Orange blossoms and hawthorn tied with green ribbon.
Innocent they lay centered on his desk, illuminated by torchlight. Severus finds them after dinner and immediately looks around, first for the culprit and then for witnesses. Finding none, he slams the door with a wordless spell and stares at the gift in horror.
Curt words and a quick mind will bring many foes to their knees. Poisons and curses might send them to their graves. Severus has many tools in his arsenal, and he has never faltered in the face of danger.
Yet here and now, faced with hope, Severus is defenseless.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Severus mumbles as one finger traces the green ribbon.
So easy would it be to crush them beneath palm or heel. To set them aflame without breathing a word. Pluck off the petals, slice and dice the stems. Brew them into an elixir he can slip into the boy's pumpkin juice to...
The boy.
Warmth blooms in his chest, effortless and inevitable.
An irritated huff escapes him. And though he mutters all the while, Severus fills a glass phial with water and fits the flowers inside. He cradles them to his chest on the trek from his office to his quarters. He sets them on his bedside table, then readies himself for bed.
And when the fire is put out and he's lying alone, moonlight spills in from the windows, casting a romantic light on a dreadful gesture.
These are foolish times to have hope, and more foolish still to be in love.
***
Harry's first attempted confession had been much less subtle. Severus needn't have employed Legilimency to read his intent.
It was a great feat to not read what was so plain in the boy's heart day after day. Willful blindness to every coy smirk and batted lash. To the pretty flush of cheeks, and the brush of bold fingers.
Bolder as each day passed, until one day the boy's hand settled over his.
Saturday detention, just after lunch. Anyone might have walked in. Severus snatched his hand away, scalded. A panicked drumming in his chest, jitters dancing down his spine.
He'd been a fool to ignore it. A madman to fall for it.
Harry swallowed, but plowed forward. "Professor, I — "
"Do not," Severus said.
"But I — "
"Do. Not."
An irritated huff. "Will you just listen to me? I'm — "
"I am well aware of your refusal to heed logic and rules alike, Potter," Severus spat. "But you will heed my words. I've not the patience for your silly games."
"It's not — "
"Do. Not."
***
The boy left with less fuss than Severus expected, only to make his move once the sun's disapproving eye set. It is by the moon's mercy Harry leaves love letters in secret languages. Apple blossom and pansy. Fern and foxglove. Myrtle and dahlia.
Severus brews potions in the evenings, nutritional blends to sustain the flowers that now overrun every available surface of his quarters.
Harry never need know the mark he's made, the beauty and vibrancy with which he's colored Severus' life. He'll never be allowed one foot inside of Severus' quarters, and Severus will never reveal his heart.
He won't.
He won't.
Every morning the Prophet paints a dreary portrait of death and destruction that Severus sees each night when pain strikes and the Mark blackens. He never feels closer to turning petals to ash than when he leaves the Dark Lord's side. The floral rainbow that greets him is a mockery. Silly, useless ornamentation he keeps alive when he can't —
He can't save —
There is too much blood on his hands, and more still to come. They are at war. War! There is much left to accomplish. Albus must die soon, and Harry, too.
Harry, the sixteen year old fool who fancies himself in love. Who cheats at Potions and flirts in Defense. Who flies on a broomstick rather than —
But that's not fair. He's only a boy.
A boy Severus can never touch.
A doomed, beautiful boy who wastes his afternoons studying flower language in the library, and his nights sneaking silly offerings into Severus' office.
It is always this thought that stops Severus' hand. As his fingers hover around a fat pink rose, all of the anger and hatred falls away and his fingertips kiss the soft petals.
Albus preaches about the power of love. The strength of it endures the poison of Severus' soul. The rose does not wilt at his touch. Severus closes his eyes and breathes in its perfume. It conjures the vision of Harry's face; teeth abusing his plush lip, eyes narrowed in concentration, ink stained fingers roughly flipping yellowed pages.
Eyes set on Severus like a target. Fingers resting on Severus' hand. Lips parted around a confession Severus feared. A confession he now drowns in.
He pours himself a glass of absinthe. He drinks and he drinks and falls asleep and he dreams of a green sea that smells of roses.
***
The Old Ways have seen a resurgence in popularity since the Dark Lord's return. The students form covens and perform ancient rituals. They celebrate the sabbats and indulge in superstition. They flock to divination and engage in petty duels.
