Six

Author's Note: This is the epilogue of this story. Like Stephen King at the end of his Dark Tower Series, I am advising you to think of what you have read up to this point as the finale. If you read any further, upon your head be it.

Thank you for all the lovely comments you have given this story. Proceed at your own risk.

Looking is benign. Seeing has teeth and comes with consequences. You see it, you own it. Sometimes it owns you. Jane Dorn

Severus stared down at his bloodstained hand, then, to Hermione's consternation, began licking the blood from his fingers.

"That's disgusting!" she cried. "What are you doing?"

He looked up at her with wild-eyed, painful joy. "Don't you see? This is the first human contact I've had in almost thirty years. I realise it's a bit strange, but ..." He shrugged, a look of pleading on his face. "It's you, Hermione. I've had this small bit of you, and," he shook his head and laughed shakily. "Well, let's just say I have a greater appreciation for our vampire brethren now."

Hermione stared at him in shock. "I suppose we should both be glad I didn't wee on it," she muttered.

It was his turn to look surprised. They began to laugh. Their laughter was a mile long and a fathom deep, and they both held their sides until tears spurted from their eyes. It was the laughter of relief, and to Hermione it felt like they were making love again.

Gradually, their burst of elation faded, and he sobered. "It's an amazing breakthrough, but I don't fully trust the implications of it. As you may recall from your DADA classes, blood magic is very dark magic, Hermione. Or at least it can be. What happened may not even be relevant to the spell that imprisoned me."

Hermione had a sudden, silly desire to put her fingers in her ears and sing at the top of her lungs to drown out his pessimism. "Of course it's relevant! My blood went through the mirror from this plane to yours!"

"I'm just saying it could be some sort of honey trap."

Hermione stilled. "How so?"

"Aberforth tried blood magic too, Hermione. It didn't work." He looked down at the last smears of blood on his fingers. "Whoever did this to me wanted to make sure I'd never escape. I'd say the odds were very good it was a vengeful Death Eater, in which case my window of opportunity closed when the last of them died a few years ago. It might have even been the Dark Lord himself."

"But you see, I don't think it was. The timing doesn't work. After Voldemort left you to Nagini, his movements are well documented." She frowned, trying to piece together something that was dancing just out reach in the back of her mind. "Alright, let's go with the assumption you were placed in the mirror by blood magic. It's all about intent, as you say. After all, Minerva and I used blood magic to bind me to the castle. That was little more than magical calibration."

She paused. "You know, this isn't too dissimilar to a piece of a soul being placed into a Horcrux. Different, of course, but there are parallels."

Severus looked cautious, but intrigued. "Go on."

"What if we approach releasing you using this same theory? We used magical objects to kill the Horcruxes. Deeply powerful magical objects. A basilisk's tooth to kill the diary and the cup, the Sword of Gryffindor to destroy the locket, Fiendfyre killed Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem." She chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Dumbledore essentially used himself to destroy the ring."

"And destroyed himself with it." Severus frowned. "I don't like where this is going."

"But think, Severus! How is a Horcrux created? With murder. With cold-blooded, remorseless murder. How was this mirror made? With hatred! You said yourself that whoever did this to you must have hated you more than anything on earth! Who would have possibly filled those shoes that had the ability and the timing to do it?"

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. "I know of only one person," Severus said quietly. He looked up at Hermione, his eyes bleak. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Hermione's heart jolted in her chest. "The timing could be right. If she returned to the Shrieking Shack, looking for Voldemort, then found you, she could possibly have taken you to the Room of Requirement at some point. She was in the castle when Molly defeated her. But why would she do something like this? I mean, why not just kill you and be done with it?"

He shrugged. "You know from your own experience that Bella didn't need an excuse to torture someone. I can tell you she never trusted me after the Dark Lord returned. She did everything in her power to erode his faith in me as his spy. She could never understand why he found me remotely interesting or worthy in any way. Perhaps she thought I would make a trophy for him. Beyond that, if she had other reasons, I don't want to know them."

Hermione winced. "Yes, I can see where she might do something like this. I just can't believe a person can be so cruel. What a vile woman!"

"If was her, she had the final laugh, didn't she?" he quipped, his voice brittle. "Mirror magic is one of the few forms of magic that survives the castor. Erised proves that. Bella knew if something happened to her, the mirror would still hold me. She hated me enough to make sure I'd never escape either way. Godsdamn her!" He struck the mirror, hard, and it shook violently, but held.

