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Narcissa Malfoy’s heeled boots clicked softly against the flagstones of the courtyard, the crisp air tugging at the edges of her cloak. The market stalls were scattered across the Hogwarts lawn, bright pennants fluttering in the breeze, their colours reflected in the lake beyond. A faint haze of woodsmoke hung in the air, curling from the enchanted braziers that kept the October chill at bay.
She had not walked these grounds freely in decades, not since her own school days when she had been a teenager promised to a dark wizard five years older than her. The stones seemed unchanged, though the atmosphere was not. There was a tautness here, as though everyone breathed a little shallower when enemies-turned-classmates brushed shoulders.
Narcissa, however, was not unsettled; she was finally free of the shackles that had kept her bound throughout her adult life, and she wanted nothing but the best for her son and his future. She had raised her son through darker times than these. She had taught him how to conceal fear with hauteur, anger with indifference. In this moment, she watched her son with careful eyes as he manned his stall, Draco’s posture impeccable, his voice clipped.
What amused her most was not his potions, clever though they were, but the way his attention kept straying across the path to the girl opposite him. Granger’s stall was a fortress of books and enchanted pamphlets, and though Draco sneered at every charm she cast, Narcissa had raised him too well to miss the truth. His barbs had always been sharpest when he felt most unsteady.
A summer letter of his drifted through her mind, written with brittle irritation:
Mother, the castle is intolerable. Granger won’t keep to her own side. She is everywhere, and worse, she is competent. I cannot abide it.
Narcissa had smiled when she read it. She smiled again now, watching the inevitable clash.
“Try not to spill anything toxic on my books, Malfoy,” Granger called, not even glancing up from her stack.
Draco’s knuckles tightened around a vial. “Please, Granger. I’ve brewed elixirs more valuable than your entire stall.”
“Funny,” she said crisply. “I thought knowledge was priceless.”
“Trust a Gryffindor to cheapen it with pamphlets.”
Narcissa turned away before her amusement betrayed her. Their sparring was nothing new, but oh, the tone. It reminded her of Lucius in his youth; the sharpness of rivalry tangled with something he would never have admitted until it was far too late.
At the next row, Blaise’s stall was as effortlessly inviting as the boy himself. Rich mulled wine simmered in an enchanted urn, spiced steam curling into the air. He leaned against the counter, posture deceptively lazy, while Ginny Weasley busied herself with arranging her sunflowers in neat rows. Narcissa saw how Blaise’s gaze lingered, not on the flowers but on the hands arranging them.
A line from his own letter flickered in her mind:
Don’t concern yourself, Madam Malfoy. It’s nothing, only that red hair is far too bright to ignore, and she insists on putting herself directly in my line of sight.
Now, his eyes gleamed as Ginny snapped, “Honestly, Zabini, must you loiter so close with that stench of cloves?”
“Cloves?” Blaise tilted his head, feigning injury. “This is tradition, Weasley. Refinement. You’d understand if you’d ever tasted anything better than pumpkin juice.”
Her glare could have felled a lesser boy. Blaise only smirked.
Further down, Potter looked utterly miserable, sitting stiffly beside a painted banner declaring: “Take a Photo with the Saviour!” The sign had clearly been the result of some lost bet, and Narcissa almost pitied him. Almost. His green eyes, however, kept flicking to where Theodore Nott lounged beside his stall of curiosities, old coins, enchanted mirrors, and oddities that reeked of Nott family vaults. Theo leaned against the table with the ease of a boy who knew he was being watched. Potter’s ears reddened.
Theo’s summer letter had been the shortest, ink blotched in one corner:
Mother Malfoy, do you know of a charm to still a restless mind? I cannot look at someone without forgetting what I meant to say.
Now, Narcissa saw it for herself, the flicker of heat in his gaze, the way Potter’s ears turned pink whenever Theo spoke. It was almost too easy to unravel.
Then, of course, there was Pansy. Draped in scarves, she coaxed coins from younger students with her fortune-telling, her hands gliding over tarot cards with theatrical flourish. Ron Weasley’s Quidditch stall directly across from hers was a stroke of perfect irony. His booming voice carried over the lawn, and every time Pansy purred a prediction, his eyes darted her way.
Pansy had been the most direct in her letters:
He is insufferable. He shouts, he stumbles, and he cannot string two words together in my presence. It is intolerable. I want to hex him until he admits it.
