#naralanis

[rubikanon]

ahhhh nvm i found it! it’s ‘not all bad’ by naralanis, only posted on tumblr :3 💕

aha, glad you found it nonnie! i'll paste a link in case others want to read/reread it

Any chance of a soft cissamione one-shot of them social distancing in Hermione’s London flat? Sorry this took forever! - a Cissamione ficlet

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

I’m not sure if you’re aware but there’s another sc writer that loves fountain pens and seems to have been partaking in the hobby for quite a while now. She goes by naralanis here on tumblr. Maybe you guys can be dangerous hobby buddies!

I admire you both for it to be honest. I’ve never had the patience for fountain pens. Always been told that I have a doctor’s handwriting and I don’t think they meant it in a complimentary way 😂

Oh, don't worry. I know @naralanis. We've um... connected.

(As in, they are enabling me with all sorts of recommendations, and I am loving it.)

[shadowdianne]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

 Boat ride from Azkaban -- both Narcissa and Hermione were there (the reasons are up to you) and share a Tense ride back. Bring on the angst!! (or don't! Maybe you've hit your head and become The Master of Fluff, who knows!)  asked by @naralanis

(I didn’t bang my head tho’. Sorry not sorry)

[delirious-comfort]

CISSAMIONE I MEANT CISSAMIONE I WROTE CISSAMORT ONCE AS A JOKE AND NOW THAT'S ALL MY PHONE KNOWS PLEASE GOD IT'S CISSAMIONE DAMN IT

[naralanis]

My hand slipped.

For The Better, Chapter 59

“So the actual  Alexandra Saxton is coming here?” questioned Cassidy for the tenth time since she had been picked up from the train station.  

“Yes” Miranda said, completely ignoring how many times her daughter had made her repeat herself in favor of enjoying her time with Cassidy. She came to realize how empty her figurative nest actually was once her youngest ’s   bubbly presence was felt  once again,  a  sharp contrast to Caroline’s moods. She was grateful to have her back, even if only for a little while.  

“Cool” Cassidy quipped with raised eyebrows  as she slowly made her way up the stairs . “And my pantsuit...”  

“Will be worn with something underneath it.” Miranda threatened.  

Cassidy grinned widely. “Pasties count as  something.”  

Miranda rolled her eyes. “They do not count as anything  substantial .”

Read more on AO3 or FFNet

[16-pennies]

Haha I just commented on 'Blinding Light' on AO3, then I found you here lol. Just another opportunity to thank you for the amazing story :D

Omg hi!! I got the email about your comment while in the middle of a grueling rehearsal and I’ve been smiling for hours. Thank you so much for your kind words :) I’m so flattered by all your praise and the fact that I inspired you to post (I’m going to go find your story rn)! I have a few more chapters of Blinding Light ready to go and I have the entire plot planned out; it’s just a matter of writing it out at this point. Unfortunately the pace is far slower than I want (time and inspiration are fickle things) but I promise this story is not abandoned.

16pennies

[shadowdianne]

You wanted a prompt? The blob has a prompt! Cissamione, if that's OK. Boat ride from Azkaban -- both Narcissa and Hermione were there (the reasons are up to you) and share a Tense ride back. Bring on the angst!! (or don't! Maybe you've hit your head and become The Master of Fluff, who knows!)

Sweet sweet blob, fluff? I don’t know her!

Thanks for the prompt tho, Nara. I hope this one it’s to your liking 😉

PS: Some non-canon thingies going your way. JK can suck it. Also, pre-relationship. (Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

The soggy wood beneath her fingers gave up a fraction of an inch as Hermione grasped into it, eyes lost into the slowly disappearing Azkaban tower, the grey waters lapping mercilessly against the rocking boat that slowly made its way to shore. It didn’t matter how hard or long she stared at her back, however, as she could feel the stormy eyes that had been following her every move ever since she had looked at the enchanted boat with her feet firmly planted into the pebble-covered road that made its sinuous way towards the main entrance of the prison.

