Chapter 5

The cart trundled down the road, intermittently hitting stones in the road. The driver was some kind of caretaker or delivery man that didn't speak. She was as important to him as the sack of potatoes sitting next to her. Just another commodity to deliver. This had taken hours and Hermione's back was getting sore.

They were going through deep forest now. The Flint family were not urban people, it seemed, and they didn't want to be near anywhere that muggles lived, so this was remote, and heavily forested. It felt as if things were growing darker and more ominous by the hour.

Repeatedly, she worried that her life was going to get infinitely worse and she cursed Malfoy for forcing this on her. But she did not cower. It wasn't in her. This she would face like she did everything else.

By the thickness of the forest, this looked like a place she couldn't escape even if she wanted to. Not that it would do any good.

Intermittently, her old self resurfaced and insisted that there was something she could do to make life better for herself and people like her, but all avenues had been shut down. The friendly people at the ministry had all been removed. Hogwarts was too careful to invite seditious elements into the school. They very much had to toe the line. Maybe if one of her masters was to send her overseas, and free her in everything but name. The Flints certainly wouldn't do that, but maybe it would be something she could convince Marcus of—particularly if her absence would incense Malfoy even more.

Or it could be that Malfoy would lose interest now. She was out of reach, and probably wasn't worth the effort. It still saddened her that she'd had to give up her comfortable situation with the Ollivanders. However her situation turned out, it was likely to be better.

As the forest got so dark and dense, she wondered if it could possibly get more so, it opened up to a parkland. The Flints were well off. The house was a castle, old and built with gray stone. Malfoy Manor was newer and much more French in design, but this looked ancient. Did this mean the Flints were older than the Malfoys? That was interesting. Maybe this was the source of some of the contention between the families. Also the reason the Malfoys couldn't bully them.

A tree-lined avenue led to the house, and when the cart reached it, it went around the side of the house to the servant's entrance. People came out to carry the sacks away and a man joined them, who looked like a superior based on her clothes.

"Are you the new slave?" he asked.

Hermione had to swallow her dissent. "Yes," she replied.

He looked her up and down. "You don't look particularly sturdy," he said dismissively. "You'll have to work in the kitchen."

In some regards, she was relieved. There could be worse fates, and in the kitchen, she wouldn't have to deal with the family—just feed them.

"Perhaps the scullery."

Or clean after them. Her hands would be destroyed by it, probably.

"Come," he said and walked ahead of her. "I don't need to tell you that there's no point trying to escape. I understand you're tracked anyway, but I will tell you, in case you're a stupid girl," he said, looking at her pointedly, "that there are creatures in the woods who like to eat stupid girls."

Hermione bit her teeth together, because if she had her wand, she would know exactly how to deal with them.

"The family is not receptive, so there is little point trying to ingratiate yourself to any of them. Just do your work and you will be appreciated enough."

The fact that the Flints weren't kind to their servants wasn't exactly shocking. Marcus Flint hadn't been kind to anyone as far as she'd seen. Not someone she knew a great deal about. Competitive, snarky and arrogant. That was all she knew about Marcus Flint. Didn't play fair either. Win at all costs had been his motto, and he didn't forgive weakness.

The stairway down lead to a kitchen with the smallest window up very high. It was dark, but warm from the fire. There seemed to be a dozen people there, going about their business. Who were these people? They weren't people she'd ever seen before.

"You'll be working in here," the man said dismissively. "Miss Churing will give you your duties."

An older woman looked up from the main kitchen table where she was kneading dough. Her features were sharp and she was thin. Wiping her hands on her apron, she looked set to come over.

"This is her?" a voice said, a younger man. "The new slave?"

"Yes," the original man said.

"She's to come upstairs."

"Don't be ridiculous. She's working in the kitchen."

"Not right now. Master wants to see her."

The original man blinked. "See her?" he said with utter confusion. "This is highly irregular. Master does not deal with slaves. It is inappropriate."

