Blanc du Noir

Blanc du Noir
By: Aglaia

See first chapter for disclaimer
A/N: My immense, boundless, and in all other ways immeasurable thanks to my wonderful beta Aries for her help in catching all those glaringly obvious mistakes that I am apparently blind to.


Detention that first night was vastly unpleasant. It could not begin late enough, nor end soon enough for both parties involved.

Naught above three words were spoken, and all of them by Severus (those three being: "Enter!”, “There!” and, “Leave!”).

As promised, the crates of moulding pus were there for Hermione’s ‘cleaning pleasure.’ There were three in the room beside the sinks in the back, and Hermione could only assume there were more somewhere in the voluminous bowels of Hogwarts. As quickly as she possibly could, she worked her way methodically through the vials in each crate.

She realized, nearing the end of the second crate, that she’d been spending far too much time in Tom’s company, as she pictured every lid she popped off as Snape’s head being severed. It humoured a twisted, sadistic part of her to wonder if his head would make the same squelching sound.

Three hundred vials, and many hours later, Hermione stood in front of Snape’s desk, impatient for him to acknowledge her. After several minutes of her toe tapping and glowering at his downcast head, he ordered her to leave in chilling accents, and without looking up from violently scratching ominous red markings on whatever poor sod’s paper he was grading. Not giving him a chance to change his mind and find more work for her, Hermione left, audibly growling and muttering under her breath.
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As soon as the door closed behind her, Severus gave up any pretence of working, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

While he had no trouble holding a grudge against Granger for over a month (case in point, Potter), and believed he had every right to, his unbidden and presently unwanted common sense intruded. For the long run, they did at least need to be able to hold a civilized conversation, because, like it or not, she was now inexorably part of his ‘extra curricular’ activities. Granger presented both an interesting and vexatious problem to his mind of how he was to treat her in this new position. He needed to think this through before anything else occurred. Mind firmly resolved on hashing the problem out, and bludgeoning certain precepts into submission, Severus stalked out of the classroom for his quarters.

Pouring himself a brandy and collapsing into his favourite chair by the fire, his analytical mind instantly itemized what it was he had to go through. Reluctant to leave his seat, he summoned a sheaf of parchment, quill and inkpot from his desk. He would burn the page at the end of the night, being paranoid as he was that someone would find it, but for now this would infinitely help the process.

Titling the parchment, ‘The Granger Dilemma’, he began. Firstly, code of conduct. He now had three distinct situations he had to deal with her in, and each required something different. As his student, she would be treated the same as always; he couldn’t vent his spleen on ‘Granger, the student and resident know-it-all’, because undoubtedly, ‘Granger, the Dark Mistress, and newly forged hellion’, would remember and retaliate. Pity that he couldn’t keep her in detentions invariably.

‘Granger, the fellow Order member’, had grudgingly earned his respect. Managing to survive her original capture, in which circumstance many a greater person had died, and not only that, but she turned the situation to the advantage of their side. She had earned – Damnit, she deserved – the same respect he accorded the likes of Lupin. He, at the very least, greatly disliked the werewolf, but was under no illusions as to his usefulness and abilities – similarly, Granger had proved herself equally useful.

Now, to his greatest problem, ‘Granger, the Dark Mistress’. He baulked at the notion of believing she was as great or as powerful as Voldemort insisted, but he had seen firsthand what she did to Lucius, and that was no idle power. When questioned in Albus’ office that first night she reiterated what the Dark Lord had said, and though he knew her determination and inherent abilities, he still was reluctant to believe that she was quite as powerful as claimed. But that was something to delve into separately. As for how to treat her, no doubt it would be a similar situation to how he dealt with the Dark Lord. Much kneeling, abasement, crawling though filth, and all that. He had learned early on to firmly tamp down on his pride and prostrate himself in front of Voldemort, but bile rose anew in his throat to think of doing the same in front of Granger. The only solution then, really, was to not think on it, and simply go through the motions, keeping a strangle hold on a roiling stomach.

Writing this all down, he was satisfied with working that particular bit of the mess out. The second item was, as Albus had termed it, their ‘working relationship’. He cringed at the last word, his mind going to its typical connotations – pimply, gangly, hormonal teenagers, snogging and groping in dark corners, declaring it a ‘meaningful relationship’, and vowing their eternal love and devotion, until someone with larger breasts and looser morals walked by.

