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Chapter Text

The Friday evening stretched on, shrouded in the gray veil of London rain drumming against the dark windows of the Black family mansion on 12 Grimmauld Place. Narcissa stood by the fireplace, her long fingers clutching a delicate porcelain cup of cold tea. The emptiness of the mansion—once a symbol of power—now pressed down on her like a damp shroud. Her gaze fell on a silver frame: Draco, Astoria, and little Scorpius, her ray of sunshine in all this gloom. They were happy in their home near the Belgian border—alive, young, together. And she… she remained here, with the ghosts of the past and the hollow echo of her own footsteps on the marble floors.

The thought of the Lonely Heart Club flared up again, burning and absurd. Lady Black. A vulgar gathering for misfits and outcasts. She had heard the whispers—or rather, imagined them—in the parlors of the Parkinsons and the Notts. Cold, mocking laughter. "Narcissa Malfoy—pardon, Black—has stooped to Mudblood matchmaking agencies?" But it was precisely this imagined ridicule that had pushed her to send that owl yesterday. A desperate measure. The words called her to action, no matter how pathetic.

"Pride is a luxury for those who have a warm shoulder to lean on at night," she whispered into the silence, staring at the cold embers. Her life was now divided into before and after. After the divorce from Lucius. After the collapse of the pureblood façade. She was ashamed. Terribly ashamed. The risk was enormous—not just the mockery, but the very prospect of humiliating failure, of rejection among strangers. But the gnawing ache of loneliness had proven stronger than fear.

Better to try than to regret it later…

She sighed, set down the cup. It was time. Narcissa didn’t bother dressing in anything flashy or deliberately modest. She chose a severe emerald-green gown that accentuated her pale skin and fair hair, styled in an elegant but understated updo. Minimal jewelry—heirloom silver earrings. Her shield would be flawless aristocracy, the armor of cold dignity. With a flick of her wand, she cast a subtle glamour—not invisibility, but a blurring of sharp features to the casual eye. Full disappearance would have been cowardice.

The portal spat her out into an alley reeking of rain, fried fish, and… low-grade magic. The Lonely Heart Club was crammed above the Happy Cauldron apothecary, its sign flickering with uneven neon. Her heart clenched with humiliation. She climbed the narrow stairs, each step an effort. The door swung open, releasing a wave of warm air laced with cheap perfume, herbal tea, and nervous sweat.

Inside, it was… cramped and noisy. Dozens of witches and wizards of all sorts—shy, pushy, elderly, young, dressed in whatever they pleased—sat around a large, truly round table cluttered with cups and biscuits. Conversations faltered for a moment as she entered. Her immaculate appearance, her posture, the sheer aura of pureblood nobility she radiated seemed alien here. She felt dozens of eyes on her—curious, assessing, possibly mocking. Her throat went dry.

"Ah, a new participant! Welcome, dear!" A plump witch in a garish dress—clearly the hostess—called out, far too cheerfully. "Find a seat! The pairing ceremony is about to begin!"

Narcissa nodded, avoiding direct eye contact, and took the only empty chair at the edge of the table. Beside her, an elderly wizard muttered excitedly about mandrake properties; across from her, a young witch nervously twisted a handkerchief. Narcissa stared at her gloved hands folded in her lap. What am I doing here? This is madness. Absolute madness. She wanted to stand up and leave. Right now. But the thought of returning to the empty, silent mansion kept her rooted to the chair more firmly than any spell.

The hostess rose, holding a glowing enchanted pouch.

"Now, friends! Time to see who fate has chosen to open their hearts tonight! The moment of truth!" She shook the pouch. The light inside flared brighter. "Simple rules: draw a sphere—it’ll show your partner’s number at this table! Who’s ready?"

Narcissa froze. Her pride screamed, "Get up and leave!" Desperation whispered, "What if…?" Her hand seemed to move on its own as the hostess offered the pouch with an encouraging smile. Every eye in the room was fixed on her—this impossible, foreign figure in their humble circle. She took a deep breath, a cold shiver running down her spine. Her gloved fingers slid inside, brushing against the smooth surface of a glowing orb. Fate, or another cruel joke? The moment stretched into eternity. She pulled out the orb. A bright flash blinded her momentarily, revealing only the number etched on it… and someone’s intense, unwavering stare from across the table.

The gray twilight clung to the high windows of Grimmauld Place, but Narcissa Black didn’t notice. Her entire being was focused on the glowing orb from the enchanted pouch. Raising her eyes to meet the piercing gaze fixed on her, she felt the world narrow to a single point. A familiar face. Bile rose in her throat, sharp and acrid, and before years of aristocratic self-control could kick in, the word tore from her lips—loud, crude, unbearably out of place:

"Oh, fuck!"

She instantly pressed a gloved hand to her mouth, her eyes widening not at the sight before her, but at the horror of her own lapse. She hadn’t done that since Hogwarts. Where is my damned control?

Across from her, staring with coffee-brown eyes—sharp, intelligent, and now utterly shocked—sat Hermione Jean Granger. In her fingers, usually occupied with a quill or a book but now nervously clutching the hem of a plain cotton blouse, rested a softly glowing orb. On it, Narcissa’s number shone clearly. Mudblood. Know-it-all. The swot who, according to Draco, had slept with both Potter and Weasley… What is SHE doing HERE?! Narcissa’s mind spun with contempt and panic. The realization hit like a knife between the ribs: her subtle glamour was useless. She recognized me. By my voice. By my tone.

"I refuse!" Narcissa snarled, and all her hatred, despair, and terror fueled the motion. The glowing orb bearing Hermione’s number slammed onto the wooden floor, bounced, and rolled away, leaving a dim trail. The sound drew every eye in the room. That shout—icy and haughty even in panic—was the final clue.

Hermione flinched as if struck. Narcissa Black’s wide eyes, her pallor beneath the makeup, that unbearable voice—it all painted a horrifying picture.

"Yes! Yes, I refuse too!" Hermione blurted, jumping up. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her blouse, knuckles white. Her face burned with shame, anger, and absolute bewilderment. This is a nightmare. A waking dream. Narcissa Malfoy—Black—in a matchmaking club?! And now THIS?

"Quiet, quiet, my dears!" The hostess’s voice cut through the murmurs, stern and unyielding. The plump witch stepped between them, her cheerfulness gone, replaced by iron resolve. "By drawing each other’s orbs, you’ve activated a magical contract. Twice. The bond of fate has tied you. Breaking it is impossible. The consequences of ignoring the agreement are known to you."

Hermione swallowed. Dry. Loud. Nightmarish images flashed before her: a crucial Ministry meeting interrupted by uncontrollable hiccups; Ron staring at her hair suddenly turning neon orange; a year of unending humiliation. The club’s magic was ancient and capricious, infamous for its creative punishments. Slowly, as if against her will, she sank back into her chair. Her spine was straight, but her gaze fell to her clenched fists in her lap. Defeat.

Narcissa, however, stood frozen. Rage boiled inside her, hot and blinding. Her hands jerked up, the wide sleeves of her gown flapping like the wings of a panicked bird trying to flee an unbearable reality.

"You will spend seven days in an enchanted bungalow on the Mediterranean coast," the hostess declared, her voice steely. "Magic will enforce the contract: you cannot stray more than a hundred steps apart, cannot stay silent for more than an hour, and must share breakfast at the same table each morning." Her eyes glinted. "Or face the consequences—from uncontrollable yawning to hair bursting into orange flames at the slightest irritation."

Seven days. A whole week in some pathetic magical bungalow! With HER! The dentist’s daughter who ruined my son’s life! The rules, delivered by owl, resurfaced in her mind with cruel clarity: isolated cottages, magically enforced proximity, no escape. Breaking the terms wasn’t just fate’s mockery—it was a real, tangible curse that could turn her life into a circus act. The thought of her once-flawless hair igniting orange at the slightest annoyance was worse than the Cruciatus.

"This can’t be…" Narcissa whispered, but it was no longer a shout—just a hoarse exhale. She looked from the stony-faced hostess to Hermione. And in those familiar, hated brown eyes, beneath the shock and anger, she caught something else—confusion? Uncertainty? The same all-consuming panic as her own?

The hostess raised her hand. The two orbs—the one shattered at Narcissa’s feet and the one still clutched in Hermione’s sweaty palm—flared brightly. Pulsing threads of cold lunar light shot from them, weaving through the air like unyielding fate, meeting halfway between the women to form a heavy, vibrating magical bridge. It glowed with a deathly pallor, illuminating their faces—one pale with fury and horror, the other with shock and resignation. The bridge felt tangible, dense, humming with quiet threat.

Above the storm of rage and curses in Narcissa’s mind, one desperate thought rang clear: What have I gotten myself into?! And as she met Hermione Granger’s wide eyes, she understood with icy clarity: the exact same phrase, word for word, was echoing in her sworn enemy’s—no, now magically enforced partner’s—mind.

The trap had snapped shut.

The bungalow and the sea awaited.

The hostess clapped her hands, and a firework of silver sparks exploded in the air.

"All pairs—including you two, dearest," she said, her gaze sliding over Narcissa and Hermione with a sly smirk, "have exactly twelve hours to prepare. At midnight, the enchanted ship ‘Lady Medusa’ will be waiting at the Thames dock. It will take you all to Provence."

Hermione’s head jerked up.

"Twelve hours?! But my work at the Ministry—"

"Or orange hair, dear," the witch interrupted, adjusting the bow on her loud dress. "Your choice."

Narcissa turned stiffly toward Granger. Her voice was like glass on stone:

"You. My house. One hour. If you’re late, I’ll leave your pathetic luggage on the doorstep."

"Oh, don’t worry, Lady Black," Hermione bared her teeth, forgetting her nerves for the first time that evening. "I’ve been dying to see how ‘mourning for lost glory’ decorates a magical mansion."

The hostess gasped in delight as the magical bridge between them flared crimson—the sign of the first spark of genuine emotion.

And in the corner of the room, behind the biscuit tray, a stranger in a dark cloak hurriedly packed a crystal containing a recording of everything that had just transpired. His mission was complete: "Both women have taken the bait." But who had sent him remained the juiciest mystery of all.

Chapter Text

Narcissa Black Apparated into her Grimmauld Place townhouse, looking thoroughly disheveled. Her thoughts were a tangled mess: Granger… That little upstart… She tried to imagine herself and Granger sipping coffee on a Mediterranean terrace and grimaced in pure disgust. Yet, curiosity gnawed at her. What in Salazar’s name is that girl doing at the "Lonely Hearts Club"? Couldn’t she get enough attention from the boys?

While waiting for her week-long "roommate," Narcissa poured herself a glass of Elven wine, lips pressed into a thin line, and sank into an armchair by the drawing-room fireplace. Her mind drifted to Hermione’s appearance—the cascade of unruly chestnut curls, the freckled face, sharp cheekbones, and those piercing eyes. And her utterly bland clothing… What on earth would the former Lady Malfoy have to do with her? she thought, sinking into her prejudices, almost missing the knock at the door.

“Ailvy!” Narcissa barked, summoning her favorite elf. “See Miss Granger in,” she ordered curtly, her perfectly plucked pale brows knitting slightly. “And escort the little… Well, to the guest quarters. Then I’ll need your assistance packing for the bungaloo…”

The small elf, who resembled a living doll, beamed, his wide, green-yellow eyes sparkling. Only now did Narcissa notice he was wearing a pair of ridiculous clown shoes with curled-up toes and her discarded t-shirt—the one she’d tossed into the rag bin after a single fitting.

Despite herself, a ghost of a smile touched Narcissa’s lips. Oh, that elf of mine… she mused. Using my hair potion on his scraggly blond fringe again.

“Ailvy, serve dinner later, dear,” Narcissa purred, a sly twist to her lips as she picked up her wineglass again. “And don’t leave our company for long… In case I get the urge to strangle our guest.”

Hermione froze on the threshold, her fingers tightening reflexively on her suitcase handle. The Black townhouse. Once gloomy, steeped in dust and malice, it now breathed cold opulence—polished marble reflected the chandeliers’ light, heavy drapes replaced by silk. Yet something familiar still hung in the air.

Harry, Ron, and I hid here… Terrified of every creak…

“Miss Granger.”

Narcissa’s voice sliced through the memory like a knife. Hermione looked up. The woman before her radiated fury, laced with unmistakable curiosity.

“Do you plan to stand there like a startled pixie, or will you come in?”

