The Beast in the Jungle
Hermione let out a short exhale, her fingers knotting together in her lap. Possibilities swirled in her head, each less pleasant than the last. Perhaps something had happened to delay the infernal woman, on this most important of mornings. Might the esteemed Miss Black have overslept? Or been waylaid by some other starry-eyed debutante in search of a suitable lady’s companion?
Perhaps the older woman had decided that Hermione was simply not worth her time. Some of the old guard found the Granger family’s new money gauche, after all. Snobs, Hermione thought, but Black did have a decidedly privileged clientele.
Or what if she had been injured on the way to the Estate? Carriage accidents were common enough, as Hermione knew only too intimately. For a moment, she was lost in memories. Wood splintering, rivulets of crimson blood between her fingers, redness staining the fine silk of her brocade. The thoughts slipped through her one after the other like knives. She shuddered, slightly, readjusting on the settee.
“Do we have the date quite correct? And the time?” she asked primly, her eyes settling momentarily on her mother and then her father in swift succession. They were perched together in the drawing room: her on the green velvet upholstered settee and her parents standing guard at either side in matching antique rococo armchairs. She felt momentarily calmed by there presence, the sheer unshakeable stability of them. And then came a feeling of strange dread that she was quick to stifle.
Her mother smiled warmly at her, taking her daughter’s nerves in stride.
“Not everyone is as punctual as you, dear one,” she murmured, raising her eyebrows delicately.
Hermione swallowed back the anxiety building in her throat.
“Of course. It’s just this is rather important, isn’t it? I want to be sure to handle it all with– with–” she paused, biting her bottom lip. She hated how uncertain she sounded. It was unlike her to seek external validation, to align her own sense of rightness with anything outside of her own moral center.
“You will manage this as you have managed all things,” intoned her father, “With the utmost civility and brilliance. Do not doubt yourself.”
Hermione bit back a retort, chastising herself. Her unease would only imperil her parents’ good temper. But her corset was feeling unbearably tight around her middle, and she could feel her cheeks flushing already, a telltale sign of nerves.
“Do I look acceptable? Is this dress not a little too tight? Might Miss Black think us classless?” she asked in an undertone, turning to her mother.
But Mrs/ Granger merely chuckled, shaking her head.
“It is the latest fashion in Paris. And no one could ever accuse you of being classless, my darling.”
Hermione reddened, casting her look down at her silk-slippered feet crossed immaculately on the byzantine carpet.
“Only,” she continued almost compulsively, unsure where this sudden surge of loquaciousness had come from, “You and Father have been so terribly kind to me, so terribly patient, to allow me to delay my debut until after I had time to finish my studies. Most parents would never have allowed their daughter to go off and procure herself a liberal arts education prior to finding a husband and I cannot bear the idea of letting you down–”
“Most parents do not have a daughter as infinitely clever as you, Hermione,” her father was quick to assure, although his smile was tight. He had been opposed initially, to her attending University, amongst so many men with their various ill intentions, but he had come around in the end. His discomfort was a palpable thing, only marginally defeated by the twin prongs of his general good will and paternal affection.
“I just want to repay that faith,” Hermione said, “To secure a match which will be advantageous for all of us. And Miss Black is the most enviable Lady’s Companion in the city. With her as my chaperone I’m almost certain to find an acceptable husband.” Her chest felt tight, as though the strings of her heart were being pulled taut and at any moment might break. Before she could continue along this vein, a light cough interrupted them.
Hermione looked up, her shoulders rigid.
“There is a Miss Bellatrix Black to see you. Shall I send her in?” a footman appeared from behind elegant double doors, looking a little flushed. With a quick nod from Mr. Granger, the man disappeared again along the adjoining corridor. In the ensuing silence, it was as though all the air had been sucked from the room.
Hermione eyed the doorway nervously. Wetting her bottom lip, she unfurled her fan and began to beat it half-heartedly at her chest. Over the mantle, an ornate mahogany clock ticked loudly.