She had known what she had agreed to when she had offered up her name when rumors about Narcissa Black being permitted to visit her sister had spread all through the Ministry. Yet, when she had asked for the permit, pulling up the rank her status as one of the Golden Trio gave her, she had felt just as dirty as she now felt the back of her throat to be: as if something had gotten stuck there, a non-said spell, an almost swallowed curse. And now, as the blonde witch kept on looking at her, beyond the sea waters, beyond the invisible set of magical wards they kept on slowly trespassing as they moved away from Azkaban, she felt as if about to implode.

“You don’t need to keep on gloating.”

Narcissa’s voice reached her beyond the sound of the waves as they kept on moving: two witches aboard the only magical way left to reach and return from the dark island. She sounded defeated, tired, and the younger witch pursed her lips at the words, knowing there was very little she could say in order to defend herself. It was, after all, what could be perceived as what she was doing: staring, gloating.

She always had found difficult keeping her mouth shut, however. And knowing she already was halfway into a hopeless discussion couldn’t really make her do it.

“I wasn’t.”

She turned towards the prow of the boat, glancing at Narcissa fully for the first time since they had left the deepest caverns that took their root well beneath ground level back at Azkaban: the humidity of the air visible on the dampened rocky walls. The blonde looked paler than usual, grey tint around her usual ice-like eyes. Back straight, however, hands neatly folded on her lap, the previous Malfoy matriarch still looked very much the nobility-holding title witch she had once been.

A shadow of something close to a sneer colored the rictus on her lips, though, and Hermione couldn’t do anything but roll her shoulders, knowing the conversation they were about to have was long overdue. After all, she had expected to have it such when they first had embarked in that very same boat a few hours prior; with the blindness the still-yet-to-have met up brought with it.

But Narcissa had remained silent then, eyes piercing the horizon rather than Hermione and a part of the brunette had been happy for it. Relieved. It seemed, however, that her luck had run out.

“Don’t even try, I know you insisted on coming, Miss Granger.”

The words didn’t quite hurt as much as the use of her surname. The brunette could remember how their last lengthy conversation had ended: with them waiting, surrounding by press, witches, wizards, mages, as the Lestrange trial started beyond the Wizengamot’s closed doors. She had made a promise, after all. A deal with the devil.

She could remember Narcissa’s eyes then, blue, like gems, as she had tried to feign she wasn’t about to cry with every bit of shame and guilt making them glow with unshed magic. She could remember the way the older witch had broken, like glass against stone, the way she had used her name as she had uttered how she knew it was far too much to ask, for her, who had suffered so much back at Malfoy Manor, for, at least, the ability to be able to visit the dark-haired woman whose fate was already sealed.

And yet, when the resolution had been shared, despite her promise of trying, Hermione had eyed Harry, had eyed Ron, and she had walked away. She hadn’t felt remorse from her decision, but she had seen the eyes, the glances, the magic, the promise taken ahold inside her chest.

Lowering her eyes, she looked back to Narcissa’s fingers, to the way they were pressed together, interlocked, knuckles whiter, magic dribbling through.

“I know you had been insisting on the visit. I wanted…”

She halted there, not knowing what exactly she was supposed to say. She had asked for her being the witch assigned to the task out of a sense of duty she couldn’t quite understand after all. And so, not even explain.

Ron had gurgled out curses when she had shared what Narcissa had asked out of her, with Harry looking at her with that mix of curious and doubtful glimmering its way through his irises. She ought to have felt much more incensed, she had told to herself: the gall the blonde witch possessed of even asking maybe too much for her. Yet, she hadn’t quite reacted to the words, numbness slowly eating her insides while she merely nodded, knowing beforehand she couldn’t really give a straight answer of what she could do.

War wasn’t always about battlefields and dates that became important once they passed: it was the remains what mattered and, by the time of the trials, there were far too much fragmented pieces of her still being rebuilt for her to have been capable of answering the tiniest fraction of a question.

She also knew that Narcissa, deep down, had understood her hesitation. Yet, expecting a logical answer from either of them when Bellatrix was involved was too much on itself. And so, she let her tongue fell flat, firmly between her teeth as she tried to find a way of adding to an already rotten layer of words.

