up to spend late evenings in bed with Narcissa and then fell asleep with her. 

One day, Narcissa entered the bedroom, and Hermione knew that something was wrong. She learned to recognize it so easily. Her heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces every time she saw that look on Narcissa’s face. 

“I need to spend some time in the library,” she said, a little unsure. Tentative. 

“Oh?”

Narcissa nodded. “I have to focus on something, and your thoughts are distracting me.” She flinched as soon as the words left her lips, and Hermione knew she didn’t mean to say it. She breathed out, running a hand through her platinum-blonde hair—it was much longer now, reaching her shoulder blades—and letting out a loud sigh. It sounded helpless, and Narcissa looked exhausted. She always did. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. A pause that lasted ten of Hermione’s heartbeats. Then, “I love you very much.” It was quieter than anything, this one, but Hermione’s breath still caught in her throat simply at hearing this. 

She smiled. “I love you too, Narcissa. So so much.”

Narcissa ducked her head and turned around, ready to leave. They didn’t talk a lot these days, so there was nothing surprising. 

“Do you want me to wait for you?” Hermione called after her, expecting the older witch to say yes. 

“No, there is no need,” Narcissa said instead. 

From now on, Narcissa would leave the library and go to bed only when Hermione was already asleep. 

Month 16

The sheets felt cold every time Narcissa didn’t come back home and crawl into bed, snuggling up to her. Which was at least three days out of seven—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. At least it was kind of systematic, so that made Hermione worry a little bit less. At least she knew it was coming, another night she would jerk awake just because Narcissa wasn’t next to her. 

She started sleeping for only three hours whenever Narcissa was spending the night elsewhere. Maybe four if she was lucky. She would grade essays after waking up, or read new books she bought recently. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to reread something she used to read for or with Narcissa, because it was just a painful reminder of what used to be and what wasn’t anymore. 

There was a lot of those. 

Too many to count. 

Month 17

Narcissa didn’t come back home on Monday night, but that was to be expected. 

However, she didn’t enter their apartment around six in the morning on Tuesday like she always did. Hermione called in sick. Narcissa wasn’t there by ten or by two in the afternoon, and at that point, the overwhelming, all-consuming panic started creeping closer and closer to Hermione’s heart. 

She called Andy, who had no idea where Narcissa was. She called Draco, who also had no idea where Narcissa was. Then, she called Harry, because maybe, just maybe, he had seen her in the Ministry today or at least yesterday. She hoped for at least something, anything. 

Hermione got nothing. 

That was when she got dressed, apparated to the nearest phone booth, and went to the Ministry. 

Hermione hadn’t seen Kingsley Shacklebolt in seventeen months. She never hated anyone more than she hated him. She could feel it, this blinding feeling of a deep red color, the shade of blood, filling her up from the inside, threatening to spill over any second. She dug her nails into her palms, hoping for a distraction, for some kind of physical pain to keep her thoughts away from places she didn’t want them to go to. 

She was kidding herself; she knew it was pointless. Hermione saw the person she loved more than anything and anyone, the love of her life, slip away through her hands like beach sand, fade away, literally disappear out of her life bit by bit, month by month, over the course of the past one and a half years. 

It all started on what was supposed to be a regular Friday morning. It ended up turning Hermione’s life into what she now considered to be her worst nightmare. 

“Ms. Granger,” Shacklebolt’s secretary said, standing up. “Do you have an appointment scheduled with the Minister?” She didn’t look surprised even in the slightest. As if she knew that Hermione was expected to be seen here, on the verge of barging in. As if Kingsley warned her beforehand that it might happen. Which he probably did. 

“You know perfectly well that I don’t,” Hermione replied, her voice stone-cold and scathing hot at the same time. That was the moment she heard the door to the Minister’s office open. 

“Ms. Granger,” he greeted her, clasping his hands. He was smiling. Hermione wanted to rip his head off the second she laid her eyes on him. “I’ll be honest with you, I expected your visit a little earlier. About a year ago; maybe a few months. I’m surprised your patience lasted that long.”

Hermione saw red. The red of maroon sweater she was going to wear to work that one Friday; the one Molly knitted for Narcissa, the one Hermione was pressing to her chest as she cried for hours. The red of Narcissa’s crimson blouse she wore that one Friday when she entered the library, probably understanding what was about to happen much more than Hermione did back then. The redness of Hermione’s eyes she could see in the mirror every day after coming back from work without Narcissa by her side. The red of blinding hot rage. 

