Family

The thread of truth has spooled into the space between herself and her parents, and now it lies there, snarled and twisted, in a complicated knot. The ensuing silence has a stunned quality about it, almost like each word Hermione uttered has woven into the fabric of a complex and slow-acting Petrificus Totalus. Hermione's mother sits, ashen and unmoving like a statue, with the fingers of one hand fanned across her slack-lipped mouth. Her father has adopted a more reflective pose: his chin rests on the knuckles of one hand like The Thinker, and his eyebrows are drawn together sharply over his brown eyes.

Hermione hugs her knees more tightly to her chest, and she reaches for her cup of tea to soothe her parched throat. It's ice-cold, with a filmy, milky residue skating across the surface and a bitter, tannic edge that makes her grimace, but she drinks it anyway.

"Well," her father says, clearing his throat. "Well."

Hermione isn't surprised that her father is the first to speak; he's always been the more flexible of the two, the gregarious optimist. Her mother is the circumspect one, the logical pessimist. They've tended to balance one another nicely through the years, Hermione knows, but the heart of their differences does mean that she's naturally gravitated towards conversation with her father; their relationship is generally free of the tension that her mother tends to invoke.

Her father clasps his hands together and leans forward with a bemused frown on his face. It is an expression that is soothingly familiar, one that has marked most of their discussions concerning the wizarding world and magic (and the more recent ones about the utter vagaries of men).

"Are you sure you're not having me on, Hermione?" he asks. "The idea of Harry dying and then coming back to life to kill this Dark wizard off sounds a bit..." He glances at the bowl of Easter eggs on the coffee table...bright and shiny in their foil wrappers...and shrugs. "Well, it honestly sounds a bit derivative, my girl."

Hermione stifles a hysterical giggle with a spluttering cough. "There are some people in the wizarding community who call him the Saviour, yes, Dad."

"Well, that's a tad blasphemous," he comments rather piously for a man who is largely Agnostic, who adopts science and philosophy as his primary religion, and who never sent his daughter to Sunday School.

Hermione's mother unfreezes so suddenly Hermione imagines she can hear her mother's spine snap into place as she straightens into perfect posture and shakes her head. "That's entirely beside the point, Jeff," she says sharply. "I don't really care about the semantics of the Second Coming..."

"Well, you have admit that it defies belief, Angela!" Jeff argues.

Hermione watches Angela give Jeff a long-suffering and exasperated look, the one that Hermione knows she's inherited from her mother...right down to the aggravated flare of nostrils...along with that wild halo of curls. "Everything about the magical world defies conventional belief, Jeff...you've known that since that very first visit from Professor McGonagall. As surely as I've seen things vanish into thin air, I believe that everything Hermione's told us is entirely possible."

Hermione's watching her parents argue back and forth like she's at Wimbledon. She's surprised to find that her expectations of them have been neatly inverted; it's usually her mother who needs an extra dash of evidence to make any magical concept more palatable.

"What I would like to know is why we have never heard it before." Angela turns to Hermione. "Telling us that it was for our own safety and our own good was just as bad as those pureblooded fascists in your world saying that Muggles like you are too stupid to understand the intricacies of magic. It's just another form of prejudice, in the end." Angela spreads her hands and raises her eyebrows. "Your father and I are not inflexible people, Hermione, and we raised you to believe your opinion would always be taken seriously. So, why on earth would you feel the need to hide the truth from us for more than four years?"

Hermione sighs and she rests her chin on one knee. A hundred easy lies rise to the surface like toxins bubbling up from a fetid swamp. Her fingers even twitch at the thought of her wand, which is locked in the safe in her father's office...if she had it with her would she take the easy way out again and just Obliviate them of this conversation? Has the ease of magic eroded the principles her parents instilled in her? The honesty and introspection that these questions demand of her makes Hermione feel jittery and anxious. She curses the moment she allowed Severus' calm and earnest concern to persuade her that this was a good idea. She feels like she's a Doxy trapped between a window and the wrath of Molly Weasley.

Hermione closes her eyes for a moment and brushes all the flimsy fragments of justification aside. There, at the centre, at the bitter and razor-sharp heart of it all, lies the stark and ugly truth.

"I was worried about your safety, just like I told you last summer, but I know that I should have handled everything differently, let you make the decision to leave or go into hiding for yourselves. I just..." Hermione's voice wavers, and she grits her teeth and looks up to face her parents like she should have years ago. "I didn't want to take the chance that you would make me leave my world."

Her father groans and runs both hands through his hair so that it sticks up around his receding hairline like a martyr's crown. "You don't have any A-levels, let alone O-levels; you're hardly qualified to live anywhere else, now," he says dryly.

