Because no one was suave at barely-sixteen, the hug turned into something awkward with Nott stammering his thanks and Hermione going red as she became aware her body had noticed it was being held by a boy type person. He had beautiful dark blue eyes, deep and clever. Stupid pubescent hormones.

He took a quick step backward with a sharp bow of his head and fled the room before either of them could say something stupid. Hermione stood there uncomfortable with the thought that other than Moppet, she couldn't remember the last person who had hugged Cathal. She presumed Derica Max had but that was another life.

Of course it would be now that she also recalled Snape's advice on her virginity. Hermione swore, hexed a table, swore, mended the table, and told herself she was twenty-three years old. Irrespective of magic or biochemistry, mentally she was an adult. She had shit to do that did not include giggling inanely or bursting into tears or having a temper tantrum.

Hermione took a deep breath, dropping into one of the Occlumency meditation exercises. After a few minutes of that, she felt more clear-headed. She shouldn't be surprised Cathal was starved for human contact. Anyone would be in her circumstances. Slytherins didn't go in for group hugs. She took another deep breath, putting her wand away.

What she wanted to do was hide in her laboratory. However, she was a Prefect. Hermione opened her map, scanning for any other lone Snakes. She had added a charm to distinguish the House status of the occupants of the Castle. The spell wasn't as precise as she would've liked as anyone who had attended Hogwarts living or dead displayed in their respective colours. It did show her the only lone green dots were ghosts however.

"Voice, did you detonate that statue?" She asked as she had the Map out.

"We did." Hogwarts confirmed with perhaps a hint of devilment.

"Thanks." Hermione was sincere. Her pride would happily allow her to run away from eight-to-one odds.

"The statue was poorly aligned. It's lack of congruence offended us." The Castle defended its vandalism with an off-hand critique. She made an assenting noise, not mentioning that Peeves had to get his destructive urges from somewhere.

Hermione stuck it out until the last day of term. She was reasonably confident that Narcissa Malfoy had more on her mind than her wayward ward. Similarly Professor Snape was busy assuaging Voldemort's wrath. She could probably have left the school with son et lumiere like Fred and George. She had planned to slip away in Hogsmeade but after a scrum broke out between a load of Fourth Year Badgers and Snakes, she opted to ride shotgun on the Express to help keep order.

Kings Cross station was crowded with people pretending not to be frantic to collect their children. A burly wizard all but elbowed her aside as he hurried towards his daughter. Hermione wove into the mill, bustling out with the Muggle pedestrians heading north towards Pancras Square. She hurried into Camden Street Natural Park, stepped behind a tree, and Disillusioned herself. She called Moppet on her wire. The house elf appeared scant moments later then popped them both back to the safety of Hogwarts.

Hermione went immediately to her new laboratory in a 'sleeping' section of the castle. The room was only technically unplottable, in that her use of it was insufficient to rouse it from its inactive state. There were few truly unplottable parts of the school, all specifically made to be concealed and nearly all heavily warded. The Room of Requirement was an exception the Voice could share with her.

She'd meant to start another series of trials on food preservation spells and get another batch of potion media brewing. What she did was sit on the floor staring at the opposite wall as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Hermione lay down on the tiles and let everything drain from her. Reaction, mostly, she guessed. No more standing sentry. No more Umbridge.

Moppet padded over to her witch and lay down beside her, hands touching. There was no talking. They just lay there like carpets, because maybe Miss was feeling a bit trodden on. Moppet understood that. Hogwarts was good and safe but lots of magical folk thought house elves was made for stepping on.

"This year is the last we have to prepare." Hermione spoke after lying prostrate long enough for her bum to go numb. "I think Cathal'll have a much easier Sixth Year than Hermione did. I'll leave Malfoy to his bloody cabinet and keep my head down." She inhaled slowly, willing herself to find some verve. "With Cathal's Death Eater kin still on the loose, I'd rather like to go unnoticed."