This had to be done, however, and he resisted the urge to scratch out ‘relationship’. As the now two principle sources of information for the Order, they had to be able to pool their findings and synthesize them all into some semblance of order so as to plan and strategize. This had to be done efficiently, or else it would all end in a cock up of spectacular proportions. He had no doubt that Granger, with her over-achieving attitude, anal-retentive tendencies and autocratic temperament, would see things in the same light, thus ridding him of the need to explain the whys and the wherefores. He could probably arrange a meeting between Granger and himself sometime in the next couple of days, and there, present his case. Severus hated having to be the one extending the proverbial olive branch, but desperate times, and all that.

He glanced back at the parchment; second point done. Now for the pièce de résistance: Granger, herself. Not his behaviour toward her, treatment of her, or the like, but ‘her’.

Logically and consciously, albeit unwillingly, Severus accepted the facts of the situation and understood the particulars. But he didn’t quite know what to make of the girl – nix that – woman. For more than six years she had been an annoying know-it-all, reviled brain of the Golden Trio, and thorn in his side; but overall, insignificant. Now, however, she held the whip hand over him, and was apparently more than willing to use it.

As a student, she was meek and respectful and biddable, with a keen mind that lusted for knowledge; as a member of the Trio and Order, she had a quick and agile intellect, as well as temper and chutzpah enough to challenge her peers and put forward her opinions. These were the facets of her character he had seen more often than not, as well as the occasional glimpse of a chipper teenager when with friends. These were acceptable aspects of her personality – they were familiar, and they didn’t really change his overall opinion of her. But this new development, this new angle wiped the slate of all preconceived notions of her, and he had to start building a new picture of her from the base up.

She apparently had depth; was not simply the characteristic Gryffindor. Unlike a great many her age, she had developed past the two-dimensional, and yet she hid that fact. Briefly, he considered schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder, but quickly dismissed them as far too easy and convenient to answer. They also didn’t quite work; schizophrenia, for one, wouldn’t necessarily lead to the multiple personalities she seemed to exhibit. As for M.P.D., it wasn’t known to either wizards or Muggles when each personality would rise to the surface, and if the student persona had presented itself to Voldemort, she’d surely be dead by now.

No, it was obviously all part of her - and she was a very good actress. Not what one expected from her House; they usually wore their hearts on their sleeves and in their eyes for the world to see. Evidently neigh on seven years of dealing with Slytherins, and constantly soaking up knowledge had instilled in her a certain cunning and slyness not heard of in most Gryffindors, except the Headmaster, of course. Damn him.

While that was all well and good, and it had served her in good stead, it did complicate matters for Severus. He was used to being able to read people like an open book – even without resorting to Legilimency – and now he couldn’t. Something had to be done about that – some back door had to be found or created. He didn’t question for a moment whether this really aught to be what he focused on – whether he really needed to find a way of sneaking about in her mind in order to find answers. It never occurred to him that perhaps a Gryffindor approach, barrelling in without subtlety, asking straight forward and often impertinent questions, would perhaps yield better results. It was what he had done for years, it had worked well for him, and he was a hard man to change.

By the time he’d resolved on this plan of action, the fire had died away to embers, and the room was beginning to chill. He looked over his list once more, satisfied with making good headway in resolving ‘The Granger Dilemma’. While prodding the dying fire with a boot tip, Severus methodically tore up the parchment, placing each piece in the grate. He watched them catch and be reduced to ash until he was convinced no trace of his writing could be found. Only then did he rise and prepare for sleep. Tomorrow was soon enough to deal with this all again.


The next day passed in mundanity, with the usual terrifying of students, and taking of points – nothing untoward happened to disrupt normal life at Hogwarts. As the time neared for that night’s detention, Severus paced. Today was too soon to deal with this, to make such overtures, his body told him, as his gorge rose; his mind, however, was still firmly resolved on his course of action, and come hell or high water – or Potter – he would follow through.

At seven o’clock precisely there was a perfunctory knock on the classroom door. He barked a command for the person to enter, and a bushy head of hair came into view, before the body followed. He didn’t tell her immediately to go to the sinks and start cleaning, so Hermione walked to the front of the room, awaiting instructions.

Her face was completely devoid of emotion, save for a slightly haughty arch of her eyebrows. Severus remembered his decision to find a way into her psyche, and her unflinching gaze gave him the perfect opportunity to snoop around. She couldn’t have possibly mastered Occlumency in the short time she had likely been studying, and he being a master Legilimens, this would be effortless.

