Be Careful in the Dark

Hermione, entered the café, her eyes scanning the room for Aidan. All the coffee shops in the US looked the same to Hermione. The tiny tables and matching chairs always looked wobbly to her no matter how new. There always seemed to be a surly teenager or young adult behind the counter. This time it was a blond girl with a couple of body piercings that startled Hermione. A nose ring always looked like it could get torn out so easily… taking a sensitive chunk of your face with it. She mentally shrugged and thought ‘to each, their own.’ She’d changed her appearance to that of a slight man in his twenties, blond with a wispy goatee. She had chosen this appearance to keep Aidan off guard. She didn’t know him and she didn’t trust him.

She spotted an outline of a face that looked familiar. He’d changed his appearance as well, looking younger and more polished, but not enough so she couldn’t recognize him. Hermione walked over to the small table and sat down.

“Buzz off.” Aidan glared at her as he spoke. His gruff voice did not match the expensive grey suit and stylish hair cut.

“You asked for this meeting so don’t be rude.” Hermione smirked at him.

“You’re not going to be much good to me, looking like that.” Aidan leaned back, eyes scouring her appearance.

“I’ll decide how much use I’m going to be, regardless.” Hermione quickly scanned the room. Aidan had chosen a table with no one around. The few people in the café were talking softly to each other and the woman behind the counter was slowly wiping down the counters. The chances of someone over hearing them were small. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. “What are you looking for, anyhow?”

“It seems that I… ahem… “appropriated” some information from the wrong man. I have no idea how he figured out I had anything to do with but… he’s quite upset. I have a solution. I just need a distraction.” He didn’t look her in the eye as he spoke. His gaze was fixed on the rest of the café though, except for his eyes, he appeared relaxed. He leaned back as he spoke, crossing one leg over the other.

“Is that so?” Hermione kept her eyes on Aidan but let her mind consider what he has said. “You know my rules. I’m going to need some more information.”

“I figured you’d say that. I have a place near here. That is, if you’re man enough to be alone in a room with me.” Aidan gave a wolfish grin that was part humor, part threat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Men. “Stop hitting on me and show me the way.”

Aidan let out a snort of laughter that caused the woman at the counter to turn her head and stare. “Dream on, sonny. Dream on.”

Aidan stood. Neither one was willing to give their back to the other so they walked out of the café side by side. It was a little awkward by the door as they tried to shuffle through without giving the other an advantageous position. Aidan pointed to the hotel across the street. It was the same one that she had taken Aidan too.

“Ah, the good old days.” Hermione said, making a smart ass comment to hide the nervous fluttering of her heart. Why am I doing this? Aidan ignored her.

Hermione ignored the socially awkward silence between them as they stood waiting for the elevator. An older couple joined them in the wait. As the elevator door pinged open, the woman flickered a tiny, disapproving smile at Hermione. Hermione frowned at her and the woman dropped her eyes. As she looked at their reflections in the reflection of the elevator, their shifting feet, the silent tension, it occurred to her that they did, in fact, look like a couple on their way to an illicit rendezvous. Hermione bit down a giggle.

“What are you smirking about?” Aidan asked as they exited the elevator. Hermione let her grin spread across her face.

“Nothing.” She said, knowing that it would bother the older man.

Aidan growled several curse words under his breath. The hallways of the hotel were a chalky, off-white and the plastic light fixtures that were supposed to look classy cast small pools of golden light. The carpeting attempted to create the feeling of a Persian rug though the inexpensiveness of the material and the garish colors made the comparison fleeting at best.

The hotel room was more pleasant though, again, the generic feel overwhelmed the decorator’s attempts to create a cozy feeling. On the table in the corner of the room, there was a folder with a pair of sunglasses on it. Hermione walked over, keeping one eye on Aidan, and flipped open the folder.

All it contained was a photograph of an attractive man getting out of a car. The quality of the photo was a bit grainy, making her think it had been taken from a distance. The car and the suit were expensive. Neither were areas of expertise for Hermione but she recognized quality in the cut and drape of the suit and the shape of the car. The man was brunette and probably just over six feet. His shoulders were broad and his jaw was square. Hermione had no doubt the numbers of women who swooned at the sight of him were astronomical. His eyes were hidden behind black shades and his mouth was pulled into a flat, intense line that curled up at one side. It was an expression that spoke of confidence, cruelty, though that little curl made lush promises. Hermione hated him immediately.

