Once again, it has taken longer that I would have liked to get another post up and ... well ... posted. Lots of things going on at the moment. And there was the whole Cubs winning the World Series for the first time since 1908 thing that has been going on. Being born and raised in Chicago, it was a rather significant moment of happiness in a year filled with current events that have been less than pleasant, to put it lightly.

But alas, it is completed. With any luck, the next chapter will not take near as long. Enjoy ...

- Chapter Ten -

The Laurels of Plans Gone Awry

The next several weeks were met with a wave of emotional peaks and valleys. It was difficult to enjoy and highs as a significant low almost immediately followed. And while one attempted to come to terms with the blow, a burst of excitement came to pass.

During this period of time, Hermione had a heart to heart discussion with Harry about his date with Cho, finding that, like most other boys she of whom she was affiliated, Harry knew very little of how the female mind was put together.

Gryffindor lost its Quiddich match against Ravenclaw, the score being much closer than the game itself. If not for Ginny Weasley catching the Snitch, a feat she attributed to sheer luck due to the Ravenclaw Seeker sneezing an at inopportune time, Gryffindor would have been truly embarrassed in all phases on the pitch. Ever the consoler, Hermione did her best to try and sooth Harry's despair over not being able to participate and Ron's damaged ego for his less than stellar play. In truth, perhaps she had not done her absolute best. But as it was, she never understood their significant emotional attachment to something as simple as a game. To her, there were far more important areas where her emotions would be better at use.

Harry continued to struggle with his Occulemency studies with Professor Snape. This, much more than a loss on the Quiddich pitch, was a point of concern for Hermione. She was beginning to doubt just how much Harry wanted to pursue this ability. Not for the obvious reason being that Harry and Professor Snape had no love lost between them. Having the ominous instructor as his tutor was, no doubt, a stress in and of itself. It was more so because Hermione was starting to wonder if Harry truly wanted the Dark Lord out of his head. Sometimes when he spoke of it, even though his words came out in frustration, anger, even fear with what he had experienced, there was something in his voice, something in his tone, something in his expression … A part of Harry enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the power he felt, welcomed the encompassing rage that flowed through him. It frightened Hermione to see it, and was difficult to ignore.

Hermione's Rita Skeeter plan had worked well beyond her anticipations. Harry's interview was published in the Quibbler and distributed shortly after. Almost as quickly, said periodical was banned from Hogwarts, compliments of Professor Umbridge's Educational Decree Number Twenty- Seven. This meant any student found in possession of the Quibbler would be immediately expelled from the school. As expected, any and every student throughout Hogwarts went out of their way to get their hand on a copy of the contraband literature. Thus, news of the article's contents spread like wildfire.

This was not only true within the school. The interview was being read far and wide, with Harry being inundated with letters, both supportive and inflamed. And while Harry appreciated the overflow of support, the negative responses were certainly a concern as well. Particularly because in said interview Harry named the Death Eaters whom appeared in the Riddle family cemetery the night the Dark Lord returned, the night Cedric Diggory was murdered. This drew more than a fair share of maleficent glares from the Slytherin table, particularly from Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Theodore Nott, all sons of Death Eaters outed in the article. And while all were well-known and documented former followers of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, an accusation of current alignment after having said erstwhile they were unwilling disciples of the Dark Lord, either through fear or the Imperitus Curse, being outed by a teenaged boy from Hogwarts was a publicity that proved damaging in both the public and private sectors.

Even in the wake of what could only be considered an overwhelming victory as far as Hermione was concerned, there was tragedy. Professor Trelawney became the latest victim of Hogwarts' High Inquisitor, being removed from her post in Divinations. Although Hermione was never fond of the socially and academically awkward instructor, her treatment at the hands of Professor Umbridge was deplorability in its most callous of forms.

As a small silver lining on a dark storm cloud, Professor Dumbledore was able to step in and ensure Professor Trelawney was not cast from grounds entirely. But the damage had been done, the statement had been made. The Ministry of Magic was in control of Hogwarts, and there would be more heads to roll on their proverbial chopping block.

