The smell of smoke roused her. Hermione coughed, instinctively covering her face. When she smacked herself on the nose she opened her eyes. Her hands were small. Her arms felt like noodles, impersonally unwilling to respond. Her mind at least was sharp. It told her in sequence: smoke, fire, and enclosed space.

She rolled, she couldn't make her legs bend to push herself off the floor, to a woman in a nightgown lying sprawled on the flagstones. Hermione struggled to lift a hand but her limbs flailed as though the messages between her brain and her nervous system weren't connecting properly. She could feel her body just not control it very well.

She put her face next to the woman's, her cheek against the slightly parted lips. No breath. Hermione gritted her teeth, biting her tongue accidentally, and thrashed onto her stomach. The smoke was getting thicker. She couldn't see more than a metre or two. The woman. Stone floors. A stick lying in the groove between two pavers.

On her belly, Hermione crawled swearing with frustration inch by inch closer to the wand that had rolled out of the woman's hand. She got to it, grabbing it in her teeth to shove it into her unresponsive fingers. Something simple, something she could almost will into effect.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Hermione choked out in between bouts of coughing. Her pyjamas lifted themselves. Clumsily, she directed her clothing to the left, picking the direction in which the smoke seemed thinnest. She dragged more than floated and bumped against a wooden wall. Sweating, Hermione tried to prop herself up. Spots of light danced in front of her eyes. She wasn't sure if it was oxygen deprivation or magical exertion.

"Spongify!" Pointing the wand at the wall behind her then jerking herself backwards, Hermione managed to bounce herself roughly sideways, ending up on her front on the floor. She cast the Softening Charm on the stone beneath her and threw her weight against it. The rubbery surface let her fling herself against the wall about a pace ahead. She repeated the process, bouncing herself back and forth along the wall.

Her rationalisation was that in a cellar, a wooden wall would be the most likely to have a door in it rather than the stone walls. She just had to bump along until she found something that rattled. Hermione kept going, coughing and gasping, drained by the effort of casting spells she'd learned in First Year. She was concentrating so hard on the Softening Charm that she missed the change in response from the wall behind her and ended up on the floor staring at the gap.

The witch screwed up her stinging eyes, realising what she was seeing was the undercut between the door and the flagstones. She shoved her face close to the gap, breathing the trickle of fresh air. Good progress. Hermione panted, trying to fill her lungs. Have to get out. She knocked her head against the door as lifting her arm was simply not happening.

No reaction to her touch. Gulping air, she tried an Unlocking Charm. Nothing happened. Hermione swore. She was not going to die of smoke inhalation in a stranger's cellar. Closing her eyes and gripping the wand as best she could, she gathered her magic. It felt familiar, all of it there though without a conduit through her body. The wand didn't help. It was old and poorly attuned. There wouldn't be any finesse.

"Bombarda!" Hermione cast, blasting through the door. The hail of splinters and the rush of air was as welcome as rain after drought. She could see more but the effort of the explosive charm made her woozy. Jocunda had cautioned her about using magic, hadn't she? Right now, everything but getting away from the fire seemed irrelevant. Hermione couldn't bring herself to care if she had made a mistake.

Someone shouted. Something exploded. Boots thundered down wooden steps. A Disarming Charm snatched the wand from her. Bastard, Hermione thought. Soon as she could she was going to get some sort of lanyard to keep her wand, where was her wand, in her hand. Maybe just glue it to her palm, the point along her index finger. She thought that idea was hilarious. She could really give people the Finger that way.

Someone grabbed her. She bit them. It was an automatic reaction. Hermione was not at all in favour of being manhandled. Someone got a fist in her hair, which felt wrong but everything was going vague so she couldn't be sure why she was worried about her hair. Be more worried about the fist, she told herself, and lashed out at whoever was trying to carry her off.

"Stupefy." He said and Hermione went dark.

Hermione woke up with a headache. She winced as she opened her eyes. The light from the window was midday bright and left an imprint on her retina as she blinked. Well, she wasn't in the cellar any more. That was an improvement. Positive thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she didn't cough. Her lungs felt fine. A bit sort of pink like they had after some of the potions she had taken to recover from Dolohov's curse.

