Blanc du Noir

Blanc du Noir
By: Aglaia

See first chapter for disclamer
A/N1:I am really getting fed up with the damned formatting not working on this ruddy thing, curse it, and so, I assume, are others. I offer my most hummble appologies for this entire sordid business

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright at Hogwarts. As the sun pierced the casement windows of Hermione’s bedroom, she groaned, burrowing further under her covers. She knew this was going to be a long, tiring day. Her first clue was waking up.

‘Mustn’t keep my audience waiting,’ she thought, and literally rolled out of bed, landing in a graceless heap on the floor. “Oh. Found my shoe,” she remarked to no one in particular, as she spotted it under the bed. Very slowly, so as not to startle herself with any sudden movements, Hermione got to her feet. She tripped over to the loo for her morning ablutions.

“’Morning, Crooks,” she said to the indifferent orange lump on her chair. The cat cracked an eye, looking her over disdainfully, seeming to say, “Humans!” and practically rolling its eyes.

After a quick shower and an attempt to de-tangle her mass of hair, Hermione threw down her brush and went to get dressed. Jeans, a jumper and high-boots made her wardrobe that day. Grabbing her over-packed bag, she set off for the Great Hall and breakfast.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny all had Quidditch practice that morning; they all said “Morning ‘Mione,” around full mouths, wolfed down the rest of their food, and ran out to the pitch. This suited Hermione perfectly well, as she had some work to do in the Library before leaving in the afternoon.

Once in the Library, Hermione returned the books she’d borrowed, then grabbed a half dozen more heavy tomes from the stacks. She sat at her back table, completely barricaded by books, scrolls, and stray parchments, doing homework for the weeks ahead that she hadn’t gotten to yet.

As noon came around, she packed her things away. Having slogged through most of the work, she was pleased with herself and could go to her meeting with a fairly clear head. As she left the Library, she felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end – someone was watching her. She looked back and saw Malfoy eyeing her intently.

‘Damn him. Have to remember to tell Tom about Malfoy and the spawn.’

Hermione had a quick lunch, then headed back to her rooms to change. Merely switching her jumper for a backless blouse (Tom liked to be able to see her Marks), she threw her robes on and left for the Headmaster’s office.

“Acid pops,” she whispered to the gargoyle at the entrance, and it moved aside to reveal the spiral staircase. As she raised her hand to knock on the door, she heard a cheery, “Come in, Miss Granger!” and strode inside.

“Hello, my dear,” said a twinkling Dumbledore from behind his desk. “The Network is open for you,” he motioned toward the fireplace and small jar of Floo powder on the mantle.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she said, walking to the fire, “I don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait up on my account.”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Granger. Say hello to Remus for me.”

“Will do.” She took a pinch of powder, and threw it into the fireplace. “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place,” she called clearly, and disappeared in a swirl of green. As she left, she heard Dumbledore say, “Be safe.”

‘I try,’ thought Hermione.

She stumbled out of the kitchen fireplace at Grimmauld Place, and into a pair of strong arms.

“Oof!” came out of her as she nearly fell, then, with her face pressed against a warm, jumper-covered chest, she ground out, “Hallo, Remus.”

He chuckled at her, and helped her back on steady feet. “Hallo, Hermione. Nice of you to drop in.”

“Oh, funny man!” she said sarcastically, mock-glaring at him.

“I’ve always thought so. Tea?” he asked, gesturing to the pot on the table.

“Please. I can’t stay to chat, mind, but I won’t turn your tea down. By the way, Dumbledore says ‘Hi’.” Hermione took off her robes and hung them on the back of her chair. Sitting down, she took the proffered cup gratefully; not having had any caffeine since the morning, she was starting to flag.

“And a ‘Hello’ to Albus when you see him next.” Remus looked at her piercingly for a long moment and then asked very seriously, “Is it a training session?”

Hermione froze, the cup halfway to her lips. “No,” she answered shortly, taking a sip.

“Are you staying the weekend?” he asked, still eyeing her reactions.

She managed to answer very blithely, saying, “No, but I’m not sure if I’ll be back tonight or in the morning. Don’t stay up waiting for me, I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Right,” he said, completely unconvinced, “Like you were from your last little chat - ”

“Thank you for the tea – I have to be off,” she cut him off, standing and putting her robes back on.

“Hermione - ” Remus tried again, following her out of the kitchen.

“Drop it, Remus!” she growled, spinning around to face him. “Don’t try to dissuade me, it’s no use, and it’s not your concern!” she continued in a fierce whisper, all too aware of the howling portrait of Mrs. Black, waiting like a ticking bomb to go off.

“I’m just – I was only - ” Remus sighed, and then said very softly, “I’m worried about this – about you, Hermione. One of these days you’ll make a mistake, and I can’t stand to lose another person I care for.”

