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It takes approximately fifteen years since the end of the war for Narcissa to find herself back in Hermione Granger’s orbit. Well, “back” might be a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not as if they had ever frequented the same circles to begin with, before or after the fall of the Dark Lord. In truth, they had been no more than passing acquaintances—barring a rather traumatic ordeal in Narcissa’s now long-bricked off sitting room—and never had the reason nor the occasion to interact beyond a cordial glance whenever their paths happened to cross once the dust had settled.  

More of that had been happening lately—their paths crossing, that is—since Hermione returned to Britain after about a full decade spent travelling the world. By now, Narcissa is strangely integrated into a very different crowd than the one she was accustomed to, courtesy of Andromeda; one replete with artists and scholars, Quidditch stars and celebrities, Purebloods and Muggleborns alike.  

She remembers exactly the moment of Hermione’s reappearance, during one of Draco’s little soirées--veritable bashes, really, which went well into the morning hours with more people than she cared to see in one place. Gryffindor’s Golden Girl strutted in—because apparently, Hermione Granger struts now, standing tall and confident—descending Draco’s frankly ridiculous Baroque staircase with a casualness to her step that gave no hint of the ten years she had spent away from her home.  

Ten years ago, Narcissa’s presence in party like that would have been inconceivable; it was entirely too Bohemian for her old tastes. But now, she’s more than a socialite, apparently—she’s a philanthropist, a patron of the arts, and so on and so forth. Whatever she is these days, it is more than enough to easily—astoundingly so— fall into Hermione Granger’s orbit like it was nothing. Nothing more than a quick ‘hello’ and ‘how have you been’, and Merlin , was the brunette’s hair cropped short under that mass of curls? 

Narcissa doesn’t know much about the time Hermione spent away, not much beyond whispers of werewolf research in Brazil or travels with Wizarding monks in the mountains of Himalaya—she hasn’t read her books, which admittedly have been selling like hot cakes since Hermione’s return, and you know what, maybe she should start reading them. But she learns all about the brunette’s adventures, from riding hippogriffs in Ukraine (really??)  to researching ancient magic in the underwater catacombs off the coast of Spain. Hermione talks about all of it with a twinkle in her eye and an honest humility that, really, does things it absolutely shouldn't to Narcissa. 

They fall into bed pretty quickly after their first meeting—not at that first party, because Narcissa, for all her changes, still has standards, but the one immediately after, hosted by Molly Weasley no less, when Narcissa is completely blindsided by a maroon suit worn with a sheer top underneath and drawn in like a moth to the flame by the barest hint of a black bra.  

If she had not seen Hermione when she returned, Narcissa would have guessed the girl— woman— to be the easily flustered kind; perhaps fumbling with uncertainty or giddiness. Even after witnessing the transformation the brunette had undergone in a decade—was that a tattoo covering the skin marred by Bellatrix? -- she never would have pegged Hermione Granger as the strong, confident... well, the take-charge personality she revealed herself to be. In and out of the bedroom.  

It turns out to be a pleasant surprise, she muses, on her back with legs hooked over the brunette’s surprisingly muscular shoulders—the tattoo turned out to be an intricately rendered phoenix, stretching from Hermione’s wrist all the way to the expanse of her scapula— and feeling calloused fingers part her open with gentleness and honest delight.  

“Beautiful,” Hermione whispers, nipping at her thighs, with that strong, tattooed arm holding Narcissa’s hips down, pressing her against the mattress. Hermione seems inordinately happy to just be of service that first night, exploring every inch of alabaster skin with her tongue, babbling praise as she brings Narcissa over the edge a thousand times over in a few hours.  

The other surprise is just how well the Muggleborn can read Narcissa, like her body is an open book ready to be devoured by that infamous bookworm. And devoured she is—properly, thoroughly, and frequently . Hermione catches on to a particular, shameful little secret Narcissa keeps close to her chest pretty much right on their first time, and the moment she begins using it to her advantage is the moment Narcissa begins to wonder whether she’s in over her head.  

