A/n: Obviously, this chapter is very early, however I feel Chapter four and five mingle so they should be read together. For the record, I should mention I have written quite a few chapters already. I'm just being petty and holding out for reviews, also just curious to see if the Bellamione community is still alive.
For fans of Fractures, that story alone has just under a million hits. That is insane! So thank you, for all your support, please accept this chapter as a gift of my gratitude.
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 Five
Two, three, she marks the items off her checklist, moving to the next items. No longer in her travelling clothes, a fresh pair of slacks. Soon the house will fall to slumber some of the servants have already bedded down.
She has left Angelina in charge of feeding the Lady of the house. Hermione had more important aspects to tend to. Hoping to keep out of sight of her mistress for the evening. She will assist her mistress ready for bed, but she's hoping it will all be over soon.
Placing her list down, Hermione nods satisfied. Her fingers paused, tracing over a label, tracing the handwriting, not hers. Lily. She misses Evans, misses Lily, they would wait till late at night waiting for Bellatrix to settle. Hermione would learn, would follow some nights behind Lily learn the routine.
Foolish. That's what she's being foolish. She needs to find a replacement, Lady Lestrange is correct, she could have died last night. It's foolish of her to assume she would live forever. What sort of Red Kite would she be if she had not prepared for the inevitable. Tomorrow she will start sorting through the staff, to see if any of them could take over. If not, she will have to outsource, her mistress will not like the idea, but it is for the household's best interests.
First, though, she must check on her runes. Stepping out of the storage room, she makes her way through the house smiling at the small laughter. One of the servants is having a good time, at least someone is. Taking the steps two at a time, she heads to her room. Her office.
Drawing her wand, she locks her door, with a swish of her wand she pushes the table aside. Taking a deep breath she removes her t-shirt and places it on the desk. She removes the charm that is hiding the runes that she carved into the floorboards. Lighting the candles, she steps into the circle.
It's true, she most certainly should have died last night. She knows why she survived, a secret no one knows, no one can know. The truth behind the security of Lady Lestrange. She removes her glamour charm from her body, studying herself in the mirror.
Muttering the incantations beneath her breath, she starts her routine. Bringing her runes to life, a glow. It radiates from her body, the runes on her skin coming to life, old magic. One she had spent many nights as a youngster studying because she knew it was that knowledge that would make her indispensable.
They litter her body, crisscrossing one upon the other, marking her body, some beautiful tragic tattoo. Carved into her skin with one of her mistress's daggers, without her knowledge. The circle glows beneath her feet she can feel the house, the movement within the building. Knows exactly which room her mistress is in.
They did not come through the window. None of her runes is out of place. This means someone on Lady Lestrange's list was the culprit. The mark left by the curse, bubbles above the rune, her body a soft blue glow, except for beneath the curse. The faintest red, hot, angry it burns beneath the curse. A rune is damaged, she will have to mend it on another date.
Strange magic, runes, in the right hand extremely dangerous, in the wrong hands extremely dangerous. She had done extensive research, and failed a few times, her first runes useless. Practice upon practice, the runes worked but never to the degree spoken off in the books. So, she did what she did best. She studied more, it especially helped when she was placed in the Lestrange manor, her mistress study full of very useful books. In another life, she may have made a good thief.
It became clear, what she was missing. Her mistress's book finally reveals the long-lost clue. Runes need magic, constant magic. A magical source. It's what made the Ministry so impenetrable. Ancient Runes in the basement, amongst the unspeakable, knowledge lost or hidden. Thankfully, Lady Lestrange had a great, great grandfather that used to work in the ministry. Who filled in the blanks?
She had no magical source, not like the ministry. But she had her own magically core. She wasn't sure if it was enough, wasn't sure if it even work. A high chance she could have killed herself. Stealing a dagger from Lady Lestrange's room, while away with Miss Evans, while the house slumbered waiting for her return. She tested her theory.
A proven theory. One that has served her well over time. Especially last night, her runes had starved off death. The runes on her body grew, more complicated, complex, even the ones on her back, that took much practice.
Releasing a breath, she lets go of the spell. The runes falling dormant. Reapplying her charms, her body returns to its immaculate condition. Perhaps one day she will break the news to her mistress, that lashings, were not effective anymore. Silent defiance, a small amount of pain to complete her runes, to prevent any future pain.
"Slytherin my arse." She whispers, smirking in the mirror.
