The manor was finally quiet. The other maids had gone to bed, and Hermione sat in Mrs. Hawkins' office with her battered suitcase and her freshly laundered clothing.
"Is the mistress asleep?" Mrs. Hawkins asked as she folded a coat and shrank it to fit in the suitcase.
Hermione nodded, rolling up pairs of stockings. "She wants to be well rested for tomorrow."
Mrs. Hawkins sighed. "You know you can stay here with me," she said gently. "It'll be a nice holiday, not having to look after the mistress. You could go with the rest of the girls down to the village and meet a nice chap. The village boys are all respectable, I've known them for years."
Hermione made a face, "I don't think I'll be interested in them," she said, rolling up another pair of woolen stockings. "I think seven pair are enough," she said quietly, marking the stockings on a packing list. "That just leaves shoes and toiletries."
Mrs. Hawkins looked sorrowful. "Meet a nice girl, then Hermione. Someone you can settle down with."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "I don't want a nice girl, either. I'm perfectly happy with how things are."
"The mistress doesn't love you, Hermione!" Mrs. Hawkins said loudly. "She's just lonely, is all. Once you get up north and she gets to working for him again she'll cast you aside like yesterday's Prophet, and you'll be up there unhappy and overworked!"
Hermione shrank her old pair of boots. They were second hand, but dragon hide, and made to withstand the elements. Thoughts of her mistress tumbled around in her mind. Thoughts she didn't want to have. "I know there's a chance that she'll lose interest in me," she said slowly.
Mrs. Hawkins let out a dry laugh, "There's more than a chance-"
"But she still needs me," Hermione said, raising her voice over Mrs. Hawkins', "I can make her life a little easier, and I can't imagine anyone else taking care of her."
Mrs. Hawkins looked as if she'd been smacked. "You've fallen in love with her," she whispered.
Hermione's cheeks burned, but she met Mrs. Hawkins' gaze levelly, "I'd do anything for her," she said truthfully.
"Oh, my girl!" Mrs. Hawkins' hands moved as if to reach for Hermione, but fell short. "She wouldn't do the same for you. She's in love with the Dark Lord, and his cause. It would be so much simpler if you could find someone more suitable-"
Hermione laughed, "Who is more suitable? Should I go marry a dockhand or a factory worker and live in a grimy little flat? Should I churn out kids who'll become nothing more than dockhands, factory workers, and servants?"
"A family doesn't have to be rich to be happy," said Mrs. Hawkins with forced cheer, "My Bobby and I weren't rich, but we had a good home. We need dockhands and factory workers, they're just as important as the rest of 'em. My Bobby didn't go to Hogwarts, but he was a clever man, and he lived an important life!"
Hermione relented a little, "I know that the laborers are just as important as anyone," it had been drilled into them at the Institute, "but…" She bit her lip, and thought about her next words carefully, "when I'm with the Mistress I feel… more than just another servant. I feel alive."
Pity filled Mrs. Hawkin's eyes, and Hermione wished she had not spoken.
"My girl, you are a servant. A good one, and a clever one, but a servant nonetheless. It does you no good to forget it."
"Well, I can't forget it, can I?" Hermione shot. "Not when everyone and everything reminds me!" She slammed her hands down on the table, making the contents of her suitcase rattle. To her embarrassment, she could feel tears prickle at her lashes, and she hung her head to hide them.
Worn fingers covered hers. "You need just as much sleep as the Mistress tonight," Mrs. Hawkins said. "It'll be a big day for you tomorrow. Why don't you run to bed, and I'll finish this up?"
Glumly, Hermione nodded. She gave a halfhearted goodnight to Mrs. Hawkins, and slipped back through the familiar servant's staircase to climb the stairs to her little room.
With the light from her wand she scrubbed her face clean and changed into her nightgown, then climbed beneath the cold covers of her bed. She spent more nights than not with her mistress, and it was difficult to fall asleep without the familiar rhythmic breathing.
Eventually, however, exhaustion overpowered her, and she slid into a dreamless sleep.
XX
The next morning, Mrs. Hawkins woke her before dawn and insisted she come down for early breakfast. The housekeeper wore an expression of forced cheeriness, and kept her voice light.
The other maids were sleepy but kind to Hermione. Their work would be lighter with the mistress gone, and they would have more afternoons off to look forward to. They slapped her back and slid little sweets into her pockets.
"I made your favorite," Mrs. Hawkins said, bringing forth bilberry jam on toast, along with streaky bacon and a cup of sugared tea. She sat close to Hermione as the young woman ate, her eyes watery.
When the bell rang that signalled the mistress had woken earlier than usual, one of the other maids jumped up to take her breakfast up.
