Chapter 15: Amber and Innocence

So they sat, three careworn survivors, memorialising for the first time the death of one they had not ever really known and had never been given the opportunity to treasure.

And from behind the mirror, as the Fiendfyre completed its deadly circuit, a gust of wind blew through the Hall of Memory, blowing away the flames. Ash swirled through the room until another gust of air whipped it around and around...faster and faster until the stones shone with the sheen of mirrors encircling the perimeter. One last burst of Fiendfyre and the mirrors shattered, throwing shards of glass into the swirling ash.

Hatred did that, thought Severus. I'm so sorry. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cool expanse of glass.

And opened them to a room filled with light.

They buried him in a patch of sun alongside the Yew near Greenhouse nine.

They knew it wasn't him, not really, though Severus felt a sharp jolt of approval when Hermione conjured a crystal urn to hold what would pass for his remains. Together, they scooped some ash...carefully, reverently...into the belly of the container and closed the hinged top with a clink.

The Room reflected in the mirror behind them had flooded with colour and light, the touch of Severus's hand and heart its catalyst. The Room around them had followed suit as if it were the mirror of the one behind the glass.

Severus opened his eyes and shook his head, disoriented for a moment by the changes that had occurred in the interval whilst his heart and soul had slipped behind the mirror. Shards of glass still littered the ashy floor around them, less like ruins and more like gems glinting in the warm light.

Hermione reached down to retrieve one particularly well-formed piece and cradled it in her hands.

"This, too, I think," she murmured, and Severus drew a long finger to stroke its contour, smoothing the ragged edges with wandless magic and grief. A bead of blood rose to the surface and through a tiny break in his skin. He let it drop onto the glass with a whispered enchantment that wove his blood into its surface like a private memorial. Only then did he let Hermione fuss over him with lips and wand to heal the cut.

In the hush that comes after a great release, the Room shifted again, giving them hearth and Floo powder; they need not, it seemed to say, do this alone. Nobody had suggested it, but when Hermione said she thought she would ask the headmistress to join them, the two wizards had nodded as if they'd already all agreed.

Minerva climbed out of the hearth, making no mention of the wafts of ash and splinters of glass she landed in. They greeted her with subdued murmurs and tired nods. But the Room had no such reserve, welcoming her with a large wooden door pushing its way through the iridescent stone between two mirrors. Spots of moss dotted its surface, and it looked to Severus as if it had weathered a good many Northern winters.

"That'll be to the greenhouses, I imagine," Neville had said. "Follow me."

So they did. Through the heavy oak door and into a sunset brilliant with riotous colour.

There they lay Vincent Crabbe to rest at last...two fellow classmates who had not known him in life in any way that mattered and two teachers who grieved for him and for what his death meant to them all.

Severus could hardly recall the Prayers for the Dead his mother had taught him along with the Ogham. But he remembered their spirit, and this, at least, he could give the boy as they shepherded him to the next plane of existence.

So as they gathered around the tiny grave, Severus leaned down to scoop up a handful of earth, the smooth soil littered with pebbles and stray feathers from the creatures nearby, and lifted his face to the setting sun. He knelt there, his face uplifted and then bent his head as he let the earth fall from his fingers, leaving a layer of life over the ash and crystal.

Minerva's arms encircled both of her former charges. They stood, silent, respectful, waiting for him...to speak, to act, perhaps simply to release the breath they'd all been holding.

"Be at peace," he murmured at last. "May the spirits grant you, and us, the protection and peace I was unable to..." His voice broke.

"Severus," whispered Minerva.

He couldn't lift his head; shame a heavy weight on the back of his neck.

Later, he wondered how Hermione knew that this time, the hand he needed on his shoulder was Minerva's. But in that moment, he only knew gratitude for his older colleague's esteem and for her compassion. And that Hermione knew this...that even without her hand on his or her voice in his ear, even without any of that...he felt her constant presence like the whisper of silk on skin.