I was concerned.

That was probably the best type of answer, but it implied much more, and Hermione glanced at the foam gathered against the external walls of the boat as the tension kept on mounting: Narcissa’s eyes following her once again. She had, indeed, been concerned. About what could potentially happen to Narcissa, to Bellatrix, to the reunion that had been bound to be difficult from the start.

Because, as they had quickly confirmed, Narcissa’s own necessity of checking that her sister was alright despite her situation, her condemnation, the older Black sister didn’t feel the same. Her screams had followed them both out of the caverns, the expletives as bad as -and even probably worse than- the ones a younger Hermione had once heard in the Black mansion, when she had been little more than a teen and there still had been adults padding the way to war.

She feared what any other mage, any other wizard or witch, would have done with an obviously devastated Narcissa whose divorce had already been long and extraneous enough.

Yet, concern and pity hold the same image when reflected into the Black’s mirror and the brunette knew that it wouldn’t be accepted so she sighed, deeply, while glancing up once more, the shadow of something close to land beginning to extend at Narcissa’s back.

“You had the privilege of a visit. You deserved it.”

It wasn’t much of an explanation and she tensed as Narcissa tilted her head, eyes as piercing as before but a glow of rendition on them. The grey around them had been red before stepping into the boat, the very much mortal and human wardens around the island silently watching as they retrieved their wands from where they had needed to leave them: open mockery and hate on their postures. Hermione knew she should never mention that detail: not in her report, not to anyone else.

Looking away from the brunette for the first time, Narcissa crossed one leg over the other while remaining as upright and as unbothered by the rocky waters as before, pushing the question inside Hermione’s subconscious if she had gotten her clothes magicked in some way.

Ironing lines that weren’t truly there, picking up lint that was indeed invisible, the Black sister sighed, lips pouting for a moment, before she took into Hermione’s form once again.

“And I suppose you are expecting some grateful words due to it.”

The younger witch shook her head. She didn’t deserve them: she had been duplicitous and they both knew it, a way of both shooting the guilt she felt and the words they both had shared during the trials. She wasn’t proud of her decision, but she knew there were worse actions to take.

“But I will ask on being your assigned witch if you ever wish to come back. The permit let you such, if you wished it so.”

And, despite her words, Bellatrix hadn’t said she didn’t want to see her sister anymore so…

The blonde hummed as the boat rocked and stopped, the small bumping motion against the shore the signal they had reached their final destination with more gates to cross until they were considered to be completely clear. Standing, the older woman stepped outside the boat and looked quizzically at Hermione, following her steps while the scent of salt filled their nostrils, seagulls framing her answer.

“I suppose it’s fair. Hermione.”

And so, she turned, her footsteps leaving prints as light as smoke on the wet sand. Her words, however, heavy.

Thank you

[shadowdianne]

You wanted a prompt? HERE'S A PROMPT! "There's something about her magic..." I know, uninspired and vague, but I'm sure you'll manage 😉

Oh boy, It’s been so long since I’ve filled a prompt I’m actually nervous Xd Pardon my rustiness Nara, first and foremost, because even if I’ve been writing it’s been some weeks since I’ve actually tackled anything longer than a small ficlet. Either way, thank you so much for the prompt, hope I manage to make it good.

Also also: I HAVE HOMEWORK FROM YOU. I haven’t forgotten, life has been… full. But I know it’s there and I’ll look at it this Friday, hopefully.

A/N Set after the war. Some time-jump after.

“Will you teach me how to create a patronus?”

The question echoed in the room, unanswered, as Hermione blinked away from the book she had been reading, comfortable in the warmth the charmed blanket that was draped at her feet created. Closing the book, reading forgotten, she looked at Narcissa as the blonde woman gazed at her, blue eyes glimmering under the golden light that filled the small space the brunette had learnt to call home.

