The House of Control

Hermione took a steadying breath as she stepped out of Mother and Father's office, feeling the weight of their questions lingering in her mind. The guard waiting outside said nothing as he led her through winding hallways. Hermione's curiosity was buzzing, questions tumbling over each other as she tried to process what little she had learned.

They passed through a narrow doorway into a smaller building just off the main house. It was bustling with activity: maids and butlers hurried through the halls, their movements precise and orderly. Hermione took it all in, her gaze darting from the polished floors to the spotless walls. Everything here felt meticulously maintained.

The guard brought her to a stop before a stern-looking woman with neatly pinned dark hair and an air of quiet authority. She wore a perfectly pressed uniform, with not a thread out of place. This was clearly a woman who knew every rule—and expected everyone else to follow them, too.

"Mistress Isabell," the guard said, inclining his head. "Mother and Father's orders. This one needs training."

Mistress Isabell looked Hermione up and down, her expression unreadable. She didn't offer a greeting, nor did she ask any questions. Instead, she merely gave a curt nod and turned, motioning for Hermione to follow her deeper into the house.

Hermione opened her mouth, desperate to ask about where she was going or what they were going to do, but something about Mistress Isabell's silence held her back. They arrived at a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves of neatly folded uniforms, each one starched and pressed to perfection. Isabell selected an outfit—a crisp, plain black dress with a white collar, simple but unmistakably the attire of a maid—and handed it to Hermione.

"Change," Isabell instructed, her voice quiet but firm. She pointed to a small curtain tucked into the corner of the room.

"Um—what exactly am I supposed to—?" Hermione started, but Isabell didn't answer, simply pointing to the curtain once more. Hermione felt her frustration rising. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment. But as she glanced at Isabell's steady gaze, she realized there was no point in arguing. Sighing, she stepped behind the curtain and changed into the uniform.

When she emerged, Hermione felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. The dress was plain, and she felt stripped of her usual confidence in the unfamiliar outfit. She let out a quiet "eep," before catching herself. But before she could fully adjust, Isabell took her by the shoulders and turned her around, nudging her firmly out of the room and toward a line of other maids.

"Get in line," Isabell said simply, giving her a gentle but insistent push. Hermione fell into line, her thoughts racing.

The other maids stood perfectly straight, their hands clasped in front of them, their eyes fixed ahead. Hermione glanced around, her curiosity simmering as she studied their expressions. Every face was calm and expressionless, a mask that showed no trace of individuality.

"Now," Mistress Isabell's voice cut through the quiet, "today we will cover the basics. You are here to serve and to obey. There is no room for error or delay. You will be expected to carry out every task with perfection."

Hermione stiffened, feeling the weight of Isabell's words. This was like nothing she'd ever encountered before. She'd learned a great deal at Hogwarts, but this was... something else entirely.

The morning began with lessons in the essentials of serving. They were shown how to set a table with painstaking attention to detail: each utensil, each glass, each napkin had a precise placement, and even the slightest deviation was corrected immediately. Hermione's fingers moved slowly at first, trying to mimic the fluid, confident motions of the other maids, but her every instinct fought against the strange rules and rituals.

Next, they learned how to pour drinks, their hands held steady by Isabell herself to ensure there was no shaking, no wavering. "Smooth and controlled," she murmured as she guided Hermione's hand, her voice softer but still precise. "No spills. No hesitation."

Hermione clenched her jaw, concentrating on the delicate movements. This was a challenge she hadn't anticipated; it required discipline of a different sort, one she'd never quite learned.

The day continued with lessons in everything from carrying trays of food to bowing to those in authority. Hermione found it all strange and restrictive. She wanted to ask questions, to understand why these rules were so strict, but any time she so much as glanced at Mistress Isabell, the woman's stern expression silenced her. Each correction, each instruction drove the point deeper—this wasn't just a job. This was an unyielding expectation.

Finally, as dinner approached, the maids were led to a large hall filled with long tables where other servants—maids, butlers, cooks, and laborers—were gathered for their evening meal. The air was thick with the quiet hum of silent movement as everyone took their places in line. Hermione followed, watching the other maids closely as she tried to mimic their calm, measured steps.

At the end of the line, a kitchen maid handed Hermione a tray with a plain bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and a metal cup of water. She was tempted to comment, maybe even ask why the food was so simple, but one look at the quiet expressions around her told her it wasn't worth it. Sighing, she took her tray and stepped out of line.

Hermione glanced around the room, noting how each table seemed to be filled with specific groups of servants—maids with maids, butlers with butlers, and so on. She spotted a table with four maids and made her way over, taking an empty seat and setting her tray down.

After a few quiet bites, her curiosity got the better of her. She looked up at the maids beside her, leaning in to speak quietly. "Do you know where this food comes from?" she asked, hoping to break the silence. "Or how long the training lasts?"

The maid across from her shot her a panicked look, glancing over her shoulder before hissing, "Don't talk during meals."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "What? Why not?"

The maid's face tightened, and another servant at the table quickly leaned in, whispering harshly, "Talking is against the rules. We eat in silence. Just... keep your head down."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, a guard appeared beside her, his gaze cold and unyielding. "Is there a problem here?"

One of the maids quickly answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "No, sir. She was just... unfamiliar with the rule."

The guard looked down at Hermione, his expression hard. "No talking. Eat your meal. And remember, silence is expected here." He waited a moment longer, as if daring her to respond, before turning and moving on.

Hermione swallowed, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. She picked up her spoon and resumed eating, her mind buzzing with questions she knew she couldn't ask here. How could anyone live like this? she wondered, glancing around at the rows of silent faces.

When the meal was over, the servants filed out of the hall in orderly lines, and Hermione followed, feeling strangely out of place in the quiet procession. They made their way to the lower level of the Chamber, a narrow stairwell leading them into a cold, dark basement filled with rows of plain doors.

The door above clicked shut and locked behind them, and Hermione felt a pang of unease as she watched the last bit of light vanish. A maid beside her, noticing Hermione's expression, leaned in and murmured, "They lock the doors at night. It's just how it is here."

Hermione's eyes widened. "But... why?"

The maid shrugged, her expression resigned. "To keep order. There's a communal bathroom at the end of the hall, and... well, you'll get used to it." She offered Hermione a small, sympathetic smile before shuffling off to her room.

Hermione watched her go, then slowly made her way down the hall to the door marked with her name. She stepped inside, her heart sinking as she took in the stark simplicity of the room—a single, narrow bed, a wooden wardrobe, and bare walls. The room felt sterile, void of warmth or any semblance of comfort.

Sighing, Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the day settle over her. She'd been through many challenges, faced countless magical trials—but nothing like this. This was a world stripped of individuality, where every movement, every word, every glance was governed by rules that allowed for no questions, no curiosity.

As the lights in the corridor went out, plunging the space into darkness, Hermione lay down, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind spun with questions and frustrations, but beneath it all, a small ember of determination burned within her.

Tomorrow, she thought, I'll find a way to learn more.