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Chapter Text

The sun of Rome was different from that in foggy Britain. It was not just warm, but dense, velvety, saturated with the scents of heated stone, cypresses, and the distant sea. Hermione, stretched out on a sun lounger by the pool at the Villa Borghese, squinted from the glints playing in the turquoise water. Rome was her salvation—a place where no one pointed at her as the 'Mudblood heroine of the war'. Here, she was simply Hermione Granger, a promising employee of the International Magical Law Department.

Her reflections were interrupted by a familiar, icy voice, as foreign to this southern idyll as snow in July. Not far away, under a huge umbrella, stood the Malfoys. Lucius, pale even under the generous Roman sun, was irritably brushing non-existent dust from his immaculate white linen suit.

"I told you, public beaches are for plebeians, Narcissa. This smell... of sweat and cheap Prosecco."

Narcissa, in an exquisite bikini the color of juicy raspberry and a light silk wrap that only emphasized the elegance of her figure, did not dignify him with a response. Her gaze, cold and detached, slid over the surroundings and met Hermione's. And something unexpected happened. Instead of the usual hatred, Hermione saw something else in those eyes, blue as Tyrrhenian depths—a weary understanding, a silent acknowledgment that they were both, albeit for different reasons, out of their element. A slight, almost imperceptible nod from Hermione was met with the same.

Lucius, snorting, retreated towards the bar with the air of a man walking to the scaffold.

The next half hour passed in a tense but strangely comfortable silence, broken only by the splash of water and the distant shouts of playing children. When Narcissa finally rose and, with an unhurried, graceful gait, headed towards the pool, her path led her past Hermione. The silk of her wrap fluttered behind her like a light cloud, and she smelled of expensive floral perfume mixed with the scent of cypress.

"Miss Granger," her voice sounded even, without the former sarcasm, only with a slight note of surprise.
"Lady Malfoy," Hermione nodded politely, feeling her heart beat faster.

"Allow me to express the hope that the Italian sun is less intrusive than the fame of a victor," Narcissa remarked, looking somewhere into the distance, at the darkening crowns of pine trees.

"It is much more lenient," Hermione smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "And much less burdensome. It simply allows one to be."

Thus began their communication. At first cautious, full of unspoken questions and the heavy baggage of a shared past. But under the warm Roman sun, to the accompaniment of the eternal city, the ice of centuries-old enmity began to melt with astonishing speed.

The next day, they found themselves by the pool again, as if an invisible force had brought them there. Narcissa, in another swimsuit, this time dark blue like the night sky over Piazza Navona, and in the same light wrap, sat on the edge of Hermione's sun lounger.

"Why Rome?" she asked with sincere, genuine curiosity, looking at Hermione directly for the first time, without slate in her eyes. "I expected to see you at the heart of the Ministry in London, on the front lines of the political arena."

Hermione turned to her, and a fire ignited in her brown eyes, the same one that once lit the lamps in the Hogwarts library.

"Because one can breathe here," she began passionately, gesticulating. "In London, I am a monument. I was assigned a role, cast in bronze, and put on public display. Here... Here I am just a draft. I can make mistakes, change, become anyone. Here, they look not at who you were, but at who you can become. There are more opportunities here... for everything. For work, for life. For being oneself. The real one."

Narcissa listened, not taking her eyes off Hermione's lips, as if catching every word like a drowning person gasps for air. In her own world, strictly regulated by conventions and her husband's eternal, soul-gnawing dissatisfaction, such freedom sounded not just like music—it sounded like a verdict on her own life.

"We are only here for two weeks," Narcissa said quietly, almost confidentially, and her fingers nervously and elegantly fiddled with the silk edge of her wrap. "And sometimes I feel that even that is too much. Lucius... he has become completely unbearable. His eternal nitpicking about everything under the sun—from the pattern on the marble floor in the hotel to the variety of olives in the martini—is exhausting me. I feel as if I'm slowly sinking to the bottom, and instead of water, I'm surrounded by his complaints."

This confession, simple and devoid of its usual polish, was louder than any spell and stronger than any battle. It instantly erased years of enmity, placing them on the same level—two women, differently but equally deeply lonely.

Their conversation flowed easily and warmly, like the Tiber River on a summer day. They talked about books, art, magic, which felt different in Rome—ancient, pagan, unaware of the division between pure and dirty blood. Hermione's laughter rang out sincerely and contagiously, and Narcissa's smile lost its usual icy steel, becoming softer, more feminine, revealing the woman who, perhaps, once existed beneath the mask of Lady Malfoy.

And then, in a pause filled only with the whisper of the fountain and distant voices, Narcissa looked at Hermione with a direct, piercing gaze, in which a sudden vulnerability was readable.

"And who are you with now, Hermione?"

The question hung in the air, ringing and uncomfortable. Hermione averted her gaze, watching the sunbeams dance on the bottom of the pool, feeling a sudden, sharp as a knife surge of guilt.

"My boyfriend... Ron Weasley, well, you know him," she said, and the name sounded somewhat alien. "He's planning to move in with me, but it's not working out yet. Eternal business at the Ministry. Either another crisis, or an inspection, or an urgent assignment."

She said this while looking at the water, and therefore did not see something flash in Narcissa's eyes—not triumph nor gloating, but something much more complex: a bitter understanding and... a sparked, lively interest.

"I see," Narcissa said quietly. Her hand, elegant, pale, with slender fingers adorned only with one modest platinum ring, momentarily lay on Hermione's tanned arm. The touch was light, like a breath of wind, but it burned the skin like a hot coal. "Business at the Ministry... It always comes first, doesn't it? Quite familiar."

Their eyes met again, and in this silent dialogue was everything: an acknowledgment of their loneliness, the warmth of a nascent intimacy, the danger and forbidden nature of this suddenly surging connection. An invisible thread stretched between them, ignoring the past, ignoring Ron, ignoring everything except for two pairs of eyes seeking salvation and understanding in each other's depths.

Their chance meetings by the pool quickly grew into something more, inevitable and inexorable, like the changing of the seasons. As if by a silent agreement, they began to find each other in the crowd of tourists on Piazza di Spagna, and then their walks through the narrow, bougainvillea-covered streets of Trastevere became a cherished ritual. Soon, Narcissa crossed the threshold of Hermione's cozy apartment with terracotta walls, flooded with sunlight, and a view of the Eternal City's tiled roofs from the window for the first time.

"What a... charming little nest," she whispered, running her eyes over the bookshelves groaning with books and the pots of fragrant herbs on the kitchen windowsill. There was not a trace of mockery in her voice, only sincere, almost greedy admiration for the freedom and coziness that reigned within these walls.

She began visiting her almost every day, while Lucius indulged in his afternoon rest or, with the air of a connoisseur to whom everything was displeasing, studied the menus of the most pretentious restaurants in the city. In Hermione's living room, flooded with golden sunset light, Narcissa seemed different—her shoulders straightened, the icy mask of the aristocrat melted, revealing an intelligent, witty, deeply lonely and tired woman.

And always, as if testing the strength of this fragile bridge they had built between two shores, she returned to the same topic.

"And how is your... Ron?" she would ask, languidly sipping cool limoncello that Hermione kept especially for her, and her gaze would become intent and slightly mocking.

Hermione would only smile weakly in response, averting her eyes to the noisy street outside the window. Her answers were rehearsed, like a worn-out record, sounding increasingly ghostly: "Thanks, he's fine. Says things at the Ministry will settle down soon and he'll finally move in. Next week. Or in a month."

She repeated this with the persistence of a woodpecker, but each time the words sounded less sincere, like an echo from another, long-gone life. They were a shield behind which she tried to hide the bitter truth, which was that the thought of Ron moving in now evoked not joyful anticipation, but a vague, oppressive anxiety, a feeling as if the door to her new, free life was about to slam shut.

And meanwhile, Lucius Malfoy, suspecting nothing, continued his now ritual whining. He complained about the quality of the towels in their luxurious suite at the Hotel Hassler, about the impudent pigeons in Piazza Navona, about the excessive, in his opinion, temperament and loudness of the locals. He saw in his wife only a silent, convenient shadow, a companion for propriety's sake, and completely failed to notice how a new, lively fire was igniting in her eyes, always gazing somewhere into the distance—a fire of interest, a fire of life. He could not even imagine that while he was grumbling about the shade of gold in the interiors, a different magic had run between his wife and the 'Mudblood' Granger. Not the kind studied at Hogwarts, nor the kind wielded at the Ministry, but the kind that is stronger than all the spells in the world.

The magic of love. Quiet, forbidden, but relentless, like the flow of the Tiber, washing away all the old, outworn banks into the sea.

That evening, having returned to their suite under the pretext of a sudden migraine, Narcissa lay down on the silk bedspread, closing her eyes. Her fingers still held the warmth emanating from Hermione's skin, and fragments of their conversation today, every accidental but meaningful touch, surfaced in her memory.

Her dreams were rudely interrupted by a shriek coming from the bathroom. Even the most dramatic operatic tenor could not have hit such a note.

"NARCISSA!"

She slowly opened her eyes, not moving from the spot, savoring the moments of silence.

"What is it, Lucius?" her voice was flat, lifeless, devoid of any interest.

Her husband tumbled out of the bathroom, crimson with rage, his face contorted in a grimace of the deepest insult. In his outstretched hand, he clutched, like evidence, a miserable, unremarkable bar of hotel soap.

"Look! Look at this outrage!" he brandished the soap in the air, sending white crumbs flying. "They've foisted this... this plebeian spawn on me! Where is my handmade soap with moondew extract and diamond dust that I specially ordered from England?! I demand the manager be summoned immediately! This is not a oversight, it's sabotage!"

He continued to rage, waving the bar and scattering white suds across the fluffy carpet like an enraged poodle caught in a storm.

Narcissa did not stir. She merely closed her eyelids again, allowing her lips to curve into a barely noticeable, weary, yet knowing smile. And while Lucius screamed about soap, her thoughts were there, in the cozy apartment with terracotta walls, which smelled of old books, fresh coffee, limoncello, and quiet, genuine happiness that smelled not of moondew at all, but of freedom, of being oneself.

The morning at the Hotel Hassler promised to be as magnificent as ever. Golden sunlight flooded their luxurious suite, the lively hum of the awakening city drifted in from the balcony... But for Lucius Malfoy, another apocalypse, personally tailored for him, had arrived.

His piercing shriek, capable of putting a fire engine siren to shame, pierced the walls of their room and seemed to make the Barcaccia fountain in the square below pause for a moment.

"WHERE?! WHERE IS HIS MAJESTY THE FOOT TOWEL?!" he screamed, his voice breaking into a piercing falsetto.

Narcissa, immersed in a deep, sweet sleep where she dreamed of brown eyes, curly hair, and laughter that sounded more sincere than anything she had heard in years, convulsively shuddered. Without opening her eyes, she desperately buried her face in the cool silk pillow, trying to press herself into the mattress and fall back into oblivion, away from this endless circus of one perpetually dissatisfied clown.

But Lucius did not relent. He rushed about the bathroom, sweeping aside bottles of expensive perfume in his path.

"It's clear as day! A plan! A genuine conspiracy!" he burst into the bedroom, waving an ordinary, but impeccably clean and fluffy bath towel as if it were a bloodied flag of his desecrated honor. "First, the ink-stain's soap! Now this! They deliberately want to deprive me of the basic hygienic rituals developed by generations of Malfoys! This is revenge! Revenge for me demanding a real Flemish napkin instead of this Italian... counterfeit!"

He angrily threw the towel on the floor, and it softly, even somewhat serenely, sprawled on the patterned marble, as if mocking his hysteria.

"Maybe they're in cahoots with Granger? Yes?" he continued, building paranoid theories, running around the room like a mannequin in a cage. "She's here, haven't you noticed? I saw her yesterday! She's definitely up to something! And her wretched, bohemian taste, her plebeian habits... they're poisoning the atmosphere of the whole city! She could have bribed the maid! Or cursed the linen closet! I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out she personally laundered these towels!"

From the depths of the pillow into which her face was pressed, a muffled, barely audible groan was heard. But for Narcissa, it was not a groan of despair. It was the sound of the last straw. The sound followed by a quiet, but absolutely firm and unconditional decision. While her husband was staging a Shakespearean tragedy over a square of terry cloth, she finally and irrevocably understood—there was not an inch of space left in her life for his hysterics. It was filled to the brim with something, or rather, someone, infinitely more valuable, alive, and real.

Their lunch in the suite, served on the balcony with a view of the domes of St. Peter's Basilica, was supposed to be soothing. The view of the eternal city, the singing of birds, the light breeze... But for Lucius Malfoy, peace was only a temporary lull between the acts of the great battle for his impeccable comfort.

The waiter, trembling with the importance of the moment, delivered the ordered bottles of elite Brunello and exquisite desserts. Lucius, with the air of a high priest making a sacrifice, proceeded to the tasting. He poured a drop of ruby liquid into a huge glass, swirled it, making the wine coat the sides, sniffed it, rolled his eyes to the heavens... and suddenly his face contorted with such a grimace as if he had sipped not wine, but a potion brewed from Argus Filch's socks.

"WHAT IS THIS?!" he thundered, throwing the crystal glass onto the stone floor of the balcony with such a deafening crash that the pigeons on the neighboring roof had a heart attack. "This is not wine! This is vinegar fermented in a horse's sweat rag! It's a spit in the face of the entire heritage of Tuscany! I demand the complaints book, the suggestions book, and the guestbook for patrons with hypersensitive, aristocratic palates, immediately!"

Narcissa sat motionless, looking at him across the table laden with delicacies. She saw his cheek twitch, his earlobes turn purple, heard this piercing, hysterical screech, so familiar after twenty years of marriage. And suddenly, something clicked inside her. Finally and irrevocably. Not anger, not irritation, not annoyance. A complete, deafening emptiness. As if she had been listening to the same false, annoying note for years, and now it had finally fallen silent, leaving behind only blessed quiet.

She slowly, with extraordinary, almost ceremonial dignity, rose from the table. Without saying a word, without casting another glance at him, she went into the bedroom, threw a light silk mantle the color of night wisteria over her shoulders, and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?!" Lucius barked, freezing with another, already filled glass in his hand. "Can't you see I'm dealing with this barbarity, with this assault on the foundations of civilization!"

"I see," Narcissa said quietly, but with an icy, glass-cutting clarity, without turning around. Her hand was already on the bronze door handle. "And I've already understood everything."

The door closed softly but inexorably behind her, muffling his next, space-lost shriek. She did not go to the elevator but descended the grand staircase, polished with marble tiles, and her heels tapped out a resolute, rapid beat, the echo of which was lost under the high vaults.

Outside the heavy hotel doors, the warm Roman evening embraced her. The air was thick and sweet, smelling of stone heated during the day, jasmine flowering on the walls of old palazzos, and the smoke from pizzerias. Somewhere in the distance, from hundreds of bell towers, a chime floated, its sound dissolving in the haze over the reddish tiled roofs. The narrow streets, paved with sanpietrino cobblestones, led deep into the city, into its pulsating heart, and were full of life—a hubbub, music drifting from the open doors of trattorias, laughter, and fast, incomprehensible to her, but so alive speech.

She didn't think about where she was going. Her feet carried her on their own along the familiar, already trodden path, past sleeping cats on cornices, past shop windows of small boutiques and bars filled with warm light, smelling of coffee and fresh pastries. She walked, and with every step, Lucius's hysterical, strained screech dissolved in this evening hum, replaced by one single, bright as a flash image—a cozy little house with warm, yellow light in the window, behind which was a woman. A woman who, perhaps, was waiting for her, not even knowing that she was already on her way.

And she walked. Away from the hysterics over wine, towels, and soap. Towards what was truly valuable. Towards the one who smelled of freedom, and, as she was beginning to suspect, love.

Chapter Text

With every step, Lucius's hysterical screeching dissolved into the city's hum, replaced by a single image – a cozy little house with warm light in the window.

She knocked. Just three light taps, but behind them lay the weight of twenty years of silence.

The door opened, and Hermione appeared on the threshold in simple sweatpants and a t-shirt, a book in her hand with a finger tucked between the pages. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"Narcissa? What's wrong?.."

But the words got stuck in her throat because Narcissa, without saying a word, stepped over the threshold, wrapped her arms around Hermione's waist, and pulled her into a swift, greedy kiss. It wasn't a tender, questioning kiss. It was a kiss-storm, a kiss-confession.

Hermione froze for a moment, then responded with equal passion, wrapping her arms around the blonde's neck, dropping the book to the floor.

"Narcissa…" Hermione exhaled when their lips parted for a second. Her fingers trembled as they wove into the silky strands of blonde hair. "What's wrong? You're trembling all over."

"I'm sick to death of my husband," whispered Narcissa, pressing her forehead to Hermione's cheek, her breath hot and ragged. "And you know… we haven't…" her lips found Hermione's again in a short, intoxicating kiss, "we haven't been intimate. For years. I… I'm dying of thirst, Hermione."

She gently but insistently guided her backward, toward the sofa, piled high with soft cushions. They sank onto it, and Narcissa ended up on top, looking down at Hermione in the room's semi-darkness, lit only by the streetlights outside.

"He's over there… talking about caper berries," she whispered with a bitter smirk, her fingertips tracing the line of Hermione's cheekbone. "And I'm here. And I'm finally feeling something real."

Her lips met Hermione's again, but this time it wasn't a storm; it was a slow, tender exploration. She kissed the corners of her lips, the base of her neck, drinking in her scent, her warmth. This wasn't just passion. It was a pilgrimage to a living spring after long years of wandering in the desert.

Meanwhile, in his luxurious suite, Lucius Malfoy, left alone, pushed away a plate of dessert in disgust.
"This tiramisu… they clearly used the wrong type of mascarpone!" he proclaimed to the empty room.

It never even occurred to him that his wife, at that very moment, had found her one true, sweet, and forbidden recipe for happiness.

Their kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips; it was a dialogue in which their whole bodies participated. Narcissa, driven by a hunger that had built up over years, pulled Hermione's t-shirt off, tossing it aside. Her lips slid downward, along the line of her collarbone, leaving a damp, hot trail on the tanned skin. Her fingers trembled as she undid the buckle on Hermione's pants, and soon they joined the t-shirt on the floor.

Hermione threw her head back against the pillows, her breathing becoming ragged, her chest rising high. She was almost naked, the last barrier being her simple cotton panties, already damp with her arousal. Narcissa took her time, savoring the moment, the power, and this intoxicating freedom. She pressed her palm, firm and confident, against that very damp, warm fabric, and Hermione arched with a moan, her hips moving involuntarily toward the touch.

"Narcissa… please…" her voice was hoarse, stripped of all traces of rationality. "Take me."

But Narcissa only bit her earlobe, making the girl shudder, and continued her slow, sweetly-torturous circular motions, feeling the body beneath her burn and tremble.

"And what about your… Ron?" she whispered directly into Hermione's ear, her voice low, seductive, and full of barely concealed mockery. Her fingers increased the pressure, and Hermione cried out, digging her nails into Narcissa's back. "He's… planning to move, isn't he? Ministry business, right?"

There was no jealousy in these words. There was a triumphant, almost predatory tenderness. She was teasing her, knowing that at this moment, for Hermione, there was no Ministry, no Ron, no rest of the world. There was only her, Narcissa, and this all-consuming, forbidden thirst.

Play and anticipation were replaced by swift, yet tender determination. Narcissa, without breaking eye contact with Hermione's clouded eyes, slid her fingers under the elastic of her panties and, with one smooth motion, freed her from the last barrier.

The air in the room felt thick and ringing. Narcissa paused for a moment, admiring her – embarrassed, burning, completely open and vulnerable. Then her palm rested on Hermione's sex again, but now without any fabric between them. Skin to skin.

"Like this…" she whispered, and her voice trembled with reverence and passion.

Narcissa's thumb found that sensitive, swollen nub and touched it with such precision that Hermione's whole body shuddered as if an electric current had passed through it. She cried out, quietly and brokenly, her hips trembling involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more contact.

"You're trembling all over, my girl," Narcissa's whisper sounded like a hum, as her finger began to trace slow, hypnotic circles, smearing Hermione's wetness, making the skin even more slippery and sensitive. Every touch was both a promise and a fulfillment.

Hermione could only moan, her head rolling helplessly on the pillow, her fingers clutching the blanket. She was completely at the mercy of these sensations, pure and exposed.

"I can feel how much you want me," Narcissa continued to coo, leaning down and touching her breasts with her lips, while her working fingers never lost their rhythm. "Giving yourself to me… completely."

And then, feeling Hermione's body ready to accept her fully, Narcissa, without removing her thumb from her clitoris, slid two fingers inside. Slowly, gently, allowing every muscle to accept and embrace her.

Hermione let out a long, stifled moan, her inner muscles convulsively clenching around Narcissa's fingers. It wasn't an invasion; it was a homecoming. A deep, wet, pulsating warmth enveloped her.

"Like this…" Narcissa whispered again, feeling her own heart pounding. Her fingers began a gentle, measured rhythm, while her thumb continued its sweet torture outside. "I can feel you… All of you."

It was a dance, perfectly synchronized and full of unspoken tenderness. Every movement was a dedication, every touch – a confession.

Narcissa was ruthless in her tenderness. She brought Hermione to the very edge, feeling her body tense in anticipation of release, her inner muscles convulsively tightening around her fingers… and at that very moment, she slowly, luxuriously, withdrew them.

Hermione made a plaintive, lost sound, her hips jerking involuntarily, seeking the lost contact.
"Narcissa… please…"

But the blonde merely raised herself on an elbow, her blue eyes, dark with passion, looking directly into Hermione's pleading brown ones. With relish, without breaking eye contact, she brought her wet fingers to her lips and slowly, with obvious pleasure, licked them, savoring Hermione's taste.

"Patience, my girl," her voice was low and velvety. "All the best things come to those who wait."

And only when Hermione's desperate whimpers and helpless movements became unbearable did Narcissa lower her hand again. With unhurried, almost ceremonial solemnity, she entered her teased, ready sex again, making Hermione howl with a mixture of relief and new, mounting tension.

Meanwhile, a different drama was unfolding in the foyer of the Hotel Hassler. Lucius Malfoy, crimson with rage, was banging his cane on the reception desk, making a vase of flowers tremble.

"Do you even understand who you're talking to?!" his voice screeched, grating on the ears of the few night guests. "In a 'luxury' category suite, there must be a SECOND hairdryer! It's a basic standard for any decent establishment! And you… you have this barbaric disorder! I demand it be delivered immediately, as well as compensation for moral damages and a ruined evening! My poor wife, suffering from a migraine, is deprived of basic amenities!"

He couldn't even imagine that his "poor wife," suffering from a migraine, at that very moment, bathed in moonlight in a house not far away, was being deprived not of a hairdryer, but of the last remnants of self-control, moaning uncontrollably under the caresses of that very "Mudblood" he so despised. And that her only need at that moment was by no means a second hair dryer, but her lover's ability to finish what she had started.

The first rays of morning, filtering through the shutters, didn't wake them, but rather the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet ache in their muscles. Narcissa opened her eyes and froze for a second, disoriented. Not the silk sheets of the Hassler, but worn cotton. Not the smell of expensive perfume, but a mix of her own body, Hermione's body, and the dust on old books.

She hadn't returned. And she wasn't planning to.

Turning her head, she saw Hermione sleeping. They slept naked, entangled like tree roots – legs intertwined, Narcissa's arm resting on Hermione's waist, and Hermione pressing her face into Narcissa's neck. Dried stains adorned the sheets, silent witnesses to the passionately spent night when they had explored each other with a shameless greed. In this disorder and unpretentious closeness, there was more luxury than in all the Malfoy estates.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe called the "Hotel Hassler," Lucius Malfoy woke up because his personal comfort barometer was off the charts. The absence of his wife in the adjacent bedroom caused him neither anxiety nor surprise. "A migraine, poor thing, must have gone for a walk in the gardens at dawn so as not to disturb my sleep," he thought with lordly condescension.

But what truly outraged him to the core was the state of the minibar.

He reached for the door and discovered that his favorite thirty-year-old Scotch whisky had not been restocked from the evening before! On the shelf stood only a lonely bottle of local limoncello, which he had yesterday immediately declared "stale syrup for commoners."

This wasn't just an oversight. It was an assault on the foundations.

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in the foyer, clad in a silk robe, with a face expressing such a degree of offended dignity as if he had been served boot soup.

"I demand an explanation!" his voice, piercing and sharp, cut through the morning's elegant silence of the foyer. "Or has this establishment decided to switch to self-service? Or perhaps you think a gentleman is satisfied with this… this Italian moonshine for his morning libations?!"

He was waving the half-empty bottle of limoncello as if it were evidence in a court. The staff, already educated by bitter experience, tried to maintain Olympic calm, but the other guests, having breakfast, began to whisper and point.

"Look, it's that Englishman," laughter came from a table, "yesterday he made a scene over a towel, today over the drinks in the bar."

"Mamma mia," an elderly signora shook her head, finishing her cappuccino. "And this is an aristocrat? My grandson has better manners in the sandbox."

Lucius, noticing these mocking glances and hearing suppressed laughter, only grew more crimson. His hysteria reached its peak when, demanding the complaints book, he accidentally bumped into the desk and knocked over a vase of tulips. Water flooded his expensive leather shoes.

The general laughter became open. He, Lucius Malfoy, descendant of an ancient line, had become a laughingstock for some Italian crowd because of a bottle of whisky!

Meanwhile, Narcissa, stretching lazily in bed, reached out and gently ran her fingers over Hermione's cheek.

"Good morning," she whispered, and there wasn't a trace of regret in her voice, only a deep, serene calm. "It seems it will be a beautiful day."

And while one Malfoy was putting on a circus for the entire hotel's amusement, the other had finally found what she had been searching for all her life – a quiet morning, a warm body beside her, and complete freedom from what anyone thought of her.

Narcissa's playful dominance didn't last long. As she moved from one of Hermione's swollen, pink nipples to the other, savoring their firmness on her tongue, a responsive energy was building in Granger's body. Her moans became not pleas, but a low, determined growl.

Suddenly, with a strength Narcissa hadn't suspected in her, Hermione flipped them over, swapping places. Now she was on top, her curly hair creating a curtain around their faces, her eyes burning with that very fire of defiance and clear, focused passion.

"Enough games," whispered Hermione, her voice hoarse but firm.

Her palm immediately pressed against Narcissa's pubis, and the blonde gasped, feeling a rush of heat. Hermione's fingers tangled gently, almost exploratively, in the sparse white hairs, and this simple touch made Narcissa shudder much more than any skilled caress. There was a primal, animal tenderness in it.