**

They made their way back to the castle by way of the meandering stone paths that dotted the landscape. The door they'd come through had melted back into the rock, but Longbottom only shrugged.

"The Room," he said, "will be there for us tomorrow."

The sun had set and the students were already in their dormitories. Days were slipping through his fingers like sand, Severus thought. He'd be worried, but the nights no longer reeked of despair, despite still having only the tiniest glimmering thread to guide them.

For now, it was enough.

"Come have a drink in my chambers," Minerva said when they reached the entry doors. "All three of you. I know I could certainly use one."

Severus could feel Hermione's fatigue and it only emphasised his own. And yet...

"Perhaps we could have a housewarming of sorts in our rooms instead," Severus said. "I believe I may have managed to smuggle some drink into the castle."

"Oh, do, Headmistress, Neville." Hermione brightened a bit. "That would be a lovely end to a very... intense day."

And so it was that the four of them spent the evening in front of the fireplace in Severus and Hermione's chambers. Perhaps it was the crackling fire, or maybe the plush wool rug that Hermione had found rolled up in the wardrobe, but it felt so warm there together.

Sitting with Hermione's feet in his lap, the second Firewhisky of the night in his hand, he leaned back into the plush cushions and smirked at Minerva's cackle whilst he regaled them with tales of Slytherin exploits and plots from a lifetime ago. Longbottom looked relaxed as he refilled their drinks and laughed along, and Severus realised that he had come to appreciate the young man's steady presence. Longbottom caught his eye and nodded, and Severus rewarded him with a small smile.

And later, when he and Hermione had seen their guests to the door and he lifted her into his arms to carry her into their bedchamber for the first time, his smile was of another sort entirely.

~~**~~

The autumn light of early morning filtered through the crack in the curtains.

Severus's arm was wrapped around her, and his fingers had threaded through hers sometime in the night. It was as if he were holding on tight through the uncertain darkness to be sure she'd be there when he woke.

Not going away, she thought.

She squeezed his hand and dropped a kiss on his sleep-warmed skin before curling herself around their clasped hands and falling back into sleep.

**

Neville was waiting for them outside the Great Hall before breakfast. She hadn't remembered agreeing to meet, but Severus seemed to think it had been the plan, and if anyone had a right to be apprehensive about walking in there, it was he.

The room was loud with clinking cutlery and chattering children. Hundreds of faces looked up when the doors opened to admit them, the noise rising to match their surprise.

It might have been ten years since either one of them had crossed this particular threshold, but most of the students...the wizard-born ones at least...knew exactly who was walking down the centre aisle with Professor Longbottom towards the High Table.

Whispers flew through the air, confused, excited, anxious.

Silly. That can't be him. He's dead, remember?

The Quibbler has been saying for years that he's alive. But I'm certain it said that she was dead.

My Mum told me that she was actually the one who killed Voldemort.

My father told me that he was the one who did it.

Hermione smirked at the bits of conversation wafting around them. It had been such a long time since she'd picked up a newspaper...even before the serious Horcrux deterioration set in...that she'd forgotten how ludicrous rumours could become. It would seem the years hadn't dimmed the public's fascination for fiction about its war survivors.

The walk to the front of the room seemed endless, but finally they reached the High Table to find what looked to be a seventh-year Hufflepuff boy waiting there to greet them. The boy looked nervous and waited until they caught his eye to nod, shifting his weight slightly from side to side.

"Hufflepuff House would like to welcome you to Hogwarts, Professor Snape," he said, reaching out his hand to Severus and inclining his head towards Hermione. "Miss Granger. Welcome. And..." He stood up straighter and blushed. "Thank you."

Tears sprang to Hermione's eyes, and she willed herself not to fall apart in front of Hufflepuff House and all of Hogwarts. Severus clasped the boy's hand.

"It is an unexpected... pleasure to be back at Hogwarts Mr..." He hesitated.

