Snape's absence kissing the hem of his master made Hermione's exit from Hogwarts at the end of term effortless. She boarded the train with all the other students, avoided Harry like all the other students bar her other self and Ron, and sat in a carriage with a load of very silent Slytherins. Owls had been flying laps between Hogwarts and the homes of the prominent families since the end of the Tournament. Hermione would've bet pounds of Galleons most of her Housemates had been instructed to keep mum.
Madam Flint was on the platform when the train pulled in. She shouldered her way through the scrum like a rugby forward, shook her head when Hermione opened her mouth to ask why the rush and took her arm firmly to escort her out of the crowd. A contingent of Slytherins with their parents or guardians marched to the Georgian terrace house, all in silence.
Once inside out of sight of the Muggle throng, Eglantine Apparated them to Flint Manor. The wards hit Hermione like a bucket of cold water. Her hostess towed her through the invisible defences thence into the lady's wing of the house. The younger witch had a brief moment to notice the carvings on the front door were writhing before the dread portal slammed shut.
"My son is about somewhere, probably playing with his broom." Madam Flint sneered, shedding her outer robe to leave herself in a kirtle with a knife at her belt. She looked very Anglo-Saxon lacking only a wimple over her braided hair. "I would have sent him to fetch you but that would be too much, too soon." She bit back a curse as she eyed the still girl. "Much has changed as I expect you know."
"Potter said the Dark Lord was back." Hermione wasn't sure what to say so she went with the obvious. Madam Flint nodded crisply. She didn't look best pleased.
"You'll do as your family compels, of course, but the Flints are neutral." Her pinched mouth twisted further as she struggled to keep a cold mien. They had been informed of the renaissance. It had been couched as an invitation on green trimmed Malfoy stationary. An amnesty for the callow. "My brother will play the coquette. Baldwin's nothing if not pragmatic."
"His heir is a child." She thought about how many of the pure families had only one male to inherit the name and how easily Atropos could cut that thread.
"Amalric be at Hogwarts next year, far from the protections of home." Eglantine wasn't a fool. She knew she could be chatting with a chit who might betray her. When the Rosiers committed, they went all in. There were certain obligations that even the fanatics acknowledged however. The laws of hospitality should be sacrosanct. "I expect my own son will also be far from home."
There was a declaration there. Hermione heard it. She didn't know what to do. This sort of hinting wordplay wasn't her forte. Ravenclaw egotism with their riddles didn't appeal. Cathal might be a Slytherin by blood but as Slytherin's ward had painfully demonstrated, she was a Mudblood inside. There was never any doubt which side she would be on. She didn't want to face Flint behind a mask on the other.
"Marcus is certainly good enough to play internationally." Hermione wished to convey her endorsement of him decamping for distant shores without outright saying he should run and hide. She received a stolid look from his mother then a nod.
The matter was not discussed again.
This summer was noticeably more subdued. Marcus was on compulsory rest after a head injury and was grumpy with it. The Falmouth team Medi-witch had put a velocity limiting curse on him so no broom he flew could go faster than twenty kilometres an hour or make sharp turns. He drifted around the grounds of the Manor bored enough to offer to teach her how to fly.
"I really don't enjoy it." Hermione objected, feeling a bit of a wuss at refusing to join him on a flying object slower than a bicycle.
"Is it heights or control?" Marcus asked, legs dangling to brush the turf as they strolled around the north lawn.
"Control." She answered promptly. Having flown on brooms, Thestrals, dragons, and airplanes, Hermione was sure which aspect of hurtling through the air distressed her most. "Everything's happening too fast and I'd have to take a hand off the broom to use my wand."
"Climb on in front." He offered. "An arthritic crup could outpace us. I've a height cap curse on me too." His unlovely face twisted into a wry smirk. "I miss Madam Pomfrey dosing us and kicking us out. The team Healers all fuss."
