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Her words hang in the air for a few moments. Her mother smiles patiently. “Are you finished, Hermione?”
The girl blinks. “Why, yes, just about, moth-”
Her mother slaps her. Hard. Very hard.
“You know, I’d told your father you were getting a bit too arrogant, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Hermione’s hands shake. She reaches up to touch her face. A warm liquid oozes out onto her fingers.
Her mother stands and begins to drag a metal stool closer, the steel scraping against the wood flooring. “He’d reassured me Aurelia would take care of it, that she said she’d be in charge of educating you. He said that for years. I should’ve known that girl would be too weak for it.”
Her mother places the stool in front of her, then takes a seat, facing her directly. Hermione can’t meet her gaze. It takes all her effort not to flinch.
The woman grabs her chin, angling it this way and that. “I must not have slapped you very hard. Not even a trace of bruising.”
Right. The illusion.
Her mother hits her again. Harder. Hermione remembers to let her face bleed this time. “There we are. Now we can speak.” She looks down at the blood smearing her hand disgustedly, shaking it off. “Where were we, dear?”
The woman looks at her with a patient smile. Hermione knows if she doesn’t answer, it’ll only get worse. She has to say something, anything. Even then, her throat stubbornly remains sealed shut.
Her mother sighs. “It’s rather impolite to not answer when asked a question, dear.” She raises her hand, then seems to reconsider. She lowers it, looking down at her stained hand disdainfully. “I’ve already gotten enough of your disgusting fluids on me. I’ll be gracious, and ask again. Where were we, dear?”
Somehow, through all of this, her mother’s voice retained that light conversational tone. Hermione chokes out a response. “T-the heiress, m-mother.”
