No Narcissa
Luna left for Iceland Sunday evening, tearing yet another cavern in Hermione’s already hollow chest. She had forgotten what true distraction – what true enjoyment – could feel like. Eating together as a three around the dinner table. Giggling at nothing and everything at once. Luna’s tales of beast tracking across South America. Ginny’s play-by-play rundown of her match. Hermione had happily listened to stories about Quidditch…and even appreciated some of them!
With Luna there, Hermione felt like she was allowed to be present – to be her whole self – the good, the bad and the infinitely ugly. She didn’t lose the glamour completely but reduced it to hover around her eyes, while using baggy clothes to cover up the rest of her unsightly body. She discussed her boring work life and her non-existent love life, but when it came to broaching the subject of a personal life, Hermione’s stuttered. There was nothing to say. Any free hours were usually spent sleeping. Nights spent doing Merlin knows what. But she didn't mind. Ginny and Luna’s lives were far more interesting.
Luna stayed awake with Hermione from Saturday’s sunset through to the Sunday sunrise. They pushed their new kitchen to the limit and baked until dawn, trying in vain to replicate the zesty lemon cake Hermione had loved so much. Luna wanted her to have a batch to savour. And though Hermione excused herself throughout the night to take her draughts, topped off with straight gin, Luna’s giggling recollections and the tray of cakes that awaited her were proof of an evening well spent with her friend. Something to put a smile on her face, if only for a bite or two.
But then the evening arrived. Luna’s bag was under her arm and Ginny hugged her goodbye before running off to Harry’s house for the night.
Luna’s hand hovered over the rusting bottlecap. She looked nervously at Hermione, who was sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, eclipsed by the vast, vacant house.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
Hermione smiled. It was weak, but about all she could muster. ‘Course. Safe travels, Luna.’
‘Hermione –'
‘I’ll write,’ Hermione said. ‘Every week. Go on, or you’ll miss the window.’
Luna’s throat bobbed as she swallowed away whatever argument she had. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Love you, girl.’
‘Love you, too,’ Hermione said. ‘Have the best time. But no more Snorkack dung!’
‘I’ll make no such promises,’ Luna said with a flash of a cheeky grin, before she too disappeared, popping out of thin air with the bottlecap in tow.
*
The following morning, Hermione was sat at her desk, head slumped in her hand, flicking through the puzzling pages of a leather-bound book she had found open on her side table that morning. How she hadn’t noticed it all week was beyond her.
TUESDAY – 6th SEPTEMBER ‘03
The Red Chariot. Stuart the barman. Smiley. Vodka. Narcissa was there. She followed you home. You followed her home.
Hermione had reread the words a hundred times, but still couldn’t make sense of them. She knew well enough not to trust the scribblings of her doped up, drunken alter ego, but the accounts were hardly nonsensical ramblings. They were straight to the point. Facts. No time for descriptions or opinions. Yet, still, she couldn’t make sense of why.
WEDNESDAY – 7th SEPTEMBER ‘03
The Red Chariot. Stuart the barman. Reminds me of the journal. Whiskey. No Narcissa. Student night. Busy.
THURSDAY – 8th SEPTEMBER ‘03
The Red Chariot. Stuart the barman. Journal. Gin. No Narcissa. Quiet. No one to listen to.
FRIDAY – 9th SEPTEMBER ‘03
The Red Chariot. Stuart the barman and Claire. New hire. Gorgeous. Tequila. No Narcissa. Karaoke night. Loud.
It seemed the Red Chariot had created another demon to haunt Hermione. Narcissa’s presence – or lack thereof – was apparently irritating her so much that she had to make note of it. Notes that were written so hard that ink spat across the page.
No Narcissa.
Hermione closed the book and drummed her fingers over the cover. How did she even remember to note Narcissa’s absence? Was Kingsley visiting her with nightly missions? Had he left written orders for her to find?
A dejected sigh huffed from her chest. The act of spying on the Odds was not the issue. She had no qualms about that. It was the how that was troubling her. How was she ever going to extract information from Narcissa Black? Drawing blood from a stone seemed a more achievable task. Or turning water to wine.
