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A Day in the Life of a Houseslave	By : HerverusGrape Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 9085 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Day in the Life of a Houseslave
- 2-Author's Note
- 1
- 2
houseslave

The characters, locations and spells depicted within the following work
of fiction were created and are owned by JKR, et al. There is no
infringement intended upon her or the other interested parties rights
and interests. I am merely using them for my own creative
amusement, and receive absolutely no monetary reward for doing so.

A Day in the Life of a Houseslave

It was beastly hot today, and for what seemed to be the hundredth
time she wearily raised her hand to her face and wiped away the sweat
that was trickling off of it. The fact that she had just finished
retrieving vegetables from the garden meant that she was leaving a
dirty, muddy streak across her skin as she did so, but there was no
help for it at the moment. As she made her way toward the
greenhouse, she glanced over in the direction of the lake, which looked
especially cool and inviting today. Perhaps, after she finished
all of her chores, she would have a chance to sneak back and wash her
face and hands in the briskly cold water. The thought of sitting there,
her face lifted toward the sun while her feet were immersed in the
chilly waves was so inviting that for just the briefest of
moments
she could picture herself doing just that. Except-

Except, she frowned, stopping suddenly and starting, unseeing at the
ground as she tried to remember, she hadn't been alone then.
There had been others around, doing the same as she was and behind her
she could her excited talk and whoops of laughter. Something
about owls. She frowned now and closed her eyes, trying to
concentrate as she tried to fathom why they were so happy about those
particular birds on that specific day. But after a few seconds
she had gone as far as she could and, abruptly opening her eyes, began
striding rapidly across the grass again. She knew from past
experience that any further attempt to pick through the half-forgotten
memory would only result in a massive headache, and that sometimes the
specifics would be driven away forever. It was much better to
clear your mind and let the hazy fragments of the memories drift back
into your consciousness as they rose unexpectedly from the sights and
sounds around you.

Of course, she found herself suddenly thinking, it was even hotter
today, because that had been June. And the only day in August
that she had ever been on the grounds had been the thirty-first of the
month. Not the first of August, the date today if the calendar
displayed upon the wall in the main hall could be trusted. She
didn't even bother stopping this
time, driven by both the urgency of completing her task and the
knowledge that, as effortlessly as that thought had wafted into her
brain, it would be worthless to pursue it. For the moment she
should content herself with the assurance that, without a doubt, as she
had previously expected, she had been at this place before her current
imprisonment.

Entering the greenhouse door, she took just a moment to turn around
and gaze at as much of the castle and grounds that she could from this
vantage point. Yes, she was sure that she had spent a
considerable time here not only within the castle but upon the grounds,
even venturing into that thick, creepy forest. Another memory
waved over her for a moment, and she heard shouts of joy and someone
crying something about catching a snitch.

"Now why would anyone be so happy about capturing someone who had
told tales about you?" she wondered. "Were you going to punish
them, then?"

Despite the heat in the greenhouse, she felt a sudden chill as the
realization swept through her. No, there had been a game that
involved doing just that-someone managing to seize some kind of
ball. And she hadn't particularly enjoyed it. No, that
wasn't right, she just hadn't been as enthusiastic as some
others.

She shivered again, but this time it was because her memory was
clear and
graphic. Whatever her reservations about that game, it
certainly had been better than the hideous spectacle that was now
performed within the
stadium by the Death Eaters. She had only been forced to watch it
once,
for she suspected that even her Master had little taste for the
sport.
To see a witch or wizard tied to a broom which flew of its own accord
and
circled the stadium with its unwilling occupant while the white-masked
spectators
took turns shooting curses was a revolting sight. By the amount
of
blood that had spilled out over the grass and sand of the field, it had
been
clear that the wizard had already been dead for quite a while by the
time
the Dark Lord himself had risen from his seat. Laughing his high,
chilling
laugh, he had fired off the final curse which decapitated the corpse
and
brought the broomstick to an abrupt halt before it tumbled to the
ground.
The two parts of the body had fallen, with sickeningly distinct thumps,
onto
the ground and one of the Death Eaters-the one with the strange
metallic
hand-had scampered out to the field to retrieve the head and present it
to
the Dark Lord. She hoped they had buried the body separately, or at
least
not just left it out upon the field to rot. But thankfully, she
had
never had to return to the stadium to see for herself.

Oh, gods, it was even hotter in here, she thought, as she busied
herself retrieving the samples that she needed. She raised her
hand to her
untidy and straggling hair and lifted it off of her neck for a
moment.
Her master absolutely refused to give her pins so that she could wear
it
up, but he had grudgingly allowed her to have a single hairband.
It
had snapped apart a few days ago when she had gone to place it around
the
thick plait that she had managed to braid. Her subsequent
attempts
to tie it together had failed miserably. It would have taken just
a wave of her wand to repair it, of course, but she was strictly
forbidden
to use any spell not sanctioned by her master. He had been away
for
several days now, and it was possible that when he returned he would
have
no objection to her using her magic in this way, but it was always best
not
to assume such things. With a sigh, she dropped the thick mop of
hair
back down upon her back, swearing as she did so that a fresh stream of
sweat
was running down her neck, and bent down to begin selecting the finest
petals
and roots from the appropriate plants.

At least it would be cool in the dungeons, she thought, as she
labored in the steaming hot enclosure. Even though several of the
ceiling
panes had been opened, it was still hideously warm inside the
greenhouse,
and she took the time before she left to spray a generous amount of
water
over the wilting plants. She looked enviously at the refreshened
stalks
and at the moisture dripping off of their leaves.
Taking
in a breath, she turned in a circle once more and glanced carefully
around
her before daring, for the briefest of moments, to turn the water upon
herself as well. Feeling immeasurably enlivened by this momentary
cooling,
she picked up the sack of vegetables in her right hand, and the bag of
clippings in her left and headed back toward the castle.