"How long were you unconscious exactly?" Hermione inquired tartly as she straddled Flint's Cleansweep. It was his childhood broom, the one he kept for tooling around. There was no point getting out his Nimbus as it was built for speed and had a tendency to stall when throttled down.
"Olly already scolded me like a fishwife." The smirk turned subtly into a smile. He didn't mind getting the rough side of his boyfriend's tongue particularly when that tongue was used next to kiss him.
"You were playing Puddlemere?" She didn't follow his games. Quidditch had thankfully faded significantly from her life in the absence of Snitch-mad friends.
"Portree." Flint kicked off from the ground lightly and hovered with his arms securely around the witch. This was risqué according to proper conduct. If she hadn't known he was a wizard's wizard he never would have offered. But she'd accepted his preferences without blinking. There wouldn't be any awkwardness. "I sent him tickets and saw him in a pub afterwards."
"If you got your own place, he could visit much more discreetly." Hermione shifted her hands on the shaft trying to find a position that didn't make her elbows lock. Maybe she'd be better with a recumbent broom like Moody's. She wouldn't feel like she was going to pitch forward every time she changed altitude.
"You're spending too much time with Muggles." He chastised, leaning forward to correct her grip. "We don't leave home until marriage. It's just not done. People would think I've been disowned."
"If you got married, where would you live? Being in no man's land between your parents can't be fun." Although the elder Flints didn't quarrel, their conversations were as warm as a slap across the face. Most of the time they communicated via house elves but when the unavoidable family meals occurred it felt like hostage negotiations.
"The Manor's large enough. I'd have the top floor of the central wing as the private family area. A suite for me and one for my wife, the big room at the front with the windows as the nursery then clear out the storage rooms for bedrooms as needed." Flint shrugged, careful not to make the broom buck. "My grandparents lived up there while their sons were small. Once my father received his Hogwarts letter, they dissolved their marriage and grandfather moved to the dower house."
"Why the dower house?" Hermione had got the impression Gerard was the younger son, meaning once he started school the Manor would've been empty three-quarters of the year.
"Half-blood mistress. She couldn't cross the wards." He leaned into a slow turn to skirt a hedge then positioned them side on to the hazel so he could show Rosier how to turn with the weight of her body rather than trying to push the handle.
"Is that why your father is so against anything but a traditional marriage?" The question ended in a stifled curse as the broom tipped them towards the hedge. She grabbed tightly with her legs, accidentally smacking Flint in the shin with her heel.
"Ouch, Rosier." He complained, guiding them over until they were at forty-five degrees to the shrubbery. "Trust yourself." He put a hand out to brush the leaves, shifting them over further. "The broom wants to work with you."
"Lies." Hermione huffed. Flint chuckled, a much softer sound when it wasn't directed against her.
"You're not playing competitively. Wear a balancing charm and a Featherfall. Then if you come off, you'll drift down like a leaf. Conscious or not." If they were to marry, there wasn't another witch in his pitch, he'd like to fly with her. He wouldn't drag her to Quidditch matches but some token interest in a huge part of his life would be nice. "Probably, yes. Father took his mother's dismissal quite personally."
"Which is why he stays with your mother." Her question received an affirmative grunt. He tilted them slowly back to upright then away from the hedge to turn a full languid circle. "Do you think he would, truly, kill over it?"
"Not a pure-blood but yes." Flint sighed. His father had made a Herculean effort to impress upon him the standards of behaviour expected of the heir. Along with his morals, ethics, opinions, interests, and friends. "He'd convince himself he's doing it for the good of the family. He wouldn't muck about."
"See if you can wangle a transfer to an overseas team. The States or Australia. Out of sight, out of mind." She urged. His arms tightened against her and suddenly they weren't talking about his love life.
"I'm not a coward." He steered the broom into the centre of the lawn where he could do feint drills. Marcus needed something to keep busy while he thought unquiet thoughts. "I should stay. We all should stand up to defend the old ways."