Even after gut wrenching drama surrounding the dismissal of Professor Trelawney there was a glimmer of hope. Beating both Professor Umbridge and the Ministry to the punch, Professor Dumbledore assigned Firenze to fill the vacant seat at the faculty table. The centaur's appointment caused a stir within his herd, to the point of his banishment. But it seemed, as much as Hermione hated such a doctrine, the ends had justified the means, as all of the students were in agreement that his class was nothing short of mesmerizing. Although, for several girls it appeared to be more about his fair features and chiseled physique than his teachings.

So just when it seemed Professor Umbridge had gotten the upper hand, Dumbledore used one of the Ministry's own Educational Decree against them, taking advantage of a verbiage oversight that allowed him to install Firenze before the Ministry could anoint another of their own personal and obedient watchdogs. Firenze being a half-breed infuriated the Ministry's High Inquisitor all the more.

Now having a moment to breath, Hermione was able to take some time to focus on something that had been on her mind since the odd encounter with the old man in Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day. His mannerism alone were enough to send a chill down one's spine. Not so much for what he did or how he did it. It was more that it was clear that what he did or did not do had little to do with his intentions. And those unknown intentions were what gave Hermione cause for concern. Particularly after Luna made mention that she had seem others like him before.

Making her way to library, Hermione spent a few moments glancing through the rows of dusty tomes filled with every sort of literature imaginable. She doubted very much she would find success on her own, but having to ask assistance from Madame Pince had never been one of her more enjoyable actions. Having no luck in her search, she found there would be no other option.

"Excuse me," Hermione said as she approached the desk where Madame Pince was sorting through a stack of books, examining each one in detail to ensure no student had caused it any harm, before filing it into its appropriate pile.

"Yes," Madame Pince addressed without so much as glancing in Hermione's direction.

Ever pleasant, Hermione thought. For whatever reason, Hermione believed Hogwarts' faithful librarian's nose appeared more hooked and beakish than normal. Or perhaps Hermione was simply in that kind of mood. "I'm looking for some books," she went on. "Or any book actually on a particular subject. I can't seem to find anything on it."

"What subject, author, or genre?" Madame Pince asked, just as curt as previous, her eyes still focused on her task of examining and sorting volumes.

"Voldavia," Hermione answered. "Any author."

Madame Pince paused, staring at a copy of Newts of Bognor by Walter Aragon. Her eyes then darted up towards Hermione. "Hogwarts does not house books on children's fictions," she said in a tone far more stern than seemed appropraite given the topic.

"Perhaps in the Restricted Secti—" Hermione began to ask before Madame Pinch slammed her book down with an echoing crack.

"I have given you an answer via a very articulate and direct sentence," she directed, her eyes like sharpened daggers, her lips pursed in a scowl. "What part within the string of sounds and accents strung together in an attempt to communicate an organized thought was unclear to you?"

"None of it," Hermione gulped, taken aback by the sudden outburst.

"Then, if there is nothing further, be on your way," Madame Pinch dismissed, returning her attention to another published work.

Hermione backed away, her mouth slightly agape. Then, out of the corner her eye, she saw a man walking among the rows, grasping at books and giving them a casual glance before replacing them on the shelf. And while it appeared that his interest was in browsing, his eyes darted back and forth between the Madame Pince's desk and the literature lined before him. Looking back to Madame Pince, Hermione saw that her eyes appeared to glance in the man's direction as well before redirecting to her stacks of books.

Why, she could not be certain, but Hermione began to slowly walk towards the stranger in the library. He seemed oddly out of place. It was not his dark robes, as numerous professors within the school, including Professor Snape, dressed in said fashion. He was unfamiliar. Older, but not old, his skin aged, but not wrinkled, his hair peppered with bits of grey among his short dark locks.

Then, as he replaced his most recent fallen interest, Hermione saw it. Gloves, deep purple in color, the same as the old man in Hogsmeade. Hermione's eyes lit up as she hastened her pace.

Almost as if sensing her approach, the man turned and began down the row and out of sight. When Hermione reached the area he had occupied, she saw nothing but a wisp of his cloak around the corner at the end. Now, giving chase, she raced between stacks of books only to see the entrance doors to the library swinging shut.

What am I doing? she thought, continuing her pursuit. I must be mad …

Pushing through the doors and entering the hall beyond, Hermione stood in shock. There was no sign of the man she glimpsed in the library. Her eyes scanned the area, searching down each long and open hall, but there was no trace of movement beyond the straggling of students here and there.