Night-Hermione would love that...
She may not remember her nights, but she knew about night-Hermione. When she first stopped sleeping, in the summer after the war, she sought comfort in the arms and beds of others. There were countless awkward mornings – waking up in a stranger’s bed without knowing who they were or what they had done – but even worse was opening her eyes and finding a friend beside her. Dean. Katie. Padma. Roger. Hearing them speak fondly of a night Hermione couldn’t recall. It was a wonder she had any friends left at all.
But her current nocturnal-self had apparently outgrown the pitiful yearning of company. She was a loner. Excessive and inconsiderate. She didn’t care about the fallout. The sober shakes and the hangovers she left behind in the morning. Only herself, distractions and drinking.
And Narcissa, apparently.
A knock rapped on her office door. She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock on the dot.
‘Come in.’
Narcissa Black strode into Hermione’s office with the same striking confidence her son had inherited. Shoulders back, chin up, hands gloved, purple cloak hanging loosely around her arms. A rosy tint hit her cheeks, as if she had gone from cold to hot very quickly, and her breathing had a slight, tired pant to it. Perhaps she had taken the stairs, though Hermione couldn’t imagine that, for some reason.
She had been expecting Narcissa’s arrival since Percy had passed on her tasks for the day. As Kingsley had predicted, Narcissa had lodged a formal complaint about her Floo and was on her way in to meet with an engineer that was otherwise engaged.
Hermione had worked through her nerves, convincing herself that Narcissa was not, in fact, the devil incarnate. The devil would never have helped her at the café. She was an elitest and an overentitled snob, but a far cry from what the Prophet would have the world believe. The devil would have smiled at the wound. Laughed at her. Gone to the Prophet.
‘Miss Granger,’ she said, venturing further inside, acknowledging the enchanted ceiling. ‘Imagine my surprise when I arrived this morning and Mr Weasley pointed me in your direction. The Floo Network Authority. How very…pedestrian…of you.’
What Hermione hadn’t expected was the return of the Ice Queen. Cold and distant. An invisible barrier extended between them that once again made Narcissa unreadable.
Hermione swallowed away her quickening breaths and fixed a pleasant smile.
Your mask won’t work against her, fool.
‘I go where I am needed,’ Hermione replied with a steady voice. ‘I don’t make a habit of questioning the Minister.’
‘You’re his lackey?’ Narcissa prowled the edge of her desk. ‘Well, it’s good to know the Ministry is properly utilising its young, rising stars. Mr Potter is ascending to the lofty heights of Head Auror and here you are. Sweeping chimneys.’
Hermione flexed her jaw. ‘How exactly can I assist you today, Ms Black?’
Narcissa dropped into the chair and tossed her complaint onto Hermione’s desk. ‘My Floo is broken. It keeps spitting me back out.’
‘Perhaps you don’t taste very nice.’
Narcissa twisted her neck, brow arched. ‘Excuse me?’
Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
‘Sorry, just a little Floo joke.’ Hermione fidgeted forward, scooping up the complaint. ‘The Department of Magical Transportation is famous for its humour, didn’t you know?’
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
Narcissa remained unmoved. A smile didn’t so much as twitch.
‘A faulty Floo, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it keeps spitting you back out?’
Narcissa blinked slowly. ‘Yes,’ she churned through gritted teeth. ‘Something about a foul taste.’
Hermione rose, checking her journal was closed and her wand in reach. ‘Unfortunately, all of our engineers are busy today, but I could take a look. I understand if you would rather someone more qualified, but schedules are rammed for the next couple of weeks. I am not an expert, by any means, but –’
‘Stop wittering on!’ Narcissa snapped. ‘Can you fix it or not?’
‘I can certainly try.’
Narcissa wrung her hands and rolled her eyes before eventually conceding with a nod. ‘Fine. Fine. In and out. No loitering. No wandering off.’
Hermione nodded as something sparked in her gut. A sudden purpose. Narcissa was hiding something, and it was Hermione’s duty to the Ministry to find it. If she could only hold herself together for long enough to do so. She gestured for Narcissa to join her at the fireplace and offered her a bag of glittering green powder.
