Warning for every chapter: Slavery. Dubious consent. Violence. Mentions of rape. Death. Assault. General gore warnings. Please read responsibly.

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

Enjoy...


Chapter Three

A groan escapes pale lips, weary she clutches her side groaning as she rolls over. The glass of water is just out of reach, stretching causes fire to ignite across her side. Holding back the scream, she grasps her glass of water. Swigging the drink, she dares not make too much noise, not wanting to wake Lady Lestrange.

The sun had risen by the time the search party returned; her Lady's adrenaline-fuelled from the hunt. Hermione drained from the night's activities, nevertheless, the house ran smoothly, searched from top to bottom. There were no other surprises. Her mistress, however, was not in a good mood. The dogs reached the intruder before anyone else. There was nothing left to salvage. The intruder disfigured from the attack, there was no way of identifying them.

Shifting, Hermione swings her legs over the side of the single bed. Reaching for her last potion, hands shaking as she uncorks it. It is a bitter taste, but she prays for the relief it should bring.

Rising, unsteady to her feet, the floorboards are cold, with no sound of movement from the adjoining door. Flicking open the curtains, she almost loses her footing. Turning, the world spins as she staggers to her little clock, clutching it with trembling hands. Falling to her knees, she tries to focus her eyes, hissing in annoyance. It's mid-day. Her mistress demanded to be woken at ten am.

Ignoring the pain, Hermione reaches for her clothes, shuffling into the trousers, and she throws a top on. Tripping over her own feet, she lands heavily against the door. Breathless. Seconds pass, as she waits for her body to recuperate, to gain its balance, trying to gain control of her breathing. Turning the handle, she swings the door open.

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" Angelina cries in shock nearly losing grip on the tray in her hands.

"Shit, have you seen the time," Hermione mutters pushing her hair from her face. "I need to wake Lady Lestrange…"'

"Stop. Stop. Hermione, breathe, please." Angelina instructs gently pushing Hermione back into her room. "Stop."

"I need to…"

"To rest," Angelina instructs pushing Hermione back onto her bed. "You also need to eat. Did you take your potion?"

"Forget eating, I need to…"

"Enough!" Angelina snaps. "Have you taken your potion?"

"Yes, now please can you help me…"

"Lady Lestrange has already left," Angelina replies, placing the tray down.

Fear, panic it all floods her system so much that her vision blurs and she nearly loses consciousness. Gripping the bed frame, her nails dig into the chipped wood. The smell of food makes her stomach grumble and her mouth waters with the idea of eating.

"Here eat this." Angelina orders passing a bowl to Hermione. "You weren't meant to have your potion on an empty stomach."

"Is this…"

"Stew yes,"

"Angelina, this is…"

"Spare," Angelina replies. "Our lady won't know if a small bowl is missing. Besides, she'd rather have her best servant back on her feet rather than complain about a little bowl of stew."

"You place me in too high regard," Hermione replies, sniffing the beef stew. "We are all replaceable."

"Eat, it has more nutrients than a bowl of porridge. I may have also helped us to slice carrot cake too."

"Are you trying to make Lady Lestrange punish us?"

"Oh please, it's a slither which we can share. It's leftovers from last night. Now eat before I force you to."

Frowning, Hermione lifts the spoon, inhaling the smell of her bowl. It's heaven, the different vegetables, the herbs, the beef so tender it barely takes two chews. Nothing like their portions, enough to make the injury worth receiving just for a taste.

Revealing the hidden cake, Angelina pulls out two forks, a grin on her face. They both eye the food with lust. Licking her lips, Hermione places her empty bowl down, reaching for her fork. The first bite makes them both groan, the cream cheese frosting to die for, the soft moist cake. No words pass between them as they devour the cake, picking the crumbs from the plate they both collapse backwards holding their stomachs.

"That was amazing," Angeline whispers.

"Don't, I'm going to be dreaming about that for days now," Hermione murmurs, reaching for her glass of water.

"You're lucky I was willing to share it with you." Angelina laughs tidying the bowl and plate.

"It's a reward for the chocolate I snuck you."

"It truly is."

They both smile at the memory, Hermione sneaking chocolate to Angelina in her quarters. Nibbling at the small morsels of chocolate late at night, while the house slept. Sipping stolen apple juice, discussing memories of their once families.

"I dealt with Lady Lestrange this morning," Angelina informs Hermione. "She was in a foul mood, not because you weren't there. Still annoyed about the dogs getting the intruder as you can imagine. She had few words to share and left without breakfast. I had explained you were busy dealing with the runes and servant issues."

"Did she believe you?"

"No, not a chance."

Smiling, little passes their mistress, especially Hermione's absence. Did she even notice? Did she even care? Most likely not, her Mistress enjoys routine, Hermione's absence would interrupt her routine. She's foolish to even think her mistress would care enough to miss Hermione.