Barely moving his lips, and making no audible sound, he whispered, “Legilimens.” Expecting to be bombarded by random images from a relatively unguarded mind, it was a severe shock to him to see nothing – an endless abyss. An image began to materialize in front of him – a chalkboard, with a message scrawled on it. It read, ‘I may not be a master of the art, Severus, but have you any idea how unguarded your mind is when lost in its musings? You really ought to be more careful, dear.’

He snapped back to himself and scowled at her, though he was reluctantly rather impressed. In response her eyebrows simply rose a little higher, and her eyes became cold, rather than expressionless. They engaged in a standoff for a few minutes, before Severus seemingly conceded defeat by looking away. He’d give her this point.

Taking out his wand, he cast wards and silencing charms around the room. “Please sit, Miss Granger,” he said cordially. He noted there wasn’t any gloating look on her face, as though she expected it as her due that he be the one to back down.

“Thank you, I prefer to stand, Professor,” she replied in a crisp, just this side of respectful, voice.

“As you please.” Severus himself rounded his desk and sat, giving her a sharp look. “Much as I loath having to bring this topic up,” he began, “no doubt you will agree with me that it is a necessity.” He saw a flicker of question in her eyes. “As Albus has informed me, and you as well, I assume, we will need to work in close quarters with each other for the Order.” She nodded in understanding so far, and he could practically hear the gears turning in her head, the cogs locking into place. “As such,” he continued, “we both need to be able to work efficiently, without too many airs, pretences, or harping on about trivialities. With that in mind -” he paused for effect; even Slytherins weren’t averse to dramatics when it suited a purpose, “I offer a truce.”


As he suspected, she accepted the truce readily, admitting her thoughts had run in the same vein for a while. That settled, he sent a very shocked Hermione Granger to the sinks to wash up the crate of vials stationed for her that night. It wouldn’t do for him to appear complacent, after all.
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“Should have expected that,” Hermione muttered to herself, walking upstairs from the dungeons. ‘Naturally he couldn’t leave it at calling a truce… bastard,’ she thought, but was too worn out to inject any venom into it.

Since Tom had made his intentions clear with regards to her, she’d been dreading her inevitable unveiling, and more specifically, the aftermath. She supposed that in a way it was lucky Snape was so paranoid after years of spying, or who knew what would have slipped passed his lips at the most inopportune moments. Not only that, but as they say, actions speak louder than words, and his backlash in class the other day certainly spoke volumes. But all was on its way to being mended now, so that worry was laid to rest. One down, countless to go.

Hermione trudged up the many stairs to her room, and finally collapsed, yet again, clothes and all, on her bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day again because she had her meeting with Tom to contend with. Hopefully he wouldn’t spring any surprises on her this time.

The morning came far too soon in Hermione’s opinion, and she rolled out of bed muttering invectives at the coldly shinning November sun. Standing under the scalding spray of a shower, she went through the classes she had that day, as well as the homework that had accumulated from previous ones. Not for the first time was she grateful that Dumbledore had taken organizing her timetable into his own hands. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she only had half a day of actual classes, the rest was ‘independent study’, otherwise known as catch-up time, due to her frequent jaunts into Little Hangleton.

Breakfast passed with her nose in a book, and a cup of coffee (that kept refilling itself – ah, the joys of magic) glued to her lips. Arithmancy went by effortlessly – numbers were always easy to understand, clear right and wrong answers, no grey area to lose oneself in; Transfiguration was a breeze – just a matter of clear visualization and intent; and Ancient Runes last – well, that took a bit of figuring out, but nothing too arduous in a day of reviews. And then lunch came, with the typical feast in the Hall. And if it weren’t for the continuous flow of Quidditch talk from the blokes, and the inane gossiping and giggling from the girls, it would have been a lovely repast.

As soon as she had finished her spare lunch, Hermione waved her goodbyes to Harry, Ron and Ginny, saying she’d be in the Library studying – the ever ready excuse they had no trouble believing. Her first stop, however, wasn’t the Library, but the Staff Room. It was wonderful being Head Girl sometimes, she didn’t even need a reason to go into the teachers’ inner sanctum. Checking the class schedules, she noted that Snape had a free block right after lunch, and therefore would likely be in his office, criss-crossing essays with his red ink and never ending litany of scathing commentary. This was a stroke of good luck, because she had to tell him that she wouldn’t be in detention tonight. He wouldn’t like it in the least, but Hermione would rather Snape be mad at her than Tom.

