School: Beauxbatons

Theme: Shyverwretches Venoms and Poisons

Main Prompt: [AU] Dark!Hermione, Additional Prompts: [Event] Wedding, [Quote] "It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." Nicholos Machiavelli

Year: Exchange student standing in for year 5

W/C: 1 852

Note: Hermione is around 8 at the beginning of this fic.

The reason she knows her Mistress's name but not her Master's is because her relationship with her Master was quite different (though I did drop a hint about who he was in his appearance and manner)

Also, just to make this clear: her final action is what she believes will compensate and heal her from all she has gone through.

Hermione tried to sit still, smoothing the uncomfortable layers of her tulle dress. How long was this supposed to take? She'd entertained herself for the first two hours by calculating the number of guests, the time that passed and the cost of organizing the event. Why anyone would spend so much just to get married was beyond her.

There was a commotion at the entrance. People were yelling, calling out to each other and pushing through the other exits only to be knocked down. Black-robed figures shot beams of light around like lasers. Everyone hit by the light seemed to collapse. The rational part of her mind marveled at the efficiency of attacking a wedding: finding targets was probably like shooting fish in a barrel. The other part was yelling at her to run. Nevertheless, she sat there for long enough that one of the attackers approached her.

"Aren't you a nice little pet?" she said. "Let's have some fun, shall we? Cruc-"

"The Dark Lord's orders were to kill the Muggles, Bellatrix," drawled a voice from behind her. The man lifted his hand. Whatever was in it glistened.

Panicking, Hermione raised her hands to shield herself, emitting red sparks in her fear.

"Oh, this isn't a Muggle," the woman purred, pulling back her hood to expose a face that looked beautiful and cruel at the same time. "You're a Mudblood, aren't you?"

She barely had time to wonder what that was when the spells struck her.

When she woke up, there was something around her neck, tight and scratchy. She tried to pull it off, but her hands didn't move. She could only move her legs. She was standing in front of a mansion. The man in front of her had a rope in his hand, which was connected to whatever was around her throat. He tugged sharply, and she yelled, but no sound came out.

Was this a nightmare?

He kept pulling. She had no choice but to follow him down a dimly lit walkway. In the eerie light, she could see that his skin was pale and his hair was white.

Was he a ghost, come to punish her for looking at Daddy's books when he'd not given her permission to?

He hauled her in through the front door and down many passages. They passed many rooms. She tried to look into them, but the man slapped her on the face. No one had ever done that before.

He opened a door and shoved her into a small room that smelt of dirt and blood. "This is where you'll be staying," he said. "You're my pet now, so if you misbehave, I will punish you." He attached the rope he was holding to a hook far above her head. "If you try to move, this will pull at your neck, and you will die," he said. "This rope will not break. Do you understand?"

She nodded as much as she could with the rope around her neck.

Where were her parents? Did they not love her anymore?

"I asked if you understood. Crucio."

Pain struck her like nothing she had ever felt before. "Yes!" she yelled, hoping it would end.

"Address me as Master or Sir when you speak to me," the man said coldly, as she fell into blackness.

She awoke the following morning, hoping it was a dream, but the man was back. He told her to obey him, and she did. Her parents had told her that much, and she wanted them back. Maybe if she made him happy, he'd tell her where they were.

Maybe he'd even come to love her as his child.

"You have no parents," he said when she asked him. "I am your owner now. I own you. You are under my command. This is the last time I will entertain your delusions. Remember this."

He told her that magic was real, that he had it, and if she did exactly what he told her to, he'd teach her some, too. He kept throwing spells at her, ones that sounded similar to what he'd first used on her. He told her to try to resist. She did her best, but it ended with her on the floor, screaming.

He shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you, girl. I rescued you from those people who hated magic and brought you here to raise you as my child, yet you can't obey a simple instruction?"

She stared up at him with tears in her eyes as he walked out.

So she tried harder, always striving to live up to his standards. When he came with the whips and the tools, she could not stop her screams, but he taught her ways to avoid the pain. She became stronger because she accepted that she was just his pet, and she had the privilege of being trained by him. When she was old enough, it was the potions and the spells. He taught her about her talent, how to channel it and direct it and hurt people with it.

On her ninth birthday, he summoned her to his study. "You cannot stay here any longer. There are people who want to imprison you. They are beginning to suspect that you are with me."

She kept her eyes trained on the floor as she had been instructed. "Yes, Master."