She sat down at the table, keeping Aidan in her peripheral vision. She stared at the photo in front of her, reaching out fingertips to gently touch the man’s face. Blindly, her other hand reached out to touch the sunglasses sitting on the table. They were dark and expensive, their weight smooth and cool in her hand.

A whisper threaded through mind, like wind through the trees, and then she knew this man… a three dimensional knowledge no file could provide. Gregory Titov was part of a major crime syndicate that operated mainly out of South America but had ties across the globe. He was rising rapidly through the ranks and was well-known not only for his cold, brutal intellect but also for his efficient use of violence. He considered the threat of violence to loved ones to generally be a sufficient motivation and when it wasn’t, he eliminated the person. His father has been Russian and his mother had been French. Both had been killed in a car explosion when he was very young. His older sister had raised him.

People said he had the luck of the devil. Titov knew when people were lying to him. He know their secrets and their fears. He knew where the money and markets were going to move. And Hermione knew why: he was swimming in dark magic. Not enough to be a wizard but far more than any muggle should have.

Magic was everywhere. Wizards were imbued with magic and even the cells of a wizard’s body contained minute particles of magic. Most muggles had a drip or a drab of magic though the magic only soaked into their skin and went no deeper. For reasons Wizarding experts couldn’t explain, some places and people attracted more than their share. For muggles, it often meant a heightened intuition and a great deal of charisma. Other than that, the fact that some muggles attracted magic while others did not had no major impact on the wizarding world. While muggles with higher trace amounts of magic were more likely to have children who were wizards, the numbers were barely statistically significant. The only interesting thing anyone had ever figured out was that muggles who carried high levels of magic were attracted to other muggles with magic. The rate of inter-marriage between magic-laden muggles was almost 90%.

This man wasn’t a wizard but dark magic hovered around him. She could feel it crawling through her. She knew, with an iron certainty, that this man was going to be a major problem for the wizarding world in the future. A headache started to throb in the back of her head.

“I will kill this man.” Hermione said.

Aidan looked startled. “That wasn’t what I had in mind. I just wanted you to be a distraction. I do my own killing.”

“You’ll never get close enough. He’ll kill you. I know what needs to be done.” Hermione stared at the photo, eyes narrowed, because she did know. How do I know?

“Listen, girlie, you…” Aidan was growling again.

“This isn’t a discussion. I’m telling you. If you want to try and kill him anyhow, knock yourself out. I’ll kill him anyway. Or, if you want to live, disappear for a while. I’ve got business next week that can’t wait. By the end of March, he’ll be dead and you’ll be free to clean up the rest of the mess.” Hermione stood and walked for the door.

Aidan reached out, grabbing her arm. Hermione glared at him, letting a little bit of magic flow out of her, ice-cold. Aidan pulled back his hand, startled. Hermione deliberately turned her back on him as she walked out of the hotel room. The complete and unexpected knowledge about yet another man she was going to kill had her on edge. If Aidan wanted to try something, let him. She would knock him around magically and then obliviate him.

As soon as she was in the stairwell, she dipped her hand in her pocket to touch her wand and murmured a spell that induced static in security cameras. Feeling more secure, she pulled her wand out and apparated away.

XXXXX

Hermione stared bleakly into her tea cup. Around her, Paris awoke. She’d been up for days, digging her way through thick and ancient texts. Currently she was sitting a small café, letting her mind ping around, letting the ideas stew and bubble. There were possibilities but she had yet to find anything concrete. She was going to need to connect something on her own but she was so tired she couldn’t think. She’d try to get some sleep soon.

“ ‘ermione, eez zhat you?”

Hermione blinked and looked up. Fleur Delacour and her sister Gabriella* stood in front of her looking very pert and blond in the early morning light. Both were dressed snug, dark blue jeans. Fleur’s long hair flowed in gorgeous blond curls and Gabriella had cut her hair into a short and spiky style. Hermione had no idea how either of them got their hair to look like that. Gabriella was wearing a red wool jacket and Fleur was wearing a very similar cut jacket in light blue. They looked like paired book ends.

“Mon Dieu ‘ermione… what ‘ave you been doing? Zee bags under your eyes are enormous!” Fleur said, settling herself into the chair on Hermione’s right. Gabriella pulled up a chair to her left. “Zey make creams for zhat you know.” The Frenchwoman leaned in, patting Hermione on the forearm as she spoke. Hermione considered throwing her coffee at her but decided it was too much effort.

