Much to Hermione's irritation, their first Potions lesson quickly devolved into chaos. After Neville and Seamus left (the latter taking great care to avoid Neville's botched-potion-covered robes) Professor Snape slashed his wand at the mess. The rest of the students gingerly climbed off their stools as the floor cleared, while the professor lambasted Harry. Hermione was caught between feeling scandalized that Harry Potter was losing Gryffindor more points and indignant (an entirely new feeling to be directed at a teacher) that Professor Snape was blaming Harry for Neville's mistake. With another angry stab of his wand, the professor vanished the spilled potion, left over ingredients, ruined book, and remnants of Seamus' cauldron.

Seeing everyone staring up at him, Snape snapped, "Are your potions contaminated? Get on with it!" Students scrambled back to work.

At the end of the hour, Hermione was pleased to bursting that her boil-removing potion appeared exactly as the book said it should. When she delivered her properly labeled flagon, beaming, to his desk, the professor leveled her with a look of such haughty disdain that she flinched. She hurried back to clean up her desk, fervently interested in learning whatever cleaning spell the professor used earlier. When the class was dismissed, Hermione hung back. After the noise and rush left with the crowd, she approached his desk for the second time.

He was busy writing—slashing his quill across the page really, determinedly ignoring her.

"Sir, I have a question."

He stopped with a small huff. "It's not enough that you have an answer for everything—now you have a question?" He drawled.

Determinedly notletting that deter her, she went on, "When you said 'put a stopper in death,' were you referring to death-in-a-bottle, meaning poison...or putting a stopper in death's coming, like plugging cracks in a dam?"

His black eyes blinked, and he brought up a pale finger to trace his upper lip. "Both," he said after a moment. "Now begone. Go pester someone else."

Hermione fled.

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Late that Halloween, Hermione hugged her knees on her had lied to her teachers. Lied. That thought echoed around her numb brain. Why had she lied?

Hermione knew the professor was biased against Harry Potter. She didn't know why, but she knew it wasn't right. And there he'd been, glaring daggers at the boys who just saved her life...was that it? Was she trying to protect them? And why did she feel like she hadn't fooled Professor Snape? That made her nervous—what if he decided he wanted to dig for the truth? Why was it so important that he not know the truth? What had really happened wasn't anything harmful, nothing he couldn't know...just her being over-emotional and the boys...Why didn't she want the professor to know? Something wasn't right about his hatred of Harry.

She...didn't trust him.

That went against her entire constitution. Trust him! He's a teacher! her brain wailed.

Observe him. Learn more. Be objective.

Over the course of the next few months, it was the boys' flagrant and repeated disregard for this third self-imposed rule that set her teeth on edge. But still...it was wonderful to finally have friends.

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Hermione rushed back through the cool flames, desperately worried about Harry...how could Harry stand against Snape? Alone? And Ron. Ron concussed! How did you treat the unconscious? Her running feet slapped loud on the floor. First off you weren't supposed to move them in case their spinal cord was damaged. Ron. Ron. There on the floor. Still unconscious, still lying limp and dragged, left where he was off the edge of the board. About to take the crows' flight across the board, she jerked to a stop.

What if the game starts again!

Knowing there was no other way, sickening at the thought of what she was risking, she toed one foot onto the board and...

...

...

Nothing happened.

Relief mingled with mania as she flew to Ron's side. His head wound was a mess of crusted blood, gluing hanks of his red hair to his chalk-white cheek. Putting an ear near his nose, keeping a close eye on his chest, Hermione breathed when she felt him breathe.

She transfigured a rock beneath him into a stretcher and levitated the board. Moving as quickly as she dared, she retraced their steps, conjuring a rope ladder, climbing with one hand and an elbow, Ron rising with her. She managed to sing a shakey lullaby, enough to make Fluffy drowsy, enough to get them out the door and slam it shut, enough to collide with the silver beard and scrawny chest of the Headmaster.

"Harry's gone after him." Dumbledore sighed, with more resigned rush than question, then swept past her and disappeared.

Well! Hermione just stood there, wand leveled at the floating boy beside her. Up and over to the hospital wing, the mental strain of maintaining the levitation began to become pain.

When Madam Pomfrey bustled out with a cluck and a clatter and took Ron into her care, Hermione collapsed into a chair from agony and relief. There she sat, exhausted and dazed, when the Headmaster burst in with Harry unconscious in his arms. Hermione stuffed her fist in her mouth to contain her scream, trying to keep quiet and out of the way. Dumbledore laid Harry in a bed, and Madam Pomfrey swooped in. Dumbledore then rushed over to the fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo Powder, and called, "Severus, we need a strong restorative and Balm of Gilead."

Hermione gasped, "B-but Professor—Snape! The Stone!"

The Headmaster spoke as he worked over Harry. "Your concerns are misplaced Miss Granger, Professor Snape only ever worked to protect the stone. Harry met with Quirrell…and Voldemort…in the bowels of the castle tonight."

Harry's unconscious body gave an almighty jerk. Madam Pomfrey jumped. Hermione almost fell out of her chair. At that moment, the Potions Master stepped into the ward with a billow of green flames and black robes. Two vials were held in his long pale hands, and he was at Harry's bedside in a flash. Tipping them slowly into Harry's slack mouth, he asked Dumbledore, "What happened to the boy?"

"When Harry received the Stone, Voldemort—" (Snape's left hand flinched, Hermione saw it) "who was incidentally sharing Quirrell's body—tried to forcibly take it. However, it appeared that the touch of one was inimical to the other. Quirrell is dead."

"Dead!" Exclaimed three voices.

"Dead," said Dumbledore (somewhat self-satisfactorily, Hermione thought). "As for the Stone, I do believe it's time for Nicholas and me to have a little chat." Looking down at Harry and confirming the boy's color was returning, the Headmaster swept out of the room.

"Why do I feel I know less now than I did before he explained?" Madam Pomfrey asked Professor Snape in a rather disgruntled tone.

"He only does this when he doesn't know the reasons himself." The professor responded, sounding thoroughly exasperated. He seemed to check one or two more points on Harry, and then he stood and nodded to Madam Pomfrey.

"Professor!" Hermione called, jerking to her feet. He stopped and lifted an eyebrow from across the room. "I—I'm sorry I doubted you.""Indeed." He seemed to appraise her coldly. "Well, let this be a lesson against your own infallibility." With a blaze of green flames, he was gone.

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Over the years, Hermione learned that one of the perks of being pegged a know-it-all was that no one ever questioned one's motives when occupied with a book. It allowed Hermione the freedom to read anything without having to explain why she was reading. She had also long ago accepted the fact that Harry, being Harry Potter, came bundled with an appallingly bad case of bad luck. So, by the time Harry came back from detention with a bleeding, smarting hand, Hermione had already read through The Household Handbook for Healing, Magical Medicine, Herbology Digest's Guide to Homeopathy, and two textbooks normally assigned to Apprentice Healers. Essence of Murtlap was just what would treat that.