She once again went up to her rooms to grab the assignments she needed to work on, then retraced her steps all the way down to the dungeons. She knocked on Snape’s office door and opened it as she heard his customary, snarly ‘Enter.’

“Might I have a word with you, Professor?” she asked rhetorically, already closing the door behind her.

Snape seemed to be trying desperately to bite back an acid reply, as per their truce, to her presumptuous behaviour, if his clenching jaw was anything to judge by. He finally settled on a very sarcastic, “Apparently, you may.” As was his habit, he immediately erected wards around the room. “What was the word you wanted, Miss Granger? As you can see,” he gestured to the ever present stacks of essays, “I am rather busy.”

“This won’t take a moment,” Hermione assured him, “I merely wanted to inform you that I will, unfortunately, be obliged to miss my detention tonight.”

“Oh?” was all he asked, in a deceptively mild tone.

“Yes. Ah, er, previous engagement, you understand; with a mutual acquaintance of ours, I believe.”

“Mutual acquaintance,” he parroted back at her, not yet catching on to the meaning. Evidently the idiocy of the students’ papers he was marking had momentarily rubbed off on him, and he wasn’t quite up to par.

Hermione shrugged and made a supplicating gesture – with only her left arm. Giving him a significant look, she answered, “So I believe.”

Comprehension finally flashed in his eyes, and he gave a disconcertingly gracious nod. “Of course, yes,” he again spoke in that very mild voice that generally tokened disagreeable news. “You are, naturally, excused from detention tonight.” He turned back to the essays. Hermione waited for the other shoe to drop, but when after a few moments it didn’t seem like it would, she drew breath to thank him and excuse herself. And with ever-precise timing, that was when he added, “It will, of course, be added on to the end of your detentions.” He emphasized the plural.

“Of course,” Hermione said with a sigh. He gave her a curt nod in dismissal, and dropped the wards so she could leave, which she did in a very timely fashion.

At last making her way to the Library, Hermione’s path crossed that of Malfoy’s. As they drew nearer each other, Hermione wondered what he would do this time: if he would follow his father’s dictate or her’s.

“Mudblood,” he sneered at her, not breaking stride.

“Ferret,” she responded in kind. Internally she was cheering, thinking, ‘Yay for me! Well… maybe not… apparently I’m more frightening than Lucius. Meh…’

By half-four, Hermione was finished her work, and it was time to prepare for the night. Knowing that it would likely be a brainstorming session, figuring out how to pick the lower ranking Death Eaters she would mark, she decided on comfort in her attire. Picking out a pair of harem pants and a ghawazee coat from her wardrobe, she dressed, lastly slipping on a pair of thong sandals. In very short order she was striding toward the Headmaster’s office, a heavy cloak carelessly flung over her shoulders.

“Jujubes,” she told the gargoyle guarding the stairs, and walked on.

“Come in!” called Dumbledore’s cheery voice, before Hermione had even raised her hand to knock on the office door. She swore she could hear the twinkle in his voice, rather than simply seeing it. “Ah, Miss Granger,” he said when she stepped through, “all set to go?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather earlier start today, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. I though I might start on a couple of potions I need to replenish before leaving. I checked my stores a couple of weeks ago, and as a training session is bound to come up in the next couple of weeks…”

“Ah, very good, very good.” He paused for a moment, and the damned twinkle in his eye got a little brighter. “You know, my dear,” he remarked idly, “it might be an idea if you were to ask Severus to brew a few of them for you – if your time is constrained, that is.” He smiled seraphically at her, apparently marveling at his own brilliance; Hermione’s thoughts ran just slightly counter.

“I think not, Headmaster; I’m not sure it would go entirely well at this point, were I to broach such a topic with him. That being said, I really should get going.”

“Very well, dear. Should I expect you back tonight, or not?”

“I think you might, sir,” she replied, grabbing a handful of Floo powder, “it should, theoretically, only be a brainstorming session tonight. If it’s anything more, Remus will inform you.”

He nodded, and added, “Be safe, Hermione,” just as she stepped into the green flames.