"Miss can hide in the castle then on train day sneak into Hogsmeade." Moppet didn't want her witch going anywhere the bad wizards might get her. "No going to London."

"I'll need to be somewhere else when the Ministry sends out our OWL results." She didn't know if her grandmother or Selwyn cousin knew about Rose Cottage. Taking that risk wouldn't be clever. "I'll stay somewhere ordinary. A hostel or registered camping ground."

"Moppet doesn't like somewhere ordinary." The house elf protested.

"Neither do I." Hermione sighed. "But I can't be caught here. This would be a lot easier if the wizarding world had the equivalent of a Post Office box." She sighed again then smacked herself on the cheek. No more moping. "I think today's going to be a write-off. Let's go to the Room of Requirement. I'll teach you how to ride a bicycle or ice skate. Something light-hearted."

Hermione managed to jolly herself out of her ennui by giving herself a fortnight off. A proper holiday of pyjamas-at-noon and paperback novels. The Room of Requirement provided an adequate rink and transfiguring skates was fairly simple. Transfiguring knee and elbow pads because it had been years since she'd skated was also easy. Moppet, with a lower centre of gravity, was more stable on her feet once she got the idea of knives strapped to her soles. Hermione spent a lot of time on her backside on the ice laughing at herself.

The day before OWL results were due, Hermione went to London, to stay at a women's hostel in Earls Court. She wasn't too concerned about her results. Barring her own pride in her accomplishments, Cathal only needed Exceeds Expectations to continue with all her classes. The owl came during breakfast as its trip was short, another reason she wanted to be close to the Ministry, and she checked out as soon as the letter was in her hand.

The rest of July was lab trials and lists. She had a breakthrough with the camping food. The preservation charms didn't recognise any of it as comestible, affecting the dehydrated mixes the same way as grass. Hermione shrank, expanded, and re-shrank the freeze-dried instant lumpy powders. They retained their consistency quite well, far better than the home-cooked meals she used as a baseline. So while she couldn't put fresh food in magical stasis, she could store pre-packaged fare in an Undetectable Extension Charm trusting to the manufacturers' shelf life guarantees.

The dentists-don't-recommend high sugar snacks with lots of food colouring couldn't be magically preserved either. None of the charms Hermione had trialled as stable would stick to the marshmallow fluff or the sour gummy chews. Shrinking them did weird things to their viscosity, leaving her with crumby but sweet multicoloured lumps. Still technically edible but she gave up on the treats as they weren't nutritious enough to merit the effort of including them in her stockpiles.

Hermione went to the Leaky Cauldron on the thirty-first of July in anticipation of the book lists. She'd picked Diagon Alley as the best of a poor selection of choices. Wanted criminals were unlikely to show themselves in the busy shopping district. There were a few specialised purchases she needed to make for her NEWT classes. Cathal had got Outstandings in all her subjects, which had annoyed more than pleased her. Hermione had worked herself into knots studying. Cathal hadn't. Yes, she had to tell herself that she was older and she was Hermione so Cathal got the benefit of her groundwork but... Hermione had got an E in Defence Against the Dark Arts. That didn't seem fair.

Hermione told herself she was being silly. Moppet told her she was being silly. Hogwarts itself told her she was foolish if she thought neither her life experience or her new blood status had affected her results. It rankled. It continued to rankle after tea and Occlumency. She was in a sour mood when she checked in. Her sour mood continued when someone cursed her from behind while she was unlocking the door to her room. Red tinged darkness claimed her.

The black turned to maroon then to vermilion. Hermione blinked, a flash of yellow, before instinctively reaching for her wand. Someone patted her hand. She jerked open her eyes, lying still until she had got her bearings. What she saw first was a woman with bobbed white hair and a smooth, aristocratic face. Not young but not old. Estimating the ages of magical folk was difficult. Hermione guessed the woman with her hand on Cathal's was anywhere between fifty to eighty.