"Diggory," the boy said. "Cormac Diggory. Cedric was my older brother."

Hermione felt her chest tighten. Life did, indeed, go on. "Cedric was a wonderful boy," she said. "I am honoured to have known him."

Cormac nodded, his face pale.

"Thank you for your warm welcome." She glanced at Neville who stepped forward.

"I informed my students that you and the Professor would be in residence. I also took the liberty of reminding those who might have forgot what your roles were in the war." Neville didn't back down under Severus's pointed stare. "They need to know, Professor," he said. "They need to remember."

Severus nodded, lost in his thoughts. Hermione wondered what he was remembering, wondered what he would want these students who he'd never met and never taught to know. What must they never forget?

"Severus?" she asked. He nodded shortly and they joined the staff for breakfast. The headmistress motioned them to sit near her, and the smiles of the other professors reassured her that they were, indeed, welcome.

How novel, Hermione thought.

She and Severus were soon swept into conversation with the others, and before they knew it, students and staff alike were rushing off to class.

"I've no Herbology lessons today," Neville said. "Shall we return to the Room, then?"

Hermione shivered. She knew they had to; she even wanted to. Mostly.

But for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt hopeful. Over the last week, she'd experienced more moments of pleasure and happiness than anytime over the last ten years. Hope, joy, the freedom to wish for more than the grey existence she'd been living since Voldemort's destruction.

She was terrified of what might come along to extinguish that flickering light; if it died, she feared she just might go with it.

**

The Room, it seemed, had been waiting. At their approach, the translucent opening appeared, beckoning. A greeting just for them.

Inside, the space felt more open than it had the night before. The light shining from within the stone had more vibrancy, and the mirrors seemed less ragged. The ash choking the air had settled some, and Hermione itched to Vanish it, though the thought itself felt irreverent. So she settled onto the couch and watched Severus and Neville circle the room. Restless.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"No idea," muttered Severus, but he smiled a bit at her bemused expression. "This Room is nothing if not unexpected. So I shall allow myself to be surprised."

"Professor Snape, I never would have thought you the type," said Neville with a smirk. "Professor Trelawney would be proud." He grinned. "I, on the other hand, am looking for another door to the outside. I wonder if there's anywhere else we're meant to go."

"Oh, that's a great idea, Neville," said Hermione, rising to join them. "As is yours, Severus," she added. "It's been so long since I explored somewhere without having a plan."

Each of them continued making their own circuits around the room: Neville peered closely at the carvings in the stone, looking, apparently, for exit doors, Severus studiously avoided looking directly into any of the mirrors, but intently studied the shards on the floor, and Hermione just wandered...waiting for something, anything in the Room to call to her.

When it happened, still, it took them aback. But really, considering that they were standing in the ruins of the Hall of Memory, coming face to face with the images of their fellow survivors frozen as if in panes of ice shouldn't have come as any sort of surprise at all.

~~**~~

For a split second he thought the Room was showing them a collection of Muggle portraits...giant but unmoving in frames of glass and stone so like the ones that housed their own mirrors. But who would have commissioned a Muggle portrait of Arthur Weasley, his red hair whipping in the breeze as he tried to fly a kite, or one of his son Ron, joyful and carefree on his broom, blocking Quaffles without a twinge of anxiety to be seen?

These couldn't be portraits, Severus realised, not of the four other survivors...the same four who had pushed Hermione from their midst and sent her wandering, terrified and without hope.

Rage flooded him and he struggled to take a deep breath.

None of them were at fault, he reminded himself. Their only crimes were stubbornness and isolation, and even that was as much a Horcrux effect as any personal choice. They were all victims, each one of them, shackled by the poison that had turned them inside out and left them to wither away alone.

"What is it? Severus, what did you find?" Hermione asked. Before he could answer, he heard her gasp. She reached her hand towards the glass, and he managed...just...to grab it before she made contact with the smooth surface.

