Chapter Text
In her short life, Hermione never had once imagined that someday she would be staying in a castle.
She had dreamed, of course, when she was a little girl - every girl imagines herself as a princess at least once - but through her life, watching her parents achieve their status as nobility through hard work rather than birthright, she learned quickly that royalty was given to a very small minority of very wealthy people.
She looks up at the entrance now, with its extravagant, stone walls and pillars, the carved ravens at the top looking down upon any who dared to touch the brass gates. Its design is meant to intimidate, she knows, to let visitors know who owns this land, and this kingdom - but Hermione has always recognized the royal family and their power, so she does not find herself falling victim to the unmoving eyes above her.
The carriage pulls away, the horseman cracking his whip and drawing Hermione’s attention from the statues. As the horses’ footfalls fade behind them, the doorman that had picked up Hermione at her own family estate earlier, announces their arrival to the men who then open the gate to let them in.
“Are you alright, my lady?” The doorman asks, Hermione turning with a sway of her skirts to address him in turn.
“Yes, monsieur,” she smiles at him, “I’m not afraid. Who should fear their own monarchy?”
He returns her friendliness, but there’s an undertone of something Hermione can’t place. “This way, then, miss,” he bows before taking her arm in his to escort her through the yard and into the castle itself.
The estate stands tall, dark and brooding, gothic with shining windows of stained glass, each piece depicting an event or portrait of royalty long since past. Hermione finds herself overwhelmed with curiosity, wanting to explore every inch of the castle and study every page in every book it might contain. Gargoyles perch on every corner of the great, decorated roof, snarling down at her as if she is their prey. On the head of one that is particularly gnarly sits a raven of flesh and blood rather than stone, its eyes watching Hermione carefully.
And yet, she still feels no fear. A tad inadequate, even as she’s wearing her fanciest dress - one her parents just bought her for this special day, but still simple in design. A gold fabric of silk, draped perfectly over her corsets and undergarments in an elegant sweetheart neckline and slightly puffed shorter sleeves decorated with ribbons. Her layered skirt comes down to her ankles, showing her heeled shoes. Her mother had even done her hair, pulling back her bushy curls, leaving half of it up, layered over the rest. She had felt beautiful when they left her home, but now… she hopes she looks her part.
The part of a potential bride to be, she thinks to herself anxiously.
Passing through the majestic arch of the front doors, Hermione lays eyes on the interior of the castle for the first time. The stone walls sparkle under the torchlight and are decorated with tapestries of black fabric, depicting the crest of the royal family, reaching all the way up to the high ceilings. An emerald green carpet paves a path through the halls. To a person of ignorance, the castle would appear dreary, or haunted, but those who live within the kingdom know that the select colors that accent these walls say one thing: power.
After all, who would expect any less from the Castle of Black?
Through the towering aisles Hermione is led, armored knights nodding politely in her direction as she passes. Finally, they reach the grand doors of the throne room, two guards parting the gate and revealing the inside to Hermione’s awe-filled eyes.
The throne room is just as extravagant and gothic as the rest of the castle. Each pillar that holds the high ceiling in place is as black as night, each wrapped in a marble snake of matching color, their fangs bared towards the entrance to the room, almost protectively. A shimmering emerald chandelier hangs above, decorated with candles, and Hermione wonders how it could be possible for anyone to reach so high to light every single one. The green carpet she stands on extends to the opposite wall, where, above a few perfectly carved stone steps, sits a dark, wooden throne. Large and bold, engraved with snakes and skulls with bejeweled eyes - but as beautiful as the piece may be, Hermione finds herself enamored by the woman sitting upon it.
The young woman has seen many portraits and paintings of the royal family, as they decorate many establishments throughout the kingdom, but never has she had the opportunity to see the queen in person. Queen Bellatrix Black I, a woman made of pale, porcelain skin, high, sharp cheekbones, and pouting lips that seem to be a natural shade of blood red. Upon her head rests a shining crown of silver and emerald, designed clearly to showcase the wealth of the family that owns it. She lounges on her throne almost as if she’s bored, one long, slender leg bouncing as it’s crossed over the other, exposed by the generous slit in her skirts, heeled leather boots on her feet. An elegant hand plays with one of the perfect, black curls that fall freely and loosely down her back and over her shoulder - the smooth white skin of which is revealed by the off-shoulder design of her very black and very expensive dress, decorated generously with lace. The sleeves are long, wrapped around her middle fingers and accented with rings of silver and onyx. The neckline is so low, and the leather corset the woman wears over it so tight, that Hermione can’t stop her eyes from widening, heat rushing to her cheeks. She bows her head quickly in an attempt to hide it, as well as properly greet her monarch with a curtsy.