"We don't know that," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice calm and measured. Her mind was whirling. "We can't dispute the fact that my blood was able to breach the mirror. Severus, what if Bellatrix was counting on hatred to be your shield?"

He looked at her with an expression of pure bafflement. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You said yourself that you were the 'most hated wizard in Britain.' What if Bellatrix used that hatred to imprison you? She expected nothing less than victory; it was beyond her ability to envision a world where you would not be a figure of hatred! No matter which side won, you would still be villified!"

"Hermione are you saying..."

"I'm saying that as far as she was concerned, this mirror was an eternal sentence. She didn't know the truth, Severus! She didn't know you were Dumbledore's man. She didn't know about Lily. She didn't know Hogwarts had plans for you." Some of the wild excitement quelled, and Hermione met the eyes of the man she had come to care about more than any other. "As far as she was concerned, you would always be trapped, because no one would ever want you. Even when she died, you would remain a prisoner forever, because you weren't worthy of love."

The emotion on his face was beyond anything she had ever seen. So much hope, so much longing. "Hermione, I never believed I was worthy of love. Certainly not a love as righteous and fierce as this. I'm still struggling to believe it."

She drew closer. "Believe it. You held me while I was bleeding to death, and kept me from dying. My blood was on your hands then, too, Severus, and you helped save me. "

"Blood magic doesn't work that way."

"Aberforth cared for you, but he didn't love you. And love is the only thing that will free you. It's the only thing Bellatrix and her Dark Lord didn't understand."

He was shaking his head slowly. "I...I didn't love you that night," he whispered, his expression streaked with shame. "The night you almost died in my arms. I didn't even like you all that much. It was just ... duty."

"What you gave Harry was given out of duty, but it helped him win the war. That's another kind of love."

"It's another kind of slavery!"

"Do you love me now, Severus?"

He stopped pacing, and his eyes grew large and full of fear. "I do love you, Hermione. I love you more than anything, but..."

"Then love is on both sides of the mirror. And true love isn't about enslavement. It's about freedom. "

As they stood silently, gazing across the chasm of magic that separated them, the solution came to Hermione as if someone had injected it into her brain. Relief and joy flooded her chest. Why hadn't she done it before? How could she have been so blind? "Severus, I know what to do! I know how to free you now! Wait here!"

He laughed, a short, sharp bark. "And where else, pray tell, would I go, witch?"

"Sorry! Wasn't thinking! I'll be right back!" she called, racing toward the study. As she traveled, she ran a long Arithmancy equation in her head. She ran it again on paper. As her portrait audience looked on, too alarmed at her frenzy to ask any questions, she cross-referenced it twice, and checked her figures four times against every known table, until she was convinced of their accuracy. As she went to tell Severus, she paused by the large glass case, and emptied it of its contents. She could hear the peanut gallery shouting at her even as she headed back to the library.

~o0o~

Severus looked at her in undiluted terror as she came into his line of sight, brandishing the Sword of Gryffindor. His face drained of what little colour he possessed. "Hermione, please. We need to be sure." His eyes pleaded with her. "I don't want to die. I'd rather stay here, like this, with you."

"You will be with me, Severus," Hermione insisted, trying to transfer her conviction to her lover. "I would never endanger your life. And I've got proof."

She explained her Arithmancy numbers, even going so far as to draw the equation in the air, using her wand to set the glowing figures in motion. He followed the sequence, but still looked unconvinced. His reticence puzzled her. "You have to admit, you can't get much more accurate than Arithmancy, Severus. It makes sense, doesn't it? It feels right."

Severus would not meet her eyes. "Bellatrix Lestrange was mad. Reason and sense had little in common with the workings of her mind."

"That doesn't matter, Severus! Every spell must follow universal magical parameters no matter how simple or complex. Mad or not, Bellatrix had to follow the rules of magical theory. Balance. Intent. Physical Law. Probability. Capability."

He pressed against the mirror, and Hermione was puzzled by the panic simmering in his eyes. His voice shook with it. "Let's wait. Please. We haven't even properly looked at these documents from Alexandria yet. We should talk to Albus. Better still, talk to Lucius Malfoy. He might be able to shed some light. The library at Malfoy Manor is second to none..."

"The Malfoys haven't lived in England for over ten years. No one even knows where they are. And Malfoy Manor was destroyed almost five years ago, Severus. We don't need them!" she explained, willing him to understand. "Don't you want to be free?"

He suddenly looked pained, as if her words hurt him. "Of course, but..."

