Hermione kept her nose clean during the rest of the holidays. She was careful to be seen blamelessly in the library or in the study halls. There were six other students unfortunate enough not to have an excuse to return home. The three Hufflepuffs stuck together despite their differences in Years and the two Gryffindors mostly hung out in their Common Room, leaving the lone Ravenclaw to his own devices.
By democracy of heating, they sat together at the large table nearest Madam Pince's desk, where the Warming Charms worked best. The Fourth Year introduced himself as Jatin Agarkar but didn't otherwise seem inclined to conversation. He did sit with her every day of the holidays in companionable silence, occasionally swapping books. He was a Charms prodigy judging from the extra credit work he was doing for Professor Flitwick. No one troubled them.
Hermione got into the habit of going to bed early, alone in the Slytherin dorm. She was tempted to dance around in her pyjamas solely for the novelty of having done so. She restrained herself in favour of chalking more anchor points and running Moppet through hexes. The house elf had suggested practising in the Common Room as the furniture responded well to her magic so there would be no trouble mending any accidents. No one except Professor Snape was likely to intrude and he was out of the Castle on personal, read Death Eater, business.
"People get fancy in duels, refining spell sequences and polishing their gestures." Hermione flourished her wand to demonstrate, shaping a slicing hex into a scything curve to bisect a leather ottoman while leaving the cushion on top untouched. "That's great for precision but in a fight you need to keep your wand 'live' for as short an interval as possible to minimise wasted energy. You can't afford to hold a spell a moment longer than necessary."
Hermione slashed her hawthorn in an abrupt jerk, cutting across the footstool again along with the cushion and a bit of the rug. The same spell but a much faster casting and recovery. Moppet watched intently, trying different gestures with her own wand to get a feel for what the stick wanted to do. It wanted to help. The house elf hopped up and down with glee when she cut a swathe through an armchair.
"Moppet can slices things." She felt how the magic wanted to leave her through the wizard wood. She could do it. "Moppet feels a bit less after."
"That's normal." Hermione reassured. "Wands act as conduits for our magic, focussing the release. It's like narrowing the gauge on a pipe to increase the pressure. But that means we feel the flow more than if we were just letting our magic radiate out."
They sparred a little, with Hermione showing her friend how to maintain a Shield Charm, which Moppet could do far more easily than the witch. The house elf's innate magic allowed her to sustain a spell without having to channel it through her wand though she needed the alder to cast it. Afterwards, they tidied up the Common Room, reassembled the furnishings and loafed on the hearthrug roasting marshmallows.
The idyll didn't last. Come the new year, Umbridge returned to Hogwarts. The few students in the castle made themselves scarce in their dorms rather than risk encountering the DADA Professor prowling the halls. Hermione used the old passages to navigate from the dungeons to her laboratory and didn't see daylight for a fortnight.
The resumption of classes brought no respite. News of the escape of ten Death Eaters swept through the school like a blizzard. Anyone with any familial connection to the prisoners was suspect, with mistrust falling heavily on Slytherin House. Snape cautioned his charges to be watchful and sensible to avoid confrontations. He tasked the older Years, especially the Prefects, with minding the younger students.
Parangyo knew all the blood ties. In a hasty briefing in the chintzy parlour, she outlined the 'high value targets' though she didn't use that Muggle phrase. Neither Dolohov or Mulciber had any English relatives. The Lestranges were childless but prominently linked to the Malfoy, Black, and Avery families. The Rookwoods had intermarried with half a dozen pure-blood families, mostly neutral, unlike the Jugsons, who had left the United Kingdom entirely after the disgrace of their eldest son going to Azkaban. Travers, Rosier, and Selwyn had heirs at Hogwarts however.
"Ingram Travers is the only one of the name at Hogwarts since his brother graduated. No legitimate girls in that family for a couple of generations." That ruled out any distaff side complications. They'd be stretched keeping an eye on the Rookwood cousins. Ona shifted her gaze to the Fifth Year Prefects. "That leaves the two of you as the scapegoats."
"They wouldn't dare." Malfoy sneered, resolute with the expectation of standing behind his father, Crabbe, and Goyle.
"Possibly, possibly not." The Seventh Year said coolly. "However, Umbridge hasn't done us any favours, and we do not want to draw attention to ourselves." During the holidays, Ona had sketched out a roster for secret tournaments so they could hone their Dark Arts skills. She didn't want that work to be for nought because Malfoy couldn't stop courting notice. "We are all going to be especially circumspect. Is that understood?"
