Entry tags:

fic, hermione, snape

Special delivery for rayvyn2k
Title:The Gift of Memory
Author: melantha
Recipient's LJ name: rayvyn2k
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Snape/Hermione
Word Count: Approx. 9,650
Warnings (if any): None..all sex is pretty romantic, no overt squicks.
Authors notes: I think I may have missed the mark slightly on your preferences, and if so I apologize..but these two wouldn’t behave and I blame them completely! You asked for romantic, funny, sexy, with happy ending….I got everything but the funny, although they had their moments. Also, you didn’t want any sadness, but there is a little bit in dealing with the past. I had to deal with it, the snarky bastard wouldn’t move on. Hope you enjoy! And also, super thanks to my beta, R, who certainly knows when I’ve overused a word..!



If there was anyone Snape was expecting to deliver his memories, it certainly wasn’t her.

Hermione Granger stood, awkward but calm, in his entryway, where Snape had left her. His old home was a thing of the past, long since compromised, and this dilapidated house wasn’t much better, but it had a small hallway where he didn’t have to look at guests if he didn’t wish to. And this was someone he certainly didn’t wish to see.

To be bluntly honest, she was only the third person who had been to his new self-imposed prison, after Minerva and a healer who had since been Obliviated. That had been his insistence; he had earned this respite, damn it all. Especially from a boy-king who was now not only the toast of the wizarding world, but hell-bent on finding out the remainder of the secrets Snape held about his parents’ past. No, what he had given Harry was more than enough. So much more that he wanted some of it back.

Hence Miss Granger, standing coolly tall in his foyer.

“He’s not aware that you are alive,” she spoke, as if reading his mind. Had he not been extremely well-versed in what that felt like, Snape might have suspected she’d done just that. She cleared her throat, visibly taking some courage at his bland expression, and added, “He believes you might be, but….those were your instructions, and Professor McGonagall is trying to enforce them.”

Truthfully, Snape admitted to himself, it had worked better than he expected. Sighing, he turned back into the main room, gesturing half-heartedly for Granger to follow him. He missed the subtle movement of his cloak, but he’d left off wearing it in his new house, preferring to work with rolled up sleeves with his now endless time. For the first time in the three years since Voldemort’s death, Snape almost had the energy he’d once possessed, to keep up with unruly children and the demands of research. Three long years, two of them spent largely in extended comas, and one relearning how to use his fingers. A cloak had impeded him; he rarely wore it at all now. Three years that Minerva, Kingsley, and Doge had kept his existence a secret. Theoretically it was until he was well enough to face the notoriety of his actions. Potter had certainly done well in clearing his name, but even fame could be exhausting. Three years without another visitor outside their circle.

Excepting now Miss Granger.

“Then pray tell, if not to return what I lent to Potter, why are you here?” he asked as he heard her footsteps behind him. His tone lacked his former vitriol, but there was little point anyway. He’d all but forgotten how to properly needle her, or anyone else for that matter. It took effort, and that he had too little of to squander it needlessly. Effort to rediscover her irritants. Glancing over his shoulder as he moved aside an organized stack of journals from the sofa, he considered some possibilities and discarded them. She was far prettier now than she’d been as a teenager, and his image of her as a student was fading anyway. Commenting on her former awkwardness would be futile now. Perhaps he would think of something later.

Gingerly, she sank down into the spot he’d cleared for her, and licked her lips in preparation to speak. “Minerva said you needed more things than she could procure, what with school restarting and all,” Hermione murmured, as if she’d rehearsed her speech. She probably had, he reflected, taking the chair opposite her with a stifled yawn. It had been a long day already, a frustrating one, tiring him out. Since he did not interrupt, she continued, “Potions supplies and the like. She….said she trusted me to work as your…intermediary, as it were.”

Snape snorted derisively, hiding his faint surprise behind a dismissive expression. When he’d seen that Hermione was the one Minerva had chosen to send, he’d assumed his chosen exile was at an end, that it signaled they wanted him to be public again. Using her as a personal shopper hadn’t crossed his mind, but it was faintly ludicrous anyway. “I’m fairly sure I recall how to order supplies,” he answered, dryly, with a tinge of his old sarcasm. “I’m in seclusion. I’m not an invalid, you wretched girl.”

Unexpectedly, his tone made Hermione straighten up, her eyes blazing a moment, and Severus found himself blinking in arrested thought. So, conflict certainly brought her back to life. He hid a smile as she started in on him with renewed enthusiasm. “You’re still limited to ordering sight unseen,” she pointed out, “and you can’t always investigate new ingredients, or test for freshness, or-“

“Yes, yes, I see your point,” Snape cut her off with an irritated wave of his hand. It was all an argument he’d thought of before, but there was still no way around it, unless he wished to polyjuice himself to town on a regular basis. It certainly wasn’t beyond his scope, but there was no way he would take the chance of collapsing in public where he could be revealed. He’d made strides in overcoming the poison’s damage, but he wasn’t foolish. “Yet I daresay there is little you can do except bring me the catalogues in person. Are you offering to stand here and recite them for me, perhaps?” He eyed her, summing up her determination and dismissing it. No doubt she had some idiotically brave plan, a Gryffindor plan, whereas he’d get himself into even worse straits than he was now.

“I have thought of something,” Hermione retorted, narrowing her eyes at him. Snape had to hide his smile again; she certainly knew this time what he was thinking, mind reader or not. He wasn’t bothered by it. “And it doesn’t require you to leave the house if you don’t wish to.”

“I don’t wish to,” Snape answered instantly, forestalling her cheerleader tactics of cajoling him out. “So whatever your elaborate scheme may be, we can make that clear.”

