Chapter Text
Narcissa stirred, eyelids heavy, as the soft light of the nursery filtered in. The hours of worry and grief had taken their toll, and she had finally dozed off on the sofa. Her ears pricked at the sudden quiet. Blinking awake, she saw little Scorpius in his crib, clutching something with wide, intent eyes.
Her heart lifted slightly. He wasn’t crying. Not now. Relief softened the tension in her chest as she got to her feet and moved closer. But then she saw it: a torn, cut-out picture of Hermione Granger, the witch who had always managed to best Draco in school—a girl whose name had often drawn a sharp, frustrated whine from her son in years past.
Narcissa reached to take the paper from her grandson’s tiny hands.
“Scorpius, darling, let’s—” she began gently, but the moment she touched the picture, the baby’s lips trembled, and a wail tore from him anew.
Narcissa froze. His cries were pitiful and raw, and something in her a tenderness hardened by decades of loss and duty made her pause. She could not, would not, take it from him. Slowly, she retreated her hand, letting the child clutch the photograph as his tears subsided into soft hiccups.
As she watched him, her mind drifted back. Hermione Granger… she remembered the girl with the shock of curly brown hair, fierce eyes, and unyielding determination. She had always bested Draco in class, every time, and he had fussed and complained about it to anyone who would listen. She remembered Draco always starting his complain "Potter and Granger!"
A darker memory surfaced, jagged and unwelcome. The night at Malfoy Manor when her sister Bellatrix had unleashed the Cruciatus Curse in the drawing room. Hermione had screamed, writhing in pain, and even now Narcissa could hear the echo of that suffering. She had seen the terror in the girl’s eyes and the unflinching courage that followed. And later, after the war, at Hogwarts, she had glimpsed Hermione again—older, but still resolute, unbowed by what she had endured.
Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line as she observed her grandson. The irony did not escape her: this girl, once the bane of her husband’s academic existence, now held the power to soothe his son when no spell, toy, or lullaby could.
She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, resigning herself. “Very well,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. “If Hermione Granger is what calms you… then keep her, my little one.”
And so, for the moment, the photograph remained clutched in Scorpius’s tiny hands, a small talisman of peace amid a house still heavy with grief. Narcissa settled back onto the sofa, watching quietly, thoughts of the past and present weaving together in a strange, bittersweet harmony.
A few days had passed, and the nursery had settled into a fragile rhythm. Scorpius still clutched the crumpled cut-out picture of Hermione Granger like a treasure, his tiny fingers curling around the paper even as it tore slightly at the edges from constant handling. Every time Winky tried to coax him with toys or lullabies, the boy’s gaze would wander back to the image, and the wails would begin again if it was ever taken from him.
Narcissa observed this quietly from the doorway one morning. She had tried to gently straighten the paper, but it had long since lost any semblance of neatness. The corners were bent, the edges frayed, and the ink was smudging from Scorpius’s damp little hands. Her mind worked swiftly, as it always did, seeking a solution.
“I suppose this will have to do,” she murmured to herself. A plan formed almost immediately. If the boy could not part with the image, she would make it something that could withstand his small but determined grip a keepsake worthy of his affection.
Later that day, Narcissa took a late issue of the Daily Prophet, searching carefully for a photograph of Hermione she could cut out. When she found one—Hermione smiling at some event, hair neatly tucked behind her ears, eyes bright and intelligent.
From her dressing room, she retrieved a small, delicate silver frame. With meticulous care, she slid the photograph inside, making sure the edges were secure and the image could survive the attentions of a small, determined hand.
Returning to the nursery, she approached Scorpius quietly. The baby looked up at her with curious eyes, still clutching the original crumpled cut-out. Narcissa knelt and gently extended the framed picture.
“Scorpius, darling,” she said softly, “I have something special for you. Something that will last.”
The boy hesitated, then let go of the old paper just long enough to examine the new image. When he realized it was Hermione, eyes widening in recognition, a delighted gurgle escaped him. He reached for it immediately, clutching the silver frame as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Narcissa allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, watching him carefully turn it over in his hands, marveling at the shine and smooth edges. Unlike the crumpled cut-out, this one would survive his affection.
And in that quiet moment, Narcissa couldn’t help but reflect again on the strange, unpredictable ways of the world. Hermione Granger the girl who had challenged her son, endured unimaginable pain, and emerged unbowed—was now a small comfort to the child who had lost his mother.
Perhaps, she thought quietly, some things were more powerful than even grief.