"You sit right there, and eat as much as you can," Mrs. Hawkins said to Hermione. "Merlin knows when you'll have another moment to yourself."
Hermione didn't tell her that she hated being by herself. Instead she reached for Mrs. Hawkins' hand and squeezed it.
The minutes ticked by, and Hermione finished every bite of her breakfast and another glass of tea.
"You'd better go up," Mrs. Hawkins said finally. She stood with Hermione, and pulled her into a hug. "Please, take care of yourself my girl," she said, her voice breaking.
Hermione hugged her back, trying to put all of her gratefulness into the gesture. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she said, pulling away at last.
Mrs. Hawkins gave a small smile, "I'm sure we will." She brought forth Hermione's shrunken suitcase, "I've packed the essentials, but if you need anything at all you're to owl me immediately. I'll get it to you."
Hermione nodded, and kissed Mrs. Hawkins on the cheek.
"Oh," Mrs. Hawkins walked her to the base of the servant's staircase, and watched her go up.
Despite how sorry she was to leave Mrs. Hawkins behind, Hermione couldn't stop the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach as she entered her mistress' rooms and sank into a curtsey.
"Finally," Bellatrix said, lips quirked in a teasing smirk. "I thought you might have changed your mind."
Hermione's breath caught as she straightened. "Never," she breathed.
Bellatrix gestured to the trunk Hermione had packed the day before, "My things are all in there, I think. Where did I put my wand- ah, here it is!"
Hermione shrank the trunk and put it into her pocket, along with another case that contained the tent her mistress intended to keep on hand. While Bellatrix wrote a list of last minute instructions to Mrs. Hawkins, Hermione ran to her own little room and grabbed her cloak.
"Are we taking a portkey?" She asked once she'd returned to her mistress' sitting room.
Bellatrix waved her hand, "I'll apparate us. It's so much easier than getting the Ministry involved."
Hermione's stomach gave a nervous flutter as Bellatrix stepped closer. Hermione was unable to apparate herself, and the two times she'd been side-along apparated had ended poorly. Indeed, as she felt the familiar squeezing sensation her breakfast rose to her throat. The scream that bubbled up was cut off as she felt her body being pulled through time and space, it was all she could do to keep her breakfast from coming up entirely.
In a matter of seconds- which really felt more like years- solid ground materialized under her feet. Hermione wobbled, and pressed her flushed face into Bellatrix's cool neck. A moment later she stiffened. How could she be so careless? She didn't even know where she was! What if someone had seen?
But Bellatrix's warm chuckle washed over her. "Come, little Mouse, surely it's not that bad?"
Hermione took a deep breath, and shook her head. Slowly, she looked around.
They were standing in an alley between two brick buildings. A line of washing hung above them. Their only witness was an orange eyed tabby that sniffed at them hopefully from behind a rubbish bin.
"Where are we?" Hermione asked when she was able to speak again.
Bellatrix's hand was warm on her shoulder. "Hogsmeade. It's a little village by my old school. It's perfectly safe," she said, misjudging the look on Hermione's face. "The Dark Lord's forces are here now, and no one will get past them."
Hermione swallowed, and offered up a weak smile, "I know I'm safe as long as I'm with you."
Warmth entered the grey-blue eyes of her mistress, and Bellatrix pressed a chaste kiss to Hermione's forehead. Then she pulled back. "I've got to meet Lucius and the others at the Three Broomsticks," she said, "We have rooms at the Little Rose Inn, will you set them up for me?"
Hermione nodded.
"That's my Mouse," Bellatrix said, her eyes sparkling. "I'll be back for lunch, and then I'll show you around. I think you'll love it here."
"I'm sure I will," Hermione said.
Bellatrix stroked a single finger down the length of Hermione's nose, and then walked briskly towards the front of the alley. "The Inn is back there," she called out, "You'll find it easily."
Hermione watched her go, and then felt a jolt rush through her, "Wait!" She cried, "Mistress! My- my pass!"
Bellatrix swore loudly, and then turned on her heel and came back. "Stupid things," she muttered under her breath as she searched her robes. "You'd think they'd allow a permanent pass by now, it's been so long-" She made a face as she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, the lines already filled. "Get me a quill," she sighed.
Hermione had to enlarge her suitcase, and nearly dropped her clothes onto the wet cobblestone before she unearthed a self-inking quill.
Bellatrix held the paper against the brick wall and scratched out the previous writing. "It's already got your name and wand registration," she said, and then gave Hermione an apologetic look, "I'll purchase a new pad of them on my way back."
