BY ANY OTHER NAME
Variations of A Theme

PART 3

Severus had been pacing back and forth in front of his little window so much that he could now see scuffmarks and scratches on the wooden floor. The snow was falling more heavily now and if he breathed softly onto the glass it would frost over.

Hermione Granger… it had been her all along.

It was curious, he thought, that he had never even considered her or Weasley or even Potter for that matter the whole lonely years he had spent in his secluded room. Their existences had never crossed his mind, had never ignited a spark of his interest or inquiry. He was sure he always knew in the back of his mind that they must be alive and growing older, but it faded into the background of the world outside. He could do nothing but assume that the magical world had continued to exist and flourish beyond his walls. Minerva did tell him that Voldemort had been defeated and that they had won the war, and the fact that Hogwarts still stood and that happy children ran around on the grounds below him were a testament to this.

But now he was curious. Why Hermione Granger, and how Hermione Granger? What did she look like now? How old was she? What was she doing at Hogwarts – what did that brilliant mind do with itself all these years?

Why her?

What must her hair feel like?

Her skin?

Severus unconsciously rubbed a rose petal against his unblemished cheek, examined it and then placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, slowly chewing. He had been upset by the revelation at first, disturbed. She was linked very strongly not only to Potter, but to his past. The Severus he used to be and could no longer conjure. What secrets of his history would she drudge up? What would she expect of him and what would she think of him now? Could she help him?

What would her lips feel like?

What of the soft down on the nape of her neck?

Severus had lain on his bed for days, wracked with torment and hands clutching onto the thick material of his blankets. Every paranoid thought, every misgiving, every indication that this connection was a bad idea could not hold up for very long over his instincts towards the sensual. He could only briefly ponder the precarious situation he was in before his mind gave way to imagining what she would feel like against him. What she would taste like…

Cursed snake. Cursed poison.

Finally his rational mind could distance him from his curiosity no longer and he had found the tickle of her magical presence again. He had pulled… beckoned her closer to him… broadcast a signal so overwhelming that his own vision blackened and he fell unconscious, later waking to find himself ashamedly sticky.

And now she was back.

It had taken her a few weeks, but she was back again. Severus had been pacing in his room, restless, like a large cat circles its cage waiting to strike. She had come and he was ready to be found.

Hermione leaned back into her chair, exhausted, and allowed her head to rest against the wall. She was in the Infirmary at Minerva's bedside. The Mediwizards from St. Mungo's were coming up again in the morning to transfer her to the hospital, saying they should leave her be overnight.

Hermione had almost lost her composure, but managed to fight down the panic and overwhelming sadness to just a few escaped tears. The Mediwizards kept assuring everyone that Minerva was fine, was going to be just fine, but Hermione knew it was just a comforting fiction. Yes, perhaps Minerva would be back at Hogwarts within a week, but this was the first tangible sign of her descent downwards. It would be more difficult for the old witch now and everyone would soon have to come to terms with her approaching death.

Hermione sadly cradled her old friend and former mentor's hand in her own.

Within the dark, hushed Infirmary, Hermione began to dream.

"Oh Merlin… "

Hermione gasped, her back arching and her eyes slipping shut.

Wait… she hadn't been here before.

He had just placed a rose petal on his tongue, wiping it past his lip so that it was just beginning to curl from the dampness. He gingerly laid it over her nipple and she hissed, shivering from the slight, fleeting friction. His tongue met the petal again, this time coating it, lapping, until it had plastered to her breast like a second skin. The spit cooled in the air, sending little shocks through her and she sighed helplessly.

She reached for his face blindly, but he batted her hand away.

He gently pushed her down until she was lying with her back against the floor. She looked curiously around her. She could see brick, dust... and candles that had just been blown out. Gray whispers of smoke rose from their wicks.

"Oh Merlin… "

He had placed a rose softly against her torso and was teasing a feathery line down to her navel. The tips of the velvety petals skimmed across her skin, leaving in its wake a growing trail of gooseflesh. She murmured something incoherent, shoulders rolling and head turning from side to side. The rose kissed her delicately, moving to brush along the inside of her thigh. Hermione's hips bucked upwards and her legs stroked against each other like a languorous violin.

"Closer… " She said.

The head of the rose perched itself on top of her damp curls, as if asking for entrance. She shuddered, hands reaching forward to bring him closer before he pushed them aside again. He stroked the rose against the already sensitive skin of her inner folds, and she twitched, willing herself to relax. He then placed the rose head in his mouth and sucked, gluing the petals together to form a closed tip. After a contemplating glance, he then pushed its sodden nub against her and twirled it inwards.

"Professor," she cried out, head thrown back and neck exposed. He looked at her, a curious expression on his face, and then snapped the stem of the rose off from its bud.

He was pulling away.

"Wait—" Hermione grasped for him, flower petals falling out from inside her and littering the ground where she lay.

She woke with a start and with an uncomfortable dampness between her thighs. She groaned, feeling a stab of pain in her lower abdomen. Alarmed, she undid the bottom of her robes and then slipped her hand underneath her underwear. Her fingers came back slick and when she brought them up to the moonlight they glistened darkly. For a second Hermione had the insane notion that it was disintegrated rose petals until her nose caught the sharp copper tang of blood.

It was just blood. Only blood. Her time of month.

