Hi everyone! This is my submission to the HP Flowers Fest Spring 2022, and an unofficial "submission" for The Houses Competition here on this website. For further explanation, see End Notes.
It seems my brain had decided to take a break from the Fateweaver (on AO3) - this is the result. This story is so cliché in parts, I know… And in spite of the blocks, I enjoyed writing it, seeing as the idea just wouldn't go away…
And before I get another accusation of plagiarism - the usual disclaimer: Not mine (JKR and Wikipedia mainly). I make no money from it. I just happened to find an analogy between a fictional and a real-world disease.
For all those who do not know hanahaki disease: In my universe, the pent-up magic of unrequited feelings causes the patient - through a magical analogon of heart failure - to cough up flowers that represent their heart's desire. It is fatal unless the feelings are requited (romantically). I do not give my characters the option of surgical removal of those feelings like most other authors do.
And, before you wonder: yes, those "muggle" diseases actually exist, and their sequence is realistic. Hence the tag "physiology" (Wikipedia: "the scientific study of functions and mechanisms in a living system"). For your information, takotsubo cardiomyopathy is also called "broken heart syndrome", and can lead to cardiac arrhythmia, thus the heart palpitations later in the story. It is not entirely meant as cliché…
I will stop bombarding you with unnecessary details now.
Have fun!
Coughs and storms were Severus Snape's near-constant companions these days.
Almost two years had passed since the Dark Lord had been finally and definitely defeated. Severus had been exonerated in front of the Wizengamot by Albus' pensieved testimony; Potter's impassioned appeal had even garnered him an Order of Merlin, First Class.
It had taken its place on one of the old shelves in the sitting room, next to Severus' books (some of his most prized possessions among them). And if he were to find himself glancing at it a few times every day, no one would be able to tell.
Because, of course, they all still avoided him like the plague. Even Poppy had stopped checking up on him after she had declared him cured of the worst effects of the snake bite, and he could not fault her for making the students' health her priority. (She did occasionally send her regards through Potter, though, together with requests for the more complicated healing potions for her Infirmary.)
Apart from that, no one cared for the ex-Death Eater, greasy dungeons git that he was - though he had been holed up in Spinner's End, not a dungeon, for the past year - almost one and a half years.
About a year had passed since Severus had finally recovered enough from Nagini's near-fatal bite to be up and brewing his potions again. He still could not work at full capacity - he suspected he would not be able to in the foreseeable future. But at least, its familiarity - the motions burnt into his muscle memory, the colours, the odours tickling his nose - they had never ceased to amaze him, even after two decades, and chased the nightmares from his mind and the emptiness from his soul like nothing - no, like only one other thing could.
He was glad for the peace of his almost-solitary existence, he told himself.
You are wrong, a traitorous, seductive part of his mind claimed. Why else would you...
Severus quickly silenced that thought. It did not matter, he insisted in turn. It would not last.
He had read about the ancient, rare condition during his long period of recuperation, driven by his renewed interest in the Healing Arts. His mind (still active and thirsty for knowledge, if only to keep him from boredom that only led down dark paths) immediately scoffed at the notion of requited - romantic - love as its only cure. Ridiculous.
In muggles, strong emotional upheaval can cause your heart to fail, rendering it unable to pump the masses of blood that flood back to it every second. The tailback of blood builds up in your lungs, leaves you breathless, drowns you in your own bodily fluids that you try to cough out for dear life - in vain.
They call it takotsubo cardiomyopathy, congestive heart failure, lung oedema.
Only, in muggles, it comes and goes quickly. Those who survive the first critical period tend to recuperate from this condition within a few weeks. Wizards suffering from its magical analogon, hanahaki disease, do not have such luxury.
Magical heart failure ends in suffocation from flowers instead.
A wizard or witch is more deeply intertwined with their emotions than a muggle could ever be. In wizards, emotions influence more than just their thoughts or their bodily functions. Every emotion - or lack thereof - fuels their core and shapes their magic; in a manner, emotions provide the very essence of their being.
Even Severus knew this, heartless bastard that he sometimes wished he still had the energy to be.
His allegedly non-existent heart certainly seemed to have failed when confronted with the blooming emotions inside his chest, and their wayward magic forced its way out of him in the shape of the flowers that he now coughed up with increasing frequency.
It had started as a slight but persistent breathlessness, a sort of tight scratchiness in your chest you could find annoyingly hard to ignore. It had been there for so long, Severus had all but forgotten when it had actually started. Out of habit, he had disregarded it, just as he had any other (non-lethal) physical discomfort when he had played triple agent for two masters.
Thus, he had not thought much about it when he found it had failed to disappear after he woke up in Hogwarts' infirmary in the aftermath of the snake bite. He blamed the fact that it had, in fact, worsened on the damage the Dark Lord's cursed pet viper had wrought on his neck, and thus his windpipe.
There was nothing to worry about.
By the time he was up and working again - not that he needed to, thanks to his undemanding lifestyle and the ministry's reluctant but generous concessions for his wartime efforts - his breath had shortened further. But the difference was almost negligible.
Then, about a dozen days ago, his lungs had started bubbling with what he assumed was phlegm.
Simple viral bronchitis, or pneumonia, if it comes to the worst, he told himself. It was hardly surprising that he would fall ill now. April may have come already, but if the ongoing damp and chill were any indication, winter had not yet given way to spring after all. Additionally, his immune system had to have been weakened by the viper's poison, not to mention his long infirmity. Actually, it could almost be considered miraculous that he had not contracted anything earlier.