Hermione understood. She, Trinh, and Hearne swapped escort duties so Travers was never in the halls alone. The Third Years had heeded their elders and travelled in packs but the presence of an older Slytherin kept any impromptu demonstrations from the other Houses to a minimum. So many Death Eaters had wormed their way out of punishment, leaving only the fanatics and the blatantly murderous to go to Azkaban. The escapees had left a swathe of victims. No one could do anything about Umbridge but they could lash out at those they perceived were making their world worse.
Muggle Studies became excruciating. No one would talk to her or acknowledge her existence. They pointedly crowded tables so she would have to sit by herself. No one was violent, Burbage wouldn't have stood for that, but there was little the Professor could do to make anyone socialise with her and forcing groupwork led to sullen silent protests. Hermione made note of the most ostentatious avoiders. Not for revenge, she could endure being a pariah, but because they were the most likely to retaliate in other ways.
Another unfortunate consequence of the embargo on cooperation was she had to patrol with herself. To avoid conflict among the Prefects, Granger had volunteered to patrol with the Slytherins. Pairing herself with Malfoy was a non-starter so he went to Ernie, who could withstand the blood purist's jibes, leaving the Gryffindor golden girl paired with Rosier.
They didn't speak. Hermione didn't trust herself not to blurt out everything. She could do so much good by warning Granger. And risk so much. So they patrolled in grim silence, doing their duty but not socialising. Given the tension between Houses, she expected her other self considered non-communication to be a non-loss.
Umbridge was in Divination. Umbridge was in Care of Magical Creatures. Umbridge was of course in Defence against the Dark Arts, which had turned into a reading comprehension class. No lectures, just rote learning of the text. Hermione sat with Nott at the back of the room, with a series of tomes disguised as Dark Arts Defence: Basics for Beginners.
Staving off wrath in Creatures was more difficult. Umbridge had put Hagrid on probation and had neutered the class to the Ministry approved material only. One Wednesday afternoon, Hermione bit her tongue so hard keeping silent her mouth she tasted blood. Afterwards in her lab eyeing the ranked vials of extracted anger, she resolved to do something spectacular with them. Just what, she wasn't sure. But something. Something loud.
Parangyo and Warrington ran the secret tournaments with clockwork efficiency. Three times a week, participants received a sparring number and a location. The Prefects made sure all the designated training rooms were unoccupied and unregarded. The increase in pranks meant an increase in the frequency of patrols, allowing the Slytherins to more effectively guard the privacy of their duelling. Umbridge, unaware of the irony, commended them for their diligence.
Hermione helped Ichijoh to her feet after the timer had chimed. She'd learned that habit after smashing Burke through a desk only to have the witch curse her when she went to her aid. Belvina was not a gracious loser and had learned much of her repertoire from Violet Tripe. After she'd regained consciousness, Hermione hadn't protested the loss. She had warned Trinh and Hearne, who had in turn circulated the tale of poor sportsmanship to their peers. While Slytherins were ambitious, they liked to be seen to be observing the niceties.
Manami Ichijoh bowed once she was upright, sheathing her wand. Her pride was somewhat salved after a second defeat at Rosier's hands. The younger girl hadn't felled her as a fluke in the tourney and although her fighting style could use some polish, she'd never list on the International Duelling circuit, Cathal was very good.
"Should I bow too?" Hermione asked, feeling uncouth.
"A cultural affectation." Ichijoh waved away the faux pas. It would have mattered in Mahoutokoro. It didn't at Hogwarts. "May I ask, why the randoseru?"
"I liked the style." That was a non-answer but socially it would maybe pass. The older girl favoured her with a conservative smile and didn't press the issue. Hermione wondered whether the backpack had originally been Ichijoh's as she'd transferred from the Japanese magical school in Third Year after her father was exiled for violations of the wizard's code. The actual transgressions had never been publicised and for her part Manami had never mentioned them.
"You value the traditional." The Sixth Year wasn't talking about Rosier's choice of rucksack any more. "But you are not orthodox."
"Walking the same path risks falling in the same potholes." Hermione wasn't sure where this conversation was headed. Slytherins had minds like corkscrews.
"Do you know where you are going?" Manami had had a lengthy and enigmatic conference with her parents during the holidays. She was still puzzling out all the implications. Her father never said what he meant, not after he had been betrayed and denounced by his closest friends. Her mother was more forthright as she had more to lose.
