Hermione biddably boarded the Express to leave Hogwarts for the summer. The Slytherins sequestered themselves in several adjoining carriages, not mingling with the other students. The First Years divided themselves between two compartments; girls in one, boys in the other. She whiled the journey away reading one of the many books she had found in the Room of Hidden Things, a slightly tatty treatise on potion media. She had already tried the simple carrier medium formulated to hold a spell in suspension until drunk, which had worked, but the more complex bases looked horrendously fiddly or explosive or both.
When the train slowed to approach Kings Cross station, Hermione put her book away, picking up her randoseru by the straps as she headed out of the compartment. She shrugged her robe off as she went to convey her intention of changing belatedly out of her uniform. Parkinson glanced at the trunk with the initials CMR, which Hermione made no move to collect. The snub nosed girl made no protest at her departure, assuming she would return for her luggage.
Hermione headed to the toilet at the end of the carriage, stepped in and tossed back a potion she pulled from the pocket of her robes. Cathal's already pallid colouring washed out further as the Disillusionment Charm took effect. She promptly stepped back out into the corridor and shut the door as though someone was inside the cubicle. Functionally invisible, Hermione left the Express to merge anonymously with the Muggle crowd.
She headed directly onto another train. The half-hourly service to Leeds whooshed away a few minutes later, with the Disillusionment potion fading shortly thereafter. Hermione hadn't expected it to last particularly long so she had slunk low in her seat trying to keep out of the line of sight of the other passengers. When her skin was no longer the same pattern as the upholstery, Hermione sat up and pulled her book out of her bag.
The calculated loss of her trunk had bought her enough time to get away from Kings Cross. She doubted the Malfoys would expect her to get on a Muggle train and even if they did, the station was one of the busiest in England. Not quite an hour later, Hermione left the train at Peterborough. In the ladies loo, she summoned Moppet and the house elf conveyed her back to Hogwarts.
In the Room of Requirement, Hermione tacked up her work schedule for the summer. She had already started on the Polyjuice and several other potions that would be awkward to explain if she were caught brewing them during the school year. Mostly what she needed to do was research then experiment and not get caught.
Casting the spells needed to finish the Map Project taxed Cathal considerably. Hermione paced herself but still had to spend a day in bed between each stage. She gave herself a week off from magic after she had finished, switching to reading and note taking.
Her map was a single sheet of vellum as fine as onionskin. It could zoom and had a picture-in-picture function with which she was very pleased; it had been a tricky bit of magic. The map showed all the people, house elves, ghosts, and animals in the Castle. Right now Mrs Norris was in Filch's office on a filing cabinet. The GPS part came from the constant updating. She could see when the Room of Requirement was in use and when the Chamber of Secrets was open. Floo connections were bright spots of colour.
She could probably pass NEWT Charms with this project except she couldn't show it to anyone other than Moppet. Hermione sighed. Her need for affirmation would have to go unsated. She touched the lower right hand corner of the vellum and a dialogue box appeared. One of the limits of the Map was that being so keyed to the Castle she couldn't communicate with anyone else. If anyone tried to duplicate the artefact, Hogwarts would instantly know. This map was truly school property.
"Voice, can you hear me?" Hermione asked, bracing herself to be disappointed. Casting through Cathal strained her control of complex charms. Even as her older self, she would have been prepared to have to repeat the spell to get it right.
"Can you hear me?" The Voice asked tartly, audibly frustrated at her previous lack of response. "We have many books we could throw."
"Thank you, that will not be necessary." Her reply was prim. "I'm testing my map. I won't be able to fix any bugs for a little while. Cathal's sturdy but there's only so much energy a child can channel."
"It is enough we can speak. We must plan. Through our connection to you, we know of the serpent though alas when you depart from our demesne that knowledge fades. You must tell us so we have the learning for ourselves." The Voice explained, patient now it was not straining to reach a tiny, ambulatory, and stubborn part of itself. "We wish to know all."
Hermione spent hours talking to an enchanted sheet of calfskin. Doing so helped with the pernicious loneliness as well as giving her new appreciation for the monumental work of magic that was the founding of Hogwarts. The Castle was alive and kept within it psychic echoes of all who had crossed the threshold. A temporal hive mind.
A slightly possessive mind too. Hogwarts did not like Hermione's intention to spend the last week of August in Muggle London. Cathal's lie that she had been staying in shelters needed some physical evidence. It wouldn't be fun or indeed she conceded particularly safe but she would sleep rough if she had to. Hopefully there would be a place at a hostel without too many questions.