The queen, Bellatrix, sits up straight on her throne, cold, black eyes falling upon Hermione. A necklace, decorated with a pendant of a raven’s skull made of silver, shifts a bit as she moves, before resting comfortably back against her collarbone. Hermione swallows, all of her bravery seemingly having been sucked through her feet. How long has she been staring? Has her heart been racing this much this entire time?
The queen lets out a low, cruel laugh. “Finally,” she groans with a roll of her eyes, and Hermione is immediately taken aback. She opens her mouth to apologize, to ask questions, to beg for forgiveness, but then she hears footsteps behind her, and in come three people she recognizes very well.
Princess Narcissa, she knows from her studying, is their queen’s younger sister, but despite such a fact, appears a good amount taller than Bellatrix, with long blonde hair perfectly pinned into a bun atop her head. She wears a tiara of matching colors and materials as her superior, but hers is noticeably smaller. She wears a long, forest green silk gown, a shawl of black fur around her shoulders. Following her at the skirt are her husband, Prince Lucius, and their son, Prince Draco, both in suits of black, white-blonde hair perfectly groomed. “Apologies, Bella,” Narcissa nods to her sister before taking her place standing beside her throne, her husband and child quick to follow. “We had some… difficulties, getting ourselves prepared for the greeting.” Hermione notices her blue eyes glance towards Draco, whose gaze hasn’t left the floor, before they settle onto Hermione herself.
“Oh, it’s no issue, Cissy,” Bellatrix drawls sarcastically, her red-painted nails clutching the arm of her throne. “It’s not like I’ve been sitting here all on my lonesome for an hour or so.”
While the princess opens her mouth to retort, Bellatrix raises her hand to silence her, letting a rather infuriated-looking Narcissa simmer while she turns her dark eyes towards the young woman before her again. “So,” she purrs with curiosity, leaning back on her throne again. “You’re the maid my nephew has chosen to court.”
It takes Hermione an embarrassing second to realize that the queen is addressing her directly, and her stammered response brings a flush to her freckled cheeks. “Um, oui, your majesty, I… I suppose I am,” She manages, her voice just barely loud enough to echo off the dark stone walls of the throne room. She cringes inwardly, however - Damn, Granger, way to butcher your first impression.
“Hmm. So this is what his taste amounts to. Common, then, I shouldn’t wonder?” The queen raises a hand, looking down at her nails. “Or simply provincial?”
The insult hits Hermione like a speeding carriage, and her brows furrow in astonishment before she can calm herself. “Nobility, your majesty. My parents are esteemed Healers.” It comes out with more bite than intended, and she realizes it as soon as the words leave her lips.
Bellatrix raises a black, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Indeed? And do you practice this art yourself?”
Hermione glances at the other members of the royal family, before straightening her posture to face the queen directly. “Yes, your majesty… Or, I have at least studied underneath them both.”
“Then at least he’s doing better than some.” There’s a quiet bite of anger in her tone, but before Hermione can understand why, Bellatrix shrugs it off. “Either way, you are our welcome guest, for the time being. So long as you remember your place.” She smirks. “Few would look kindly on a child born out of wedlock, even from the prince.”
Hermione immediately blushes scarlet, infuriated by the insinuation as well as humiliated. “Oh, your majesty, I would never- I’ve not… It’s unimaginable!” She protests, taking a shy step back from the queen’s throne.
The queen throws back her head and cackles. Princess Narcissa and Prince Lucius seem unmoved, as though it’s not an uncommon sight to them, but Hermione sees Prince Draco flinch just a little bit at Bellatrix’s harsh mirth. “Perfect! Wonderful! It does a girl no good to be lusting after men in any case, hmm?”