As if carnelian and a mantra will give them strength against Death Eaters. As if candles and prayers will protect their loved ones.
The worst tradition of all is the return of courtship. Love letters exchanged in the corridors. Poetry performed in the courtyard. Handpicked flowers and handmade gifts. Handholding by day and liplocking by night.
Severus fears he's being courted himself when he finds a bouquet wrapped in red ribbon: blush rose, cornflower, Sweet William, and honeysuckle.
Severus circles his wand around his office, whispers "Homenum revelio" to no avail, either because Harry is long gone or because of his trembling fingers.
***
Yuletide brings mulled wine, burning logs, and merry songs. The Dark Mark cast over a Muggle church. A gift of fine leather gloves.
Severus wears them for utility, not sentimentality. It is snowing, after all. And it's the brightness of the sun and the whiteness of the snow that blinds him, not Harry's helpless grin.
In the absense of my hand, let these warm you.
New Year brings grim tidings. A young woman slain. Classes resume. A gift of obsidian. As if a stone the size of his palm can absorb all of the blackness in his soul. As if it offers any protection at all from Dark magic or bloodbaths.
Severus keeps it on his desk all the same.
Candles are lit for Imbolc. A Muggle's heart ripped out for Valentine's. Severus drinks himself into a stupor and dreams that he coughs up white petals. They float in the pools of blood around his feet. Severus wakes with white daisies tickling his nose.
Painted eggs and painted faces at Ostara. Every shrill laugh is sharp against Severus' frayed nerves. Albus catches the twitch of his eye and frowns in concern. Severus clenches his fists against the urge to bounce his leg.
Harry's eyes find him across the Hall. They see too much. They always have.
Severus dares not meet them.
***
"You must stop," Severus tells the boy in detention.
Harry lifts his head from his parchment and lifts a brow in a pale imitation of Severus himself. "You told me to write lines."
"Yes, very clever," Severus snaps. "You know well what I mean, Potter."
Harry snorts. "Yeah, I know what you mean, sir. It'd be nice if you'd understand my meaning."
"And what meaning is that?" Severus demands. "You and your classmates play your silly little games while — "
"Not this again," scoffs Harry.
" — Muggles and wizards alike suffer the Dark Lord's wrath. You are all ignorant to what lies waiting outside of Hogwarts' bosom. You sing and dance and — "
"We're not ignorant, you blind — "
" — pluck life out of the earth — "
" — arrogant, rude — "
" — and present them as if your charm and good looks will save you from a grisly death."
Harry grins.
Blast it.
"Good looks?" Harry prompts.
"Do not change the subject," Severus snarls
"Charms?"
"I've had enough of your mockery!"
Once upon a time Severus might have thought it mockery, but he knows better now and he's known better from the start. Looking back, Severus cannot pinpoint when or where it began. As if this bond between them is a universal truth that has lived in his bones since birth; that he knew before knowing, and felt even when he called it another name. As if loathing had been loving all along.
"I'm not mocking you!" Harry drops his quill to the table and stands. Severus steps back as Harry charges forward. "These aren't games. I know what's at stake! We all do! You can't blame them for — for taking comfort where they can, for finding joy where they can."
"You've learned much in your meetings with the headmaster, haven't you?" He sounds so much like Albus, spouting the virtues of frivolity.
Harry ignores him. "And you can't blame me for — for trying — " His jaw locks up and his eyes fill with tears that he blinks away. Severus gapes at him in horror. But no amount of flinching will spare him the rough clearing of Harry's throat, or the agony in his voice when he continues. "You could die, Severus. Any day now I could lose you, and I — " Harry ducks his head and coughs. Severus swallows. "I'm not going to waste what time we have. And if you won't let me — then I can show you. If I die, or if you — then you'll know. You'll know."
"And what will I know? That you have an eye for color?"
Harry laughs and shakes his head. "You really are a piece of work, aren't you?"
When Harry takes his hand, Severus does not pull away. They stand together in the silence, Harry lacing their fingers together, Severus leaning in to breathe in the scent of his hair.
And when the clock strikes eight, Harry squeezes his hand and leaves.
***
Hellebore and edelweiss are next. Severus fights a smile when he finds them.
***
Severus never meant to reveal his heart, but there is no hiding from Harry. After his next meeting, reeking of blood and dark magic, he stops by Narcissa's garden to steal a camellia. Perhaps it is tainted by all the night has seen, but perhaps Harry will find meaning in that.