‘After you.’
‘I should think so,’ Narcissa hissed. ‘It is my house.’ She took a pinch and stepped into the fireplace. She sprinkled the powder at her feet, as if feeding birds, and said clearly, but quietly, ‘7 Royal Crescent.’
Hermione stepped into the ashes of the green flames; etiquette be damned. When following a witch or wizard into their home via Floo, it was customary to allow them a minute or two to tidy the place up. But Hermione didn’t have a minute or two to waste, and within seconds, she was stumbling into Narcissa’s kitchen.
‘Lucky for you, my house is always presentable.’
Hermione scanned the room. The kitchen was a mirror image of her own, but without the lavish quirks that made hers so impressive. Narcissa was sat at a plain table built for two, on a flimsy, teetering chair. There was no grand aga. The windows were bare. No rugs or portraits or moving photos furnishing the walls. It was very…modest. A stark contrast to its extravagant new owner.
‘That is the only fireplace connected to the Floo,’ Narcissa explained, pointing lazily to the hearth Hermione had stepped through. ‘Ignore the others. They don’t work at all. The Ministry blocked the chimneys.’
‘Does it get too cold?’ Hermione asked as she ducked her head beneath the mantle. ‘At night?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t spend much of my nights here.’
She no doubt has plenty of lovers. A different one for each day probably. Even Narcissa fucking Black has someone. What the fuck is wrong with you?
‘I’ll ask an engineer to reopen the chimneys,’ Hermione said. ‘No one should suffer the cold.’
She lowered onto her knees and crawled into the mouth of the fireplace. She patted the inside of the chimney and knocked on the stonework and wiggled the legs of the grate. It was hardly an elegant script, but she acted the part as well as she could.
‘It’s the grate,’ Hermione declared, as she stood and clapped soot off her hands. ‘It’s a Kamin model. German. Do you speak German?’
Narcissa was staring at her. Her cold eyes had softened a little. Melted perhaps, by the safety of home.
‘Ms Black?’
‘Not fluently, no.’
‘Then it’s no good to you,’ Hermione said. ‘I’ll go back to the office and see if I can find an English model. Where do you keep your powder?’
‘Are you quite sure you know what you are doing, Miss Granger?’ Narcissa asked, as she held out an ornate vase of green. ‘I can wait for an engineer.’
Hermione took out the tiny gold spoon and shovelled a few spoons of powder onto her feet. ‘Hermione Granger’s Büro,’ she said, in a terribly unconvincing German accent, and reappeared by green flame in her own office.
Hermione paced the worn wood floor, gnawing at her nails. The grate she needed was in the cupboard behind her desk, but Narcissa didn’t know that. For all she knew, Hermione was rummaging through a storeroom somewhere. And that was okay. It was only a small lie. Kingsley needed access. She was just following orders.
Grow up. You are a pawn in a game, not some intrepid spy. Kingsley didn’t choose you for your strength or power or intellect. He chose you because you are pathetic enough to go unchallenged. Unnoticed.
Hermione cracked her fingers and neck. The day was already beating her, her mind lost to the morning. How was she supposed to keep track of Narcissa if a mere ten minutes in her presence had severed her nerves already?
Though she hated to admit it, she knew exactly how. Hermione wrenched open the bottom drawer of her desk and reached right to the back, where Kingsley’s bottle of Blishen’s was rolling. She didn’t bother with a glass. The fire struck her throat and seeped into her gut.
She wished she had never lost it. Her courage. It was the one thing she could rely on to override her fears and doubts. Without it, she was hopeless. And houseless. Too cowardly for Gryffindor. Not enough friends for Hufflepuff. She didn't use her brain anymore for Ravenclaw. And ambition? That was waning with every fresh task Kingsley forced upon her.
Better to rely on liquid courage than concede to being spineless.
Hermione took another glug and returned the bottle to its drawer. She heaved the grate under her arm and returned to Narcissa’s kitchen with panting breaths and straining arms. Narcissa shot her a lethal glare as she dropped it to the floor with a clatter, before making quick work of disassembling and removing the German grate. She then wrestled the new grate into place and began securing it to the hearth.