Impossible, she thought. He has to be here somewhere.

The man had exited the library only seconds before Hermione. There was no possible way for him to have escaped her view. Even at full sprint, the distance he would have had to cover before being able to turn a corner at either end of the hall would have been too great. Further still, his increased pace would have left the fading echoes of footprints as he created distance.

Did she simply imagine him? Such a vivid hallucination seemed extremely unlikely, even given the vast amount of stress and lack of sleep Hermione's current life provided. And Madame Pince saw him as well, did she not? Or did she? It appeared that Hogwarts' cantankerous librarian had looked in the man's direction. Was this imagined as well?

Determined to prove her own sanity, Hermione walked along the hall her with her eyes dancing about, searching every nook and corner. Turning around the end of the corridor she came across a gathering of Slytherins commiserating in a huddle of murmurs and repartee. Hermione's presence was immediately recognized, Flora and Hestia Carrow casting their deadpan gaze in Hermione's direction while Lucian Bole gave a simple disinterested role of his eyes.

Ready to turn back and search the other end of the hall, as she had no interest in any potential taunting or conflicts with her classmates at the moment, Hermione was sidetracked when she noticed Professor Snape walking in her direction alongside Killian. Instinctively, she stepped back into one of the alcoves along the hall in order to hide within the shadows it provided. Why she took to this action, she want entirely certain. It was not as though her presence in the hall was furtive. Still, she felt as though she needed to hide.

Killian and the head of the Slytherin House parted ways as they crossed Killian's housemates. Professor Snape continued down the hall, passing Hermione without paying her any notice. Or perhaps he did not see her. Perhaps still, he did not care. What was clear, however, was both Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson knew very well where Hermione was, the former looking towards Hermione with an insidious grin before whispering the latter's ear. After casting a glance of her own, Pansy then approached Killian with gleaming smile, placing her hand on his chest and adjusting his tie, giggling with playful banter.

Hermione's heart fell into her stomach. She had never really thought of Killian's relationships with other members of his house. They must have existed in some form or another. She had witnessed so little of his candid interactions, within his house or otherwise, oft times only spending any significant time around him when they had stolen away in some dark recess or empty hall. The sight of Pansy freely placing her hands on Killian, though … Laughing … Flirting … A sickening sensation ravaged Hermione's body, a sudden sense of incredible unknowing, absolute foolishness, and a desire to be left alone.

Hearing that the conversations had quieted to a silence, thus believing the group of Slytherins had moved on, Hermione left her place in the alcove with her eyes on the floor, turning headfirst into the firm flesh of Killian's chest. The shock of the unexpected collision caused Hermione to twist awkwardly on her ankle, stumbling into Killian's arms, his hands grasping her with a tender fixedness as he held her upright.

"Hermione?" he asked, his one hand now sliding up her arm as she attempted to right herself. "Where did you come from?"

"I was just …" she started off, mildly attempting to shake herself free of Killian's grasp. " … I was looking for someone."

"Did you find him whomever it was in the alcove?" Killian teased.

"No, I …" Hermione began again to no avail. It was useless. She could not hide her embarrassment. Furthermore, she was oddly uncertain she wanted to do so. "It's nothing …"

"Are you certain?" Killian asked, tilting his head in an attempt to make eye contact.

"Yes," Hermione assured, giving in and looking up at Killian.

She offered a halfhearted smile before lowering her head again, resting it on Killian's chest with a sigh. Closing her eyes, she felt the warmth of his skin through his shirt, failing, despite her best efforts, to convince herself it did not bring her comfort. Reaching up, she placed her hand on Killian's chest in the location only just occupied by Pansy wretched appendage, watching her fingers softly drum along with the heartbeat she felt against her palm.

"Hermione?" Killian asked quizzically.

She had taken too long a pause, savored the moment's touch beyond discreteness. Coming to her senses, she reached up and grasped Killian's tie.

"It's crooked," she said.

It was not. Not even slightly out of place. But Pansy had touched it, tainted it. Hermione needed to remedy that immediately. She felt silly, having jealousy over such a thing. What right did she have? Pansy could place her hands wherever she pleased. And if they were to wither, break, and fall off altogether, that would be fine as well.

