Chapter Text
D raco and Hermione Flooed into the Manor right on schedule, blissfully unaware of Narcissa’s presence as she sat elegantly by the hearth, quietly observing their passionate kiss. Ah, to be young and stupid—to Floo mid-kiss, of all things.
She hid the faintest flicker of amusement behind her composed exterior. Had she ever been that young? She supposed she must have been, once upon a time. She could even recall a few foolish moments of her own—though none quite as ridiculous as this, surely.
Narcissa cleared her throat delicately, the sound precise and pointed. It was enough to make the couple jump apart, looking as if they’d been caught sneaking sweets from the pantry.
She arched an elegant brow at Draco. Wasn’t he a tad old for such theatrics? Her son, ever adept at reading her unspoken judgments, straightened almost immediately, taking the girl’s hand into his as if regaining control of the situation.
“Good day to you, Mother,” Draco greeted, his tone measured, with a slight inclination of his head.
“And to you, my son.” Her gaze flicked to Miss Granger, lingering just long enough to sharpen the silence before turning pointedly back to Draco. Her meaning was clear: introduce her properly. Decorum demanded it, and she would not make allowances—not even for him.
Draco sighed, but he didn’t falter. “Mother, may I introduce my guest, Miss Hermione Granger, who is currently staying at the Manor. With me.” His voice carried that faint edge of petulance that, despite her best efforts, he hadn’t entirely grown out of.
It struck her then, how much he reminded her of his father in moments like this—the familiar blend of defiance and composure, wrapped in a veneer of polished arrogance. A bittersweet pang tightened her chest, an ache she thought she had mastered long ago. Lucius had always been the same, brilliant and frustrating in equal measures.
“Good day to you, Miss Granger,” Narcissa said smoothly, her expression a mask of polite neutrality.
“Hermione, may I introduce my mother. Mistress Narcissa Malfoy Black, of the esteemed House of Malfoy and Black,” Draco added, his tone mockingly formal in a way that was both irritating and predictable. The little brat.
Hermione, to her credit, did not shy away. “A pleasure,” she said evenly, though her voice had a slight edge. “Although I believe we’ve already met.”
Ah, there it was. A backbone. One could always count on a Gryffindor for that.
“Indeed, Miss Granger,” Narcissa replied, inclining her head gracefully. “Sadly, we met under most inauspicious circumstances, and I believe we have never been properly introduced.” She paused for dramatic effect, measuring up the girl. “As things stand, I would be delighted to make your acquaintance anew, this day.”
Rising to her feet with fluid grace, Narcissa extended a hand to the younger witch. “Despite what some might assume—understandable, given the circumstances—I am a firm believer in meritocracy. And if there is one thing no one can deny about you, Miss Granger, it is that you have achieved truly remarkable things. I would be delighted to invite you to lunch so we might speak further, should that be agreeable to you.”
The girl visibly paled, her hand faltering for the briefest moment before she squared her shoulders and accepted the offered hand with a slight nod. Her grip was firm, determined—a Gryffindor through and through.
Meanwhile, Draco’s complexion turned a shade lighter, his jaw tightening in barely veiled apprehension. Narcissa suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Did he truly think her so monstrous that leaving his paramour alone with her guaranteed some sort of catastrophe?
Modern children were absurdly dramatic.
“How about I arrange for lunch to be served by the rose garden? Would that suit you, darling?” she asked with a perfectly polite smile, though her eyes gleamed with just a hint of mischief.
“You mean lunch… today?” Hermione’s voice faltered slightly, the beginnings of hesitation creeping in.
“Well, yes,” Narcissa replied, her tone bright and inviting. “We all have to eat, and there’s no better time than the present.” She clapped her hands together lightly, feigning excitement, and couldn’t help but enjoy the way both of them shifted uncomfortably in response.
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly weighing his options. She almost pitied him—caught between his protectiveness and his grudging trust in her motives. But Narcissa had already considered every angle.
By offering lunch here and now, after Miss Granger had accepted her initial invitation, she preempted any possible excuses the girl might think of in the future. And hosting the meal at the Manor itself would undoubtedly reassure Draco of her good intentions; he could hover discreetly nearby, confident that he could intervene if anything went awry.
As if she would be so crass as to raise her wand against the girl. Honestly, the very thought was insulting.
It stung, how negatively he seemed to view her at times, even now. But Narcissa understood that trust—especially from her son—was a fragile thing, and it need to be rebuilt, painstakingly, brick by brick. And so, she would persist.
Despite the past.
Despite Lucius.
And most importantly, despite bloody Voldemort.