“Fleur.” She nodded to both women. Gabriella smiled, looking slightly chagrined at her sister’s comments. “Gabriella, you’ve grown since I last saw you.”

“I have been told that is what happens.” Gabriella said. Hermione shot her a look. The younger girl shaped her words differently than a native English speaker but her accent was nowhere near as heavy as her sister’s.

“What are you up this morning, ladies?” Hermione grated the words out. The burden of social pleasantries was almost more than she could bear.

“We are going shopping for bridesmaid dresses!” Fleur said brightly. Gabriella gave her a tight grin that was supposed to look pleased. Instead, she looked as if she had bitten into something sour. Hermione suppressed a chuckle. “You will come with us?!” Fleur continued, a grin spreading across her face.

“No, thank you, but no.” Hermione said, almost falling out her chair in her vehemence.

“Oh, but ‘ermione,” Fleur pouted, “eet would mean so much to me to ‘ave a part of Bill’s family with me to ‘elp.” Fleur stood up, chivvying an exhausted Hermione up as well.

“I’m not…”

“Of course, you are! You will marry zee little Ron. I ‘ave heard this. Come, come.”

“I’m not… Ron and I aren’t…” Fleur had somehow hustled Hermione out of the café and onto the chilly street. “I’m not planning on getting married.” She finally managed to squeeze out.

The weather in Paris had been atrocious… not that Hermione had had much chance to notice. She’d heard people in the library mention it though. It had rained the day before and frozen over during the night. The streets almost shimmered with a thin layer of slick ice. Fleur linked arms with Hermione and Hermione couldn’t figure out how to disengage from the other woman without dumping her on her ass. Much like throwing the coffee, the action would probably only create more problems. Dull horror at being dragged into shopping flooded through her.

Fleur let out a shocked gasp of air. “Zhat eez crazy talk. All girls want to get married.” She waved her hand dismissively and frog-marched Hermione forward on the slippery sidewalk.

“I don’t.” Gabriella said, looking defiant.

“Gabriella!” Fleur’s omnipresent sweet and flirtatious tone was gone and irritation threaded through it. Hermione thought that Gabriella had been giving her sister a hard time about the wedding and, for some reason, it made Hermione like her better.

“Sorry, Fleur.” Gabriella said. Her face was neutral, as was her tone. Fleur nodded primly though Hermione imagined she must know her sister didn’t really mean it. Even Hermione could see that.

They had arrived at the small boutique and Fleur immediately commanded the attention of all three of the saleswomen. Fleur wafted through the shop, waving her hand at the things she liked as the women buzzed excitedly around her.

Hermione stood awkwardly with Gabriella. She didn’t really know anything about the other girl.

“Um, how is your 6th year going?” Hermione asked, floundering. It was actually unusual for her to socialize with people she didn’t know at all… unless she was trying learn secret spy shit or kill someone. Merlin, her life was weird.

Gabriella shot her a frown and then shrugged. “It is almost over. I am glad. I am tired of being in school while the world catches fire around me.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say in return. There was unexpected anger in Gabriella’s tone. The girl Hermione remembered had been much more like her sister: bubbly, charming, and fairly self-absorbed.

“So… why don’t you and your sister have the same accent?” She finally asked. It was an awkward question and Hermione inwardly winced. She didn’t let her discomfort show. Or, she hoped she didn’t.

Gabriella curved her mouth in a small, upward arc. It might have been a smile though the flatness in her eyes as she watched Fleur indicated otherwise. “My sister has cultivated the accent she thinks people find most charming. If she desires, she can speak as I do.”

“Oh.” Hermione had yet to get her bearings. Exhaustion and the unexpectedness of the meeting had left her feeling unusually uncertain.

“Though, I must give my sister credit. She is smart and no one knows it. She hasn’t caught the attention of anyone…” Gabriella trailed off. Her face looked unexpectedly hard. It was strange to see it on such a young woman.

“Gabriella, why are you telling me this?” Hermione asked.

The younger woman turned to look at her. “You should make your escape now or you’ll be at this all day. Join us for dinner tonight.” The invitation sounded like a command and Hermione lifted her eyebrows.

