WARNING: This chapter mentions rape, and assault. Please read responsibly. If you wish to skip stop reading when you get to 'If her mistress was firm' then skip the paragraphs until you to the paragraph that starts with 'If she were a romantic'. They'll be no mention after that.
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 Six
"It was on this day, that our Lord, decided no more. He, and he alone took it upon himself to right what was wrong. To bring about a new change. He gave purpose to those less fortunate, delivering those lost muggles from their animal ways. Creating a world as one, all working for one goal. He is merciful as he is wise, deciding Muggleborns could be saved. Saved from the animal ways of their birth parents. Allowing them to train in magic, to work for those who are most…"
Her feet ache, she hates wearing her boots, too tight, hand-me-downs from previous servants. Hands clasped behind her back; she stands tall behind her Mistress watching the preacher pace the cathedral floor.
Angelina stands just behind her to her right lined with two other servants from the house. The rest of the servants remain at the house, listening to the sermon but working. They watch from the box, the box reserved for Lestrange's. Today they are sharing it with the Malfoys, Lady Malfoy and Lady Lestrange attentive at the front of the box. If it weren't for the finger tapping just out of sight, Hermione would think her mistress was listening.
They must make an appearance at such a sermon, on the third Friday of every month. To her left sits Lord Lestrange, overseeing the sermon, his leg brushing against Bellatrix's. The only thing to be enjoyed about such occasions, Hermione gets to wear her Red Kite uniform. Each uniform is individually moulded to the houses they represent but is easily recognisable amongst servants. Black, most obvious, it is her mistress, after all, it's in her maiden name. the uniform moulds to different colours in a certain light, crimson red mixing with black. Black dress shirt, sleeveless jacket, with golden buttons, a crimson chain from her breast pocket. Black slacks, with a hue of red. The collar turned up, accentuating the crest on her neck.
Proud to wear such a uniform, especially one that represents Lady Lestrange's crest. Her mistress in a dark ebony corset, loose-fitting laced top and flowing dark skirt. She tries not to notice each breath, her mistress bosom clearly on display. A fool would look, would not realise, that a dagger rests just out of reach beneath the black skirt. The crooked wand is discretely tucked in a sleeve. The dagger attached to an inner thigh; a fool may ogle.
Matching today, Lord and Lady Lestrange clothes, wearing his best robes. It was as if they dressed in the same room, not as though Hermione would share her mistress's dress style with Lord Lestrange's servants. To ensure they are the picture of a perfect couple, the perfect power couple. A lot of effort, by both sets of servants to ensure both Lady and Lord Lestrange match, the mood. In clothing, always kept up to date. Tiresome. It was better than the alternative, better than having Lord Lestrange living at the mansion.
Despite everything, he was an attractive wizard, with a boyish grin, and strong jaw, emphasized by his neatly trimmed beard. A chiselled face, when he laughed, his dimples would show. His laughter, is deep, bountiful, the sort of laugh that makes others join in. His voice strong, warm, and authoritative always a hit with the ladies, the perfect gentleman.
If her mistress was firm, Lord Lestrange was vile. Taking delight in the suffering of others regardless of status. He enjoys the finer things of life, a good drink, a 'no' in his language an unknown word. Fine women, whether they want it or not. They always want it at first, happy to have attention from such a handsome man. Until alone, until the devil greets them. Pain is their only pleasure. Angelina knew, most of them knew from experience. The male servants are no safer than the female. Thankfully, Hermione had been saved from such savagery, under Miss Evan's care at first. She manoeuvred Hermione out of Lord Lestrange's way and then protected her by being Red Kite. Belonging only to Lady Lestrange.
She was no fool, she was not indefinitely safe from Lord Lestrange, he had cornered her once before. Not long after she became Red Kite, new to the role she was so distracted she let her guard down. Hadn't realised he had arrived at the manor until she was cornered. The crucio had sent her tumbling to the floor of the manor. The following curses well she barely remembers them. Only remembers being incapacitated, remembers his groping hands, standing over her.
