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Hermione Granger had always prided herself on her organizational skills. After years of managing her time between school, her post-Hogwarts career, and countless other responsibilities, she was certain she had mastered the art of scheduling, planning, and arranging every detail with precision. So, when she had registered for the conference at the Frost’s Fountain Hotel, she had meticulously gone over every detail. She booked her room early, confirmed her arrival time, and even double-checked the conference schedule.
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the mess that awaited her upon check-in.
“Hermione Granger,” the front desk clerk greeted, giving her a polite smile. “We have your reservation right here.”
Hermione beamed. “Excellent. I’ll just head straight up, then.”
“Actually…I’m afraid there’s been a small mistake with your booking.”
The smile faltered. “A mistake?”
The clerk cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “It seems you’ve been booked for a room already occupied. By, well, someone else.”
“What?” Hermione blinked, momentarily flustered. “That’s impossible. I checked and confirmed everything.”
“I do apologize, Miss Granger,” the clerk continued, “but our system has mistakenly double-booked the room. I’m afraid the only other available option is a shared room.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “A shared room?”
“Yes, it’s all we have left for tonight. I can assure you, it’s a very private arrangement.” He gestured toward a small file. “The other occupant has already been notified and has agreed to the change.”
Hermione let out a sigh, her mind racing. She wasn’t in the mood for awkward small talk with some unknown wizard—especially after the week she’d had. But then again, what choice did she have? The conference started in the morning, and she’d already paid for her stay.
“Fine,” she said, begrudgingly, “I’ll take it. What’s the room number?”
“Room 312, Miss Granger,” the clerk said, handing her a key card. “Your room is ready.”
Hermione thanked him and made her way to the lift. She wasn’t thrilled about the situation, but she tried to remind herself that it was just one night. How bad could it be?
When Hermione entered Room 321, she immediately stopped in her tracks.
She had half-expected some generic hotel room, with bland furnishings and sterile charm. Instead, she found herself standing in a lavishly decorated suite with dark wood paneling and a large, four-poster bed in the center.
What she didn’t expect was the woman sitting on the bed, reading a book, completely unaware of her arrival.
Narcissa Malfoy.
Hermione froze. Narcissa, now Narcissa Black—she had gone back to her maiden name after the divorce—was the last person Hermione expected to share a room with.
The woman, with her platinum blonde hair, didn’t seem phased by Hermione’s presence. She merely glanced up from her book, giving Hermione a cool, detached look that was somehow more familiar now than it had been when they were on opposite sides of the war.
“Hermione Granger,” Narcissa said, her voice smooth as silk, “I presume?”
Hermione, still standing in the doorway, nodded awkwardly. “Yes, that’s me. I didn’t expect to be sharing a room.”
Narcissa’s lips quirked up slightly. “Nor did I. But here we are.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it.”
“I do hope so,” Narcissa replied dryly, her gaze flicking back to the pages of her book. “I don’t have any particular desire for company. But I assume you know how these things go.”
Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The last time she had seen Narcissa, it had been at the Battle of Hogwarts, and despite their conflicting loyalties, she had been struck by the woman’s determination and grace. But now, standing here, Hermione couldn’t help but notice how different Narcissa seemed.
“Well,” Hermione said, shaking herself from her thoughts, “it looks like we’re stuck with each other. I’ll just unpack.”
As she moved to set her things down on one of the chairs, Narcissa made no effort to engage. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Hermione wasn’t sure what to say next. She certainly didn’t want to bring up the war, and she had a feeling that Narcissa wasn’t interested in discussing it either. Instead, she busied herself with adjusting her robes and settling her things into a corner of the room.
A small, high-pitched squeak startled her. She looked down, blinking in confusion as a small, fluffy creature hopped across the floor, its pink fur almost too bright to be real.
“Is that a pygmy puff?” Hermione asked, surprised. She hadn’t seen one in years.
Narcissa glanced down at the creature, which had taken an immediate liking to Hermione’s hair. It was currently snuffling around in her curls, clearly fascinated by the untamable mass.
“It appears so,” Narcissa said, not looking particularly impressed. “She’s a bit of a nuisance.”
The pygmy puff, undeterred, continued its exploration, now trying to nestle into Hermione’s hair. “Well, she seems to like me,” Hermione said with a small laugh. “I’m not sure I can say the same for her, though.”
Narcissa gave a thin smile. “She’s never taken a liking to anyone before. She’s quite peculiar, you see.”
Hermione reached up, gently trying to dislodge the small creature. “I think she’s, well, I think she’s very fond of my hair.”
“If she pulls out any of your curls, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own. I’ve tried everything to get her to behave.”
Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. Here she was, in a hotel room, sharing it with Narcissa Malfoy of all people, and a pygmy puff was more interested in her hair than anything else.
“So,” Hermione began awkwardly, still trying to wrangle the creature out of her hair, “how have you been? I don’t think we’ve really spoken since…”
“The war?” Narcissa finished for her. “No. I suppose we haven’t.”
Hermione bit her lip, unsure how to proceed. “I—well, I hope you’re doing okay. You know, after everything.”
Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ve far more pressing matters on your mind.”
Hermione wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. She wanted to offer something kind, but every time she opened her mouth, nothing came out. The war, the deaths, the uncertain path ahead—there were too many tangled up in those few words. Still, there was a certain vulnerability in Narcissa's tone that made Hermione pause.
