Epilogue

The sunlight slanting over the chaos of limbs and bedclothes was deepening from white to gold, and in the corners of the room shadows had begun to gather. A small part of Hermione's mind still able to focus on practicalities briefly considered whether she should call her mother, who was probably half-frantic by now. Then Severus stirred, and all practical thought flew away as she turned her head and smiled at the sight of him. He lay on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, hair a straggling mess, a warm, sinewy arm draped over her chest. How could he sleep? She couldn't possibly sleep. She'd spent days sleeping. Years. Now she wanted to lie here and look at this man until she died. No—she wanted to curl herself around him again, surround him, feel him over and under and inside her, again and again, in an astonishment of pleasure she had never known. Until now.

And then eat. She was starving. Curry would be perfect.

Hermione slid her hand along Severus's arm. He gave an indistinct murmur but didn't awake. With a soft sigh she looked the other way, smiling again at the ragged line of clothes strewn across the floor from the bedside through the living room to the front door: pants, vest, shirts, jumper, trousers with legs inside out, a leather jacket, his boots, her shoes. She vaguely remembered losing the clothes, but she remembered everything else in exquisite, shivering detail: his warm lips and teasing tongue, his hand beneath her shirt, the sweet torture of a thumb against her nipple, his sharp gasp as she slid both hands below his waistband to cup his erection, her own shuddering breath as he reached beneath her panties to find the hot wetness there. That was it. There was nothing she could do but drive herself against him until she came like a cauldron of oil lit by a firebrand. And as she subsided, still shuddering, she realized they were nowhere near her bed. They were still standing, Severus supporting her. Half laughing, half mortified, she looked up at him. His black eyes were brilliant with lust, yet he was smiling just a little.

"Yes," she said. "You did this to me."

"You," he said softly, "are astonishing. A gift beyond anything I remotely deserve."

Hermione had closed the short distance between their mouths before he could say more rubbish about not deserving her. And then, somehow, they found the bed. With the same joyful greed with which they'd kissed at the tomb, Severus had pulled her down on top of him, and with delight she spread herself against and around him.

Their second time was even better. Less frantic. Utterly delicious.

Remembering, Hermione blushed. The walls weren't all that soundproof, and she'd forgotten to cast a silencing spell. Unless old Mrs Belmont was out shopping, she would have overheard a great deal of delight over the past couple of hours. And she was not the sort who would appreciate it. Oh, dear.

Oh, well.

She looked again at Severus. He still slept. In the fading light she saw several thin, straight scars running parallel along his back, like cuts, faded by time to silvery lines. There were other scars too, on his torso and arms—some more dire than his old Dark Mark. At first she had hesitated to touch them. But Severus, meeting her eyes steadily, had taken her hand and laid it against the ridge of whiplike markings on his side. "They don't hurt. I don't believe they ever will again," he whispered.

She didn't have the heart to wake him. At least not yet. Very gently Hermione eased out from beneath Severus's out-flung arm and slid out of bed. After a quick trip to the bathroom, where she contemplated and rejected transforming her blue terry dressing gown into a slinky negligee, she extracted her wand from her jumper sleeve. She then considered the cupboards of her tiny galley kitchen. No whisky, no wine, nor even beer. Tea would have to do. Hermione waved her wand to put the tea-making in motion, then frowned at the front door. Time for a Deflection charm in case her parents got it into their heads to check her flat. And, of course, that long-overdue silencing spell. As Hermione felt subtle power tracing the perimeter of her flat, she sighed. It felt so good to do proper magic again, the kind that didn't rebound chaotically or attack with teeth, that she set her wand to work on the discarded clothes, watching with satisfaction as they straightened out, folded up, and draped themselves neatly across the back of the sofa.

But as Severus's leather jacket began to rise from the floor, a silvery phial rolled out from one of the pockets. Frowning, Hermione bent to pick it up. It was the size of a small water bottle. It wasn't heavy, but something moved inside, something slow and curling.

She heard a faint sound behind her and whirled to see Severus standing a few feet away, wrapped from waist to knees in one of her bath sheets. He had started to smile as she faced him, but his face shut down the moment he saw what she held. In two quick strides he was there. Without force he took the phial from her, holding it as if it might shatter or explode, and placed it on her coffee table. When he looked at her again, she was unable to read his face, unable to tell what he was thinking.

"What is it?" she said quietly.

Severus sat on the sofa and extended a hand to her. After a moment she took it, and gently he pulled her down beside him. Still he said nothing. She felt the tension in his fingers.