With one hand, Hermione captured Narcissa's breast, not squeezing, but rather asserting her possession, her thumb stroking the hard nipple. Meanwhile, the fingers of her other hand found that sensitive, hidden nub and began to tease it with a precision and persistence that made Narcissa's vision darken.

"Hermione…" she managed to exhale, before her back arched on its own, lifting her hips from the bed in a silent plea.

And that was enough. Hermione, without breaking her burning gaze, skillfully slid one finger inside. Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut, her inner muscles convulsively clenching, accepting this shallow, yet so desired invasion. Not letting her get used to it, Granger added a second, stretching and filling her, and finally, a third.

Narcissa made a sound halfway between a moan and a sob, her head thrown back on the pillow. Her body, so refined and restrained in public, now pulsed wildly around Hermione's fingers, completely surrendering to the wild, primal rhythm she was setting. She could do nothing but watch as her lover possessed her and tumble into the abyss of languor she herself had provoked.

By evening, as the sun began to paint the Roman rooftops gold, a troubling picture finally began to form in Lucius Malfoy's mind. Not just a "migraine," not a "walk in the garden." A complete absence. Not a single hatbox, not a hint of her perfume in the air. His wife, his property, his Narcissa, was gone.

The realization hit him not with a wave of concern for her well-being, but with a fit of furious, possessive rage. His thing was missing!

He burst into the hotel's elegant restaurant, where guests were enjoying a candlelit dinner in a calm atmosphere. His face was distorted by a grimace having nothing to do with noble anger – it was the face of a spoiled child whose toy had been taken away.

"TAKE THIS! AND THIS!" his piercing, hysterical screech, surpassing all previous ones, cut through the air, silencing the violin and freezing forks halfway to mouths. He swept elegant plates of pasta from the tables, grabbed salad bowls and hurled them to the floor with a deafening crash. "CALL THE POLICE! IMMEDIATELY! MY WIFE HAS BEEN STOLEN! SHE'S BEEN KIDNAPPED!"

The guests froze in stupor, watching the descendant of an ancient line throw a tantrum more befitting a Tasmanian devil. One elderly gentleman, unfazed, continued eating his risotto, raising an eyebrow in silent commentary. Another couple by the window giggled quietly, filming the scene on their phone.

"Ma guarda questo qui," a waiter shook his head, looking at the shards of porcelain. "Getting so upset over a woman. He should find another one, since this one ran away."

"I demand the entire Italian Magical Legion be mobilized!" Lucius shrieked, waving his cane. "Where are your local guards? Summon their chief immediately! This is Granger's doing! I know it! That Mudblood is obsessed with me! She kidnapped my wife to get to me!"

His conspiracy theory was so absurd that even the manager trying to calm him down couldn't suppress a smile. Instead of panic, the room was filled with a circus-like atmosphere. Lucius Malfoy, unknowingly, had become the evening's entertainment for the entire hotel – pathetic, absurd, and in its own way, funny.

Meanwhile, his "kidnapped" wife, lying in Hermione's spacious t-shirt on a cozy sofa, her feet propped on the armrest, was savoring a glass of wine and saying thoughtfully:

"You know, I'll have to send an elf to the Hassler for my things. I think some of my dresses would look perfect in your dark wardrobe."

Lucius Malfoy's hysterics were eventually quelled, not by persuasion, but in a manner humiliating for him. The duty manager, who had called the police, received a brief and exhaustive answer:
"Signore, your wife is an adult woman. She hasn't filed a report, isn't a missing person, and isn't your property. If she doesn't want to communicate with you, that's her right. Buona serata."

Hearing this verdict, translated to him with mocking politeness, Lucius was speechless with impotent rage. His entire world, built on control and ownership, had cracked. For the first time, he was being treated not as a Malfoy, but as an ordinary, bothersome husband whose wife had left him.

Returning to his room, he was drunk not on alcohol, but on humiliation and a strange, perverse longing. He didn't need Narcissa-the-person. He needed Narcissa-the-accessory, the silent confirmation of his status, the beautiful frame for his portrait. And the more acutely he felt her loss, the more fiercely desire returned him to her – not as an individual, but as his thing.

With a grim face distorted by malice, he locked himself in the huge marble bathroom. Muffled city sounds came through the window, and he, looking at his reflection in the gold-plated faucet, with cruelty and ferocity, began to violate his own flesh, imagining not her pleasure, but her submission. It was an act not of love or passion, but of angry self-affirmation, an attempt to regain the slipping control through the force of imagination.

It was at this moment, to the accompaniment of his heavy breathing and grunting, that the door to the suite opened silently.

Narcissa stood in the doorway. Not pale, not tired, not "suffering from a migraine." She was calm and incredibly real. In one hand she held the room key card, in the other – a small traveling case. Her gaze slid over her husband's belongings scattered in anger and stopped on the tightly closed bathroom door, from where muffled but recognizable sounds were coming.

That same, barely noticeable, weary smile played on her lips. She slowly approached the door and, without knocking, said clearly and loudly:

"Lucius, I've come for the rest of my things. And, judging by the sounds, I've clearly interrupted you… solving our marital problems in the only way available to you."

A deathly silence fell behind the door, broken only by his heavy breathing. Then came the sound of a flushing toilet, a sharp click of the lock, and Lucius appeared on the threshold. His face was a pale mask, his hair had fallen out of its impeccable styling, and his eyes blazed with a mixture of rage, humiliation, and disbelief.

"You are not going anywhere," he hissed, and his voice grated like a rusty door. "I will ask you only once, and you will answer. Where have you been, wife?"

He took a step forward, trying to regain the lost control with familiar pressure.
"I mobilized the entire magical police of this city! You've made me a laughingstock! Where do you think you're going?!"

Narcissa didn't retreat an inch. She stood motionless, her calm an icy fortress against his fire.

"We are getting a divorce, Lucius," she said evenly and uncompromisingly. Her words hung in the air, clean and sharp as a blade.

Lucius froze as if doused with ice water. Divorce? That word didn't exist in his lexicon. It was impossible.

"Divorce?" he snorted, but his laughter held panic. "Is this a new whim? Or have you found yourself a patron? Some Italian upstart with a fat wallet and thin taste?"

Narcissa allowed herself a barely perceptible, mysterious smile. It wasn't an answer; it was a game. She turned to approach the wardrobe, demonstratively showing her back – a gesture of the highest contempt.

"My future patron," she said, taking out a dress and neatly folding it into the magical case, "possesses assets far more valuable than gold. And his taste… is impeccable."

She turned and met his gaze, and in her blue eyes, Lucius saw, to his horror, not the familiar submission, but a cold, ruthless clarity and strength he had never noticed before.

"You're hiding something, Narcissa," he said quietly, but with a dangerous softness. "And I will find out what it is."

Notes:

"Ma guarda questo qui" - "Well, look at this guy." / "Will you look at this guy." (Italian)

Chapter Text

The door of the suite slammed shut with a crash, cutting off Lucius's deafening screech: "I WILL NEVER GIVE YOU A DIVORCE! YOU WILL REGRET THIS, YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH! AT LEAST TELL ME WHO YOU'RE RUNNING TO, YOU WHORE-!"

His voice broke off, hitting the massive wood. Narcissa did not turn around. She walked down the corridor, her back straight, and with every step, the weight of years of slavery was replaced by the intoxicating lightness of freedom. And now only one thing drove her forward — a burning, insatiable desire.

She entered Hermione's house without knocking, slammed the door and leaned against it with her back, as if blocking the path to the entire old world. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes held that very wild, indomitable fire.

Hermione, who had been reading on the couch, had only just lifted her eyes when Narcissa was already in front of her. She grabbed her breasts through the thin cotton t-shirt, squeezing with such force that the rigidity of her fingers conveyed all the accumulated fury, despair, and longing of the day.

Hermione squealed in surprise but did not push her away. Her own body responded with an instantaneous wave of heat.

"Narcissa, you are so restless..." she whimpered, throwing her head back.

"Quiet, Mia," Narcissa cut her off in a low, hoarse whisper that left no room for objection.

The next moment, she forcefully pushed Hermione down onto the couch, tearing off her t-shirt. Narcissa's lips greedily descended upon her chest, biting and sucking first one tense pink nipple, then the other, not letting Hermione catch her breath. Her hands worked quickly and decisively: she unbuttoned the shorts, pulled them down along with the panties in one sharp movement, exposing the moist, trembling vulva.

And now, when Hermione lay before her completely naked, flushed and breathless, Narcissa stopped for a second to look. Her gaze was hungry, almost pained. She didn't just need possession. She needed proof. Proof that this was real. That she was free to want, free to take.

Hermione's astonishment lasted only a moment, replaced by a wave of fiery shame and anticipation as she felt Narcissa's warm breath so close. But instead of hesitation, she was met with confidence.

Narcissa pressed her mouth to her with such immediacy, as if she had always known this path. Her tongue, surprisingly soft and precise, slid between Hermione's moist labia, making her whole body arch in a silent scream. She wasn't just caressing — she was tasting her, savoring her, absorbing every drop of her essence. Her lips closed around the delicate flesh, gently sucking, and the tip of her tongue found that very sensitive, hidden bud and began tracing rapid, vibrating circles around it.

Hermione's world truly exploded. It narrowed to this hot mouth, to this tongue driving her to frenzy. She dug her fingers into Narcissa's hair, unable to decide whether to pull her closer or push her away, because the sensations were on the verge of bearable. Moans, low and guttural, tore from her throat, her hips moving on their own in time with these sweet, unbearable tortures.

And then, feeling Hermione's body about to plunge over the edge, Narcissa, without removing her mouth, slid two fingers inside. Smoothly but without delay, filling her, finding that very depth that made Hermione's eyes darken.

Gasps and moans merged into a single melody of passion. Narcissa, guided by these sounds, began to move her fingers in a confident, escalating rhythm, literally impaling the trembling body of Hermione onto them. Every movement was commanding, but it held tenderness; every thrust was a question and an answer simultaneously. She looked from below upwards, at Hermione's thrown-back head, at her half-open mouth, and in her own heart a storm was raging — triumphant, liberating, and truly alive for the first time in many, many years.

Lucius Malfoy had finally exhausted his supply of righteous anger. He sat amidst the wrecked suite, breathing heavily, and in his mind, shrouded in a haze of rage, a new, brilliant idea began to sprout. He straightened his back, brushing a shard of a crystal vase from his shoulder.

"If this… unclean wife," he cursed mentally, choosing the most offensive word, "wants a divorce, fine. Excellent. I will play on her jealousy."

He even smiled, imagining how Narcissa, who had run off to some unknown penniless lover, would weep upon seeing him with a new, young, and obedient aristocrat. That was the main hitch — the unknown. Who had she left with? Some Italian failed artist? A young barista? This thought drove him even crazier than the betrayal itself. But he would make her regret it!

Inspired by this brilliant, albeit vague, vengeance, he decided to tidy himself up. A great seducer had to look impeccable. He headed to the bathroom to bathe and anoint his famous locks.

He majestically swung the door open, raised his foot over the threshold… and froze. His gaze fell on the shower rack. There stood shower gel, conditioner, and… that was all.

Lucius's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, brushed the bottles aside with his hand, looked behind the curtain, under the sink. His breathing quickened.

The shampoo. Was gone. The special shampoo for his exquisite, noble, silver locks WAS GONE.

The silence was torn by a sound somewhere between the roar of a wounded troll and the whistle of a steam engine.

"SHAMPOO?!" he howled, gripping the marble countertop with such force that his knuckles turned white. "WHERE IS THE HAIR SHAMPOO?! THEY GAVE ME THIS… THIS PLEBEIAN DISHWASHING LIQUID?!" He shook the bottle of shower gel in front of his own reflection, distorted with horror.

"It's HIM," raced through his fevered brain. "That penniless lover! It's his doing! He cursed the linen closet, bribed the maid, and now he's stolen my shampoo! He wants me to go bald! So I can't find a mistress and reclaim what is rightfully mine! This is his cunning, plebeian plan!"

He hurled the gel against the wall, and it splattered across the tiles with a gleeful smack.

"MARIO! SYLVIA! SOMEBODY!" he burst out of the bathroom, clutching the bottle of conditioner in his hand like the only piece of evidence. "MY SHAMPOO! IT'S BEEN STOLEN! I DEMAND THE IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION OF INTERPOL! THIS IS A MATTER OF INTERNATIONAL SABOTAGE!"

And at that time, Narcissa, lying in Hermione's embrace and inhaling the scent of her hair — a simple, cheap, and incredibly familiar shampoo — was laughing quietly, feeling free. She had no idea that her ex-husband had declared war on the whole world, trying to take revenge on a mysterious rival who wasn't even aware of his existence, for an imaginary conspiracy against his hairstyle.

Life in the house with terracotta walls had found a new, solid foundation. One morning, during breakfast, Hermione, looking at Narcissa, who was blissfully breaking apart a fresh croissant, said simply and clearly:
"Stay. Forever. And let me help you with the divorce."

There was no request in these words. It was an offer of partnership, equal and voluntary. Narcissa, sipping her coffee, replied with the same calm:
"I thought you'd never ask."

That same day, Hermione wrote a letter to Ron. It was long, honest, and devoid of reproach. She wrote about how she had changed, how she had found a different life in Rome and, strangely enough, a different self. She thanked him for everything and gently but unmistakably made it clear that their paths had diverged, and she would no longer wait for him to move. The sealed envelope flew off to London, carrying with it the last formal tie to her old life.

Meanwhile, Narcissa was delightedly arranging their shared nest. Her elegant dresses hung next to Hermione's practical robes, and her collection of expensive tea had displaced the coffee packets on the kitchen shelf. She brought into this house not an aristocratic gloss, but a feeling of a lived-in, deeply personal space, where every thing was in its place because that's how the two women who lived and loved each other here wanted it.

And at that time, a tragicomic farce was unfolding at the Hotel Hassler. Lucius, driven by rage and wounded vanity, had indeed found himself a "mistress" — a young, empty-headed aristocrat from an impoverished Italian family, impressed by his name and wallet.

In his room, the very one where Narcissa had once listened to his hysterics, he now had sex with her with a rough, ostentatious passion. His movements held no desire — only malice, an attempt to prove something to himself and an invisible spectator. He dug his fingers with hatred into the girl's pale shoulders, and his gaze repeatedly slid to the phone in his own hand.

"Don't move," he growled, bringing the device closer and taking a selfie that showed his face contorted in a grimace and the back of his confused companion's head.

One after another, these pathetic and vulgar pictures flew to Narcissa's number. He waited, imagining her sobbing, smashing her cheap mug in that hovel where she lived, and rushing back to him in tears, begging for forgiveness.

Narcissa's phone rang in Hermione's apartment. She sighed, put down her book, and glanced at the screen. Another batch of "revenge selfies" had arrived. She scrolled through them with the same expression she would have when looking at an insecticide ad, and put the phone back.

"Is it your ex again?" Hermione asked lazily, not looking up from her parchment.

"Mmm," Narcissa confirmed, approaching her and wrapping her arms around her from behind to rest her chin on the top of her head. "He seems to be trying to shock me. It's… cute. And hopelessly stupid."

She turned her head and kissed Hermione on the neck.

"You know what my ex sent me?" Hermione smiled, leaning back against her chest. "A postcard with a view of the Ministry. It says: 'Work matters will settle down soon. Love, Ron.'"

They looked at each other and laughed — a quiet, happy laugh of two people who had finally found what they were looking for, while their exes tried to pull them back into worlds they had gladly left.

Lucius, however, ended up alone with the bewildered aristocrat and the silence of his phone, and in a rage, he threw it against the wall. His magnificent plan had failed. His whore of a wife had not come running. She was out there somewhere, and this indifference of hers was a thousand times more painful than any infidelity.

Malfoy, crushed and still not believing in the finality of what was happening, gave preliminary consent to the divorce through his lawyer. Deep down, he nurtured an absurd hope: as soon as Narcissa received the papers, she would come to her senses. She would realize what she was losing, see his magnanimity, and return, repentant and obedient.

He even continued his pathetic tactics. In his room in a new hotel, smelling of loneliness and expensive air fresheners, he sent Narcissa photos again and again. Sometimes of his cock against silk sheets, sometimes pictures with other women — all equally pale, empty aristocrats, resembling expensive but lifeless dolls. The response was only deafening silence. His self-esteem, already battered, was cracking at the seams.

And then a certain well-connected but greedy journalist, specializing in society gossip, for a substantial check, shed light on the mystery. He didn't just give Lucius a fact. He brought a whole world crashing down on him.

"Lady Malfoy, sir… She is living. With Hermione Granger. In that very house in Trastevere. It seems this is… serious."

At first, Lucius didn't understand. He simply couldn't put these words together into a coherent picture.
"Granger?.. Which Granger?" he asked dully.

"Hermione Granger, sir. That one. The Mud— that is, the Muggle-born. Potter's friend."

A silence fell, more terrible than any scream. Lucius froze, his face became completely impassive, a mask of white marble. And then the mask cracked.

It wasn't a scream. It was a low, animalistic growl, full of such primal hatred and disgust that even the hardened journalist flinched.

"YOU LIE!" Lucius roared, pressing the phone into his palm with such force that the glass cracked. "YOU LIE, YOU SCUM! SHE… SHE…"

He couldn't say it. His mind refused to accept this monstrous, unthinkable truth. His wife. Narcissa Black. The oldest blood in Britain. The flower of the aristocracy. Had traded him, Lucius Malfoy, for… for THAT. For a Mudblood. For a creature he wouldn't have let onto his kitchen doorstep in his best days.

"She traded me… for filth?" his voice broke into a whisper, full of disbelief and fierce contempt. "She preferred a Malfoy… to that upstart, that stain on the reputation of magic? She has defiled our blood! Defiled our name! She has lain down with the scum!"

He began to pace around the room, sweeping crystal trinkets off the tables, tearing engravings from the walls. His rage was blind, all-consuming. This was not just a betrayal. It was sacrilege. A fall from grace in the eyes of everything he held sacred — blood purity, ancient lineage, the inviolability of their world.

He could not forgive this. Never. Now it was no longer a personal insult. It was war. A war for the holiest thing in his world. And he was ready to burn everything to the ground just to erase this unbearable, humiliating stain. The stain named Hermione Granger.

In the bedroom, bathed in soft light, an atmosphere of complete trust and focused tenderness reigned. Hermione lay on her stomach, her muscles relaxed, her skin hot under Narcissa's palms. The latter, kneeling between her legs, with almost surgical precision, guided the lubricated strap-on to Hermione's tense, virginal anal entrance.

"Breathe, my girl," Narcissa whispered, her voice quiet and soothing like the rustle of pages. "Relax for me."

Hermione responded with a quiet, deep purr, trustingly arching her back as the smooth head of the toy began to exert a gentle but insistent pressure. Narcissa, not taking her eyes off her, caught every microscopic reaction — a sigh, a slight shudder — ready to retreat at the slightest sign of discomfort. She entered slowly, millimeter by millimeter, filling her with an almost reverent slowness.

And at that very moment, when their world had narrowed to just this merging and quiet moans, Narcissa's mobile phone rang insistently and deafeningly.

Hermione flinched in surprise, but the blonde only smirked. Her gaze became playful and commanding. She gave Hermione a soft but distinct slap on the buttock, making her exhale something between a moan and a laugh.

"Don't move," Narcissa ordered in a low, hoarse whisper and, carefully pulling out the strap-on, reached for the phone.

The name "LUCIUS MALFOY" was raging on the screen.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow with an expression of utmost boredom and, without listening to the beginning of his next frenzied tirade, with a few precise finger movements, sent her ex-husband to the blacklist. An eternity of humiliation and control was destroyed in half a second.

She threw the phone back on the nightstand and returned to her position, her eyes darkening with passion again.

"Where were we?" came her excited, desire-drenched voice.

Adjusting the straps of the strap-on, she once again pressed the smooth head against Hermione's moist, yielding entrance. Her hands lay on the girl's hips, with strong, massaging movements preparing them for the finale.

"Breathe in, Mia," she commanded tenderly but firmly.

And on Hermione's exhale, she entered her fully, without haste but now without stopping.

Hermione cried out — sharply, loudly, and the sound was full not of pain, but of shock, relief, and all-consuming pleasure. Her body clenched around the toy, accepting it, and her sobs were now pure, helpless ecstasy. And Narcissa, starting a slow, deep rhythm, leaned towards her ear and whispered, laughing:

"See? Much more pleasant than listening to his whining."

"Give me more," Hermione exhaled, and her voice was hoarse, devoid of all modesty. Her body, already completely surrendered to Narcissa's will, was asking for the final, decisive fall.

Narcissa, whose breathing had also become rapid and deep, without further ado, lifted Hermione's hips, giving her a deeper, almost animalistic position. Hermione leaned on her elbows, her back arched in a graceful curve, offering herself to every thrust.

And then Narcissa gripped her thigh with one hand to set an inexorable, quickening rhythm, while the fingers of her other hand found her clitoris, swollen and incredibly sensitive. Her touch was mercilessly precise — not just circular motions, but targeted, virtuoso pressure that made Hermione's insides clench in anticipation.

With every thrust of the strap-on, with every vibrating touch to her core, Hermione's world narrowed to a single point — a point of unbearable, exquisite tension. Her cries became staccato, she gasped, catching air with her mouth that seemed to have turned to fire. She was on the edge, her universe consisted of this body, this hand, this voice whispering something obscene and tender right into her ear.

"Come for me," ordered the low, wet voice, and that was the final touch, the last drop.

The tension that had been building for so long burst from within in a blinding, undulating spasm. Hermione let out a long, choked, almost wordless cry, and her body collapsed forward, face into the pillow, helplessly trembling in the last convulsions of pleasure. She was completely empty, utterly destroyed and reborn, her entire universe shrunk to the soft fabric of the pillow and the wet spot under her cheek, a mixture of sweat and tears of bliss.

Narcissa, slowing her movements, watched this picture of complete self-destruction with pleasure, touching her quivering back with a light, triumphant smile.

The dull London light barely penetrated the curtains in the living room of Ron Weasley's flat. He, sprawled on the sofa, was absentmindedly picking at the chipped edge of the coffee table. His thoughts lazily sifted through fragments of the last, most difficult letter from Hermione. She hadn't limited herself to vague phrases about "space" — she wrote directly, with that unbearable honesty that had always been her trait: "Ron, I've met someone else. I've found a love I didn't even know existed. It's all very serious. I can't wait for you to move anymore because my heart and my life are here now."

He hadn't believed it then, attributing it all to stress and Roman fever. Someone else? Well, some boring Italian official, no more. He would give her time to come to her senses.

His musings were interrupted by a familiar noise — with a dull thud, another batch of mail, including the fresh issue of the Daily Prophet, fell into the fireplace grate. Ron, still mentally arguing with that old correspondence, reached for the paper with a habitual gesture.

And froze.

The mug of cold tea slipped from his fingers and shattered noisily on the floor. He didn't notice. His whole world narrowed to the moving photograph on the front page.

Hermione. She was walking, holding hands… with Narcissa Malfoy. Their faces were lit with carefree, happy smiles. The headline read: "Former war heroine and fallen aristocrat: shocking romance in the Eternal City!"

"I've met someone else."

The words from the letter echoed in his ears with a new, deafening force. Someone else. It wasn't an official. It was her. Narcissa Malfoy. The one who had looked at all of them as if they were dirt. The one whose husband and whose son...

A wave of burning, suffocating indignation rose from the very core of his being, constricting his throat. He crumpled the newspaper and threw it into the fireplace. This was not just a betrayal of their relationship. It was a spit on the memory of Fred, of the war, of everything they had been through.

He breathed heavily, watching as the fire consumed the smiling faces. There was no doubt left.

Ron turned sharply and headed for the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. He was going to Rome. In person.

Chapter Text

Ron flew out of the fireplace with his usual flair, expecting to see Hermione's familiar living room. Instead, he crashed noisily into the marble lobby of a luxurious hotel, nearly knocking over a stand with expensive brochures along the way. The Rome Floo Network had pushed him out to the nearest public point — the Hotel Hassler.

He was brushing the ash off his jacket, about to turn around and find the right address, when his attention was caught by a deafening, painfully familiar voice. A chilling, utterly arrogant shriek that he hated with all his heart.

At the reception desk, crimson with rage, stood Lucius Malfoy. He was brandishing a pair of thin white disposable slippers in the air as if they were the severed heads of his enemies.

— You call these slippers?! — he hissed, addressing the frightened manager. — This is paper! Paper, not suede! They rustle like the parchment of a dying mule! I demand real slippers made from the wool of a Peruvian alpaca, lined with silk! Or do you deliberately want my feet, the feet of a Malfoy, to touch this… this cellulose parody?!

Ron froze in place, momentarily forgetting why he had come. He watched this spectacle with disgust and a strange sense of relief. Some things in the world, it seemed, never changed. Even here, in Rome, Lucius Malfoy was waging his eternal war with the world for what he considered his birthright — to alpaca, to moondew, and to the absence of rustling paper.

The manager was helplessly muttering something about "hotel standards" and "eco-friendly materials."

— Eco-friendly?! — Lucius roared. — My heels are not interested in saving the planet! They demand proper comfort!

Ron involuntarily snorted. The snort was louder than he had planned. Lucius turned sharply, and his icy eyes narrowed upon seeing the red-haired giant covered in soot.

— Weasley? — he hissed with such contempt, as if he had found something unpleasant on his shoe. — You… What are you doing here? Did you come to collect your galleons for your girlfriend's betrayal? Or perhaps you're looking for a job? They seem to have a vacancy — wiping the floor after those who wear these… these paper insults!

The rage Ron had brought with him from London flared up with renewed force. He had seen this man on the front page — indirectly, through his ex-wife, who had now ruined his life. He saw in him the root of that poisonous arrogance that had poisoned his family.

— Shut up, Malfoy, — Ron growled, taking a step forward. His fists clenched. — I have serious questions for you and your… family.

Lucius smirked contemptuously.
— Oh, has our little Mudblood cheated on you? What a surprise. No one could have foreseen that.

That was the last straw. Ron no longer cared about the shields, about Hermione, about anything. Right now, he wanted only one thing — to press his palm against that smug face.

Ron's punch was swift, heavy, and satisfyingly wet. His knuckles crunched against Lucius's cheekbone, throwing him back against the reception desk. A glass vase with orchids crashed onto the marble floor with a roar.

For a second, a shocked silence hung in the foyer, broken only by Ron's heavy breathing. But it didn't last long.

Lucius slowly rose, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes held not just rage, but a cold, murderous obsession. No one, least of all this ginger scum, could lay a hand on him.

— Pathetic… pathetic squib! — he hissed, his voice ringing like ice. — You dare…

His wand, appearing in his hand faster than Ron could blink, shot forward.