Narcissa chuckled under her breath. That girl had her father’s sharpness but none of his restraint.
At the far end of the row, she found a balm for the tension. Neville Longbottom tended his plants with a tenderness that disarmed even the fanged geraniums. Beside him, Luna Lovegood carved a pumpkin whose eyes blinked sleepily.
“Do you think it will want to be set free after the market?” Luna asked dreamily, brushing pumpkin shavings from her skirt.
Neville stammered something that sounded like, “I’ll grow it a patch of its own.” His ears burned scarlet, but his eyes were soft, unguarded.
Narcissa lingered, watching as Luna hummed while Neville watched her as though she hung the moon. At least one pair here was honest, their feelings unburdened by performance.
The others, however, her children, as she thought of them, were wrapped in knots of secrecy. As Narcissa surveyed the stalls, she knew something with absolute certainty: knots always came undone.
Narcissa glided toward Draco’s stall first, the way one always checks a flame before it consumes the tablecloth.
“Do you require anything?” she asked, her tone the perfect balance of cool and maternal.
Draco startled at her presence only slightly, then drew himself taller. “No, Mother. Everything is under control,” he replied smoothly.
“Of course it is, Dragon.” Narcissa lifted one brow. “I merely wondered why your eyes keep darting left.”
Colour rose at his collar, whether from her observation or her use of his childhood nickname, she didn’t know. “They are not,” he replied, his blush darkening as his eyes moved left once more, meeting the chocolate pair of eyes of the dark-haired witch across from his potions stall.
“They are,” Hermione Granger said crisply from across the way, returning her gaze to the stack she was reorganising.
Draco froze. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” she replied, sliding a slim pamphlet to the front. Its title glowed: Common Missteps in Brewing Potions and How to Avoid Them.
Draco’s nostrils flared. “You are taunting me.”
“I’m informing the public,” she said sweetly. “Not everyone has the luxury of private tutors.”
Narcissa laid a hand over her mouth to mask the upward twitch of her lips. Exhausting, indeed.
She moved on before Draco combusted. Blaise’s corner was next, warm with the scent of wine and citrus. He was mid-pour, his wrist elegant, his voice smoother still.
“Another?” he asked a pair of Hufflepuff girls, who giggled before hurrying off. He leaned back against the counter, clearly pleased with himself.
Ginny Weasley, meanwhile, was rearranging her sunflowers with so much force that a few lost petals in the process.
“You’re scaring them off,” she muttered, stabbing stems into a vase.
“On the contrary,” Blaise said lazily. “They come for the wine, stay for the view.”
She rolled her eyes so hard Narcissa feared they might stay that way. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Blaise drawled, “you keep talking to me.”
Ginny’s hands stilled on a stalk of sunflowers, the tips of her ears red. She snapped the stem in half, then stuffed both halves in the same jar.
Narcissa let the scene slip behind her with quiet amusement. ‘It would be charming, if she didn’t make my chest feel peculiar.’ His letter had undersold it.
Potter’s stall loomed next, a throng of younger students clamouring for photographs. He obliged stiffly, though his jaw clenched tighter with each flash of the camera.
From the shadows of his curiosities stall, Theo called, “Smile, Potter. You’ll frighten the children otherwise.”
Harry’s head whipped around, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you mind your own stall, Nott?”
Theo held up a fractured compass that spun without stopping. “I am. But you are part of my collection, Potter, didn’t you know?”
The flush that spread across the boy’s cheeks was instant, unmistakable. He turned back to his admirers, forcing a grin that looked more like a grimace.
Narcissa’s gaze softened. ‘If there is a draught for this affliction, I beg you to send it.’ She had kept the letter. She could not bear to burn it.
At the far end, Pansy was in her element. She swept a card onto the table with a flourish. “The Lovers,” she intoned, her voice low, theatrical. “Interesting.”
The second-year student across from her flushed and scurried away, clutching the card like a prize. Pansy smirked, clearly satisfied.
Ron Weasley, polishing a broom at his stall, barked a laugh. “You can’t possibly expect anyone to believe that nonsense!”
Pansy tilted her head, her bracelets clinking. “You sound jealous, Weasley. Afraid of what the cards might say about you?”
“I’m not afraid of a bunch of paper,” Ron retorted, though his ears had gone pink.