Hermione lifted the sword. "Then I'm going to free you now, Severus. Trust me."

He was breathing hard, and looked ready to bolt, but something of her confidence finally caught, and burrowed past his doubt. In its place a dead, resigned calm took hold. "Alright. I trust you. You'll do it no matter what I say."

He stepped back and met her eyes. "Whatever happens, I want to thank you, Hermione. Thank you for trying."

She felt a silly, foolish grin playing over her lips. "Don't be afraid, love. When it's all done, I want you to thank me properly."

He gave her a small, sad smile. "All the tropical drinks, sand, and witty repartee you can stand. I promise, love." Tears spilled from his eyes. "I love you," he whispered. He closed his eyes and placed his beautiful hands flat against the mirror. Hermione looked at those large, capable hands, the slender fingers, the pale wrists, and remembered how sweet it felt to be held with those hands. She pressed hers against his and felt the heat of him.

With her heart beating wildly, she stepped back, and Severus did the same. He watched her intently as she grasped the blade of the Sword of Gryffindor, and drew it sharply over her palm. The edge bit into her hand, but she didn't feel any pain. As her blood coated the edge of the blade, she whispered, "I love you."

With a cry of victory, she hefted the heavy sword into its backswing, then slashed it forward with all her might, putting all her weight and faith and belief in herself behind her drive. The sword hit the mirror solidly, slicing cleanly through Severus' reflected figure, and the rest of the mirror shattered with a screech of protest. The room burst with light, and the momentum of the sword's follow through actually spun Hermione around. She felt a rush of flying glass...

"... and to discharge my duties with firmness and fairness, until such time as I am no longer able to do so, either from illness, senility or death. So mote it be."

"So mote it be!"

The crowd cheered wildly, and Severus Snape lowered his wand hand. His voice was raspy from so much continual speaking, but at least he could hold his head up and say he had remembered every poxy word of that damned oath.

Wizarding dignitaries, luminaries and hangers-on crowded around him, congratulating and flattering him. Flashbulbs burst as he posed with the Minister and the heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, none of whom he personally knew. He was only marginally aware of saying or doing anything. He shook hands with Harry Potter for the benefit of The Daily Prophet, and almost ran from him afterward, unable to face the questions in the younger man's eyes. He stayed for the minimum amount of time he could, then made his excuses, citing Hogwarts business. Over the years it would become a handy scapegoat for his time.

After all the teen angst and crushes and drama and moments of heart-stopping fear and grief, the castle welcomed him home. It had, after all, chosen him as its mate. All those who had walked these halls before him had felt this same intimate bond with Hogwarts. It was part of the mortar that held the castle together; each and every Head left something of their spirits behind to fortify it. Even her.

Especially her.

When Hermione freed him from his purgatory with her blood and love, he had hoped against hope that breaking the mirror would mean his death. No matter the outcome, he knew he was destined to lose. Bella had done her work only too well. "If anyone is ever stupid enough to think they love you, they can release you, Severus, oh yes," she had cooed, her death's head smile lighting her face. "Not that they'll survive it. But don't worry, Sevvy," she cackled. "You'll be alive and well. Alive and well." Her laughter rang in his ears as she walked away.

Even as his heart broke and bled, it was full of stupid, base anger. Freeing him from the mirror was a foregone conclusion. Why hadn't she considered the repercussions of it?

Balance. Intent. Physical Law. Probability. Capability.

Balance.

He told himself that his inability to tell her the truth was part of Bella's spell. He told himself he was only trying to save her, to discourage her, that he lied to her to reassure her that his prison wasn't a hell.

Aberforth had been easy; he had never loved anything beyond those goats of his, so Severus had been safe in the knowledge Aberforth would never, could never take his place. If he had known Hermione would come back into his life, would he have tried harder to make Aberforth love him?

He wept as he dragged himself to his feet, and looked back at the mirror. Hermione had met his eyes with growing terror, and his apology died on his lips. That look of fear was enough to kill a stronger man. Then again, he had always had a bottomless vein of self-preservation where his heart was concerned.

The mirror was such a liar, as all mirrors were. They only showed you what you want to see, what you expected to see. How cruel it had been, to watch her look around at the drab and lifeless room that was her new home. He could see the understanding dawn when she took her first sip of wine. Nothing, not even the feel of liquid in her throat. Panting with fear, she picked up an apple from the bowl on the table, and Severus' gut churned, knowing that the tart, fresh taste would never find its way onto her tongue. Hermione would never again feel hot or cold, hungry or full, asleep or awake.

