Title: All That Glitters

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, including the lines from The Lord of the Ring trilogy at the beginning of the chapter.

Author's note: I know a lot of things at the end of DH relied on Harry seeing Snape's memories (such as his realization that he had to die). He still learns all that in my story, only in a different way. It will be revealed, through flashbacks, as the story progresses. For now, all that really matters is that Voldemort is dead and gone, and Snape is still alive, but not yet proven to be innocent.

Summary: Narcissa pleads with Snape, Harry and Ron get a surprise visit from Neville, and Hermione receives a cryptic message.

All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost

Chapter One: The Price of Protection

Three years later…

"I don't understand why you can't just show them your memories," the woman huffed impatiently as she gestured for the house elf to clear the last plate from the table. She gave a scrutinizing glance to the man sitting before her. He was too thin, his skin too sallow, his eyes too haunted. Three years after the war, and he was still unable to return to the country he had once called home, to the people he had given so much to protect.

Severus Snape barely even listened to his companion's frustrated words. She had argued this point many times over the past three years, and he could not really blame her for her misunderstanding of the situation. But did she have to be so trying? Didn't she realize that if it was as simple as walking into the Ministry and showing a few memories, he would have done it already?

Honestly, how daft did she think he was?

"I'm surprised, Narcissa, that you would even suggest I do something like that. Aren't you afraid I might sully the name of Death Eaters by admitting to being a spy?" he replied sarcastically, watching as the bright red flush suffused his guest's face.

"Severus! I am grateful for everything you did to keep Draco from becoming lost in the Dark Lord's grasp and I merely wish to repay the debt," Narcissa protested. She hesitated, then added, "Lucius feels the same."

Snape stood, stretching his tall frame and stepping away the blonde woman. "I believe, Narcissa, that you have provided more than enough for me. You have given me use of this house, which is…"

"Disgusting," Narcissa spat. "It is a hovel, Severus. How can you even live in it?"

"It in Unplottable and protected from detection by numerous spells," Snape replied smoothly, giving Narcissa a sharp glare. "Not to mention, I have no doubt that my Secret Keeper will not betray me. I am content here."

"And you won't tell me who your Secret Keeper is?" Narcissa asked, and her voice was almost a pout. "Neither will you tell me who rescued you from the Nagini's attack that night?"

"They are one and the same, madam, but you tire me with your constant pleas. My lips are sealed," Snape replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. His mouth seemed barely to move as he spoke, and his words were no more than a soft whisper.

"But why won't you show your memories? Why won't you prove your innocence?" Narcissa demanded. She stood as well, unwilling to allow Snape the height advantage.

Her stunning features seemed to grow even more beautiful with age, and Snape thought idly that she and Lucius made a handsome couple. She was as fair as Bellatrix had been dark, but both sisters, for all their differences, had shared an unearthly attractiveness that he had seen in few others.

He thought, abruptly, of Lily Potter, and turned away.

"My life is my own to do with as I please," Snape said at last, his words biting and curt. He hoped it would end the conversation, but the same spirit in Narcissa that had forced her to his home in the dead of night and in direct contradiction to the Dark Lord's orders when she believed her son to be in mortal danger reared its head now, and refused to back down.

"Why won't you even show them to me?"

"Do you need to see them?" Snape asked, his silky voice now positively glacial. "Do you not believe me either? Some spots do not wash off, Narcissa, but you are just as black as I am."

"I-I believe you," the blonde woman replied, lowering her head. "I always have, from the end of the Great Battle, when you first told me that you were really on Dumbledore's side. I believe you."

"I fear the rest of the world may not be as trusting," Snape mocked, shaking his head as he looked at her again. He felt a surge of guilt for taking his anger out on her, but then quickly pushed away the feeling. It was a weakness, feeling guilt, and it annoyed him that he felt it so often these days.

"They would if you…"

"Assuming they did not just accuse me of tampering with my memories," Snape retorted icily. He did not hold the rest of the wizarding world in particularly high esteem, and doubted anyone would truly believe him. Trust was a precious commodity, one he had forsaken completely the night had had killed the only man who ever trusted him.

"But they would show signs of being changed," Narcissa protested. "Your memories would be clean, clear."