“I really can’t. My time in Paris is limited.” She said in a firm tone. Gabriella ignored it.

“Join us. Afterwards, Fleur will go to talk with Bill. You and I, we will talk of other things. Things that the friend of Harry Potter is well-suited to talk of.” Gabriella had pinned her with her eyes and Hermione didn’t totally understand why.

“Uh…” Hermione started. She must have looked confused because Gabriella tsked at her and looked away.

“Not all of France is content to amuse themselves with pretty things while V-V-Voldemort’s followers infest our country.” Gabriella stuttered over the dark wizard’s name but tightened her face and choked it out. Hermione was mildly impressed.

“I see. Send me an owl, then.” Hermione suppressed a sigh. There was no time for this. She had three days left in Paris. She seemed to be no closer to finding a way to destroy the Horacruxes and she had a murder to plan. But… it would seem she had dinner plans.

Gabriella nodded and Hermione eased herself out of the shop. She needed sleep and she need it now.

*I’m taking a bit of author’s license here. In the Rowlings’ story Gabriella is 6 years younger than Hermione, Ron, and Harry. For the sake of this story, she is 2 years younger… so a year after the threesome’s graduation she’d be finishing her 6th year. Beauxbatons’ students sit exams after six years and so Gabriella is finishing up her schooling shortly.

XXXX

Hermione entered the library. She’d slept for a while and then nerves had driven her from the bed. She didn’t have time to really get into the research on destroying a horacrux. By the time she got herself situated, it would be time to go. Instead, she was going to follow up on a spell that had been mentioned in passing in a Grecian historical text about Assyria. She thought it might be helpful in eliminating Titov.

It was her fourth day in the library and people were no longer stopping to glare at her. She was still the youngest wizard by about 50 years but she had apparently demonstrated enough dedication to her studies and enough respect for the books that the resentment for her presence was fading. The librarians had stopped hovering six feet behind her everywhere she went.

The center of the library was a round, stone room. In the middle, there was a huge, wooden desk that was discolored with age. There were ten doors around the wall of the room. What each door looked like, though, shifted from moment to moment. On her visit here, Hermione had made the mistake of watching the doors change. She’d given herself a headache that took several hours to fade. The Bibliotéque took its security seriously. In fact, Hermione had no idea how many wings there were in the Bibliotéque. She had yet to step through the same door twice.

She handed a slip of parchment to the woman behind the desk. The librarian changed every time she returned to this room. It creeped her out a little bit. This time, the woman was plump with iron-grey long hair. She had to be well over 80 and had round, rhinestone-encrusted, glasses pinched to her nose. She stared at the list and then, without looking up, pointed to the door behind, and to the right of where Hermione was standing.

The door was made of pale granite and carved into it was the image of a woman collecting water from a river. The details on the plants by the river were so perfectly carved that Hermione expected them to begin rippling in the breeze. She pushed it open and stepped through.

The ever-present hush of a library met her. It wasn’t silent, the rustle of pages saw to that, but the weight of the quiet was undeniable. She nodded respectfully to the two librarians on duty behind a smaller version of the desk from the oval room.

She collected the books she was interested and settled into a small table, tucked in the corner of this wing of the library. From several texts, several histories and a diary, she began to piece together the story of Semiramis. She had been a powerful wizard-queen of Assyria nearly three thousand years ago. The early tales of this woman didn’t interest Hermione. It didn’t really matter if Semiramis was actually the daughter of a fish-goddess.

The story that captured her attention was the one about Ara the Beautiful. Seriramis, struck with lust by the image of an Armenian King, proposed marriage. Unfortunately, Ara the Beautiful rejected her. Seriramis, unused to a feeling such rejection, gathered her armies and marched against the now-enemy nation. In the midst of battle, Ara was slain. Semiramis tried to bring him back from the dead. She prayed to the gods, she used magic… all for nothing. The beautiful Armenian king was dead. The war raged on, the death of their king fueled the Armenian’s rage. Semiramis, deprived of her original goal, now wanted nothing to do with the war. So, she took one of her lovers (of which there were many) and disguised him as Ara. She claimed the gods had answered her prayers and the Armenians rejoiced. Each army withdrew and a relative peace descended.