“Draco, do you mind terribly if this is an only-girls affair? I trust you have plenty to attend to after being absent from the Manor for so many days. Don’t you, dear?” Her tone was all grace and civility, but the subtext was unmistakable: ‘You left the Manor to traipse off to another country without so much as a note to your poor mother. Now, go sulk in silence while I steal your bride-to-be.’
Draco’s jaw tightened, but his expression remained calm. “By all means, Mother. Though we do have a few things to handle first. Would It be fine if I borrowed Hermione for a moment while you prepare this impromptu luncheon?”
“Not at all, darling,” Narcissa replied smoothly. Her gaze flicked to Hermione, her eyes warm yet appraising. “Hermione—may I call you that, dear? I’ll wait for you by the gazebo. If you haven’t been there yet, have Tilly show you the way. Take your time, there’s no hurry. I do have to catch up with my Witch Weekly’s.”
Her tone was perfectly pleasant as she patted Hermione’s arm with assurance. However, as she swept past Draco she regaled him with a faintly smug smirk, her head held high.
Years of maneuvering Lucius—who had put her in more than his fair share of sticky situations—had honed her skills to a razor’s edge. Her son didn’t stand a chance.
D raco was seething. Trust his mother to stage an ambush so perfectly timed and flawlessly executed. Any semblance of good humor he’d managed to cling to had drained away, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Hermione asked tentatively, her voice light but her eyes searching his face for reassurance.
Draco let out a low, humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “With my mother, nothing is ever as simple as it seems, Hermione. Trust me on that.”
She tilted her head, concern flickering in her gaze. “You think she has an ulterior motive?”
He sighed, stepping closer and taking her hands in his. His grip was gentle, but his silver eyes were steady, earnest. “I think everything she does has layers, even if the topmost one looks perfectly harmless. That’s who she is. That’s how she’s survived.”
Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. “Draco, if you don’t want me to go—”
“No,” he interrupted, squeezing her hands. “This isn’t about what I want. If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. I’ll make your excuses, whatever they need to be. You have no obligation to sit through that lunch just because you said yes in the moment.”
“But she seems so…” Hermione trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Charming? Affectionate? Accommodating?” Draco supplied dryly. He shook his head, his expression softening slightly. “She’s all of that, but she’s also a Malfoy. She can weaponize charm faster than you can cast a Stunning Spell. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll handle it. Just say the word.”
Hermione studied him for a long moment, her brows knitting slightly. Then, with a small, determined nod, she said, “I’ll go. I don’t think she’s trying to hurt me.”
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s not. Not directly. But that doesn’t mean she won’t try to… test you.”
“I can handle a test.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Draco murmured, his expression softening despite himself. “But just know, if anything goes sideways, I’m one word away. All right?”
“All right.” Hermione’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “But I think I’ll be fine.”
Draco didn’t look convinced, but he leaned down to brush a soft kiss to her forehead. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be fine too.”
“How much should I—?” Hermione hesitated, chewing her lip. “I mean, do you want her to know about us?”
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I think that ship sailed the second she saw us kissing. But, if she was waiting there, she probably had her suspicions long before that.” His tone was clipped but not angry, more resigned. Despite her scheming nature, he loved his mother. How could he not? She’d shaped him in many ways—he wasn’t so different from her when it came to planning and maneuvering.
“What I mean to say,” Hermione began again, her voice uncertain, “is… I don’t even know what we are. If she asks, what do you want me to say?”
He paused, meeting her gaze. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the wariness, the hesitance. But he also saw hope—a flicker of something more.
I want you to be my everything , he thought. I want to say it so badly. But if I do, I’ll lose her.
Instead, he cupped her cheek gently, his thumb brushing her skin as he said, “I’ll take you in any way you’ll have me.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “As a friend.” His lips found her neck, lingering. “As a lover.” His voice dropped, his breath warm against her skin. “I’m yours, Granger. So, tell my mother whatever you’re comfortable with. Whatever feels right to you.”
Hermione bit her lip, leaning into his touch but still holding back. “What if I’m not ready to tell her anything?”
It stung. A part of him ached at her hesitation, at her need for distance. But he could take it. He would take it, if it meant she stayed with him.
“You’ll have to tell her something,” he said with a soft chuckle, masking his hurt. “That woman is like a dog with a bone. She’s a Black, through and through. But whatever you decide, I’ll support it.”
“And… will you be okay with however I decide to label us?” she asked softly, her eyes searching his, wide and pleading.
She wanted him to be okay, to understand.
He would tell her anything she needed to hear. And he would deal with himself later, if that’s what it took.