"She said she'd be back late." Angelina comments.

"Hmm, she has a meeting with him."

"Ah."

Him. The Dark Lord. They all keep their thoughts about the Dark Lord to a minimum. There was a rumour, passed between houses, of a servant who dared think the Dark Lord's real name. The poor servant was never to be seen again. Hermione chose to ignore the rumour. It reminded her of the story passed between servants when alone, trying to scare one another. In the old story light one candle and stand in front of the broken mirror at midnight on a full moon. A man will appear, distressed, shouting, pointing at something. Legend will follow that death would immediately follow the person who summoned the man.

"I need to head into town," Hermione mentions slowly rising to her feet.

"Is that wise?" Angelina asks, pushing to her feet, studying Hermione's side.

"The potion has taken effect; I am no longer in pain." Liar, liar. "I need to get some supplies if I am to strengthen the runes. It cannot wait."

"Hermione," Angelina sighs.

"Will you be okay running the house?"

"Of course,"

Hermione ignores the sigh, reaching for her travelling cloak, she must get supplies. Must strengthen the runes, she cannot let anything happen like last night, happen again.

"You know it wasn't your fault," Angelina states, grasping Hermione's forearm. "What happened wasn't your fault."

"I am the Red Kite for this household. For Lady Lestrange. Everything that happens is my fault."

"But they may not have come through the window." Angelina continues.

Ignoring the comments, Hermione swings her cloak on as she leaves her room. Summoning the small purse, Lady Lestrange entrusts it to Hermione. To ensure potion items are all stocked up.

"Your lucky to be alive," Angelina continues chasing after Hermione.

"I thought you were trying to make me feel better?" Hermione quips heading to the floo network.

A tug, Angelina pulling Hermione to a stop. Preventing her from entering the floo room. Demanding Hermione's full attention, worry etched onto the witch's face. Sighing, Hermione squeezes the concerned hand.

"They could have gained entry through the party as a guest," Angelina continues. "The window could have been their means of escape. If anything, Lady Lestrange was lucky you were there, you pushed her out of harm's way. Kept her safe."

"Angelina,"

"No, stop it, I know what you'll say. This house is my blah blah. It doesn't matter. We are all responsible for this house. The intruder: had an invitation, I am most sure of it. The healer said you were lucky to be alive, Hermione you lost so much blood. The curse should have killed you; he didn't understand why it didn't. Please, just rest for the day, one day."

"Invitations," Hermione mutters looking towards the front doors.

"Exactly," Angelina replies. "They could have had an invitation, or impersonated someone, we'll never know."

"Except, I sent all the invitations." Hermione answers. "Every individual one, I screened everyone on Lady Lestrange's list. Entering the house there were charms in place, no one using Polyjuice potion would be able to enter. I understand what you are trying to do, and I very much appreciate your concern. However, I am responsible for this house. They didn't come in with an invitation, which meant they bypassed my runes."

"Hermione."

"I will be back shortly, ensure our lady has a hot bath waiting for her return, she will want a glass of fire whiskey as well."

Gathering the powder, Hermione steps into the fireplace, ignoring her pleading eyes of Angelina, she throws the powder down. Diagon Alley.

It's busier than usual, the streets packed with shoppers, and she moves with ease. Her mark is on show, no one bothers her, and no one wants the trouble that will come with upsetting her mistress. The bag in one hand is heavy, and the potion she brought for herself weighs heavily in her pocket. She shouldn't have brought it, but her side had started to hurt, she couldn't risk the embarrassment of passing out on the street. Could not bear the embarrassment of her mistress sending someone to retrieve her from St Mungos.

Pausing to catch her breath, she dares to glance at the newspapers, releasing a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Her mistress party was a giant success. Lestrange's party, the party of the season! It's a bold statement, one they intend to keep. There's a rumour another family is trying to outdo the Lestrange all eager to impress the Dark Lord. Hermione isn't sure it's possible.

No mention of the intruder, it's a giant relief. She could not face her mistress if the entire town were to be talking about it. She would have to stand down from being Red Kite, potentially sold to a lesser house. Cast away, no one would want her, she would end up in the factories. She is under no illusion, her life is by far a dream, but much better than those in factories or even the mines.

Small little victories, it's what Miss Evans had taught them, to appreciate the small things. To enjoy the work, to take pride, life would provide the rest. There is no fear any of the servants of the house would talk, when she took over as Red Kite, she ensured their silence. Something Elite houses failed to realise; servants talked. A lot. Her Mistress always bound servants to their Red Kites. No one would speak, well someone did, and they lost their tongue.