She raced around the room, trying to find something familiar, some small link with the world she had given back to Severus, and he sank to his knees, waiting for the retribution that never came. She picked up book after book reflected from the library, only to discover the print was backward, or the pages blank, or written in a language not of this earth.

She had wept then. She had cried and he had cried and pathetically begged for the forgiveness he no more deserved than his freedom.

He took up the reins of Headmaster that following Autumn, after weeks of discussion with the Minister and the Head of the Unspeakables Department. He told Hermione only that he had been made Headmaster because the Book of Heads declared him as such, and that she would remain with him. Only he, a house-elf and the gargoyle named Dave knew the truth regarding the fine print on his Hogwarts contract. She would not be relegated to the Department of Mysteries. She would not be an exhibit to be wheeled out on certain holidays, or an object of experimentation to be dissected by Unspeakables.

He would protect her with his life.

~o0o~

On the twentieth anniversary of his tenure, he performs his morning routine and faces her as he dresses. "Stop primping," she teases coquettishly. "You look wonderful, as always. You were made for this." He knows she means it with all her heart. Her sincerity is one of the few truths she has left, and she cherishes it zealously.

"You are so beautiful," he replies, and together they press their hands against the glass. In spite of her barren, bookless and pleasureless life, she looks just as fresh and beautiful as she did the day she freed him. If he looks closely, he can still make out the tiny scar on her hand, the wound that ultimately led to the destruction of their lives. At least, that is what the mirror shows him.

They have spoken of trying again, but they both know it will never happen. "I won't risk your life," he insists. "I could truly lose you this time." He will not acknowledge the real reason, even to himself.

"I love you, Severus." How hollow and toothless those words are now, but they are the only roses that bloom in the desert of her existence. They are the only three words that truly mean anything to her anymore. She caresses the surface of the mirror, as he once did. It is their only contact, her only lover, and he feels an irrational, stinging jealousy.

"I love you too, Hermione." He means it. He really does.

He has been a good Headmaster; many call him a great one. He is as beloved and respected as Dumbledore ever was. He is known above all else for his fairness and openness, his sense of justice and compassion, and his intolerance of cruelty. O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores are higher than they've ever been, and it is a singular point of pride in every Hogwarts students' heart to be able to say they attended school under the greatest Headmaster it has ever known: Severus Tobias Snape.

He owes her that much.

They played their parts, and gave their all to Hogwarts. When they are finally penciled into the history books, this will have to be enough. Their shared burden is great enough already. His remorse and his guilt led to his making, just as her overwhelming pride in her own knowledge was her downfall. Since that first outburst of emotion at that awful moment when they swapped places, she has never once complained, or accused, or cried.

Or laughed.

At the end of each day, when he has given everything Hogwarts requires of him, he returns to her. In those first moments before he faces the mirror, the cowardly heart of him hopes he will look into its silvery depths and find only himself looking back. He atones for his treachery by turning down the bed, and lying side by side with his lover, and he wishes with all his heart that his impatient dreaming will bring her into his arms once more. He watches her, restless in her dusty, hard bed, and he reaches out to her from the soft, lulling confines of his own, and wonders: Did I do enough? Could I have done more? He cannot bring himself to answer those questions.

The nights are long, so long. His bones ache, he doesn't sleep well. He spends most of his night watching the rise and fall of his lover's gentle breathing. She is his faithful consort, his constant guilt, his undying love, the anchor of remorse that drags him ever deeper...she is his Erised.

Sometimes they meet in his dreams, and he holds her as close as he can for as long as he can, knowing how starved she is for his touch. But those times are short and less frequent as his body grows older and weaker.

He once prayed for freedom, and Hermione answered his prayers. Now he prays to fall asleep, and to never wake up. One day he will die, and perhaps then the mirror will give her back to him. Surely she deserves that much, doesn't she?

Doesn't he?

You tell me there's an angel in your tree

Take all you need to live inside

Burn Down The Mission, Bernie Taupin

"It was all about reaching the Tower, you see...mine as well as Roland's...and that has finally been accomplished. You may not like what Roland found at the top, but that's a different matter entirely. And don't write me any angry letters about it, either, because I won't answer them. There's nothing left to say on the subject. I wasn't exactly crazy about the ending, either, if you want to know the truth, but it's the right ending. The only ending, in fact. You have to remember that I don't make these things up, not exactly; I only write down what I see." End Notes, The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower by Stephen King