Interwoven

The bleeding of summer into fall should have its own seasonal name, Hermione thought. The sweaty green-orange days in which the air smells crisper but the sun still burns hot. The mornings in which sweaters are more appropriate than tees, but the afternoons require shorts over pants. Fall had always held a dear place in Hermione’s heart, but truthfully, the slow blend from summer into autumn was her favorite. 
 
Fourteen years ago to the day she had stepped into the Great Hall, wide-eyed and beaming at the fantastical nature of magic. Today she sat in day-old clothes, surrounded by piles of useless books and food containers, cursing the magic that had put her in this situation. She paid little attention to the metamorphosis of colour outside of her hotel window, focused solely on scribbling notes on the legal pad in front of her. 
 
It had been a week and some change since Hermione had revisited the bog, and she knew as much now as she had then— practically nothing. Or at least nothing that mattered, nothing that would explain the composition of the soul-bond so that she could unravel it. 
 
Her sleepless nights had only gotten worse—when she would fall into bed after hours of re-reading the same useless texts, or after drawing and re-drawing the same pattern of runes over and over again— she would stare at the ceiling and ache. 
 
Some nights she thought her sternum would be ripped from her chest with how tightly the bond tugged at her. She had attempted to test the golden cord a few nights ago and its claim that she could find no release in thoughts of other men beyond her bonded. She pictured Elias, his dark curls and sweet dimples, pictured the way he had tasted her until she was a writhing mess—
 
And instead of feeling heat in her abdomen or the desire to run her fingers over herself to bring a crest of toe-curling pleasure, she felt pain. 
 
It had been sharp, like a stabbing sensation right in the centre of her chest. It had taken her by such surprise that she’d cried out, grasping at her breastbone as if expecting to feel a wound there. There had been no physical wound, and yet she’d felt the affliction all the same. She’d tried thrice more, with different scenarios— faceless men, women even— and yet every time she found herself nearly writhing in pain instead of her wanted pleasure. 
 
Had he felt her attempt on the other end of the cord? That thought alone had stopped her experimentation. She had succumbed to the reality that until she broke the connection, pleasure was as out of reach as restful sleep. It was humiliating and frustrating and had led to a near-screaming fit in the sanctity of her en suite, resulting in a broken hairbrush and a now leaky faucet. 
 
Hermione had decided to take Dreamless Sleep only three times a week, not enough to re-develop her addiction to the substance but enough for her eyes to not burn in exhaustion. On those nights, she slept soundly, without even the nightmares of her youth plaguing her. But on the nights without the potion, she would toss and turn until finally fitful sleep would find her. 
 
And in her dreams— she would see him. 
 
The dreams were misty, like smoke in her hands. There would be golden light, like a bridge she could stand on, and on the other side would be Malfoy. Once she awoke, the dreams would slip away, and she remembered little other than he had been in them. 
 
It disturbed her to no end— to have her consciousness raided. 
 
Hermione had taken to making a journal of her own, compiled with all of the little details she’d noticed about the connection. She tried to keep opinions out of it, sticking to facts only, though occasionally a 'shithead family’ or ‘elitist scum’ would slip through the cracks. 
 
But as she sat now, scribbling away, she knew she had reached a dead end in her research. With no news from Elias in Germany, and nothing helpful in any of the texts she had already scoured, Hermione was going in circles. 
 
With cursebreaking, the first step is always to research the artifact and/or specific curse one is working with. If the malediction is familiar, one can immediately begin weaving counter-curses and incantations to break it. If the curse is completely unfamiliar, then there are two options— search until you find the cure or make your own. 
 
Hermione had created her own countercurse twice before— one for an entrail-expelling curse she had run across in Guatemala and another for the flagrante hex, which multiplied burns across a victim’s body. But neither of those curses were blood related, and neither had affected a being’s magical core. 
 
No matter which fork in the road she picked, her research was incomplete. She could hardly create a countercurse of her own if she had yet to understand the magical nature of the bond. 
 
Hermione had already made a list of libraries she could visit to find additional sources— Bodleian at Oxford, Yale, of course the Vatican would likely have records, though she had yet to gain access to their secrets. 
 