Arriving at the kitchen, she dumped the vegetables into the wash
sink
and briefly greeted her fellow slaves who laboring over the steaming
pots
and roaring fires of the vast room. They were supervised by thin,
pale-faced slave, who could only manage to wave at her before she had
to return her attention
to the coordination of the cooking and cleaning. Her master not
only
allowed her to wear her gorgeous red hair pinned up, he insisted upon
it.
But she suspected it was only so that the bruises and 'love bites' (oh,
gods,
to refer to what he did to her as love) that had been inflicted upon
her
neck and shoulders could be clearly seen.

Yes, she thought, as she finished sorting out the vegetables and
paused to fold her sack and place it upon the floor, she had often
found herself thankful that Master Lucius had not chosen her
for his slave. At the auction, his pale blue eyes had trailed
over her several times, but he had turned his attention to the little
redhead and his smile had broadened. Once he had begun to bid for
her, she noticed that none of the other Death Eater's had continued to
raise their hands. She had assumed that it had been the girl's
much more voluptuous figure, or her exquisite hair that had aroused his
interest, but there had been something very self-satisfied about the
way he examined her as she was brought off of the block and delivered
into his hands.

"Oh, yes, my little titian-haired beauty," he had laughed, his right
hand idly cupping around her breast as his left played against her
thigh, "You shall provide hours of amusement for me. As a matter
of fact, I have a whole room just filled with toys for us to play
with. Several of them
were even invented by Muggles," he said, his laughter suddenly becoming
louder.
"Of course, some might say that I am misusing them."

There had been such a definite implication in the way he accentuated
that word that she had carefully stored it away for future reference.
It's significance was still a mystery to her, but from other clues that
had been dropped, she felt somewhat assured that "Flame", as he had
christened the girl, and her family had done something in the past that
had displeased him very much. It wasn't much to go on, but when
your memory had been destroyed, you clutched at any and all straws.

Oh, there were tantalizing glimpses and half-remembered images that
floated through her brain and she was beginning to learn how to let
them slip back into her consciousness. But, to be truthful, her
first real memory of
her existence continued to be that moment of awakening in agonizing
pain in
the hospital wing. Someone had dribbled some liquid down her
throat and she had swallowed it eagerly, thinking that, no matter if it
were a healing potion or a healthy dose of poison, it would alleviate
the intense pain that was coursing through her body. Then she had
drifted into a hazy half-sleep, though occasionally a clear word or two
slipped through the mumble of conversation that surrounded her.

"-very damaged."

"But reparable." That voice she knew was that of her
Master. A inflection that was decisive and resolved and not to be
questioned, his timbre and enunciation breaking through the fog above
the other voices.

"Combination...potion...spell...pensive."

No, she thought suddenly, not pensive-Pensieve. But a moment
later she had cried out in pain and found herself kneeling on the hard
stones
of the kitchen, her hands clasped to her temples.

"Oh, dear, what have we remembered now?" asked a soft voice.
Several of the slaves were gathered around, staring down at her
helplessly, but
Flame was pushing them aside and kneeling in front of her, reaching out
to
hug her in her arms and rock her gently until the stab of pain
subsided.

"Think of the supplies you were gathering," she whispered.
"Let
go of the other thoughts. Think of how you were obeying your
Master's
orders by getting them," she prompted.

"Yes," she replied, "I had to get the roots of the Lingering Lily
and
the petals from the Crying Chrysanthemum-"

The other slaves turned back to their work as she continued to
recite
the list, the ache gradually fading away as she concentrated on pushing
the
details of the list to the front of her mind. After several
minutes,
during which time she had recited the catalog a half dozen times, the
throbbing in her temples had abated considerably.

"Almost gone?" Flame asked gently.

She nodded, and then winced as this movement exacerbated the
headache
again.

"Here," said the redhead, bringing a small vial from out of her
pocket. "Take some of this."

"But you need it," she replied, reluctantly accepting the bottle
which she knew contained a strong pain-relieving potion.

"Oh, I'm fine," she assured with a shrug. Looking down at the
assortment of bruises on her arms, she continued. "My Master
isn't due back for until the day after tomorrow, so I'll be okay."

She was sorely tempted, but still she hesitated. They weren't,
as far as she knew, strictly forbidden to share such medicines, but
that didn't mean that Master Lucius wouldn't decide to punish them
anyway.

"Look, he never questions me when I ask him for more," she
said. "Thinks its quite the joke, actually, that I thank him for
giving me the
medicine that I wouldn't need if he didn't beat the crap out of me
every
few days or so." Behind the resignation in her tone, there was
just
the barest hint of anger.

Still she refused to raise the vial to her lips.

"All right, a deal," said Flame, closing her fingers over the bottle
that was balanced upon her hand. Her voice dipped down into a
whisper so low that she had to strain to hear it. "Try and tell
me what you just remembered. After that, you'll definitely need
to use all of this."

She took in a quick, frightened breath. Remembering was bad
enough, of course. That was why part of the "treatment' process
that the Death Eaters had used upon them when wiping out their memories
had included the triggering of severe, almost unbearably painful
headaches when one was near to recalling something terribly
significant. They had found that the only thing capable of
intensifying the agony was when they tried to speak of what they had
remembered to others.

"All right," she agreed, uncapping the bottle and bringing it close
to her lips. She would only have several seconds to attempt
coherent speech before she would be forced to swallow down the drug.

"A large shallow bowl-" The pain immediately stabbed through
her head. "Memories-silvery-" She gasped and felt tears
starting
to flow from her eyes "strands-Pensieve-" Now the room was
growing
dark and the next thing she knew she was falling backward onto the
floor,
sparks flying in front of her eyes as her skull thudded against the
stone,
her head feeling as if it were on fire. The potion was being
poured
into her mouth and she gasped in surprise and spit some out, but
Flame's
fingers cupped against her cheek and gently channeled as much of the
liquid
as she could back into her mouth. This time she managed to
swallow
and after a few minutes felt well enough to be eased back to a sitting
position.