Hermione stepped over the threshold. Her attention was immediately captured by the dining table groaning under exquisite dishes. The air was rich with the scent of marbled beef in truffle sauce and dragon-pear—a fruit whose taste shifted from tart to honeyed with every bite. Silver platters held steaming, twisted tubers in crispy scales, while airy eclairs floated overhead, reacting to the faintest desire.

“‘Phoenix Blood’ wine,” Narcissa’s voice was a knife grazing skin. She traced the rim of her glass; the liquid within flared crimson. “I trust your Muggle palate can appreciate it.”

Hermione watched silently as the wine in her own glass shimmered into warm amber tones. Her gaze fell on Ailvy, who poured with the skill of a master sommelier.

“Your elf…” she began cautiously.

“My Ailvy,” Narcissa cut in sharply, “has nothing in common with that disloyal rebel you’re so fond of recalling.”

Hermione gripped her glass tighter. “I wasn’t comparing. Dobby was… special in his own way. But your Ailvy… he truly is a remarkable cook.”

A loud clatter echoed—Ailvy had deliberately dropped a tray.

“Ooopsie!” he wailed, pulling a comical face. “Little Ailvy is so clumsy today!”

Narcissa snorted unexpectedly. Hermione felt the treacherous corners of her own lips twitch. At that precise moment, the wine in both glasses flushed a synchronized, delicate pink.

Narcissa’s fifth suitcase snapped shut with a resonant thud, secured by all its golden clasps.

“Ailvy, my dear,” she ran a finger over the silk lining, “if you pack my evening gowns mixed with my daywear again, I will turn those ridiculous clown shoes of yours into ashtrays.”

The elf, who had already perched one of her baseball caps jauntily on his head, clapped his ears in delight: “Little Ailvy packed everything perfectly! Even put in a bottle of ‘Lunar Lure’—Mistress’s favorite perfume!”

Meanwhile, in the boudoir…

Hermione stood awkwardly before Narcissa’s vanity. Her fingers tightened involuntarily around an exquisite perfume bottle—notes of bitter almond, blackcurrant, and something indefinably dangerous.

Bloody hell… That’s a damn good scent.

She slammed the bottle down as if scorched and took a gulp of wine. One week. Just one week. What could possibly happen in seven days?

Shadow in the Alley
Opposite the townhouse, hidden in shadow, Cormac McLaggen clutched a crystal recording device in his sweaty palm.

“Finally, Granger…” his thick lips stretched into a leer. “You won’t slip away this time.”

He replayed the footage with relish—Hermione drawing the ball with Narcissa’s number, her muttered curse (he rewound that bit three times), the binding club magic sealing their fate.

“Oh, how I love it when women are angry…” he whispered, adjusting his tie. “Especially when anger turns into… something more interesting.”

His plan was simple:

Track their departure.

Ensure they enter the “Enchanted Bungalow” (which he, of course, had already “prepared”).

Enjoy the show… and perhaps, join in later…

Returning to the hall, Hermione watched Narcissa and her elf bustling:

“You… you’re packing a fifth suitcase? We’re going for a week, not circumnavigating the globe.”

Narcissa turned slowly, a silk negligee in her hands, which she promptly tossed into the trunk.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, Miss Granger,” her voice was as cold as a December wind in Northumberland, “you’ll understand that true luxury is the ability to choose.”

Ailvy, meanwhile, was already levitating a sixth suitcase towards the travel portal.

Twelve hours later, as London’s clocks chimed midnight, Narcissa and Hermione appeared on the Thames Embankment. Moored there was the enchanted yacht ‘Lady Medusa.’ Her hull, painted a deep emerald, shimmered like giant serpent scales in the moonlight. The deck was lit by floating orbs of cold fire, and at the gangplank stood the proprietress of the ‘Lonely Hearts Club’—the same plump witch in a garish dress that seemed blinding even in the semi-darkness.

“Ooooh, our star guests!” she shrieked, waving her arms as if swatting invisible moths. “Is our Lady Black ready for a week of passion and adventure?”

Narcissa, clad in a traveling gown the color of a night storm, gave an almost imperceptible shudder, but her voice was icy politeness: “Ready? No. But since the magical contract compels it…” She turned sharply to Ailvy, who beamed, dragging the sixth suitcase. “My servant accompanies me. Non-negotiable.”

The proprietress rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t falter: “Of course, of course! The more, the merrier!”

Ailvy, hearing this, practically vibrated with joy. His huge eyes shone like lanterns, his blond fringe sticking out wildly. Traveling with Mistress! What could be better?

Meanwhile, at the far end of the pier…

Disguised by charms, Cormac McLaggen lurked in the shadows, pretending to be part of another couple. His companion—a nondescript elderly witch with a face like crumpled parchment—nervously clutched her purse, but McLaggen’s eyes never left Hermione.

“Well, darling,” he hissed, ostentatiously kissing the witch’s hand, “ready for our romantic cruise?”

His lips stretched into a leer as he saw Hermione, in a sudden surge of nerves, instinctively grab Narcissa’s arm.

Narcissa’s reaction was instantaneous: “Keep your hands to yourself, Miss Granger,” she disentangled herself as if from stinging nettles, adding coldly, “if you require support, embrace your suitcase.”

With that, Narcissa gracefully took Ailvy’s hand (the elf nearly jumped for joy) and ascended the gangplank, leaving Hermione standing alone under the smirks of the other couples.

The yacht shuddered as it pulled away from the pier. Hermione, cheeks still burning with humiliation, leaned against the railing, watching London dissolve into the mist.

“Well, Granger,” a familiar voice sounded.

She turned. McLaggen stood two paces away, his disguise flickering slightly with excitement.

“Seems your ‘lovely’ companion abandoned you… Need some company?”

Hermione tasted the sharp tang of wine and threat in his voice.

But before she could reply, Ailvy materialized out of nowhere, deliberately dropping a tray of glasses with a loud crash.

“Ooopsie! Little Ailvy is so clumsy!” He shot a sideways glance at McLaggen, then tugged Hermione’s sleeve urgently. “Mistress wants you! Right away!”

The proprietress flung open the cabin door with a theatrical flourish, and Narcissa Black felt her blood literally boil in her veins.

“Here’s your temporary haven, dearies!” The witch in the garish cloak gestured cheerfully towards a single four-poster bed, a tiny sofa, and one (!) wardrobe already straining at the seams from Ailvy’s fifth suitcase.

“We are expected… to share… ONE CABIN?!” Narcissa’s voice reached such a pitch that a crystal glass shattered somewhere on deck. Her fingers dug into the doorjamb as if physically restraining the impulse to incinerate everything.

Hermione, already settled on the sofa with a battered copy of Mysteries of Mediterranean Runes, merely rolled her eyes: “Don’t be dramatic. I’ve shared a tent with a jumpy idiot—far worse.”

“It’s only temporary, poppet!” the proprietress cooed, winking playfully as the veins at Narcissa’s temples throbbed visibly. “Just a few hours to Provence!”

“Ailvy!” Narcissa grated, massaging her temples. “Bring wine. The whole bottle. No, two. I DO NOT PLAN ON SLEEPING.”

Ailvy zipped back with a bottle of ‘Phoenix Blood’ and three glasses (just in case). Narcissa thumped down into an armchair, pointedly turning away from Hermione, who was already muttering over her book, clicking a pen, and scribbling in the margins.

“Must you always be so… intolerably noisy?” Narcissa asked tartly, filling her glass to the brim.

“Only when someone nearby is screeching like an owl in a snare,” Hermione retorted without looking up.

Narcissa froze, glass halfway to her lips—and at that moment, the yacht gave a sudden lurch, as if the ‘Lady Medusa’ had collided with a frisky hippogriff.

The wine from her glass described a perfect arc through the air—and splashed directly onto Hermione’s head. A ruby droplet hung precariously on the tip of Granger’s nose. Her hand rose slowly to her face, her cheeks flushing like a library fire.

And then…

Narcissa Black laughed.

Not mockingly, not artificially—but genuinely, loudly, until tears welled.

“Bloody hell…” Hermione breathed, wiping her forehead, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Little Ailvy fetch towels!” the elf yelped, bouncing excitedly, and promptly dropped the second bottle squarely onto the carpet.

Narcissa, still chuckling, unexpectedly held out her handkerchief to Hermione.

“Here. Before you stain my dress… with your Muggle clumsiness.”

Silence in the cabin was broken only by the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull and Ailvy’s light snoring. The elf was sprawled across the bed like a king at a feast, his clown shoes pointing in opposite directions, his white fringe sticking up haphazardly—as if even in sleep, he was primed for mischief.

Narcissa, for the first time since their journey began, relaxed her rigid posture. Her head lolled treacherously onto Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione froze.

Damn… She’s so… warm… the Gryffindor thought, her fingers involuntarily brushing a strand of Narcissa’s silver hair. It was unexpectedly soft, like silk spun from moonlight.

“Mmm… Lucius…” Narcissa murmured in her sleep, her lips moving faintly.

Hermione snorted softly but didn’t pull away. Instead, her hand slowly continued to stroke Narcissa’s hair, as if soothing a furious cat.

Horrible… arrogant… pureblood… Hermione whispered internally, but the old venom was gone, replaced by a strange, new tenderness.

Outside, stars reflected on the water, mingling with turquoise flashes of underwater creatures. The ‘Lady Medusa’ rocked gently, lulling its unwilling passengers.

Hermione felt her eyelids grow heavy, her body leaning treacherously into Narcissa’s warmth.

Just for a minute… she thought.

And both slept—Hermione, her cheek resting against Narcissa’s head, and the Lady Black, unconsciously nestled against her shoulder.

Ailvy, opening one eye in the darkness, smirked.

“Little Ailvy did good…” he whispered, a note of deep satisfaction in his voice.

Chapter Text

When The Lady Medusa docked at the shore, it was six in the morning, but the sun was already blazing brightly. Hermione was the first to open her eyes, and she flinched when she felt the warmth of Lady Black’s body against her shoulder—Narcissa’s silken hair spilled over her arm like liquid silver, and the delicate scent of Moonlit Temptation mingled with the salt of the sea. The woman was half-embracing Granger, her arm draped over Hermione’s waist, fingers unconsciously clutching the folds of her shirt.

What in the world—?

Hermione carefully extricated herself from Narcissa’s hold, trying not to wake her, but her fingers lingered for a moment on the cool skin of Lady Black’s wrist, tracing the delicate blue veins beneath. As she stood, she couldn’t help but sigh—her body suddenly ached with the absence of that unexpected warmth.

The moment she did, a loud, ear-piercing horn blared across the yacht, announcing their arrival to the crew.

“Fucking hell,” Lady Black cursed, covering her ears with palms still warm from Hermione’s touch, yawning.

Ailvy quickly scrambled off the bed, bowing to Narcissa.

“Good morning,” he squeaked as Narcissa struggled to wake, her fingers reaching for the pillow where Hermione had just been—only to find it cold.

“Stop being so formal,” Lady Black murmured, the corners of her lips twitching as she rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, sleep still clinging to her.

When everyone had gathered on the pier with their luggage, the resort’s owner clapped her hands cheerfully.

“Well then, my dear doves, welcome to Paradise Lagoon! In a few minutes, we’ll draw lots to see who gets which of our lovely cottages.”

Narcissa sighed again, rolling her eyes. Meanwhile, Cormac McLaggen turned red, choking on his own spit.

“But—”

“Quiet, Cormac,” the plump woman immediately cut him off, her chubby fingers digging into his forearm until her knuckles whitened. There had been an agreement between her and Mrs. Macatcher about where Lady Black and Granger would be staying, and now the resort owner was ruining everything.

That old hag, McLaggen thought bitterly.

“Which of you two will try your luck?” the owner asked, turning to Narcissa and Hermione.

“I will,” Granger cooed, already reaching for the bag of enchanted orbs—until Lady Black intercepted her hand, slapping it away. The touch burned like an electric shock, leaving an invisible mark on the back of Hermione’s hand that she instinctively rubbed.

“In our pairing, I make the decisions,” Narcissa purred, watching Hermione’s cheeks flush as she drew the coveted orb—number seven.

“The Pearl Lagoon!” the owner announced, smiling sweetly at McLaggen. “A luxurious waterfront cottage!”

Narcissa inspected the orb disdainfully.

“A lagoon. So, humidity, sand in the bed, and mosquitoes. Perfect.”

Ailvy was already grabbing the suitcases.

“There’s a hammock! And seashells!”

Hermione silently rubbed the back of her hand—where Narcissa had slapped her. The touch still burned, as if it had left an imprint of her long fingers.