"Enough," Snape spat. "Do you not think, Narcissa, that if it were as simple as you say, I would have been able to secure my own innocence by now? That if redemption and forgiveness were so easily handed out, I would never have been placed in this position anyway?" Anger was a more useful emotion than guilt; it could be turned into a weapon. Narcissa was cowering now, shrinking before his rage, her eyes filled with confusion and fear. In the moment, his fury let him forget his pain, and that was a relief. It was easy, he mused, to lose oneself in the darkness of anger.

"I… I don't… understand," Narcissa stammered.

"Clearly," Snape answered.

"Then explain it," Narcissa begged, taking a step towards him. She reached out, as though to take his hand in her own, as though to catch his arm as he moved away from her, but then she froze. Her hand remained in midair, hovering, before she let it drop to her side. "Please."

"There is nothing to explain," he said, and Narcissa looked crestfallen at his declaration.

He looked around the room of this house… this place Narcissa had so aptly called a hovel. The table they had eaten at sat at one end of the room that served as a dining room, parlor, and study. The carpet under his feet was worn threadbare in places. Across the room was a fireplace with a slowly dying fire. Two chairs clumped together in front of the fire. Apart from both the fireplace and the table was a desk, situated next to the only window in the room, that let in the faint glow of light from the sliver of moon.

There were only three others rooms in the house: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen that doubled as a potion laboratory. It was not as extensive as his quarters had been at Hogwarts and it lacked the comforts even of Spinner's End. But it was safe and well protected, and far enough away from England that he would never accidentally run into any of his previous acquaintances.

The only comfort here was the house elf that Narcissa insisted accompany her whenever she visited him. He was sure it was as much for her sake as it was for his, bringing along someone to help with the chores.

For a time, he enjoyed her visit, but they often grew wearisome as the months turned into years and she refused to leave alone the topic of his return to England.

Predictably, she did not give up the subject. "Severus, please… Tell me."

"Tell you, Narcissa? And what would you like me to say?" Snape replied, his tone inflected just enough to convey boredom with the subject. "That I do not relish the idea of returning to England anyway?" He gave a derisive snort. "There is nothing there for me now." The only two people he would have ever done anything for were both dead, both killed because of him. He tried his best, but in the end he was unable to save either Lily Evans or the Headmaster. What was left now but echoes of memories and regrets?

"Draco misses you," Narcissa said. "So does Lucius. They would both like to visit you more, but…" She shrugged apologetically. "We are still under some suspicion." She waved a few strands of hair out of her eyes. "Society has a long memory."

Snape gave a bitter laugh. "Only for what they wish to remember," he replied dryly.

"I would help you, if…"

"Narcissa," Snape said, and his voice was a warning.

But she looked at him with desperate eyes, wanting to understand, and he felt himself slowly unbending to her desire.

Narcissa was his friend, and one of the few he would ever trust. There was something about her, something he could not quite identify, but it drew him to her. Like he had been drawn to Lily. He did not love this pale witch, not the way he had loved Lily. But the connection was still there.

He walked over to one of the chairs next to the fire and sank into it. How could he explain it? There was no rational reason for his refusal to return to the wizarding England. But it was not as simple as showing a few memories. No, the Wizangamot would demand more than just that. And not just a truth potion either, because those could be countered with antidotes. Not Legilmens, because he was too good a Occlumens to be trusted. No, the rest of the world would settle for nothing short of a trip through all of his memories so that they could pick and choose what exactly to believe. Only then would they declare him a hero or a traitor or, more likely, just another soon-to-be forgotten solider in the war.

He had nothing left. They had taken everything from him. James Potter and Sirius Black. Lucius Malfoy. The Dark Lord. Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter. And Lily Evans, always Lily Evans. Each of them had taken something, whether by force or by promises, and there was nothing left that was his.

Except this. His mind, his memories. And he would not let the them take that as well.

If he was nothing else, he was still a proud man. Too proud to give his secrets up for the desire and curiosity of everyone else. Too proud to submit himself to their prodding as they leisurely wandered through the recesses of his mind.

Three years ago, he had shown up at the Malfoy Manor on an evening shortly after the Great Battle, an evening when Lucius and Draco were away. He had been weak and bloody and on the brink of death. But instead of begging for her help, as she had expected he would do, his pride kept his words in check, and he demanded her aid instead. It was only fair, he had told her, that she return the favor of safety that he had bestowed on Draco.

He did not need to remind her of that, she would have helped him regardless. He was, after all, one of their true friends.