One historian referenced called the spell “simple but dangerous” because it made people “see what their heart most desired.” The description whetted Hermione’s intellectual appetite. She had agreed to kill a man and, when she wasn’t concentrating on finding a way to destroy the horacruxes, the urgency of this choice pressed so heavily that she could barely breathe. She needed a plan, a good one, and she needed it now.

The two-thousand year old diary was from a wizard named Thoraz who had attempted to recreate the spell of Semiramis. He claimed success though the spell did not last as long as he needed it to… a matter of days. The faux Ara the Beautiful had remained king for years after the battle. Thoraz wanted the spell for its longevity. Hermione had no such need.

Hermione paused to admire the books in front of her. To say they were well preserved was an understatement. She could handle the books with her bare hands. Muggle texts rarely lasted this long, and when they did, they were incredibly delicate. She could probably throw the diary of Thoraz on the floor and it wouldn’t break. Of course, the librarians would tackle her, drag her from the library, and she would never be allowed back in.

She kept her face pressed into the book, deciphering Thoraz’s hand writing as well as his codes. By the time she had to leave, she had copious notes and an idea of what she was going to do. A small amount of tension between her shoulder blades released. She was on the right path.

She reached the atrium of the library—a large, airy room. The panes of glass that made up one wall had crackling patterns of ice on them. It was cold outside and Hermione wasn’t looking forward to it.

An urgent hooting caught her attention. She looked up to see a medium sized, brown owl swoop towards her. She didn’t recognize the owl. It landed heavily on her shoulder and stuck one leg out. Hermione untied the scroll and rooted around in her pockets for a treat. All she pulled out was a half-eaten packet of crisps. She started to apologize to the owl but stopped when she realized it was staring at the crisps avidly and clacking its beak. She held the bag out and with a screech of triumph, the owl claimed the crisps and flew off. Hermione shook her head. It seemed like the owls got stranger everyday.

She opened the letter, skimming through it quickly. It was a fairly chatty letter from Harry and Ron. It wasn’t until she got to the end that she understood its purpose.

We found what we were looking for. We hope you’re having as much luck!

She exited the library, stepped carefully down the slick, stone stairs, and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. They had the horacrux. Now all she needed to do was deliver a way to destroy it that wouldn’t result in permanent physical damage. Piece of cake.

XXXX

Hermione sat in front of a crackling fire, still silently shocked by the casual wealth of the Delacour family. From the outside, the home the Delacours’ kept in Paris looked like an apartment building. Once inside, the space opened up into a surprisingly comfortable home. Nothing was too big, too ornate, or too excessive but the quality of everything was of the first water. And strangely enough, the building did not seem to be magically expanded. Oh, there were spells embedded so deeply in the walls that the walls almost shimmered. No doubt there were spells of protection and privacy and there were clearly spells to keep out the sound out but there was no indication that any spells had been used to expand the walls. It was unusual to see.

There were items in their home that Hermione had only heard of; everywhere she turned she spotted something quietly breathtaking, original artwork from famous wizarding and muggle artists, furniture pieces from the crème de la crème of designers, rugs that cost more than Hermione would ever make in a year that managed to be plush without crossing over into excess. The house had everything Hermione would have done to make a place feel like a home… if money were no object. Either the French had a different way of showing off their wealth or the Delacour family had been wealthy for so long they no longer felt the urge to prove it to anyone.

Dinner had been lovely, delicate affair and Hermione had blinked a lot trying to keep her surprise contained. Hermione recognized the rarity of some of the food crossing her palate and tried to take the time to enjoy every bite. Fleur and Gabrielle had each cut their food into tiny, chewable pieces and made light conversation. Hermione hadn’t felt so gauche since she was eleven years old, trying to negotiate her way through an entirely new and strange world. Ruthlessly, she suppressed the feelings. I am not eleven anymore.

“Would you care for some ouros?” Fleur asked after the last plate had been taken away by a house elf. Hermione stared at her, wondering if Fleur was kidding. Ouros was a kind of coffee (though calling ouros a coffee was like calling an oyster mushroom a white truffle) that was produced by a familial line of wizards. The location of the farm was unplottable, no one even knew which family produced ouros, and never in a million years had Hermione thought she would ever sip the delicacy.

“Yes, that would be lovely.” Hermione replied and she sounded as if she drank ouros everyday. At least, she hoped she did. As the house elves brought out tiny, translucent porcelain cups filled with no more than a fingerful of the dark fluid, Hermione was unable to contain her curiosity any longer. “Do you always eat like this?”