"Stop," he shouted, heart pounding in his throat. "Might you possibly remember to refrain from touching a magical object you don't recognise?" She cringed, and he willed himself to stifle the tirade rising to his lips and to slow his racing pulse.

"Don't touch what?" Neville asked.

"They're in the glass," Hermione whispered, and Severus cringed at how small her voice sounded. He reached his hand to brush against her cheek, and his stomach clenched at the relief and gratitude in her eyes.

They're in the glass.

Severus knew it couldn't be, but it felt to him, too, as if he could reach over and touch the toddler Harry as he played on his toy broom or hear Ginny's ten-year-old laugh...uninhibited...at a practical joke George had played on Percy.

Each frozen in a moment of joy, caught as if in amber and innocence.

"Not in the glass, Hermione," Severus said. "It's not them." But what they were he couldn't say.

"Why can't I touch one?" she asked, petulant. "Maybe I can communicate with them this way. Every other way has failed miserably." Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had grown glassy. Severus stepped back from the row of figures captured in the mirrors and tugged at Hermione's arm, pulling her with him.

"Look at me," he said, and she responded to the cadence of his voice more than to his words. "Come sit down; we don't know what they are, so let's not touch them until we do."

"He's right, Hermione," Neville said, approaching the mirrors. Severus looked at the young man walking towards them. He wondered when they'd become allies but realised he didn't much mind.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," she said. She was shaking her head as if trying to clear it.

"It's a natural impulse," Severus said, stroking her arm. "But Hermione..." She looked at him and nodded, and he breathed again. "Let me see if I can determine whether these are Dark in nature, and we will decide what to do after."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Longbottom asked.

Severus paused. The boy surprised him. Again.

"Sit with Hermione," he said. "It will help me concentrate."

Longbottom nodded and sat alongside her on the couch, taking her hands in his. Severus paused, for a moment readying himself to confront the boy, but realised with a jolt that it was all right for Hermione's friend...his friend, too...to steady her this way; it took nothing away from what he and Hermione shared between them. Light-headed with relief and the unexpected pleasure of certainty, he turned back to the frozen figures.

It had been years since he'd approached an object he'd suspected harboured Darkness, but the wand movements and incantations came to him without a moment's pause. His magic flowed smoothly...Merlin, I've missed this....the feeling of power rushing through him, his magic rising and falling with the steady movement of his wand and the murmured spells washing over the glass.

What are you? he silently asked them. Why are you here?

The figures under the glass were silent.

He hadn't really expected them to answer.

~~**~~

"They're not Dark. I'm certain of it," said Severus. He rubbed his eyes and sat back on the couch. "I do not, however, know what they are. I was able to learn something of their properties, so perhaps..." He opened his hands and looked at Neville and Hermione, inviting them to discuss what the frozen images under glass might be if not Dark.

"What properties were you able to establish?" Hermione asked.

"Not many," he said. "They do appear to share some qualities of Pensieved memories and are not tangible objects in and of themselves. However..." He paused and murmured his thanks when Neville handed him a cup of hot tea. "However, they do not appear to have been removed from their subjects' minds and are not, technically, memories."

"They look like portraits," said Neville. "Not wizarding ones, though. More like those creepy Muggle ones that don't move."

"It's not creepy if it's what you're used to seeing, Neville," said Hermione. "Still photographs and paintings are the norm where I come from."

Neville flushed. "Sorry," he murmured.

Hermione shrugged; it didn't bother her like it used to. Wizards often forgot that the entire world wasn't comprised of revealed magic, and it no longer felt like an insult when they dismissed Muggle artefacts as if they were the playthings of children.

"Professor, do they resemble portraits in any magical sense?" Neville asked.

"Only to the degree that they seem to contain some elements of their subjects," said Severus. "And they do indeed appear to share some magical... something... with the figures they reflect."