"Siglinde Rosier." Hermione ventured, sitting up. She was in a huge bed in a spacious room with oak panelled walls. The witch smiled tightly, patting her hand again before straightening and gesturing imperiously to a house elf, who hurried forward with a tray.

"Severus said you were clever." She poured a cup from a tall silver salver, offering it to Hermione, who hesitated. "Here, test it." Cathal's paternal grandmother handed over Cathal's hawthorn wand. "An Invigoration Draught. You should recognise it."

Hermione cast a charm to detect poison before cautiously sniffing the liquid. Mandrake and pixie wings. The brew was unlikely to be anything other than an Invigoration Draught. There were potions that could be added to the Draught but as far as she knew they all changed the colour and sheen. It was probably safer than the woman offering it to her. She took a sip.

"Bit heavy on the ginseng." The bitter after-taste made Hermione lick her teeth. The potion worked quickly, clearing her head and filling her with an artificial bounciness. Rather like downing five shots of espresso then chewing raw ginger.

"The roots were old." Siglinde pinched Cathal's index fingernail, watching the pinkness slowly return. "Have two cups." She ordered, pouring herself one. The witch gulped it without pretence of manners, chasing the taste with her tongue. She covered her mouth belatedly, her other hand clenching into a fist. "Pardon."

"Hot cocoa works better for chronic exposure." Hermione felt like she was betraying Professor Lupin for sharing his advice with a Death Eater but she wanted to establish a rapport with Cathal's grandmother to expedite her escape.

"My stomach has yet to reconcile itself with freedom." Madam Rosier spoke as though apologising for the dryness of the canapés. The tightness around her eyes betrayed her. Fifteen years in Azkaban took a toll. It was a accolade to Siglinde's strength of will that she could form a coherent sentence. "But that is a trifle. All that matters is that you are safe."

"What spell was cast on me?" She carefully did not accuse the witch of cursing her personally. Hermione didn't want to trigger an aggressive or psychotic response. She was expecting the matron to explode into shrieking fury a la Bellatrix.

"A familial spell. Blood compliance." Long delicate fingers brushed over a signet ring on her left hand. Worn on the distaff side to indicate her possession by right of marriage, the intaglio was of the crest of the House of Rosier. "Narcissa said you were wilful. I did not want you running away. It is very important we speak."

"I don't want stay with the Malfoys." Hermione said quietly, probing to see a reaction. What she was truly thinking was rather more along the line of 'shit, shit, bloody hell, fuck'. Blood magic was old and inconveniently specific. It had only fallen by the wayside because although it could affect certain individuals very powerfully, broadening the working to include random folk was nearly unachievable. Unless you were Erzabet Bathory.

The problem for her was Cathal was a linear relative of Siglinde Rosier née Selwyn. Any magic the Death Eater witch did using her own blood would hit Cathal hard. Any magic she did with Cathal's blood would be impossible to shake off. She didn't have to be willing or conscious or even particularly close by if the witch knew the right rituals. She was in serious trouble.

"Of course you do not. Lucius is a traitor." The words came out from somewhere cold and far away. Siglinde's gaze drifted to the carved bedposts, unfocused. Hermione counted to thirty-seven before the older witch spoke again. "Only his quick use of his tongue kept him from our Lord's wrath." Her voice was more present and much more cynical. "Don't marry a pretty husband, my dear, no matter how good he is at licking cunt."

Hermione choked on her draught and coughed into her hand as her face went red. Cathal's grandmother regarded her with a detached placidity that incongruously reminded her of Luna Lovegood. The mind in there looked upon the world askew. Siglinde patted her hand again as if to reassure herself her granddaughter was real.

"That's not my most important criterion in a spouse." Hermione managed once she'd found her voice. "There's a concord between myself and Draco Malfoy."

