The Heirloom of Us
Hermione’s POV
Narcissa found her in the gardens.
Which was odd, considering Narcissa never just found people. She summoned. She requested. She raised one elegant eyebrow and expected others to come.
But today, she came quietly.
Hermione was barefoot in the grass, a book forgotten in her lap, fingers trailing lazily through the petals of a creeping vine. She almost didn’t notice the older woman until her shadow fell across the page.
“I never liked that one,” Narcissa said, gesturing at the book with a faint smile. “Too self-important. The author thinks subtlety is for cowards.”
Hermione blinked, amused. “Good morning to you too.”
Narcissa tilted her head. “You’ve made a habit of haunting this spot.”
“It’s quiet here.”
“It wasn’t, until you.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes playfully. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Narcissa’s lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
There was a pause—comfortable, soft around the edges.
Then Narcissa spoke, voice quieter. “He’s different now. My son.”
Hermione’s chest tightened.
“I used to think the war had taken the best parts of him,” Narcissa continued. “But it only buried them. You… you’ve brought them back.”
Hermione swallowed. “Thank you.”
Narcissa looked out toward the hedges. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to keep this family from fracturing. But maybe… maybe it needed to break to become something better.”
And then, like the conversation hadn’t just peeled Hermione open, she added, “You have dirt on your dress.”
Hermione laughed, tears stinging behind her eyes. “You really know how to land a moment.”
“Obviously,” Narcissa said, already walking away.
Later that day, Hermione wandered deeper into the old wing of the Manor, half-chasing a breeze, half-chasing the words Narcissa had left behind.
She opened a wardrobe at the end of a rarely-used corridor.
Inside, buried beneath forgotten linens and dust-charmed cloth, was a small black box.
She opened it.
Inside lay a brooch. Emerald and pearl, carved into the shape of a phoenix mid-flight.
She turned it over.
There was a name engraved in delicate script: Artemisia Black.
She remembered the name—Narcissa’s grandmother. A woman known for her razor wit, her sharp mind, her refusal to be bent by pureblood politics.
Hermione smiled.
Legacy, she thought, can be rewritten.
Draco’s POV
He found Blaise and Theo in the drawing room, arguing over some ancient chessboard and three-day-old firewhisky.
“You two are still alive?” he asked dryly.
Theo smirked. “Barely. Blaise thinks strategy is a myth.”
Blaise rolled his eyes. “He plays with pure chaos. He doesn’t even look at the board.”
“Chaos wins,” Theo said proudly, knocking over one of Blaise’s pawns.
Draco dropped into the armchair across from them, stretching out like a man who finally knew what it meant to relax.
“So,” Theo said, “how’s the very real marriage?”
“Still madly in love with the know-it-all?” Blaise added.
Draco just smirked. “You mean my know-it-all?”
Theo let out a low whistle. “Damn, it’s official. He’s feral.”
“I’m not feral,” Draco muttered.
“You’re like a lovesick Kneazle. She smiles and your brain short-circuits.”
“I have a perfectly functional brain.”
“You stared at her for five solid minutes at the last gala like you’d forgotten your name.”
Draco tried not to smile.
Failed.
Theo leaned forward. “Jokes aside… proud of you, mate. You turned everything they gave you into something better.”
Blaise nodded. “And somehow convinced a Gryffindor war hero to love you in the process. I’d call that impressive.”
Draco looked down, unsure of what to say.
So, of course, Theo filled the silence with, “But don’t mess it up. Or I will steal her.”
Draco laughed, low and dangerous. “You wouldn’t survive it.”
That night, Hermione entered their room holding the phoenix brooch.
He looked up from his book.
“What’s that?”
She sat beside him. “An heirloom. Your great-grandmother’s, I think. Found it in the old wing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Planning to start wearing Black family jewelry now?”
She held it out. “Not because of the name. Because of what it meant. She was strong. Sharp. Resilient.”
He looked at her. “So, just like you.”
Hermione smirked. “Careful. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
“I’m evolving.”
She turned toward him, the firelight casting gold over her face.
“I don’t care what their names were,” she said. “Yours. Mine. The ones before us. What we build… that’s what matters.”
Draco reached for her hand, lacing their fingers.
“And what are we building?” he asked softly.
Hermione leaned into him. “A future that doesn’t look like their past.”
They didn’t kiss.
Didn’t need to.
They just sat there, wrapped in each other and in the echo of every vow they hadn’t spoken out loud—but meant.
Hermione’s POV
The next morning, she found the note.
No owl. No seal.
Just a folded piece of parchment on the windowsill of her office.
You think you’ve won. But you’ve only painted a target on your back. And the next one we aim for… might be smaller. Might have your eyes.
Hermione stared.
Not breathing.
Not blinking.
Then she folded the letter slowly.
And whispered, “They just made it personal.”