Warning: Slavery.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters and no money has been made from this.

Enjoy...


Chapter One

Fingers trace the tip of the spine, gentle, almost caressing as she adjusts the necklace into place. The diamonds sparkle in the flicker of the flames. The dress is stunning accentuating the perfect figure beneath. Back exposed, shoulder muscles flex, a habit obtained, the slightest twitch to show discomfort.

Beautiful, it's the only word she can find, jealousy, rears its ugly head. Wishing to have a body like the one before her. Wishing she could wear such lavish clothes and jewellery. The though is pushed down almost immediately. She'd rather have the body on top of her own, ravishing her.

The very thought makes her blush, she focuses on the last touches of the dress. Preparing the lady of the house for the ball, ensuring there is nothing out of place. She steps back admiring her work, admiring the dress and most importantly her Mistress. Studied the figure before her, looking for a piece of fabric out of place. She would not embarrass the lady of the house, and would never harm her reputation.

"Well?" The voice is clipped, emotionless, the body unmoving the perfect posture as she waits to be dressed. "How do I look?"

Beautiful, stunning, as though moulded by the gods themselves. The poem, She Walks in Beauty, repeats in her mind. Nothing so fitting for such a woman. There is no darkness without light, although many would argue there is no light to be seen in her Lady. She would argue, silently, to herself. She would argue they are wrong, despite her Lady's attitude, her persona, and her actions, there are times. Such times where there is nothing but pureness to her Lady.

Not that she would ever utter the words, would never read the poem to her lady. She could never, her muggle poetry book hidden beneath her mattress. Should anyone find it, especially her mistress, she can guarantee a harsh punishment. Perhaps temporary blindness, maybe she would make it permanent. It would be a fitting punishment for having such contraband. Nonetheless, it's all she has left of her parents, a tired little poetry book.

"Beautiful," She utters the words with strong conviction, meeting those dark orbs studying her in the mirror.

Feels the press of her mind, her mistress searching for something. She's faster clearing her mind, setting up little thoughts to disguise her real ones. Satisfied, she feels her mistress withdraw fiddling with the necklace in the mirror.

"Am I to your satisfaction, Granger?" Her mistress demands.

"Yes, my lady." She flushes at the comment.

Her habit to faff is never satisfied with the outcome. It annoyed her mistress at first, but over time she grew to accept the odd behaviour. After all, her mistress has similar habits, who would she be to judge.

"I'm so glad," Her Lady quips stepping down from the pedestal. "You are aware of how important this ball is?"

"Yes, my Lady of course."

"Good, I want to ensure nothing is to go wrong. Is that understood?" Her mistress turns to study her.

Two strong fingers grip her chin, forcing her hazel eyes to meet black. It's all an illusion, this woman in front of her. The beauty, her lady's standing in the world, the dress. There's a warrior in those dark, dark eyes, begging for release. Begging for a fight, hidden beneath waving black curls. Hidden beneath the satin cloth, the sharp dagger, the bent wand, prepped. Ready. Always ready for battle.

"Granger." Disapproval lingers in the tone. She is not replying fast enough for her mistress's comfort.

"Everything will be in hand." She promises, meeting those eyes.

"I expect nothing less." The hand withdraws. "I may call upon you to perform, ensure you are free to do so."

"Of course."

"Good."

Reaching for the perfume, her Mistress prepares for the last finishing touches. The candles flicker, the windows open, another muggy summer night. Hermione steps to the mirror, ensuring her attire is acceptable for the night. Noticing a stain, she is quick to remove it with a flick of her wand.

"Hermione."

The word sends shivers down her spine, and heat laces her veins. The breath ghosts across her neck, lips trace the mark. Her mark, proclaiming her allegiance to her Mistress's house, and her Mistress alone. The urge to turn, to capture those ruby red lips is almost overpowering. She clenches her hands, focussing on her breathing, focusing on that gaze in the mirror.

"Mistress," A smirk at her breathless reply, causing discomfort a favourite pastime of her lady.

"My ankle bracelet requires tightening."

She smiles, compiling, dropping to her knees, she turns to face her mistress. Hands trembling, as she touches the bracelet. Risking a glance up, she is not prepared for those hooded dark eyes to be watching her so intently. The vision steals her breath. It would be so easy to push the dress aside, to find the hidden lips. To bring a different kind of pleasure to her mistress.

The thought is quickly thrown from her mind, the chatter of guests can be heard from the window, the soothing noise of the concert band. It's a tricky clasp, one of her mistresses has lost her temper many times. A week it took Hermione a week to find someone to fix the bracelet last time. A gift from her Mistress's sister, she had to restore it.

