Parted

Ron's hand burns like a brand on Hermione's thigh. Since she met up with him at the Three Broomsticks half an hour ago, it has inched up from her knee to the very top of her leg, and his long fingers curl around the inside of her thigh, the side of his hand uncomfortably snug against the vee of her jeans. He's wearing his trainee Auror robes like a medal, and the Firewhisky shots he's downed have risen to warm his face like a red tide.

"Bloody hell but I've done all right, I 'ave. Oi, tell Hermione about the time what I beat you at duelling, 'arry!" Ron crows. A ragged surge of irritation grates against Hermione's nerves, and she wonders who he's picked the new accent up from...one of the older hardcore Aurors he admires, perhaps? She wonders if conking him over the head with the HP sauce bottle will fix it. "Go on, then!" he urges Harry, smacking the surface of the table to catch Harry's attention.

Harry turns his head from the shell of Ginny's ear. His eyes are heavy-lidded and hazy with love, like he's absorbing every moment he's missed with Ginny and he's drunk on the heart of her. "Good one, mate," Harry drawls, his voice thick like syrup, and then he turns back to murmuring softly at Ginny's ear, like he'll forget the honeyed scent of her if he turns away for one more moment.

Ron moves his hand from her thigh...her anxiety fades away almost instantly...and takes her hand. "I've got a surprise for you," he says huskily.

And in that moment, Hermione remembers the endearing warmth of his smile and the guileless blue of his eyes and the open honesty of his heart and the uncomplicated frankness of his mind. And she remembers why she's longed for his embrace, dreamed of having him close to her. A late birthday present! she thinks with delight. It would certainly make up for the generic card he'd owled a day late.

But her excitement dwindles with each step he leads her up until they stand on the second floor outside a door. "Got us a room," he says as he fumbles the key into the lock. He's barely led her into the room with its pine headboard and faded quilt and shut the door when he pulls off his robes and hooks his thumbs into the elastic waist of his y-fronts, stripping them down his legs. When he stands up, it's impossible to miss that his hard cock is bobbing against the ginger thatch of his pubic hair. The grin he wears plainly says: "Come and get it, luv."

Hermione gapes at him, disappointment and ire burning like acid in her throat. As he reaches down to curl his hand around his cock and give it one, long stroke, her patience...stretched thin and tight like an elastic band...snaps.

"You write to me twice this term, Ron, only twice, never asking how I'm doing, always bragging on about what a big-man-Auror you're becoming, and then you come up here this weekend and expect me to just..." She gestures angrily to his hand, now frozen in mid-stroke.

Ron is gaping at her, looking absolutely dumbfounded, like she's struck him with a Stunner or something. "Whachyou on about, luv?"

Hermione's eyes narrow dangerously. "Don't you 'luv' me, Ron. It's not about love for you, is it?"

"Course I love you," he says plaintively, his cock drooping a little as he pleads with his palms outstretched.

"No, you don't, or you'd have owled more often. You'd have respected me and not wanted to just jump straight to the sex the moment you got the chance!" she says coldly, her disappointment pulling the corners of her mouth down.

She turns and leaves him with his underpants around his ankles, his red Auror's robes pooled on the floor like blood. Their relationship, which had been dying by degrees and withering to a dry husk, snaps off abruptly with the sharp slam of the door.

It feels almost like relief, the anger she feels, when she stalks up the winding path from the gates, her legs burning as the muscles stretch and pull with the effort of keeping up with her determined pace.

Hermione Granger wants many things, but the thought that she does not want Ron or the sick feeling of realisation that had curdled in her stomach earlier is concrete. "I deserve better," she huffs, and she slams the Entrance Hall door behind her.

"Tem-per, Miss Granger," Snape drawls, his sinuous voice slithering into her ire like smoke inciting a bee's nest.

She turns on her heel to see him standing at the hourglasses, the emeralds in the Slytherin one reflecting in green shades off the hawkish planes of his face. His lips quirk thoughtfully as he seems to consider removing House points.

Oh, she's had enough of him pretending he's the same miserable bastard as always! It's like he's taken an Obliviate to the head. Or maybe he's just embarrassed and especially careful to maintain his sharp-edged armour around her because she saw him that morning all defenceless and martyred like a sacrificial lamb.

She jabs her finger at the Gryffindor hourglass. "Go ahead, sir...it would make the perfect end to my week."

"Detention would be even better, don't you think?" he enquires in faux-artless fashion. He slides off towards the dungeons, smiling sardonically. "Let's make it six 'o clock, shall we?"

Hermione doesn't go to dinner. Instead, she munches her way through a packet of chocolate-covered digestive biscuits with grim determination. For a nostalgic moment, she wonders when her mother will send another package from Down Under because Tim Tams actually make for much better sulking food than McVites.

