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Damned sunrays blared in the east, scurrying like the legs of an enormous spider, slowly hoisting its gleaming body over the horizon. Daylight had adopted a strangely artificial appearance lately, as though hung over a gigantic theatre stage otherwise submerged in pitch darkness. When it hit, Hermione’s eyes prickled with the strain of barely blinking throughout the night.
She turned away and buried her head beneath the duvet. She knew better than to look for sleep she knew wouldn’t come. Perhaps she was hoping to find a body curled up in the fetal position over on the other end of the bed.
There was no body to be found. Then again, perhaps it was better this way. Otherwise finer details might etch themselves on the back of Hermione’s eyelids, leave an imprint on her memory. And that was inadvisable.
She managed to stay put long enough for the sun to fully rise before her limbs demanded movement. She stretched her legs on the way to the bathroom, and her arms while dressing her naked body with the clothes she’d worn yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. She didn’t bother with making the bed; she would eventually return to it. Or not. Either way.
The corridor was dark as if it hadn’t heard of the sun’s arrival. Though there were numerous windows lining the wall all the way to the staircase, little light made its way inside and had even more little of an effect on the interior. The air was cold despite the summer heat smothering nature outside these walls. It was colder than yesterday, yet certainly warmer than tomorrow. The cracks splitting the base underneath the wallpaper ran deeper today. A curious sort of draft was created, soaking the air with the humid smell of earth.
This wing would soon crumble as well, fall victim to the severely depleted source of magic. Ivy was already crawling up the wall from the outside, it was only a matter of time before it reached vines through the cracks. They’d be left with the kitchen, all of two rooms in the west wing, and the library. Worse than the day before, and still—better than those to come. They would burn those bridges when they got to them.
Narcissa was up as well, already heating up two cups of water for the abysmal coffee they’d been rationing for the past month. There was just enough left now to cover the bottom of the jar. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair hung limp from her scalp. Hermione recognised the sweater she’d had on yesterday. There was no need for a change of attire, just like there was no need for sleep, and good coffee.
She passed Hermione’s cup silently. There was no need for words either.
They toasted stale bread and spread more of a scent of slightly mouldy strawberry jam than enough to actually taste it. They might survive on the same for lunch, but dinner was as good as forfeit unless one of them went out to procure something. Hermione had already decided it would be her. Just looking at the other witch’s emaciated frame told her all she needed to know: the east wing would fall tonight, with or without dinner. At this rate, the manor’s enchantments wouldn’t last another week.
The same went for them.
Narcissa agreed she could go look for mushrooms in the forest, or wild vegetables. Or, if they were very lucky—which they were not—maybe a rabbit.
“Hermione,” Narcissa’s rasp travelled to her just before she crossed the wards, “don’t go into town.”
Hermione nodded, and left.
Amesbury was thriving. The gardens in each house were overflowing with flowers, tree branches were heavy laden with ripe fruit, there was something in the air which increased the vibrancy of colours tenfold. It was too good to be true.
It was too good to be true. It had propaganda written all over it, only the Muggles frolicking along the streets and stopping to chat with friends and neighbours were blind to the magic lurking around every corner. Hermione wasn’t. She saw it trailing after the unsuspecting people, saw them inhaling the toxic fumes, felt their artificial laughter grinding against her bones.
She followed a couple of friends who wouldn’t stop laughing, marveling at how great life was, right onto the town square. The magic was most potent here, and Hermione did a quick scan of her surroundings to make sure she herself wasn’t being tailed.
All the threads of magic seemed to connect near an old oak tree beside the door to the church. Hermione headed over, throwing furtive looks around in case anyone was prowling the sidelines for a surprise attack.
They weren’t, apparently.
She feigned fatigue and leaned her palm against the tree, muttering a quick Revelio. Her own face stared back at her from the fading print of a yellowing poster. There were others around hers, plastered to the bark, nameless faces depicting those who committed the ultimate crime: reminding. They were all Reminders which had to be obliterated from the face of the earth so no one ever knew how bad it had once been. So history never repeated itself.
Below every face, in flashing bold letters, the word ‘wanted’ was repeated so many times, Hermione’s brain hurt. She peered at every poster and tried to recall the last time she’d come to check. Was there anyone missing? She couldn’t know. Narcissa stood three faces below her, her posture as it had once been, when Hermione showed up at her door to seek refuge.
