Another post is finally up. And I wish to take a moment to offer an apology. I have made several excuses for the delays in these posts, and in truth, I have not been exactly honest. So to be quick and to the point, a few years ago my neck was broken. Luckily it did not cause any sort of loss of limb usage, but it did create significant nerve damage to my neck and left arm. I have had two major surgeries and seven other procedures (and counting) to attempt to correct the damage, but it is still a proverbial work in progress. One could not tell to look at me, as I come off as a normal dashingly handsome and charismatic individual ... Or so I tell myself ... But underneath, there is significant pain.

So alas, the true reason for the delays is that I have been having some issues of late with the pain flaring up. When this happens, it is very difficult to type. This, beyond anything, makes it horrible, as I enjoy nothing more than writing, particularly this tale of Hermione and Killian. And although I get few reviews, those reviews bring me an great amount of joy as it lets me know that someone else has enjoyed their story as well.

The only reason I am mentioning this is because I do not wish for anyone to think that I have lost interest or have some form of writer's block. Quite the contrary, I have this story arc completed in my head right down to the very last line of the final chapter. The timing was just terrible in that these issues came up as I was writing Descent into Darkness.

Okay, so we have had our moment, no need to mention it again. On to better things. Chapter Eleven is ready to go ... Enjoy!

- Chapter Eleven -

Cold Camps and Burrows

It was not the way Hermione had hoped to spend the early hours of the morning; in a cold tent, frightened, exhausted, confused, and tending to Harry as he lay unconscious after their encounter with Nagini in Godric's Hollow.

It had all happened so fast. Harry and Bathilda Bagshot had only just made their way up the stairs when everything came undone. And while they had managed to escape, the event created a new series of questions demanding answers. Unfortunately, it felt as though the more they searched for resolutions, the more elusive they became. Perhaps the world had run out of solutions. Perhaps they now lived in a reality bathed in anomalies and ends that were simply meant to be left open. It certainly appears so of late.

Bathilda Bagshot; author of A History of Magic, among her other writings. There was nary a student at Hogwarts who had not studied her works. Now, she was little more than another victim in this endless war. Another pointless death. Who would be next? It was a thought that weighed heavily upon Hermione. More so than she would like to admit. With Ron gone and Harry delirious as he lay nestled under layers of blankets, it was difficult to think of anything else.

Harry groaned, rocking his head from side to side as Hermione dabbed the beads of sweat from his brow with a cool sponge. Still, he did not wake.

"What are we going to do?" Hermione asked essentially of herself, as there was no one else to hear her at the moment.

In the quiet of the night, Hermione's mind began to wander as she continued to nurse Harry through his delirium. She eyed the snake bite on his arm and placed her hand on his chest, feeling the oval outline of seared flesh left from the Horcrux beneath his shirt. Seeing him lying there was so oddly familiar. Perhaps familiar was not the term. But it more closely matched what she was experiencing than any other description she could conjure at the moment.

Images flickered through her mind. Another dream, perhaps? She did not recall having it. And like most images of this nature; they were unfocused and seemingly random. Her stranger, laying motionless upon blankets draped over a tattered pallet in a darkened room. As with every moment they shared, he was right there, so close she could reach out and feel his bare skin beneath her fingers, but she could not see him.

He, like Harry, appeared to be hurt. Or it felt that way, if that even made sense. Even so, she was angry with him for his stupidity and stubbornness. Or was she? There was no logic to it whatsoever. Where were they? What did it mean? And more importantly than the previous, who was he?

In recent days, Hermione had begun questioning what she had come to accept as a subconscious manifestation of her confusing feelings towards Ron. Feelings that had apparently become even more confusing in his absence. Each time she came to this conclusion, however, it complicated things further. For while it appeared to make sense, timing and otherwise, imagining herself engaging with Ron in such a manner simply did not have effect as when she closed her eyes and relived the way her stranger continuously seduced her with his every word and action, however mundane or simplistic it may be. Even now, all she wanted was to be laying beside him on their makeshift bed, to hear his heart beating in her ear as she lay her head upon his chest.

Biting her lower lip, Hermione forgave herself a fanciful smile, only then realizing she was being less than appropriate with Harry, her handle gently caressing his chest as he mumbling in his sleep.

Breathless and mortified, she quickly reapplied the cool cloth to Harry's forehead, extraordinarily thankful he was unconscious at the moment. And with that, her momentary escape dissolved and she returned to her melancholy.

The calendar indicated it was Christmas morning, but the world around her could not have felt less lighthearted and festive. They were lost; emotionally and physically, with little to no direction. And if they were being honest, they were quite short in that area from the start.