She has met enough Slytherins cowards, the lot of them. Only her mistress stood out, only her mistress Hermione holds in any regard. If she cannot work for Lady Lestrange, there is no one else she would work for. It would mean one flick, one motion, one word and she could end it all. Her runes would see to it. It's the reason the staff are bound to secrecy because she holds them on a leash as much as her mistress holds all of them.
With a flick, she rearranges the room unlocking her door. Outside this room, she is a Red Kite. Inside this room, she is Hermione Granger, she holds control. It's a sanctuary. Her only sanctuary.
Top in place, she exits the office satisfied with her findings. Falling back into her role as head of the servants. Red Kite. Rubbing her eyes, she stretches as she heads to her room. She will prepare her mistress's bed, and will wait in her chambers, should her mistress require her assistance.
"Granger."
The voice stops her.
"My Lady?" Hermione greets the witch walking up the stairs.
"This way." Her mistress instructs.
They're heading in the opposite direction of their bed chambers. She wants to protest, but that most certainly won't get her anywhere. Falling in to step behind her mistress, she follows her to the study.
"Sit,"
Not this again.
Taking a seat on the leather chair, Hermione adds another log to the already lit fire. A strange habit of their Lady's talking to her staff. Enquiring into their staff, Hermione knew exactly what it was. Information is power, and Bellatrix loves power.
The glass of fire whiskey slides across the table towards her. Boots land heavily on the table, Bellatrix's legs resting up on the wooden table. Leaning back in her chair, Bellatrix gulps her first glass, pouring herself another.
Lifting her glass, Hermione takes a sip, letting the liquid burn her throat. It's not her favourite drink, she much prefers wine. The door to the room shuts, sealing them in the crooked wand coming to rest on its mistress lap.
For a minute, she could imagine another world where their blood didn't define their status. Sitting in a warm room sharing a drink with a friend. Is this what it feels like to be in comfort in another presence?
It's all an illusion, there are no friends in this room, merely servant and Mistress. Nothing more.
"Relax Granger," Bellatrix comments staring off into the fire. "If you sit any straighter, I think you might break."
Taking a deep breath, Hermione follows instructions, leaning back into her chair. The chair is more comfortable than her bed, then again, the floorboards can be more comfortable than her bed. She's just lucky to have her room, her own things. She has more than some.
"Runes?" It's a short question.
"Undisturbed," Hermione answers with a frown.
"Which means,"
"The intruder was a party goer."
"Indeed." Click of the tongue. "Wait wine?"
Not answering, Hermione jumps as the glass flies from her hand. Another appears, a bottle of white appearing next to it. It's not fancy, it's nothing but cheap, nevertheless the action melts Hermione. A wave of the hand reassured Hermione to pour herself a glass. It's sweet and makes her shoulder collapse.
"Thank you."
A dismissive wave, it's all part of Lady's plan, always wanting to put them at ease, no better way than through temptation. Through reward. How many servants have fallen for this generosity Hermione has lost count? Lowering their guard, grew too comfortable and spilt too much.
The glass Hermione had used, the liquid left threw to the fire, the glass placed aside. The action makes Hermione squirm, the waste of such expensive alcohol, but it hurts on a deeper level. Lestrange does not want to drink from the same glass, to drink the same liquid, as Hermione. It reminds her squarely of her place. It dampens her tired mood. Would Luna have drunk it?
Shaking her head, she hides her action by swigging her glass of wine and pouring herself another glass. A curious look from the Lady of the house, Hermione barely drinks in these situations. But Merlin's beard, Hermione needs a drink today.
"Should I summon another bottle?" Bellatrix questions, it's a question as much as a statement. Go careful, the generosity is a façade.
"If I were anybody else, I'd say yes, maybe two more," Hermione replies swigging a second glass truly earning her mistress's attention. "But since I am me, definitely not."
"Am I to take that as it's you my most loyal servant? Or because you have an aversion to drinking?"
"I have no aversion to drinking My Lady, I have an aversion to lowering my inhibitions."
"You've been feisty these last few days." Bellatrix states. "What's got your panties in a twist?"
You. It's simple, Hermione may be feistier, but in all honesty, Bellatrix has been teasing. Pushing, the sexual tension has been driving her mad for days. There is no mistaking, Bellatrix is doing it all intentionally. Perhaps she's finally found a way to get under Hermione's skin.
