Her Muggle education gave her two vital pieces of information. Firstly, St Elmo's fire was ionised air, electrically supercharged into plasma. Secondly, electricity conducted better through water than air. Her common sense provided her with an additional nugget of data; after crawling through the sewer pipes she was quite damp.

"Tergeo!" Hermione cast quickly, siphoning the noisome liquid from her just before the static in the warped tunnel discharged spectacularly.

She came to on the ceiling with the after-image of the lightning vivid in her retina.

Hermione blinked as the world yawed and she slowly unstuck, peeling off like a soaked label to drop into the fetid water in the bottom of the pipe. It evaporated the instant she contacted as the residual magic in her clothes and skin caused a rapid change of state. The witch lay amidst what she charitably decided to call fertiliser to await the restoration of mental equilibrium.

"Ow." Pain returned first, as it always did. The several times she had regained awareness after something exciting had all been accompanied by pain. Petrification? Muscles aching from being stiff. Dolohov's curse? Visceral agony worse than a thousand periods all at once with nausea for garnish. Bellatrix's tender attentions? Acid in her veins and fire in her nerves. Her first moments as Cathal? Panicked choking for breath.

Hermione got to her feet, cleaned herself, and mused that the only time she had suddenly returned to herself without it being heralded by discomfort was when she was in the unwoven moment just after the Battle. She'd felt nothing, which at the time had been just as bad as feeling something. Right now, with her hair standing on end and her skull full of fireworks Hermione would've happily opted for numbness.

"Moppet?" She touched the metal behind her ear. That wasn't necessary for the communicator to work and she regretted it the moment her fingers brushed the gold, which sparked against her skin like a Stinging Jinx.

"Moppet hears the talky ear, Miss." Moppet responded, a little tinny though perfectly audible.

"Did you just feel a magical release?" Hermione wanted to ask if the house elf had felt a disturbance in the Force except Moppet wouldn't get the reference.

"Moppet is cleaning windows. Moppet didn't feel anything but soapy." After centuries of exposure to ambient magic even the dirt in Hogwarts was enchanted. A surprising amount of cleaning was done with mundane elbow grease.

"Can you come get me? I'm feeling a bit boggled." She asked, leaning against the grubby brickwork as lights sparkled behind her eyelids. Hermione jumped when Moppet appeared a blink later. The house elf took her hand and popped them to the laboratory before cleaning them both with a snap of her fingers.

"What did Miss do? That place was all tingly." Moppet peered at her suspiciously, noticing how very very shiny her witch was after only simple get-rid-of-dirt magic. She pulled out her wand and poked her friend with it. Sparkles danced around the end of the stick. "Miss is too magical."

"I think I absorbed rather a lot of that discharge." Hermione agreed, not sure whether she was up or down. "Best if I head back to my dorm and sleep it off."

It was her suggestion but it was Moppet who towed her to the dungeons, patiently waiting for her to remember the password then escorting her to the currently empty Fourth Year girls' dormitory. Davis had stayed for the holidays while the other girls had returned home to join their families' Eostre ceremonies. Hermione was happy to be rid of them. In typically catty fashion, Pansy had said she would've invited her except the behaviour of the unicorns had made it obvious her presence wasn't appropriate for a vernal festival.

Moppet helped her off with her shoes then when she flopped filleted onto her bed the house elf snapped her fingers to strip her before inserting her into pyjamas. Tucking her witch under the covers, Moppet pulled the blankets up and drew the curtains. She walked three times widdershins around the bed so Hermione would be safe from mares while she slept.

Hermione woke two days later thirsty. She went to the bathroom then put herself under the shower. She felt moderately alright. Not particularly well rested and the result of the Tempus Charm surprised her but nothing alarming. Studying herself scrubbed pink in the mirror she couldn't see anything odd. The plasma release didn't seem to have done anything to her other than discombobulate her. Nothing to stop her from returning to the tunnels.

Except she really didn't want to.

