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Hermione adjusted her robes as she stepped out of Flourish and Blotts, her arms full of textbooks for third year. The weight of Intermediate Transfiguration and The Monster Book of Monsters made her shoulder ache, but she didn't mind. Books were her comfort zone, especially when Harry and Ron had abandoned her for the newest racing broom display at Quality Quidditch Supplies.
"Typical," she muttered, shifting her books to get a better grip. "Leave the girl with the actual studying to do."
The late August sun beat down on Diagon Alley's cobblestones, and Hermione wiped sweat from her forehead as she navigated through the crowd. She was looking forward to getting to Madam Malkin's next when someone bumped into her from behind.
Books scattered across the street.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Hermione dropped to her knees, scrambling to collect her purchases before they got trampled.
"How clumsy of you, Mudblood."
Hermione's head snapped up. The voice was smooth, cultured, and dripping with disdain. She found herself staring at an elegantly dressed woman with long platinum blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Even kneeling in the dirt, Hermione recognized her immediately—Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother.
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Oh, brilliant. Just what I needed today."
Narcissa blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "Excuse me?"
"I said brilliant," Hermione repeated, standing up and dusting off her robes. "You know, because calling me a Mudblood is so terribly original. Did you workshop that one, or does it just come naturally?"
"I beg your pardon?" Narcissa's voice rose slightly, genuine confusion replacing her usual sneer.
Hermione bent down to retrieve her last book—a particularly thick volume on Ancient Runes. "Most purebloods at least try to be creative with their insults. 'Mudblood' is so... pedestrian."
"Pedestrian?" Narcissa repeated, as if she'd never heard the word before.
"Common. Ordinary. Boring." Hermione straightened up, meeting the older woman's gaze directly. "I mean, if you're going to insult me, at least make it interesting."
For a moment, they stared at each other. Hermione noticed things she hadn't expected to—how perfectly Narcissa's robes fit her tall frame, how her blonde hair caught the sunlight, how her lips were slightly parted in surprise. There was something almost... attractive about her when she wasn't sneering.
That thought made Hermione's stomach do a weird flip. She'd been having more of those thoughts lately, especially about older women.
"You're an odd little thing, aren't you?" Narcissa said finally, her tone shifting from disdain to something like curiosity.
"Little?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I'm thirteen, not seven. And odd? Sure, I'll take that. Better than boring."
Narcissa's eyes drifted to the books in Hermione's arms. "Ancient Runes? That's... ambitious for a third year."
"Is it?" Hermione shrugged. "I like languages. They make sense in ways people don't."
"And you think you can just... learn them? From books?"
"That's generally how learning works, yes." Hermione caught the slight edge in her voice and tried to soften it. "Why? Don't you think I can?"
Narcissa studied her for a long moment. "Most witches your age are more concerned with boys and Quidditch than academic pursuits."
"Most witches my age are idiots," Hermione said bluntly. "And boys are... well, they are clueless."
Something flickered in Narcissa's expression—amusement, maybe? "You have strong opinions for someone so young."
"Strong opinions come from strong minds," Hermione replied. "My blood status doesn't change that."
"No," Narcissa said quietly, almost to herself. "I suppose it doesn't."
The admission seemed to surprise them both. Narcissa straightened, her mask of superiority sliding back into place.
"Well," she said crisply. "This has been... illuminating."
"Has it?" Hermione tilted her head. "Good illuminating or bad illuminating?"
"I haven't decided yet."
Hermione felt that weird flutter in her stomach again. There was something about the way Narcissa was looking at her—not with hatred or disgust, but with genuine interest. It was unsettling and oddly thrilling at the same time.
"Maybe you should think about it," Hermione said, shifting her books again. "I hear thinking is good for the brain."
Narcissa's lips twitched. "Are you being impertinent, Miss Granger?"
"Probably." Hermione grinned. "But you're still talking to me, so it must be working."
"I..." Narcissa faltered, as if she'd just realized what she was doing. Her expression hardened again. "I should go."
"Should you?" Hermione asked. "Or do you want to?"
"There's no difference."
"There's always a difference between should and want," Hermione said. "That's the first thing you learn when you actually think for yourself."