It would go away in time - and with the right potions, of course, he thought. He downed a Pepper Up and got to work.
But it did not disappear. Instead, the flowers came.
From the very first petal, Severus knew he was doomed. The orange lily.
Hatred. That is what the Lilium bulbiferum signified (as well as desire and passion, but that, of course, would be too trivial).
If what he had read was true, he must have lost his mind somewhere along the way. The infamous case of the Longbottoms - not to mention Bella herself - showed that prolonged or repeated exposure to the Cruciatus Curse could do that to you. It was equally well-known that the Dark Lord had never been frugal with his Cruciatuses, especially with his spy - a spy that had not been his for a long time.
Because otherwise, why would Severus… desire someone whose first attribute was that they hated him? For surely, the alternative would be even more inconceivable - that he…
This was ridiculous. In fact, the whole notion was absolutely ludicrous. He did not have repressed feelings for anyone, and he certainly was not insane enough to develop them, especially for someone he hated - or masochistic enough to desire someone who hated him, for that matter.
There had to be a different explanation.
But Severus, you have to consider. There is a fine line between love and hate, a voice whispered. It sounded suspiciously like Albus', waxing poetic about the power of love.
Sentimental bastard.
Albus' sentimentalism had cost him his life. Oh, the old Headmaster may have chosen his manner of death, and it may have helped the Light to victory in the war. But the old coot was still dead, and it had cost Severus what little had been left of his soul.
It would not have made much difference, had he died from Nagini's bite that day, Severus concluded, since he barely had a soul to live for. How very ironic that he had only just survived having his throat ripped out by a magical snake infused with the Darkest of magics, only to end up drowning in his bodily fluids (and wayward magic and emotions) either way.
As if they had sensed his morose thoughts, an entire set of flowers spewed out from his lungs in quick succession over the next few days, still interspersed with the occasional orange lily.
Asphodel, my regrets follow you to the grave; wormwood, absence, bitter sorrow; wolfsbane with its many names, presumably less caution or misanthropy than just death if he considered the leaves of stinging nettles, life and death, framing all those flowers.
What Severus failed to remember was that powdered root of asphodel was added to an infusion of wormwood to create the Draught of Living Death. Of course, he also never considered whom he had asked about those exact plants.
He still refused to believe that he was heartsick - how laughably appropriate - or god forbid, lovesick. Yet everything, every tome, every article he read pointed towards hanahaki disease. (Those who develop this disease are a curious folk, one paper stated. They love most passionately, yet refuse to acknowledge that they do so, choosing to repress their feelings instead. What a load of drivel, he wanted to think.)
It had no cure apart from the requital of those feelings that, per definition, had to be unrequited to manifest in the erratic magic that turned to bursts of flowers from the lungs, indicators of his heart's desire.
One species, however, did not fit into the sepulchral pattern the flowers painted so far: False goat's beard, patience, dedication, hidden among the bushes of wormwood and wolfsbane. But before Severus could decipher what exactly they were supposed to signify, they were gone, replaced by yet another series of blossoms.
The asphodel, regret, remained; rue, regret, sorrow, repentance, rue in the truest sense; purple hyacinth, sorrow, please forgive me; and rainflower, here most likely I must atone for my sins, added themselves to make it clear to Severus that he had wronged this person, whoever it was, gravely. The orange lilies stayed as well.
If what Severus had read about the magi-pathophysiological explanation of hanahaki disease and if his own interpretation of his bouquet were to be believed, the chances he would ever be cured were below zero now.
Because the person whom he… who could cure him was already dead, and their demise must have been his fault. The flowers did not allow any other conclusion.
There was no need to remind him of the legion of crimes he had committed, both in the name of the Dark and the Light, he thought with the bitter taste of blood in his mouth. There was no way he could forget.
Although, he found himself pondering that morning as he coughed up yet another orange lily, why this whole veritable spray of flowers if, for instance, black roses, death, hatred, despair, sorrow, mystery, danger, obsession, would have conveyed most of those meanings in one?
As if in answer, tulips sprouted from his lungs over the next hours, red on white, orange framed with yellow, purple and blue. Variegated tulips, beautiful eyes.
Almond-shaped eyes like polished emeralds came into his mind immediately.
Lily?
Severus would almost have laughed at the irony of this. Orange lilies, indeed. He should have known the moment that first petal had appeared in the hollow of his hand. After all, she had never forgiven him for the use of that word, and probably - rightfully - loathed him for his affiliations until her far-too-early dying day that Severus had brought about. The rat may have sold them out, and the Dark Lord may have wielded the wand, but that did not make Severus any less guilty.
So this was the price he had to pay for the mistakes of his youth; the stains on his soul had finally taken their toll on him.
It was about time.
And yet, Severus could not help but ask himself as he moved through his day, why now? Why now, almost two decades after her death, more than twenty years after their falling-out?
He had no answer for that, except that he had been fairly sure that he had never loved her like that. The idea would almost have seemed - incestuous, seeing as the Evanses had taken him in (before his and Lily's falling out) whenever his father had become…
He must have lost himself in useless reminiscence somewhere along the line, because the next thing he knew, the clock on the wall of the dreary sitting room his mother had spelled silent sometime during his equally dreary childhood showed half past three.
He would have to hurry if Potter showed up the way he usually did.
You should call me Harry, Severus, insisted Pot- Harry's voice in his mind.