"Like you've ever had much of a use for calculus again," Angela says curtly, and her glare silences the retort that is rounding on Jeff's lips. Angela takes a deep, fortifying breath like she's drawing molecules of strength and patience into reserve. "Although I don't like what you've just said very much, Hermione, I have to appreciate that it's finally the truth." Angela gazes unblinkingly at Hermione and she nods solemnly. "And that is always a good place to start from."

Later, when she's lying in bed in the guest room, Hermione pulls the box Severus gave her from the embrace of her beaded bag. She traces the edge of the cool inlay and considers that while this evening's conversation was excruciatingly painful...Worse than the vicious agony of the Cruciatus Curse, she exaggerates in her mind...her parents seem to be open to frank discussion, now. They want to heal the rift that has splintered and widened between them, fill in the black and endless chasm that yawns between their disparate worlds.

But all of this honesty and emotion is so tiring...it's fuelled by energy and liquid sighs...and she yawns and stares through the window at the unfamiliar sky outside. The hint of magic beneath her fingertips is tangible, and she smiles at the thought that the connection between Severus and herself is real enough to feel, to touch, to draw strength from, even from half a world away... where the stars are written in different patterns, where English sounds like it is altogether another language.

She surrendered her wand voluntarily when she arrived...a gesture meant to engender renewed trust...but she misses the warm tingle of magic against her fingers and how time seems to have curved the handle to the exact shape of her hand. She opens the lid of the box as if the magic is stored there and will feel more vital if she touches the midnight lining, and she gasps with delight when she finds a roll of parchment in the box.

Hermione leans over and switches on the bedside lamp, tilts the note into the golden pool of light:

In the end, my mother was a bitter and wicked witch and my father was a forgetful drunk. How much trouble could two dentists be? Thinking of you.

Joy suffuses through Hermione's leaden limbs like glitter, and she fishes a pen from her bag and replies beneath his bold and confident scrawl.

When I get back, will you tell me about the beginning, please?

She drops the note back into the box and presses the central panel with a besotted smile. She doesn't notice her father standing in the doorway until he knocks gently and gives her a tentative, fatherly smile.

"Come in, Dad," she says, reluctantly setting the box on the bedside table as she turns her attention to her father.

"Who is he, the giver of beautiful jewellery boxes and the inspirer of truth?" Jeff asks, sitting on the edge of Hermione's bed like he'd done on so many nights before she'd gone to Hogwarts that she'll never be able to count the beauty and warmth of them all.

Hermione grins. "He's just a friend for the moment, but it's growing into something so..." She's lost for words to describe how perfect Severus is without sounding like a lovesick preteen. And because tonight has been full of truth and admission, she adds, "And he's a half-merman."

Jeff snorts and he leans forward to kiss her forehead gently. "I thought that the time for whopping fibs was past, my girl."

Hermione decides that the day is probably overflowing with candour already, and she simply smiles and says, "You're right, Dad."

"So, my daughter is going to be a Ministry minion, you said?" he comments. "What happened to studying magical medicine or law?"

Hermione chuckles softly; her parents will always measure career success against the Muggle scale. They're both professionals, and without directly guiding her in that direction, they've held the hope up to the light, all the same. "It's probably more like being a Marine Biologist, Dad," she tells him.

"Ah, well, then," Jeff says, and he nods to himself as satisfaction pulls his lips into a grin.

After he's said goodnight and his shadow has slipped around the corner, Hermione touches the box again and whispers, "Thank you."

When Hermione emerges from the dizzying grip of the Portkey into startlingly bright and hot daylight, her heart kicks into a panicked patter because she should have arrived to the blanketed dark of early morning in Scotland. When a hand touches her shoulder, a high-pitched shriek spills from her lips, and she clutches the treasure-trove of her beaded bag to her chest.

"Relax, Granger," a low and familiar voice murmurs.

She turns quickly, astonishment widening her eyes and parting her lips, and she finds herself standing nose-to-nose with Severus. "Where... What...?" she breathes, confusion and pleasure twisting and writhing around each other in her mind like sinuous ribbons.

Severus gestures towards the graceful stretch of an enormous, steel, arched bridge. "I thought that an afternoon away from the castle would be... pleasant," he says as a smooth slide of smugness curves his lips. "It was a simple matter to arrange that your Portkey made a slight detour here." He drops the Privacy Charm that has just shielded her arrival from the stream of Muggles that are walking past, and he slides his wand into a Disillusioned arm holster, where it shimmers into invisibility.