In a vain attempt to lighten her mood, Hermione tried to think of Holidays from years past. Family, friends, decorations of holly and mistletoe. The scent of cookies baking and logs on the fire. Everything that would warm one's heart and soul.

It was then that she found herself struggling with her consciousness once again. For all she tried, she could not remember her Christmas from the year previous. Not at all. The year prior to last she spent with Harry and Ron at Grimmauld Place. She remembered it quite well, albeit even that seemed a little off. But last year … It was like pulling images from a fog. Vague and clouded. She had no recollection of going home, nor spending it with Harry and Ron. As there was little other in the area of options, this left Hermione at a loss.

"You should smile during the holidays. That's what they're for …"

Ron was staring into her eyes as they sat on a bench aside a frozen pond. As he looked at her, gently massaging her cold hands, Hermione was filled with a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging she had never felt before.

"I'm smiling now …"

What were they doing? Was this really just another dream, another fantasy? It was so vivid, with Ron's features clear and defined.

"I need to be going …"

"I know … Shall I walk you?"

No! That cannot be right. Where were they? Why was she leaving? Why would he walk her? And when has Ron ever spoken like that? It made no sense. No sense at all. Yet, it seemed so real. She could still feel his hands enveloping hers, warming her beyond the cold air that surrounded them.

Closing her eyes, Hermione was hit with another series of images. A memory? A dream? It felt almost surreal.

She was standing in the Great Hall, surrounded by housemates. Ron was there, holding a holiday cracker. He had taken it from her and they were now arguing over it. His words were so arrogant and confident. And, if she were being honest, too proper for Ron. But there he was, standing right before her, refusing to relinquish that which belonged to her. But far from wanting to strike at him, Hermione was filled with an almost uncontrollable desire to … Well, she dare not say what she truly wished to do.

Now stretching for her cracker, which Ron dangled over his head just out of her reach, Hermione pressed her body to his, using his shoulder for leverage as she reached upwards. Very discretely, she glanced her lips across his neck.

"Is this what you want?"

Hermione suddenly noticed Draco staring at them from the Slytherin table, embarrassing her for reasons beyond any rational basis she could imagine. And at that moment, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Ron's hair. Brown … Dark brown … Not red …

"Not Ron!" Hermione blurted aloud, startling herself with her own utterance in the silence of the tent.

"No … No … No!" Harry moaned.

Hermione snapped from her distraction, her attention now on Harry as he struggled in his sleep.

"Harry, it's all right!" she assured, placing her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to wake him from whatever dream had overcome him. "You're all right!"

"No …" Harry argued, now visibly struggling in his sleep. "I dropped it … I dropped it!"

"Harry, it's okay!" Hermione continued, nearly fumbling the sponge as Harry struggled against her grip. "Wake up, wake up!"

In a quick burst, Harry's eyes opened, darting about before reaching Hermione. For a fraction of a second there was nary a hint of recognition before his gaze softened and he exhaled with an exhausted sigh.

"We got away," he said, although Hermione was uncertain if he was asking for reassurance or simple stating a fact.

"Yes," she answered anyway.

. . .

Elsewhere, at that very moment, Killian, like Hermione, found himself in an area he never would have imagined for the Holiday. The cold biting winds of winter welcomed the Christmas season with little joy. Killian's search had been all but fruitless since his encounter with Barabbas. With the first two on his list coming in relatively quick succession, Killian had allowed himself to believe it would continue on as such. Week after week of dead ends and false leads would unfortunately prove otherwise.

Making matters even worse, he now found himself sidetracked. As much as he had convinced himself he was above such distractions, Killian found the temptation insurmountable. He soon discovered, however, that this failure of fortitude offered far more concern than joyous release.

"Hello Ron," Killian greeting coolly from the window to Ron's bedroom in the Burrow.

"Bloody hell!" Ron blurted, attempting to draw his wand, only to be disarmed immediately.

"Calm yourself," Killian went on as he caught Ron's wand from the air and locked the bedroom door with a casual wave of his staff. "And keep your voice down."

"What are you doing in my room?" Ron questioned. "How did you even get in here?"

"I think the bigger question is what are you doing in your room," Killian asked in return.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ron protested, puffing his chest towards Killian.

"Precisely as it sounds," Killian answered simply. "Where are they?"

Ron paused, giving a halfhearted and utterly unbelievable shrug and shake of his head. "They who?" he asked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I do not have time for games, Ron," Killian said with a sigh.

"You must be some sort of mental. Barge in here making demands like some kind of someone," Ron said flippantly. "You have any idea who's here? Got half the Order downstairs," he went on with a gesture towards his door. "All this ruckus, someone's heard. Any minute they'll be coming through that door and—"

"No one is going to hear anything," Killian pointed out. "I've placed a Barrier Charm on the room. Clever little trick I learned from your brothers. No sound can escape it."