All would require special permissions, most of which she could obtain, though they would likely take weeks for her to receive. 
 
So Hermione was faced with a gut-wrenching choice, a choice presented to her in beautiful cursive that was crumpled on the table behind her. It wasn’t really a choice. Just as the consummation of the bond hadn’t really been a choice. That was as if saying a man with a gun to his head had a choice in anything that came after. No, ever since she had touched that godforsaken pendant, Hermione had little choice in anything. 
 
She felt like a corralled animal, with every step chosen for her by the family she despised. The family who despised her in return. It seemed that the bond was determined in chipping away her self-efficacy, hellbent on tearing at her pride with each passing day. Because stepping back into that manor was equivalent to a kicked dog resting at its master’s feet. 
 
She had always considered herself more of a dog that’d piss on its master’s shoes, or rip their feet clean off. And yet—
 
Hermione dressed quickly before she could change her mind. She slipped into her ratted muggle jeans and an oversized purple sweater before tying her wild curls into a haphazard bun at the back of her head. Let her look as out of place there as she would feel. Let her muggle-ness seep into the floor and walls until Malfoy himself would have to scrub the marble to remove her essence. 
 
She snatched up her bag, shoving in her notepad, before apparating on the spot. 
 
___•___
 
It had been years since Hermione had seen the front entrance to Malfoy Manor. It had been winter then, and nothing green nor inviting had welcomed her. She hadn’t really gotten the chance then to see the architecture of the manor, not when she had been dragged in by her hair. Now the summer-autumn sun shown down, bathing everything in golden light. 
 
The estate loomed ahead, its front facade more glass than wall. She recognised the Renaissance architectural style, similar to the Palace of Versailles with its symmetry and restraint along the exterior. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, framed in ornate trim, took up the majority of the front face. The stone façade, a pale beige, was intricately carved with flourishes and stately columns. The roofline was steep, consisting of multiple spires that reached for the heavens. 
 
The huge iron gates remained the same, imposing and nearly six feet taller than herself. Similar were the hedges surrounding the pathway that seemed to dwarf her. Thin twigs and sharp vines stuck out of the hedges, nearly scratching at her where she stood near the gates, as if someone hadn’t trimmed the bushes in quite some time. 
 
Hermione was sure that her arrival had already been noticed; she likely triggered the property wards the moment her swirling body landed atop the cobblestones. So she didn’t bother waiting at the gate; instead, she pushed through, wincing at the high pitched squeal of the iron hinges. 
 
She followed the path, each step an echo of the ones she had taken before. She could practically picture herself, barely eighteen, as she was dragged by snatchers through the front doors. She had been so terrified then— not for herself but for her friends. It was strange, willingly walking up to the place where she had succumbed herself to the idea that she would die for her friends. 
 
Her trek was made alone this time. 
 
The grand doors themselves were of dark wood, polished to a deep sheen. The brass knockers were nearly as big as her head and bore signs of oxidation as light patches of rust dusted the surfaces. 
 
Hermione figured she should knock this time instead of simply pushing through the doors as she had the gate. Less for the sake of propriety, and more to prevent any trespasser hexes from triggering. Though she supposed, with a bitter smile, what’s theirs is hers. 
 
She banged the knocker three times.
 
Silence greeted her in return. 
 
Perhaps the house elves were receiving their daily beating and couldn’t answer the door. The silence stretched longer and Hermione shifted on her feet— the adrenaline from her quick decision to come here beginning to wear away, leaving her off-kilter. 
 
She knew Narcissa wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds on account of her continued house arrest, though maybe Malfoy had sequestered her away deeper in the manor simply to make Hermione squirm on the front stoop. 
 
Foolishness began to creep up her throat right as the door clicked and swung open. 
 
Narcissa gave Hermione a soft smile. "Apologies, Miss Granger; the walk from the gardens takes me a moment. Please come in.”
 
Confusion knit Hermione’s brow. Why had the matriarch answered the door? For what she knew of pureblood culture, especially those with estates such as these, answering the door was a job for the help. And if not servants, shouldn’t her son answer the door? The thought of Malfoy made the cord in her chest ache, and she wondered if she would be forced to see him today. 
 