Hermione turns slightly and gazes across the stretch of water, past the parallel wharfs, towards another curved and characteristic landmark that confirms their location with its quirky grace. "Sydney..."

"Yes, Sydney," Severus confirms, and warm amusement infuses his beautiful and deep voice.

Hermione finally pulls away from her astonishment and really looks at him, now. He's wearing faded blue jeans that hug his slim hips and black dragon hide boots. But it's his green t-shirt that really catches her attention: a printed line of text announces that he's Bottled Glory. The way the fabric stretches across the strong line of his shoulders makes her think that nothing could be closer to the truth. She's never seen him looking this young, not even when she first arrived at Hogwarts.

"Yes?" he drawls, sliding a pair of dark glasses from the collar of his t-shirt and onto the aquiline line of his nose.

"You're... wearing jeans," she says lamely.

"Given the time period I grew up in, denim is practically a birthright." Severus wraps his long fingers around her elbow and gently begins to guide her in the direction of the quay. "What did you imagine I wore under my teaching robes? Hogwarts is freezing in winter, and Warming Charms are...pardon the pun...a pain in the arse."

Hermione feels distinctly wrong-footed and bemused; while Severus has dropped much of the stark formality from their exchanges over the last few months, this relaxed and almost talkative man is another matter entirely.

"Polyjuice, much?" she mutters to herself.

He chuckles softly. "No...the castle is just not entirely conducive to open conversation," he says simply. Hermione has to step closer to him to avoid collision with a clutch of women who are gripping bright cups of gelato and pushing a gaggle of prams. She realises that one of his iron-tense barriers has evaporated into the air because her shoulder bumps his, and he casually steadies her with a hand on her shoulder blade before he steps to the side and takes her elbow again. The glare the women earn for their dunderheaded rudeness, however, is vintage Snape, and Hermione smiles at the familiarity of its presence.

She pauses to watch a man who is sitting on a low, brick wall and strumming a guitar. "It's lovely here," she says, finally relaxing enough to absorb the atmosphere of the milling crowd. A gentle breeze wraps around her bare legs, and the sun is warm on her central parting, like the sunlight is seeping into her through a thin, white seam.

"It's even better from the water..."

Once they're on the broad deck of the luxury catamaran, they settle into two of those white plastic garden chairs Hermione's mother has banned from ever disgracing her patio. Severus stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He looks like a foreign tourist from a land where it's always winter. He touches two fingers to the shimmer of his wand, and Hermione feels the vague blur of a Muffliato encircle them.

As the catamaran pulls out into Sydney Cove, Severus asks, "How was your week?"

"Long." Hermione stretches out her legs, too, glad that she's wearing shorts. She wants to soak up each moment, now, each ray of sunshine and each delicious, relaxed moment with this flexible and relaxed man.

"How much had you told your parents before this week?" he asks.

"Not much," she murmurs.

His eyebrows rise sharply above the rim of his sunglasses. "Nothing at all about Riddle?"

Hermione shakes her head. "No..."

Severus whistles softly. "Well, then, you must have had a more harrowing week than I'd ever imagined."

"You have no idea," she says ruefully. "But I'm glad that I finally told them the truth; it feels like we're on more of an adult footing, now... I've still got a lot of trust to earn, but I think it was a good start. They asked when I'd visit again."

Severus hmm's and nods. "A positive outcome."

"Yes." She flexes her sandaled feet and sighs happily as she watches the Opera House grow larger, until she can see the individual tile plates that cover its curved shells. The tourist commentary buzzes around the edge of the Muffliato, but Hermione doesn't mind not hearing about the history of the architecture; she's content to absorb the sense of companionship that fills the air instead.

A tourist standing nearby blows out a long stream of cigarette smoke, which ripples and twists into the wind. She notices the rueful tug of Severus' lips as his hand reflectively twitches towards his pocket before his fingers curl into a loose fist.

"Do you smoke, Severus?"

"I used to, yes," he admits, "but I gave it up last year." Unconsciously, he lifts his hand to his neck and traces the faint remembrance of pain. "I gave up on torturing myself, then, and I thought I may as well put a stop to the process of dying by daily degrees, as well."

As the catamaran cruises past Point Piper and the mansions that seem to grow from the cliffs and sprawl towards the harbour, Hermione thinks she catches Severus looking at her legs at one stage. She smiles with feminine delight at the additional sign that he's wholly male.

"You said you'd tell me about the beginning," she prompts when they turn and skim across the light swells to sail in the direction of the Harbour Bridge again.

"Yes," he agrees softly. He stares down at his hands, and Hermione notices for the first time that he's wearing a silver ring on the thumb of his left hand. He rubs his other thumb along the runes that are etched into the curve of the metal.