In all honesty the studio wasn’t exactly homey but a refuge for the both of them; a place to be while the rest of the world kept its grey-ish pace and Hermione tilted her head as she made the conscious effort of filtering the noise that seeped through the old glass window which opened to a mix of magical and muggle London alike. Her brain always needed a few seconds to catch up with reality after being immersed in a book for so long and she felt silently grateful of the older witch as the blonde let her have those seconds of precious time, composure never wavering, eyes never looking away.

Moving herself closer to the older woman, taking into the warmth of her side as she leant on her, Hermione left the book she had been reading onto her lap and reached for Narcissa’s right hand, fingertips grazing the other’s knuckles as she thought on the question again, on what it meant.

Ever since they had started this –whatever this was as neither of them had truly felt the need of seriously naming it- Hermione had felt the push of Narcissa’s magic lapping into her own. A source of strength and power that, as opposed to other wizards and witches the brunette had met, was much more subdued inside the blue-eyed woman. It fed from curiosity however, just as hers did and Hermione could spend hours listening to Narcissa’s thought-process, on how the older woman saw the world. It was less restrictive than what her surname would have let one think; the vast knowledge Narcissa stored within her one of the things that the younger witch sometimes felt as if she would gladly drown into.

Yet, despite that, Narcissa had never asked as she just had; not for a charm or a hex or a potion and Hermione bit her lower lip as she considered how frail Narcissa’s magic now felt beneath her skin, heartbeat just as brittle.

She understood it, she also hated admitting she couldn’t reach the solution for something on her own and while she would repeat time and time again that Narcissa would probably be able to create the patronus without a problem she had seen the way the older woman would look at the small otter the few times Hermione had sent a message with it, the muscle memories from the war still present in the way she would tighten the grasp on her wand.

Startling when Narcissa turned her hand up, her fingers slightly curved so Hermione could closed hers around them, she followed the silent request, strength dripping through. There, faint but vibrating, the brunette could feel the energy she always felt in the air whenever the youngest of the three Black sisters used her magic. It was delicate, silver-like. Magic was similar but never the same for anyone and there was something about Narcissa’s magic that hold Hermione’s attention, charmed her in, whenever she was near: a distant pull colored by Slytherin colors and a hue of something else she wasn’t entirely able to voice, crystal-like. Tinting the pale, almost far too pale, skin, rivulets of magic reached to Hermione’s, the power one she could sense with just the barest of nudges.

Rising Narcissa’s hand, Hermione dropped a kiss on it, her lips warm against slightly colder skin: reveling on it she let her eyes fall closed. There was always this, the quietness, the calmness the other woman exuded, that made her open her eyes at the end and mutter a quick “Yes.”

She got up, pulling the blanket away from her as she turned towards the blonde, the way Narcissa followed her as elegant as the wisps of magic that fell from her fingertips, coiling around her veins.

It was strange, Harry would say, how for someone so analytical magic always felt like art for Hermione, an array of colors and threads. The young man, however, wasn’t there, in the small studio apartment filled with books and solved cases Hermione displayed as proud as she was able to: memories of a job well done as she managed to cut through ages upon ages of stagnant magic laws.

“Do you know the way you need to hold your wand for this?” The question, the inflection of her voice, came to her just as easy and she spied a small smile on Narcissa’s face before the blonde nodded, holding her wand with just the exact precision it needed: silver and mahogany mixing together under Hermione’s gaze.

It was, maybe, too perfect, too text-book like. But when had that stopped her? Taking a step closer towards the older witch Hermione pressed two fingers above Narcissa’s wrist, making the angle of the wrist and arm relax and change just the smidge it needed to be.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t manage to make it corporeus on the first try.” Her voice had dropped a whisper now more than a full-fleshed tone and Narcissa’s response –a slight change on her breathing, the way her chest rose and fell next to hers, made Hermione be the one who smiled this time.

“I know.” The answer was laced with nervousness all the same and Hermione hummed before letting her hand fall away, eyes focused as she breathed in Narcissa’s perfume.

It felt grounding in a way and she loved the blonde witch for that, for the easy way she made such questions fall from her lips, for how her magic called for hers –never demanding, always loving-.

There was something about her after all.

One day, she told herself, she would admit it outloud. One day.