“I’ll be okay,” he murmured, his hand sliding to her neck, his fingers massaging her scalp with deliberate tenderness. “As long as we know what we are. As long as I know you’re mine. Isn’t that right, Hermione?”
Her breath hitched as his hand tightened slightly, his intensity sparking something deep within her.
“Yes…” she whispered.
He gripped her neck firmly now, tilting her head back, his gaze locked on hers. “Yes, what, Hermione?”
“I’m yours,” she said softly, her voice trembling with the weight of the admission. “Even if no one else knows. I’m yours.”
Before she could say more, his lips crushed against hers, his kiss desperate and consuming. He poured himself into it, needing her to feel how much she meant to him, even if he couldn’t say the words out loud. She melted into him, her hands clutching his shirt as though she could keep him closer.
When they parted, she was flushed, her cheeks pink and her breaths uneven. He stared at her for a moment, drinking in the sight, before reluctantly stepping back. He needed a cold bath.
“Just… for the record,” Hermione began, breaking the silence, “your friends already know we’re together. I’m not asking you to hide us. I just don’t think I’m ready to tell your mum that we’re… dating. Especially considering her… expectations.”
Draco chuckled softly, brushing a stray curl from her face. “I get it, love. I do.”
He didn’t press her further, even though a part of him longed to. Because this was enough for now. She was his, and she had said it.
And he would wait.
D raco retreated to his study, pacing the length of the room like a caged beast. He had let Hermione go to freshen up, but the thought of her facing his mother alone left him restless.
“Tilly!” he called, his voice echoing slightly in the grand hall.
With a pop, the little elf appeared, her tea apron looking a bit lopsided, as if she’d been caught mid-scurry. “Yes, Master Draco, sir! Tilly is here! What can Tilly do for her most clever, most handsome master?”
Draco smirked despite himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Has my mother been… visiting the Manor much these past few weeks?”
“Oh, yes, Master!” Tilly’s large eyes widened even further. “Mistress Narcissa has been coming and going, oh yes she has! Especially these past few days! Tilly and the other elves told her where Master and Miss Hermione were, but Mistress only huffed and said, ‘They’ll get tired of frolicking and come back sooner or later.’ But Master Draco did not!”
“No, I suppose not,” Draco muttered. “And what exactly has my mother been doing while she was here?”
Tilly clapped her hands together, a grin stretching wide across her wrinkled face. “Mistress had her project! Oh, it was grand, yes it was!”
“Her project?” Draco’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, yes! Mistress brought so many papers and journals—armfuls of them! She cut bits and pieces, snip-snip, then stuck them all into a pretty handmade journal, all neat and tidy! Mistress would hum little songs while she worked, like when she was a young lady, oh yes!”
Draco’s lips twitched in bemusement. “And when she wasn’t snipping and humming?”
“Oh, Mistress did lots of things, Master Draco,” Tilly replied earnestly. “She walked the rose paths of the Manor with her snippers, cutting one rose every hour—one on the hour, every hour! She put them in vases all over, just waiting for Master and Miss Hermione to walk in and say, ‘Oh, how lovely these roses are!’ But Master Draco did not come back to admire them.”
Draco exhaled through his nose, fighting back laughter. “What else, Tilly?”
“Oh, Mistress had very long teas in the library!” Tilly’s hands gestured wildly, as if to illustrate just how long. “She sat by the window with her fancy teapot—the one with the silver snakes, Master Draco—and sipped and stared out the window like this.” Tilly mimed an exaggeratedly forlorn expression, her head tilted dramatically as she clasped invisible pearls.
Draco snorted, unable to help himself. “That sounds about right.”
“And sometimes,” Tilly continued conspiratorially, leaning closer, “Mistress walked the hallways in her prettiest robes, just in case you or Miss Hermione popped in unexpectedly. She would say to Ebon, ‘A lady must always be prepared.’ But Master Draco and Miss Hermione did not pop in!”
Draco shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Trust his mother to turn his absence into a full-scale production. “Thank you, Tilly. Now listen carefully. I need you to keep an eye on Hermione during this luncheon. Stay by her side—visible or invisible, whatever is necessary. Ebon will be there too, but Mother…” He trailed off, his tone turning wry. “…she doesn’t always restrain herself. I don’t want her to spook Hermione. Do you understand?”
Tilly’s expression turned fierce, her chest puffing out as she straightened her posture. “Master Draco does not worry! Tilly will stick to Miss Hermione like spellotape! No one will spook Miss Hermione in Master Draco’s home, not even Mistress Narcissa!”
Draco nodded, satisfied. “Good. Go make yourself ready, then.”