After a long stretch of silence, Hermione presses two fingers to her lips to prevent herself from asking the question again, and she lifts her head to gaze up into the complex steel network of the bridge. She notices a line of tourists dotted along the soaring, upper arch of the bridge like Christmas lights, and she shudders.

"Afraid of heights?" he murmurs.

Hermione nods. "I really don't see the appeal. It's probably why I've never felt quite right on a broom."

"I used to play Beater for Slytherin," Severus tells her, "and my mother was never very impressed about that. She probably thought that living above the divide was bad enough, but to fly in the air like the birds..." He shakes his head.

"What happened to your mother?" she asks quietly.

Severus twists the ring on his thumb, and the muscles in his jaw harden. Hermione doesn't apologise for asking, although the compulsion do so builds up inside her chest and presses hard against her heart the longer he remains silent. She's starting to curse herself for ruining the leisurely joy of a warm autumn day Down Under when Severus sighs.

"She took a handful of sleeping tablets and drowned herself in the bath," he says quietly, although bitterness hardens his words; they're so brittle it sounds like they might break into a thousand sharp pieces.

Despite the warmth of the day, a horrified chill freezes her spine, and a wash of goose bumps rise on her skin. "God, that's... I'm so sorry..." Her words sound inadequate to her ears, not whole enough to encompass the dull ache that settles around her heart. She can't see his eyes behind his dark glasses, can't measure the depth of his emotion properly.

"She never recovered from the loss of her skin, being deprived of her natural home," he continues in a quiet and sombre tone. "She began to resort to Dark magic in an effort to restore her Airgead. And when I was born with one..." His harsh laugh is a metallic grate, and he grimaces.

"She must have hated the fact that you could go beneath." Hermione cannot imagine growing up with a mother who was so bitterly unhappy that she'd taken her own life like that. Severus has had such a difficult life, but Hermione's only ever known the mirrored surface of it, never imagined the dark shadows that pooled in the stagnant hollows for so long.

"I imagine that she must have tried to take my skin for her own, but when that did not work, she hid it away, told the Hogwarts staff that I'd chosen not to take on the selkie way. I only ever found my Airgead after she died, and by then..." He rubs the outline of the Dark Mark that has faded to a silvery scar.

Hermione doesn't notice the sights when they enter Darling Harbour and its cosmopolitan gathering of restaurants and Muggle shops. The plate glass windows glitter in the sunlight, though, and she grimaces at the brilliance of the reflected light, tells herself it's why her eyes are watering. "What about your father... didn't he notice anything was wrong with her?"

Severus sighs so deeply his breath must have reached right down into the sadness of his soul. "If he ever did, he probably forgot it soon enough. The Muggles doctors diagnosed him with Alzheimer's a number of years ago, but I realised that it was the long-term effect of continual Obliviation. I saw it too late, though...I'd always thought he was just a drunk bastard who'd bullied my mother to death."

Hermione catches her lower lip between her teeth as she tries to imagine the devastating horror of growing up in a household where the magical parent habitually used her wand on the Muggle parent. "I'm sorry... that he died..."

"You have the uncanny ability for uncovering my darkest secrets, Hermione," he says wryly.

Hermione's not sorry about that fact, so she doesn't apologise. "So, when did you start going into the lake?"

"During the long, quiet years," he says. "The selkies assumed that I was from another loch, and I never dissuaded them of that notion." He shrugs.

"Will you ever tell them who you are?"

He stares out across the water, where the sunlight dances in diamond flickers. "Perhaps."

They lapse back into silence, and Hermione reaches across the narrow span between their chairs, rests her hand on the arm of his chair, palm up. When Severus takes her hand a minute later, her heart thrums like a hummingbird at her throat, but she calmly watches the line of stupid tourists on the bridge and idly strokes her thumb along the warm metal of his ring.

Later, after an early supper at one of Circular Quay's restaurants and a return to less harrowing conversational material, they stand under in the cool shadows next to the Museum of Contemporary Art, waiting for the Portkey to activate.

"Severus?"

"Hmm?" He's pushed his dark glass up and she can see the thick, sooty arch of his long eyelashes.

"I want to see you in the water again," she tells him.

He licks his lips and a faint flush sketches across his high cheekbones. "Come June."

His answer sends heat rushing through her veins, makes it feel like the Portkey is pulling them back to Scotland through the very centre of the earth.

A/N: Airgead is the Gaelic word for silver.

Yes, I've been on that catamaran cruise; I was the tourist blowing smoke into the wind :D

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

Thank you so much, as always, to Gelsey for proof-reading and slaying horrible typos!