— Petrificus Totalus!

A jet of shining energy hit Ron in the chest, throwing him back and pinning him against the wall like an insect, flooding his body with invisible cement. He couldn't move, couldn't even shout, only able to watch hatefully as Malfoy approached.

Panic erupted in the foyer. Guests screamed, jumping aside, ladies clutched their pearls. This was no longer a funny spectacle — the air smelled of ozone and real danger.

— Signori, I beg you! — the manager cried, wringing his hands. — Stop! I will be forced to call the magical authorities!

But his voice was drowned out by the roar of another spell. Lucius, not taking his insane gaze off Ron, swept his wand upward.

— Fragemento!

The chandelier under the ceiling exploded with a deafening roar, showering everything around with a rain of crystal shards. Guests screamed and rushed away, under tables, behind columns.

Ron, gritting his teeth, fought the paralyzing curse with his last strength. His own wand was in his pocket, impossible to reach. But rage gave him strength. With a hoarse roar, he managed to move his arm, breaking the charm, and his fingers found the handle.

— Expelliarmus! — he rasped.

A red flash hit Lucius in the shoulder, making him stagger, but didn't knock the wand out of his hand. He responded instantly.

— Incendio!

A fireball shot past Ron's head, inches away, hit a tapestry on the wall and burst into blinding flames. It smelled of soot and panic.

— Aqua Erupto! — Ron shouted desperately, aiming at the flame.

A powerful stream of water gushed from the tip of his wand, knocking down the fire, but flooding half the foyer in the process. Water mixed with shards, ash, and expensive carpets, creating a surreal picture of destruction.

The hotel managers and several maids tried to approach, shouting spells to create protective barriers, but the chaos was too great.

Lucius, soaked and mad with rage, raised his wand for the next, possibly already fatal, attack when a new, deafening voice cut through all the noise.

— FINITE INCANTATEM!

The entire magical field in the foyer shuddered and died. Ron and Lucius, both breathing heavily, turned towards the entrance.

In the doorway, with a face expressing icy fury, stood Hermione Granger. And next to her, pale but with an absolutely unwavering look — Narcissa Black.

The reason for their appearance was simple as a bludgeon and just as effective. An hour before the fight, an owl carrying a short but succinct note crashed into the windowpane of the apartment in Trastevere. Hermione, sighing, let the bird in.

On a scrap of parchment, just three words were written, screaming of restrained panic and determination: "I'm coming. Ron."

Hermione, knowing her own protective charms, instantly understood the logic of his journey. She did not live in an official magical residence, but in an ordinary, albeit charming, "Muggle" house, the shields around which were built to deflect direct Floo connection and illegal Apparition. The nearest public and officially registered entry point to the Roman Floo network was… the central hotel for the magical elite.

— He'll fly straight to the Hassler, — she stated, showing the note to Narcissa. — It's the only place that will let him in without too many questions.

Narcissa, her aristocratic eyebrows rising, made a short sound not devoid of black humor.
— The Hassler? — she repeated with a slight, sarcastic smile. — The irony of fate is truly delightful. So, your ex-lover and my ex-husband are currently under the same roof. This smells either of farce or bloodshed.

— Or both at the same time, — Hermione concluded grimly, already throwing on her cloak. — Let's go. Before Ron does something irreversible, and Lucius doesn't finish him off in a fit of "offended aristocratic honor."

It was this knowledge — the precise calculation of Ron's path and the premonition of an imminent catastrophe — that led them to the foyer of the Hotel Hassler just at the moment when Lucius Malfoy was about to teach Ron Weasley the last lesson in magic of his life.

It took the efforts of three managers and two security guards to separate the enraged wizards. Ron, with a bloody lip and a wild look, was still trying to break free, while Lucius, pinned against the wall, was spewing curses as venomous as his wand.

— Traitor! Disgrace to our family! — he hissed, looking at Narcissa. — You have dishonored the Malfoy name by associating with this… this scum and his Mudblood!

Narcissa, without deigning to look at him, with cold, polished calm, pulled a scroll of parchment from the folds of her robe. She did not hand it to him. She, with a characteristic snap, threw it at his chest, and it fell at his feet.

— Your emotions are no longer of any concern to me, Lucius, — her voice was pure ice, cutting through the noise in the foyer. — This is the official and already court-approved dissolution of our marriage. You are a free man. You can start courting one of those unfortunate aristocrats who tolerate you for your fortune right now. Good luck. They will need it.

Lucius froze, staring at the document like a rabbit at a boa constrictor. His rage was replaced by shock. This was real. Final.

At that moment, Ron, finally breaking free, stepped towards Hermione. His face was contorted with a mixture of hope and despair.

— Hermione… I… we can fix everything, — he tried to hug her.

But she gently but unmistakably pulled away. Her smile was warm, but relentlessly sad, like autumn sun.

— No, Ron, — she said quietly, but loud enough to be heard in the silence that had fallen. — It's over between us. Long ago. And I'm very sorry you found out like this.

Before he could object, Narcissa glided over to Hermione and wrapped her in a firm, confident embrace. It wasn't just a gesture of comfort. It was a declaration. Protection. Recognition before the whole world.

And then, looking directly at the shocked, pale faces of Ron and Lucius, Lady Black-Malfoy announced loudly and clearly, for all the frozen guests and staff to hear:

— And, Mr. Weasley, since we're on the subject, so that everything is perfectly clear between us… Hermione and I are getting married soon.

In the deafening silence that lasted a second, someone from the guests hesitantly clapped. Then another joined, a third, and soon the entire foyer, from the doorman to the frightened tourists, erupted in applause, whistles, and approving shouts. Amidst the ruins and puddles, under the sooty ceiling, the two women stood at the center of this spontaneous celebration, holding hands.

And the two men — one in an expensive ruined suit, the other in a smoke-smelling jacket — stood on opposite sides of this chaos and stared at them dumbly, not believing their eyes. Their world — the world of old grievances, prejudices, and conventions — had not just collapsed. It had been trampled under the heels of two women who had found in each other what the men could not give them: freedom, understanding, and real, unconditional love.

And then, amidst the approving applause and shouts, Narcissa leaned down and kissed Hermione. It wasn't just a quick, friendly kiss. It was a long, passionate, full of possession and surrender kiss that left no doubt about the nature of their feelings.

And as if that wasn't enough, Hermione, breaking the kiss, looked challengingly at the pale, grimacing faces of her and Narcissa's former partners. Then she slowly, demonstratively, ran her palm over Narcissa's silk dress, stopping on her chest, and began to gently but distinctly knead her rounded breast through the thin fabric. It was a gesture not only of passion but of the deepest contempt for their claims.

— TWO WHORES! — a hoarse, almost animal roar burst from Lucius's chest. His aristocratic composure had finally evaporated, replaced by primal rage. He lunged forward, his elegant hand with long fingers reaching out to grab Hermione's shoulder and drag the "Mudblood" away from his former property.

But he didn't manage a single step.

Several male guests, portly Italian merchants and admiring American tourists, instantly blocked his path.

— Eh, signore! Basta così! — one of them said sternly, gripping Lucius's shoulder firmly.
— Leave them alone, old man! — another supported in broken English. — It's beautiful! It's love!

Lucius thrashed about like a beast in a cage, but he was surrounded by a dense ring. Ron stood rooted to the spot, clenching his fists, but he too was restrained — not physically, but by a barrage of indignant and admiring looks. They were both trapped. Not in a trap of magic, but in a trap of public opinion, which at that moment was entirely on the side of the two women who had dared to challenge conventions right in the middle of the destroyed foyer.

And Hermione and Narcissa, completely ignoring the chaos, stood in the center of the hall, embracing, their foreheads touching. They breathed in unison, their smiles were quiet, triumphant, and indifferent to everything except each other. They were invincible.

Chapter Text

He spent his first night in Rome in a state somewhere between furious insomnia and restless oblivion. After yesterday's humiliating failure at the Hotel Hassler — where he had witnessed his ex-girlfriend and his female arch-rival demonstratively kissing against the backdrop of his own defeat — he had fled. He had fled from that sight, from their gleaming wedding rings, from the mocking glances of the guests.

But escaping reality proved more difficult. The cheap hotels in the center were packed, and after several hours of aimless wandering through nocturnal Rome, smelling of coffee, wine, and other people's happiness, he found shelter. The 'Pensione Fiorentina' — its sign was dim, its door peeling, but inside it smelled of cleanliness and homemade pasta. The landlady, Signora Rosa, a plump woman with kind eyes, seeing his lost face and rumpled suitcase, took pity.

"Young man, I have a small room under the roof," she said in broken English. "The view is only of a wall, but it's quiet. And cheap."

The room was indeed small. So small that Ron, stretching out his arms, could touch both walls. A hard bed, a chest of drawers with a sticking drawer, a tiny barred window through which only the brick wall of the neighboring building was visible. But it was a refuge. He dropped his suitcase with a thud, collapsed onto the bed, and, without undressing, plunged into a heavy, restless sleep where the faces of Hermione and Narcissa merged into one mocking blur.

He wasn't awakened by light or the sounds of the city. Something else roused him from bed — a piercing, painfully familiar screech that seemed to drill needles directly into his brain. It was coming from above. Or from the side. In the small room, the echo was deceptive.

"NO-O-O! IT CAN'T BE!"

Ron groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. No. Not that. Not him.

"THIS SMELL!" Lucius Malfoy's voice, full of genuine horror and fury, cut through the morning air. "IT SMELLS LIKE CURDLED MILK PORRIDGE MIXED WITH THE SWEAT OF A HARD-WORKING GOBLIN! WHERE IS MY 'MORNING DEW FOR DISCRIMINATING GENTLEMEN' LOTION?!"

Ron jumped out of bed. His heart was pounding wildly. He ran to the window, stood on tiptoe, and looked out. His room was in an annex, and its window looked out into a narrow, slit-like alley that ended at the side of that very luxurious Hotel Hassler. One of the windows on the top floor was wide open. From there poured this stream of hatred for hygiene products.

"He... he's my neighbor?" Ron thought in horror. The irony of fate was so monstrous that for a moment he was beyond laughter.

"THEY'VE FOISTED THIS PLEBEIAN LIQUID ON ME! IT BURNS MY SKIN LIKE HELLFIRE!"

That was the last straw. Ron, beside himself with rage, looked around. His gaze fell on a massive glass ashtray in the shape of a wrestler's head, adorning the chest of drawers. Without a second thought, he grabbed it. The weight of the blunt object in his hand was calming. In just his boxers, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he flew out of his room, rushed down the narrow corridor, flew down the creaky stairs, and burst out onto the street. A minute later, he was already pounding on the main door of the Hassler, to the doorman's astonishment, and racing up the marble staircases to Lucius's room.

At the same time, a few blocks away from this chaos, in a cozy apartment in Trastevere, a different reality reigned. The bedroom was flooded with soft morning light filtering through the shutters. Two women were sleeping entangled, their bodies woven into a single whole under the sheet. Narcissa was the first to wake. She didn't open her eyes immediately, but just deepened her breathing, feeling the warmth of the body next to her, the rhythmic heartbeat under her palm, which lay on Hermione's chest.

She opened her eyes slightly and looked at the sleeping girl. The dawn rays played in her curly hair, turning it into warm gold. Her lips were slightly parted, and her face bore an expression of serene peace. Narcissa felt a wave of such all-consuming tenderness wash over her that it took her breath away. Carefully, so as not to wake her, she propped herself up on an elbow and began to cover Hermione's face with light, butterfly-wing kisses — on her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the corners of her lips.

Hermione stirred and, without opening her eyes, smiled.
"This is the best alarm clock in the world," she whispered in a voice hoarse from sleep.

"I have an idea better than sleep," Narcissa's voice hummed right in her ear. Her lips slid along her jawline to her neck, and her hand under the sheet rested on Hermione's thigh, palm against the hot skin.

Hermione stretched, arching like a cat, and turned to her, their bodies meeting in full contact.
"What is it?" she asked, already knowing the answer, her eyes sparkling.

"Today is the perfect day to erase the last traces of my past forever," Narcissa announced, her fingers beginning to trace slow, hypnotic circles on the inside of Hermione's thigh. "Lucius is a night owl. He never gets up before ten. We can slip into the Hassler unnoticed and get my remaining things. I don't want a single thread smelling of him left in our life. I want it to smell only of you here. You and us."

Her hand moved higher, and Hermione gasped, closing her eyes.
"A secret mission?" she breathed out, her own hands sliding under Narcissa's silk nightgown, feeling the thin, smooth skin of her back under her fingers. "I like it. Especially the part where we catch him by surprise."

Narcissa pulled her closer, their legs intertwining. The kiss that followed was slow, deep, exploring. There was no rush in it, only the enjoyment of the taste, the warmth, the very fact of each other's existence. When they finally parted to catch their breath, Narcissa whispered right against her lips:
"Exactly. And after... we'll come back here, lock the door, and I'll show you how grateful I am for this liberation."

She slid downward, pulled the covers off Hermione, and buried her face in her chest, making the girl arch with a moan. Her lips and tongue worked with single-minded focus, while the fingers of one hand continued their leisurely journey between her legs. Hermione dug her fingers into the blonde's silky hair, silently whispering her name. They were on the edge, ready to surrender to the morning passion, when an earsplitting, familiar roar burst through the open window.

"WHAT IS THIS SUBSTANCE?! IT SMELLS LIKE SOURED WINE FROM A PEASANT'S CELLAR!"

Narcissa froze, her lips still pressed against Hermione's breast. She slowly raised her head. Her eyes held not disappointment, but a cold, sharp determination.

"It seems our surprise is ruined," Hermione stated with a light smirk, her voice trembling with unsatisfied arousal.

"No matter," Narcissa ran her tongue over her nipple, making Hermione shudder, before finally rising from the bed. Her movements were full of feline grace. "We'll just change tactics. Now we arrive not as thieves, but as victors."

She walked to the wardrobe and shed her nightgown, standing before Hermione in all her dazzling nudity. She saw the girl's eyes darken and smiled, knowing the effect she was having.
"And I have no intention of hiding who I belong to."

She put on a light linen dress that softly hugged her curves without concealing them. Then she approached Hermione, still lying in bed, and, leaning down, captured her lips in a new, commanding kiss. It wasn't a kiss of tenderness, but a kiss of marking territory, filled with the promise of continuation.

"Let's go," Narcissa ordered, her voice low and seductive. "Let's show them what real passion is. And we'll get my things right in front of that screaming fool."

Meanwhile, Ron had already burst into Lucius's room. The door, like last time, was wide open — the maids had already learned that at the first sounds of this specific screaming, it was better to retreat.

Lucius stood in the middle of the bathroom in an expensive, but now rage-torn, silk robe. In one hand he clutched a razor with a mother-of-pearl handle, in the other — a bottle of lotion which he was shaking like a rattle.

"YOU!" he roared upon seeing Ron. "COME TO DROWN IN YOUR SHAME?!"
"SHUT UP, MALFOY!" Ron bellowed, raising the ashtray. "YOUR SCREECHING IS SHATTERING MY EARDRUMS! I'M TIRED OF WAKING UP TO YOUR WAILS ABOUT YOUR DAMNED SKIN!"

"This is not lotion! It's an insult!" Lucius threw the bottle on the floor. The fragrant liquid spread over the marble, mixing with shards of glass. "It burns my skin like acid! My pores are suffocating from this plebeian poison!"

Their altercation reached its peak when the door to the suite swung open, and the silhouettes of two women appeared in the doorway. Everyone froze.

Narcissa entered first. Her dress accentuated every curve, and a light, mocking smile played on her lips. Her gaze, cold and appraising, slid over Ron in his boxers, then over Lucius, frozen with a razor in his hand, and finally over the puddle on the floor.

"Lucius," her voice was quiet, but that only made it more dangerous. "You were always dramatic, but to stoop to screaming over a perfume composition... That's low even for you."

Without giving him a chance to recover, she turned to Hermione, who stood in the doorway with a defiant smile, and held out her hand.
"Come to me, my love."

Hermione stepped forward, and Narcissa, pulling her by the waist, pressed her lips to her neck, right under her ear — sensually, demonstratively, without hiding. She heard both Ron and Lucius gasp. Her hand rested on Hermione's buttock, confidently squeezing it through the thin fabric of the dress.

"We came to get my things, Lucius," Narcissa said, not taking her lips from Hermione's skin. Her fingers drew circles on the small of her back. "But it seems you've already started your day with the traditional hysterics."

Lucius stood as if thunderstruck. His gaze was glued to the hands of his former wife, which so confidently and defiantly possessed the one he despised most in the world. He saw how Hermione's body responded to those touches, how she slightly arched, offering herself to Narcissa's palms.

"You... You..." he couldn't get the word out, his face contorted in a grimace of disgust and shock.

"We," Hermione corrected him, her voice trembling with excitement and defiance. She ran her fingers through Narcissa's blonde hair, pulling her closer. "We are engaged. And yes," she deliberately raised her hand so the light fell brighter on her ring, and then did the same with Narcissa's hand, "these are wedding rings. Not family heirlooms chosen for a deal, but symbols of our choice. Our love."

For Ron, this was the last straw. A wild, hysterical laugh burst from his chest. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face, and he, staggering, sank into a squat right there in the corridor.

"Engaged..." he sobbed. "You... you're engaged! And we... and he..." he pointed a finger at Lucius, who seemed about to burst from humiliation and rage, "he's here screaming that lotion stings his aristocratic skin! It's... it's genius!"

Lucius finally found his voice. The sound he made was like a death rattle.
"HOW... HOW DARE YOU... IN MY PRESENCE... WITH THOSE FILTHY HANDS..."

"Oh, these 'filthy hands'," Narcissa interrupted him, finally pulling away from Hermione but keeping an arm around her waist, "make me happier than you could in a thousand years, Lucius. They caress, they love, they protect. Unlike yours, which only know how to clench in anger and drop bottles of lotion."

With these words, she walked to the wardrobe and began, with an unperturbed air, to pack her things into an expensive suitcase. Every movement was a challenge. Hermione stood nearby, her hand on Narcissa's waist, her gaze full of pride and adoration fixed on Narcissa. She leaned in and whispered something in her ear, which made Narcissa smile a languid, happy smile.

Ron, meanwhile, was still laughing, sitting on the floor.
"You know, Malfoy," he exhaled, "I thought I'd hit rock bottom when Hermione dumped me. But no! The real rock bottom is watching the love of your life be happy with your arch-rival while you sit in the puddle of your own failure! It's... it's poetic!"

Lucius didn't answer. He could only watch as his former wife and the 'Mudblood' packed his disgrace right before his eyes. His world, his rules, his superiority — it all crumbled to dust under the passionate kisses of two women and the deafening laughter of the one he had always considered beneath him. He saw how their bodies leaned towards each other, how they exchanged understanding glances, and he knew he had lost. Lost forever and irrevocably.

When Narcissa snapped the suitcase shut, she turned to him one last time.
"Goodbye, Lucius. I hope you find the lotion of your dreams. And perhaps a little dignity to use it quietly."

Taking Hermione by the hand, Narcissa walked out of the suite, leaving behind a tomb-like silence, broken only by the sobs of the laughing Ron and the heavy, furious breathing of Lucius Malfoy himself. Their morning, which had begun with plans for passionate seclusion, had turned into a public execution of two male egos. And they had carried it off brilliantly.

For the rest of the day, an unnatural, precarious silence reigned in the Hotel Hassler. The staff, taught by bitter experience, moved on tiptoe, afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had settled after the morning scandal. It seemed the very air in the hotel breathed a sigh of relief when Narcissa Black and Hermione Granger left its walls, taking a suitcase with them and leaving behind a trail of humiliation for Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius himself did not leave his suite. He spent the day restoring his mental strength and aristocratic composure, damaged by the morning fiasco. By evening, as the sun began to set, painting his suite in golden tones, he felt ready to return to his usual ritual — dinner followed by languid repose. Everything had to be impeccable. He took a bath (with his own salts, brought from England), donned a fresh silk robe, and with a sense of restored dignity, decided to prepare his evening attire.
With the ease of an experienced master of ceremonies, he opened the drawer of the chest where the maid, according to his instructions, was supposed to have laid out his underwear. His hand reached for a stack of silk socks the color of a raven's wing — the very ones woven for him by Peruvian virtuosos from the cocoons of a special breed of silkworms that feed exclusively on the leaves of trees growing on the northern slopes of the Andes.
It was at this moment that his world, only just restored, collapsed for the second time that day.
His fingers, accustomed to the perfect smoothness and coolness of freshly laundered silk, encountered something else. Something… crumpled. And, most horrifying of all, retaining a barely perceptible but absolutely recognizable texture and smell… of a previously worn item.
Lucius froze. Slowly, with immense effort, he pulled out one pair of socks and held it up to the light. Yes, his aristocratic sense of smell had not failed him. They had not been washed. Moreover, they lacked that faint aroma of alpine herbs and mountain air that his underwear was imbued with after a special rinsing procedure.
The silence of the luxurious suite was pierced by a sound resembling that of a peacock that had been stepped on.
"MA-A-ARIO-O-O!"
His roar was so desperate that the crystal pendants on the chandelier seemed to tremble. A moment later, there was a knock on the door, and the frightened manager appeared on the threshold.
"Signor Malfoy? What happened?"
Lucius, shaking with rage, held out a sock to him, holding it by the very tip as if it were a dead rat.
"Look at this!" his voice cracked into a falsetto. "LOOK AT THIS… THIS ACT OF VANDALISM!"
The manager, confused, cautiously accepted the sock.
"Signor… it's a sock."
"IT IS NOT A SOCK!" Lucius shrieked, grabbing several more pairs from the drawer and throwing them on the floor in protest. "IT IS AN UNFULFILLED JOB DESCRIPTION! IT IS PLEBEIAN CONTEMPT FOR PERSONAL HYGIENE! THESE SOCKS… THEY HAVE NOT UNDERGONE PURIFICATION! THEY… THEY ARE DESECRATED BY PREVIOUS USE!"
"But signor," the manager tried to interject, "the maid probably just didn't notice…"
"DIDN'T NOTICE?!" Lucius brought his pale face close to the manager's. "How can one NOT NOTICE the need for silk purification? It is a basic instinct! An instinct that should be in the blood of every civilized person! Or do you hire maids from packs of stray trolls who see no difference between fresh laundry and a floor rag?!"
At that moment, other guests began to gather in the corridor, attracted by the noise. They peered into the suite with interest, watching the scion of an ancient lineage throw a fit over socks.
"Ma che succede?" asked an elderly signora.
"Niente, niente," her husband replied with a smirk. "L'inglese pazzo coi calzini." The crazy Englishman with the socks.
"I demand," Lucius jabbed a finger into the manager's chest, "that the maid responsible for this sabotage be fired immediately! I demand compensation for moral damages in the amount of the cost of my entire wardrobe! And I demand that the director of this… this refuge for incompetents personally apologize to me and bring me a new pair of socks, washed in the tears of angels and dried at sunrise in the Himalayas!"
The manager, trying to keep his composure, took a deep breath.
"Signor Malfoy, I will bring you new socks from our emergency kit."
"EMERGENCY KIT?!" This word plunged Lucius into even greater horror. "YOU ARE OFFERING ME SOCKS FROM SOME KIND OF STANDARDIZED SET?! YOU WANT MY ANKLES TO TOUCH CAPRON?! YOU'VE GONE MAD!"
At that moment, loud laughter came from the crowd of onlookers. Lucius turned and saw Ron Weasley, who, standing in the doorway of his room opposite, was simply doubled over with laughter, holding his stomach.
"Socks!" Ron sobbed. "You… you declared war on the hotel over socks! 'They are desecrated by previous use'! Oh, this is better than the lotion! It's a Shakespearean tragedy in one act!"
Lucius, seeing his laughter and the mocking glances of the others, realized that his evening tragedy had once again turned into a farce. His majestic anger melted under the stares, leaving only a pitiful, lonely creature in an overly expensive robe, waving a stale sock.
He was breathing heavily, looking at the manager, who was looking at him with poorly concealed irritation, at the laughing Ron, and at the crowd of onlookers. A feeling of total, utter defeat washed over him.
"Just… bring me… my things," he whispered quietly, almost soundlessly, and, without another word, turned and retreated into the depths of the suite, slamming the door in the face of the whole world.
Meanwhile, Hermione and Narcissa, sitting in a cozy restaurant in Piazza Navona and sipping wine, had no idea that the former husband of one of them had just suffered his second crushing defeat of the day. This time — on the battlefield called 'laundry'.

The wedding of Narcissa Black and Hermione Granger took place at sunset in the gardens of Villa Borghese. It was an event that would be talked about for a very long time — and not only because of the beauty of the ceremony, but primarily because of the guests.

Scene One: The Arrival

Lucius Malfoy arrived one of the first, which was a miracle in itself. He was attired in a mournfully elegant black silk suit, with a cane topped by a pommel in the shape of a weeping silver swan — clearly hinting at his "unbearable loss." He took a seat in the last row, with an expression on his face as if he were being forced to attend the execution of his own good taste.

Draco Malfoy, in contrast, looked more embarrassed than unhappy. Seeing Harry Potter among the guests, he nodded to him with some awkwardness, to which Harry, to his surprise, responded with a short but friendly smile. The war was behind them, but your mother's wedding to Hermione Granger was a new challenge for the psyche.

Scene Two: Ron and Ginny

Ron came with Ginny. He had chosen the most ridiculous tie he could find — bright orange with green polka dots — secretly hoping it would somehow desecrate the solemnity of the moment. Ginny, radiant in an elegant wine-colored dress, kept tugging at him and hissing: "Ron, stop fidgeting! You're acting like you're being interrogated by Death Eaters!"

"I just can't believe this is really happening," he grumbled gloomily, watching as Harry and Neville chatted cheerfully with some Italian wizard. "She's marrying a Malfoy. Malfoy's mother. It's like a dream after bad pizza."

"Pull yourself together, Ron," Ginny whispered sharply. "You're behaving worse than Lucius. And, I swear, if you start crying now, I'll tell everyone you still sleep with a stuffed Pygmy Puff."

Scene Three: Moonlight and Protocol

Luna Lovegood arrived in a pearlescent dress and a headdress made of living flowers that whispered to each other. She settled next to Lucius, to his obvious horror.

"You know," she said dreamily to him, addressing no one in particular, "there are Wrackspurts fluttering all around here. They adore weddings. Especially ones with so much… saturated emotional aura." She gave a meaningful look at Lucius's purpling face.

Lucius, without turning his head, hissed through his teeth:
"Young lady, there is a protocol. And it does not involve conversations about… whatever that is… at a social event."

"Oh, protocol," Luna nodded. "Are those the invisible creatures that feed on boredom? I've read about them. I think they are feasting right now."