Attempting to step back from Killian, who was wearing a grin that arose in Hermione a desire to draw him closer, Hermione stumbled once again. Having not entirely released her arm, Killian reapplied his grip.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his grin now replaced with concern as he guided Hermione to a bench along the wall near the alcove Hermione had been hiding within.

"I'm fine," Hermione lied.

In truth, she had turned her ankle quite significantly. Not enough for a visit to Madame Pomfrey, but enough to welcome the seat she and Killian now occupied.

After Hermione adjusted herself as comfortably as possible, Killian reached down and grasped her leg just above the ankle, pulling it up and onto his lap. Hermione's first instinct was to pull it away in protest. It was quite a liberty he had taken, after all. But she did not. For once, her desire outmatched her impulse to retreat and protect herself.

"What are you doing?" she asked as Killian ran his fingers along the side of her lower calf, softly tracing her ankle.

"I'm ascertaining if you are being honest," Killian answered with a smirk.

"And where, exactly, did you receive your medical training?" Hermione asked.

"It's not that difficult," Killian explained, moving his hand up Hermione's leg just beneath her knee.

The gentle touch of Killian's fingers sliding over the thin cloth of her long white stocking skin caused a sudden warmth as a flood of blood rushed to Hermione's face, her leg shivering ever so slightly as he slowly massaged the area under her knee, down her calf, and towards her ankle. Hermione's heart pounded with a fury as she condemned herself for her lack of control, fighting the overwhelming desire to reach out and grasp him. A desire she follow through with only a moment later, although not for reasons she would have liked, as a sharp pain in her ankle caused her to claw at Killian's shoulder, clenching his shirt within her fingers.

"Sorry," Killian apologized, immediately decreasing the pressure of his massage as he had found the point of injury just above Hermione's shoe.

"It's all right," Hermione assured, smiling through gritted teeth. "Just a bit sore, is all. I'll be fine."

"I'm certain you will," Killian agreed. "It does not appear you have broken anything."

Even with this assertion, Killian did not release Hermione's leg, continuing to run his fingers along her curves, tracing the outlines of her muscles, occasionally applying just enough pressure to send a quiver up her leg, through her spine, and into nape of her neck. He had to know what he was doing to her. He was being far too attentive to be that oblivious, was he not?

Realizing she was now grinding her teeth, Hermione caught herself, biting her lip in an effort to contain the swelling sensations swirling within her and hold her tongue, keeping safe the things she wished to say at the moment, things she was not sure she should, things she feared would not garner the response for which she thirsted.

"So who were you looking for?" Killian asked, drawing Hermione's attention away from her daydream.

He is oblivious, after all, Hermione thought sullenly. "No one," she answered with a sigh that seemed to take the wind out of the moment. "I just thought I saw someone."

"Well, which is it?" Killian asked on, turning to Hermione with a smile. "No one or someone?"

So oblivious, Hermione thought on. Although even as she attempted to be put off, the reflection in Killian's eyes as he looked at her, the curve of his mouth, the tone of his voice … She could not. "I thought I saw someone I knew," she explained. "I was wrong."

It was not clear if Killian believed Hermione's explanation any more than he believed her denial that she had injured her ankle, clumsily stumbling into him as she exited her hiding area in the shadows. No matter, she did not intent to further the discussion. Particularly since she was not entirely certain whom she was looking for or why.

"Was that Professor Snape I saw walking past?" Hermione asked in an attempt to change to subject.

"Yes," Killian answered, his fingers now slipping under Hermione's knee high sock, gently sliding it down and exposing the bare skin of her leg. "He's in a bit of a mood."

Hermione squeezed Killian's shirt as he continued down her leg. Her eyes fixated on his hands, all but covered by his sleeves with the exception of his fingers that, for some reason, Hermione saw as very Slytherin at the moment, snaking across her skin like predators caressing the earth as seek their prey.

"Why is that?" Hermione asked, again biting down on her lower lip, taking long deep breaths.

"I seem to have lost a considerable amount of points for our house," Killian answered with an amused grin.

Hermione's euphoria hit a sudden wall, looking to Killian with disappointment. "You've gotten another detention?" she asked. "Killian …" Hermione's tone came across almost chastising.