With a snap of her fingers and a determined nod, Tilly disappeared. Draco ran a hand through his hair, already dreading whatever subtle (or not-so-subtle) maneuvering his mother had planned.
“Snipping roses every hour,” he muttered, shaking his head and chuckling a bit. “Of course she did.”
M eanwhile, Hermione had chosen a bright orange set of summery robes that billowed gently in the breeze, their cheerful color doing little to soothe her nerves. Facing Narcissa Malfoy—the epitome of noble House elegance—dressed like a Muggle felt unthinkable—no matter how lovely the lace of her top or how perfectly the denim hugged her figure (as Draco had so eloquently pointed out).
And so, she donned her robes like armor, tying her hair back to keep it from flying into her face, and with one last steadying breath, she declared herself ready to face her opponent—or potential mother-in-law. Same difference.
Narcissa looked positively regal, presiding over what might have been a cozy table for two—if not for the lavish decor. A flat runner of roses ran the length of the table, flanked by artfully arranged vases overflowing with blooms. Tall candlesticks rose above the setting, their bases surrounded by delicate plates of garnishes and accompanying dishes, the very picture of refined extravagance.
Hermione’s stomach twisted into uneasy knots, despite reminding herself that she had faced far worse. After all, Narcissa’s own deranged sister had once gleefully carved into her arm with a cursed blade.
And despite Narcissa being forever tied to that horrific memory, she hadn’t been an active participant. Much like Draco, she had simply stood by and watched.
Hermione understood the difference now—at least to some extent. Narcissa’s inaction had been fueled by a mother’s desperate instinct to protect her child, her gaze fixed on Draco even as atrocities unfolded. That particular clarity had come to her one day considering what might imply for her to be a mother herself, the thought giving birth to a reluctant empathy that made Hermione’s gut churn.
Still, understanding didn’t mean condoning.
Hermione liked to believe that, if she had been in Narcissa’s position, she would have chosen differently. She had been faced with life-or-death situations herself–rather a lot, actually–, and she had always chosen to fight—for herself, for others, and for what was right. Narcissa’s inaction might have been driven by fear or practicality, but to Hermione, it still smacked of cowardice. A decision had been made, and Hermione found it lacking.
There was always a better choice.
Strengthened by that conviction, Hermione strode toward Narcissa with her chin held high, every step measured and deliberate. She stopped just shy of the table, waiting for Narcissa’s inevitable invitation to sit, as polite company demanded.
The fact that she often chose to forgo the more archaic traditions of wizarding etiquette didn’t mean she was ignorant of them. On the contrary, she could follow them flawlessly when it suited her. After all, how difficult could it be for someone who had mastered Polyjuice Potion in her Second Year?
Hermione smoothed her robes, a small, defiant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Let the games begin .
“Have a seat, dear.” Narcissa didn’t disappoint, her tone light and her smile soft as she rose gracefully, gesturing to the chair beside her. “Oh, I do hope it’s all right to call you dear. You’re Draco’s age, after all. It simply slipped. Do you mind?”
Hermione studied the older witch, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to decipher the intent behind the words. I’m not a Slytheri n, she thought, but I’m no Hufflepuff either . Narcissa clearly intended to play nice—at least for now—and Hermione decided it suited her just fine to follow along.
“That’s perfectly understandable, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her voice even, polite–albeit a little bit cold. “I suppose we all still look like Hogwarts students sometimes.”
“Oh, no, no. I am well aware of how much you’ve all grown,” Narcissa replied smoothly, her fingers idly adjusting the placement of a plate. “In fact, I keep telling Draco that I’m not getting any younger. It’s about time he started socializing a bit more.”
Hermione’s fork hesitated midair. Was that Narcissa Malfoy telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted Draco married? Well, she’s certainly taken the gloves off quickly.
Taking her time, Hermione began serving herself from the array of dishes before her, using the motions to give herself a moment to think.
“Being married is certainly overrated,” she said at last, her tone measured but tinged with dry humor. “I must admit, I’ve been quite happy to count myself as single again recently.”
“Oh yes.” Narcissa’s eyes gleamed faintly, though her smile didn’t waver. “I’ve read about that quite a bit this past month. The Daily Prophet has certainly made the rounds with every development of your… situation with Ronald Weasley.”
“Have they?” Hermione asked, her tone as sharp as the gleam in her eyes. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve stopped receiving the papers. As I’m sure you must personally understand, having one’s life plastered across the headlines for everyone to dissect and judge isn’t the most pleasant way to start the day.”
Narcissa’s smile faltered, just the faintest slip in her practiced mask. Hermione didn’t miss the slight tremble of the older witch’s hand before it was quickly clasped in her lap, fingers tightening with deliberate composure.