Scene Four: The Ceremony

When Narcissa and Hermione appeared to the sound of gentle music, the hall fell silent. They were dazzling. But then Ginny, sitting next to Ron, felt him flinch.

"Ron, what's wrong?" she whispered.

"Look," he hissed strangledly, pointing with his eyes at Lucius. "Look at him."

Lucius Malfoy sat, straight as a rod, trying to look anywhere but at the wife and bride. The problem was that right in front of him, on the back of the bench, a pair of pigeons had settled. And one of them, white and impudent, stared at Lucius with its beady eye and began to coo tenderly, clearly mistaking his pale, motionless figure for a very strange but attractive statue.

Lucius tried to maintain his dignity, but with each new "coo-coo" his eyelid began to twitch more violently. He made tiny, desperate movements with his cane, trying to discreetly shoo the bird away, but the pigeon merely tilted its head and cooed with even more feeling.

Ron, watching this silent struggle, forgot all his grievances. He, Ginny, and Harry, who had turned around at the sound of a strangled, raspy noise, were struggling to hold back their laughter. Tears streamed down Ron's face, and he helplessly buried his face in his sister's shoulder, shaking with silent laughter.

Scene Five: Vows and Catharsis

When the magician-priest asked if there were any objections, a dead silence fell. Everyone involuntarily looked at Lucius. He, seizing the moment, jerked his cane sharply and finally scared the pigeon away. The bird took off with a loud flap of its wings, dropping a small but very noticeable white drop onto Lucius's shoulder.

Lucius froze. His face expressed such a gamut of emotions — from shock to inexpressible humiliation and icy fury — that Harry Potter, who had seen the Dark Lord himself, later admitted it was the most expressive face he had ever seen.

Ron couldn't take it. A quiet, strangled chuckle escaped him, followed by a genuine hysterical fit. He laughed so loudly and uncontrollably that the ceremony had to be briefly paused. Narcissa and Hermione, turning around, saw this scene: Ron, red as a lobster, laughing into his hands, Ginny slapping him on the back, Harry turning away but his shoulders shaking, and Lucius Malfoy sitting with the dignity of a Roman emperor on whose toga a passing pigeon had just left its mark.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, and then her lips were touched by that familiar, weary, and mocking smile. She exchanged a glance with Hermione, who, smiling back, squeezed her hand.

"Continue," Narcissa said simply to the priest, and her voice held indifference to all the pigeons and former husbands in the world.

When they exchanged rings and kissed to applause, Ron, finally calming down, wiped away his tears and realized with surprise that not a trace of bitterness remained in his soul. There was only a light, bright feeling and the understanding that sometimes life throws up plots far more absurd than any fairy tale. And Lucius Malfoy, without washing off the traces of the pigeon's "approval," solemnly left the ceremony immediately after the kiss, leaving behind a trail of silent, but absolute, defeat.

Chapter Text

Their wedding night did not begin with a traditional feast, but with silence, broken only by whispers and laughter, when they were finally alone in their house in Trastevere. The door closed, and Narcissa, without wasting a second, pressed Hermione against the wall, their wedding attire merging into a single silken bundle.

"I've been waiting for this all day," Narcissa whispered, her lips gliding along Hermione's neck while her fingers sought the zipper on the magnificent, but now utterly unnecessary, dress.

She led Hermione to the bed and, with a seductive smile, slowly pulled her wedding dress down, revealing a set of lace lingerie and long white stockings that emphasized the flawless line of her legs.

Hermione, mesmerized, shed her own dress, buried her hands in her silky hair, and drew her into a deep, greedy kiss. Their bodies met, skin to skin, in a long-awaited union. Narcissa, settling between her legs, parted them with her knee and began to shower her chest, stomach, and thighs with kisses, making Hermione arch and moan.

"Cissy…" was all she could manage to utter.

Narcissa, without stopping her caresses, deftly removed the last barrier from Hermione — the delicate lace panties. Her fingers immediately found the moist warmth, and she began to caress her clitoris with a precision and tenderness that drove Hermione mad. It was a dance perfected to the point of instinct, where every touch was both a question, an answer, and a vow made under the Roman sky.

Meanwhile, a different atmosphere reigned in the elegant restaurant of the Hotel Hassler. Ron Weasley, still unable to recover from the wedding circus with the dove, sat alone at a table, choking with laughter as he recalled the expression on Lucius's face, adorned with the bird's "approval." He had ordered himself the largest portion of lasagna and a bottle of red wine, celebrating his strange liberation.

The idyll was shattered by a soul-chilling, tearfully familiar screech. All heads in the restaurant turned towards the source of the sound.

Lucius Malfoy, still in his mourning suit, stood by his table and looked at the dish served to him with the expression of a man who had found not a lobster, but a shriveled Dementor on his plate.

"WHAT IS THIS?!" his voice, trembling with inexpressible horror, cut through the cozy atmosphere of the restaurant. "THIS… WHAT KIND OF FREAK IS THIS?!"

He was poking his fork at the perfectly cooked, ruby-red from boiling lobster.

"Signore, this is lobster 'americano'…" the waiter attempted to explain.
"Lobster? THIS HAIRY NIGHTMARE?" Lucius shrieked. "You are serving me a SEA COCKROACH? Look at these antennas! These mandibles! This creature clearly crawled along the filthiest bottom of some port! Where is its noble cousin, the European lobster? Where are its elegant claws, worthy of an aristocratic table?!"

Ron, sitting a few meters away, snorted into his napkin and then coughed, trying to suppress a new fit of laughter.

"Signore, it is a very high-quality product," the maître d' tried to calm him.
"Quality?!" Lucius shoved the plate away so that the lobster crashed onto the floor with a clatter. "It SMELLS! It smells of the sea, not of a refined sauce! I demand that this… this arthropod degenerate be removed from my sight immediately! And bring me something that doesn't remind me of prehistoric creatures! Foie gras! Or truffles! Something that didn't crawl in the dirt!"

At that moment, Ron couldn't take it anymore. A loud, happy laugh burst from his chest. He laughed so sincerely and contagiously that several other guests, who had been watching Malfoy's outburst with derision from the start, joined him a moment later.

"Sea cockroach!" Ron sobbed, wiping away tears. "He called a lobster a 'sea cockroach'! Oh, that's genius! Darling," he addressed the waiter, pointing to his lasagna, "are you sure my dish doesn't accidentally contain 'pasta with locusts' or 'spaghetti with moths'? I wouldn't want to disturb his aristocratic peace!"

Lucius, hearing this laughter and comment, turned even paler, if that was possible. He shot a look at Ron filled with such pure, helpless hatred that it only fueled the merriment.

"I… I will not tolerate these mockeries!" he hissed, but his voice had already lost its former power. He was humiliated. Again. And this time during his dinner.

He spun around sharply and, shoving the maître d' aside, rushed towards the exit of the restaurant, leaving behind a broken plate, a lobster on the floor, and laughing guests.

Ron, finally calming down, took a sip of wine and looked with satisfaction at the door through which his eternal tormentor had disappeared. He raised his glass in a toast to the absent ones.

"For Hermione and Narcissa," he whispered with a sincere smile. "And for not being the one throwing a fit over a lobster in a solo restaurant. Not so bad, Weasley. Not so bad at all."

And at that time in Trastevere, bathed in moonlight, two women had finally found complete and undivided happiness, not even suspecting that a few blocks away their former beaus were continuing their endless, pathetic, and in their own way comedic dance.

Midnight. An atmosphere of intense, sweet languor reigned in the bedroom of the house in Trastevere. The bodies of Hermione and Narcissa, merged into one, were damp with sweat and passion. Narcissa, dominating, pressed Hermione into the mattress, her hips confidently parting her wife's legs.

"Enough games, my girl," her voice sounded low and authoritative, while her fingers, already two, slid smoothly inside her, stretching and filling.

Hermione, all trembling, could only nod, her fingers digging into the sheets. She was on the edge, every nerve singing with excitement. And then Narcissa, catching her gaze, full of plea and obsession, with ruthless tenderness, inserted a third finger into her.

Hermione cried out — sharply, loudly, her body arching in a silent plea. It was simultaneously too much and exactly what she craved. Narcissa, feeling Hermione's internal muscles convulsively clenching around her fingers, began to set a deep, relentless rhythm, bringing her to the very brink.

At that very moment, a deafening crash, resembling the fall of an entire wine cellar, resounded in the luxurious suite of the Hotel Hassler. It was accompanied by a piercing, tearfully familiar screech.

"WHERE?! WHERE IS MY BOTTLE OF THIRTY-YEAR-AGED 'ELFISH NECTAR'?!"

Lucius Malfoy, clad in a silk robe, stood in the middle of his room and furiously shook the empty minibar. The floor was littered with empty and half-empty bottles that he was noisily throwing out onto the parquet.

"THIS MINIBAR IS EMPTY! IT WASN'T EVEN DEIGNED WITH A GLANCE!" he threw a bottle of expensive, but apparently 'unsuitable', limoncello into the fireplace. "I DEMAND THE DIRECTOR OF THIS… THIS BORDELLO! THIS INSTANT!"

The door to his suite, which he had furiously flung open to attract attention, was wide open. The first to look in was, of course, Ron Weasley. Hearing the familiar roar, he had come out of his room in the pensione opposite, unable to resist the temptation to watch the new performance.

Seeing Lucius, brandishing an empty champagne bottle and standing ankle-deep in crystal shards, Ron leaned against the doorframe and burst into such sincere, thunderous laughter that it seemed the ceiling was about to collapse.

"Again?!" he sobbed, holding his stomach. "The minibar? Seriously, Malfoy? Do you have your calendar marked: 'Morning - lotion, afternoon - socks, midnight - minibar'? I mean, such a schedule for hysterics!"

Lucius, seeing him, made a sound resembling the hiss of an enraged cat.
"WEASLEY! SHUT UP! YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING OF STANDARDS!"

"Oh, I understand!" Ron wiped away tears. "I understand that normal people at midnight are either sleeping or doing something pleasant, not declaring war on a refrigerator! Maybe you should challenge it to a duel? Or summon the maid to a duel? 'Pistols or cleaning supplies?'"

Let's return to Trastevere. Narcissa, without slowing the rhythm, felt Hermione's body filling with a leaden heaviness of readiness. She leaned down and bit her nipple, simultaneously increasing the pressure of her fingers on that very spot inside.

"Come for me, Hermione," she ordered, and her voice was a hot promise and a demand in one.

And Hermione came. Not just with a quiet moan and convulsions, but with a force she had never known before. Her body shuddered, a loud, choked cry tore from her, and she squirted over Narcissa's hand and wrist, helplessly thrashing on the wet mattress. It was a spectacular, capitulating, complete release.

Narcissa, without removing her fingers, watched this sight with a feeling of profound triumph and tenderness. She gently continued her smooth movements, prolonging the spasms, making Hermione shudder again and again in the throes of her peak.

"That's it, my girl," she whispered, covering her face with kisses. "That's it. All mine."

And at the Hotel Hassler, a crowd had already gathered. Guests in night robes and pajamas, with mobile phones in hand, were filming Lucius Malfoy, crimson with rage, trying to explain to the night manager that the absence of a specific brand of whiskey in the minibar was "targeted sabotage and an assault on his nervous system."

Ron, enjoying the spectacle, poured himself some whiskey from his own, stashed bottle into a plastic cup and raised a toast from the doorway.
"To love!" he proclaimed, looking at Malfoy's hysterics. "Which, fortunately, comes in different forms! Some seek it in a bottle, and others…" he snorted meaningfully, looking in the direction of Trastevere, "find it in warmer places."

Lucius, finally broken by the mockery and public attention, simply sat down on the floor among the shards, helplessly dropping his head into his hands. His war with the world was lost on all fronts.

And the two women, the indirect cause of all this chaos, at that time, trembling and content, were falling asleep in each other's strong embrace, their world narrowed to the warmth of skin and the even breathing of a loved one. Midnight had found a completely different finale for each.

Ron Weasley, having finally exhausted his supply of Roman spectacles and his own nerves, returned to London with relief. There, in the familiar fog and at the counter of the Leaky Cauldron, his sufferings took the form of a nostalgic anecdote, which he would tell over a mug of butterbeer, invariably causing laughter from his listeners.

Lucius Malfoy, driven by wounded vanity and a desire to prove to himself that he had "not run away," spitefully extended his stay at the Hassler. His suite became the arena for a new, pathetic spectacle. Realizing that his silence only emphasized his defeat, he returned to his old, failed tactic. His phone was blowing up with lewd pictures: sometimes of his own penis against the backdrop of silk sheets, sometimes of the breasts of some aristocrat hired for a lot of money, looking into the camera with an empty gaze.

In the cozy house in Trastevere, these notifications were met exclusively with laughter. One evening, examining another "creation," Hermione, leaning against Narcissa's shoulder, remarked with scientific interest:

"You know, if you discard all the pathos and tragedy, one must admit, he has a rather decent size. Anatomically quite…"

"Decent," Narcissa interrupted her with a light smirk, kissing her on the top of her head, "but, alas, completely dysfunctional when it comes to real business. Like that expensive but unstrung viola — looks impressive in the case, but you can't expect any music from it."

They laughed again, and Hermione sent Lucius's number to the blacklist finally and irrevocably. The war was won.

And at that time, a new, unimaginable act of Malfoy madness was unfolding in the lobby of the Hotel Hassler. Lucius, having failed to reach his ex-wife, decided to appeal to the public. He stood in the center of the hall, holding a crumpled piece of tablecloth in his outstretched hand, pinched as if it were carrion. His face expressed the highest degree of offended innocence.

"BEHOLD!" his voice, breaking into a screech, made even the most resilient guests flinch. "BEHOLD THIS ACT OF UNPRECEDENTED VANDALISM!"

The manager, who had already learned to maintain Olympic calm, approached.
"Signor Malfoy, what is it this time?"

"WHAT?" Lucius shook the tablecloth in front of his nose. "You still ASK? On this tablecloth… this tablecloth of one-hundred-percent Egyptian cotton… A STAIN! A STAIN FROM A DROP OF RED WINE!"

A perplexed silence hung in the hall. Someone coughed.

"Signor," the manager said patiently, "that's… a common occurrence in a restaurant. We will replace it immediately."

"REPLACE IT?" Lucius rolled his eyes as if appealing to the gods. "You don't understand! This is not just a stain! It is a symbol! A symbol of the total fall of standards! This stain is like a wound on the face of a beautiful lady! It violates the geometry of perfection! It… it is IMPERFECT!"

He began to rush around the lobby, waving the dirty tablecloth like a banner in his personal crusade against world chaos.

"I demand that all textiles in this establishment be immediately subjected to purification by fire and replaced with new ones, woven by nuns in the silence of Alpine monasteries! I demand a lifetime ban on red wine within a mile of this hotel! And I demand that the guilty waiter be sent to lifelong exile in Sicily to mine salt!"

At that moment, an elderly American tourist in a bright Hawaiian dress stepped out of the elevator. Seeing Lucius waving the tablecloth, she stopped, took out her phone, and whispered to her husband:
"Oh, Harry, look! What a colorful madness! We must film this for our granddaughter. This is pure absurdity!"

Lucius, noticing that his tragedy was being filmed, froze for a moment. But instead of falling silent, he straightened up and began to wail with renewed vigor, now playing to the audience:
"YES! FILM! FILM ALL THIS HORROR! LET THE WORLD SEE WHAT PLEBEIAN HABITS AND THE LACK OF QUALITY CONTROL LEAD TO!"

Ron Weasley, at that moment making himself tea in his London kitchen, knew nothing about the tablecloth. But he would have certainly appreciated this final chord. And Narcissa and Hermione, sipping wine on their terrace, didn't even suspect that the ex-husband and the ex-boyfriend, each in their own way, had forever remained prisoners of that very Roman morning, which for the two of them had become the beginning of a new, happy life.

A few weeks passed. The London fog and routine work at the Ministry were beginning to suffocate Ron. The ghosts of the past he had left in Rome proved to be surprisingly tenacious. The thought that Hermione and Narcissa were living their perfect life just a couple of hours' flight away nagged at him. A strange, masochistic decision matured in him — he had to see them one more time. Just see them, to finally convince himself that it was all over, and to try to remove this splinter.

He rented the same room in the Pensione Fiorentina with a view of the brick wall and, much more importantly, of the windows of that very apartment in Trastevere. His plan was simple and hopeless: to accidentally run into Hermione on the street when Narcissa wasn't around, and... he didn't know what then.

But as soon as he crossed the threshold of the Hassler (having decided to go to the bar for courage), his plans collapsed. From the restaurant came the painfully familiar voice, shouting something in broken Italian with a British accent.

"...assolutamente inaccettabile! This is not an omelet! This is a rubber doormat soaked in yolk!"

Ron froze. It couldn't be. He slowly approached the arch leading to the restaurant and saw the same picture as weeks ago. Lucius Malfoy, pale and disheveled, stood by his table and poked his fork at a harmless egg dish. But this time, there was a desperate, almost animalistic persistence in his hysteria. He wasn't just complaining — he was clinging to this hotel like a drowning man to a straw.

"Signor Malfoy," the waiter said tiredly, "this is a frittata. It's supposed to be like this."
"SUPPOSED TO BE A WIRE HOE?" Lucius roared. "I demand eggs from chickens fed on Tuscan grape clusters! And this... this is clearly the product of a bird that fed on asphalt and despair!"

Ron couldn't believe his eyes. Why was this man still here? Why hadn't he fled from the shame to his ancestral estates? Something was wrong. Lucius was not behaving like a capricious aristocrat, but like... like a prisoner staging a riot in prison because his last privilege had been taken away.

At that moment, Lucius looked up and saw Ron. But instead of a new wave of rage, a strange, almost acknowledging grimace distorted his face. It seemed that in his humiliating position, he was almost glad to see anyone familiar, even Weasley. He quickly turned away and with renewed vigor attacked the waiter, demanding that he immediately bring him Scottish whisky — not to drink, but to "disinfect his taste buds after this massacre."

Ron, stunned, retreated into the shadows. His plan suddenly seemed petty and absurd against the backdrop of this mysterious, comical, and in some way even tragic attachment of Malfoy to the place of his defeat. Something was keeping Lucius here. Something important. And Ron suddenly, with a creepy curiosity, wanted to know what it was. Perhaps his return to Rome promised not only the pain of encountering Hermione but also the solution to this strange mystery.

Chapter Text

In their bedroom, flooded with the soft light of the Roman evening street lamps, an atmosphere of complete union and blissful oblivion reigned. The world had narrowed to the walls of this room, to the whisper of skin and ragged breathing. Hermione, kneeling behind Narcissa, was reverently adjusting. Her fingers, slick with fragrant oil, gently slid between the firm buttocks of her wife, preparing her for the main gift.

"Prepare to receive me, my queen," whispered Hermione, her voice trembling with reverence and passion.

Narcissa, arching her back into an elegant curve and leaning on her elbows, replied with a languid, approving moan. Her long, fair hair spilled over the silk pillows.

"I am always ready for you," she exhaled, and her voice held boundless trust. "Show me what my girl is capable of."

Guided by that moan, Hermione, slowly, with tremulous tenderness, began to insert the strap-on. It was not an invasion, but a procession, a ceremony of initiation into each other's most intimate secrets. Every millimeter of progress was met with languid moans and blissful sighs. The air grew thick and sweet, filled with the scent of their bodies, expensive perfume, and love.

They heard nothing but the beating of their own hearts. Not the vague hum of the city coming from the street, and certainly not the muffled cries from the Hotel Hassler. For them, Lucius Malfoy did not exist, nor his eternal tragedies, nor the rest of the world. There were only them — two women who had found an eternal home in each other.

Hermione, having entered fully, stilled, allowing Narcissa to grow accustomed to the new sensations. She leaned down and covered her shoulders, her back, the nape of her neck with hot kisses.

"You're trembling all over," she whispered with her lips against her skin.

"From happiness," Narcissa replied, her voice strained. "Only from happiness. Don't stop, please."

And Hermione obeyed. She began to move, setting a slow, deep, hypnotic rhythm. Every movement was deliberate, every touch a prayer. She felt Narcissa's body responding to her caresses, how it opened up and accepted her more and more fully.

"Yes… just like that…" Narcissa moaned, her fingers clutching the sheets. "My girl… my beautiful, powerful girl…"

Her words added fuel to the fire. Hermione, intoxicated by power and tenderness, quickened the pace. With one hand she clasped Narcissa's waist, pulling her closer, while with the other she caressed her breast, tracing circles around the hardened nipple.

Their breathing intertwined into a single surge. Narcissa's moans grew louder, more desperate. She was no longer asking, but demanding, her body itself straining towards climax.

"Hermione… I'm about to…" her voice broke into a high, vibrating sound.

That was all Hermione needed to hear. She put all her passion, all her love, all her essence into the next thrust.

And Narcissa exploded. A quiet, strained cry burst from her chest, and her body shuddered in a series of endless, sweet spasms. She was utterly defenseless, completely destroyed and reborn by this convulsion.

Hermione, feeling her wife come, slowly, gently completed her movements and, without removing the strap-on, lay down beside her, wrapping her arms around her.

They lay, breathing heavily, holding each other close. No external cries could penetrate their cocoon of love and mutual trust. They were a whole universe, and in this universe, only silence, satisfaction, and serene happiness reigned.

Their breathing gradually evened out, but the electricity coursing between their bodies did not subside. Hermione, lying on her side next to Narcissa, did not stop caressing her body, as if afraid to miss even the slightest second of this closeness. Her fingers glided over Narcissa's firm breast, stroking the familiar, yet eternally alluring curves. Narcissa closed her eyes, emitting soft, contented sounds, her hand resting on the back of Hermione's head, gently guiding her movements.

And then a new, spontaneous idea came to Hermione, born from the desire to traverse all of this flawless skin, to know every single cell of it. Her palms smoothly descended downward, passed the slender waist, slid over the hips, and stopped on the shapely legs. Narcissa opened her eyes with mild surprise but did not resist; her gaze was languid and full of trust.

Hermione took her foot in her hands. It was elegant, with a high arch and neat toes. First, Hermione simply massaged it tenderly, feeling the tense muscles in Narcissa's legs begin to relax under her touch. Then she leaned down and touched the bone near the big toe with her lips. Narcissa shuddered from the surprise, but her moan was full of approval.

Inspired by her reaction, Hermione went further. Her tongue, warm and wet, slid along the tender skin of the arch of her foot, then began to caress each toe individually, delving into the spaces between them. It was unusual, intimate to the point of dizziness. She was worshipping all of her, without reserve, not shying away from even the most seemingly remote part of her.

"Hermione…" whispered Narcissa, her voice trembling with growing excitement. "This is so… unexpected."

In response, Hermione merely pressed her lips deeper into her heel, and then began a slow, inexorable journey upward. Her kisses and wet licks left fiery trails on her calf, behind her knee, on her inner thigh. Every centimeter she conquered brought her closer to the cherished goal. Narcissa was no longer just moaning — she was softly gasping, her hips involuntarily quivering, anticipating the continuation.

And now, finally, Hermione reached the very epicenter of her sweet torment. Narcissa's breathing quickened, becoming ragged and hot. Hermione paused for a moment, her lips centimeters away from the intimate place, and then… she made contact. First, just with her breath, making Narcissa arch. Then, with the tip of her tongue, she traced a long, slow path from bottom to top, tasting her arousal.

Narcissa cried out, her hands gripping the sheets. It was too much. Too intense, too dominant, too beautiful. Hermione, not giving her a chance to recover, continued her sweet torture, finding that sensitive nub with her tongue and beginning to trace rapid, vibrating circles around it. She drank her in, savored her, completely immersed in this act of service and worship. The world ceased to exist again, leaving only two women united by the flame of passion, ignited from the very tips of their toes.

Ron Weasley, wandering through the evening streets of Trastevere in a futile hope of forgetting Hermione, suddenly saw her. Or not her, but someone who could outshine her. Signorina Alessandra was the embodiment of an Italian dream: dark hair styled in a careless yet perfect coiffure, eyes like warm chocolate, and a smile that took Ron's breath away. By some miracle, he found the courage to speak to her, and by an even greater miracle, she agreed to have coffee with him.

Now he was sitting with her in a cozy little café, and she was laughing at his jokes, and he felt something other than bitterness and mockery towards Malfoy appearing in his soul for the first time in a long while. But when she hinted that she wouldn't mind continuing the evening, the image of his room at the Pensione Fiorentina surfaced in Ron's mind with horror: the tiny barred window overlooking a brick wall, the creaky bed, and that very chest of drawers with the stuck drawer.

To bring such a goddess to such a hovel? Impossible. It would be a crime against beauty, Rome, and everything holy.

And then, in desperation, his mind, tempered by absurdity, produced the most brilliant and most insane idea of all possible.

'Malfoy,' flashed through his head. 'He's got a whole suite! Luxurious, with a view of the city, marble floors…'

The thought was monstrous. But desperation and the desire to impress Alessandra were stronger.

Apologizing, he stepped out and almost ran towards the Hassler. He knew where to find Lucius at this hour — he usually sat at the bar, sipping his 'elf-made wine' alone and looking at the other guests with contempt.

And so he was. Lucius sat in the corner, hunched over his glass, with the air of a man contemplating the futility of existence.

Ron, taking a deep breath, approached his table.
"Malfoy. We need to talk."

Lucius slowly raised his eyes to him. There was neither fury nor hatred in them — only weary apathy.
"Weasley. If you've come to laugh, spare me. Today's breakfast was so dreadful it sapped all my strength."

"I'm not laughing," Ron said honestly, sitting down without an invitation. "I need your help. Or rather, I need your room. For the evening."

Lucius froze with his glass halfway to his mouth. He blinked several times, as if trying to digest what he had heard.
"Repeat that," he said quietly. "I thought you asked to borrow my room."

"Exactly," Ron felt himself blushing. "You see, I've met a certain… signorina. And my room… well, it's not quite suitable for a lady."

Lucius continued to stare at him with silent astonishment. Then a grimace slowly crept across his face, a mixture of disgust, disbelief, and a drop of some morbid interest.
"You, Ron Weasley, scion of a blood-traitor line, are asking me, Lucius Malfoy, to provide you with my suite… for a date? You wish to defile my personal space… with your plebeian pleasures?"

"Well, if you put it so crudely, then yes!" Ron exploded. "Listen, you're just sitting here whining anyway! The room is going to waste! And I… and I could have a good evening! We're both miserable here, maybe at least one of us can be happy?"

Lucius took a sip of wine, not taking his piercing gaze off Ron. A heavy pause hung in the bar.
"Describe her," he suddenly snapped.