Hermione looked over at the row of mirrors, each holding a frozen aspect of four people she had cared about for many years. Even loved.

Neville was right, she thought. They did look creepy. But not because they didn't move. She rose to take a closer look.

"Don't worry," she murmured when Severus made to block her way. "I'm not going to touch them."

She didn't want to touch the mirrors, truth be told. For all that they depicted moments of incandescent joy, the figures suspended in the glass made her stomach ache. Maybe it was because they looked like orphaned fragments of her friends.

Former friends.

No, friends, she told herself. They were her friends. Just, they were impaired at the moment.

She had been too. But she felt better now, so much better. In fact, being here at Hogwarts with both Neville and Severus had been more healing than she could have ever hoped. Now that she thought of it, even Neville seemed less angry than he had been when they'd first seen him hacking away at a trailing vine. And just this morning she'd used some of her own sophisticated magic to decorate their chambers, her magic flowing and lighter than it had felt in ages. It felt almost like hers again. Nearly.

Something was changing for her...for all three of them...and she knew that if the others would listen, would join them, that they'd feel it, too.

"They look so happy," Neville said. His voice trembled. "It's been such a long time since I saw any of them happy."

They did look as if they had each been captured in a moment of transcendent joy, and Hermione realised that the last few days had given her glimpses of incandescence that might look just so if they'd been captured in a mirror. She tried not to wonder when...if...Severus ever had felt the same.

"Severus?" He was looking at the mirrors as if his glare alone would force them to reveal their mysteries.

"Hmm?" murmured Severus, distracted. But she knew he wasn't listening. "It couldn't be," he muttered, as if in answer to a question only he heard.

He leapt to his feet and moved closer to the mirrors. "I wonder," he muttered. Without warning, he swept his arm in a wide arc across the width of the curved glass and grunted with satisfaction when streams of gossamer light flew from his wand.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"Just watch," he said. "I'm not sure..." But then he nodded, and his breath quickened as the light began to move. To dance. "See?"

She did. The threads of light from his wand plunged into the glass, wrapping around the figures inside. In an instant, light exploded within the frames, and twisted strands of light streamed back out, swirling around the perimeter of the mirrors as if pausing to consider...

...and then twisted, and knotted, and wound one around the other until the fibres had woven themselves into a radiant, multi-coloured tapestry.

"She always said that we are creatures of light," Severus murmured.

"Who did?" Hermione asked. Her heart was hammering in her chest. The twisting light reminded her of something but she couldn't remember what...and Severus looked lost in their luminous glow. "Who told you that?" she asked again.

"She told me that consorting with the Dark would obscure the light. I always wondered where it went." The last, a whisper.

"You wondered...?" Hermione murmured.

"My light," he said softly. "Mine."

"Oh, Severus," she whispered. But she didn't know what to say. She'd feared her own spirit had been drained away long ago, Darkness devouring it whole and her along with it. Only recent days had given her hope that it was still there, somewhere.

"Is it their life force?" Neville asked, looking slightly sick.

"It can't be," she said, feeling frantic. Hadn't Severus said they weren't Dark?

"No, no. Not their life force." Severus looked alarmed. "What my..." He paused and swallowed thickly. "What my grandmother meant, I think, is that everything we do has a cost and is itself a creation," he said. "The balance between Dark and Light is not merely metaphor." He gestured to the glowing tapestry.

They sat, silently watching the threads undulate, light spilling from the weaving as if it couldn't contain it all.

"So what are they?" Neville asked. He reached his hand towards the tapestry but even before his fingers could make contact, he cried out.

Not pain, Hermione thought.

Joy?

"Neville?" she asked. His expression was rapturous as he stood in the glow of the tangles of light. "Neville?"

"It's wonderful," he whispered.

"What do you feel?" Severus asked.

"I feel brilliant!" Neville said.

Hermione laughed. "Obviously," she said. "But why do you feel brilliant?"