“You are quite right, of course,” Narcissa said after a beat, her voice as smooth as ever, though there was a distinct note of sincerity beneath the polished surface. “I must remember that you are made of sterner stuff than most witches your age, dear. My remark was thoughtless, and I apologize if it caused offense. That was not my intent.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Then what was your intent?” she asked, her gaze locking directly with Narcissa’s, her tone calm but unyielding.
“My, my,” Narcissa murmured, a faint smile gracing her lips as she reached for the wine decanter, pouring herself a measured glass. The absence of her ever-present elf was conspicuous, almost intentional. Did Narcissa want to be alone with her? To lull her into a sense of comfort before striking her blow? “You are a brave little thing, aren’t you?”
“I try to be,” Hermione replied, her voice steady, the faintest edge of steel beneath her polite words.
“This might surprise you, but you’ve been on my mind quite often since the war, Hermione,” Narcissa began softly, her graceful smile wilting just slightly. “I... well, we—Lucius and I—did many deeply regrettable things during those times.” She paused, her gaze briefly lowering to her hands. “I’m certain you must have seen our depositions before the Wizengamot. Nothing that would surprise you, I expect.”
Hermione studied the older witch carefully. Despite Narcissa’s poised demeanor, there was a weariness about her—the years certainly taking their toll on her, despite how she tried to appear.
“But, when you spoke on behalf of Draco and me,” Narcissa continued, “I was astonished. You must understand, I hadn’t received any word of... favors being owed in the future for what your words might achieve. It was the world I had lived in for so long, you see? The only world I knew. Even before I became a Malfoy, we Blacks were taught there were no other rules as important. Everything was a negotiation, a quid pro quo. One does nothing unless there is benefit in the doing. That was drilled into us from a young age.”
“That’s a sad way to live, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her voice quiet as her gaze drifted toward the distant Manor. “But I didn’t do it for any gain—not for you or your son. It was simply the right thing to do.” She turned back to Narcissa, her amber eyes steady. “If Draco had identified Harry—or if you hadn’t lied to Voldemort himself about him being dead—we might not be here today.”
Narcissa nodded thoughtfully, her gaze distant. “I see that now. It is, after all, how you have conducted yourself all along. I, however, must thank you—and at the same time, ask you for your forgiveness.” She hesitated, her composure wavering just enough for Hermione to notice. “When Bella attacked you... you were a child. As much a child as Draco, whom I held back. As a mother, my first thought was to protect him, as it has always been with us Slytherins—we protect our own first. But you were all children.” Her voice softened, trembling ever so slightly. “I should have stopped her. I should have done something.”
She drew a breath, steadying herself, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “That day, I realized that people who would do such things to children could never bring about a better tomorrow. No matter what my husband believed.” Her voice caught, a faint tremor betraying her control before she coughed delicately into her hand, as if brushing away the vulnerability. “Forgive me... there must be a bit of dust in the air.”
Hermione studied her carefully, noticing the telltale glimmer of unshed tears in Narcissa’s pale eyes. What was it with these people and hiding their feelings?
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day,” Hermione said softly, her fingers brushing over the faint scar on her forearm. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it until Narcissa’s eyes flicked to the movement, lingering on the mark. Embarrassed, she dropped her hand into her lap. “But I decided I wouldn’t live my life looking back anymore. If I can look at Draco and not hold that against him, then I think there’s room in my heart to extend the same courtesy to you—even if you were an adult at the time.”
Narcissa’s lips parted slightly, her expression shifting as though she wanted to argue. Instead, she inclined her head, her composure softening just enough to let a flicker of regret shine through. “I hold myself responsible, Hermione,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “There is no need to be so gracious. Salazar knows I wouldn’t be, were our places reversed.” Her gaze dropped briefly before rising again, meeting Hermione’s with quiet conviction. “But I appreciate your kindness—and the strength it takes to offer it, not only to Draco but to me as well.”
Narcissa took a delicate bite from her plate, her movements precise and elegant, as though they were having an entirely mundane conversation. Hermione, on the other hand, struggled to lift her fork, the weight of the discussion pressing down on her chest like a stone. How Narcissa could eat so casually amidst such revelations was beyond her comprehension. She was certain that should she eat a bite the food would transform into a rock the instant she swallowed.
“I trust I’ve made my position clear enough to assure you that I hold no ill intent towards you?” Narcissa asked, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin, her gaze fixed on Hermione with unsettling calmness.