She forgets the thought as soon as it crosses her mind, of course, because she’s only human, and there is only so much someone can focus on when they’re being absolutely ravaged. There’s no room for any rational thought or even a shred of embarrassment, not when Hermione is doing that with her tongue. 

Narcissa’s breath hitches when teeth graze her hipbones, and she feels Hermione’s smirk in the way her full lips tug against her skin. The brunette’s breath is hot and wet at her core, and if that wasn’t enough to make Narcissa’s head spin, the way Hermione’s smirk widens when she fills her deliciously slowly with three fingers certainly is, especially with the rough whisper that sends shivers down her spine. 

“That’s it.” Hermione’s voice is gravel, deep and rough at the edges, and it does as just much as the stretch of her fingers to make Narcissa arch off the mattress with a whimper. “You’re so gorgeous, Narcissa. So perfect, you’re taking me so well.” 

Narcissa’s eyes meet Hermione’s golden-flecked hazel, and the brunette takes the opportunity provided by the connection to go for the kill. 

“You’re just so good.”  

And there it is.  

It makes Narcissa feel absolutely molten on the inside; it sends a shockwave of electricity from her head all the way to her toes, the release of a tightly sprung coil of heat in her abdomen that makes her eyes roll back into her skull.  

She should be embarrassed by it; she absolutely would be, if it wasn’t so mind-numbingly, so sinfully good. Narcissa’s used to little compliments, she’s used to empty flattery and false adulation —she wants to maybe blame it on a lifetime spent vying for the approval of her mother, and she thinks about that for a little while with some embarrassment and then some sardonic glee when Hermione has her on her hands and knees on a hotel mattress, filling her with four fingers from behind, all the while whispering about just how good and perfect she is. If only Druella Black could see her daughter now.  

Hermione, for her part, is positively delighted by her little discovery, and it shows. Or rather, she shows Narcissa, expertly so, pressing her against a filthy bathroom stall in a filthy pub while there are other people in the bathroom.  

“You’ll have to be quiet,” she murmurs, gravelly and so so hot, nipping at Narcissa’s earlobe. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear you, as pretty as you sound.” 

One hand goes to Narcissa’s throat; the pressure is barely there, but the mere hint of it makes Narcissa swallow dryly against Hermione’s touch, and while that hand rests there, the other makes quick work of her slacks and hones in on her clit with laser-like precision, and in no time at all Narcissa is seeing stars, almost missing for a moment Hermione’s hushed marvelling at just how wet she is, all for her. 

Narcissa swallows her moan—it feels deliciously sinful under the pressure of Hermione’s hand on her throat, and rides out the orgasm the brunette wrings out of her in utter silence, bracing herself through tremors and quivers, only breaking her gaze away from Hermione’s when the Gryffindor nips at her jaw with a satisfied grin and a soft murmur.  

“Good girl.” 

Narcissa’s head thunks against the stall and she’s too blissed out to even care about just how badly Hermione affects her.  

It’s not a problem, not really. In fact, it’s kind of the opposite of a problem, and Narcissa has no self-preservation left to even try to deny that she likes it. No, more than that; she craves Hermione’s praise like a drug, and whatever it is they have going on between them works out a little too well in her favour, because Hermione seems only too happy to provide.  

She provides even when it’s Narcissa on her knees before Hermione, and Hermione holds her by the hair and takes her pleasure by guiding Narcissa to where she wants her, looking deep into her eyes and breathing heavily as Narcissa dips her tongue inside her and hums at just how perfect she tastes. 

“That’s it... such a good girl , Cissy.” 

It irks Narcissa somewhat that even mid-orgasm, Hermione is unflappable and manages to send zings of pleasure through her core with mere words, but in the end, Narcissa finds very little reason to complain, especially when Hermione returns the favour by lifting her onto the suite’s kitchen counter and eating her out within an inch of her life, all while moaning about what a gorgeous, perfect creature she is.  