In the brief moments that he had stayed in the Manor before being sent to this far-away cottage, she had ascertained that his current state was due to the fact that he had never received proper treatment for the venom inflicted by Nagini's fangs. He had only allowed himself enough of a reprieve so that he would not immediately die, but as they knew from past experience, the snake's venom prevented the wounds from fully healing until an antidote could be applied.

And Snape could not very well walk into St. Mungo's and demand medical attention. So she had done the best she could to cure him, and when he had been able to function on his own, he brewed the rest of the healing potions himself.

All that pain and suffering, from the Golden Gryffindors, from the Dark Lord, from the wizarding world… all that he had endured because it was the price of protection.

Narcissa did not understand who or what he was trying to protect. None of them did, but the flash of red hair and green eyes constantly haunted him, a reminder of all he had failed to do for her and everything he had sworn he would never let happen again.

Finally, Snape said in a softer voice, "Besides, Naricssa, there is nothing left for me in England. Nothing to which I would wish to return."

Harry Potter stared at the book in front of him and groaned. He had tried so hard to read it, but now his eyes were watering the words were swimming on the page, turning into a jumbled, incoherent mess. It was late and he was tired, but the exams were only two days away and he could hardly justify skipping out on the revision.

"This is ridiculous," Ron Weasly said, speaking up from the armchair where he sat, another book on his lap. "You can't learn defense from a book!"

Harry smirked and said warningly, "Careful, Ron. Better not let your fiancée hear you say that…"

Ron started and looked around, as though half-expecting Hermione to emerge from the woodwork and lecture him on the value of reading. Then he sighed and shot Harry an annoyed look.

"Prat," he snapped, his temper worn short from the pressure of the exams. "She's not here to hear me."

And she wasn't. Hermione, who had long since realized that the last thing she wanted was to do any more fighting, had opted to study Magical Law Enforcement. And so the Golden Trio had finally been broken up, with the two boys completing their training through the programs in the Ministry and Hermione studying law and the legal system at the prestigious and incredibly exclusive University of Magical Education at Edinburgh.

Ron and Harry bunked together in a flat in London, and both Ginny and Hermione visited on weekends. It was a comfortable existence, reminiscent of Harry's first four years at Hogwarts, before his world had been overshadowed by Voldemort, prophecies, and death.

"We can learn the theory of defense," Harry said pointedly, but his words reminded him of Umbridge and her ridiculous ideas, and he felt suddenly sick. When he was an Auror, the first thing he was going to do was petition for a change in the training programs.

"You are tracking a Dark Wizard who has taken an innocent hostage. He threatens to kill her if you do not surrender your wand. Explain how you would proceed in one hundred words or less?" Ron read. He made a face and turned to Harry. "Why are the evil ones always men and the innocents always women?"

Harry shrugged and commented dryly, "Anyone who can answer that question in less than one hundred words should not be an Auror anyway. It's a stupid book. Each situation varies from the next. You have to…" He trailed off as the book suddenly snapped itself shut, the pages closing down on his hand. "Ow!"

Ron roared with laughter as Harry's book continued to attack him, the pages opened and closing as he jumped to his feet and scrambled away from the seat.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!" Harry called to the book, which was now propelling itself across the floor, chasing him from one side of the room to the other. "You aren't a stupid book! Really, you're not!"

At these apologetic and slightly frantic words, the book stopped, seemed to consider Harry for a moment, and then flopped itself back open to the page Harry had been looking at only moments before. It rested on the floor, looking rather innocent, as though it had not just tried to devour the young wizard's hand.

"I cannot believe I'm resorting to apologizing to books," Harry muttered under his breath, but when the book snapped threateningly at him, he lapsed into silence. Ron, still finding the entire situation hilarious, struggled to contain his laughter only once he caught sight of the frustrated expression on his best friend's face.

"Ah, cheer up, mate," Ron offered. "It's less vicious than that book Hagrid assigned us. Remember? The Monster Book of Monsters?"

Harry laughed, but as usual, any mention of Hogwarts eventually lead his mind back to the one loose end, the one blot on the pleasant picture of his life.

Snape.

He remembered it all so clearly, seeing Snape standing on the other side of the battlefield, staring at him with expressionless eyes. The man had disappeared almost as soon as he and Harry exchanged looks, and he had not been seen since. But Dumbledore's murderer was out there somewhere, and the entire wizarding world had sworn not to rest until he was brought to justice.

"They'll find him," Ron said staunchly, cutting into Harry's thoughts.

