Hermione had been sitting at the edge of the cove, legs crossed, for half an hour. She'd risen even earlier that morning to train, stretching her muscles, straining her lungs, her breath fogging the air. After spelling away the sweat and the flush in her cheeks, she'd entered the cove to find Darragh already there, waiting.

A fat icy drop of rain landed squarely in the tear duct of her left eye. She reached up to wipe it away.

She was meant to be concentrating.

Hermione sighed and cracked her eyes open. The dark waters before her were pockmarked by rain, pelting down with all the ferocity of hail.

She was beginning to doubt the utility of the exercise – 'Empty your mind,' Darragh had said, from his spot high up on the rocks deep into the cove, warm and dry.

No further instructions had ensued.

She'd rather hoped, foolishly, that Darragh would teach her what she'd been attempting yesterday. (She'd been close, she was sure of it. The water had stirred between her fingers, like tiny darting fish.)

You need to learn to quieten your mind, came his voice, amused.

"I'm trying, Darragh."

Hermione blew out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and impatiently wiped away the droplets that had gathered on her lip.

You're not trying hard enough.

Hermione opened her eyes and exhaled roughly.

"I just don't understand. How am I supposed to empty my mind? I can't just turn my brain off, Darragh. What am I trying to achieve here?"

Not achieving, noticing. Continue. There was now a steely edge behind his frustratingly cryptic words, not too dissimilar to Professor Volanthen when he was on the verge of losing his patience.

Swallowing her retort, Hermione obeyed and closed her eyes.

But all she could hear was rain …

… Thousands of plip plops that reminded her of a French children's song she'd learnt when she was seven. ("Plic, ploc, plic, ploc, aujourd'hui il pleut–")

There was a small sound of impatience from behind her.

Her face broke into a grin, her restless energy spilling over. "It's raining. That's all I can hear, Darragh. Plic, ploc." She flicked a pebble into the rippling lake and turned to see Darragh's narrowed green eyes.

"Come on, Darragh. I just want to learn magic. I almost felt the Lake the other day. Why can I conjure fire so easily but not the rest of the elements?"

Darragh leapt down from his perch soundlessly in one swift movement.

Hermione wondered why he took the form of a cat - but she would ask him that later, when he was in a better mood.

I am teaching you magic. You are not listening.

Hermione frowned. "I'm sorry. I just–" Her shoulders slumped. "I've been trying for half an hour. It's miserable and wet. I can't feel my legs anymore. Couldn't you– couldn't you just tell me what I'm looking for?"

That is the problem.

"What?"

Darragh's ears flattened against the sides of his head, clearly annoyed.

For the last time - close your eyes.

Hermione did so, not without a tiny huff escaping her lips, however.

Now, little witch, since you are so impatient, I will ask you this - what is the first principle of magic?

"Intention?"

No.

She thought for a moment. "Every spell has a cost?"

Not quite. The first principle of magic is that it never flows purely in one direction. We may wield it, by whatever means, wand or no wand, but the consequences are never just what we see or what we intend. Now, empty your mind.

She sat quietly, her thoughts louder than the rain.

Instinctively, she breathed in deeply, filling her lungs. She focused on her breaths, the way she did when she ran, relaxing her shoulders.

A soft wind whispered over the lake, stirring her hair and clothes.

Untold minutes passed.

… Hermione had a sudden desire to see the giant squid. There had been rumours over the years about it, that it was as old as the lake itself, longer than the length of the Hogwarts Express, and that it hibernated for years at a time.

She wondered how deep the lake was and what it ate for food.

Darragh sighed loudly.

I believe it is almost time for you to go back. You must practise this on your own.

Hermione opened her eyes, frustrated and reluctant to leave. "Will you show me what I was doing wrong yesterday? Before I go?"

The tabby looked at her seriously, fixing her with his luminous green eyes.

What do you think I'm doing?

Hermione showered and changed into her uniform. At breakfast, Gilderoy landed neatly in her scrambled eggs and extended his leg, proudly presenting his delivery of letters.

Claire made a sound of disgust.

Hermione untied the letters and vanished her ruined breakfast after nudging Gilderoy off her plate.

Gilderoy ruffled his feathers and hooted softly, fixing her with his beady eyes expectantly. He left moments later, a piece of bacon secured in his beak.

"Have you considered training your owl?" said Claire, plucking a feather off her plate with a frown.

