Hermione spent three days together at the end of August cleaning up the potion laboratory at Flint Manor. She bottled all her projects then scoured everything, by hand if necessary. The work helped her get into the proper frame of mind for another year of school. Her first go at Fourth Year had been fraught with worry for Harry and being Piggy in the Middle during his discord with Ron. This time around she could ignore all that and concentrate on her own work. The prospect did not particularly cheer her.
On the first of September, Madam Flint with Hermione took the Floo to the upper floor of a well-appointed house in London. The rooms had been opened up, making one large space around the staircase for arrivals. Eglantine levitated her guest's luggage downstairs into a large parlour to add to a mountainous but neat pile in the corner of the room.
"Well, that's that." A grandfather clock with an ornate silver face began to chime ten and Madam Flint nodded at it. She didn't hold with being fashionably or any other sort of late. "Gambol and her obsession with Muggle knick-knackery means we have to run the gauntlet." Her thin mouth compressed further. "Far better to take a carpet. No trouble with baggage that way and you could picnic en route."
"Wouldn't Flooing to Hogsmeade be more efficient? Everyone could be assigned a time and a hearth to stagger arrivals." Hermione liked the train ride to Hogwarts. It was almost a transitive ritual rather than transport. But she was Muggle-born and steam engines were antiquated. Some mental gymnastics were required for her to reverse perspective to see the Express as an inconvenient modern intrusion.
"That would require people to be punctual, which alas they never are." Eglantine was quite happy to shut the doors on guests who failed to arrive within a reasonable degree of her invitation. If she wrote 'dine at eight' she meant eight. She did not mean 'straggle in at quarter past nine'. "Come along. I will walk you to the platform. It's not far."
"No need to trouble yourself." Narcissa Malfoy, very New Look Dior in a tailored cream coat and dark skirt, descended the stairs. Draco in a black turtleneck and suit followed like a smirking shadow. "Miss Rosier can accompany us. She is my ward as I am sure you are aware."
"I don't give a fig." Madam Flint looked down her nose at the shorter, slighter, younger witch. "As you seem incapable of providing the child a decent welcome, I thought it best I should intervene." Her gaze dropped heavily onto the young Malfoy heir. "What fetching clothes you are wearing. All the better to blend in with the Muggles, I presume."
"I am unsurprised you don't recognise the latest mode, Eglantine. You insist on using the village seamstress, don't you?" Frosty blue eyes surveyed Madam Flint's woollen gown and leather boots, arching an eyebrow at the athame on her belt. The Flints had always had a close link with earth magic as well as the persisting rumours of troll blood, and Eglantine Bulstrode had done nothing to refine the family.
"Tradition and loyalty, Narcissa." Madam Flint didn't smile. She didn't need to pretend to be affable with the Malfoys, who were Norman blow-ins. The Blacks were an Ancient family like the Flints and the Bulstrodes, so long established in the British Isles that their exact origin was lost to history, but given their collapse Eglantine felt unfettered with any need for courtesy.
"You hid." Narcissa did not specify to what she was referring for it was an old, well-trodden argument.
"You grovelled." Eglantine retorted. She had known her duty, and had been vindicated after the end of the Prewetts and the functional extinction of the Blacks as well as the English branches of the Rosiers, Lestranges, and Averys. "Come along, Miss Rosier. You do not want to be late for the train."
Hermione walked out of the house with Madam Flint, heading down the street lined on one side with buff brick Georgian terrace houses and on the other with a modern storage warehouse. They crossed Euston Road to join the throng entering Kings Cross St Pancras station, amidst the crowd but apart due to the Muggle-Repelling charms Eglantine cast. She strode to the entrance of Platform 9 ¾, walking through without a pause.
Several other pure-bloods, all unencumbered by luggage, were being bade farewell by their parents or chaperones. Anyone who was quality used the Belgrove House Floo and the resident house elves as their porters. Madam Flint exchanged nods of acknowledgement as she walked Cathal to the end of the train where the Slytherins traditionally sat away from the smuts and noise.