"You wish to tell Master his wishes are inappropriate?"

For a moment, the original man wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words. "Fine," he said and walked off, clearly upset by this.

"This way," the younger man said. "What's your name?"

"Hermione."

"I'm James. I deal with the family, so I don't want to hear from you, but Master's expressed he wishes to see you. For what reason, I don't know." Now it was his turn to look her up and down, as if trying to understand this unusual request.

Well, she had a pretty good idea why. "Do you always call him Master?"

"Yes. Always."

"Where are you from?"

"No questions," he demanded and walked ahead of her down the hall and up a set of stairs. They walked along what had to be hidden corridors to then step out into the family area. The décor was dark and lush, although the stone walls showed the older nature of the building. It was cold too.

They approached dark lacquered doors and James knocked softly.

"Enter," they heard.

"The girl has arrived," James said as they walked in. Marcus was sitting at a desk in a room that was equally dark. Black and green. They definitely kept to their house colors. Marcus looked up. He was very similar to how she remembered him. Unconcerned and uninterested.

"Leave," Marcus ordered and they both paused. "Not her, you."

"Of course," James said with a bow and then retreated, closing the door behind him.

"Granger," Marcus said with a smile. "You look… downtrodden." He rose from his chair and walked around the desk. "Kneel."

Hermione took a moment to absorb the request and did as he asked. This was some kind of show of power, she suspected. According to the scene downstairs, it was unusual he wished to speak to the new slaves.

He walked closer, staring down at her. She kept her eyes down, but felt as if she was being studied.

"You're lucky I've always found you unattractive. Can't say age has improved you."

It was hard not to feel the insult. Her hair had always been a source of ridicule from the Slytherins. Her attractiveness had been their main target, so nothing had changed there.

If she spoke now, talked back, he would do something to her—she knew it.

"So Malfoy is trying to purchase you—after all this time. Can't say I'm surprised."

This had her looking up to try to see if she could understand the statement, because she didn't truly understand Draco's motives in this.

"What do you think he wants?" Marcus asked.

"To make me suffer, I suspect," she said.

Marcus' head twisted to the side as if he was surveying her. "You know you have to do everything I tell you."

"The conditions of slavery hasn't escaped me," she said tartly.

"Still got that lip on you. Always ready to get you into trouble. I used to wonder if Malfoy actually hated you more than Potter. Obviously, you were a mudblood. Servicing purebloods was always how you'd end up, wasn't it?"

Was she supposed to agree to that? She also didn't like how he said that.

"And you were so, so desperate for approval—which would never come. Because you are what you are."

Was he goading her now? Seeing if she'd lose her temper? Well, she wasn't that stupid. And yes, there had been a time, when she was a child, when she'd been so eager for approval and acceptance.

"And here you are, living your destiny."

Well, this was getting tiresome. She tuned out. Gaze down, she guardedly studied the room. The rug had designs on it, and it looked like it was related to the Flint family, to their history. Battles and the like. Intellectually, she did find that interesting.

Marcus had gone quiet. "So what am I going to do with you?" he asked.

It was hard to be impartial to that questions. "It seems I have the build of a scullery maid," she said.

Flint chuckled. "You need to call me Master. I won't be so forgiving again."

"Yes, Master," she said, hating the word with every cell in her body.

"Now, get out of my sight. James," he yelled. James returned, having clearly waited at the door, had probably listened in on the whole conversation. "Put her in one of the minor guest rooms. Out of the way, so she'd not seen. I'd stay out of sight if I were you. Don't let my mother see you, of you will be down in the kitchen."

Hermione didn't understand this kindness. It was confusing.

"I don't want her damaged in any way," Flint said to James.

This wasn't kindness, she recognized. She was an asset being stored away. A toy he was preserving for whatever he had planned. As a result, though, she got a bed to sleep in, and a nice room, but it was nothing more than a cell.