It's Friday, once again. Slow week. But productive ... ish. Another chapter is up. I'd write more, but I have a crushing migraine and would like nothing more than to lie down with a pillow over my face and imagine a world where we have domesticated the panda.

Enjoy!

- Chapter Eleven -

Glass Meets Stone

The next morning, Hermione left Potions in a fiery emotional state. She had not yet begun to come to terms with what had occurred the previous night before being thrust into a stressful situation, once again.

In truth, the situation itself was not worthy of stress. She had encountered numerous moments in the classroom when she was put to the test and did not live up to her lofty self-expectations. It was a simple equation; create an antidote for an unlabeled poison randomly chosen from Professor Slughorn's desk. No, the equation was not the problem. The problem lay with the solution.

While Hermione worked both diligently and methodically, certain Harry would not be able to use his notated copy of Advanced Potion-Making. There was no way any Half-Blood Prince could offer a shortcut when the assignment was based primarily on the principles of both identifying the poison and then creating an antidote.

Even so, while Hermione struggled to brew a suitable countermeasure consisting of fifty-one separate ingredient plus a lock of her own hair, her potion was only half-finished when the proverbial sands of the hourglass ran dry. Harry, on the other hand, did not even bother to produce a mixed antidote at all. Instead, he presented Professor Slughorn a bezoar.

This solution, while practical in the sense that it would work in most instances of poisoning, completely defeated the purpose of the lesson; that purpose being to brew an antidote. And contrary to what any normal professor would have done should their student deliberately bypass the intended lesson, Professor Slughorn commended Harry on his prowess.

It was too much to bear. She had worked too hard, had felt too certain of herself. This was supposed to be the moment when Harry would finally be on an even playing field with everyone else. However, it was not to be.

Never in her life would Hermione have ever thought she shared anything in common with Draco, but the expression on the vindictive Slytherin's face when Professor Slughorn showered Harry with both praise and house points could not have mirrored Hermione's emotions any better.

Wishing for solitude and quiet, Hermione exited the Potions classroom. She did not even take a moment to offer Harry any wish for luck in his attempt to persuade Professor Slughorn into revealing the information Professor Dumbledore required. It was not as if he needed it. Certainly his Half-Blood Prince could find a solution for him.

As she walked along, stretching her legs during the gap in her schedule before her next class, Hermione found herself in the Tapestry Corridor just beyond the Viaduct Entrance. Knowing this was not an area often occupied by the throngs of students bounding about the school during classes, Hermione believed she could find some relief in the form of reading. It seemed as though it had been forever since she had engaged in such a simple pleasure.

As she entered the corridor, she was surprised to see Professor Dumbledore walking along with, of all people, Killian. The sight seemed oddly out of place. While Killian was a student at Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore, no doubt, conversed with students other than Harry, Hermione had never really thought of Killian as being one of them. Maybe it was because he was, regardless of his character, still a Slytherin. And outside of Professor Snape, and more recently, Professor Slughorn, Hermione had never really noticed Dumbledore engaging with members of the House of Green and Silver. At least, not in any amicable manner.

The two passed by without a word, locked in their conversations of hushed tones. Killian was able to offer a quick glance, just long enough to let Hermione know he saw her, but little else. Once they had turned the corner, Hermione let out a dejected sigh and found herself a comfortable spot on the floor to read; a lack of seating in the Tapsty Corridor having slipped her mind.

Flipping through her copy of Practical Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hermione let her mind waft into a sense of calm. The sounds of the air whispering across her ears soon faded into silence as she lost herself in incantations, counter-jinxes, shields, and barriers.

"You look a dreadful fright …"

Killian's voice snapped the soothing quiet, startling Hermione to the point of her text stumbling from her lap to the floor.

"Thank you," she snipped, retrieving her book and feigning a return to reading.

"Up with you," Killian said.

"Why?" Hermione asked, almost annoyed at Killian's shortness.

"Because," Killian answered simply. "Please," he, added with a roll of his eyes as he extended his hand.

Hermione glared at Killian though narrowed eyes. She felt awful for being short with him, but could not control it. Still upset with Harry's continued success in Potions, as well as Ron being … well, being Ron, her anger was now being felt by Killian. And as often as he had deserved to feel her wrath, this moment was not one of them. He was simply the person present.