"There's something about you being on your knees pet," The husky voice pours fuel into her fire.

A hand grazing her hair, nails caressing her scalp. Perhaps their thoughts aren't so different, she can almost feel the hand tugging her closer. Stopping last second. Bracelet clasped. She's playing with fire, a raging animal. Regardless, she finds courage, slowly rising to her feet, her hand accidentally grazing her Lady's inner thigh.

The hand in her hair moves to clutch her neck, nails grazing the skin. Eyes flashing dangerously. Hooded, her own eyes fall to the open lips before moving back to dark orbs.

"My apologies Mistress," Her voice is husky, wanton. "I lost my balance."

"Careful," Her mistress whispers. "You might slip next time."

With any luck. It's a slip of her mind, those hooded eyes widen, her mistress roaming inside her head. The hand tightened, pulling her closer. The heavy intoxicating smell that she is accustomed to her mistress, both light fruity and darkly mysterious. Fingers graze the mark on her neck, nails outlining her mark. Lips, they press against it, a habit developed over time.

A show of affection from her mistress. She knows what the mark can do, and has felt the pain before when she has disobeyed her mistress. Not for many years, now it's almost dormant. The slightest twinge when her mistress demands her attention. Times like this though, those lips hovering just above the skin.

A knock at the door, startles Hermione, making her jump from her skin. The hand on her neck stops her from moving. The free hand clasping her waist, preventing her from moving away. It's a compromising position should anyone walk in, she could not put her mistress through such ridicule.

"Shh," The words ghost across her neck. "You think too much."

Well, that would be very true, but her mistress is her first thought. Her last thought at night, she would do anything to prevent causing any harm to her mistress or her reputation. A finger strokes her hip, through the fabric of her dress. She feels like an imposter in a dress, used to trousers, more comforting clothes. Much easier to ensure her chores are complete.

"Bella!" A voice calls through the door. "Are you nearly ready? We don't have all day."

"Impatient," her mistress mutters. "Yes, Cissy, I will be right with you."

Heels click on the marble outside the door, footsteps moving away. The hand on her waist withdraws, and her mistress steps back. The hand on her neck, moves, pulling Hermione's hair from its messy bun.

"Down," Her mistress orders. "Leave your hair down tonight I want them to see how pretty you are."

"Of course," Hermione replies blushing.

"Ensure it remains on show, I want them to know who you belong to, pet."

Nodding, Hermione watches the lady of the house sweep from the room. Heart pounding, she flattens out her dress. One of these days her mistress will be the death of her. She is embarrassingly wet, so much so she uses her wand to remove the discomfort. Another form of torture is the speciality of her mistress. Always enjoying having the upper hand, enjoying playing with others.

It's all a game, one her mistress enjoys playing regularly. She knows, this, reminds herself of this. Knows just how to wind Hermione up, to get her so tense. Not that her mistress will ever follow through with her actions. She's a mudblood, a servant. Her lady is a pureblood, the Dark Lord's right hand, most entrusted advisor.

The whole idea, the whole notion is laughable. it brings a spark to what would be a sad existence. She is no fool, she has worked hard to work for her mistress, proving herself repeatedly. Worked hard to become a Red Kite, her talents for potions, charms, and ruins especially useful to her mistress. Her need for knowledge and her memory. She can study, learn, and read on behalf of her mistress when she lacks the time.

Ensuring she is suitable; she steps from her Mistress's chamber. Following the grand staircase towards the ball. Head slightly bowed, hands clasped behind her back, respectable yet approachable.

She moves among patrons, a ghost, they fail to recognise her presence. She scans the crowd ensuring everything is running smoothly, that nothing is happening that shouldn't be. Acknowledging the other servants as they move among the patrons, offering drinks and nibbles. The concert band plays, beautifully in the background. She moves one last sweep of the hall, before heading to the garden.

It takes half an hour to tour the gardens and the rooms currently being occupied for the ball. Ensuring everything is running smoothly, and that everyone is in place. The house-elves fast at work in the kitchen preparing food to be served.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," The voice booms across the hall, the rooms and out into the garden.

The very voice that causes her to shiver, not from the chill in the air, but revolt. From discomfort, she hates that she has come to loath him over time. Perhaps it's her crush on the Lady of the house that has darkened her thoughts of the man. Maybe it's because he is a vile, violent, and sexist wizard.

"My wife and I would like to welcome you to our annual ball."