The way Bellatrix’s curls bounce in tandem with her chest as she laughs, it’s an intimidatingly beautiful, but also strangely intoxicating vision, and Hermione soon realizes that the thudding in her ears is her own heartbeat.
The queen’s words confuse her, however, just slightly - but not wanting to appear naive, she curtsies again, bowing her head in submission to the monarch. “No, your majesty,” she glances down at the decorated stones of the floor, mentally pleading for the pink in her cheeks to fade.
Calming herself, Bellatrix leans back on her throne. “My sister will see you to your quarters, and discuss our expectations for you.” She waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal.
Hermione blinks before nodding quickly in understanding and walking carefully over to the Princess, who she offers a small curtsy to, per propriety’s standards. Lord, she had never imagined the queen of their land to be so… so rude.
It has frustration bubbling in her throat already, but she wills that away for now.
——————————————————————
“So…” Narcissa asks, casually enough, when she and Hermione leave the throne room. “How do you find my sister?”
Hermione is taken aback by the sudden, very personal question. They’ve taken not five steps from the throne room, and the princess asks such a thing already? “Oh, your highness, I… I can’t possibly be at liberty to say,” Hermione responds politely.
The princess smiles gently. “You needn’t worry yourself. I know that she can be… intimidating upon a first meeting. You’ll grow more used to her, in time.”
Narcissa’s gentle care washes over Hermione’s nerves in waves, calming the younger woman into releasing a slow breath. “I hope that I do, your highness… especially if I am to…” Hermione swallows, the thought of her next words alone leaving a strange and discomforting taste in her mouth. “If I am to marry your son.”
“Another prospect you find yourself nervous about, I see.” Narcissa nods. “But you seem like a lovely and very bright girl; I imagine that you’ll find much to talk about before very long.”
Hermione takes a moment to answer, remembering her own parents, and how they married in their twenties when they fell head over heels for each other. She has always admired their relationship, and longed excitedly for the day she would meet her own ‘true love,’ as her mother used to put it when she was a girl. But the opportunity to marry into the royal family, especially the most powerful in Europe, isn’t one that is passed easily… though, if she were to be honest with herself, Hermione finds herself significantly more enamoured and intrigued by the thought of exploring the castle’s history and records, rather than the prince who dwells there.
But who knows? Maybe Princess Narcissa is right. Maybe Draco and her will fall happily in love, and he will revel in her curiosity and love of learning. Maybe, she hopes. It’s that, or I marry unhappily, or go home a failure, ruining my family’s name.
“I hope that you’ll be proven right,” Hermione finally replies, albeit quietly.
“Are you familiar with the history of the realm?” Narcissa asks, after a brief silence. And of my sister’s… to put it delicately, acquisitions?”
Hermione glances up at the older woman, surprised but relieved by the change in topic. “Oh, yes, I read about our kingdom’s history often,” she replies proudly, excited to finally have a subject she knows something about. “But, pardon me, Madame, I don’t know exactly what you mean by acquisitions?”
“Some years ago, my husband, Prince Lucius, had been King Lucius,” she says in a softer voice.
That is something that Hermione had not expected at all. She had read about Queen Bellatrix conquering other kingdoms throughout Purinsula’s history, but she had never once read that Prince Lucius was one of the fallen monarchs. “He was?” She turns to face Narcissa entirely, her eyes wide. “May I ask what happened, your highness?”
“One of Lucius’ vassals chose to declare allegiance to Bellatrix instead. Lucius was offended by this, and demanded their return, triggering Bellatrix’s ire… and when she grows angry, she wishes to destroy those who bring it about. Lucius was lucky to even survive by the end of it.”
In all of her eighteen years so far, Hermione had never felt any reason to be fearful of her monarchy. Her parents taught her that while the queen and her family hold great power and always have, they act with the best interests of the kingdom in their hearts. She recalls how cold Bellatrix looked upon her, how harshly she was judged. One wrong move, and she could be the next victim of the queen’s apparently infamous rage - but how long will she last?
Dread settles low in the young woman’s stomach. “I… I’m sorry to hear that, your highness,” she replies kindly to Narcissa, “But I am grateful for the Prince’s well-being, as I’m sure your family is as well.”