It becomes even better, somehow, in some crazy, mysterious way, when they stop hiding whatever it is they’ve got going on and Hermione begins just... taking Narcissa’s hand or kissing her straight on the lips in full view of their friends and family (to Draco’s absolute horror and Andromeda’s absolute delight). Because now everyone knows they’re a thing, and so Hermione doesn’t have to make up an excuse to just whisk Narcissa away or follow her to a secluded corner exactly five minutes after Narcissa disappears from the crowd. No, nowadays Hermione can just wrap an arm around Narcissa’s waist, her hand just shy of appropriate as it hovers close to her ass, and they can just... excuse themselves. Together.  

This recent development also removes the need for sneaking around in hotels or grimy pub bathrooms, and for the first time, Narcissa sees Hermione’s flat—though granted, her first view was cursory at best, because Hermione seemed more interested in fucking her against every surface available. It is a large property overlooking Hyde Park, in the heart of Muggle London, and it could be considered stylish if it weren’t for all the clutter. There are trinkets from Hermione’s travels all over the place, and they are all clearly cherished (though Hermione didn’t seem to mind very much when they shattered a jade vase from a Taiwanese duelling master when they went at it a bit too enthusiastically on her coffee table, but that was neither here nor there).  

Hermione tells her about some of them, after they’re fully sated and languid and drinking cafecitos over her messy kitchen counter. She tells them about sculptures made of Argentinian redwood, of Greek ships traversing enchanted waters, of meditating in the boiling heat of the jungles of Thailand, and Narcissa hangs on to every word, always a bit baffled at how a person like Hermione just... chooses to be with her, not only in that way, but this way, this simple, intimate way, wearing nothing but robes and a sheen of sweat.  

She first realises she may be getting far more than she bargained for when she brings Hermione over to the Manor for the first time. All day, Narcissa had been a ball of pure nerves and anxiety, second-guessing herself and contemplating the sheer idiocy of inviting Hermione back to the place where Bellatrix had tortured her.  

Instead, Hermione waltzes in—looking absolutely dapper in olive-grey chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows—and idly comments on the new chandelier (it is new, thank you very much, and Narcissa designed it herself) before pulling Narcissa into a searing kiss that makes the Slytherin think ‘ oh shit’ before she can reciprocate, because now they’re treading waters much deeper than she previously expected, and she’s afraid of drowning in Hermione’s caresses.  

Her worries are abated, somewhat, after she shyly leads Hermione to her bedroom, pinkies interlocking as they skip the steps of her marble staircase like a pair of giggling teenagers, and they diminish further when Hermione lowers her onto her plush, plush mattress with a tenderness that had never been there before. They are fragments of concern, and barely even that, by the time Hermione is kissing her way down her sternum and taking a peaked nipple in her mouth, pinching the other between her fingers as she moans against Narcissa’s chest.  

The worries are gone, evaporated, obliterated when they are both naked and Hermione kneels behind her on the mattress, turning Narcissa to face the mirror on the other side of the room, and Narcissa is struck dumb by the sight of their reflection.  

She is, in a word, unrecognizable. Her cheeks are ruddy, her hair is mussed, and her eyes are darkened by black pupils overtaking their usual blue. More than that, her chest is flushed and heaving, and Hermione’s hands are dark against her skin as they graze burning hot trails of caresses over her waist, her ribs, her breasts. Hermione’s chin rests in the crook of her neck, and the brunette’s whispers are at the moment unintelligible to her lust-addled brain, but they’re still effective.  

The cherry on top—visible only because Hermione is leaning backwards a little, with Narcissa leaning practically over her—is the way a ribbed piece of purple silicone (especially enchanted for Hermione’s benefit) sinks into her from behind, torturously slowly with the unhurried, fluid movement of Hermione’s hips. Watching it disappear inside her inch by agonizing inch is absolutely mesmerizing all in itself, but then Hermione’s teeth sink into her neck and that draws her attention to what’s being said in her ear and Narcissa just about loses it.  