Hermione’s ire instantly dissipated. She and Remus had grown very close since she’d started seeing Tom. After every meeting, she would come back to Grimmauld Place, and he’d be waiting with a supportive hand, and comforting words. Very often in the beginning, he’d also be her Emergency Med. Tech., before she could see Poppy. After seeing and dealing with what this ‘job’ did to her first-hand, it was only natural that he’d have a stake in her welfare.

Heaving a great sigh, Hermione stepped up to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist in a tight hug. “I know you’re worried,” her voice came muffled against his chest, “but please, Remus, try to understand that I have to do this. I don’t want to loose anyone either, but if I stop, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Remus hugged her back just as tightly in answer. “I’ll be waiting,” he said with resignation, but surety that he’d be there to support her. “Don’t make any mistakes.”

With a last look back at him, Hermione stepped out of the house. She walked to a back alley a few blocks away, and from there Disapparated. She appeared immediately at the edge of the Riddle property, and trudged up the overgrown path to the house.

Though Hermione knew better, the house and scrap of land surrounding it appeared to have been abandoned years ago, and fallen into horrid disrepair. The house looked to be barely able to stand on its own; sections of the roof had collapsed, most windows were shattered, ivy grew rife over it all, and had cracked the supporting walls. The grounds were no better; all sense of order gone from the previously meticulously tended beds. Dead trees and their fallen branches littered the ground, weeds and brambles ran rampant throughout, and burrowing animals had infested the whole, filling it with pitfalls for anyone stupid enough to stray off the barely discernable path. The very air hung low about the place, suffocatingly heavy with the sickly sweet, yet acrid stench of decay.

As Hermione approached the massive front doors, straining on their rusted hinges, she saw them swing open. The repulsive form of Pettigrew was visible in the shadowed hall, abasing himself and bowing her in. Her lip curled on its own at the sight of him, and that was all the acknowledgement he got. She dropped her robes into his waiting hands and straightened her blouse.

“Where?” she demanded peremptorily.

“In the study, Mistress,” he answered quickly, still bowing lowly, “if you’ll follow me?”

“No. I know the way perfectly well,” she told him sharply. “Get a bottle of port and a decanter of brandy.” With that order she walked off.

Nearing the study, one of only four rooms kept in livable condition, she felt the telltale hum of wards. She assumed Tom had put up detection spells, as was his habit, to warn of her coming, and so opened the doors, and strode in.

A stifled scream and a string of oaths escaped Hermione as she immediately fell to her knees. The hum she’d felt wasn’t detection spells, but rather hexes. These particular slicing and burning ones were designed to lacerate and burn her calves and shins, and then stay on, continuing the damage.

Hermione quickly applied the counter charms and healing spells to stop the incessant burning and bleeding. She then looked up and yelled at the ‘man’ sitting idly in his wingback chair. “Tom! What the bloody hell was that for!?”

“Tut-tut – such language,” he chided her, his red eyes glinting as she still lay on the floor. “You’ve become far too indifferent in your attention to detail, my dear, and I felt the need to remind you.”

“You might have damned well told me that, instead of cutting my legs out from under me!” she yelled vehemently, trying to stand back up. She managed to get to her feet at last, and stumbled over to the chair opposite Voldemort’s. He remained silent as Hermione continued grumbling, and patching herself up.

“Take it off,” he said suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, still fuming, and now somewhat affronted.

“The spell you just put on – take it off,” explained Tom. Hermione glared at him for several moments. “Unless you’d prefer me to render it ineffective myself…?”

The threat hung in the air between them for a long minute. “Oh, very well, have it your way,” said Hermione finally, and removed the pain-numbing spell she’d applied. Immediately it was gone, she flinched and sucked in a hissing breath. “Damn, I hate giving you your own bloody way all the time. You’re a spoiled arse, you know, Tom.”

“Yes, dear. Have some port.” Pettigrew had just brought it and the brandy in on a salver, along with cut crystal glasses. He laid it on the side table to Hermione’s right, and was summarily dismissed from her sight.

The first glass of the rich wine she poured herself went down in one swig, the liquor burning a path down her throat. The second glass she sipped in a more leisurely fashion, sighing when the alcohol had the desired numbing effect on her legs.

“Better?” asked Tom solicitously, having gotten up to pour himself some brandy.

“Yes. Arse,” answered Hermione, not looking up at him. “Would you mind telling me now, why you felt the need to remind me in such a way, and not simply tell me something like that?” she asked scathingly, scowling at him as he sat at his ease.

“Pure enjoyment, my dear,” he replied, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. She rolled her eyes at him, mouthing ‘figures’. “Now, are you quite done with your grousing, so we can get on to other things?”

“No, I’m not quite done,” she said waspishly. “The next time you feel the overwhelming desire to give me a practical in something like this - don’t. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now we can move on.”