Fleur trilled a laugh and Hermione stared at her. I’ve never heard anyone… trill… before.

“My mother eez trying to fatten me up. She eez worried zhat I am too skinny. I try to tell ‘er zhat thees ez zee style now but… what can I do, she eez my mother.” Fleur smiled at Hermione and then dipped her head towards the ouros. “I do zo love zee very first smell.”

Hermione dipped her head and was hit by a thick, loamy smell. The back of her nose and throat started to tingle and she could almost smell… deep and buried in the earth… shifting… tearing… an ancient tree searching for the sky… too long… where is she… a dark outline… an entrance… need… want… need… want…

With a jerk, Hermione pulled her head away from the cup. She stared down at the ouros which shifted under her gaze, spinning lazily in a figure 8. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

“To the continued health and happiness of our loved ones.” Gabrielle lifted her cup in a toast and Hermione swallowed the liquid almost against her will.

The first flavor to hit her tongue was light, creamy, and pleasant. It wasn’t anything like the descriptions she’d heard. Perhaps it’s just a lot of talk. Then the tingle in the back of her mouth and throat poured down her body in a flood of heat. Hermione gasped and griped the arms of her chair, trying to control her reaction. It was a lost cause. At the same time, her most sensitive spots felt as if someone were pressing ice against them and it was… it was… arousing. She shuddered and twisted in her seat, helpless before the onslaught of sensations. Both the heat and cold increased until it was painful. And then, all at once, like a wave breaking, euphoria hit her. She was floating, highly conscious of how enjoyable every aspect of her body was.

She opened her eyes. The room around her was so incredibly beautiful and superimposed over it was the entrance to cave.

…we are waiting…

Hermione nodded. She understood everything.

She blinked a couple of times and then took a deep breath, feeling fragments of a memory she couldn’t quite remember slip away from her. In a weird way, it felt like breathing for the first time. As she came back to herself, the light and creamy flavor burst over her tongue again. It was the perfect finish. She felt alert and refreshed but that was all. If all the talk about ouros was true, there would be no after effects at all and tonight she would sleep like a baby.

Hermione looked up, feeling self-conscious. Both Gabrielle and Fleur still had their eyes closed and similar smirks on their faces. Fleur opened her eyes and grinned at Hermione, looking like the cat that just ate the canary.

”Always after zee ouros, I must speak with my Bill. You will excuse me, Hermione?” Without a trace of embarrassment, Fleur stood and walked, hips swaying, out of the room.

Hermione blinked at the suddenness of Fleur’s exit. This evening just keeps getting weirder.

“She is quite enamored of her Bill.” Gabrielle drew out Bill’s name in a heavy French accent.

“And you are not?” Hermione asked. She looked over, meeting Gabrielle’s eyes. There was something dark and jagged in the other girl’s gaze and Hermione felt a shock of recognition, though of what she wasn’t sure.

“He is a fine man.” Gabrielle said, shrugging one shoulder and turning her gaze away. “Come, let us move somewhere more comfortable.”

The two of them moved closer to the crackling fire and Hermione sunk into a plump and silky couch.

“Bill is not… he is not… I can see how he might not fit in.” Hermione trailed off and the waved her fingers delicately at the obvious wealth around her.

Gabrielle snorted a laugh. It was a surprisingly deep sound for such a slight girl. “My mother is ecstatic. The Weasley’s have something my mother desperately desires.”

“What is that?”

“Fertility. My mother is the daughter of a full Veela and we are her only daughters. Do you know how unusual that is? In the past, strong Veela females could number their daughters in the dozens. My mother’s sons can continue the Delacour line… and have with great enthusiasm. But my mother’s Veela bloodline is carried only within Fleur and myself.”

Hermione nodded. She hadn’t realized how strong the Veela blood was within the Delecour family but she understood the concerns about the dwindling numbers of Veela. Still, she was confused about why Gabrielle was telling her these things.

“Gabrielle, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“The English lack subtlety and grace of conversation.” Gabrielle replied, tucking her feet underneath her.

“Perhaps that’s because I’m on a deadline. Or do the French not know what a deadline is?” Gabriella glared at her and Hermione smiled back. “I have two days of research left and I desperately need sleep. Lay it on me, sister.”

Gabriella looked at her, the smooth skin of her forehead daintily furrowed.

