Blanc du Noir

Blanc du Noir
By: Aglaia

See first chapter for disclaimer

Morning dawned clear and bright at twelve, Grimmauld Place. As the sun pierced the windows of Hermione’s bedroom – she bolted up in bed.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Bloody buggering hell! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

She kept up a rousing chorus in that vein as she scrambled up out of bed - or at least attempted to scramble up out of bed. Had she woken from a more restful sleep, had she not been late and flustered – had the sheets and her clothes not chosen that morning to strangle her – she would have been out of that Venus-fly-trap-of-a-bed within seconds. As it was, however, she managed to wrap herself up like a mummy before her sleep addled brain figured out how to get her out if the situation.

Because lucidity was fair and far off for her before caffeine, Hermione had to concentrate all her effort on disentangling herself. Finally managing this tremendous feat, she ran to the lav for a quick wash-up, then downstairs to Floo straight to Hogwarts. Hopefully she’d be able to nick something from the kitchens before first class.

Hermione darted downstairs, and went right to the fireplace. She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, intent on calling out the Headmaster’s office, when she was interrupted.

“Good morning, Hermione!” said Remus in an unnaturally chipper voice for that early in the morning. He was wreathed in smiles, as he poured coffee into two mugs. A half grumble, half growl was all the response he got, as Hermione prepared again to Floo away. Remus interrupted her, again, as he shoved one of the mugs under her nose. “It’ll strip paint from walls, and dissolve your spoon… so just about strong enough…”

Hermione succumbed to the tantalizing vapours rising from the dark, rich liquid, and snatched the mug from his grasp, inhaling deeply.

“Oh, sweet nectar of life,” she breathed, as her eyes closed in bliss. They snapped open in an instant as she groaned, remembering her current dilemma.

“I have to go, about 15 minutes ago, in order to get to class on time. Thanks, Remus, but it wasn’t meant to be.” She sighed mournfully, handing back the mug after taking a couple of scalding swallows.

“Come on, Hermione,” he wheedled, “your credit won’t suffer for skipping one class, and you can even Floo Albus to tell him you’ll be late getting back.” He could see her mulling this over in her mind, and finally… rejecting it.

“I can’t, Remus. Do you have any idea what my first class is?” she asked agitatedly.

“No,” he replied slowly, wondering if he should’ve.

“Potions! Snape’s already going to skin me for being late, and if I’m not there at all, and don’t present him with my own death certificate as proof of excusable absence, he’ll then slaughter me! And with things like that, the paperwork is ghastly, and I wouldn’t want to foist it on Dumbledore...”

“Ah, got it. Off you go then, but not without this!” He tossed a croissant at her, which she caught thankfully.

“Thanks love, ta!” She then finally threw her handful of Floo powder in, saying, “Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, Hogwarts,” and stepped into the green flames.

Hermione tumbled out the other side, and hastily stood, brushing the soot from her robes. “Morning, Headmaster; morning, Fawkes,” she said without glancing in their direction as she went to the door. “I’ll drop by later to tell you what’s the to-do. Bye!” she called, closing the door behind her, and racing down the revolving steps.

Croissant still in hand, she went as quickly as she could to her rooms. Once there, she changed into a clean uniform and robe, grabbed her bag, and ran back out again, heading to the dungeons. Hermione stopped outside the door, catching her breath and steeling her nerves. She was only a couple of minutes late, so she’d get points off, probably detention, but that was it – that she could handle. Maybe.

Quietly as possible, she lifted the latch on the iron-strapped, old oak door, and swung it open. As soon as her toe touched the floor within, a baritone voice bellowed, “Late! 20 points from Gryffindor! Sit down and get to work!”

Hermione cringed, the Gryffindors grumbled, and Slytherins snickered. The points weren’t excessive, that was normal Snape, but Hermione felt her hackles rising none the less. She wouldn’t apologize, as she’d intended before stepping in, not caring that she was being beyond ridiculously childish. And so she walked to her usual desk, head bowed, to all outward appearance thoroughly chastened.

“I was not aware, Miss Granger,” drawled Snape in his most derisive tone, “that my classroom doubled as a pâtisserie.” Only then did Hermione remember the croissant clutched in her hand. “You will dispose of that – now! That’s another 20 points for contaminating this lab, and detention tonight with me.” She opened her mouth to protest more points being taken, but Snape arched a mocking brow, and she shut it again. He scoffed at her disdainfully, then turning to the rest of the class, snapped at them to get back to work. “I assume, Miss Granger,” he said acidly, “that with your greatly apostrophized intellect, you will be able to deduce what potion you will be attempting, and likely failing, to make today.”

Hermione didn’t vouchsafe an answer, but bent her head to her work. She was now not only angry at Snape for more points and a detention, but at herself for forgetting about the damned croissant, and giving him an excuse. Not that he ever needed any at other times, she reminded herself.