Narcissa stared at her, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, her robes billowing dramatically behind her.
Hermione watched her go, noting the graceful way she moved, how her hair swayed with each step. When Narcissa disappeared into the crowd, Hermione realized she was smiling.
"Well," she murmured to herself. "That was unexpected."
She looked down at her books, then back toward where Narcissa had vanished. Something had just happened—something important, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what.
Her stomach fluttered again, and this time she recognized the feeling for what it was. Attraction. To Draco Malfoy's mother.
"Oh, brilliant," she said aloud, echoing her earlier sentiment. "This is going to be complicated."
But as she headed toward Madam Malkin's, she found herself hoping she'd run into Narcissa Malfoy again.
Three Months Later
The November wind whipped across the Quidditch pitch as Hermione settled into the Gryffindor stands, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. She wasn't particularly interested in watching Slytherin demolish Hufflepuff, but Harry and Ron had insisted she come along for "moral support."
"Moral support for what?" she muttered, opening Arithmancy Made Easy on her lap. "It's not like we're playing."
The crowd roared as the players took to the field. Hermione glanced up briefly, her eyes scanning the opposite stands where a small cluster of well-dressed adults sat in the Slytherin section. Her breath caught when she spotted familiar platinum blonde hair.
Narcissa Malfoy sat in the front row of the family section, wrapped in an elegant emerald cloak. Even from this distance, she looked perfectly composed, watching her son with the kind of focused attention that made Hermione's stomach do that weird flutter again.
"Bloody hell, Hermione, are you even watching?" Ron nudged her elbow.
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Fascinating stuff," she replied, not taking her eyes off Narcissa.
As if sensing her gaze, Narcissa turned in her direction. Their eyes met across the pitch, and Hermione felt something electric shoot through her. Narcissa's expression was unreadable, but she didn't look away immediately like Hermione expected.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly—a gesture that might have been acknowledgment or challenge.
Hermione's heart started beating faster, and she felt an unfamiliar stirring between her legs. She shifted uncomfortably, grateful for the thick book covering her lap.
The first half of the match dragged on with Slytherin dominating as expected. Draco showboated on his Nimbus 2001, catching the Snitch within twenty minutes in what was clearly a orchestrated victory.
During the halftime break, as students milled about stretching their legs and buying sweets, Hermione noticed movement in her peripheral vision. Narcissa Malfoy was making her way up the Gryffindor stands as Harry and Ron left to go and do whatever they were doing.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione looked up from her book to find Narcissa standing at the end of her row, looking impossibly elegant despite the wind and cold. Up close, she was even more striking than Hermione remembered. Her face was classically beautiful in a cold, sculpted way—high cheekbones, perfect skin, lips that looked like they'd been carved from marble. The emerald cloak was open at the front, revealing a form-fitting black dress underneath that accentuated her figure in ways that made Hermione's mouth go dry.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione replied, proud that her voice sounded steady. "Enjoying the match?"
"May I?" Narcissa gestured to the empty seat beside her.
Hermione nodded, scooting over slightly. She was acutely aware of how Narcissa's presence seemed to make the air warmer, how her perfume—something expensive and floral—cut through the crisp autumn smell.
"Your son played well," Hermione said, closing her book.
"Draco has natural talent," Narcissa replied, settling gracefully into the seat. "Though I suspect today's victory had more to do with superior equipment than superior skill."
Hermione blinked in surprise. "That's... surprisingly honest."
"You seem to bring out honesty in people, Miss Granger." Narcissa's tone was different than it had been in Diagon Alley—still formal, but without the edge of hostility. "It's a dangerous quality."
"I wasn't aware honesty was such a bad trait?" Hermione turned to face her more fully, and immediately regretted it. This close, she could see the way Narcissa's dress clung to her curves, the elegant line of her neck, the way her lips curved slightly when she spoke. Something stirred in Hermione's body again, stronger this time, and she felt herself beginning to harden beneath her robes.
"Most people prefer comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths," Narcissa said, studying Hermione's face. "You don't seem to be most people."
"I've never seen the point in pretending things are different than they are," Hermione replied, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the growing pressure in her lap. "Reality doesn't change just because you ignore it."
