Revealed

When Harry's owl arrives almost a week later, Hermione tucks the lumpy little parcel into her robes like a secret. She allows a slight, triumphant curve of her lips before she reads the letter that accompanies it over her morning toast and tea.

Dear Hermione,

Love, Harry.

Hermione stuffs the letter into her pocket with the Gillyweed and bites into her last piece of toast, feeling grim fondness and exasperation all at once. Harry's letter reminds her that Christmas is only three weeks away, now, and the thought of staying at Hogwarts alone for it is sharper than the Marmite that stings on her tongue.

Defence Against the Dark Arts is absolutely fascinating at the moment. Despite his surly and abrupt manner, Professor Snape really is an organised and capable teacher. Some of the class grumble about this month's topic because there is no practical aspect to it and it feels like History of Magic at times. But Hermione thinks that the history of Dark wizards who used magic to gain power is very relevant, given what all of them went through last year.

Hermione is shocked and unsettled to learn that most Muggle dictators, from Lorenzo de' Medici to Napoleon to Nazarov to Hitler, had a Dark wizard lurking in the shadowed background like a fat spider, either subtly influencing them or completely dancing them on puppet strings. She starts to wonder how many of the world's ethical problems and wars have had the taint of shadow magic on them. And then her stomach twists uncomfortably when she considers that some of her own actions have not been entirely ethical, so she concentrates on the fact that her parents are safe and happy and very content to stay in Perth, bugger how they got there in the first place.

"After decades of isolated confinement in Nuremgard, Grindelwald was ultimately killed by this century's most recent Dark wizard." With a twisted grimace, Snape drops the piece of chalk onto his desk with a clink. "And in preparation for next week's lectures, your assignment is four feet of parchment on Tom Riddle's raison d'être." Snape rolls his eyes when several expressions register nervous uncertainty. "Write about his reason for wanting power, you idiots... his ultimate motivation for his actions. And if you quote Rita Skeeter's new book at me, I'll give you a 'P' and mark backwards from there."

Hermione lingers after the rest of the class has filed out to go to lunch. Snape pretends to ignore her for several seconds before sighing dramatically. "I am not going to have a philosophical discussion about Voldemort with you right now, Miss Granger," he snarls. "I want your thoughts on the issue."

Hermione can't actually believe he's going to teach them about the Dark Lord, given his rather close association and history with the man and the awkward questions that the class is sure to ask. But she's oddly respectful of the fact that Snape would round out the lessons in this fashion.

"Ah, no, sir," she says quickly. "I didn't want to discuss that at all. I had another thought about the giant squid..."

"Does your new theory have sound theoretical basis, Granger?" he says with no small amount of exasperation.

Hermione dithers for a second. "Ah, well, maybe. I was just thinking..."

Snape pulls a face like he's seriously regretting having invited her to come up with a solution. "Like you thought that Shrinking it, moving it to another loch, chilling the water to make it lethargic and putting up an Electrification Ward were good ideas?" He ticks them off on his long, chalk-dusted fingers. "Next you'll be telling me that you'd like the house-elves to serve it up for supper with tartar sauce!"

Hermione puffs out her cheeks and decides to get out while the going is good because he's right...she really doesn't have a good enough idea at the moment. She hesitates at the door, though. "Harry wants to know when you're going to write back, sir," she says, her words tripping over each other.

She moves quickly enough to avoid the piece of chalk that shatters against the door jamb. "Touchy," she mutters to herself. He hasn't thrown chalk since third-year, when Remus and Sirius were looming around the castle. She's actually smiling as she considers that she's got a special knack for getting under Snape's skin.

Hermione is impatient for the evening to be over so that the morning can come. She's decided to wait until then to visit Syrena because she can't be sure of where the selkie will be, now...Syrena is young, and Hermione expects that living in the lake wouldn't preclude a bedtime.

