Orange Blossoms

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.