Thank you for your reviews, they are much appreciated! I've been asked to carry this story on, which I may do as a separate story, but I'm sticking to my original plan here.

Ok, so here's the thing. I just couldn't decide what would be the best outcome for my heroes. I'm a big fan of Severus/Hermione but I often wonder whether that would really be the best outcome, particularly for Hermione. So I've produced 3 epilogues, all set 20 years in the future, giving different versions of how things might have turned out. Some of the text is identical, or pretty similar, in each. It's really just an exercise in how I can make things turn out by little tweaks in the writing. Would be interested in knowing which one you like best/think might be most likely to happen!

Oh, by the way, the text at the beginning in italics is from the Deathly Hallows. And all characters belong to JKR of course.

Ok, so here's the first one. It's a bit angsty, I'm afraid – the other 2 are a little happier (well possibly, anyway):

"Look … at … me…" he whispered.

The green eyes found the black…

In the end, it was Hermione who stood by, watching in horror as Harry collected the substance in a flask. And it was Hermione who pushed Harry aside and fumbled frantically at the collar of Snape's robes.

She breathed out hard when she saw the glint of the silvery chain against his thin neck. "Thank god, oh thank god – you did it, you clever man!" With shaking fingers, she found the vial with the stopper and twisted it around, clasping the unconscious professor's shoulder with her other hand.

There was just time to glance over her shoulder at the astonished boys. "I'll try to get back when I can… I'm so sorry, I can't explain now –" and then she felt the dizzying sensation of the portkey. It slammed them down on the ground hard somewhere just outside Hogsmeade, and Hermione felt Severus grunt in pain. Blood gushed from the wound in his neck, as she tapped the vials to enlarge them. There were 3 – one she recognised as essence of dittany and poured it liberally over his wound.

It was unclear what the other 2 were, but the man was clearly fading fast, so she took a deep breath, grabbed the back of his head to steady him, and poured them both into his gaping mouth.

She dropped the vials, gathered his head onto her lap and gazed down at him in despair.

20 years later, a village outside Granada in Spain.

The local children called her a witch – which was ironic, all things considered, as it had been years since she'd done any real magic – in public at least. Her magic was in her healing. She had power that even the local doctors respected, even though they did not understand it.

She was a foreigner, of course, even though she'd been living in this village for at least 15 years. The villagers treated her with some suspicion, but despite that, would tramp up the dusty hill to her small house whenever they had a complaint that modern medicine couldn't fix. Her poultices soothed their arthritic shoulders; her herbal medicines cured coughs and fixed poorly stomachs. She had attended difficult births when asked; had pulled forth distressed infants that might not have otherwise survived their traumatic arrivals into the world. And she had gentled the last days and moments of people leaving this world.

She had relatively few friends. There was a small wizarding community in Granada, and she regularly made the journey there to sit in a café with them. They would discuss the latest news in their world – new Ministry regulations; Harry Potter's ascent to power. As far as her friends were concerned, she'd been at Hogwarts and had played a small role in the battle over Voldemort, but no one knew who she really was.

She made these trips by car. She'd never mastered a broomstick and found apparating too tiring these days. She suspected that her overuse of that skill during that last year with Harry and Ron had exhausted her abilities.

It was a rusty old car, but it served her well. She turned off the main road and moved slowly, carefully down the stony, dusty track into the village. She lived just above the village, with a good view over the valley, in a position with reasonable precipitation and good soil for her plants. Her house sat low against the hillside; the back of it actually built into the hill, which kept her rooms cool in the heat of summer and cosy in winter.

She parked the car at the side of the house, jumped out and paused. There were footprints in the dust – not a local; they had the tread of designer walking boots. She hesitated, then walked forward quietly, her hand drifting to the wand stashed in her jeans pocket, just in case…

As she turned the corner, she could see a short, rather stocky dark haired man standing by her front door, his back to her, looking out over the valley. She stopped, a lump forming. She'd know that figure anywhere.

"Harry… oh Harry…" she choked on the words, but he heard her and turned around. A little older and a slight paunch, but the same smile, same piercing green eyes behind the same glasses. He reached out for her and she ran into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

They stood there for minutes – or hours – she couldn't tell, before he drew back, peering into her tear-stained face.

"How long has it been?"

"Five years, at least. Oh, Harry. I've missed you so much." She laughed now, wiping away her tears. "Why do you stay away so long?"

"Yes, well –" He looked suitably embarrassed. The Ministry, you know… And James graduated this year."

"I had heard. Unlike certain people, Ginny does write, you know. Thank goodness she does, or I'd never hear what the two of you get up to! She tells me that Ron is getting married again? How do Rose and Hugo feel about that?" They turned back towards the house.

"Great – I mean, I only hear about Rose through Albus, but I think she's OK about it. Hugo is looking forward to getting a new mum. She's a lovely person – you'd like her."

