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Match the quotes to the story titles without picking the red herring titles:
Matrimony by ladyofthemasque
With the Help of a Mirror by lotrangel17
A Necessity by of_anoesis
Through a Glass Darkly by lookfar
Mischief Managed by geminiscorp
Fame and Misfortune by looneyluna
Desire by rhapsodybree
Glass Reflection by alexajones22
What the Mirror Saw by Bandgeek252
Reflections After Dark by imhilien
Guard... Check... Mate by bambu345
In a Glass, Darkly by talesofsnape
The Mirror Crack'd by hannah_1888
1. “Come on, I’m asking for an honest opinion here. I’ve no idea what it is men look for and would very much appreciate a straight answer.”
“They look the perfect size to cup in each hand,” he ground out, staring fixedly at the carpet. “Like they’d fit warmly into your palm.”
She made her way back to the mirror. “Really?” Later, she could never say what devil drove her to do it, but she brought her hands up to her unbound chest. “Like this?” she asked, watching her reflection.
Snape appeared in the glass behind her, the cheap fabric of Trent’s robes brushing against her own.
His face was slack as he reached around her, watching her in the mirror the whole time. She could feel the heat of his hands through her robes. “Like this,” he answered.
It was hard to drag her eyes from the reflection of his face. She’d never seen concentration quite like this, even in the potion’s lab. His eyes were hooded, his hair falling across his face, his lips slightly parted.
They stood there, her neither moving nor questioning, as her heartbeat began to speed up. Then his fingers began to move, and her eyes flickered shut. His breath was hot against her neck
She forced her eyes open and met his in the mirror. He flushed once more, the ugly red staining his cheeks as he pulled away.
She wondered if, perhaps, she ought to be offended. That was a step beyond mere ogling; really, what he had just done should have been tantamount to an assault.
“Show me again,” she whispered.
2. Stealthily, Snape stepped forward to give her a good scare when he realized what she was doing. She was looking into a large, ornate, gilt-framed mirror, her free hand tracing her reflection on the mirror’s smooth surface. The blue light of the flame hovering above her head cast a surreal tint to her features. Hermione’s slender frame was devoid of student robes and she was wearing Muggle jeans and a rather old-fashioned, fuchsia-colored cardigan which appeared almost lavender in the blue light. Her shoulders were slumped and the unruly mass of chestnut hair she was known for hung in a great tangle of curls between her shoulder blades.
The golden girl of Gryffindor was speaking in a low, choked voice, “Know-it-all… swot… silly little girl… presume to be a witch… Muggleborns aren’t real witches…” And then in a voice so filled with derision that Snape recoiled, she snarled, “Mudblood!”
The level of contempt was familiar to him. He’d lived with such self-loathing for many a long year, and despite his determination to keep this witch at bay, he was drawn by a force greater than he wanted to acknowledge to step behind her. Before he was close enough for her to see him in the mirror’s reflection, he recognized the gilt frame. It was a sibling of the Mirror of Erised. He’d forgotten it was in this chamber. There was an inscription in raised letters framing the top arch of the reflective surface: TNEM TNAH CNELLAH TAEN EBENOEHT TUBECAF CILBUP RUOYT ONWO HSI. Snape had long ago translated it, ‘I show not your public face but the one beneath all enchantment’. The trick of this particular mirror was that it dispelled glamours, and it had once been owned by Rowena Ravenclaw. She’d kept it in the foyer of her chambers. It had been the forerunner of Foe-Glass, and had kept her safe from harm for decades.
Snape had no idea why Hermione Granger would be looking at herself to see beyond an enchantment, but when he took one step closer, careful to keep his breathing shallow and silent, he caught a glimpse of the witch’s reflection in the bluebell flame-lit mirror. He was shocked speechless by the sight of a lurid, crimson gash of thick scar tissue slicing across her throat, and sharply sucked in a lungful of air.
Hermoine’s response was immediate, she whipped around to face her foe simultaneously casting, “Nox,” and, in a fluid movement, one which the Professor could no longer see she shouted, “Protego!” The golden glow of her shielding spell, in full force and effect, gave away her position which was now several feet from where she’d been.
She had learned well, this student of theirs, and Snape was more impressed than he wanted to admit. But she was now at his mercy, and he had a number of questions that required answers.