"To the bitter end." Was this a sideways discussion about politics? It felt like it. Hermione straightened, unintentionally looking down on the petite witch. She was still growing, which irrationally irritated her. By the end of the year none of her skirts would be regulation. Granger had it easy. She'd hit her adult height in Third Year. "There's no other choice for me."
"That isn't very persuasive recruitment." Ichijoh had expected an exultation or rant. Some of the Seventh Years would adroitly sound one out on one's commitment to tradition or willingness to risk oneself. She knew who the extremists were among her peers. The Fifth Years had an usually high concentration of Sacred Twenty-Eight, the supposed beautiful people. Malfoy carried his blood status on his sleeve. Rosier was less overt.
"I'm not trying to win anyone over. This isn't a personality contest, it's an ideological war. You either believe or you don't. There's no sell." The words came out under pressure, in a rush, fuelled by her ability to count. The Order and the DA had tried for years to spread the word, to inspire the populace to defend their rights. Nett result? A paltry showing at the Final Battle, where they'd been outnumbered at least five to one.
"You'll keep the coming war for the elite?" Even in this, the exclusivity of the powered class flaunted itself. Manami could trace her ancestors back three thousand years in an unbroken pure line, which mattered little as none of those antecedents were British. She could be a respected witch and successful but she couldn't rule.
"It's our birthright." Voldemort had used giants and werewolves as shock troops but with a very imperialist attitude; all the officers were pure-bloods and all, with the notable exception of Dolohov, local born. She wondered about the Russian wizard. What had made him throw in his lot with Tom Riddle? Hatred of Muggles? Perhaps. He was of age to have seen the worst of the Communist pogroms.
"You are short-sighted fools." Ichijoh wanted back the security and esteem her family had enjoyed in Japan. Her mother had picked England, where she had friends who could vouch for them in good company, but it was becoming increasingly apparent to Manami that without the blood of Albion in her veins she wouldn't be able to achieve all she wanted.
"My hand isn't on the tiller." Hermione shrugged, abrogating all responsibility for the collective rabid idiocy of the Death Eaters. How so many clever people could be so stupid eluded her. It must be the inbreeding.
"Would you steer otherwise?" Now this was more interesting. Rosier was an enigma. Smarter and more powerful than she let on, when she wasn't fuming or distracted. If she had a plan to improve the country, the Sixth Year was prepared to listen.
"Oh yes, but I have debts to pay first." Whatever the older girl wanted to change, Hermione couldn't help her. Not until the war was over.
Ichijoh didn't press her. She seemed to have a lot on her mind, a common affliction among older Slytherins. There was still time to leave Britain without looking like you were fleeing. Quietly disengaging then removing to distant shores before being called upon to commit or laying oneself open to allegations of cowardice.
After the bout, Hermione did her usual trick of losing herself in the warrens of corridors in the dungeons so she could slip away to her laboratory. In her previous incarnation, the DA had made do without treatment for the minor injuries sustained during meetings or had fibbed to Madam Pomfrey. This time around, the provision of surreptitious remedies fell to her. As well as a burgeoning grey market in anti-prank charms, reverse-engineered from what she knew of the Weasley Wheezes.
She brewed and refined alchemical products while keeping an eye on the clock. This year she could've done with a Time-Turner, though the metaphysics of temporal magic and reincarnation would probably cause something Lovecraftian to occur. Hermione scheduled naps for herself during the evenings so she could sneak around after curfew without being sleep deprived. It worked although the days were blurring into each other.
Valentine's Day happened to other people. Slytherins mostly took the opportunity to deride the masses observing a Muggle holiday. That didn't stop them from going to Hogsmeade. What stopped Hermione from going was a tricky potion batch and homework. She had a schedule for that too so she could concentrate on a subject rather than flitting from one to another winding herself up. Her mental weaknesses hadn't changed. Slow and steady.
When Bulstrode asked her for help in making a Calming Draught, she was suspicious. She'd been getting out of bed at one o'clock in the morning and had almost jumped when her dorm-mate had whispered to her. Hermione padded over to the other girl's bed and cast a Muffliato so they wouldn't wake anyone. Millicent didn't look like she'd slept. The soft shadows of a Lumos made her skin seem waxen.