Narcissa hovered over her, pointed heeled boots planted either side of Hermione’s crossed ankles. Her toe tapped the floor in a nervous twitch, accompanied by a shuffle and a huff and a sigh.
‘Would magic not be faster?’ she asked after several long minutes. ‘You are a witch, are you not?’
‘My fingers are more precise than my wand,’ Hermione said, as she bolted down a leg. ‘The grates can slide with travel and I don’t fancy being sued by Narcissa Black for sending her to Timbuktu instead of Twickenham.’
Narcissa laughed. It was short and polite. An automatic response. ‘Wise decision. I wouldn’t think twice.’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ Hermione murmured. She tightened the bolt on the second leg and moved onto the third. ‘To be honest, other than work, I never use my Floo. Everyone I know is on the street now. Do you use yours much? Probably considerably less now that Draco’s moved in…’
Silence. Deafening. A deadweight bearing down on her chest.
What have you done?
Narcissa’s tapping foot landed with a thud. ‘I’m not sure that has anything to do with you.’
What the fuck have you done?
Hermione screwed down the third bolt with shaking fingers. ‘I-I was just making polite –’
‘You forget yourself, Miss Granger.’ Her voice was venom. As if another tongue-lashing might slash clean through Hermione’s throat.
‘I didn’t mean any –’
‘I believe you have mistaken my kindness for weakness,’ Narcissa snarled, looming over Hermione’s prone body. ‘We are not friends. We are barely acquaintances. Do not assume that stopping you bleeding all over yourself and the hideous tile in that establishment was anything other than self-preservation. It only takes one witch to walk in and jump to the wrong conclusion and my probation is broken. Understand? This conversation – it goes one way – me telling you to fix something and you doing it. This is not an interview. There are no questions. No answers. You will do your job in silence, or you will return to your hole of an office and send someone capable of performing basic tasks with their mouth shut. Is that clear?’
Wand. Where’s your wand? You are alone in Narcissa Black’s house – where the fuck is your wand?
‘Is that clear?’
Just let her hurt you. One quick curse and it’ll all be over. You’ve dealt with worse. But if it’s Crucio again, find something to bite. Your parents will never forgive you for shattered teeth.
Hermione refused to escalate Narcissa’s anger further. She remained silent, breaths rattling up her throat in lost panic, as she fixed the last bolt and shook the grate, making sure it was securely fastened to the hearth. When she eventually gained the strength to stand, she found Narcissa sat forward in her lopsided chair, cigarette hanging loosely between her fingers, smoke floating idly to the ceiling.
Don’t say it.
It was a disgusting habit. It shocked Hermione that a witch as intelligent as Narcissa would abide it.
Don’t fucking say it.
‘Those things will kill you.’
As soon as the words escaped her lips, Hermione shut her eyes and her mouth and tensed her body, waiting for the curse to strike her.
You deserve every new scar coming to you.
But the curse never came. Not even a Stinging Hex. Her left eye opened first, to see Narcissa’s face changed. Her hard stare had narrowed, crow’s feet cracking through polished skin, lips pursed around the end of the cigarette.
Hermione finally blinked both eyes open and darted across the kitchen to where she had left her wand. She gripped the worktop and turned her back to Narcissa as her body shuddered through several deep breaths.
Excellent! More breathing! That will keep the demons away. Bet no one’s thought to do that before…
‘You are so different,’ Narcissa whispered. ‘Like two sides of the same coin.’
Hermione’s ears twitched. She had been too focussed on her own heartbeat – making sure it was still thudding along. ‘What’s that?’
Narcissa cleared her throat and took another drag. ‘You won’t remember. Last week we both frequented the same bar.’
‘The Red Chariot.’
‘So, you do remember?’ Narcissa bristled and her face soured. ‘I knew you were lying. I knew it was something else! No one can drink that much Sleeping Draught without –’
‘I-I wasn’t lying,’ Hermione admitted. ‘I found a journal in my room. I’d written the date and the basics of what happened each night.’
No Narcissa.