Rain pelted Hermione’s thin jacket, seeping under the fabric and running down her arms and pressing her shirt into her skin. The cold was already clouding her vision and making her teeth chatter, but she drove her fists down upon the iron gate again, summoning every last bit of strength left within her. It wouldn’t matter if she lost it all here right now; if she couldn’t get in, she would be a distant memory come morning. Even worse.
Her skin flared with pain, and the knuckle of her little finger cracked ominously. “Mrs Malfoy!” Hermione croaked, voice mounting the wind as soon as she got it out. “Mrs Malfoy, please! You have to help me!” She pounded on the unforgiving iron, again and again, but it remained ever so indifferent to her cries.
Just like the one she was calling for.
“You—” Hermione sputtered, her voice briefly failing her—“owe me! You owe me! You must—”another hacking cough—“you must!”
Narcissa appeared so suddenly on the other side of the gate, Hermione was inclined to believe she had sprouted from the ground. “Who—?” When the cold eyes searched her face, as they had when Hermione had been forcefully brought here, the woman drew back. “You. Insolent girl. I owe you nothing, and you will leave.”
There was so much vitriol in that last sentence that, had her life not depended on it, Hermione would have left, no questions asked.
“Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione gripped the bars and pressed her face against the gate. Narcissa pulled further away, disgust painting her face. “Please! I have nowhere to go, you have to let me in.”
“What makes you think I would?” Narcissa didn’t waste a second to counter. “Make myself a target for your lunatic of a Minister. I put up with a power-hungry dictator when he ruled over my side, it is apparently your turn. Now leave.”
“You think Harry is going to stop at Voldemort?” Iron dug into her jaw as it moved. “He wants you all wiped out! Your turn will come, too! Why do you think he’s after me?”
She was met with silence, which she took as an invitation to continue. She nearly tore her sleeve in haste to pull it up. “Look!” she slammed her left forearm against the gate as well. “You owe me, Narcissa! Your sister did this. And if they get me, she will disappear from your memory forever.”
Narcissa pursed her lips, forehead wrinkling in displeasure.
~
“You went into town.”
“Yes, we finally have ingredients for a full meal. You’re welcome.”
“This isn’t—” anger was too big an exertion for Narcissa, she needed to steady herself against the wall—“You could have been—”
“What does it matter?” demanded Hermione, her eyes on the meat she was planning to make a nice pie with. “You wouldn’t remember me anyway.”
Narcissa said nothing.
“Go lie down,” Hermione softened her tone. “I’ll make dinner.”
That evening, Narcissa ate a full plate. Hermione encouraged her to get seconds of both the pie and the mashed potatoes. Though it wasn’t healthy to shock the body with too much food, she needed it to keep the manor from falling apart. Keep them alive.
Some colour returned to her cheeks, Narcissa even offered to help with the dishes.
“You take forever to scrub them,” Hermione teased. “I’ve got it.”
“My pace is perfectly adequate,” Narcissa snarked, and used the time to prepare some of the chamomile tea Hermione had bought.
They retired to the library, which was tucked away behind the staircase. On the way there, Hermione paused to look up past the banister on the second floor. To the left, the corridor had completely surrendered to darkness; cobwebs draped over the corners, and the wallpaper had completely peeled off in places. A hint of green was poking its head through a hole in the wall.
The kitchen, two rooms in the west wing, and the library.
“I’ll try to work on your bedroom tomorrow,” Narcissa appeared beside her, hand hovering close to the small of her back.
“Thanks, but you should save your energy to keep what’s left,” said Hermione. “I’ll make do with the armchairs in the library.”
Narcissa held her gaze for a moment but moved away without a word. Hermione felt the absence of her hand and followed her after a beat.
The library was their one constant over the nearly two years they’d spent existing like this. Together. Shunned by their own. Persecuted. Some days were easier, some were harder. Sometimes the dread of a twig snapping outside would trigger fight or flight and they would stand near the windows clutching their wands awaiting an attack any moment. But the evenings, after a fulfilling dinner or chasing scraps across their plates, they sat and read for hours.