"You've what?" Ron asked with exasperation. "Then why'd you tell me to keep my voice down?"

"Because I have no desire to listen to you carrying on at elevated decibles," Killian answered. "I also asked that you please calm yourself. So if you wouldn't mind …" he added, nodding towards a chair aside Ron's bed.

"You think I don't know why you're here?" Ron asked rhetorically. "I know you. You're with Malfoy and the rest of 'em. I'm not telling you anything. Don't care what you do. You'll get nothing from me."

"Whatever you may think," Killian began, "I can assure you I'm—"

"You're what?" Ron piped in. "Not one of them? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"If I meant anything of ill nature," Killian explained, "Do you not think I would have done something by now?"

"You don't want me," Ron argued. "Harry's the one you're all after."

Ron could not be less correct in his assumption of Killian's desires, but Killian could not fault him for his line of thinking. Under the circumstances, it made perfectly logical sense for him to believe it so.

"And they sent me?" Killian asked on. "Instead of raising this home to the ground, picking you off one by one, and placing you under the Cruciatus Curse until your mind breaks?"

"You all know whose here," Ron surmised. "Cowardly lot like yourselves wouldn't dare attack the Order head on. Sent you in to grab me without raising any alarms. It's why you put the barrier up, isn't it? Nice and quiet."

For the first time in his life, Killian truly saw himself for what others saw in him. Maybe not all, but a great many. And in times such as these, appearances meant a great deal. He was seen as an enemy, a person to be feared and never trusted. So often he had embraced such a belief as it kept others at a distance, leaving him safe within his own world. Now, however, a lifetime of building walls was showing to have devastating consequences.

After a short stalemate, Killian took a deep breath. "Here," he said calmly, returning Ron's wand to its rightful owner. A moment later, he handed his staff over as well.

"What are you playing at?" Ron asked cautiously as he glanced back and forth between the wand and staff he now held in his possession.

"I'm not playing at anything," Killian answered with as much sincere humility as he could muster. "I only want to help you understand I have no ill intentions. In truth, I misspoke earlier, as I do not wish to know where they are. I simply wish to know they are safe."

Slowly, and without making eye contact, Ron shifted over to his chair and sat down. Placing his wand down upon the bed, he examined Killian's staff, turning it over several times.

"This was your dad's, wasn't it?" he asked, although it was evident there was no question hidden in his words.

"It was," Killian answered.

"I've seen it before," Ron said. "A few times. When I'd be at the Ministry with my dad I'd sometimes see your dad in passing. Always carrying this. Hated it," he went on, again turning it over. "Reminded me of the walking stick Lucius would carry about." With his eyes on the floor, Ron handed the staff back to Killian. "I'm sorry about what happened," he said. "To your family, I mean."

"Thank you," Killian said, accepting his staff and gripping it firmly.

"I overheard people talking about it," Ron continued. "Not the kind of thing the Prophet would be reporting, you know. Not with your family. And I just …" He paused, now balling his fists and rapping them against his forehead.

"It's all right," Killian assured.

"No, it's not," Ron argued. "You don't understand. When I first heard, I thought … I thought good … They deserved it. Filthy Death Eaters. They all deserved it."

In a sudden wave of emotion, Killian closed his eyes, seeing the faces of his father, his mother, his sister, the countless servants; everyone who fell prey to the viscous attack from Tanzar and his brood. "I'm certain there were many who shared in you sentiment," he conceded. "But no matter their sins, their affiliations … My family never bore the mark of the Dark Lord."

For the first time, Ron looked at Killian without anger or resentment. "Even if they did," he said. "Me feeling like that … What kind of person does that make me?"

"Human, I guess," Killian answered.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, although his tone indicated anything but acceptance of Killian's simple explanation. "I don't know where they are," he went on. "Harry, Hermione … I have no idea."

"What do you mean?" Killian asked. "Were you not with them?"

"I was," Ron answered.

"What happened?" Killian asked on.

Ron stood from his chair abruptly and began to pace the room. "I left," he admitted. "I don't even know why. I mean I do, but … But I don't. You ever heard of a Horcrux? I imagine where you're from, you probably have."

"A rather Dark bit of magic, isn't it?" Killian answered. "Splitting one's soul and such."

"We have one," Ron explained. "You-Know-Who's."

"Tell me that was poor attempt at humor," Killian said.

