Double Potions with the Gryffindors was itchy, full of many little irritations too petty to complain about but too irksome not to scratch. Malfoy buttonholed Nott as his partner for the tricky potion, throwing out the pairings. The Slytherins had to shuffle themselves without looking like they were jockeying in front of the Lions. After Zabini slid in beside Greengrass, Hermione grabbed Davis to avoid being paired with Goyle or Crabbe.
She and the orderly witch worked well together but their table was nearest the supply cupboard, meaning a trembling cauldron and a flickering flame from the traffic. The Sourd Potion, a cure for ringing in the ears, was tetchy about temperature so they had to keep fiddling with the burner while their classmates constantly dashed back and forth to obey the instruction 'if the potion coagulates, add more bumblebee wings'.
Having made the potion before, Hermione knew 'fine powder of purple mullein flower' should have been 'very fine', which Professor Snape would take delight in telling them at the end of the class. Anyone who didn't grind the petals sufficiently ended up with a thickened potion, which could not be corrected with more bumblebee wings. Davis was precise about ingredients and pissed off that her usual partner Bulstrode had elbowed her aside to pair with Parkinson. Under her hand, the mullein flowers were powdered very very finely indeed.
Professor Snape tore a strip off the several pairs whose potions had solidified in their cauldrons and harangued the rest of the class for not following the instructions diligently enough to get a bright violet potion. Hermione met Davis's eyes. Their potion was the required colour. By mutual assent they said nothing. Whatever was annoying their Head of House, neither of them wanted to be a sop for his temper.
"Miss Rosier, if you would be so good as to remain." The words were almost silky and stopped Hermione in her tracks as she headed for the door at the end of class. She turned on her heel to present herself at his desk. None of the other students looked in her direction. They were quite happy the Professor had chosen someone else as oblation.
"Sir?" Hermione spoke after the room had emptied, eyes on the ranked potion vials not his face.
"Your essay." It was less a request than an order. She produced the required scroll. He checked it for length then put it aside. "Is it your intention to continue to refuse to stay with your guardian?"
"Yes, sir." She answered promptly.
"Why?" The single word was carefully enunciated.
"Lucius Malfoy is a cockroach." Hermione could have called the blond pillock far worse. He was on her Azkaban List. She'd do her utmost to see him pilloried with the rest of his chums particularly as he had escaped justice after the first war.
"Is that the sum of your reasons for your extraordinary continued defiance?" His words were crisp again, the consonants well-formed hiding whatever childhood accent he'd once had. A parvenu, she realised, and wished Harry had had more time to tell them about Snape's memories.
"No, sir. The rest is politics." She tried to keep her face expressionless. A wry grimace would require explanation and the fiery rant she wanted to give would not be received well.
"Your father was good friends with Malfoy Senior, both in Hogwarts and after. Your grandfather was also close with the family. Do you think either of them would wish you to play the vagrant?" Snape asked the rangy girl, the least penitent penitent he had seen in many years.
"They're dead, sir. Unless they appear before me with specific instructions, I will continue to associate with those I deem fit." If her paternal ancestors did show themselves to her with orders, she'd tell them to go back to Hell.
"And your mother?" He had made inquiries about Derica Rosier, whom no one had seen since the fire at her Manx cottage. Lucius had managed to obtain a copy of the report of the investigation now in abeyance. The Auror who had rescued Cathal had said the smoke and the flames were too dangerous for a second foray into the cellar. Whatever irregularities in his holding the child, Williamson had provided a detailed statement. Sedulously detailed, which made Snape exceedingly suspicious.
"The same, sir." Hermione had heard nothing about Cathal's mother. She presumed the consensus was Madam Rosier had died in the Fiendfyre that had devoured her cottage but until Cathal was of age, Hermione doubted she would get any answers.
"Miss Rosier." The Professor began then paused. The child was no trouble. She had been attacked by other students but she had never instigated any conflict. She was attentive in class but didn't raise her hand to pester. She did her work. Whatever precocious studies she undertook in her own time did not bite, explode, or run amok. He had to admit to himself he did not need to waste his time minding her. "Dismissed."
