The Confession; part two
Hermione wakes up groggy from all the exhaustion of last night. Her mouth feels dry, a dull semblance of a headache rising on the left side of her skull. When she places her feet down on the wooden floor of her room in Grimmauld Place, the cold climbs up her warm body. The chill brings her out of her hangover, if only a little, and with a shudder, she is reminded of last night… and of Narcissa.
Hermione didn't know who she was more angry at— herself, for being a socially inept idiot who confesses feelings for the woman she has fawned over for years in only a drunken outburst, or at Narcissa, for leaving her out there hanging, in terrible doubt, as if she's the only one on this boat, as if she's the only one knee deep in this mess.
Because Hermione knows for a fact, she is not alone in feeling what she is feeling. Her want, her desire, had been mirrored in Narcissa's striking blue eyes all those times she beheld them. Notwithstanding the fact that Narcissa is an extremely guarded woman, Hermione knew she could see this much, that she could see that Narcissa felt something for her too. She wasn't that oblivious to the other, not that oblivious to Narcissa of all people.
If she wasn't before, she became sure of it when she happened to stumble into Narcissa in Muggle London that day, outside the cafe. The way the older witch’s eyes bore into Ron, Hermione could tell she was assessing what their dynamic was. Hermione guessed further, with Gryffindor bravado, that there were specs of jealousy in the woman's eyes.
But if Narcissa had been scared off by her confession, if she had practically ran away from Hermione like one flees a crime scene, then it is possible that Hermione had been mistaken. She had been terribly mistaken and it makes her feel very small, and very stupid. She is doing everything in her power to not cringe at herself and bang her head in embarrassment against the kitchen cupboard, when she hears Kreacher open the door to someone.
It was still early in the morning, and on any other day, she would've assumed it's any one of her roommates returning from a night out. But she knew, for a fact, that Harry and Draco were out on their little Christmas vacation to France and Ron or Ginny would never come visit her this early on Christmas morning.
The defensive instinct that Hermione had worn like a favorite overcoat while they were on the run creeps up like second skin, and she apparates with a raised wand near the entrance, where Kreacher stands, excitedly welcoming the guest.
She regrets it as soon as she does it. Because her eyes behold a wide-eyed Narcissa Black at the gate of Grimmauld Place, blond hair falling in waves around her face, while the rest of her raven strands are tucked neatly into a bun. Her face is paler than usual, probably because of being caught off guard by Hermione's sudden movement, but the blood red lipstick she is wearing settles well with sudden bloodlessness.
If Hermione did not feel anger rise up her chest at the sight of the woman [and embarassment at her own self], she would have practically swooned over how unbearably beautiful Narcissa looks — especially as she resumes taking off her coat to reveal a black dress that hugged her figure a little more than usual.
“Madame Granger!” Kreacher squeaks, and Hermione is reminded that she is still pointing her wand dangerously at Narcissa. “It's only Mistress Black! She means no harm.”
With that, Hermione lowers her wand slowly, a light flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck. She doesn't miss the way Kreacher stands almost defensively in front of Narcissa.
“Why, Kreacher,” Narcissa says in a silky voice. “I’m sure Ms. Granger knows I mean no harm.”
A smirk is forming up on Narcissa’s full lips as she takes her in. It infuriates Hermione.
“Do I, now?” she says sardonically, drilling her gaze into Narcissa, letting her anger be known. She is sure Narcissa has recognised it, for her smile waveres, if only slightly. “Kreacher, you may rest. I'll make Ms. Black some tea.”
Without another word, Hermione turns to move to the kitchen, leaving Narcissa no other option but to follow. On her way there, she feels a very gentle, tentative push to her magical core. Hermione sighs irritably, but lets Narcissa speak into her mind anyway, guarding her other thoughts without much effort.
Too chicken to say anything out loud? Hermione thinks as they reached the kitchen.
Narcissa settles into a chair at the long table, and responds simply, ignoring Hermione's anger and everything.
I'm only doing it for privacy, lest any of your roommates hear us.
“There's no one here but me,” Hermione says out loud, her back to Narcissa. “And Kreacher, of course.”