His smile sends shivers across her spine, her eyes solely focussed on the hand currently wrapped around his wife's waist. A power couple, the perfect couple if society would believe everything they read. If only they knew the real truth, if it weren't for social events neither the Lady nor the Lord of the house would be near one another. Both preferring not to spend a moment more in each other's vicinity than necessary.

"You have nargles," The voice startles her from her thoughts.

She turns to the blonde standing next to her, cradling a glass of wine. Absently the girl is watching the speech with everyone else. Is Hermione imagining? Did she speak?

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione whispers, hoping the woman did speak and she's not going mad.

"Nargles," The girl replies looking at Hermione.

The attention takes Hermione back, the first time in a very long time that anyone has looked at Hermione as anything other than dirt. This girl is looking at her as though she were a normal patron. Perhaps she has mistaken her as one, but her dress is nowhere near as beautiful as those who surround her. Her mark is clearly on display.

"I'm sorry, Miss I don't know what Nargles are," Hermione replies.

"Luna." The girl replies with another smile. "My name is Luna Lovegood."

"Well, Miss Lovegood…"

"Luna," Luna replies interrupting her. "You can call me Luna."

"I appreciate such courtesy; however, it is rather improper."

"What is your name?" Luna asks ignoring the reply.

"I am Red Kite of the…"

"No, your name."

"A… Hermione." She stutters her name, glancing at those around her. If her mistress gets wind of such an improper conversation.

"Don't worry, they can't hear us," Luna replies airily. "Hermione, it's a nice name."

"Thank you…" Hermione blushes, trailing off. "What are nargles?"

"Creatures, you have many of them around you. They're invisible, normally they attach to… well it doesn't matter I haven't seen this many in a while."

Great, she's a nutter, seeing invisible creatures. Hermione smiles, it's forced, but she must return to work. She cannot be caught chatting for too long, let alone during the Lord and Lady of the house speech.

"I'm not crazy." Luna comments.

"I…" Hermione stumbles over her words, a flash of fear rushing through her veins. "You're in my head. I am so sorry miss Lovegood, I never meant to offend."

"I'm not offended." Luna shrugs. "It's hard for people to understand what they can't see. You believe in Thestrals do you not?"

"Yes, of course." Hermione stutters.

"Have you ever seen one?"

"No, I thankfully haven't."

"Yet you believe they are there."

"I've seen them pulling carriages."

"Yes, but that could just be magic. Nargles, they're special not everyone can see them, only those who… Well, it matters not. My father is beckoning me, it was lovely speaking to you Hermione."

"You too M… Luna."

A smile is so bright it's earth-shattering, almost blinding. Such blue eyes, a soft hand presses her bicep as Luna moves away. She watches her leave, moving through the crowd as though it doesn't exist. A unique woman, wearing a baby blue sparkling dress drawing the attention of many, noticing none of them.

She has never had someone enter her mind so easily, even her mistress cannot enter her mind with such ease. To control their surroundings to mute their conversation with no wand confuddles her. Who is this girl?

"To Lord and Lady Lestrange!" A voice calls.

The words snap her back to her duties, patrons raising their glasses in cheer for the masters of the house. Fear, it spikes, making her veins run cold. Glass lifted in cheer, but those eyes, those dark orbs are solely focussed on Hermione. The face may be smiling, but those eyes scream so much more. There's anger, how much did her Mistress see?

Tearing herself from Mistress's gaze, Hermione returns to her duties. Mind whirling as she continues to check on everyone. Did her mistress see all of it? Did she hear? Was she listening through Hermione? Wouldn't be the first time, why is she foolish to be so candid with a stranger.

Two hours pass and the patrons are very cheerful, the alcohol flowing freely. She's already had to escort two patrons to the floo network. Worse for wear. She managed to stop a fight before it started, escorting two wizards off the premises.

Her feet ache, she has been up since dawn, currently hiding in the kitchens with two others and the house-elves. She rubs the ball off her foot, chewing on leftover food. Sipping on the drinks left behind.

"Ugh, hate these things," Terry mutters dabbing at his stained shirt. "Just an excuse for them all to get pissed and shag in the back room."

"I'm just jealous," Autumn comments swinging the third glass.

"Just stand in the cloakroom, I'm sure someone would shag you."

"Might just do that." Autumn cackles.

Hermione smiles, mind miles away. When the night is over, she will have to learn more about Luna Lovegood. The name rings a bell, but she cannot place it.

"Earth to Granger." Autumn calls waving her hand in front of Hermione's face.

