Hermione had planned to use the time until the start of term to revise her First and Second Year spells to harmonise herself with her new body. What she mostly did instead was sleep. Physically, after the bruises faded, Cathal was fine. It was the spirit inside that was spent. Being the Chosen One's stalwart companion had taken a lot out of her. She slept and ate the food Moppet smuggled in and recuperated.

It was her Hogwarts letter fluttering into existence that jolted Hermione out of her hibernation. Miss C. Rosier had things to do. She opened the envelope and read the list with a goofy little smile. The anticipation of returning even as someone else lit a candle of joy within her. The receipt of her own letter remained her Patronus memory. She loved the school.

The voice wasn't speaking to her yet, though. Hermione had asked Moppet and had received another of the house elf's resigned shrugs. Such things were beyond the ken of sensible folk. Moreover, such things were beyond the responsibility of sensible folk so no one was going to yell or complain if the aforementioned simply got on with their work.

The moment she touched the letter there was a faint buzz in her head like a poorly tuned radio. Hermione closed her eyes to concentrate. The noise became the school song, indicating she presumed a connection had been made. She tried to reach out to the source and jumped as something pinged off the back of her head. Opening her eyes, she picked up a badge. A Head Girl's badge.

"I missed out on that." Rubbing a thumb over the tarnished silver, Hermione noticed the green enamel. "Slytherin? You want this for Rosier?" A bell like the one for end of class chimed in her head. "I was thinking of being an unremarkable Hufflepuff. Of not emphasising that her family were all apparently raving lunatics."

She received no reply. Her inchoate plan was to keep to the tunnels as much as possible, to map them. Hermione had got the impression from the fleeting moment before she had woken up dead(ish) that the event had started underground. There had been an earthquake before the blast wave. No one would have had a chance to conduct a ritual above ground without someone else interfering belligerently.

"No one notices Hufflepuffs, and I'm loyal. Through good, bad, thick, thin, and bloody." Hermione asserted. No one else had stuck with Harry just for Harry, to help the boy who had been dealt a shitty hand. Another badge appeared out of nothingness, dropping onto her shoulder. She fumbled then caught it. A prefect's badge. "Pansy was the female prefect for Slytherin. Though how she managed that with her grades, I don't know."

A copy of Cantankerous Nott's Pure-Blood Directory thumped onto her bedside table. Somehow the unseen spirit of Hogwarts managed to convey dismissive disdain with a single thump. The cover of the book was foxed if not badgered. Hermione had read the book in hopes of better understanding the attitude of the 'elite of wizarding society'. It had strongly reminded her of a Crufts pedigree manual.

"The Parkinsons are in there, I know. So are the Greengrasses and I'm fairly sure Daphne had better marks." Hermione watched as the book flopped open, the pages riffling to the entry for the Greengrass family. She read it again and noted an inclusion that had been edited out in the publicly available copy she had purchased. "An inherited curse?"

The book shut quietly, conveying the matter was closed. With Davis and Bulstrode half-bloods, Hermione could understand why neither of them were selected. The Greengrasses only had the two daughters, if she recalled correctly. Courting a curse to endanger one of them just to be a Prefect wouldn't have been a risk she would have taken. Of course, had her family been subject to dangerous ancestral magic, she would have fixed it PDQ.

"I still think Hufflepuff would be more sensible. I don't want to spend years spouting blood purity nonsense and looking down my nose at people. Parkinson did that so often I'm amazed she could see where she was going." Hermione dodged when the Pure-Blood Directory flung itself towards her. "Fine, alright. We need a better communication method than you throwing things at me."

The Room of Requirement was silent. Hermione dusted off the book with a reproachful look at the walls. The Directory might be drivel but it was valuable. She had firm views on the respect due to the published word. Once a society started disdaining knowledge, the descent began. Burning books made her shudder. Which reminded her of the trove Moppet had brought from the Rosiers' cottage.

Hermione sat at her desk to make a list of everything she needed down to spare socks. She had no idea about Cathal's financial situation. She would have to go to Diagon Alley to Gringotts or, if she couldn't prove her identity to the goblins, to Knockturn Alley to sell some of the trinkets Moppet had found. Most of her supplies she could probably find in the Room of Hidden Things. She'd look like she'd dressed at a jumble sale but really all she needed was seven Galleons for a new wand.

