Chapter One:

Hermione came to in a dusty room that smelled strongly of moth balls. She wasn't sure how she'd found herself in an unfamiliar room that was completely quiet. Hermione was no longer dressed as a Nun but instead in a dark walking cloak and a simple linen dress, inexplicably missing the Nun sandals she'd worn. Her feet did not appear to have any cuts or bruises and her body did not feel splinched and none of her muscles were strained, from what she could see and feel.

The room was dark with only a keyhole of sunlight filtering through the wooden slats that covered all the windows. She had awoken sprawled out on a strangely comfortable straw mattress. Someone had to have placed a strong cushioning charm on the mattress; there were no signs or smells indicating that another person had recently been with her, so she knew the spell had been powerful.

A shiver ran through her as she slowly pulled up her skirt. There was no blood or any sign of foul play on her intimate areas and no scratches or thumbprints dotting her thighs. After several dicey situations, Hermione wasn't so innocent as to not know that such things could be done to her without her knowledge. While not completely sure she hadn't been harmed, goosebumps tickled her skin and her heart thudded sharply in her chest.

After nearly six years on the run, Hermione knew how to scout out a location, notice small clues and discern how recently another person or animal had been in the location she was observing. From what she could gather, someone had placed her here rather than Hermione using accidental magic and pulling herself to this unfamiliar location. There were no tracks on the dust-covered floor, but the film of grime covering the small side table had been disturbed, suggesting that someone had braced themselves against it while lowering Hermione onto the bed.

There was no indication of how long she'd been unconscious, what happened on the train platform, where Neville was, or who'd brought her here, and there was no clear sign as to whether or not the person who'd brought her here would return. Discomfited and feeling as though she were being watched, Hermione decided it was better for her to flee than wait around to find out.

Getting out was the easy part, seeing that the door was left unlocked. From the outside, Hermione could see that she had been placed in a tool shed built upon a vacated lot that appeared to be on the outskirts of London. Various tools, shovels, buckets, and other items were strewn about the yard as if a tornado had taken all the equipment and scattered it haphazardly about the land.

The sun was low in the sky, but it was clearly early morning; though, the air felt sticky, for the hour, and smelled of rain. Hermione felt violated; she had no way of knowing for sure what had happened to her body and she was wary of coming upon other people with ill intentions. After all, she was limited in the amount of magic she had available to protect herself. Her body felt strong, though, and the cuff on her arm was a stark reminder that she had to get to the Brothel District, as soon as her feet could carry her.


The thick wool cloak wrapped about her head and shoulders partially obscured her features, and the sheet of rain did the rest. Hermione had to keep her wits about her in the newly reopened Diagon Alley, where the doors remained shut and the blinds wide open. She walked calmly through the slippery stone streets, as though she belonged there. Her unhurried mannerisms alerted those around her to stay away- a beacon screaming, "This a woman of means and circumstance. This a woman who will not reward your interference."

As it were, there were only a smattering of tightly bundled pedestrians scuttling like rats into warm, dry hovels. She did not have to try quite so hard to be inconspicuous, but five long years had taught her that things could always go south.

Only the Godric's Guard, the Ministry's police force made of specialized Monks, cared who was coming and going; and they were notoriously lazy, now that the wand restrictions amendment had passed. However, Hermione could not be at ease knowing that she had no glamour, no wand, and no way to hide herself should anyone look closer. Yes, she had her designation cuff to protect her from being rounded up, but that wouldn't stop someone, even a guard member, from roughing her up or killing her if they saw fit. Her years on the run had taught Hermione that the world at large had a tendency of following routine patterns, and wizards were not often keen to show mercy, even if the opportunity was given to them.

Her bare feet were tender, numb, and nearly frostbitten from trudging through cold, muddy puddles for hours, and she was lucky that her cloak dragged about the ground like a wet blanket, as it proved just aggravating enough to keep her awake and moving forward. Now, it seemed that her arduous journey was coming to a close because if her directions were correct, she'd only have to walk another two blocks before reaching the "Sugarhouse" run by the Madame herself.

The rain clouds above sagged with excess water, and the lightning just over the rooftops did the devil's dance. The rain shower had grown gleefully into a pounding storm, and the delicate signage above each shop became more blurry and faint the further Hermione walked. Her tired mind calculated that she must have passed her destination. She turned too sharply on her heel causing her to swing her arms wildly to try and catch her balance, before landing on her buttocks and soaking her heavy cloak. She heard the alarmed cry of a man behind her and realized that he'd been caught in her accident.

She attempted to scramble up just as she realized that her heavy cloak was pulling her back down. She heard the sound of a grunt against the rain and saw the figure she presumably knocked down rise to his feet. The dark sky and the thick rain made it impossible for her to see the person clearly, and before she could object, a strong grip hauled her upwards. Hermione pulled her face upward to thank the stranger but closed her eyes quickly to avoid a sharp light on her face. The wand light was blinding; so, she could not hope to see the person holding it up to her face. She turned her head and put a hand over her eyes.