The idea made her sweat. Standing in front of the mirror, Hermione watched perspiration bead on her skin as she thought about traversing the tunnels again to find the Basilisk's route out of the Chamber. Her heart raced at the memory of the magical anomaly. She did not want to encounter it again. She wanted to stay far away from it.

Hermione got dressed, mulling over her psychological response. There was a distinct mental aversion to the idea of attempting to get to Slytherin's cellar. The notion was trying to stick itself in her head as something home-grown but after wearing a horcrux for months she knew the difference between her own instincts and a compulsion.

She went to breakfast, sitting at the denuded green table able to pick out the gaps in the red, blue, and yellow where pure-bloods were not. The traditional families insisted on their children returning home for the equinox, pegging the Easter holidays to the end of March regardless of the Paschal season in the Christian calendar. It would've been more convenient for the Muggle-borns and many half-bloods for the break to sync with the Muggle school holidays but the Hogwarts governors would never agree to that change.

Owls swooped in largely ignoring the Slytherin table. Hermione noticed Errol nearly clean up a bowl of yoghurt and remembered with a surprisingly searing burn the Snub of the Egg. Her other self made a good show of not minding the tiny offering from Molly but years later and secondhand it still rankled. She'd never really forgiven Ron's mother for believing the drivel written about her. Honestly, would it have been so difficult to send a letter asking for confirmation? Instead she got a passive-aggressive token gift to reinforce her pariah status.

Hermione, the headachy serpentine one, flinched when an owl landed heavily at her elbow. The bird ruffled its feathers importantly as she stared at the unfamiliar animal and the large parcel it had carried. She unfastened the strings then swapped the package for a plate of sausages, which the tired messenger tucked into greedily.

Due to past misfortune and present paranoia, Hermione swept her wand repeatedly over the wrapped box. No curses, hexes, jinxes, or suspicious liquids. Her fingers itched at the memory of the bubotuber pus. She untied the knots, pulling the paper away to reveal a letter and an enormous box of Belgian haute chocolaterie.

The letter was from Flint and the Muggle chocolates, carefully not a suitable courting gift, were a thank you for his wonderful equinox. He had enjoyed a long walk in the woods celebrating the delights of spring. Hermione could see his wicked grin as she read. She'd forgive him his coy phrasing because he was so obviously happy. They weren't friends exactly but it was nice to know someone was having fun. And the chocolates were delicious.

Tracey Davis, austerely crisp as always, sat down on the same side of the table a few places down. Hermione watched her fill her plate with control, every gesture considered. She slid the chocolate box towards her. The Slytherin witch looked at her face not the offered dainties then took one with a nod. Hermione left the box where it was between them as she finished her own breakfast.

She had reached a blithe state of empty-headedness and toast consumption when Cathal's cousin Bastian joined her on the opposite bench. He paused before he sat to nod politely to the two witches within speaking distance before he settled himself. Hermione, disinclined to converse with the magical aversion to tunnels still rattling around in her skull, nudged the box of chocolates towards him in a silent welcome.

The Durmstrang wizard took a praline cautiously evidently not wanting to be so gauche as to query their origin or edibility. The 'Established 1857' under the maker's logo seemed to reassure him and he popped the sweet morsel into his mouth. Hermione gave him a few points for trying. Most of her Housemates would've turned their noses up at the Muggle chocolates.

"Tracey, this is my cousin Bastian Max." She wasn't sure if Davis had been introduced to any of the guests. For as much as she had been paying attention, the Slytherin older Years had seemed to have monopolised the company of the Durmstrangs. Networking, she presumed. "Bastian, this is my friend Tracey Davis."

They both looked at her speculatively as though she had committed a faux pas upon which they were too polite to call her out. Hermione had no idea what point of etiquette she had bent and opted to keep eating toast. That seemed to be about par with her mental functions at the moment. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself to return to the sewers, her mind kept sliding away from the intention.

Davis and Max returned to their own breakfasting after a perfunctory exchange to acknowledge the introduction. Hermione left them to the scrambled eggs, taking herself off to her laboratory to test the extent of her mental fog. When she got there an idea ambushed her and she pulled out the Map to ask for some advice.