"I wish it was," Ron confirmed grimly. "I really do. Just being near it … It does things, makes you feel things, makes you do things. And I knew it. I knew I was only feeling the way I felt because of that stupid bloody Horcrux. But I … I still left. I let it happen. I let it control me."

"It's not your fault, Ron," Killian reassured, trying desperately to remain focused as his mind raced in a thousand directions at once. "Horcruxes are immensely powerful. Not to be trifled with. Why in all sanity do you have one?"

"I don't anymore," Ron clarified. "They do. Harry and Hermione."

"I don't understand," Killian went on. "How did you even come into possession of it?"

"Stole it from Umbridge, the old hag," Ron answered. "Or stole it back, as it was. And now Harry means to destroy it. Means to destroy 'em all. Just can't figure a way to do it. Seems indestructible."

"All of them?" Killian asked. "How many do they have?"

"Just the one," Ron answered. "A locket. Belonged to Harry's godfather's younger brother. Sort of. He kind of nicked it too after he had his house-elf swap it out with a fake in the cave."

"Wait, who did what?"

"It's a long story."

"You can sum it up another time."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Ron lamented. "I left them out there. You-Know-Who has his followers tearing this country apart searching for Harry and I just left them out there." His voice wavered as his eyes began to tear. "I tried to go back. As soon as I left, I tried. It was like something snapped inside of me right as I got clear of that damned talisman. But it was too late. Ran into a pack of Snatchers." Returning to his chair, Ron slumped down with his head in his hands and eyes on the floor. "Talked my way out it well enough. As soon as I was free of 'em, I came home. Been trying to figure out a way back since, but I don't even know where to begin." As if a sudden thought occurred to him, Ron looked to Killian. "Hang on … How did you know I was here?"

Dare he say? Killian struggled with the notion. Having planted eyes and ears in so many darkened corners over the previous months, a web of eavesdroppers and snoops had become seamlessly interwoven within the unnoticed shadows of society. And still, for all his coin and effort Killian had yet to discover the whereabouts of Vetis and Verin. He had, however, heard rumor of someone skulking about in the area of the Burrow.

Normally, such gossip would have been ignored. Sightings of Harry abounded from every corner of the countryside each and every day. What caught Killian's attention was the fact that this was not another Harry Potter sighting. It was vague and relatively nondescript; a young ginger, tall and lean. While seemingly minor and insignificant, the information filled Killian with a rush of hope. If Ron had returned to the Burrow, surly Harry and Hermione had accompanied him.

Just a glimpse was all he needed, a fraction of a second as she passed by the window. While Killian knew he could not approach her, perhaps simply the sight of her from afar would satiate the sickening symptoms of withdrawal he had been suffering in her absence.

But in the days that Killian spent stalking the grounds he came to realize the trio had not returned. At least, not in full. Ron was alone. Which meant Hermione and Harry were still out there. It was this realization that placed Killian in Ron's room at that very moment. A realization that Killian had no intention of sharing.

"People talk," Killian offered as a reasonable explanation. "You simply need to know when to listen."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "I wish I had. Listened, I mean. I was just so angry. But even as I was leaving, screaming at Harry as I was walking out on the two of 'em, they still tried to—"

"... remember Ron? … When he broke his wand, crashing the car? …"

The voice was muffled and barely audible, but recognizable beyond any doubt. Hermione. Both Ron and Killian reacted with the mirrored amounts of shock and befuddlement as their eyes immediately focused on Ron's pocket.

"You heard it too?" Ron asked, looking to Killian for any form of confirmation.

"I did," Killian confirmed, although he struggled to reason what, exactly, it was he had heard.

Fumbling through his pocket, Ron removed a small polished silver object resembling a simple cigarette lighter.

"What is that?" Killian asked.

"It's a Deluminator," Ron answered.

"A what?"

"A Deluminator … It snuffs out the light," Ron explained.

"Does it often speak to you?" Killian asked.

Ron shook his head and shrugged. "Never," he answered. "Not until now, I mean. And once earlier."

"Earlier?" Killian asked.

"Not long before you popped in my window," Ron said. "It was right over there on my nightstand. But I heard it, clear as day."

"What did it say?" Killian asked further.

Ron paused, glancing down at the Deluminator, then back to Killian. "It said, not Ron."

"Not Ron?" Killian echoed.

"Yeah," Ron said. "I thought I'd gone mental or something."

As Ron began fumbling with the strange device, he flicked it open several times in succession to no particular effect. Then, with one final flick, the light in Ron's room went out, leaving the area in utter darkness. A moment later, a pulsing ball of blue light appeared outside the bedroom window. Without a word, Ron grabbed his rucksack and he and Killian left through the window, following the glowing orb out into the garden.