"You okay?" asked Flame, gently.

"Yeah, how about you?" she asked, reaching back to rub the aching
spot on where her skull had cracked against the floor.

"Fine, unfortunately," she sighed. Shrugging her shoulders she
continued, "I felt just a little bit of a twinge, but I think I had
only heard or read about what you were describing," she said
thoughtfully. "You must have known more about it," she concluded.

"But it's part of what they did to us," she whispered, suddenly
rising to her knees as her heart began to pound. Thankfully, the
potion was still being absorbed into her bloodstream so that, although
her temples were throbbing softly again, the pain was bearable.
"That's part of how they
took our memories away."

Flame narrowed her eyes and concentrated for a moment. "Nope,"
she said, with a sigh. "I was so drugged up, I don't recall that
at all."

She felt her body sag with disappointment.

"No, no," assured the other girl, reaching out to brush her hair
back
from her forehead, "It was a very important thing to remember, I'm sure
of
it!" Shaking her head again, she continued, "It hurts you a lot
more
because it's related to some very important things in your past.
I'm
absolutely certain of it."

Flame reached out to hug her again and they remained there, rocking
against and comforting each other as the other slaves ignored them and
went about their work. As she opened her eyes, her gaze fell upon
the large clock situated near the top of the wall.

"Oh, gods!" she shrieked, pulling away and jumping to her
feet.
"I"m supposed to have the Interrogation Room cleaned up by now!"

"Hurry!" shouted Flame, pushing her toward the door.

But she had only taken a few steps before she remembered her other
sack and turned back to retrieve it.

"Oh, go on!" urged the redhead, reaching down to pick it up.
"I'll take this to your Master's office."

"No, he's very particular about where everything goes," she cried,
holding out her hands. "I'll just have to rush through it."

Her heart, which had barely returned to a normal rhythm, swiftly
began to thump wildly against her chest as she flew through the halls,
not daring to slacken her pace as she hurled herself down the
treacherously steep stairs that led to the dungeon. A little
while ago she had almost been looking forward to being down there,
knowing that the atmosphere, although dank and mildewed, would also be
comfortingly cool after the blistering sunlight of the grounds and the
stifling heat of the kitchens. But the physical toll upon her
body as she struggled through the memory had left her feeling weak and
chilled, and she found herself shivering as she reached into her pocket
to retrieve her wand.

Well, not really her wand. The wands that were
distributed to the slaves were made from the cheapest wood, with only a
small strand of
magical substance at its core. She had known at once when it was
given
to her that it was not her own. Not because her mind could
remember what her own wand had looked like, but because the very feel
of the thin baton
had seemed foreign and unnatural to her hand. And yet she had
managed
to do any spell that they had ordered her to perform. In fact,
her
Master had watched her very carefully for the first couple of weeks,
and
had taken the first wand away and replaced it with another. This
one,
she suspected, had an exceedingly tiny amount of dragon heartstring as
its
core, for she had to struggle with it in order to perform the simplest
charm.
This no doubt signified that her natural powers were extraordinarily
strong
and therefore he was anxious to ensure that she could not use the
flimsy instrument
to perform a significant spell.

But she had been accustomed to it by now, so it was with confidence
that she pointed it at the lock and pronounced the charm.

"Alohamora!"

The door swung obediently inward and immediately her nose was
overwhelmed by the stench inside. She had never known that anyone
other than vampires could smell blood, but her intimate acquaintance
with copious amounts of the
vital fluid that she had been forced to scrub from the floors had left
her
able to sniff out the metallic scent with ease. Not that it was
the
only putrid smell within the room. Oh, no, there was always
vomit, piss
and excrement as well, for the Death Eaters were never satisfied until
they
had managed to make their victims suffer in unimaginable ways as they
'interrogated'
them. Those who tried to hold out would be systematically
tormented
until they either talked or died. And those who the very sight of
the
instruments of torture moved to speak immediately found that there was
no
mercy given to them for their acquiescence.

She had wondered at first, why they allowed her to use magic to
clean
the filth from the floor and walls, thinking that it would amuse them
more
to make her scrub it away by physical means. But she had found
that
magic, although simplifying and hastening the process, also had it's
own
disadvantages. It appeared that witches and wizards killed in
this
way did not slip quietly from their earthly bonds. No there were
reverberations
and echoes of their physical and mystical presence left within the room
and
she had learned to try and close her mind and body to the faint
whispers
and ghostly images that waved around her as her own magic interacted
with
and aroused the traces of those who had died here. Instead, she
concentrated
on the thin beam of light emitted from the end of the wand as she
painstakingly
scoured away the dirt and debris.

She worked as quickly as she could. She knew that she was
already in trouble. For, should someone arrive at the room,
expecting it to be cleaned by now, she could be punishment for being
derelict in her duty. On the other hand, should she leave the
slightest speck upon the stones, the penalty would be even more
severe.

As she worked, she heard the vague screams of a woman crying out in
agony and for the briefest of moments the image of a grey-haired witch
appeared before her.

So, it had been an old woman this time, she thought, pushing the
sights and sounds firmly out of her mind as she bent down and
concentrated on scrubbing the floor. When she had first begun
this work, she had found herself unable to turn away, finding in some
instances that she was sure she knew the victim. But the attempt to put
a name to the vaguely familiar face had never been successful, and her
Master had been absolutely livid when he had returned one day to find
her lying against the floor with her face pressed into a pool of
muck. She had fainted away from the physical exhaustion of trying
to remember what she was forbidden to recall, and had received a
thorough beating as a reward.

Although, she had to admit, it had been the only time he had
resorted
to that method of punishment. In that regard, she was certainly
luckier than Flame, who seemed to never quite recover from one whipping
before she was subjected to another.

No, her Master preferred to punish her with scathing words rather
than blows or curses. He had performed 'Crucio' upon her
occasionally,
for it seemed to be expected of him. But she had to admit that
she
had been more terrified when he threatened to take away the one
privilege
he had granted to her.