Her anger eventually fades, and the ache in her heart becomes evident as it does. It's not that she's mourning for her relationship with Ron because, really, that hadn't been on the go for that long at all. Somewhere in the process of growing up, her love for her friend and her hormones got all mixed up... twisted her perspective, endangered her friendship.

And she doesn't like the discomfort of the change that's facing her: Ron's going to be stonily silent; Harry's going to feel awkward about where his loyalties belong again; Ginny's probably going to feel sorry for her brother and side with him. And then Hermione knows life will be even more empty here than before.

"Catalogue and sort the publications in that box," Snape says abruptly when she enters his office, pre-empting any niceties. "By title and date. And then shelve them on those empty bookshelves." He goes back to his work, ignoring her rather decidedly.

For a moment Hermione thinks maybe he has gone soft after all because the box isn't very big, really. Maybe, she thinks as she opens the lid, he'll disappear for long enough to let me snoop in his office for Gillyweed. I can't believe Slughorn didn't have any in his stores when I snuck in there this morning. I wonder if Snape even still keeps a store for potions? But then she sees the sea of thumbnail-sized publications inside the box and stifles a sigh.

After she's Enlarged all of them, she's surrounded by several waist-high stacks. The publications...everything from the Happy Herbologist to the Prudent Potioneer to some Dark Arts publication written in blocky Russian...are hopelessly mixed up. She takes a moment to stare at them all in bewilderment; it isn't like Snape to be this disorganised. He's the most pedantic teacher she knows. It's like he chucked shelves and shelves of Reduced publications into the box without a thought as to whether he'd ever want to read them again. And then realisation twists in her stomach: It's entirely likely he really did think he'd never need them again because he thought that he would die helping Harry, fulfilling his promise to Lily and to Dumbledore.

Suddenly filled with soft sympathy, she glances up at Snape. In the Lumos light, his black hair is so oily it looks wet and slick like crude oil, waterproof like a seal's pelt. He's reading a piece of parchment...his eyes are narrowed in concentration, his lips pulled into a thoughtful line...and Hermione's eyebrows lift in surprise when she recognises Harry's awkward scrawl.

So, Harry is writing to Snape, she thinks, not overly surprised at the fact. Harry has done a one-eighty...from blind hatred to awed respect...when it comes to Snape. She respects Snape, too, yes, but he's worn it a bit thin with his snide commentary over the last few months, to be honest.

And then she feels a twinge of guilt when she recalls something her father always says with the concrete conviction of a true believer: "If you want respect, you have to earn it." She smiles; her father reads a lot of those Muggle self-help books. It's annoying when he comes up with those gems of regurgitated advice, but Hermione has to accept her culpability in the matter; she did take the easy way out and buy him one of them for Christmas once, after all.

"Sir?" Her question curls in the air tentatively.

"What is it, Granger? I did not give you an arduous enough task?" Snape doesn't lift his head.

"No, sir... it's just that..."

Hermione hates being in the wrong; she does not take any criticism well, constructive or well-meant or harsh; it goes against her every stubborn grain to apologise. So, her next words do not slide easily from her soul: "I just wanted to apologise for being disrespectful earlier; I shouldn't have brought my temper back into the castle. I don't know what got into me."

It's hard to read the expression on his face when he does look up at her. His mouth is set into a thin line, but his eyes aren't hostile or blazing with black fire. "Sometimes it is not that which gets into us that is the problem... it is that which we have lost," he says evenly. His voice is low and deep and it winds around her nerves like a velvet cat. His dark eyes hold hers for a moment, and then he goes back reading Harry's letter.

Hermione presses her lips together, disconcerted and surprised. Well... where did that little bit of philosophy come from? She rubs her thumb across her palm, thinking about Snape's words. That which we have lost, Hermione repeats to herself, and her heart aches because she's probably just lost one of her best friends forever. Is that why they say that it's not a good idea for best friends to fall in love? Does he regret loving Lily like that, now?

"Harry has been writing to you, too, sir," Hermione notes quietly. A piece of lavender Ministry memo paper arrives once a week for her...the warmth of his friendship cramped into tight lines...and its arrival always heralds a smile and a lightening of her heart.

Snape's shoulders stiffen, and he folds the letter up and drops it into his top drawer. "Incessantly," he allows.

Before Hermione can make what is sure to be the mistake of enquiring whether Snape writes back, there is a fluttering knock at the door.

"Enter," Snape says curtly.

Professor Flitwick heaves the heavy wooden door open and hops across the stones to stand next to Snape, where his head just reaches desk height. "Severus, I need your help, please," the Charms teacher squeaks.

Snape flicks his dark eyes over to where Hermione stands, and then he gestures to the corridor outside of his office. Hermione longs to look for the Gillyweed or sneak a peek at Harry's letter, but she's also keen to hear what Professor Flitwick wants.