“Very much. Draco doesn’t deserve to lose his father, certainly not so soon.” Narcissa gives Hermione a small smile. “And thank you, kindly.”
Hermione bows her head, but a comfortable smile grows from her lips. “Of course, your highness. I am flattered to have caught your family’s eye, and so honored to be welcomed to stay in Black Castle.” Her gaze turns upwards, taking in the statues of ravens that decorate the moulding of the high ceilings under which they walk. Sconces holding dramatically gothic candles light the large hall. “There is so much history here,” Hermione whispers with awe.
“Centuries, perhaps more,” Narcissa says with a touch of pride. “I do hope that her majesty allows you into our library sooner rather than later. I can already see you’d be eager to explore.”
Hermione’s eyes, glimmering with excitement, find the princess’, her hands clasped together before her bustier. “You have a library? Oh,” she can’t help the way she swoons, “Centuries of kingdom and royal history, your highness, I would be privileged!”
The princess chuckles, shaking her hair back. “I will speak to her in time, if you like. And here, we have your rooms…” She opens the nearby door, revealing a handsomely appointed bedroom with an ebony-framed four-poster bed, a huge wardrobe on one wall, an empty bookcase on the other, and a writing desk between them under the windows. A tapestry featuring black-armored knights riding into battle with a stylized, almost fae-looking queen with lightning crackling from her hands flying above them.
The room is beautiful, ten times the extravagance of Hermione’s bedroom in her own family estate, and Hermione can’t wait to fill such a beautiful bookshelf with tomes, artifacts and journals - but what really catches her attention is the detailed artwork hanging above the large bed. She knows the queen herself is represented in the stitchwork, Bellatrix, showcasing her power just as she always has been known to do. The suggestion of magic, while most likely metaphorical, shocks Hermione, however, and stifles a short chuckle upon seeing it, before turning back towards the princess.
“It’s stunning, your highness, merci beaucoup.” She bows politely towards Narcissa with gratitude. “Is the tapestry meant to depict a specific event?”
“Queen Cassiopeia. One of our ancestors.” Narcissa smiles, this one a little more mischievous. “Her power was… unrivaled. And no foe would dare to test her storms.”
Hermione can definitely sense a theme here, one she’s sure the former queen earned the right to own. “She’s beautiful,” she praises, wondering just how powerful the queen was, and if rage runs in the royal family bloodline. “Though the royal family of Black has always had beauty unmatched.”
The princess chuckles, her eyes twinkling. “You flatter me, my good lady.”
“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, your highness, I’m sure,” Hermione giggles, a light blush coming to her cheeks. She holds her fingertips bashfully against the quickly heating skin. “Is there anything you or your family require of me, Madame?”
Narcissa nods her head gracefully, brushing an invisible imperfection from her fur shawl. “Your things shall be brought from your carriage to your room by our servants, Miss Granger. In the meantime, we invite you to get to know my son, as well as the rest of us, through dinner in the great hall.”
The princess’ smile is genuine and welcoming, and though a spike of anxiety affects Hermione upon receiving the invitation, she quickly returns the warmth. “Of course, your highness, I-I’d be honored.”
—————————————————————————
When one of the servants comes by to inform Hermione that dinner would be starting momentarily, it had been a couple of hours, and Hermione’s stomach was growling. She had enjoyed resting in her new bedroom, and writing a quick journal entry with the stationery left within her writing desk, but she has become quite hungry from all the excitement.
A servant leads her from her room and towards the great dining hall, and Hermione follows him eagerly. Guards at each of the elegant and grand double doors open them for her, while the previous man announces her arrival. This reveals the dining hall, which is spacious, but decorated just as darkly as the rest of the castle - but while the halls are adorned with statues of ravens, the high ceiling of this room is painted with a mural of the same birds, flying through a cloudy night, lit by a shining full moon.
With her attention captivated by the artwork, Hermione momentarily forgets where exactly she is, and who she is meant to dine with - something she only remembers when she hears a haughty, but impatient, clearing of a throat.
“I do hope your chambers are to your liking,” Queen Bellatrix said, in a more polite tone of voice than Hermione had heard before.
The honey that drips from her words feels… off, somehow, like a single taste would be dangerously sweet. Hermione still quickly curtsies, however, as an apology for her distraction. “Oh, yes, oui, your majesty, they’re beautiful, merci,” she stammers out quickly.