“Mm,” she said, drawing another card. “I see fire. And red. And a temper that runs hot.” Her gaze lingered on him, lips curling. “It’s all very… telling.”
Ron spluttered something incoherent.
Pansy leaned back, clearly savouring the victory. Narcissa almost applauded her.
Then thankfully, she found reprieve as she moved past the bickering pair to once again stand by Neville Longbottom’s stall. The boy’s hands were steady as he trimmed the edge of a Flutterby bush, his expression one of quiet focus. Beside him, Luna was humming as she carved a pumpkin into the shape of a sleeping dragon.
“Do you think pumpkins dream?” Luna asked suddenly, holding up the carving.
Neville blinked. “I—well—maybe. If they do, I’d like to think it’s about the sun.”
Her smile was soft, faraway, but the look Neville gave her was anything but. Narcissa’s chest tightened. There was nothing tangled here, just simple devotion that was pure and bright.
She drew her cloak closer, exhaling into the autumn air. All around her, the market sparkled with lantern light, laughter, and the unspoken weight of secrets. Each of her charges was wound tight in knots of longing and denial, and each believed themselves subtle.
Narcissa knew better.
Knots were meant to come undone.
The evening air grew cooler as the lanterns brightened, casting golden halos over the stalls. Music drifted faintly from a charmed gramophone near the butterbeer stand, students weaving between tables with cups of cider and sticky fingers from Toffee Apples.
Narcissa lingered by Draco’s side just long enough to watch him snap his patience in half.
“Selling books about potions is hardly the same as brewing them, Granger,” he sneered, though his voice carried a little louder than it needed to.
Hermione barely looked up from arranging her wares. “And selling potions is hardly the same as understanding them, Malfoy.”
His jaw worked. “I make them. That’s all the understanding necessary.”
She tapped her pamphlet with a brisk finger. “Perhaps for you. Some of us prefer to share knowledge, not hoard it.”
Draco opened his mouth, clearly ready to deliver a stinging reply, when Narcissa placed a gloved hand on his arm. His words died instantly.
“Darling,” she said softly, “I was under the impression you came here to sell potions, not to waste your time arguing with Miss Granger.”
His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing. Across the way, Granger smirked faintly to herself, victory enough for the moment.
Narcissa moved on, her lips curving. Let him stew. He’ll follow the thread back to her soon enough.
Blaise was next. His stall was drawing a steady crowd now, the spiced wine far too inviting in the chilly air. Ginny Weasley, however, was unimpressed. She was tying a ribbon around a sunflower jar with far more aggression than the ribbon deserved.
“Another cup?” Blaise asked a Ravenclaw, voice smooth as velvet. He poured, flicked his wand, and the steam curled into the shape of a heart before dissipating.
“Show-off,” Ginny muttered.
“Artist,” Blaise corrected, leaning lazily against the table. “Don’t confuse the two.”
Ginny’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “You’re insufferable.”
Blaise smiled, slow and deliberate. “You’ve mentioned. Frequently.”
“Then you should take the hint.”
“Oh, I have.” His eyes slid over her sunflowers, then back to her face. “And I rather like it.”
Ginny’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, her cheeks flooding pink. She busied herself with another ribbon.
Narcissa stopped just long enough to catch Blaise’s eye. One sharp, arched brow was all it took. His smirk faltered for the briefest second. Good. He remembered who had raised him, who expected discretion, even if his pulse betrayed him.
Further down, the tension between Potter and Theo had shifted. Potter had finally chased away the last eager group of admirers and slumped behind his stall, rubbing his temples.
“Don’t scowl so hard, Potter,” Theo drawled, flicking a coin between his fingers. “It’ll ruin your photographs.”
Harry glared at him. “Merlin, you’re irritating.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Theo replied easily. He leaned across his stall, voice dropping just enough to carry. “Though never by someone who looks at me quite so often.”
Harry’s flush was instant. He scrambled to his feet, muttering something about needing a break, and stalked toward the pumpkin carving stall.
Theo watched him go, a flicker of something raw breaking through his mask. Narcissa did not miss it. She stepped closer, just long enough to murmur, “Careful, Theodore. Some battles are not won by provocation alone.”
Theo’s coin slipped from his fingers. He caught it mid-air, but his composure was slower to recover.
Finally, Pansy. She had drawn quite the crowd now, her voice silky as she dealt another card.