3. The elves had apparently forgotten to take the dust sheet down from the mirror over the porcelain sink with its ornately carved Italian marble pedestal. Hermione reached up to tug it away, but though the sheet lifted, it seemed to be stuck to the mirror's frame. Hermione rolled her eyes as she shucked the rest of her clothes and turned her attention to the controls for the antediluvian plumbing. The sheet wouldn't go mouldy because of the steam from one shower.
"I'm not deaf, you know," came a waspish tone from behind her as she spun the stiff, creaking taps over the bath. "Get this thing off me!"
Hermione lifted her wand from the bath's edge, where she had set it down as she got undressed, and threw a non-verbal Silencio at the draped frame. She wasn't going to be late for dinner on her first day because she was busy arguing with the furnishings. She padded down the steps into the sunken bath and pulled the plunger that diverted the water to the shower attachment.
She was wrapping a towel around her hair when a smug "Hah!" issued from under the sheet. "Did you really think that would keep me quiet? I am a reflection of you, you arrogant big-nosed spell-slinger. Anything you can do, I can undo."
"Big-nosed?" Hermione lifted the sheet enough to stick her head under it. "Who are you calling big—" Hermione froze as she stared at an image of Severus Snape, a towel wrapped turban-like around his head, and another larger one in a very manly shade of apricot tucked around his torso just below his armpits.
"Well, that's a new look for you," the mirror sneered, baring teeth that Hermione was sure were several shades more yellowed than even Snape's had been, "but then you do spend a lot of time with that old shirt-lifter. He must be rubbing off on you. Or wait, don't tell me, there's some pretty little new professor and you think you'll impress her with the softer side of Snape."
As the mirror prattled on, Hermione lifted a hand to the glass. Her fingertips met Professor Snape's.
4. “Perhaps you should reconsider?” his image pleaded, scowling. “You’ve been pissed all weekend. You should stay here and rest. I’m sure her parents are perfectly capable of checking her out of St. Mungo’s.”
Adjusting the collar of his robe, Severus glared at his reflection. “No, I won’t reconsider. You needn’t remind me of this weekend. I do not need to rest. And yes, I’m sure her parents are perfectly capable. But she is my wife and I should be there.”
“Do you really think she’ll want you there?” the Mirror of Truth asked. “Didn’t she say she would rather gnaw her arm off than be bonded to you?”
Inwardly, Severus flinched. The blasted mirror was telling the truth. She had said that. Swatting the lingering doubt away, he continued to groom himself. “She cares for me.”
The mirror gave a derisive snort.
“She just doesn’t remember it,” he murmured, sitting down and putting his shoes on. “There is no way she could respond to me like that and not feel something.”
His reflection started laughing. Between gasps of mirth, he slapped his thigh and spoke. “You should listen to yourself! You sound like a tawdry advice columnist. Or worse yet, a romance novelist!”
He ignored his mirror image, even though he felt the stab of derision and doubt. His first inclination had been to collect Hermione…kidnap her, really…and bring her back to Hogwarts where he would make mad, passionate love to her until she realized how happy she could be with him.
Then he started listening to Hermione’s mother. She had planted a seed within him that had fermented so quickly he could not ignore it. So, he’d left St. Mungo’s, grabbed a bottle of Ogden’s firewhisky, and started drinking.
He had woken up in the Owlery, his hands bloody and bird shit on his robes. There was a vague memory of writing a letter and trying to retrieve it. Stupid birds. Mrs. Norris and Mr. Filch had found him. He even had a vague recollection of placing an order for flowers.
The irony did not escape him. Hermione had been Obliviated and couldn’t remember, and he had gotten so pissed he didn’t remember.
5. The mirror started to swirl again like last year, but instead of a little girl or a woman it was him as a first year, but the hair was much too long to be him. His hair as a first year hung to his cheekbones, but this boy's hair hung to his shoulders. It certainly looked like him. The boy was tall and lanky. The boy's eyes were much softer than his, brown. He appeared to be about eleven years old and wearing a Hogwarts uniform, but it was Ravenclaw's colors. The boy smiled at him proudly showing off his new uniform. Snape recognized the happy dreamy look of a first year proudly attending Hogwarts. Is this my son? Where did that little girl go and that beautiful woman?
"Are you my son?" The boy nodded happily. "How did this happen? There was a little girl and a woman, where did they go?" he asked the boy knowing the reflection wouldn't be able to answer.
Then a tall slender girl who looked to be about 15 years old stood in her Slytherin uniform. Her hair was dark and wavy with black eyes. She mussed with her little brother's hair playfully as he pushed her off of him both smiling happily. "Are you my daughter?" he asked the girl who had gone from 4 to 15 in just a year. She nodded grinning mischievously.