"He's a half-blood." Hermione said quietly despising herself for playing the race card. Flint might be screwing Oliver but she doubted he considered him a social equal. "Muggle raised. Mother told me. Grandfather told her. All the Old Guard know."
"Fuck." Marcus drew out the word into a groan.
They drifted about on the broom as Flint processed what she had told him. Hermione tried a few turns herself, trusting him to be too distracted to surprise her with any stunt tricks like Ron always did trying to show off. Riding a broom was not at all like riding a horse or a bicycle. It responded far faster and posture affected altitude. She spun out over-correcting a climb, sending them whipping across the lawn at head height.
"Here, like this." Flint steadied them with his knees, leaning his weight back to brake. "You fly like a German. Too much throttle."
"I'm half Max." Hermione reminded him. He made an amused noise as he dropped them back onto the grass. She hopped off the Cleansweep and rubbed her legs. They ached as did her lower back. She needed a long soak.
"You going to find sanctuary with them?" He shouldn't ask. The less he knew, the less he could tell. But she was young. He forgot sometimes. Looking at her now windblown and pink, Marcus recalled she wasn't fifteen yet.
"No." The flat absolute got her a raised eyebrow. All the Slytherins tried to mimic Snape's cynical quirk. "I thought about it and they're trying for custody but I'm a poisoned chalice."
A terse jerk of his chin was all the answer Flint gave. As the product of a hundred generations of British magi, he understood the weight of legacy. There were certain things you did because the inertia of history was impossible to resist. He could shelter behind his parents' neutrality, citing his stance as filial duty. Anyone fostering Cathal also got the full serve of toxic blood superiority personified by her paternal Death Eater relatives. Some stains didn't wash off.
There was a noticeable increase of invitations to Cathal via Madam Flint. They were brought, opened, to the morning room after her chaperone had inspected them. Hermione flicked through the requests then added them to the tally; she had a little spreadsheet to track the source, frequency, and activity of her post. She didn't go to many, just to the Radnotts where she faux-coincidentally saw Theo and to the Ministry, where she was informed of the confirmation of her status as Narcissa Malfoy's ward. A large contingent of Maxs stood like aspens as their petition for her custody failed.
Hermione hadn't wanted to attend but the official summons could not be ignored. The hearing room at the Ministry brought back unpleasant memories of stealing the locket from Umbridge, recollections that led inexorably to Ron lying Splinched and bleeding. She kept herself focussed by reviewing the results of her Potions experiments. Four years of stewing nettles had paid some dividends.
"Miss Rosier." A voice rose above the droning of the clerks to interrupt her thoughts. A stocky, hard faced blond wizard took a seat beside her. There must be a factory somewhere, Hermione thought disjointedly. Or inbreeding was starting to show. She hadn't noticed before how similar Yaxley and Lucius Malfoy looked. The former was craggier and less of a dandy but the likeness was there. It was possible they shared ancestors with the Max family too.
"Sir." Hermione acknowledged his arrival politely, not cursing him mostly because there were too many witnesses. He was on her Lock Up and Throw Away the Key List. Anyone within spitting distance of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission would be tried. She'd make it a linchpin of her career to see justice done. Or rather Hermione Granger would. Cathal Rosier would be lucky to get a job sweeping the streets after the war was over.
Yaxley didn't speak to her as the hearing wound down. He just sat there between her and the exit as Gustav Max was refused custody of his niece on the grounds he wasn't a British citizen. His advocate objected, citing Cathal's dual nationality in jus sanguinis. The Malfoys' advocate then trotted out her heiress status, stating that while Narcissa was Sacred Twenty-Eight and could be presumed to be unmoved by Cathal's exalted position, the Max family was not. Thus might be tempted to use the young witch for political gain instead of guiding her gently through the shoals of society.
Hermione's poorly suppressed laugh at the pompous phrasing caused everyone to look at her. Mostly out of boredom, she presumed. They'd been at it for more than an hour moving paper back and forth between their desks and the desk of the magistrate, a wizard with a beard like a thorn bush. She was almost sure he'd nodded off at one point during a particularly droning speech.