Hermione stumbled slightly coming out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place – no Remus to catch her this time. This brought a worried crease to her brow for a moment, until she heard singing coming from the pantry – very enthusiastic, very off key singing.

A couple minutes of slightly flat Jim Morrison later, and Remus walked into the kitchen carrying a case of butterbeer, presumably to restock the fridge. Hermione stood very still, and ruthlessly quashed her bubbling laughter. Her luck held, as he hadn’t noticed her yet, still belting it out at the top of his voice. As soon as he dropped to a slightly more mellow pitch, Hermione greeted him with a cheeky, “’Evening, Jimmy!”

Remus was so startled he let out a very unmanly squeak, and spun around so fast, he nearly went full circle.

“Bleeding hell, Hermione!” he gasped at her.

Hermione had by this time collapsed into one of the nearby chairs, cackling madly all the while. “You… and it-” she gasped between bursts of laughter. “And then you… I … Jimmy!” this last pronouncement sent her off in a peal again.

“It wasn’t that funny,” protested Remus, red in the face and nearly pouting. That certainly didn’t have the desired effect, as she took one look at him and fresh laughter shook her. “Oh, shut up,” he griped good naturedly. He knew he didn’t have a terribly good singing voice, but she’d heard it before, so Remus didn’t see what was quite so hysterical about it all.

Hermione made an honest attempt to stop laughing at him, and eventually she subsided to intermittent giggles. “I’m sorry, Remus, really I am. I know the singing wasn’t that funny, but the, erm, ‘eep!’, certainly was.” Something suddenly got lodged in her throat, because she found herself having a slight choking fit following her explanation.

“You startled me!” he insisted.

“I know,” she giggled, then coughed, “sorry,” she said meekly.

“Here, this’ll hopefully shut you up for a while.” Remus tossed a butterbeer at her, smiling in triumph when she fumbled it slightly.

“Yeah, yeah. Silly old codger, can’t take a joke,” she muttered under her breath, but loud enough that he would hear it.

“Codger?!” he demanded hotly, glaring at her.

“Wow,” she remarked lightly, standing up, so as to make her strategic retreat more easily, “guess I was right about that old bit, seeing as you didn’t catch onto that first.” With that parting shot she bolted out of the kitchen, yelling, “Call me at six!” over her shoulder, and laughing madly all the way upstairs.

“Old my arse, missy!” Remus called from the bottom of the staircase, having to have the last word in.

“And a lovely one it is, too,” Hermione yelled back, not willing to lose in their banter.

“It!... eh?”

“Ha-ha!” she cried triumphantly from her room. “Call me at six, please, love!” With that, her door closed, and Hermione set to work.

From the bottom of her closet, Hermione pulled out a small chest, along with three small cauldrons. She couldn’t brew large batches of the potions as they spoiled within three months – not the handiest of things.

She set everything on her desk, took note of which three potions she was lowest on, and began chopping grinding and grating ingredients for each. With her patented, portable fires under each cauldron, the three were simmering away happily by the time six o’clock rolled around. A knock sounded at her door, followed by Remus’ voice telling her the time.

“Here we go again,” she remarked, walking out of the house. “I don’t think I’ll be too late tonight, Remus, we’re just talking today.”

“Be careful, Hermione,” he said, just before closing the door behind her.

“Always am,” she responded quietly, walking down the street to a desserted alley. Once again, she Apparated to the edge of the Riddle property, and picked her way along the path to the house. Pettigrew opened the door as she mounted the last step; evidently he had been watching for her. She sneered at his groveling bow as was her custom, and asked after the Dark Lord.

“He is in the Library, Mistress-”. She began walking away before he finished his sentence, missing the part about him having company.

Luckily, Hermione heard two distinct voices speaking before she threw open the doors, and paused to see if she could identify the second. At last recognizing the smooth, slightly drawling tones of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione grinned wolfishly – Tom brought a present for her – how thoughtful.

She slipped upstairs to her suite of rooms, and retrieved a strongbox from beneath her bed. Unlocking it, she drew out two vials, then stepped into the adjoining parlour. On a side table there was a tray with several decanters and glasses. Putting all but two glasses and the brandy away, she unstoppered one of the vials and put a couple of drops into each glass, swirling them about until the liquid had dried on the inside surface of each. Pleased with the results, she went back to the bedroom, along the way uncorking the second vial, and taking a swig from it. Replacing everything the way it was, and her preparations made, Hermione went back downstairs.