“Ah, the Knight of Wands,” she announced to a Gryffindor boy. “Impulsive, fiery, reckless. You’ll fall in love before the year’s out.”
The boy turned scarlet and stumbled away.
Ron snorted from his broom display. “You really believe your own rubbish?”
Pansy turned, smiling like a cat with cream. “Would you like me to read yours, Weasley?”
“Not a chance.”
“Afraid of the truth?”
“I’m not afraid of anything you’ve got to say.”
“Good.” She slid a card from the deck with a flourish. “Because this one is for you, whether you like it or not.”
Ron crossed his arms, clearly trying not to look interested.
“The Two of Cups,” Pansy purred, holding it aloft. “Partnership. Union. A fiery romance.”
Ron’s face turned crimson to the roots of his hair. “You’re making that up!”
“Am I?” Pansy asked, eyes glittering. “Or am I simply better at seeing what you try so hard to hide?”
His sputtering was drowned out by laughter from the crowd, but Narcissa heard the truth in his silence.
She moved on at last, toward the quiet corner where Longbottom tended his plants and Luna Lovegood carved yet another enchanted pumpkin. The hum of their voices was a balm against the storm of tension elsewhere.
Neville leaned down, murmuring something as Luna’s pumpkin sprouted delicate wings. She laughed, the sound light as wind through reeds, and for a moment Neville looked as though he might lift off himself.
Narcissa’s lips softened. “At least,” she murmured under her breath, “someone here knows their own heart.”
She drew her cloak tight, surveying the courtyard one last time. Everywhere, sparks of longing crackled, sharp words disguising softer truths. She had tended these children through letters, through absence and grief. Now she watched them, live and tangled, and thought:
The harvest was about gathering what had grown, about bringing secrets into the light. And tonight, she suspected, the harvest would not end with apples and pumpkins.
It began, as these things so often did, with a pumpkin.
Luna had just finished carving her latest pumpkin, a particularly lopsided cat. The pumpkin stretched, yawned, and before anyone could stop it, the pumpkin had sprouted legs. It bounded off the table, scattering shavings and squealing in delight.
“Come back!” Luna called cheerfully, making no move to retrieve it. “It only wants to explore,” she declared joyfully.
The pumpkin careened across the courtyard, weaving between stalls. Students shrieked and laughed as it barrelled through tables, narrowly missing a tower of Quidditch brooms before crashing into Draco’s potion stand.
Three vials toppled. Draco lunged, catching two, but the third shattered on the stone floor with a hiss of smoke.
“Granger!” he snapped, though she was nowhere near the stall.
Hermione whirled, eyes flashing. “How is this my fault?”
“You distracted me!”
“I wasn’t even looking at you!”
“You always are!”
Narcissa pressed her lips together, though not tightly enough to stop the smile tugging there.
The pumpkin darted again, this time towards Blaise’s cauldron. Ginny leapt forward, wand out, casting a containment charm that flickered gold around the rim. The pumpkin bounced straight into it, mulled wine sloshed, and Blaise caught the cauldron with one hand as Ginny’s other hand landed squarely on his chest.
For one heartbeat, they froze, her palm flat against him, Blaise’s smirk just shy of being genuine. Then Ginny snatched her hand back as though burned.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she hissed.
“Too late,” Blaise murmured.
Across the lawn, the pumpkin ricocheted toward Harry’s stall. He swore, ducking behind the table as it toppled the “Saviour” sign. Theo flicked his wand, trapping the pumpkin mid-bounce in a shimmering net.
“Caught it,” Theo announced, smirking at Harry. “You can thank me later.”
Harry scowled, brushing splinters off his robes. “I’m not thanking you for that.”
“Really?” Theo tilted his head, releasing the pumpkin with a flourish. “What would you thank me for, then?”
Harry’s ears flamed, and Narcissa caught the way Theo’s smirk faltered into something softer before he looked away.
The chaos wasn’t done.
The pumpkin was relentless, determined as it bounced straight into Pansy’s fortune table. Cards scattered in every direction, fluttering like startled birds. Ron scrambled to gather them, nearly tripping over a broom in his haste.
“I wasn’t helping you!” he blurted when Pansy’s eyebrow arched.
“Then why are you holding my Lovers card, Weasley?” she purred, plucking it neatly from his hand.