"Voice, what can you tell me about the tunnel I was scouting?" She spread the vellum over her lap, zooming in on the section she had been exploring. The nest of conduits ended abruptly in a smudge.

"We see it now." The reply was quick, the tone meditative. "We believe the anomaly marks the border of the Founder Slytherin's wards. Our awareness of the conduit stops abruptly then resumes obliquely further on. We could see more if you explored more of the nebulous places."

"I think I've been cursed. It feels like a Repellent or Aversion effect." Hermione rolled her head. The tendons in her neck twanged. "It's like I'm concussed."

"Hogwarts provides its students with the services of a Matron. We understand the incumbent is a licensed Healer." The Voice said tartly as though it considered her delay in seeking medical attention a slight against the school.

"Believe me, I know." She retorted as citric as it had been. Her association with Harry had eroded her tendency to give at the knee to authority but she still respected competence. While Pomfrey had never inquired too closely as to the origin of her patients' injuries, quite possibly inured to fibs, she unstintingly provided care. "I liked you better when you were Jocunda Sykes's head."

"You threatened us with a sledgehammer." The gestalt spirit reminded her.

"If I had a sledgehammer, you would be well down the list." Hermione reassured then considered who would be at the head of the queue for a bludgeoning. Voldemort, after the horcruxes, then Bellatrix. Dolohov. Maybe Umbridge before him. Settling with the pink bitch was personal, and she doubted the curse in the Department of Mysteries had been anything more than generic malice. Who would round out the top five? Dumbledore, for sheer bitter frustration.

"Your silence does not bolster us." The verbal prod jarred her out of contemplation of violence.

"I'm crawling through your bowels. I think I can be as sulky as I like." She probably shouldn't put that remark down to pubescent hormones. Her own ingrained rancour more likely. However, as she wasn't actually fourteen and moody, Hermione apologised. "Sorry. My head is really bothering me."

"There is... likely to be... dissonance." The Voice spoke hesitantly, fading before the pauses then going completely silent for a long moment. "Pardon, we have been reminded that you are not entirely yourself." There was another lacuna, which gave Hermione the impression Hogwarts was arguing with itself. "If a charm to repel Muggle-born magi set by Founder Slytherin lingered, the working would be erratic from long quiescence."

"Erratic." She mulled over that careful word. "Do you mean in trigger or in effect?"

"Your mentis is Muggle, your corpus is pure. The spell can affect your mind but it cannot anchor itself in your body." This incarnation of the Voice was more conciliatory. It didn't say what Hermione was thinking so she did.

"Because you put me in Cathal, I'm not really me." She took a sharp breath in. "Am I even human any more? Or am I some Inferius shambling around?"

"You are as green and vital as any other living being." Hogwarts hastened to assure her. "The magics used to imbue your spirit within Cathal Rosier were Dark but not necromantic."

"I'm going back to bed." Hermione said on a groan. "I haven't an earthly chance of explaining this to Madam Pomfrey." The hospital matron would either call for a Mind Healer or an exorcism.

It took her the rest of the holidays to sleep off the effects of the Repellent ward. She slumbered fitfully, rousing at distant noises before rolling over and dropping off again. Her mind drifted through vignettes of not quite dreams, not quite memories. Arguing with Ron. Nagging Harry. Stirring endless potions. Riding bicycles that turned into Thestrals. Staring at shadows between winter-bare trees as the darkness convulsed into floating, hungry shapes. Walking through a silent, Escher castle with staircases twisting around her to constrict like pythons.

The only constructive thing she did during the rest of the break was to begin Moppet's lessons in wand use. House elf magic was different enough from the magic of witches and wizards that it seemed more efficient to teach her friend how to cast the foreign rather than the familiar. Jinxes instead of domestic charms, which Moppet could do with far more facility without her wand than with.