"And what's your reality, Miss Granger?"
The question was loaded with something Hermione couldn't quite identify. "That I'm a Muggle-born witch who's probably smarter than most of the purebloods who look down on me," she said bluntly.
Narcissa's lips curved into what might have been a smile. "Probably?"
"Definitely," Hermione corrected, and this time Narcissa actually laughed—a low, melodious sound that sent heat shooting straight to Hermione's groin.
"You're quite confident for a thirteen-year-old."
"Age doesn't determine intelligence," Hermione said, shifting again as the hardness between her legs became more noticeable. "Some people are born smart. Others just think they are because of their blood status."
"And which category do I fall into?"
Hermione met her eyes directly. "I haven't decided yet."
"Fair enough." Narcissa glanced down at the book in Hermione's lap. "Advanced Arithmancy. Most seventh years struggle with that subject."
"Most people struggle with thinking in general," Hermione replied. "Numbers make sense. They're logical. Predictable."
"Unlike people?"
"Especially unlike people."
Narcissa was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. "You're not what I expected, Miss Granger."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone... lesser," Narcissa admitted quietly. "Someone easier to dismiss."
The honesty in her voice made Hermione's pulse quicken. "And now?"
"Now I'm not sure what to think."
"I should return to my section," Narcissa said suddenly, standing with fluid grace.
"Should you?" Hermione asked, echoing her words from Diagon Alley.
Narcissa paused, looking down at her. "Yes," she said quietly. "I should."
But she hesitated for another moment, her blue eyes studying Hermione's face with an intensity that made Hermione's breath catch.
"Until next time, Miss Granger."
"Will there be a next time?"
"I suspect there will be."
With that, Narcissa swept back down the stands, leaving Hermione staring after her with her heart racing and her body responding in ways she was still learning to understand.
August - 1994
The Ministry tent buzzed with pre-match excitement as wizards from across Europe mingled over expensive wine and canapés. Hermione adjusted her dress robes, still uncomfortable in the formal attire Mrs. Weasley had insisted she wear to the Quidditch World Cup. Harry and Ron had abandoned her for the sweets trolley outside, leaving her to navigate the political small talk alone.
She was examining a display of international magical cooperation awards when a familiar voice spoke behind her.
"Miss Granger. I wondered if I might see you here."
Hermione turned to find Narcissa Malfoy approaching, resplendent in midnight blue robes that seemed to shimmer with their own light. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate style that showcased the elegant curve of her neck, and her dress robes... Hermione's breath caught. They were perfectly tailored, accentuating every curve of Narcissa's figure, particularly the swell of her breasts beneath the fitted bodice.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the familiar stirring between her legs. "Fancy seeing you somewhere that celebrates international magical cooperation."
Narcissa's lips curved into that almost-smile Hermione remembered. "Careful, Miss Granger. Your assumptions are showing."
"Are they wrong?"
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Narcissa moved closer, and Hermione caught that expensive floral scent again. "Tell me, what do you make of all this?" She gestured toward the elaborate displays around them.
"Political theater," Hermione said bluntly. "Everyone pretending to get along while plotting against each other behind closed doors."
"Cynical for a fourteen-year-old."
"Realistic," Hermione corrected. "The same families who're shaking hands tonight will be at each other's throats tomorrow over trade agreements or marriage contracts or blood purity laws."
Narcissa studied her face intently. "You sound like you've given this considerable thought."
"I read the newspapers. Both magical and Muggle." Hermione felt herself growing more confident under Narcissa's attention. "It's amazing how much politics makes sense once you realize everyone's just trying to hold onto power."
"And what would you do? If you had power?"
"Use it," Hermione said without hesitation. "Actually use it, instead of just hoarding it like a dragon with gold."
"For what purpose?"
Hermione leaned against the display case, noting how Narcissa's eyes tracked the movement. "Change things. Fix the broken parts. Make the magical world actually live up to its potential instead of wallowing in tradition for tradition's sake."
"Such as?"