Coming out of her reverie on some very creative methods of castration, she noticed Neville’s cauldron spitting and nearly boiling over; or exploding as was more likely. Neville sat there, petrified about what was about to happen, and so didn’t turn the heat off, or add the lacewings to neutralize it. Even after having Hermione whisper to him urgently to do it, he wouldn’t move, so she was forced to lean across him, grab the lacewings, and tip them in before the roiling, corrosive liquid hit anyone. This noble action, though having the desired effect on the potion, had quite another on the Potions master.

He had been prowling about the classroom, looming over students, snarling insults at Gryffindors, and praising Slytherins. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Hermione tipping the lacewings into a potion that was obviously about to go off. Naturally, the fact that she’d salvaged the situation didn’t weigh at all with him, only her interference did. He swooped down in front of Neville and Hermione’s table.

“Sabotaging another student’s potion, Miss Granger?” he commented in a dangerously low voice. “Longbottom’s, no less. I wonder if all these years of whispered directions have been incorrect, and he is in fact our resident potions know-it-all, rather than the imbecilic lout he seems to plainly be. What a dreadfully dismal reflection, to be sure, but the appearance of this little incident certainly lends credence to that, doesn’t it, Miss Granger?”

“I – it – I…” The room had become deathly quiet, no one daring to breathe for fear of bringing Snape’s wrath down on their own head.

“Hold your tongue, girl, I didn’t give you leave to speak!” Hermione’s eyes blazed in righteous fury, but she kept quiet, daring to meet his glaring gaze. His voice dropped to menacingly low tones as he spoke again. “50 points for purposely spoiling another student’s potion, even if it was Longbottom’s, and so already doomed to ruination. And detention for one month, including weekends, where you will have the unadulterated pleasure of cleaning crates of vials brimful of rank, moulding bubotuber pus.” Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins were barely containing their guffaws to snickers, as Hermione opened her mouth to explain the situation. Snape cut her off, jeering, “If you wish for more points off your precious Gryffindor House, by all means, continue speaking. Might I remind you, you’ve already lost your dear lions 90 points; do you think they would thank you for losing another 50?”

“No, sir,” Hermione managed to grate out through clenched teeth. She was nearly shaking with the effort of keeping her fury repressed, and not flaying her Professor with a butter knife where he stood.

“Very good,” he smirked mockingly. “Now clear away whatever filth you managed to concoct in that cauldron of yours. You fail today’s class.”

Hermione stood rooted to the spot as Snape stalked away from her, back to his desk. “Fail?” she whispered questioningly. She’d never failed a thing in her life, and now was no time to start.

“Yes, Miss Granger, ‘fail’: the opposite of succeed. Now, clear away that filth as I already told you to, and get out of my classroom. I don’t want to set eyes on you, ever, preferably, but until your detention tonight should suffice.”

Her ire was instantly recalled and to the boiling point at his curt commands. She hastily packed her things up, spelled her cauldron clean, and stormed out of the class, intent on slamming the door behind her with a satisfying bang. No such luck, because though the door closed very forcefully, there was no sound. This only served to anger Hermione further. So with swift, heavy steps, she stormed out of the front doors of the castle, making her way to the far end of the lake, where she could blow something up in relative peace, venting some frustrations on inanimate objects, before going to the rest of her classes. Spending so much time with Tom certainly had its advantages; for one, she knew some very satisfying spells for blowing things up.
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Severus sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the impending migraine this day was causing. It was his last class, third year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and he could swear this lot got stupider each year. At present, he was trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle the urge to forcibly pour whatever noxious potions the imbeciles had created, down their throats. Class was nearly over, but he couldn’t stand another twenty minutes of their idiocy around him.

“You have precisely two minutes to bottle a sample of whatever putrescent substance you’ve made, label it, place it on my desk, and leave!” he barked at them. Immediately he said that, the students scraped back their stools, and started chattering away as they hurriedly bottled samples. “I do not believe,” said Snape, sneering down at them, with his arms crossed over his chest, “that there was a direction to begin prattling on like a bunch of parakeets in my previous instructions. If there was, however, and I simply cannot remember, do, please, inform me of it.” No one availed themselves of the offer, as the talking had stopped instantly when he spoke. “I didn’t think so. One minute remaining, and I want to see the last of your retreating hides at the end of it!”

Quickly as possible, they all packed up and left. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quickly enough for Severus’ temper, so he snapped at the last of them, “Jones! Detention with Filch for dawdling, and close the door!” The hapless Ravenclaw did as he was told with alacrity, then turned tail and ran upstairs from the dungeons.

Severus collapsed back into his chair, closing his eyes on a sigh. Tonight was definitely a Firewhisky night. It wouldn’t take care of the headache, but it’d certainly make him not mind it so very much. Plans laid, he would take dinner in his quarters, then lounge at his ease with a lovely bottle of Ogden’s and a good book.