Harry nodded dumbly, not believing Ron's words. It had been three years, and Snape had avoided all attempts to capture him. Who knew what other tricks the Half-Blood Prince had up his sleeve? He would most likely forever evade efforts to bring him to justice.

Harry placed his book on the side-table by his chair and walked over to the window. It was dark out, the sky dotted with tiny white stars, the full moon casting its own pale glow. He did not need to close his eyes to see that final scene, the way the burst of energy from his wand had collided with that of Voldemort's and rebounded into the space between him. He could still hear it, the rushing wind that pounded his ears as Voldemort—Tom Riddle, The Dark Lord, You Know Who—finally fell, crumpling to nothing on the floor of the Great Hall.

Sometimes, late at night, when he lay awake in bed, he couldn't help but wonder what would have happened to the world if it had been him to fall that night.

A flash of green caught his attention, and he turned back to the fireplace in time to see Neville Longbottom stick his head through the flames, a bright smile filling up his entire face.

"I got it!"

"Blimey, Neville, give a guy a warning before you do that!" Ron berated, having started so badly he'd knocked his book to the floor. The book, clearly not liking the way it had been treated, was snarling at Ron, but Ron just said sternly, "Hey, knock it off or I'm chucking you into the flames!"

The book stopped snarling immediately and even managed to look somewhat contrite… for a book.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Harry asked himself quietly as he turned to face Neville completely. It would have been easier to threaten his own book as opposed to trying to apologize to it.

"Got what?" Ron asked, now giving Neville his full attention.

"Top marks in my advanced medicinal Herbology exam," Neville replied, rolling his eyes as though they all should already know that. "Well, I don't actually know that for certain because I don't get the grades until the summer, but Professor Flute said I'd done better than any student she'd had in years." He was grinning from cheek to cheek, his face split so wide it looked as though his smile had been painted on. "Now all I need is two more years of study and I can apply for mastership. Then I might even be able to teach at Hogwarts!"

"You want to go back?" Ron demanded. "Didn't you get enough already?"

"Professor McGonagall… Headmistress, I mean… I'm not used to calling her that… wants me to come back and teach," Neville confided. As soon as the war was over, he'd applied to a program at St. Mungo's that allowed him to take courses in Herbology and research different medicinal properties of various magical plants. Even though he was a war hero, and the Ministry kept urging him to find a 'proper' career that would land him in the spotlight more often, he couldn't give up his love for plants. It was all he had ever wanted to do since his very first step into the greenhouses at Hogwarts.

"Congratulations, Neville, that's wonderful," Harry said, pleased. "We'll have to throw a celebration just as soon as Ron and I are done with our exams."

"When do you finish?" Neville asked, glancing down at Ron's book, which still sat peacefully on the floor.

"We've got two more theoretical exams in Stealth and Tracking and Protection of Civilians and a practical in Disguises. Four more days and then it's over."

"Can you believe it? Who'd have thought we'd end up here?" Neville said with a smile.

Harry shook his head and answered, only half-jokingly, "Three years ago I wasn't even sure I'd be alive in the future."

Neville frowned, but didn't comment. Instead, he said, "Well, I've got to go and you should get back to your revision. Say hello to Ginny and Hermione next time you see them and we'll plan a party after the exams." And he pulled his head out of the fire, disappearing from view.

Ron stood and stretched his tired muscles, then rubbed his eyes. "When is Ginny getting back?" he asked curiously. His sister had taken a holiday and traveled to Romania to visit Charlie and his girlfriend. The career she had opted to pursue-that of a Healer-did not allow her much time to see her family. It had been a surprise to all of them when she had announced her plans, but, as she had explained, she'd spent so much of her sixth year at Hogwarts mastering healing spells to help those who had been injured through the Carrows' versions of "punishment" that she now couldn't really imagine herself doing anything else.

Despite it's rigor, or perhaps because of it, she'd already taken her end of the year exams the previous week. The day they were finished, she'd packed her belongings and disappeared to Romania.

"Not for another four days," Harry grumbled. He was used to seeing her a bit more frequently than that, and the long separation was more difficult than he would care to admit. He simply had to remind himself that he'd spent all of his seventh year far away from her without any idea of how she was doing, and at least this trip of hers was only ten days.

She lived in a little flat near St. Mungo's with Luna. Luna was now working with her father on the Quibbler, researching various sightings of strange creatures and propagating even stranger rumors. Her father and Harry, although not on the best of terms, had come to an understanding after the war. For Luna's sake, he tolerated the man who had tried to turn him over to the Death Eaters. He did understand, at least a little bit, the desperation that Mr. Lovegood had been feeling when his only daughter was taken from him and held as a hostage.