Hogwarts tried hard to persuade Hermione not to go. The bulk of the memories imbued into the school were from times where Muggle society was either hostile to witches or miserably abject for everyone. Dickensian workhouses and Jack the Ripper were within living wizarding memory. Welfare and outreach programs were recent enough the Castle had little understanding of them. Muggle-borns rarely stayed on to teach. Indeed, currently on staff the person with the most experience living as a modern Muggle was Severus Snape. Grinding poverty in Cokeworth did not paint a happy portrait.
Their compromise was Moppet accompanying Hermione everywhere. The house elf changed her liveried linen for a plain tablecloth so she could plausibly lie she was a Rosier elf. The face she made when she pretended to change allegiance would have curdled water. Moppet liked being a Hogwarts elf. She did not, not, not want to belong to a Dark family.
London in late August was warm and muggy, with car exhaust and that peculiarly urban grime that made sweating skin feel grubby after ten minutes. Courtesy of the Yellow Pages in a downmarket pub, Hermione had a list of numismatists and a few different hair samples for the Polyjuice Potion. She spent her post-decimalisation coinage and the day junketing on the Tube, strategically accumulating tickets for Moppet to alter the dates. If challenged, Cathal would be able to assert she had spent much of her summer shunting around the metropolis reading books. A safe enough pastime for a schoolgirl.
The older coins, a motley of pence, shillings, farthings, half-sovereigns, and a something she suspected was a groat, went to a dealer in Charing Cross. He was chatty with the old man who came to sell his collection and handed over the better part of eight hundred pounds. The groat was Maundy money from the reign of William IV and worth a bit though it was the gold in the half-sovereigns that buoyed her sale.
After the success of the spare change, the result from the paper money from a shop in Mayfair was disappointing. Being stuffed into pockets or randomly shoved into bookbags then lost did not preserve a note in mint condition. The middle aged man who brought in the collection he'd found in his great-uncle's loft shrugged his shoulders but took the offer of one hundred and thirty five pounds. Hermione used some of that money to buy a collecting guide in the event of future rains of money.
Once she was herself again, she and Moppet sat in Hyde Park under a shady tree to plot. With quite a bit of funds available, Hermione felt bad taking someone's place at a shelter. She would visit a few just to get an idea of where they were and whether an unaccompanied minor would be admitted without Child Protection being called. Then she'd take a train to Liverpool and the ferry to Douglas to make her way to Rose Cottage.
Of course, Moppet could have popped them there instantly but Hermione was building a mental sequence as per the Occlumency primer. She wanted to fill her mind with images of countryside speeding by. Long dull views of industrial towns and suburbia. Shifting seats varied her perspective, hopefully creating the impression of multiple journeys. She had a thumping headache by the time the train reached Liverpool Lime Street station.
The short walk to the Central Loop Line didn't do much to ease the pounding in her temples and she opted not to use the ride to Birkenhead to build further active memories. Taking her chances with a tinfoil helmet was starting to appeal. The ferry and the fresh sea air improved her mood as did Moppet's enthusiasm. Muggles couldn't see the house elf, which was just as well as she was dancing across the railing laughing at the speed of the ship.
Windblown and jaunty, Hermione hired a bicycle with a basket so Moppet could sit in the front to direct her with the IoM map. According to the tourist information, it was about 30km from Douglas to The Cronk. She estimated it would take her about two hours to ride to the cottage assuming Cathal's legs were up for the task. If she couldn't last the distance, Moppet could pop them the rest of the way. Mostly Hermione wanted to be outdoors after spending the summer shut up in the Room of Requirement.
She stopped for a rest and an ice lolly when she got to the seaside, feeling good if puffed. Moppet watched the little children clustered around the ice cream truck then chose a clown popsicle with a bubblegum nose. She proudly displayed her tongue when it turned blue from the food colouring. Of such things happy memories were made.
Rose Cottage was not a happy memory. It looked like a grim reminder. Hermione pedalled up to the burnt out footing. The local council had erected a fence around the site, the faded warning signs suggesting no one had visited for some time. Likely the Ministry of Magic had Confounded those involved in the investigation of the fire at the suddenly appearing house no one remembered being there.
There was nothing left on the ground floor other than the foundations. Even a year of weathering couldn't scour away the scorch marks from the Fiendfyre. Hermione wished she could thank Auror Williamson for braving the blaze to rescue Cathal. Whether or not he was involved in the death of Derica Max, he had got her daughter out. She would have to settle for not appealing against the dismissal of the kidnapping charges.
The Ministry letter had been a notice of the results of a preliminary inquiry into Williamson's conduct. Moving at speed of bureaucracy, the DMLE had assessed there were no charges to be levied. Which was conveyed to her at length along with a patronising assurance she would not need to pay the fees associated with bringing a failed legal suit against an Auror as the inquiry was not an inquest, which might have lead to a hearing that could have resulted in a trial.