And (perhaps not so) disturbingly, it did not feel strange at all that the stubborn young Gryffindor had taken up residence in a part of his mind (and in his life).
After Nagini's bite, it had taken Severus a week at Hogwarts' infirmary to regain basic consciousness for even just a few moments. Another month had passed before he could at least start taking care of his basic needs on his own, and almost half a year was over before he was well enough to escape to Spinner's End in search of some peace and quiet, away from the hustle and bustle of a rebuilt school. (A school that had never been his in the first place - he had told Minerva as much, and she had seemed glad to see him go.) Naturally, Poppy had tried to dissuade him, but he had refused to stay at the Infirmary for a moment longer than necessary, even for his own safety.
And all this time, Potter - Harry, that young voice chided him - had been there, stubbornly making his appearance whenever he could, unfazed by Severus' acerbic, cynical nature which had only been sharpened by the pain in his neck, the aches in his body and the enforced necessity for help.
During those first few months after the Battle, the young man was one of the few who had stayed at Hogwarts to assist with the repairs and help out in the Infirmary. It was then that he had realised he had no true interest in taking down Dark wizards for the rest of his life and had discovered his inclination towards the Healing Arts instead.
It would suit him, Severus had thought to himself, with his saving-people-complex and his kind nature in spite of all that he had seen and gone through. Of course, outwardly, Severus had challenged the younger man's decision from every angle he could think of. But Harry had stood firm in his choice, and, half a year after the final battle (around the same time that Severus had moved back to Spinner's End) he had vowed to leave the fighting behind and started his adult life as an apprentice of the Healing Arts at St. Mungo's.
And it did suit him. Secretly, Severus hoped he would never have to rush in and save that fool again.
One could hope.
As is customary for a Potions Master and teacher (not to mention, because of his other occupations), Severus had undergone some basic healers' training himself. Thus, he was very well aware of the expectations placed on apprentice healers; add their rose- or galleon-tinted glasses when choosing this profession, and the strain would become too much for many.
Yet, in spite of the pressure he was under, the tenacious apprentice had insisted on "checking up" on him regularly, entertaining Severus (not that he would admit to being entertained) with stories of strange cases, troublesome patients, fawning receptionists and dunderheaded fellow apprentices; helping him whether Severus wanted him to or not and bringing food and never-ending chatter and that damn grin.
He had never stopped poking his cheeky little nose into Severus' still life.
Harry had come by every day at first, out of unnecessary concern for his well-being. That impatient, Gryffindor fool had even tried - twice! - to pick apart his wards when Severus had failed to get the door quickly enough. Not that Harry had succeeded - the wards had served the former spy well in times of war, and it would definitely not do for the Saviour to die a painful death at a former Death Eater's doorstep. It was for this reason that Severus had decided to key the reckless idiot into his wards - to save them both from repeat attempts that would only end in bloodshed sooner or later.
The young man had grinned brightly in response.
With Severus' convalescence finally settling and because of his own increasing study and workload, Harry's visits had decreased to about twice weekly since. But whenever he did visit, he always appeared well before time (a habit he never used to have as a student), waiting for Severus to finish whatever he was doing. The former spy never thought to remove Harry's exception to his wards; instead, the young apprentice healer made it his habit to knock and then come in without further prompting. Often, Severus would find his visitor lounging on the rickety and greyed living room sofa when he came to greet him, the only spot of colour and light in the otherwise dreary house.
It has been quite some time since the last visit, Severus mused. Twenty-five days, to be exact. For the last three weeks, Harry had been abroad for the mandatory outpatient clinical clerkship that was part of his training. He had chosen to do it in a small Dutch community close to the seashore, where he hoped no one would recognise him, and trained under an elderly healer who was little-known outside the marginal community committed to surgery.
But Peer van Meekeren's publications were among the few in his field that Severus had found to be tolerable.
And Harry's weekly letters from the specialised Clinic of Surgery and Magi-Surgery had sounded - enthusiastic, to say the least.
Severus would never admit it, but he was impatient to hear about the clerkship from the young apprentice healer in person.
He took his afternoon dose of the potent, breadseed poppy-based linctus potion proposed in the literature for symptom control, and set out to prepare dinner since he presumed Harry would stay late into the night, as usual. Harry would not have had the time to shop for groceries yet if he had only come back today.
It was just after the meal that the persistent itch in his chest returned in earnest.
Their reunion had been unexpectedly awkward at first, with Harry standing at the door in his lesser-seen muggle attire, cheeks pink (probably from the cold), wearing a strangely bashful little grin that stood in contrast to the wintry weather outside. During the first few minutes, neither of them had seemed to know what to say, and the unfamiliar silence Harry usually filled with his chatter had stretched uncomfortably between them, the way it had not for quite some time.
But once Severus had asked Harry about his time abroad, their conversation returned to its usual flow. It carried over to dinner, and they spent the meal with Harry recounting his experiences during the clerkship, Severus occasionally injecting his thoughts or questions. They agreed that surgery in general, but especially reconstructive surgery, was still a vastly undervalued trade in Britain's magical world, which was astonishing considering the recent history of war nearly everyone bore scars from; and the emergent field of magi-surgery - the manipulation of magical cores and flow through surgical spells - did not even exist in Britain.
Severus was more than willing to hear more about these advancing disciplines.
He would not, however, admit to being impressed by what the apprentice had managed to learn, and he had certainly not laughed at some of the horrendous inside jokes (in worse translation) Harry recounted that had been told among patients and staff.