"Equal rights regardless of blood status. Educational reform." Hermione warmed to her subject, stepping closer to Narcissa without realizing it. "The magical world is centuries behind in most areas because purebloods are too proud to admit Muggles might have better ideas."
Instead of the anger Hermione expected, Narcissa looked... impressed? "You would tear down everything our ancestors built?"
"I'd tear down the parts that don't work and keep the parts that do," Hermione replied. "That's called progress. Most people are just too scared to try it."
"And you're not scared?"
Hermione met her eyes directly, aware of how close they were standing now. "Should I be?"
The question hung between them, loaded with meaning neither quite acknowledged. Narcissa's gaze dropped briefly to Hermione's lips before returning to her eyes.
"You're... remarkable," Narcissa said quietly. "Your insights about magical politics are more sophisticated than most adults I know."
"That says more about the adults you know than it does about me," Hermione replied, then smiled to soften the words. "Though I'll take the compliment."
"It wasn't just a compliment. It was an observation." Narcissa moved even closer, close enough that Hermione could see the fine texture of her skin, the way her perfume seemed to wrap around them both. "You challenge assumptions. Most people simply accept what they're told."
The pressure in Hermione's dress robes was becoming noticeable, and she shifted slightly, hoping the formal cut would hide her body's response. Being this close to Narcissa was intoxicating—the way she moved, the way her voice dropped when she was being serious, the way her robes clung to her figure.
What would it be like, Hermione wondered, to have those perfectly sculpted lips wrapped around her cock? The thought came unbidden and made her face flush.
"Are you quite alright?" Narcissa asked, noticing her reaction. "You look flushed."
"Just warm," Hermione managed. "These tents are rather stuffy."
"Indeed." Narcissa's eyes seemed to linger on Hermione's face. "Perhaps we should step outside for air?"
Before Hermione could respond, a commotion erupted near the tent entrance. Someone was shouting about the match starting soon, and the crowd began pressing toward the exits.
"It seems our conversation will have to wait," Narcissa said, but she made no move to leave.
"Will it?" Hermione asked, that familiar boldness rising in her chest. "Or are you just looking for an excuse to run away again?"
Narcissa's eyes widened slightly. "Run away?"
"You do it every time we talk," Hermione observed. "Just when things get interesting, you remember you're supposed to disapprove of me and disappear."
"Perhaps I disapprove of you for good reason."
"Or perhaps you're scared of what you might discover if you don't," Hermione countered.
They stared at each other for a long moment, the crowd flowing around them like they were standing in the eye of a storm. Hermione could see conflict in Narcissa's expression—duty warring with curiosity, prejudice fighting attraction.
"Miss Granger," Narcissa said finally, her voice careful and controlled. "You should... be careful tonight. After the match."
"Careful of what?"
Narcissa glanced around, then stepped even closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Some of tonight's celebration may get... out of hand. You and your friends should return to your tent immediately after the match ends."
The warning sent a chill through Hermione that had nothing to do with attraction. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," Narcissa said quickly, but her eyes said otherwise. "Just... be careful."
"Narcissa—"
"Mrs. Malfoy," Narcissa corrected sharply, stepping back as if remembering herself. "I should find my family."
"Of course you should," Hermione said, not bothering to hide her frustration. "Wouldn't want to be seen having an actual conversation with a Mudblood."
Narcissa flinched as if she'd been slapped. "It's not... it's more complicated than you understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Won't, you mean."
Narcissa looked at her for another moment, something almost like regret flickering across her features. Then she turned and walked away, leaving Hermione standing alone among the emptying displays, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire and her mind racing with questions about the warning she'd just received.
September - 1995
The Ministry corridors felt like a maze of shadows and whispered conspiracies. Hermione hurried through the dimly lit hallway on the second level, a stack of Order documents clutched against her chest. Dumbledore had sent her to retrieve files from a contact—dangerous work that made her pulse race with more than just adrenaline.
She was almost to the lifts when footsteps echoed behind her.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione spun around, her wand halfway out of her robes before she recognized the voice. Narcissa Malfoy emerged from the shadows near a tapestry depicting the Minister's office, looking immaculate as always despite the late hour.