“A hammock?” Narcissa turned toward the gangplank, her hair glowing gold in the sunlight. “At least someone understands proper relaxation. Carry the bags, Ailvy.”

She strode down the pier, the hem of her dress billowing behind her like a banner, leaving a trail of delicate perfume in her wake.

Meanwhile, Mr. McLaggen clenched his fists, muttering curses under his breath at Mrs. Macatcher, who smirked smugly, watching Cormac’s companion—a woman at least thirty years his senior—draw the number for the bungalow that was supposed to go to Narcissa and Hermione…

As Cormac and Mrs. Macatcher bickered on the pier—him turning as red as an overripe tomato, her squinting as if she could pierce him with her gaze—Hermione, Narcissa, and Ailvy had already reached their bungalow.

The Pearl Lagoon was a cozy cottage of pale wood, perched on stilts above the turquoise water. A covered veranda with wicker chairs, a hammock strung between palm trees, and a staircase leading straight into the lagoon—a dream for anyone craving relaxation.

“SEASHELLS!” Ailvy’s shriek echoed across the shore before they’d even stepped inside. The elf tossed the suitcases onto the floor and flopped into the hammock, sending it swinging wildly like a boat in a storm. “There’s MILLIONS of them! REAL ones! And they SPARKLE!”

Narcissa slowly dragged a finger along the armrest of a chair, scrutinizing the dust.

“‘Luxurious cottage,’ you said…” Her voice dripped with venom. “I see the last time this place was cleaned was during King Arthur’s reign.”

But Hermione wasn’t listening. She stood on the veranda, breathing in the sea air, and for the first time in months, the usual knot of anxiety in her chest loosened.

“There’s a snorkeling mask,” she whispered, as if making a discovery, turning to Narcissa with shining eyes. “We can swim right from the veranda!”

Lady Black arched a brow, surveying the lagoon critically.

“If you don’t mind sharing the water with jellyfish, parrotfish, and probably some particularly bold octopus…” But the corner of her lips twitched.

Ailvy, meanwhile, was already stuffing his pockets with seashells, muttering something about “a gift for Effie,” a house-elf he’d recently befriended.

The little elf, overloaded with shells, clumsily caught his foot on the edge of the veranda. The next second, Narcissa’s suitcase—the one made of black crocodile leather with gold clasps, its lining custom-stitched by Madam Malkin herself—splashed loudly into the lagoon.

Silence. The kind that hung in the Black family mausoleum between portraits of particularly stubborn ancestors.

Lady Black froze, her fingers digging into the railing so hard the gilding cracked. Her face twisted into an expression that usually preceded curses capable of incinerating a family tree down to the seventh generation. Even her petal-shaped earrings seemed to pause, as if preparing for battle.

Hermione bit her lip. Then bit it again. But when only the suitcase’s handle surfaced, bobbing pathetically like a drowning rat’s tail, she couldn’t hold back any longer—

“My—” Narcissa’s voice was like the creak of rusted gates, “—my wardrobe… My Manolo Blahniks… My—”

“They’ll float!” Ailvy was already rolling up his pants, sending water splashing everywhere. “I’ll just—”

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Her shriek made Hermione instinctively cover her ears. “You’ll just trample them into the silt!”

Narcissa whirled on Hermione, who immediately pretended to be fascinated by the railing’s intricate carvings.

“You think this is funny, Granger?” Each word was sharp as a bullet.

“Well…” Hermione pressed her lips together, but the traitorous dimples in her cheeks betrayed her. “A little. But now we have an excuse to test the lagoon first. Maybe your perfume collection is floating around down there?”

“Merlin, you’re insufferable.” Narcissa rolled her eyes so hard only the whites showed, but strangely, her death grip on the railing loosened. “Fine. I’ll go in. Someone has to check if this place is… civilized enough.”

“Wait—you’re actually going swimming?” Hermione raised a brow, and Narcissa flushed.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she said, kicking off her shoes like a woman stripping before execution. “If my wardrobe is doomed to become fish food, I might as well look it in the eye.”

“I’m not swimming. I’m inspecting the seabed,” Narcissa hissed through clenched teeth, standing knee-deep in the water. Her silk sarong, the color of moon dust, clung to her hips, and the high-waisted swimsuit made her look like a rebellious mermaid from a Victorian fashion plate.

Hermione, on the other hand, dove off the veranda like an otter—her red polka-dot bikini flashed for a second before she resurfaced.

“The water’s divine! Even the coral glows!”

Ailvy, in striped swim trunks, hauled the suitcase—now covered in seaweed—onto the shore.

“Your shoes are intact, my lady! But the heels are now… uh… their own little aquariums.”

Narcissa stared at her Manolo Blahniks, from which a tiny fish wriggled free, and for the first time that morning, she laughed.

Ailvy, meanwhile, was already splashing around.

“There’s so many fish! And one just bit my—OW!”

“We don’t want to know!” both women shouted in unison before exchanging an unexpected glance.

And the strangest thing? The corners of Narcissa’s lips twitched. Just a little.

Narcissa and Hermione emerged from the lagoon utterly exhausted—salt crusted their lashes, their hair was a tangled mess, and their swimsuits were stiff with dried seawater. Despite the venomous glares they’d exchanged all day, they now collapsed onto the double sunbed by the fireplace without bothering to change or rinse off.

Ailvy, meanwhile, was carefully drying Narcissa’s ruined silks with wandless magic, muttering under his breath.

“Madam Malkin will have a fit if she sees these wrinkles… Oh, sorry!” He squeezed his eyes shut, hastily draping a silk throw over both women’s bare shoulders, blushing to the tips of his ears.

Narcissa was already dozing off, and Hermione instinctively curled against her back, seeking warmth. Ailvy, soothed by their rare moment of peace, sat at the tiny table and began a letter to Effie, decorating the envelope with the shiniest shells:

Dear Effie,

Today I almost drowned Lady Black’s wardrobe, but I taught her to swim with fish! She swore like a troll in mating season, but then she laughed—can you believe it?

Enclosed is a pink shell—they say if you hold it to your ear, you can hear mermaids whispering…

Yours, Ailvy

Outside, palm trees rustled, embers crackled in the fireplace, and two bitter rivals slept back-to-back—as if there had never been wars or insults between them…

Ailvy set out a late dinner with extra flourish—grilled fish with lime, saffron rice, and chilled watermelon sliced into perfect wedges. The aroma of food mixed with the salty scent still clinging to the two unwashed women.

Narcissa twitched in her sleep when Hermione suddenly threw a sticky, seawater-damp leg over her thigh, mumbling something about “tenth-level restricted runes.”

“Granger, you’re clinging like a strangler fig!” Narcissa huffed, shoving her knee away in disgust as salt crystals scattered onto the silk throw.

Hermione blinked, slowly waking.

“Hmm? Oh…” she rasped, stretching lazily, completely oblivious to the wet marks her swimsuit left on the pillow.

The next second, Narcissa shot up with a shriek, as if stung.

“You’re covered in salt and sand! And that bloody swimsuit of yours is indecent!” she hissed, furiously brushing off her thighs even though Hermione had already let go.

Ailvy, holding the tray, sighed.

“Dinner is served,” he said dryly, watching Narcissa panic-check her skin for any trace of Hermione. His gaze then flicked to Granger, who already seemed ready to doze off again despite the commotion.

In the corner, Narcissa’s belongings—the ones Ailvy had magically cleansed of seawater—were neatly stacked. He could already picture describing this day in his next letter to Effie:

Dear Effie, if only you’d seen Lady Black shrieking today like she’d been dunked in boiling water! And Miss Granger slept like a log even while being cursed at. Enclosed is a shell—hold it to your ear, and you might hear the echo of her screams…

Dinner was painfully silent. Even Ailvy didn’t chatter, just nervously poked at his salad, glancing between Hermione and Narcissa. Both women had cleaned up—hair dried, skin free of salt, wet swimsuits swapped for light dresses—but the tension hung thicker than the tropical humidity.

Finally, the elf couldn’t take it anymore.

“My radiant lady…” He cleared his throat, flexing his fingers. “What if… hypothetically… Ailvy wanted to invite Effie here? She’s never seen anything beyond the Hogwarts kitchens! And here there’s the lagoon, the shells, the hammock…”

Effie—the very same house-elf Hermione remembered from Hogwarts. Small, with big shiny eyes and a shy smile, she had stood out among the others, delicate in a way that had struck Hermione even back then.

Granger’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing like twin golden constellations.

“Ailvy! That’s a wonderful idea!” She nearly knocked over her glass in excitement. “You must show her the sea! And the coral! And those fish with the blue fins!”

Narcissa slowly set down her fork, one perfectly sharp brow rising.

“Effie?” Her voice was silk over steel. “The same elf you’ve already sent half the beach’s seashells to?”

Ailvy turned red to his ear tips but nodded.

“Yes, my lady. She’s… very kind. And she loves hearing about the sea.”

Narcissa traced the rim of her glass, leaving a streak on the condensation.

“Fine. On one condition.” Her gaze flicked to Hermione, and something like mischief sparked in it. “She comes for one day only. And if I catch her anywhere near my wardrobe, you’ll both be scrubbing shells bare-handed. Understood?”

Ailvy shot up, nearly toppling the fruit plate.

“Y-yes, my lady! Thank you! I promise, she won’t even look at your shoes!”

Hermione laughed behind her hand.

“How generous. I didn’t know you were capable of such magnanimity, Black.”

Narcissa smiled coldly, raising her glass.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. I just want to see you explain to Dumbledore why Hogwarts now has two lovestruck elves.”

The evening at The Pearl Lagoon was stifling. The air was thick with the scent of grilled fish, salt, and something faintly floral—perhaps Narcissa’s perfume, which she was desperately trying to salvage after the swim.

Hermione, sprawled in the hammock, watched Ailvy decorate the veranda with glowing shells in anticipation of Effie’s visit.

“If he says her name one more time, I’m throwing him into the lagoon with this hammock,” Narcissa muttered, pouring herself wine. Her fingers trembled slightly—whether from exhaustion or unspoken irritation.

“You’re just jealous,” Hermione smirked, catching the piece of watermelon Narcissa threw at her.

“Jealous? Of an elf?” Narcissa arched a brow, but something flickered in her eyes. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten who—”

“‘Makes all the decisions’? Yes, yes, we’ve heard,” Hermione rolled onto her side, her expression suddenly serious. “But why did you really agree to this trip?”

Silence. Even Ailvy froze.

Narcissa set down her glass, her lips parting.

“Because…” She trailed off, staring at the water where her shoes had floated that morning. “Because even the ‘Ice Queen of House Black’ gets tired of her own mausoleum sometimes.”

Hermione didn’t get to reply—a shrill voice echoed from the pier.

“Ailvy! Where are you, silly? I brought you real seaweed from Hogsmeade!”

Effie, a tiny elf with pink bows, came sprinting across the sand, waving a bundle. Ailvy gasped and tumbled off the veranda.

Narcissa closed her eyes.

“Merlin, now there’s two of them.”

Hermione laughed—and in that moment, her fingers accidentally brushed Narcissa’s. Neither pulled away.

The moon hung over the lagoon like a silver coin, casting rippling light on the dark water. The elves—Ailvy and Effie—had already vanished into the trees, their delighted shrieks and glowing lanterns flickering between the palms like fireflies.

Hermione sat on the edge of the pier, bare feet dangling above the water. Behind her, silk rustled—Narcissa settled beside her, maintaining exactly two inches of distance. Close enough to feel her warmth, but not to touch.

“They’re like two crickets,” Narcissa grumbled, watching Ailvy toss Effie into the air.

“At least they’re honest,” Hermione smiled. “Unlike us.”

Silence. Even the waves seemed to hold their breath.

“Why did you say you were tired of the ‘mausoleum’?” Hermione turned to her, but Narcissa kept her eyes on the horizon.

“Because it’s true.” Her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual steel. “You think I enjoy being the ‘Ice Queen’? It’s just… habit. Like those ridiculous shoes that now smell like fish.”

Hermione laughed, but it faded into something sadder.

“I thought you relished everyone being afraid of you.”

“Afraid?” Narcissa finally looked at her, the moon reflected in her eyes. “People aren’t afraid of me, Granger. They’re afraid of the persona I’ve crafted. And it’s… exhausting.”

Hermione reached out, her fingers barely grazing Narcissa’s wrist—right over the delicate blue veins.

“Then who are you really?”

