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Hermione was sure that she’d had it all under control until today. She had gone through the difficult process of befriending Narcissa, the confusing process of falling for her, the humiliating process of dropping hints about her interest for years that seemed to be missed or rejected, and the painful-but-necessary process of resigning herself to the fact that they would never be anything more than very close friends. She could live with that. It was enough.
She truly thought she’d moved on, eventually. Found her bliss, as it were, in the unlikely arms of Luna Lovegood. Luna was perceptive—uncannily so—and infuriatingly understanding. Hermione told her about Narcissa, about everything, and Luna never seemed to feel threatened or, worse, insulted. She just smiled that gentle, airy, soft smile that came to her so easily, and assured Hermione that there was no shame in loving someone who can’t love you back.
Hermione had been so grateful, then. Sobbing with a strange kind of relief—that Luna wouldn’t force Hermione to choose between her very real love for Luna and her just as real but infinitely more tragic love for Narcissa.
When Luna asked for her hand during a backpacking trip to Ireland in search of magical creatures, it was easy to say yes. Everything was easy with Luna. Narcissa was ecstatic for her, and somehow, that hurt worse than if she’d been angry. But, as always: Luna accepted, Luna understood. Luna didn’t judge when Hermione cried over it for the better part of an evening, nor did she object to sending Narcissa an invitation to be part of the bridal party even so.
It was just the two of them, Narcissa having offered to do Hermione’s hair and makeup now that she was in her wedding dress. Her hair was done up in a complicated braided bun, with soft ringlets left loose to frame her face. The makeup was bold, but tasteful; a ruby-red lip to match her rose corsage, subtle gold flakes melding into her eye shadow. Gryffindor colors, after all. Even Hermione, normally never one to think favorably about her appearance, thought she looked beautiful. Narcissa met her eyes in the mirror as she applied her finishing touch, laugh lines crinkling as she smiled. But it was a sad smile, and at Hermione’s gently questioning look, she recoiled.
And then, speaking so quietly that she could barely be heard at all, Narcissa ruined everything.
“You can’t marry her.”
Hermione frowned, sure she must have misheard.
“Sorry?”
Narcissa stepped away from the vanity, wringing her hands in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness. She said it again.
“You can’t marry her, Hermione.”
“I—“ she shook her head, genuinely confused. “Why not?”
Narcissa just gave her a pained, shuddering look, but it made Hermione’s stomach drop. She knew that look immediately—she’d seen it on her own face in the mirror more times than she could count. She shook her head, refusing to believe what she was seeing.
“…No.”
Narcissa deflated. “I’m sorry, Hermione.”
Hermione could feel her eyes welling up, threatening to ruin all of Narcissa’s meticulous work. She shook her head more fervently.
“No. I won’t believe it. No.”
“Yes, Hermione,” Narcissa croaked. She looked miserable.
“No!” Hermione stood now, gesturing wildly with her hands. “Here? Now? Since when?!”
Narcissa spoke as if it hurt her to do so. “Since always.”
Hermione sputtered. “Wha—since—I’ve been—for years!”
“I know, Hermione, I know,” Narcissa said, taking a step closer. Her eyes were turning red from the strain as she tried to keep from crying. “I just thought—our history, and your history with my son, and my history, it was best for you if we remained friends, it was to protect you, you have to believe me—“
“What’s changed, then?! All of that history still exists! Why tell me fifteen minutes before I get married?!”
“I thought I could grin and bear it, Hermione, truly, I did. But seeing you like this…you look gorgeous, darling. Radiant. And I just…” Narcissa stepped closer, reaching out as if to cup Hermione’s face, but instead she hovered her hand a few centimeters away as if there were a barrier between them. “…I knew if I didn’t say something to you, I would regret it until the end of my days.”
Hermione just stared. “This isn’t fair, Narcissa. I don’t deserve this. Luna doesn’t deserve this. She’s been nothing but wonderful, every step of the way.”
“I know, Hermione. It’s selfish of me, but I have to be true to myself, just this once. I feel…I…”
Hermione slammed her eyes shut.
“I love you, Hermione.”
It broke her. Hermione cupped one hand over her own mouth and wrapped the other protectively around her own torso as a sob tore through her body. She dropped to the floor, falling to her knees, dirtying her expensive dress.
Salty tears slipped past her lips as she whispered through her fingers.
“I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life to hear you say that to me.” She shot her head back up to look at Narcissa, and glared. Narcissa nearly stumbled back from the force of it. “How dare you do this to me. Today, of all days.”
“I truly never meant to hurt you, Hermione.”
“Well, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?!” Hermione felt hysterical, as if she’d fallen into a nightmare. “I waited for you for years. Years, Cissa. I made it clear what my interest was. But I couldn’t wait for you forever. And now, when I’ve finally stepped back enough to find happiness with someone else, you—you just—“ Hermione choked on another sob in her throat, but she didn’t dare look back at Narcissa again, unwilling to see that the other woman was most assuredly crying as well.
Narcissa took a long, deep breath.
“…I’ve waited too long, then.”
No, Hermione wanted to say. She wanted to shout it, to close the distance between them and grasp at Narcissa’s shoulders, her hips, to pull Narcissa to her and crush their bodies together, together, forever, never close enough, her mind almost frantic with the need to be one with Narcissa, one union, body and soul, until the day they both ceased to exist entirely.
But she couldn’t. She crawled back to her chair and threw herself into it, sighing deeply before she reluctantly opened her eyes to meet Narcissa’s desperate gaze.
It wasn’t fair. Any of it. Hermione could run away with her—Luna, In her infinite patience, might even understand—but she could never forgive herself for treating Luna, gentle Luna, kind Luna, who unlike Narcissa and Hermione Lived Out Loud, free and genuine, completely unconcerned with the reactions and opinions of others as long as she was being her true self, with anything less than the kindness that Luna deserved. Luna was the kindest person Hermione had ever known, and if she broke Luna’s heart, the cruelty of doing so would haunt her forever.
But now, if she went through with the wedding, she would have to live out the rest of her life knowing that Narcissa did love her, had wanted to be with her, and still Hermione had chosen someone else. She knew, and she knew that Luna knew, that Narcissa would live within Hermione’s heart for as long as she drew breath, and the idea of carrying that weight felt like it might kill her. I carry your heart with me—I carry it in my heart.
Hermione was in an impossible position, but she knew she had to make her choice. She had to be on the dais in mere minutes. Their families were here, their friends, the press. What was supposed to be one of the happiest days of Hermione’s life would, one way or the other, now be counted among her worst.
Narcissa’s pleading eyes made her feel both devastated and furious. Hermione cried openly now, beyond worrying about how she would salvage her makeup. Her wounded anger at the situation bubbled up from within her, and the need to hurt—to make Narcissa understand what she’d just done—overcame the soft and desperate sense of longing that she felt for the older woman. Hermione’s jaw tensed, and her eyes grew cold.
“I wish I had never met you.”
The words hit Narcissa with such force that she looked as if she might shatter into a thousand pieces. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling as if Hermione had just stabbed her through the heart. It was too much. For both of them, it was all just too much. Narcissa waved her hand, wordlessly spelling Hermione’s makeup back to its pristine form, then let out a shuddering breath. Hermione really did look achingly beautiful. She allowed herself the indulgence of slowly looking her over, memorizing how beautiful Hermione looked tonight. She painstakingly committed it to memory, locking it away where she stored all of her most precious, untouchable memories; she would never see Hermione again.
“I’m sorry. I understand. I’m sorry.”
And then she was gone.