She sits next to the fireplace...winter is digging its icy claws into the castle, and the cold hovers everywhere like mist...trying to make a start on her DADA essay. She's probably got a lot more insight into Voldemort than the rest of the class has; Harry filled a lot of the empty camping hours telling her about his sessions with Dumbledore and what he'd seen of Riddle's life.

Argh, she thinks with frustration, I wish we had access to the internet. A fascination with psychology is another of her father's quirks (sometimes she wonders if teeth are really his calling in life) and she remembers him catching her reading a dark and gritty book about serial killers, once. After that he moved his collection to his office. Hermione's starting to think that Voldemort might have been a psychopath...not in the general sense that Muggle movies talk about serial killers and criminals but in the classical and clinical sense. She just wants to reference a list of behavioural characteristics, though. She's almost sure that Voldemort's pathologic egocentricity and incapacity for love is a big tick mark in the psychopath column.

Ginny intrudes into her pondering: "What's wrong, Hermione?"

Hermione gives Ginny a quizzical look. It's not that Ginny's been avoiding her...more like it's vice versa, actually...but this is the first time they're talking since The Incident.

Ginny points to where Hermione's quill has bled ink into the parchment...a giant Rorschach stain has eaten her scribbled notes. "Gah," Hermione grumbles, Vanishing the piece of parchment with an irritated wand flick. "I was thinking about how I'd like to speak to my dad," she says with a sigh.

"You're... not going home for Christmas?" Ginny asks carefully, treading around the fact that Hermione was invited to the Burrow. But that was Before, and Hermione isn't stupid enough to know it's still a valid option.

"No. It's too far to go for the winter hols, and getting a Portkey at this late stage is..." Hermione shrugs. And anyway, her parents are going white-water rafting in New Zealand or something, and she doesn't want to interfere with their plans.

Ginny's face falls a little and worry creases between her arched eyebrows. "You're not staying here alone for Christmas, are you?" She presses her lips together for a moment. "Look, I'm sure that it would be..."

"An utter disaster if I came to the Burrow, Gin. But thanks for that." Hermione smiles at Ginny. She's touched that their friendship doesn't seem to have been built only on the bonds that had connected Ron and her. "Look. I've got loads of research to do, and I'll persuade Professor McGonagall to let me go to the Muggle village to phone my folks. I can even make a start on our Potions project for next term."

Ginny smiles. Despite extending the invitation, she does look relieved that Hermione has rescinded. "You're a real brick, Hermione," she says.

Giving Ginny what feels like a strained smile, Hermione nods, and then she discards her DADA homework in favour of writing back to Harry:

Dear Harry,

Professor Snape would probably appreciate Volume 63 of the Prudent Potioneer if you can get your hands on it. I'm sure he'll write back to you eventually...I think he's the type of bloke you just have to keep chipping away at until he's too tired to fight you off.

Love, Hermione.

Even a Warming Charm doesn't relieve the crystalline chill that has settled into the very core of her bones. Hermione's well-prepared this morning...she's even Transfigured a wetsuit...but standing up to her knees in ice-cold water and chewing on what feels like a mouthful of elastic bands with an amused little selkie watching isn't her idea of a good time. Hermione's wondering if her feet have just gone numb or if it's the Gillyweed starting to work when her chest seizes up and the world starts to sparkle with little flecks of light. Yes, the Gillyweed, she decides, throwing herself into the water to join Syrena.

Syrena swims around her excitedly, circling in a dizzying spiral. "Oh, you came before the freeze," she trills. "That's what I was trying to tell you the other day... to come before the freeze or I wouldn't see you until it warmed again!"

"Of course," Hermione says, feeling a bit stupid for having lived in the castle for so long and never really thinking of the implications of winter when the silver-grey surface of the lake freezes like steel with the snow. "Will you be all right?"

Syrena's laugh bubbles merrily. "The lake doesn't freeze solid, silly," she says simply.

"Well, yes, I knew that," Hermione allows. "I mean, won't you get cold?"

Syrena shrugs. "We are made for the water. My father likes the freeze because Kraken is slow and stupid, then."