"What?"
"The girl. Describe her. I must know what creature is to be admitted into my sanctuary."

Ron, stunned, began to babble:
"Well… she's Italian. Dark hair, eyes… very beautiful. She has a smile…"

"Enough," Lucius raised a hand dismissively. He thought for a moment, swirling his glass. Finally, he looked up at Ron, and that familiar spark of snobbery flared in his eyes. "Very well. I agree."

Ron's jaw nearly dropped.
"Seriously?!"
"On two conditions," Lucius continued, raising a finger. "First: you do not touch any of my personal belongings. Second, and most important: you will tell me about it. In detail. So that I know my apartments were used in a truly worthy manner, and not for you to stare at the wall and weep."

Ron swallowed. The price was humiliating, but the vision of Alessandra in those luxurious apartments outweighed everything.
"Deal," he croaked.

Lucius, with a triumphant air, took out a key card and handed it to Ron.
"Do not disappoint me, Weasley. And remember: if I find a single stain on the silk…"

"You won't!" Ron grabbed the key and rushed for the exit without even thanking him.

Lucius, left alone, allowed himself a slight, sardonic smile for the first time in many days. However humiliating this alliance was, it gave him something priceless — a front-row seat to the spectacle entitled 'Life After Hermione Granger.' And this show, he was sure, would prove far more entertaining than another scandal over a dirty fork.

Lucius Malfoy's suite at the Hotel Hassler was bathed in semi-darkness, broken only by the soft light of a lamp and the lights of nocturnal Rome outside the window. Ron Weasley, nervously adjusting his collar, poured Alessandra wine from the very minibar that had so often been the cause of scandals. The girl, comfortably settled on the leather sofa, was examining the luxurious apartments with curiosity.

"It's very beautiful here," she said, and her voice sounded like music.
"Yes… uh… thanks," Ron muttered, feeling like a clumsy giant in this crystal kingdom. His heart was pounding. She was here. In Malfoy's room. And she didn't seem to be planning to leave.

He sat down next to her, and their conversation gradually turned into tender touches, and then into the first, cautious kiss. Alessandra responded with such passion that it took Ron's breath away. In that moment, he forgot about Hermione, about Malfoy, and about everything in the world.

At the same time, Lucius himself, tormented by longing and a desire to prove to himself that he was still a powerful and desirable man, was wandering through the less than reputable alleys not far from Trastevere. He was looking not just for company, but for a spectacle — something he could film and send to Narcissa in a futile hope of hurting her.

It was then, as he was appraising one overly made-up individual, that his gaze fell on a familiar, elegant figure emerging from a neighboring building. It was Narcissa. She was alone, in an elegant dark dress, and her face was set in an expression of cold detachment. She was adjusting a long glove.

Lucius froze, then rushed forward, blocking her path. His face was contorted in a grimace of rage and disgusted triumph.

"Narcissa?!" he hissed, looking her up and down. "What are you doing here? In such a… place? Has your mudblood stopped satisfying you, that you've sunk to seeking comfort among street scum?"

Narcissa slowly, utterly impassively, raised her eyes to him. In her blue eyes, there was neither embarrassment nor anger — only a bottomless, icy emptiness.

"I am doing what I must, Lucius," her voice was even and quiet, but it cut through the air like steel. "Unlike you, I do not seek confirmation of my worth from those I despise."

And before he could utter another sound, she turned smoothly on her heels and silently disappeared, performing a flawless Disapparition.

Lucius was left standing in the middle of the alley, clenching his fists. His plan had collapsed. He had been humiliated again, and in the simplest and most elegant way — by her complete indifference. He had lost. Again.

And in his very suite at that moment, Ron, having mustered his courage, finally touched Alessandra's cheek. She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling in the semi-darkness.

"Well, Ron?" she whispered, pulling him closer.

And Ron, forgetting everything, lost himself in the kiss, realizing that this night, bought at the price of a humiliating deal with Malfoy, might just become a real beginning for him. The beginning of life after Hermione Granger.

The silence in their home was thick and healing, like a balm. The smell of old paper from Hermione's library, mingled with the scent of her skin and expensive tea, had finally replaced the cloying stench of the brothel and the dusty Roman alleys in Narcissa's nostrils. She stood, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, and watched the sleeping Hermione. She lay on her stomach, her unruly chestnut curls splayed across the Egyptian cotton pillowcase, one hand tucked under her cheek. In the faint light of the nightlight that Hermione always left on for her, she looked so serene, so innocent, that Narcissa's heart constricted.

It was this very contrast — between the pure, unconditional acceptance here, in their sanctuary, and the dirty, humiliating mission she had just returned from — that made the memory surface with agonizing clarity.

Just an hour ago.

The air in the 'Hall of Mirrors' was thick and sweet, like spoiled nectar. Narcissa Black, wrapped in an expensive but simple cloak without a hint of a family crest, felt her insides clench with disgust. Every mirror on the walls reflected not just distorted images of lust and vice, but her own humiliation. She, the last guardian of the honor of the ancient House of Black, in this… den of iniquity.

Her companion, a hired wizard with a dark past named Vincent, cast a sharp glance at her.
"Enjoying the atmosphere, madam? Or have you changed your mind? A place like this is no fit for you."

His tone would normally have provoked indignation. But now her face, hidden by a deep hood, remained a stone mask.
"I am paying you for results, Vincent, not for commentary," she retorted coldly. "Are you certain the information is accurate?"

"Rumors are like cobwebs, Madam Black. One leads to another. They say a British woman lives here, with a face very much like yours. The same arrogance in her gaze. She changed her name to an Italian one — Isabella. But those who knew her long ago whisper that she was once called Bellatrix."

The name hit like a slap. Bella. Her sister. Her fierce, beautiful, mad sister, who had vanished after the fall of the Dark Lord. Not captured, not killed, simply dissolved into the darkness. And now the vilest rumors had led her, Narcissa, here, to this temple of vice, in a last-ditch hope of finding some trace.

They moved along the corridor, lined with velvet couches where semi-naked women and men lazily watched them. Vincent said something quietly to the matron, who was dripping with gilded rings and heavy perfume. She gave Narcissa an appraising look, then nodded and gestured towards one of the doors at the end of the hall.

"She's in there. Preparing a new girl for work. But I warn you, Isabella's temper is… sharp."

Narcissa's heart beat so hard she thought it must be audible in the hall's resonant silence. She approached the door and opened it without knocking.

In a small, dimly lit room, a woman stood with her back to the door. She, clutching a silver hairbrush in her hand, was with icy cruelty brushing out the tangles of a young, crying girl sitting on a stool in front of a mirror.

"Stop whining," her voice was low, hoarse, and painfully familiar. "Beauty requires sacrifice. Your tears change nothing."

The woman jerked the brush sharply, and the girl cried out. And in that movement, in that sound, was the same cruel efficiency that had filled the halls of Malfoy Manor during the reign of the Dark Lord.

"Bella…" the name escaped Narcissa's lips in a whisper full of hope and horror.

The woman froze. Slowly, very slowly, she turned. The lamplight fell on her face. The features… yes, they were her sister's features. But not the ones Narcissa remembered. Not the beautiful, sharp ones like a blade. This was a mask-like face, covered with a thick layer of makeup trying to hide the deep wrinkles of fatigue and years of lived vice. But the eyes… the eyes were the same. Mad, piercing, burning with the same fanatical fire. For a moment, surprise flickered in them, and then — icy, indifferent contempt.

"You have the wrong door, aristocrat," Isabella-Bellatrix rasped. "There is nothing here for you. Leave."

Narcissa stood, unable to move, feeling her hope shatter against the stone wall in her sister's eyes. She had found her. But the Bellatrix she remembered, the one who would have killed for an insult to the family's honor, no longer existed. Her place had been taken by this… this woman.

Narcissa shuddered, returning to the present moment, to her bedroom, to Hermione's soft breathing. She walked to the bed and, trying not to wake her wife, lay down beside her, pressing her back against her warmth. She closed her eyes again, but now not to remember, but to forget. To forget the empty eyes of her sister and find peace in the love that breathed beside her.

Chapter Text

The morning light seemed not to bring joy, but to expose. It mercilessly revealed the pallor of Narcissa's skin and the dark shadows under her eyes, betraying a sleepless night. Even the smell of freshly brewed coffee, which Hermione carefully placed on the bedside table, could not dispel the oppressive atmosphere.

"Hermione, I have something to tell you," Narcissa's voice sounded hoarse and unnaturally quiet. "About where I was yesterday."

Hermione, already dressed in her usual robe, instantly froze. Her posture, relaxed just a second ago, became collected and tense.
"I'm listening," her response was measured and cautious, like that of a lawyer preparing for a cross-examination.

"I... I was looking for Bella," Narcissa exhaled, clutching the edge of the blanket in her hands. The confession, finally off her lips, brought not relief, but icy horror.

Hermione recoiled as if from an electric shock.
"Bellatrix Lestrange?" her voice became low, almost hoarse with restrained emotions. "You went looking for... her? Alone? In that brothel you mentioned?"

"I heard rumors that she was there. And I found her," Narcissa looked up at her wife with a pleading gaze, trying to find a drop of understanding. "She is alive. She works there as a matron. Calls herself Isabella."

Hermione's face froze. All those years of therapy, all the efforts to control her anger collapsed in an instant. She stood up sharply, and her figure, illuminated by the morning sun, suddenly seemed enormous and alien to Narcissa.
"You entered the lair of the woman who tried to kill me, who tortured your own family, and just... talked to her?" every word was a honed blade.

"She didn't even recognize me! She's broken, empty..." Narcissa tried to explain, but her voice trembled and broke.

"NO!" Hermione's voice sounded with such force that Narcissa involuntarily flinched. "She is not 'broken,' she is deadly dangerous! She is the same snake, just having shed her old skin! You must not see her!" her chest heaved with rapid breathing. She took a step forward, and her gaze became as hard as steel. "I forbid you, Narcissa. I forbid you to even think about meeting her again!"

The word "forbid" hung in the air, heavy and ugly, wounding more deeply than any spell. Narcissa felt tears welling up in her eyes, not from anger, but from helplessness and the fear of losing what was dearer to her than anything.

That same morning, a spectacle worthy of the pen of some jester-playwright was unfolding at the Hotel Hassler.

Lucius Malfoy, returning after a night full of imaginary victories and genuine humiliation, was ready to drown in the luxury of his suite. However, as soon as he crossed the threshold, he was met, like a blow to the head with a club, by... a smell. It wasn't just a smell. It was a multi-layered, thick, almost tangible atmosphere. It mixed the sweetish, animalistic scent of sex, the acrid notes of cheap perfume, the sour spirit of sweat, and... there was something else in it, vaguely reminiscent of garlic.

His aristocratic nose trembled with offense. Lucius's gaze slowly, with horror, crept towards the bed. A mountain of crumpled sheets and blankets lay in the center, like a monument to his incredible stupidity. Ron Weasley and his Italian adventuress, it seemed, had not had a date here, but had waged full-scale warfare on the bedding front.

'They... they've turned an eagle's nest into a boar's den,' flashed through his inflamed mind.

He moved closer. His gaze caught a stain of dubious origin on the silk sheet. And another one. And another. It was too much. An ancient, noble cry, absorbing all the fury of his ancestors, erupted from his chest.
"WEASLEEEEEY! HOW DARE YOU?!"

He grabbed his cane and began to beat an innocent mattress with it, raising clouds of dust and only exacerbating the already intolerable situation.
"I demand satisfaction! I will burn this disgrace with cleansing flame! I will make him scrub every thread with his own ginger hands!"

At that moment, the door opened with a soft click, and the very culprit of the disaster appeared on the threshold. Ron Weasley looked rumpled, immensely pleased, and slightly sleepy.
"Er, hello, Malfoy," he rubbed the back of his head. "I'm here for the key... Well, actually, Alessandra forgot a... thing here."

Lucius turned to him slowly, like a mechanism. His face turned from pale to crimson-blue.
"FORGOT... A THING?" he hissed, and saliva sprayed from his lips. "Weasley, your... your girlfriend didn't leave a 'thing' here! She left behind BIOLOGICAL TERROR! You didn't change the sheets! You didn't air it out! You... you have IMPREGNATED my abode with the scent of a village wedding!"

Ron blushed, but a brazen, triumphant grin spread across his face. He even gave Lucius an encouraging wink.
"Well, we had a deal, right? Details, just details. And, by the way, the views from your room... are just magical. Especially in certain... positions."

Lucius, unable to bear either this smell or this winking, simply pointed his cane with a trembling hand at a certain dark red object, shamelessly lying on his carpet.
"Take THAT. And DISAPPEAR. And know, Weasley," his voice dropped to a menacing whisper, "from this moment on, there is war between us. A war to the death. A war for the honor of my handkerchiefs, for the innocence of my sheets! And I will win it!"

Ron, shrugging his shoulders and beaming with a grin from ear to ear, bent down and picked up something shiny from the plush carpet. It was not an item of lingerie, but clearly an antique, elegant bracelet, which was now hopelessly broken — the clasp was hanging by a single thread of metal, and several fake (or not?) diamonds were irrevocably lost in the carpet pile.

"Oops," Ron drawled with feigned regret, examining the find. "Her grandmother's little bracelet. You know, a family heirloom. She said it brings luck in... uh... amorous affairs." He raised his eyebrows significantly. "Seems it worked a hundred percent. Pity it couldn't withstand the heat of passion. Well, no matter, we'll glue it back together! Thanks for the hospitality, Malfoy! You have no idea what magic your walls create!"

He waved the broken bracelet like a trophy and disappeared behind the door, whistling a bravura march. Lucius stood frozen, staring at the empty spot on the carpet. His gaze slowly rose to the rumpled bed, smelling of sweat, cheap perfume, and Ron Weasley's victory. He walked to the minibar, poured himself some elf nectar (the last bottle), raised his glass towards the bed, and gloomily proclaimed:

"To you, Weasley. And to your indomitable plebeian fertility. It seems you are the true continuer of the great magical traditions. The traditions of defiling other people's beds."

He drained the glass and looked at the sheets with disgust.

"Alright," he sighed with theatrical resignation to fate. "It seems I, the last of the Malfoys, must master the magic of Laundry Arts. Or die of shame. Haven't decided which is more honorable yet."

The Scene of Hermione and Narcissa: Anger, Passion, and Healing

Hermione did not let Narcissa say a word, or even breathe. Her kiss was not a kiss, but a storm that swept away all barriers. She grabbed Narcissa's wrists, pressing them forcefully into the mattress, but her eyes now blazed not with pure anger, but with a fierce, consuming passion born from the fear of losing her.

"You are mine," this sounded not like an order, but like a spell cast from steel and fire. "Only mine. And every one of your sighs belongs to me."

Her knee, softer but more insistent, parted Narcissa's thighs. Hermione's fingers, trembling with emotion, touched her with a tender fury. She entered her not like an invader, but like a hurricane that does not destroy, but cleanses.

"I was so scared," Hermione whispered, her lips burning Narcissa's skin, her voice breaking. "When I thought you might have believed her... that she could have dragged you back into her darkness... I would have killed her."

Her movements became deeper, faster, more desperate. This was not revenge, but an attempt to reach the very depths of her soul, to flood every cell of her with her light, her pain, her love.

"Do you feel this?" her breath mingled with Narcissa's. "This is me. The one who went through fire and hell for you. The one who will not let go. Never."

Narcissa, choking on the wave of overwhelming feelings, did not resist. She drowned in this storm, wrapping her legs around Hermione's waist, pressing against her, trying to merge into one. Her moans were a plea and forgiveness.

"I'm here," she exhaled, her body beginning to tremble on the edge. "Always with you. Only with you, my girl. My fierce, beautiful girl."

"Prove it," Hermione demanded, her eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. "Prove that I am your only home."

And Narcissa proved it. Her orgasm washed over both of them like a tsunami — not painful, but liberating, a cry in which all fears and doubts dissolved. She came with Hermione's name on her lips, her body went limp, but her hands still held onto her wife, like an anchor of salvation.

Hermione, breathing heavily, pressed against her chest, listening to the frantic rhythm of her heart. The marks from her fingers on Narcissa's wrists were not scars, but imprints of their shared storm, which they had weathered together.

"Never go to her alone again," Hermione asked quietly, and her voice no longer held anger, only weary vulnerability. "We will do everything together. Understood?"

Narcissa, without opening her eyes, nodded and pulled her closer, burying her face in her chestnut curls. In this silence, smelling of their mingled scents and passion, there was no room left for ghosts. Only for the two of them.

The sunny terrace of the café on Piazza Navona was full of carefree laughter and the chirping of Italian speech. But for Ron Weasley, the world had narrowed to a pair of dark brown eyes looking at him with hope.

"Move in with me, Ron," said Alessandra, placing her tanned hand on his palm. "Why do you need that boarding house? Here, in Rome, life is so beautiful!"

Ron felt his breath catch. The thought was both delightful and frightening.
"Alessandra... my job... all my clients are in London. What will I do here?" he muttered.

"You'll find something!" she waved her hand, as if swatting away all his doubts. "You're a wizard! Is that really a problem? Or..." she pouted, "you don't want to be with me?"

'Hermione,' flashed through Ron's head. 'She's smart, she knows everything. She'll definitely be able to help me find some little office or representation here. She won't leave me in trouble.'

"Of course, I want to!" he exhaled, succumbing to the charm and euphoria. "I'll move! To hell with the job! We'll manage somehow!"

Alessandra flashed like a Roman firework and showered him with kisses. Ron laughed, but he felt anxious inside. He had taken a step into the unknown, and his only safety net was his ex-girlfriend, who hadn't even known of his existence in recent weeks.

In his luxurious apartment, Lucius Malfoy was again wandering aimlessly from room to room. All the suitcases were packed, the tickets — bought. But he kept postponing his departure again and again.

'She will return,' he told himself, looking out the window at the eternal city. 'She must return. That mudblood cannot give her what I can. She will realize she made a mistake. She will come, begging for forgiveness.'

He imagined Narcissa, pale and repentant, standing on the threshold of his suite. This thought warmed his wounded pride better than any fire. He could not leave and admit his final defeat. No, he would wait. Like an eagle watching for prey.

Narcissa stood before the heavy, plain door of the 'Hall of Mirrors,' feeling her heart ready to jump out of her chest. She had given her word to Hermione. She had sworn. But the quiet, insistent whisper of sisterly blood in her ears proved stronger.

'Once. Just one look. To make sure she is alright. To try to reach her.'

She entered inside. The dim light, the familiar smell. The matron, recognizing her, silently pointed to the same door. Narcissa, taking a deep breath, entered.

Bellatrix-Isabella stood at the mirror, pinning a bright scarlet rose to her hair. Their gazes met in the reflection.

"I warned you," her voice was flat, lifeless, like a stone. "You've mistaken the door again. You are not welcome here."

"Bella, please," Narcissa's voice trembled. "I am your sister. Let me help you. We can leave... start over."

Bellatrix slowly turned around. There was no madness or hatred in her eyes. Only an icy, absolute emptiness, more terrible than any fury.

"I have no sister," she uttered clearly, enunciating every word. "And you, it seems, have too much free time. Don't waste it here. Leave."

This was worse than a blow. It was a complete, final denial. Devastated, heartbroken, Narcissa silently left the room and wandered down the corridor, seeing nothing in front of her. She didn't notice how she bumped shoulders with some tall blond man as she stepped outside.

"Such manners, excuse me..." he began irritably and froze.

Narcissa raised her head. Lucius stood before her. His face first showed triumph ('I told you she would come!'), which was replaced by surprise, and then by cold fury when he saw her tear-stained face and lost expression.

"Narcissa?" he hissed. "You... you were with her again? After everything she did to us?"

But Narcissa didn't have time to answer. Her gaze, sliding past Lucius's back, fell upon another figure. On the sidewalk, arms crossed over her chest, stood Hermione. Her face was pale with anger, and her eyes held such disappointment and pain that Narcissa's breath caught.

"Hermione..." was all she could squeeze out.

"I finished work early," Hermione said quietly but clearly. Her voice cut through the air like a blade. "I decided to pick you up so we could go to dinner together. What a surprise, right?"

Lucius looked around — with the face of a man caught in the very epicenter of a perfect storm. His ex-wife, his sworn enemy, and his... new lover. All together. In the most inappropriate place.

Narcissa stood, trapped between them, feeling the ground disappear from under her feet. The price of her betrayal and her secret was now on public display. And judging by the look in Hermione's eyes, the reckoning would be severe.

Hermione stood motionless, and the storm in her eyes was gradually replaced by an icy, merciless calm. As if all emotions — anger, pain, betrayal — had gone through a thermonuclear reaction and turned into pure, concentrated determination.

Her gaze slid from Narcissa's blanched face to the confused Lucius, and then fixed on that very door from which her wife had just emerged.

"Alright," a single word, spoken quietly and clearly, sounded louder than any scream.

She took a step forward. Narcissa instinctively reached for her, to stop her, to grab her hand.
"Hermione, no! You don't understand..."

But Hermione, with a sharp, almost rough movement, pushed her hand away. She didn't even look at her. Her attention was fixed on only one target.

"Oh, I understand perfectly," her voice was low and dangerous. "I've been looking at this problem from the sidelines for too long. It's time to meet the ghost from your past in person."

Lucius, recovering from the shock, tried to interject.
"Granger, be reasonable... this place..."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione cut him off, walking past him as if through empty space. "You've both played your parts already."

She approached the door, from which cold and denial still emanated. Her hand, without the slightest hesitation, rested on the handle. She turned around, throwing a last glance at Narcissa. There was neither love nor forgiveness in her eyes — only a will of steel.

"Wait for me here. Don't you dare leave."

And, pushing aside the matron who tried to stop her, Hermione Granger crossed the threshold of the lair of Bellatrix Lestrange. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving outside a tomb-like silence and two former spouses who for the first time in their lives felt absolutely the same — insignificant and mortally frightened. They both understood: right now, behind that door, not only the fate of Bellatrix was being decided, but their own future as well. The outcome of this meeting would determine everything.

Chapter Text

The door bounced off the wall with a crash. Hermione, with her wand at the ready, froze on the threshold, her brain refusing to process the revealed picture for a second.

In the center of the room, on the edge of a massive table, leaning back and propped up on her elbows, sat Bellatrix Lestrange. She was wearing only black lace stockings and a matching bra, exposing pale skin covered in old scars. Her hips were spread wide, and between them, pressed against her very center, was a young, almost girlish figure with disheveled blonde hair. Bellatrix's hands were tangled in that hair, either caressing or controlling. Her eyes were closed, and her gaunt face was frozen in a grimace of sweet concentration.

"Lestrange!" Hermione bellowed, and her voice, rough with fury, sounded like a gunshot.

Bellatrix did not flinch. Slowly, like a predator interrupted during a meal, she opened her eyes. Her gaze, hazy with pleasure, fell upon Hermione, and in just a second, a flame of absolute, unconditional recognition flared within it. There was not a trace of the emptiness she had demonstrated to Narcissa. Here, now, before her was her sworn enemy, and her consciousness was pierced by a hatred as clear as a razor blade.

"Filth..." she hissed, and the word sounded like a spit. "What are you doing here?"

With one sharp movement, she pushed the girl away from her, who rolled towards the wall with a quiet, frightened cry, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Bellatrix jumped off the table, her movements surprisingly fast and graceful for her appearance. She did not fuss. Without taking her burning gaze off Hermione, she reached out towards the chair where her wand lay. Her fingers closed around the familiar handle with almost sensual pleasure.

"I'm the one asking questions here," Hermione retorted coldly, not lowering her wand. Her mind was working feverishly, assessing the situation. A narrow room. One target. One innocent witness to avoid hitting. "Have you truly fallen so low, Bellatrix? Hiding in a brothel, pretending to be a broken doll, while your sister is going crazy with guilt?"

Bellatrix let out a short, hoarse chuckle.
"My sister is a sentimental fool. And you... you are just filth that has latched onto the Black name. And very stupid filth, if you came here alone."

She ran her wand through the air, and several trinkets on the shelf behind Hermione shattered with a clatter. It was not an attack, but a test, a demonstration of power and readiness.

"I'm not here to fight," said Hermione, though every cell in her body demanded to cast a spell. "I'm here to make you leave Narcissa alone. Forever."

"Or what?" Bellatrix took a step forward, her half-naked figure suddenly seeming huge and threatening. "You'll kill me? Here? Against all your pathetic principles? You don't have the guts, Granger. You're too righteous."

Hermione stood, clutching her wand until her knuckles turned white. The shock of what she had seen momentarily paralyzed her, but anger still boiled inside.

"You heard me, Lestrange! Leave her alone!" she shouted.

Bellatrix smirked, a low, hoarse sound full of contempt. She wasn't the slightest bit ashamed of her nudity.
"It's your pathetic wife who runs after me like a puppy, Granger, not me seeking her company," she hissed, emphasizing the words "your wife." "I crossed her out of my life the day she betrayed the Dark Lord, choosing the side of filth like you."

She demonstratively ran her palm over her crotch, smearing the shiny moisture over the pale skin of her pubis. Then her fingers reached for the bra clasp. A click, and the black fabric fell to the floor. She roughly squeezed her full breast, her fingers digging into the flesh with cruelty, and with her other hand, she ran a finger over her lips, slowly licking it.

"What's the matter, Granger?" her voice became voluptuous and venomous. "Don't want to join? Or are you disgusted? Claudia," she nodded towards the girl trembling by the wall, "is already tired. Maybe you'll take her place?"

And before Hermione could say anything, Bellatrix, with the same defiant look, shoved three fingers deep inside herself, slowly, demonstratively moving them in and out. Her gaze, full of hatred and perverse triumph, pinned Hermione to the spot.

"Or maybe you're just jealous?" Bellatrix whispered hoarsely. "Jealous that I can be whoever I want? And you... you're just a keeper of someone else's wife."

It was too much. Not the physical threat, but this — this perverted, psychological humiliation, this display of absolute depravity and power over the situation. Hermione's mind, always so sharp and logical, refused to process what was happening. A feeling of disgust, anger, and shock overwhelmed her. She couldn't find a response. No spell seemed appropriate against this madness.

As if stunned, she abruptly turned around and almost ran out of the room, slamming the door. From behind her back came the terrible, soul-tearing laughter of Bellatrix, which pursued her down the entire corridor.

Hermione burst out onto the street, gasping for air, leaning on her knees with her hands. She wasn't wounded, but she felt defiled, humiliated, and defeated in a way she couldn't even have imagined.
She roughly grabbed the hand of Narcissa, who was shifting from foot to foot.

"You will never come to her again. Never!" her voice was hoarse with suppressed emotions.

"Hermione, what happened? What did she do?" Narcissa asked fearfully.