Lessons continued. The first week rush of reading lists and assignment due dates and project allocations swept Hermione along. She had it far easier her second time around though Muggle Studies and Divination were now unfamiliar, necessitating some effort. Though not much for Divination, she admitted to herself. Most of the first term was balls.
And then there was Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Hermione took a seat in the middle of the centre line of desks, sitting beside Nott and behind Ron. The mixed class filled every bench with the back rows taken first. She'd hoped to be able to stay anonymous at the rear but she wasn't the only one who wanted to keep their distance from the vocal 'Ministry malcontent'.
The lesson on the Unforgivables was surreal. Hermione sat silently as Cathal watching her other self answer Moody's questions and marvelled that she had not seen his enjoyment in the curses. He was a good actor but his enthusiasm was blatant. That tongue thing. Like he was licking blood off his lips. She couldn't get out of there fast enough.
The Gryffindors were clustered on the stairs talking volubly among themselves. Granger was trying to console Longbottom as the Slytherins shouldered past. Moody followed them, coaxing the whey-faced boy back into the classroom to talk. Hermione made herself think of the Lions as Other to keep her expression cool and steady as she marched by them.
She probably would have made it to the anonymity of the lower corridor if Malfoy hadn't made a point of barging into Weasley. Then Ron, who was worried about Neville and didn't know how to deal with his feelings, took the easy route of lashing out at the Snakes.
"I reckon Moody's the best Defence teacher we've ever had. I'm going to be an Auror so I want to know all this stuff." He curled his lip at the Slytherins. "Then I can send you lot to Azkaban for a big family reunion."
It was Crabbe who had just the right combination of foolishness and viciousness to draw his wand. Then the Gryffindors all drew theirs, forcing the Slytherins to draw to back up their idiot compatriot. The groups eyed each other, edging closer to hexes as neither side was willing to back down. Teenage males defending their pack; though Bulstrode and Parkinson were there for the green and Granger for the red.
"Ronald Billius Weasley, I challenge you to a duel." Hermione said loudly. She could thank Malfoy in First Year and Lockhart in the Second for the incentive to look up duelling etiquette. "Your conduct is offensive and your words are insulting. Name the time and place."
"Right here and now." Ron stepped forward, ready to answer the challenge. Particularly from a Rosier. There were scores to settle. "Name your second."
"I name Harry James Potter." She gave the intent boy a nod. That surprised everyone.
"Can I refuse?" Harry asked, mostly in an aside to Granger. His eyes flicked to the Slytherin witch, lone among them who hadn't drawn her wand.
"Yes, you can." Hermione cut in before her other self could reply. "But that would mean you agree it's a good thing that we're being taught by an insane fanatic who is willing to murder his enemies rather than bring them to justice." She scanned the faces of the Gryffindors, hoping they would remember this and keep themselves from crossing the line when it came to a real fight. "The Ministry uses Aurors as enforcers, turning a blind eye when it suits them."
"To arrest Death Eaters." Harry lowered his wand, remembering Fudge spitting mad ready to have Sirius Kissed on the spot.
"Like your godfather." She felt terribly as though she were twisting the knife. It was worse because she knew Harry would never get the family life with Black that he desperately wanted.
"Sirius isn't a Death Eater!" His shout rang through the hallway.
"And I'm sure they'll check before they Avada him." Her mouth contorted into a smirk almost of its own accord. "But it's so much easier to shoot first and ask questions later. Or not at all."
"What is going on here?" Professor Flitwick didn't bellow but years of teaching and choir had given him excellent vocal projection. "Wands away, thank you." He didn't draw. He didn't need to. The first recalcitrant twitch from any of the children and he'd have his wand in his hand and them disarmed. "I suggest you disperse about your business, ladies and gentlemen."
A chorus of 'yes, professor' in varying volumes and pitches greeted his order. Flitwick watched them go to be certain they didn't resume the stand-off in a quiet byway. As much as he would like to believe Hogwarts was a neutral bastion of education, it was patently not. Defusing quarrels had become increasingly difficult. He hoped the Tournament would distract the students from the simmering politics.