"Moppet?" Hermione called, tapping her ratty quill against the scavenged parchment. The house elf had brought her basic school supplies so she could study. There was no point making notes if they disappeared when she left the Room.

"Miss is getting out of bed before noon today?" Her tone suggested this was a marvellous occurrence.

"Miss is getting off her arse, yes." She couldn't call herself enthusiastic but she wasn't running on the smell of an oily rag any more. "Can you take me to Diagon Alley? Will anyone notice if you're gone for the day?"

"No one notices elves." Moppet echoed the witch's words with rather more poignancy. "Headmaster could call Moppet if he needed Moppet but Headmaster is out. Deputy Headmistress doesn't bother elves. Moppet can take Miss, if Miss wears not her pyjamas."

"They're clean. You clean them every day when I wash." While Hermione was much obliged by her help, the suggestion she was slopping around in her own grot was a little offensive.

"Miss is a servitor of Hogwarts, near as. Miss finds some dignity. And some robes." The house elf advised. The witch regarded her sourly. The castigation was mild. The sass was patent.

Hermione did what she was told. She gathered her scant belongings and stepped out of the Room of Requirement. She paced back and forth three times in front of the door then opened it, walking into the Room of Hidden Things. She could have asked Moppet to purloin some clothes from one of the Professors but that would get the house elf into trouble. Hermione would rather scavenge something than have her only ally punished.

All the unclaimed lost and found items in Hogwarts ended up eventually among the Hidden Things. She started systematically opening wardrobes and cupboards. The variety of objects misplaced in the school was astonishing. In the first minute, Hermione found a croquet mallet, hot pink leg warmers, a ball of elastic bands bigger than her head, and a nest of Glumbumbles, which she saw off with the mallet.

A black randoseru apparently misplaced by an exchange student from Mahoutokoro was a lucky find. She transferred Cathal's belongings from the burlap sack into the leather backpack and snapped the cover closed. With some persistence, she found a pair of Quidditch boots that fit and more left socks than she would need in a year. Trousers, an extremely paisley shirt, bloomers with a blue lace trim, and a grey robe with pewter buttons completed her ensemble. Everything fit well enough she didn't look like she'd stolen her clothes off a washing line. Hermione tied back her hair with one of the elastic bands then exited the Room.

Moppet smuggled her out of Hogwarts via the secret passage on the fifth floor behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. It led to a hidden door in a tree near the Black Lake, still within the Apparition boundary but inconspicuous enough they could cross the wards out of the sight of the Castle itself. Moppet took her hand and popped them away.

The first Saturday in August saw Diagon Alley busy with shoppers wanting to avoid the last minute rush before the school year began. Hermione and the house elf appeared in a nook behind the jellied eel shop in Carkitt Market rather than the Alley proper. She didn't mind the diversion as it meant they could slip down a lane around the back of Gringotts without having to traverse the heavily trafficked streets.

Moppet hung back out of sight as Hermione approached the high counters. The goblin glanced up from his ledger. He did not look impressed. She was not surprised neither was she daunted. Lifting Cathal's chin, she looked the teller directly in the eye and spoke confidently.

"I am Cathal Machtilde Rosier, daughter of Evan Rosier. I would like to inquire whether there is a vault in my name." Hermione had debated strategy with herself before opting to be forthright rather than brash. She could have bluffed it out and demanded access to her family's funds but for all she knew the Ministry could have frozen the Rosier accounts. The Aurors had been at Rose Cottage for a reason.

"Do you have any proof of your name?" The goblin wrote something in the ledger. Hermione handed over her Hogwarts letter shy of its envelope as she didn't want to answer awkward questions about why her letter had been delivered to the Room of Requirement. "This confirms there is a Cathal Rosier, not that you are she."

"I am prepared to swear a blood oath." She asserted. A witch or wizard would likely have objected at this point, citing that under-age children couldn't swear oaths. The goblin did not object for he was doubtless aware children younger than seventeen could swear non-binding blood oaths. The legalism was a legacy from apprentice contacts, which Hermione had read up on when trying to find a way to get Harry out of having to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. No knowledge was ever wasted.

