Into The Light

Author\'s Notes: I own nothing you recognise.

Firstly, thanks to June for the heads up on Disclaimers - all my stories now (or will very shortly) carry them.

Secondly, updates on this are going to slow down, a lot, mainly because the amount of work I\'ve got this year has skyrocketed, so given the choice between writing more, and not getting kicked out, I\'m having to go for school. Sucks, I know, but that\'s what holidays are for.

Thirdly, I\'ve had a lot of people asking about if/when the anklet is going to show up again. Erm, no, it\'s not. To my mind, it was a piece of evidence, so it\'s been bagged, tagged and (probably reluctantly) handed over to Umbridge now. They\'ll question Hermione on why she had it on in later chaps, yes, but the actual object probably isn\'t going to return in any significant capacity.


Severus was perusing the text Albus had recommended and was surprised to find his feelings were somewhat soothed. The potion that the Headmaster had highlighted was one that Severus was unfamiliar with – the Menopause Pause Potion was supposed to slow or stop the menopause – McIntosh’s Potion (as it was called) was designed to reverse it. This meant that the ratios of certain ingredients were changed depending on how long the user had been taking it, and one particular substance it would eventually rely heavily on was the wing of the Emperor butterfly – something that had been in short supply for the past three years.

‘Damn Muggles and their fossil fuel emissions,’ thought Severus, scribbling calculations to discern how long his current store would last. The final result was little over a month, and where he would get more from he did not know.

He had filled another five pages with jotted ideas and possible substitutes when he heard the footsteps.

He had once been told that when one sense was taken away, others would become more sensitive to compensate. Good examples were those without sight that would come to rely heavily on their ears, to the extent that they could to pick out the footstep of a loved one from that of a stranger.

He did not need to be blind, nor did she need to be a loved one, to recognise these footsteps, or the anger they foretold. An aggressive ‘tap-TAP’ and the constant sweeping sound made by wearing long robes while moving at a fast pace told him that she was wearing high heels and that she was searching for someone with whom she was very, exceedingly angry.

He was not surprised, therefore, when Minerva McGonagall rounded the corner with an expression like a thunderstorm and headed straight for him.

“Severus!” she screeched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Madame Pince rise as if to scold them like misbehaving first years before she remembered she could not rebuke her own colleagues, especially during the summer holiday.

“Miss Granger,” she continued, hissing and placing her palms on the table top to bend down and meet his eyes while – deliberately, he was sure – invading his personal space. “Hermione has been found, and not only do you neglect to inform me of how she is recovering – I have to hear it from others – but now she is finally out of the hospital wing I find myself barred from seeing her! Where do you get the nerve-”

“Minerva,” he finally broke in, feeling put-upon once more. “For starters – who told you that you could not see her?”

Minerva spluttered with palpable outrage. “That beastly Umbridge – she and her pet healer have been given rooms in the Gryffindor tower, did you know? I nearly hexed Albus!”

Severus mentally sung the Headmaster’s praises; in the Gryffindor tower, the two intruders could not have been further from the Slytherin quarters, and their positioning would make it far easier for him to give the pair a very wide berth.

“You know why Umbridge is here?” he asked in a low voice.

She pulled out the chair next to him, sat and answered in an equally quiet tone “Yes, or at least at first, but why is she still here?”

Severus, as briefly as he could, filled her in on the Ministry’s blackmail of Harry, Price’s reputation and Hermione’s current condition.

Minerva was past anger and into cold fury by the time he had finished; he could tell by the way her eyes had narrowed, and the way her lips were pressed so tightly together there was a white rim around them.

“We can’t stand for this,” she eventually hissed, glaring at the table. “They’ll walk all over us, just like she did during that year. We need to nip this in the bud, and prevent her from becoming the power-mad harpy we know is in there.”

“I mostly agree,” said Severus, cautiously laying his hand on her wrist so he could keep her where she sat in case she decided to give up the conversation and go to duel Umbridge post-haste. “However, we can do nothing with Hermione as she is – she needs to give us at least something to go on for this to all spark off. So until she is recovered enough for that, we are at a stalemate and battling them will do nothing for either side but increase tensions. Let them be for the moment; there is always something to be said for imbuing a false sense of security in the mean time.”

Minerva huffed, even her nostrils flaring aggressively, but remained still. Severus could see she had to strain herself to do that – her every muscle was tensed, the Scotswoman in her was obviously screaming for a well-needed war.