"Has Madam Pomfrey cut you off?" Hermione eyed her. She hadn't noticed Millicent looking unwell, granted she hadn't particularly been looking,. By Fifth Year most of the girls had mastered cosmetic charms and glamours, especially the Slytherins. Appearance was another competition among Salazar's Own.
"I'm not stupid enough to go to Pomfrey." Bulstrode would've snapped if she hadn't been asking for a favour. "I didn't get as much as I hoped from home. I think my mother's been drinking it too. My parents..."
"Are fighting." She guessed and got a jerky nod. "You're going to poison yourself. Have you been taking liver tonics to ease the side effects?"
"Milk thistle tea." The reply was tart. Millicent didn't like the suggestion she was stupid or couldn't manage her own problems. "I just need someone to check I'm doing it right, and who'll keep their mouth shut."
"You can't keep quaffing the stuff." Hermione tried to think of a weaning potion or something she could make half-strength to help ease Bulstrode off what she feared was becoming a serious psychological crutch.
"That's rich coming from you." Millicent snarled. "Don't think I haven't noticed you've been oh so serene after ducking off. I bet you've got your own private stash."
"Occlumency." She snapped back. "I practise every bloody day. I don't go for the instant fix. Potions linger in the body, Bulstrode. I'd bet if I did a detection charm for the Draught you'd damn well glow."
"Can you teach me?" It was the flip of a knut between screaming at Rosier and asking for lessons. If this had been Greengrass, she wouldn't have risked it as Daphne would keep cranking up the price. If it'd been Parkinson, Millicent never would've asked.
"That depends on when you're available." Hermione went to her trunk, unwarded it and unlocked it, pulling out her randoseru. She kept everything secured while she slept. Her demonstration of the 'Cruciatus' had left her with little room for escalation if someone challenged her. So she limited opportunities. "I can do Tuesdays after Herbology from five thirty to six fifteen or Sundays eight to nine thirty in the morning."
"You've planned everything that tightly?" Millicent craned her neck to peek at Rosier's notebook. It didn't look like much. The blonde didn't bother with appearances. Lucky bitch, the over-mothered witch thought enviously.
"It's OWL year." That was a robust excuse much in use. She'd even heard it from a Ravenclaw she'd found wandering the halls in his underwear chanting Arithmancy formulae.
"Tuesdays, then. I'd like one day at least to sleep in." Bulstrode didn't expect to get very far with Occlumency but she was willing to try. She was good at learning things by rote and if Rosier was patient enough then maybe. She knew she couldn't keep going like she was. Rich food was starting to make her feel bilious. She'd rather have ice cream than a potion that tasted like ditch-water strained through gym shorts.
"Cut your Draughts with gillywater. Three to one at first then half and half. Don't try to go cold turkey." Hermione advised, willing to help the girl solely because her parents would want her to make the effort. Both elder Grangers had done courses in Addiction Studies as part of their professional development. One of their university friends had ended the high-flying '80s with a cocaine habit that had cost him his marriage, career, and then life. They hadn't been able to help him.
"Why would I need to go to Turkey?" Millicent didn't think she had misheard.
"I mean don't stop taken the potion suddenly all at once. Ease off gently." Hermione hadn't realised the expression wasn't common parlance among magicals. She didn't clarify to Bulstrode that the idiom was Muggle. That would require more explanation and she was already late to check on her brewing.
As part of the debt for the favour, Millicent didn't ask where Rosier was going fully dressed in the small hours. She watched the tall girl slip out of the dorm with the confident quiet of long habit. There was no excitement or hidden glee so it wasn't an assignation, and she was going further afield than the Common Room otherwise she wouldn't have dressed. Letting a suitable boy catch sight of you in your nightie was an unspoken tradition among the unpromised girls. With her luck, Millicent grimaced at the bed curtains, it'd be Crabbe. She lay down and pulled the blankets up to her chin to spend several more hours staring dispiritedly at the damask.
For her part, Hermione ducked into the Head Girl's suite, through the alchemical niche and via storerooms got to her laboratory. She had Transfigured whiteboards to hang behind each brewing station, markers being less of a risk around potions than chalk dust, so she could tell at a glance the progress of each. Not trying to keep things in her head made her work much easier. She didn't trust herself not to wake up suddenly entirely Cathal and perplexed as Hell why she had six batches of empty potion media on the go.
She chatted to Moppet through their wires as they both worked. The Hogwarts staff did most of their chores while the students slumbered. The house elf popped in with an inverse-afternoon tea around 3am and they enjoyed scones with cherry jam.