He was responsible for ruining Narcissa’s, her, their life every day for the past seventeen months, and he stood there smiling .  

Hermione saw the red of blood she never wanted to spill that badly flash before her eyes. 

“ Where is she?” It sounded like a hiss, snake-like and quiet but loud at the same time in this empty hall with marble walls. It was still quieter than Hermione’s heartbeat, quieter than her rage, less than her desire to physically hurt this man to the point where he starts begging for her to stop. 

She knew she had enough emotion for an Unforgivable curse. Hermione could feel her wand in her sleeve, could feel her fingertips burning with barely restrained magic. She could Crucio him. Torture him right there, and that would be nothing compared to the pain she had seen on Narcissa’s face every day, the pain she had to experience herself. She could kill him with one simple curse of bright green color. Or maybe, maybe, it was better if she tortured him. Just like Bellatrix tortured her, but worse. 

He was taking everything from Narcissa. From her. From them. 

They used to be happy . 

Kingsley flinched visibly, swallowing. “Please, come in.” He gestured to the open door of his office. 

Hermione took in a deep breath and breezed past him. She heard the door close behind her. Then footsteps. Heavy ones. 

It felt like just that day. 

“ Where, ” Hermione turned around, gritting her teeth, “ is, ” then stepping closer to him, “ she?! ” she raised her voice then, because she was sure the office was protected by all kinds of soundproof charms.

Hermione’s question echoed off the marble walls, reflecting every kind of hurt she was feeling. 

“I thought you knew that Unspeakable Black is on duty, just like every day for the past… what, seventeen months?” he replied matter-of-factly, looking mildly bored. 

His words felt like a knife plunged straight into Hermione’s heart.

“She was supposed to be back by six in the morning, just like she always does. It’s five in the evening.” 

“Well, an Unspeakable’s job is not an easy one, Ms Granger…” Shacklebolt trailed off, “… as you very well know,” he smirked then. “I can not guarantee when Ms. Black will be able to come back to your apartment. That’s what she signed up for, after all. That was her decision, her choice. No one made it for her.” 

She understood he was taunting her intentionally, and that was the last straw. Both of them knew perfectly well who made that decision, and it sure as hell wasn’t Narcissa. 

That was the moment the most unexpected voice appeared in her head, the memories from years ago flooding her mind. You need to mean them! You need to really want to cause pain — to enjoy it!

She touched the tip of her wand as the first syllable of an Unforgivable curse found its way to the tip of her tongue. 

Shacklebolt tsked loudly. “I wouldn’t recommend, Ms. Granger. That won’t change anything—only make matters worse for the both of you,” he said, and she hated that he was right. She hated him more than anyone else in the world. She wanted him dead . “What I do recommend, however, is going back to your apartment and waiting for Ms. Black there. She will come back… sooner or later. Probably,” he chuckled. “Unfortunately, I can not give you any guarantees.” 

So Hermione left. 

Narcissa did come back home, eventually. She came back fifty-one hours after Hermione got to their apartment from the Ministry. 

Hermione stayed awake for forty-eight of them. 

She fell asleep in tears, breathing in Narcissa’s scent as she clutched the maroon sweater to her chest. She woke up to the sound of tears that weren’t hers, to the labored breathing and the frantically whispered i love you and i’m so sorry and i love you over and over again. She woke up to Narcissa’s body pressed close to her. 

The moment Hermione opened her eyes, warm hazel ones collided with sky-blue. That was the brightest shade of blue Hermione had seen in months. Narcissa’s eyes were shining with tears that just couldn’t seem to stop falling. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m so, so sorry, my darling.” She sounded broken. Defeated. Like her heart was breaking at coming back home and finding Hermione like this. She must have known that Hermione spent the most part of these two days awake. 

“I almost used an Unforgivable curse today,” Hermione whispered back. “I went to Shacklebolt’s office. And I almost used it. My wand was in my hand, and the first letters of the spell—I could physically feel them on my tongue,” she smiled then, for some reason. She probably looked crazy. She didn’t care. She had been steadily losing her sanity along with Narcissa for the past seventeen months. “And it was just like it was supposed to be; I meant it. I wanted to cause him the most excruciating pain, and I would’ve enjoyed seeing him hurt. Just like Bellatrix said it should be,” she chuckled, and then heard Narcissa’s lips part in shock as she gasped, not expecting to hear this. “I would’ve enjoyed his death . I almost did it. I was ready to do it.”