"It's just... joy," he said. "I can't explain it, you have to experience it. Come." He motioned for them to come closer.

Severus looked hesitant, and Hermione was reluctant to move forward without him.

"Severus?"

He looked at her, and she saw the desire there, his burning need...wish...hope...fear spilling over.

"A little joy couldn't hurt, could it?"

He shook his head. She reached for his hand and pretended not to notice that it was shaking. They stepped forward and leaned in towards the tapestry.

There was a brush of warm air and the tinkling sound of laughter. Innocence, and the anticipation of a sunny day with nothing but green grass and time to play stretching out ahead. It felt like the essence of hope and joy, made luminous.

Severus had closed his eyes, his face turned towards the weaving as if it were the sun shining down on his skin. He looked like a parched man, finally sated.

"What are they?" Hermione asked. "Being near them... it's astonishing."

"I'm not sure," Severus murmured. "Perhaps containers of some sort, holding an aspect of their..." He paused.

"Spirit?" she asked. "Light?"

"Light," he echoed.

"Where are ours, then?" Neville asked.

Severus looked startled. "Good question." He glanced over at their own mirrors. "I wonder," he said, "if our mirrors looked like this before we entered the Room."

"But ours are broken," said Neville.

"Indeed," said Severus. "Which leads me to wonder which is the preferred state."

Oh!

"The breaks in the glass might not be a sign of destruction, but a sign of..." Neville's eyes were wide.

"Healing," Hermione murmured.

"Possibly," said Severus. "Perhaps contact with the mirrors breaks them and reactivates a natural process that has been frozen. The natural antidote to the Dark," he continued, "is Light."

"Where do we find it, then?" asked Neville. "I haven't seen much laying around lately."

Severus snorted. "Indeed." He paused, considering. "Increasing the Light in each of the afflicted is likely to be the only way to succeed," he said, and Hermione wondered how he could talk about such a thing so calmly...clinically, as if it were about a potion that needed brewing and would be readied in a fortnight. "If my experience is any indication," he was saying, "there is no banishing of the Dark. The best we can do is counterbalance it."

It felt to her as if he'd extinguished all the torches in the room. Counterbalance the Dark? Hadn't that been what she tried to do every time she crusaded on behalf of someone in need? Hadn't it been behind every effort she'd made to convince the others something was terribly wrong?

"I can't, Severus," she said, panicked. "Every time I've tried it's been a disaster."

There had been a time long ago where she might have seen herself as someone whose presence was nourishing, who could bring light into a dismal situation, but not anymore. Severus and Neville could go ahead, they could approach the others. She would stay away. She felt herself floating, as if she were sinking back into the hopelessness that had brought her to the Muggle card reader a scant few days ago.

Through the encroaching Darkness, she heard Neville's voice saying something that seemed important, but it sounded too far away. Severus was talking, too, but his words were swept beneath the roaring waves pounding in her head. She looked up and saw Neville's mouth moving and thought she might have heard the word, friend floating through the air and pushing against the edge of the fog.

But it was Severus who cut through the buzzing at last with his voice and the warmth of his hands on her skin.

He'd inched closer and brought his hand up the length of her arm, tracing the line of her shoulder, finally resting at the nape of her neck. Her breathing deepened at his touch, and she felt the Darkness recede.

His mouth was close to hers now, hot breath on her face, and she felt the blood rushing through her. Neville was right there, but she didn't care, she only wanted...

"Your spirit, your light, it's right here, Hermione," Severus was saying. "It's this feeling, right here. You know how to bring it; you create it in me every time you look at me."

And then he was kissing her, and she knew just exactly what he meant because all at once, every cell of her body was filled with light.

~~**~~

My heartfelt thanks to Annie Talbot and Mia Madwyn whose input prevented this chapter from being a pile of gibberish. This was a particularly tricky interval, and their input (and time spent going over and over elements of the chapter) has been absolutely invaluable.