Hermione nodded, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Any Muggleborn outside of their residential town or city needed a pass from their employer explaining their purpose for being there. It made it doubly difficult for muggleborns without employers to move freely, as they had to get a pass from the Ministry's Department of Muggleborn Affairs, and that could take weeks or even months to arrange.
"Thank you," Hermione said when Bellatrix handed her the square of paper.
Bellatrix nodded, and turned to go.
Hermione turned to the little street at her end of the alley, and followed it past several shops. Eventually she found the Little Rose Inn at the edge of town, where cobbled street became dirt road and the houses thinned.
The Little Rose Inn was a tall stone building with a thatched roof. Hermione entered the front door, and rang the little bell that sat at the counter.
An older man emerged from a back room, and smiled until Hermione showed her pass. He ran his eyes over the slip of paper, his jaw clenched, and without looking at Hermione cried out, "Flora!"
There was a pounding of steps on the wooden staircase behind Hermione, and a round-faced girl her own age appeared, dress damp from the chest to the waist. "Yes?" She squeaked.
"Mudblood," the man said, thrusting Hermione's pass back at her. As soon as she took it he disappeared into the back room.
It wasn't the first time someone had refused to help Hermione, but she never got used to the sting. Her eyes felt gritty and her cheeks burned as she turned to Flora, who looked at her in sympathy.
"Have you got a reservation?" Flora asked gently.
Hermione nodded, and forced her voice to sound cheerful. "My mistress has one. It's for Lestrange. Bellatrix Lestrange."
"Oh!" Flora's blue eyes went wide, and she slid behind the counter. "She's not the first fighter we've had here. But she may be the most famous one!" She pulled out a ledger and flipped through it, nodding when she found what she was looking for.
"The Thorn Suite," Flora said, closing the ledger. To Hermione, she beamed, "It's the best rooms we have. And it's even got a little room for you, usually the Muggleborns sleep in the basement rooms."
Hermione pictured a bleak, dark room and silently thanked her mistress for needing the best.
"I'll show you up there," Flora said, leading Hermione up the stairs.
The Thorn Suite was on the top floor. Flora handed Hermione a heavy iron key, and another for Bellatrix, and then pushed open the door.
The sickly smell of dead roses assaulted Hermione's nose, and she let out a cough.
Flora nodded, "It's been a while since anyone's been up here."
Still, despite the smell the rooms were pretty. The walls were cream, and the large windows enchanted to be sunny. The wooden floor was covered in thick rugs with tangled roses and robins woven into them. There was a sitting area with pink silk armchairs, and a bed with pink silk hangings beyond it.
"The elves will send up the meals here," Flora said, indicating a table by the front door that was laid with tableware and cutlery for two. "Just place the dirty dishes in the bin underneath," she pointed to a plastic bin on a shelf beneath the table. "And the bathroom is through here, we replenish towels and such every morning."
Hermione glanced at the bright bathroom with the enormous bathtub and smiled. Bellatrix loved her baths.
"Your room is through here," Flora said, opening a door beside the bathroom. It was small and windowless, more of a cupboard than an actual bedroom, but Hermione smiled anyway. "Thank you," she said.
Flora grinned, "If you need anything let me know. After six we have an elf run the front desk. He'll get you anything you need."
Hermione thanked her again, and then turned her attention to getting the rooms ready. She unpacked her mistress' trunk, placing the clothes in the wardrobe, setting up the desk in the corner with Bellatrix's books and maps and potion kit, and then placing the stockpile of toiletries in the bathroom.
Then she unpacked her own suitcase in her room, and discovered the tiny door that led to the world's smallest bathroom. There was a toilet and a showerhead over the toilet, with a drain in the middle of the floor. There was just enough room for Hermione to stand in the middle with her elbows out, but not much more.
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks again. Muggleborns often had their own toilets, but at home she shared a nice, big bathroom with the other muggleborns, it was nothing as degrading as this. She slammed the door shut, and sat heavily on her bed.
It's not worth it to be upset, she told herself. It's just the way things are. Besides, in another hour her mistress would be back for lunch, and she would no doubt have much to tell Hermione.
Hermione settled on her bed and pulled a book down from the shelf above her pillow.
At noon the food came, but Bellatrix did not. Hermione set her book down and looked attentively at the front door, her back straight.
A clock on the mantle ticked the minutes away. They had been given hearty bowls of stew, and Hermione watched as the steam lessened, then dissipated entirely. White flecks of fat congealed on the skin that formed over the meat and potatoes, and Hermione's hunger turned to nausea.
In her three years of being… dear to her Mistress, Bellatrix had never been late. Every promise she made had been kept. Hermione felt a thrill of fear, suppose the rebels had attacked? Suppose her mistress was lying in the street at that very moment, wounded or… or worse.