Hermione wasn’t even ashamed of it. 

“Crucio or Avada Kedavra? Torture or death?” Narcissa asked then, as if there was any choice. 

For Hermione, there wasn’t. Just like when Shacklebolt left no choice for Narcissa. 

“Death by torture,” she breathed out. “A Cruciatus curse so strong and powerful he would die from pain. What Bellatrix did to me, but worse. So much worse.” 

“God,” Narcissa let out a ragged breath as more tears fell down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to turn you into this.” 

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not you.” 

“Yes, it is. It is,” she forced out the words, and Hermione knew they were physically hurting her. Clawing at her heart, breaking it into the smallest pieces possible. 

Hermione’s heart was breaking together with Narcissa. 

Because Narcissa was her heart. 

“It’s not,” she repeated more firmly, cupping Narcissa’s cheek with her right hand and wiping her tears away with her thumb. 

Narcissa sighed at the touch, closing her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them, there were even more tears than before. 

“You’re my everything, Hermione,” she whispered brokenly. “I love you so much. I never want to leave you. Never , do you hear me? Please,” she choked on her own tears, having to pause for a few seconds, “remember that. Please. Please. I love you. I’m so sorry. I never want to leave you. Remember that.” 

“I will, I promise,” Hermione said hastily, bringing their lips together. It had been so long since their last kiss Hermione couldn’t even remember when it was. Narcissa tasted like salt and promises of forever, like cognac and cigarette smoke. “I love you too. More than anything or anyone. I promise.”

They fell asleep like that, in each other’s arms and in desperate tears, whispering words of love and regret. 

When Hermione woke up, Narcissa was gone. 

Month 18

Narcissa stopped sleeping in their bed. Hermione noticed it right away. She wasn’t lying down by Hermione’s side closer to midnight, when she was already sleeping. 

One day, Hermione woke up around one in the morning, finding Narcissa’s side of the bed empty and the sheets cold. She peeked out of the bedroom door into the corridor and saw a strip of light coming from the closed door of the library. She let it slide that night, didn’t think much of it; maybe Narcissa needed to finish something very urgently. 

But it happened again. And again. 

On the fourth night, Hermione went down the hall and stopped by the library door, pressing her head to the wooden surface. She heard quiet sobs.

“Narcissa?” she whispered. The words echoed off every wall, and the sobs stopped. There was a rustling of clothes, of pages, and then, all sound disappeared entirely. Hermione let out a loud, defeated sigh. “Narcissa, please? Let me in, I just wanna…” she trailed off, unsure. She wanted to do so much. There was very little she could do. “Please,” she cried, pressing her hand to the door. “I love you. I just wanna be with you. Forever kind of love, remember?” Tears fell down her cheeks the second the words left her lips, and she swallowed hard. 

She didn’t get any answer. 

It happened again the next day. And again. And again . 

Narcissa kept sleeping at the library, casting Muffliato every single night, and Hermione…

Hermione broke down crying by the door. 

Their new routine.

Month 19

Their last kiss was two months ago, littered with words of love and regret. Hermione replayed this conversation in her head daily, the soft admissions and promises and declarations muttered in the dark of their bedroom. 

The bedroom that was only hers now. 

Month 20

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she hugged Narcissa.

Month 21

Hermione forgot the way Narcissa’s touch felt on her skin. 

She knew that Narcissa’s fingers were slender and long, and that her touch was warm and gentle, as if she was afraid to hurt Hermione; something she never wanted to do. She knew Narcissa’s touch held the same amount of love her heart and soul did, and that’s why it felt so tentative, so meaningful, like a little bit of everything and even more. She knew Narcissa liked to trace eight letters of i love you in cursive or tap it with Morse code on her skin when she thought Hermione was still sleeping. 

Hermione knew all of that. She really did. 

She just didn’t remember it. 

Month 22

Their last shared i love you was the day Hermione was ready to kill a person for hurting Narcissa, for hurting her, for hurting them both. 

Hermione repeated dozens of i love yous every night she broke down crying by the library door. She didn’t hear anything back. 