"He's trained," said Hermione absently. She was staring down at her letters.

The first was quite clearly from home. The envelope was made of paper, not parchment, and the address was typewritten.

My dearest daughter,

Your mother assures me that this letter will reach you at school. Though we are so many miles apart, the distance shields you from this war, and for that, I am so thankful. You may have heard that Hull was bombed last week. Your uncle and his family are fine, I am told.

I know the holidays are soon - 29 March? Your mother will await you at the train station at 3 o'clock. Unfortunately my sweetheart, I will not be there. I have been serving in the 79 th General Hospital in Bayeux, Normandy since late September. We must all hold on a little longer. The end is near, we are winning the war. We have lost so many men but the Germans have lost many, many more. It all seems a bit futile now, so many young men, not much older than yourself, wounded or dead. They all cry out for their mothers and fathers and each time they do, I hold their hand and think of you.

All my love,

Your father.

And then, below, written by her mother's elegant hand:

Hermione my love,

I am sorry that we didn't tell you about your father's dispatch. I have been so anxious and I did not wish to worry you during your exam year (owls was it?). Your father is working hard in France and I must do my duty here in London for those who have returned from the frontlines.

But I will be at the station when you return for the holidays. I miss you so much.

I have also been informed by your headmaster that there was an incident in January - that you and a fellow student suffered some kind of assault. I was promised that you were not injured. Please, Hermione, you must tell us what happens, no matter how small or great. You are always in my heart and in my mind.

Love and kisses,

Mother

"Good news?" asked Claire, when Hermione was quiet for some time.

Hermione looked up. She shrugged and then looked back down.

Her father had been serving in France for nearly six months now. And they hadn't told her. Though he was not in combat, she had never forgotten the horrific massacre at the British military hospital in Singapore at the hands of the Japanese a few years into the war. Hundreds of unarmed doctors and patients slain by bullets and bayonets.

But then again, she hadn't told them about the 'incident in January'. Perhaps it was for the best that they hadn't been told the details. Kidnapped by a werewolf, brought before a dark lord, escaping in the clutches of a phoenix. It sounded preposterous – dangerous – and her parents would have been terribly frightened. Perhaps they would have even called her back home despite the war.

There was much about this world that she hadn't told them. To the Grangers, the magical world was full of wonderful whimsy. Owls that delivered letters. Chocolate frogs and moving pictures. Silly hats and funny-looking robes. Their impressions had been forged by that first meeting in their Hampstead home on her eleventh birthday a year or so into the war; Professor Dumbledore had appeared in his bright magenta robes and turned their chintz teapot into a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers, presenting it to her mother with a flourish and a twinkle in his blue eyes that made her parents gasp delightedly.

"What else can you do?" she had asked, both terrified and itching to know more.

"You will learn all about it in Hogwarts, should you wish to attend," said Dumbledore.

"Would you - do you have a government? Laws? Doctors?" asked her father, unable to tear his gaze from the teapot-turned-bouquet. Hermione had watched as he reached out with a finger to cautiously touch the petals. They seemed real.

"Oh, of course Mr Granger. We have a system. Not quite the same I'd imagine but still. Doctors, you say?"

"My father is an army doctor and my mother is a nurse. They treat patients. Make them better," Hermione had helpfully answered.

"Ah, we have Healers who do the same. When you are old enough, you can train to be a Healer too."

"So - so you can heal with … with magic? Does anyone ever become ill when you have magic?" asked her father, still incredulous.

"Certainly," Dumbledore had replied merrily, "all sorts of magical maladies abound. However, cuts, scrapes, bruises, broken bones, simple things of that nature can be mended on the spot. Our school matron is a highly trained mediwitch."

Mediwitch, her mother and father had mouthed silently.

To prove his point, Dumbledore had slashed his palm and healed it in the same fluid motion with his wand. This display had floored the Grangers more than the bouquet.

"My goodness - we are in the midst of a world-wide war, I'm not sure if you know – we–" Her mother had stopped and seemed unable to speak. Her parents had been treating the wounded since the war had started. Hermione had understood and she had stared at Dumbledore, wondering what he would say.

That was when he had introduced them to the Statute of Secrecy. And no, Muggles could not learn magic, Dumbledore had informed her parents sadly. Hermione could because, well, she was not a Muggle.

(And there, the first divide.)

Hermione blinked back into the present. She carefully placed her letter between the pages of one of her books and stowed it into her bag.