"You may visit Flint Manor over the summer if you wish. Merlin knows my son will probably forget to invite you so I will do so now." Madam Flint said brusquely. The Rosier girl had been no trouble and had kept Marcus from sulking or brooding. Privately Eglantine doubted he could keep in the young witch's good books long enough to secure a betrothal when she came of age. However for as long as the girl wanted to spite the Malfoys, she was delighted to assist.
Madam Flint waved away Hermione's thanks and marched off, leaving her to board alone. The last few carriages in the Express were open booths good for chatting or last minute school work but not privacy. She moved further up the train, slipping into the first empty compartment. Sitting down, Hermione took a deep breath.
The Triwizard Tournament would be much easier to ignore knowing Harry wasn't going to die in front of her. She could put the actual Tasks out of her mind and probably wouldn't even attend if she could avoid it. The Yule Ball was settled. She didn't know Nott well other than as the unfortunate fourth Death Eater son after the Department of Mysteries. He was a quiet loner, who seemed to have no more plans for her person than as a caste-worthy dance partner.
Which left the faux Moody as her only serious hurdle this year. Hermione had to pretend she didn't know he was the bastard behind putting Harry's name in the Goblet or that he wasn't the callous, murderous arsehole who helped torture Neville's parents. Cathal had to go to lessons with the man who had murdered her father.
The magical world didn't have a concept for judicial homicide. When Aurors were given leave to use Unforgivables, it was assumed the people they used them on were deserving of it. The same miscarriage of justice that saw Sirius Black incarcerated without trial also whitewashed deaths in custody and deaths while resisting arrest. The presumption of innocence was not something over which the Ministry greatly troubled itself.
Hermione pulled out Unfogging the Future, a journal, and a fountain pen to give herself something else to stew about. Divination thus far was as dire as she had expected it to be. There were glimmerings of potential in the large scale predictive rites, if applied methodically and scientifically. Crystal gazing did in fact work, again with caveats. You needed to be in a trance state with an orb attuned to you. The best results happened when the gazer then used a Pensieve to view the visions more critically. Staring at a foggy glass ball in a stuffy classroom was not likely to garner anything more than a crick in the neck.
She wasn't a Seer. Hermione was entirely okay with that. There were genuine precognitives in the world and despite her initial disdain for the discipline, she had to admit it wasn't all fakery and cold reading. However, the only thing anyone could predict from her dream diary was an over indulgence in television assuming any readers realised she was plagiarising vintage Star Trek and Doctor Who episodes half remembered from summer re-runs.
Hermione was debating with herself whether she could work in the quote '400 quatloos on the newcomer' so she could include some interesting references to nonsense doggerel she'd found in medieval ritual casting, when Tracey Davis slid open the door inviting herself into the compartment. The brunette witch sat down tidily opposite her, tucking her skirt under her knees.
"We don't talk much." The precise girl began quickly. "You don't talk much to anyone so I won't take up your time." She took a breath, which was when Hermione realised how upset Davis was. Her hazel eyes glittered from more than the ocular correction charms bought for her for over the summer. "Did you invite everyone but me to a lavish outing to buy dress robes?"
"Technically, no." Hermione put her journal down so she'd look like she was paying attention. She was, actually, but mostly on how neat Davis was. Every hair in place, collar starched, and socks pull up to the knee. Obsessive perhaps. She'd not noticed the first time around. "Madam Flint invited Parkinson, Bulstrode, and Greengrass, with their mothers."
"And the lavish outing?" Davis asked, spine very straight.
"Tea in a private suite in Twilfitt and Tattings. The cucumber sandwiches were dry." She added the last bit to see if she could crack her dorm-mate's indurate face. There was a little twitch of her mouth, more an easing of tension than a smile. Hermione reopened her notebook and guessed that Parkinson had been boasting about the excursion. The pug-faced bitch liked to twist the knife. "It was a long, dull day I am not anxious to repeat."
"Thank you, Rosier." The half-blood tugged her cuffs down in a gesture very like their Head of House and took her leave, shutting the door quietly behind her. Hermione didn't look up until she was sure Davis was gone. She sympathised with the girl. Having to endure the sneers of the pure-bloods without any august lineage to hide behind would be Hell. The exclusion of Muggle-borns from Slytherin turned the ordinary half-bloods, the bulk of the population, into the underclass ensuring an elitist hegemony.