Sometime during the last few minutes, the conversation had shifted to an agitated debate about the merits of narcosis by spells as opposed to potions.
"But - Look," Harry insisted. "Let's just take an emergency situation. It would make much more sense to use a spell - like… like Dormicum(*), for instance!"
The apprentice healer's eyes were shining. His hands were dancing in the air.
"It takes effect immediately and can be lifted just as easily should anything go wrong - a major advantage if you ask me. Whereas with potions, if you don't know your patient - and you won't have time or the opportunity to ask about that in advance - you will always have to watch out for side effects - especially allergic reactions, and those won't just go away with an antidote alone! You - just don't have this sort of problem with spells."
Severus had some things to say to that.
"I admit, your concerns about narcotic potions do have their validity."
He swallowed.
"But you must also consider the unpredictable nature of spells, especially in emergency situations, due to inter- and intraindividual differences in casting. If miscast, those spells can have irreversible consequences worse than any adverse reactions known from potions. Potions, in contrast, at least have a certain set of standards" - not that they were very high, in most cases - "they have to adhere to, and are much easier to titrate and adjust in dose according to the patient's needs. Your average healer will not be able to tune spells so finely. Apart -"
He had to pause to clear his tingling throat. Harry looked at him expectantly.
"Apart from this, potions can be and have been used in long-term intensive care for sedation and narcosis. On the other hand, spells of this nature are generally unsuited for long-term use due to decomposition phenomena which cause a large fraction of the known and feared complications of narcosis spells. The stasis charm, for instance, can cause irreparable brain damage if used for more than 12 hours at a time. - "
Harry narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me for interrupting, Sev, but I am quite certain the stasis charm is not used for narcosis."
Severus' throat continued to itch. He held up his hand. "Let me continue. The stasis charm may not conventionally be used for anaesthesia. But the majority of narcosis spells, including Dormicum, work on the same principle, and thus -"
A coughing fit hit him mid-word.
A number of thoughts flashed through his mind simultaneously. How? He had only taken the linctus about two and a half hours ago! Had it lost its efficacy? Or was his disease progressing again? Could he already take another dose?
But most important of all, as a small white petal stared at him from the hollow of his hand, he would have to make sure Harry never got wind of his condition.
The consequences would be disastrous.
Severus excused himself from the table as quickly as he could and made a beeline for the bathroom. He barely managed to throw up a silencing spell before another fit hit him squarely in the chest.
The persistent tight itch and building effervescence gave way to an entirely new set of flowers this time - stars of Bethlehem, daffodils, mauve carnations. He Vanished them immediately with a flick of his hand - he had no intention of analysing them, not now. Instead, he fumbled for the linctus in the cabinet, hoping it could still stave off the coughs and flowers at least for the rest of the evening, and sighed in relief when the symptoms receded.
He disregarded, for the moment, that he would not be able to take another dose at night - he would think of something when the time came, after Harry was gone.
Best not to make the apprentice healer suspicious, he thought, as he stepped out of the bathroom again.
His heart stuttered for the tiniest of moments.
"Sev? Are you sure you are alright?" Harry tilted his head, eyes narrowed, chin stuck out at Severus' answering scoff. "You've been walking around with that cough for quite some time now, and it doesn't seem to be improving at all."
"I am fine." Severus attempted to roll his eyes, but he was interrupted by another round of coughs threatening to fall over the verge of his throat. He barely managed to suppress them.
"No, you aren't. And don't you try and tell me again you choked on your drink. It's been empty for at least half an hour now."
Severus should have expected that. This green-eyed demon of an apprentice healer could never resist poking into what he was not supposed to know.
Severus huffed. At least, he tried to. "I told you, I am fine."
He should see Harry out as soon as he could. The apprentice should be on his way soon if he was to get back to his warm and cosy home before the snowstorm hit. Merlin knew he deserved the rest after his 24-hour shift.
And Severus had already taken his second dose for the visit one and a half hours ago; he could not take the next one for another six and a half hours.
"Then I have to be deaf and blind, Severus. I can see your breathing is laboured - hell, I can even hear the crackles in your lungs from across the table. Stop trying to fool me."
Challenging him again. Insolence.
"You know, I think you've been acting a little weird ever since I came back from the Netherlands two weeks ago - you would always go to the bathroom when those coughing fits hit, and come back fine again. From the way they sound, they wouldn't go away this quickly unless you take a very potent cough suppressant - you did, didn't you?"
Severus raised an eyebrow. He tried to breathe through another attack.
"You yourself told me once that I should be exceedingly careful - "
Severus would almost have admitted it was a passable imitation of him.
" - with that stuff because it's heavily addictive. And you wouldn't risk that unless you had something big to hide."
From me, Severus heard. There was no one else he would have to hide anything from.
Severus' heart was stumbling a little in his chest. Palpitations. Yet another symptom that had been on the rise this past week. He did not want to think about the fact that it was associated with an increased one-month mortality rate.
The wind was gaining speed outside.
Harry must have taken his momentary silence as agreement, since he continued, in that same brazen tone, "And I know your potions, Severus. Hell, you've given them to me yourself after I went to work sick and came ba- here a total mess. You wouldn't let yourself suffer from something as easily treatable as bronchitis or pneumonia. So, what is wrong?"
That green-robed, green-eyed fiend - the eyes a far deeper green than the robes - was looking at him sharply, piercing him with that stare - warm, worried again, that fool. It still was the only spot of colour in Severus' cold, dreary world.
