High bright early on September 1st Hermione made herself breakfast. There was a house elf at the cottage. Mrs Leeson had informed her of the third occupant as soon as she had arrived. She had also told her charge that other than dinner, which was by Ministry mandate a hot meal, there would be no catering. Cathal Rosier presumably had never prepared her own food and thus would find feeding herself an onerous chore.
Hermione made French toast for one, drank the last of the orange juice, and told herself she was a petty bitch. She had at the beginning of her stay made scrambled eggs for two, thinking the consideration would demonstrate to the matron that she was behaving herself. Mrs Leeson had let her plate of eggs get cold while eating toast she had prepared herself. The ex-Auror refused to eat anything her charge made.
Her books, all second-hand, had been delivered the day before. No thrift had been spared with the school supplies, which made Hermione smile as she had bought herself the same brand of thin ink the previous year. It smudged easily but it also cleaned up well with a Tergeo. Once she got to Hogwarts, she could owl order any extras though Cathal went through far less stationary than Hermione 'Extra Foot of Parchment' Granger.
Probably because of 'Constant Vigilance' Mrs Leeson and an Auror frogmarched her to Platform 9¾. They didn't release their grip or hand over her wand until she was installed in an open compartment. The two of them stayed on the platform as the Express pulled out of the station just in case she tried to sneak off the train.
"What did you do, Rosier?" Justin Finch-Fletchley hadn't spoken when the stern guards had deposited the Slytherin among the Fourth and Fifth Year Hufflepuffs, no doubt assuming the Badgers would raise the alarm if the Snake tried to escape. He asked now as the train chugged along and Rosier tucked her wand away up her sleeve.
"Petition for emancipation from my guardian." Hermione replied. She could try to find a compartment but she expected they were all full. There had been a swarm of First Years on the platform. This year's intake looked to be the largest she'd seen.
"You can do that?" Justin thought the Americans had some way to divorce your parents but that was very Hollywood and he didn't think the British legal system had the same provision. After the summer he'd had, the idea of distancing himself from his vituperative mater and pater was alluring. Only the dire legal consequences of not finishing his OWLs had kept his parents from hauling him out of Hogwarts.
"In theory." She expected to receive a custody notice as soon as her payment to her Advocate ran out. "Most of the legislation exists so half-bloods can be adopted by magical families and shed any inconveniently Muggle relatives."
"None of that talk, Rosier." A slightly pompous if sincere Ernie Macmillan told her off, his chest puffed up to display his Prefect badge as a silent dare for her to object at his castigation. Hermione reached into her pocket, the Hufflepuffs noticeably tensed, and pulled out her own badge. Hogwarts had got its wish that Rosier not Parkinson became a Prefect in Fifth Year. She pinned on the green and silver shield.
"Meeting in the Prefects' Carriage, Macmillan?" Hermione asked mildly.
"I see Slytherin House continues its fine tradition of selecting its Prefects based on lineage rather than ability." Ernie had worked damn hard to keep his marks up in Third and Fourth Year, to demonstrate dedication and put him in contention for Prefect. Hannah had worked hard too and been unflaggingly helpful to her fellow Hufflepuffs. Rosier wasn't a bad student but she was hardly a frontrunner.
"I'm sure your nine generations of witches and warlocks are very proud of you." She retorted, quoting him from Second Year when he thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin. Macmillan's face tightened but he visible restrained himself from starting a spat in front of the younger students. They walked in silence to the front carriage.
Granger was already there bustling about with parchment while Weasley looked bored. They smiled at Macmillan. Hermione had to watch their expressions change to dismay when they noticed her a pace behind. Ron scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. After momentary hesitation, the other Hermione straightened. Conscientious to a fault.
"Macmillan, Rosier, good to see you. The older Prefects are still doing the rounds. I'd hoped we could get a framework for the roster sorted before we got into the meeting proper." She paused to take a breath, spine very straight as she braced for a comment from the Slytherin.