Harry's cheeks are as pink as the petals the next time Severus sees him, and Harry nearly trips over his feet on his way into class. Severus' smile becomes harder to hide by the day.
***
When Harry sends dogwood, Severus send gladiolus in turn.
When Harry leans in for a kiss next detention, Severus nearly lets it land. They must make the most of their time, after all, but Severus can't quite let himself sink so low. Harry smiles his reassurance and kisses Severus' hand, instead. As if he's some fair maiden. Severus pinches Harry's chin, and Harry laughs fondly.
There might be wisdom in stealing what joy one can when one can. Better to be drunk on flowers and pretty smiles than absinthe. Better to drown out the scent of blood with the scent of roses, and Harry's soap. Better to take Harry's hand and to memorize the feel of his skin. To remember when —
When —
Yarrow won't cure Severus' broken heart, but Severus doesn't expect to survive long enough to suffer greatly. If the Dark Lord doesn't kill him, then —
Then.
***
In their next detention, Harry writes lines. Severus likes this option best, for maximal staring. For glimpses of Harry's smiles or the way he ruffles his hair. Or, better yet, when he stretches exaggeratedly and his shirt rides up to reveal pale skin and a scattering of dark hair.
They don't speak much. They've little need to.
And when the clock strikes eight, Harry hands in his parchment, then holds out a red spider flower that he twirls between two fingers. Severus blinks in surprise. The little red petals wave at him. Harry's teeth gnaw into his lip. Severus reaches up to tug it free, then cradles Harry's jaw in his hand. He waits until Harry's anxious eyes meet his before he nods.
Harry beams, then kisses the palm of his hand.
***
On Beltane, Hogwarts becomes a festival ground. Severus has never taken more points in one day as he does this day. Half, at least, are uniform violations. Students flounce around in flower crowns and colorful ribbons. The worst offenders don ceremonial garb rather than regulation robes.
An alarming number of love potions are confiscated. Severus could rip into Horace for teaching a class on Amortentia. He rips into Lavender Brown instead, who runs off in tears as Severus pockets the heart-shaped vial. Sandalwood soap and fresh florals assault his nose, even through thick glass and black fabric.
Students exchange baskets in the Great Hall, and kisses in the corridors. They erect maypoles on the grounds between classes. As if all of the world's darkness can be erased by color and laughter.
For all of the darkness that haunts him, hope still casts her seductive light and beckons him forward.
So forward Severus goes. He storms ahead of his sixth year class, and a sea of students parts before him. The crowd thins as he exits the castle. Crosses the lawn. Passes Lovegood dancing serenely around her maypole, and Misses Weasley and Greengrass kissing beneath a tree. He says not a word to Creevey, who nearly topples him over in the rush to present Longbottom with daisies.
Severus has more alluring prey than any of them. He's not assigned one detention today, however tempting it has been. He's waited for this moment, out on the green, with Harry flying loop-the-loops overhead.
For Harry to idly descend, his broom a throne. A crown of ivy and orange blossoms in the chaos of his hair. Even his white robes are more kingly than angelic.
Rosy lips smile, emerald eyes gleam. Severus smirks nastily in turn. "Potter. Might I inquire as to your absense from my class?"
Harry purses his lips thoughtfully and strokes the gleaming wood between his legs. Hawthorn, Severus knows. He was very particular in choosing it. "I had to test out my new broom, Professor."
There are onlookers all around. Lovegood's dancing is not so bewitching as to distract from this spectacle. Severus does not have to see them to be aware of his audience.
"Detention. Tonight."
***
Beltane celebrations continue into the night. Lovebirds slip up to the astronomy tower for romance. Singles continue to dance around their maypoles, now in the light of bonfires. There is singing and dancing. Drinking and feasting. Fighting and lovemaking. The faculty will have their hands full tonight, and Severus will not be among them.
Instead, he leads Harry out into the forest. Harry carries a basket and he pouts for show all the way to the trees.
However dangerous the forest, it is the only safe place for he and Harry.
In the darkness and silence they walk. Through mud, and rough branches. Through thorns, and webs. Deeper and deeper until they reach a clearing.