Hermione stepped inside as Narcissa held open the large wooden door, her grubby boots clunking against the marble. She assessed the space with fresh eyes now that she wasn’t facing torture within its confines. The walls were painted in a soft, creamy hue that lent a lightness to the room, softly reflecting the filtered daylight streaming in from the high arched windows at the other end of the foyer. Golden accents traced along the edges of the walls and mouldings, not the silver she was expecting from a house of Slytherin. 
 
The colouring was the same as it had been in the guest room Hermione had awoken in, the same as the halls she had skidded down in her hasty exit. So vastly different than the drawing room that haunted her nightmares. It had been Stygian, as if the light could not simply exist in a space so filled with dark magic. The floor itself had been such deep wood it was nearly black. Was her blood still soaked there? She hadn’t seen any when she’d burst through the room on her way to the Floo at her last happy visit. Or had the stains been hastily removed along with the rest of the traces of suffering that seemed wiped clean from this place? 
 
A large crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, its delicate facets gleaming gently, casting a warm glow across the foyer. To her right, a grand staircase curved upward, its railings a burnished gold, adorned with intricate carvings. An ornate, cream-coloured rug ran up the centre of the steps, its edges worn and frayed in some places. 
 
A large arrangement of pale lilacs sat in a silver vase on a small, round table in the centre of the foyer. She ached at the sight. Hermione could see dust gathered faintly on its base and along the edge of a nearby mirror. In fact, if she looked closely enough at any surface, she found signs of neglect. 
 
Things weren’t dirty per se; there’s was no clutter, and spots of beauty were marked throughout— including the vases of flowers that she was sure continued throughout the interior of the household. Instead, it looked as if the place had gone a while without a proper wiping down, as if who was managing it wasn’t quite sure how. 
 
Narcissa watched her, eyes following every twitch that Hermione made while her own hands clasped politely in front of her lavender robes. "Dusty, isn’t it? I’m afraid I haven’t quite gotten the hang of managing the household chores by hand yet.”
 
Hermione didn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed the hints of disarray. “Your house elves don’t clean for you anymore?” It was difficult to keep the disdain out of her voice, but she managed just barely. 
 
Narcissa gave Hermione a poised smile. “Our house elves were released as part of our familial reparations for the war, along with any assets the Malfoy’s maintained beyond the Manor itself.”
 
Hermione couldn’t hide the shock that swept across her face. Their assets— all of them— gone. Property, investments, ministry seats, not to mention the holdings in their vaults. 
 
The Malfoy’s were, for all intents and purposes, broke. 
 
No wonder their clothing had been lacklustre as of recent, wrinkled even. Narcissa had no magic to clean with, and Hermione doubted Malfoy would even know the spells to do so himself. How had it been to be from a bloodline obsessed with magic and have it stripped from you for a decade as Narcissa had been? Or to have all earthly possessions taken and given to the masses when money was the driving factor for your family’s existence? 
 
A deep-rooted satisfaction blossomed in her. Poor and practically muggles in some ways. Good. Nothing suited the wealthy like becoming the mud they had so hated before. 
 
“We managed to keep anything residing inside the manor’s property lines, simply due to the blood warding. It would’ve taken the ministry more manpower than they would’ve been willing to spare to remove all the items of value from within these walls.” Narcissa continued, pointedly ignoring the likely visible reaction Hermione had to the news of their status. She began walking, waving a hand for Hermione to follow. “The library itself would’ve been quite the undertaking.”
 
To her left, a gathering room branched through an archway off the foyer. It was not, to Hermione’s relief, the drawing room. She only got a glimpse of the spacious area, enough to see its pastel yellow walls, only slightly brighter than the creams she had seen throughout the rest of the manor. She tried to get her bearings, paint a mental map of her surroundings. This wasn’t close to the east wing, where she had hastily made her exit before. 
 