“Alright,” Hermione agreed, then took a short breath. “I will lend you my memories.”

Snape let a heartbeat go by, unremarked, before he said, casually, “I beg your pardon?”

“My memories,” Hermione repeated, as if it wasn’t the strangest thing Snape had ever heard her say. “Specifically, my memory right after I walk through the potions shop in its entirety.” Taking his continued silence as encouragement, she added, “That way, you can see everything I see, firsthand, and then tell me what you need. It’s simple, really.”

Snape opened his mouth to dismiss it, then shut it again, opening and closing his fist on the arm of the chair as he thought. It was simplistic, but…effective. He could ‘visit’ the shop without risking personal injury or endangering his solitude. No one need know he had been there, and indeed, it would give him invaluable firsthand knowledge. He clenched his hand a moment as he made his decision, but that was all the outward sign he would give her for now.

“You would lend me your memories for the simple purpose of my procuring potions ingredients,” he finally stated, slowly, gauging her reaction. When she nodded, looking hopeful, he paused, then asked in a measured tone, “For what in return?”

It was subtle, the way she rolled her shoulders, like she was inwardly commanding them to relax. He recalled suddenly how she would coach herself verbally, bringing any traitorous emotions to bear under her considerable will. He’d forgotten that about her. Forgotten that in the face of this somewhat unfamiliar woman sitting across from him. But he knew his question had been correct; she wanted something in return. In three years, that certainly had not changed.

“There are a few restricted potions of master level that I want to learn,” Hermione answered, after a moment, although her voice did not hesitate. “I’ve not found a suitable teacher. You wouldn’t need to show me directly,” she added quickly. “I don’t want to compromise this place by staying too long. You could, in return, give me a memory of their preparation.”

It was a logical and well-thought out request, but Snape merely raised an eyebrow at her. “Any work of a master level is certainly not something you can follow the directions to, as out of a book,” he retorted, cuttingly.

“Then test me.”

“I don’t have the time.” It was a lie of course…he had all the time in the world right now, which is how he preferred it. And yet…he needed a first hand glimpse of those supplies. And this way, he wouldn’t even have to interact with Granger too much. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “I will concede something, in return for these memories you promise.” His tone had become supercilious; apparently he did recall more of his former ways than he thought. “If I deem that they are helpful enough, I will give over one preparation. If you can successfully brew it after that, we’ll discuss it.” His voice suggested that he highly doubted she’d make it past the first test, but that didn’t matter. He’d have enough information from one good visit to last him a while in ordering. Holding up a finger, he said, “Of course, it had better be a thorough shop. I’ll not bother watching you waste my time on frivolous nonsense.”

“Obviously,” Hermione answered, with a small toss of her head. Thrive on conflict, indeed, Snape thought again, amused despite himself. It was refreshing; Minerva and the others were overly solicitous. Irritating. “I’ll have the first memory ready tomorrow. You can prepare your list, and then I will purchase them.”

Snape rose to escort her out, the wheels in his mind turning furiously, both with possibilities and yet questions unanswered. They made it to the door itself before she turned suddenly, too close, and he forced himself not to flinch but to calmly give her room.

“He does want to know,” she ventured.

Potter. Ignoring the instant tumult that the words caused, Snape said, evenly, “I’ve no desire to be cast in that passion play.”

Hermione nodded, but said anyway, “He simply wants to know, for peace of mind.”

She was obliquely asking him for permission to reveal his secret, but he wasn’t going to oblige that. Yet. There was too much he hadn’t dealt with in Harry’s case; now was not the time. “He’ll survive,” Snape murmured, adding dryly, “he always has.”

---

****************************************

It took three visits, not one, before Snape was satisfied with her shopping, although Hermione had taken pains to be as thorough as possible. Every time she’d delivered the vial of silvery liquid containing her recollection, he had specific instructions for her to look harder at something or other. At first she’d been bothered, thinking he was purposefully dragging it out so that she’d never learn the new potion, but his inability to hide his enthusiasm stopped that train of thought. Each time, his eyes had brightened with an almost indefinable excitement, although the rest of his studied expression remained the same. She’d taken to talking to herself while shopping, to explain what new items had come in or were expected, and what not. Instead of asking her to cease, he’d merely told her to slow down next time so that he could follow her chatter without reviewing the memory multiple times.

Finally, three weeks later, he exchanged a taller vial of liquid memory as she brought his purchases. As promised, it was the preparation of Evanidus potion, a master level vanishing potion that she’d only read about. When he’d told her which one the memory contained, she caught the hint of a smile; no doubt he was obliquely hoping she’d botch it and simply disappear. Determined to prove him wrong, she started studying it that night.

Carefully pouring the distilled liquid into her pensieve, Hermione set the vial aside and made sure everything was locked in her small flat. She had no wish to be interrupted, no desire to explain what the memory was and where she’d gotten it. Harry had become less invasive as the years passed, and he was busy with Auror work as it was. Ron wasn’t even in the country at present, and her wards would keep out anyone else indefinitely. Reassured, she let her consciousness seep into the pensieve.

She expected to see the Slytherin dungeons at Hogwarts, or another private lab. She expected a younger Snape, one in professor robes and with no scars, no achingly inherent slowness. But instead, the memory was fresh, catching her off-guard. It looked at though he’d made it less than a week before, in the confines of his new home. Perplexed at first, Hermione watched him prepare the ingredients, perform each step of the brewing, punctuating it with a curt comment or two, obviously directed at her hearing it. He’d expected her to succeed after all, she realized. He’d created the memory while she was shopping, instead of giving her an old preparation from the past.

