Chapter 3

The footsteps echoed closer, a steady, deliberate rhythm that made Hermione's heart hammer in her chest. She grabbed Twila's arm, pulling her toward the nearest shadowed corner of the room, hoping they could hide before whoever it was entered. But before they could move more than a few steps, the door creaked open.

Hermione froze, expecting the dark, wild figure of Bellatrix to appear in the doorway, her twisted smile ready to consume her. But instead, it was someone else—a tall, elegant woman with long, flowing platinum hair, her face cold and composed as she stepped into the room.

Narcissa Malfoy.

The air grew heavy as Narcissa's gaze swept the room, her icy blue eyes falling on Hermione almost immediately. Her expression didn't shift, though there was a flicker of something—something unreadable—beneath the surface of her sharp features. She was dressed in a tailored black gown, every inch of her appearance pristine, controlled, and regal, a stark contrast to the wild chaos of her sister Bellatrix.

"Miss Malfoy," Hermione whispered under her breath, her heart pounding harder now.

Narcissa's eyes lingered on Hermione, then shifted to Twila, her lips tightening in displeasure. "Twila," she said, her voice soft but filled with a quiet authority that left no room for disobedience. "Leave us."

The house-elf trembled but obeyed without hesitation, bowing low before quickly disappearing through a hidden door at the side of the chamber. Narcissa said nothing as the door clicked shut behind Twila, her gaze returning to Hermione, cold and calculating.

For a moment, there was only silence. Narcissa stood still, her hands folded neatly in front of her, the faintest trace of a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Hermione could feel the weight of her gaze, a pressure that felt far more controlled—and far more dangerous—than Bellatrix's madness.

"Looking through my sister's things, are we?" Narcissa asked, her voice low, carrying the same cruel, poised tone as before, though there was an unsettling softness to it. "Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Miss Granger."

Hermione didn't respond, her mind racing as she considered her options. Narcissa wasn't Bellatrix. She was cruel, yes—Hermione knew that from the way she had stood by her family's twisted loyalties—but there was something different about her. There was no mad gleam in her eyes, no desire to see Hermione broken simply for the pleasure of it. But she was still dangerous, perhaps even more so in her control.

Narcissa took a few steps closer, her eyes flicking down to the scroll still in Hermione's hand. She didn't speak, but the faint twitch of her lip told Hermione she had noticed.

"And what," Narcissa continued, her voice now edged with a faint trace of amusement, "do you think you will find here? Do you believe my sister's magic is so easily unraveled by the likes of you?"

Hermione swallowed, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'm not afraid of Bellatrix."

Narcissa's lips curved into a small, cold smile. "No? Perhaps you should be."

Without warning, Narcissa reached out and gripped Hermione's chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle but firm, forcing Hermione to meet her gaze. The touch wasn't like Bellatrix's—there was no manic violence behind it, no hunger to dominate—but there was an unsettling power in the gesture nonetheless. It was controlled, deliberate, and carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed without question.

"You're strong," Narcissa murmured, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she were appraising Hermione like one would a rare artifact. "I see why my sister is so… fascinated by you." Her voice softened, almost thoughtful, as she tilted Hermione's face slightly, studying her. "But strength alone doesn't guarantee survival."

Hermione's pulse quickened, her breath caught in her throat. Narcissa's touch wasn't cruel, but it wasn't comforting either. It was cold, clinical, like someone assessing a delicate piece of glass that could shatter with the slightest pressure.

"You might survive," Narcissa said softly, her fingers still gripping Hermione's chin. There was a strange mix of pity and disdain in her tone, as though she saw Hermione as both beneath her and something worth noting. "But only if you learn to submit. You cannot fight us, Granger. Not Bellatrix, not the Dark Lord. And certainly not me."

She released Hermione's chin, letting her hand drop gracefully to her side, as if the brief moment of contact had told her everything she needed to know. Hermione felt the coolness of Narcissa's absence like a sharp breeze against her skin, but she refused to flinch or show fear.

Narcissa straightened, her cold gaze still fixed on Hermione. "My sister will be most displeased when she finds you here," she said, her voice returning to its previous icy tone. "But lucky for you, I will not allow her to ruin everything we've worked for."

Hermione's pulse quickened. There was something in the way Narcissa spoke—measured, deliberate—that set her on edge. Her chest tightened, her mind racing with what these cryptic words could mean.

"A ritual, yes, but not the one you might be imagining, Miss Granger." Narcissa's voice softened slightly, almost as though she were letting Hermione in on some secret. Her eyes, though cold, flickered with a brief touch of something… softer. "Bellatrix has her madness, but this has always been about more than just her desire to control you."

Hermione swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"

Narcissa moved closer, the air between them growing heavy. Her pale fingers brushed a stray curl away from Hermione's face, tucking it behind her ear in a motion that was almost maternal, but had an eerie edge. Her touch lingered longer than it should, sending an uncomfortable shiver down Hermione's spine.

"You've already sensed it, haven't you?" Narcissa murmured, her voice low, barely above a whisper. "The magic in this house… it's ancient. Old bloodlines. Power that reaches far beyond Bellatrix's obsession." Her hand ghosted along Hermione's cheek, fingers trailing gently, as if testing the texture of her skin. "It's about legacy, Miss Granger. Blood. You may not understand that now, but soon enough… you will."

Hermione flinched, her body stiffening under Narcissa's touch. It was gentle, almost caring, but the coldness in Narcissa's eyes betrayed any warmth in the gesture. Hermione forced herself to stay still, her heart pounding in her chest, knowing that resisting would only make things worse.