The next letter was addressed to her in neat flowing letters written on cream parchment. The insignia stamped on the wax seal was unfamiliar.

She had just broken the seal when a sudden horror-filled gasp stopped her in her tracks.

It was Remus, who was gripping the Daily Prophet so hard he was shaking.

"What is it?" her housemates asked.

Her own eyes fell on the front page.

SCORES BITTEN - GREYBACK IN ENGLAND

"No."

Hermione found it difficult to concentrate in Potions, their first class that morning. Greyback was in England. That seemed more important than brewing a potion. No matter that their end of term exams were next week.

Greyback had apparently gone on a rampage in East London. Twenty-eight people were being treated at St Mungo's - nine of them had been bitten on a full moon, including one Muggle woman who had died. He had left a calling card on each one - The war is not over.

Her mother worked shifts in a hospital in East London.

Anxiety descended on her like a storm.

She stared into her cauldron, watching her partner stir in a precise counter-clock motion every three seconds. The surface of the liquid, sunshine-yellow, rippled and churned.

There was nothing she could do. James had given both her and Remus a tight hug when they had lapsed into silence, pushing away their plates. He had tried to reassure them but all Hermione could see was the picture on the front page: St Mungo's, rows of hospital beds; bandaged necks and limbs.

Why must there be war?

It seemed like she had never known peacetime.

Her thoughts turned to Darragh's lesson that morning and the questions he had left unanswered. How was one supposed to truly 'empty their mind'? When she practised it later, how would she know if she had succeeded? And how did all of this have anything to do with elemental magic?

… Did it matter? Truly?

Riddle tapped her shoulder, startling her.

"Pass the peppermint, please."

She looked up and saw his hand was held out, waiting.

"Oh. Right."

Hermione broke off a sprig of peppermint and dropped it in his palm, the tips of her fingers lightly brushing his skin. He moved his hand away quickly, dropping the sprig into the cauldron.

She resumed staring at the bubbling liquid.

Usually, she would be bustling beside him, flipping through pages of the textbook, scribbling down notes, organising the ingredients on the table. Today, however, she sat quietly, only moving occasionally to bolster the flames under the cauldron while he stirred. Once or twice, she felt Riddle glancing at her. Though she was no longer angry at him, she found she didn't have much to say.

(Sometimes, when she saw him delivering his perfect practiced smiles at Slughorn or his housemates, she would look away, remembering a different kind of smile.)

.

Hermione trudged up the stairs of the southern tower to the final class of the day, Divination. The wind and rain lashed silently against the fogged panes as Hermione walked into the room, suppressing a yawn. There was a large steaming teapot on each table and what looked to be a deck of magical tarot cards. Ophelia waved to her from the back.

"Children, please settle," rasped Professor Trelawney a few minutes later, floating in on a cloud of musk and sage. "I have read your contributions and I must say I appreciated every–"

The problem with Divination was that it was an enormously difficult subject to concentrate in. It took ten minutes for Trelawney to begin her lessons, as she lit candles and handed out papers, rambling on all the while about what was in the bottom of her tea cup that morning or the auras in the air. A few weeks ago, she had gone on a long tangent about ancient Gaelic festivals and their effect on one's magic. "Wondrous," she had crooned. "Sublime. Simply divine!"

The cloth-covered tea tables which served as their desks were, as always, arranged in a tiered half circle facing Trelawney. Riddle was sitting one row down and to her right, beside Malfoy. His head was cocked to the side, listening attentively to Trelawney's rabble.

Hermione's thoughts wandered. She didn't want to think about the war, about her parents, or Greyback. Those were things outside of her control.

Ilya had said long ago that there was an ancient ritual to bind one's soul to their magic. What would such a ritual entail? Incantations in an ancient language? A sacrifice?

"–one particular contribution, I must make comment on–"

The smell of burning sage was particularly vexing today.

Suddenly, she felt the curious sensation of heads swivelling in unison to face her. Her thoughts froze as she stared blankly back at her classmates.

There was a long silence.

Trelawney was looking at her expectantly. "Well, my dear, stand up please."

Hermione drew back her chair slowly as she stood up.