Professor Flitwick was in for disappointment.
Hermione wasn't there for the Choosing of the Champions. She didn't want to see Harry racked again. She took advantage of the empty halls to plot more chalk points and take more measurements of the ambient magic. Thus far she hadn't discovered anything seething in the dark corners waiting to explode during the final battle. She was getting some odd looks from the portraits however.
When she returned to the Slytherin Common Room that evening, she received an anthology of tales about What Potter Did. Warrington and the few other Slytherins who had submitted their names were conspiring in a corner; agreeing a public position on how insulted to seem. The rest of the House was split between ranting about the favouritism given to the Boy-Who-Lived or betting on how long he was likely to last.
Heading to her bed, she hoped to avoid the worst of the anti-Potter diatribes. With rare exceptions, Harry never got any apologies from his schoolmates who pilloried him. She could forgive the ones who joined the DA and anyone who defended Hogwarts but the majority of the students spat on Harry then happily forgot they had done so once he was fighting for their lives.
And she couldn't do anything to remedy that situation.
Hermione gritted her teeth through the sneers of the Slytherins, and kept her temper through the cold shoulders from the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Her mouth stayed firmly shut through classes with the Gryffindors where it was painfully obvious most of the Lions had sent Harry to Coventry. Then the bloody badges happened.
When Malfoy presented her with one, with that smug little smirk, Hermione nearly punched him. Her refusal was hissed more than spoken and her perceived support of Potter put her in the doghouse as far as the other Fourth Years were concerned. No thundering denouncements but she was avoided and ignored. Which suited Hermione just fine. She got more duelling practise done that way.
She was in an empty classroom just finishing some targeting drills while sustaining her Shield with her second wand when she heard an argument in the corridor. Harry and some Hufflepuffs making a point of their loyalty. Hermione dropped her spells and stuck her head out the door to see her friend storm away. Stuffing her wands up her sleeves, she hurried after him.
He didn't go far. Certainly not back to Gryffindor Tower or to the Library or the Great Hall or anywhere else the disdain would be thick. She found him in an alcove lined with battered benches turfed out of one of the Potions labs judging from the stains. Probably stuck here to air before being put away in the Room of Hidden Things, just in case they were prone to explode or dissolve.
Harry was staring out the narrow window but he spun around wand ready when he heard her approach. He was already defensive, she couldn't take that personally, though the snarl on his face when he saw her green tie was a body blow. Hermione stood there with her empty hands in plain sight until he lowered his arm.
"You're not wearing a badge." Harry said to say something when Rosier didn't snipe at him. He'd had enough of the damn things shoved in his face to notice the absence.
"Professor Flitwick should give you points for motivating Malfoy. I've never seen him work so hard." Hermione tried to sound cool but her essential nerdiness could not be masked by another body or another life. He did at least make a little noise of amusement at her feeble joke.
"I didn't put my name in." He was tired of saying it.
"I believe you." She said simply.
"You're the only one." Harry snapped, bitter and betrayed.
"Granger believes you." That was cheating but it wasn't a lie. First time around, she had been sure Harry hadn't entered the Tournament willingly. "The rest of your House will come around when you start winning."
"Assuming I don't die first." His shoulders sagged the same time his knees did, dropping him onto a bench with a groan. "I don't want to do this."
"Do you think for an instant that Dumbledore will let the Boy-Who-Lived die?" Hermione inquired softly. He looked up sharply at that, chary and wary again. "Simple logic, Potter. He has plans for you. You're his favourite little pawn."
"I'd forgotten you were Slytherin there for a moment, Rosier." Harry shook his head at her. Not because he disagreed but because he wasn't willing to push his luck. Relying on people had never worked out well for him.
The First Task saw Hermione trekking up and down stairs from the dungeons to check where they ended. Her legs were aching by the time she confirmed the blasted things sometimes switched destinations. She would have to factor them as 'live' in her Arithmantic calculations to get a good idea of the background magic of the lower levels of Hogwarts, which added another layer of complexity to her formulae.