"Hey, Stinkwood," The snappy voice makes both Autumn and Terry jump to their feet. "Bathroom needs cleaning."

Flushing red, Autumn scurries from the room. One look sends Terry scrambling to his feet as he darts from the room. They both watch him leave tripping over his feet as he scrambles to complete his duties.

"I despair," Johnson comments shifting to the side accepting the glass of wine from Hermione. "If they had a brain cell between them, they might be dangerous."

They recline both sipping on wine and listening to the sounds of the house, the clatter of the kitchen and the music from above. The wine is too bitter, but it's better than nothing.

"Lord Lestrange is in a good mood," Johnson comments.

"Course he is, his getting all the attention," Hermione replies.

"All though, he gets outshines by the Lady of the house. That dress is banging."

"Right," Hermione smirks.

"You outdid yourself this time."

"Nope, not my pick."

"Wasn't it?"

"No, all hers this time. Rome, I think. She got it while we were there a few months back."

"Jeez, but it's not black."

"I know!" Hermione snickers.

"You think I could try on when she's not here next."

"I think you could die trying."

They share a smirk, a laugh. The very idea of sneaking Angelina into the Lady's rooms is highly laughable. It may be worth the punishment. Maybe.

She jolts, nearly spilling the wine everywhere. Grasping her mark, she scowls. Her mistress is summoning her, although it would appear her patience is thin tonight.

"That look like it hurt," Johnson comments with a wince.

"I think her patience is thinning."

"When isn't it? Are you performing tonight?"

"It would appear so," Hermione replies sliding off the table and shoving one more nibble into her mouth.

"Mind if I watch?"

"Nah, course not," Hermione replies brushing herself down. "Just keep an eye on them all while I'm busy."

"Won't let you down boss."

Smiling, Hermione sends a small wave walking at speed from the confines of the house. From the dark corridors to the bright rooms, the loud chatter. Her mistress is no longer in the grand hall, not amongst the dancers. The young looking for respectable matches. No, her mistress will be found towards the back of the house.

Amongst those closest to the Lestrange's, friends, family work colleagues. Away from the rabble as her Mistress would say. She moves fast, but not fast enough to earn a glance from the patrons.

Pausing on the brink of the doorway, she pats her clothes down once more, rubbing her lips to make sure there's no lingering food. Taking a deep breath, she composes herself, hands behind her back. Stepping into the room, it's full of regular faces.

Silently, she moves through the room, towards the large, gathered crowd. Can almost feel her mistress in the room pull. Drawn to her as though there were nobody else there.

She pauses a respectful distance from the group, head slightly bowed. Her feet ache, not used to wearing heels. Her skin crawls, the moment her mistress notices her presence. It sets her fire.

"Ah, there you are," Bellatrix announces.

"My Lady." She bows her head.

"Play something," Bellatrix instructs glancing at those around. "Any requests?"

Hermione waits, perfectly poised, she will play anything they request. A coldness rushes through her, the temperature in the room dropping. Goosebumps break out along her arms resisting the urge to shiver.

"If I may," The voice devoid of emotion. "Make a request."

"Of course." Her Lady agrees.

The room is solely focused on the wizard coming to pause next to Hermione. She bows deeply, they all do. She turns focusing on the dark robes, not daring to lift her eyes any higher.

"Whispers of fate, I do owe so like that one."

She forces a smile, bowing deeply before the Dark Lord. Stepping to the piano, the room returns to talking as she takes a seat before the piano. She has played that song previously, while the Lestrange's entertained.

Flexing her fingers, she runs them gently along with the keys, a habit she has grown accustomed to over the years. Satisfied, she glances upwards, noticing her mistress's gaze lingering.

The Dark Lord also watching, waiting for her to play. It's a gentle melody, that turns in her opinion dark, if there is a choir that would sing alongside. Thankfully, a solo piano can keep the melody upbeat and almost happy.

Her fingers move on their own accord, and she closes her eyes, playing the song from memory. The room disappears, it's just her and the instrument, no prying eyes. No staring, no judgement it's just herself and the piano.

Four minutes thirty-two seconds, she plays the song out, allowing the last chord to mellow into silence. Opening the first page of her sheet, she wishes for a second, that they would clap. Acknowledge her presence, but the room continues to talk. The Dark Lord speaks with others as though he had not requested the very piece. Shouldering her need to please, she moves on to the next song.

Halfway through playing, she lets her eyes wander among the crowd. She could play these songs in her sleep; they might just put her to sleep. Regardless, she continues to play for the crowd.