"Where's your mother?" he couldn't help but ask. Before him appeared the same woman he saw last year only a bit older. She still looked young and fresh, but with more curvy. Something that comes with having two children. Her curly brown hair hung wildly around her gentle face. Her face was still distorted. He tried very hard to figure it out, but couldn't put a finger on who she was. He felt a familiarity to her, but couldn't place a name with the distorted face.
"Are we happy?" he couldn't help asking. He felt so foolish asking the mirror what was inside his heart, but he desperately wanted to know if there was even the possibility to have a family. She nodded with an enormous smile on her pretty face. He couldn't believe it. His own family life had been cruel and lonely. He didn't think he'd ever want a family unsure if he would be a good father. Or husband. His father hadn't been the best example of a loving husband. He wasn't even sure he'd know how to be one. Doubts swirled around in his head. He needed to know more about this family.
"Am I a good father? Husband?" The entire family nodded. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think. "How?"
6. He waited for the door to close then took the package she gave him and went off to his room. He had no portraits in his chambers so no one would see him open the box, and no matter what was inside the box, he knew he didn't want anyone to see him opening it. He went over, sat on his bed, and slowly unwrapped the box. Nestled inside was what looked like a hand mirror and under the mirror was a note that read:
My Dearest Severus,
After the unfortunate incident with the ring, I have decided it best to put my affairs in order. This bequest was not left with the Ministry, because frankly, I don't trust them with it. We know what would have happened if the sword had been left to them. As I sit and think about what it is I want to pass on to you, this little mirror is the one thing of value that I have that will be of the most help to you. However, I know you won't be able to put it to use until at least the end of the war and even then probably not right away. This is the reason that it has been delivered by someone else and on this day. I am hopeful that it will be Minerva if I planned it right, and the outcome of the war goes in our favour.
Use this gift, and maybe with its help you can begin to heal and move on. You paid a terrible price in this war, and this in no way makes up for the sacrifices you made or the things I insisted you do, but maybe it will ease your mind just a little and put you on a path to healing. You can choose to use the mirror or put it away and save it; it is entirely up to you.
Now to the purpose of this mirror, you may look upon it once a year and you will see just a snippet, a few small scenes if you will, of someone's life. Then at the end of the scenes, you will see a choice that they will make at some time in the future. Thankfully because these moments in time are in the future, there will be time enough for you to change it if you so desire. The choice of getting involved or not will be up to you. Whom you will see, I do not know that is the choice of the mirror.
7. Voldemort's voice laughed mockingly. "I will always doubt loyalty, and my servants must always be tested. But I am not one of your students to be spoken thus – in this class I am the teacher and you will obey!"
An invisible force suddenly grabbed Severus by his neck and dragging him closer to the mirror shoved him to his knees before it released him. He fell heavily to his knees on the stone floor, his black robes billowing around him as he did so. Severus gasped for air, his breath having been knocked from him and he reached for his wand in a pocket in his robes. However, his wand was flung away from him, and it clattered on the floor.
Severus rarely allowed himself to feel fear, but at the moment he could feel cold sweat pooling on his neck. However, he glared at the mirror in cold defiance as he sensed the Hearts Desire spell activating.
The mirrors surface shimmered for a second then revealed a vision of himself standing in his usual black robes, no visible difference in appearance at all except for an amused smile on his face. Certainly it was not a vision that Voldemort could judge as 'disloyalty'.
But then…an image of an older, yet still beautiful Hermione Granger in dark blue velvet robes appeared beside the mirror image of himself, smiling wryly and holding the hand of a little girl with black hair and inquisitive dark eyes, who clutched a toy wand in a tiny, grubby hand.
Hermione and her..no, their, daughter, Severus thought in stunned amazement, briefly forgetting his discomfort. He had never consciously thought about having a heir, but now, for some wild, hopeful moment he found himself wishing for a future in which this could come to pass.
The vision abruptly vanished and the invisible force grasped his throat again while Voldemort's voice laughed derisively.
"So! The Master of Slytherin is nothing but a sentimental fool at heart who puts family dreams above a loyal position at my side. Still, I have to admire your choice of women, Snape. Do you enjoy bedding her, hmm? Perhaps she is worthy enough to even bear my heir…"
At those words Severus was filled with a furious rage at the thought of Voldemort laying even a single finger on Hermione.