"I'm glad for him. I know the last few years have been difficult since Susan's death. I was so sorry to hear about it – I wish I could have been there to help in some way…"

Harry stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Please, don't, Hermione. We all know why you stayed away. You couldn't have come back. Ron understood that; we all did. Doesn't mean we didn't miss you being around, though."

She sighed. "And no one else knows, still? Apart from the Weasleys and you?"

He squeezed her arm, gently. "As far as the world is concerned, Hermione Granger died by the hand of a rogue Death Eater while trying to save the life of Severus Snape, who was posthumously decorated for his bravery. No one knows what became of your bodies, but your names are on the Wall of Remembrance by the lake at Hogwarts. Next to each other, incidentally."

"I wish I could see it…"

"We all respect your desire for privacy, Hermione."

She smiled at him. "You must be tired from your journey. Did you apparate direct? Let me get you a drink… and are you staying for dinner?"

They sat in Hermione's shady garden late into the warm summer evening, sipping wine. Hermione was eager to hear about old friends. She rejoiced and wept over good and bad news.

As the sun set, Harry sighed, looking over the slope of the hill and the twinkling of lights in the village below. "I can see why you moved here. It's a beautiful location, but it must be lonely…?"

She smiled sadly at the question in his remark. "No, there's no one in my life. You know how I…" She swallowed and looked away for a moment. "Well, you didn't know at the time, actually."

"But we do now." His eyes were kind and his voice very soft as he looked at his old friend. Age had been kind to her – at 38, she still looked 25 at a certain distance, but she was, as always, a little too thin. Closer to, he could see that lines, perhaps more from the strong Spanish sun than anything, had appeared in the corners of her eyes and mouth. As she turned to look at him again, the warm brown of her eyes glowed russet in the last rays of the dying sun.

She couldn't speak, so he said it for her. "If only you'd been a little faster; if only you'd known what he needed you to do. When we found you with his body, it was very clear – would have been clear to everyone – how you felt about him. And when we found that letter addressed to you in his office…"

"Yes." She nodded, firmly. She looked around, at the little white cottage, the neat rows of plants and herbs stretching up the hillside behind them, then stood up and moved towards the lip of the hill, gazing down at the valley, at the thin stream that trickled down towards the village.

"This was his, you know. He bought it with his remaining savings before the battle. He'd seen it before the war – years ago, while he was travelling around collecting samples for his potions. It was his dream. After … that night… when I saw him at Hogwarts… he remembered this position and the empty ruin. He came here and saw that the place was still abandoned – he found the owner of the land and bought it off him in secret.

"And I…" She waved a hand over the house, the land. "I was the one who lived his dream. He left it to me, did you know that? That note was his will, and everything he had was mine. I sold Spinner's End and used the money to rebuild the house, dig out the garden, everything you see is my work. He left notes, plans, recipes for healing remedies."

He refilled their wine glasses, picked them up and walked over slowly to stand beside her. She kept her eyes averted as she accepted her glass from him, but he could tell by the thickness of her tone that she was crying again.

"And you? What's your dream, Hermione?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, Harry. I like my life here. It's simple, the work I do is worth-while, in a small way, I suppose… It's – it's –"

"Safe? Dull?"

She glanced at him, quickly. "Maybe. It's certainly peaceful."

"Hmm…" He looked out over the valley, carefully avoiding her gaze. "You know, there's a Healers' conference in Glastonbury in October. Could be a good opportunity to make an announcement. And your skills would be very welcome in Britain, you know."

She tensed slightly, then let out a sigh. "Oh, Harry, I don't know… All the publicity. You and Ron coped well, but it must have been so hard, those first years."

He put a soothing hand on her shoulder. "Things have calmed down a lot since then. Ginny is now editing the Prophet –did she tell you that, by the way? Once Lily left for Hogwarts, she rose up through the ranks very quickly – was bored with the kids being away from home. Between us, she and I could control any publicity you get. "

There was a silence. He sighed. "Look, Hermione. No one doubts your commitment to Severus – none of us who know, anyway. And there's nothing to stop you carrying on his legacy here. Why not train up an apprentice? You'd make a great teacher. Neville would give anything to have you as a guest lecturer at the school. And you can expand Severus' business into Britain, then. I know you export your potions to other parts of Europe – I know all this is just a cover for the real work you do."

She smiled through her tears. "What don't you know about me, Harry Potter?"

He grinned. "Well, I have a great team of aurors, headed up by one Mr Ron Weasley. You didn't think Ron wouldn't have kept a close eye on you over the years? Did you think we really believed that you'd choose to retire to a small village and do no potions research at all?"

"Hmm, I should have guessed." She gazed over the view. Maybe he was right, maybe it was time.

"Shall I say it or will you?"

"I will…" They turned to each other and clinked glasses. "To Severus Snape … potions master, healer, a good man who chose to live after his death…"

"… and the bravest man I ever knew," Harry whispered.

They held hands and drank as the evening darkened and the bright stars appeared over the little village.