"Most of us are taking Astronomy. There will be a shortage of people who can fill the late patrol on those nights." Hermione considered not talking to herself but a little bit of willing before Malfoy showed might set her up as reasonable. She planned to let Granger do all the organising. She had the first time when the Slytherins thought it beneath their dignity. Keeping her identities straight was starting to give her a headache.
"The NEWT students have their classes on different nights to the Fifth Years so we'll be able to stagger it somewhat." Hermione began making notes on a roster. Hermione watched herself block out what she knew of the older Years' timetable, which was fairly static year to year. Then she sat down and stared out of the window until the urge to scream passed.
When the first train patrol was done, Patricia Stimpson and Roger Davies, the Head Girl and Head Boy, swept in to be crisp and dictatorial. They'd both done their time as Prefects pulling the weight of slackers from the Lions and the Snakes. They'd seen how Percy Weasley had to crack the whip with his own House so they were keen to assert their authority.
Hermione listened quietly thinking that Davies had quite a bit of literary conceit; he was fond of dropping quotes. Stimpson was more to the point like a newsreader. Hermione vaguely recalled her Muggle father was someone in broadcast journalism. Her style didn't seem to sit well with the Slytherins. Warrington muttered 'pushy cow' when she'd finished. A bit of culture shock there probably.
The rest of the train journey was routine, with some badge flaunting from the Fifth Years. When she got to the green carriages, Hermione noticed Parkinson was sulking. Greengrass looked serene. Bulstrode and Davis looked relieved. None of them were ostentatious with their expressions but long suspicion gave her an edge in deciphering their feelings. They at least trusted her not to be a martinet.
The Sorting Feast took ages with the large intake of First Years and Umbridge's interruption. Hermione sat very straight with her back to the Hall, grinding through Occlumency exercises while trying not to envision her hands around the pink bitch's throat. She repeated the mantra 'she lives so we can find the real amulet' until the words ceased to have meaning and she lost her appetite to a sick headache.
The induction of the new students took precedence over her migraine. Hermione had two years of practise at the Prefect spiel so she breezed through the 'pointing and warning' part of the orientation. Professor Snape took over the 'dire punishment' aspect then sent the little Snakes to bed. He called a meeting for the Prefects in a posh parlour down the hall from his office. The wing chairs were covered in serpentine chintz.
Their Head of House spoke with heavy emphasis about decorum and the high standard to which they were held, his expectations of them thrown down like a gauntlet. Hermione's precognition gave her a wondrous understanding of his double meanings that she wouldn't have picked up if she hadn't known how miserable this year was going to be. When Snape warned them not to be too inquisitive, she had to fight down a bitter laugh.
Hermione slunk off to her laboratory as soon as she had a moment. Moppet was there hexing old cushions. Downy feathers covered the floor. She shuffled her feet as she traversed the fluffy debris; kicking clouds. They hugged before getting down to conspiracy.
"If Umbridge can torture children, she'll do the same or worse to house elves." Hermione warned, knocking back a glass of pumpkin juice to wash away the metallic taste in her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue every time Madam Inquisitor had done that irritating little cough. "She's a sadist. Warn all the elves. She becomes acting Headmistress."
"Moppet will hex the bad witch." Moppet flourished her wand to disembowel a pillow.
"You'll have to join the queue." She rubbed her temples. She'd crystallise her anger and store it for later. That emotion would probably work just as well as fear in the bubbles but flinging rage around would not keep the peace. Getting it out of her head would be enough. "When I get my schedule tomorrow, we'll organise when we can meet. I didn't get as much work done this summer as I'd hoped. Bloody Ministry oversight. I'll need to get some letters out before Umbridge starts reading the mail."
"Moppet can take messages out of Hogwarts for Miss." The house elf offered. She had missed her witch over the holidays and wanted to help.
"Thanks but I'd rather you keep your head down. I don't want anyone tattling on you." Hermione shook her head. "I think the best thing we can do for now is meet regularly to practice." She paused as a thought occurred. "Could you sneak into the Room of Requirement while the DA are inside? You could get lessons from them."