In short, Slytherin devolved into a collection of inbred snobs selected for their ancestors almost as much as their innate traits. Crabbe and Goyle had less cunning and ambition than piglets. Hermione pulled out a different journal, her notes for Muggle Studies, and jotted down some thoughts on population dynamics and the role of the pariah. She'd leave out the endorsement of exogamy as Cathal was Sacred Twenty-Eight, the purest of the pure.
The Sorting happened. The arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs happened. The introduction of the Goblet of Fire happened. Alastor Moody's late-coming caused a low-grade stir among the green ranks hastily quelled. Back in the Slytherin Common Room, more than one of the older Years swore. Their Head of House did not leave them long to stew.
Snape's speech was well-crafted. Hermione was tempted to take notes. He began with an innocuous 'as you are aware' then segued smoothly into the lowering of the boom. He never raised his voice but he left the Slytherins in no doubt as to the severity of the punishments they would face if they attempted private vengeance on the Auror who had sent so many of their relatives to Azkaban. He looked directly at her when he said there would be no collection of blood debts.
The first day of term was fortunately a Friday, giving her a week before double Defence Against the Dark Arts. Very little study was actually done in between gossip and introductions. After class, the Library was chock-full of students looking up language charms. Madam Pince did not seem amused at the unusual popularity of her dominion. Hermione opted to read outdoors.
It was after dinner when she was heading up to the Astronomy Tower to get some early star sights when she was stopped by a tall Durmstrang boy. He bowed in that stiff-backed away that made them look hinged at the hip. The furred uniform turned him into a well tailored Viking, though Hermione corrected herself with a reminder there were no such people as Vikings. Miscellaneous restless Norse would be Vikings, someone who goes on a sea journey, but that wasn't their ethnicity or culture.
"You are Miss Cathal Rosier?" He asked once he had again reached the vertical.
"Yes." Hermione was reassured she still felt like she was lying.
"I am Bastian Reinhard Max." He introduced himself then stood there as she stared at him. Hermione was frantically rummaging through what she could recall of the Max family tree. Cathal's mother Derica was one of three, the eldest child ahead of a brother and sister. There were some cousins too. Shite, what was her uncle's name?
"Gustav's son?" She held back a sigh of relief when he gave her a crisp nod. Hermione hadn't given the distaff side of Cathal's pedigree much investigation. It was in the Big Box of Later, put off until she came of age.
"Können wir uns auf Deutsch unterhalten?" Bastian asked and she did a rough bit of translation in her head.
"I'm sorry. I have some German but Mother preferred I spoke English." Hopefully that would cover her less-than-fluent command of the language. She'd been working on it but she'd been working on so many other things too.
"Oh, I am sorry." He paused, obviously formulating a question. Hermione waited without impatience. Viktor had told her all the candidates selected to spend the school year at Hogwarts spoke some English though the degree of fluency varied greatly. "Our family sends letters but has no reply. My father has worries of you."
"I expect your owls go to the Malfoys. They don't forward my post." Hermione blithely passed the blame. "I am well, though, and pleased to meet you."
Bastian grinned and they got to chatting in the diffident way relatives have when they unexpectedly meet; shades of awkward family reunions with the Muggle cousins making Hermione smile. They walked together through Hogwarts with her giving him a tour and heads-up about trick steps on the staircases, Peeves, and the idiosyncrasies of a millennium old castle. It was almost curfew when he escorted her to the Slytherin dungeon, bowed, and marched away looking the epitome of a seidrmann.
"Didn't take you long." Parkinson snidely remarked later in their dorm. "You think if you grab one early he'll be obliged to take you to the Ball?"
"No." Hermione answered shortly, employing the tried taciturn method. She got changed in the bathroom, washed up then tucked herself into bed with a book. Parkinson and Greengrass were having a poniard conversation about their dresses and the jewellery their mothers were sending from home for them to wear. Davis was ignoring them grimly and Bulstrode, who hated her dress robes, had already drawn her curtains.
"Don't you think it best to use family pieces, Rosier? Bought jewellery is so common." Parkinson smirked, well aware the Rosier dowry jewels were out of Cathal's reach in Gringotts and that Davis's family didn't have any heirlooms sparkles.