Hermione started with the Stinging Jinx, a useful deterrent spell that if done properly was quick to cast. It hurt enough on face or hand to cause someone to recoil if they were attempting to grab. Moppet quickly mastered the gesture and incantation but the borrowed wand was sluggish. They snuck into the Lost Wands room, where the house elf tested different magic sticks by trying to pop the brightly coloured balloons the witch created.

Hermione made a chart to log Moppet's relative success with wood and core. Most of the wands misplaced in the school had one of the three 'supreme' cores used by Garrick Ollivander as the majority of Hogwarts students bought their wands from the master wandmaker. Unicorn hair seemed to work the best for the house elf, particularly when paired with fir, oak, or mahogany. The balloons weren't much troubled yet by Moppet's jinxes however both of them were pleased with the progress of the lessons.

The witch's lessons when classes resumed were less heartening. In her other life. the final assignments for the year had always brought a sense of anticipation and trepidation. Her last chance to show her teachers how much she understood of their subjects before exams. That was Hermione. For Cathal, she spent three weeks quill to parchment to complete what was required of her. Even finding unusual sources to cite only padded the process by a week or so. It was astounding how much time she had when not towing Ron and Harry along scholastically.

There was still some dragging of the intellectually reluctant. Bole, Derrick, and Hearne continued to barter for tutoring services. Peregrine was a Seventh Year but he had been scouted by the Tutshill Tornados so he was only exerting himself sufficiently not to fail. Lucian's father was happy enough for his son to play Quidditch at school but did not consider a sporting career worthy of the heir of the oldest wizarding family in Hampshire.

Facing ambitious paternal expectations, Lucian was desperate to find any edge in his NEWTs he could and outright paid Cathal to partner him in the practicals for DADA, Charms, and Transfiguration. Those exams were most likely to have contested spell-casting, where the student had to undo a working set by the invigilator.

Hermione stood one arm raised with wand in hand and the other tucked behind her, hand resting at her waist with fingers curled around her second wand. She thought of this as her 'defensive' pose. She could hold her Shield Charm without being obvious she was sustaining it. The occasional hex kept Bole back at about ten metres so he had to actively target her not just cast wildly.

He was dogged, working through his repertoire to get a feel of the recoil when a spell deflected. Cursing wasn't like shooting a gun. Most curses sustained after release, attenuating but not breaking until they successfully hit their target. The more energy put into a spell, the more the caster felt it when the spell didn't connect. A straight out miss dissipated. Hitting someone's Shield or a ward gave feedback. Being taken by surprise by that little jolt could interrupt the necessary concentration for the next spell.

"Nimue's tree." Bole huffed, wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve like a grubby Muggle. He was tired and frustrated from trying to figure out a sequence of curses that would look good in the exam that he could chain cast without stumbling. Being able to cast multiple spells in quick succession was not one of his talents. He wasn't built for speed. One big hammer blow then a bit of a breather was more his style.

"Try something simpler in between the power." Hermione suggested, keeping her Shield up in case he tried to be cunning. He shot a Disarming Charm at her, which bounced off the shimmer in front of her. Bole huffed again then put his wand away. She didn't drop her defence until he bowed to signal their sparring match was over. Protocol was important.

"Don't let Flint hear you say that. He's full arm all the time." Lucian cleaned himself up with a quick charm done sloppily. He'd need a wash but he wasn't clammy any more. The witch's flat look made him clarify. "Quidditch, Rosier." His former team-mate had been careful not to say anything formal, romantic, or lustful about his house guest. "Not a personal remark."

"There's nothing between Flint and me." Hermione felt she should say that in view of the hemi-contract between her and Malfoy.

"Of course. Never thought it." Bole said automatically. It didn't need to be uttered that there'd be a queue for Rosier once she passed her OWLs and could be legally called a witch. There weren't that many decent witches from the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. The Carrows and the Greengrasses had a couple each and then there was Parkinson. Everyone else was either a half-blood or worse a blood traitor. He was quite glad his family didn't have to keep to the gentry. An ordinary pure-blood girl would be fine for him.