She was resting in one of the reading nooks in the Library when Bastian Max and another Durmstrang boy marched past heading towards the History of Magic section. Her cousin paused to greet her, introducing his friend as Konstantin Dolohov. She stared at the dark haired, pale boy in his unflattering buzz cut and saw his kinsman.
"Small world." She said before she could think of something commonplace to say. Max glanced between the two of them while Dolohov scowled.
"You English are all mad." He had thought his command of the language very good until he had come to the Scottish castle, where half the students spoke in strange accents and the other half in strange references. "Why is the world small?"
"I recognise your surname. A wizard called Antonin Dolohov was a crony of my father and grandfather." It would have been better if she had just smiled and nodded. Surely it wasn't that difficult, she chided herself.
"My grandfather." Konstantin knew the name but had never met the man that he could recall. "He is detained in this country. My father does not speak of him. Karkaroff said it should not be mentioned."
"I suggest you avoid the red-haired Gryffindors. Your grandfather killed their uncles." Hermione didn't know what to think of Igor Karkaroff. She couldn't sympathise with him because he was a Death Eater but he had broken in Azkaban so perhaps he could be pitied. Despising him as a traitor and a coward seemed sanctimonious. As an enemy, she should rejoice he had ratted out his comrades.
"Is there a blood debt owed?" Dolohov asked. His father had not wanted him to attend the Tournament. There had been several arguments. Only his mother's intervention had allowed him to go, mostly he suspected because she wished him to be separated from his girlfriend Aleksandra, whom she did not like.
"I couldn't say." Which was not the same as lying. "I am in much the same position with the Weasleys as you. I do know the Ministry was not generous with compensation after the war."
"Was it a war?" Bastian asked. All he knew of British politics was they had a Minister named after a confection. His parents had tasked him with finding his missing cousin, who was apparently allowed to run wild after the disappearance of her mother. Derica had married with the permission of her father but it was an open secret in the family he had agreed because of the substantial bride price the Rosiers had offered.
"Oh yes. Never doubt it." Hermione answered staunchly. "It suits the Ministry now to say otherwise but the wounds haven't healed."
"This is well known?" Konstantin didn't know this witch as anything other than a sudden relative of a school friend. The other students of good families, who were also mostly in green, had not impressed him. Though if what Bastian's kinswoman had said was correct then the attitudes and posturing of her Housemates became explicable. They were presuming his opinions solely from his surname.
"Official policy varies between panem et circenses and scapegoating but the fear is there under the surface." She stopped before she cited Harry's treatment as proof of the mercurial desperation of the Ministry. As a Slytherin, she couldn't champion the Chosen One's cause. That didn't mean she had to be mute in all things. "The Tournament is a perfect example. Two hundred years dormant then up it pops just when questions are being asked about the Dark Lord's return."
Dolohov said something to Max that she didn't catch. Neither boy looked happy, the high of Krum's tie for first in the Task had evaporated. They bowed and excused themselves, leaving Hermione feeling like a killjoy. An honest one, at least. That thought did not particularly salve her. She returned to her book and serious contemplation of whether she needed some calculus textbooks to help with her Arithmancy matrices. Asking Professor Vector for assistance would result in more questions than answers.
So onwards she slogged, ticking things off an ever-growing To Do List. She read Restricted books in History of Magic, taxed her imagination in Divination, dodged bouncing bulbs in Herbology, and stared into space in Astronomy. She even managed twelve inches of parchment on the significance of toasters for Muggle Studies. Stale bread and circuits.
When Professor Snape announced the Yule Ball to his House, Hermione studied the reactions as indicators of who was in the loop and who was out. Anyone with connections to the Ministry or friends with connections already knew about the dance. The skirmishing for acceptable partners had happened over summer. The elect didn't have to awkwardly scramble to pair off. Nott gave her a confirmatory nod and that was that.