The first two times she viewed it, Hermione’s attention was arrested by the potion itself. His work was complex but seamless, and she left the pensieve to make copious notes. The third time she watched his movements to make sure she counted each stir correctly, each minute adjustment. The fourth time was merely double-checking.

The fifth time all she did was watch him.

His hands were steady but so slow, so restricted from how she remembered him. His left hand was stiffer than his right, the last two fingers barely bending. He still wore no cloak; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hands almost seemed out of proportion with his tall, slight frame, like they should have been delicate and thin as well. Instead, they looked like the hands of a laborer, strong with a large grip. It hurt to see those hands no longer deft with the glass tubes, but Hermione found herself wondering how strong they were. He kept them meticulously clean, but it did not change his dexterity.

With his cloak gone, she could see the narrowness of his shoulders, the slightest curl of where his dark hair lay against his neck. It was still unkempt, almost more so now, longer than before, and got in his eyes too often. He did not brush it away, and Hermione found herself wanting to move it from his eyes. It made no difference in a memory; she could not touch him. But it became a study she’d never thought she would make. Watching him move slowly but deliberately along the path of the potionmaking, her thoughts and emotions became more jumbled.

How had he ever survived the attack? She knew intellectually that Minerva had found him in a fugue state, near death, and had arranged for him to be healed. By what she’d been told, it took nearly two years to fully heal the muscular damage, but clearly his nervous system hadn’t returned to what it was before. And why keep it from Harry? Snape was a hero now, to the public….Harry had made sure of that. In the face of his unwavering gusto, even Hermione had been forced to change some of her opinions. She hadn’t forgotten what cruel things Snape had said, but she’d…outgrown it, if that were the right term. Made peace with it. And in its wake had come fascination, almost. All along, the fight she’d been championing for, he’d been fighting. Secretly doing all those things she and Harry and Ron had clumsily been trying to accomplish. He’d passed from teacher to enigma in her mind. What would he become now, as she memorized him anew?

He was a man, no more or less, she decided, as she relived the memory as an almost guilty pleasure, knowing he couldn’t deflect her curiosity here. She was free to do what she liked, look as she wanted. And on the heels of that came a stronger desire to understand more. Perhaps he would trade pieces of himself if she had more to offer.

---

****************************************

A gift, she’d said. Severus turned the vial over in his hand, both wondering and dreading what it contained. Granger’s surprises weren’t always pleasant; the girl had a lack of comprehension when it came to other people’s desires. Or she had once…he found himself in the unenviable position of wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt now. That, or else he was simply bored out of his skull.

Deciding it was the latter, Severus retrieved his pensieve and set it up with a small wand gesture. Since getting a glimpse of the outside world through Hermione’s shopping, he’d rediscovered a desire to see it again. A desire dormant for the last three years as he’d recovered. Before now, solitude was heaven. Hermione had inadvertently made it a cage.

Wanting to wallow in blaming her, Severus reluctantly set that aside with a dismissive thought. It was distracting at best, not truly satisfying. She’d proven to be much less irritating than she used to be, and he was too greedy for her memories to let such thoughts interfere. Preparing himself, he slid his mind into the ready pensieve.

Instead of the potions shop, Severus was shocked to see Hermione, and now himself, outside the Royal Opera House in London’s West End. He wasn’t prepared for the immediate onslaught of people, after being so secluded for so long, but his flinch could not be seen by anyone. As if she’d known, Hermione had started the memory as she stood on the side street, protected from the milling herd. He turned in a circle as she stood there, quietly, looking at the marquee just as if she were waiting for him to acclimate. When she spoke, he automatically turned back to her.

“Its Don Carlo tonight,” she murmured, her brown eyes speculative on the lit sign. Severus let his gaze travel up there as well as she spoke. “It’s supposed to be one of Verdi’s best. I’ve always wanted to try the Opera, but time being what it was…” She shrugged. He found himself wanting to commiserate; he couldn’t recall the last moment he’d had to spare for frivolous entertainment. As a professor, that nearly always meant Qudditch matches. Bloody sick of them, he admitted silently. He looked at her again, shamelessly staring since he knew he could do as he pleased.

She was wearing a simple black dress, Muggle attire, sleeveless and hitting at her knee. When had she gotten so tall? He mused. He barely had to look down at her…that hadn’t been the case before. A brief glance told him she was wearing heels—and that her legs were fairly nice—but the heels weren’t that high. Apparently, she’d changed greatly in that regard since she’d left school. Her hair was done up, still the same deep brown he recalled. Before he could process any more, she stepped from the curb and into the crowd of theatergoers. He followed obediently, relishing the idea of being able to examine everything at will. He didn’t have to endure stares and whispers here; merely trail along in her wake as she entered the stilted doors. The crowd was quieter here, muffled by thick carpeting and tapestried walls. It was more sumptuous than he would have expected, but then, when would he have attended a Muggle opera? Thankfully, he didn’t have to ape their formalities; no one could see him, wizard or Muggle.

An usher with the Muggle contraption called a ‘torch’ stopped Hermione at the top of the orchestra stairs, and she dutifully retrieved a ticket from her tiny purse. He’d been admiring the wall sconces but glanced over to see where she would sit, just in time to see her flash two tickets, not one. The usher indicated her seat, fairly close and centered on the stage, and perplexed, Snape followed. Was someone else joining them? He felt hot, suddenly, and unwillingly recognized it as jealousy. This was a memory she’d made for him, so he thought, not some evening out with a beau that she’d deigned to share with him. But before his dark mood could descend, she whispered, “I rather thought you’d not want to stand, even in a memory.”