Severus was thinking about another diversion - he had managed to throw the Dark Lord off his scent, for heavens' sake! - when he was shaken by a coughing fit that exploded out of him, uncontrollably.
The flowers were still the same as in the past two weeks: stars of Bethlehem, atonement, reconciliation; daffodils, unrequited love (rather redundant, Severus thought), but also new beginnings; mauve carnations, dreams of fantasy.
Were he a less cynical man, Severus may perhaps have allowed himself some hope upon seeing this set of flowers. But he was not, and the flowers still gave little indication of whom else they could mean.
He would rather not disturb what little peace he had made for himself, namely with the prospect of death.
"Are those - ? Flowers?"
Harry was staring at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. It would have made a strangely delightful sight had Severus had any capacity to appreciate that.
"Yes, Potter. Flowers." He ignored Harry's noise of protest. "Leave it."
Or else, he meant to say. But his attempt at sounding threatening was thwarted by yet another burst of blossoms. Daffodils, to be exact.
"No, I won't. You've been having problems breathing, and you've been coughing up bloody flowers. Literally. For two weeks. Or even longer. And you are honestly telling me to leave it?"
He should leave, as long as - as soon as he could. But of course, Potter never listened. When had he ever?
"It is none of your conce-"
The last word dissolved into a series of coughs.
"Just hear yourself! Of course it is! I am in - "
Harry stopped mid-sentence, and took a deep breath. He ruffled his ever-messy hair.
"I'm in a healing apprenticeship, for Merlin's sake!"
The rest of the protest sounded rather feeble in contrast to its beginning.
"That still does not make it your concern," Severus choked out through clenched teeth. "Leave it. Preferably before I make you."
The air chilled further.
"I can't." Stubborn brat. "Not as apprentice healer, and certainly not as your - as someone who cares for you, damn it!"
His eyes held Severus' hostage. Dared him to contradict.
Severus stood up and stalked around the table as best as he could.
"Do you now?" he asked, voice coarse, wand in his hand. "Or is it because you love sticking your insolent nose where it does not belong?"
How dared the demon in his chair flush that delicate shade of red and hide his gaze in his lap.
Severus grabbed his arm and hauled him up. "Get out."
"Not before you tell me what is going on here."
That defiant chin rose to compensate for the last five inches of height difference. Warm breaths tickled Severus' frozen throat. Breezes of magic made him shiver.
Severus could taste the buds in his mouth.
"I will not allow you to snoop around in my life again. I made that mistake too many times already. Now, out."
The green-eyed fiend did not budge.
Severus let the flowers fall from his hand. A different species, he registered vaguely.
"You have outstayed your welcome, Potter. This is my last warning: Get out of my sight."
He stepped forward, backing the younger man out of the living room door. His jaw was clamped shut so tightly his temples hurt.
"Severus - "
He would not allow himself to be convinced by anything.
"Do. Not. Make. Me."
His wand was spitting sparks into Harry's face like a firework, in time with his stuttering, pounding heart.
Another stride, and Harry turned. "Fine."
But Severus only saw defiance in his step as lime green robes swished through the front door, taking their warmth with them.
In spite of the wind, the click was almost imperceptible.
Piping silence crept back into the house like mould, interrupted only by Severus' coughs. They grated on his ears.
But they did not keep Severus from watching the cold of the approaching May Day snowstorm. Its harshness exaggerated the jagged contours of his cold and dreary dwellings, bathed it in an even danker, darker light.
Severus did not even feel the inclination to shiver when a draft hit the corridor.
He could not help but think of that green-eyed devil that had just left through the front door. It had been a long time since his magic had been so wildly out of control. Decades. Neither the Dark Lord nor Albus had been able to get such a rise out of him. Not even James Potter had, in fact.
What was it about Harry Potter that frequently drove him to such extremes?
Severus stared out, in search of answers to that unanswerable question.
Tiny smidgens of white were starting to appear in the sky.
It was a long time before his eyes and feet were drawn back towards the dark living room.
There was something unusual about it, he found upon returning. He looked around, in search of what exactly was unsettling him. When that failed to yield any results, he took to clearing out the petals strewn all over the place, a reddish-purple and yellow-orange carpet that had paved the Saviour's steps in the snake's den.
He retraced those steps towards the table, Vanishing the flowers along the way. Carnations. Daffodils.
He was just about to raise his wand again when it hit his eye.
There, casually draped over one of the chairs, was a cloak the colour of the deepest forest. A reddish-purple flower of a yet unknown species sat on it, contrast perfect even in the cold twilight of the rising snowstorm.
He took the delicate petals in between his fingers. Five magenta lobes were arranged into two lips with a spur at the end.
The clovenlip toadflax.
Please notice my love for you.
The cloak was Harry Potter's. (He would be cold outside without it.)
Severus had never allowed the thought to form in his consciousness, yet now that it was staring him in the face, he could not deny it had been in the back of his mind for far longer than he wanted to admit.
Harry Potter was his heart's - the object of his (misplaced) - the reason for his condition.
Many details realigned themselves in his mind then; slid together, like a puzzle finally completed, when that realisation hit.
Severus' unexpected feeling of equal delight and what he now recognised as jealousy when Harry reported he had failed to rekindle his relationship with the Weasley girl due to his newly discovered sexual orientation towards men.
The flowers' first appearance during Harry's absence; their change when Harry returned. How could Severus have overlooked this?