"What is there to do?" Killian dismissed with another grin. "Professor Umbridge and I simply do not see eye to eye." He then looked to the vaulted ceiling of the hall in mock contemplation. "Perhaps if she grew a few inches …"

Hermione released Killian's shirt and slapped him on the shoulder. "Stop it," she teased.

Unfazed, Killian ran a finger up the back of Hermione's leg, either purposefully or unknowingly tickling the tender skin behind her knee. Whatever his intentions or lack thereof, Hermione regained her grip on Killian's shirt in a silent gasp, certain he could not miss her skin's reaction to his touch.

"I'm sure Professor Snape is at the end of his patience with you," Hermione went on, attempting to distract Killian in the hopes he would remain unknowing.

"To the contrary," Killian clarified. "He more or less said to stay the course. I don't believe he is particularly fond of Umbridge," he added with a wink.

Could it possibly be that she and Professor Snape actually shared an unspoken bond in something? The thought struck Hermione as oddly humorous. Although, when it came to Professor Umbridge, Hermione mused that there were a great many people, students and faculty alike, with whom she shared said accord.

"Even so," she said, "I'm certain he's not happy a member of his house is so regularly represented in Umbridge's office."

"Probably not," Killian agreed. "I was actually hoping when he was going to inform me he'd gotten me out of it. Unfortunately, he was merely passing along a message that it was to be delayed until later this evening. Apparently, Professor Umbridge is having a meeting with Professor Dumbledore and the Minister. That should be an interesting gathering."

"I imagine it will be quite odd and uncomfortable," Hermione said with a laugh to cover another chill running through her neck and Killian's hands slid a little too high on her inner thigh.

"I imagine so …" Killian shook his head. "Speaking of …"

He then paused. It appeared as though he wished to say something, but thought better of it. This, of course, was not something Hermione would tolerate.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Killian answered, readdressing his attention to his very thorough massage. "It's just …" He stopped again.

"What?" Hermione asked again.

"Pansy Parkington," Killian answered with a quizzical look etched in his expression.

Hearing Killian speak her name aloud after what Hermione had just witnessed caused her to bite down hard on the lip she had been nibbling. This led to a jolted reaction that caught Killian unaware. He immediately raised his hands off Hermione's leg and leaned away.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No," Hermione assured, cursing herself in her mind. "It's … I'm okay."

"I can stop if you wish."

"If you want to …"

Please don't stop, Hermione thought, begging the universe for Killian to read her mind and disregard her words. Although hesitating, Killian slowly returned his hands to her leg, paying more detail to her injured ankle this time as Hermione heaved a mental sigh of relief.

"Pansy Parkington," she said.

"What?" Killian asked, clearly thrown off by the distraction.

"You were saying," Hermione led.

"Oh yes," Killian began, squinting as if searching the recesses of his often annoyingly pretentious vocabulary for the correct words. "It was … odd, is all."

Hermione did not respond, simply waiting for further explanation. Killian did not immediately proceed, again appearing as though he was attempting to make sense of something all the while attempting to explain it.

"I don't believe she has spoken so much as a handful of words to me in all the years we've shared a house," he went on. "Then just now she was …"

"What?" Hermione pressed, now maddeningly intrigued as to where Killian was going and growing increasingly impatient.

"I don't know," he explained. "Very personal."

Hermione laughed. "I know how much you dislike being personal," she teased.

"I don't very much like being touched, I suppose," Killian clarified with a grin.

Hermione's heart pulsed with a rhythm that forced a smile she could not subdue. It was apparent that Daphne and Pansy's attempt to mettle had gone awry. Far from being enticed, Killian had rejected Pansy's advances unequivocally. More importantly, in contrast to Killian admission of his dislike for physical contact, Hermione realized she had yet to remove her hand from his shoulder, an interaction by which he had offered no objection.

Perhaps he was oblivious. Perhaps he knew very well. Hermione no longer cared one way or the other. Pansy had been turned away, and only moments later Hermione found herself sitting on a bench with Killian, her leg draped over his lap as he tenderly offered her his every attention. She would not allow the moment to be tainted with feelings of jealousy or slight. Killian would very likely be heading off to detention soon. In the meantime, Hermione simply enjoyed the sensations beneath Killian's fingertips as her thumb gently offered Killian's shoulder a soft and delicate massage of its own.