“I know that’s the sensible thing to do,” she eventually admitted, relaxing slightly under his warning hand. “But, that, that woman! After all she did to us, all she put us through, to have to have her back and act like civil beings when we all know that what she deserves is a long stay in Azkaban!”

“I know,” soothed Severus, “and the time will come, but we simply have to wait a while yet.

They paused, and he could see her make a conscious effort to ease herself out of her mood.

“You can steal a march on her though, if you like,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately nonchalant so she’d notice and know that she owed him for this.

“How?” Minerva immediately brightened.

“You can see Hermione. Now – it will do her good to keep seeing faces that should be familiar to her.” He smirked, and she gaped slightly, then smiled grimly.

“Done – let’s go!”

Severus had already shuffled his notes into a pile as they talked, and now he closed the book with a final sounding ‘snap!’ and they strode out together, Pince still covertly glaring at them.

Hermione’s POV:

She lay on her back, day dreaming and enjoying the quiet. She’d dozed for a little while, true, but now she was awake, and frankly, a bit bored. That she had the strength to be bored was something that caused her minor amazement.

If this had been any of her other masters, she knew she’d never have been living like this. Every waking moment was spent in service, and cat naps and snatches of sleep were grabbed where she could manage them. If they ever remembered to tell her to rest, she’d certainly be forgotten about, locked in a room somewhere and not fed for at least a day.

But now, she was warm, well fed, and well rested – and this made her thoughtful.

Her master – her Severus, she had privately started terming him – was still something of a mystery. His motivations, his reasons, even his desires were kept from her – and to be honest, that was unsettling.

None of her other masters had ever been like that – what they’d wanted had always been blatantly obvious, after all, they’d taken it from her. But Severus was different to her other masters, right down to his name, and consequently she was left proverbially in the dark, rather than literally.

If she was true with herself, she liked this place. His only demand on her seemed to be to take care of herself – why again she didn’t know. But despite herself and her inner scolding that she should take advantage of this opportunity, she couldn’t help but worry about him.

For all his concern of her, he took shockingly little care of himself. He slept badly – rarely going to sleep when he should, considering his waking hours, and even when he did, he slept badly, tossing and turning, causing her to stay awake to keep an eye on him, purely out of instinct and past training. He didn’t eat when he should either, skipping breakfast this morning, and from the shadow of his frame that she’d spied when he was getting dressed behind the curtain, he needed the nutrients. Last night when they’d sat down for dinner, he’d only picked at his food, and then told her to have the reminder. She needed to make him eat somehow!

She was interrupted from her puzzling by the man himself, entering the room after a brief knock (that puzzled her too – it was his room, why in heaven was he knocking?) accompanied by another, older, female who made a strange sound when she saw Hermione and pressed her hand to her mouth as if she were going to be sick. But she wasn’t sick – instead tears started trickling from her eyes.

Hermione wanted to ask why she was doing this – she couldn’t see why this woman should be crying – no one was dead, and there was nothing to happen to her from what Hermione knew. The room didn’t smell so bad it would make someone’s eyes water either. However, she couldn’t ask without being rude, so she kept her mouth shut but Severus seemed to discern her question anyway, and crooked his finger at her.

She slid out of bed – still dressed in the blue clothes he’d put on her, although they were a bit rumpled from her sleeping in them – and went to stand were he pointed.

“Hermione,” he said, sounding a little strained, “this is Professor Minerva McGonagall – she used to be your teacher, and knew you quite well.”

None of this made any sense to Hermione at all. As much as she strained her memory, she couldn’t ever remember being taught by anyone other than her previous masters, let alone this woman! And if she did teach her, she must have hated her – why was she crying?

The woman – Minerva – stepped forward, putting her hands out and saying Hermione’s name. Hermione made a surprised little sound and stepped back in alarm – right into Severus. He didn’t protest though – simply sighed in a pained way, so she snaked a hand back between them and grabbed a fistful of his robes. He didn’t protest at that either and it made her feel secure, so she hung on.

Minerva though pressed both hands over her mouth again, and made what sounded like a muffled sob.

“Maybe the Professor would like to go and retrieve some of the photo albums from downstairs to see if that jogs your memory,” said Severus, putting a strange emphasis on ‘downstairs’ that made Hermione wonder if she was missing something. Minerva, though, gave a weird nod, and practically ran out of the room.