"Designation Cuff, please...ah one of the Madame's girls. I wasn't notified that one of you would be outside today."

Hermione responded with an indignant sniff, playing the part she supposed was appropriate," Completing an errand for my mistress. I am returning to the Sugarhouse." The fire in her eyes extinguished as the guardsman let go of her person. She felt rather than heard the man step out of her personal space. "I've finished my shift. I'm heading that way now. I'll join you."

Hermione grinned triumphantly, knowing this would get her to her destination. "I'd be happy to be your travel companion. Please lead the way."


Luckily, by the time she arrived in her new community, the rain had stopped so she could fully assess her surroundings. The Brothel district was unlike anything Hermione had ever seen before, if only because it was not what one would expect from such a concentrated service area. The district was more like a carnival funhouse with a hodge-pogde of various structures slapped all in the same small town. Some of the businesses, called houses, were short and stubby and painted red all over. A few were tall and skinny with dirty window dressings and half-naked women spilling out of the entrances lined with inebriated men. Still, others were made of gray stone and looked equally cold and haunted, but one singular place outshone them all in it's spectacular brilliance. It was the only house atop the only hill in the otherwise flat landscape, making Hermione wonder if the hill was a natural feature of the topography or if it had been erected for special effect. She knew what her gut told her.

The house was a pure white mansion made of smooth stone. It was not imposing or gothic like older mansions from days gone by nor so modern as to be too trendy. It was almost unassuming in its quiet beauty, but it was clear that this establishment had the monetary and magical reserves to charm the entire exterior as though it were perpetual spring rather than winter.

The grounds were decorated with swaying daffodils, flowering trees, and every white rose known to man. It was a home embedded carefully inside a field of flowers. And, no men were stumbling around nor half dressed women lounging on its front steps. There was a lovely young woman, fully dressed, tending to the plants and snipping the ones that had overgrown, and the smell emanating from the location was that of raw sugar and tea.

Her companion escorted her inside but did not wait to see her properly settled. He strode from the receiving room and up the long stairs to places unknown. Left to her own devices, Hermione immediately made herself known to the receptionist and asked to speak with the Madame.

Apparently, it was bad form to request an audience with the Madame or so the sniffling young boy at the reception desk stated. The Madame was an extremely busy person and could no more inspect every new hire as could the good Minister Fudge could have interviewed every new departmental intern in the former administration. What coarse manners to ask in the first place.

This is how Hermione came to be, still drowning in her sopping wool cloak, in a drafty meeting room, waiting to be examined and found hopefully fit for duty and refuge. With little to entertain, she began ringing the water from her hair before attending to the state of her overcoat.

As she grasped the cloak between her two hands, a shiny lapel button grabbed her attention. She hadn't realized before but the cloak had been on inside out with the lapel pin scraping against the straps of her beaded bag where she wouldn't feel it. She pulled the button between her thumb and forefinger in order to better inspect it. She saw an insignia that she had not noticed before, as she ran from that strange shed she'd woken up in. The pin was in the shape of a heart punctured in the center by a bloody arrow. When she'd noticed the cloak draped about her body, as though she were a play thing, a dress up doll, she hadn't realized her good fortune. She'd had no reason to be scared when traveling on the roads or in Diagon Alley. The lapel pin would have saved her from all sorts of scrutiny; it was the sign of the Ministry. Only the senior members of the Ministry- Mage Bishops who presided over one of three districts, be it the Nun order, the Husbandry or the Brothel District - who'd been confirmed to give Magic's holy order wore such insignia; they were second only to the Philosopher's Sacramens, the secret king of the Ministry.

It was hard for Hermione to not be overcome with fright. A man, as all Mage Bishops were men, had given her his cloak and had allowed her to wear his insignia. It stood to reason that the same person that had given her the riding cloak had been the one to take her to the abandoned farmhouse outside of town. That person had apparently taken her stolen shoes as payment, which was a whole different mystery that Hermione did not have time to solve. Was it the same person who took her from the platform?

Those lapel pins were almost as valuable as a real life resurrection stone, and no one in their right mind would part it with such a treasure, especially to give it to the Ministry's Undesirable No. 1? Who had housed her and knocked her unconscious? What was their goal? Moreover, and perhaps most importantly, if that person had saved her and left her with their cloak as protection, when would they want repayment for services rendered? And, oh Merlin, when would they come to collect?

What in the hell had she gotten herself unwittingly involved in?

The slamming of the door alerted Hermione to a new occupant and blessedly derailed her spiraling train of thought from the cliff she'd been careening towards. This was why she needed Neville; he was excellent at taking Hermione's tangled and complicated web of thoughts and ideas and transfiguring them into something strategic and smart. Without him, Hermione was missing the essential piece that had held her very being together, in moments she was fit to come unglued. What advice would he bestow on her in order to appease this unhappy looking woman?

Neville would tell her to stand firm, stand strong, to greet her with conviction saying: "Hello, my name is Hermione Granger. I've come to accept my designation."

And, so in his honor, Hermione did.