Narcissa turned right, leading them down a wide hallway that overlooked the back gardens with large arched windows. Sunlight poured in, painting the space in hues of gold. Hermione stared out at the grounds beyond the glass panes, taking in the expanse. The Malfoy garden stretched out like a painting caught in the cusp of two seasons. What Hermione assumed was a once-perfect symmetry was softened by nature’s slow encroachment, with late summer blooms clinging stubbornly to their brilliance amidst the first whispers of autumn's touch.
 
Rows of manicured hedges still outlined the garden’s structure, though some were slightly overgrown, their edges blurring into the gravel pathways that wove through the space. Between them, bursts of colour lingered—deep red roses, pale lavender blossoms, and marigolds glowing like embers in the soft, slanting sunlight. 
 
The grand fountain at the centre of the garden trickled faintly, gurgling waterlogged secrets to the world around. A few fallen leaves floated lazily on its surface, golden and brown.
 
Farther out, a trellis entwined with ivy and late-blooming clematis framed the view, leading to a maze that appeared slightly wilder than intended. Hermione’s eyes caught the faint shimmer of spiderwebs glinting in the sunlight, their delicate threads swaying gently with the wind.
 
She hated the absolute beauty of it. 
 
Somehow, the lack of magical care had made the space more beautiful, though she doubted Narcissa felt the same. Hermione would have liked if the garden were rows of grey flowers, stone paths, and imposing hedges— more Malfoy-like and less like a baroque painting come to life. 
 
“Has English soil treated you well since your return from abroad?”
 
Narcissa’s question snapped her from her reverie, and Hermione turned from the garden view as they continued their walk through the twisting maze of halls. “It’s been fine.”
 
Her answer was lacklustre, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. What was she supposed to say anyway? No, having to fuck your son and spend my days reading mind-numbing journals from his ancestors in a shitty hotel room hasn’t been too grand. 
 
“I always find myself longing for home after time away.” 
 
Hermione let Narcissa’s words go unanswered. Instead, silence filled the halls, making the manor feel closer to a mausoleum. They passed a hall of portraits, and Hermione felt a rush of satisfaction to see the burnt portrait still hanging, though the subject of the painting was nowhere in sight. 
 
Soon enough, they came upon large mahogany doors with panes of stained glass inlaid inside the wood. Swirls of roses and vinery branched across the panes, reaching outwards towards the wood as if all connected. Narcissa turned to Hermione, inclining her head to the doors. 
 
“Here is the library; feel free to stay as long as you like. I’ll come around two thirty with tea.” Narcissa smiled, her pale eyes assessing. “If you need anything before then, I’ll be in the gardens. I’m afraid it’s just us two in the manor today.”
 
Malfoy wasn’t here. Something tight loosened inside of Hermione with that purposeful drop of information. She wouldn’t have to face him, despite the bond’s howl of protest inside of her. Hermione simply nodded her head in thanks and Narcissa departed, leaving a lion alone in the midst of a snake pit. 
 
She wasted little time opening the ornate doors, and her heart gave a little leap at what she found inside. 
 
The interior was reminiscent of a cathedral, vast and imposing yet imbued with a quiet, reverent beauty. Shelves of dark mahogany stretched from floor to ceiling, their intricate carvings of serpents and floral patterns catching the flickering light of enchanted sconces. Each shelf was crammed with books of every size and age, their spines a kaleidoscope of colours—deep greens, rich burgundies, worn blacks, and faded golds. 
 
The room smelt of old parchment and polished wood, a faint trace of candle wax lingering in the air. Besides lilac, these were some of her favourite scents. They reminded her of late nights at Hogwarts, or of her father’s study, or the ancient scrolls she occasionally found herself unravelling during missions. 
 
A grand arched window dominated one wall, its leaded glass panes tinted faintly gold by the sun. The light spilt into the room in long, warm beams, highlighting floating specks of dust and casting a soft glow over the reading tables scattered throughout.
 
The centrepiece of the room was a spiral staircase of wrought iron, its railing designed with twisting patterns of ivy and serpents. It led to a second level, a narrow balcony that wrapped around the entire library. Up there, even more shelves stood, accessible only by the sliding ladders attached to each section. The atmosphere was hushed, heavy with an almost sacred silence that Hermione revelled in.
 