So it was his seat. It spoke of foresight on her part, and the twinge of jealousy turned into something he didn’t wish to examine as yet. She had indeed created this for him. What could she possibly want in return? She took one of the two designated spots, and he sank reluctantly into the other, watching her. What had possessed her to gift this memory? To not just gift it but make it apurpose? Potionmaking did not elicit this level of bribery, or so he had thought before. Did she even know if he liked opera? The idea that she’d interrogated Minerva for just that information made him fidget in his chair.

Once the opera started, he made himself let go of the speculations so he could at least enjoy it. It was a political epic, rife with betrayals and scheming, and it was just the sort of thing he did enjoy, the subtleties of it. But when intermission came, he could only watch Hermione. She didn’t leave her seat, but merely made small comments about the opera, glancing through the programme. He barely heard what she said. Her hair had started to rebel against its pins; several pieces now curled against her neck. He let his eyes follow the curve of it, her shoulders, the way she crossed her legs under the black silk. Could he keep this memory? The idea that she might want it back intruded; that it was meant as a one time gift.

Almost bereft, Severus watched her for the remainder of the opera; how her eyes widened at the scenes of battle or glistened at the romance. Her lips parted, as if she were unable to completely catch her breath, and he marveled at how she immersed herself in the story. He’d never be able to enjoy it that deeply. There was always something of himself to hide, to guard. He was never able to completely suspend his disbelief in tales.

All too soon, he found himself on the street again, the memory fading to its conclusion. Hermione smiled, once, like the sun, although it wasn’t directed right at him. He wanted to catch her eye, but that was impossible here, everything seen only obliquely, like he watched from the periphery of his vision. It closed on him now, as if he was losing consciousness, then the walls of his home intruded, reality reasserting.

Pushing away from the pensieve, Severus straightened painfully, feeling the agonizing stiffness that plagued him now. He didn’t have enough energy to relieve the memory, much as he wished to reexamine it all. It was like piecing together clues of Hermione, like he’d never known her before. Truth be told, he certainly didn’t….she was nothing like the student he’d once had. The outcome of those three years had altered her as surely as it had him.

Tomorrow he would speculate on it more. Tomorrow he could afford to decipher what she might want. Tonight, he needed a respite from the altogether tantalizing mystery.

---

****************************************

Clear plexiglass arched up from her hand as Hermione leaned on the small railing. Below her, the whole of the city flowed out, tiny and perfect from this height. The ponderous wheel of the Eye of London turned slowly, allowing its occupants leisure to look as they would. And yet, her attention was divided. The more the silence pressed in on her, the more she felt her adrenaline surge.

She hadn’t meant to feel this, but her imagination was working overtime. Alone in the capsule, as she meant to be, she couldn’t help but picture him behind her, just out of sight. It was almost as if she could feel him standing there, intense and brooding. Intellectually, she knew that Snape wouldn’t be seeing this memory until several days hence, but she could picture him reviewing it, his dark eyes scanning both the horizon and her. Perhaps he would walk over to the railing, put his hand right there. Hermione shivered slightly, anticipating. More than that, wanting him to be right there next to her, enough that she could feel body warmth.

Forcing her tone to remain light, she spoke about the Eye itself, about the history of some of the sights they could see, but even in her own ears her voice was breathless. Why had she worn the sundress, so thin that he could probably see through it with the strong sun backlighting her? Unconsciously, she slid her hand across her collarbone, seeking some sort of relief from the tightness of her skin. She hadn’t meant to become so enamoured of the idea of his watching her. And yet the image refused to let her alone. If he were here, would he come up behind her on the pretense of looking at the view? Would she feel the press of his leg against the back of her thigh as she stood there? Her nipples hardened suddenly, painfully, but she managed to stifle her gasp.

The remainder of the tour she was unusually quiet.

---

****************************************

She stood so close to him, but not looking up, not seeing his gaze as it raked over her features. Beyond them, the churning waters of the Thames echoed Severus’ inward emotions; but he didn’t feel the slight chill that permeated the air. Wind blew her hair back from her face; a fine misty rain gilded her lashes. Just as before, she seemed short of breath, her breasts rising and falling with a cadence he couldn’t ignore. Under the thin jumper that she wore, her nipples were hard pebbles again, her jacket open enough for him to see the outline of her so clearly.

“Are you thinking of me, now?” he whispered, unheard, into her ear. “Wondering how close I am, if I am trying to touch you..” He did just that, stroking phantom fingers over her shoulder, down her arm. When he’d received the next memory from her hands, one clear thought had transmitted itself to him, accidentally and without her knowledge. A thought that made him anticipate each new ‘gift’ like nothing before.

The scenery went by unheeded, as she murmured disjointed words about the coastline and Severus went on cataloguing each new delightful shudder that she made. Her jacket slid off one shoulder and she neglected to shift it back up; moisture was beginning to make her jumper even more form-fitting. She tensed her arms almost desperately against the chill, which only served to push her breasts up and forward, much to his appreciation. Amused and exceedingly aroused himself, he let his eyes slide down her body again. She had pressed her legs tightly together, one foot curling around the back of the other as she shifted her stance.

Severus groaned, almost having to leave the memory right then and there. His painfully erect manhood strained against the seam of his pants, enough he suspected, to leave an imprint. This slow dance, even starting out so unintentional, was killing him, sapping the hard-won strength he had. Reliving memories of Hermione was taking much of his time now, but with no satisfaction. She was there, right in front of him, and yet as unattainable as a ghost. He couldn’t even take pleasure in the idea that she was lusting after him herself…there was too much a gap between fantasy and reality. Her own memories were a conduit for a false romance that he could pretend was real.