She listens hard as she lifts another armful of periodicals to sort. She strains her ears until all she can hear is the steady thump-thump of her own heart. She actually jumps slightly when Flitwick speaks, his voice high-pitched and anxious: "The squid's rubbed a hole in the Bounding Ward again; we'll have to recraft it tonight, Severus."

Snape sighs. "I'll let the others know... We're going to have to do something about that damn thing, Filius. It's worse than a bloody first-year."

The stone corridor echoes their words strangely, like the castle's magic is bending the laws of natural physics.

Flitwick chuffles a bitter laugh. "Learns faster, too."

Argh! Is the squid loose again? Will Syrena be all right? Are the wards really that weak? Concern for her little friend twists and wriggles through her mind. Hermione quickly starts to pretend like she's working when she hears Snape pushing the door open.

"You will have to finish that tomorrow evening, Miss Granger," he says distractedly.

"I don't mind finishing it alone if you have to go somewhere, sir," she says, hugging the stack of magazines to her chest and trying to smile innocently.

His staccato laugh is mirthless. "Out," he says blandly, gesturing to the door with an uncompromising expression.

Well, she thinks as she puts the periodicals down again, he never was anybody's fool, was he? She slinks round-shouldered to the door. Her hand on the door handle, she pauses and clears her throat.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Granger?" he asks impatiently.

"Can I do anything to help with the wards for the giant squid?" she blurts out.

His expression sours as she all but confesses to eavesdropping. "Do you really think you could do better than Professor Flitwick or I?" he asks scathingly.

A resigned expression flitters across her lips, and she turns to go.

"Granger."

Hermione's expression is quizzical when she turns to face her teacher again, and she raises her eyebrows in a silent question, wondering what nasty commentary he's going to mark their parting with.

"If you can come up with a viable solution, I'll give you an 'O' for your DADA year-mark."

Wow, she thinks as she climbs the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, he really cares about helping the merpeople and the selkies for some reason. She smiles, and her broken heart mends just a little at the sign that Snape seems to have a heart, after all.

Hermione sits in the window seat and stares out of the window at Hogwarts' frosted grounds. In the bright glow of the almost-bloated moon, a flicker of movement at the far edge of the lake catches her attention. She Transfigures a pair of binoculars and lifts them to her eyes. She watches quietly with a sense of satisfaction and longing while Professor Flitwick reconstructs the Bounding Ward and Professor Snape wrangles to keep the giant squid...the beast named Kraken...bound in the glittering web of a Confinement Charm. A short distance away, lake-dwellers keep silent guard...dark skinned merpeople with wickedly sharp spears and glimmering selkies with long-handled tridents...along the edges of their respective aquatic territories.

I want to help, she thinks as she climbs into bed. There shouldn't be a reason for there to be another Leenash in the world.

That night Hermione dreams she is swimming in the quiet green, and the peace presses around her like an embrace. She gazes up at the undulating surface, the silvering divide, and wishes that she could stay down here forever, where life seems less complicated and so much more serene. But then a dark shape appears overhead, trailing tentacles and blocking out the sun, and she screams herself awake.

The birds have barely heralded dawn's approach when Hermione rushes down the steep incline to the lake. Its surface is pale lavender in the ghostly light. "I'll find a way," she promises. "I'll find a way." She doesn't quite know if she's talking about fixing the wards or finding a way to get beneath the surface of the lake again.

She's almost finished on her walk when a dark head breaks the surface. Syrena's warbling greeting and crooked smile stops her in her tracks.

"Hello, Syrena," she says with relief. "I see the squid is back in his place; I was worried about you yesterday."

Hermione struggles not to wince when the selkie replies...Syrena's melodic voice is jagged and high-pitched and harshly unintelligible in the thin air.

"I'll come and visit you soon so we can talk," Hermione promises. "I want to hear all about the rest of Leenash's story."

Syrena nods vigorously and says something excitedly, making rapid hand movements in the air, punctuating her speech. Hermione shakes her head. "I wish we learned other languages at school," she says wryly. Although she's not entirely sure she'd have picked Mermish as a first choice.

As Hermione turns to walk back up to the castle, Syrena shrugs, waves, and the selkie flicks a sparkling spray of water in goodbye.

As the rest of the castle begins to wake around her, Hermione pens a letter to Harry. She asks him to send her some Gillyweed. But she doesn't tell him why, and she doesn't ask him if Ron is as angry and hurt as she imagines, and she doesn't ask him if he thinks she was in the right or not, and she doesn't ask him what he's been writing in his letters to Snape.

A/N: As always, thank you to Gelsey. You are a star!

Thank you to everybody who reads and reviews The Silvering Divide. Writing this story has been a shining and silver experience.