Hermione resolved to talk to Harnak her vault manager to see if the goblins could run interference for her over any betrothal contracts. She wasn't sure if they could and they certainly wouldn't do it out of kindness. She didn't trust anyone else to help. Once she was seventeen, she could transfer some of Cathal's money into a Muggle account or even out of the country so she and Moppet could bolt. That was the worst case however. She'd sooner fort up in the depths of the castle to wait out the Battle.

On that theme, Hermione used some of her spare time and the seasonal addition of fresh fruit to the meals to continue to experiment with food preservation spells. Thus far no one spell worked for everything so her hope to sneak servings from the kitchen seemed a pipe dream. She could can, dehydrate, freeze, pickle, or salt just about anything; one type of food at a time. Preserving a ham and salad sandwich involved disassembling it first.

Magic had its limits. Stasis spells were notoriously fiddly and the sort of magical sleep spell Dumbledore had used on the hostages for the Second Task only worked on sapients. Keeping sixty kilos of hamburger in suspended animation was technically possible and would prevent spoilage, and likely put the person sustaining the spell into a coma.

Hermione was frustrated. She was far from the only one. The Seventh and Fifth Years were snappish, the First Years fretful, and the rest were bored and restless. Ludo Bagman had briefed the Champions on the Third Task but the actual details were being kept very hush-hush. Everyone not anxious over their exams was scheming and talking about the Tournament.

More than once, Hermione noticed her fellow Slytherins talking to their hands. It was an open secret in the dungeons that Salazar's Own had a direct line to the Daily Prophet. All the most succulent gossip splashed onto the tabloid courtesy of Rita fucking Skeeter. More than once Hermione found herself contemplating how many newtons of force she would need to crush a beetle.

She kept herself busy to keep her mind off what was coming. In between classes and tutoring, Hermione spent a lot of time in the greenhouses generally helping out. That garnered her some clippings she carefully re-potted and stashed in a neglected colonnade between the Bell Towers where there was plenty of light. Moppet promised to water the plants over summer.

June crawled by. Hermione tried not to flinch every time she saw Cedric Diggory. She was going to let him die. Intellectually, she knew the events in the graveyard were out of her hands. The Killing Curse had happened. Without Cedric there, it could be Harry who died. If she stole the Cup or sneaked into the maze to take the Portkey herself or told the Headmaster or any of the dozens of 'what if' plans she could devise, she could make it worse.

That didn't mean she had to watch.

While the staff and students of Hogwarts, the contingents from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, the media, the families of the Champions, and select Ministry bigwigs ogled a hedge maze, Hermione got a little revenge.

Harry had told her what happened when Moody-Crouch had confronted him. How the Death Eater had rummaged ineffectually through his potion stores trying to find more Polyjuice. He'd run out, which had surprised her friend when he'd had later considered it. Barty's whole plan hinged on passing for Moody. He should've had hogsheads of the brew.

When Hermione let herself into the DADA Professor's office, she was careful. Crouch wasn't quite as paranoid as the pukka Auror but he was no slouch. The presence of students curtailed the lethality of the defences though there were still some nasty hexes. She went slowly, suspending what she could. She only needed a short time. The imposter would probably be agitated enough not to notice the precise details of his wards. She didn't want to chance it though.

Hermione crossed the room methodically Vanishing every liquid she could find. Maybe she would have been better off purloining Crouch's stash. That would certainly have been more efficient. She didn't have a pressing need to pretend to be Moody or trust a Death Eater not to have something really toxic creatively mislabelled. So away into non-being everything went.

She was tempted to free Moody from the locked chest. He needed medical attention. It wouldn't come from her however. He wouldn't trust a Slytherin and if she was going to condemn Diggory salving her conscience with first aid seemed self-indulgent. There would be no feeling better about letting people die because she wanted to be right about the future. Hermione wasn't going to absolve herself of anything until she stopped the unravelling of the tapestry. Then, only then, could she explain and hope she wasn't damned.