“I’ve been all over the world,” Hermione husks, panting a little with the exertion of holding both of them up, “and this-- ” a hand finds Narcissa’s chin, and she turns her face towards the mirror, where their gazes meet, sharp and intense. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ll ever, ever see.” 

Narcissa feels her cheeks heat up, and her only defence is to close her eyes and hold on for dear life. She’s close, so unbearably close, but Hermione tuts in sweet disapproval and her hips stutter in their easy rhythm.  

“Open your eyes, Narcissa,” Hermione commands. Her voice is soft, but firm, and her teeth sink further into Narcissa’s shoulder as if to drive the point home. “I want you to watch yourself. See what I see.” The hand on Narcissa’s chin moves to tangle in her hair, giving it an insistent tug, and there’s nothing Narcissa can do except meet Hermione’s gaze head on in the mirror.  

It’s like the connection intensifies every sensation—Narcissa feels like there’s a livewire running down her spine, and Hermione’s movements quicken as her fingers mark Narcissa’s hips with soon-to-be bruises. The stretch is delicious, and it is made even more so with Hermione’s whimpers of perfect, perfect, perfect, that's it, Narcissa, come for me and then Narcissa is succumbing to the white-hot heat low in her belly before she can protest, before she can say she’s far from perfect.  

She barely has the time to let herself fall from her high—Hermione catches her, pulling out as she cradles Narcissa in her arms and her absence is keenly felt, but only for a moment, because before long Hermione is pressing inside her again, bringing their chests together as she lowers Narcissa onto the mattress with sheer adoration.  

And there’s something about this position—about having Hermione close enough for Narcissa to wrap her legs around her, yet having her hands free to pin Narcissa’s above her head—that just dials everything up a notch or three. Hermione’s hips are slow, barely moving, in fact, but this proximity and the intensity of Hermione’s gaze have Narcissa reaching her peak remarkably quickly, and she tells Hermione as much through whimpers.  

“Not yet,” Hermione says, biting at Narcissa’s bottom lip with tenderness. “Not yet, Cissy, wait... can you wait for me? Be a good girl and wait, just a little, for me?” 

Narcissa is practically weeping with need, but she nods ever so slightly, because she can’t deny Hermione anything—not when she asks with that voice, with those words, with that bite to her lip and that grasp of their entwined hands. 

There’s a snap to Hermione’s hips, and her movement picks up speed—Narcissa keens and tugs at Hermione’s hands, as if it were possible to pull her even closer, and she holds on for dear life as Hermione begins a punishing pace while managing, somehow, to retain all of her tenderness. 

“Cissy,” she pants close to her ear, “God, Cissy, you feel so good. You’re so good, so perfect, just perfect.” Hermione’s lips are practically grazing her own, and some of her words become incoherent as she grunts with the effort, and Narcissa can’t, she just can’t hold on any longer, and just when she feels like she’s about to burst, Hermione cups her cheek and kisses her right before saying that’s it, good girl, Cissy, come for me.  

It’s a tide, a wave she rises and falls with, in a resounding crash—Narcissa comes with a wail against Hermione’s lips, clutching at her as tightly as she possibly can while trying to ignore the spots dancing behind her eyelids as the heat and pressure slowly subside. She feels Hermione’s arms trembling with exhaustion, and the brunette lets herself drop—gently—onto Narcissa’s chest, and her weight is so welcome and gentle and perfect Narcissa almost misses what Hermione murmurs against her slick skin.  

“Cissy... I love you.” 

It’s a mumble, something Narcissa thinks Hermione wouldn’t say outside of this delirious afterglow, but somehow, it’s just perfect. And she knows she’s not quite ready to say it back—not yet, but there’s something in the way Hermione almost immediately begins to snooze against her chest that makes Narcissa think that it won’t be a problem at all. Because everything, up until—and including—this very moment, has been absolutely perfect.