"Mrs. Malfoy." Hermione lowered her wand but kept it ready. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question." Narcissa moved closer, her heels clicking against the marble floor. "Though I suspect we both know the answer involves business we'd rather not discuss."
She looked different than she had at the World Cup—thinner, more brittle, with dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide. But she was still devastatingly beautiful, her black dress robes hugging her curves in ways that made Hermione's breath catch.
"Difficult times," Hermione said carefully, aware they were walking a dangerous line.
"Indeed." Narcissa's gaze dropped to the documents in Hermione's arms. "Tell me, Miss Granger, do you ever wonder if you're fighting for the right side?"
"Every day," Hermione replied honestly. "Do you?"
The question seemed to catch Narcissa off guard. "I... my loyalty is to my family."
"That's not what I asked."
"You don't understand the position I'm in," Narcissa said finally. "The choices I have to make."
"Then explain it to me," Hermione stepped closer, close enough to see the fine lines of stress around Narcissa's eyes. "Help me understand why someone as intelligent as you supports a madman who wants to murder people like me."
"You think it's that simple?" Narcissa's voice rose slightly. "You think I have a choice?"
"Everyone has a choice."
"Do they?" Narcissa laughed bitterly. "What choice do I have when he threatens my son? When he could kill Draco for my disobedience?"
The raw pain in her voice made Hermione's chest tighten. "There are other ways—"
"Are there? Your precious Order hasn't exactly proven effective at protecting anyone, has it?" Narcissa's control was slipping, years of fear and frustration spilling out. "How many more will die while you play at being heroes?"
"We're trying to save people," Hermione shot back. "What are you doing? Standing by while innocent people are murdered?"
"I'm keeping my son alive!" Narcissa's voice cracked. "That's all I can do. That's all I have left."
The desperation in her words hit Hermione like a physical blow. Without thinking, she reached out and touched Narcissa's arm. "It doesn't have to be this way. You could—"
"What? Join your side? Betray my husband? Abandon everything I've ever known?" Narcissa pulled away, but not far. "You make it sound so easy."
"It is easy," Hermione insisted. "You just have to want to do what's right more than you want to stay safe."
"And what about what I want?"
Narcissa's eyes were fixed on Hermione's face with an intensity that made her stomach flutter.
"What do you want?" Hermione asked quietly.
"I want..." Narcissa started, then stopped, shaking her head. "I want things I can't have. Things that would destroy everything."
"Like what?"
Narcissa's gaze dropped to Hermione's lips. "Like you."
Then Narcissa was moving, closing the distance between them, her hands cupping Hermione's face as she pressed their lips together.
The kiss was desperate. Hermione dropped the documents, not caring as they scattered across the floor, and responded with equal fervor. Narcissa's lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of wine.
Heat shot through Hermione's body like lightning, and she felt herself hardening instantly. When Narcissa pressed closer, Hermione's hands found the curves she'd been imagining for months, palming the swell of Narcissa's breasts through her robes. They were perfectly sized, full and firm beneath the expensive fabric, and the small sound Narcissa made when Hermione squeezed sent blood rushing south.
"Fuck," Hermione breathed against Narcissa's lips, her cock now rock hard and straining against her robes.
Narcissa kissed her harder, her tongue sliding against Hermione's in a way that made coherent thought impossible. Her body was pressed fully against Hermione's now, and Hermione wondered dimly if she could feel the hardness pressing against her hip.
Then, suddenly, Narcissa jerked away as if she'd been burned.
"No," she gasped, stumbling backward. "No, this is... this was a mistake."
"Was it?" Hermione's voice was rough with desire, her body still thrumming with need.
"Yes," Narcissa said firmly, but her hands were shaking as she tried to smooth her hair. "This was a terrible mistake."
"It didn't feel like a mistake."
"It was!" Narcissa's mask was sliding back into place, but Hermione could see the cracks. "This can't happen. We can't... I can't..."
"Can't what? Can't want me? Because you do want me," Hermione stepped closer again, emboldened by the kiss. "I can see it in your eyes."
"What I want doesn't matter," Narcissa said desperately. "My life, my family, my position—none of it allows for this."
"This isn't over," Hermione said, her voice low and determined. "Whatever this is between us, you can't just pretend it doesn't exist."
