Chapter Text
Hermione couldn’t stay hidden in this cupboard forever. The stench of old, moldy shoes—long past their usefulness—curled in the damp air, pressing against her lungs. She crouched awkwardly, unable to sit, let alone stand. When she was a little girl, it hadn’t been so bad. Back then, she never remained here for long. Lord Caius Prince, already ancient even then, seldom left his bedchambers, and poor Lady Eliza, blind as midnight, never noticed the ghost of a child slipping through the shadows. Neither had known she lived among the indentured betas and leased omegas. They could no longer scent her in their advanced age. One a man, twice a child.
Everything was different. Lady Eliza was gone, passed on a month prior, and with her absence came the arrival of their heir-apparent—unannounced, inevitable. There was no slipping through the cracks this time. Hermione, like all the others, belonged to him now, in one way or another.
Two hours had passed. Neither Mrs. Weasley nor Lily had come to retrieve her. Hermione’s back ached, stiff from crouching, and hunger gnawed at her resolve. But anything—anything—was better than being caught. She could stay in this cupboard for days if she had to, surviving on water and scraps. What would happen next? She didn’t know.
A voice. Deep, commanding. It resonated just beyond the door, vibrating through the air. She gasped, her heart leaping into her throat.
The door flew open.
“There you are.”
Hermione froze. She was drowning in his scent—warm, rich, earthy, and something else. Something she had no name for. How could she? He was the first alpha she had been near since her father.
“Why is she in the cupboard?” His voice curled with quiet authority as he turned to the women behind him. Lily and Mrs. Weasley recoiled as if he’d spoken too sharply. But he hadn’t.
“Come out this instant. What is your name?”
The young omega stuttered as she climbed out, shaky hands smoothing over her wrinkled skirt before she bowed deeply. “H-Hermione.”
“Why were you in there?”
“I was hiding.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“So, this is your home? Why are you hiding?”
Hermione glanced at the silent women, searching for support. It came—finally—when Mrs. Weasley spoke.
“She’s unmated, and when your car arrived, we didn’t know who was coming.”
“I know she’s unmated.” The new lord prince barely spared her a glance. “You should know that her scent led me here, to this very spot. I was going to find her eventually. No unmated omega was listed on the estate papers or the roster.”
“She’s not listed,” Mrs. Weasley admitted. “She’s unregistered. We’ve kept her here.”
Hermione began to tremble. Ten years of hiding within the quiet sanctuary of Prince Manor—ten years avoiding notice. It could have been so much worse.
“Why are you crying?” His voice carried an edge of discomfort. “Why is she crying?”
“She’s afraid of Azkaban.” Mrs. Weasley’s tone was soft, heavy with unspoken memories—the weight of past choices. She had saved Hermione all those years ago.
“What is that?”
Lily and Hermione snapped their heads up. What kind of alpha didn’t know?
“Don’t gape at me. Just tell me. I’m practically a foreigner.”
“It’s where they t-take us,” Hermione stammered through her tears, “to be trained.”
“Trained as what?” His curiosity was genuine—disconcerting.
He turned to Lily, the only other omega in the house. “Did you go?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I was trained for domestic work and child-rearing… to be a wife and mate.”
He nodded, absorbing the information. “Do not put her in the cupboard again. Is that understood?”
Hermione blinked, struggling to comprehend. “You’re not sending me away?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“Why would I?”
“Unregistered omegas are illegal.”
“A worry for another time.” He dismissed the concern with an effortless wave, as though the laws didn’t quite matter. Hermione’s shoulders sagged, tension draining from her frame. He didn’t care? Why not? Don’t ask him.
“What do you do here?” he asked.
“I used to care for Lady Eliza before she passed. I help in the kitchen too.”
“Alright. You will take care of my mother. She struggles with mobility. One of these parlors should be converted into a bedroom for her. She’s upstairs now, no doubt bored, since her books are still packed. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“There will be no more hiding in cupboards or anywhere else meant for garments and forgotten equipment?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Brilliant. I believe you can introduce yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he smiled—and Hermione melted.
As he walked off, she overheard him say, “Mrs. Weasley, what can we do about dinner?”
His scent lingered, intoxicating, and before she realized what she was doing, she moved to follow him. Lily caught her wrist.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Hermione exhaled, pulling away. “Following him.”
Lily scoffed. “You just got lucky. Don’t push it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Snape. He calls himself Lord Prince of Cokeworth but will answer to Mr. Snape.”
“Mr. Snape? Is that a noble name?”
Lily shrugged.
“He said he was practically a foreigner. Where was he from? His accent—I've never heard anything like it.”
“What would you know?” Lily laughed, sharp and mocking. “He was raised in the Free State as a normal person. He doesn’t seem to like the titles or bowing. You know things are different there.”
Hermione had heard stories from Mrs. Weasley and lost herself in more than a few novels set in that distant country. If the fiction was any reflection of reality, life there was starkly different. All three designations were equal. Modest equality, they called it—though the battles for gender roles and racial tensions never truly ceased. It fascinated her. She had spent countless hours wandering through the pages, imagining a world she would never touch.
She had dreams. But each time, reality shook her awake.