The older witch sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘I-I wasn’t lying, Miss Black, I-I swear –’
‘I hoped you had been lying!’ Narcissa barked, furiously stabbing her cigarette into a black ashtray. ‘That shouldn’t be your truth! It is a miracle you are still standing – still breathing – after what you drink in a night. Take my word for it. One day the Golden Girl will die by her own craven hand. And it will be such a fucking waste.’
Hermione’s arms kept her upright as her body wilted against the counter. She wondered if that would be on her headstone. Golden Girl. The name Hermione Granger would fade while the long-lost legend lives on. Her feet scrambled as her pulse flooded her ears.
Stand up. Do you want her to see how pathetic and weak you really are?
A crystal tumbler flew across the worktop and nudged Hermione’s finger, and with a wave of wandless magic, Narcissa filled it with water.
Probably poison…
Hermione ignored her malicious mind and swallowed an icy mouthful. It dripped down her throat, the cold a capable distraction. It was not the time to accept an intervention. Especially not from Narcissa Black. Anyone else, in fact, but her.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you brew or buy?’ Narcissa asked. ‘The Sleeping Draught?’
‘Brew.’ Her shivering fingers tightened their grip on the tumbler. ‘I have a small lab set up in my room. I source the ingredients personally.’
Narcissa nodded her approval. ‘It hasn’t been tampered with then,’ she mused. ‘It’s a simple enough brew. I doubt you have made any mistakes. Apologies, Miss Granger. I have a basic knowledge of potions.’
‘You’re doing your Potions Mastery,’ Hermione said, and when Narcissa’s face fell in confusion, she added, ‘Padma’s an Alchemist at St Mungo’s. She mentioned you doing a placement with her a while ago.’
‘I’m sure she provided a glowing review.’
‘She may have reaffirmed the Ice Queen title.’
Narcissa’s face twisted into a smirk. ‘Good.’
Hermione finished the water and forced her eyes to the bare window overlooking the garden. Sunlight streaked across the lawn, swarming the trees, casting stretched shadows. Her laboured breaths calmed to a stable sigh. Sometimes she just needed a little reminder.
The sun is still there, fool. The night is not taking you. Not yet.
‘May I ask why you take it?’ Narcissa probed gingerly. ‘And at such dangerous quantities?’
‘I take the first dose with good intentions,’ she said. ‘To hopefully see me through. As for the rest of the night, you’ll have to ask the other Hermione. I hear she’s a riot.’
‘She is certainly something,’ Narcissa said, a grimace sinking over her face. ‘Obstinately rude for one thing. Overly forward. Downright thoughtless.’
Hermione’s head sank. Hearing it from the mouth of an enemy somehow stung worse than a friend. Friends make excuses and lie and play down the issue. Narcissa owed her no such sensitivity. What path of destruction had that ghastly side left in her wake? How many strangers had grown to hate her? How many friends?
Narcissa stalked forward and removed the tumbler from Hermione’s quaking grip. ‘She was also fiercely protective of the young bartender when needed,’ she added. ‘Bold. Witty. Based on what I had read and heard, she is everything I expected you to be.’
Hermione’s ears burned as heat streaked up her neck into her face. She flared her nostrils and ground her teeth, quelling the skim of brewing tears.
Crying in front of a Death Eater? How fucking pathetic.
A shake of Narcissa’s head sent her hair toppling over her shoulders as perfume smothered Hermione’s other senses. A blend of fresh orange placated the heat of cinnamon. The woman was perfectly put together, as ever. Even the loose strands of blonde hair fell with effortless precision, framing her porcelain face.
And Hermione was nothing in comparison. Her glamour was perhaps the strongest piece of magic in her arsenal, but even that could only do so much. Her white blouse was filthy, coated in grime, and her black, soot covered hands had left sludgy smears on the crystal tumbler and white worktop.
She lurched back, hands up, careful not to touch anything else. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m – I – shit – can I go to the bathroom to wash up?’
Narcissa hesitated, eyes drifting to the closed kitchen door. ‘I would rather you didn’t,’ she said. ‘The kitchen sink will do just fine.’