Much of the grounds were forbidden to the slaves unless they were
cleaning. And even then, none of them were allowed access to the
dusty room that lay beyond the chained doors above which the sign
"Library" was hung. But she had found herself one day looking
longingly at the bookshelves which lined
the shelves of her Master's office as she cleaned the long row of jars
lining
his cupboard.

"Would you like to be allowed to read some of them?" he had asked,
coming up unexpectedly from behind her.

She had started and turned, directing her gaze to the floor. A
moment later the tips of his shiny boots had come into her line of
vision. She had hesitated, wondering that if she said yes that he
might punish her for her impudence. And yet, she suspected, if
she said no, he would simply shrug and tell her to stop looking at them
then. Her heart clenching painfully in her chest, she had fallen
down upon her knees and licked her lips before replying.

"Yes, please, Master Severus," she had answered, and then closed her
eyes and shivered as she awaited his response. She had felt his
fingers twine
into her thick, bushy hair and pull upon it gently, forcing her to
raise
her face.

"Open your eyes," he had commanded.

She had obeyed and found herself staring up into his cold black
eyes,
his dark oily hair falling forward onto his face as he studied
her.
His thin lips were flattened into their habitual frown although the
rest
of his face was eerily expressionless.

"Very well," he said, stepping back and raising his eyes to the
shelves. "You may read this-" He was raising his wand and
tapping upon the
spine of a very thin book placed upon one of the top shelves, "And
this-"
he turned and repeated the motion with a slightly larger tome upon the
next
shelf. "And this," he finished, striding across the room and
pulling
out another volume, dropping this one carelessly upon the carpet.
"But,"
he warned, his voice dropping down to a low hiss as he drew near her
again,
"You are not to tell anyone that I am allowing you such license nor are
you
to touch any of the other books."

She had nodded, her eyes darting from his face and back to the
shelves, desperately trying to pick out the books he had indicated
since she was
much too far away to have read the titles.

"If you should attempt any of the magic detailed within them-" he
paused and let the threat hang in the air.

"I won't, Sir. Thank you, Master," she said, bowing down so
that her forehead was resting against the carpet.

"And," he had continued, nudging the toe of his boot against her
face, "I shall expect you to be especially eager to please me the next
time I
take you."

"Oh, yes, Master Severus, I will Master," she repeated.

She had half-expected to feel him push her down, lift up the skirt
of
her thin frock and spread her legs then and there,. But instead
she
had heard his footsteps fade away across the carpet, and the creak and
slam
of the door as he exited the room.

She had quickly gotten to her feet and fairly ran against the room,
retrieving the books with shaking hands and hoping that she was
selecting the correct ones. He had allowed her to remain the
office for several hours and by the time he returned she was huddled
against the window, struggling to continue reading in the last, fading
rays of the sunset, afraid to light
the candles without his permission. The books he had allowed her
to
have were ancient, with some passages so filled with archaic language
as
to be almost indecipherable. Even so, she had finished one of the
books
and was halfway through the other before she heard the door creak open
again.

"Return them to the shelves for now," he had ordered.

She had done as she asked, still half-afraid that she might have
chosen the wrong ones, but heard no rebuke as she went to replace
them. In fact, he had not said another word to her the entire
evening. He had beckoned silently for her to follow him, and she
had trailed after him, realizing that he was actually taking her to his
rooms. Although he had accorded her this honor on occasion, he
usually seemed to prefer to use his office, forcing her down upon the
desk or the couch or against the wall as his body slammed into hers.

He had not said another word to her, but his lips had curled in
triumph as she did her best to please him that night. Not that
she, as a slave, ever had a choice in the matter. But she had
heretofore retained enough of her dignity to refuse to pretend to enjoy
it when he forced her into certain painful and degrading
positions. This night, however, she swallowed her pride and
emitted little moans of false pleasure as he sodomized her.

Even in that regard, she was more fortunate than most of the other
slaves, she knew. When he had torn or injured her, he always
sought to heal and soothe her immediately, providing unguents and
potions that relieved
the pain that he had just inflicted. And he kept her strictly to
himself. The other slave who had been auctioned with herself and
Flame, a girl with long, dirty-blonde hair and slightly protruding eyes
had been unlucky enough to be bought by Mistress Lestrange. It
was whispered that the acts she
forced her slaves to perform with each other went beyond the realm of
perversity
into the arena of actual physical harm.

Yes, she thought, rising from the now immaculate floor and turning
her attention to the walls, she was luckier than most. Not that
she wouldn't kill the hook-nosed bastard to obtain her freedom, but
that wasn't an option at the moment.

The interrogation of the previous night must have not been very
prolonged, she decided, finding that there were only a few spots upon
the wall that
she needed to scrub away. Having completed the cleaning portion
of
her duties, she pocketed the wand and walked over to the shelf where
the
various bottles of potions and Veritaserum were stored.

Two vials of the latter had been used, she noted, of the moderate
and
heavy strength. So she would need to replace those from the
office. And a bottle of Babbling Beverage. The torturers
must have been in
an unusually bizarre mood last night to dispense that potion
to their victim. She was rather surprised to see that none of the
bottles of poisons had been disturbed, thinking that the comparably
small amount of material
splattered upon the room had indicated a swift demise. But then
again,
she thought, thinking back to her brief image, it had appeared to have
been
a very small, very old witch.

With a sigh, she turned toward the door. It would take only a
few minutes to take the supplies to her Master's office and retrieve
the appropriate vials to replace the missing ones. There was a
very good chance that the delay in the performance of her duties might
go unnoticed.

As she neared the door to the office, she was almost smiling in
relief. But as she retrieved her wand and pointed it in the
direction of the knob, her heart sank as the door opened before she
could utter the charm. She began to tremble, but managed to
return the wand to her pocket and force herself to walk through the
doorway.