Her cries had alerted the only person he feared. Lady Lestrange. Hermione had not expected to see Lord Lestrange reduced to a quivering wreck, to a tearful mess. All she remembers is clutching her mistress's knee, holding back tears. One thing was clear in Lady Lestrange's house, no one touches her belongings. Not even her husband.
Bellatrix had sent him home, bloodied and bruised for daring to touch what belonged to her. He hasn't tried since. Not since Hermione was reduced to grasping her mistress leg as though a life raft in a storm. Body and soul.
If she was a romantic, she would think her mistress saved her that night because she had feelings. If she were a simpleton, she'd believe the lie. No, Hermione was only saved that night, because it was simple. Bellatrix didn't share, especially her toys, especially her pets. After all, in her own words, Hermione screamed delightfully.
It would seem a fairy tale, the memory of watching the Lestrange's share a glance. Almost loving. To an onlooker they were perfect.
"So, you're going to die?"
The voice drifts through Hermione's mind, Luna. Somewhere Luna is in the cathedral, she had caught sight of the witch on their arrival. Lost her amongst the throes of people entering for the service. It had been nearly a week since her mistress had instructed Hermione to spy on Luna. A few days since Hermione had managed to find time to go see the witch.
"Can we not do this now," Hermione replies.
"You've been ignoring me."
"Have not, I've been busy."
"You can't just dump something like this and expect me not to ask questions."
"Luna…"
"Hermione."
Resisting the urge to sigh, Hermione keeps her face emotionless. Focusing on the sermon, not daring to investigate the pews below. She cannot show emotion, not at such an important public gathering.
"Are we glossing over the fact, that my mistress wants me to spy on you?"
"I think it's rather thrilling," Luna responds cheerfully.
"Luna, she thinks you're an activist."
"I know. But I'm not so there's nothing to worry about."
"You cannot be that simple."
"The way I see it, your mistress has permitted you to see me whenever you want. I see it as a blessing." Luna answers softly. "I enjoy spending time with you."
"Even though I'm a spy."
"You'll only be a spy if there was something to spy on. Please stop feeling guilty, I don't care you told her about us."
"I betrayed your trust."
"For a good reason, I'd rather that than a dead friend."
"Is that what I am… a friend?"
"I hope so." Luna answers hopefully. "Although, the dying part is concerning."
"We'll discuss it another time."
"I feel like time is pressing," Luna replies tersely. "You saw your death."
"I did."
"Like a dream?" The question is hopeful.
"No, when… I was working on runes; I foresaw my death. I thought it was a dream. Until I found previous messages left by Miss Evans. Lily had left me her notes. She had seen her death. She died the exact day she saw in her vision."
"How… I've never heard anything like this."
"Something to do with being a Red Kite. I'm not sure how but… The sermon is ending I need to tend to my mistress."
"Please, come see me."
"Soon."
The sermon grows to end with the choir and organ. For all but a few sing-along, Lady Lestrange is not one to join in singing. Rumour has it, she is the only one exempt from singing. Hermione isn't sure, even as she joins in. The words etched into her mind, one of the first things they learnt.
The sun is shining, the birds singing, and butterflies trundle around. In the distance, the sound of the factories kicking to life, the gentle rumble they all become accustomed to. It's beautiful if she ignores the factories in the distance. It's truly beautiful, the gothic cathedral, surrounded by trees and a small pond. Families congregate outside the cathedral, children run, playing, and a toddler waddles past trying to catch a butterfly. She smiles, his doe eyes, chubby fingers grasping wildly at the air, laughing. His nanny follows, lifting him as the butterfly goes higher.
They move around her as though she were invisible, only the servants look at her. She nods her respect at another Red Kite, a small look shared. As much as the monthly visit allows them a break from the house. It usually comes at the most inconvenient time for any household servant. Hermione is much aware she has a list of things to do, a list longer than her arm.