Naturally, though, Murphy and his damned Laws had to step in and dash these wonderful plans all to bits. Severus had a detention to supervise tonight; and tomorrow night, and the night after that… Damn! He should have handed the girl over to Filch to deal with. It wasn’t enough he had to put up with her bloody fluttering hand and insipidly cheerful attitude, full of vim and vigour, and ready to answer any question not put to her in class. Oh, no! Now he had to see her every night for a month because he couldn’t keep a reign on his bloody temper during lessons.

It was not his fault in the least that he had gotten so aggravated. The last time he’d been in close proximity with her was after the Death Eater meeting, and she’d had the temerity to humiliate him, and read him a lecture! In front of Albus, no less! Not that the batty old codger had been any help, sitting there twinkling and telling him to mind his back. Damn them both to the depths of hell!

With these cheering thoughts, he flung out of the classroom, stalking purposefully to his chambers. His path there, unfortunately and likely intentionally, crossed that of the afore mentioned damned twinkling old codger.

“Severus, my boy! Glad I ran into you!” This jovial greeting was answered by a snarl. “Good day in class, was it?” Dumbledore couldn’t resist goading him in so prickly a mood. It was infinitely amusing watching Severus visibly trying to restrain the impulse to strangle his employer and vexatious friend.

“Albus,” he said in a very level, controlled voice, “discharge your errand here, then leave. I have to prepare for a detention this evening.”

“Oh, yes; Miss Granger, I believe. I heard you even kicked her out of class today.”

“Oh you heard, did you?” he asked in chilling accents that would have sent lesser men running for cover.

“Yes, well, it was rather difficult to miss the talk of the Head Girl being kicked out of a class. That and the points off Gryffindor were something of a clue. There must have been some extraordinary circumstances to warrant such actions.”

“Yes,” was Severus’ monosyllabic, clipped response. He didn’t have to justify his actions to Dumbledore, and be damned if he would.

“Quite right, quite right.” Albus had lost none of the twinkle in his eye. He knew what Severus’ temper was, but also knew he’d never, contrary to general appearance, let it get the better of him, and would no doubt check it by the evening. “Miss Granger and I had a lovely chat over tea and crumpets,” he tittered on, rocking on the balls of his feet, presenting the picture of dreamy, happy-pappy senility. “Lovely girl, she is, simply lovely. Where was I? Oh, yes, crumpets! The house-elves do certainly have a way with them, you know. I wonder if I could get the recipe…” He drifted off in apparent deep contemplation of this, meditatively sucking on a lemon drop.

Severus’ soundly hidden love of the ridiculous, coupled with the fact he knew Albus was anything but senile, drove an involuntary bark of laughter from him. He quickly regained his acerbic poise, recalling they were still in a public, if seldom frequented part of the castle. It would never do to have a student see him laugh, except of course, mockingly at their expense. It would probably cause them a heart attack, or send them into a fit. “Be damned to you, Albus. Get the recipe, indeed.” He looked the smiling Headmaster over appraisingly for a moment. “I suppose you found some excuse to give Gryffindor back all their points?”

“Excuse? No, no, no! However, Mr. Creevey did happen to take an absolutely lovely picture of the Grey Lady, hovering around the Fat Lady, talking to her friend Hyacinth, who was petting her cousin’ spaniel, Artichoke, you know, while he barked at the Grey Lady…”

Severus scoffed, though good-naturedly. “I’m sure it was an exceptional shot. Was there anything else, Albus?”

“Was there? Yes, there was. I wanted to suggest to you, my boy, that perhaps this next month, you may find a more productive use of your time with Miss Granger, rather than having her clean out vials of moulding pus. Seeing as you’ll be working more closely together from now on, it may be an opportunity to solidify your working relationship, as it were. That was all. I’ll no doubt see you tomorrow, Severus, so ta-ta, tally-ho, and all that rot till then!” He strode calmly away, oblivious to the fact that he’d just brought Severus’ bad mood back in full force.

With an angry growl at being reminded of his obligation for the next month, Severus entered his room, slammed the door shut, and introduced himself to a vial of valerian and willow bark extract. He had to remember to have the crates for Miss Granger’s cleaning pleasure brought up from the lower store rooms. Working relationship may hang, she was going to scrub those blasted vials!
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A/N: Thank you everyone for being so patient with me for not getting this out sooner; and as always, thank you to all who reviewed!
Next chapter: detention, and then some…(minds out of the gutter! I’m afraid there won’t be any ‘nice’ lemonage for a long while yet… bugger having a plot, eh?)
Also, Murphy’s Law basically states that anything that can go wrong, will.

A/N 2: Just incase anyone is floored by my more florid speeches: ‘greatly apostrophized’, in this case, means widely talk about and admired. An apostrophe is an address, very much like an ode, to an absent or imaginary person, or abstract object or characteristic, but addressing it as though it were alive and able to respond. Think Byron’s “Apostrophe to the Ocean”. ‘Sevvie’ is referring to the other teachers’ love of Hermione, and their expostulations on how brilliant she is.