Hermione smiles. "Well, that's good." She really does want to tell Syrena that she, Hermione Granger, will fix the Kraken problem once and for all so that the selkies will never have to guard their borders from anything more malevolent than an idle shark again. But she bites her tongue because she knows what it's like to be promised the world and then have it taken away. "Will you tell me the rest of the story?"

"Come." Syrena executes a graceful back flip and drifts towards deeper water, moving slowly enough to let Hermione keep up with her. Hermione struggles to keep her exasperation in check; the selkie seems unperturbed that Hermione's time is limited and that Hermione is impatient for the rest of the tale. Syrena stops abruptly and smiles her beautiful-ugly grin, and then she calls out something in burbling Mermish softly and watches the green haze around them expectantly.

A moment later, a green-skinned demon with sharp horns and sharp teeth comes bubbling towards them, almost cartwheeling over its spindly, ugly long toes in its haste. Hermione draws her wand quickly, her eyes wide with alarm.

"No, no, no," Syrena says quickly, darting between the Grindylow and the wand. "I wanted to show you to Balrog." The Grindylow comes to a dead stop, making a panting gristle, gristle, gristle kind of noise deep in its throat. It licks Syrena's hand and flexes its long, bony fingers. "He's my friend, see?"

Hermione flashes her weak-fake smile at Syrena. "Yes, I see," she says, her relief drifting to the surface on a stream of bubbles. Grindylows set her teeth on edge for some reason, like those Gremlin movies. It must be the somewhat fiendish, unblinking stare. But because Hermione wants to please Syrena, she says, "Hello, Balrog. Nice to meet you."

Syrena murmurs to Balrog in Mermish again. The Grindylow makes that gristling noise again and seems to contemplate licking Hermione's hand. Hermione folds her arms across her chest. "Leenash?" she reminds Syrena. She's all for getting the tour of selkie life eventually, but if she leaves the lake without the answer she's going to stew about it all winter. "You said that she went away and you don't know what happened. But then many years later..." Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"Many years later, Silver Beard came to my father with a big box. He said that Leenash had gone to the water above the sun but that she would want her body to come home to her family." Syrena points to a dark pool of shadows under a towering copse of rock that seems to grow from the bottom of the lake. "There. I can show you."

Hermione follows Syrena, wearing a distracted frown. Silver Beard. Dumbledore? She's relieved to see Balrog kick lazily away, drifting towards where he'd come from. From what she can remember, there's a fairly large selkie village in that direction. The visibility isn't good enough for her to see it, though.

"Syrena? Was this Silver Beard like me?" she asks, kicking furiously to keep up.

"Yes," Syrena says. "He was an Air Magicker, like you. But he went to the sky also."

Hermione nods with a wistful and nostalgic little smile. "Yes, he did. He was a very wise old man."

"My father was very sad. The whole lake was very dark, even though it was the warmest time." Syrena stops at what can only be an underwater graveyard. "Leenash is here," she says, swimming away again, this time deeper into the graveyard.

Hermione is careful not to touch any of the dark stones that are arranged in regular patterns as she follows Syrena. "Syrena," she bubbles nervously, now feeling a little like she's intruding where she shouldn't.

"Here," Syrena says, stopping next to an algae-dappled stone. She traces her little finger over the lettering on the stone: Leenash Banaphrionnsa.

Hermione dips her head closer, her hair drifting in a tangled net around her head. "What does that second word mean? Is that her... last name?"

Syrena tilts her head to the side, frowning so that her thick, black brows draw right together. "No. She only has one name...Leenash. That word tells you about her family's place... I am also Banaphrionnsa, like Leenash." Syrena reads the question on Hermione's face before it can leave her mouth. "It means her father was the Chieftain. The leader, yes?"

Hermione can only lift both of her eyebrows in surprise.

A/N: Balrog: Unashamedly borrowed the name from Lord of the Rings. Except the poor Grindylows are much littler demons, of course.

Banaphrionnsa: Scottish Gaelic for princess.

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

Thank you to Gelsey for proof-reading.