From there the strange sphere bobbed along for a bit before disappearing around the side of garden shed. Ron and Killian continued their pursuit, rounding the corner to find the light had become erratic. The soothing pulse had evolved into aggressive flashes as it surged upwards before changing direction and careening back towards Ron and Killian.

Upon instinct alone, Killian placed himself between the sphere and Ron and raised a Shielding Charm. To his shock, the sphere surged his shield like wind through a funnel, penetrating his chest and leaving him with a warm, almost soothing sensation. Turning towards Ron, he found the ball of energy had passed clear through his body and struck the ginger haired Gryffindor as well, leaving him standing aghast and rubbing his own chest in the darkness surrounding them.

"Are you all right?" Killian asked.

"Yeah," Ron answered. "You?"

"Yes," Killian said. "I feel good actually."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, still staring in amazement and drawing his hand back and forth across his chest. "Me too."

Ron's description was a severe downplay. At peace would better have described the sensation, but it seemed silly to use such a term after what had just occurred. Stranger still, there was another sensation flowing through Killian. An odd sense of familiarity, as if he could reach out over space and time and embrace an emotion.

"I think know where they are," Ron proclaimed. "I mean, not exactly," he quickly corrected. "But I can feel them. Does that even make sense?"

Therein lay the description Killian was searching for throughout his vast and varied vocabulary. A perfect summary. He had no notion as to where Hermione and Harry might be, but was filled with an assuredness that he could find them at a moment's notice should he simply choose a direction. It was the strangest sense of being Killian had ever experienced. To know nothing, but feel everything. It was a euphoria he did not wish to relinquish. Even so, he knew he must.

"You have to go to them," Killian said to Ron.

"Right," Ron concurred as he continued to massage his chest and stare off with a glassy smile. But just as soon as his hopeful expression emerged, it faded away. "What am I supposed to say?"

"About?" Killian asked curiously.

"I left," Ron clarified. "How am I supposed to face them? What if they don't want me back?"

Killian felt a shudder run through his consciousness as Ron spoke aloud the very fears Killian held within himself. Hermione no longer remembered him. Yet even if she did, would she ever want to see him again after what he had done?

"What if they hate me?" Ron continued.

Another jolt enveloped Killian as the very real realization of Hermione bearing such feelings towards him filtered through his mind.

"That's something you'll have to face?" he finally said. "But regardless of how they feel at the moment, I imagine you know they need you. No matter the feelings, you're stronger together than apart."

"Yeah," Ron conceded, albeit with little conviction. "Are you coming with?" he then asked.

Yes, Killian thought as he imagined himself Apparating aside Ron. Seeing Hermione standing there so he could take it all back and they could face whatever road may lie ahead together, regardless of the outcome.

"I'm afraid I cannot," he answered in complete contradiction to his thoughts and feelings.

"Seriously?" Ron questioned. "You just popped up in my room, asking if they're safe. We can go to 'em now, and you're saying you're not coming along? Why'd you even come here then?"

A thousand reasons ran through Killian's mind, each one with less chance of reaching his lips than the one before. "I would bring more complications than solutions," Killian finally answered. "As odd as it may seem, you will be far safer with me at a distance."

Ron glanced at Killian's staff and a sudden expression of realization washed over his face. "Bloody hell, you're the Hunter."

"So they say," Killian admitted reluctantly.

"You were in the Prophet," Ron went on. "I mean, not you specifically, but the Hunter. Dad said he was just a character some writer imagined up to rattle Death Eaters and sell papers, but Fred and George said they met him, er, you. I thought they were just talking, you know. But now …" Running his fingers through his hair, he turned his eyes to the horizon, then back to Killian. "Look," he started again. "What happened … With your family … It was—"

"I know," Killian spoke up before Ron could finish his thought. He had heard it enough times already to know exactly where Ron was going and there was no need hear the sentiment again. After a short, yet awkward silence, Killian spoke up again. "You should be going."

"I should, yeah," Ron said, flexing his shoulders and clearly attempting some form of mental preparation.

"It's probably best you don't mention you saw me," Killian suggested.

"Why would I?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Killian lied, having difficulty searching for a rationale that would not betray his true reasoning.

"No matter," Ron said with a grin. "What would I say? Some Slytherin from school barged into my bedroom to have a chat because he was worried about Harry? Who would believe me?"

"Very good point," Killian said with a grin of his own.

"Well …" Ron began with a sigh and another glance towards the horizon. "I'll guess I'll be off then."

"Good luck, Ron," Killian offered.

"Yeah," Ron returned. "You too."

After one last silent delay, Ron finally Disapparated, leaving Killian alone near the garden, daring himself to follow.