The moon offers little light, secret keeper that she is. The glow that illuminates the clearing comes from dozens of fairies. They twirl giddily around the rose arch Severus erected before dinner. Others swarm a sea of flowers. Marigolds and dahlias. Foxgloves and begonias. Bluebells and peonies. They create a riot of life and color amidst the dreary forest.
Severus hears Harry's quiet gasp, and he watches greedily as Harry gazes around in amazement.
"Severus," he breathes.
"We don't have long," Severus warns. Detention may act as cover, but it will not protect them all night.
"Right," Harry says. He shakes himself and sets down the basket. Carefully he retrieves a circlet of ivy and hellebore. Severus narrows his eyes, but obediently bows for Harry to place it on his head. Harry still wears his own ivy crown, and though the orange blossoms are drooping and the white of his robes is dingy, he is still radiant.
Next, Harry pulls out cords of white, gold, and silver that, with a flick of his wand, braid together. Harry smiles in satisfaction as he presents the braid to Severus.
"We don't have an officiant," Harry says. His voice trembles and he wipes his hands on his robes.
"Powerful enough magic will not require one." Severus walks towards the rose arch, anticipation thrumming through him. "The real concern is whether you love me enough to bond me without a third party."
Harry's eyes gleam in the fairy glow. "I do."
Severus quirks a brow and beckons him forward. Harry eagerly rushes towards him.
How anyone so bold and so beautiful can look upon Severus with such awe, he does not know, nor will he ever. All he does know is that he hungers for this, hungers for Harry, and as the end draws nearer, he has not the strength to deny hope or love any longer.
"Know now, before we go further, that since our lives have crossed, we have formed ties between us. As we seek to enter this state of matrimony, we will strengthen these ties by magic and by soul. Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?"
"I do," Harry says.
"I do, as well." Severus lays the cords on the ground between them and when he stands, he takes Harry's hands in his; their fingers lace with ease. "These are the hands that will passionately love you and cherish you, for a lifetime of happiness." However long those lives will be. The cords squirm on the ground between them. "These are the hands that will countless times wipe the tears from your eyes: tears of sorrow and tears of joy." The cords leap up to snake around their wrists. "These are the hands that will comfort you in illness, and hold you when fear or grief racks your mind. These are the hands that will hold you tight as you struggle through difficult times."
As they speak their vows, the cords wind around them, tighter and tighter. Harry's eyes never waver, and his voice is strong. Harry promises his love and his fidelity. Severus offers his in turn. He promises Harry support and comfort. He promises that Harry will never be alone, even if he keeps to himself that he means to follow Harry even to the grave.
Severus will never know when he began to love Harry. If ever there was a beginning. He knows there will be no end. He will love Harry to death and beyond. He will drown Harry's grave in a garden, and he will lay himself among the blooms and waste away there. With luck their bodies will nourish the earth as their souls rejoin in the afterlife.
There is nothing Severus wants more.
Once their vows are complete, the cords shine brightly. The light sears their eyes and through the tears Severus looks at his Harry and Harry squints right back at him.
In the flash, the cords burn their flesh and, after a moment, melt into them. Severus feels the magic thrumming through his veins and it feels as though his heart will race to collapsing. He can feel the other heart galloping alongside his own. Severus squeezes onto Harry's hands tightly, the power bursting through him too much to be born. Harry squeezes him back.
Just as suddenly as it struck, the sensation flees and in the shock of it, Harry and Severus fall into each other, and embrace.
Cling, as vines.
Kiss, at last.
Too high is Severus to know who leaned in first, or when. He only knows the softness of Harry's mouth and the sweet taste of his tongue. The warmth of his squirming body. The smell of his skin.
"Make love to me," Harry murmurs against his lips. "Please, Severus."
Severus breaks away from Harry's mouth to kiss his cheek instead. His hair. His ear. "We cannot. We've no time." Their handfasting was risky enough; he dares not take Harry now, however much he wishes it. "We should return before we are missed."
"No, wait!" Harry exclaims. He grasps Severus' hands and kisses his knuckles. "Just another minute?"
Severus snorts. "We've the rest of our lives, dear husband."
Despite knowing how short those lives will be, his chest warms as the words leave his lips. His husband.
Harry grins goofily at him and echoes back, "Husband." His smile then turns sly and he says, "You can spare me a minute from the rest of your life, can't you?"
The boy really is a little snot, but he's Severus' little snot. In life and in death. And Severus, never able to resist Harry, obliges.