Narcissa stilled. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone who realized too late.”

Hermione tightened her grip—just slightly.

“I’m tired too. Of the war, of expectations, of everyone wanting me to always be ‘brilliant, composed, perfect Hermione.’”

“Dreadful,” Narcissa scoffed, but the corner of her lips twitched. “At least I never expected perfection from you.”

“Because you decided I was an insufferable know-it-all from the start?”

“Because you are insufferable.” Narcissa turned to her, and suddenly the distance between them was just an inch.

The silence now was thick as honey. Hermione shivered.

“We’re… supposed to hate each other,” she whispered.

“Supposed to,” Narcissa agreed, but her gaze dropped to Hermione’s lips.

And then it happened—awkward, impulsive. Hermione leaned in. Narcissa didn’t pull away. Their shoulders touched, then their temples, and suddenly they were holding each other like two halves of a broken shell finally reunited.

Narcissa’s breath burned against Hermione’s neck.

“This is a terrible idea,” she muttered, but her arms tightened around Hermione.

“I know.”

“We’ll be at each other’s throats by morning.”

“Probably.”

“And I’ll definitely regret it.”

“Liar.”

Narcissa laughed—really laughed, without her usual venom. And Hermione pressed closer, listening to her heartbeat.

Somewhere in the distance, the elves shrieked, the water lapped, but in this small space between them, there were no wars, no past—just the quiet whisper of waves and a night that might have changed everything.

Sunlight streamed through the shutters, cutting golden stripes through the dimness. Hermione woke first—her cheek stuck to the silk pillowcase, fragments of last night surfacing in her mind: warm hands, laughter over seashells, that clumsy embrace on the pier…

She sat up sharply, looking around. Narcissa slept on her side of the bed, wrapped in the throw like a cocoon. Her pale lashes fluttered, as if she were dreaming something uneasy.

Hermione clenched the edge of her robe, her cheeks burning.

Just an embrace. Nothing more. No kisses, no whispered ‘I want you,’ not even a hint that it would happen again. Just two tired women who, in a moment of foolishness, thought hatred wasn’t the only thing between them. So why does it feel like a betrayal of myself?

Narcissa, as if sensing her thoughts, suddenly turned, yawning slightly.

“If you’re imagining last night was anything more—”

“I’m not!” Hermione nearly choked on her own tongue. “I’m not even thinking about it.”

“Obviously,” Narcissa said coldly, but the tip of her ear turned pink.

Ailvy, frozen in the doorway with a breakfast tray, squeezed his eyes shut.

“Saw nothing!” he hissed, setting the tray down so loudly Narcissa flinched. “Ailvy just brought breakfast! And… er… a letter for Lady Black! From young Master Draco!”

Narcissa’s eyes flew open. Her gaze, still hazy with sleep, met Hermione’s for a split second—then jerked away as if burned.

“What?” She sat up, pushing hair from her face. “A letter?”

Ailvy handed her the envelope with the Black family seal. Narcissa snatched it, breaking the wax—then froze when she noticed Hermione nervously twisting the edge of the blanket.

“Leave us,” she said quietly.

The elf vanished.

Silence.

“What are you thinking?” Narcissa asked, not looking up from the letter.

“That we should forget it happened,” Hermione stood, tying her robe. “We were tired, emotional—”

“Forget?” Narcissa’s head snapped up, something dangerous flashing in her eyes. “You really think after last night, we can just—”

She didn’t finish. From the garden came Effie’s squealing laughter:

“Ailvy, no! Don’t throw me in the water!”

“Perfect,” Narcissa crumpled the letter. “Now we have that too.”

Hermione sighed. Last night already felt like a dream—but the salt on her skin and the tremble in her fingertips reminded her it was real.

“Narcissa—”

“Don’t.” She stood, shoulders straight. The Ice Queen mask was back in place. “You’re right. Let’s forget it.”

But as she walked past, her pinky finger briefly caught the edge of Hermione’s robe—as if against her own will.

Palm shadows stretched across the pier as Cormac McLaggen wiped sweat from his brow. Sand gritted in his expensive shoes, but he barely noticed—his attention was locked on two figures by the water.

Hermione and Narcissa.

Holding each other.

“What the—” His voice cracked.

He’d specifically arranged with Mrs. Macatcher to stick them in a one-bed bungalow! So Granger, furious at the “snobby Black witch,” would come running to him for comfort. And instead—

They were clinging like lovers.

“So that’s why she laughed when I asked her to the ball!” Cormac clenched his fists, fury pulsing in his temples.

Behind him, a voice as sweet as spoiled honey purred:

“Well, young Romeo? Plans not working out?”

Mrs. Macatcher, the resort’s owner and traitor in a plump package, stepped from the shadows, puffing a cigar. Her eyes gleamed with smug malice.

“You broke our deal!” he hissed. “You were supposed to put them in The Rocky Cliff! No shower, just scorpions and sand! They’d have been at each other’s throats in an hour!”

“Oh, silly boy,” she blew smoke in his face. “Can’t you see? This is far more interesting.”

She nodded toward the pier, where Hermione was laughing and Narcissa wasn’t pushing her away.

“You!” Cormac whirled on her, trembling. “You gave them The Pearl Lagoon on purpose! You knew they’d—”

“Knew they’d what?” She arched a brow. “Find common ground? Oh, the horror!” She fake-gasped.

Cormac turned purple.

“They’re violating the club’s spirit! The magic binds them to stay close, not—not this!”

Mrs. Macatcher laughed, exhaling a smoke ring.

“Tomorrow morning, the beach competition—King and Queen of the Lagoon. Winners get a golden key to lift magical restrictions for 24 hours.” Her eyes glittered. “Perhaps it’s time to show Miss Granger who the real man is?”

McLaggen stilled. Then slowly smirked.

“She’ll regret choosing her…”

He stormed off, already plotting. Tomorrow, he’d break every rule.

Chapter Text

Ailvy’s shriek cut through sleep like a knife through butter:

— Effy, look! A TWIN SHELL!

Narcissa groaned, trying to bury her face in the pillow, but instead, her nose collided with Granger’s stubborn elbow. She cracked one eye open—a sunbeam stabbed her pupil, and her entire right side was pinned under Hermione’s body, as if she’d been washed ashore by an especially insistent wave.

"Why does this girl sleep like an octopus?"

Her hand twitched, ready to shove the offending leg off her thigh… but froze mid-air.

— Mrrph… — Hermione mumbled something in her sleep and nuzzled her cheek into Narcissa’s shoulder, tangling her fingers in the loose strands of her hair.

Lady Black went rigid.

"This is… awkward. Improper. Bloody ridiculous."

Yet her fingers, instead of yanking those ginger curls, relaxed against her will.

— My lady? — Ailvy squeaked outside the door. — Effy and I found a SEA URCHIN! It’s, uh… kinda looks like you!

Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut.

"Murder. Murder them all. Especially this ginger leech on top of me."

But when Hermione shifted in her sleep, baring her neck with that tiny mole above her collarbone, Narcissa only sighed and reached for her dew-dampened robe.

— Ailvy, — her voice was rough with sleep, — if that urchin so much as touches my bed, I’ll use it as a toilet brush. Understood?

Dead silence beyond the door.

Hermione stretched lazily, her leg finally sliding off Narcissa’s thigh… but her arm remained draped over her waist, shamelessly warm.

"Damn it all," — thought the Black heiress, feeling something suspiciously like—no, not tenderness.

Absolutely not.

The "King and Queen of the Lagoon" Contest
The sun had barely spilled its golden gleam over the lagoon when a thunderous knock rattled the bungalow door. Hermione, peeling her face off the pillow, first noticed her hand inexplicably tangled in Narcissa’s silken hair—while the other woman, instead of delivering her usual venomous remark, merely pressed a palm to her eyes and hissed:

— If that’s McLaggen with his idiotic serenades, I invoke my right to defensive spells.

The door swung open on its own, and an enormous package crashed onto the threshold, nearly flattening Ailvy, who scrambled out from under it with his ears askew:

— P-post owl flew away! But it left… oh.

From the torn packaging spilled:

An emerald-black tailcoat with mother-of-pearl waves embroidered on the lapels.

A figure-hugging dress the color of moonlit water, shimmering like wet fish scales with every movement.

Effy, who’d zoomed over, immediately stuck her nose into the accompanying note:

— "The ‘King and Queen of the Lagoon’ contest! One member of the pair must—"

— Don’t read the rest, — Narcissa cut her off, swiping sleep from her lashes with the back of her hand. Her gaze skimmed the outfits, and her face twisted as if offered a cloak of seaweed.

Hermione, already tilting a stubbornly lopsided top hat on her head:

— Well, Black, how do we split roles? I’ll play the dashing gentleman if you…

— Never.

— Never what?

— I will never, — Narcissa crossed her arms, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal a black pearl choker, — wear trousers tailored for a bow-legged goblin.

Hermione snorted, tossing a mermaid-headed cane from hand to hand:

— Because ‘Lady Black must uphold her dignity’?

— Because these trousers, — she jabbed a finger at the offending garment, — are a crime against tailoring.

Ailvy, meanwhile, had plunged his head into the box:

— Ooh, garters with seashells! And… — his ears turned crimson, — something lacy…

Narcissa slowly closed her eyes, as if praying for patience, but Hermione burst out laughing and plopped a half-unraveled ribbon from the tag onto her head:

— Congratulations, Your Majesty. You’re officially the Queen of the Lagoon.

— If you curtsy even once, I’ll shove this cane where the sun doesn’t shine, — but her fingers were already curling into the iridescent fabric of the dress.

Somewhere beyond the palms, festive music swelled, and excited resort-goers darted across the sand—but here, amid scattered packaging and drifting feathers, a strange realization settled: this absurd contest would become far more than a game.

First Challenge: The Kiss
The crowd’s murmur died as Mrs. MacTavish grinned and announced:

— First challenge for all pairs—a kiss!

Cormac McLaggen, paired with a elderly witch sporting a chin wart, turned green and clutched his stomach:

— I demand a different partner!

— Rules are rules, dear, — the resort owner smiled sweetly. — Kiss or forfeit.

Narcissa froze as if hit by Petrificus Totalus. Even her usual mask of disdain flickered, revealing a flash of genuine panic.

Hermione, by contrast, pinkened to her hairline.

— I-it’s just… formality, — she muttered, avoiding Narcissa’s eyes.

The crowd began counting down:

— Three… two…

Narcissa exhaled sharply, as if steeling herself to swallow bitter potion.

— One!

Their lips met.

It wasn’t passionate. Wasn’t even tender.

Just quick.
Warm.
Soft.

Hermione tasted black tea and something else—maybe the "Lunar Allure" perfume Narcissa had frantically salvaged after swimming.

Then it was over.

They broke apart faster than necessary.

Hermione reached to adjust a nonexistent top hat.
Narcissa swiped her tongue over her lips, as if erasing evidence.

The crowd gasped, applauded—but to them, the sounds muffled.

— Well… technically, that counts, — Narcissa muttered, staring fixedly at the palm trees.

— Yes. Technically, — Hermione nodded too fast.

Nearby, McLaggen hunched over a bucket, his "lady" thumping his back disapprovingly.

But they didn’t see it.

Because between them hung that quiet, warm, awkward aftertaste.

And neither dared admit—it was too little.
And too much.

All at once.

A Letter from Draco
As the elves belly-flopped into a vat of whipped cream and Hermione laughed, clutching Narcissa’s arm for balance, a sharp pop echoed—and a letter with the Malfoy seal landed at Narcissa’s feet.

She unfolded the parchment and read aloud:

"Mother.
Aunt Andromeda just ‘accidentally’ saw you at the ‘Paradise Lagoon’… with Granger. Sharing a bungalow. In a couples’ contest. KISSING her.
I… have no words. Except: BLARGHFLBLJUB???"

Hermione, reading over her shoulder, snorted:

— I think your son just invented a new onomatopoeia.

Narcissa slowly refolded the letter, her face a mask of calm.

— Draco, darling… — she sighed. — You haven’t seen anything yet.

Final Challenge: The Rescue
Mrs. MacTavish, smirking at the flustered pairs, declared:

— Final challenge! The King must carry his Queen through an obstacle course!

Hermione, still in the emerald tailcoat, turned scarlet. Narcissa, however, paled.

— You’re joking— — she began, but Hermione stepped forward.

— Let’s go.

Their eyes locked. Narcissa’s gaze: challenging. Hermione’s: defiant.