"The moment, the second, I can burn that parchment, I shall." Madam Rosier shook with something Hermione hoped wasn't directed at her. "Piers had his little plans. He liked tidiness." The words were over-precise, substituted for less socially acceptable criticism. "Fobbing off Malfoy would have been only temporary except my husband had to let himself die."

"He was the Secret Keeper." In spite of the instability of her hostess, Hermione was very interested in how Cathal had ended up in a forgotten cottage on a little island in the Irish Sea.

"He wanted to protect his heir more than avenge him." Siglinde's voice was remote again, dissociative. "They killed our son. We couldn't even bury him. The Ministry incinerated Evan like he was garbage." She was breathing fast, two spots of high colour on her cheeks. "My little boy should have come home. Some customs are inviolate. Without traditions we are nothing."

"Did my mother think so?" Hermione asked, tautly ready to dive off the bed if Siglinde lashed out. Sirius used to smash things and scream at Walburga's portrait. Or drink. Or all three if he thought he was alone. But he had been sane going into Azkaban. She had no way of knowing her grandmother's mental state before her incarceration.

"Derica loved your father. I was so pleased they got on well." Madam Rosier smiled fondly at the memory. "It was difficult to find Evan a suitable wife not too closely related. Piers and I had such trouble conceiving I knew if we were to have grandchildren we needed to look outside England. Piers wanted a French witch but the best families are all Lestrange cousins. Very wild. The Maxs were perfect. Derica was perfect."

"No one talks about her much." She had got the impression Cathal's mother kept herself out of sight or at least kept her mouth shut. A good survival strategy considering the company she kept.

"Your mother is shy. There was the language difference too. Her English is good but people would comment on her accent." Siglinde straightened, an echo of ingrained pride. Her daughter-in-law was clever and gifted and pure. No one had cause to look down their noses at her. "The pregnancy was difficult too. Derica was so sick we all worried she might lose you. She did everything to make sure you were safe. You are her darling little witch."

"She's dead, grandmother." Hermione said as gently as she could.

"Yes, dear, I know." The older witch replied after staring into the distance. "Lucius told me. We can lay her death too at the feet of the Ministry. I saw the investigation report. An accidental fire." Her mouth thinned into a grim line. "She was murdered. They killed her just like they killed my son. There will be a reckoning."

"I want to do it." Interrupting hastily, Hermione found some anger to share. Hell knew she had enough. It had to sound right because she didn't want the Auror's blood on her hands. "I was there. You avenged my father. Let me have the answering for my mother."

"Darling, of course." Siglinde smoothed Cathal's hair, out of practise with soothing a child. Her granddaughter wasn't the pink-cheeked curious toddler she'd been when they had last met. She was almost grown now, as tall as her father, so much a Rosier Siglinde had had no trouble picking her out from the patrons in that awful shabby pub. They'd lost years but that could be mended. "Whatever you wish. Whatever is in my power to give."

"Where are we?" Shades of horror movies and cautionary fairy tales twisted the witch's words in Hermione's ears. She was fresh out of long spoons.

"Nott Manor. Tristan kindly offered houseroom." The grim line returned, her mouth drawn bloodless. "Now he is shut away in Azkaban. As I would be too if I hadn't hidden in an elf-hole in the cellar while the Aurors sacked the place." Perhaps she heard the brittle edge to her own voice because she paused there to draw in a slow, deep breath then another. "Theodore wishes to extend the same invitation to you."

"That's nice of him." Hermione considered demurring before opting against it. She had been kidnapped by a Death Eater who hadn't been sent as reinforcement to the Department of Mysteries. Nott's father had gone and he was of age thereabouts with Madam Rosier. It was possible she was doing something important for Voldemort or she was still infirm from her imprisonment. Or she was too mentally fragile to be relied upon, which with Bellatrix setting the bar had to be pretty damn unstable.