She gingerly pried the pygmy puff from her hair, setting the small creature down onto the edge of the bed. It grumbled a bit but soon settled, giving Hermione a brief respite from its fluff-covered attention. She caught Narcissa’s gaze as she adjusted her curls, the faintest trace of something flickering in the older woman’s eyes.
“I’ve been…” Narcissa hesitated, as though considering how much to reveal. “It’s been different. After everything, I suppose it’s hard not to feel like a ghost of my former self.”
She had always seen Narcissa as a figure draped in privilege, wrapped in the cold, calculated machinations of both the Black and Malfoy family, but now there was something raw and unguarded in her words. A tiny part of Hermione wanted to reach out, but she wasn’t sure how to tread.
“Well, things have been different for all of us,” Hermione said carefully. “But you’ve done well. I mean, you—” She faltered. “You did what you had to do. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Narcissa’s lips thinned, her gaze turning away, her fingers curling around the spine of her book in a gesture that was almost defensive. “I did what I had to do, yes. But not everyone would understand the cost of that decision.”
Hermione felt the room grow heavy again. She tried to shift the tone, to move away from the war and the past, but she couldn’t help herself. She had so many questions, ones she never thought she’d ask someone like Narcissa Malfoy.
“Do you ever regret it? Everything? I mean—your choices, the things you had to live with?”
Narcissa’s eyes flicked back to her, which caught Hermione off guard. “Regret is a dangerous thing,” she said. “I’ve learned over the years that it serves no purpose. What’s done is done. The only thing that matters is how you move forward.”
Her voice softened slightly. “But to answer your question, yes. There are days when I wonder what could have been if I was born in a different household. But I can’t afford to dwell on it anymore.”
Hermione wasn’t sure what to say next.
“So,” Hermione said after a pause, attempting to lighten the moment, “we seem to be stuck here for a while. Any suggestions on how we pass the time?”
Narcissa raised an eyebrow, a faint glimmer of amusement flickering in her eyes for the first time since Hermione had entered the room. “You’d want my company for more than just small talk?”
“I think we’re both in the same position.”
Narcissa laughed, a sound so rare and unexpected that Hermione nearly choked on her own surprise. “I suppose you’re right. It is strange. How the years can change everything. I’d never have imagined being in this situation.”
“Neither would I,” Hermione admitted, her voice softer now. “But, here we are.”
The pygmy puff, deciding that Hermione’s hair was no longer an ideal resting spot, hopped up onto the windowsill, where it seemed to lose interest in both women for the time being.
“You said you’re here for the conference,” Narcissa said. “I presume you’re involved with the more intellectual crowd?”
“Yes, actually. I’m speaking about recent reforms in magical law—particularly how the Ministry has responded to the need for better regulation after the war.”
Narcissa nodded, but there was something in her expression that suggested a touch of curiosity, if not outright admiration. “Fascinating. I’ve always thought there should have been more done. Too many people like to ignore the scars of the past, thinking time will heal everything.”
Hermione was surprised. She hadn’t expected to find common ground with Narcissa on this, but she appreciated the sincerity in her words.
"Yes," Hermione agreed, folding her arms thoughtfully. "The Ministry's been far too slow in addressing the real consequences of what happened. People think that just because Voldemort is gone, everything can go back to normal. But that's never going to be the case. There's so much to fix, and it's going to take time—real effort. And even then, some things might never be whole again."
Narcissa didn’t respond right away. Her gaze shifted to the pygmy puff, now distractedly batting at a stray piece of lint on the carpet, but Hermione could see the flicker of something in her eyes. Maybe regret. Or maybe something else—an awareness of a world much larger than the one she'd been a part of for so long.
"I always thought," Narcissa began slowly, almost hesitating, "that being born into the right family would make everything easy. That power, status, connections—they were the answer to all things. But after everything, after all that's happened, I wonder if any of it truly mattered."
Hermione tilted her head, surprised by the vulnerability in Narcissa’s words.
"I don't think it ever really mattered," Hermione said, her voice quieter now. "Not in the end. What matters is how you use what you have. People like you," she added, looking Narcissa directly in the eye, "you can hide behind your bloodline and your family's name, but the real test is when you have nothing left to stand on but yourself."
Narcissa looked at her, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You always were the idealist, Granger. Even back then."
“I also like to think I’m right."
Narcissa shifted slightly on the bed, setting the book aside. She gave Hermione a long, assessing look before speaking again, this time with a softer, almost wistful tone.
"You’ve changed too, Hermione Granger," she said. "When I first met you, I thought you were nothing more than a bratty little Gryffindor, always trying to save the world. But now..." She trailed off. "I think you might be right about all of it. About the future."
"I suppose we all change," Hermione said, her tone more subdued than usual. "The war did that."
Narcissa nodded in agreement. She looked at the pygmy puff, which was now trying to climb the curtains in its usual chaotic fashion, and then back at Hermione.
"We’ve been given a second chance, I suppose," she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"So," Hermione said after a moment, "aside from political reform, anything else on your mind? A good book, maybe?"
Narcissa looked down at the one in her hands and let out a soft laugh. "Actually, it’s rather a dull one," she confessed. "But if you’re interested in a bit of reading, I suppose I could share." She paused for a beat. "Although, I can’t promise it will be as thrilling as your lectures."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at her lips. "I’d be surprised if anything could top those."
Narcissa smirked. "I’m sure you would."