He had returned and was seated at his desk, his green-feathered
quill
scratching noisily against the parchment as he bent over it, his nose
so
near to the sheet as to almost touch it. There was the faint
smell
of freshly-brewed tea in the air, presumably arising from the large
china
cup that sat upon the desk. Despite her apprehension she heard
her
stomach give a large gurgle as she crossed the room. With all the
excitement,
she had neglected to pick up something to eat while she was in the
kitchen.
Carefully setting the bag of supplies down upon the counter, she opened
up
the cupboard and retrieved the necessary vials. The bottles seemed to
clank
loudly in her hands as gathered them, though when she glanced out of
the
corner of her eye it appeared that he had not deigned to notice her
presence
as yet. But as she paused to close the door of the cupboard, she
heard
his scribbling abruptly cease. There was a slight tinkling sound
as
he picked up his cup of tea and then an appreciative and loud sipping
noise.
To her chagrin, her stomach emitted another loud growl.

"You have all of the supplies I requested, Madeleine?" he asked in a
low, bored tone of voice.

One of the many things she had never dared to ask him, even in their
most intimate moments, was why he had chosen that name for her.
Of course, for all she knew, perhaps it was her real name.

She nodded and turned to face him, carefully training her gaze upon
his long, slender hands rather than his face. "Yes, Master, all
of them. I shall sort them out in just a moment," she promised.

"Are they in satisfactory condition?" he prompted.

"Yes, Master Severus. Although-" She hesitated for just
a moment
before continuing, "It appeared that many of the plants needed
watering," she added, frowning slightly. "But the were still
useable."

"I see. Did you attend to them before you left?"

"Yes, Master," she replied, feeling a slight sense of relief wave
over her. "I stayed to water them before I left." Of
course, she
thought, she could always claim that her tardiness was due to the fact
that
she had stayed to water the plants.

"An excellent precaution," he commented, a soft tone of admiration
in
his voice. "But then, I have come to expect nothing less from you
than absolute attention to detail."

She dared to raise her eyes to his face and saw that he was smiling
and nodding in approval.

"And those-" he said, gesturing toward the bottles that were still
held in her hand, "Are they only replacements needed for the
Interrogation Room?"

"Yes, Master," she answered, looking down at the labels as she read
them off. "A 'Babbling Beverage', and two bottles of
Veritaserum:
one regular-strength and one large extra-strong dose."

"Hmm."

She swallowed and ventured another glance at his face. To her
horror, she realized that he was looking over her shoulder toward the
fireplace,
where a large clock stood upon the mantle.

"But it seems you are running behind your time today, does it not?"
he inquired.

There was nothing she could do to stop shaking now. "Yes,
M-m-master," she replied, through chattering teeth. "But there
was a lot to clean up in the room today, it t-t-took me m-m-much longer
today than usual."

"Really." There was a sharp squeal as she heard him push his
chair back from the desk. "Please look at me, Madeleine," he
said, very
softly.

She obeyed instantly. To her surprise, the expression on his
face was merely gently puzzled.

"I ran into McNair on my way back today," he said quietly, "And he
mentioned to me his disappointment that last night's examination was
not only remarkably unenlightening, but also regrettably swift."

"I-I-I was also delayed because of the watering of the plants," she
protested, weakly.

He lips flicked upward into a bemused grin. "Oh, now, surely
it
didn't take you very long to accomplish that particular task," he
chided,
tilting his head back against his chair. "Even if you did indulge
in
a quick little shower for yourself." His smile broadened into a
smirk. "I was watching you from one of the towers," he
explained. Shaking his
head, he began to rise from his chair. "Now, Madeleine, you know
you
are not allowed to bathe without my express permission?"

With a noisy clank, she set the bottles down upon the desk and sank
to her knees.

"Oh, Master Severus, please forgive me," she whispered.
Inwardly, she added: And please, please, please let that be
the only thing he saw.

"Perhaps just this once," was his reply as he came around the corner
of his desk. "After all, it wasn't a proper bath, now was it?"

"No, Master," she answered, staring down at the floor.

"No, not a proper bath at all," he repeated, his fingertips trailing
lightly over her hair and shoulders as he bent down over her. "You
weren't not naked, were you?" Kneeling down beside here, he
whispered into her ear, his voice dangerously silky. "You weren't
standing there, slick with wetness, rubbing the lather over your body,
were you, my Madeleine?" His hands began to roam over the front
of her thin garment.

"No, Master," she repeated.

His fingers had dipped down underneath the dress, brushing against
the soft skin of her breasts.

Hating herself even as she did it, she arched her back against him,
trying to distract him from questioning her any further. She felt
him harden against her as he drew her hair to the side and dipped his
head to nuzzle his face against the curve of her neck.

"And you are in need of a thorough cleansing," he said, drawing back
abruptly. "You reek!" he hissed, disdainfully.

"Yes, Master."

"A nice, hot bath with perfumed water and rich, soft bubbles," he
murmured, bending closer to her again, his hands caressing her upper
arms. "Wouldn't that feel heavenly?" he prompted.

"Oh, yes," she replied, closing her eyes. This time her soft
moan was real and unforced.

"But, unfortunately," he said, his fingers tightening painfully
around her arms, "You need to stop lying to me before you earn that
reward. Now exactly what revelation occurred to you in the
kitchen this afternoon?"

She drew in a quick, dismayed breath. The shock of knowing
that
he was aware of what had happened was swiftly replaced with a sudden,
intense anger. One of her fellow slaves must have been watching
and listening to herself and Flame and had run to inform upon
them. She wondered
if Flame was even now receiving a beating from a hastily summoned
Master
Lucius. Or-

She felt suddenly sick to her stomach. Had Flame been the
informant?

"I am angry enough that you have disobeyed me," he hissed, his
fingers digging even deeper into her flesh and she could not help
crying out in
pain. "But do not dare to provoke me further by continuing to lie
to
me." He released his hold and rose to her feet.

"Who told you?" she blurted out, ducking her head a moment later to
avoid the blow that she was sure would follow to punish her for her
audacity.

