Muggle Studies

Keepsake

Happy birthday, Nayme Adams!

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There was a beautiful vase with flowers in front of her door when she opened it.

"Has that wisdom kicked in yet?" Read the note, in Severus's familiar handwriting - tall spidery letters grouped tightly in regular shape and size, tilting to the left (of course). Nay found it striking and beautiful. It was a bit hard to read at first - she felt sorry for the students - but she was well used to it by now.

Then she noticed. The vase was long and delicate, made of black porcelain, and the flowers were... gardenias. Beautiful in their delicate white, their scent old fashioned and delicious. Her heart leapt. The secret love flower.

That couldn't be by chance.

Could it?

As she wondered, bending down to pick up the vase, the flowers took flight and circulated her, like butterflies, then came back to their stems. She was already so agitated by the possible meaning hidden in her present that she laughed in surprise. It was so beautiful!

She took it inside, followed by the swarm of butterflowers, then ran to the breakfast table, but Snape wasn't there.

As soon as she arrived, a cake showed up in front of her and exact copies sprouted on the house tables and everybody started singing Happy Birthday to her, complete with a confetti shower at the end. It was so merry, light and unexpected that she even forgot her disappointment at Snape's absence for a moment.

Then, as she was leaving the table, starting again to wonder where he was, Nay turned and ran right into him - who was just arriving. He held her arms briefly in his hands, gently, in the guise of supporting her after the bump. How did he do that? Had he been waiting behind her?

"Sorry -" she said, in a reflex, already caught in her desire to hug him, kiss him.

"Happy birthday, Adams." He said, with his light smile, then looked at her mouth fleetingly, one second too long before letting go of her and taking a step back. "I trust you found your present?"

"I did, yes. It was very... meaningful to me." She risked saying, looking into his eyes, and the butterflies in her stomach felt like the flowers he had given her.

"I hoped it would be. It was... all I could manage." He said, his eyes piercing into hers again.

Her heart raced into her ears. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god. It wasn't by chance. She was in shock. Say something!

"I loved it... too. So much." She said, stuttering. Then she looked down, embarrassed. He was all subtle and smooth and she was a bloody rhinoceros. Oh, fuck it. She looked back into his eyes as she added. "In fact, love it just the way it is. I think it's perfect."

He blinked, struck, as she said that. She reached out and touched his arm - curling her hand around the buttons on his wrist and squeezing - discreetly, briefly, but he reacted just in time to graze her fingers with his as her hand slid off him.

Then the bells rang and she smiled and left, feeling his eyes on her as she did.

----------

He must have gone back and forth about a thousand times meaning to take them back, then deciding to leave them there, then regretting it again... Maybe he would have chickened out and taken them back after all if not for the fact that the portraits were starting to wake up by then and he really didn't want to be seen with the damn flowers.

He had known she'd like them. And he had known she'd get what he meant by them. If there was one person in the entire world who would most certainly get it, it would be her.

Yet... wasn't it too much? How could he say he loved her when he couldn't even bring himself to fucking kiss her? He didn't have the right to string her along like this. Not when he knew she loved him.

But he needed her to know. He wanted to say it, actually say it, and he believed that he would, in time - HAH! a part of him mocked; he chose to ignore it for now - but this was all he could do at that moment. So let her decide what to do with it.

Even then, for a horrifying moment he thought he wouldn't be able to face her now. He had leaned with his back against the door to his quarters, miserable and angry, his eyes closed, hating himself as he felt the minutes pass him by... until he decided he couldn't do that to her. Not again. What had been the point of giving her fucking gardenias if he was now going to pretend it hadn't happened? It would just mess with her and he needed her to know. Without a doubt. Even if he couldn't say it.

He was pleased with how smooth he still managed to be even while out of his mind with anxiety. All those walls were up, neat little compartments. One of his finest traits and he was very proud of it. He managed to get full body contact with her because he knew she'd appreciate that; maybe that would make up for him missing the celebration.

He loved how flustered she got whenever he touched her. It was maddening. He dreamed of touching her wet quim. Just that, just feel her juices on his fingers, knowing she had gotten like that... for him. The devilish woman.

And then she had straight up said she loved him. Like she ever needed to. Like it wouldn't be clear as day to him by the way she even breathed around him. She had said she loved him just the way he was. She had said that right after he had confessed his love for her using flowers and missed her birthday celebration because he was too chickenshit to face her afterwards.

That incredible woman said she thought he was perfect. Him.

And now he felt... relaxed. He was again in a place of enjoying himself in this thing he had with her - whatever it could be called - without constantly chastising himself for not being able to give her more.

If this was fine by her, then it was fine by him, too.

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"You've missed Adam's birthday this morning." McGonagall observed, stirring her cup. "I found that odd since you were the one who suggested we surprised her."

He had suggested it, but he had been careful not to let it look like he was suggesting it. Or so he thought. Old hag. "I didn't suggest anything, Minerva; Pomona mentioned Adams's birthday was coming up and I simply said she looked like the sort of person who liked celebrating birthdays."

"And that maybe we should get her a cake." The old witch took a sip of her tea.

"No. Flitwick said maybe we should get her a cake. And I made a sarcastic comment about getting everybody cake, not just the faculty, since the students loved her so much."

"Right. Sarcasm." She watched him from over her glasses. "Interesting how you recall that conversation so precisely."

"I happen to have a very good memory." He said quietly, into his mug.

"You sounded like you had been accused of a crime." She chuckled.

"I merely value accuracy." He lifted his eyebrows.

"I see." She looked so pleased with herself. It was annoying.

"Anyway, I overslept." He shrugged.

"Maybe that's why you're looking chipper today. Well rested." Said McGonagall, with a smile. "Biscuit?"

He was feeling chipper. Nayme Adams thought he was perfect. He had told her he loved her. He was happy and not even that crone's meddling was going to take that away.

"No, thank you." He said. "I'm just happy because Slytherin seems on its way to win the quidditch cup this year, as you well know."

Minerva glared at him. "There are still two games left."

Nothing like quidditch to throw her off the track.

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Seriously, how cute were the flying flowers?