It wasn’t a two-person job, but Narcissa joined Hermione at the sink, regardless. She passed her the soap and a sponge when needed, and even conjured a nail brush when Hermione scowled at her filthy fingernails. There were some things that muggles did better than magic folk, and cleaning was definitely one of them. No charm or spell could ever make her feel as clean as a proper scrub.
‘Feel better?’
Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she dried her hands in a crisp white towel and tried to ignore the bottle of firewhiskey lingering on the worktop beside her.
‘What’s wrong with the Red Chariot?’ she asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘You don’t go anymore,’ Hermione said. ‘The first entry in my journal says “Narcissa was there”, but every day since, you don’t show. No Narcissa. I-I don’t even know how I remember to write about you. About the lack of you.’
A mischievous smile tugged at Narcissa’s mouth. ‘That may be the young barman’s doing. I gave him enough money to keep you going for the foreseeable. Perhaps he sees fit to remind you who is paying your bill every night.’
Hermione’s eyes pulsed. ‘You pay for my drinks? Ms Black, I don’t need your charity, or pity, or –’
Narcissa held up a silencing hand. ‘I know,’ she said in a smooth, calming tone. ‘You – well, the other you – demanded it from me the night we moved in. I admit, your brutal candour almost made me crack a smile.’
‘Really?’
‘Almost,’ Narcissa repeated, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. ‘Her indignation towards me, though somewhat justified, has made me see fit to punish her with horrifically expensive hangovers.’ Narcissa roved over Hermione’s lifting smile. ‘But now I see that she is not the one who suffers my wrath.’
Hermione tapped her fingers on the countertop, inches away from the bottle of Blishen’s. ‘So, what is wrong with the Red Chariot?’
‘Nothing. It is completely adequate.’
‘Have you found somewhere better?’
‘I have found somewhere different –’
‘Why?’
‘I simply – I couldn’t – look –’ Narcissa’s body stiffened. The usually eloquent woman floundered, stumbling over a few garbled words. She eventually cleared her throat, recomposing. ‘My family and I have already done enough damage to you, Miss Granger,’ she said, reinforcing that block of ice between them. ‘I have invaded your street and today your place of work. I will not invade your right to peace at night.’
Hermione scoffed. ‘You’ve seen my nights, Ms Black. They are hardly peaceful.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Narcissa said, cutting her down. ‘Until the mere sight of me doesn’t send you reeling like a meek little mouse and doesn’t fill the other you with enough animosity to want to curse me into next week, I will avoid the Red Chariot. My new bar is pleasant enough. Live music. No students. No riffraff. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a soul under thirty in there. It even has a dress code.’
‘How frightfully exclusive.’ Hermione sniffed what might have been a laugh and rubbed her stinging eyes. It was barely half past ten. How was she so exhausted already?
You lifted the grates. You won’t last. You’ll never make it to lunch now.
A white cloth flew under the kitchen door and into Narcissa’s hand. ‘You have soot in your eyes.’
Narcissa took hold of Hermione’s shoulder and stilled her. With light, gentle dabs, she wiped the cloth over Hermione’s eyes and brows. Goosebumps rippled over her arms as Narcissa moved her hand from her shoulder up to Hermione’s jaw. Her skin felt so alien. Gentle, yet persuasive, moving her head to whatever angle she wished.
‘Would magic not be faster? You are a witch, are you not?’
Narcissa sneered and wrapped the cloth over the tips of her fingers to dig into the crevices of Hermione’s eyes. ‘Very droll.’
As Narcissa concentrated on clearing the dirt from her eyes, Hermione noticed a shimmer in the older witch’s stare. Like thawed ice, the intense barrier had melted away.
Hermione had wondered how she was ever going to get close enough to help Kingsley. But if the morning had proven anything, it was that Narcissa Black was not completely fortified. There were weak spots. Vulnerabilities. Her house was hiding something, and so was she.
‘Oh.’ Narcissa’s hand wavered and she jerked back, removing the cloth from Hermione’s face. ‘I – er – you should go. And make sure to visit the bathroom as soon as you arrive in your office.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Your glamour is slipping, darling,’ Narcissa said quietly. ‘And perish the thought anyone ever see the real you.’