What question had she missed? Was it to do with the latest 'contribution'? Had she failed? Was this her first – oh God forbid please – Troll grade? Perhaps her made-up assertions had been too transparent - a slight sneering undertone maybe, detectable only to herself she'd thought, but Trelawney seemed too prideful to let that sort of thing pass …

"Miss Granger, you look like you've seen a ghoul. I wish to congratulate you on the most excellent contribution I've ever had the pleasure of marking. Your insightful remarks on the passing moon phases were delightful and thorough – I believe you may have a gift, dear –"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed. She swallowed loudly.

"P-pardon?"

Any other subject and she would have been overjoyed, she should have been overjoyed … but never had she felt undeserving. That her mocking, intellectually dishonest essay had garnered her as such made her want to crawl under the table.

Trelawney's words faded as the smell of burning sage rose once more in the air. She gulped and tried to breathe. The rest of the class continued to stare. Hermione's disdain for Divination was well-known.

Hermione eventually managed to compose her expression into a horrible strained smile and sat back down, cheeks warm. Nott had crossed his arms, looking scathingly unimpressed.

Her cheeks grew steadily warmer.

At the end of the class, Trelawney summoned her to the front. "My dear, has the pendant been useful?" The fond look on Trelawney's lined face made Hermione avert her eyes.

"Pendant?" Hermione repeated after a moment, fidgeting with the straps of her bag. There was a small stain on the wooden floor, shaped like a four-legged animal.

Trelawney blinked at her owlishly. "Yes, I gave you a pendant of protection - I do hope you haven't lost it, it's very old–"

"Oh! Yes, um, I - I keep it with me always. Thank you, Professor."

In truth, she'd never opened the little pouch Trelawney had given her. It was probably at the bottom of her schoolbag.

"Well, I'd like you to wear it, dear. I have had the worst premonitions recently."

Hermione was distracted by the crystal ball on the table just behind. Its misty interior had begun to swirl. She was unable to look away as Trelawney went on.

For a moment she thought she saw a glimpse of a night sky over water -

"There, that should help," said Trelawney who was holding a small bottle which spritzed her again with a distinctly fish-smelling liquid. "My own personal tincture, it should help ward off the ill omens."

Hermione spluttered and gasped her thanks as she stumbled out.

.

After casting several Scourgify charms on her person, Hermione dug out the small cloth pouch from the depths of her magically extended schoolbag.

She opened it and up-ended the contents onto her palm.

It was a small thick disc hung on a scrappy leather cord. It looked like it was made of obsidian, curiously shiny and smooth. She turned it in her hands, examining it.

She didn't want to wear it, not really. It was crude-looking, like a prehistoric artefact in the British Museum.

But she remembered the sincerity in Trelawney's expression and wavered.

Perhaps just for a day, she'd indulge in Trelawney's superstitions. There was no harm in it, she'd promised to wear it in good faith.

But it was so … ugly.

Hermione eventually tied it around her wrist and cast a rather strong Notice-Me-Not on it.

There. Just for a day.

The next morning, Hermione made a little progress.

She closed her eyes, listening to the rain. It was a little heavier today, the sky an unhappy grey.

Instead of shoving away her persistent thoughts, she let them run their course before imagining them slipping away like grains of sand. (She had read up on this technique prior. Any instruction was better than none.)

She tried to visualise what she couldn't see: the cold water that stretched out before her, the shadow of the castle over the lake, the mist curling in on itself.

Some time ago whilst running she had seen something briefly surface the lake, the tip of a trident, wrapped in weeds. She imagined this now, a dark glimmering figure emerging from the depths, swimming towards her under the surface, a cloud of hair and bright yellow eyes …

Hermione started when she felt something soft brush past her knee. She opened her eyes to see that it had been Darragh's fluffy tail. He was staring out into the water. Hermione followed his gaze and took in a sharp breath.

The creature she'd been imagining had appeared before her, its sleek head and shoulders partially visible, eyes glinting, staring straight into her own.

Hermione got to her feet as Darragh stayed put, tail twitching. The merwoman glided silently towards them in the water, which parted easily for her form. Her skin had a greyish hue, though pale; her hair was thick, like strands of flat ropes. She had an angular face, with sharp protruding cheekbones, but the proportions were not human - she looked like a predator of the sea, her eyes large, almost iridescent, the pupils dark and round.

It was surreal, looking at a creature, a being, whom she had only heard tales of and seen drawings of in library books.

The merwoman lifted her chin and spoke something harsh and foreign.

Hermione shook her head. "I am afraid I don't speak Mermish," she said apologetically.

Her name is Eidyr. She asks your name.