Severus sighed again. “You don’t remember her at all?”

Hermione shook her head, and decided to risk asking a question. “Why was she crying?” She turned her head around so she could see his face better when he answered.

He looked sad. “Because she loved you, and has missed you very much.”

Hermione pondered this again, and found it created more questions than it answered. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did she miss me? Wasn’t she glad to get rid of me?”

He looked shocked. “Heavens girl! Of course she wasn’t! We thought you were dead – you were her favourite pupil, always the smartest, quickest, most enthusiastic – she was greatly grieved when you disappeared, along with the Weasley boy.”

“Boy?”

“Ronald – Ron, his name was. You disappeared at the same time.” He looked like he was about to say more, but Minerva reappeared in the doorway, eyes looking red but composed now, arms full of leather bound books.

Severus cleared his throat. “I was just mentioning Mr Weasley.”

Minerva smiled as if it hurt inside. “Yes, you two and Mr Potter were quite inseparable. Here,” she flipped through the topmost book, and then laid it on the desk, open at a large picture. “I believe that was taken when you were just beginning the second year.”

Almost overwhelmed with curiosity now, Hermione took a small step closer and strained her neck and eyes to make out the image, but it was no good – she couldn’t see unless she moved forward, which would mean moving closer to Minerva – who she didn’t feel the least bit comfortable with – and simultaneously loosing her anchor to Severus. She could have stamped her foot in agitation when Severus gave an amused snort from behind her, untangled her hand from his robes and clasped it in his own, walking towards the desk with her.

She pressed into his side, gripping his hand tightly and tried to keep an eye on Minerva and look at the picture at the same time. Minerva gave her another sad smile, and started to move back, when Severus stopped her.

“No Minerva, she has to learn that very few people will ever hurt her. Hermione, Minerva is safe – she will not harm you.”

Hermione, still unconvinced and feeling vastly outside her comfort zone, made a small whine and tried to stop breathing quite so fast. Severus made an exasperated sound. “Will you at least trust that she cannot harm you while I am here?”

She could accept that. Keeping his hand in a death grip, and pressing into him so much she feared she might push him over, she looked at the picture, finally.

There were three children in it, each wearing a school uniform with a small crimson crest on it, and waving happily at the camera with large smiles. The boy on the right was unmistakably Harry when he was younger – same untidy black hair, and the same scar, even a similar build. But it was the other two that held her attention.

There was a girl stood in the middle. She was grinning and tossing shining curly locks, waving with a lack of self-consciousness only found in the young and innocent. Her eyes sparked with intelligence and the love of a challenge. Hermione supposed that this creature must be her – but she couldn’t see any resemblance between this picture and the image she saw whenever she peeked looks in mirrors. This child – although markedly younger – had the beginnings of curves that the Hermione of now could only dream of, her hair was long and luxurious, not greasy like Hermione’s got when it was allowed to grow, and her smile looked free. She’d never seen herself smile, but she couldn’t look like that when she did, and her eyes now looked dull and tired, nothing like the picture. Mentally shrugging her shoulders, she looked at the final person.

The one on the left had red hair, and freckles, stood a whole half a head over the other two, and his dancing eyes shone with happiness. The image pricked at her mind, twirling around the back of her head as if it should be ringing bells that were no longer there. Unthinkingly she reached out to put a finger gently on his chest.

“Yes,” sighed Minerva sadly, “that’s Ron Weasley. He’s dead now, of course, but you were all such great friends – joined at the hip.”

She wanted to deny he was dead. The second she heard those words, something in her wanted to stand up and shout that he wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be! They’d-

They’d what? That was where her impulse faded, as even the denial that had been so loud a second ago suddenly wasn’t there, just the prickly feeling that she was missing something, and a rapid, unexpected, crushing sadness. She slumped against Severus’ chest, feeling small and weary.

He put his arms around her gently, and she let herself close her eyes and press her nose into the cloth that carried his scent, feeling comforted and safe. “Why don’t we,” his voice was soft, and she wanted to sink into it and sleep forever, despite that fact that she’d woken less than an hour ago. “Why don’t we all sit down, and we can look the pictures over at our leisure, maybe with some refreshments?”

She nodded half-heartedly as he conjured extra chairs and summoned a house-elf, but she kept the image of the red-haired boy fixed firmly in her mind, desperately trying to reignite that feeling of denial.

She didn’t succeed.