"Do you know what she was doing in front of me? Masturbating, for fuck's sake!" Hermione shouted, painfully squeezing her wife's wrist. "She was demonstrating her obscenity, like the lowest whore!"

She almost dragged Narcissa along with her, paying no attention to the bewildered Lucius. At home, behind the slammed door, Hermione forcefully pressed Narcissa against the wall.

"You wanted to know your sister? This is what she's like!" Hermione, with trembling hands, roughly pulled Narcissa's dress off. "And it turns out you're the same! Ready to run to her, to betray me, our family!"

"Hermione, stop!" Narcissa tried to resist, but Hermione was stronger in her rage.

"No! You will feel what I felt! You will understand what I went through because of you!"

Granger pulled Narcissa's panties down to her knees and sharply inserted three fingers into her womb. The blonde whimpered, trying to remove Granger's hand. Hermione continued the rough penetration, impaling her wife on her fingers and twisting them inside.

Hermione wasn't seeking intimacy — she was seeking a way to express her pain. Her touches were not caresses, but an act of aggression, an attempt to convey the disgust and humiliation she had experienced. Narcissa cried, but not from pleasure — from pain and the realization of what she had driven her wife to.

"I'm sorry..." she breathed out through tears.

That word finally reached Hermione. Her rage began to give way to a bitter awareness of what was happening. She pulled away, looking at the frightened, crying Narcissa, and for the first time that evening, she saw not the object of her anger, but her wife — confused, frightened, but still loved.

Hermione looked at Narcissa's tear-stained face, at her frightened eyes, and her rage finally began to dissipate, giving way to bitter understanding and weariness. She still felt defiled by what she had seen, but the sight of her wife's suffering made her own retreat.

"And you forgive me," Hermione exhaled quietly, her voice trembling. She slowly, almost reverently, ran her thumbs over Narcissa's cheeks, wiping away the tears. "I shouldn't have... I'm not the one..."

Narcissa silently nodded, her own fingers squeezing Hermione's hand. It was a gesture not of forgiveness — that still had to be earned — but of understanding. Understanding the depth of pain her action had caused the one she loved most.

Their lips met in a kiss that was nothing like anything that had been between them before. There was no passion, tenderness, or fury in it. It was a truce-kiss, a promise-kiss. A promise to be more careful with each other.

At the same time, a performance worthy of an absurdist theater was unfolding in the lobby of the Hotel Hassler. Lucius Malfoy, clad in his best silk robe, stood in the middle of the hall, holding a small porcelain statuette of a cupid in front of him like evidence of a monstrous crime.

"You call THIS art?!" his voice vibrated with indignation, attracting the attention of everyone present. "This... this tasteless pastoral imitation of the great masters! Look at these lines! At this glazed shine!"

The poor manager, Pietro, was trying to maintain professional calm.
"Signor Malfoy, this is standard decor for..."

"Decor? DECOR?!" Lucius interrupted him, theatrically rolling his eyes. "This is not decor, this is — aesthetic violence! It offends my sight every morning when I leave my room! It destroys the subtle harmony of my inner world, which I build with such difficulty through meditation and elf nectar!"

He shook the statuette in the air.
"I demand that this... this winged freak be removed immediately! And replaced with something worthy! I see an empty niche here, perfectly suited for a small sculptural portrait of my great-grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy! I can, of course, provide it from the family collection for a modest curator's fee."

Pietro squeezed his eyes shut, praying to all the gods for his shift to end.
"Signore, we cannot simply... it's part of the hotel's collection..."

"Collection?!" Lucius snorted. "Fine. Then I insist that you at least turn it to face the wall. So it doesn't look at me with that... that empty, idiotic gaze! It constantly reminds me of certain... individuals," he looked meaningfully in the direction where Ron had stood the day before.

At that moment, an elderly American tourist stepped out of the elevator.
"Oh, what a charming little cupid!" she exclaimed, heading towards them.

Lucius's face contorted into a grimace of genuine horror. He looked at the manager, at the tourist, at the statuette in his hand, and with a deep, tragic sigh, put it back on the table.

"Hopeless," he whispered with the air of a man bearing the entire burden of world culture on his shoulders. "This world is hopelessly mired in mediocrity. And I am forced to exist in it."

And, holding his head high, he retired towards the bar, leaving Pietro to deal with the admiring tourist and the gaze of the stone cupid, which indeed now seemed remarkably stupid.

A week passed in fragile, tense calm. Hermione's departure for London on urgent Ministry business left Narcissa alone with her thoughts. And this thought, like a pesky fly, returned to one thing — her sister. To that empty gaze, which, it now seemed to her, could have been just a mask. What if, beneath that mask, an ember of what had once been Bellatrix still smoldered? The thought that her last memory of her sister was of her humiliated and broken figure on the street did not give her peace. She had to try one last time. Just to look. To make sure.

And so she stood again at that very ominous door in the "Hall of Mirrors." Her heart was beating wildly, mixing fear with the last remnants of hope. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door sharply.

And froze on the threshold, her jaw literally dropping in shock.

The room, usually plunged into semi-darkness, was now flooded with harsh, yellowish light, highlighting the most unsightly details. In the center, on the same very low table, lay Claudia, her body arched, her fingers convulsively digging into the wood. Above her, kneeling, reigned Bellatrix. A leather belt with a huge, explicitly phallic strap-on was tightly fastened around her hips, which she was driving into the girl's body with a cruel, emotionless rhythm, making her squeal in pain and, perhaps, something else.

But the nightmare didn't end there. Bellatrix's back was covered in sweat droplets, and right behind her, leaning against the table, stood a large, unshaven man. With one hand, he was roughly kneading her buttocks, and with the other, he was jerking his cock, watching the spectacle with dull, animalistic pleasure.

Bellatrix, who had noticed the movement on the threshold, slowed her relentless pace for a second. Her gaze, hazy with sweat and detached excitement, slid over Narcissa. There was no surprise, no anger in it. Only irritation, as if at a pesky fly.

"You again, aristocrat," she hissed, her voice hoarse from strain. "I told you — LEAVE."

And, so as not to lose the rhythm, she resumed her movements, with one hand continuing to pound Claudia fiercely, and with the other stroking the girl's heaving stomach, as if calming a lathered horse.

The man, interrupting his activity, turned around. His small, puffy eyes slid over Narcissa's elegant, head-to-toe wrapped in expensive fabric figure with lust.
"Are you a whore too?" he asked hoarsely, and a dirty, undisguised interest flared in his gaze.

That question, that look, that entire picture shattered the last remnants of illusions. Narcissa felt no disgust, no anger. Only complete, absolute emptiness and bitter realization. The ghost of her sister, whom she had so stubbornly chased, for whom she had risked her marriage, had finally crumbled to dust. Nothing remained of the great and terrible Bellatrix Lestrange. Only a sweaty, lustful animal that had found its home in the dirt.

She didn't say a word. She had neither the strength nor the desire to say anything. She simply turned around and quickly, almost running, left the room, the brothel, that disgusting alley. She walked down the street, seeing nothing around her, and only one, clear and final thought was pounding in her head, like an oath burned into her consciousness:

"Never. I will never return to this place again."

When Narcissa left, the vigorous sex continued in the room. When the girl reached her climax, the man also knelt down, spat on his fingers, and, running them over Bella's anus with desire, began to slowly enter her. Bella growled as he began to stimulate her clitoris, thrusting his rough fingers into her pussy. The tension in the room grew, and every sigh they took was filled with lust.

Bellatrix threw her head back, looking at the sooty ceiling of the room, and mentally buried her ghost. Here, in this dirt, she was truly free. Free from everything, except her own fall.

The owl with the letter from Ron caught Hermione in her office at the Ministry. Unrolling the parchment, she began to read, and with each sentence, her eyebrows crept higher and higher on her forehead.

"...and her breasts, Hermione, are just perfect, tanned, so firm... and her waist is so thin, and her skin smells of sun and olives..."

She read with a mixed feeling of bewilderment and irritation. It was such an obvious, childish attempt to provoke her that it wasn't even offensive, but rather pitiful. She was about to write a sharp retort, but put the quill aside. Instead, she simply crumpled the letter and threw it into the fireplace. "He's really grown up," she muttered, but still, a part of her, the one that remembered their shared past, tightened with a slight, aching sadness.

Two days later, she was back in Rome. Not because of Ron's letter, of course. Her business had just ended earlier than expected.

Narcissa met her in the hallway with such a guilty and tense look that everything became clear to Hermione without words.
"Listen, don't be angry," Narcissa began, barely had the door closed. "But I have to tell you. I went to Bella again."

She told her everything. Without embellishment, without excuses. She described the disgusting orgy, Bellatrix with the strap-on, the lustful man, and her final, icy epiphany.

"I will never go there again," she finished quietly, looking at Hermione, expecting a storm. "She... she is no more. That woman is not my sister."

To Narcissa's surprise, Hermione did not explode. She did not scream or reproach. Instead, she sighed softly, came over, and gently kissed her on the cheek.
"Finally, it got through to you that your sister isn't just 'broken,' but deeply disturbed and dangerous," her voice was calm and full of understanding. "I'm glad you saw it for yourself."

Her hands slid over Narcissa's shoulders, and then one palm rested on her chest through the thin fabric of her robe, warming her. Feeling the tension beginning to leave her wife's body, Hermione gently led her to the sofa.

"Now forget about her," whispered Hermione, laying Narcissa on the soft upholstery and settling next to her. Her fingers untied the robe's belt and slowly pushed the sides apart.

And then Hermione froze, her eyes wide with surprise. Under the robe, there was absolutely nothing. Perfectly smooth, pale skin, firm breasts, and elegant hips were presented to her without any prelude.

Narcissa, noticing her reaction, looked away in embarrassment.
"I... was waiting for you," she quietly admitted. "All morning. I hoped you'd come back earlier."

This gesture — such vulnerability, such direct readiness — touched Hermione more than any words. There was not a trace of reproach left in her eyes, only gratitude and ignited desire.

"So I don't have to take anything off?" she muttered with a light, happy smirk, covering the submissively lying blonde with her body. "That saves time. And yes... it's incredibly sexy."

The air in the living room became thick and sweet, filled with their ragged breathing and the quiet, contented sounds Narcissa was making. Hermione was in no hurry, her fingers sliding over the already damp, hot skin, tracing slow, exciting circles around the clitoris but not touching it, drawing out the pleasure.

Narcissa purred like a contented cat, her body arching towards every touch. She was completely relaxed, open, and absorbed in the sensations. But when Hermione finally touched the most sensitive spot, Narcissa suddenly opened her eyes slightly, and a mischievous spark flashed in them.

"Wait," she whispered, her voice low and seductive.

Hermione stopped with mild surprise, watching as Narcissa gracefully rose from the sofa and went to the bedside table. She opened the drawer and took out a neatly wrapped item. Unwrapping the silk cloth, she showed Hermione a small but elegant strap-on made of dark, polished wood with curves resembling a sea wave.

"Shall we have some fun, darling?" Narcissa suggested, and her lips were touched by an embarrassed but happy smile.

Hermione looked from the toy to her wife, and her face lit up with a slow, warm smile. There was not a trace of mockery or surprise in her eyes — only curiosity and ignited desire.

"I didn't know we had such... treasures," she said with a light playfulness in her voice, accepting the gift.

She fastened the straps, her movements confident but not without a light, exciting tremor. Narcissa watched, lying on the sofa and leaning on her elbows, her gaze languid and full of anticipation.

"Hermione," she called softly when her wife, now ready, approached her, casting a shadow in the sunset light.

"Yes, my queen?" Hermione responded just as quietly, kneeling between her spread legs.

"Don't be afraid of anything," whispered Narcissa, reaching out her hands to her. "I am entirely at your disposal."

Hermony was in no hurry, exploring every line of her wife's body. Her lips and tongue caressed the blonde's firm breasts, and her fingers gently stroked and slightly twisted the hardened nipples, making Narcissa arch her back and moan softly.

Then Hermione's hand slid lower, stroking the inner surface of her thighs, but her movement was not entirely ordinary. Her fingers, lubricated with lube and Narcissa's natural wetness, softly and almost imperceptibly touched not the entrance to the vagina, but the tiny, hidden bud just below.

Narcissa flinched slightly in surprise. Her eyelids lifted, and her blue eyes reflected a fleeting bewilderment. She and Hermione had been open about many things, but this territory had remained unexplored for them.

Seeing her reaction, Hermione slowed her movements but did not remove her hand. She raised her head, her brown eyes meeting the blue ones, and there was no pressure, no demand in them — only a warm, questioning whisper.

"I want you... there," she said quietly, choosing words that sounded not like an order, but like a request and an offer. "All of you. Without a trace."

Her index finger, gently and carefully, continued its circular motions, no longer just touching, but softly pressing, inviting relaxation. She felt how, under her touch, Narcissa's muscles first instinctively tensed, and then, hearing her even, calming breath and feeling her trust, began to slowly yield.

"I will be very careful," Hermione promised, covering her neck and collarbones with light, intermittent kisses. "You tell me to stop, and I will stop. Always."

This was new. It was a little scary. But in Hermione's trusting eyes and in her gentle, confident hands, there was nothing truly frightening. And when her wife's finger, slippery and warm, finally overcame the first, strongest resistance and penetrated inside, Narcissa let out not a cry, but a long, stifled exhalation, in which surprise, vulnerability, and a nascent, completely new sensation of total, absolute intimacy were mixed. She had trusted her. Completely. And in this trust, there was its own, special sweetness.

The love reflected in Narcissa's eyes became the most important guide for Hermione. Her finger, still gently and carefully, continued soft, twisting movements, gradually stretching the resilient muscle ring, preparing it for something more. She checked every micro-movement against her wife's breathing, against the slightest change in her eyes.

"Everything's okay?" her whisper was like a caress.

"Yes..." Narcissa exhaled, and in that one word, there was more trust than in any oath. Her hands lay on Hermione's shoulders, not pushing or pulling, but simply maintaining contact, a connection.

Making sure that Narcissa was relaxed and ready, Hermione slowly withdrew her finger. She took a small bottle of oil from the table, which they had used earlier, and generously lubricated the polished wooden surface of the strap-on so that nothing would cause her the slightest discomfort.

She again took her position between her legs, and now her movement was even slower and more deliberate. The tapered tip of the toy touched the prepared entrance. Hermione froze, allowing Narcissa to get used to the new sensation, to the pressure, different from what she was accustomed to.

"Get ready, my beautiful one," she whispered and began to enter.

She entered infinitely slowly, millimeter by millimeter, allowing her wife's body to accept her. When the head of the strap-on passed the narrowest point, a shiver ran down Hermione's back, and she involuntarily let out a quiet, happy purr, very similar to the sounds Narcissa had made a minute ago. It was a feeling of incredible closeness and power, mixed with tender care.

Narcissa closed her eyes, her fingers slightly squeezing Hermione's shoulders. Her breathing became deeper.
"Everything... is fine..." she exhaled again, encouraging her.

Encouraged, Hermione continued her unhurried but inexorable forward movement until the base of the strap-on pressed against her pubic bone, and the toy was absorbed by Narcissa's body for its entire length. They both froze for a moment, merged in this new, intimate union.

Lucius Malfoy was returning from the brothel to his room at the Hassler, feeling like a victor forced to temporarily descend to the level of plebeians. After spending an hour with one of the local workers of vice, he mentally compared the wretched interior of that establishment with the gilding of his hotel and gleefully anticipated sinking into the sterile cleanliness of his suite, washing away all traces of forced communication with the common folk.

Entering the room, he absentmindedly failed to close the door completely, leaving a small crack — a fatal oversight that would soon turn his private tragedy into a public farce. Taking a few steps, he froze. His nostrils, accustomed to the scents of elf nectar and expensive leather, convulsively tightened, catching something alien. Not a smell, but its ghost — barely perceptible, but no less offensive, the reek of cheap perfume and human sweat.

His hawk-like gaze darted to the bed. Everything looked impeccable: the blanket smoothed, the pillows symmetrically fluffed. But there, in the very center of the dazzlingly white sheet, lay THEY. A whole five of them. Long. Dark. Female. Hairs. Forming a sort of satanic pentagram.

Something clicked in Lucius's head. This was not a maid's oversight. This was a challenge. A deliberate, cold-blooded insult thrown at him, the last Malfoy, by the entire world of plebeianism and shoddiness. "Yes, they appeared today!" raced through his inflamed brain. "But they are the harbingers! The first swallows of the chaos and filth that is slowly but surely consuming this world! Today — five hairs on my sheet, tomorrow — cockroaches in the minibar, and the day after tomorrow a horde of savages will dance on the ruins of my coat of arms!"

A sound that was a cross between the shriek of a dying hyena and the roar of a defiled samurai erupted from his throat.
"AGHHHH! THEY! ARE ALREADY HERE! OUTPOSTS OF THE ENEMY ARMY OF FILTH IN MY CITADEL!"

He rushed to the bed, his aristocratic fingers clutching the silk sheet with a painful spasm.
"SABOTEURS! THE FIFTH COLUMN OF SLOPPINESS!" he yanked, and the expensive fabric tore in half with a characteristic sound. But that was not enough. Pathetically little!

Lucius pounced on the pillows, furiously tearing them apart until the air was filled with white down, as if in the fiercest winter blizzard.
"TRYING TO SMOTHER ME IN MY OWN DEN? I WILL PREEMPT YOU!"

Outside the door, left ajar in his pride, a crowd of onlookers had already gathered. A Japanese man with a vlogging stick was broadcasting live, muttering something about a "spontaneous performance by a mad Western aristocrat." American students were squealing with delight, filming everything on their phones. The doors of neighboring rooms were wide open.

But Lucius was beside himself. His gaze fell on the mattress — the main breeding ground of infection, the enemy's lair, the source of all his troubles.
"THE BRIDGEHEAD! THE ENEMY'S STRONGHOLD!" he roared and with a force that an enraged troll would envy, dragged the mattress onto the floor, raising a cloud of dust and down.

But even that seemed insufficient to him. Adrenaline and fury demanded more destruction. With a new cry of "NO MERCY FOR THE DAMNED! DESTROY TO THE FOUNDATION!" he grabbed the massive bed frame and with a crash that shook the walls, turned it upside down.

At that moment, the manager Pietro and two security guards burst through the door, which was already ajar. They froze on the threshold, observing a scene of apocalypse: in a snowdrift of down covering the entire room, a furious aristocrat with mad eyes, in a torn shirt, with a bloodied (from a splinter from the bed) finger, was pacing over the defeated bed like a mad god of destruction. And from the corridor came applause and cries of "Bravo! Encore!"

"Signor Malfoy..." Pietro began in a trembling voice. "I beg you..."

Lucius slowly turned to them. His gaze was glassy. He pointed a trembling finger at the five dark hairs, still lying on the floor among the wreckage of his peace, like a sinister artifact.
"They," he hissed with a soul-chilling calm. "They are the seeds of chaos. They will sprout in my subconscious and consume my rationality! I had to destroy them before it was too late! You all... you are all either blind servants of this chaos or its active accomplices!"

Pietro and the guards exchanged glances. The carnage in the luxury suite costing several thousand euros per night... because of five hairs.

Lucius Malfoy, the last scion of the noblest house, stood amidst the ruins created by his own hands, to the accompaniment of applause and clicking shutters. He had defeated the mattress. He had defeated the bed. But in this war, there could be no winners. Only down, debris, and the universal laughter from the corridor, forever captured in stories and TikToks.

The next morning, Lucius Malfoy awoke with a feeling of deep, almost royal satisfaction. After yesterday's "incident," the hotel management, taught by bitter experience, had urgently replaced absolutely everything in his room: from the bed and mattress to the very duvet. Even the curtains, it seemed to him, hung more obediently. He had spent the night in sterile, untouched cleanliness, and this had returned to him a part of his shaken grandeur.

With the grace of a doe (if does walked with a cane and a perpetual expression of disgust on their faces), he proceeded to his marble bathroom to perform his morning ablutions. He was already mentally picturing how the streams of water would wash his body, and the toothpaste with platinum particles (the one he had ordered by special delivery) would refresh his breath.

But as soon as he crossed the threshold, his foot stepped on something. Something sticky, resilient, and disgustingly clinging to the sole of his silk slipper.

Lucius froze. Slowly, with horror worthy of a man who had seen a ghost, he raised his foot. And saw IT. A pink, chewed-up mass, smeared across the light marble. CHEWING GUM.

Something tore in his chest. Just one night of peace, and again — this total, systematic offensive of chaos and plebeianism!

"AAAAAARGH! AGAIN!" his roar, piercing and inhuman, erupted from the bathroom and rolled down the hotel corridors. "IT'S A UNIVERSAL CONSPIRACY! WITCHES! GOBLINS! SOULLESS MACHINES FOR PRODUCING THIS... THIS PASTE-LIKE SWINE POMADE!"

In neighboring rooms, frightened cries, calls to the front desk, and exclamations of "Him again!" were heard. Doors flew open, frightened guests in nightcaps and robes rushed out into the corridor, thinking of a fire or an invasion of Dementors.

Lucius, unable to bear this final insult, retreated from the bathroom as if from a plague-infected cave. He ran to his suitcase, furiously pulled his wand from a hidden compartment, and with a cry of "INSIGNIFICANT FILTH WILL NOT WIN!" rushed back.

"CONFRINGO! BOMBARDA! REDUCTO!" he shouted, brandishing his wand like a sword.

Blinding flashes filled the bathroom. The expensive marble of the sink exploded into fragments. The jacuzzi bathtub, still petal-filled yesterday, was blown to pieces by the "Diffindo" spell. The mirror in the gilded frame evaporated with a hiss. Even the toilet, guilty of nothing, was turned into a pile of faience dust.

When, a few minutes later, the frightened manager and security guards broke down the door, they froze in horror. Lucius stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, with a smoking wand in his hand. Behind his back gaped a hole in the wall, from which twisted pipes protruded, and water streamed across the floor, carrying on its surface a lone, unsinkable pink blob of chewing gum.

"The problem is solved," Lucius said with icy calm, brushing dust off the lapel of his robe. "I have neutralized the threat. Now you may proceed with the cleaning."

Pietro, the manager, silently moved his lips, looking at the total ruins that cost more than his family's annual income. This time, he wasn't laughing.

to be continued)))

Chapter Text

La passione è un incantesimo che trasforma la realtà in un sogno ardente.
Passion is a spell that turns reality into a fiery dream.

A month in Rome without hope of returning the Narcissi forced Lucius Malfoy to reconsider his strategy. If he couldn't get the past back, he would create a new one, even more flawless. And he was lucky. At one of the charity galas (which he attended solely for networking purposes) he met Violante di Sant'Elia. Young, incredibly beautiful, with the blood of ancient Italian magical families flowing in her veins and a fortune that would have made even his late father green with envy.

Their dates were a model of refinement. They strolled leisurely through Villa Borghese, and Lucius, inspired by her attention, quoted Ovid to her in flawless Latin. They visited private galleries where he, squinting languidly, commented on Caravaggio's paintings, pretending to understand more about them than he actually did. He gave her not flowers, but rare dried mandrakes in crystal vials, which she found "awfully witty and gothic." He was charmed, and she was flattered by the attention of the famous (or infamous) British aristocrat.

And so, sitting with her in one of the most expensive restaurants on Piazza Navona, Lucius, full of determination to propose, suddenly froze. His gaze, sharp as a razor, caught a familiar redhead in the far corner of the terrace. Ron Weasley. Next to him was that very adventuress, Alessandra. And on her finger, glinting in the evening light, was a ring. Simple, unadorned, but unambiguous.

A wave of rage, as swift and hot as the Italian sun, flooded Lucius. He forgot about Violante, about the proposal, about everything.
"Weasley," he hissed, making the glasses on the table seem to tremble. "Are you going to marry this... this gold-digger?" He couldn't forget those very stains on his bed linen. That insult demanded vengeance.

Ron just smirked insolently, hugging Alessandra. She, in turn, looked Lucius up and down, and a mocking smile touched her lips. She said something quickly and sonorously in Italian, looking straight at Lucius.

Malfoy, not understanding a word, frowned. But his companion, Violante, suddenly blushed and then laughed, covering her mouth with an elegant hand.
"My dear," she said, struggling to contain her laughter. "That signorina... she said something quite cutting."
"And what was it?" Lucius demanded, feeling his ears begin to burn.

Violante leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:
"She said: 'Don't worry, old man. We'll take your old room for the honeymoon. I promise, this time we'll only leave stains from champagne on the sheets. If, of course, you have enough money for it after she bites off a chunk of your fortune.'"

Lucius's face turned white, then green. He was destroyed. Destroyed by a couple of phrases in a language he considered barbaric, and by a mockery of his financial situation, the most painful topic. Ron, seeing his reaction, raised his glass in his direction with the most good-natured smile in the world.

That evening, Lucius did propose to Violante. Desperately, almost hysterically. And she, to his astonishment and immense relief, said "yes." Perhaps she liked his fury. Perhaps she was attracted by the prospect of becoming the last Mrs. Malfoy. But Lucius knew one thing: this wedding had to be the most luxurious in history. He had to eclipse everything. And especially those redheaded upstarts and their cheap hints. The war continued, but now a new, much more dangerous and expensive prize had appeared on the battlefield.

"Really," the blonde smirked, putting the newspaper aside. "And of all people. Such a lady will knock all the nonsense out of him. Let's see how she tolerates his hysterics."

And the wives giggled again, their laughter merging into a single, warm sound that filled the Black mansion library.

"I want you," Granger cooed, suddenly changing the subject. She deftly settled on Narcissa's lap, boldly grabbing her breasts through the light silk robe.

Startled, Lady Granger-Black jerked — so much so that Granger flew off her knees onto the soft, plush carpet.

A second of silence ensued, and then Narcissa, her eyes wide open, collapsed against the back of the sofa with a new fit of laughter.
"Sorry, my dear!" she exhaled, trying to catch her breath. "That... that was a reflex! You sneaked up like a ninja!"

Hermione pouted with exaggerated offense, but her eyes were laughing.
"A reflex?" she drawled challengingly, getting to her knees. "Well, now I've warned you."

And Hermione, without losing the initiative, pulls her wife off the sofa by the legs onto the soft carpet in one motion, right to herself, without stopping laughing. Their laughter, intertwining, filled the room until they, breathless, began to fiercely free each other from their clothes: Narcissa's silk robe flew into the air, and Hermione's cardigan went towards the fireplace.

And then Lady Granger-Black decided to get even. Propping herself up on an elbow and looking at the flushed Hermione, she whispered imperiously:
"Close your eyes."