Hermione arched an eyebrow, setting her fork down. “Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
A musical laugh escaped Narcissa, light and airy, as though Hermione had just shared a charming anecdote. “Oh, of course, there’s a ‘but,’ dear!” she replied, a note of amusement threading through her voice. Her eyes gleamed with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—anticipation, perhaps, or satisfaction that Hermione had risen to the occasion.
“Then, let’s be honest, Mrs. Malfoy. I am pretty sure I can guess the reason behind this chat, but you are not being very candid with me about it. ”
Narcissa reached into her robes with the grace of someone who always knew where every seam and pocket lay. When her hand emerged, it cradled a small, elegant bottle of crystalline glass. The potion inside shimmered faintly, an iridescent silver liquid that seemed almost alive as it caught the sunlight filtering through the rose-laden garden.
It moved languidly, with a viscosity that made Hermione think of molten moonlight. Each swirl sent faint ripples of luminescence through the liquid, as though it were breathing. Even the cork stopper was pristine, sealed with a subtle magical glint that bespoke the bottle’s dangerous contents.
“Veritaserum,” Narcissa said softly, placing it on the table with deliberate precision, her fingers lingering on the glass for a moment before she withdrew her hand.
Hermione’s eyes were drawn to it, her throat tightening as she noted the faint wisps of vapor escaping the bottle’s seal, dissipating like secrets lost to the wind.
“I’ve never been particularly fond of Potions myself," Narcissa began, her fingers grazing the delicate bottle as though it were a mere trinket. "I’ve always found Occlumency to be a more useful discipline. But I thought something like this might move us along, don’t you think? Would you find it easier to trust me if I took it?”
Hermione arched a brow, skepticism writ large on her face. “As long as you’re not expecting me to take it.”
A delicate hand waved the notion away, a soft chuckle escaping Narcissa’s lips. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. This is for your peace of mind, Hermione. I propose this: I will drink the Veritaserum after you confirm its potency with a simple sip yourself. Once you are satisfied, I will share my purpose for this conversation, and then you may ask me whatever you wish.”
Hermione took a moment to mull it over, twirling her fork absently in the delicate, herb-laced pasta on her plate. She chewed slowly, the rich flavors doing little to distract her from the weight of Narcissa's offer. The space seemed to shrink around the two of them, the ornate rose garden fading into the background as she considered the implications.
She didn’t owe Narcissa Malfoy anything. She wasn’t obligated to listen, let alone indulge the older witch’s dramatic gesture with the Veritaserum. Yet, despite the knot of resentment still coiled deep inside her, Hermione couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity—or the quiet voice at the back of her mind reminding her that Narcissa was Draco’s mother. That alone made her tread carefully.
She didn’t dare fully acknowledge why this mattered to her, not even to herself. But in the deepest corner of her heart, she knew the truth: she wanted to keep this door open. For the first time in a long time, she saw the faintest glimpse of something she hadn’t realized she craved. A future. Maybe their future.
Hermione sighed softly, setting down her fork with a deliberate clink against the fine porcelain plate. “Alright, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, meeting the older woman’s piercing gaze. “Let’s see where this takes us.”
Hermione hesitated as she took a small sip of the Veritaserum Narcissa had poured. The potion didn’t feel like much—no sudden shift, no tugging sensation, nothing that might signal its effects.
Narcissa, however, seemed to be taking this very seriously. She leaned forward slightly, her expression carefully neutral but her sharp eyes scanning Hermione’s face for any telltale reactions.
“Do you truly care about my son, or is he just a passing fling to you?”
Hermione had expected Narcissa’s inquiry to be pointed, but this was brutal in its directness.
The question lodged in her chest like a hooked spell, tugging insistently as the potion worked its magic. She pressed her lips together, fighting the overwhelming urge to blurt out every vulnerable thought she’d kept carefully guarded.
“I care about Draco a great deal,” she managed, her voice strained but steady. “He is not a fling for me.”
The moment she spoke, Hermione felt an overwhelming rush of relief, as though a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying had been lifted.
Across from her, Narcissa’s shoulders relaxed, and a faint breath escaped her, almost imperceptible. “Thank you, Hermione,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “That means a great deal to me.”
Without another word, Narcissa reached for the remaining Veritaserum, tipping the vial into a crystal goblet. She drank it down with a composed elegance that made Hermione’s own nerves seem childish by comparison.
Narcissa set the empty glass aside and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her blue eyes met Hermione’s with an open, steady gaze. “Feel free to question me now,” she said simply, the slightest lift of her chin inviting Hermione to proceed.
The ball was in Hermione’s court.
“I am not doubting your apology or your words before this, please don’t misunderstand about that. I do appreciate them and how much it cost you to be that honest with me. But, I don’t see why you’d go to such great lengths to just ask me if I care about your son.” Narcissa nodded, awaiting the question. “So, what’s the real reason behind your interest in me?”