The teller placed a parchment sheet in front of her and handed her a long dark feather. Hermione recognised the writing implement for what it was; a blood quill. It wasn't a replica of the Black Quill Umbridge favoured. This one was lighter, its shaft less decorative. This was an utensil for a purpose other than torture.

She still hesitated.

Fucking Umbridge was alive and free and in a position of power and due to infest Hogwarts in five years. Hermione breathed in slowly, unclenching her fists. One of her selves would see that toad sent to Azkaban, she promised herself. And this quill was a different quill. This quill she could refuse to use. This quill was incidental.

Her signature on the parchment was far from an exemplar of penmanship. The stiff letters cut into the back of her hand healed instantly leaving only a stinging itch. Hermione returned the quill to the goblin and did NOT touch her hand. She ignored the itch, tucking the memory away as a memento to keep her focussed. She had a second chance to fight the forces of darkness. That was something to treasure.

The teller took the signed parchment away leaving Hermione to fret in the low-grade inevitable way everyone worried when waiting on the whim of bureaucracy. If she were shown the door, she'd try Borgin and Burkes. If she didn't have any luck there, she'd hunt about in Knockturn Alley for a pawn shop. If that didn't work then she'd shake sofa cushions in the Room of Hidden Things until she found enough loose change to buy a wand.

She could ask the school for help but putting her hand out for money cheapened her mission. Last resort, she could plead penury and ask the faculty for aid. Hogwarts did have a fund for indigent students. Hermione didn't want to use that option as it would take gold away from genuinely disadvantaged children. She could manage alone.

The teller returned and bade her follow him to a posh office with an enormous desk, behind which sat a stocky goblin in a three piece pinstripe suit. Hermione didn't need to look at the name plaque to know Harnak was a vault supervisor. His suit radiated 'manager' with the added suggestion of too many puddings.

"Miss Rosier, you present us with a conundrum." He gestured for her to sit. Hermione complied and quietly waited for the banker to elaborate. Her expectant silence seemed to strike the right note with him. "You are who you say you are but the only record we have of any issue of Evan Hugh Rosier is a single entry eleven years ago acknowledging the birth of a daughter. No other correspondence has been lodged on your behalf since."

"My mother raised me under the Fidelius. We did not entertain." Hermione provided what could be termed an explanation. To her it sounded like she was basically saying she'd lived under a rock for a decade and shouldn't be trusted with cutlery.

"The executors of your paternal grandfather's Will have not submitted any documentation with us. It is our understanding that they cannot enter Rosier Hall until the Curse-Breakers finish deactivating a very extensive mesh of wards. The late Piers Rosier was extremely security conscious." Not a twitch gave away Harnak's opinion of Cathal's grandfather. He could have been discussing what he had eaten for lunch.

"May I ask how my grandfather died?" Hermione inquired.

"You may." Harnak allowed.

"How did my grandfather die?" She reiterated, having expected the pedantic use of language. Goblins were disinclined to give an inch in their dealings with wizarding folk.

"He died of a schism of the heart, the same malady that killed his father." He provided the information blandly, watching her reaction. Hermione made a mental note to have herself examined in case Cathal had the same congenital condition. "His decease makes your guardianship problematic. In order for you to access your vault you require a blood relative who is a British national of good repute."

He pulled a scroll out of the rack behind him and unrolling it on the desk pointed with a long finger to a lonely twig on a cross-grown bramble of a family tree. His talon traced up the branch to Evan Rosier (deceased) then Piers Rosier (deceased) and Siglinde Selwyn (Azkaban) then further up to Hugh Rosier (deceased) and Jacoba Shafiq (deceased). His finger slid down to another child of Hugh and Jacoba, Piers's twin sister Druella (incapacitated).

"Your great-aunt Madam Druella Black neé Rosier has been a permanent resident of the Janus Thickey ward for some years. She is not mentally fit to act as your guardian." Harnak diverted back to Siglinde Selwyn. "Your grandmother was sentenced to life in prison. As was her late brother and his only son." He slid up to Jacoba Shafiq. "Your patrilineal great-grandmother specified in her Will that none of her descendants unto the fifth generation be given into the custody of the family of her brother. She considered him a blood traitor. In any case, none of the living Shafiqs are currently resident in Britain."