Hermione, smiling obediently, dutifully squeezed her eyes shut. As she lay in anticipation, Narcissa silently rose and went to the secretaire cabinet by the wall. Returning, she gently kissed her wife on the tip of her nose.
"No peeking," she purred, and Hermione felt the cool silk of a blindfold over her eyes, tightly cutting off the light. The world plunged into velvety darkness, where all other senses sharpened. Then her wrists, with a light but inexorable click, were fixed in cool metal handcuffs.

"Lift your hips," Narcissa purred cunningly, helping Hermione into the desired position, gently lifting her ankles towards her bottom.
"What are you up to?" Hermione asked, not with indignation but with lively curiosity, as her ankles were gently fastened. Her eyes beneath the blindfold sparkled with excitement.

Smirking, the blonde took out the oil. She generously lubricated Hermione's delicate folds, and then with one finger slowly, teasingly penetrated inside. Hermione arched her back, moaning softly, not in submission, but like a player accepting an opponent's move.

Then Narcissa summoned an enchanted egg to her and inserted the toy inside. It vibrated faintly, making Hermione exhale. She instinctively spread her thighs, not to break free, but to better feel every pulsation.
"Feeling nervous?" Narcissa asked with feigned sympathy, settling into an armchair opposite, like a spectator in a theater.
"Bored," Hermione parried, her voice low and confident despite her rapid breathing. "Do you need a spectacle? Or are you afraid to come closer?"

Narcissa froze for a second, caught by her words. The snap of her fingers sounded sharper. The toy increased in size and vibrated more strongly.
Hermione gasped sharply, her hips twitching involuntarily.
"Cissy..." — it wasn't a squeak. It was a low, hoarse moan, full of challenge.

The answer was another click, and the vibration reached its maximum. Hermione moaned loudly, clenching her fists in the handcuffs, her body writhing in a silent demand.
"I'll..." she hissed, throwing her head back, her moans becoming louder and more desperate. "I'll get even with you... as soon as you... let me go..."

Her threat dissolved into a long, deep moan, but it held not submission, but a promise. A promise to continue this game, where she was already preparing her countermove. And by the tremor in Narcissa's fingers, reaching for the clasp of the handcuffs, it was clear — she had accepted this challenge.

Lucius Malfoy was holding court in the "Imperial Suite" of the Hotel Hassler, which exuded such luxury that even the gold leaf on the cornices seemed slightly embarrassed by its own brilliance. His fiancée, Donna Violante di Sant'Elia, sat in a pose honed by generations of her lineage — a perfect mix of condescending attention and boredom capable of freezing lava.

"And in this portrait," Lucius declared with pathos worthy of a Shakespearean actor, extracting another moving photograph from a Florentine nightstand, "my great-grandfather Augustus demonstrates that very unshakable will that distinguishes our blood. He was the first in our line to refuse to wear a plume on his hat because peacock feathers made him sneeze."

Violante nodded politely, wondering in her mind if a hereditary allergy to peacocks was that ancient curse her mother had so elegantly warned her about.
"And here," Lucius reached for the next masterpiece with a triumphant air, but his fingers, accustomed to the velvet of robes and the polish of canes, encountered something frankly rubbery and sticky. The aristocratic hand froze, as if it had touched a basilisk.

Slowly, with horror dawning in his eyes, he extracted his find. On his impeccably manicured fingers dangled a used condom, its vulgar appearance profaning the atmosphere of centuries-old nobility.

A gamut of emotions flashed in Violante's eyes: from shock to genuine amusement. She covered her mouth with a lace glove, but her shoulders were already betrayingly shaking.
"Che cosa... Cos'è questa?!" — What is... What is this?! — Lucius's roar made even the Murano glass chandelier's crystals tremble. His face ran the entire spectrum — from marble pallor through an earthy hue to an apoplectic purple. "Sconcissa! Profanazione della mia stirpe!" — Filth! Desecration of my lineage!

With a scream that would have shamed even a Dementor into fleeing, he grabbed the ill-fated handcrafted nightstand and with a force worthy of battling a giant, hurled it against the wall. The expensive wood shattered into splinters with a tragic crunch.

But the ire of Sir Malfoy only grew. Next flew Venetian candlesticks, a vase with orchids, a personal gift from the Minister of Magic himself, and a volume of "The Art of Being an Aristocrat" in a morocco binding. All this was accompanied by such choice swear words in two languages that even the portrait of his great-grandmother, crying "Finalmente!" — "Finally!" — jumped out of its frame and ran into the corridor.

And the door, by a twist of fate, was slightly ajar. A refined crowd had already gathered in the doorway: several waiters in white gloves, the hotel manager with an expression of professional horror, a couple of famous Quidditch players, and even a Russian oligarch who mistook the proceedings for some particularly expensive Italian performance.

"Oh, look, look, Malfoy's at it again!" the guests whispered, pulling out their golden phones. "Remember at the 'Ritz' he smashed the aquarium with live mermaids because they looked at him sideways!"

Donna Violante, unable to contain herself, leaned back against the back of the Bordanni sofa and burst into such happy, silvery laughter that even the enraged Lucius froze for a second. His breeches were stuck on one garter strap, his waistcoat hung by one button, and his dignity was shattered to pieces, just like most of the furniture in the ten-thousand-Galleon-a-night suite.

"Sa, mio caro," — You know, my dear, — Violante said, savoring the spectacle and already anticipating how this scandal would sweep across the entire WizNet (magical internet), "forse dovresti collezionare non ritratti di famiglia, ma mezzi di contraccezione? Hai un talento naturale per trovarli." — Maybe you should collect not family portraits, but means of contraception? You clearly have a natural talent for finding them.

Lucius only rasped something incoherent and threw the last thing that came to hand at the wall — his own wig, which hung pitifully on the door handle, becoming the final chord of this magnificent performance.

That same evening, Lucius and Violante were sitting in the famous Roman restaurant "Antico Argo," where the golden spoons weighed more than the average owl, and the menu had no prices — only a hint that one's fortune ought to be significant.

"The wedding must eclipse even the Pharaoh's coronation," Lucius declared importantly, adjusting his tie. "I'm thinking of holding it at my ancestral manor, but completely rebuilding the ballroom in the style of Louis XIV. Only marble, only gold."
"Oh, no, my dear," Violante objected languidly, "Louis is so... banal. I think we should recreate the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. With live fairies in cages of rock crystal."

Their argument about what was more luxurious — tons of gilding or tons of exotic greenery — was interrupted by a waiter serving the main course of the evening.
"Trippa alla Romana," he proclaimed proudly, placing a steaming dish in front of Lucius. "The chef's signature dish. Calf tripe with artichokes, according to an ancient Roman recipe."

Lucius, who had been expecting oysters or truffles, looked at his plate with some suspicion. He cut an elegant piece, brought it to his lips, and took a bite.

Silence fell, lasting exactly three seconds, during which Lucius's face managed to change the entire palette from pale to purple.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" his roar made the crystal glasses tremble. "YOU HAVE SERVED ME... OFFAL?! TO ME?! LUCIUS MALFOY!"

With these words, he threw his plate to the floor with such force that the porcelain shattered into a thousand pieces, and the sauce adorned the silk wallpaper with an abstract pattern.
"I demand the chef be fired immediately! This dump closed down!" He grabbed a candlestick and hurled it at the display case of expensive wine.

Four burly waiters immediately rushed at him, trying to grab his arms.
"Sir Malfoy, we beg you, calm down!"
"This is a traditional Roman dish!"

Lucius, fencing with a fork, fought them off, growling like a wounded troll. And Violante, leaning back in her chair, laughed soundlessly, wiping tears of happiness with an elegant napkin. She caught the glances of the other guests and made a meaningful gesture at her temple, enjoying the spectacle far more than any, even the most exquisite, dish.

'Definitely, one won't get bored with him,' she thought, ordering more champagne to comfortably continue watching her future husband try to shove a designer candlestick into a most unexpected place on one of the waiters.

When Narcissa freed Hermione, the latter, barely recovering, easily flipped the situation. She playfully but forcefully pushed the blonde onto the sofa, laying her on her stomach.
"And now, darling," Hermione whispered, pulling down Narcissa's silk panties, "it's my turn to perform tricks."

She grabbed the bottle of oil, warm drops of which immediately spread over her beloved's skin. Narcissa laughed, but her laughter soon died down, turning into ragged breathing. She playfully lifted her hips to meet Hermione's fingers, which slid slowly but surely deeper.

The rapidly increasing rhythm of their movements set a new pace for the encounter — no longer laughter, but quiet, breaking moans filled the room, merging with the whisper of skin on skin.

And in the house of Alessandra and Ron, who had moved in with her, their own, noisy and fiery atmosphere reigned. They had just finished a heated argument about the wedding venue — Ron insisted on the Hall of Fame at the "Dead End," and Alessandra dreamed of the gardens of Maly Vinograd — and now this verbal skirmish smoothly transitioned into another, more pleasant form of settling differences.

In a fit of passion, Ron, unable to restrain the surging feelings any longer, firmly grabbed Alessandra by the hips and easily lifted her into the air. She, crying out in surprise, laughed and began playfully fighting off the burly man, whose muscles tensed under her weight.
"Ron, no!" she laughed, but her protests were weak and completely unconvincing.

He didn't stand on ceremony and with a light growl tumbled her onto the wide bed. Alessandra landed on her back, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his buttocks, pulling him closer.
"I love your breasts," he growled hoarsely, and with one deft movement his large hands dealt with the clasp of her bra, tearing off the unwanted barrier.

He immediately latched onto her nipple, sucking and nibbling on it with loud, satisfied sounds that made Alessandra's whole body tremble. At the same time, his right hand slid downward, and his thumb began to teasingly stroke the thin, already damp fabric of her panties, finding that very sensitive nub and making her arch beneath him with a quiet moan.
And when Ron removed the last barrier — the silk shorts-panties of his signorina, he slowly, savoring every second, entered her to the quiet, contented purring of Alessandra.

For a moment they froze, looking into each other's eyes — reflected in them were both passion, and boundless tenderness, and that deep understanding that is born only between two hearts that have found a home in each other.

Their lips themselves reached out, merging in a kiss that was sweet, deep, and full of silent promises. In this kiss was both the heat of the argument and the joy of reconciliation, and all the love that filled them to the brim.

The old, sturdy bed yielded to the rhythm of their movements, responding to every sway with a faithful creak that merged with their ragged breathing and quiet moans into a single, intimate music of that night.

Lucius Malfoy watched with a smug smirk as his fiancée, Violante, drank from her glass. He was sure the slipped aphrodisiac would make her submissive and craving, finally asserting his dominance. In his room, he theatrically shed all his clothes, including his silk trunks, expecting an admiring look.

Violante, however, lay languidly on the silks, licking her full lips. But her eyes held not submission, but a predatory smirk.
"You know, my dear," she began languidly, "I am, after all, one-quarter Veela."

Lucius's eyes widened in incomprehension, and then in horror, as the meaning of these words dawned on him. Veelas were known not only for their beauty but also for their innate ability to sense magic in potions and enchantments.
"And your charming aphrodisiac," she smiled sweetly, watching as his body, against his will, began to react to the powerful elixir, "I poured into your own glass while you were admiring your reflection in the display case."

Her ringing laughter filled the room, and Lucius could only watch as his member obediently swelled under the influence of the potion, completely submitting to her will, not his.
"And you know, I'm not at all against such pleasures," she whispered, seeing his eyes fill with blood from animal desire mixed with rage.

No longer able to endure the verbal duel, Lucius, with a roar mixing anger and uncontrollable lust, pounced on her. He roughly tore off her dress and underwear, turned her onto her hands and knees, and, breathing heavily, entered her slender body. The room filled with the sounds of their passion — his furious roars and her triumphant, suppressed giggles. This time, the script was written by her, and Lucius had only to play the role assigned to him.

Bellatrix continued to amuse herself with Claudia and the other women in the brothel. The young lady was sitting on the older witch's lap on a strapon and bouncing, and Bella lifted the girl by the hips when she stopped. At the same time, one of the women was licking Bellatrix's breasts, pinching her hard nipples. Madam Lestrange growled when Claudia stopped moving. Whimpering and clutching Bellatrix's hips, the girl rose up.

Meanwhile, from behind, another prostitute was caressing Claudia's back, scratching her until she bled. Excitement was evident in her eyes. Bellatrix, noticing this, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her close, kissing her on the lips. Tension hung in the air as they began to kiss, and the other women watched with interest.

At that moment, Claudia began to writhe and moan loudly, which excited everyone present even more. Bellatrix, feeling her own passion ignite, ordered everyone to continue, and the room plunged into one continuous debauchery.

Claudia drenched Bellatrix's thighs with a stream of orgasm, arching her back and letting out a loud moan. Bellatrix, feeling the girl's tension and ecstasy, tightened her grip on her buttocks, scratching them even harder.
"Keep going," she ordered, looking into Claudia's eyes, full of passion. "Don't stop," she added, feeling her own passion ignite with renewed force.

Claudia, still in a state of euphoria, obeyed. She began to move faster, feeling every cell of her body fill with pleasure. Bellatrix, watching her, felt her own excitement reach its limit.

Bellatrix jerked her hips sharply to the right and left, while Claudia bounced on the large strapon, with each downward thrust of the girl, roughly pressing her buttocks even tighter, stretching the young vagina, causing the girl pain and, perhaps, giving her bitter pleasure. Claudia whimpered and cried, still jumping on Bella's hips. This only inflamed the witch more, while the other women caressed her breasts. When Claudia experienced a second orgasm, she went limp in Bellatrix's arms, and a cunning smile appeared on Madam Lestrange's full lips. Bella was not satisfied with this and, carelessly throwing Claudia off herself, untied the straps of the strapon, grabbed her by the hair, and pressed her to her moist loins, forcing her to lick it.

The show continued.

Chapter Text

The wedding of Lucius Malfoy and Donna Violanta di Sant'Elia was supposed to go down in history as the most luxurious event of the century. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, recreated with magical precision, indeed stretched across the terraces of the Malfoy Manor. Fairies in cages of rock crystal sang exquisite, mournful arias, and in the fountains, instead of water, flowed "Crystal Vampire Tear" champagne from the 18th century vintage. All the magical aristocracy of Europe had gathered, from old French families to mysterious Russian boyar-wizards.

Lucius, in a robe of woven moonlight lined with snow unicorn hide, radiated self-satisfaction. He had won. He had eclipsed everything and everyone. His gaze slid over the crowd, searching for those very redheads to relish their pathetic envy. And he found them.

Ron Weasley. But not in worn-out robes, but in an exquisite burgundy tailcoat that fit his powerful frame so impeccably that even Lucius doubted for a second whether his own tailor had defected. Beside him, arm in arm, walked Alessandra. And she didn't just walk – she processed.

Her dress was not of silk or brocade. It was woven from frozen sunlight and studded with "fire-water" diamonds that changed color with her every movement. Her red hair was arranged in an intricate diadem, at the center of which pulsed a huge sapphire – a family heirloom for which his late father Abraxas would have given his soul.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the man leading her by the arm on the other side. Tall, silver-haired, with a face carved from stone, and in a robe adorned with the coats of arms of the oldest Italian families. It was Don Rodrigo di Sant'Elia, the head of Violanta's family and… as Lucius suddenly realized, gripping his cane so hard the bone handle cracked… Alessandra's father.

"They and Violanta… sisters?!" – Lucius's brain refused to process this information.

The ceremony began. The Master was pronouncing loyalty spells in ancient Latin. Lucius tried to keep face, but his gaze kept catching on Ron and Alessandra, who were whispering and smiling, looking as if they were at a picnic, not at his, Lucius's, triumph.

And then the climax arrived. The Master turned to the crowd.
— If anyone present knows a reason why these two cannot be joined in matrimony, let them speak now or…

— We wish to seize the moment! — Alessandra proclaimed loudly and joyfully, rising from her seat. The entire hall fell silent. Ron rose beside her, his grin so wide it seemed it would soon reach his ears.

Lucius felt his knees go weak.
— What… what does this mean? — he hissed.

Alessandra, without deigning to look at him, addressed the Master, and essentially – the entire aristocratic gathering.
— Dear father, respected Master, dear guests! My beloved, Ronald Weasley, and I would also like to share our joy on this beautiful day. We could not have chosen a better place than the gardens where my beloved sister Violanta is being joined in matrimony!

Lucius made a sound resembling a popping balloon. His face turned the color of congealed blood.

— And since our father, Don Rodrigo, is already here, — Alessandra continued, beaming, — we ask you to bless our union as well. Right now. Together with them.

A deafening silence hung in the hall, pierced by Violanta's silvery, happy laughter.
— Oh, what a wonderful idea! — she exclaimed, looking at Lucius's blanched face. — Two weddings in one! That is so… familial!

— YOU… YOU… SQUATTERS! — Lucius shouted, losing the last remnants of his composure. He forgot about the ceremony, the guests, everything. His finger, from a trembling hand, was pointed at Ron. — YOU CAME TO MY WEDDING TO… STEAL IT! THIS IS MY DAY! MINE!

— Calm down, old man, — Ron said with incomparable calm. — We're not stealing. We're… sharing the joy. And, by the way, thanks for the champagne. Excellent choice. We were just thinking of getting that for our wedding, but you beat us to it.

— Champ… You're drinking MY champagne for your… at MY wedding?! — Lucius clutched his chest. He desperately searched for support with his eyes, but saw only curious, and many approving, glances. Don Rodrigo was looking at Ron with fatherly warmth.

— Well, since it seems that soon there will be two masters in this house, — Alessandra remarked sarcastically, — why not start with a joint ceremony? Savings on decorations, Lucius. You do love to save, don't you?

That was the last straw. The hint at his financial situation, publicly, before everyone. With a loud, inarticulate roar, Lucius drew his wand, intending to turn this redheaded upstart into a snail.

But Violanta was faster than him. With an elegant movement of her fan, she deflected his hand.
— My dear, don't ruin daddy's gift, — she said in a sweet, but steely voice. — After all, it was his money that paid for the bulk of these… excesses. Or have you forgotten?

Lucius froze. He was trapped. Trapped in gilding, family ties, and his own vanity.

The Master, after hesitating confusedly and with Don Rodrigo's approving nods, announced:
— Well then… The marriages of Lucius Malfoy and Violanta di Sant'Elia, as well as Ronald Weasley and Alessandra di Sant'Elia… I declare solemnized!

The hall erupted in applause. The fairies sang a triumphant hymn. Ron, without wasting a second, scooped Alessandra up in his arms and spun her in the air, then kissed her so passionately that several ladies felt dizzy.

Lucius, however, stood motionless, like a statue. His great day, his triumph, his revenge… had turned into a joint party with the Weasleys. He had lost. Crushingly. And the most terrible thing was that he had to spend his honeymoon in the same castle with his new… relatives.

And Violanta, taking his arm with an icy smile, whispered in his ear:
— Don't be sad, my dear husband. Our family dinners will be much more fun now. I promise.

The magnificent chaos of the double wedding was left behind, in the Malfoy Manor shining with lights. From there came the sounds of music, laughter, and, if one listened closely, the contented purring of some dragon that Ron seemed to have managed to sneak in for dessert.

Lucius, unable to bear this carnival arranged on his bones, grabbed Violanta by the hand and, without a word, dragged her away — into the dark thicket of the forbidden forest surrounding the estate. Here, in the realm of moonlight and the whisper of ancient trees, silence finally reigned. The air was cool and saturated with the scent of night flowers.

— Running from your own celebration, mio marito? — Violanta whispered softly, her eyes gleaming like a cat's in the semi-darkness. — This is becoming a bad habit of yours.

Lucius did not answer. His breathing was heavy, but the anger in him was gradually cooling, replaced by another, more ancient feeling. A moonbeam, breaking through the foliage, fell on Violanta. Her second dress, light and silvery, like cobwebs, vaguely outlined her silhouette.

And then he approached her. Not with fury, but with a deliberate slowness that was unfamiliar even to him. His fingers, which usually only clenched into a fist or around the handle of his cane, touched the fastener on her shoulder. The movement was surprisingly soft.

— Allow me, — his voice sounded low and slightly hoarse.

He did not tear the dress, but removed it. It slid silently onto the moss-covered forest carpet. Then he knelt on one knee. Violanta, stunned, felt his fingers slide over her skin above the knee, find the silk garter of her stocking, and unclasp it. He removed both stockings with such care, as if defusing ancient runes, his breath fanning hotly against her thigh.

When only the last lace barrier remained on the grass, he looked up at her. In his pale, usually cold eyes, the reflections of the moon danced and a completely different fire blazed.

— You… — Violanta began, but the words stuck in her throat.

He didn't let her finish. With strong, but not rough, hands he grasped her hips and smoothly, almost weightlessly, laid her down on the soft, cool grass. His body covered hers, but did not crush it. He continued to look at her, studying her features in the moonlight, as if seeing her for the first time.

— Mio caro... — this time her whisper held genuine amazement. She had expected pressure, demand, perhaps even echoes of the day's rage. But not this… reverent, burning tenderness.

Lucius, as if reading her thoughts, leaned down and pressed his lips to her neck. It was not a bite. It was a long, wet kiss that made her shudder and arch towards him. His hands slid along her sides, caressing her ribs, the curve of her hips, returning again and again to her waist, as if wanting to memorize every line of her body.

He was gentle. So gentle that Violanta, accustomed to his theatrical hysterics and cold calculation, found her breath catching. In this silent, dark forest, far from conventions and prying eyes, they were not just removing her clothes. They were removing her armor of cynicism, and she, to her own surprise, allowed it to happen.

And Lucius, losing the last remnants of control over the situation, was delightfully discovering that losing them could sometimes be unbearably pleasant.

Narcissa and Hermione, two shadows in guest wedding attire, glided among the ancient trees, following the runaways. They found them in a forest clearing, flooded with moonlight. And they froze behind a wall of thick yew, becoming involuntary spectators to a scene full of unexpected tenderness.

Narcissa watched as her former husband, whose touches to her had always been quick, demanding, and devoid of any caress, now explored another woman's body with almost painful reverence. How his fingers, which had removed the stockings with such care, now tenderly lifted Violanta's hips to smoothly, without the slightest haste, merge with her. How his lips, which in their marriage had only kissed her forehead as a cold duty, now seared the neck, collarbones, breasts of his new wife…

Something inside Narcissa snapped with a resonant click. Not love — that had been gone from Lucius for a very long time. But a bitter, poisonous realization: he could. He could be like this. But not with her. Never. Her exquisite face contorted in a grimace of resentment, and all festive mood vanished without a trace.

Hermione, who hadn't taken her eyes off her, instantly caught this change. She didn't ask. No words were needed. Her gaze, full of understanding and a suddenly flaring, jealous determination, slid over Narcissa's profile, and then she sharply, but not roughly, grabbed the aristocrat's fingers and pressed her palm against the rough bark of the yew tree.

— Don't be jealous, — Hermione whispered, her lips touching her ear closely, her hot breath scorching the skin. There was no comfort in that whisper. There was a challenge. And a promise.

Without releasing her hand, Hermione knelt on one knee. With a deft movement, she lifted the hem of Narcissa's robe, and then her slender leg in an elegant shoe, propping its heel against the tree trunk. With her other hand, she pulled aside the thin silk strip of her panties. And before Narcissa could comprehend anything, Hermione's finger, warm and confident, touched her exposed, already swollen clitoris.

Narcissa inhaled sharply, and a muffled, choked moan escaped her lips. Not of indignation, but of shock and instantly ignited desire. Her back involuntarily arched, pressing against the tree.

Encouraged by this reaction, Hermione did not hesitate. Her finger, sliding down the moist fold, without preamble, with one smooth but decisive movement, entered inside.

Narcissa gasped, throwing her head back. Her eyes, full of bitterness about the past just moments ago, were now wide open, looking at the starry sky. Two worlds collided within her: there, in the clearing — the ghost of a cold marriage, and here, by the tree — the living, rough, healing reality of her wife's hot caress.

Hermione, looking up at her, caught this mixture of pain and pleasure on her face.
— He wasn't worth a tenth of what you're feeling now, — she whispered, inserting a second finger, and her lips curved into a triumphant smirk, feeling the wet heat enveloping her fingers. — And he never will be.

While dramas of passion and jealousy were playing out in the dark forest, a real carnival reigned in Malfoy Manor. Ron, quite tipsy from the champagne which he masterfully mixed with Firewhisky (resulting in a cocktail called "Flaming Incense"), was the life of this unplanned but no less fun party.

His arm, strong and confident despite a fair amount of alcohol, wrapped around Alessandra's waist.
— That's it, enough sharing the celebration with that old pill! — he roared happily right into her ear, drowning out the noise of the crowd. — Let's go to the bedroom! I'll show you what real Malfoy… uh… treasures are!

With these words, to the approving hoots and applause of the guests, he forcefully scooped her up into his arms and began to spin her around as if at a Quidditch match. Alessandra, laughing, wrapped her arms around his neck, her luxurious dress flying up, showering those around with diamond sparkles.

It was at this moment of triumph that Ron's legs, treacherously unsteady, decided they'd had enough. He took one too wide and unsteady step, his boot caught on the leg of some especially pretentious table in the shape of a griffin, and the mighty Weasley, without releasing his newlywed from his embrace, fell forward with a loud, crashing rumble.

Their fall was truly epic. They didn't just fall to the floor. They flew over one table of snacks, brushed against a giant ice sculpture of a pegasus (which shattered into thousands of pieces with a tragic ring), and finally, with a crash that silenced even the orchestra, landed flat on the main festive table, groaning with exquisite delicacies.

For a second, silence reigned, broken only by the hissing of champagne pouring from overturned glasses directly onto Ron. Then deafening laughter erupted.

Ron's red head emerged from the wreckage of "Ambrosia Soufflé" biscuit and aspic of mermaid tears. He was covered in caviar, truffle cream, and crystal shards. He blinked, trying to figure out what had happened.

— Are you alright, darling? — he rasped, looking at Alessandra, who was lying beneath him and shaking with silent laughter, wiping tears streaming down her cheeks mixed with lemon mousse.

— That… — she sniffled, trying to speak through laughter, — that was the most graceful wedding exit in history, amore mio!

Ron grinned, brushing a piece of sturgeon off his shoulder.
— I told you we'd make it an unforgettable evening! — He looked around at the astonished, giggling crowd, winked at Don Rodrigo, who seemed to be laughing the loudest, and hugged Alessandra again. — Well, shall we go to the bedroom after all? Only, damn it, on foot.

The guests gave them a standing ovation. That fall became an instant legend. Had Lucius returned to the manor then, he would have had another heart attack upon learning that his ruined wedding feast had become the pedestal for the most heartfelt and fun moment of the entire evening.