Guilt riddles her mind; it drains her energy. She was a fan of the young servant, not much older than herself. He had so much potential, he could have gone so far. Her mistress was also impressed, if he weren't to replace Hermione he would have been sold to another noble house. Except, he opened his mouth. Literally. Wanting to impress other servants from houses, a summer ball. His tongue fell from his mouth.

She can still remember the screaming, the fear. Severed. Not only was he disfigured, but worse he was revealed to be untrustworthy. Cast from the house, an outcast of the highest society. Laughter had filled the gardens, and humiliation had coloured the wizards' cheeks. Laughed from society, from the house, the noble households had watched him fall from grace. His tongue still flapping on the grass by her feet, as they carried him away.

His downfall had secured her further in her mistress graces, and Lady Lestrange was truly impressed with her Red Kite's ability. The saddest thing, she cannot recall the wizard's name. Only the guilt, she had no idea what happened to him. She wanted to find out, and Angelina advised her that was most certainly not a good idea.

Shaking the memory from her mind, she gathers her thoughts checking her list for the supplies needed. Someone knocks on her shoulder, and a hand stops her from falling over, the newsagent holding her aloft. A gentle smile on his lips as he helps her right herself.

"Thank you, sir." Hermione bows her head.

A dismissive wave, as he returns to organising his newspapers. Turning from the stand, Hermione studies the masses gathering, confused. Was she missing something, she felt as though she was? Children skip past laughing, she can smell butter beer and notices a small cart amongst the crowd flogging sweets.

Flogging. She had failed to notice the day of the month. Following slowly, she steps to the side just spotting the platform in the middle of the crowd. Sneaking past the crowd she darts between the shops, wondering why the crowd is so energised. Must be someone of importance for such a big turnout.

The smog from the factories lingers above the shops, turning the sky a hazy orange. Watching from the sidelines, as the first few are brought not recognising the marks on the necks, it's some relief. No one she knows.

They cheer as the whip cracks; it deafens out the scream. Not many last past the first lashing, it's a painful experience. She has had her fair few, her Mistress especially talented with a whip. Can recall the time Lady Lestrange wandered up on two of the servants engrossed with one another in the hallway. Hermione had just started at Lestrange Manor and had watched in morbid curiosity as her mistress delivered the punishment. How the crooked wand had unleashed the cruel whip. No lashing to the back. No, her mistress delivered a reminder one they wouldn't soon forget. Hermione can still remember the first crack as the whip collided with the female servant's inner thigh. A warning, a taste before she moved to the most sensitive parts. Ten lashing each to their private areas.

The glee, those dark eyes had radiated such anger, there was more. Bellatrix was alive, her mistress enjoyed every second. Every scream drove the whip to hit harder. It's when Hermione learns not to scream, not make a sound. Especially when she happened to make a mistake. Unknown to her mistress, she had silenced herself. Ten lashings dropped to five, her Mistress had stalked off bored. Until her Mistress had learnt of Hermione's ability to use wandless magic.

A shiver runs through Hermione, not sorrow for the poor lifeless souls carried off the platform. The memory of her screams had echoed through the house when her mistress had learnt of her deception. Can still remember panting on the floor of the dining room, staring at the white ceiling, her body twitching from the aftershocks. Crucio. It had rendered her stupid. She barely felt the burn of the mark on her neck, her Mistress had welcomed her to Lestrange manor officially. A reward for being smart, a reminder that her mistress would forever outsmart her.

"You scream delightfully pet," Those lips had pressed against the raw mark. "Never hold back again."

A shiver of hate rushes through her body, disgust at herself. Can still remember every ounce of pain, remember Miss Evans's sorrowful eyes. "She likes you." Not a reward, a warning, trying to outsmart her mistress had inevitably made her mistress new entertainment.

A loud booing interrupts any further memories, as they drag a wizard to the platform. Beaten, it's only then Hermione realises he is not here for lashings. He is to be hung. There is no mark on his neck, a scraggy-looking man, not anyone Hermione recognises.

"George," A voice startles Hermione. "George, go, get Ronald,"

Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione spots the ginger-haired woman in her apron, shouting at a lanky ginger wizard amongst the crowd. Weasleys, her mistress holds no regard for them. Snubbing their bakery, anything to do with Weasleys, or rabbits as Lady Lestrange would refer to them. "Breeding scum should burn their burrow."

"Where's your patriotic spirit mother?" He replies.

"Don't you dare!" Mrs Weasley warns.

Someone bumps into the sign in front of Hermione, tripping into her she catches him just in time. A freckled face flashes a goofy smile as he pushes to his feet. Flustered, he tries to steady himself, the smell of butterbeer on his breath. A flag was held in his hand. Hang.

"Sorry," He mutters stepping back. "Tripped."

Hermione holds the retort, leaning back against the wall, she manages a small smile for the wizard. Her mistress's contempt for the Weasleys is on repeat in her mind, Hermione however cannot show biased, despite the poor standing of such a family.