"Moppet wants Miss to teach Moppet." Moppet said stiffly, pointing her wand at her witch. "You not be so rude. Moppet knows hexes."
"I apologise for hurting your feelings." She hadn't meant to seem like she was fobbing off her friend. "Of course I'll keep teaching you. What I mean is watching Dumbledore's Army train will help you with your spells too. I learned a lot." Time to grasp the nettle. Hermione had put off trying to cast the Patronus Charm for sensible reasons. Still, she had to acknowledge to herself that she had been putting it off. "Expecto Patronum!"
A silvery stoat appeared then jumped startled and began whiskering everything in sight, sniffing around and peering at both of them with bright, wary eyes. Hermione let her breath out. First time. Same memory. She hadn't lost it. Her otter had changed but she had rather expected that given her Animagus form. The sleek mustelid dove into the mess of feathers and disappeared.
"Umbridge is useless as a DADA teacher. We worked really hard to make sure we could pass our OWLs." She spoke quietly as she stared at the spot where the spectral animal had been. When the dark things came for her, she'd have one more weapon to fight them with. "I can't spend the time with you I'd like. If you can, spectating on Harry's tutoring would be great. I'd go again if I could."
"Moppet says sorry too." The house elf put her wand away. She'd never spell Miss. She had been hurt that her witch had sounded like she didn't want to spend time with her. "Moppet will try to get into the Come and Go Room all quiet."
They chatted for a bit longer before tiredness and unpacking duties called them away. Hermione forewent a shower for a cleaning charm, crawled into her pyjamas thence into her bed, pulling the curtains shut against the chatter of her dorm-mates. She slept heavily, waking with a cotton mouth as the alarm spell on her pillow buzzed.
It was early. She showered extra thoroughly feeling a bit fetid from not bathing the night before. Hermione stared at herself in the mirror, making faces as she braided her hair into a long rope. Clean if not bushy-tailed, she dressed and warded her trunk. After writing several letters in the Common Room, she trekked up to the Owlery before heading into breakfast.
When the post came, it was like Christmas. The expected letter from her Advocate informing her regretfully etcetera of the dismissal of her petition. Madam Flint had sent her randoseru, her dodgy potions ingredients in brown paper parcels, and a set of Hogwarts textbooks. Someone had sent her anonymously a novelty fountain pen with the Stonewall Stormers logo on it. She hoped that meant Flint had arranged to be traded to the Canadian team.
She put on her backpack and walked out of the Hall with her packages levitating behind her. No vigilant witch or wizard went about with both arms full. Hermione headed into the dungeons before ducking into a switchback tangle of side corridors to an old Potions storeroom near one of her caches. She checked her Map then cast a proximity ward before unpacking the potion ingredients.
Most were legal but limited to adults. They would've been confiscated and if she had revealed where she had got them, the person who sold them to her would've been fined. The dried angel's trumpets, oleander leaves, spurge sap and the like were all restricted to licensed Healers, such as Gerard Flint. Marcus had used his father's suppliers. The Ministry would have levelled far more than a fine if she had been found in possession.
Hermione carefully matched the labels on the new bottles and containers with those on the few remaining, long desiccated, ingredients. She arranged everything according to Helga Hufflepuff's cataloguing convention then cleaned the room. With house elves around, nothing got dusty. She left the ward so she'd know if someone tampered with her supplies.
First class of the day was Muggle Studies. Professor Burbage handed out project schedules, giving her students the option of a three foot essay per term from a list of subjects or one ten foot essay for the year on a subject of their choosing. Most did the arithmetic and opted for the three essays, thinking that getting work done early was better than leaving a big project for the OWLs rush at the end of the year.
Hermione thought about all the hours she'd spent with her parents at conferences and workshops, and signed herself up for a long essay on Muggle Medicine. Professor Burbage did no more than nod when she submitted her preference though she did ask her to stay after class. Hermione wasn't sure why. Burbage had treated her with kid gloves since Third Year. But she did as asked, tucking her notes away in the binder they'd been asked to use for classwork.