Her mistress is deep in conversation, they will not be leaving any time soon. Checking over her shoulder, she spots Angelina and the other servants from Lestrange's house mingling under a willow tree. All standing respectfully, in the shade. Stories passed from one Lestrange house to another.
She wishes she could join them, but it would be disrespectful for her to leave her mistress's side. It would show discourse between her mistress and Hermione. It would end in a flogging if she were lucky.
"Hi,"
Turning, Hermione forces a smile, Ron Weasley awkwardly standing next to her, trying to appear indifferent. Waiting for his family to stop talking with others, to leave. Fidgeting with his sleeve, he glances at Hermione.
"Mr Weasley," Hermione greets respectfully.
"Ron," He mutters. "I… I wanted to apologise about the other day, you know my brother."
"There is nothing to apologies for," Hermione reassures.
"Weren't respectful though, was it."
A mutter breaks out, and the youngest Weasley, Ginny, exits the Cathedral chatting animatedly with others. Some stop to stare, a Quidditch star if Hermione remembers correctly. Quite the player. Shuffling awkwardly, Ron tries not to stare as his sister walks by without a glance in his direction.
Hermione feels for the young man standing next to her. His sister is a rising star, one brother working with dragons, another for the ministry, and one a curse breaker. The twins started their shop and here he is the youngest son in hand-me-down clothes. Still working at his mother's bakery.
"She's bloody brilliant you know," Ron praises his sister. "I played a bit in school, but Ginny, Nah she's got a gift."
"So, I've heard."
"Do you play? Sorry, that was a stupid question."
"It's nice of you to ask."
She should remind him to go be with others similar to him and go seek out his friends. Not staying talking to Hermione, it will damage his reputation if he is seen talking to the help.
"I know, I shouldn't talk to you." He mumbles picking at a thread in his sleeve. "It's just nice you know. I feel like I know you. I sound like a right muppet."
"It's fine," Hermione replies bowing her head at passing family. "If I may be so bold, what is it you want to do? Career-wise?"
"Bloody hell, that's a loaded question."
"Apologies."
"No, it's fine. No one's asked me before, you know." He sighs, ruffing up his messy hair. "Don't laugh, will you?"
"Of course not."
"I want to be an Auror, I know it's stupid. But I signed up for the trial etc last year, I passed my physical the other week. I didn't think I'd get this far. Now though, I've got to be prepped for the final. It's like taking my owls and I was rubbish at them." He swallows. "Sorry didn't mean to unload."
"It's quite alright, I think it's an admiral cause."
"You do?"
"Of course, it's very brave of you. You've got this far, I don't see why you wouldn't get any further."
"Yeah, I just got to impress your boss."
Hermione spares a look to her mistress deep in conversation with another of her friends, oblivious to Hermione. It won't be easy, Bellatrix is hard to impress. The overseer of all recruits that join the Aurors. It's both a physical and a written exam the last step to becoming an Auror. The final step is a duel against Bellatrix. No one has won, but the point is not winning, the point is surviving.
"It's not like I'm one of her favourite people." He shakes his head rubbing the back of his neck. "Should just drop out before I embarrass myself."
"Cut your hair," Hermione states impassive.
"Sorry?" He looks at her confused.
"Don't look at me." Hermione orders, making him turn away abruptly. "You need to cut your hair, like Mr Draco's."
"What do I want to look like that dork for?"
"It's all about perspective." Hermione answers. "Cut your hair, shave your stubble off. Buy some new robes, they don't need to be fancy they just need to look neat. Arrive early. Don't play with your sleeves. Stay stoic. Despite what is said don't react. Stay fluid in a duel and spontaneous. You won't win, it's not the point of the duel, the point is to test stamina, your creativity and most importantly enjoy the duel. It can't be a chore. If I may. You will need the book by Felix Du Grants, the Art of Madness. The book is expensive, but you will find it at the local library, I recommend reading it."