"Merlin, I wish the exams were over already," Ron grumbled in a perfect imitation of Harry's previous comment about Ginny's absence. Harry glared at him, but Ron just laughed.

"Come on," Harry said at last. "We've got more revision to do."

"Why… you're Hermione Granger!"

Hermione looked up in surprise, eyes widening as they always did when she was recognized by some witch or wizard. She had been sitting at the pleasant little coffee shop, a book open on the table before her, a mug of steaming liquid near her hand. She liked the quaintness of wizarding Edinburgh, but occasionally it was just too small for her. It was easy to be recognized her, and she did prefer the anonymity she now only found when she entered the Muggle world.

A witch and a wizard were approaching her. The witch had been the one to recognize her, and by proclaiming Hermione's name to the entire coffee shop, she had succeeded in drawing the attention of all of the patrons. Everyone was now watching her with interest.

Inwardly, she groaned. Celebrity was not something she was well equipped to handle.

"Well, this is an honor," the witch said, stepping forward. She was little, shorter than Hermione, with cropped white hair and a wrinkled face. Her eyes, oval-shaped black orbs, sparkled as she reached out a hand and caught Hermione by the wrist. Shaking the younger witch's hand with a vigor unusual for someone her age, she continued, "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to meet you, Ms. Granger."

"Th-thank you," Hermione stuttered, forcing herself to smile. "I…uh…" She wasn't really sure how to respond, but she was saved having to do anything by the wizard who accompanied the witch.

"Mother, I think perhaps we are interrupting Ms. Granger," the wizard said. He gave Hermione an embarrassed smile, but his smile was tinged with a sense of awe and respect. He must have been at least ten years older than Hermione, but he was staring at her with the utmost reverence.

Hermione wondered just what they would have said and done had it been Harry sitting her instead of her.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.…?" Hermione hesitated, waiting for the witch to provide her name.

"Gillyberg," the woman said. "Marta Gillyberg." She patted her son on the hand and said to him, "William, darling, didn't you want to meet Ms. Granger?"

William flushed and bowed his head. "Of course, Mother, but I think…" He cast another look at Hermione, this time apologetic. "She appears to be reading, you know."

"Oh…" Marta Gillyberg seemed to deflate a little at that. "Merlin, my dear, am I interrupting you? I did not mean to be rude." She sounded so forlorn that Hermione found herself rushing to reassure the other woman before she could even contemplate what she was saying.

"That's alright, Mrs. Gillyberg. I don't mind the interruption." She cringed almost as soon as she said the words, wanting to take them back. But several other occupants of the coffee shop took this as an invitation to approach her, and she was soon swamped with people wanting nothing more than to shake her hand and tell her how proud they were to have someone like her in their community. They jostled around her, knocking into the table, bumping against her chair.

"My husband," Mrs. Gillyberg was saying, her voice rising above the commotion, "fought in the first war, you know. Cost him his life, in the end. Little William here was just a babe, doesn't even remember his father. It was just dreadful when You Know Who came back. My parents are Muggles, you see, and I thought they'd cart me off too, and then William would have no one left. But Will was resourceful and managed to hide me away when those nasty Death Eaters came calling."

"That was very brave of you," Hermione said softly, giving William a tentative smile.

William raised an eyebrow and replied bluntly, "She's my mum. What else would I have done?"

This comment brought an outpouring from the crowd of witches and wizards who began insisting that they knew of all sorts of horrible stories in which children had turned on their parents, and wasn't William a fine example of a wizard?

By the time the crowd had finally dispersed and Hermione was alone again, she was so befuddled and exhausted by the incident that she no longer wanted to read her book. She took a final sip of coffee and reached into her pocket to withdrawn her small beaded purse. As she did so, her fingers brushed against something smooth and crinkly, and she pulled out a piece of folded parchment.

Surprised, she laid it on the table, wondering where it had come from. She reached into her purse and withdrew a few Knuts. Leaving them on the table as payment, she stood and walked towards the street, the paper now clutched in her hand.

Outside, she unfolded it and read the words. It was short, and written in a flowery script.

Sometimes bats and dragons hide together. The answer is never further than you think.

She stared at the paper and then, not knowing what else to do, she turned on the spot and Apparated to Harry and Ron's flat.