"That need not concern you," he barked, his eyebrows drawn together
angrily. He regarded her for a moment, and then a wicked smile
widened his lips. "Oh, don't worry," he crooned, his voice full
of false sympathy, "It wasn't your little red-headed friend who
tattled."

She started and gazed up at him, her mouth working wordlessly.

"No, don't fret about her," he said, sniffing contemptuously.
"I have already managed to erase her memory of what you told her this
afternoon, without having to inform her Master of her
insubordination." He laughed coldly. "Fortunately, she is
much more susceptible to Legilimens than you are."

She blinked again, feeling a slight but undeniable throbbing in her
temples as his words echoed in her mind.

"Yes, every time you force me to perform this rather distasteful
task
I find that it takes longer and longer for me to penetrate into your
consciousness," he said, shaking his head. "But, of course, my
admiration for your
intellect and sheer strength of mind is the main reason I fought so
vigorously
against those who thought you should have been summarily
executed."
He paused and frowned before continuing, "And those who wanted your
mind
drained so completely that you would have been turned into a
blathering,
drooling idiot."

He tilted his head back and crossed his arms over his chest.
"No, instead I determined that you would be infinitely more useful to
me in a partially-obliviated state." Dropping his arms, he bent
at the waist and cupped his hand under her chin, forcing her face
toward his own. "And my reward for benevolently allowing you to
keep most of your mental
faculties intact has been a constant stream of defiant attempts on your
part
to regain all that knowledge which would jeopardize your continued
existence."

Dropping his hand away from her jaw, he sighed and began to pace
around the room. "I had believed that it was merely the proximity
of your
recklessly impulsive friends that had caused you to be such a thorn in
my
side for the past seven years, but I must now admit, reluctantly, that
I
was mistaken." He paused and crossed his arms again, leaning back
against
the wall as he frowned down at her. "You have all the worse
faults
of a Gryffindor, including an irritating amount of bravery and an
annoying
habit of refusing to surrender, even when it is clear the battle is
lost."

Her head was pounding now and she raised her hands weakly to massage
the sides of her forehead. His words were rousing a dizzying
array of images in her mind, glimpses of sights and sounds that were
vaguely familiar and yet disappeared before she could fully comprehend
them.

"And, last but not least, an insatiable curiosity," he concluded,
striding toward the desk. "Now then, Madeleine, what did you
remember?"

She felt tears flowing from her eyes again, a response to both the
discomfort and the terror that was currently flowing through her.

"Come now," his voice was very gentle now as he knelt in front of
her. "What is the use in fighting?"

She glanced at his hands and saw that the bottle of 'Full-Strength
Veritaserum' was clasped within his long white fingers. "You will
have no choice but to tell me what I wish to know after I administer
this." His lips quirked into a smile again. "And it will
just mean more work for you to help me prepare a new batch," he
taunted.

For a moment her eyes wavered between the bottle and his dark,
glittering eyes. And then her shoulders slumped forward and her
hands fell into her lap as she allowed a low, half-strangled cry to
issue from her lips. "A Pensieve," she said. "I remembered
something about a Pensieve."

"Ah," he said, putting the vial into his pocket and reaching out to
stroke her softly against the cheek. His other hand was wrapped
around his wand. "Look into my eyes."

She shivered slightly, but did as he asked.

"Legilimens!"

She found, to her surprise, that the pain began to subside rather
than intensify as she stared into those cold black irises and began to
talk. After a few minutes, she felt a curious, floating sensation
and it was almost as if she were standing outside of her body, watching
emotionlessly as the master continued to urge the slave to tell him all
that she remembered. Another minute or two passed, and she was
now unsure as to whether she was even speaking anymore, or if he were
simply reaching into her brain and winnowing through her thoughts.

"Finite incantatum!" he said finally, pulling his hand away
and rising to his feet. "That was quite sufficient," he muttered.

Once he had broken off the contact, the throbbing in her head had
returned with a renewed vengeance. Cupping her head in her hands
she slumped down upon the carpet, feeling drained and sick.

"Here."

She looked up to see him bending over her once more with a bottle in
her hand. But she knew that this vial contained a dose of pain
reliever rather than the Veritaserum.

"I can't" she protested weakly.

"It will alleviate the nausea as well," he promised

She took the proffered bottle and took a small sip. Finding it
surprisingly tasty, she hastily managed to gulp down the rest of
it. She closed her
eyes and took in a deep breath, and within seconds started to feel
amazingly better.

"Stand up!"

His voice was once more cold, with no hint of concern or compassion.

"I have something to show you," he drawled, walking over to another
cupboard.

She rose to her feet and followed, feeling a strange, prickling
sensation running down her spine as she did so. This cabinet,
unlike the other one to which she was granted unsupervised access, had
always been securely locked. She could not remember ever seeing
him open it. But
he leaned forward now, chanting out an incantation, and waving his wand
with delicate, precise movements, and after several seconds the doors
suddenly burst open.

There was only one object contained within it. A low, shallow
stone basin, and as she stepped nearer to it she knew what is was even
before she was able to gaze into it. Stepping forward, she saw
that it was filled with a curious half-liquid and half-gaseous
silver-white substance. But mixed in with the silver were a large
number of faint red and pink-colored blobs.

"What are those?" she gasped, pointing at the darkened areas.

"Unfortunately, when thoughts are extracted against the person's
will, there is always a bit of bloodshed," he answered callously.

She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. "Those are my
thoughts, aren't they?" she asked in a trembling voice as she opened
them again.