"Why are you telling me?" He whispers. "Also, I hate studying."
"Then stay a baker." Hermione shrugs. "You could become something more than a shadow; you just need to risk it. Need to gain respect."
"Won't you get in trouble for telling me this?" He asks suspiciously.
"For telling you what Mr Weasley?"
He smiles a goofy grin, pushing his hair out of his face. Determination setting in he nods to himself.
"I've got some reading to do, haven't I? Thanks…"
"Granger."
"Thanks, Granger,"
She watches him scurry off whispering something to his mother in passing ignoring her comments as he apparates away. She wishes him luck, wondering why helped him. He is right, her mistress won't be happy for helping a Weasley.
"That was very kind." A calm Scottish voice acknowledges.
"Headmistress McGonagall," Hermione acknowledges the older woman bowing her head as she comes to a stop next to Hermione. "May I help you."
"No child, your fine," McGonagall answers. "But why did you help Mr Weasley?"
"I…"
"Fear not, I won't reprimand you, it was a very brave act." The usual stern-looking witch is smiling subtly. "But why he was right, your mistress will not appreciate you helping him."
"You heard?"
"I lip read."
"Ah," Hermione mutters.
"My mother was deaf, you learn things over the years, especially when it comes to students." A wryly smile. "Why did you help Mr Weasley?"
"He needed it." Hermione shrugs. "It was only some advice; the rest will be up to him."
"Small advice can have big consequences, but you are already aware of that, yet still you helped him. Interesting."
"If I didn't, who would?"
"Who indeed. There's nothing quite like living in the shadow of another, especially when there is more than one shadow." Green eyes dart to the Weasley family. "You know this, taking after Miss Evans, that would have been difficult."
"It wasn't without its challenges." Hermione agrees. "Miss Evans was a fantastic Red Kite, they were big shoes to fill, that much is true.
"The loss of a mentor," Hermione shifts uncomfortably under the gaze of the Headmistress. "Equally as hard."
"You knew Miss Evans."
"Long time ago," McGonagall agrees. "A talented witch, although I hear you are equally as talented if not more?"
"No, I'm sure your sources are too kind." Hermione blushes. "Everything I know is because of Miss Evans."
"I think you don't give yourself enough credit,"
"Headmistress," The tone is sharp, the word sharper as Lady Lestrange comes to rest next to Hermione. "Not poaching my Red Kite are you?"
"Bellatrix," McGonagall greets with a slight bow of the head. "I would never dream of such a thing."
"Careful Pet," Bellatrix taunts smirking at the Headmistress. "She's looking for a replacement, all though we shouldn't ask what happened to the old Red Kite."
"One shouldn't listen to gossip," McGonagall shrugs.
"Gossip?" A bark of a laugh. "They found your dear little Red Kite in three different places, thrown about. Now tell me, what could have done that?"
"Troll," Hermione answers automatically, two sets of glares turning to her. "Sounds like a troll, they have some in the Forbidden Forest, correct?"
"They do, yes," McGonagall answers quizzically. "You know much about Hogwarts."
"History of Hogwarts," Hermione answers. "Was it the month of April?"
"Yes,"
"Trolls mate in April, they also tend to linger around the lakes. I'm sure your Red Kite was retrieving ingredients for a potion. Hamver grows near the black lake. Very difficult to grow, difficult to pick, they probably didn't notice they had entered the Troll's mating territory." Pausing, Hermione notices the glare from her mistress. "Apologies, for talking out of turn."
"Talk away," McGonagall chuckles.
"Encyclopaedia this one," Bellatrix rolls her eyes.
"She solved a case that took the Auror department two months to solve, in less than a minute."
Biting her tongue, Hermione holds back her thoughts. The Auror department most likely solved the case straight away. The only reason it took so long would be due to the fact it was a Red Kite. Not high on their priority list. A muggleborn dying is rarely investigated, only investigated due to the status of Hogwarts.