The crowd oohed as Hermione swept Narcissa into her arms.

They’d nearly reached the finish when Narcissa jerked—Hermione slipped on wet sand, and they almost fell.

But didn’t.

Because Narcissa clawed at Hermione’s shoulders.
And Hermione held her tighter.

Their faces hovered close.
Breaths mingled.

Hermione felt Narcissa’s lips—always curled in a sneer—part slightly in surprise.

Then…

She kissed her.

Not for the contest.
Not for the crowd.

Because she couldn’t stand not to.

Narcissa didn’t push her away.

Instead—her fingers fisted the tailcoat, dragging Hermione closer.

Their lips moved in sync—gentle but greedy.

Hermione felt:

Narcissa’s teeth—sharp, nipping her lower lip,

then her tongue—light, fleeting, testing boundaries.

And then…

The crowd erupted.

They broke apart.

Narcissa slowly licked her lips, as if savoring a new flavor.

— …That wasn’t part of the rules, — she murmured, but her voice held no anger.

Hermione, still holding her, smirked:

— Now we’ve definitely won.

Aftermath: "You Ruined All My Plans"
Later, crowned King and Queen of the Lagoon, with Ailvy and Effy cheering and McLaggen stomping in outrage, Narcissa tugged Hermione away from prying eyes.

— You ruined all my plans, — she said, but her fingers were already threading through Hermione’s curls.

— What plans? — Hermione arched a brow.

— I was going to hate you until the day I died.

— Oh… — Hermione grinned. — Terrible plan.

And kissed her again.

No audience.
No rules.

Just because she wanted to.

The Morning After
Sunlight woke Hermione first. She blinked—and there, gilded by dawn, lay a different Narcissa Black.

Her usually flawless hair sprawled across the pillow. Lips, forever pursed in disdain, were relaxed. And her lashes, sharp and cold by daylight, looked fragile.

Hermione smiled.

— You’re staring, Granger, — came Narcissa’s sleep-rough voice.

Her eyes stayed shut, but her mouth twitched.

— I’m researching, — Hermione traced her eyebrow, — how many wrinkles appear when you try to look stern before coffee.

Narcissa opened her eyes—and Hermione’s breath caught. This close. No masks. No armor.

— A game, — Narcissa rolled onto her side. — Truth for truth. One question, one honest answer.

Hermione’s pulse jumped.

— You first.

Narcissa’s fingers absently circled the sheet between them.

— When did you first realize… — she hesitated, — that hating me felt different?

Hermione flushed but didn’t look away.

— When you defended my research to the committee. Your hands shook arguing with Snape. You were scared—but did it anyway.

Narcissa went very still.

— Your turn, — she finally whispered.

Hermione didn’t hesitate:

— Why did you hate me all those years?

Narcissa laughed—sharp, almost painful.

— Because you were free. Said what you thought. Loved who you chose. And I… — her voice cracked, — I was just a pretty frame for a family portrait.

Silence stretched, thick with unspoken words.

— My question, — Narcissa propped herself up, eyes burning. — Last night… on the beach…

Heat flooded Hermione’s cheeks.

— Yes?

— Do you actually… — her lips trembled, — still hate me?

Hermione reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Narcissa’s ear.

— Madly, — she whispered before their lips met again.

***

Ailvy and Effy carried a breakfast tray, whispering and giggling like schoolchildren.

— Did you see how they were looking at each other yesterday? — Effy whispered, adjusting the pink ribbon in her hair.

— Ailvy saw more than he wanted to, — the elf blushed, remembering how he'd accidentally stumbled upon them at the beach while fetching forgotten seashells.

They froze by the bungalow door upon hearing laughter from inside — light, bubbly, completely unlike Hermione's usual tone.

Ailvy knocked cautiously.

— Come in, — came Narcissa's voice, but it sounded... warm?

The door opened.

The sight that greeted them made the elves' jaws drop:

Narcissa Black, the epitome of style and cold elegance, sat perched on the kitchen table wearing someone else's oversized t-shirt and barefoot. Her usually impeccable hair was tied in a messy ponytail, and a distinct purple mark stood out on her neck.

Hermione stood between her knees, whispering something that made Narcissa throw her head back with laughter — genuine, deep, making her eyes sparkle.

Dead silence fell.

The fruit tray crashed to the floor.

— We... uh... — Ailvy covered his eyes with his hands, — brought... that is... forgot...

Effy, red as a lobster, curtsied and immediately hid behind the door.

Narcissa and Hermione exchanged glances.

— I think we shocked them, — Hermione smirked, not moving away.

— Excellent, — Narcissa lazily draped her arms around Hermione's neck, — now they'll definitely knock before entering.

Ailvy, still standing with eyes covered, vowed solemnly:

— Ailvy will never enter without knocking again! Never-ever!

— And clean up the fruit, — Narcissa added, kissing Hermione's temple right in front of the stunned elves.

Effy squeaked.

This morning would definitely be remembered by all.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut, leaving them in silence broken only by ragged breathing and the sound of waves outside the window.

"Seems like we’ve traumatized them for life," Hermione trailed her fingers along Narcissa’s smooth jawline.

Narcissa only bit her lip, not breaking eye contact:

"They’ll survive. But you..."

Her hands slid under the stretched collar of Hermione’s t-shirt, exposing her collarbones.

"...Me what?"

"...will have to answer for what you’ve done."

The kiss came suddenly—not like morning tenderness, but like a tidal wave. The rough fabric of the t-shirt creaked as Narcissa clawed at it, yanking it upward. Hermione responded fiercely: her teeth found the sensitive spot beneath Narcissa’s ear, making her arch with a quiet moan.

The silence was shattered by the sound of tiny feet pattering.

"Welcome, noble guests!" squeaked Ailvy, bursting into the room with a tray piled high with sandwiches.

"We’ve brought you the finest pineapples!" added Effie, carrying a basket of fruit, but upon looking up, she froze in place.

Narcissa, still attached to Hermione, bit her lower lip, and Hermione responded with a long, drawn-out moan, tangling her fingers in Narcissa’s hair.

Ailvy and Effie choked in unison.

The tray clattered to the floor.
Pineapples rolled across the room.

"O-oh…" Ailvy covered his eyes with his tiny hands but immediately spread his fingers to peek.

"We, uh… brought more champagne!" Effie blurted out, blushing to the tips of her ears.

"Leave it by the door," Narcissa ordered without even turning her head. Her hand slid under Hermione’s robe, making her shudder.

"And, uh… we have fresh towels!" Ailvy added, desperately trying not to look (but failing miserably).

"Get out," Hermione hissed, though her voice trembled because Narcissa’s fingers had already found what they were seeking.

Ailvy and Effie squeaked and vanished in a puff of magic, leaving behind only the scent of burnt popcorn (apparently, they’d been scared half to death).

Draco, still standing in the doorway, slowly sank to his knees.

"I… I won’t survive this day…"

Astoria, on the other hand, smirked and pulled out a notebook.

"This is for my novel," she explained, scribbling down every detail.

Narcissa finally tore herself away from Hermione and coldly surveyed the guests.

"If you don’t leave within five seconds—"

"We’re already going!" Draco yelped, grabbing Astoria by the wrist.

"But I haven’t finished writing—"

"Astoria, for Merlin’s sake—"

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

"Where were we?" Hermione whispered, pulling Narcissa closer.

She smirked and picked up right where they’d left off…

"Too many clothes," flashed through Hermione’s mind, but her thoughts dissolved as Narcissa’s fingers unbuttoned her jeans. Cold air brushed her stomach, followed by a hot palm sliding lower, to the edge of her underwear.

"You’re trembling," Narcissa murmured against her neck.

"It’s not trembling," Hermione caught her wrist, pressing her palm lower. It’s impatience.

They collapsed onto the couch, knocking over pillows. The t-shirt flew somewhere to the side. Narcissa ended up on top, her loose hair falling like a silver curtain, separating them from the world.

"You know what drives me mad?" Her lips traced the line of Hermione’s ribs down to her stomach. "Your obsessive need… to control everything."

"And yours is to destroy control," Hermione gripped her hair as Narcissa’s tongue circled her navel.

The response was a low chuckle. Skilled fingers unhooked the bra. The cool lagoon air mixed with the heat of skin.

She explored slowly, like a scientist examining a rare artifact:

Teeth against the sensitive curve of a breast,
A palm along a trembling thigh,
A heavy, dark gaze as Hermione arched, trying to get closer.

"Don’t rush me," Narcissa bit the inside of her thigh, leaving a pink mark. "I’m enjoying your… helplessness."

Hermione moaned, digging her nails into Narcissa’s shoulders:

"It’s not helplessness. It’s a demand."

Narcissa paused above her, eyes flashing with amethyst fire:

"Demanding, are we?"

"Yes."

No more words were needed. Only:

A sharp inhale as Narcissa’s fingers found wet heat,
A quiet moan as Hermione gripped her hips, pulling her closer,
A rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, then fierce as a storm.

Narcissa never looked away, capturing every expression, every gasp. Her own breath hitched as Hermione lifted herself, kissing her with renewed intensity—salt, sweat, and something undeniably her.

"I… hate… you…" Hermione exhaled, but her body said otherwise, arching into Narcissa’s touch.

"Liar," Narcissa quickened her movements, feeling the tension coil, tremble, and finally snap.

And snap it did.

The wave crashed over Hermione with a silent cry, making her grip Narcissa’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. Narcissa didn’t stop until the last shudders faded, only then allowing herself to relax, pressing her forehead to Hermione’s heaving chest.

Silence. Only heavy breathing and the cries of seagulls.

"Proven," Narcissa whispered, kissing the damp skin beneath Hermione’s breast. "You’re a terrible liar."

Hermione, still trembling, ran a hand down her back:

"Your move. Break my control again."

They lay tangled, skin to skin. Narcissa suddenly, softly: "In my bedroom at Malfoy Manor… there’s a hidden door. For… experiments like these."

Hermione laughed: "Experiment successful. Replication required."

The lagoon breathed with midday heat when the shadow of the open door cut across the sunlit floor. Narcissa didn’t pull away from Hermione—her tongue had just traced a wet path below her navel—when a strangled shriek tore through the room:

"Mother?!"

The air froze. On the threshold, paler than moonlight, stood Draco. His fingers clutched the doorframe, nails digging into the wood. Behind him, Astoria stood frozen, lips parted, her wide eyes darting between Hermione’s bare shoulders, Narcissa’s disheveled hair, and the droplets of oil glistening on the tangled sheets.

Hermione broke the silence first. She didn’t cover herself, merely raised an eyebrow, feeling laughter tremble in her chest:

"Draco. Do you knock… or is this your new invasion style?"

Narcissa rose slowly, like a queen interrupted during a private audience. The silk robe slid over her skin, hiding only half the marks of their passion.

"Darling," her voice was languid, as if discussing the weather rather than being caught mid-act. "You’ve always wanted to see me happy. Now’s your chance to rejoice."

Draco made a sound like a bursting bubble. His eyes flickered from his mother to Hermione, to their tangled legs, to the crystal vial of oil abandoned on the floor.

Astoria, suddenly animated, stepped forward:

"Sorry for intruding. We brought… a gift." Her fingers unclenched, dropping a jar of jam that landed with a thud between a discarded bra and the robe’s belt.

Hermona finally laughed, her chest shaking as her fingers tightened on Narcissa’s thigh—the same one now bearing fresh bite marks.

"How touching," she murmured, watching Draco cover his face. "Family visits."

Narcissa met her gaze, eyes full of promise—promises that this scene would cost Draco years of therapy, while they… they had unfinished business.

The shadows of palm trees stretched long when Hermione finally dared to break the silence:

"You never finished what you started..."

Her voice was defiant, but her fingers gripping the couch betrayed her impatience.

Narcissa, standing by the window with a glass of wine, slowly ran her tongue along the rim.

"Ask properly."

Hermione gritted her teeth. They both knew this game.

"Please..." through clenched teeth.

"'Please'… what?" Narcissa set the glass down, her nails tapping the marble table.

Hermione exhaled.

"Please, Lady Black. Finish what you started."

Narcissa smiled.

The first touch was unexpected—the icy ring on her finger grazing Hermione’s inner thigh, making her shudder.

"Don’t move."

The second—searing. Fingers gripped her neck, not squeezing but asserting dominance.

"You’re mine from this moment. Every freckle. Every gasp."

When her lips finally met where Hermione pulsed with need, Hermione arched with a moan.