Suddenly saddened by the thought that he might never know, Severus pulled his consciousness from the pensieve, pushing it away in a fit of pique. His body did not receive the message, refusing to let go of his heated desire, even after he threw himself into bed late into the night. Almost unwillingly, he finally sought out secondary pleasure, his hand seeking and sliding along his painfully hard shaft desperately. His fingers curled too tight, the nerve damage harsh, but he welcomed the grip, the skin against skin. He could imagine her here, atop him, taking his thick cock into her, arching back so that her glorious hair touched his thighs, those same thighs that gripped him. The lamplight would gild her skin, the pink tips of her rounded breasts moving as she rode him. Tangled in the sheets of his bed, alone in the dark, he moaned her name as his body gave in, climaxing hard under his grasp.

Unfortunately, it was a brief respite, and dreams only made him want once more.

---

****************************************

She held out two vials to him, cupped in her slim hand, and Severus looked at them with apprehension. Slowly, he picked them up from her palm, his fingers lingering as they had before, each time getting longer. Almost having the courage to pull her closer along with the memories.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione murmured, looking so pale and chagrinned that he felt the unfamiliar urge to comfort her. Reassure her. After all, this was what he had wanted all along, wasn’t it? She swallowed, glancing up to him with those lamentably deep brown eyes. “He has to know now, although he wouldn’t admit it. I tried to think of another way, but truly, who else would need those memories besides you and him?”

In his palm, the vials felt hot, and he realized he was gripping them too tightly. His memories. All of his memories of Lily, the ones he’d given to her son. From his childhood, the beginnings of his fall, the torturous grief of her death. All in his hands again. And all he could think was, I’m not ready. He was living vicariously through Hermione now, through his growing need for her. The absence of his guilt had almost been a blessing. And yet…to have the image of Lily’s face again…

“Even Potter is not that idiotic,” he finally said, gruffly, sliding the vials into his pocket, as much to hide his trembling hand as anything. “I’ve had three years of peace. I suppose that was the best I could expect.”

If it were possible, Hermione looked more wretched at his words, and Severus was instantly shamed. She’d accomplished his most fervent wish, to have his mind completely intact once more, and he was berating her for it, even if it was obliquely. Hell, one simply couldn’t be oblique with Gryffindors. She spoke before he could apologize, saying, “He still has no idea where you are. I won’t tell him….I’ve already promised you that.”

Discarding a dozen instant responses all geared towards Potter’s indefatigable stubbornness, Severus answered quietly, “I know you did, Hermione. I’m not….” He pressed his lips together tightly, warring with the onslaught of emotions the memories conjured. Once he was back in control, he finished, “I’m not bothered by that. Potter couldn’t find his own head were it not attached.” He sniffed haughtily at that; not his best insult by far but he was distracted, for heaven’s sake.

Hermione gave a small, hiccupy laugh, which was the entire point, so he felt somewhat redeemed. “Your memories are in the larger vial,” she said, after a brief smile. “I think it’s best if I come back next week rather than tomorrow, so you have time to reacclimatize them.”

Severus could only nod as he saw her out, still fighting the urge to set the precious vial aside in favor of keeping her in his home longer. Of keeping her in his life longer. Things would change once he had Lily’s life in his head once more, he knew it. But truth be told, it was a decision he simply could not make.

Still, it took him all night to prepare for it, prepare for his past again. To come to terms with facing it all once more, to calm his emotions back to stability. A night to forget about Hermione, the future, and everything that represented. And it still wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t close to enough.

The immersion brought him to his knees, and he stayed there through each silvery strand, each web of bittersweet memory. It crushed him, shattered his heart into a million pieces all over again to see Lily’s life, the times she embraced him and the times she turned away. To see her signature on a piece of paper undid every last bit of his resolve; even a torn photograph had the power to elicit hot tears from him. Long after he’d returned them all to his mind, Severus was powerless to do anything by lie there and relive each one in detail, to caress them as if he were caressing his first love again. On the floor, his black trousers and the pale white shirt were imprinted with dust, but it mattered nothing to him.

He was a slave to the past once more.

---

****************************************

Stiffness in his joints reminded Severus why sleeping on the floor was not highly recommended by his physician. Groaning, he hauled his pained body to the bed, collapsing on it for another few hours respite. Despite the wrenching impact of absorbing his past memories all at once, they fit back into him like the missing piece of a puzzle, and he could finally look at them without pain. It reminded him of all the reasons he had come to be where he was, all the reasons he hated Potter, why he had killed Dumbledore.

It also reminded him why he’d hated Hermione.

Lily was the one who was supposed to be the brightest witch of her age. She would have shone like a star in her prime, Severus knew. He always knew. Muggleborn or not, that would have been her place, a great witch like none before. But now that was Hermione’s place. It was Hermione’s role, and the worst part was that all along, he’d watched and known that no one was thinking of Lily when they spoke of Hermione’s accomplishments. Like Lily had never existed, had never come before on that same path. A witch for the ages.

He didn’t want to hate Hermione again, had never realized that the gift of these memories would return that to him as well. Even recognizing it was unfair to her, a traitorous comparison, Severus felt the same anger welling up in him once more. Lily should have been the one. But she’d died, ignomiously, cut down while she was hiding. She never should have had to hide. Hiding only because she was untested, and so young.

If Hermione died today, she’d be the same age that Lily died at.

The unbidden thought was like a wave of cold water, dousing Severus’ anger and everything along with it. Hermione was still alive, but then he’d thought Lily was safe once. Untouchable. Hermione was too smart to die….but then, Lily had been as well. And he no longer had her, memories or not.

What if he had nothing of Hermione but memories?