"Miss Rosier." Charity began her careful speech, well, carefully. It wasn't unheard of for a Slytherin to take Muggle Studies when first given the opportunity, particularly those not gifted academically, but they soon dropped it when they realised it wasn't the 'soft option' they thought. She tried to engage the pure-bloods, who often struggled with the basic concepts of non-magical life. Cathal Rosier had done neither. "I'd like to talk to you about your plans after OWLs."
"It's the first day of term, Professor." Hermione kept her tone reserved. She didn't chat with this teacher. They weren't chums. She wanted desperately to find a way to get Professor Burbage to leave the country before Voldemort killed her.
"Yes, I know it's a bit precipitate." Despite a chat with Severus, who she'd thought surely would know the quiet girl well enough to give advice, Charity still wasn't sure why Rosier was in her class. And in the top ten. She'd be ranked higher if she did any of the optional extra-credit assignments, possibly even rivalling Ernie Macmillan for top spot. "But I am curious why you're sitting an OWL in a subject that, if I'm honest, you don't really seem to need."
"Intellectual curiosity." The reply happened after a pause during which Hermione mentally discarded sarcasm, elitism, and slackness as insufficiently credible responses.
"Miss Rosier." Charity began again then tried for something more casual. "Cathal, it's not that I don't want you in my lessons." That sounded a little forced, a little too suspicious. "I endorsed you for the Prefect position. I've seen you sharing notes with your classmates and you get along well in group work even with..." She stopped here because the girl's expression had hardened from bland politeness to a grim sort of proto-frown. "Please tell me you aren't taking this subject as an alibi or pretext."
The worry in the Professor's voice was palpable. Hermione opened her mouth to lie or spit some racist snark, only to find she just couldn't. Charity Burbage had died for her beliefs. She was a political moderate and she suffered the fate of so many middle-of-the-road people; she got flattened when the tanks rolled in.
"I am genuinely interested in Muggle science, particularly their Healing." Hermione said honestly. She planned to hybridise potions by refining ingredients via scientific methods wherever possible. She could fine tune the magic with Arithmancy and Charms. Most magical folk were happy with 'close enough'. It was only really at Master or Mistress level where precision happened.
"Do you want to be a Medi-Witch?" Charity asked, swallowing all comments on Rosier's likely hadal bedside manner.
"I haven't decided yet." If she survived the war and got the NEWTs for it, the prospect was reasonably appealing. What felt like a thousand years ago before the advent of magic, she'd discussed careers with her parents. Her mum had suggested she consider becoming a surgeon while her dad had thought research science might suit her better.
"Well, if you need to discuss your future or anything really..." Professor Burbage offered, expecting a verbal slap in the face for her presumption. She got instead a tensely blank look. They both knew Cathal Rosier wouldn't be coming to her for guidance. She let the girl go and thought dejectedly of what Severus had said; that you could not enlighten those intent on walking into the dark.
Educational Decree No.24 caused the first murmurs of discontent from the Snakes over the new regime. Hermione had been keeping her temper through judicious use of Occlumency and by demolishing dummies with the Duelling Club. The disbanding of all student organisations coupled with the neutering of the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum prompted a meeting of the OWLs and NEWTs students in the Slytherin Common Room.
"We will comply with the decree." Cassius Warrington stated unequivocally, which his audience heard as 'we will be seen to comply with the decree'. The collective nodded. No one wanted to be hauled into the High Inquisitor's office for tea. Rumours were already rife about Umbridge's Black Quill. "I have lodged a request for an exemption for the Duelling Club."
"However, as Professor Umbridge's novel educational methodology favours theory over practical, tutoring partnerships must be arranged." Ona Parangyo spoke with the careful diction of a scion of a renowned political dynasty. She was not going to sacrifice her potential standing in the Ministry by criticising the spiteful ailuromaniac. Several of her relatives had warned her of Umbridge's habit of sabotaging the careers of those who crossed her.
"The Seventh and Fifth Years take priority as we have the shortest time before this inanity comes due." Warrington weathered the cold looks from the Sixth Years. "You lot have a summer to get instruction. We're being tested at the end of the year."