"Quiet," Narcissa bit the tender skin. "Or do you want the entire resort to know how Lady Black disciplines her bride?"

Her tongue traced slow circles, alternating pressure—studying a map already memorized.

Hermione gripped her hair but was swiftly met with a slap to her thigh.

"Hands on the headboard. Don’t you dare move."

And she obeyed.

Because when Narcissa used that voice—low, dark, laced with the threat of punishment—resistance was impossible.

Narcissa left her trembling, barely able to speak, and stepped away to fix her makeup.

"You… you’re just leaving me like this?" Hermione struggled to prop herself up on her elbows.

"Of course not," Narcissa turned, eyes gleaming. "I’m letting you reflect on who’s in charge."

She tossed the robe’s belt onto the bed.

"Tie yourself to the headboard. I’ll be back in five minutes."

"What if I refuse?"

Narcissa was already at the door.

"Then you’ll never know what I had planned for Act Two."

The door closed.

Hermione was alone.

With the belt in hand.

And a choice that wasn’t really a choice.

The door opened exactly five minutes later.

Narcissa entered, carrying a silver tray with perfect ice cubes and a phoenix feather, glinting gold in the sunset.

"Good girl," her voice was almost tender as she noted the silk sleeves tied around the headboard.

Hermione lay slightly arched, chest rising rapidly, skin prickling with anticipation.

"I always obey," she challenged with her eyes but didn’t struggle.

Narcissa dragged an ice cube from her collarbone downward, leaving a wet trail her lips soon scorched.

"Liar. But tonight, you’ll be punished for it."

The ice grazed her nipple, and Hermione shuddered but refused to moan—too proud.

Narcissa smirked.

"Oh, is that how it is?"

She lowered the ice further, letting droplets trail down Hermione’s stomach to where heat pulsed unbearably.

"Narcissa—" Hermione’s voice was a plea.

"Quiet." She pressed the ice there, where heat met cold, making Hermione arch with a silent gasp.

And then…

The phoenix feather.

It touched her skin like something alive, sensitive to her desires.

"It knows what you want," Narcissa traced it along her inner thigh, and Hermione shuddered.

"But you’ll only get it if you beg."

Hermione clenched her jaw, but her body betrayed her—trembling, breath quickening, wetness untouched by ice.

"Please—"

"Again."

"Please, Lady Black."

Narcissa smiled and lowered the feather where Hermione pulsed with need.

"Good girl."

And then…

The feather came alive.

It glided exactly where Hermione wanted, each movement amplified by her own desperation.

"It—it—"

"Feels you," Narcissa whispered against her ear. "Just like I do."

Hermione couldn’t hold back anymore.

Her moans grew louder, body tensing, fingers twisting the silk restraints.

Narcissa quickened the feather’s movements, watching Hermione’s eyes darken, lips parting in a soundless cry.

"Come," she commanded.

And Hermione obeyed.

"Now you understand who’s in charge?" Narcissa untied the silk, freeing her wrists.

Hermione, still trembling, pulled her close by the neck.

"I understand… you love giving orders."

"And?"

"And I really like it."

Narcissa laughed, letting Hermione flip them, pinning her to the couch.

"But next round…" Hermione bit her lower lip. "Is mine."

The door burst open again.

"LADY BLACK, YOUR CHAMPA—" Ailvy froze, seeing them.

"Out," Narcissa hissed.

"YES, MY LADY!" A pop, and he vanished.

Hermione laughed, and Narcissa pulled her closer.

"Now, where were we?"

Chapter Text

Morning in "Paradise Lagoon"
The sweltering morning at "Paradise Lagoon" felt cool compared to the tension between Narcissa Black and Hermione Granger. They stood on the damp sand right at the water's edge, where the waves rolled in, leaving lace-like foam, then retreated, exposing the firm, cool surface beneath. The sand here wasn’t dry and loose—it had compacted under their bare feet, slightly sticky, just like their fingers, interlaced together.

Narcissa, contrary to her usual impeccable style, wore a light linen dress with open shoulders—the very outfit Hermione loved to peel off her. The thin fabric slid over her skin, accentuating every curve, and now, as her back pressed against Hermione, the dress had slipped slightly to the side, revealing golden tan lines and traces of last night’s caresses.

Hermione, on the other hand, had opted for short shorts and a loose white shirt, unbuttoned enough that Narcissa could see the top edge of her bikini.

"You’re covered in sand," Narcissa whispered, running her fingers along Hermione’s bare shoulder.

"You’re the one to blame," Hermione pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her body. "Who decided kisses on the beach were a good idea?"

"Me," the corners of Narcissa’s lips trembled with a suppressed smirk. "But you didn’t complain."

Their lips met again, this time slower, sweeter. Hermione held Narcissa by the waist with one hand while the other tangled in her silky hair, tugging slightly to deepen the kiss.

And that’s when Cormac McLaggen appeared.

"Granger!" His voice cut through the air like shattering glass.

Narcissa didn’t even turn her head, merely opening her eyes slightly without breaking the kiss.

"Him again," her whisper brushed against Hermione’s lips.

"Ignore him?"

"Absolutely."

Their tongues intertwined again, and Hermione’s fingers slid under the thin straps of Narcissa’s dress, slowly pulling them down her shoulders.

"Have you two lost your damn minds?!" Cormac stepped closer, his face red with fury. "Granger, you’re with her like some cheap—"

Narcissa spun around sharply, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Finish that sentence, McLaggen," her voice was quiet, but the icy edge made him freeze. "Go on. Try."

He stiffened, his gaze darting between them.

"You… you could be her mother!" he finally spat out.

Hermione laughed, her hand slipping beneath the dress to trace bare skin.

"Oh, Cormac," she pressed her lips to Narcissa’s neck, kissing right above her collarbone. "If only you knew what ‘motherly care’ means when it comes from her…"

Narcissa moaned, her fingers digging into Hermione’s shoulders as teeth grazed her skin.

Cormac paled. His jaw twitched.

"Fff— ugh..."

Ailvy, as if summoned by magic, appeared beside him with a bucket.

"The noble sir looks unwell!"

But Cormac was no longer in control. His body folded in half, and all he could see were Narcissa’s bare feet sinking into the wet sand and Hermione’s fingers slowly trailing up her thigh beneath the dress.

"I’m… I’m gonna be sick..."

"No doubt," Hermione tossed back without lifting her lips from Narcissa’s neck.

Meanwhile, Draco, who happened to be passing by, just covered his face with his hands and turned away, muttering:

"I’m emigrating. Immediately."

"You know what drives me crazy?" Narcissa asked once Cormac had finally fled.

"What?"

"The way you pretend the whole world disappears when you kiss me."

Hermione smiled and pulled her toward the water.

"Who said I’m pretending?"

Narcissa’s dress soaked through quickly, turning nearly transparent.

But she didn’t seem to care at all.

Midday Passions
The sea sparkled under the zenith sun as Hermione and Narcissa, fingers intertwined, strolled leisurely along the water's edge. The waves rolled in, washing their bare feet with cool caresses, then retreated, leaving intricate patterns in the sand.

"Your fingers taste salty," Narcissa remarked, lifting Hermione's hand to her lips and tracing her knuckles with her tongue.

"That’s because you just pushed me into a wave," Hermione laughed, letting her lover’s lips glide over her skin.

At that moment, Ailvy burst from the water, his ears sticking out wildly, clutching something blue and wriggling in his hands.

"MY LADY! LOOK!" He sprinted toward them, splashing water everywhere.

Narcissa froze. Her eyes locked onto the enormous blue crab now snapping its claws menacingly just two steps from her bare feet.

"Don’t come closer," her voice suddenly pitched higher, strained. "Ailvy, I command you—"

But the elf was already charging at her, beaming with joy, and the crab, sensing weakness, stretched a claw toward her.

"CISSI, MOVE!" Hermione yanked Narcissa backward while whipping out her wand.

A pop echoed, and the crab suddenly found itself inside a tiny aquarium, a pink bow now glued to its shell.

Silence fell. Even the waves seemed to pause.

Narcissa, still clinging to Hermione, exhaled slowly:

"You... you saved me."

"From a crab," Hermione clarified, unable to suppress a grin.

"From a crab," Narcissa confirmed with grave solemnity.

Ailvy shuffled guiltily, dripping seawater:

"Ailvy... uh... brought Lady Black a gift..."

"A gift?!" Narcissa eyed the tiny crab now blowing peaceful bubbles in its aquarium.

"It... uh... reminds Ailvy of her ladyship!" the elf explained cheerfully. "Just as magnificent and... uh... noble!"

Hermione snorted. Narcissa closed her eyes as if praying for patience.

"Take your 'noble' friend away," she hissed. "And if I ever see it outside that aquarium—"

"Ailvy understands!" The elf grabbed the tank and bolted, nearly colliding with Effy, who was carrying a tray of cocktails.

Narcissa turned to Hermione, her fingers trembling with suppressed laughter:

"You just defended me from a crustacean, Granger."

"Yes," Hermione pulled her closer. "But if you tell anyone, I’ll turn that crab loose again."

Their lips met in a kiss—salty from the sea, sweet from laughter—as the waves finally dared to rush over their bare feet, as if blessing this strange, beautiful love.

"I still hate crabs," Narcissa muttered later, sprawled on a lounge chair.

"I know," Hermione handed her a cocktail. "But this one might as well be your family crest now. Ailvy already drew a crown on it."

Somewhere in the distance, Draco Malfoy took one look at the aquarium housing the "Noble Crab of Black", turned on his heel, and stalked off, muttering about "cursed bloodlines."

Meanwhile, Astoria Greengrass ordered the same cocktail as Narcissa and secretly scribbled down their every word—for her future book.
Evening by the Bonfire
The evening sea breathed warmth, and the sky blazed in shades of purple and gold as the club members gathered around the bonfire. The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows across their faces, while the scent of roasting sausages mingled with the salty breeze.

Astoria and Draco sat slightly apart, engrossed in what appeared to be a heated debate—judging by their gestures, it hovered somewhere between "this violates all decency" and "but it’s fun!"

"Friends!" Mrs. MacAtcher clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let’s play Truth or Dare!"

Narcissa, half-reclining against Hermione’s shoulder, immediately tensed.

"Oh no," she hissed—but it was too late.

Hermione turned to her, and that familiar glint—the one that usually spelled trouble—lit up her eyes.

"I choose you," she said, never breaking eye contact. "Dare."

Silence. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath.

"Kiss me so thoroughly that everyone forgets how to breathe."

Narcissa arched a brow, but a smirk tugged at her lips.

"Too easy, Granger."

She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers tangled in Hermione’s fiery curls, and her lips crashed against hers with such fervor that even the bonfire seemed to flare brighter.

Somewhere in the background, Draco made a sound like a strangled owlet.

Astoria gasped and immediately whipped out her notebook.

Mrs. MacAtcher applauded.

And Ailvy and Effy, perched on a pile of seashells, exchanged glances and giggled.

"Well?" Narcissa pulled back, her gaze challenging the rest of the group. "Still eager to play?"

No one answered.

Because at that exact moment, Cormac McLaggen—who’d been attempting to discreetly roast an "explosive" sausage—dropped it straight into the fire. The flames roared upward, illuminating the entire beach.

"Bloody hell!"

"Marvelous," Narcissa sighed, watching Draco panic-grab a bucket of water. "Now we’ve got a light show too."

Hermione laughed and leaned into her.

"Best. Evening. Ever."

And despite the chaos, the shouting, and the sparks flying everywhere—Narcissa couldn’t disagree.

Later, Walking the Shore
"You know the worst part?" Narcissa asked later, their feet leaving prints on the damp sand.

"Hm?"

"I’m starting to like this ridiculous resort."

Hermione just smiled and squeezed her hand tighter.

Somewhere behind them, Ailvy and Effy—now armed with buckets full of jellyfish—cheerfully dashed back toward their bungalow.
Midnight Confessions
The dim light of the bungalow trembled in time with the enchanted radio—a delicate flute melody weaving with the whisper of the waves. Narcissa held Hermione close, her chin resting atop the younger woman’s head. Granger’s breathing was steady, her chest rising and falling with the music. She was drowning in Narcissa’s scent—complex, like the woman herself: top notes of an exquisite floral bouquet, the deep base of rare sandalwood, and something faintly Eastern, spiced, like dust from ancient tapestries.

“And yet, my little leech…” Narcissa’s voice, usually so precise, was softened by thoughtfulness. Her fingers traced slow, invisible patterns along Hermione’s arm. “How in Merlin’s name did you end up in that club? I’ve wanted to ask since the beginning.”