Severus sat up on the bed, chilled. His thoughts were arrested by the feel of something in his pocket. Perplexed, he pulled out the second vial. Hermione had given him two vials, of course. But all his memories were in the larger one; she’d said that herself. What had she included in this one? Another gift, perhaps. He almost put it away, at that. If he was to lose her, he’d want to save it, to drag out time in his favor. But the possibilities were too great. He just didn’t know what she might have given him.

It took him much less time to prepare now, more urgent than before. His mind suggested that it might not even be her memory, but he guessed that it was. Why would she give it at the same time as his ones of Lily? Perhaps to say goodbye…..no, he shook his head firmly. She said she’d be back the following week. Hermione always kept her promises.

---

****************************************

Hermione stood in the dirt lane, just as the sun was setting. It was deserted except for herself, just as she’d planned. Not that far away was a church, quiet and dark, and further on the scatterings of a town. As the sun gilded it with it’s last rays, she sighed, praying that she hadn’t been wrong to make this memory for him. But it didn’t matter. She needed to do this, for both their sakes. If she ever wished to have a future with Severus, and she knew now that she did, this step was necessary.

A faint wind tried unsuccessfully to bend her curls to its will. After a long, silent moment, she started off the lane and across an expanse of short grass. It was unlike her to not preface the memories for his edification, but there was nothing to say. He would know where they were, where they walked to, in the twilight. It required no explanation.

Paths lay among the gravestones, but she followed the single track, having memorized the layout from when she came with Harry. The seeds of this memory had germinated from that visit, from her being so close to the ghost that trapped the man she cared about. Even now, as she approached the double headstone, Hermione wasn’t sure what she would say.

It seemed like an agonizingly long time that she stood there, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, as Hermione let the enormity of this sink in. Perhaps Severus would resent sharing this with her, or be incensed that she’d rather forced him to it. A brief surge of anger swept her—you can leave at any time—but it was gone just as quickly.

“I didn’t know you,” she heard her voice start, rough and uneven. “I know those people you spent your life with, but it’s not the same. It can never be the same…” She paused, but the words were already there. “But I do know you in a different way, and for that, I am so grateful. Because of you…I’m not forbidden my magic. I’m not a victim of those who hate our kind. Because you gave up your own life, I got to live.” Hermione felt moisture spring to her eyes. “I’ll never be able to repay that. And it’s not even all. You see….because someone loved you with all his heart, I was protected from our enemies. My friends and I only succeeded because of his love for you. Our world goes on now, safely, because of his love for you. I wanted to say….” It was hard, but Hermione knew she couldn’t have stopped saying these words if she’d tried. “To both you and Severus. Both of you….thank you. Thank you for all of it.” The tears in her eyes spilled over, heedless; she had no way of knowing if he’d stayed through to this part, but it didn’t matter. “For my life….thank you.”

---

****************************************

She stood just out of earshot, as if it mattered, her back to the gravestones Severus stood in front of. Despite the pain at her tearful words, he felt the urge to roll his eyes at her solicitousness, her pose so calculated to give his unseen presence the illusion of privacy. By all that was holy, the girl was to the letter a noble Gryffindor. This time it made him smile.

“She’s always that overwrought,” he said, quietly, to the stone. “Always.” He stopped to run his fingers along Lily’s name, grateful that in a memory he couldn’t wear it down like time inevitably would. Or not….she was the mother of a hero now, a hero for the ages. Spells would ensure that her name never wore away. The thought pleased him, the first happy thought he’d had of Potter in…well, he didn’t need to calculate that. “She’s right, though....and you know, I detest when she is right.” The stark stone remained silent, and Severus spoke past the painful squeeze of his throat. “If you hadn’t made the choices you did, would I have ever broken free? Would any of us have?” He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, against the horrible tightness of it, but it brought him no relief. For now, he was grateful that Hermione couldn’t see this part, back to him or not. “You did save all of us. You saved me.” A rueful, sad smile flitted across his mouth, gone like a shadow. “You’ve been saving me for years now. Perhaps….perhaps it’s time someone else took up that mantle.”

The dark was swallowing up the graveyard now, but still Hermione didn’t move, and he was free to watch as the image of his love’s name vanished. Just as it seemed it was gone, a creeping bit of moonlight made it glow, the letters indecipherable but the stone bright. Weakly, Severus sank to his knees, then pressed his lips against the carving. He rested his forehead there a moment longer, the cold nothing to his memory-self. “I have a future now,” he whispered, to her name. “And I thank you for that, too.”

---

****************************************

With a restless hand, Hermione stirred the silvery memory into her pensive, licking her lips distractedly. When she’d gone to see Severus, he had little to say other than thanking her quietly for the memory she provided. Before she could dither more, he gave her this vial, adding that he hoped their arrangement would continue. It told her nothing of how he felt, but she’d been too concerned to press it. His face was drawn now, apprehensive, with a deep-seated worry she couldn’t fathom. With his words of their work, she assumed the memory was the last potion preparation he’d promised and not yet delivered. If it was, she would have to accept that. She could still watch him this way. It wasn’t enough….yet it was all she had.

But it wasn’t the makeshift potion lab from his home that greeted her when she slid into the memory. Instead, Hermione found herself standing on a cliff, verdant green and teased by ocean winds. The view was beautiful but stark, the sea far below and the grass underfoot thick and dry. The sky arched overhead, orange and gold from the setting sun. Slowly, she turned in a circle, stopping short as she was arrested by the sight of Severus waiting behind her.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, an almost unconcerned pose except for the tightness of his features. The wind tugged at his hair, stirring it and the flap of the tent he stood in front of. He wore the same white shirt, sleeves rolled up, the same pants. If it weren’t for his lack of shoes, she would wonder if he came there accidentally.