"It's oveer."
Then she was gone, disappearing around the corner and leaving Hermione alone with scattered documents and a head full of impossible fantasies.
Hermione slumped against the wall, her body still aching. She could still taste Narcissa on her lips, still feel the phantom weight of her breasts in her hands. The images that flashed through her mind were vivid and filthy—Narcissa beneath her, naked and wanting, calling her name. Narcissa on her knees, those perfect lips wrapped around her cock while Draco watched in shock and disgust.
"Fuck," she whispered to the empty corridor, her cock still painfully hard beneath her robes.
This was far from over. Whatever Narcissa said, whatever she believed about duty and family and impossible choices, Hermione had felt the truth in that kiss.
And she was going to have her, no matter what it took.
1996 August
Hermione pushed through the crowded entrance of Flourish and Blotts, her mind still replaying the chaos at the Department of Mysteries four months ago. The memory of Bellatrix Lestrange's maniacal laughter echoed in her ears as she made her way to the Advanced Magic section.
"The Longbottoms, you say? That's right, I did that one myself!"
The cruel glee in Bellatrix's voice when she'd taunted Neville still made Hermione's stomach turn. It was impossible to reconcile that mad woman and Narcissa—they were sisters, but where Narcissa was controlled and elegant, Bellatrix was pure chaos and cruelty.
"Advanced Defensive Theory," Hermione muttered, scanning the shelves. "Nonverbal Spell Casting... ah, here we go."
She pulled down a thick volume on silent magic, remembering how helpless she'd felt in that battle. Never again. She was sixteen now, practically an adult by wizarding standards, and she refused to be caught unprepared.
Her fingers traced the book's spine as her mind wandered to darker thoughts. Eight months since that kiss in the Ministry corridor. Eight months of replaying every second—the taste of Narcissa's lips, the soft weight of her breasts, the way she'd melted into Hermione's touch before pulling away.
"It was a mistake," she'd said. Bullshit.
Hermione grabbed another book—"Advanced Transfiguration: Theoretical Applications"—and tried to focus on her shopping list. But her body had other ideas. Just thinking about Narcissa made heat pool low in her belly, made her cock stir beneath her robes.
The changes in her body over the past year had been... significant. What had started as awkward teenage arousal had developed into something more insistent. She was taller now, and her cock had grown along with the rest of her. Sometimes she caught herself wondering what other girls thought when they looked at her, if they could tell what she was hiding beneath her school robes.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself, moving toward the Restricted Magic section. "Get your books and get out."
But even as she tried to concentrate on her studies, her mind kept circling back to Narcissa. To the way she'd looked that night—desperate, conflicted, beautiful. To the way she'd kissed back before remembering herself.
Hermione selected "Defensive Charms for the Advanced Practitioner" and headed for the counter. The teenage wizard behind the till barely looked up as he rang up her purchases.
"Bit heavy reading" he commented, eyeing the titles.
"I like to stay ahead," Hermione replied curtly.
The Apothecary was her next stop. She needed ingredients for some of the more complex potions in her Advanced Potions book.
"Moonstone powder, unicorn hair, essence of dittany," she listed to the shopkeeper, watching him measure out precise amounts.
"Planning something ambitious?" the elderly wizard asked with a knowing smile.
"You could say that," Hermione murmured.
Because she was planning something ambitious. She'd spent eight months thinking about Narcissa, wanting her, imagining what it would be like to have her completely. And she was done waiting.
The war was escalating. Voldemort was back, Death Eaters were attacking openly, and people were dying. Life was too short and too uncertain to waste time on propriety and social expectations.
Narcissa had said she wanted things she couldn't have. Well, maybe it was time someone showed her she could have them after all.
Hermione paid for her ingredients and stepped back onto the crowded street, her purchases tucked safely in her expanded bag. The late August sun beat down on Diagon Alley, but she barely noticed the heat. Her mind was already working, planning, calculating.
Hermione was cutting through the narrow alley behind Knockturn Alley when she heard the familiar click of expensive heels on cobblestone. She'd taken this route to avoid the crowds on the main street, her bag heavy with books and potion ingredients. The last thing she expected was to see Narcissa Malfoy emerging from a shadowy doorway, looking like she'd stepped out of a nightmare.