She tilted her head, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s crown, but the question hung heavily between them. Lady Black chuckled, tousling those riotous curls like a mischievous child might, pulling Hermione’s head tighter against her chest. But there was tension in her fingertips.

Hermione stilled for a moment, lost in warmth and scent. Then she relaxed, her voice drowsy but edged with old irritation:

“Mmm, I wasn’t planning to go at all. Not even a little.” She turned her head just enough to peer into the shadows without pulling away. “But someone… was very persistent with the invitations. Every week. Anonymous.” A dry snort. “Obviously, it was McLaggen. But then…” She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “The last few letters said… someone was secretly in love with me. That they’d be there.” A pause. “And since I was lonely as—well, as that hermit crab Ailvy found the other day—I thought, why not? Maybe meet this mysterious admirer.” A self-deprecating huff. “Pathetic, right?”

Silence thickened, broken only by the music and the sea. Narcissa’s fingers stilled. Then her voice, suddenly sharp, sliced through the quiet:

“And Potter?”

Hermione tensed. Narcissa felt it like a live wire. The older woman bit her lip, feigning casualness, but the poison was there, thinly veiled:

“You slept with that boy. And the Weasley?” An eyeroll—invisible in the dark, but Hermione felt it, that aristocratic disdain. She could picture it perfectly: the arch of Narcissa’s brow, that mocking twist of her lips. “They’re your… eternal shadows, aren’t they?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned—not with shame, but with fury. She wrenched herself free, scrambling upright like she’d been scalded.

“You actually believe that?!” Her voice cracked. She was on her feet now, staring down at Narcissa, eyes blazing in the low light. “Cissy!” The name was an accusation. “Did your son feed you that rubbish? His twisted little fantasies?!” Every word was a lash.

Narcissa, caught off guard, arched a brow, clinging to composure—but Hermione didn’t see it. She only heard the insult, the absurdity.

“No one!” The words tore out of her, jagged and raw. “I’ve never slept with anyone! Not Potter, not Weasley, not a single soul!” She took a step back, toward the door, the sea, the dark—away from this couch, this perfume, this question. Humiliation burned in her throat. “And the fact you’d even think—that you’d believe—” She cut herself off with a furious wave, then turned on her heel. Her silhouette vanished into the moonlit path beyond the door.

Reconciliation on the Shore
The sound of the surf drowned out the pounding of Hermione’s heart. She stood at the water’s edge, arms wrapped around herself as if to contain the tremor of hurt. The moon’s path trembled on the black water, and her own reflection seemed foreign—blurred and unsettled. Behind her, cautious footsteps crunched on wet sand. Narcissa stopped half a step away, hesitating.

"Hermione..."

Silence. Only the waves hissed, rushing over Hermione’s feet, cooling her skin but not the anger inside.

"I’m sorry." Narcissa’s voice, usually so self-assured, was uncharacteristically quiet, strained. She took a step forward, her shadow falling beside Hermione’s on the sand. "That was... stupid. Cruel. Thoughtless." Another step. Her hand rose slowly, as if afraid to startle, and settled on Hermione’s back, just below her shoulder blades. The touch was warm despite the night’s chill. "I didn’t think... didn’t realize it would hurt you like this. Draco was talking nonsense. And I—" She broke off, words failing. "I was scared. Scared you’d had something... real. Important. Before me."

Hermione didn’t turn, but her shoulders trembled slightly under Narcissa’s palm. She could feel the heat of her hand through the thin fabric of her shirt, could hear the uneven breath behind her.

"Real?" Her voice was hoarse at first, barely audible, then louder. She turned her head just enough to see Narcissa’s profile in the moonlight. Her eyes held no tears—just a deep, familiar exhaustion. "It was all in my head, Cissy. Books. Theories of magic. Battles. Plans. They—Harry, Ron—" She swallowed hard. "They were brothers. My only family in all that chaos. The idea of something... more... what you’re implying—" Hermione jerked her shoulder, dislodging Narcissa’s hand but not stepping away. "It would’ve felt like blasphemy. Betrayal. Just... unthinkable."

Narcissa watched her—this stubborn, wounded girl whose life had been woven from duty and struggle. Shame tightened her throat further. She lifted her hand again, not to touch, but to tuck a windblown strand of hair behind Hermione’s damp temple. Her fingers trembled faintly.

"Truly?" she whispered, searching Hermione’s eyes for deception. "No one? At all?" The pause was thick, weighted. Narcissa inhaled, and the next words came out softly, laced with bitter self-mockery: "No one with... you know... male equipment?"

Hermione let out a sharp, incredulous sound—not quite a laugh, more a release of surprise and lingering anger. She finally turned fully to face Narcissa, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"No one," she confirmed firmly, emphasizing each word. "No equipment-owners, no one at all. My experiments were confined to potions labs and library corners. Satisfied?" Challenge still edged her voice, but the tension was easing. The hurt was receding under Narcissa’s absurd bluntness, that strange mix of jealousy and remorse in her gaze.

Narcissa didn’t answer immediately. She studied Hermione—her wind-tangled hair, the stubborn set of her chin, the eyes where anger gave way to weary honesty. Then, entirely unexpectedly, as if the thought had just been born under the moonlight and washed ashore, she said:

"Move in with me. At Grimmauld Place."

Silence. Even the sea seemed to pause, listening. No music reached them from the bungalow now—just the rustle of palm fronds in the night wind.

Hermione froze. All her emotions—anger, hurt, exhaustion, awkwardness—collapsed inward, leaving only pure, deafening shock. Her lips parted slightly, eyes widening as she searched Narcissa’s usually impassive, now strangely unguarded face. Was this a joke? A test? Or something that had been buried beneath layers of arrogance and defense?

"At... Grimmauld?" Hermione finally managed, her voice foreign, tight.

Narcissa didn’t reply. She just stood there, watching her, something unreadable in her eyes—challenge? Hope? Fear? The moonlight carved her cheekbones sharp, shadows of her lashes brushing her cheeks. She didn’t repeat the offer. Didn’t soften or explain it. Narcissa had thrown the words like a stone into water, and now she watched the ripples.

Hermione stood before her—a lone figure on the vast beach under a vast sky, faced with a proposal that could change everything. The air between them thickened with unspoken questions, doubts, and the sudden, dizzying possibility. The sound of the surf returned, insistent and eternal, but it no longer drowned out the ticking of invisible clocks counting down to an answer that had not yet come.

The Elves' Dream
On the wicker bench by the bungalow sat two small figures. Ailvy swung his legs excitedly, his enormous eyes shining with delight. Effy, carefully smoothing the hem of her pillowcase dress, listened intently.

"Did you hear, Effy? Did you hear?" Ailvy squeaked so loudly that he startled an orange crab dozing in the bushes. "Lady Black told Miss Granger: 'Move to Grimmauld'! Ailvy is so happy!" He grabbed his friend’s hand, squeezing it between his tiny palms. "The house is enormous! A hundred rooms, twenty-three bathrooms, a library with bitey books, and... and the smell of old wood, like in a fairy tale!"

Effy gasped softly, her leaf-like ears trembling:

"O-oh! But... but Lady Black is so grand... Isn’t Ailvy scared to live in such a house?"

"Terrified!" the elf admitted cheekily, then immediately bounced on the bench. "But now Miss Granger will be there! She’s brave! She scares grindylows with spells and doesn’t flinch at the Mistress’s Ice Glare! And..." — he dropped to a whisper, glancing around — "Ailvy wants to ask the Mistress... for Effy to come too! Please-please! It’ll be merrier! And cleaning will go quick-quick!"

Effy blushed to the tips of her ears:

"Effy? In the House of Black? But... Effy is just a simple elf from the Hogwarts kitchens..."

"Ailvy was simple too!" he protested fervently. "Now he cleans pearl sinks and makes cocoa with cinnamon for Lady Black!" He jumped up, eyes blazing with determination. "We must make a Gift! A very important one! So Lady Black says 'yes'!"

He seized Effy’s hand and dragged her to the enchanted trunk under the porch (a reward from Mrs. MacAtcher for "Employee of the Week"). Flipping the lid open, he carefully lifted out a crystal orb. Inside, as if in a tiny aquarium, swam two neon-blue fish. Their scales shimmered with fantastical hues, tails leaving glittering trails in the water.

"Here!" Ailvy whispered reverently. "Ailvy found them in the Cave of Moon Tears! They’re alive, they’re magic! See?" He tapped the glass gently. One fish swam up, pressed its nose to the barrier, and a tiny rainbow burst in the water. "They bring luck! And... they make bathwater fizz like champagne! Ailvy was saving them for the Mistress’s Christmas... but this is more important!" He solemnly handed the heavy orb to Effy. "Effy will gift them to Lady Black! Say: 'For your kind heart'! Tomorrow morning — right into her hands! Ailvy will ask the stars for help, and then ask the Mistress for Effy to move in!"

Effy stared, mesmerized, at the fish. Their glow lit her face with a mix of fear and hope.

"They’re... beautiful, like pieces of the night sky... But... Effy is scared... what if Lady Black says 'no'?"

"She won’t!" Ailvy stood on tiptoes and gave her a reassuring pat. "Because Miss Granger looks at Lady Black like Ailvy looks at truffle cake! And the Mistress..." — he searched for the right word — "...melts like ice cream in the sun when Miss Granger is near! They need each other! And we need them! Together!"

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench, watching the dance of the magical fish. Through the half-open bungalow window drifted muffled voices — Narcissa’s measured tones, Hermione’s fervent replies. The discussion about Grimmauld was still ongoing. But the elves’ hearts brimmed with faith. Faith in the fish’s magic, in the mercy of the stars, and in the idea that even the most guarded heart might open to a new family. Effy clutched the cool crystal orb tighter, feeling its weight and the pulse of life inside. Tomorrow would be the deciding day.

Chapter Text

Fish, Tickles, and an Unexpected Visit

Narcissa woke up first, as usual. Her silver eyelashes fluttered, revealing the sight of a sleeping Hermione who—out of an already ingrained habit—had thrown her leg over the older witch's thigh. Even in her sleep, Granger stubbornly clung to the blanket, despite the sweat glistening on her skin. Narcissa smiled at this sweet Gryffindor trait—a mix of stubbornness and ridiculous modesty.

The aristocrat's fingers gently brushed along Hermione's temple, tucking away a damp strand. Narcissa's thoughts swirled around yesterday's conversation. Why hadn’t Hermione given a clear answer? Had she phrased the proposal with the wrong intonation? "Until the end of the trip..." Only three days remained.

Her gaze slid to the unusual clock on the wall—two intertwined hearts showing ten in the morning. They had never slept this late. A playful mood seized Narcissa, and her fingers reached for Hermione’s bare foot resting on her thigh...

At that moment, the door burst open with a crack, slamming against the wall.

— Eeek-eeek-eeek! — squeaked Ailvy, flying into the room like a hurricane.

Behind him raced Effie, clutching a glowing orb. But the little elf didn’t notice Narcissa’s evening shoes placed by the bed. Tripping, she squealed and released the orb, which soared through the air, sparkling with blue glints, straight toward the couch where the women lay.

Narcissa barely had time to raise an eyebrow before the crystal sphere landed softly between her and Hermione. Inside, two magical fish circled in confusion, their neon fins leaving glowing trails in the water.

Hermione jolted awake, her eyes flying wide open:
— What... what’s happening?!

Ailvy froze by the bed, his ears trembling:
— Ailvy... uh... brought breakfast! And... uh... Effie brought a gift!

Effie, red as a lobster, covered her face with her hands:
— Eeek-eeek-eeek, sorry, Lady Black, Miss Granger! Effie didn’t mean to...

Narcissa, maintaining her composure (though the corners of her lips betrayed a tremble), lifted the crystal orb. The fish immediately swam to the glass, as if studying their new mistress with their tiny, gleaming eyes.

— This... — Hermione was still drowsy, but curiosity won out. She reached for the orb, and at that moment, one of the fish released a tiny rainbow bubble spiral.

— Magic fish from the Cave of Lunar Tears! — Ailvy hastily explained. — They bring luck! And... and make bubble baths! And... — he nudged Effie forward, — it’s a gift from Effie! For... for her new home!

Hermione shifted her gaze from the fish to Narcissa, who was already studying the elves with her signature "icy" glare. But Granger knew—something warm hid behind that mask.