"Should the High Inquisitor continue in her post next year, I am sure the current Fifth Years will oblige their Housemates taking NEWTs with their assistance." Parangyo placated, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She was the very picture of civic-minded tolerance. When Hearne opened his mouth to object to the relegation, she fixed her agate eyes on him. His complaint atrophied.
"How are you going to arrange the pairs? I don't want to be stuck with a duffer." Parkinson didn't care if the Seventh Year witch glared at her. She wasn't going into the Ministry. She was going to marry well and live a life of ridiculous leisure never having to look at a Mudblood or essay again. Unfortunately, making a good match necessitated having better than Acceptable OWLs and NEWTs. No one wanted a squib wife.
"By process of elimination." Ona's wand, concealed in her folded hands, whipped out as she cast the charm the Duelling Club used for grand melee. The spell tagged everyone in the room and kept record of who incapacitated whom. By prior arrangement, Warrington warded the room to keep the younger Years from intruding. He didn't expect this tourney to take long.
She'd send Moody a fruit basket. He'd probably explode it suspecting it was cursed but Hermione felt she should give him a token of appreciation for the edge he'd given her. She'd wondered idly at Parangyo's stance, too tidy for a casual meeting. She hadn't expected the duelling charm though she already had her shield up when the savvier Snakes started hexing.
Holding one arm behind her back, hand gripping her spare wand in its holster under her sweater, Hermione dodged sharply behind one of the leather sofas. She transfigured it into a barricade and ducked to let the more aggressive students pick each other off. Bulstrode and Davis dove behind the deep buttoned bulwark.
"What do we do?" Millicent hissed, keeping her head down as the duellists lashed out with curses she didn't recognise. She was fairly sure they weren't on any Hogwarts curriculum.
"Use the Smokescreen spell. Fill the room." Hermione advised, pulling a vial out of one of the many extra pockets she had sewn into her robe during her dull cottage stay. Mrs Leeson hadn't objected to needlework though she had confiscated the scissors. "I'll try to pick a few off."
Bulstrode and Davis shared a sceptical glance but as they weren't the one leaving the safety of the barricade, they did as Rosier suggested. The three witches weren't alone in trying to control the battlefield. Multicoloured mists and iridescent fog swirled through the chamber with anguine tendrils. Hermione gulped down the Disillusionment potion.
She wouldn't have tried this in an actual battle. If anyone had been flinging Killing Curses, she would've hunkered behind cover being very conservative. Or run away. Legging it wasn't very Gryffindor but it had saved her life several times. That was unfortunately not an option. Maybe she could've taken down Warrington's ward. Possibly. However doing so would endanger the younger students in their dorms or anyone passing by the dungeon entrance. This wasn't a real fight, and if she were candid, she was spoiling to hex someone.
Hermione took out Crabbe with a Stunner, ducking away when Malfoy spun around to see who had downed his bodyguard. She got Ichijoh with a Ferula, binding her legs with bandages, then Stupefied the Sixth Year when she hit the floor. The standard Protego let through many healing spells to allow first aid on the fly. An important detail to remember was that strategy only worked with textbook Shield Spells. Which Rothley wasn't using, causing her to retaliate against her unseen attacker.
The Tongue-Tying Curse bounced off her shield as Hermione scrambled away, taking temporary refuge behind an epergne someone had enlarged. She animated it and sent the multi-limbed silver construct barrelling forward to clear the way. Something inorganic went crunch. Hermione hoped it was one of the ghastlier bits of furniture.
She ambushed someone covered in hot pink fur then was bowled off her feet by someone else with a too lavish use of concussive hexes. She landed awkwardly on her elbow, her left arm pinned behind her, the impact causing her hand to go numb. Her Shield dropped. A shadowy figure approached, using minor scorching jinxes as tracer fire to try to spot her. Hermione lay there teeth gritted against the pain. Whoever it was walked by her unseeing. She cursed them in the back with nary a twinge of conscience.