Later, staring into a mirror in the Fourth Year girls' bathroom, Hermione allowed herself to detest Cathal's hair. Doing hers had taken hours and ridiculous amounts of Sleekeazy's. It was Christmas. She was going to the Ball, again. She didn't know what she expected to feel. Maybe a kinship with Cinderella. What she was mostly experiencing right now was ennui.
Cathal's hair was well-behaved, combed and falling in an ashen cascade to her hips. Then just staying there inert. It was long enough to get in her way so she braided it, and it remained demurely where it was put. No curls writhing to escape, snapping any tie or elastic that dared to restrain them. Hermione missed her hair. She gave up on waiting for inspiration and coiled Cathal's tresses with a long pin and a few Sticking Charms.
Dress robes turned the boys into clones. She had to look twice for Nott in the penguin throng. He offered her his arm and they marched in cohort arranged by Year. Professor Snape was there at the door to the Great Hall for final inspection. He waved them in silently; the Head of House lecture on decorum already given that afternoon in the Common Room.
Hermione drifted with the rest of the Slytherins into the ballroom to await the promenade of the Champions. Nott stood close, fidgeting with his cuffs. She raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if there was something wrong and got a minute shake of his head. Just nerves, then. When Viktor and her other self swept past, she smiled remembering her own butterflies.
Nott's hand was clammy in hers when they took to the dance floor in the wake of the Champions. Madam Radnott's lessons held them in good stead however. They waltzed together competently enough to avoid bumping into anyone, a feat not shared by everyone. Her partner didn't relax at seeing they weren't the worst pair and they only had two dances before he suggested they find something to drink.
She agreed rather than put him on the spot and they headed to one of the refreshment tables. Decorated with a ice sculpture miniature of Beauxbatons, the drinks were the same blue hue as the French school's uniforms. Nott clutched his in both hands, visibly taking deep breaths. Hermione edged him away near one of the sconces so they could talk.
"You really aren't enjoying yourself, are you?" She observed, sipping her drink. It tasted of mint and melon, cool on her tongue. Hermione couldn't recall if she'd had one previously. She had spent most of the evening dancing.
"No." Theo admitted, wretchedly. "I apologise. I thought I could manage the crowd but this isn't like the lessons at all."
"I'm not upset." Hermione reassured, prepared to spend the night squirrelling around the deserted towers if Nott wanted to quit early. "How long do you think we need to stay?"
"Until after the meal at least." He straightened and scanned the Hall for a suitable activity to be seen doing. "Look, there's Trinh and Petersham. They went stag." Theo nodded his head towards two Sixth Years stationed near a table stacked with pastries. The two of them joined their Housemates, who readily shifted over so they could all appear to be socialising rather than apathetically loitering.
The quartet chatted, joined periodically by fellow Slytherins who were escaping the crush on the dance floor or whose partners were otherwise occupied. Hermione was rather enjoying the discussion of Charms Theory specifically the adaptation of sonic charms for concussive effects when her cousin presented himself to the group. He bowed, asked for her arm, and after her acquiescence led her out onto the floor.
The Hogwarts musicians were still playing so she and Max circled decorously. He was much bulkier than Nott thus had no difficulty in picking her up to spin, which made her smile in spite of herself. Viktor had twirled her about seemingly without effort. She'd fought the urge to giggle for most of that evening. The Yule Ball redux didn't make her as giddy but she let herself unbend a little. Which was why her cousin's statement blind-sided her.
"My father asked of me to tell you he has put a suit of custody for you to the British Ministry." Bastian had received the owl that morning along with customary seasonal felicitations. He had been informed very emphatically to convey the news to Miss Rosier as soon as possible. "We are your nearest kin. You should be with us, not with those tainted by Dark Magic."
"Wish your father good luck with that. The Malfoys seem keen to keep me." Hermione warned. She didn't find it flattering to be argued over like the last canapé, not believing for a moment Gustav Max's motivations were familial or altruistic. With so many of her relatives in Azkaban, Cathal was one of the few legal heirs to the Rosier and Selwyn fortunes. "It must be my scintillating personality."