Hermione went into the cellar. It had been locked but Moppet shrugged. She had been there before. Rose Cottage knew her, not in the sentient way of the Castle but in the way of all houses to all house elves; a place she was welcome. The Locking Charm only meant she couldn't open the cellar. There was nothing stopping her from appearing on the other side of it with Hermione.
The air smelled of stale smoke, of stillness. Turning on her flashlight, the bike hire company stocked basic camping essentials too, Hermione panned around the stone room that had nearly been her tomb. Cathal had died there. She hoped the girl's spirit had crossed the Veil and found some peace. There were no ghosts in the cellar, nothing at all of interest. Moppet had been thorough but Hermione had wanted to check in case of blood wards or similar magic.
Outside, she paced around the ruins thinking. Evidently Piers Rosier had been the Secret Keeper and had died suddenly. Had Derica been unaware the protection of the Fidelius was gone? Here and there near the cottage Hermione felt the brush of old defences. Most had collapsed with Cathal's mother's death. None reacted hostilely to her.
"Why did she hide? The war was over." Hermione asked Moppet and the universe. Moppet shrugged. The universe continued blithely on towards a nice sunset. She sat down, idly rubbing her sore legs and brushed away tears. The war wasn't over. The war was never bloody over and she had to go back to face the bloody snake. And the bloody Snakes.
"Miss is tired." Moppet offered a handkerchief with quiet sympathy.
"Miss has been fighting for a very long time." She wiped her nose, letting the tears run. Having a good cry helped sometimes. The knowledge things were going to get worse did not. Hermione inhaled shakily. How could she make the future better without risking their success? Slitting Lucius Malfoy's throat would prevent him from giving the diary to Ginny, which would mean the basilisk would stay hidden, which deprived them of its fangs and the venom-imbued Sword of Gryffindor. So the whole Heir of Slytherin ordeal had to happen.
As the night cooled, Hermione considered the roses. They could do with some pruning, grown over-wild and shedding petals in a multicoloured carpet. The task could be done easily with magic except for the Trace. She frowned at that thought, wondering if she had made another assumption. Cathal was twelve but Hermione was eighteen by the calendar and older courtesy of the Time Turner and this loop back into the tapestry. So was the Trace physical, chronological, or thaumaturgical?
She asked Moppet but the house elf didn't know. The Ministry kept very mum about the Trace so it couldn't be suborned. Hermione stood and drew her wand to begin pruning the roses with controlled cutting hexes. She kept the rose hips for use in potions and the intact blooms she gathered in a great bunch heady with perfume.
No one came to interrupt her gardening. No officious letters arrived to chide.
Hardly a conclusive test. The residual wards could suppress detection. If the cottage was an old wizarding residence then the Ministry might assume the owner was the source of the magic. The Trace was enforced sporadically depending on the verve of those on duty. Harry, the Boy Who Lived among Muggles, couldn't sneeze without it being logged but Malfoy and his ilk scarcely registered.
Hermione bundled her harvest for easy transport. Until Cathal could cast an Undetectable Extension Charm, Moppet delivering bulky things to the secret lab was their best option. While she was at the school, the house elf would give Hogwarts a report on their excursion. The witch transfigured the prunings into a tent, took off her boots, and stretched out to rest.
She was still lying there staring at the leaf green cloth above when Moppet returned. Hermione shifted over to make room then resumed her listless contemplation. She was tired and fairly comfortable. This was a purely psychological remnant from her time on the run. This tent smelled much nicer. No one was hunting her. No one was trying to kill her. Indeed, as Cathal, she had a very good chance of not being targeted at all. A pure-blood from a Dark family would be not be Undesirable.
Bastards would probably try to recruit her. Hermione swore very inappropriately for a twelve year old. One of Moppet's lanteen ears perked. The witch apologised for her outburst but didn't trouble the house elf with the cause. It would be years yet before Cathal became useful to the Death Eaters. Even Malfoy, keen as mustard on blood purity, wasn't recruited before he was sixteen.
She must have dozed eventually as she was awoken by the dawn chorus. Hermione got up, found a private spot, dug a hole, transfigured leaves into toilet paper, did her business, Scourgified herself, buried everything, and was dressed again before she was fully awake. The routine was so ingrained even without muscle memory it had been automatic.
Breakfast happened in a café in Douglas. Her legs were sore from the previous day so Moppet popped them back to town. Hermione returned the hired bicycle and wandered around until the first ferry at eleven o'clock. She quaffed Polyjuice and bought a ticket to embark as a sprightly old woman. The senior citizen disappeared into the ladies once she reached the ferry terminus. Hermione collected a variety of pamphlets on what to do in Liverpool then braved public transport to get to a leisure centre. Because anywhere with a public pool had showers.