Instead of replying, he leaned forward and carelessly stirred the
mixture with the point of his wand. Flicking his wrist upward,
she saw a quick succession of scenes suddenly emerge from the
mist. She was looking upward at what appeared to be the sky, and
heard a voice that she vaguely recognized as her own saying "I read
about it in Hogwarts: A History." The sky shimmered
for a moment and then disappeared, and it's place were the
figures of three children gathered around a steaming cauldron.
For
some odd reason, it appeared that they were standing in the middle of a
bathroom.
She again recognized herself, but before she could get a good
look
at the two boys who were standing beside her this vision also swam
before
her eyes and now she saw a flame shooting out of the tip of her wand
and
landing upon a piece of black cloth. It felt as it she were
moving back
and suddenly she realized that she was looking through a strange set of
slats
as the fire began to grow in intensity, burning more brightly and hotly
as
she continued to watch. And then there were cries and a pair of
boots
that she knew only too well began to stamp down upon the flames.

"I set you on fire?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," he replied, using another quick flick of his wrist to force
the silvery image back down into the basin. "I am quite indebted
to you for providing me with the evidence to prove that which I always
suspected," he added, dryly. Staring down into the basin, he
pursed his lips for a moment. "Amazing objects, Pensieves."
He raised his eyes to glare at her. "No matter how full they
appear to be, there is always room for more. Turn around."

"You're going to remove more of my memories, aren't you?" she said,
her voice trembling despite her best efforts to remain calm.

"Of course," he laughed. "I can hardly afford to let you
remember the details that flooded into your brain today." He
jerked his head in the direction of the cabinet. "Much less allow
you to remember
what is locked away in here." He smiled nastily at her for a
moment
before continuing. "No doubt you would stop at nothing to
retrieve
it and, given enough time, I am fairly certain you would succeed," he
admitted.

"Will you tell me something first?" she asked suddenly.

His eyebrows drew up in a surprised arch. "And what exactly do
you wish to know?" he asked, his own voice slow and suspicious.

"What is my real name?"

She winced as his harsh laughter echoed through the room. "Oh
my dear Madeleine," he taunted, drawing back his lips so that his
yellow, uneven teeth were clearly visible. "Why on earth would I
dream of handing you
such an important piece of information?"

Her hands clenched into impotent fists as he bent over her again to
whisper in her ear. "Whoever you were in the past, you are my
property now. Your name is Madeleine and you will continue to be
called that for as long as I wish," he said.

Straightening up, he held out his wand. "Turn around,
please." The tone of his voice and the accompanying wave of his
wand left no doubt that it was an order rather than a request.

She stared down at the floor, her fingers balling even more tightly,
until she wondered if they would break under the strain.

"Madeleine," he began, his tone once more silky and dangerous.
"You have never been very adept at resisting 'Imperio', so there seems
no point in attempting to do so now. After all, you have just
proven yourself unable to prevent me from breaking into your mind."

She raised her chin defiantly and stared directly into his
eyes. "I hate you," she declared through her clenched teeth.

He appeared to be neither angered or wounded by her
pronouncement. In fact, to her distress he simply looked slightly
amused. "That is your misfortune," he replied with a shrug.
Raising his hand, he pointed the tip of his wand directly between her
eyes. "Now please turn around."

Her shoulders rigid and her head held high, she pivoted upon her
heel
and turned away from him, fixing her eyes upon a spider that was
laboring
to weave a web in the dark far corner of the room.

"Now bring your thoughts of the events in the kitchen and of our
earlier session to the forefront of your mind," he ordered. She
jumped involuntarily as she felt him clap a his left hand upon her
shoulder. "And do not attempt to deceive me, for I shall be
examining your thoughts as I retrieve them," he warned. "It would
be a shame to have to remove more than is
absolutely necessary."

A slight quiver of her body was the only reply.

Raising the tip of his wand to her temple, he murmured something
under his breath. As he drew the point away a long gossamer
string of silver, tinged with pink appeared to be stuck upon the
end. He twirled the
wand in his hand for a moment, the strange substance winding around the
shaft as he assured himself that all of the memory had been
removed. Stepping backward, he raised the tip of the wand into
the air until the strand thinned and snapped. Turning to the
Pensieve, he dipped the wand into the swirling mist and then stood,
frowning down into the bowl for a moment. Apparently satisfied
with what he saw, he turned back to the girl and repeated the procedure
two more times. Nodding in a contented manner, he moved to shut
the cabinet doors and carefully reset the wards.

Striding to stand in front of the girl, he bent down and examined
her
face. There was a decidedly blank look upon it and although her
eyes
were open and blinking at appropriate intervals she appeared to be
unaware
of her surroundings. In addition, her lips were parted slightly,
the
jaw appearing unnaturally slack. He studied her for several
minutes,
as if to assure himself that there was no deception upon her part.

Leaning forward, he waved his hand before her eyes. The irises
remained fixed and staring, and did not appear to be aware of the
movement in front of them. Taking a step backwards, he crossed
his arms and whispered, very quietly, "Hermione?"

Seeing no response, he narrowed his eyes and raised his voice.
"Hermione!"

The girl remained in her catatonic trance.

With a slight grin upon his lips, he dropped his wand into his
pocket and
bent forward again. "Madeleine!" he hissed, at the same time
snapping his fingers directly in front of her face.

The girl immediately blinked several times, and her expression was
one of absolute terror for a moment before swiftly changing into a
guarded and suspicious look.

"Master Severus?" she asked quietly, hugging herself as if a sudden
chill had run through her.

"Daydreaming again?" he sneered. "You were about to replenish
the Interrogation Room supplies," he said, reaching down into his
pocket to retrieve the vial of Veritaserum. Gesturing toward the other
two bottles that still stood upon his desk, he continued. "Place
all three of these upon the appropriate shelves and then return here as
swiftly as possible," he growled. Pointing to the bag which still
lay upon the counter he continued, in
an annoyed tone: "You are behind in your work as it is."

"Yes, Master," she answered, dropping her arms and holding out her
palm for the vial which he still clutched in his hand.

Tossing it to her, he watched silently as she retrieved the
other two flasks and hurried out of the room. Only after she had left
did his lips to curl into a smirk again as he slowly glided back toward
his desk. Seating himself, he searched in his pocket for his wand
and waved it over the cup of tea. Tossing the wand onto the desk,
he picked up the cup and sniffed the aroma appreciatively before taking
a deep swallow. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and
savored the moment.