Hermione pressed her eyes closed and willed her head to stop spinning. Surely there would be an alarm of some sort if there was an attack, she told herself. The village was important, and near the school. They had to have a warning system.
Hermione thought of the man who owned the inn and her breath caught. Would anyone think to warn a muggleborn servant? No one would be blamed if something happened to her, she knew that. A Pureblood, or even a Halfblood, couldn't be expected to put their lives in danger for the likes of her.
Hermione's footsteps clattered across the floorboards as she crossed to the window and shoved the shutters open. Fresh air, cold and damp, crushed against her face, and she searched the street below, listening for any sound of a fight.
There was nothing. An older witch led a toddler by the hand, and the child's laughter floated up to Hermione. She watched the figures for a moment, relaxing as she took in their unhurried movements and smiling faces.
Then where was her mistress?
The sun slowly sank behind the housetops, and the stew was replaced by roast chicken and vegetables, with soft, fluffy rolls that kindled Hermione's appetite again. She gave her mistress half an hour before she placed a preservation spell over Bellatrix's plate and tore into her own. Hermione ate standing up, one eye on the door.
Afterwards she sat on the edge of one of the armchairs and chewed on her nails, as she watched the door.
It was past nine when the door burst open and made Hermione jump out of her skin. Bellatrix entered, her eyes dancing. "The Dark Lord is here to personally oversee our actions," she said, her voice full of excitement. "Why are you sitting in the dark? I made sure the rooms had a fireplace, it gets chilly so quickly here-"
Hermione leapt to her feet as the logs on the hearth crackled to life and the lanterns that were placed around the room lit. "I saved dinner for you," she said, when really she wanted to demand what had taken Bellatrix so long.
Bellatrix didn't look at the chicken, "I already ate," she said, waving her hand. "We had a meeting room at the Three Broomsticks."
Hermione assumed that was a restaurant, and ducked her head, her feelings swarming.
"Where's my parchment and quill?" Bellatrix asked from near the bed. "I need to write to the Prophet right away, and then to Draco. He should have come instead of Lucius, really."
Hermione licked her lips, and said, "I unpacked everything- they should be in the desk drawer."
Bellatrix hummed in triumph as she found the requested items, and then sat down, her eyes intent on the words she wrote.
Hermione watched her, and felt a horrible yearning open up in her belly. It was as if she was at the bottom of a hole. Hermione had always been aware of their difference in stations and how foolish it was for her to feel for a Pureblood the way she felt for her mistress, but she never felt the chasm between them so keenly as she did standing there in that room.
Unable to bear the ache, she turned and stalked towards her room. With trembling hands she changed into her nightgown and curled up under the scratchy wool blanket on her bed. Her eyes remained open, staring at the shelf and hooks that held her clothing and the few books she had brought.
Maybe Mrs. Hawkins had been right, maybe Hermione should have stayed behind at the manor. She might have found someone in the village. She felt tears prick her eyes, and swallowed heavily against them.
No, she could never be content with someone from the village. Not after Bellatrix. The older woman had ruined her for all others. She was all Hermione thought about. When the girl pictured her future she saw her mistress' smile, the curve of her jaw, the blue veins of her arms as they Hermione close. Bellatrix was Hermione's whole world.
Eventually, the scratching of the quill ceased, and Hermione heard her mistress shuffle around the room, opening the wardrobe and muttering to herself as she prepared for bed.
"Granger?" Bellatrix's soft voice came a few minutes later from the doorway, "are you awake?"
Hermione considered closing her eyes and letting her breathing settle, but even as the thought occurred to her she sat up. "Yes."
"I didn't bring you north with me so that I could shiver in my bed all night."
Part of Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but it was the only invitation she would get. She rose, and followed Bellatrix to the spacious bed by the windows.
"I have to wake early," Bellatrix said, "The Dark Lord wants me by his side while he plans. You should have seen him." Her voice grew soft and reverent, "It was just like the old days. Like no time at all had passed. He called me his most loyal, and Lucius' face was positively green with envy!" She cackled softly, and pulled Hermione close. "See if you can find something to freshen the air tomorrow, will you? It reeks in here."
Hermione nodded, "Ok."
"That's my Mouse." Bellatrix blinked her eyes and yawned, then rolled over onto her stomach, one arm posessively around Hermione's middle. "Wake me at 5," she mumbled sleepily.
Hermione whispered "Ok," again, and twisted so that she could watch Bellatrix's face as the older witch drifted off to sleep. The ache in her chest flared up as she watched Bellatrix's features slacken in the lantern light.
Yes, Bellatrix was Hermione's whole world.
And it killed her that she was not the same for Bellatrix.