It was rather fun to trek about. She made notes on places Cathal could plausibly stay before heading to a military surplus store. Hermione bought the cheapest nylon tent they had because memories linked to the smell of damp, musty canvas made her heart race. She strolled into the quiet corner where Moppet had hidden herself. The house elf had been put off by the electronic security system and hadn't wanted to go into the shop.
"Let's try the Trace again." Hermione suggested. "If anyone shows up, pop us away. You can pick where we go this time."
No one showed up.
The witch frowned. She should be glad there was no response. Without a Trace, she could cast spells without Ministry oversight. Perhaps she was too suspicious. Her magic was of age thus it broke the Trace automatically. However she didn't know enough about the Ministry's leash to rest easy with the assumption no reply meant no one had detected her.
"We'll work with the proviso Cathal can be tracked. I don't want to get caught out doing something illicit because I got sloppy." Hermione put her wand away. "You still get to pick."
Moppet had ridden on the rail tube and the going-to-island boat and the pedal machine, all exciting things. She pondered what she would like to see of the Muggle world. She didn't know what there was to see. House elves always had work to do. It was good to work. Making sure nothing happened to Cathal was work. But it was work she could do in interesting places.
At Moppet's request to see flying machines, they took the train to London and the Underground to Heathrow. Hermione got them as far into the airport as she could go without a ticket looking for a good vantage so they could see the planes take off and land. The house elf didn't ask questions, she just stared at the contraptions flinging themselves into the air. The witch watched too, lamenting at a freedom to just leave she did not have.
"What are you doing here?" The educated voice was higher than she remembered it, which was as she discovered when she turned to face him because Justin Finch-Fletchley was six years younger than when they had last spoken.
"Marvelling at what man hath wrought." Hermione replied mordantly. Her tone did not have the expected result on the well-dressed couple standing behind Justin. They seemed amused not offended.
"Aren't your lot supposed to be averse to technology? The candles are bad enough but quills and all that rot." The hearty boy had been looking around for any tiny thing that would alleviate his boredom as his parents continued to debate the qualities of the vintages they had sampled during their trip. Wine he wasn't allowed to drink didn't interest him. Then he seen the house elf. Or thought he'd seen it. The creature was gone now, leaving the witch incongruously alone in the arrivals lounge.
"Simpler objects are easier to transfigure in bulk." She answered instinctively. Justin wasn't academically brilliant but he did well at everything he undertook. A solid ally who had protested when she advised him to get himself and his family out of Britain. He had gone though, taking several other Muggle-born students with him, hosting them gratis at his grandfather's villa in Tuscany.
"I'd wondered at that." Justin heard his mother's soft prompting cough and remembered his manners. "Father, Mother, this is Cathal Rosier. Miss Rosier, may I introduce my parents Andrew and June Finch-Fletchley." He glanced at her warily, his gaze dropping to her wand hand in case she tried to hex. They weren't friends. "We have classes together."
"Oh, are you a Hufflepuff?" June asked, smiling at the fair girl. After a summer of hearing Ernie this and Ernie that, it was a relief to see her son had other chums.
"I'm a Slytherin." Hermione considered causing a scene. There didn't seem to be an easy way to start a ruckus to cover her escape. She doubted a child legging it through Terminal 4 would go unnoticed. "The Houses attend lessons together haphazardly."
"Pairing us with the Ravenclaws so we all look like duffers." Justin muttered, unaccustomed to mediocrity.
"They bog down in minutiae. Get a good understanding of the fundamentals first then worry about the exceptions." She counselled. Behind the Finch-Fletchleys, out of sight of the Hufflepuff, Moppet was weaving about with her arms outstretched mimicking the airplanes.
"Is that what you did?" Justin had heard about the Meadowes twins, the whole school had, and he also knew that a very angry Fourth Year had suddenly stopped brooding about Rosier. Malcolm hadn't confided in him but he'd overheard the older boy talking to a Prefect about his father quite intensely. And then that angst had gone away. Rosier had said something, that much was obvious.
"I work hard and mind my own business." Hermione said pointedly.
"Good advice for anyone." Andrew Finch-Fletchley put a hand on his son's shoulder. "We shouldn't leave our driver waiting. You'll see your friend at school soon." He felt Justin stiffen under his touch and hid a smile. A witch his son knew just happened to be waiting at the airport by pure coincidence at the same time as their flight landed. They'd have a little chat about girls when they got home. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Rosier. I'm sure we'll meet again."
Hermione was the only one who understood how surreal that was.