— New home, you say? — Narcissa said slowly, turning the orb so the light danced across its facets. — It seems my servants have already decided for me.

Effie trembled, but Ailvy bravely stepped forward:
— Ailvy just wants everyone to be happy! And... and for cleaning to go faster!

Hermione couldn’t hold back a snort. She stretched, deliberately tugging the blanket with her and accidentally (or not?) exposing the leg still draped over Narcissa.

— Well, Lady Black, — she said playfully, — seems your staff is ready for the move. Now we just need to convince the head witch.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes, but amusement flickered in them. Her fingers found Hermione’s bare foot again—this time not to tickle, but to gently squeeze it as she pulled the crystal orb closer.

— Perhaps... — she said mysteriously, — these fish really will bring us luck.

Ailvy and Effie exchanged glances, their eyes shining with hope. Maybe their plan had worked even better than they’d expected.

McLaggen’s Beach Humiliation

The scorching noon sun beat down mercilessly as the beach became the stage for a comedy worthy of Shakespeare. Draco and Astoria, sprawled on loungers under a giant umbrella, watched the spectacle with undisguised interest. A glass of iced lemonade swayed in Malfoy’s hand, while his wife hid a smile behind the pages of the Daily Prophet.

Cormac McLaggen, red as a boiled lobster, emerged from the water, panting heavily. His "partner" for the contest—an elderly but remarkably spry witch, Miss Tibbs—had latched onto his swim trunks after losing her balance on a slippery rock.

— Oh dearie me! — she shrieked, clinging to the only thing that could save her from falling—namely, McLaggen’s dignity. — Help an old lady!

Draco choked on his lemonade as Cormac, now resembling either a beached whale or an overheated steam engine, bellowed:

— Let go, damn it! This isn’t a handrail!

But Miss Tibbs, apparently mistaking his protests for modesty, only tightened her grip. A sinister rrrrrip echoed—and suddenly McLaggen’s bloodshot eyes saw his own swim trunks remain in the old woman’s hands while he, now in his birthday suit, made a desperate leap for shore.

Astoria gasped and immediately pulled out a magical camera:
— Darling, this is the Quibbler’s next cover!

The beach fell dead silent, broken only by the waves and... a strange gurgling noise coming from McLaggen. Then, as if on cue, an explosion of laughter erupted. Even the usually unflappable Narcissa, sitting with Hermione under a nearby umbrella, choked on her cocktail.

— Well then, King of the Lagoon? — someone from the crowd shouted. — Where’s your crown?

McLaggen, covering himself with his hands (which were clearly insufficient for decency), bolted for his villa, leaving a wet trail and a stream of curses behind. His buttocks, white as milk, contrasted starkly with his tanned back, giving the impression he’d worn invisible bikini bottoms.

— I’LL HAVE YOU ALL ARRESTED! — his scream carried as he tripped over his own towel. — THIS IS A CONSPIRACY!

Meanwhile, Miss Tibbs examined her trophy—the torn trunks adorned with a golden Snitch.

— My grandson will love these, — she declared, tucking them into her beach bag.

Hermione, red with laughter, buried her face in Narcissa’s shoulder:
— I... I’ll never... forget this...

Narcissa, struggling to keep a straight face, ran her fingers along the redhead’s back:
— Now you see why I insist on moving? At least Grimmauld doesn’t have beach contests.

Ailvy and Effie, who’d been watching from a palm tree where they’d climbed for coconuts, now swayed with laughter, nearly falling.

— Ailvy thinks noble sir will wear double trunks now! — the elf squealed.

Draco, wiping tears, raised his glass:
— To McLaggen’s health! Or what’s left of it!

As the sun began to set, new versions of the incident were still being recounted on the beach. Meanwhile, the curtains in McLaggen’s villa remained tightly drawn, and the only sounds from within were furious scratching on parchment—likely complaints to every imaginable authority.

Night Fishing, or How Lady Black Lost Her Dignity (But Not Quite)

The bungalow smelled of salt and jasmine. Ailvy, breathless with importance, presented an envelope sealed with gold.

— From Mrs. MacAtcher! — he whispered, as if delivering state secrets.

Hermione unfolded the letter, skimmed the lines, and grinned:
— Night fishing. Only one person per couple participates. Winner gets a free week at the resort.

Narcissa, not looking up from the hand mirror she was using to adjust the curls at her temples, scoffed:
— I’d rather double the club’s entry fee. Imagine—Miss Black with a fishing rod on the pier. Preposterous.

— What if we settle it with a game? — Hermione pulled out a miniature wizard’s chess set. The pieces immediately stirred on the board. — Loser goes fishing.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. Chess? Against her?
— Are you sure you want this, Granger?

40 minutes later

— Check... and mate, — Hermione tapped Narcissa’s king.

The piece dramatically fell onto its back, wailing:
— Traitor! I served you for thirty years!

Narcissa stared at the board. How? She’d calculated five moves ahead!

— You lured the queen to f7, thinking I’d sacrifice the rook. But I moved the knight, — Hermione inclined her head. — Good game, Lady Black. See you on the pier at midnight.

Narcissa slowly lifted her gaze. Her eyes said: You’ll die. Slowly.

Night Fishing, or How Lady Black Lost Her Dignity (But Not Quite)

The pier was illuminated by firefly orbs. Narcissa arrived in a silver dress that shimmered like fish scales with every movement, wearing gloves (because "touching bait? Absolutely not").

— You look stunning for fishing, — Hermione, already in comfortable shorts and a t-shirt, handed her a fishing rod.

— I don’t plan to use this, — Narcissa pushed the tackle away. — I’ll stand here just long enough to fulfill the formality, then we’ll—

Suddenly, McLaggen appeared.

— Lady Black! — He spread his legs, showcasing new swim trunks (this time with the Malfoy crest—clearly a rushed purchase). — Need help? I know all the best spots for biting!

Narcissa looked at him as if he were something stuck to her shoe.
— Mr. McLaggen, if you don’t vanish within three seconds, I’ll test how well you swim without trunks. Again.

McLaggen turned red and retreated.

— Just cast the line, — Hermione sighed, adjusting her glasses. — Like this, smooth motion.

Narcissa gritted her teeth and made a careless throw—her glove almost slipped off the handle. "Barbaric," flashed through her mind.

Then the rod jerked with such force she nearly lost her balance.

— What... what is this?! — Her eyes widened, silver lashes fluttering. For the first time that evening, Lady Black looked genuinely stunned.

— Pull! Faster! — Hermione jumped up, forgetting all her scholarly poise, and grabbed the rod beside Narcissa. Their fingers brushed.

Resisting but refusing to yield, Narcissa reeled in...

Not a fish.

A soggy, tattered boot that landed on the pier with a loud splat.

— Charming, — Narcissa grimaced, — my first catch is a stinking—

But then a glowing fish—the very one from their crystal orb!—leaped from the boot. Its neon fins left rainbow trails in the air before it plopped back into the water.

— How did it get here?! — Hermione gasped, dropping her glasses in the sand.

A rustle came from the bushes. Ailvy, who’d been watching the whole time, twitched like a spring.

— Ailvy... uh... doesn’t know! — he squeaked, but his ears turned red.

Narcissa slowly turned to him, a sphinx ready to pounce.

— You released it into the sea. On purpose.

— Ailvy just wanted Lady Black to catch luck! — The elf flapped his hands and practically flew away in terror as Narcissa stepped toward him. — Now Ailvy must... run! — He vanished in a cloud of dust.

Hermione burst out laughing.

— Well, Lady Black, — she lifted the fish, which blew a heart-shaped bubble, — you’ve got your trophy. And, I’d say, an automatic win.

Narcissa looked at the fish, then at Hermione... and smiled. Truly. Without her usual smirk.

— Fine, — she ran a finger over its shimmering scales. — Perhaps it was worth it.

Somewhere in the distance, McLaggen howled: — CHEATING! I DIDN’T CATCH THOSE FISH!

But no one listened.

Morning After Fishing

Sunlight danced in crystal glasses as Mrs. MacAtcher, all lace and dimples, presented them with a gilded key on a turquoise cord.

— For our special guests, — she winked. — VIP bungalow ‘Moonlight Cove.’ Yours for the next week.

Hermione blinked at the key.
— But... we caught a boot!

Mrs. MacAtcher laughed, her chins wobbling:
— Ah, dearie, but it held a lunar fish! Don’t you know the old legend? — She lowered her voice dramatically. — Whoever finds it gains more than expected. Far more...

Narcissa, sipping her morning coffee (perfectly brewed, dash of cream—Ailvy had learned), glared at the eavesdropping elf:
— If this is another scheme of yours...

Ailvy clasped his hands.
— Ailvy innocent! — But his eyes sparkled like the fish. — But... if Lady Black wants to thank Ailvy... maybe say "yes" to moving?

Hermione snorted, spilling orange juice. Narcissa closed her eyes—but her lips twitched.
— I’ll consider it.

The unspoken understanding hung: the fish was caught, the decision nearly made.

Meanwhile, under a palm tree, McLaggen scratched furious quill strokes onto parchment:
— "...illegal bait... sabotage... emotional damages..." — His handwriting grew illegible. — May those Black-Granger brats choke on their fish!

Farewell to the Lagoon

The steamship Lady Medusa slowly departed, its deck glowing in the sunset. Draco, champagne in hand, lazily waved:

— Don’t scare the neighbors at Grimmauld, Mother! — Astoria, wrapped in a gauzy scarf, added:
— Send an owl when you set a wedding date!

Narcissa ignored them, but her fingers tightened around Hermione’s.

Ailvy and Effie, like lovebird doves, waved from the pier until the ship vanished.

— Well, — Hermione turned, — now we’re alone...

— With an entire VIP bungalow, — Narcissa murmured, — and no witnesses.

Their new bungalow was luxurious: marble floors, an open-air pool, a bed half the size of Hogwarts’ Great Hall...

But—

The door flew open.

— Lady Black! Miss Granger! Ailvy brought— — The elf froze, eyes plate-wide.

Effie, behind him, shrieked and flung a breakfast tray skyward.

Hermione yelped, grabbing the nearest item—Narcissa’s hat.

Narcissa merely arched a brow.

— GET. OUT. — Her voice frosted the windows.

The door slammed before Ailvy could squeak "Ailvy so sorry!!!"

— So... about moving, — Hermione mumbled, pulling on a robe. — You’re sure you want me to—

— Hermione, — Narcissa tucked a red curl behind her ear, — I’ve already bought a new library. For your books.

Hermione stared.

— ...You’re serious?

— Were you doubting?

The answer was a kiss.

Epilogue: Five Days After the Move

Grimmauld Place greeted them with silence, centuries of dust... and unexpectedly warm wallpaper in Narcissa’s bedroom. Hermione still marveled at how quickly the grim mansion had become theirs.

But now, her mind was elsewhere.

7:00 AM:

Sunbeams slid over bare skin, tangling in Hermione’s red curls and Narcissa’s silver strands. Their fingers intertwined, lips unhurried, breaths syncing.

— You’re so... — Narcissa didn’t finish, preferring action to words. Her hand trailed lower, to where Hermione already knew her touch too well.

Hermione arched with a gasp.

— Narcissa—

Then—

The door banged open.

— Eeek-eeek-eeek!

Ailvy gaped, jaw unhinged. A tea tray crashed—but neither woman turned.

Narcissa only bit her lip, fingers never pausing.

— Close. The door, — she rasped, not even glancing at him.

Hermione dug her nails deeper into Narcissa’s shoulders.

Ailvy fled faster than he’d appeared.

On the kitchen, the elf trembled over a teapot:
— Ailvy... saw too much.

Effie shoved a calming cookie at him:
— Effie thinks... we knock harder now.

And in the bedroom?

Only whispers, sighs, and the occasional thump of a headboard.

P.S. Somewhere in the Ministry, McLaggen shredded his complaint:
— THEY LEFT?! UNPUNISHED?!

But that’s another story.

______________________________

And when the doors of 12 Grimmauld Place finally closed behind them, the impossible happened in a house where cold calculus and blood purity had ruled for centuries: life took root. Real, unscripted, with all its absurdities, stolen glances, and accidental touches.

As Nietzsche wrote: "You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star." Perhaps this chaos—a disheveled Gryffindor, meddling elves, and ridiculous beach mishaps—was the magic that finally melted ancient ice.

For true magic isn’t in flawless spells, but in seeing wonder where others see rule-breaking. And if the cost is dropping dignity with a fishing rod or embracing imperfection... isn’t that a price worth paying?