The woman, Miss Black, entered with perfect ease, as though she already knew the house intimately. Perhaps, thought Hermione vaguely, she entered all places like this-- a stranger to nothing. She was tall, a study in queer chiaroscuro, flickering and shadowy– at one moment almost glacial, and at another dark and unsubstantial.
Hermione was fairly sure she had never seen anyone half as beautiful in her life. It was almost obscene– the dark, twisting curls running loose down the woman’s back, the sharp hook of her brows, the narrow flight of her nose, the full pout of her mouth, the cheeks so pale they might have been cut from marble by some Renaissance sculptor. There was something drawn in her expression. Something cold and snobbish, that pierced Hermione through with a sense of inexplicable shame.
But that coldness vanished as the woman’s eyes trained themselves on Hermione’s face. Those eyes were black and full, the night sky devoid of stars, like fire’s opposite, but burning still with an uncanny heat. They were searing and scalding and impossible to look into for any length of time.
Hermione gasped in spite of herself, the air being wrenched violently from her lungs as if by some external force.
The older woman smirked, her previous haughtiness apparently forgotten, surveying the girl before her with something unreadable in her expression. A wave of chills erupted along Hermione’s exposed arms. She looked away, beating her fan frantically in time with her thundering heart.
“Ah, here she is. The woman of the hour.” her father rose graciously to his feet, breaking the silence, "We've been so eager to meet your acquaintance, Miss Black."
“Mr. Granger, I presume,” the woman offered Hermione’s father her hand with a small frown, “You have a--perfectly charming little home.” Here, her eyes flicked to Hermione’s mother. There was an inflection in her words, an undercurrent of subtle hostility that was impossible to miss. Snob, indeed.
Hermione felt a swell of indignation on her parents’ behalf, only magnified by her inability to look away from the woman. Humiliation, or something like it, was working its way up her throat, making it difficult to breathe.
“You are too kind, I’m sure. We are honored to have you as a guest here this morning. One cannot go a block in London without hearing your name in connection with some fabulous engagement or another. My Hermione has not stopped talking about you since we began planning her debut,” her father spoke easily, apparently unruffled by Black’s spartan praise.
The older woman surveyed the room lazily, before her eyes came to rest once more on Hermione.
"Is that so?" she asked with a slightly mocking smile, inclining her head towards Hermione.
Hermione blushed, gritting her teeth.
"I have spoken perhaps, of your match-making abilities at some length, perhaps. As have many of my peers."
Miss Black scoffed quietly, lowering herself elegantly onto an unoccupied divan.
“Oh yes, please, sit down. Might we get you something to drink. Tea? Lemonade?” Mrs. Granger inquired kindly, ever the attentive host.
Bellatrix ignored her, picking at the embroidery and then surveying her nails languidly.
“I’d like to speak with the girl before things go further. Alone.”
There was a stilted pause, in which Mrs. Granger frowned and Mr. Granger coughed awkwardly, before rising to his feet.
“Of course. You’ll want to be acquainted, before committing to spending so much time together. Very wise. We understand entirely. Shall we, my dear?” he gestured with excessive good cheer to the door, offering his wife his arm.
The two departed with a flurry of skirts and trouser legs.
And suddenly, Hermione was alone with Bellatrix Black.
"My father is--very earnest," Hermione began awkwardly, her face hot.
Miss Black waved a hand, silencing her.
“So you’re the girl that all of London is talking about,” the older woman murmured, so softly, that Hemrione was almost certain she had not spoken at all.
Hermione colored, biting her lip.
“No,” she shook her head hurriedly, mortified.
“No?” Black questioned, raising a single perfect eyebrow, “So you’re not Miss Hermione Granger, twenty-three years of age. A veritable spinster, but the season’s catch all the same. Sole heir to the Granger textile fortune now that her elder brother has passed. God rest his soul. Not an ounce of blue blood in her veins, but the money makes up for it. Highly educated, perhaps too highly educated for a woman, by some standards. A nice figure and a pretty face. No doubt hoping to land someone with a title to lend a bit of class to her tactless existence.”
Hermione felt the color drain from her cheeks, her heartbeat hammering madly in her ears. Although most of the woman’s words were complimentary, there was something cruel and derogatory in her reduction of Hemrione’s life into a few crude phrases.