The words were spoken to a spiky green haired woman with Quidditch robes practically painted onto her body. The woman's mouth was tight with disapproval. "You must be the new girl- the Undesirable who finally accepted her fate. We expected you seven days ago." Hermione stood stock still. She'd lost 6 days? It had taken her all day and most of the night to get here, so that meant she'd been in that farmhouse for hours upon hours. And yet, she'd felt no hunger upon waking or any soreness from extended bed rest. Someone had been caring for her. The fear took her again. Strange things were happening around her with no way to discover the truth. If only she had a wand...

"You're late. The woman added unnecessarily when Hermione did not immediately respond.

"I did not realize you were expecting me. I was...detained on other matters," Hermione decided this rude woman wasn't worth a full telling of the truth. She seemed the type to chew on secrets before spitting them back in your face for the sheer fun of it.

"Wearing the Madame's cuff creates a binding work contract. Any dunderhead with two toes knows that. And don't think you'll be getting any special treatment. You'll interview like all the others."

Hermione had no idea how someone would interview for a position if wearing the Madame's cuff created a work contract, but she assumed that further inquiry into the matter may have her back out on the rainy streets once again. She nodded emphatically which seemed to please the unsavory woman.

"One of the Higher Ups vouched for you and said you wouldn't give us any trouble, but as punishment for your tardiness, you will not be allotted any free time. You will be housed and fed promptly at seven in the morning and again at seven in the evening, and if you're late, there will be no further opportunities; no exceptions. You will remain in your room until such a time when you have enough earnings to buy holiday time. Now, this is all under the assumption that you pass the interview process. Is that clear?"

Hermione nodded once, in the affirmative.

"You will be given a manual to study, and perhaps, if you're lucky and they are amenable, one of the other girls will take pity on you and show you how it's done. Don't expect anyone to go out of their way to help you, either. If you'd been here on time then perhaps you could've planned for more help, but you brought this on yourself. Are you able to begin working in a day or so, if you are accepted?"

Feeling like a broken record, for the second time in such a short span of a breath, Hermione replied while fighting not to roll her eyes in exasperation, "Yes."

"Good. Follow me into the office. You'll be interviewed shortly. Any questions?" The woman narrowed her eyes, and Hermione blanched. Clearly, questions weren't welcomed.

"No, thank you."

"Don't thank me until you have a reason to. Appreciation is a currency that you don't have enough money to barter in. Stay silent, if you know what's in your best interest."

Before Hermione had a moment to be affronted, she was pulled into a small sitting room, with far too many creams and pastel colors thrown about as decoration to be appropriate for adult professionals. Another woman was sitting behind a desk in this new room, as the green haired woman closed the adjoining door, leading to the reception area. Hermione waited with bated breath.

And waited.

And waited.

Oh, and yes, waited some more, feeling the tension in her stiff shoulders.

She resisted sighing heavily; instead, choosing to stare at the bored woman filing her nails. Hermione wondered when she'd be meeting her employer, to get on with the business of selling her soul.

"When will I be speaking with the Madame or a supervisor to discuss my employment options?" Hermione asked.

The other girl did not look up from her trivial task of routine beautification, and the thought occurred to Hermione that the girl must be a Muggle-born to use such a device. Though, she did momentarily pause her filing before continuing with a small, selfish smile. Speaking to herself, she said, "She thinks Alba Erica is going to stop running this place full up with magic to come to speak to her scrawny arse. By god, I hate witches."

Ignoring her slight completely, Hermione replied, "The madame's name is Alba Erica? I'd heard her identity was a tight lipped secret."

The girl managed to be even more disdainful when she deigned to look Hermione in the eye. "Alba Erica is her brothel name. If I allow you to be one of us, who you were before won't matter one stitch and you'll be given a new name. And, for the record, no damn body can march up demanding to see Alba Erica, especially not a chit like you."

"So, my interview is with you, Miss-"

Sighing loudly, the girl threw her nail file at her feet and abruptly stood. "You're getting on my damn nerves, newbie, but Alba Erica would strangle me if I let the Chosen One's girl go to some inferior house."

With reflexes that seemed too fast to be human, she now stood in Hermione's face.

"Play the game well and you may end up in Alba Erica's inner circle. The clients won't be able to keep their hands off you." Hermione did not hide her disgust well, and the girl leered at her before once again getting too close to Hermione's face. "I'd learn to hide your emotions if you want any hope of survival."

Unlike what Hermione would have expected from such a vile person, her interviewer did not have bad breath or the rotten stench of an internal volcano, as her temperament would suggest. No, she smelled sweet and yet earthy like a sprig of-

"Rosemary," Hermione breathed. The other girl reared back but had a slight upturn to her lips. Hermione had done well.

"Okay, chitty girl. I guess you'll have to make do. Come along."

Hermione did not smile, but the tingle of victory nipped at her winter-cold skin. Even in this new, strange house, she could still be a bright little-

"I said come on!"

Shaking her head, Hermione answered back. "Coming."