Prince Manor was a paradise—but a gilded cage all the same. She could never leave, never risk discovery. The price of exposure was too steep: abhorrent abuse, slavery.
Lily often reassured her, but reassurance was a fragile thing. “You have nothing to worry about,” she always said. “It’s the pretty ones who suffer the worst.” Those words had haunted Hermione for years. The first time Lily described what worse meant, Hermione hadn’t slept for two days. She had only been thirteen.
Drawing herself back to the present, she swallowed hard. Mr. Snape had given her instructions. She had a task now—a purpose.
“Yes. Um… I’m going to see what his mother needs.”
Lily’s voice trailed after her as she turned. “Okay. Have fun.”
Something in her tone—lace-thin mockery—made Hermione hesitate. Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Lily gestured vaguely. “See for yourself.”
With that, she strode off, leaving Hermione standing at the base of the long, curved staircase. Her breath tightened as she took her first, tentative step upward.
Prince Manor had been Hermione’s home since she was nine years old. She had explored most of it, save for the East Wing. Mrs. Weasley kept it locked—those suites were meant for guests, and they never had any. Today, the doors stood open, and curiosity pulled at her more than the task her new master had given. His earlier words had made her feel secure. How had she trusted him so quickly?
Hermione stepped into the wide corridor, her movements soundless. Light, uncertain steps carried her past one door, then another.
“Who’s there? Help me.”
She stopped. Her breath stilled as she turned toward the voice, anticipating whatever Lily had alluded to earlier. Closing her eyes briefly, she stepped forward, crossing the threshold.
An older woman teetered on the verge of falling, the very image of Mrs. Prince, and Hermione rushed forward, steadying her. She eased her down into the settee by the ornate fireplace.
“Thank you,” the woman said, brisk but not unkind. “Who are you?”
“Hermione, ma’am.”
“You’re unmated.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why did my mother hire you?”
“Mrs. Weasley brought me here. I cared for the late Lady Prince.”
“I am Mrs. Snape. You will call me Mrs. Snape.” The older omega studied her. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen, ma’am.”
“Stop calling me that. I don’t need reminding that I’m old. You’re too pretty to be some caregiver. Girls like you don’t get trained for jobs like this.”
Hermione found nothing to say, so she said nothing.
“Did my son send you up here?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need someone to find my books. I do not enjoy the telly at all.”
Hermione set to work, opening every box in the room, sorting through stacks until she unearthed three packed with books of all kinds.
“Would you like me to organize them for you?” she offered, glancing toward the newly dusted shelves. “By genre and author’s surname?”
“Please do.”
For the titles she didn’t recognize, Hermione asked the woman for guidance. Of the three hundred or so volumes, she only asked about a dozen. She knew, because Mrs. Snape pointed it out.
“Do you read frequently?” the woman asked.
“Nearly all the time,” Hermione admitted. “Your mother slept most of the day. I read.”
“Hm.”
“What can I do for you now? Would you like to go down for dinner?” She gestured toward the clock radio on the nightstand. “It’s nearly time.”
“That is a very good idea.” Mrs. Snape accepted the cane Hermione handed her, but paused. “Tell me something.”
“Yes?”
“How far did you go in school?”
“Year three. My mother tutored me after that.”
“And your training? When did that start?”
Hermione hesitated but knew better than to deflect. This woman would not tolerate avoidance, and Hermione was a terrible liar. She had no experience crafting believable ones.
“I didn’t train. I came here.”
“My father had an unregistered omega on his estate? Did he even know? His mind was going toward the end.”
“He didn’t.”
“You’ve lived here since childhood, and he never knew? Mother knew.”
“Yes.”
“Imagine that—I finally find some respect for her, and she’s not even alive to see it. Shame.”
The unfiltered honesty stunned Hermione. Never had a lord or lady spoken so casually with her.
As they reached the staircase, Mrs. Snape asked, “Since you read so much, what’s your favorite novel?”
Hermione considered only briefly. “White Willow. Do you know it?”
“Why is it your favorite?”
“She finds her family after a lifetime without them. She has a new family but also learns about the ones she lost. It’s nice.”
“It is,” Mrs. Snape agreed, her tone softening. “Where is your family?”
“I—I don’t know. I will have to make my own, I suppose.”
“It’s only a matter of time, I imagine.”
Hermione wanted to ask what she meant, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. Mrs. Weasley had ensured she understood what was expected of any domestic worker, whether indentured or free.
Reaching the main level, Hermione led Mrs. Snape into the dining room.
“Oh, good!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, placing a platter of roast potatoes on the table. She bowed, then pulled out a chair for the new mistress.
“Where is my son?”
“Here, Mother,” answered Mr. Snape as he entered, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Are you settling in? Did you find your books?”
“This young lady unpacked and organized them for me.”
“Wonderful,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Will you be joining us?”
Hermione pointed to herself, startled, though he was looking directly at her.
Mrs. Weasley stepped in. “The staff eats in the kitchen, sir.”
“Oh.” He took a sip. “Please tell me when I’m making a fool of myself.”
He was speaking to her. Hermione would follow that instruction—happily.