He took her directly to Professor Snape, all but grabbing her by the scruff of the neck. Gone was Lupin the kindly Professor. This was Lupin the Marauder taking a serpent to her master's lair. He did pause to knock perfunctorily before shoving open the door of the Slytherin Head's office, dragging Cathal with him. He thrust her into a seat in front of the desk then gripped the back of the chair in case the witch attempted to flee.

"We need to have a word, Severus." Lupin tried to sound less alarmed than he was but to Hermione's ears he failed. He was tired and overwrought from the change. And she was an idiot.

"You may make an appointment, Lupin." Snape's dark gaze flicked to Miss Rosier, who of all things looked sad. Her eyes were on her hands folded in her lap but that was no surprise as she had yet to look him directly in the face. Her mother no doubt had warned her. Glancing to the werewolf, Severus wondered briefly what else Derica Max had shared with her daughter.

"You told her." The werewolf barely kept the accusation out of his voice.

"I did not." A second, longer inspection of the Slytherin witch showed her to have disciplined her features into their usual composed mien. His charges soon looked to control their expressions but rarely so fiercely as Evan's child. She was stubborn and defiant though in a quiet way that rarely brought him trouble. Lucius had been furious at the girl's evasion at the end of term but Severus had not been surprised. Compliance was not a Rosier trait. "Miss Rosier is a witch of considerable enterprise. I would not be surprised if she deduced your little secret herself."

"Yes, Professor." Hermione heard her cue and took it. "On the train, Professor Lupin made a dominance display and the scars on his face are clearly from a Dark creature. I saw him sneaking back into the Castle via one of the secret tunnels just after moonset. He has a newly healed claw wound on his wrist." She'd noticed that when he had fisted a hand in her robe. "The closest place outside Hogwarts to safely incarcerate a werewolf is the Shrieking Shack, which despite its reputation is not haunted."

"And you know that how?" Lupin asked, surprised by her discourse. Evan Rosier had been brutal not clever. A thoroughgoing bastard, and one of Severus's close friends at school, which was why he had assumed conspiracy. If the Slytherins found out, he'd be fired before the end of the week.

"I checked." She replied tersely, returning to Cathal's usual brevity. Hermione didn't want to lecture in their presence as her other self did. This was the year of the 'insufferable know-it-all' jibe. That still rankled.

"What are you going to do when she tells all her friends?" Remus turned his ire onto a more familiar target, who had the temerity to smile thinly.

"You are making an assumption, Lupin." Snape said dryly. "Miss Rosier has put great effort into not having any friends."

Lupin bit back an angry remark. Severus was going to do nothing to curb Rosier. He was pleased one of his own had figured it out even before the first day of class. The two Slytherins sat there quietly smug in a room so full of smells it made Remus's noise itch. The werewolf sighed. When in a pit of vipers, one should expect to be bitten.

"What do you want in exchange for keeping silent?" He asked the blonde witch, knowing there would have to be some sort of payment.

"I will consider it and let you know." Hermione stopped herself before she mentioned the Boggart class. That had been a special lesson after Remus had caught the creature not part of the scheduled curriculum. Once he announced it, she could barter to be excused. It was unlikely her greatest fear was still McGonagall saying she'd failed all her exams and any reference to Voldemort, Harry, Ron, or Hermione would be horrendously difficult to explain.

Professor Lupin left. She stayed in her chair. Professor Snape rested his elbows on his desk and studied her over his fingertips. Hermione stared at her own hands demurely in her lap. She hoped this silent contemplation was done before the start of class. She would quite like some breakfast. But she wasn't going to leave until bidden and she damn well wasn't going to ask.

"Professor Lupin is a Gryffindor. If you attempt to extort him, he will fall on his sword rather than submit." Snape advised, sensing again not particularly much from Miss Rosier. Children of her age usually projected their thoughts and emotions at volume even when not nattering or giggling. Someone had taught her the rudiments of Occlumency. Very likely the same person who had told her about Lupin's curse.

"Yes, Professor." Hermione agreed placidly.

He dismissed her in time for her to grab a hasty round of toast and rush to History of Magic. She didn't actually need to hurry as Binns never took the roll but she wanted a seat at the back so she could read without looking too obvious about it. This year the Slytherins had the class with the Ravenclaws, meaning she wasn't the only one with a covert book. Anthony Goldstein gave her a subtle nod when she walked past. He'd been a recipient of the chocolate and had been too shaken to thank her. She ignored him. He was only a half-blood.