Ron went scarlet, mouth opening and closing. The watching crowd erupted in laughter.
By the time the pumpkin finally rolled to a halt at Neville’s feet, panting as though pumpkins could pant, the courtyard was a mess of spilt wine, scattered cards, toppled brooms, and bruised pride.
Neville bent down, scooped it up gently, and murmured something soft. The pumpkin quieted instantly, curling into his arms like a pet. Luna beamed. “See? It only wanted someone kind.”
Silence rippled across the courtyard, broken only by muffled giggles and a few whispers. Narcissa, standing at the centre of it all, felt the corner of her mouth curve.
The masks had cracked. Not completely, not yet, but enough for her to see past the children’s armour.
She smoothed her cloak, surveying her Slytherins, her children, really and thought: the harvest has begun.
The laughter died quickly. Too quickly. What lingered was the charged silence of a place full of secrets suddenly teetering at the edge.
Hermione broke it first. She rounded on Draco, cheeks flushed pink. “You blamed me for that pumpkin disaster when it was clearly your fault!”
Draco shot back instantly. “If you hadn’t been hovering—”
“I wasn’t hovering!”
“You always hover, Granger. Always correcting, always—”
“Because someone must! Merlin, forbid you admit you’re wrong for once in your life.”
“Merlin, forbid you admit you’re obsessed with me!”
The words ripped out of him before he could stop them. His eyes widened a fraction, but it was too late.
Gasps rose from the onlookers. Hermione froze, her mouth parting in outrage and something else.
“Obsessed?” she hissed. “You arrogant—” She stopped herself, colour flooding her face. “You think you’re the only one who—”
“Who what?” Draco demanded, stepping closer.
Narcissa’s fingers twitched against her cloak. The air between them was molten, dangerous.
Before Hermione could answer, Ginny’s voice rang out, sharp and incredulous. “What about you, Zabini?” She jabbed a finger toward him. “Standing there smirking while I saved your precious cauldron was that part of your act?”
Blaise’s smirk slipped, just barely. “You didn’t have to save it.”
“I didn’t do it for you!”
“Of course not.” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “You did it because you care.”
Ginny’s jaw dropped. “You—how dare you—”
Her voice cracked. She spun away, but Blaise caught her wrist, gently. Too gentle for a boy supposedly mocking her. The crowd’s muttering swelled.
Theo laughed, low and sharp, drawing eyes like a magnet. “At least you two aren’t pretending very well. Some of us put a bit more effort into denial.”
Harry snapped his head toward him, green eyes blazing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Theo arched a brow. “Please, Potter. Half the school’s noticed the way you look at me. I’m shocked you haven’t noticed yourself.”
Harry’s face flamed red. “That’s—shut up! I don’t—”
“You do,” Theo cut in smoothly, though his voice cracked on the edge. “You do, and you’re bloody terrible at hiding it.”
The crowd broke into whispers, students craning for a better view.
Ron, looking like he wanted to sink into the ground, suddenly blurted, “At least I’m not the only one she’s tormenting!” He flung a hand toward Pansy. “She’s been pulling those bloody cards out every chance she gets, telling me about romance and partnership and—”
Pansy’s lips curved, dangerous and knowing. “Because it’s true, Weasley and you’re too thick to admit you want it.”
Ron went crimson. “I don’t—”
“Then why,” Pansy purred, stepping closer, “do you always sit near me in class? Why do you stay when I tease you? Why do you look at me like you want to throttle me or—”
“Or kiss you,” Ron blurted. His ears turned scarlet. The words hung in the air like a guillotine.
Silence slammed down.
One by one, heads turned: Draco and Hermione flushed and furious, Blaise and Ginny locked in a silent tug-of-war, Theo staring at Harry with a challenge in his eyes, and Pansy, triumphant, with Ron crumbling at her feet.
Narcissa stood at the centre of the market, serene as the storm she’d seen coming all along. Their anger was passion; their insults love notes carved in reverse. She watched her Slytherins, the children she’d gathered under her wing, finally collide with their Gryffindor counterparts in a blaze of truth.
The silence held for a breath too long, like the still air before a storm shatters the sky. Then it broke.
Hermione’s voice rang out first. “You think I’m obsessed with you?” She shoved Draco’s chest with both hands, fury sparking in her eyes. “Do you have any idea how maddening you are? You drive me insane with your smug little comments and your ridiculous hair and—”
Draco caught her wrists, holding her fast. His voice dropped to a low growl. “Yet you can’t stop.”