A chill runs down Hermione's back, checking over her shoulder, she wonders if someone is watching. Everyone is mingling, talking, children playing there is no reason for a sense of dread to seep through her body. Wrong, something is wrong. Ice crawls through her veins.
"Just let me borrow the damn hat," Bellatrix demands.
"You cannot just borrow the sorting hat," McGonagall retorts hotly. "There are procedures."
"Yes, I wrote most of the blasted things, stop being a…"
Turning away, Hermione scans the crowd once more, is there someone here. Wishing to harm her mistress, is what she can feel. No one is looking their way, no one is acting suspiciously.
Drawn towards her mistress servants talking under the willow. Her body almost vibrated, shaking. Her feet are moving, her mind locked, focussed solely on the servants talking amongst themselves. Its cold burn, starting beneath the skin, is almost unbearable. Someone is speaking out of turn.
Her wand is slipping from its holster, stepping through the crowd as though they're invisible. Moving to her servants. They turn to greet her, smiles slipping from their faces at the sight of her wand. She may be a servant, but it was her duty to deal out punishment should it be needed. Angelina is tensing, fear and respect forcing her to clench in anticipation.
Flash. Iris burns from the intensity of the spell, it burns from the end of the wand. The servant dropped to his knees in fear. The curse barrels past his head burning the ends of his hair. The small beetle drops from the tree squirming on the ground in agony. The servants scrambled to the side to avoid Hermione.
Her actions have caught the attention of some of the elite, but she could care less. It's a miracle none of her servants have lost their tongues. Although, they were not aware they were being spied upon.
"Rita," Hermione sneers down at the beetle squirming on the ground. "It's been some time."
"Apologies ladies and gentlemen, our Red Kite is not too keen on bugs." Lord Lestrange chuckles, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. Hissing in her ear. "The fuck is wrong with you, filth."
She remains quiet watching the bug squirming on the ground, she wants to step on it. Squish the life from its ugly body. The ice in her veins has turned to molten lava. The memory of one of the servants not long ago, his tongue tumbling out of his mouth. It was a ploy, the young servant had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Had fallen into talking with the wrong person and it had cost him everything.
"Skeeta!" The shrill voice sends shivers down Hermione's spine, the crooked wand twisting between agile fingers. "Fear not dear Husband, our Red Kite hasn't lost her marbles."
With a flick of Bellatrix's wand, the bug is transforming, morphing. Gasping, quivering on the grass, the curly-haired blonde woman struggles to find her breath. Pushing unsteady to her knees, crimson-painted nails clutching at her chest.
A firm hand pushes Hermione's wand down, Lady Lestrange taking charge of the situation. Stepping forward to study the shaking witch.
"Filthy beast," Skeeta hisses rising onto unsteady feet. "Hang the mongrel for daring to curse a pureblood."
"A pureblood you may be," Lestrange drawls. "Except you are the only beast here."
"How dare you…"
"Listening in to my servants' conversations. Spying." Hand flexing, Bellatrix summons the notebook attached to the reporter's hip. "That's treason. That's a hanging offence."
"She attacked me!"
"Dolohov," Bellatrix snaps, casting a body bind on Skeeta. "See this poor excuse of witch gets her ticket to Azkaban."
"Course," Dolohov smiles, grabbing the witch by the arm. "Be a pleasure."
"Shows over folks!" Lord Lestrange shouts shooing the crowd away, turning Bellatrix in a lower voice. "How the hell did the mudblood notice Skeeta?"
"She's very good," Bellatrix smirks finger soothing over Hermione's crest. "Well done, Pet."
Releasing a breath, Hermione begrudgingly puts her wand away. Smiling reassuringly at the servants all frozen in fear. Sighing, Hermione wanted nothing more than to take care of the reporter. To take revenge on the servant that fell for her evil schemes a long time ago.