The first Divination class of the year gave Hermione an opportunity to test a charm she had found in the same book as the thauma-luminescent chalk. She rolled her wrist then tapped herself with her wand and murmured 'anosmia' as she walked into the incense fug of Trelawney's bastion. The overpowering funk of patchouli disappeared. The witch sighed with relief.

"Morgana!" Daphne Greengrass was a pace behind her and stifled a sneeze at the heady scents. "You would think a tower would have better ventilation. Surely she can clear this fog with a few breeze charms."

"Ambience." Blaise Zabini remarked as he sauntered into the room, arranging himself at a table in the front where he could stretch out his long legs and flirt with the teacher. His considerable charm ensured he got good marks in most classes taught by witches, a notable exception being Transfiguration.

"Miasma." Daphne countered, heading to a table near a window in a vain hope of some air.

Hermione sat up the back, joined there by Millicent Bulstrode when she shifted tables to keep from sitting with one of the Ravenclaws. Neither House had enough students to fill a full class so they had been combined, an indication of their common sense as far as the reincarnate witch was concerned. She did believe there was something she could glean from Divination if not Trelawney's instruction.

The tea was terrible; stewed and lukewarm. Hermione poured out most of the pot onto a ratty cushion before cleaning it up with a Tergeo. No drips, no puddles, and no evidence. She filled their cups with the dregs. Bulstrode grimaced at the sepia liquid then gulped a few mouthfuls for the look of the thing. They downed the last, swirled, upended the cups, and cleared their minds of preconceived notions to allow the inchoate future to form within their third eyes.

When Hermione inspected the scattered blobs she saw exactly what was there. Tea leaves. She turned the cup so the handle was pointed towards her as she was the questioner and let her imagination make shapes. It helped that she had read the textbook and knew the meanings. Divination was so much easier when you could work backwards.

"What do you See, child?" Trelawney warbled as she did a circuit towards their table. She blinked owlishly through her glasses as Bulstrode and Rosier eyed each other. Neither wanted to go first. "Come now, reveal and understand."

"Seven stars." Hermione displayed her cup of anonymous blobs. "Grief."

"You know the sign? Have you been beset by the ill tides of Fate?" The Seer's portentous voice raised in volume so the rest of the class could hear.

"Yes, Professor." The bland reply did not seem to thwart Trelawney's ominous portents. She went on a long ramble about opening oneself to the currents of the unknown and stumbled her way down to her armchair. Behind her back, Bulstrode made a 'drinky, drinky' gesture. The Slytherins stifled laughter while the Ravenclaws looked censorious.

Her No Smell Charm thankfully lasted until the end of the lesson, fading as she climbed down the ladder out of the classroom allowing her to appreciate the comparatively fresh air of the stairwell. Behind her several students gulped or sneezed. Most of the Slytherins were occupied with complaining about Trelawney, allowing Hermione to slip away to Muggle Studies without comment.

Professor Burbage seemed surprised by the presence of a green tie among the throng of yellow and red but she didn't call particular attention to the lone Snake. Hermione Hermione came in late and did stare at Cathal Hermione, which caused the latter some existential discomfort. Fortunately her younger self was more intent on finding a seat than goggling at a Slytherin.

An Introduction to Muggle Life happened. Hermione made notes slowly in German. She had been practising sporadically with the aid of translation charms and had achieved a workable understanding of the written language. If she wanted to learn to speak properly she'd need to find a Muggle conversational club or an instructional spellbook. Magical folk preferred to learn languages from tutors.

The first day of school was pleasantly dull and Hermione sat through dinner with most of her attention on fractional distillation while wondering whether she should get a book on chemical reactions to better understand the process without magic. Her auto-pilot was abruptly switched off when Flint dropped onto the bench beside her, elbowing Nott aside.

The Third Years turned to watch the team Captain pour himself and Rosier a glass of pumpkin juice from the same carafe. He took a mouthful, set the goblet down, and levelled a hard look at Malfoy. Then Flint handed the young witch a crumpled piece of parchment before striding off. Message delivered without saying a word.