The silence stretched out as she watched him, her heart yearning, as his gaze lay beyond her, at the sea. Why had he brought her here? Was there something to say that he couldn’t bring himself to murmur in her presence? Hermione wanted to reach out and touch him, futile as it would be. Anything to bridge that gap.

As her hand rose, he closed his eyes, the strain not leaving his face. But now, he spoke, his voice low. “If you want me,” he murmured, thickly, “then come to me. I’ll be waiting right here.” His head dropped, so his face was unseen now, as if he couldn’t bear to see her reaction, any reaction. As if even the memory distance wasn’t enough. But he’d said it, all the same.

Frozen between a wild joy and an indecipherable fear, Hermione stood in the memory, the waves from a time already past still crashing well below her feet. She felt like she’d grown roots, unable to move forward or back, in this pivotal memory. A memory that was being offered as reality. No more lonely thoughts, a film screened for one. She could enter it, live it now.

Live now. And forever.

---

****************************************

A pop was the only warning of her arrival, then Hermione was in his arms, and Severus was kissing her wildly, a parched man thirsty for water. Her hands were in his hair, sliding along the buttons of his shirt, seeking out skin just as he was doing. She tasted sweet, and as hungry as he was, and it nearly undid him then and there. This was reality, this was flesh and blood. All along he’d been fighting for the past; now, at long last, he could fight for the future. Wordless, he caught her up, all blowing hair and tangled dress, carrying her into the tent set on the cliff’s plain.

He’d made it so that the sounds of the sea could still be heard, even though the main rooms inside were a pocket of magic, a sumptuous retreat larger than the humble outside would suggest. The great room, then bedroom, went unmarked as he laid her down on the bed, following her onto the sheets. She could see what furnishings he so clumsily picked out later; they had all the time in the world now. All it was meant to be was a place for them alone, and in that, it succeeded admirably.

Her hair lay across the pillow, highlighted by the lamp’s flicker just as he’d imagined it would. His eyes took so long roaming it that she smiled, a knowing, seductive smile that sent a tremor through him. “You’ve seen me many times before,” she teased, low.

“You’re quite wrong,” Severus answered, stubbornly, “foolish girl. I haven’t seen any of this…” His fingers slid along the neckline of her dress, and she gasped as the material parted of its own accord, unfastening like he’d wordlessly commanded it to. He dipped his head to press his mouth to the curve of her neck and shoulder, his tongue tasting her slowly.

Her clothes unraveled under the spell, and dimly, Snape congratulated himself on that creative trick. His hands deftly followed the magic, sliding down to cup her aching breasts. The rough pad of his thumb teased each nipple into diamond hardness. “And I imagine I could never see enough of this,” he murmured, tracing the path his hands had left before taking the peak of her breast into his mouth. If it were possible, her nipples tightened more under the onslaught of his tongue, and Hermione moaned desperately. Her body arched, as if wanting something to hold, to embrace. Arching her back to press herself closer to his seeking mouth, her hands roamed unseeingly, tugging at his shirt until it was tossed away. Wriggling under him, she managed to find the fastener on his trousers, undoing it before he forestalled her with his own hand.

“Hermione,” he groaned, half in protest, and she thrilled to the way her name sounded, thick with the need in his voice. When she didn’t stop her questing hands, he added, his mouth against her skin, “I don’t wish to move too fast…not this time.”

Throatily, Hermione murmured, “We’ve all the time in the world. Fast, slow…we can have it all.”

Still, he tried to move her hands away from him a moment, although he was unable to leave off sampling the expanse of skin from her collarbone to her nipples. “You know what I mean, you wretched woman.”

In answer, Hermione wound her leg around his, pressing her hip up to slide against him. “Well, this time you’re wrong, old man,” she said archly, but it was punctuated with a long moan as she felt the proof of his arousal against the fabric of his trousers. “This is the damned slowest seduction I’ve ever known.”

Unable to argue, and grateful at that for once, Severus let her finish undressing him, until their clothes were scattered across the floor and he could feel the long length of her, her coltish legs sliding along his calves, the hard points of her breasts against his chest, the patch of silky curls that teased his cock unmercifully. Before he could explore to his heart’s content, her grasp unerringly found his thick shaft, curling strong fingers around it. He stilled himself; it took all his control not to take then and there the promise that grasp offered.

It was pointless; Hermione moved under him wildly, never ceasing, and he was swept along with it, as her hand slid along his cock, tightly, learning him. She moaned again, deeply, pressing hard against his hip as she searched for relief from the mounting desire. He couldn’t ignore the pleas of her body; his own hand searched through the slick curls until he found the hard nub of her clit. The lightest touch made her body jerk, and she loosened her hold on him a moment, distracted by the flood of pleasure. He kissed her at the same moment, stealing the gasps and moans elicited as he slid his finger further into the wet folds. Gods, she was tight around just one, and she started to thrust her hips up to meet his hand. Mesmerized by her movements, he slowly worked a second finger inside, circling, spreading the hot liquid of her arousal. Unable to help himself, he leaned back enough to watch her, her brown eyes heavy-lidded with desire, her lips parted and swollen from his kiss. Each small thrust of his fingers made her shudder, panting. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, almost without realizing it.

“Only for you,” she said, a husky whisper, as her eyes closed, arching herself fully into his hands again.

He couldn’t resist it; he wanted to be able to feel her brought to the edge, before his own desperate need overcame his senses. Abruptly, he moved down the length of her, between her thighs, and focused on that hard nub with his tongue. Hermione made a strangled sound, a mixture of shock and overwhelming need, and he slid his fingers inside her again, timing the flickering of his tongue with the rhythm of his hand. In response, she undulated under him, more frenzied by the moment. Grazing the hardness of her clit with his teeth, gently, he was rewarded with another panting moan. Caressing, over and over, he felt the tension build in her as he tasted her so intimately. This one time he needed to feel every emotion of hers, to imprint it on his memory without distraction. Another memory he wanted to relive forever.