"Mistress, permission to send them back?" Hermione asks.
"Yes, you stay, however," Bellatrix replies. "I need to do some shopping."
"Of course," Hermione bows.
Stepping forward, she pulls the portal key from her pocket ordering the servants to step forward to take hold. With a flick of her wand, she activates the portal.
An odd sensation, body morphing, shifting without control, it makes most puke. It hurtles them through the air and steals the breath from their lungs. In an instant, they arrive feet firmly on the marble floor of the grand hall. Groaning, the servants push away, Angelina lingering resting her hand on Hermione's forearm.
"I thought you were going to curse him," Angelina mutters. "How did you know?"
"What did you discuss?" Hermione asks ignoring the question.
"That night."
Nodding, Hermione steps back from the hand, she needs to check the notebook. The feeling is just as unpleasant as she reappears at the base of the cathedral. Stepping forward, she pockets the port key, moving to stand next to her mistress. Leaning in to whisper to the witch.
"Mistress," Hermione whispers her breath catching the black curls.
Clapping, a young boy singing in front of the crowd, a distraction. Reclining back, Bellatrix is clapping, her focus on the distraction. Mind focused on Hermione.
"What did she hear?" her mistress demands.
"That night, we will need to oblivate her."
"Thought so," dark eyes search through the crowd, spotting Dolohov, a swift nod.
Hermione watches the wizard disappear, not sure of the relationship between Dolohov and her mistress. Not her place to question either, but there's a bond. Perhaps it's due to their working relationship at the Auror office, perhaps a friendship. It's none of Hermione's business.
"Here," Bellatrix states passing the notebook discretely to Hermione. "Read what else she has written. We won't be the only ones today."
"Of course."
Bowing, Hermione steps back from her Mistress's ear, pocketing the notebook. She will study it once she is alone. Hands folded behind her back; she ignores the way her stomach curls at Lord Lestrange resting his hand on Lady Lestrange's waist. Ignores the green cat-like eyes of Headmistress McGonagall, Hermione turns her focus on attending to her misters.
"For the record," A whisper, Luna standing behind Hermione, she can smell the blonde witches lavender in the breeze. "That was pretty awesome."
"Thanks," Hermione breathes sharing a quick smile with the witch.
"I read your memoirs."
"I know, they're rubbish," Hermione replies.
"No, they were… so insightful."
"Your sweet."
"It's the truth."
A hand brushes Hermione's, making her jerk on reflex. The soft skin pulling away, to the casual observer would be an accident. Hermione knows differently. Luna left with her father heading back to the Quibbler.
"A good question!" A shout from the Preacher, tapping a young wizard on the shoulder. "Fear not my lad, as we all know, they cannot feel. Muggles, muggleborns have no emotion as we do. They can not feel love like we can. It's impossible for them to feel anything but a duty. You, my boy, will grow up to fall in love, find yourself a young witch. A muggleborn, they cannot, they are incapable. They are happy to serve, it's in their blood."
Biting her lip, Hermione stays stoic, catching the look from Anderson's Red Kite. An old look, one practised for many years. To stay quiet, to stay out of sight. After all, they are incapable of anything but their duty. The bells begin to ring, the birds springing from the tree, a clap from the crowd. Silent, they must, remain, silent.
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-fold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
Silence
Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849
A/n: Firstly thank you for all your kind reviews, I know in recent years my updates have been sporadic. I have been off fanfiction because I have been trying to write a book to be published. For a while, it didn't work, then out of nowhere inspiration struck! I wrote a novel in three months. Now, I have to edit it, I hate editing, I also struggle due to my dyslexia. While I argued internally with myself, my muse still fired up, decided one book wasn't enough. Hence, Paint it, Black was born. I originally was going to make it a script to send to Netflix, the story obviously didn't go like this. I changed my mind, now the story is morphing growing out of control. So, we will see what happens, maybe the end of this year I may get published, but for now. Please enjoy.