"Do you wish to make a submission, Miss Rosier?" One of the clerks inquired. He wore a narrow cylindrical hat like a shako denoting he was the Notary of Letters, the person who adjudicated in matters of references and case law. He also acted as stenographer as this was a familial hearing not a civil one. Before a ruling changed anything from the established traditional procedure, it was his responsibility to cross-check it with previous edicts.
"May I inquire as to the legal standing of my mother's guardianship?" Hermione asked, hoping she had phrased it correctly. She'd read a lot about Ministry procedures when helping Hagrid defend Buckbeak but Byzantine did not begin to describe the complexity of the British magical legal system.
Her question caused some diffident parchment shuffling. She hadn't heard anything from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That could be due to the Malfoy post embargo, her status as a minor or because the Aurors had nothing conclusive to say. No one had asked her any official questions. From the inhibited glances exchanged by the advocates, no one was going to fetch the thumbscrews.
"Due to the circumstances of your mother's..." The magistrate spoke up with a disdainful look at the court. He had the air of a man keen to call a spade a tool with a metal blade and a long handle used for digging or cutting earth, turf etc. "Departure." He settled on an acceptable euphemism. "Madam Rosier has been listed as insensate for the purposes of your governance. It falls to her blood kin to petition for clarification of her mortal status."
That was probably the most about the bush beating description of 'missing presumed dead' Hermione had heard. There had been a lot of variations on that theme during the war. Absent was the usual one. Or 'haven't heard from' with a stilted pause because no one had wanted to say dead. They'd all tried not to think about it.
"In that case, I wish to petition for emancipation." She probably didn't have the Galleons to sustain a legal challenge. This ploy was mostly to put the cat among the pigeons, which was a slightly more genteel way of giving the Ministry the Finger.
Some more shuffling happened, this time purposeful. The Maxs were dismissed but the case remained open, which had the unexpected benefit of temporarily suspending Narcissa Malfoy's guardianship pending resolution. Hermione tried not to grin at that. She hadn't realised all custody arrangements were on hold otherwise she would've challenged sooner.
The downside to having no guardian was she became a ward of the Ministry. This entailed being packed off to a poky cottage among rolling grassy hills with a matron and a house elf. The witch tasked with ensuring she didn't run amok was a middle-aged, Muggle-born ex-Auror disinclined to give a pure-blood heiress a millimetre far less an inch.
Hermione wondered if the choice of accommodation and supervision was calculated to make her regret her petition. Probably. Her wand was confiscated. Her belongings, sent from Flint Manor, were inspected for contraband. She was forbidden to leave the cottage although she was allowed to sit in the garden so long as she remained within view of the kitchen window. A needless prohibition as she was fairly sure she had a Tracking Charm on her.
Several things were missing from her belongings. Madam Flint or possibly Marcus had kept back the more esoteric of her books as well as her randoseru with the Undetectable Extension Charm. Nothing had been sent that would raise an Auror's eyebrow although the knives that came with her Potions kit had also been seized.
She was allowed private visits with her Ministry appointed Advocate but no one else. He was constrained by client confidentiality, which he affirmed with a wand oath. Hermione asked him his fee rate then handed over most of what Bole had paid her to secure his services until the beginning of term. He didn't ask where she had got the money. He did tell her the address of the cottage.
If she concentrated on thinking positively about spending a year on the run from Snatchers, Hermione could list her extensive knowledge of British geography in the 'pro' column. She knew now roughly where she was; in the north-western part of the Cotswolds. Heading west, in a few kilometres she'd reach the vicinity of Cheltenham.
Sitting in the garden under a lime tree, Hermione contemplated doing a runner. She could call Moppet and they could hide themselves in the horsey crowd within minutes, giving her enough of a head start to cast concealment wards with her spare wand. The standard Tracking Charm was good to about five metres. More than enough to find her in a field but not as helpful on a crowded Muggle street.