The sequence of flowers. Of course, it had all started with Lily. And Severus had been determined to hate the boy even before setting eyes on him, had made him hate Severus in return. Had been watching him ever since that very first day; that waif buried under the Sorting Hat, challenging Severus from his first Potions class. How could Severus have forgotten what he had asked his student that day, about asphodel and wormwood and wolfsbane?
How many times had he prayed for patience, when the Vow and his instincts had urged him to save the infuriating boy from certain death, only avoided through sheer dumb luck, and from the recklessness that would unfailingly set him on this path?
And yet, it was not bold, brash recklessness that had led to his death in the end; his death had been calculated, stone-cold. Severus had to let him - no, make him - walk to his own demise, cut down his life when it had not yet begun, nip it in the bud.
Severus would never have been capable of doing such a thing to himself.
It was one of the many things that haunted Severus to this day; would never stop haunting him, he suspected. His nights were often filled with echoes of his own vicious words, words that cut the mind beyond those green eyes to ribbons, words that taunted the orphan with knowledge of the parents he never had, the parents Severus had killed. He would find said orphan dead then, deep in the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, broken and bruised, those striking eyes (defiant, courageous, soft and warm) as flat and empty and lifeless as his mother's had been so many years ago.
Sometimes, Severus' hand was the one that had cast the Curse. Often, the body would turn into a viper that tore into his unresisting neck.
But somehow, Harry had not only survived the unsurvivable again, with his spirit unbroken, but had forgiven the unforgivable. He had insisted stubbornly on starting over with Severus, without the games of war pulling their strings. Their relationship of civility - wary on Severus' part at first - had rapidly warmed and blossomed to - was it friendship?
Severus' thoughts were drawn, for a moment, to the way Harry would speak his name. Not many would insist on calling him by his given name, and only Lily and Harry would dare call him Sev. Speaking of Lily, he could recall the one or other serious, difficult conversation with the younger man. But many times, their interactions were marked by spirited debates stimulating the edge of Severus' mental horizon, friendly banter just sharp enough to fit Severus' natural wit.
He had only just relearned the meaning of friendship without the shadow of deception looming over him.
But that did not matter. It had not lasted.
With Severus, it never would.
Maybe it was just as well that it had not. There was no question Harry would find the explanation for his condition, ridiculous as it might sound, sooner rather than later. But there was no need to burden him with the knowledge of Severus' desires. No need to saddle him with the remnants of a used-up life. He would find his match in time, someone young, nice and attractive.
Let him think the flowers are for his mother, Severus thought. It would be kinder to him.
His heart gave a lurch. Lilies, asphodels, hyacinths, daffodils. They littered the table where he was sat, the floor around him. Harry's cloak.
Outside, the wind was blowing snow across the windowpanes. Tiny shards of icy flowers landed on the fogging glass, dissolved immediately upon touching.
Vanity. Only a moment in time.
Just as much as Severus himself had left, he realised. He, too, had attached himself to that first source of warmth he could find. And just like the snowflakes, he would disintegrate when he inevitably thawed.
How very fitting would it be if he would never see the next spring? Him, who would never be able to move on from the war? Who was unable to deal with new beginnings, literally choking to death on flowers which symbolised spring for most?
Of the next few hours, he would not remember much.
Cold drafts gnawing at his body, motionless apart from bursts of coughs. All those flowers, lilies, asphodels, hyacinths, daffodils, blurred in one. Damp. Hatred, death, life, love. Whatever they signified, it was all the same.
A sudden burst of light, a green blob, dripping wet - must have Apparated during the snowstorm - Severus had sent him out there, but he came back - he always did...
The blur of green crouched down next to him. Who is it? it asked. The flowers?
Burning warmth gripped his wrist, felt his forehead. Severus could not, would not answer.
Tell me, please. - Is it Mum?
He stared into those eyes that were not Lily's. He couldn't bring himself to lie. His whole life had been lies.
"Look at me," he would say. Even in death, there was no truth. You wouldn't want to know. He must not know.
The light dimmed.
No. No. No! You can't!
Warmth and light coated the insides of his chest. Calmed his galloping heart.
Would there be green eyes in Hades? They could make him do the devil's bidding.
Severus, please!
Everything dissolved in a flash of green. Green light. Green eyes.
The wind howled in dismay.
Hold on, you stubborn bastard!
How could he live when he had only brought death?
Warm hands opened his collar. Patted the moisture on his cheek. It held no memories this time.
They held him, as if he, the drowning man, were their only lifeline.
He might as well have his last wish before everything went to hell. (Harry.)
Don't let me go.
Severus would never be able to recall what had happened, or been said afterwards.
But that did not matter.
Gentle sunlight slowly coaxed him back to a state of awareness. Stretching out his senses, he found that he was tucked into the warmth of a bed, propped up on a cushion of pillows. A slow breeze was dancing across his face. He could hear birdsong in the clear air.
Severus could not remember when his return to consciousness had last been so… comfortable.
The breathlessness was gone.
He allowed himself a slow inhale, simply because he could.
If this was meant to be hell, it was nothing like he expected.
He opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a brighter version of his room in Spinner's End. He had never bothered to move to the master bedroom, but this was probably the first time he thought he might be actively opposed to the idea.
The curtains were drawn to admit the morning light. A gentle breeze lapped at them from the open windows. The sensation of spring chased away the dust and cobwebs his mental image had always supplied to this room, even after the thorough post-war clean-up.