"Did you know old jewellery is more receptive to magic?" She inquired. "There are half a dozen different curses that cause goblin-made metal to constrict or burn the wearer." Hermione knew that because of endless fraught research to find a way to destroy Horcruxes. "There's even a Chinese one, baoshi baozha, that causes mounted gems to shatter. Imagine what a necklace worth of high velocity shards could do to your face."
"Sneaking into the Restricted Section will get you in trouble." Pansy cautioned, quite willing to snitch on her fellow Slytherins if it evened the score. Rosier was hardly the only one who delved into banned magic. The trick was catching them at it so she could use it to her advantage.
"It isn't in the Restricted Section. Very few spells are, by percentage." That had surprised Hermione but it was true. The Ministry did not have a systematic structure for regulating spell creation. There were so many curses and hexes a creative person could use to cause serious damage that were readily available. "You just need to know where to look."
That shut up Parkinson nicely.
The first weekend of term was a whirl of introductions in the codified pure-blood manner. Both foreign contingents were more formal in their manners so it took a while for everyone to disperse and connect with relatives or family friends, who in turn could show the newcomers around. The Seventh Years had the easiest time of it with their shared classes, meaning the Library was the hub for socialising. Madam Pince was more than usually shrewish as a result.
Third period on Monday was the advent of Blast-Ended Skrewts in Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid was chuffed at the numbers of pasty denuded crustaceans crawling about propelled by buttock pyrotechnics. The Fourth Years were less sold on the delights of the creatures, which were aggressive to everything including clods of grass and random rocks. The lingering piscine smell that clung to their uniforms after class didn't endear the elective students to the rest of the Hogwarts population.
After Divination the same afternoon, the cadre of Slytherins who had taken both classes were firmly requested by the Sixth Year Prefect Cassius Warrington to use deodorising charms before entering the Common Room. They didn't protest as the combination of eau de poisson and Trelawney's incense was astoundingly penetrative. Even with the spells, Parkinson complained about the smell in her hair and monopolised the bathroom. Hermione left for her lab, reckoning the scent of nettles would mask any remnant aroma.
She worked late, nearly missing curfew then lay awake in bed staring at the canopy reviewing her experiments. They were progressing. She had journals full of notes. But she didn't feel like she was achieving anything. There was so much to do. Hermione rolled over and nestled her head into her pillow, tugging her braid out of the way. At least once she had the assignment sheets for this term she could work ahead, freeing up time for more research. To fill more journals full of notes. The witch groaned into the down, got up, and went to the Common Room. If she couldn't sleep, she might as well read.
She wasn't the only one who Hypnos was ignoring. Blaise Zabini was elegantly draped over one of the settees staring out the window at the lake neglected by the sickle moon. Silver fish lit by tiny internal flares of magic drifted like fallen stars. He turned when he heard the door from the girls' dorm but didn't speak, deigning only a nod before returning to his contemplation.
Hermione made herself comfortable on a duchesse brisée upholstered in green tussah silk because Slytherins were too posh for a ratty squashy couch patched any old how. She cast Bluebell Flames into a decorative vase, giving her enough light to read without brightening the room too much for Zabini to see the fish. They sat for almost an hour in silence before he spoke.
"Are you going to do anything about Moody?" His tone of voice was as casual as his posture, one leg hanging indolently over the arm of his seat. Hermione wondered how long it had taken him to refine his technique of languor. No one was naturally that artistically relaxed.
"Not this year." She would've answered with a flat 'no' but who could be that blasé about their father's killer?
"Do you think it's a calculated insult? I can't decide." He mused and Hermione remembered he'd taken Arithmancy in Sixth Year. Zabini liked having an edge over the competition. Given his arrogance, he probably viewed everyone as rivals.
"We're not a priority unless we're useful." She couldn't help sounding bitter. More than once she'd seen Dumbledore string Harry along to manipulate him. The Greater Good didn't give a damn about her friend's mental health or well-being.
"Galling but likely true." He steepled his fingers in a gesture crafted to bring attention to his sinuous hands. Hermione put her eyes on her book. Zabini was very handsome and knew it. However she knew he had left Hogwarts with the youngest children in the first wave of evacuation. Nothing could make him attractive to her after that.