Narcissa, Hermione was pleased to discover, found an escape from reality in the process, just like her. They would sit in silence in the beginning, until the ice gradually melted thanks to the heaps of books and the comfortable fire in the grate. A hesitant remark here, a softly uttered opinion there. They eventually got around to asking each other questions about the books they were reading. Their conversations never ventured close to anything personal, for either of them. But they were foundation for Narcissa to walk her to her room one evening, and for Hermione to invite her in.
Sometimes, they simply needed a body to hold, or to be held in return. Narcissa needed someone to play with her hair, Hermione found it easier to tune out the world when inconsequential nothings were whispered in her ear. Sometimes their desires turned to the physical, carnal.
Narcissa demanded, at first, until Hermione accidentally pinned her wrists down one night and discovered the woman could be far more pliant. There was a Slytherin House tie slung over the chair in Hermione’s room which often wound around Narcissa’s wrists and kept them above her head while Hermione explored her body amid the woman’s guidance, requests, pleas.
Narcissa was quicker in deciphering Hermione’s yearning to be told how well she did, how beautiful she was, to be encouraged with small praises along the way, then shattered with the most sincere-sounding compliments. Somehow, Narcissa always made it sound like she meant them.
It worked. It might be mental and a reason for both of them to check their heads under any other circumstances, but no other circumstances existed for them. That was all they were getting, and they both agreed—at least under the cover of night—that they would draw what they could out of it.
Tonight, Narcissa put down her book first. Hermione felt eyes on her but didn’t raise her own to meet them, waiting for the other woman to mutter a quiet goodnight and leave her to try and catch whatever sleep she could down here.
Narcissa cleared her throat.
Hermione raised an eyebrow up at her.
“We could share.”
Hermione remained nonplussed.
“My bed, I mean,” Narcissa cleared her throat again. “I wouldn’t mind—until I can fix the guest room.”
Was Hermione imagining it or was Narcissa Malfoy blushing? They’d only ever been in Hermione’s room. And Narcissa never stayed till morning. She always picked out the five minutes of sleep Hermione managed to snag and disappeared without trace.
“Are you sure?” she wanted to check.
“Really?” Narcissa scoffed. “You practically stormed your way into the manor and now you’re asking if I’m sure?”
“Two entirely different situations,” Hermione argued.
“I’d rather like to think I have instilled some manners into you.”
Their bickering led them to Narcissa’s cream-coloured bedroom. Hermione hovered near the doorway while the other woman announced she was going to take a shower. She resisted the urge to snoop around while Narcissa was gone; not because of newly instilled manners, but because she had no idea how long the woman would take and couldn’t risk getting kicked out. That bed looked comfortable.
“All yours.”
The hem of Narcissa’s towel barely reached the apex of thighs Hermione had buried her face between. She felt her cheeks burning now, and looked up only to find there were droplets of water sticking to Narcissa’s collarbone and that her hair was damp and somewhat returned to its standard healthy outlook. Even Narcissa’s complexion had gained healthy colour and melted the bags under her eyes. Hermione imagined she looked ghastly in comparison.
“If you don’t take a shower, I’m afraid I’ll have to give you the floor.”
Hermione startled. Narcissa’s lips had curved into a knowing smile.
“Remarkable hospitality,” Hermione murmured in passing, face flaming, eyes fixed on the en-suite door. She thought she heard a chuckle behind her.
After thoroughly scrubbing her body with Narcissa’s soap, in Narcissa’s bathroom, and wrapping a towel of Narcissa’s around her body, Hermione came to the realization she didn’t have pyjamas.
Narcissa had laid out a pair of satin ones for her on one half of the bed.
“Unless you would rather not use any.”
“Very funny,” Hermione glowered.
After she changed into Narcissa’s pyjamas and lay in Narcissa’s bed, Hermione’s arms opened out of habit, and Narcissa shimmied back into her. Hermione hugged across her waist and frowned at how thin it was and how Narcissa’s ribs could be counted even through her negligee. “We should risk the town more often,” she muttered. Narcissa remained quiet, and Hermione guessed she didn’t agree which was too bad.
But a hand suddenly slid into hers and laced their fingers together over Narcissa’s stomach. “I’d remember you.”
“What?”
“If anything happened,” clarified Narcissa, her voice unusually small, “I would remember you.”
That wasn’t how it worked.
But it was nice to believe, even just for tonight, so Hermione simply kissed her shoulder, squeezed her hand, and closed her eyes.