Hermione glanced down at Darragh who had now moved away from the water's edge, sitting calmly a few feet from her.

Her voice was almost snatched away by the wind as she gave her name.

Slowly, the merwoman nodded. She said a few more words which Darragh did not translate. There was something inexplicably sad in her expression and Hermione found herself transfixed as she watched Eidyr sink back into the water with barely a ripple.

After a few seconds of silence, she turned to Darragh. "What did she say at the end?"

She warns of an ancient Dark creature that lurks within the castle. It preys upon their young. They are afraid. Darragh paused. It has recently taken one of her own.

"An ancient creature? But– oh!"

The basilisk. Slytherin's basilisk. The one that Riddle had accidentally (or not) let loose two years ago.

"But how is it going from the castle to the lake? Underground, or …" Then she exhaled with sudden realisation. "Pipes. It's travelling through the pipes."

Dread settled in her stomach. Hermione had thought the basilisk was in a chamber, locked away. But apparently, it was free to move and hunt.

But how did it end up killing Myrtle? Someone would have noticed a great big murderous snake slithering down the halls.

In fact, where did she actually die? They hadn't been told. No one knew. Riddle had said she had stumbled upon the entrance …

She jolted suddenly. "The entrance is in a bathroom! Myrtle Warren must have died in a bathroom!"

A sound conclusion. Darragh sounded almost pleased.

"But which bathroom?" she wondered out loud.

Then she smacked herself. The symbol she'd seen so many months ago … a snake curled around a lit candle. She'd found it inscribed on a faucet in the second-floor girls bathroom. In fact, she'd also seen that symbol elsewhere … on the floor beside her favourite spot in the library.

"Darragh, I have to go back. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Very well. Remember to practice.

The second-floor girls bathroom was rarely used because it flooded. Frequently. In fact most people walked straight past it as if they had forgotten it was there.

Hermione could picture the etched symbol clearly in her mind. It was so glaringly obvious, she could have punched herself.

Pushing the heavy doors open, she strode to the sinks and examined each one until she found it.

She touched the symbol with her wand.

"Revelio."

It did not react.

"Alohomora."

(She was certain that wouldn't work but she tried anyway.)

A chamber that only Slytherin's heir could access. Perhaps Riddle had offered a few drops of his blood?

I have always been able to talk to snakes.

Parseltongue.

The more she thought, the more certain she became.

Hermione checked her watch. Breakfast was in fifteen minutes and she still needed to shower and change.

She continued to think on it as she hurried back towards the Gryffindor tower. This wasn't the only entrance, if the symbol was anything to go by. The alcove in the library had to be connected. This explained so much: her first interaction with Riddle between those shelves, his carefully concealed surprise when he saw her there. The odd guttural hiss she'd heard that one time coming from that spot…

The castle's pipes also apparently emptied into the Lake. Lip curling in faint disgust, she wondered if the sewerage was filtered before it was dumped. Surely, it had to be.

Although their end of term exams were so near, Hermione was uncharacteristically staring off into space instead of writing notes. In History of Magic, once or twice she caught herself looking at Riddle before darting her eyes away.

Malfoy was sitting a row in front, blatantly passing notes to Parkinson and Zabini.

Hermione was almost ninety per cent sure that Binns noticed these things but chose not to intervene. His droning voice was a gentle rhythm that never ceased but his bleary eyes sometimes flicked up to the class and back to his notes.

In Defence, she found herself staring contemplatively once again at Riddle as they paired off to practice non-verbal Disarming.

"Remember, the split-second advantage of a non-verbal spell is crucial. No, Mr Mulciber, muttering them under your breath does not count," said Volanthen.

"Will this be in the exam, sir?" asked Peter Allsworth.

"Everything is examinable, Mr Allsworth. Do not ask me that again or I shall dock points."

"Yes, sir."

In a corner of the classroom, Riddle and Hermione exchanged spells with silent boredom.

Riddle wasn't even looking at her, sometimes glancing at his watch, at other times observing the struggles of those around them.

Hermione was deep in thought.

She wondered if he truly felt sorry for Myrtle's death. He'd claimed that it was an accident. But clearly, he felt no remorse for Hagrid's expulsion. Even so far as going to say that Hermione might have covered it up too had she done it. That she was lying to herself.

Would she have?

"Do I have something on my face, Granger?"