"You know it was Potter who got me into St. Mungo's to see you," he said at last. "And got me out without being discovered."

"Harry's good at that kind of thing," Hermione said dryly, and Severus shot her a glinting look.

"Before we parted, he gave me this. He said it's no longer his to keep." Now Severus faced her fully, his eyes sober. With a horrible shock she realized what he meant, what was in the phial he now held. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

"Your memories," she said at last. Her lips felt numb. Of course. Now that he was alive and back in the Wizarding World, he'd have to take them back. They were his; they were part of him. But when he did—the moment he did, even after everything they'd been through together, Severus Snape would be a different person. He would once again love Lily Potter, bitterly and hard—a woman who had died decades ago. He would not love Hermione Granger. Severus would be as lost to her as if he were truly dead.

Hermione pulled her hand from his and looked down at her clenched fingers. "If you're going to—to take them back, please go," she said shakily. "Just go."

"Look at me, Hermione," Severus said, his voice low. As she dragged her gaze back to his, he abruptly pulled the stopper from the phial. Her hand flying to her mouth, she lurched toward him as if she could somehow stop the memories from escaping. But Severus held the phial out of her reach. For a moment she struggled, then she realized no memories were drifting from the phial; no grey wisps of disembodied thought.

"Look inside." Severus held out the phial. She took it, hand trembling slightly, and peered cautiously into the mouth. No trace of memories—only something like water, perhaps an inch or so, curling around the bottom of the phial with a strange thick movement that reminded her of quicksilver. She took a breath and the smell filled her nostrils, her entire body: fresh, living, brilliant as dawn. She had last smelled and tasted that water in Vinata's white tower room, just before Severus had taken her into that liminal, timeless space where they had shared souls.

She looked at Severus again, shaking her head. "I don't understand. Where are the memories?"

He took the phial from her, carefully stoppered it, and placed it on the table. Then he held both her hands in his. "If either Albus or Minerva had still been alive," he said softly, looking down their intertwined fingers, "I might have considered taking back those memories. They may have been able to help me accept them." He sighed. "I went to their tombs. All night I held vigil. When dawn came, I unstopped this phial—" his hands tightened a fraction "—and I watched my memories fade like smoke into the light."

Severus Snape raised his head and looked into her eyes. "And then you came."

As Hermione gazed at him, she felt a great burden rise from her, a dark and heavy What If? sliding from her shoulders. Bowing her head, she rested her cheek against his warm hands. Silence filled the room. When at last she raised her head again, Severus still looked at her, his face in repose; his eyes full of feeling.

She cleared her throat. "But the water? I thought none was left."

His eyes lightened in a look like wonder. "The day Vinata died, I found an almost empty flask buried in my rucksack." He nodded at the silver phial. "What held my memories now holds the last mouthful."

"It can't be from Vinata's realm," said Hermione. "It's too—beautiful."

"She never told me its origin," Severus said quietly. "But I suspect it's ancient—perhaps the Naga's very birth-place, when their universe was young."

"Or another universe," said Hermione. She felt her pulse quickening. "Severus. What if we could find its origin?" She slid her hands impulsively up his wrists. "I now know it's possible to open up the multiverse using quantum magic, not other people's life-energies. Oh Severus . . . what if you and I could travel to any universe? Even ones brighter than ours—at the very dawn of their existence?"

He looked at her soberly. For some reason she felt he was weighing her words with more than his usual attentiveness. But before silence could stretch into uneasiness, Severus gathered her close, so close she felt the beating of his heart. She put her arms around him with a sigh.

"You're about to say," she whispered, "that's how the Naga began. They started out exploring the multiverse. And then . . ."

"Not now," he said, his voice soft against her hair, "Now, I need to know only one thing. May I set up a worktable in a corner of your dingy little flat? With perhaps a small cupboard?"

Hermione looked up at him, grinning. "I can do much better than that. I'll create a pocket-universe just for you—with your very own dungeon."

"Don't let this quantum magic go to your head, Granger. A potions room will do nicely, and a bedroom while you're at it." His mouth quirked. "The larger, the better."

~~ FINITE INCANTATEM ~~

One Last Note: Thank you so very much for joining me on this journey!

A major inspiration for Vinata's dark universe is the work of C.L. Moore, one of the first American SF-fantasy writers—especially her haunting story "The Black God's Kiss." My realm doesn't begin to compare with Moore's brilliantly dark otherworlds, so if you like SF or fantasy with a kick-ass heroine, definitely check out her work (Google "C.L. Moore Black God's Kiss").