And yet, it was still unmistakably his, down to the tiny holes where his Stunning Spells had hit the flies on the walls.
A soft sigh interrupted his reverie. There, on the old, stiff-backed chair that had been repositioned to his bedside, a young apprentice healer was huddled up in a light sleep. The green robes typical of his position were tucked tightly around him like a blanket so that only a messy mop of hair and hints of a frown were peeking out.
Severus had to revise his opinion. This could not be anything but hell. In fact, it was exactly the torture he had envisioned: being surrounded by his heart's desire - he could admit that now, now that he should be dead, could he not? - knowing full well Harry Potter would never be his.
Were Severus a more metaphysical man, he might have believed this was an illusion in some twisted, sempiternal version of the delusory Mirror of Erised.
It would have matched his life of lies. And yet -
"Hi."
Speak of the devil.
"You're awake."
Harry never seemed to have anything more eloquent to say when greeting Severus at his bedside. It was either this or,
"How are you?"
Those healer's hands were twisting the folds of the green robes.
"I must be in hell."
Severus couldn't tell whether his statement had been serious or not.
"Oh." The smile slipped from Harry's face. Severus found himself missing it immediately, for Harry looked far too pale and the shadows under his eyes much too deep without it.
"Of course. You must be in pain. Should I fetch - "
"No." It was not physical pain that bothered him.
Severus had learnt the hard way that potions were of little help in such circumstances.
"Is there anything I can get you, then? Some water, perhaps? Or -"
"What do you want, Potter?" Severus would have to remind himself to not call him Harry.
He almost instantly regretted that decision when he felt, more than saw, Harry stiffen beside him. The apprentice healer seemed uncomprehending at first, but his expression of confusion cleared with a shake of his head.
"Nothing." He sounded strangely… resigned. "No, if that is what you think… You don't owe me anything. -"
Severus cut in before he could continue. "Then why am I alive?"
Harry flinched.
"What is it The Saviour's Gryffindor sense of nobility would find so untenable about the death of a Death Eater, murderer of Albus Dumbledore, his cruellest, most hated teacher?"
"This is neither about the Houses, Severus, nor are you my most hated teacher - "
His expression turned almost wistful for a moment before it settled in a mask of stubborn determination. Green eyes captured his.
"I'm not sure if you remember - delirium and sedative spells can do that to you - but I made a promise I intend to keep."
Severus did not. "Do kindly remind me," he sneered. "A promise to what? Eternally disturb my rest? Torture me with your presence? Make my life hell on earth?"
It would be, now that he had allowed himself that thought in his state of delirium. He had thought it would be his last.
Why was he not dead?
He cured you, a small but bold voice whispered in Severus' mind.
No. He squashed that thought as quickly as he could. He should not hope for the impossible.
Harry shook his head. "And even if not for that, I wouldn't have - couldn't watch you…"
Harry took a shuddering breath and sighed - it sounded far too old. Severus felt his glare soften just a fraction.
"Did you know, Severus? The helplessness I felt when I saw you, that night in the Shack, when I watched you bleed out?"
Of course Severus remembered - the stale air, the dirt, the darkness, the blood - everywhere. Green eyes, pressure - warmth on his neck. Raw magic like a fountain in spring.
"It - it was worse than walking to my own death. I took up healing because I never ever wanted to stand by and feel this helpless again. Unable to do anything. And yesterday -"
Something twinged in Severus' chest then. Were the flowers -?
"Yesterday was worse than that, you know." Harry's voice was near inaudible. He swallowed almost convulsively.
"I had already figured something must be really wrong - I haven't seen you lash out like this ever since you got well enough to come home, and every time you had snapped at me or Poppy in the infirmary, we'd find you'd had a setback of some sort. You'd usually let us help you once you'd calmed down a little, so I thought you just needed some space and went to Grimmauld Place."
Effortlessly, almost inadvertently, Harry had captured the whole of Severus' attention again. Grimmauld Place?
The apprentice healer chuckled a little at Severus' expression. "You've been to the library, and unbelievably, there were some healers among the Blacks, too."
He sobered almost instantly.
"It took me ages to find any stuff about hanahaki even in the most comprehensive volumes, it's so rare. And even after I found something, I had no idea how to help you then, only that I could perhaps ease your breathing and stabilise your circulation with some spells if needed while I searched for who - who could cure you, maybe buy you some time with the stasis charm if it came to the absolute worst and nothing helped. But I knew I had to check up on you in the evening."
He took a deep breath.
"I'm glad I did. I'd have lost you completely otherwise, Severus."
How Harry could sound so relieved and forlorn at the same time, Severus did not understand. As if he had given up something precious, treasured instead.
You, and Severus, Harry's soft voice echoed in his head.
As Severus took a breath, he found that he did indeed feel better than he had in a long time. No.
No. It was impossible. It could not be. Severus would not allow that fool to bind himself to him on account of his body's absurd whims. Harry - youth that he was - would regret it, sooner rather than later, and Severus would not be able to begrudge him for it.
"You - cannot possibly want this." Me. Severus' chest tightened. He should not have said -
Green eyes widened and brightened.
"Lose you? No. I definitely wouldn't want that. But that was not what you meant, was it?"
And despite everything Severus told himself to believe, that small part of his mind could not give up whispering insistently, hopefully, he's not disgusted. Then, more boldly, on the contrary. He wants this as much as you do.