The queen has seated herself in an extravagant chair at the head of the long dining table, which shines even as it’s made of such dark wood. Princess Narcissa sits to her right, while Prince Lucius sits to her left, with Prince Draco at his side. The runner that decorates the table is a deep, forest green, and a dramatic bouquet of black and deep violet dahlias form the centerpiece, housed in a scale-patterned vase.
Hermione tries to move quickly towards the open seat on Narcissa’s free side, but not so quickly that she seems impolite. Her modest heels click against the wooden floor, the sound echoing off the high walls, before she stops bashfully beside the open chair, the one across from Prince Draco, waiting for a welcome from the queen.
“Please, do sit,” Queen Bellatrix says at last, with a sweeping gesture of her hand. “Has my sister been making you welcome?”
Hermione isn’t sure what exactly compels her to obey as instantaneously as she does, be it intimidation, genuine fear, or eagerness, but she is embarrassed regardless of the speed in which she takes her seat. “She’s been lovely, your Majesty, thank you,” Hermione nods, timidly, looking at her hands, clasped in her lap, before meeting the gaze of her supposed suitor across from her.
Prince Draco meets her eyes with a look of slight panic, looking left and right before seeming to get a grip on himself. “Er, yes. It’s wonderful to meet you at last, my lady.” Bellatrix, Hermione notices, seems to be suppressing a smirk at this.
The young woman didn’t expect nervousness from the prince. She imagined that he would be as sure in his power, bloodline and success as any royal would be. Seeing him now, however, relaxes Hermione somehow, and she offers him a soft, albeit shy smile. “Likewise, your Highness,” she replies to him gently. “Both my family and I were and continue to be honored by the invitation.”
“Of course.” He inclines his head, in a regal yet definitely practiced manner. “As we are honored by your presence. I’ve read of your parents’ work; it’s really very impressive, isn’t it?”
The smile that grows on Hermione’s lips is genuine, a great appreciation growing in her chest upon hearing such praise for her family coming from their monarchy. “Yes, thank you, your Highness, they’ve practiced for over three decades now,” she states proudly. “I’ve read every record and study they’ve taken, though I couldn’t rightly call myself a Healer just for that.”
“Would you like to become a full Healer in your own right?” Narcissa enquires.
Hermione’s attention turns to the princess, and she lets out a bashful, soft laugh. “Oh, I-I’m not sure, your Highness, I mean, with enough study, I… I imagine that I could, perhaps.”
Queen Bellatrix chuckles too, but Hermione isn’t sure how much mirth is behind it. “Surely too modest, are you not, my dear?”
Surprised by the first… almost compliment from the queen she has received, Hermione’s gaze immediately meets the older woman’s. Admittedly, she has considered becoming a Healer herself, on many occasions, but given the opportunity being presented to her by the Black family - to marry into the most powerful royal clan in Europe - the young woman had believed it best not to dwell on whatever individual plans she had pondered for her own future. “Oh,” she stammers, still shocked by the sudden hospitality emanating from the Queen. “T-Thank you, your Majesty, but like I said, I don’t have the experience, simply said…”
The brunette finds herself gently blushing again as she feels Bellatrix’s gaze caressing her skin.
“Hmm,” Bellatrix replies. “Well, experience can always be taken, by those with the talent. To live down to those who expect nothing from you is a miserable fate. Remember that.”
There is a certain charge to those words, one that peaks Hermione’s interest. Her instincts plead with her to inquire about her curiosity, but she decides against it for propriety’s sake. “Oui, yes, of course, your Majesty,” she nods with the small understanding she has.
“Ah, dinner should be just arriving…” And sure enough, the servants are beginning to file in, holding several bowls of soup and hot, gently steaming loaves of bread. Draco, whose stomach had been growling softly for the past few minutes, seems especially eager to see the arriving food.
“Soupe Vichyssoise,” the one servant announces, before placing the elegant bowls before each guest - first the Queen, followed by the Princess, Princes, and Hermione, who expresses her gratitude with a smile as she looks upon her dish. It’s a personal favorite of hers that she’s had often since her days as a little girl, due to her parent’s earned wealth. It smells just as she remembers, but she only picks up her soup spoon once she notices that the royalty at the table has begun to do so first.