"Death," Hermione answers it's the first word that pops to mind. "Lily wasn't much older than me. I need to train someone to replace me."
"Sorry?"
"If last night was proof of anything, there is no one ready to take on my duties. I fear there may not be anyone amongst the staff. I may have to outsource."
"What?" Bellatrix questions frowning.
"If I can have your permission, My lady, I need to start searching for potential new staff. If we don't have the budget, there are some…"
"Stop."
Falling silent, Hermione sips her wine, waiting for Lady Lestrange to catch up. There is no question, last night has accelerated things Hermione will need to start searching for a replacement.
"What of that girl, Johns."
"Johnson. Angelina is needed in her station. She's not able to advance."
"Granger, I just wanted a quiet evening, of drinking, why must you be so annoying."
"Apologies, my lady I will leave you to your thoughts."
"SIT." A growl of a command.
Swallowing, Hermione falls back into her chair, perhaps she has pushed her Mistress a bit too far tonight. Clenching her fist, Bellatrix swings her feet off the table-turning to face Hermione.
"No replacement."
"My lady…"
"I have not finished talking!" Bellatrix snaps rising to her feet. "Heaven's above, Granger, open that mouth of yours one more time and I am going to shove my wand down your throat. Do you understand?"
Nodding, Hermione remains quiet. Pacing, Bellatrix is pacing. There's a storm brewing, Hermione isn't sure what is running through her mistress's head. She remains quiet, unmoving as Bellatrix stalks the room. Anger it rolls off Bellatrix in waves, Hermione stuck amid the oncoming storm.
Behind, she cannot see Bellatrix anymore, she's moved to pacing out of sight. The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on edge, she wants nothing more than to run to her bed. To hide beneath her duvet, and wait for the storm to pass. Why did she have to push buttons?
Hands land on the back of Hermione's chair, she can hear the leather squeak beneath the talons of the fingers. She tries not to let the panic show, but the fear is spiking and she's not sure how to act right now.
"You are pushing, your, Luck." The whisper is heated Bellatrix towering out of sight, where's the wand.
Her mouth opens, only for a hand to clamp around it, it jerks her back. Pulling her harshly into the leather chair. Tears strain her eye the whiplash from the pull, at the mercy of her mistress. The wand is clearly in view, between dangerous fingers.
"What did I say?" Bellatrix demands leaning down. "No talking."
The wand is dangerously close, please don't force it down her throat. Hermione prays to whatever god may be listening, she's not sure she can cope with that tonight.
Resisting the urge to close her eyes, Hermione forces herself to stare at the ceiling. She cannot face staring into those orbs. Darkness encases her, Bellatrix hair falling over her, lips pressing next to her ear. The crooked wand runs across her throat.
"Now." Bellatrix breathes. "Truth time. You may speak, but it will be plainly, is that understood?"
Nodding, Hermione flinches as hex rushes through her body, a yes escaping her lips. The smile against her throat reassures her mistress now wants words.
"Good girl," Breath. Just breath. "Who was that girl?"
Blinking, Hermione rushes through her mind, what girl? Hands tighten on the chin, the wand shifting. Another hex is coming and it will not be as light.
"I'm sorry which girl?"
"The blonde, Lovegood. Who was she to you?"
"From the party?"
"Testing my patience," Bellatrix warns.
"She… ugh, her father owns the Quibbler, she's a… a. I don't know the word."
"You don't know the word well that's a first." The words are laced with acid. "An activist?"
"No, I don't think… she's…" Forgive me, Luna. "A nutter."
A laugh breaks out, not her normal cackle a warm laugh that sends goosebumps through Hermione's body.
"Eccentric." Hermione clarifies, the word finally jumping into her mind. "She believes in the unknown."
"Hmm," The purr of the voice. "You did the research?"
"Yes," Hermione nods. "I thought it suspicious she spoke to me. I wanted to check her background."
"You went to the, what was it? Quibbler?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"She healed my side."
Light breaches her eyes, the shade from Bellatrix's hair disappearing. Bellatrix is a swirling hurricane, a knee landing on Hermione's pelvis keeping her firmly planted in the chair. Dark orbs seeking, searching.
"Why?" Bellatrix demands.
"I honestly don't know." Hermione answers.
Hair pushed aside, the hand grazes the mark on Hermione's neck, as though Bellatrix is reassuring herself it's still in place. Not daring to move, Hermione watches the witch above her, regretting sharing the information with Bellatrix. Regretting betraying Luna's trust.