"I—" Hermione began, but Narcissa silenced her by resting a finger against her lips, the pad of her finger cool and strangely intimate.

"Shh," Narcissa hushed, the soft press of her finger firm enough to remind Hermione of who held the power in this room. "Don't waste your breath trying to reason with me, Miss Granger. You don't have the luxury of bargaining." Narcissa's lips curled into a small, knowing smile as she withdrew her hand slowly, letting it trail lightly down Hermione's arm before she finally stepped back.

There was something deeply unsettling about the way Narcissa watched her—like a predator circling its prey, not with Bellatrix's madness, but with the quiet control of someone who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it. The weight of her gaze felt as invasive as her touch, lingering, assessing.

"You think Bellatrix's desires are all that drive this?" Narcissa asked softly, almost as though she were speaking to herself. "You are only seeing the surface of what lies beneath. What she wants is simple." Narcissa tilted her head, her fingers tracing the edge of her own jaw as though considering her next words. "But what we need…what our Lord has demanded, that is more complex. And you—" Narcissa's fingers returned, gently gripping Hermione's chin, tilting her head up so their eyes met. "You are important to this. Crucial, in fact."

Hermione's heart raced. Narcissa's touch was light but firm, controlling without violence. She felt trapped under the weight of Narcissa's fingers, unable to pull away as Narcissa's thumb brushed softly against her jawline, sending a shiver through her that was equal parts fear and something darker she didn't want to admit.

"Bellatrix believes she is simply claiming you," Narcissa continued, her voice a low, soothing murmur, her fingers tracing delicate patterns along Hermione's jaw, her neck. "But that's only part of what's happening here. The ritual will bind you… yes, but it will do more than that." Her breath was cool as she leaned closer, her lips just a whisper away from Hermione's ear. "It will change you. Purify you. And in time… you will understand your place in all this."

Hermione's skin crawled at the word purify, her mind conjuring horrors of what such a word might mean in the context of dark magic. Narcissa's hand slid down her neck, fingers resting at the base of her throat in a way that felt both possessive and unsettlingly tender.

"There is power in bloodlines, Miss Granger," Narcissa whispered, her tone almost soft, as though trying to soothe her. "And you will play a very important role in ensuring that the Black line… continues."

The air seemed to freeze in Hermione's lungs, her breath catching at the implications of Narcissa's words. "Continues?" Hermione's voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

Narcissa's lips curled into a smile—soft, but cold. She let go of Hermione's chin and ran her fingers lightly across her collarbone, as though already imagining what the ritual would do. "Don't be frightened," Narcissa whispered, her touch lingering on Hermione's skin. "You will find that you're more… capable than you think. Stronger, even." Her voice dropped lower, almost a caress. "And when the time comes, you might even survive."

The way Narcissa said it, as if Hermione's survival was merely a possibility, sent ice down her spine. Narcissa wasn't making promises—she was simply observing. As though the outcome of the ritual, Hermione's future, was already decided, but not by fate. By them.

Narcissa's hand trailed down Hermione's arm, her fingers light as they ghosted over her wrist, as if testing the pulse that raced beneath her skin. There was something deeply possessive in the gesture, but it was veiled in an unsettling calm. "You may not understand it now, but you will," Narcissa murmured softly, stepping closer, her body almost brushing against Hermione's. "Everything that's happening… it's for the greater good. You will be remade, refined into something perfect. A vessel for something far greater than yourself."

Hermione's body tensed, her breath caught in her throat, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Narcissa's. There was something hypnotic about the way she spoke, the way her fingers moved—delicate and precise, as though she was crafting something fine and fragile.

Narcissa stepped back, her hand falling gracefully to her side, as if the moment between them had never happened. "It will begin soon. And when it does, you'll understand why you were chosen."

Hermione's heart pounded as Narcissa turned slightly, motioning toward the door of her room. "For now," she said, her voice returning to its usual composed, icy tone, "you will rest. You'll need your strength for what comes next."

Hermione hesitated, her mind swirling with the weight of what Narcissa had said. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the heavy iron door was already swinging open, and Narcissa's cold gaze made it clear there would be no more explanations.

Steeling herself, Hermione stepped into the room, her body rigid with fear and the deep sense of violation from Narcissa's words and touch. Narcissa's eyes lingered on Hermione with that same cool appraisal. "You may not believe it now, Miss Granger," she said softly, her voice like velvet in the dark, "but soon, you will see that this was always your fate."

And with that, Narcissa turned, her footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving Hermione in the heavy silence of her room, alone with the terrible knowledge of what awaited her.

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Chapter 3 will be posted here Sep 30. 

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"You," Narcissa began, her voice low, silky, and edged with something dark, "have been quite the bad girl, haven't you?" She stepped into the room, her movements graceful and slow, like a predator approaching its prey. "Sneaking out. Snooping through things that don't belong to you." She said this as if she hadn't been the one to bring her back to her cell. Perhaps she had not told her sister as such. Or perhaps she was as mad as Bellatrix. "My sister would call that… disobedience."

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, her mouth dry as she watched Narcissa approach. Her mind raced with the weight of everything she had just learned, but now, with Narcissa standing in front of her, all of those revelations seemed to shrink in the face of her immediate presence. There was no room for thought—just survival.

Narcissa stood directly in front of her now, her fingers once again reaching out to brush lightly against Hermione's cheek, the same unsettling gentleness that felt more like a warning than comfort. "And we cannot have disobedience," she murmured softly, her voice almost affectionate in its coldness.