“Just tell me, please.” Hermione shook her head and rolled her eyes. She had only spent 11 years plus summers in the muggle world. Her whole life was in the wizarding world and yet she still seemed to have these moments of feeling like an outsider.

“The whispers of His followers are everywhere now. We cannot escape them. The rest of France moves slower but within the walls of Beauxbatons, the lines are already drawn.” Gabriella sounded bleak and she stared into the fire with an empty face.

Small pieces of information began to flash through Hermione’s mind: the students of Beauxbatons, dancing their way through the great hall of the Hogwart’s for the Tri-Wizard competition, the snatches of interactions with Gabrielle, her sister, the other students, the newspaper articles hinting at Voldemort’s presence in France, and Gabriella’s words in the dress shop. Everything clicked together. Something very bad had happened to Gabrielle and she had chosen sides and not the side that her blood or her ancestors would expect of her.

“You’re a blood traitor.” Hermione said the words harshly. Gabrielle was clearly conflicted about her choice and Hermione needed to know how much so.

Gabriella’s entire body straightened up in her seat and glared at Hermione. Her face shifted slightly, her very bones sharpening and elongating, becoming more bird-like. A few stray crackles of fire popped over her knuckles and Gabrielle closed her hands into fists. Hermione watched her in fascination though she understood the danger the changes indicated. The strong reactions Veela produced in humans (lust in men and rage in women) often meant that people overlooked the other abilities Veela possess. Namely, once enraged, they were nearly unstoppable. The more bird-like the face, the angrier the Veela. By the time a Veela was completely enraged she would grow scaled wings and be able to throw fire. There was a recorded and confirmed incident of a Veela, in defense of her young, tearing the hearts out of half a dozen ogres. As far as Hermione knew, the only thing Veela were afraid of were Dementors.

“Yes.” Gabrielle said, her voice tight and her glare pinned on Hermione. Gabrielle was still in control of herself.

“Good. Then perhaps you can explain some things to me.”

“Such as?” Gabrielle still sounded angry but the crackles on her hands were diminishing.

“Well, do the French purebloods believe that the magical in the world is diminishing? Is that how Voldemort is getting followers in France?”

Her face reverted to normally and Gabrielle stared at her in surprise. “Many believe it and yes, this is primarily how He is recruiting. There are some who are just attracted to the Dark.”

“Do you believe it?” Hermione asked, resting her chin on her hand and staring into the fire.

“No.” Gabrielle turned her face back to the fire.

“Are you sure?”

A long silence stretched out and Hermione let it sit there.

“No.” Gabrielle finally said. She rubbed her upper arms with her hands, as if the word had made her chilly.

“Okay. Tell me what the resistance looks like in France.”

By the time the evening was done, Hermione had given Gabrielle a number of pointers about how to best go about organizing a resistance: how to make sure the oaths her fellow fighters took would prevent traitors from infiltrating, how to arrange cells for more effective fighting, how to get the word out to people outside of the walls of her school. It wasn’t much but it was a start. When Gabrielle finished school, she would come to England and meet with Harry and Ron in an attempt to bridge the gap between the European countries. Voldemort was spreading and it was time the forces arrayed against Him did too.

XXXXX

Hermione returned to her flat and collapsed. A week away had left her behind and she’d had to make an appearance as Avery almost immediately or people were going to talk. She had been lucky that Voldemort hadn’t summoned his Death Eaters while she had been away. Going undercover was always dangerous. Doing so while she was hyped on caffeine and in one of her study sprints would have been disastrous. It would have been incredibly dangerous for her to go undercover in her exhausted study. Hermione sighed and put her hands over face.

There were whispers of a new follower, a new big bad, sitting at Voldemort’s right hand side. No one had actually seen this person. In fact, no one knew whether they were male or female… or human for that matter. Regardless, it was bad.

And now, she would have to convey these vague whispers in a letter to Dumbledore… except he must already know. Did Snape know? Did Harry? This was getting ridiculous. There had to be a better way to communicate this information. Maybe it was time Shadow emerged out of the shadows… just a little. Hermione snickered mentally at how silly that sounded.

Tomorrow she needed to finish up her report from her trip to France. She thought she had found something workable to destroy the latest horacrux. However, the things needed to create the spell were going to be very hard to come by. Hopefully, Dumbledore and the rest of the Order would have some ideas.