A hand, forceful, tugs her top up revealing Hermione's stomach, making the witch blush. It's nothing Bellatrix hasn't seen before, but never in such a setting, she's only glad she remembered to cover her runes. Glancing down, Hermione looks upon the mostly healed wound.
"She dares touch you?" Bellatrix hisses.
"I…"
"Filthy wench," Bellatrix growls. "Does she not know who you belong to?"
"Yes, she does."
"Oh, she is truly stupid then."
"No!"
Her jaw clamps shut; she didn't mean to shout. She has never raised her voice at her mistress, never. Blazing eyes turn to regard. For once she wants to be as far away from her mistress as possible, feeling so vulnerable beneath the witch.
"What?" The word bit out.
"I hexed her," Hermione answers chest heaving.
Hand curls in Hermione's top, accidentally revealing everything. Chest heaving, she's sure she's going to die from a heart attack. So she does, what Hermione does best. She rambles.
"I… I. I thought she was responsible for the attack, thought maybe I was responsible, that I had inevitably caused harm to you. I just wanted the truth. I lost my temper; I hexed her a bit too hard. I made her cry…" Looking away in shame, Hermione focuses on the picture on the wall. Not daring to meet her mistress's eyes. "I thought. I was wrong, she was just being polite talking to me. I don't know why she healed me, I don't. But I'm sorry mistress. I thought I was responsible for the intruder getting in. I… I accept my punishment. I should never raise my wand…"
She trails off, cursing herself as a tear rolls down her cheek. So foolish, she was so damn foolish. Nothing was going to get past her mistress. She'll be at the gallows by the end of the month. What is there to say? The urge to cry is overpowering, but she holds it back bar a few tears, crying will make this worse. They'll be time to cry in Azkaban.
A finger sweeps across her face, this is it. The mark will be removed and in its place a number for the gallows. She will hang.
"Foolish girl," Bellatrix whispers. "What good are tears?"
She knows heaven knows, Hermione is aware her mistress hates tears. How much more will she disappoint her Lady before it ends.
"Foolish."
A hand, calming, caressing, moves against Hermione's cheek wiping away the stray tears. The other hand tangled in her top, and tugged, pulling Hermione upwards closer to her mistress. She squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the burn as the mark to be removed. It will hurt, her runes will crumble around her, and it may even kill her. Anything is better than the shame.
A tongue sweeps across Hermione's closed lips, stealing a gasp. Lips press against hers, a hand burying in her mass of curls. Tugging Hermione closer, to her mistress. The tongue dominating sweeps across Hermione's mouth, plundering. Teeth nip at her lip, a groan escapes as nails dig into her scalp.
Her hands clutch at her mistress's biceps, holding herself up, pulling her Mistress closer. The knee moving from her pelvis, instead, her mistress straddles her. Holding her in place. The tongues continue to battle, she is no match.
Pulling away, Bellatrix is a sight to be seen, lips swollen, eyes blown. Animalistic. Breathtaking. It's the only words Hermione can think of.
"You are mine," Bellatrix hisses hand curling around Hermione's neck holding the mark in the palm of her hand. "Body and soul. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Hermione croaks breathless, eyes slipping down to her mistress's chest, restrained barely against the corset. "I understand."
"No one is to touch you." Eyes dart to the remaining mark on Hermione's body. "No one."
Nodding, Hermione agrees, she has never seen her mistress so manic.
"That said, you will see her again."
"Sorry," Hermione asks.
"You will see that girl again,"
"I… I hexed her."
"She healed you," Bellatrix reminds running a nail across the mark, before slowly moving further up and resting on Hermione's chest. "She will see you again."
"Why?" Hermione dares to ask.
"Information," Bellatrix replies coyly. "She is looking for information, and in return, you will gather information for me."
"On what?"
"Everything." A cruel smile filters across Bellatrix's face. "Someone out there is spreading information. False information."
"You think it's her?"
"No. But the Dark Lord wants everything checked. You will speak with the girl and learn what there is to learn."
"Why me?" Hermione whispers.
"Because you will do as I tell you. She may be inconsequential, but I trust you."
"I can't spill secrets." Hermione clarifies.
"Exactly." A roll of the shoulders as Bellatrix leans back towering over Hermione. "Or I can pay her visit, either way. Which would prefer?"