After hesitating, only to make Killian wait, Hermione reluctantly offered her hand. Killian grasped firmly, pulling Hermione to her feet, struggling under the pain in his arm and chest that had yet to heal from the previous night's escapades. He hid it well, as he had always done with anything that would show any sort of weakness. Even so, Hermione noticed. Worse, she did not acknowledge it. She wanted to. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but did not find their way to her lips. She was angry. She wanted to be angry. She could not let it go.

"All right, now that you're off the floor," Killian began once Hermione was upright, her scowl still firmly in place. He then removed a handkerchief from within his robes. "May I?"

"May you what?" Hermione asked dismissively.

She was being so cold, almost cruel. Yet, Killian simply smiled, gently dabbing her cheeks and the tip of her nose with the soft cloth, displaying the ashen soot for her to see.

"Bad day?" he asked.

Hermione looked at the handkerchief, seeing the grime that had been on her face and nose. As best she could, she tried to maintain her current mood, but felt it slip away in a flash of levity, a contented smile breeching her glower.

"I just walked through the entire school," she said with a laugh, taking Killian's cloth and wiping the remainder of her face.

"Yes," Killian said. "Looking as though you've just swept a chimney, it appears."

Satisfied she no longer looked like a peasant begging for coins in the streets, Hermione returned Killian's handkerchief and collected her bag.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, actually," Killian answered. "I was on my way."

Seeing Hermione's reaction, Killian bit his bottom lip, glancing back and forth down the corridor. The look in his eye, usually reserved for a moment of devious behavior, arose as he reached out and grasped Hermione's hand.

"I have a few minutes," he said, leading her down the corridor towards Professor Snape's storeroom. "Come on," he went on as they reached the door. "In here."

"We can't," Hermione protested.

"I can," Killian assured with an arrogant grin, drawing his wand and giving it a quick flick. The lock clicked, the knob turned, and the door swung inwards with a creaky whine. "Hurry," he went on, pulling Hermione inside and closing the door behind them.

Looking around, Hermione was immediately reminded of her second year, when she had broken into this same room to steal ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion she brewed for herself, Harry, and Ron. It seemed like ages ago, at the same time feeling like yesterday.

"We shouldn't be in here," Hermione warned, knowing full well the extent of Professor Snape's fury if they were to be caught within his storeroom. Dancing in an empty hall or being out afterhours by the path to the boathouse were one thing. This, on the other hand, was entirely different.

"There is no need to worry," Killian promised. "Professor Snape is currently in class and no other professors have need for anything stored within these confines. We have time. Brief as it may be." He leaned up against one of the dusty shelves, placing his hands in his pockets. "So, would you like to tell me what's bothering you?"

Hermione noticed Killian hesitate and readjust as his back came in contact with the shelf behind. His fractured rib was bothering him more than he let on. With that realization, she suddenly felt silly and small. Being bothered by something as simple as an altered text when there were so many far more important things occurring.

"It's nothing, really," she answered, crossing the storeroom towards Killian and placing her hand between his robe and his shirt, feeling the dressing still wrapped around his ribs. "How are you feeling?"

Killian took Hermione's hand from his side, drawing his fingers to his lips much like no teenager outside of a storybook would ever do, and smiled.

"I'm feeling as though something is bothering you," he said, his annoying grin so charming at the moment.

Wanting to groan, Hermione pulled away and joined him in his lean, her head on his shoulder. Just last evening, they were lying together on a pallet covered in blankets, having barely survived an encounter with Dementors and a pack of Death Eaters. And now, it was as though it were just another day, with Killian acting in ways only he could act. How could he be so different, yet somehow fit in?

She tried to imagine Harry or Ron or Victor or Cormac behaving as Killian. His manner of speech, his expressions, even the way he had kissed her hand only moments before. If she were to see anyone else attempt such a gesture, she would be pressed not to burst out in laughter. It would be absurd. People do not behave in that manner. Not in real life. Yet, with Killian, it all seemed so natural. Unnaturally natural, but natural just the same.

"So are you going to tell me?" he asked. "Or shall we simply stare at the shelves until I have to leave?"

"It's stupid," Hermione scoffed, looking to the floor and kicking at nothing in particular.

"That's allowed," Killian said. "Not everything that happens needs to be catastrophic. We're just students, after all," he added with a gentle nudge. "Our problems are meant to be stupid."