She started violently, her wand jerking upwards and her non-verbal Expelliarmus hitting Parkinson instead. She watched the girl's wand fly out of her hand with some satisfaction before returning to Riddle.

"Just thinking."

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

"About?"

"Oh, things. Pipes, mainly."

"Pipes?"

She threw him a grin and was rewarded with an unsettled look flickering over his features.

On the sixth day of her lessons with Darragh, Hermione made a breakthrough.

Her eyes closed, she'd managed to drift into a state of mental calm.

It wasn't the right word for it.

It's not that she thought of nothing. Nor that she was unaware of the sound of the water lapping at the cove's edge, or her slow but steady breaths.

She was aware of everything and yet she did not find herself thinking.

Well done, said Darragh.

Hermione opened her eyes.

Now, try conjuring your flames.

Raising an eyebrow, she complied.

The bluebell flames, to her shock, flickered feebly in her palm before extinguishing.

"Why?" she asked, turning to Darragh, aggrieved.

I will explain. Cup your hands together and imagine you are filling them with water.

Hermione pushed aside her confusion and closed her eyes, cupping her hands as he had instructed.

The sound of her own quiet breathing subsided. Softly, then all at once, she began to feel.

It began as an awareness of her own body which grew until she felt the vast expanse of the Lake before her. Its existence, its sheer mass and size, the life teeming in its waters. The gentle breathing of an immense creature deep within its depths.

The cold trickle of liquid in her palms made her gasp, her eyes flying open.

Then, as suddenly as it came, it disappeared.

"How?"

Fire comes naturally to you because you relate to it. Warmth, passion, change, even destruction. It burns bright. It cannot be ignored. A small flame can quickly become an inferno.

Hermione stared at Darragh.

Water is different. It exists in all things, without it no creature can live past a few days. It is fluid, often unseen, unnoticed, docile until it gathers in such force that nothing can stop it. It too can be destructive. Both water and fire are powerful, essential elements but to utilise the magic within them, you must approach each differently.

"And this is old magic?"

Darragh blinked at her.

It is magic. It exists whether or not there is a witch or wizard to wield it. It existed before us and will continue to exist after we are gone.

Right.

"So… it is old magic?"

Darragh sighed. Yes. But it has only been referred to as 'old magic' to distinguish it from the diluted forms of magic practised by wizards and witches since the invention of wands. It is neither old nor new.

"Diluted?"

Diluted. Limited by incantations, pronunciation, wand movement. Diluted because it sees only a small part of the whole, only specific consequences of a chain reaction, seeking to replicate them precisely, like measuring only the ripples long after the splash.

Hermione recalled what Darragh had said about the first principle of magic: it never flowed in one direction. And spells were, after all, the outputs of specific inputs. Even more so with potions. The specific effects of each variable were tested and experimentally combined until a desired result was found. And the way that knowledge was passed down was by repeating the same steps.

But if old magic, the Arcane Arts, was beyond such limitations …

"Why are the Arcane Arts no longer practised? Why do we use magic the way we do today?"

Knowledge of what is termed the Arcane Arts was lost simply because those who practised it stopped teaching.

As if sensing her next question, Darragh continued.

Whether it was because they joined the Fallen or because they feared knowledge in the wrong hands, either way the practice died out. Wands were the means through which the practice of magic continued and developed. Over the years, our connection to old magic diminished. You are one of a handful in the past three hundred years to be born with a connection.

Excitement built in her chest. But then she faltered.

"But why?" Why me?

Her question was inarticulate but he seemed to understand.

Why is anything? It just is. Now, let us continue. Try gathering the water once more.

After dinner, Hermione decided to practice on her own in the cove.

The sensation of the cool liquid filling her palms filled her with a quiet delight that she longed to share with someone.

But that was not possible. So instead, she satisfied herself by doing it over and over again, smiling wide like the first time she'd entered Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley.

The water was pure and clear and not at all like the water in the Lake.

She let it drain through her fingers.

Darragh had said each element had to be approached differently. She wondered what earth and air felt like.

It was getting dark and cold but she remained standing on the edge of the cove, looking out into the water.

A part of her had worried that she had somehow lost the ability to control her blue fire after the breakthrough that morning but when she had tried back in her dorm, the curtains drawn around her bed, they'd appeared in her hands, playful and warm and bright.

She conjured them now, blue flickering tongues dancing on her palm. She blew gently on them and they surged in response.

Now that she was paying attention, she could definitely feel the difference.

