The Blackline

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."