Here and there, personal touches broke the room’s scholarly air. A plush armchair upholstered in dark green velvet sat near the far fireplace. A large, ornate globe rested in one corner, its surface enchanted to shimmer faintly with constellations instead of continents. A collection of small magical artifacts was displayed in a glass cabinet—a silver astrolabe, a crystal hourglass, and an assortment of tiny books the size of the palm of one’s hand. 
 
Hermione was in awe, and there was no one around to see it, so she didn’t bother hiding the starstruck expression on her face. She had seen many libraries in her time abroad, and yet this— this was truly spectacular. 
 
A few books were left open at the table nearest the window, and Hermione drew herself closer to them—
 
Threads of the Eternal: A Treatise on Soul Bonding
 
The Red Script: Codices of Blood and Ritual
 
Magic in the Flesh
 
All of them related to her plight. She ran a hand down the spine of the book on bonding and felt a shiver in her sternum, as if the golden thread inside of her was plucked. 
 
Malfoy had continued his own research, possibly beyond that first day of their predicament. She slowly sat in the chair opposite where he had been and pulled some of the books her way. Her eyes tracked over the pages, and she noticed tiny scribbles along the margins of the books.
 
His notes. Magicked into the book to make for an easy erase, something she could tell by the slight shimmer to each inked letter. She had forgotten what his handwriting looked like, but once she saw it again, it was hard to not picture his perfected cursive neatly sprawled in potions class along the chalkboard during the occasions Snape had invited him to give a written answer. 
 
It was still just as neat, much nicer than her own chicken scratch. The notes were written continuously throughout the book, she saw as she flipped through. Questions and possible answers left behind at nearly every paragraph. She checked the next book and found the same thing. The third book, however, Magic in the Flesh, was untouched by magical writing or quill. 
 
She opened the heavy book, relishing in the scent of ancient parchment, and decided this was as good of a place as any to begin. 
 
___•___
 
Hermione wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Narcissa returned to the library, carrying a tray laden with porcelain teacups, a pot, and sweets. Hermione hadn’t noticed when she entered, too wrapped up in her reading, and had nearly pulled her wand when the tray was sat at the edge of her table. 
 
“Apologies for startling you, Miss Granger.” Narcissa smiled, amusement in her silver eyes. Narcissa poured Hermione a cup of tea before she could object. “Have you found anything interesting pertaining to your... research?”
 
Narcissa’s gaze swept over the books, though she gave nothing away as to her thoughts on the matter. Hermione had always assumed Malfoy got his aloofness from his pointy-nosed father, but perhaps it was a maternal gene instead. 
 
“Possibly,” was all Hermione answered. She took the tea and sipped it carefully under Narcissa’s watchful gaze. The matriarch seemed pleased at the development of Hermione drinking something in her presence instead of assuming poison. Hermione had no reason to think the Malfoy’s would poison her now, not with her soul and magic tied to her son’s.
 
“Do you mind if I take my tea with you? I am quite parched after trimming the azaleas.” Narcissa didn’t wait for a response before beginning to fix her own cup. Hermione suddenly wished she was drinking something much stronger than Earl Grey. 
 
Narcissa sat in the seat Hermione assumed was Malfoy’s usual spot. Silence descended on the pair as Narcissa stirred sugar into her cup, her spoon never clinking against the rim of the china. Hermione didn’t let herself shift uncomfortably in her seat. She wasn’t a child awaiting judgement by some grand adult; she wouldn’t let her nerves be visible. Instead she sipped at her tea, waiting for the reason Narcissa sat here to come out. 
 
The blonde woman finished stirring and carefully laid the spoon back on the silver tray before sipping politely at her tea. Her pinky did not raise, however, and Hermione wondered if that was a myth of rich posh people. She returned her cup to the saucer before levelling Hermione with her gaze.
 
“If you are looking for a way to break the bond, I’m afraid that pursuit will have no end.”
 
Straight to it then. Hermione straightened, staring back at the other witch with iron eyes. “Because your son has already looked?”
 