Whilst the water she conjured had filled her with something gentle and calm, the bluebell flames never failed to quicken her heartbeat, even just a little.

When she closed her fist, extinguishing the flames, a smile still on her lips, she found Eidyr had appeared and was watching her silently.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Hello?"

Eidyr lifted a pale arm out of the water and beckoned.

"Um, me? Come with you? Into the lake?"

Eidyr beckoned once again, as she drew backwards.

Hermione felt a little panicky.

"Right now? Oh - um, shall I cast a Bubble Head charm? I'm not a very strong swimmer …"

The sorrowful look in Eidyr's eyes made Hermione pause. Merpeople were a peaceful species, she reminded herself. They weren't like kelpies or sirens who lured people into water before drowning them.

There was still something quite eerie about them, however.

She toed off her shoes and socks and cast her charm. Instantly the sound of the rain became slightly muffled.

She eyed the water a little reprehensively.

Eidyr drifted closer to the cove and reaching out, took Hermione's hand. It was warm, not cold like she had expected.

This felt reassuring somehow.

Hermione stepped off the edge and plunged into the icy depths of the Lake.

.

For a while all she could see was a stream of bubbles gliding off her body.

Her warming charm kept her from feeling the worst of the cold but she could still feel her hands and feet becoming numb.

She turned to see Eidyr, her hair billowing out in the dark water.

Hermione remembered to breathe. Her Bubble Head charm was holding.

"Can you understand me now?" Eidyr said. Her lips moved in the water but there were no bubbles.

Hermione stared in astonishment before she nodded and said, "Yes."

"We have watched you from afar. Each morning, you prowl around the Lake. What is it that you do?"

Eidyr was leading her through the water as she spoke. They seemed to be travelling at immense speed judging by the rush of water against her skin. In the darkness of the lake, Hermione could only see faint outlines of rock and long trembling weeds. The floor of the lake sloped downwards until she could no longer see the bottom.

"I run. It's a form of exercise. Training."

Eidyr turned her head, eyes glimmering. "And why do you exercise yourself so? I see no magic being cast."

"To make myself stronger, faster."

"For what purpose, hatchling?"

"I– well," For what purpose? She tried to shrug. "Many. I do not like being weak."

She didn't mean to answer so honestly.

The merwoman's lips pulled back to expose rows of sharp translucent teeth. Hermione's eyes widened before she realised that Eidyr was smiling.

"That is a good answer."

"Eidyr … where are you taking me?" Apprehension creeped into her voice.

"Our community has been unsettled for some time. Many of our young have gone missing. We rarely travel outside our homes, even to catch prey. We are too afraid." Eidyr turned her face once more to Hermione. "You are but a hatchling but your magic smells … different. We feel your presence when you are near. There are those that fear you too but I know that somehow that I can trust you."

Eidyr slowed down suddenly before a dense grove of long weeds. A dozen or so mermen emerged, blocking their way. They looked like guards, their long grey tails shimmering, their broad torsos bare except for strings of misshapen glassy pebbles and what looked like teeth hung around their necks. Each held a wickedly sharp-looking trident.

Eidyr said something in what Hermione presumed was Mermish.

One of the guards came forward, baring rows of pointed teeth. It didn't look like he was smiling, however.

He replied angrily, gesturing at Hermione.

Eidyr remained calm although the melody of her answering speech became a little crisper.

Eventually, the guards parted and they were let through. Hermione felt their chilly stares as she passed by. She gripped her wand tightly and wordlessly refreshed her warming charm.

She flinched when one of the guards hissed and blocked her with his trident.

"Do not try to cast magic here, witch. Your kind are not welcome here." He glared at her.

"S-sorry. I was getting cold."

He withdrew his trident but she could feel his glare on her back as they pushed past the long weeds. Hermione shuddered when she felt them brush her bare legs and feet.

"They don't want me here."

"You are a witch. Our kind do not trust wand-bearers. But they will not harm you so long as you are with me. Put your wand away."

Hermione tucked her wand reluctantly back into her sleeve.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked again.

"Patience, hatchling. We are almost there."

Eidyr's powerful tail flicked up and down as they sped through the forest of weeds. Eventually, the weeds cleared and Hermione could see nothing except her own pale arms and legs. They swam down, deeper and deeper until suddenly she could see an outline of something terrifyingly large.