The first ripple of orgasm shook her, writhing under his ministrations, and he felt the second spasm of it tremble through her body, like the ocean breaking on the shore outside. She cried out, lost in it, and he slowed his fingers to match the waves, until she lay spent, her body relaxed. Only then did he release her enough to move his body alongside her again, to smooth his hands over her back, her hip, across the silkiness of her thigh. She burrowed against his chest, her own mouth mimicking the path he’d done before, her lips and tongue across his neck, his shoulder, the planes of his chest.

He knew he should let her relax for the moment, but his hands sought out the roundness of her bottom, pulling her unerringly closer to his still-hard cock, if just to feel her skin pressed against his. Her tongue still laved at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, worrying it with her teeth a moment. Unintentionally, his cock brushed against the hardness of her clit through the wet curls, and she moaned.

“I’m sorry,” he said, inhaling the scent of her hair, trying to keep control of his own heated need for a moment. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Hermione curled against him, twining her leg with his once more which only served to bring the slick nub into contact with him again, and they moaned in unison. “I’ve been waiting so long,” she whispered, feverishly. “It’s not enough, yet….I want more. I want you.”

Even then, Severus knew he had to go slow, to give her a chance to build up again, to match him in urgency. Keeping a tight grip on his restraint, he wrapped his fingers around his erection and allowed the tip to slide against her throbbing nub. Hermione cried out, voice thick and low with want. Again, he glided against her, teasing with the slick touch, bringing the juices of her desire out once more. In moments, long moments that he doubted he would ever survive intact, she was begging for release. “Now,” she urged, breathlessly, her hands sliding around him to pull him closer.

“Not yet,” Severus panted, leashing his need, barely hanging on.

Suddenly, she was pushing him onto his back and straddling him, and Severus could only lie back and stare. It was just as he’d pictured her, only more perfect; her hair was bronzed by the warm light, her skin pale and unmarked. Her breasts were round and heavy, tipped with the tight pink buds he’d tasted before, still glistening with the wetness. Her thighs were spread around him, and the delicate, swollen folds of her labia peeked through the tight auburn curls. She was glorious.

There were too many things he wanted to do to her, too many places he wanted to explore and taste on her body, but she wrapped her fingers around his erect cock, taking the decision herself. He didn’t have to urge her to lean forward; she guided the tip of his arousal to the slick, hot wetness and slid it inside. Mesmerized, he could only watch and feel as she slid down on him, taking his cock inside her inch by inch, undulating with her hips to accommodate his thickness. Her body stretched slowly, still agonizingly tight, and Severus had to dig his fingers into her hips to slow her even more, or else he would lose than vaunted control.

Their eyes locked, and he felt it in his breath, his heartbeat. Control was a thing of the past; now they started to move together, he lifting his body to meet hers as she slid down on his shaft, riding him, feeling him fill her with each stroke. The sounds of their lovemaking drowned out the sea, sweet cries and low moans. It became more frantic, faster and faster, and Severus dug his heels into the bed as he took her, and was taken by her, all at the same time. Hermione threw her head back, arching and rolling her hips to take him deeper and deeper; her hair brushed his thighs with a feathery touch.

The first spasm of her orgasm gripped him, as she moaned her release, over and over. By the second, tight wave he was following her, the intense heat grasping him and setting his body ablaze. He came deep within her, pulling her down hard on his cock, spilling himself into her welcoming body. Her body milked him in pulses, and Severus was lost to it. Everything he was, all centered on this pleasure here, this immeasurable gift.

This amazing lover.

---

****************************************

“It’s unworthy of you to fish for compliments,” Severus complained, but his voice was sleepy and muffled by the rumpled bedclothes. “Besides, I am an old man, like you’ve said before, and I’ve earned my respite.”

“I can wait,” Hermione’s voice came at his ear, laden with promise.

He opened one eye to glance at her, with mock disapproval, although inwardly his pulse quickened as it always did at the sight of her. Hermione had propped herself on her elbows; her perfect breasts were framed by her forearms. “How long?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, several minutes at least,” she said, airily. “After all, it’s our last chance to see the sights before the wedding this afternoon.”

“I have all the sights I need right here,” he answered, with a trace of grumpiness. “If I’d wanted to traipse across half of the continent, I’d have married a diplomat, not a schoolteacher.”

“You promised you would attend,” Hermione pointed out, “as a guest of honor, as Harry wanted.”

“And why did I ever agree to that,” came the equally dismissive statement, as he closed his eye again. A circus, that’s what it would be. He’d gotten used to it again, but still. A bloody circus. In France, of all places.

“You agreed because I asked, and because you love me,” Hermione pointed out, blithely. When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes at him, but the effect was lost on his unseeing attention. With a sigh, she moved to leave the bed. All playfulness aside, they had made a commitment.

Before she could move further, Severus had wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her tightly into his embrace. “Foolish girl,” he murmured, affectionately, into her hair, and Hermione melted against him. “You know bloody well I adore you, idiotic promises and all.”

Placated, Hermione smiled. “If you don’t wish to attend, I can always lend you my memory of it later.”

Resolutely, Severus shook his head, brushing his lips against her neck as he did so. “No, never again. If I have to endure the hero of the wizarding world to be at your side, I’ll do it. Memories are for the past.” Tightening his grip once more, he added, “This is the present.”

“Every day I have left is yours,” she murmured, lovingly. “Not to remember it…to live it.”