"No. I can not, in good conscience, let you tie yourself to me, for whatever reason you think you may have to do so. You are young. You still have a life ahead of you. Look at this."
He waved around the room that refused to revert to its familiar dreariness.
"Look at me. I am old, used up, an infamous remnant of the war no one, least of all I, will ever be able to let go of, not to mention -"
"- gorgeous and brilliant and the bravest man I've ever known."
Harry sounded earnest and serious - as if he believed it himself.
Impossible. How could anyone think that, most of all Harry?
"And honestly, who isn't traumatised from the war? You've seen my nightmares first-hand when I fell asleep on the couch here."
Unearthly screams. Severus!
And afterwards, that expression of absolute undeserved trust.
"And this is exactly the reason why I can not allow - this." Severus gestured between them, uncharacteristically lost for words as he tried to convince himself this was not exactly what he wanted. "I will always be a Death Eater, turncoat, greasy git, whatever they call me nowadays. I will only drag you down, impede your future, your career -"
"Oh, sod the public, Severus," Harry cut in. "You know I haven't cared much for their opinion since that very first pile of shit - " he ignored the admonishment sitting on the tip of Severus' tongue - "they call an article in my fourth year, at the start of the Triwizard Tournament. And at least Hermione has suspected the crush I had on you since sixth year I had been nowhere near able to admit then."
How could this be true?
But indeed, Harry's cheeks pinkened. His eyes, though, remained steadfast. He cleared his throat.
"Well, apart from that, I wanted to open my own clinic either way - surgery and magi-surgery, probably, like Peer did - St Mungo's is just so - so restrictive! And since you know the potions available in public hospitals are generally sub-standard, and I know brewing for the Infirmary helps you a lot, I had already planned to ask you -"
"Harry. Please, stop." Severus could not listen any longer. Even to himself, his voice sounded strangled. "Do not tempt me with what I can never have. I - I implore you."
This was torture, worse than anything the Dark Lord had ever dished out. Severus had never had to resort to begging then. His chest felt tight, his breath short.
To his right, the bed dipped to accommodate Harry's weight. Healer's hands and bright green eyes like beacons pulled him afloat, kept him from drowning.
"But it can be yours, Sev. It is yours for the taking. I am yours, however you want me, as a friend - "
Severus found himself unable to abide by that thought.
" - or more, if you want to."
The trace of longing caught Severus by surprise. He told himself he could not accept more, but oh, how desperately he wanted to.
"I've already promised I wouldn't let you go." There was a tingle of magic in those words.
Foolish - "And you believed the words of a delirious man?" Don't let me go. "Took them literally?"
"I'm very glad I did. I couldn't have asked you out otherwise."
A long, stunned pause. Ask him out. Harry was -
That was the last straw. Severus felt the last of his already cracked resistance shatter in the face of the incredible temptation that was Harry Potter. He tugged the younger man down towards him with all his strength, and crushed Harry's lips against his for what it was worth. After a moment of shock, Harry kissed back just as passionately.
It took a few tries to find the perfect angle. It was clumsy. It was messy. It was heaven on earth.
It was a long time before they surfaced. Severus' heart was jumping, but not because of palpitations; he was panting for breath, but his lungs were light. He had to look ridiculous by this point, but it was worth it, he thought as he regarded Harry's flushed face and the kiss-swollen lips that stood in perfect contrast to his brilliant eyes.
Severus might have been able to spend eternity just regarding the younger man if not for the yawn that was threatening to overtake him.
Harry, of course, immediately noticed. "It's alright, Sev," he chuckled quietly. "You've been sick for quite some time, you stubborn man, and we just had a - taxing conversation." Harry blushed a little, but continued. "It's only natural you're tired."
He smoothed out the rumpled sheets before he settled down next to Severus again with a quick peck on his lips.
Severus felt himself sigh. He felt warm, so comfortably warm.
"You rest now, Severus. I'm here."
And Severus did.
In his sleep, he remembered the familiar sensation of coughing. Of his heart stumbling and failing. The sight of flowers littering the cold darkness. They choked him and strangled him, and Severus was powerless against them.
But then, his green-eyed, green-robed angel came, chasing the darkness and the flowers away with light and tingles of warm magic. "I'm here, Sev. Breathe," the angel said, carding his hands through Severus' hair. "Love you. Always."
Those words brought Severus back to wakefulness. He could not mean -
"I love you," Harry simply repeated. Without hesitation. Without awkwardness. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And how could Severus not love him in return?
Just before Severus was lulled asleep again by those healing hands, he allowed himself the thought that maybe, just maybe, the flowers from his heart had never spelt death for him, but the beginning of a new and brighter life.
(*) Dormicum® is actually the German brand name for Midazolam, a sedative.
HP Flowers fest metadata:
From prompt card 2: hyacinth
From prompt card 3: daffodil
When writing this, the prompts from The Houses Competition (I'm one of the judges) provided me with a few rather important details:
Round 1: Theme (one of many in the story): [New Beginnings] - starting over, beginning again, emerging from the old; and Prompt: [Weather] A late-in-the-year snowstorm
Round 2: [Action]: Struggling to breathe (of course, but that was when I already had the story almost done).
And I was writing this and found it also fits the HP Flowers fest rather well. See above.
I was further delayed by several blocks that hit me while writing. So - sorry. I really am.
Thanks a lot to the community at HP Fanworks Central for your support, and to puttyman24 and my friend ZT for betaing my summary!
I hope you liked it! Please, please, please review!