The thought of such a thing had not occurred to Hermione. They were children. Maybe not young, but certainly not adults. Their worries should entail friends, clothing, school work, and other such nonsense. She had grown so accustomed to dealing with life and death, more so that latter than the former of late, the idea of having a simple issue seemed ridiculous.

"Let me guess," Killian mused, gazing into a darkened corner of the ceiling. "You were covered in sweat and soot, angry, looking to be alone … This would be about Harry's Half-Blood Prince, am I correct?"

Hermione's emotions suddenly burst without warning. "I cut my own hair!" she cried, attempting to stifle either tears or laughter, either seemed appropriate at the moment.

"I noticed," Killian said. "I refrained from commenting as I was uncertain of your mood at the time."

"My hair, Killian," she went on. "I couldn't find any Gnat Heads. But I'd read that human hair can be ground up and used as a replacement in some instances with moderate success. Female human hair, specifically. But by the time I came to that conclusion, I'd wasted so much time I couldn't get back on pace. And in the end it didn't even matter. I didn't finish and now I look ridiculous with a lock of hair just lopped off."

"I think you look wonderful," Killian said. "Edgy even."

"That's because you're stupid," Hermione teased dismissively, now smiling and giving Killian a nudge of her own.

"For the record, however," Killian went on, "human hair, male or female, is not a suitable replacement for Gnat Heads. You were thinking of Pearl Dust. And realistically, the success with said substitution is far less than moderate and more accurately defined as limited. It was clever thinking, however. I'm not certain many students would look to attempt something untested. None from my class, that is for certain."

This time, Hermione did not hold back, groaning long and loud, pressing her forehead into Killian's shoulder as he smiled with amusement. Even his attempt at consoling her through compliment did little to ease her mind. She had failed. That was all that mattered.

Killian stepped away from the shelves and drew his wand. "Look up," he said.

Hermione was reluctant to oblige, feeling embarrassed both for her misinformation on ingredient replacements as well for how she had reacted to the events that took place in the Potions classroom. Killian placed his hand on her cheek directing her gaze towards him. Looking at her for a moment as he ran his fingers through her mangled hair, he began to smooth his wand over her severed lock, each stoke mending and elongating the strands until they were full and blended once again.

"I'm no stylist …" he mused as he admired his work "…but I believe it's perfect."

"Stop," Hermione dismissed, blushing from the attention he was giving her.

"See for yourself," Killian pressed on.

With a flick of his wand, a small mirror appeared, hovering before Hermione and reflecting her face and hair. Killian walked behind her, leaning in, with his lips near her ear.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

Before Hermione could enjoy the smile that had on just reached her mouth, she saw a bruise peeking through the neck of Killian's shirt. The moment Killian so skillfully attempted to make about Hermione melted away in an instant, replaced with questions that had been pounding through Hermione's mind since the moment they Apparated to Raturian Square.

"Killian," she began, trying to sound more confident than she currently felt. "Who were those Death Eaters?"

Almost as if sensing the approaching inquiry, Killian laughed under his breath, turning away and pacing along the shelves in a short, yet determined path.

"Are they not all the same?" he asked, more rhetorical than curious.

"They knew you," Hermione went on.

"Tanzar knew me," Killian corrected. "Knew of me … My family. The others …" he paused, as if thinking of the correct way to express his thoughts "I don't know who they are. Not by name, at least. But they have a reputation. Tanzar's brood … His family."

"His family?" Hermione asked, perplexed by the thought.

"Not by bloodline," Killian clarified. "By oath. Penned in the blood of their victims." Ceasing his pacing, he turned back to Hermione, his eyes pleading. "Hermione, it doesn't—"

"Don't you dare say it doesn't matter," Hermione cut in. "They tried to kill us!"

"They're Death Eaters," Killian said, attempting to be coy. "They're always trying to kill someone."

"But you're inviting it," Hermione argued.

"Like you and your friends when you took off for the Ministry last year?" Killian countered with a bite in his tongue.

Hermione knew Killian immediately regretting both his words and tone as he withdrew, balling his fist and rapping it against his forehead. Still, he had a point.

"I know we were stupid," Hermione said after giving a moment to let the rising emotions in their conversations settle.

No," Killian argued, to Hermione's surprise. "You were not stupid … I would have done the same thing … I am doing the same thing."

Hearing the conflict in his voice, Hermione approached Killian, crossing his path to face him.