“I see,” Narcissa responds, then adds: “You've gotten better at it.”
When Hermione turns her head to reveal a raised eyebrow, Narcissa explains.
“The Occlumency. I couldn't see anything in your mind moments ago.”
“Well, I think you saw plenty yesterday.” Hermione's voice is filled with a defensive bite, her irritability showing through and through. "And the way you reacted, I assumed you don't want to see anything more."
She has her back still, to Narcissa, and the older witch must've thought that was no way to have a proper conversation. Because the next moment, she lets all her defenses down and Hermione's mind is hit with a wave of visions, of Narcissa's thoughts.
In her own head, she could see herself making tea. How the warm sunlight from the window ahead hit her frame, kissed the side of her face and illuminated her like she was a creature of the skies. How her messy brown curls turned almost a melting golden under the sun, that even when Hermione looked clearly hungover, she looked beautiful — ethereal almost. How the spot where her woolen shrug fell off her shoulder was unbearably tempting and how it could be so easy right now to just walk up to her and hold her and perhaps, place a cold hand against the warmth of her waist—
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hermione finally snaps, completely red at the cheeks and almost out of breath, glaring daggers at Narcissa. As she does this, even her ears feel like they have a fever of their own.
Narcissa, with a smirk, places her head atop her folded manicured hands and looks at Hermione, appearing quite pleased with herself.
“Whatever the fuck am I doing?” the older witch responds with amusement.
“Why are you thinking about— all those things you just just showed me! When you— you walked out on me yesterday!”
Narcissa's smirk only grows wider at Hermione's rising anger. “I didn't show you anything, Ms. Granger. I was simply thinking my own thoughts. You were prying.”
Hermione closes her eyes almost as if she is fighting a headache. It was true, Narcissa hadn't projected those thoughts onto her, but she also knows Narcissa knew she would be hearing them. That's why Narcissa let her guard down in the first place. Hermione takes a deep breath and almost feels tears rise behind closed eyelids. This was just plainly cruel.
“Fine, if you’re doing this, if you want to play a game, fine! But I won't be a part of this. I'm going to bed and you can find your way out.”
As she begins to move, Narcissa apparates to her side and stops her by the wrist.
“Wait, wait! I'm sorry, that was mean of me,” Narcissa says, and her voice is softer. Not teasing like it was moments ago. “I'm sorry. I came here to talk.”
Another deep breath, and Hermione folds her hands to her chest, leaning on the counter. The place where Narcissa's hand had touched her now felt empty, but Hermione is still very much pissed to let that be known.
Hermione watches Narcissa, this beautiful woman who has stunned several people with her icy glare, fidget for the first time in her life. In the sunlight that hits her face, the older witch before her looks very much like the woman Hermione fell in love with. Well, she always does. But in this setting, as she could practically see Narcissa tear her walls and layers down, Hermione could feel her heart getting warmer, her chest fluttering at the sight.
Hermione watches as Narcissa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I freaked out.”
Blue eyes meet honey-brown and Hermione cannot help but look guilty. She had come on too strong, indeed. And, she had presumed too much. But Narcissa seems to rush to her comfort, even without the legilimency.
“No,” Narcissa asserts. “I didn't freak out because of what you showed me in your mind.” Tentatively, Narcissa reaches out for the younger witch's hand. Hermione, now unbearably tired, lets her take it.
“I freaked out because… well, I think you're beautiful, Hermione, and I think that quite a lot. And you're brilliant and bright and I'm in awe of your mind and in awe of the ease with which you can penetrate my mind, and… my heart. But, you're young and there's so much life laid out in front of you, and I'm not worthy… of you.”
Narcissa steps back once again — a point is made in clear gestures that she wants Hermione to think about it. To think over it, and perhaps choose better. In response, Hermione can only blink dumbfoundedly.
“So…” Hermione tests out her words. “You're saying you like me?”
Narcissa nods. “Yes, that is obvious but—”
Hermione lets out a scoff, her temper rising again in spite of herself. “Obvious? It's obvious, is it now, Ms. Black? As if you make it so obvious.”