It's the flash of blonde that catches her attention. A kind smile, the intent blue eyes watching, listening. Paying her attention. Luna.

You're amazing. Please don't stop.

The words whisper through her mind, and she misses a key, saving herself embarrassment by slipping straight into another song. No one noticed the mistake. A small blush on Luna's face.

Sorry.

How?

Habit, I forget I do it sometimes. Please don't stop.

Smiling, Hermione looks down to her keys, playing songs, her mind wandering once more. Wondering if it will remain sunny or if they are expecting rain.

Rain.

The voice whispers in her mind, and her attention strays back to the blonde, who is sipping her drink.

Expecting rain… Can I make a request?

Of course.

Hermione replies with a soft smile.

Please save me from this boredom.

You play so well.

Thank you. They're the same every time. Hermione flicks to the next page, never missing a key. What's your request?

Play a song, you want to play.

Hermione cannot help the soft shake of her head.

Please.

I cannot.

Hermione responds, focusing once more on the sheet in front of her. She doesn't need the sheet; it just gives her something to focus on other than the ignorant masses.

What is your favourite song? If I cannot hear it, would you at least tell me?

It doesn't matter.

It does, to me. Please, Hermione.

Sighing, flicks the next page, sending the witch a curious look. What on earth has this witch so interested in Hermione. There are so many more important people here she could speak to, more interesting than Hermione.

I find you more interesting, this is more important.

Please stay out of my head.

The silence in her mind is deafening, as she finishes the last song. Pausing, she stretches her fingers, reaching for the glass of water that Johnson delivered during her performance. It's the sad smile, lingering on Luna's face that makes her falter. The quiet in her mind, just her voice, not Luna's voice.

Brave fire. Is my favourite song.

Hermione speaks loudly in her mind wondering if Luna will hear her, or if she has listened and her left her alone. The warm smile that breaks across her face would suggest she has heard.

Thank you. It's a lovely song.

A bit too jazzy for this room.

A smirk flickers across the blonde's face. Returning to her sheet, she resumes her playlist for the evening. A hand resting on the piano makes her pause mid-song, turning to greet the witch standing nearby.

"May I make a request?"

The word no nearly tumbles from her lips as she stares at the blonde witch. The audacity of the girl, she glances at her mistress who has noticed Luna approach the piano. Smiling, Hermione turns her attention to the witch standing so innocently.

"May I?" Luna asks directing the question towards Bellatrix.

A mere acknowledgement of the head from Bellatrix as she allows the witch to engage with her servant. Swallowing, Hermione waits for the request.

"Please," Hermione encourages, always obedient.

"Brave fire," Luna requests sweetly. "it's one of my favourites. Do you know it?"

"Very well," Hermione acknowledges.

Nodding, happy, Luna steps back from the piano, returning to her spot amongst the patrons. Glancing at her mistress, Bellatrix nods her head allowing the song to be played. Flexing her fingers, Hermione knows Bellatrix doesn't know that many songs, not by name.

Shifting on the stool, Hermione clicks her neck. Very well.

She counts down in her head, counting herself in. It's an emotional, deep song that moves from dark to light like the swinging of a pendulum. Focussed on the keys, her mind drifts moving with the melody. The song dips before it swings to an upbeat middle before mellowing out to a haunting chorus. Allowing her time to adjust, for the finale, her feet pressing the pedal, she moves with the keys.

When she plays this song, she likes to imagine a duel, the emotions the upheaval of a fight. The fear of loss, the fear of wounding, of winning. The victor emerges, but a sorrowful undertone takes from the warmth of the win.

Almost breathless, her fingers come to a halt above the keys, lost in her mind. Loud clapping startles her from the world of her own. Luna clapping happily, it's almost bizarre she wants to shout at her to stop. Except, the rest of the room followed, clapping. She swallows, fighting back the urge to cry.

That was beautiful. Thank you.

The voice lingers in her mind, a calming sensation. The crowd turned to Luna congratulating her on choosing such a song. Congratulations Bellatrix on owning such a good investment.

It's humiliating, it makes her angry, but she forces the feelings down. It's not as though Bellatrix sat in front of the piano for hours on end, learning, practising. No, but it is Bellatrix receiving the praise for training such a good pet.

Ignore them. This was all you.

She smiles at the words, but she cannot reach those blue eyes. Instead, she tidies her piano, closing the lid, and she glances up. The look could bore a hole right through her, Bellatrix watching her. She wishes she could understand that look. Was it the look that she was going to receive a compliment or the look that hell is coming?