"For what?" she asked. "What were we even doing there? What is so important about a hinge that Yaxley would sent you to that awful place to retrieve it? And who is he getting it for? From what Tanzar was saying, it sounded like—"

"I don't know," he said, again clenching his fist, tempering his emotions.

"Killian …" Hermione pressed with doubt.

Killian grasped a bottle of Riddled Ragweed, blowing off the dust before replacing it on the shelf. This was little more than an exercise in futility, an action to delay an inevitability that was soon to pass.

"I don't," he insisted. "I have no idea. I'm not to know. That's the point. I'm to do as I'm told, nothing more."

Knowing there had to be something beyond Killian simply following orders, Hermione refused to let it go. But before she could utter her next thought, Killian spoke up with fervor.

"I need you to trust me. I just—"

"I do trust you," Hermione said. "With all of my heart, I do. I'm just …" she now found herself balling her fists as well, unsure if she wished break something or bring it to life "I'm scared," she finally admitted. "I feel as though my entire world is crumbling to pieces. Harry is off his mind over Draco, Katie Bell was nearly killed, the Ministry is in shambles, you're playing errand boy to filth, and …"

Voices from the corridor outside the storeroom echoed off the walls. Raising his hand to silence Hermione, an action she found to be both pointless and borderline insulting, Killian quietly walked to the door, pressing his ear to the aged wood.

"Students," he whispered, gritting his teeth. "Which means I'm late."

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologized.

Killian rolled his eyes and sighed at Hermione's admission of weakness as the voices faded into silence.

"What will they do? Expel me?" he asked. "Not likely."

He then reached over, grasped her errant lock of hair from her eyes, drawing it back behind her ear, and smiled.

"Never stays in place," Hermione said, blushing from his touch.

"I'd be saddened it if it ever did."

Looking into Killian's eyes, Hermione felt so lost. Yet, at the same time she was alive with sensations she could not even begin to describe. It was a powerful feeling. Frighteningly powerful. In the end, however, her academic mind outweighed any overwhelming or compelling emotions on this matter. When glass is struck by stone, it will shatter. No arrogance or powerful emotions will shield it from its demise.

"You can't so this alone, Killian," she lamented.

"I'm not alone," Killian said.

"You need real help," Hermione clarified. "I'm not enough."

"As poetic as that may have been," Killian explained with a grin, "I was not referring to you."

The image of Killian walking alongside Professor Dumbledore ran through Hermione's mind. Nothing in Hogwarts ever happens without Dumbledore's knowledge. Now, at least, she understood why Killian had never said anything. After all, she was well aware that Harry held many secrets between himself and Dumbledore that he, himself, was not allowed to share. Why should this be any different?

"You did not truly believe me arrogant enough—"

"You?" Hermione asked, swallowing her laughter as best she could. "Arrogant? Never."

"Exactly … So …" Killian actually appeared both thrown and amused by Hermione's sarcasm. "Trust in me?"

Hermione reached up, fastening a button atop Killian's shirt to cover the edge of the bruise she had seen in the mirror's reflection. "Promise me you know what you're doing."

"I promise," Killian assured.

"And promise we will never go back to that place," Hermione added.

"Never again …"

"Okay," Hermione said, not feeling entirely optimistic, but better than she had the night before. "Well, you need to be off."

"I do," Killian agreed.

They walked to the door, listening for any students or professors who may be haunting the area. Once satisfied the Tapestry Corridor was clear of eyes, Killian grasped the door knob. Turning it slowly and quietly, he suddenly paused.

"What did he brew?" he asked.

"What?" Hermione asked in return.

"Harry," Killian clarified. "I assume he did something masterful. Thus, your unsettled state earlier."

"We were meant to identify a poison picked at random and brew an antidote," Hermione explained.

"And?" Killian pressed. "What did he brew?"

"Nothing," Hermione answered with more spite than intended.

"Nothing at all?"

"No, nothing at all."

"And the problem with that?"

"He used a bezoar."

"Oh … Oh, a bezoar." It was clear it took a moment for Killian to realize the strategy. "That's actually pretty clever. For this Half-Blood Prince, of course," he quickly added as Hermione eyes were like daggers upon him. "Not Harry, though … He definitely cheated."

"I hate you," Hermione teased.

Killian's arrogant grin beamed as he leaned in and quickly stole a quick kiss before opening the storeroom door.

"I know."