She had been healed with magic. That was a promising sign. Hermione sat up to inspect the room. It was small and beige. Off-white walls. Off-white carpet made darker with age and use. A single bed with an eggshell coloured eiderdown. Pale curtains in need of a wash or a cleaning charm. Certainly not a hovel. Possibly a not often used spare bedroom pressed into service for an unexpected guest.

Hermione pushed the blankets off, relieved to see her arms were now listening to her. She touched her fingertips to her thumbs to check her manual dexterity. It seemed in order. She stretched. Nothing twanged alarmingly though she was a bit stiff. Must have been put to sleep magically. Getting out of the bed cautiously, Hermione found her legs were cooperative too.

She padded over to the window and saw only her reflection. When she tried to open it, she found the latch stubbornly locked. Less guest and more prisoner. Hermione did a tour of the room to assess her situation. There was the bed, a chest of drawers, and three doors. She tried the doors. One was locked, one was a closet and the third was a small ensuite, which she used.

The pipes didn't groan and after a fairly short interval she had hot water to wash her hands, indicating the plumbing was modern. The mirror above the sink had been removed though the fittings remained. She checked the vanity. It was empty. So was the chest of drawers. Hermione returned to the window to look at herself and think.

Cathal Machtilde Rosier was about five foot, which was tall for a not quite eleven year old girl. She had straight sandy blonde hair and eyes that were a foggy greenish blue. In Hermione's opinion, she looked like she had faded in the wash. Her teeth were good and she had freckles, which were a novelty for the easily tanned reincarnate witch. She seemed healthy. A pity she had never got a chance to grow up.

Of course, considering her parentage, Cathal might have been a mini-Bellatrix burning to hex Mudbloods. Hermione smiled at her reflection. The expression didn't seem to get as far as her eyes. Staring at herself, she let her face relax. Cathal's resting, neutral expression was a steady look with a downward curved mouth. Likely not the result of a happy childhood.

She was still peering at herself when the door opened without a knock. A witch in a house robe and a wizard in the uniform of an Auror stepped in. He had his wand out while his companion had a meal tray in her hands. Neither of them looked particularly friendly. The witch put the covered tray on the chest of drawers before taking two sharp steps backwards to keep out of the wizard's line of fire.

"That's your lunch, Rosier. Eat it and don't cause trouble, and we'll get on fine." His tone was astringent, just shy of hostile. Hermione studied him. She might have seen him before, maybe as one of the Aurors sent to guard Hogwarts in Sixth Year.

"Where am I?" Hermione asked politely. Her courtesy earned her a sneer from the Auror.

"Never you bloody mind. You'll be staying here until we find someone to foist you onto." He snapped, eyeing her in a way disquietingly familiar to the leer Fenrir Greyback had given her. It wasn't sexual, thank the gods, but it was hungry. The Auror wanted something from her.

"I don't think so." She might have continued the effort at good manners except for that look. She wasn't safe here. Something was going on and it wasn't to the advantage of Cathal Rosier. "Unless I have been charged with a crime, you cannot hold me in custody. You are not my legal guardian, which makes this kidnapping."

"Listen to me, you miserable little brat." The Auror took a step towards her then stopped himself. He relaxed his arms, letting them hang by his sides in a deliberately non-threatening pose. Still with his wand out. "You're here for your own safety. So shut up and behave."

"I will not." Direct defiance was probably not the most effective way of getting information about her situation but Hermione was very interested in his change of demeanour. She didn't think that she, Cathal, was particularly important but she, Hermione, wondered why the Auror hadn't taken her to the Ministry. That would seem the sensible thing to do with an under-age child. "I want my solicitor."

"For Merlin's sake!" The wizard's teeth actually ground. He evidently hadn't interacted much with children before. The witch was watching her with a frown though her gaze seemed to be sympathetic. "You're what nine? You don't have a bloody solicitor."