8. "Ow! Damn!" she said, clapping her hand over her face and looking about for the pod. It had ricocheted off the wall and lay spinning on the flagstones in the corner. Keeping her eye covered, she shuffled over, knelt and set it carefully on the work table.
Her eye throbbed. Surely she hadn't done any damage to the cornea; it was just a smack on the lid. She turned the lamps up and felt her way to the looking glass, moving her hand away to search for signs of injury.
A pair of black eyes, alight with intelligence, peered back at her.
Hermione gasped and stumbled backward, simultaneously bringing her wand up and casting a Revealing spell. There was a swishing sound, then silence. When she looked again, there was only her own face, one eye red and tearing, but nothing more.
She wasn't seeing things. She had never been prone to hallucinations or excessive imagination and she wasn't starting now. She pressed her hand against her weeping eye and spoke.
"Who are you?"
The misplaced book. The eyes in the glass. She looked around the room for more clues, and her gaze fell on the knife and block. The knife she had been using was not her own. It was from the Museum.
She had been using Professor Snape's knife. Oh, God.
Hermione sat heavily on her stool and stared at the work table.
It was Professor Snape; it had to be.
9. Nights were always the worst. During the day, he felt he could function to at least an approximation of normal. His mind never strayed too far from matters at hand. But at night, lying in bed, his mind seemed to be at its most traitorous—his memories at their most tangible. He felt his most weary at night, too. He could use Occlumency, to an extent, to empty his mind, but that was tiring in itself.
Tonight, he sat up against the headboard and reached out for whatever reading material he had to hand. The words, however, only held his attention for a brief time, before his blood ran cold and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He could sense, instinctively, that there was something not right in his bedroom. Slipping his hand around his wand, he snapped his head up.
He saw it immediately. It was the mirror. That jaggedly shaped piece of mirror he'd left propped up against the wall on top of the chest of drawers. Something was moving across the surface and he shot to the bottom of the bed to see clearly. Expecting, fearing, to see red hair and green eyes.
But his body froze in mute confusion when he saw only himself—his black hair and his black eyes—merge into being in the glass. Only, he knew this wasn't his reflection. It couldn't be. This was something else entirely.
He got off the bed and put out a hand to touch tentatively at the cool glass. Nothing happened. His image in the mirror only watched, before moving to look at something Severus could not see. The piece was too small to showcase the full scene.
But he could see the slow smile spreading over his likeness' features. And when he comprehended it, disturbed, he grabbed the mirror and pushed it face down with a sharp intake of breath.
What... Could the mirror have mended itself? But... he surely had no deep desire to see himself smile! With caution, he reached out a finger and lifted the mirror upwards. Underneath, he spied only his frowning countenance and he let the mirror clatter back down again, the unsettling image of himself having gone.
Feeling cold and uneasy, for the first time, he considered that he really should have disposed of all remnants of the Mirror of Erised. For it appeared, somehow, that it was no longer defunct.
10. Damn, the man's voice was bloody seductive when he set his mind to it! Head tilting back to rest against the muscles of his shoulder and chest, eyes closed to shut out the banal sight of her childhood bedroom, Hermione struggled for breath. Not because of the way he was gripping her body, but from the way his words were gripping her mind. She felt one of his arms shift, heard him whisper a word, and opened her eyes. He'd conjured a broad, tall cheval-mirror, Transfiguring it out of the stack of books in front of them.
She was confronted by the sight of herself in a white skirt, pink flats and a pale pink blouse, her ringlets falling over her shoulders and down her back to her waist in disarray, wrapped in the arm of a tall, wand-clutching, black-haired, strong-nosed man with a dark fall of shoulderlength locks, a high-collared white shirt, and black trousers and boots. He whispered another word, flicking that wand, and the buttons of her blouse started unfastening themselves.
"I, er, don't think..."
"Good. Don't think," he agreed, which he knew wasn't what she meant. He tucked his wand into his pocket again, and touched the flesh that was being bared below her throat, caressing it lightly, gently. "Feel. Try to look upon this as a venture into a new sort of research--the science of how your husband can make you shiver and sigh with pleasure. How I can make you gasp and moan with desire...how I can make you come undone in my arms, until all you can do is clutch at my flesh and scream my name...say my name, wife."
"S...Severus," she managed in a bare, shaky murmur, as he cupped one bra-clad breast, exposed when the tails of her blouse untucked themselves from her skirt.
"Hermione," he whispered into her ear, encouraging her as he gently kneaded the warm curve of flesh in his palm. "Again..."