Hermione’s chest heaved. “Neither can you.”
Something cracked between them. Draco yanked her closer and kissed her, hard and desperate. Hermione resisted for the barest second before her fingers curled into his robes and pulled him in.
The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps.
Blaise, never one to be outdone, turned to Ginny with a sly grin. “Well, Weasley? Care to deny it now?”
Ginny’s eyes blazed. “Deny what, that you’re the most arrogant prat I’ve ever met? That you flirt with every girl who looks your way. That you—”
Her words cut off as Blaise leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate. For a heartbeat, Ginny froze, but then she fisted a hand in his shirt and kissed him back, fierce enough to make Blaise stumble.
Theo gave a short, sharp laugh. “Merlin, this is pathetic.” He turned to Harry. “Go on, Potter. Pretend you don’t want to.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “I don’t—”
Theo stepped in, close enough that their noses nearly brushed. “Then why are you shaking?”
Harry’s fists balled at his sides. “Because you make me crazy.”
Theo’s smirk faltered long enough for Harry to grab him by the collar and crash their mouths together. Theo froze, then melted into it, one hand sliding into Harry’s messy hair as though it belonged there.
Gasps rippled again, half the courtyard gaping.
And then Ron, who had gone scarlet from hairline to collar, stammered, “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say that—”
“Oh, shut up,” Pansy cut in, and she dragged him down by the front of his jumper. Ron made a strangled noise, then kissed her back with surprising fervour, knocking over a chair in the process.
The crowd went wild with cheering, laughing, and some whistling.
Through it all, Narcissa stood calm, a queen surveying the inevitable. Her eyes flicked over each pairing: Draco and Hermione clinging to each other as though to spite the world, Blaise and Ginny practically sparking with fire, Theo and Harry locked in a battle of mouths and wills, as well as Ron and Pansy, who were tumbling into chaos with equal parts fury and heat.
Then at the edge of the market, untouched by the storm, Neville and Luna shared a quiet glance. Neville’s hand brushed hers, tentative but sure. Luna smiled, soft and certain, and leaned her head against his shoulder as if they had known all along.
Narcissa allowed herself the smallest smile: So much fury, so much passion, all uncovered at once.
The harvest festival had always been about revealing what had grown in the dark, about bringing hidden things into the light. Tonight, she thought, it had done precisely that.
The courtyard was mayhem.
Cheers, whistles, laughter, and a few scandalised gasps filled the night air. Someone shouted, “Pay up, I told you they’d snog before Christmas!” and coins changed hands. Dean Thomas was sketching furiously, claiming he needed to “capture history,” while Seamus egged him on.
Even the enchanted pumpkin was bouncing in excitement, circling the kissing pairs like a drunk spectator.
“Enough!”
Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the din. The couples froze, some reluctantly detaching, others caught mid-clutch. McGonagall stood in the archway to the courtyard, tartan robes billowing, lips pursed into the thinnest of lines.
“This,” she said icily, “is a harvest market. Not a kissing contest.” Her eyes flicked from Draco and Hermione to Blaise and Ginny, to Harry and Theo, and finally to Ron and Pansy, all of whom were flushed and breathless. “Though clearly, some of you have confused the two.”
“Sorry, Professor,” Hermione mumbled, attempting to straighten her hair.
“Not sorry,” Draco muttered under his breath.
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “What was that, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Nothing,” Draco said quickly, though Hermione elbowed him, smirking.
The crowd erupted in another wave of laughter, and even McGonagall’s lips twitched before she suppressed it. “Enough gawking. Clear out, all of you! Stalls packed, wares away. The market is closed.”
Students groaned but began to scatter, buzzing with gossip that would spread through the castle like wildfire.
Narcissa remained where she was, still as stone, watching her Slytherins gather themselves. Draco stood close to Hermione now, his hand lingering at her back. Blaise had Ginny by the wrist as though afraid she’d bolt. Theo and Harry exchanged a glance that was more challenge than tenderness, but the way their shoulders leaned said enough. Pansy was still smirking, Ron pink, though his arm had found its way around her without his notice.
At the edge of the market, Neville offered Luna his arm. She took it, serene as moonlight, and together they wandered toward the greenhouses, their steps perfectly matched.