As they got closer, Hermione could see that it was a circular man-made hole, perhaps four or five metres wide. It was the tail end of a huge sewerage pipe, jutting out from the bottom of the lake.

She shivered and tried to retreat but Eidyr was still holding her hand.

"This is where our young play sometimes. My youngest–" Eidyr stopped and then collected herself. "They know now to avoid this place but lately the monster has taken to wandering."

"I–I'm sorry, Eidyr."

Hermione watched the merwoman as she gazed sadly at the sewerage pipe.

"I am not as afraid as the others. I sometimes come here, hoping the monster will take me to where she is. Her soul cannot rest until her bones are buried."

"What can I do?" Hermione asked, feeling a little helpless. She wanted to go back. The darkness was unsettling.

"You must inform your kind. Our leader refuses to accept help, to talk to a wand-bearer. But our colonies are– we are struggling."

Hermione nodded. But then faltered when her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.

The blood pact.

Do you promise not to speak or write about, or otherwise imply to anyone, living or dead, what I am about to tell you in this room?

She cursed Riddle again for being so thorough. She could never tell anyone, anyone, for the rest of her life or his, that there was a bloody basilisk in the castle.

It was a sewerage pipe, she couldn't simply seal it.

Or perhaps she could, then they would investigate the blockage and hopefully discover the creature without her telling them.

"Perhaps I can try to block it for now," she said to Eidyr. "But I need to use my wand."

Eidyr glanced at her sleeve where her wand was nestled. She seemed apprehensive but nodded.

She drew her wand slowly and thought of a spell.

As soon as she lifted her wand to cast it, a sharp pain bloomed in her chest and she was rendered momentarily senseless as she screamed, curling into herself, eyes screwed shut.

When she dropped her wand, the pain eased as abruptly as it had began.

She opened her eyes to find that she was alone. Eidyr had retreated some feet away, gripping her trident in front of her, her eyes wide.

Hermione continued to gasp, out of breath, her eyes teary. She floated in the water for a moment trying to breathe again normally before swimming down to retrieve her wand.

Tom bloody Riddle and that stupid blood pact.

Apparently blocking the sewerage pipe with the intention that the basilisk might be discovered was considered an implication.

"I'm fine, Eidyr. Sorry. I've been cursed." Which was close to the truth.

The air inside her Bubble Head charm was starting to feel a little thin. Time was running out.

Eidyr did not come closer. "What are you?"

Hermione furrowed her brows in confusion. "I'm a witch?"

"You were heating the water around you. I could feel it. It was boiling hot."

"Oh, perhaps accidental magic. I was in a lot of pain."

Eidyr remained suspicious.

"I cannot block the pipe. I shall try to help still, however. I want to help. But I need to get back, I'm running out of air." Hermione pointed to the bubble around her head.

She didn't know how long they'd been in the lake. It had been half eight when she'd left the castle for the cove.

A quick Tempus told her it was nine thirty.

Which she meant she had maybe minutes of oxygen left.

Trying not to panic, she glanced down at the pipe below.

"Can you help me get back?"

Eidyr was still looking at her like she was a dangerous creature, her trident in both hands as if to fend off an attack. She seemed poised to flee.

"Please, if I run out of air, I will drown." Hermione began to swim upwards, hoping Eidyr would follow.

As she kicked her legs, she felt her lungs strain. Each time she opened her mouth to breathe, it felt like her lungs weren't expanding enough.

Hermione told herself not to panic. But she didn't know how. The lack of oxygen was making her chest feel tight again and she felt herself tremble.

"Eidyr!" But her shout came out as a gasp.

She twisted around to look for Eidyr but she couldn't see, it was too dark, how far had she swum? There was no up or down in the darkness.

Her body began to spasm and she aimed her wand somewhere below her feet. "Ascendio."

But they were so deep underwater. Hermione didn't think there would be enough time to reach the surface.

She closed her eyes.

The merpeople, who had been hiding a good distance away, observed silently as the girl convulsed in the water.

She was dangerous. All wand-bearers were.

Eidyr was being held back by two others. She would be punished by their leader for bringing a wand-bearer, hatchling or not, so close to their colony. Grief was no excuse. They had all lost someone.

The girl straightened her arm suddenly, aiming her wand.

They hissed, flinching back in alarm.

Still twitching, the girl was suddenly jerked downwards, propelled by an unseen force, faster than any fish, right into the dark gaping maw of the pipe.