Without announcing herself, she threw open the Library doors and sauntered in.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t know you had company, my Lord,” she lied shamelessly. Voldemort shot her a shrewd look, to which she simply gazed back at him with limpid innocence.

“And how are you, Lucius?” she asked, tuning to him. She thought that if he weren’t bred to be civil, he would have enjoyed hexing her immensely at the moment. As it was, she had to give him credit for his self control; no more than a slight twitch of his wand hand, and his frigid gaze exposed his truer feelings.

“Very well, Mistress,” he answered smoothly, while bowing. “And if I may enquire after yourself?”

“Oh, I always enjoy excellent health, thank you, Lucius.”

“My love,” Tom spoke for the first time. He extended a hand for her to take, and drew her towards him. Hermione dropped a kiss on his cheek, all the while keeping her lowered eyes fixed of Lucius. “I thought,” he continued in his reedy voice, “that you might want to have that talk of yours with Malfoy, here.”

“Ah yes, I had mentioned something about that, hadn’t I?” she spoke in a very soft voice that betrayed nothing but a slight boredom in the proceedings. “Would you mind terribly, My Lord,” she said, using his self-appointed title around others, “if Lucius and I went upstairs for this little chat of ours?”

A rasping, rattling chuckle sounded from Voldemort at her still apparent innocent demeanor. He waved her on with an indulgent smile, which was more than slightly unnerving on his face.

Another peck on the cheek, and Hermione turned to Lucius. “Come with me,” she demanded in an imperious tone.

After bowing himself out of the Library, Lucius followed her upstairs.

Walking into the parlour, Hermione immediately reclined on her fainting couch, arranging her flaring harem pants comfortably. Again, with that inherent civility, as well as supposed respect for his new mistress, Lucius remained standing until she allowed him to sit, which didn’t happen right away.

“Would you be a dear and pour me a brandy, Lucius? One for yourself as well, of course,” she said in a similarly soft, but still commanding voice, watching him closely as he went to the side table with the decanter and glasses. She doubted he would trust the drink were she to offer it solely to him; with her drinking from the same source, however, he seemed to deem it safe. She wouldn’t poison herself, after all. He walked back and offered her a glass. She thanked him, looking up through lowered lashes; the barest hint of a smirk on her lips.

“I understand you are quite a connoisseur of brandies, Lucius. Tell me, what do you think of mine?”

He took a meditative sip from his glass, after swirling it about for a minute to savour the bouquet. “It is… potable,” he pronounced at last. This brought a throaty chuckle from Hermione; she had only really expected a sneer in response.

“This one was imported from Burgundy. They really have such wonderful wines there that one naturally assumes their spirits are just as fine, don’t you think?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to answer, but continued on with her meaningless expostulations. “If it isn’t to your liking, however, I believe I have some from Italy in the cupboard. As well, of course, as a cognac, port, sherry, or whatever else suits your humour.”

“Oh, enough!” he snapped at last, his patience with her idle prattle at an end. “I won’t feign any understanding, much less pleasure, at this situation, but I am not about to spend hours sitting here, listening to your idiocies, Mudblood!” His blood pressure was overtly quite heightened, as two unattractive high spots of colour stained his cheeks, evidencing his anger.

Hermione didn’t make any reply, and simply stared at him with raised eyebrows for many long moments. At last she asked if he was ready to be civil again, now that that outburst was done with. “I didn’t really expect you to like this situation, darling,” she purred softly, “but one must contend with the cards one is dealt, you know. And besides,” she gestured expansively, “this is merely a convivial chat between -” here she hemmed and hawed abstractedly for a moment, apparently at a loss for words; finally inspiration truck, and she finished, “- colleagues.”

Lucius sneered at her, draining his glass. “Since this is so convivial a chat – why in the nine levels of Hell does the Dark Lord have you by his side? Not to mention you accepting the position.”

She paused in thought a moment, absently sipping at her drink, before a cocky half smile curled the corners of her mouth. She spread her hands in a deprecating gesture, and shrugged. “He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
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A/N: If anyone cares for clarification on what the harem pants and ghawazee coats look like, you can do a Google search and get tons of results, or for a quick boo, go to: http://www.venusbellydance.com/costumes.htm
They are incredibly comfy, and even if you’re not a baladi dancer, try them out! They’re perfect for summer.