"I'm Ron," He stutters tucking his tired t-shirt into his trousers.

"Mr Weasley," She greets politely.

He frowns, before his eyes dart to her neck, realisation dawns as he takes another step back. Bellatrix Lestrange crest firmly planted on her neck. She holds herself with pride, a Red Kite for Bellatrix Lestrange one of the highest honours for a servant.

"So…Sorry." His voice croaks. "Didn't mean to knock you."

"No harm done, sir," Hermione replies glancing over his shoulder. "However, you are missing the climactic end."

Swearing under his breath, he nearly trips as another ginger-haired wizard collides with him. Grabbing Ron under his arm, he rubs his knuckles into the younger wizard's head. Her heart tinges the wish she could have siblings, is this what it would have been like. To be so at ease with each other. The only siblings she has much experience with are Lady Lestrange's sisters and they are estranged at the best of times.

"Mate, stop." Ron hisses pushing his brother off. "She's Lestrange Red Kite."

Hermione takes issues with the tone as he mentions her Lady's surname. However, it is not enough to teach him a lesson, especially in such a large crowd. As much as her Mistress would relish Hermione's actions, it would also cause too much attention.

"Ah," George mutters pushing Ron away. "Mother wants you."

"But I'll miss the hanging."

"Think that's the point," George replies glancing at Hermione. "Red Kite."

"Mr Weasley," Hermione nods respectfully. "If you'd excuse me,"

Nodding, they fidget until she is at distance, disturbed by her presence. Most are, once they realise just who her mistress is. It makes her existence lonely, sometimes she watches servants interact with others so freely. So happily, as though forgetting their station, misleading themselves into thinking they are anything other than a servant. Bound to a master or mistress be it a House servant, a servant to the ministry or one of the factories. Without a mistress or master, they have no purpose.

Standing tall, the noose looks more like a tie than a promise to end a life. The wizard shows no remorse as the crowd boos.

She stops, spotting a brightly coloured building hidden at the back of Alleyway, she has seen it many times. Passed it without a second thought, now, however, she recognises the crest. Had seen it last night at the party.

Pushing through the crowd, the cheer erupts, she pauses for second remorse for the unknown wizard. Hanging from the noose, the laughing of children. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Hermione breaks from the crowd to the colourful building.

Quibbler Publishing.

The door jingles as she pushes it open strange ornaments dangling above the door. Bewildered she stares around at the very colourful room, jumping as a man pops up from behind a desk. An eccentric-looking wizard, slightly crossed-eyed with shoulder-length candy-flossed coloured hair.

"Hello." He greets cheerfully.

"Apologies sir," Hermione replies unsure suddenly if she should be here.

"Can I help you?"

"Er…" Hermione stutters unsure what to say.

She shouldn't be here; she was only meant to collect her supplies. Meant to be heading back to the manor, to restore any broken runes.

"Hermione," The gentle voice as the blonde enters the room. "She's a friend father."

No, they're not friends. It's impossible, they are two very different classes. Hermione wants to object, to reassure this witch's father they are not friends.

"Lovely," He replies. "Well have fun."

He ushers Hermione past, to go join Luna in the back room. Bewildered, Hermione follows the witch into the back room, closing the door behind her. Her hand itching for her wand, she should curse Luna. Demand if she had anything to do with last night's intruder. If Hermione is the reason her Mistress was put in harm's way, well she'll have to come clean. Accept any punishment that would come with such an action. She can only hope she'd hang the other options less appealing.

"I did not," Luna breaks their silence. "Hermione, please, stop such thoughts, they are distressing."

"Distressing?" Hermione laughs placing her purchased items down. "They are purely logical, I am responsible for the breach of security, me. It is the least my mistress could do is give me the noose. Now tell me and be true and honest, I am not opposed to using curses, there is little left to lose. Did you see how to get past my wards, are you the reason my mistress was at risk?"

Was Hermione a target all along, playing nice just to get her lower her guard. Such foolishness of Hermione, she should have known better. Foolish of her to believe a witch of such standing would even consider Hermione as anything other than a servant. Her mistress will be so very disappointed.

"No, please stop." Luna pleads, taking Hermione's hands. "Please, I had nothing to do with you what happened last night."

Hermione's hand tightens, she can feel the witch's throat bob beneath her grip. Hermione blinks, her wand pointed at the blonde's jugular. Luna's back against the stone wall, fear in those blue eyes. Hermione's hand on the witch's throat, she's not sure how this happened. Regardless, she cannot and will not be responsible for any harm in becoming her mistress.

"Speak the truth," Hermione warns, hand tightening on her wand. "Speak plainly, I will not reason with lies. Are you responsible for last night?"