And indeed Bellatrix is the one to move first; even Narcissa hesitates for a hairsbreadth before beginning to eat herself. The wait is worthwhile, though; the soup is delicious, and Hermione finds herself letting out a little moan of gratitude, before freezing and blushing before realizing that, most likely, no one else noticed. Or so it seemed at first, because then she saw the queen giving her a knowing little smirk.
Hermione immediately lowered her widening eyes, feeling the blood flush in her cheeks with embarrassment. It seems that Bellatrix finds immense entertainment in the shame of others, and within hours of meeting her, has also decided that Hermione is her new favorite… victim, for lack of a better word.
The younger woman avoids the Queen’s eyes, observing her soup bowl instead, but she can feel the distinct weight of them watching her. As she’s here to be a potential bride for the prince, Hermione chooses to believe that Queen Bellatrix is protective of her family - something that, in records, the Black family is known for. It’s the only potential explanation for the strange amount of attention Bellatrix has been giving her that she can ponder. Regardless, there’s a growing tension in her belly that she can’t quite place.
Luckily, no one else is paying Hermione any attention, simply enjoying their soup. Including Draco, and Hermione isn’t sure whether to be relieved or a little bit disappointed by this. At least the soup itself is good enough that she can tear herself away from meeting the queen’s gaze; the experience was beginning to feel more and more like she was being watched by a predator.
With a scarily almost perfect timing, just as the table finishes their soup, the servants appear again, taking the now empty bowls and placing down dishes that Hermione can honestly say she’s never laid eyes upon before. “Caille de Hishon avec Foie Gras et Aubergines Rôties,” the servant announces again, and Hermione’s expression of confusion lessens.
Quail. The dish is quail. Something she and her family have eaten before, but only rarely, given the cost of the meat, and how hard the birds are to hunt by oneself. Despite knowing the fowl, however, Hermione cannot say that she’s ever seen it prepared this way, and she imagines it to be a dish served to the highest nobility and royalty.
A new servant begins to come around the table, starting with the Queen, pouring a very well aged looking bottle of red wine into her silver goblet. He serves the Princess and Princes, then Hermione, the brunette nodding in gratitude before taking her own cup into her hand.
“To the kingdom,” Queen Bellatrix says, raising her own goblet. “Our kingdom, and its future; the prince and princess to be.” With that, she took a long, slow sip of the wine, letting out a little sigh of satisfaction as she lowered the goblet.
Hermione raises her cup with obedience, the princes and princess doing so as well. With a slight blush at the thought of herself becoming not only a wife, but a princess, the young woman brings her cup to her lips, beginning to tip it back, before she stops.
She doesn’t want to be rude, to risk insulting the queen, but her cup smells… weird. No, not just weird. Familiar.
She gives the goblet a subtle sniff, her eyes widening with recognition.
Henbane. She knows this scent. Her parents work with it often, creating elixirs with the flower to treat their patients’ nausea. ‘Never let it pass your lips alone, Hermione,’ her mother would tell her. ‘If the plant doesn’t kill you, what it makes you see will.’
Hermione brings the cup down, her heart rate quickening. She doesn’t want to sound impolite, but what if the cup was meant for one of the royals around her? It’s her duty to say something.
“I think there’s something in my drink,” she says simply, her eyes cast down on the cup.
“Beg pardon?” Narcissa asks curiously, turning Hermione’s way. “Is there something wrong with the wine?”
“No, I mean, I don’t believe it’s the wine,” Hermione replies. She feels as if she’s done something wrong, but she knows that she hasn’t. “I can smell something in it. Henbane. My parents use it in treatments, but alone, it’s poisonous.” She breathes, “What if it’s in all your cups too?”
“Ah.” With a surprising lack of hesitation, Narcissa takes the cup, sniffing it as Draco and Lucius both look over at Hermione curiously. Queen Bellatrix doesn’t seem to have noticed, simply enjoying her quail, even as Narcissa wrinkles her nose and looks at Hermione grimly.
“I see. Your majesty?” she calls to the queen. “I believe we have an attempted murderer among us.”