"I am sending you to one of my allies. She will train you well, but she is stricter than me. Be sure that you do not let me down."

"Yes, Master."

When she woke up the following day, it was in an unfamiliar room.

Her Mistress was very different from her Master. She did things that hurt more, things she said would make her stronger. Hermione kept trying, but there was one thing she never understood.

"Mistress?" she dared to say once.

"Yes, pet?"

"Why don't people love me?"

Mistress looked up from the potion she was preparing for Hermione. "I don't know. I used to wonder the same thing, but after a while, I never cared about whether people loved me. Take it from me, pet: it is much better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."

Her first years at Hogwarts were confusing. She'd been taught to expect hatred from everyone she met. They'd told her to act like she was better than all of them, something she couldn't quite believe now. After years of being treated like a tool, she walked into the school with her head down.

Her Mistress had given her goals to accomplish, writing her seemingly innocent letters to punish her if she didn't. Mistress knew the art of containing curses and potions in parchment. "Reach out to the scum," she'd told her. "Let them all admire you, but also fear you." So she'd carried out every one of her tasks with perfection and a mounting sense of pride.

As she carefully carved her initials into the dead rat of the boy who'd bullied her, it crept up on her that what she was doing couldn't be labeled as good. However, she knew how to clear her mind of intrusive thoughts. She preferred to think of it as justice. She had to admit, it felt delightful, putting challenges in the way of these soft witches and wizards who'd been pampered their entire life and were still lucky enough to be here. She'd worked hard every single day of her childhood, endured pain on top of agony with a side of torture to get acknowledgment and recognition. She'd surely earned the right to make their lives a little bit harder.

At the end of her second year, she was called to the office of the Deputy Headmistress. She stumbled in and waited to be scolded. She didn't expect to be praised for her performance in her schoolwork and asked if she had any problems dealing with the aftermath of the attack. On her way out, her professor said, "It's such a shame that a bright young witch like yourself doesn't have a family to go back to."

"I do, Professor," she said, scared that her wonderful upbringing was not shown through her behavior.

Her professor looked at her sadly.

"Bellatrix Lestrange is not your parent, child," she said. "She may praise you occasionally, but she cannot love you."

She may not love me, but I have seen her fear me, and that is even better, she thought, fingering the vial of the Draught of Living Death she'd just brewed. Once this task is done, she will not be the only one.

Her Master visited her the night before her wedding.

"Congratulations, girl," he said, helping himself to her Firewhisky without bothering to ask for permission. "Let this match be a reward for your noteworthy assassination of the Potter boy."

His steely gaze met hers. She lowered her eyes. Even though I let you marry my son, remember that I own you, he seemed to be saying. Your body, mind, soul and every last thing you think you possess is mine.

"I heard that you had a difference of opinion about the union," he said. "It has been settled, I believe?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. Your period of 'self-isolation' that your Mistress was kind enough to grant you—I trust that you are content with it? There will be no more crazed outbursts?"

"No, Master."

"Good. Remember, girl," he said, opening the door, "one misstep, and it's not just me you'll be dealing with. Do not underestimate the Dark Lord's power."

She smirked as the door banged shut. Why should I, when you have always underestimated mine?

The morning of the wedding dawned. Her Mistress helped her prepare, training with her till the crack of dawn, telling her what she'd have to expect. Hermione listened with great interest as she slipped her dagger into the skirt of her gown.

She walked in, alone, as her Mistress had insisted. She took her place next to the boy, plastering a fake smile on her face as Death Eaters, Ministry officials and the Dark Lord himself wished them well, came offering gifts and well wishes. Everything seemed to blur as she counted the time that passed, ticking down to her moment.

When she heard the words "You may kiss the bride," pure adrenaline flowed through her as she whipped her knife out and drove it into the boy's chest.

She closed her eyes, savouring the crackle of spells being deflected off her shield and the cries of "How did this Mudblood learn to cast a stronger Protego than any other?" "How did she bypass all the layers of security?"

When she opened them, she smiled at her audience, relishing the shock, hate and fear evident on every face except the Dark Lord's. He met her gaze and grinned with pride.

She pulled her knife out of the dying boy and wiped it on her dress before returning it to its sheath.

"Do you fear me?"

Her voice rang out like a trumpet call, triumphant and powerful. Within seconds, a faint chorus of "yes" arose.

"Good."