"My grandfather does. I am his heir." That was a calculated guess on her part. Hermione didn't think the elder Rosier had more than one child and the stone head hadn't mentioned any siblings for Cathal.

"Your grandfather is dead." There was a righteous amount of glee in his statement. The Auror was damn near dancing a jig on Piers Rosier's grave. Hermione could not blame him. Rosier had stayed out of Azkaban by pleading the Imperius.

"His estate will certainly have solicitors. I wish to contact them immediately." Her lack of reaction to the news of Cathal's grandfather's death deepened the quiet witch's frown. Hermione met her gaze calmly, mostly because she had never been able to fake tears. Her parents had not been amenable to emotional manipulation. A reasoned argument about why she needed another book or would prefer to visit the Natural History Museum rather than the V&A, now that had worked. A storm of weeping? Never.

The Auror opened his mouth to shout then stilled himself when his companion put her hand on his arm. He glared before nodding slowly. They left, shutting the door firmly behind them. Hermione investigated the tray on the chest of drawers. A chicken salad sandwich, a banana, and a glass of pumpkin juice. Unlikely to be poisoned.

She was hungry. After some thought, Hermione replaced the cover on the tray. Breaking bread with her captors meant she accepted their hospitality, which she did not want to do. She needed to get to Hogwarts so she could consult with the voice of the school again. Finding out some more about Cathal's home life would be useful otherwise she would be playing it very reticent.

On the theme of not doing what she was told, Hermione checked the exit. The door was again locked. She tried the handle and was relieved to discover no hexes. She was also pleased to note it was a Muggle style doorknob that screwed into place rather than the wizarding style which was bolted on. Unscrewing the knob, Hermione removed the central bar that turned the mechanism. Then she threw the knob at the window.

It bounced off rather than breaking the glass. She had expected that, though she tried again for the sake of thoroughness. Again the knob bounced, skittering away under the bed. The witch weighed the palm width long steel in her hand. She tried the window latch first, seeing if she could pry it open with her new tool.

The sash window was set in a wooden rather than modern aluminium frame and the latch looked of the same vintage. She could wedge the small bar under the rotating bit of the latch to get some leverage but it wasn't enough to pry it off. Hermione kept trying at different angles until her hands were sore then searched the room for another way out.

She moved the lunch tray aside and climbed onto the chest of drawers to have a look at the ceiling. It was smooth, plain and ordinary, leading her to assume it was plasterboard. Launching the door knob at it as hard as she could dented what was indeed plasterboard. Hermione pulled one of the drawers out and used it to smash a bigger hole in the ceiling between the joists. It wasn't possible to work quietly so she worked fast.

Standing precariously on the drawer on top of the chest of drawers gave her enough height to boost herself up through the gap into the attic above just as someone shouted at the door. They tried the knob but it turned uselessly. Hermione ran along the joists as best she could. Fortunately the attic had never been renovated so it was an empty space of insulation and wiring.

She couldn't see well enough to find the crawl hole. Hermione flipped a mental coin. Either she searched methodically by feel or she took the fast way out. The noise of a door slamming open downstairs decided her. Fast it was.

Under the peak of the roof, Hermione jumped as high as she could, coming down onto the plasterboard between the joists. It cracked. Hastily she repeated the jump and crashed through the ceiling into the hallway below. She tried to roll on impact. Her various falls and spills hadn't magically given her gymnastic ability though she did at least land on her hip and backside rather than ankle or wrist. Cathal wouldn't thank her for breaking a bone the first day she had custody of her body.

Hermione got achingly to her feet then sprinted down the stairs, thankful she'd hit the landing not the steps. The front door was right there. She flicked the deadbolt, jerked it open then ran barefoot and in her pyjamas down the garden path. Quite a nice garden with cottage flowers and a wicker arbour. The street was nice too, with trees and a little park she dashed past with barely a glance.

The voice of Hogwarts had promised her an elf. If there was a Fidelius or non-detection ward on the house then no one not included in the ritual could sense her within. Hermione wasn't trying to escape so much as distance herself from any shielding. She dodged into a laneway between two hedged houses, gasped for breath as Cathal wasn't especially fit, then concentrated.