Most people would assume that being a double spy was a
nerve-wracking and
dangerous occupation. It certainly was, he admitted, opening his
eyes
and carefully placing the cup back upon the saucer. But that did
not
mean that one never found some exceedingly pleasing rewards along the
way.

He never would have dreamed that Voldemort would continue to rise so
quickly to power, especially since the Ministry had finally been
convinced of his reappearance. Or that Dumbledore could have been
lured so easily away from his beloved Hogwarts, allowing the Death
Eaters to pick and choose among the small number of students remaining
over the Christmas holidays. Just his damned luck that this was
the only year that the Weasleys had insisted upon Potter accompanying
their son home for the celebration. Although it had been
extremely fortunate that the Weasley daughter had stayed behind to keep
her best friend company since the Grangers had insisted the school was
the 'safest place' for their beloved child to stay.

Not that he had any illusions that Dumbledore or Potter were
vanquished. Though he was surprised that they were taking this
long to mount a counter-attack.
But perhaps, for once, the Gryffindors were taking time to make a
serious
plan before embarking upon a foolish, headlong venture.
Incredible
as it seemed, there was the possibility that the members of that house
had
finally learned what Slytherins had known all along. That
survival
was more important than stupid, reckless bravery.

He of course, had no particular concerns about the final outcome of
the war. Whoever emerged victorious, he was certain that he could
convince him that he had been their stalwart supporter all along.
Should Albus and Potter win out, he would hurry to their side and
produce the lovely Miss Granger as proof of his loyalties, along with
evidence that he alone had managed
to shelter and protect her when others had clamored for her death.
The
fact that he had used her as a slave was a regrettable but necessary
cover
for his most honorable intentions. It would help, of course, if
he
had time to sort through all of her memories and return only those with
featured
him in the best possible light. But he was willing to bet that
the
decisive battle, when it came, would be a tediously protracted affair,
allowing
him ample time to do so.

If on the other hand Voldemort won? Well, all the better.
In truth he preferred his current position as a valued and
pampered aide de camp
to that of a lowly Potions Master. Certainly Professors were not
allowed
to keep house-elves, much less a young and pretty concubine for their
own
personal pleasure. And once assured that Potter had been
defeated, he
could allow himself the additional satisfaction of allowing her to
remember exactly who she was and all that had passed between them.
It would make
her current degradation all the sweeter for him to have the little
know-it-all aware of the depths to which a former 'Head Girl' had
fallen.

He hurriedly retrieved his quill as he heard her footsteps returning
to the office. He frowned down at the parchment and then dipped
the nib back into the ink, scribbling furiously across the page as she
entered. Walking on tiptoe, she moved to the counter and began to
empty the sack of the supplies, placing them within the appropriate
spots within the cupboard.

Sitting back in his chair, he tapped the feather thoughtfully
against his
chin as he glanced back toward her. She was completing her task
swiftly
and efficiently, seeming so absorbed in her work that she was not aware
of
his perusal.

Although there was a certain amount of perverse pleasure to be
exacted from her current state of obliviousness, he was beginning to
tire of it. And
even he had found it awkward when, the first night he took her
to
his bed and inquired as to whether or not she was a virgin, she had
found
herself unable to answer him. (Within a few minutes, of course,
there
had been clear and undeniable evidence that her maidenhood had been
heretofore
unassailed.)

Finally feeling the heat of his gaze upon her, she turned toward him
and stood with her hands clasped in front of her. "Yes, Master
Severus?" she asked quietly. "Is there something wrong?"

He clucked his tongue and tossed the pen once more to the side.
"You are disgustingly dirty today, Madeleine," he reprimanded.

"Yes, Master," she answered meekly. "But it was quite hot
today and-"

"Then why don't you at least have your hair up?" he demanded.

"Oh," she said, clutching rather blankly at her hair for a moment
and screwing
her eyes up in concentration. "I think," she said, very slowly,
"That
my hairband broke."

"You mean you mislaid it?" he roared, raising his hands to the desk
and pushing back angrily.

"No, Master, please," she whispered, her hands digging into her
pockets. "Look!" she shouted, bringing out the remains of a
dirty, worn band. "I told you it broke," she said, holding it
upon her open palm in front of her.

"I see," he said, in a lower if still somewhat disgruntled voice.
"Well, why didn't you fix it?"

"I wasn't sure if it was allowed," she whispered, still holding her
hand out in front of her.

"Ah, and you never perform magic unless you are sure I approve of
it, do
you?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft and gentle.

"No, Master," she replied, staring down at the floor.

"Would you like a new one?"

She dared to raise her eyes to meet his gaze now and found that his
manner was now calm and almost considerate.

"If, if I may?" she responded, hesitantly.

"Now, Madeleine, you know I would not offer it otherwise."
With a
wave of his wand, a new gold-colored hairband appeared upon the dark
surface of the desk.

"Thank you, Master," she said, stuffing the old band back into her
pockets and walking forward to retrieve the new one.

"But I do not wish you to wear it yet," he rebuked, softly.

She froze in position, with her hand reaching down to retrieve the
small band.

He smiled and crooked a the forefinger of his right hand, beckoning
her to join him on the other side of the desk. As she slowly
walked toward him, he spread his legs and began to undo the zipper of
his fly.

"I want to run my fingers through your hair while you pleasure me,"
he said, leering at her.

She was already kneeling down between his legs. "But my hair
is dirty,"
she said, in a worried tone of voice.

With a shrug, he bent over to retrieve his wand. "An easily
corrected condition." He pointed the wand at her head and a
moment later her hair
appeared to be slightly lighter and much bouncier in texture. As
he
wound his fingers through the light brown curls he smiled again.

Ah, yes, there were times it was much more pleasurable to be a Death
Eater.
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A Day in the Life of a Houseslave