Narcissa drew her cloak tighter, her expression unreadable to the casual eye. Inside, however, her thoughts curled warm as mulled wine.
Her son, so proud and so brittle, had found a girl who could challenge him without fear. Blaise, adrift without his mother, had stumbled into a Weasley hurricane who would never let him drown. Theo, sharp and solitary, had somehow lit a fire under the saviour of the wizarding world, and in return, Potter gave him the attention he had always lacked. Pansy, with her cutting tongue and hollowed home, had found a boy foolish enough to argue back and brave enough to stay.
They had all, somehow, against every odd and every scar, found someone who fit.
The world would whisper as it always did: Gryffindor’s and Slytherin’s united, war lines blurred, and hatreds bent as love was born from ashes. But Narcissa Malfoy had learned to care little for the world’s whispers, had grown to appreciate the truth of freedom and love.
She tilted her chin, allowing herself a faint, secret smile. Let them talk. The harvest is finished. My children are no longer lost.
As the lanterns dimmed and the night drew in, Narcissa turned away from the courtyard, her cloak a sweep of midnight silk, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
The season of secrets was over. The season of truth had begun.
A year had passed since the chaos of the Hogwarts harvest market, and Malfoy Manor gleamed under the autumn moonlight, more radiant than Narcissa remembered it even in her youth. Tonight’s Harvest Masquerade Ball was the first in years, and the manor was alive with laughter, music, and the warm glow of hundreds of floating lanterns. Every corner shimmered with gold and amber, velvet drapes brushing the marble floors, tables groaning with spiced wine, roasted chestnuts, pastries, and autumnal delicacies.
Narcissa stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, draped in midnight-blue silk that shimmered under the lantern light. Her silver mask framed her sharp eyes perfectly, and from this vantage, she could see the fruits of the year that had passed: the children she had raised, nurtured, and guided into adulthood, moving confidently through life, their achievements and loves fully realised.
Draco Malfoy caught her gaze first. He was the picture of composed elegance in a midnight-blue suit embroidered with silver along the cuffs and collar. Hermione’s emerald gown mirrored the embroidery perfectly, delicate silver leaves glinting along the hem. Draco guided her across the dance floor with ease, a hand at her waist, and his fingers entwined with hers. Over the past year, he had begun his career as an Auror, disciplined and dedicated, and Hermione had thrown herself into creating new legislation to improve the lives of magical creatures and people. Their shared drive and purpose made them stronger, and a small velvet box tucked into Draco’s coat pocket hinted at their next step: engagement. Their laughter, full and effortless, filled the room like a ribbon of light.
Blaise Zabini and Ginny Weasley followed, spinning in perfect harmony. Blaise wore deep crimson with subtle gold embroidery, Ginny in a matching red-and-gold gown, hair pinned with copper and gold autumn leaves. Blaise had established himself as a successful wine merchant over the past year, while Ginny balanced her career as a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies with the whirlwind of managing their social and domestic life. They lived together comfortably, navigating both business and love, laughter spilling around them like sunlight. Narcissa smiled at the effortless ease they exuded. What had once been flirtatious teasing and playful banter had matured over the year into genuine partnership and affection.
Theo Nott and Harry Potter moved in quiet tandem, Theo in deep teal robes accented with bronze embroidery, Harry in forest green with matching clasps. Theo had begun his work as an Unspeakable, moving silently and efficiently in the Ministry, while Harry, now an Auror, dedicated himself to protecting the wizarding world. Both wizards spent their time volunteering with war orphans on weekends. Their shared mission had drawn them closer than either had expected, and now, even as they danced, their eyes lingered on each other with the quiet certainty of two people who had weathered the storm together and emerged stronger. Plans for adoption had begun, whispered in private corners of their homes and offices, and Narcissa could see the warmth and depth of their devotion even from across the room.
Pansy Parkinson moved like royalty, her deep plum gown with golden trim swirling as she guided Ron in a playful turn. Ron’s tailored suit mirrored her colours in plum with golden pinstripes along the cuffs and collar. Over the past year, Pansy had opened a thriving bakery in Diagon Alley, and Ron had begun his Quidditch career as a Chudley Cannons player, bringing home tales of excitement and occasional misadventure. They lived together above the bakery, the flat filled with warmth, laughter, and the aroma of fresh bread. Narcissa watched them, amused and pleased, as Ron whispered a joke, and Pansy flicked his nose with mock severity, both smiling with ease and affection.