"I think he has a tendre for you." Siglinde smiled indulgently. The Nott heir was a nicely suitable match for her granddaughter. A thinker, and if he were anything like his father, prone to giving his heart absolutely. Tristan still mourned his wife. He did not have any of the pretty little hobbies that diverted many of their social equals. She wondered what had happened to Piers's Italian tart. Probably slunk back to Rome to find another husband.

"I've no objections to Theo but I want to concentrate on my schooling." She was really feeling her lack of pure-blood etiquette right now. Was Cathal's grandmother hinting at an arranged marriage or just teasing fondly? You couldn't find the subtleties of interpersonal interaction in books. Hermione had crossed her fingers for five years that her inexperience would come across as aloofness or raised-in-hiding awkwardness.

"Of course, of course." That got a firm nod. Best choice for a sole heir. No one wanted to trust their House's solitary hope to a duffer or one easily distracted by amusement. "Your cousin Sholto could still sire a child. Morgana knows he's aware of the process. My brother is forever on the watch for any mistakes from those half-bloods his son thinks he can sneak in."

"Is he still doing that?" Hermione asked diffidently. She'd heard, they'd all heard, about Revels. If Siglinde was reminiscing about pre-war peccadilloes then fine. If her nephew was doing the same thing now, there were much more unpleasant connotations.

"I don't think so, darling. He doesn't like to be touched." Siglinde said absently, another conversational leap from past to present. She stared into the abyss of memory and jumped when the tray-bearing house elf coughed circumspectly.

"Is dressing for dinner time, Madam, Miss." He leaned away from the older witch as though expecting a violent reaction. He got a pensive stare instead.

"I had one of our elves bring over some of my robes from Rosier Hall. They should fit. When you've dressed, the elf will escort you to the dining room." The words were airy, conversational, and probably two-thirds autopilot. Siglinde left, walking with a straight back that did not completely hide the tremble in her legs.

Hermione didn't move until the door had clicked shut. Then she was out of the bed, checking herself for damage. Physically, everything was where it should be. She was still in the clothes she had been wearing when she'd been abducted, including the wand sheathed at the small of her back. Her other wand was on the bedside table.

She tapped herself with a cleaning charm and sighed as her magic washed over her. Hermione had not liked the sound of 'compliance' in the spell Rosier had used on her. It was possible to weave prohibitions into a geas. Blood magic leant itself to puppeteering in that regard. Her shoes were set neatly by the chair polished to parade gloss. Her instincts told her to grab them and run.

Would Cathal dive out the window, legging it for the hills? Likely not. Hermione choked down a few choice obscenities. She was out of range for the gold wire. She could summon Moppet, which would mean the house elf would have to cross the Nott wards. Depending on the defensive magic, she might not be able to transit at all and the attempt would certainly sound an alarm. If she could get outside the wards somewhere discreet, she could let her friend know where she was. A postprandial stroll might be permitted.

"What's your name?" Hermione asked the house elf. His expression suggested he was surprised or perhaps disconcerted she'd asked.

"Esne, Miss." They regarded each other hesitantly before Esne realised the problem. There hadn't been a young lady in the line of Nott since Master Tristan's father's older sister and the late Mistress had brought her own elves to serve her. Miss was embarrassed to be looked upon while changing. "Esne will stand in the corner looking at Esne's feet."

"Thank you." She hadn't wanted to send him out of the room because Siglinde had tasked him with escort duty. Hermione didn't know how badly the Notts treated their elves but Dobby's misuse had given her very low expectations. The house elf set the tray down on the dressing table and tucked himself firmly into the far corner.

Hermione went to the closet to find something to wear. Rosier had quite similar taste to Madam Flint though with a fondness for embroidery and the colour green. She pulled out a pseudo-Renaissance gown with slit sleeves. As soon as she touched the dress, snakes coiled around the hem, disappearing into the silk only to reappear at the cuffs and neckline. That frock went quickly back into the closet. Her second choice was embroidered with poppies on a green so dark it was almost black. It fit and she could pin back the sleeves to keep them out of her food. She made faces at herself in the mirror.