“That’s dreadfully presumptuous, Miss Black” she managed, struggling to keep her voice level. She was something of an expert at maintaining a perfectly placid demeanor, but already the woman was testing her.
“Is it? I must admit you’re not anything like I expected. Almost meek. Domesticated. I was picturing some brash, bold, overbearing genius estranged from her own sense of femininity. Why else hire me? Such demure beauty needs no aid, surely.”
Hermione gritted her teeth, her chest tightening.
“Speak plainly, then,” she hissed, determined not to rise to Bellatrix’s bait.
“Oh, pet, I’m not sure what you mean,” Black smiled innocently.
The nickname sent a surge of annoyance through Hermione, and a thrill of something else-- something perilous. Hermione swallowed, breathing in and out in an attempt to calm her burgeoning frustration.
“It’s obvious that you look down upon my family. That you see calling on us as beneath you. But then why come? Is it just greed? You want to judge me and make off with my family’s money in a single beat?” She paused, “I apologize-- Am I being demure enough for you?”
Bellatrix opened her mouth and shut it again, still smirking although evidently surprised by Hermione’s outburst.
“Your particular skill and social eminence does not give you the right to speak to me as you just have, with such paternalistic contempt. Perhaps elements of my life and upbringing are unconventional, I shall not deny that. But if that bothers you– if my education unnerves you– or my lack of aristocratic connections makes you wary– then I must ask you to please be direct and take your leave. We need not waste your time, or mine,” Hermione concluded in a rush, her fists clenched in her lap.
Bellatrix appraised her, the smirk never leaving her lips.
“You’re compelling when you’re angry. Noted.” she murmured, licking her lips and leaning back on the loveseat with a contented sigh, “Now be a deary and go fetch your parents. I have a good deal to discuss with them regarding my compensation for this arrangement.”
Hermione stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Have you heard a word of what I’ve just said?” she asked, her voice coming out lower and raspier than she had intended.
“I think I have an idea of the important bits,” Bellatrix chided languidly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Go on, pet. I’m a very busy woman. And you seem to be in a hurry to find a husband, which is serendipitously my forte.”
Hermione rose to her feet, her whole body trembling.
“Don’t call me that,” she choked, straightening her shoulders, “I’m not your– your–”
Bellatrix’s smirk widened.
“Dislikes terms of endearment. Noted," Black shrugged serenely. Hermione's eyes blazed. "I do not--dislike them. I just-- we hardly know each other and you're only addressing me that way to-- to prove a point. To rile me up."
"Too intimate too fast? I can slow down for you Granger, but do at least attempt to keep up.”
Hermione spluttered, gripping the back of the settee to ground herself.
“You're right, I originally had no intention of accepting this position. You may be rich, and pretty enough, but I have certain standards,” Miss Black grinned, as Hermione backed out of the drawing room, her face and her mind on fire, "But even so, you've caught my attention. I'll take you on, so long as you promise to work for it."
Hermione paused, her fingers tight around the doorknob, breathing hard.
"Is that a yes, or a no, Miss Granger?" Black's voice was harsher now, more cold and formal. Hermione instantly missed its teasing warmth.
She clenched her eyes shut. She wanted to tell the woman no. That she could take her old-fashioned ideas about class and try finding another job. But in another moment, she was in the carriage again, and the horses were screaming, and there was blood all down her dress. Her brother, her beloved Regulus, gargling at her feet, a tire spoke impaled in his chest. She shook herself convulsively. She had responsibilities now.
"Fine," she breathed, not turning around. She couldn't bear to see the woman's victorious face.
"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that."
Hermione spun around, all of her rage and despair perfectly evident in the agonized features of her face.
"I said, that I would be delighted," she managed, her fists clenched at her sides, her breast rising a falling with emotion. She barely managed to keep herself from shouting. When her eyes came to rest on Black's she expected them to be alight with triumph. But they were serious and still. Unreadable.
Miss Black simply stared at the younger girl, taking in the rigidity of her posture, the rage in her expression.
"Then we have ourselves a deal, Granger," she murmured, inclining her head ever so softly.