"Narcissa Malfoy neé Black." Hermione was familiar with the Black family tree. Druella Rosier had married the thirteen year old Cygnus and had three daughters with him in quick succession. Bellatrix was in Azkaban, Andromeda was disowned, and O frabjous day that left Narcissa. "My first cousin once removed."

"Correct." Harnak tapped a name above Narcissa. "Madam Malfoy's father Cygnus is of poor health and has ceded much of his responsibilities to his youngest daughter. Including the duties of executor of your grandfather's considerable estate."

"You said executors, plural." She was trying to calculate how much money she actually needed to survive seven years of schooling and whether she could afford to blow off Cathal's family entirely. Hiding out in the Castle all year round was pretty appealing when juxtaposed against the Malfoys.

"Lucius Malfoy, husband of Narcissa, is also an executor. As is Sholto Selwyn, son of your grandmother's brother, though his incarceration precludes him from discharging the office." The goblin regarded the witch child shrewdly. Harnak was adept at reading the faces of his clients. This young one was not a waif searching plaintively for sanctuary. "You could write to the Shafiqs to request they petition the Wizengamot to set aside the custody provision of Jacoba Rosier's Will."

"That sounds expensive." Hermione knew the Shafiqs only as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. They were politically neutral and had sensibly decamped to foreign shores during the First Wizarding War. She couldn't blame them.

"It would require significant campaigning." Harnak felt no need to say outright the Shafiqs would need to resume their Wizengamot Seat and bribe several of their fellows to overcome the coercion the Malfoys would level to retain custody of the Rosier heiress. The chit was clever, and apparently disinclined to kick against the pricks. "You attain your age of majority in six years, at which time the Rosier vaults become yours unconditionally."

"Could I emancipate myself? Or appoint my own guardian?" She asked the pragmatic questions and did not give into the urge to stick her middle finger up at the inbred knot of Cathal's ancestry before storming out of the bank.

"You could, if you had means to pay an advocate to petition the Wizengamot. However, the executors would still have control of your grandfather's estate. After his death, your father's vaults were returned to his father's control. Your mother emptied her dower vault the day after she was widowed. No vault was established in your name." He studied her face as he spoke, noting the hardening set of her mouth. Not greed. Anger.

"What do you know of the Maxs?" Hermione wasn't going to skip the country. She might be able to play off Cathal's maternal relatives against her paternal kin. It wasn't about the money per se. She did not want to have the Malfoys as her legal guardians in any capacity.

"A once proud lineage sadly diminished. They never recovered from their involvement in Grindelwald's War. They have no vaults within the purview of the British branch of Gringotts. I cannot comment on their holdings within other branches of our bank." Harnak could find out more if requested. For a fee. He waited for Miss Rosier to ask him to contact her mother's family.

"Are you required to notify Narcissa Malfoy of my visit here?" She inquired as an idea formed in her mind. If she could find Mundungus Fletcher, she could sell some of Cathal's mother's jewellery to him. He was a shady opportunist and a coward but he wasn't as unscrupulous as Borgin.

"I am not." He considered the child. "You are an orphan with no means of support. Where are you living?"

"With Muggles." Hermione lied promptly. "They have shelters for homeless people." She stood up and bowed politely. Magical folk did not shake hands, something no one had told her until Viktor had given her a few etiquette lessons. Every time she had stuck out her hand trying to be courteous she had come across as uncouth.

The banker dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Hermione headed out of Gringotts. Moppet waved to her from behind a wonky pillar, falling into step with the witch. They blended into the crowd not discussing their errands where they could be overheard. A shake of the head was all the house elf needed to understand the visit to the bank had not gone well.

Their excursion did not notably improve once they got to Knockturn Alley. Hermione scanned the grubby street for the thief without success. She weighed up the benefits of checking the bars for him then decided it wasn't worth trawling through the filth. Skirting a bevy of hags, Hermione shoved open the heavy door of Borgin and Burkes.