Month 23

The last words Narcissa said to her were eight letters of a gentle i love you six months ago right before Hermione fell asleep. 

She hadn’t said a word to Hermione ever since. 

Month 24

Hermione lost Narcissa on a Friday. 

Hermione lost Narcissa on a Friday she was supposed to get her back, get them back. 

It had been two years since their life was turned upside down, and today, they were supposed to begin the process of getting it back. 

Today was the first time Hermione had seen more than Narcissa’s shadow in months. Today was the first time she had heard her voice in six months. She wasn’t mad or angry. She was just so happy the words couldn’t possibly describe it. 

Hermione saw Narcissa when she entered the kitchen on a Friday morning. She was standing there in her favorite navy blue set of pyjamas with lace, barefoot, with a simple white bathrobe on to keep her warmer. Her platinum blonde hair was long now, even longer than Hermione remembered when they first met. 

Narcissa smiled when she saw her. Three was something behind her smile, her entire expression, that Hermione couldn’t quite focus on enough to grasp it. 

“Hi,” Narcissa whispered, a little unsure. 

“Hi,” Hermione breathed out. 

All it took was a second, and in one second, one short and simple moment, their bodies collided. Narcissa felt warm—that was the first thing Hermione noticed. Sickeningly thin, but warm and safe and even somewhat okay and alive , and that was all that mattered. They had all the time in the world for everything else. 

“I love you,” Hermione muttered. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too,” Narcissa replied quietly, nuzzling her neck. “I love you so much, my darling. More than you’ll ever know.”

Hermione pulled away only to lean in and leave a soft kiss on Narcissa’s lips. It was like that second kiss they shared before Narcissa went to open the front door two years ago. But if that kiss was desperate, this one felt like hope in its purest form. 

Hermione smiled into the kiss. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy. 

“I thought we could make breakfast together,” Narcissa offered the second they broke apart. 

And so they did. They made pancakes from scratch, blueberry ones with chocolate chip. They talked about silly little things while cooking and moving around the kitchen in sync. Hermione got some flour on the tip of her nose, and as soon as Narcissa saw it, she threw her head back and laughed . 

It was the most beautiful sound Hermione had heard in years, so she stopped in the middle of the kitchen and just stared at how happy Narcissa looked for a few minutes. She wanted to capture it. Remember every little detail so she could cherish this memory forever.

When Hermione poured some of the pancake mix into the pan, Narcissa left for barely a minute, and Hermione heard the first notes of When I Fall in Love filling their apartment shortly afterwards. Narcissa pressed their bodies together as soon as she got back into the kitchen. They started swaying, and Narcissa kept humming the melody and a few lyrics into Hermione's skin as she nuzzled her neck. 

It was the happiest Hermione had been in two years. She never wanted this moment to end. 

But it had to, so they could start their life together anew. Heal from what was done and wasn’t. Maybe move to a different apartment. Adopt a cat from the local shelter—maybe even two.

After their breakfast, after Narcissa got ready to leave, they stood in the hallway, the silence between them tentative and thin, but not uncomfortable. They stared at one another for a few seconds, and Narcissa’s eyes were shining brightly with love and something Hermione couldn’t quite grasp, couldn’t quite understand. Narcissa seemed thoughtful. Wistful, even. 

“I almost forgot,” she said suddenly out of nowhere. Narcissa took her ring off from her middle finger, the sterling silver one with the engraving of intertwined pinky fingers. Their promise rings. Right after Hermione glanced at her own, the older witch handed the ring to her. “Can you hold on to it for me?” she smiled. 

Hermione frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Narcissa nodded. “You know I always fidget with it, just like you do. I don’t want to accidentally leave it in the Ministry today.” 

Hermione nodded knowingly, smiling. Narcissa always fidgeted with any kind of jewellery. It was a cute habit.  

“Of course,” Hermione replied, taking it into her hand. 

Narcissa leaned in, leaving a soft, quick kiss on her lips. The habit kind of kiss. God, how Hermione missed those. 

“I love you,” Narcissa whispered. For some reason, tears were welling up in her eyes. She looked happy and beautiful and the tad bit of something Hermione couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I love you too.”

As Narcissa left, Hermione thought she might start loving Fridays again. 

She waited for Narcissa to come back to her. Come back home. 

Narcissa didn’t.