She has taken several steps away from Narcissa at this point, and is no longer leaning against the kitchen slab. Instead, she's pacing across the small space in the kitchen and talking with her hands again.
“You are always so proper with me, Ms. Black, but then you look at me with that gaze that makes me fall apart, and then you are all professional, and the next moment you make a joke about proposing a love affair and pretend as if it doesn’t just throw me off a cliff! I mean, you don’t even call me by my name, it’s always Ms. Granger this, Ms. Granger that—”
“I don’t call you by your name,” Narcissa cuts in sharply, her frame trembling slightly with the weight of the words that had reached her tongue. “Because I’m notused to it! And I didn’t know if you’d like me calling you by your name, because when I was growing up, first names meant something— something intimate. And who can blame me for thinking the most breathtaking woman out there, the golden girl herself doesn't want anything to do with me! Let alone anything… intimate.”
“For the love of Merlin,” Hermione lets out irritably, letting her voice rise as she massages her brow, “could you stop being so calculative and so Slytherin and actually ask me things if you want to know!? Instead of making preposterous assumptions!”
“Oh, I’ll ask alright,” Narcissa fumes and next moment, she is closing the gap between them. Hermione’s body is in that instant, acquainted with the inexplicable warmth of Narcissa's own. Her hands find a sweet resting place on either side on Narcissa's waist, like they’re supposed to be there, and she can feel her heart go up in flames.
Narcissa’s voice comes out hoarse but with the same vigor, as she keeps the eye-contact between them intact. “Can I kiss you and shut you up, Hermione?”
Hermione, wide-eyed and desperate, nods almost immediately and barely breathes out a yes when it gets lost in the air between them. Instead, a whimper escapes her throat as their lips finally collide, honey against an aftertaste of wine, and Narcissa’s world goes up in flames this time.
Narcissa Black has the most precious gift fate can ever endow in her arms and she shows Hermione just that, just how precious she is to her. In between the kisses and the quick breaths and the fumbling hands and the hair grabs, there is Hermione Granger.
Hermione at the trial. Her voice, as it bounces off the walls, is the same hum as Narcissa’s heart. And she decides she’d give her soul to the dementors in Azkaban without as much as a protest, knowing Hermione Granger spoke for her.
Hermione at Nymphadora and Remus’ wake, somber and red-eyed and hollow cheeks, kneeling and crying. And Narcissa, from a discreet distance, wishes she could take the hurt instead. That she could let the pain tear her chest open and spare the angel in black.
Hermione’s note to Narcissa, profusely thanking her for the ‘very rare’ books, and Narcissa smiling at it in a quiet grief, knowing she will never have anything enough to even dare seeking the young witch’s forgiveness for the harm her and her loved ones caused her.
Hermione at the ball, the piano she plays grounding Narcissa, bringing her back to the world, and with every press to a key, daffodils grow out of Hermione’s fingertips.
Later that night, Hermione under the mistletoe and Narcissa’s heart jumps out of her chest and just looking at Hermione talk, eyes perking up with interest as they indulge in some interesting topics, takes Narcissa's very breath away. But she keeps quiet about it all.
Narcissa, falling, falling, falling for Hemione thereafter, from that moment on. Even more when they start their weekly visits to the muggle coffee shop. It is out of all that, that Narcissa frequents the place even more now, even after their correspondence had dwindled away.
When her mind quietens, Hermione breaks away, puts space between their lips and sobs. All her doubts rise up and disappear like smoke does. She sobs because in Narcissa's head, she is loved and revered so warmly; it felt only like a warmth she had not known from many others. A warmth that she herself had never dared direct inwards.
“Hermione, darling,” Narcissa says and her name is so soft on the older witch's tongue.
She reaches out to wipe the tears, but Hermione tells her: These are happy tears. Let them fall, Ms. Black. Godric knows they’ve been shut up for so long.
Narcissa, Hermione. The older witch answers, her lips gracing the most beautiful smile. Always Narcissa for you.
“Oh, are you finally proposing a love affair?” Hermione grins, despite the tears and Narcissa's laughter erupts like daffodils from her lungs.
“About time I did.”