The shop smelled of mould with a waxy, organic undernote like rot. Keeping her arms tight against her sides, Hermione slid past displays of cured heads and ritual fetishes determined to touch nothing. The counter was unattended, giving her a moment to sort through the jewellery that had survived the fire at Rose Cottage. She shut her eyes and picked the piece that felt the most wrong, choosing a circular brooch inlaid with red gems.

Thirsty red gems. Hermione rubbed a thumb cautiously over one of the crimson stones. A draw, a pull, something that tugged through her. The jewel looked a little brighter and she felt tired. Ah, a reservoir. The Dark Arts didn't lend itself to healing magic but there were ways to put something away as insurance. A piggy bank for blood. Dark, because the donor did not have to be willing.

A useful object. Hermione considered keeping the brooch. Inevitably, she was going to get hurt this go around. She didn't need to wear the pin openly for it to function. Tucking it away on a singlet or similar would do. Who would know it for what it was? Snape would. McGonagall might. Dumbledore definitely would. She had guessed its purpose so any older Years might too.

When Borgin finally emerged from the backroom to oil his way to the desk, Hermione slid the brooch across to him. He barely glanced at it, making a shooing gesture to convey his disinterest in her and the gewgaw.

"I would like to sell it." Hermione stated, her eyes on his hands. She didn't trust him. Fortunately she didn't have to deal with his partner Burke. Any man who would cheat a desperate, pregnant witch was beneath contempt.

"If I had a Galleon for every bit of tat a brat with sticky fingers tried to pawn off on me, I would be Croesus." His fingers strayed near the brooch. Hermione covered the piece with her hand, keeping it from disappearing into his pocket.

"Perhaps." She lifted her eyes to his and found a sneer to share. "But I am a Rosier and I have a very good memory." The unctuous quotient of his demeanour increased markedly with her name-drop. The brooch was worth more than a hundred Galleons on materials alone. Borgin gave her fifteen for it. Hermione didn't bargain. She took the money and left.

Ollivanders was empty, which was lucky as the shop was so tiny more than two people in it was a crowd. Moppet followed her in then poked about the shelves, her nose almost pressed to the boxes of wands. Hermione sat in the lone chair wondering whether the wizarding world had a problem with shop-stealing. There were Anti-Theft jinxes and hexes but a competent person could break those. She began counting quietly, estimating how long it would've taken her to tamper with the till.

A theoretically profitable interval later, the creaking stairs heralded Garrick Ollivander. He smiled at her in an abstracted way as though he had just forgotten why he had come downstairs. Whatever had been on his mind was discarded for the sake of uniting a magical child with her first wand; a delight that never palled.

The lustre was starting to come off the process fifty wands later. Ollivander muttered to himself as he pulled wands out of boxes, handed them over, watched them spit or sit dully in the young witch's hand, then returned them to the shelves. Difficult matches were intriguing. He thought they might have some success with holly but despite matching the girl's birthday none of those wands worked for her. She was on the cusp between holly and hazel so he tried the diviners' wood too, and still nothing.

Ollivander mused on the dichotomy of what he had measured and what he had seen. Not one thing or the other. That was hawthorn, adept at both healing and cursing. He tried the three Supreme Cores, unicorn hair, phoenix feather, dragon heartstring, expecting something. What he got was every candle in the shop extinguishing itself. Staring at the wisps of smoke ghostly and ephemeral gave him an idea.

"My father made many wands with many different cores. Finicky, most of them. I don't use anything but the best though I think in your case something a bit different might be necessary." Ollivander pulled a casket out from under the counter, kept there mostly as curiosities for collectors, and rummaged through the bundles of wands. He found a lone stick of hawthorn. "Ten and three quarters, with a core of banshee hair. For the unwelcome and the harbingers of ill fortune."

Garrick Ollivander never rued selling a wand, not even when those wands did terrible things at the will of their wielders. He had put walnut in the hand of Bellatrix Lestrange and yew in the hand of Tom Riddle. When he saw the girl swish the wand to light a blown candle, he sighed. An unlucky wand for a troubled child.

"That will be seven Galleons, and my regrets, Miss Rosier."