"Of course, I will do what you ask," Hermione reassures, she cannot let Bellatrix get hold of Luna. "I'm… I'm not being hung?"
A bark of a laugh, a cackle, from her mistress, it would be disturbing if her mistress wasn't straddling Hermione so erotically.
"No, pet. You're not going to gallows. I can hang you if you'd like. By your ankles, naked from my ceiling. Something to watch while I try to sleep."
She can't help herself; she reaches up pulling her mistress into a kiss. Shock passes across Bellatrix's features before Hermione's lips meet hers. She bites her mistress's lip, a groan escaping Bellatrix's mouth. Her tongue slipped into forbidden territory.
A hand pushes her back, back into the chair, panting. Meaning to put distance between them, but Bellatrix follows. Inches from Hermione, bodies flush. Hermione moves for a kiss, a firm hand holding her down, a finger pressed against her lips.
"Ah, ah." Bellatrix hisses breathless. "You may be a quick learner Granger, but no."
She tries not to roll her body, but it happens regardless, those dark eyes growing impossible darker. A hiss, a hand tightening. Hermione tries to gain control of her breathing, but with her mistress so close it's like an invisible tug.
"Body and soul," Hermione whispers.
Panting, Bellatrix glares down, hand-holding Hermione back. Eyes trace her mistress's neck as she swallows, catching her breath. The words have an entirely different effect on her mistress.
"Hmm," A breathless moan against Hermione's ear. "Such a tease. I could tear you to pieces."
She would perhaps like that, it would seem so fitting. Death by a million pieces.
"Focus." Bellatrix orders, forcing Hermione's attention. "Not again. Is that understood?"
Hermione cannot promise that, she wishes she could agree to the terms. Amusement passes across her mistress's face, the hand caressing Hermione's cheek. Slap. A gasp. The sharp sting, dampening her arousal, she winces. Cheek red, flinching as her mistress caresses it once more.
"Understood?" Bellatrix questions.
"I can't make promises I can't keep," Hermione mutters sheepishly.
Another laugh, this time deep and rich. A smile, genuine on the witch's lip.
"Very true. A kiss as a reminder, check your mark."
Frowning, Hermione touches her mark hissing at the pain. She hadn't even noticed. Bellatrix had made it bleed, a reminder to whom she will always belong.
"Oh." Hermione flushes.
"Oh," Bellatrix replies. "Body and soul."
"Never again." Hermione nods swallowing her remorse.
"Good girl."
Pushing away, Bellatrix brushes her clothes down, reaching for her drink she downs it in one go. Breathless, Hermione rubs her neck, pulling her top down, she reaches for her drink. The fire extinguished the room falling dark except for the candles.
The door to the room opens, her mistress fully composed turning to Hermione expectantly. Who else is going to prepare her mistress for bed?
"Ready my notes for tomorrow's meeting," Bellatrix orders smirking as Hermione stumbles to her feet. "I'm not that cruel to make you undress me."
Flushing, Hermione swallows any retort. She's more than happy to undress her mistress, more than happy.
"Eight am. Wake me, I want the studded dress."
"Of course," Hermione agrees. "Mistress…"
Pausing on the threshold, Bellatrix raises an eyebrow waiting for Hermione to follow. Amused, the sour mood from earlier that night disappearing.
"Yes?" Bellatrix demands.
"For a replacement, I think…"
"We've had this conversation." Bellatrix interrupts the good mood slipping away. "The answer is no."
Sighing, Hermione folds her hands, forcing a smile. Nodding, Hermione turns back to the table she will have to clean this up before she heads to bed.
"For fuck sake Granger, I can hear you thinking. Spit it out." Bellatrix snaps.
"I think it's a mistake," Hermione replies brazen. "I must source a replacement."
"You won't drop this, will you? One little brush with death and now you are panicking. You're made of stronger stuff. Get some sleep, leave this for another to clean. I can't have you panicking over foolish things."
"My lady."
"Goodnight, Granger." With a swish of the hand, the candles flicker out.
"Goodnight mistress."
Leaning against the table, Hermione watches the embers of the fire dying out. How does she tell her mistress? That she had seen something, had seen her death. That it's imminent. She may not believe be much of a believer in divination. However, knowledge is passed from Red Kite to Red Kite, as a gift or a curse. Hermione's death is in the cards. Not years, not decades, but months. Her death will be mere months away. Her days are numbered, and she must find a replacement. It is her duty.