That morning was their last little bit of peace. Once the Quibbler published Harry's interview, Umbridge redoubled her efforts to smoke out conspiracies. The High Inquisitor threatened expulsion for the tiniest infraction of her Decrees. The trade in contraband copies of the oddball newspaper scuttled her attempt to muzzle discourse. So Umbridge tightened the screws.
Hermione wasn't in the courtyard to see the dramatic scene of Trelawney's dismissal. She was on the fourth floor near Binns's office unsticking two First Years Gryffindors whose feet were glued to the ceiling. They'd been left there by their assailant and were on the point of fainting when she'd heard their plaintive calls for help. She detached them and lowered them gently to the floor, sitting with them until they'd recovered enough to stand.
Neither wanted to go to Madam Pomfrey or to report the incident as Umbridge was taking an interest in all disciplinary complaints. She had a knack for showing up just in time to hear the embarrassing details then making the victim squirm. The two little wizards thanked her clumsily after noticing her tie then scurried off to coddle their pride in their Common Room. If they'd had a competent DADA teacher they would've known the counter-charm to free themselves.
Professor Firenze did not shift his eyes from the liar as she strode early into his classroom. Dumbledore had given him trees and a transfigured ceiling and with the scent of the forest from the open windows the centaur could almost pretend he was not an exile. The stars had guided him to teach the young humans despite the objections of his colony. Mars was rising brighter and brighter, a harbinger he must heed.
"There are no stars for you." He spoke as soon as the witch, if the creature was truly a witch, crossed his threshold. Firenze had shared with the Headmaster what he had seen in the heavens; a student for whom nothing was written. The old wizard had nodded sagely. He had said not to fret as he was watching the boy.
The centaur had not corrected him for Dumbledore was on a fixed path and would not allow himself to be swayed. Such commitment could lead one to great deeds or it could leave one exhausted and lost, adrift at the end of a vanishing path. Thus it fell to Firenze to be mindful of the detached being. He hadn't been sure of whom until he had put the names of his students into the fire to read the smoke. Most were honest foals and fillies with simple journeys ahead of them. Others took darker trails. One he could not see.
"And that's for you to decide?" Hermione snapped. She hadn't got much sleep between experimenting and a late Prefect patrol, and she'd had her in-class brewing ruined when Finnegan's mistake had caused the evacuation of Potions. She and Nott had been nearest the door so they'd escaped with minimal exposure to the noxious smoke but she'd been trying to refine her understanding of the Draught of Peace and all that work would have to be redone.
"In this place, at this time, it is." Firenze paced to the right so he could catch her scent. Hellebore and nettles, sweat and anger, female near her moon, and magic. Usually he could not smell so much power on a human. Their bodies came from the earth not the ether. A clay vessel could hold only so much. This creature was bound around with energy, not quite wards keeping something inside but close enough he would think of her as danger caged.
"Then I'll need a note excusing me from class." The terse request was met with a slow tilt of his head, more or less a nod. Hermione stood there mute as Professor Firenze found parchment and pen to compose a plausible ejection. She could have protested though arguing with a rarefied centaur seldom got anyone anywhere. Whatever he saw in her was evidently disconcerting enough for him to want to be rid of her. She'd go quietly and use the time for her own ends.
Firenze didn't hand her the pass. He set it on a desk then back away guardedly watching her take it and go. Hermione read the slip as she headed to the dungeons. 'Private contemplations' might be the first convenient excuse he found or it could be a pointed suggestion to rethink her life choices. She'd write a report on meditation techniques, which would be useful for her to learn more about, and submit it at the end of term to cover herself. Meanwhile, Hypnos beckoned.
Subsequent Divination classes found her in the Room of Doom, so named for the old meaning of the word as 'law or judgement'. Originally for disciplinary inquiries too serious for a single Head of House to adjudicate, it was a circular chamber with a high domed ceiling that reminded Hermione of the Hagia Sophia. A beautiful place to curse someone, specifically the someones drawn by Ona Parangyo for the mini-tournaments.
Relatively few Slytherins took NEWT Divination, Ancient Runes, or Arithmancy, and the Fifth Year schedule matched the Sixth Year for electives in that period, leaving Hermione open to join. The consistent duelling helped her considerably in overcoming her tendency to hesitate in combat as she debated with herself what spell to use. There was no time for over-thinking when sparring with serpents.