Care of Magical Creatures was the same farce she remembered. Bloody Malfoy incapable of basic courtesy had badly shaken Hagrid. It was flobberworms for the Third Years. Fortunately for the NEWT students, they could opt for their own projects. Marcus had chosen to tend unicorns as they were a challenge for a wizard no longer a virgin. He invited Cathal along after dinner as further sign of his patronage.

They trekked out to the edge of the Forbidden Forest where Hagrid had penned a nursing mother and her foal. The mare had a long infected wound on her flank likely from an acromantula. Because she was ill, her baby wasn't feeding well. They both needed tending but were restive if Hagrid or Marcus came too close. Hermione tried to coax the colt over to the fence with carrots but he shied away from her, which answered a conundrum she'd mused over.

Cathal was physically pure, as indeed had Hermione been before her reincarnation, but that wasn't enough. Innocence wasn't about a tiny piece of tissue. Innocence was a state of mind and Hermione thought she had lost hers the moment she had seen Harry reappear with Cedric's corpse. She had certainly understood what she was doing when she led Umbridge to the centaurs.

"They're both skittish." Marcus watched the foal skip away on his ridiculously spindly legs and mentally kicked himself. He had assumed... and now it was awkward. He wasn't kin, he couldn't ask and if she'd been hurt, he was a bastard for rubbing it in her face.

"They can sense Dark Magic, and after Quirrell I don't blame them for keeping their distance." Hermione saw a little of the conflict in Flint's head. He wasn't trying to be cruel to Cathal or test her. "Ritual purity is in the mind. You should cite that in your final report. Hagrid can pen unicorns and he's in his sixties."

"Practising your Legilimency, Rosier?" Flint asked on a dry laugh, trying not to show how relieved he was to have dodged that conversational curse.

"People are a fascinating study." She shrugged and went back to trying to show the unicorns she wasn't a threat. Marcus explained as he changed the water in their trough and added some Vitamix potion that patience was the key to building a rapport. With the previous injured unicorn, an older stallion, he had come out to the pen every day for five months before he could approach the creature. It would be years before the herd recovered from their losses, years more before they trusted a wizard again.

Trust was important. When she noticed a large black dog nosing around the groundskeeper's hut, Hermione smiled. She pointed him out to Flint and Hagrid, who hustled them out of his yard with all the subtlety of a cosh to the head. The Slytherins shared a conspiratorial grin. Both of them could competently identify a Grim when they saw one. Marcus smiled because he was amused by the half-giant's new pet. Hermione smiled because now she could sneak food to Padfoot.

Cathal Rosier had a sneaking rota. Hermione knew herself to be organisationally obsessive and had let herself devise a schedule as reassurance. She had potions, authorised and not, to check and acres of the dungeons to survey. On Astronomy nights, she had a plausible excuse for being out of bed. Unfortunately, Percy Weasley took his duties as Head Boy very seriously. The Prefect patrol roster dovetailed with Filch's student-hunting patterns, keeping Hermione on her toes.

Her Map helped but avoiding being caught sent her on time-consuming, frustrating detours. She spent an hour bailed up behind a display case because the Sixth Year female Ravenclaw Prefect had got into an argument with her Fifth Year male counterpart right in the middle of the Hieroglyphic Hall. The only thing keeping her from being seen was a collection of seventeenth dynasty papyri.

By trial and error she plotted the usual haunts of her fellow students. Some of them she could even time as the Seventh Years regarded pretty much everything taking them away from their studies as a waste. Even the threat of an escaped murderer seemed distant compared to the NEWTs. Black wasn't out to get them so they hustled through their patrols and were not curious.

The teachers on the other hand were exasperating. Snape slept odd hours and stalked the corridors incessantly. Probably looking for Harry and Ron based on past experience. Lupin also prowled. Professor McGonagall checked periodically likely for her own peace of mind. Trelawney roamed erratically. Various of the other teachers either left or returned to Hogwarts from extracurricular events. They were all watchful. They all remembered the last war and its toll.

Curfew extended from ten pm to six am, with interest sharply tailing off at about four thirty in the morning. Hermione used this to her advantage to be up and chalking in the early hours. This regrettably was also the Castle's cats' breakfast time. It was inevitable that eventually a squashed orange nose would intrude in her business. One morning when she was heading out to Hagrid's hut with a bag of sausages, Crookshanks sauntered up to her with a loud, accusatory meow.