Gone was the polished perfection Hermione remembered. Narcissa's usually immaculate hair hung in loose waves around her face, and her dark robes were wrinkled as if she'd been wearing them for days. But even disheveled, she was stunning—her beauty had a sharp, dangerous edge that made Hermione's pulse quicken.
"Well, well," Hermione said, stopping in the middle of the alley. "Look what the Dark Lord dragged in."
Narcissa's head snapped up, her blue eyes widening with what looked like panic before quickly hardening into cold indifference. "Miss Granger."
"Mrs. Malfoy." Hermione didn't move, blocking the narrow passage. "You look... tired."
"I look fine," Narcissa replied curtly, trying to step around her. "Excuse me."
"Do I excuse you?" Hermione shifted, keeping herself between Narcissa and the exit. "I don't think I do."
"We cannot talk like this," Narcissa said, her voice sharp with warning. "Not here. Not anywhere."
"Funny, we seem to be talking just fine."
"This conversation is over before it begins." Narcissa tried again to move past her, but Hermione stepped sideways, blocking her path.
"No, I don't think it is."
"Miss Granger—"
"It's been eight months," Hermione interrupted, her voice low and controlled. "Eight months since the Ministry. Eight months since you kissed me and then ran away like a coward."
Narcissa's face went pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Hermione stepped closer, close enough to see the way Narcissa's breathing had quickened. "Because I remember it perfectly. I remember the way you tasted, the way you felt in my hands, the way you kissed me back like you were drowning and I was air."
"Stop." Narcissa's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because it reminds you that you're not as in control as you pretend to be?"
"Because it never happened," Narcissa said firmly, but there was a tremor in her voice. "And even if it had, it would mean nothing."
Hermione laughed, the sound harsh in the confined space. "Nothing? Is that what you call nothing?"
"We have nothing together," Narcissa said, her mask of cold indifference sliding back into place. "We never did. We never will."
The casual cruelty of the words hit Hermione like a slap. For a moment, she felt ten again—young, uncertain, easily dismissed. Then the anger rose, hot and furious and demanding.
"Liar."
"What did you say?"
"I said you're a liar." Hermione stepped even closer, close enough that she could smell Narcissa's familiar perfume beneath the scent of smoke and fear. "You can stand there and pretend all you want, but I know what I felt. I know what you felt."
"You felt nothing because there was nothing to feel," Narcissa said coldly.
"Look at me," Hermione commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look at me and tell me you felt nothing."
Narcissa's gaze snapped to hers.
"Nothing," Narcissa repeated.
"You kissed me," Hermione said, moving closer still, close enough that their bodies were almost touching. "You put your hands on my face and you kissed me like your life depended on it."
"It was—"
"It was what? A mistake? An accident? Did you trip and fall onto my lips?"
Narcissa's composure cracked slightly. "It was a moment of weakness. Nothing more."
"A moment of weakness?" Hermione felt her cock stirring as the memory of that kiss flooded back—Narcissa's desperation, her soft moans, the way she'd pressed her body against Hermione's. "Is that what you call wanting someone so badly you can't think straight?"
"I don't want you," Narcissa said.
"No?" Hermione reached out, her fingers barely brushing Narcissa's wrist. "Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you breathing like you've been running?"
Narcissa jerked her hand away as if Hermione's touch had burned her. "Because you're making me uncomfortable."
"Good. You should be uncomfortable. You should be terrified."
"You're a child. A Mudblood child with delusions of grandeur."
The slur should have stung, but Hermione found herself smiling instead. "There she is. The real Narcissa Malfoy, hiding behind her bigotry because she's too scared to admit the truth."
"What truth?"
"That blood status doesn't matter when you're on your back, does it? That when I kissed you, when I touched you, you weren't thinking about my parentage. You were thinking about how good it felt."
"We have nothing to talk about," Narcissa said with a final voice and walked away from Hermione.
Despite watching her walk away, Hermione knew she would have her one day, and when she did, Narcissa would moan her name like a whore.
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