They could do it.
Or she could grit her teeth and sit out the few weeks remaining until term being a good girl doing what she was told. That rankled more than it should. Hermione had run through what felt like a lifetime supply of compliance already. She should have rebelled more, defied more and now she was constrained by the unwritten future she badly didn't want to blot.
If she legged it, hid among the ordinary folk of Gloucestershire then popped up at Kings Cross in time for the Express, what would she gain? Hermione frowned at the book on her lap. A surfeit of smug self-satisfaction at escaping house arrest. Some more time to do illicit things before school. Not much more than that, honestly.
She still needed to get her books for Fifth Year. Hermione asked her warder Mrs Leeson if she could go shopping in Diagon Alley. No, she could not. Could she go accompanied by her Advocate? No. Could she go escorted by Mrs Leeson herself? No. Could she have an owl to shop by postal order? No.
What she could do was wait patiently for the approved Book List, which would be then be forwarded to the Department of Magical Education, where from someone would purchase the necessary supplies on her behalf. There was no need for her to buy anything else or go anywhere. Miss Rosier was to stay in the cottage and mind her manners.
Neither Hermione Granger nor Cathal Rosier took that tone from anyone.
But both witches were patient.
Hermione sat in the garden reading and slogging through Occlumency exercises. She had found one that worked particularly well in compartmentalising emotion. It crystallised, for want of a better analogy, the feeling. That cohesion made the associated memory easier to extract with the Memoria Charm used in tandem with a Pensieve.
MACUSA had an intriguing range of memory potions they used in law enforcement. Some had been superseded by more refined charms but the brewing processes were well documented and had been released to the public. She had researched memory magic extensively, obsessively, before Obliviating her parents.
One of the variant potion media she had been tinkering with since First Year made potions into candy-like hard lozenges. She'd spent a fair amount of time brewing that base as it showed promise for portability and disguise. If she overheated the potion it bubbled, forming hollow glassy spheres instead of solid lumps. Hermione had dropped one of the congealed bubbles and it had shattered impressively, releasing the potions effects. Her laboratory floor had not been in need of healing so the magic had dissipated ineffectually. She'd made note of it, though.
Mrs Leeson allowed Miss Rosier to do her summer homework for Potions. All wand and knife use was carefully supervised and the weapons surrendered afterwards but for the actual fiddly brewing bit the matron left her alone. She had inspected Cathal's supplies and found nothing beyond the expected. Hermione kept all her semi-legal or dangerous ingredients in her lab. She didn't want to explain to anyone why she had enough aconite to kill a giant.
The process was relatively straightforward. Hermione used the Occlumency trick to isolate a memory with an intense emotion. She put the silvery thread into the most banal of the MACUSA potions, having brewed it with the variant base. Then she left it on the heat to boil. Carefully, she scooped out the blown glass bubbles and let them harden in the air.
At an opportune moment when Mrs Leeson's back was turned, Hermione threw one at her to see what happened.
The glimmering sphere shattered on impact leaving an iridescent residue. The contact was a bit more than a soap bubble popping, a bit less than a water balloon. Enough to notice if you weren't distracted. The ex-Auror spun around with her wand up then recoiled as the emotion, fear in this case, took effect. Hermione stood there with her hands empty and arms at her sides as non-threatening as she could project.
Mrs Leeson was suspicious after that and more watchful but she couldn't prove her charge had done anything other than startle her. Miss Rosier was allowed to continue her brewing. Hermione opted to do her actual homework as the matron now watched her from start to finish. The rest of the fearful bubbles she scattered around the cottage to observe their reaction to temperature and humidity.
Her experiment yielded some interesting results. The little spheres were hygroscopic like sugar glass, softening after a few hours into a syrup. The residue could be reheated and reformed with minimal alteration of effect though there was quite a bit of wastage doing so. If chilled with a Freezing Charm, the bubbles lasted significantly longer. And by the end of the summer, Mrs Leeson loathed the sight of her.