“And you say I always get my way; what hypocrisy,” he reproved, then immediately went on to business, his tone becoming direct. “The general meeting with the peons should be held in a week or so, giving time for the inner members to accustom themselves to the new situation. I don’t expect you to mark them all at that point, it will be far too trying on you. You can decide how many and which ones will receive their mark, and we’ll go from there. Clear?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Hermione, matching his businesslike tone, attempting to ignore the low throbbing in her legs, and not show anymore weakness than was entirely unavoidable. “I’ve several things to add, though. Firstly, I’ll mark no more than ten, at least at this stage; I’ve no wish to attach to myself those that are useless. They’re good cannon fodder, but I cannot abide them. Secondly, I will have a test to determine who I mark, and I’d like your help coming up with an appropriate one.” Voldemort nodded his acquiescence to all her plans, and there Hermione paused. “Thirdly… I have a little story for you.”

“Oh, do share, pet, you know I love a good story. Particularly with a good moral at the end.”

“Quite. In this case, however, I leave the moral up to you. Lucius, it appears, is not as adept at following instructions, or even common sense, as he once was.” At Tom’s questioning look, she related her little run-in with Draco to him. “As I said, the moral, I leave up to you, but I should like to have a chat with Lucius myself, all the same.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he said quietly, puzzling the situation over. “It seems to me that we should make rather an example of him to the others. This sort of abominable lack of obeisance is not to be borne.”

“Do as you will, but I would prefer him unspoilt for my talk, if you please.”

“Naturally,” he said, his eyes glinting maliciously with the plans hatching in his head. “It is a pity Lucius has decided to take a stance against you, my dear, he really can be a most formidable ally – as can you.”

“Well, we’ll just have to bring him about then, won’t we?” said Hermione, concocting plans of her own for Malfoy Sr. “And what about the spawn? I’ve told him not to meddle in my affairs or his father’s, but it hardly seems likely that my advice will be followed. Do you think I should take any further steps to ensure our campaign isn’t overrun?”

“I don’t think that’s entirely necessary. He may be his father’s son, but the spawn is weak willed so far as I have seen – he doesn’t pose a problem.”

Hermione agreed to that. Draco may be arrogant and far too puffed up in consequence for his own good, but it was unlikely that he would do anything while they were still in school that put him at any personal risk. A direct or even subtle attack on Hermione would do just that. She decided, however, to keep a close watch on him all the same.

“Does that then cover all the business for tonight? I’m fagged to death, you know.” She yawned then unexpectedly, emphasizing her point.

Voldemort chuckled at her, and decided that this was as good a time as any to end their meeting. “Yes, I think we’re all done, pet. Would you like to go up to your room for a kip, I had Pettigrew put fresh sheets on the bed for you.”

“As wonderful as just collapsing sounds right now, I really should get back to Hogwarts; Harry and Ron will be wondering where I’ve got to.” Her sentence was interspersed with jaw-splitting yawns, which she attempted to unsuccessfully cover up.

At her mention of Harry, she noticed Tom’s eyes narrow to slits, with the barest minimum of colour showing. “Harry…” she heard him mutter lowly, snarling the name.

“Now don’t start that again, Tom! I’m far too tired to have this discussion now.” Hermione didn’t want to get into another talk about Harry with Tom, it was far too taxing on her and being as tired as she was, it would be difficult to keep the conversation under control.

Voldemort turned those narrowed eyes on her for a long time. Remaining quiet long enough to make her uncomfortable, he spoke. “Not tonight, no, we won’t get into that. Mid-week, I’d like you to join me again. We’ll go over your ‘test’ for the peons, and then we will talk. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied meekly, but in a rather mocking manner, dipping a half curtsy. Hermione then made to bow herself out of the room, and out of the house.

Voldemort stood unexpectedly, and offered her his arm gallantly, saying, “I’ll walk you to the door, love.”

“Thank you, Tom, dear, but I’m perfectly capable of finding my way,” Hermione tried to disentangle her hand from his firm clasp.

“Pet…” he said in a low warning tone, “allow me this.” She acquiesced, thinking it unwise to protest too much to his unusual solicitousness. At the door, he turned and dropped a kiss on her forehead, saying quietly, “I’m sorry I hurt you when you first came in, dear, but…”

“I know, pure enjoyment, and all that. Don’t worry, I’ve had worse.”

“I know,” he responded in kind. “Mid-week,” he reminded her, then swept off, back into the house.

“Mid-week,” Hermione muttered to herself in agreement. She retrieved her robes, and slipping them on, walked out. Winding her way along the ancient path to the edge of the grounds, she decided she’d rather sleep the night at Grimmauld Place, than Hogwarts, and put off dealing with Harry and Ron’s questions. Again.

She Apparated to the same alley, walked to the house, and let herself in. Remus was waiting for her in the kitchen, as he’d promised. Taking one look at her haggard expression, he stood and ordered brusquely, “Bed.”

Hermione nodded, and shuffled up to her room, where she promptly collapsed on the bed, face down, without changing.
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A/N2: What a horrid ending… bleh. I can’t really do any better now; the last little bit was fairly wrung out of me.

Hopefully, the next chapter will cooperate, unlike this one…

Oh, and there’s no truth to the rumours, they’re just good friends (Remus and Hermione).