The House of Control

The Lesson in Composure

Hermione's day had begun as most did now, with a series of tasks that Mistress Isabell assigned, each one more precise and demanding than the last. But today, after completing her initial duties, Isabell informed her that she would be serving an important gathering and would need to pay careful attention to both her behavior and her timing.

Isabell led Hermione through The House's winding corridors, eventually stopping outside a richly furnished room. Hermione straightened, steadying herself, and followed Isabell inside.

In the room, Harry and another young woman Hermione hadn't seen before—Jackie—were deep in conversation. Jackie was animatedly describing the four market towns surrounding The House, each with its own distinct character.

"The Southern Market," Jackie was saying, gesturing with one hand, "is known for textiles, rugs, and silks. It's the most vibrant, with the widest range of goods."

Harry nodded, listening intently. "And the Eastern Market?"

"The Eastern Market specializes in exotic herbs and spices, difficult to find anywhere else. If you need rare ingredients, that's the place to go."

Hermione slipped in, her presence quiet as she moved between them, filling their glasses and placing small dishes of snacks in front of each. She poured Harry's tea, carefully following each step she'd practiced under Isabell's strict training, hoping he would find it satisfactory.

Jackie continued, her voice animated. "Now, the Northern Market—my personal favorite—focuses on enchanted objects. Everything there has a hint of magic, even the simplest trinkets. And finally, the Western Market..." Jackie's expression softened, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "That's where you'll find the finest metalwork and weaponry. Each piece is crafted with care, and it's the best place for high-quality tools and armor."

Harry reached for his tea as Hermione stepped back, waiting for his reaction. He took a sip, and then—sputtering—spit it back into the cup, a look of displeasure crossing his face. He set the cup down, wiping his mouth with a hint of irritation.

Before Hermione could process his reaction, another servant, Mia, swiftly took both tea glasses and the teapot from the table without a word, her movements efficient and practiced. She disappeared briefly, and within moments returned with a new pot, the scent of fresh, rich tea filling the air.

Mia poured the tea, refilling both cups without so much as a glance in Hermione's direction. Harry took a sip of the new tea and, this time, a pleased smile spread across his face.

"Perfect, Mia," he said approvingly, his tone warm. "Thank you."

Hermione felt a surge of irritation bubbling up. She had done exactly what she'd been taught, had followed every instruction to the letter. And yet, Mia had managed to outshine her without a single effort. A small, frustrated stomp escaped her foot, barely noticeable, but enough for Isabell to catch.

Isabell's gaze turned icy, a silent warning that Hermione felt immediately. She froze, holding herself steady, but she knew she had already made an error.

When the meeting ended and the servants were dismissed, Isabell led Hermione from the room, her grip firm on Hermione's arm as they moved to a quieter hallway. Once they were alone, Isabell turned sharply, her face a mask of disapproval.

Without a word, Isabell slapped Hermione across the cheek, the sting jolting her to attention. Hermione's head snapped to the side, her cheek burning, but she fought to keep her expression composed.

"We do not stomp our feet," Isabell said coldly, her voice like ice. "No matter the frustration, no matter the provocation. We serve with calmness, precision, and grace. Any lapse in composure is a failure—a weakness."

Hermione bit down on the protest that threatened to rise. She swallowed hard, meeting Isabell's gaze with a measured expression. "Yes, Mistress Isabell. I understand."

"Good," Isabell replied, her voice softening only slightly. "Learn to contain your emotions. Those who succeed here do not allow themselves the luxury of frustration."

Hermione nodded, her cheek still smarting but her voice steady. "Yes, Mistress."

Satisfied, Isabell dismissed her, and Hermione made her way to the servants' hall for dinner. The humiliation from the slap lingered, but she forced herself to keep her expression calm, her posture straight. She moved through the motions of the meal, her mind replaying the moment with Mia and the way Isabell's slap had silenced her frustration.

As she finished her meal and headed to her quarters, Hermione resolved to bury her emotions even deeper, to let her old self go a little further each day if that was what it took to survive here. She couldn't afford the luxury of that tiny spark of defiance—it was a liability, and in The House, any liability was dangerous.

As she lay down that night, Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to embrace the stillness that Isabell demanded. She was learning, adjusting, transforming. And if it meant she would stay in The House, so be it. For now, she would wait, she would learn, and she would remain perfectly composed.