“Dear Hermione,” Narcissa began with a touch of indulgence in her voice, her smile poised but genuine. “It’s been almost nine years since Draco has spoken with any interest about any girl. And believe me, I’ve been trying to set him up with perfect candidates for almost three.”
“Nine years?” Hermione blinked, doing the math quickly. “You mean… Fourth Year?”
“Yes, the Yule Ball,” Narcissa replied, her tone shifting to one of faint amusement. “He wouldn’t shut up about how Krum was a pompous ass who couldn’t play Quidditch.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hermione said, frowning.
“Darling,” Narcissa leaned forward slightly, a knowing glint in her sharp blue eyes, “he had a poster of Krum in his room until that year. Do you think he suddenly decided to hate the man for no reason?”
Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief, but Narcissa merely shrugged, her expression far too casual for the bombshell she’d just dropped. “A mother knows her child.”
The older witch’s tone was maddeningly matter-of-fact, but the glimmer in her gaze spoke volumes.
Of course, Pansy had already told her as much, but she hadn’t expected Narcissa—of all people—to have been so aware. “How… why? I mean, what did you think back then? Draco liking a Muggleborn of all people?”
“Oh, dear!” Narcissa laughed softly, her delicate hand fluttering to her chest. “One can like many things. You were all children! It could have been a passing fancy. I hoped it would be, frankly.” Her eyes glinted with a touch of dry humor. “Thankfully, Lucius was never the brightest, nor the most observant, when it came to Draco’s personal inclinations. He was more concerned with the boy’s achievements—something to parade before his… associates.”
Narcissa suddenly pressed her fingers to her mouth, a hint of embarrassment flashing across her face. “Do forgive me. That was unkind.”
“It’s okay,” Hermione said, her voice softer than she expected. “I suppose I never would’ve expected him to be interested in me back then—or to continue to be interested after all this time, either.”
“That’s because Draco is like me, I’m afraid,” Narcissa said, her tone laced with quiet candor. “He doesn’t change his deeper feelings or allegiances easily, once he gives them.”
“You mean… like how he did everything he did during the war to protect you and Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione ventured cautiously.
“Yes, partly that,” Narcissa admitted, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “But also what he did to protect his friends. His real friends—not Crabbe and Goyle Junior, mind you. Those were hereditary obligations, not genuine bonds. I mean Pansy, Theo, and Blaise. He would’ve moved mountains for them, and in some ways, he did.”
“I also mean how I did many things out of love for Lucius,” Narcissa continued, her voice quieter now, each word carefully measured, “that weren’t—” She paused, visibly struggling with the weight of her thoughts. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table as if searching for something solid to anchor herself. “That weren’t what I should have done.”
Hermione watched as Narcissa’s composure faltered, her normally poised demeanor softening under the weight of her admission. Her voice broke slightly, and she quickly swallowed, visibly forcing herself to regain her composure. “I should have steered him away. I didn’t. And I am sorry for it.”
Hermione found herself momentarily at a loss for words. She had come to this lunch braced for manipulation, prepared to hold her ground against a formidable opponent. She hadn’t expected… this.
“Mrs. Malfoy…” Hermione began, her voice tentative, unsure how to navigate the sudden vulnerability.
“No, let me finish,” Narcissa interrupted gently, her blue eyes meeting Hermione’s with startling sincerity. “I failed to protect Draco from the choices that were forced upon him. I thought I was doing what was best—what would keep him safe. But in hindsight, I see how much harm it caused, how much it cost him. And you.”
There was a profound sadness in her tone, an unspoken acknowledgment of shared pain that made Hermione’s throat tighten.
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Hermione said after a moment, her own voice carrying a surprising steadiness. “We all made choices during the war. Some of them we regret. Some of them we’d make again, even knowing what they’d cost us. I’ve had to accept that… and maybe you do too.”
For the first time, Narcissa seemed caught off guard, her expression softening further. “You are remarkably wise for someone so young, Hermione. Far more than I ever gave you credit for.”
Hermione smiled faintly, her fingers brushing over the edge of her teacup. “War does that to people.”
Narcissa inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on Hermione for a moment longer. Then, as if sensing the conversation had reached its emotional limit, she straightened in her seat, the cool mask of composure slipping back into place.
“Thank you, Hermione,” she said simply, her tone quieter but resolute. “For giving me the chance to say that.”
Hermione took a slow, deliberate breath, her fingers tracing the edge of her goblet as she gathered her thoughts. She had heard Narcissa’s words, noted the sincerity woven into them, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was more—something unsaid, carefully tucked away behind that composed exterior.