Hermione slumped back into the chair; suddenly feeling boneless again, smeared hand hanging limply by her side.

Hermione hadn't slept properly for weeks.

She was beginning to become a shell of her normal bright and busy self. While the school board of governors had diplomatically told her that the control of Hogwarts was to be placed with Professor Slughorn because he was a Head of House, she knew it was actually because the hollowed look in her eyes discouraged them from the notion of giving her any more work. She looked haunted and she knew it. The board of governors had assumed she was privately grieving over Minerva's illness and was making herself sick. It was the view most of the school staff had.

She said nothing to dissuade them from that notion.

She was plagued by random erotic chills that would dance across her skin. She never had any clue as to when they would come so she was tense and gripped with anxiety every hour of the day. If she wasn't alert they would creep up on her unexpectedly and she didn't want to collapse again in front of her colleagues or, heaven forbid, her students.

The dreams were the most troubling. They grew with intensity and she took to staying awake and only dozing briefly when physical exhaustion commanded it of her. She found they became fuzzy and she didn't remember them as much when she fell asleep under those circumstances.

She was fine. She was functioning.

She was only functioning.

Severus' face hurt. It had begun to smell.

Minerva hadn't come to see him in weeks. Where was she? His roses had all but rotted away completely and he had pushed them to the furthest corner of his room where they sat in a blackening mass.

At first, giddy and delirious with his new plaything, he had been distracted by teasing Hermione Granger closer to him. The game had progressed far and quickly and he had been caught up in the neural hot flashes of their dreamed moments. But as the second and then the third week passed with him trapped in his room alone he became afraid.

The skin around the open wounds on his face was sore to the touch, and he had to take care that nothing came into contact with it. He had taken desperate measures and cut off his hair from that side as loose strands began sticking to the clear weeping pus. The whole area of his face now burned white-hot with the occasional stabbing prickle that hurt him so much it made his toes curl.

Minerva, where was she? He needed her. He needed someone. Albus? Who could help him?

It had even begun to hurt to breathe, his neck screamed silently in agony.

Feverish, he made one last desperate grab for her magical essence. He needed to bring her to him quickly or he would die. He just wished he could do it some other way.

When Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and her hands clenched the side of the desk, Albus' suspicions were confirmed. He watched as she battled with the beguiling force that wracked her body and did her best to not whimper aloud or sink to the ground.

"You found a rose, didn't you?"

Hermione's eyes opened in alarm, pupils still slightly dilated and glassy. She was struggling to regain her composure, but something Albus' portrait had said was immediately sobering.

"What did you say?"

"A rose. A very particular type of rose. It's what Minerva smelt on you a few months ago."

Hermione looked scared, but she nodded. How did Albus know? And more importantly, what more did he know? She shuddered one last time, but finally felt the electric pull on her nerves slacken and give up. Breathing in deeply, she silently counted to ten before looking up at Albus' portrait again.

"Why Snape?"

"Because the rose is his."

Hermione's brow knit in confusion and she said, "Snape's dead," although the look on Albus' face already told her that the truth was otherwise.

"He needs help."

Black rose petals slowly began to consume his vision and he realized he was slipping into unconsciousness.

Severus lay still on the floorboards, a tremor running his body on occasion. He was wracked with fever, a layer of sweat clinging to his skin and causing him to feel alternately hot and cold. He had no more strength left in his body and had collapsed to the floor, face shrieking in protest and sending sharp needles of fire to his groin.

I was here once, he thought to himself, this was how I first died.

He had fallen to the corner where his dead rose petals were. They formed a pool around him as if they had bled from his open throat.

Severus was losing the battle to keep his eyes open now. They were slipping shut on a sliver of light that was growing wider and wider.

What?

I'm here.

Severus lost the battle with the fleeting hint of a question lingering in his mind before there was only black.

Hermione gagged when the door opened as she was assaulted with the stench of sour flesh and infection. The room was quite dark and it took her a moment before she could distinguish anything apart from shadows. Albus' portrait lingered nervously on a frame in the hallway, trying to peer into the room.

Hermione cautiously walked in and then almost retched again at what she saw by her feet.

"How is he?" Albus intoned anxiously from the hallway.

Hermione gasped, tears stinging to her eyes from the wretched assault on her senses. "Hideous," she managed to choke out.

She finally steeled herself to kneel down to where he was. She could barely recognize his face; it had been ravaged not only by the passing years but of a twisted poison as well. She gently touched his shoulder and found that he was warm. The loose material of his robes was drenched in sweat. Lifting her sleeve to cover her mouth and nose, Hermione gently lifted a loose strand of hair that was sticking to his face. There were some lines on his face that she recognized… the accusing eye… the severe nose…

Underneath the stench of infection and death she picked up on the faint chorus of roses.

"Expecto Patronum."

A silvery otter burst forth from her wand tip, gambolling in the air. "St. Mungo's, emergency at Hogwarts," she commanded and watched as her patronus sped away into the night air.

She looked down at Snape then, trying to process what was happening and what she was seeing. It hurt to look at him, she rubbed her own face brusquely as if to make sure the same affliction hadn't gripped her. Gently gripping his jaw she tilted his head downward so she could see more of her old professor's face.

Was it you calling me all this time?

"I'm here," she whispered.

TBC