“Because I very much doubt the wizards who wrote the books in this library left a guide on how to break the bonds they themselves crafted. Nor do I think this many Malfoy heirs would’ve been born without the bonds, so it is unlikely any witch has been successful in breaking one before.” Narcissa answered without malice, without heat or ice. She gave the information with merely a strained tilt to her lips. 
 
“If the information isn’t here, I’ll find it somewhere else.” Hermione said, her voice unwavering in its intensity. “Other pureblood families have made similar soul-bonds; I’ve already read about it previously. If this library doesn’t contain the answer, another one will.” 
 
“The only way to break a bond between magical cores is through death, leaving the partner behind with half of their magic at best.” Narcissa said gently, as if breaking bad news to a child likely to throw a tantrum. 
 
“I thought you knew nothing of these bonds.” Hermione accused. 
 
Narcissa gave another easy smile that Hermione was sick of. “My son has a horrible habit of leaving his books and notes strewn across every surface. He’s been that way since he was young.” 
 
“Why did you invite me to research knowing what I was looking for?” She pressed, setting her teacup down. Hermione didn’t like games, had never understood chess, despite the countless times she had tried to play. She was made for logic, for reading and facts, and for puzzles. But puzzles were different than games. Games required a skill of manipulation, required one to see the big picture in a way Hermione had always had trouble with. She supposed that was a reason she wouldn’t have fit in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. No cunning, no finesse, no desire to wheel and deal. 
 
And dealing with a Slytherin meant she felt always one step behind, something she hated more than anything. 
 
Narcissa took a sip of her tea before setting her own cup and saucer atop the table. “Because this is your library, and I wish you to feel comfortable here. You may research whatever you like; I just thought to warn you that you might not find the answers you wish.”
 
Hermione smelled bullshit. There was no way the womanly head of the Malfoy household, heiress to the Black family, had any interest in Hermione’s happiness. She was a mudblood, something to squash from their pureblood society, or wasn’t that the whole purpose of the war she fought against these people? Hermione couldn’t believe that this woman in front of her, who’d raised her son to be the biggest bigot she’d ever met in school, had suddenly become an open-minded saint. She had to remember, despite the polite smiles and soft words, that Narcissa was raised a snake too. Perhaps a coral snake, rich in vibrant colours that lure those near who think they can touch, only to bite just as ferociously as a viper. 
 
There had to be something Narcissa wanted, something she thought Hermione could give. 
 
Hermione tried her best to not let her thoughts show across her face, though she likely did a horrible job. She’d been told before she was an open book, that her face— her eyes— showcased every whirling thought that flirted between synapses. “How kind of you. I should be going now.”
 
Hermione stood from the table, putting Malfoy’s books back where they were when she walked in. She itched to take them with her, but that hadn’t been part of Narcissa’s invitation to come here. She would have to come back, likely more than once. Hermione pursed her lips, snatching her ratty bag from the floor as Narcissa gathered their cups back onto the tray. 
 
“Let me walk you to the Floo; these hallways can be tricky to navigate.” Narcissa said easily, sweeping Hermione out of the library as if unbothered by her sudden urge to leave. 
 
The drawing room, Hermione thought as they walked through the empty halls. They’d go to the drawing room, and she’d be forced to stand there with the woman who had watched her be tortured on that very floor. 
 
Instead, they entered a small office. It was sparsely decorated, with deep umber walls and a dark leather couch at the far wall. Books scattered the oak desk to the left of the door, looking similar to the state of her hotel room table. A plush carpet covered the floor, a cream colour that balanced out the dark shades coating the rest of the room. 
 
Narcissa didn’t step inside with her. “Please come back whenever you wish, Miss Granger; I have missed having company. And do use the Floo; there’s no need to knock at the door.” 
 
Narcissa left without another word, leaving Hermione in the midst of a room that felt so different from the rest of the house— as if she had nothing to do with its decor. As she stepped near the Floo at the opposite end of the room, the scent of Bergemont and parchment wrapped around her. 
 
She threw the Floo powder down, enveloping herself in green flames right as the golden string inside her yanked hard— 
 
She disappeared right as she felt a tug back.