This was Narcissa Malfoy, after all. Nothing she did was ever as straightforward as it seemed.
Hermione tilted her head slightly, a polite smile playing on her lips. “Thank you for sharing that, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said smoothly. “It means a great deal to hear all of that from you.”
Narcissa’s expression softened, but Hermione wasn’t done.
“That said,” Hermione continued, her tone light but edged with determination, “I can’t help but feel that we’ve danced around the heart of the matter. You’ve told me what you want for Draco, but not quite why you’ve chosen this moment to have this conversation—or why you felt Veritaserum was necessary to ensure it.”
Narcissa raised a delicate brow, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Haven’t I?”
“Not quite,” Hermione replied, her smirk matching Narcissa’s in its sharpness. “You’ve given me context, shared your regrets, and admitted to your mistakes. But you’ve yet to tell me why you invited me here, to this table, for this conversation. Why now? Why me?”
For a moment, Narcissa was utterly still, her icy-blue eyes studying Hermione with an intensity that would have unnerved most. Then, slowly, she inclined her head, a faint smile curving her lips.
“You are quite perceptive, Hermione, I do wonder if there might have been a chance of you placing in Slythering once upon a time” she said softly, almost approvingly. “Very well. If you insist on peeling back every layer, I won’t deny you. But do remember, sometimes it’s kinder to let certain truths remain in the shadows.”
“I prefer clarity,” Hermione replied evenly, though her heartbeat quickened in anticipation.
Narcissa sighed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Why now? Because Draco is serious about you, and that is rare enough to warrant my attention. Why Veritaserum? Because I wanted you to know the sincerity behind my words, as well as yours. And what do I truly want?”
Her smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet resolve. “I want an ally. I want to secure the legacy of my family. Not the Malfoy name or its wealth—those are immaterial without the right foundation. What I seek is something far more precious. Something that cannot be bought or bargained for.”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just above a whisper. “I want to ensure that, for the first time in generations, the Black line—and now the Malfoy line—is defined not by power or ambition, but by something real. By love. I want my grandchildren to grow up surrounded by that legacy.”
“Above everything, I want to ensure that my son is happy. That he has a future filled with warmth, stability, and love. And if that future involves you, I want to be absolutely certain that you are capable of giving him what he deserves—and more.”
Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by the directness of the answer. Narcissa didn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering.
“That is why I invited you here,” Narcissa continued. “Because if Draco has seen fit to trust you with his heart, Hermione, I want you to understand the weight of that responsibility.”
The honesty in her words left Hermione momentarily speechless. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but it was one she could respect. Hermione swallowed, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robes beneath the table. Narcissa’s words were clear, and they struck deep.
“I see,” Hermione said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within her.
“Do you?” Narcissa asked, her tone gentler now but no less serious. “Because if you don’t, then I will say this plainly: If you do not truly want him, if you are not prepared to build something real and lasting with him, then let him go. Do not string him along, Hermione. It will break him—and I will not forgive you for that.”
The weight of her words settled heavily between them, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then, slowly, Hermione nodded, her chin lifting in quiet resolve.
“I understand,” she said simply, her voice firm. “And you have my word, Mrs. Malfoy. I would never hurt him intentionally. Draco means too much to me for that.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Narcissa’s smile reached her eyes. “That’s all I needed to hear, dear.”
Narcissa cleared her throat. “It seems the effect has finally passed,” Narcissa tilted her head, a flicker of amusement crossing her features. “My, you do know how to corner someone, don’t you? Draco was right about that.”
The reality of Narcissa’s expectations made her stomach twist slightly, though not in revulsion—more in apprehension.
If Draco truly was as serious as everyone seemed to suggest—and it was becoming increasingly difficult to deny—then she couldn’t postpone this conversation for much longer. Draco Malfoy was not a man prone to flings or frivolous pursuits, that much had become abundantly clear.
If she continued down this path with him, if they truly became a “they,” then she owed him honesty.
Her fingers curled tightly in her lap. Stringing him along under false pretenses was something she refused to do. He deserved to know that she wasn’t sure about children, that she might never be able to have them—or might never want them at all.
It was a sobering thought, but it also brought with it a strange sense of calm. If he could accept that, then perhaps she could take that terrifying step into the public eye. Stand by his side. Face the storm together.
Yes, she could do it—for him, certainly, and perhaps even for herself.
With newfound resolve, Hermione straightened her spine, a small but determined smile curling her lips. She had faced worse challenges before—and if she and Draco were going to be something real, they would face this one together.