"I am technically allowed out." Hermione excused her excursion to not-her-cat. The half-kneazle blinked slowly at her, parking himself a pace from her feet in an unmistakable roadblock posture. "I don't need a chaperone."

Crookshanks mewed at her plaintively. She crouched down and offered him her hand to sniff. He did then made a face with a low yowl. Hermione withdrew her hand, blinking away tears. Hermione's familiar could sense her magic. The Time-Turner was confusing enough for the marmalade but having two witches feeling the same but smelling different was worse. He was most seriously displeased and took himself off with his bottlebrush tail bristling.

Hermione cried there in the Entrance Hall. Alone. No one came to comfort her. No one mocked or cleared their throat or made a feeble joke. She cried until her throat hurt then pulled herself together. A quick Scourgify and a few sniffles saw her fit to be seen in public. Shouldering her way through the doors, she headed to Hagrid's hut telling herself all the way that it was a good thing Crookshanks didn't like Cathal's scent. She didn't want to be accused of trying to nick a Gryffindor's pet.

A large shaggy dog lay on the steps, concealed in plain sight. Most people were so accustomed to Fang and to random hairy beasties loitering around the groundskeeper's home they didn't look twice at a dog. He would have to make himself scarce during the day lest Professors Lupin or McGonagall see him but at least he had a safe place to sleep. Padfoot lifted his head as she approached, a low rumble of warning resonating in his thin chest.

"Don't take that tone with me." Hermione said tartly. "I've come all this way to bring you breakfast because a dog cannot live on rockcakes alone." She stopped about five paces away from the hut and held out the canvas bag Moppet had given her before rushing away to short laundry. Magic made people very picky about being given someone else's shirt by mistake. "Sausages. Some of them are even venison."

That got Padfoot off the steps. He edged forward as though expecting to be kicked then bit into the bag, jerking it out of her hand to drag it away. He wolfed down half the contents while keeping an eye on her. Hermione stood still, her eyes on other things than the animagus himself so she wouldn't seem threatening. He'd spent so long in dog form the canine instincts were, well, instinctive. A direct stare was a challenge.

"There's probably not room enough for you, Hagrid, and Fang in that hut. I expect you all snore." Hermione said to the pumpkins. "And he'll have to pen Buckbeak here now Malfoy is being a princess about getting scratched." Padfoot growled, baring his teeth at mention of the Death Eater family. "I quite agree. Try sharing a Common Room with the prat."

The animagus looked at her in surprise, yawing his head from side to side trying to get a better look at her tie or the trim on her jumper. Dogs could see blue and yellow but had trouble with red and green. She edged forward and dropped a shoulder towards him so he could see the snake on her House badge. He sneezed as though he had smelled something bad.

"Slobber, delightful." Hermione brushed drool off her sleeve. "You may keep your criticism to yourself, considering you are a hound of ill omen." She took a stride backwards then sat down on the grass. "The Minister has Dementors all over the grounds. They'll come closer in once the weather gets colder, and they'll be hungry enough not to be choosy."

Padfoot whined, shrinking down into the grass. The guards of Azkaban might not be able to as easily feed off an animal's mind as a human's but their aura enervated everything. Hermione made a mental note to order more chocolate. The combination of an underground dorm, long nights, and Dementors would send Slytherin House into a depth of angst to rival Zapffe.

"The new greenhouse has a shed that doesn't lock." She remarked and when a full stomach gave Padfoot enough energy to remember to pretend he didn't understand every word she was saying, she pretended to be talking to the clouds. "I was thinking of moving some of my work in there. I should test from fresh leaves. I need permission from Professor Sprout, though." Hermione got to her feet and dusted off her skirt. "I'll see if I can catch her after breakfast."

She left the bag and the remaining sausages as Padfoot really did look half-starved. If she got out of this unmerry-go-round alive and sane, she'd campaign for judicial reform. No one should be locked up without trial. Hermione expected that stance might be unpopular coming from a Rosier. Perhaps she would have to suggest it to her other self, assuming they ended this war on speaking terms. Mumbling madly to each other in the Janus Thickey Ward didn't count.