In the "Halls of Mirrors" brothel, in a room whose walls were entirely mirrors, reflecting and multiplying every movement, a heavy, suffocating atmosphere reigned. Bellatrix Lestrange, half-sprawled in an armchair, lazily flipped through the fresh issue of the Daily Prophet. The centerfold shone with wizarding photographs: Lucius and Violanta in a pose full of unnatural tenderness for him, and Ron and Alessandra, falling onto the wedding table with laughter.

Click. A magical spark at her fingertips lit a thin cigar. Smoke rings drifted upwards, curling before her own reflections.

In the corner of the room, pressed against the cold mirror wall, stood Claudia. Her shoulders trembled, and lonely tears rolled down the dried scratches on her cheeks.

— Stop whining, — Bellatrix hissed sharply, not even looking at her. Her gaze was fixed on Ron Weasley's smiling face. — You've ruined my whole evening with your sniveling. To refuse? Me?

She forcefully stubbed out the cigar right on Lucius's smiling face in the newspaper; the burned hole resembled a Dark Mark.

— Filthy, smug bugs, — she hissed, and her voice held an old, world-weary hatred mixed with something resembling envy.

Then her attention returned to the trembling figure in the corner. Bellatrix slowly, with theatrical cruelty, shrugged off her silk robe. Her exposed body was a map of past battles and pleasures. She ran a hand over her breast, squeezing her nipple so that her own reflection in the mirror smirked.

— Come here, — her voice was low and commanding.

— You… you won't hit me? — Claudia squeaked, shrinking.

Bellatrix only laughed in response — shortly, dryly, without a single note of cheer. She leaned back, bracing her hands on the tabletop, and with open, defiant contempt, spread her legs very wide, settling on the edge of the table.

— No, my little dirty sheep. Today I want something else, — her lips stretched into a smile that held not a drop of warmth. — I want, darling, for you to lick every single one of my toes. And yes… we'll see how you behave. We'll decide what to do with you next.

Claudia, defeated, broken, with an expression of the deepest humiliation on her face, shuffled towards her across the carpet like a trained dog. She fell to her knees, her hands lying helplessly on her thighs. With trembling lips, she touched Bellatrix's heel, then took her big toe into her mouth, beginning the humiliating, submissive ritual.

Bellatrix threw her head back, looking at the ceiling, but her gaze was empty. She took no pleasure in the caresses. She reveled in the power. Absolute and undivided. And at this moment, watching the reflection of the sobbing girl at her feet, she felt almost like a queen. Almost. Because somewhere out there, in the world, there were people who laughed and loved without her permission. And she would make them remember that.

The morning after the wedding was not at all kind to Ron Weasley. A sunbeam, piercing through the curtains, stabbed him right in the eye like a sharpened dagger. His head was splitting into pieces, each demanding immediate surrender and a gallon of water. With a hungover groan, he tried to get out of bed, but his legs got treacherously tangled in the sheet, which seemed to have turned into a cunning Gordian knot.

— Bloody… laces… — he grumbled, tugging unsuccessfully, and with a deafening crash tumbled from the bed onto the floor, taking half the blanket and a pillow with him.

Alessandra woke up from the noise. She opened one eye, then the other, and, seeing her magnificent husband helplessly floundering on the carpet in the pose of a caught fairy, burst into unashamed laughter.

— Not funny, — Ron snorted, freeing his arm and rubbing his bruised elbow. His face was pale, with a greenish tint. — There's a house-elf in my skull, I think, hammering on an anvil. Do we have anything to drink? — he whined, looking at her with a pleading expression.

— Oh, yes! — Alessandra laughed, easily getting out of bed and stretching sweetly like a cat. Her silhouette was perfect against the morning light. — You dragged so much from the banquet hall yesterday that we could open our own bar. There's still a case under the table of that very "Crystal…" — she looked at his deathly pale face and sweetly corrected herself, —… well, that very champagne.

She bent down, pulled a bottle from under the bed, and handed it to Ron. He grabbed it with both hands like a drowning man clutching a straw.

— And you know what, amore mio? — Alessandra said languidly, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him with tenderness. — After all this splendor, falling off tables, and your attempts to dance the tarantella with the maid… I terribly want to go back home. To our cozy chaos. Where there are no gilded fairies and where you can eat pizza without fear of staining a 16th-century tapestry.

— We'll fly today, my little bird, — Ron groaned, taking a swig from the bottle and wincing. The bubbles stung his nose, but he bravely swallowed another gulp. — Just, for heaven's sake, let me finish this… medicine first. I feel like a little more and my head won't just ache, it'll officially file for divorce from my body.

Alessandra laughed again, stood up, and, passing by, gently ruffled his disheveled hair.
— Take a leaf out of my book, dear. I drank wisely yesterday. Only Firewhisky.
— That's because you're a cunning Italian, — Ron grumbled, but through the suffering, adoration broke through in his voice. — And I'm a simple guy with a bad habit of celebrating as if it's the apocalypse tomorrow.
— Well, considering we just got married at Lucius Malfoy's wedding, the apocalypse would be a less thrilling spectacle, — she parried, heading for the shower.

Ron, left sitting on the floor among lace and with a bottle in his hand, hunched over.
— She's right, — he whispered to the empty room. — But damn it, it was worth it.

The first rays of morning, breaking through the dense forest canopy, played in the dewdrops hanging on the grass like scattered diamonds. The air was clean, cool, and intoxicatingly fresh. Violanta was the first to wake. She lay on her side, propping her head on her hand, and watched the sleeping Lucius.

His face, usually frozen in a mask of arrogance, was now defenseless and peaceful. Long, platinum strands of hair, escaped from the impeccable daytime styling, spilled over his shoulder and over her arm, which was covering him. As if the forest itself had wrapped him in silver silk. Unable to resist, she reached out her fingers and began to gently stroke these silky strands, over and over, admiring the play of morning light on them.

Under her touch, Lucius stirred. His pale eyelashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes. But instead of the usual instant alertness and detachment, his gaze held a lazy, warm surprise, and then — realization. The realization of where he was, and most importantly — with whom.

And he smiled. Not with his usual crooked, arrogant smirk, but a real, soft, almost shy smile that for a moment erased all the years, all the hardships, and all the vanity from his face.

— Buongiorno, amore mio, — Violanta whispered, and her voice sounded like the most tender music.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hand slid to the back of her head, and he drew her to him in a kiss. It wasn't the passionate, fervent kiss of last night, but something else — slow, deep, serene. A kiss of discovery. A kiss of gratitude. It held the taste of morning dew and boundless peace.

When their lips finally parted, he didn't release her, but merely pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.

— I didn't think this was possible, — he admitted quietly, and there was not a hint of pretense in his voice.

— What exactly? — she asked just as quietly, her fingers now caressing his temple.

— To wake up and not feel the weight. To wake up and… want this moment to last forever.

He rolled onto his back, drawing her with him so that she ended up half-pressed against his chest. His hands slid over her bare back, making wide, lazy circles, warming her skin in the cool air. He studied her — every mole, every line, as if reading an ancient manuscript full of secrets and revelations.

— You've destroyed me, Violanta, — he whispered, looking into her eyes, which reflected the sky. — And put me back together. From different pieces.

— I like the new version, — she smiled, lowering her head onto his chest and listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart.

He leaned down and began to kiss her shoulder. Every touch of his lips was a vow. He descended lower, to the curve of her breast, lingering to leave a slow, wet kiss on her tender skin. His palms slid over her hips, not demanding, but inviting.

When he entered her, it was not a swift fall, but a smooth immersion into warm waters. There was no rush, no fury, only a synchronous, almost lazy movement towards each other, in time with the rustle of leaves and the chirping of waking birds. He looked into her eyes, and in his gaze was not only passion but also silent amazement, reverence for what he had found in her.

They reached their peak quietly, with a shudder that was more like a deep exhalation than an explosion. And again he drew her to him, not letting go now, allowing the morning sun to warm their entwined bodies.

— We will build new gardens, — Lucius said quietly, looking up at the treetops. — Not for show. For us.

Violanta just pressed closer to him. For the first time in many years, Lucius Malfoy was truly, deeply, and unconditionally happy. And in this, there were no galleons, no titles, no vanity. There was only her, the forest, and the silence that had finally settled in his soul.

Returning to their home, the silence of the corridors seemed deafening to Hermione and Narcissa after the wedding noise. But it was a ringing, tense silence, in which an unspoken thought pulsed. The thought of how Lucius, that walking monument to self-love, had looked at another woman with a tenderness that Narcissa had been deprived of all the years of their marriage.

The bedroom door slammed shut with such a bang that some great-grandmother screamed and flew off a portrait.

— He never looked at you like that, — Hermione exhaled, her voice low and thick as tar. There was no question in it, only a statement of a fact that burned her from within.

Narcissa, still in the grip of a complex mixture of memories, tried to maintain a mask of indifference.
— Hermione, it's not worth it…

But Granger was already next to her. Her fingers dug into the silk sleeves of Narcissa's dress. There was a sharp sound of tearing fabric — and the dress, expensive, Parisian-made, split at the seam with a crack, exposing her shoulder and the thin silk strap of her camisole.

— He never dared to tear so much as a rag on you, did he? — Hermione hissed, her eyes blazing in the semi-darkness of the room. In them was not just jealousy, but a furious, possessive desire to erase the very memory of that marriage, to prove her exclusive right.

She sharply turned Narcissa around, and before the latter could comprehend anything, Hermione's palm came down with full force on her bare, perfectly rounded buttock. The sound was juicy, resonant, hanging in the air along with the scarlet imprint on the porcelain skin.

Narcissa gasped in surprise and pain, in which an intoxicating sweetness was instantly born.

— Hermione! — it was not indignation, but rather a choking moan.

A low growl was the response. Hermione, using all her strength, which she usually spent on spells and books, roughly pushed her onto the carpet. The dust of ancestors from the paintings in their house rose in a cloud. Granger ended up on top, used her knee to spread the aristocrat's slender legs, and in one smooth, relentless movement, twisted her arms and pressed them to the carpet above her head.

— Now, — Hermione hissed, her breath scorching Narcissa's lips, — I will show you what it means when you are wanted not as a family heirloom, but as prey. When jealousy doesn't gnaw, but burns to ashes.

Her lips found Narcissa's in a kiss that was not sweet, but salty with the taste of power and fury. It was not a love ritual, but a battle for territory of the soul. With one hand, she continued to hold Narcissa's wrists, while with the other she tore the remaining clothes, exposing her breasts, stomach, thighs.

Narcissa, who had initially tried to break free, suddenly went limp, and a long, choked moan of surrender and consent escaped her throat. Her body arched towards the rough caresses, every scratch, every bite. It was painful, humiliating, and dizzyingly arousing.

Hermione released her wrists, but Narcissa didn't even try to move her hands. She was a prisoner not of force, but of her own desire. Her fingers dug into the carpet pile as Hermione, without slowing her furious pace, entered her, filling all the space, driving out the shadow of the past drop by drop, thrust by thrust.

Claudia's tongue, wet and submissive, slid over Bellatrix's foot with desperate tenderness, rising from the toes to the thinnest, almost glowing skin of her ankle. Suddenly, the idyll, if one could call this torture, was torn by a sharp, irritated sigh. Bellatrix jerked her foot away, and Claudia, crying out, fell onto the carpet. 'Enough. I'm bored,' — Bellatrix's voice was empty, like a corpse's, but beneath this icy mask, rage seethed. She stood up, and her shadow, distorted by the mirrors, engulfed the room. Her gaze, full of contempt, pierced through her own reflection to where, in her mind, an unhealing wound burned — the morning newspaper with the smiling Narcissa, her sister, her blood, standing next to Hermione Granger on the threshold of the cozy Granger cottage.

Bellatrix had been pretending all this time. Pretending not to notice the disgrace, this spit in the face of their lineage. She had allowed the weak, stupid sister to play her games, thinking that distance and silence were punishment enough. But to see that photograph — the documented shame of their happy life in a Muggle-born's house, while the ancestral nest of the Blacks was decaying and gathering dust, boarded up and cursed... It was too much. It was not just a transgression, but a demonstrative betrayal, tearing their world apart.

All the accumulated rage and hatred finally found a new, perfect object. The illusions had collapsed. The game of blindness was over. 'Get dressed,' — she ordered, and her voice held steel. She herself pulled on a black dress, her fingers quickly fastening the buttons. With each click, resolve solidified, turning into the confidence of an executioner.

She approached the wall, ran her palm over the cold surface, and whispered an ancient spell. The wall parted silently, revealing a hidden niche. There lay her faithful wand — dark, absorbing light, with a pommel in the shape of a tiny skull. Her fingers closed around the handle with familiar certainty.

'They're playing happy family,' — she hissed, turning to Claudia. Her lips stretched into that very insane smile that made even the most desperate shudder. — 'Defiling our blood, pretending they have a home, while our house, the Black Manor, is dying. It's time to remind them, darling, that all fairy tales have bloody endings.'

She enjoyed the terror in the girl's eyes. 'I will no longer pretend I don't know my sister. I will come to her myself. To her cozy Muggle-born nest. And we will discuss the price one pays for betraying blood.'

She was not going for a polite visit. She was going as retribution, the embodiment of the Black family's vengeance. Her goal — not mere murder, but the destruction of disgrace. She intended to cleanse her history with fire, pain, and the death rattles of two women who dared to think they could be happy while Bellatrix Lestrange lived.

Chapter Text

In the brothel "Hall of Mirrors," the walls of which were entirely covered with obsidian polished to a black sheen, reflecting every movement in a distorted, demonic form, Bellatrix Lestrange emerged from the darkness, roughly shoving the trembling Claudia ahead of her. Bellatrix's cold, furious gaze immediately fixed upon the lit, cozy windows of the Grangers' cottage, which stood in a quiet alley.

"Go," she hissed, shoving Claudia towards the gate. "See if my dear little sister is home. Find out if she's become too engrossed in her... dirty game."

Claudia, shrinking with fear, took an uncertain step, but her legs seemed rooted to the ground. A quiet, plaintive whimper escaped her throat.

This sound, this sign of weakness, was the last straw. Bellatrix stepped forward lightning-fast, and her fingers, strong and merciless, dug into Claudia's hair, yanking her head back with such force that the girl's vision darkened.

"You'll be whimpering, bitch," her voice was low and serpentinely hissing, right at her ear, "the same fate awaits you as those blood traitors. Understood? You are nothing to me. Expendable material. And now... GO!"

She roared the last word, shoving the stunned Claudia towards the gate.

And beyond the cottage walls, in the bedroom, bathed in the warm light of lamps, a different world reigned—a world woven of tenderness and complete trust. Hermione and Narcissa were far from dark thoughts. They lay in bed, naked, and the light slid over their damp skin, highlighting the smooth curves of their bodies from the semi-darkness.

Hermione lay on her back, and Narcissa hovered over her, propped up on her elbows. Their gazes were intertwined, and held so much tenderness that the air seemed thick with it.

"You are so beautiful," whispered Narcissa, lowering her head and touching her lips to Hermione's neck. Her kisses were light as a breeze, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

Hermione closed her eyes, allowing the sensations to overwhelm her. Narcissa's fingers slid over her breasts, caressing, stroking, causing a nipple to swell and harden. Her lips slowly descended lower, leaving a moist trail on the collarbone, then in the hollow between her breasts.

"Cissy..." Hermione exhaled, her hands weaving into her wife's fair hair.

Narcissa answered only with a happy, deep purr, and her tongue curled around one nipple, while her fingers gently squeezed the other. She caressed her breast, now sucking, now nibbling, now simply pressing her cheek against it, giving warmth. Hermione arched beneath her, moaning softly, her hips moving involuntarily to the rhythm of these caresses.

Then Narcissa crept even lower. Her lips slid over Hermione's trembling stomach, leaving slow, wet kisses around her navel. Her hands rested on the inside of Hermione's thighs, softly but persistently parting them.

"I want to taste all of you," whispered Narcissa, and her breath burned the most sensitive skin.

Hermione merely nodded, unable to utter a word, when Narcissa's tongue touched her. Slowly, smoothly, with reverent tenderness, she began to caress her, finding that very rhythm that made Hermione lose her mind. Her movements were masterful—now wide, sweeping circles, now fast, precise touches to the most sensitive nub, now deep, wet penetration.

Hermione cried out, her fingers clutching the sheets. She completely surrendered to this sensation, this bliss that spread through her body in a warm wave. She was open, vulnerable, and absolutely happy in the hands of her woman, while outside the walls of their refuge, darkness was gathering, not yet known to them, but already close to their doorstep.

Claudia, like a shadow, slipped to the house and, holding her breath, peered into the dimly lit bedroom window. Inside, in the warm light of flickering candles, a scene of such intimate tenderness was unfolding that it took her breath away. She saw Narcissa, the very Lady Black whose portraits hung in the proudest halls, now completely vulnerable, surrendering to her wife's caresses. She saw Hermione, her body arched in silent ecstasy, her face contorted not with pain, but with pleasure. This wasn't the filth Bellatrix had described. It was... beauty. Pure, burning, and so fragile.

A sharp, piercing shame tightened in Claudia's chest. She felt like a peeper, a thief, defiling someone else's, utterly defenseless happiness. She couldn't move, hypnotized by this picture.

Bellatrix, standing in the shadows, was boiling with each second. Her patience, already thinner than a spider's web, snapped.
"WHAT WERE YOU TOLD?!" her screech, piercing and full of madness, cut through the night silence, making even sleeping birds flinch.

She rushed forward like an enraged panther. Her hand, strong and merciless, grabbed the girl's waist, and she easily threw the fear-crazed prostitute to the ground, right in front of the window.

"Useless creature!" Bellatrix snarled, her eyes burning with a feverish gleam. She loomed over Claudia, and her wand, like a snake's fang, pressed into the girl's chest. "I'll show you what real pain is! It's what you deserve! And what awaits them!"

She took a deep, hissing breath, and her voice sounded with soul-freezing clarity:
"CRUCIO!"

Instantly, the young woman's body was seized by an unbearable spasm. It wasn't just pain. It was a sensation as if every molecule of her body was exploding from within, as if her nerves were being ripped out from under her skin, and her bones were turning into red-hot glass. Her back arched, her heels beat against the ground, and an inhuman, deafening scream erupted from her throat, which was no longer a whimper, but the sound of agony itself. Her eyes rolled back, and her entire being was overwhelmed by a single, all-consuming wave of pure, unfiltered torment, which her mistress was so generous with.

A piercing, inhuman scream, full of such agony that it made one's skin crawl, burst into the bedroom through the walls like an icy wind. It tore the tender atmosphere of love, making Hermione and Narcissa flinch and break their embrace.

"What was that?" Narcissa whispered fearfully, her eyes, full of passion just a second ago, now wide with alarm.

Hermione had already jumped off the bed, her mind, always analytical, instantly switching to survival mode. Hastily throwing on a robe, she ran to the window and pulled back the curtain.

And gasped, recoiling.

"Cissy!" her voice trembled, with real, animal fear in it for the first time. "Your sister... is at our doorstep. She... she's torturing a girl from the brothel!"

Hermione's heart beat wildly. Her fingers instinctively reached for the wand on the nightstand.
"Protego Totalum! Salvio Hexia!" she almost shouted the spells, placing the most powerful protective charms she could recall on the house. The walls of the house flickered faintly, accepting the magical barrier.

Narcissa, pale as a sheet, approached the window. Her gaze fell upon the scene of horror in their garden: the writhing body of the prostitute in agony and her sister, whose figure, distorted by rage, seemed the embodiment of Dark Magic itself. Narcissa's lips silently whispered:
"Sister..."

And then something broke inside her. The old blood bond, years of fear and submission, flared up with new force. Without thinking of the consequences, without looking at Hermione, she turned sharply and, throwing a light silk peignoir over her shoulders, rushed to the door.

"Narcissa, no!" Hermione called after her, but she had already slipped into the hallway.

The door swung open, letting in the cold night air and the echoes of Claudia's moans. Narcissa stepped onto the threshold, her fair hair flowing in the wind.

"Bellatrix!" her voice sounded loud, but with a noticeable tremble. "Stop!"

Bellatrix slowly raised her head. Her wand was still pointed at the writhing blonde, but a smile bloomed on her face—wide, insane, and triumphant.

"Little sister," she hissed in a sweet, poisonous tone. "Finally, you've come out of your hole."

"Bellatrix! Stop!"

The desperation in Narcissa's voice made Bellatrix freeze for a moment. Her mad gaze slid from the writhing Claudia to her sister standing on the threshold in a thin peignoir, as fragile as her hope for dialogue.

The triumphant smirk slid from Bellatrix's face, replaced by a soul-chilling cold fury.
"Stop?" she slowly, almost ceremoniously, transferred her wand from the girl to Narcissa. Its tip trembled with restrained power. "I'm only beginning, little sister. The purification of our bloodline. Starting with you."

Her fingers tightened on the handle, her lips parted to utter the fatal words:
"Avada Keda..."

The killing curse never left her lips. From behind Narcissa's back, like a shadow, Hermione emerged. Her face was pale but determined, her wand aimed straight at Bellatrix's heart.

"Don't you dare," Granger growled, and there was not a trace of fear in her voice, only steel.

And hell began.

Bellatrix, seeing her victim escaping, screeched and transferred her attack to Hermione. The blinding green curse "Sectumsempra" pierced the night silence, but Hermione parried it with a shield, from which blue cracks crawled through the air.

"Impedimenta!" Hermione shouted.

"Crucio!" Bellatrix roared in response, and this time the curse was aimed at her.

Spells flew one after another, intertwining in a deadly dance—blinding flashes, explosions of earth at their feet, hissing streams of energy. Narcissa, pressed against the doorframe, couldn't move. She cried, watching the nightmare unfolding at her home: her sister trying to kill her wife, the young girl moaning on the ground, and the heart-wrenching pain of her family being destroyed by hatred.

Hermione, however, didn't give up. She fought with the cold fury born of desperation and the desire to protect her home. And at the moment when Bellatrix, confident in her superiority, lowered her guard for a second, preparing for another deadly spell, Hermione found an opening.

"Incarcerous!" her voice sounded clear and commanding.

Thick ropes shot from the tip of her wand and with lightning speed wrapped around Bellatrix from head to toe, twisting her into a tight, helpless knot. The elder Lestrange fell to the ground with a dull groan, her wand rolling from her weakened hand.

In the ensuing silence, broken only by Hermione's heavy breathing and Narcissa's suppressed sobs, Claudia's quiet moans could be heard.

Keeping her wand trained on the defeated Bellatrix, Hermione, with a trembling hand, pulled a small mirror from her robe pocket.
"Expecto Patronum!" she whispered, and a silver otter immediately sped off into the night to fetch help.

A few minutes later, with loud cracks, Aurors appeared one after another on the lawn in front of the house. Seeing the bound Bellatrix Lestrange, the torture victim, and the famous Hermione Granger and Narcissa Black, they understood—this was serious. Especially when Granger firmly stated her intention to press formal charges.

The elder witch, still kicking and spewing curses, faced severe punishment—attempted murder, use of Unforgivable Curses, and violation of her post-Azkaban probation. She was taken away, and Claudia, trembling and frightened, was led away too—both as an accomplice and a witness.

When the noise subsided, Hermione finally lowered her wand and turned to her wife. Narcissa still stood by the door, tears streaming down her cheeks. They silently looked at each other, understanding that their world had almost just collapsed, but they had defended it. At a cost that seemed would forever remain a scar on Narcissa's soul.

Epilogue: Four Years Later

The Weasley-de-Sant'Elia Villa, Tuscany

Sunlight flooded the spacious Tuscan villa, mingling with joyful shouts. Ron Weasley, with curls at his temples and a serene smile on his face, lay on the grass, while his two young sons, close in age, jumped on his back like little imps.
"Papà! Papà! Look how high I am!" shouted the elder Alessio, with red tufts of hair like his father.
"And I'm faster!" insisted the younger Lorenzo, whose dark curls and brown eyes were an exact copy of his mother's.

Alessandra came out onto the terrace with a tray of lemonade, her face lit by a warm smile at the sight of this commotion. Their life was filled with laughter, light chaos, and that very simple, sincere joy Ron had once only dreamed of. He caught his wife's gaze, and his eyes said one thing: he was home.

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire

The majestic ballroom of Malfoy Manor, once intended for balls and intrigues, now echoed with demanding, capricious crying. Lucius Malfoy, with unaccustomed awkwardness but infinite patience, rocked his three-year-old daughter, Aurelia, in his arms.

The girl had inherited her father's platinum hair and her mother's fiery eyes. Her whims were legendary and could, according to rumors, make even house-elves cry.
"Papa, no!" stamping her tiny foot, she demanded, pointing at the crystal chandelier. "Want the shiny thing!"

Violante, watching this scene from her throne draped in velvet, smiled. Her smile was calm and victorious. Lucius, once a cold and arrogant tyrant, was completely defeated by this little despot in hair bows. He had found his happiness not in power, but in the warm weight of a small body on his chest and in the wise gaze of his wife, who had taught him that true luxury is a quiet harbor after a long storm.

The Granger Cottage, Rome

In the cozy living room, bathed in the evening light, a harmony of a different kind reigned. Hermione Granger sat on the sofa, with a little girl sleeping on each of her knees. The twins, Arianna and Isabella, were astonishing: one had inherited Hermione's dark curls and intelligent brown eyes, the other had hair as fair as linen and Narcissa's piercing blue eyes.

Narcissa herself was not in the room. She stood on the porch, watching the sunset. There was no more of the old pain in her heart. The wounds inflicted by her sister had healed, giving way to maternal love and the peace she had found with Hermione. They had gone a long way with the help of magic and IVF to bring these two little girls to life, and every sacrifice had been worth it. She turned, looked at her wife and daughters, and her face was lit by a quiet, profound smile. They were her world. Her true family.

The Brothel "Hall of Mirrors"

In that very room with black obsidian mirrors, where plans of revenge were once born, a different, grim irony now reigned. Bellatrix Lestrange, released early for good behavior (which was merely a thin mask), once again sat in her chair. But her gaze was empty. The fire of madness in her eyes had died, replaced by boredom and emptiness.

Beside her, on the floor at her feet, sat Claudia. But this was no longer the trembling girl. Her gaze was detached, submissive to the point of complete self-effacement. She was a shadow, a ghost, a thing.

Bellatrix no longer thought of her sister. That story, that fury and pain, seemed to have burned out in that very battle four years ago, leaving only ashes behind. Her world had shrunk to the size of this room, to the power over a broken soul that could no longer even fear properly. This was not freedom, but a new, voluntary prison, the walls of which were built from her own desolate heart.

And so, under one sky, their different worlds lived on: some in the light and laughter of children, others in the silent darkness they had chosen for themselves. And each of them had found their own, however different, ending to the story.