At a quieter corner, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood moved more slowly, savouring each step. Neville’s sage-green suit, accented with golden leaves, complemented Luna’s pale silver gown embroidered with moons and stars. Married barely a month after graduation, they had begun their life together with a quiet, purposeful rhythm. Neville apprenticed under Professor Sprout at Hogwarts, tending the greenhouses with care and patience, while Luna pursued her studies as a Magizoologist. The curve of Luna’s belly hinted at the child they would soon welcome, and Neville’s hand rested over hers reverently. Narcissa’s heart swelled at the sight: the serenity, devotion, and quiet joy of a couple wholly devoted to one another and their future.
The orchestra shifted to a slow, sweeping waltz. Guests made room as the couples glided to the centre of the floor. Draco and Hermione led, Blaise and Ginny followed, Theo and Harry in perfect step, Pansy and Ron twirling with playful ease, and Neville and Luna moving gently, swaying together like moonlight on calm water. Narcissa’s eyes swept the ballroom, drinking in the perfection of it: the hands intertwined, the matching outfits, the subtle glances and shared laughter.
One year ago, the harvest market had been chaotic. Secrets had been revealed in anger, confessions had been forced, and tension had crackled like static in the air. Now, all of that had become foundation stones for enduring love, trust, and joy. The war was behind them; their past scars had been healed by time, devotion, and perseverance. Weddings awaited. Children would come. Seasons of life stretched ahead, full of laughter, love, and hope.
Then Narcissa caught sight of him. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic. He was tall, commanding, and impossibly composed as he made his way through the crowd below. A subtle thrill ran through her, and her pulse quickened.
Six months had passed since Lucius had died in Azkaban, since she had become a widow. Narcissa allowed herself a rare thought of a future beyond grief and duty. She’d always be thankful for the arranged marriage that had produced Draco, but her relationship with his father had not been a happy one.
Narcissa watched the Minister move through her ballroom, noting that his robes were dark and elegant, complementing her own midnight-blue gown as if fate had tailored them to match.
He paused near the centre of the ballroom, bowing slightly as he looked up at her: “Lady Malfoy, may I have this dance?”
Narcissa’s lips curved into a soft, amused smile as she began descending the staircase towards him. “It’s Lady Black now, but you may call me Cissa.” Her eyes drank him in. Kingsley was dark, tall, and commanding. But above all, she knew that the Minister was a kind man. It was this quality that she found most attractive, compared to the cruelty of her first match. Kingsley was a calm presence that grounded her in the middle of the swirling ballroom.
Once before him, she took his hand and allowed herself to be guided to the floor. Around them, the young couples moved with confidence and joy: Draco whispering to Hermione, fingers brushing over the velvet box in his pocket; Blaise feeding Ginny a tiny pastry mid-dance; Theo adjusting Harry’s cufflinks with a smirk, Harry catching his hand; Pansy flicking Ron’s nose as he whispered a joke; Neville brushing Luna’s hair from her face as she laughed softly. Narcissa soaked in it all, feeling a deep and abiding pride.
Kingsley’s hand on hers was firm and warm, guiding her effortlessly through the waltz. Narcissa allowed herself to think of the future, silently imagining weddings, grandchildren, birthdays, and new seasons filled with laughter. The war was behind them; love and joy reigned now, and every child she had watched over, nurtured, and sometimes scolded had become a fully realised adult with a home, a career, and love of their own.
The music swelled, the couples twirling and spinning in harmony, the lanterns above reflecting their joy. Narcissa moved gracefully across the floor, letting her mask fall slightly away from her expression as she smiled at the scene: love in all its forms, flourishing and unhidden.
Amid it all, Narcissa allowed herself the thought she had not dared to think in years: This future, this harvest of love and life is mine to witness, to enjoy and perhaps, in time, to share with someone I too love.
Kingsley’s gaze met hers, steady and approving, and she allowed herself to wonder what might come next. The season of secrets had passed, and the season of truth, joy, and love had arrived. Narcissa Malfoy, Lady Black, mother, matriarch, and finally, perhaps, a woman ready for her own chapter, smiled freely, stepping fully into the bright promise of the future.
The harvest, at last, was complete.