"Voice? Elf?" Hermione called, trying to stir her magic so her signature would be more obvious. Much easier with a wand. She brushed off her sore feet and regretted the absence of shoes too. "Some help please."

A soft pop heralded the arrival of a scrawny little creature in a pillowcase with a Hogwarts badge sewn prominently on the chest. The house elf's ears stood proud of its head like sails and it leaped at Hermione, grabbing her hand impatiently. They disappeared with another pop.

Their arrival in the Shrieking Shack caused an upswell of dust. Hermione sneezed convulsively while the elf fidgeted, finally conjuring a handkerchief for her. She muttered her thanks into the cotton in between paroxysms.

"Miss was hiding!" The elf complained petulantly. "Moppet was looking all over and Miss was not to be found."

"Miss apologises unreservedly." Hermione replied, wiping her nose. "I think there must have been an Auror raid on the cottage. Or possibly some unauthorised spontaneous justice." She hadn't had an opportunity to poke about the place. "A woman I believe is Mrs Rosier was in the cellar. I don't know what happened to her body. The least I can do for Cathal is to ensure her mother's decently buried."

"Moppet will go to Manx land and see, after Miss follows Moppet to the Come and Go Room." The house elf ordered imperiously, holding out her hand to Hermione as though she didn't trust her not to wander off. The witch took her hand and allowed herself to be escorted through the tunnel into the school itself and thence to the seventh floor.

The Room of Requirement modelled itself on Hermione's bedroom at her parents' house. She stood in the centre of the tidy little room and it hit her then that right now her mum and dad were at their dental practise. They were safe and aware of her existence. Eleven year old Hermione was rereading her textbooks or making a list for shopping in Diagon Alley. Naive and hopeful, an innocent little girl.

Hermione lay down on her bed, burying her face in the pillow and cried. Cried as she'd not had the chance to do for weeks. She let out the fear and anger and exhaustion. Harry and Ron were safe for another seven years, or as safe as the Chosen One and a blood traitor could be with the rise of bloody Tom Riddle and his Klu Klux Klods.

Hermione let herself be snottily, gaspingly miserable until her eyes stung and her chest ached. Then she imagined a lavish bathroom like the one the Prefects used. She soaked in the tub. Moppet found her washing Cathal's hair, popping in unannounced with a sack in her thin hands.

"Miss must be told there isn't a cottage any more. It was burned down. All the pretty roses singed." The house elf upended the sack, spilling scorched books and ash-smeared personal possessions on the floor. "This was all Moppet could find. Moppet thinks the Rosier witch used Fiendfyre on her house. Only the downstairs room was not cinders."

"She set fire to her own home?" Hermione ducked her head under the water to rinse off the shampoo then swam over to the edge of the expansive tub. "During a fight or as a pre-emptive?" The house elf shrugged at her question. "It wasn't Fiendfyre in the cellar. I never would've got out if it'd been."

"Moppet thinks the Rosier witch was hurt. Her magic in the downstairs room was fading. Moppet could feel her spells all over the little house. Over and over spells, and fighting spells when the others came." She picked up one of the books. "These was in a big pile on a desk in the hidden room behind the wall. The Rosier witch used a burning spell but it wasn't enough. These didn't want to burn."

"Are you saying Derica Rosier used her last dying strength to cast the Killing Curse on her daughter?" Hermione asked, horrified. The elf shrugged again.

"Moppet doesn't know. Moppet can only feel the magic. The Rosier witch was still there. Moppet put her in the garden under the roses." Snapping her fingers, Moppet summoned a towel, handing it to the witch when she got out of the bath.

"They left her? They took Cathal but left her mother's body?" She wished now she'd asked more questions of her unwilling hosts. The Auror probably wouldn't have answered but the witch with the tray might have. Then again, they'd known who she was. He'd called Cathal by her surname. "What the hell were they thinking?"

"Moppet doesn't know. Moppet thinks witches and wizards don't do much thinking." The house elf observed dryly.