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Holly knows she will die soon.
She has survived two Avadas, has survived Voldemort trying to kill her nearly every school year, has survived the grind of the war and the bleak, bleak days. She has made it to adulthood, against all odds, and now she'll die before she even reaches her nineteenth birthday.
It won't be a spell that leads to her demise, or a dark wizard, or any kind of actual, material enemy.
Oh, no.
She will be killed by the one thing that has always saved her.
Love.
Or more accurately, the absence of it. Love, that incredible force that protected her from curses, shielded her from harm, bolstered her in her moments of weakness. This time, it's nowhere to be found.
And it's choking her, this void.
The pain splinters her chest as she coughs, beautiful flowers petals falling from her lips, pink, yellow, blue, white. They flutter to the floor as she is being excavated from the inside out, more and more of them, crawling up from some place in her chest, unfolding in her mouth, spat out with each cough.
Hermione holds her hand as she heaves, and heaves, and heaves. When it's over, she's kneeling in a sea of crushed petals, all flecked with blood.
It is getting worse. Hermione doesn't say anything, helps her clean up, vanishes the petals with a wave of her wand while Holly climbs on her bed and curls up, but they both know it. She's in stage four now. Estimated survival time: four months.
She was sixteen when it started. Just a single petal at first, not even coughed up. It was resting on her tongue, and she picked it up gingerly, wondering how the hell it had gotten there. Then it was a handful of petals, soft and pink, that she retched upon her pillow one morning.
She didn't tell anyone. Didn't think anything of it, really, even as it kept happening. She had other concerns, finding out what Draco was up to, uncovering more of Voldemort's past. Eventually, one morning, she groaned in pain as she expelled a mouthful of large sunflower petals, and Hermione found out, alerted by the noise. From the way her face crumpled, Holly knew it was bad.
Hermione explained, Holly listened. How simple it was, really. It all came down to love.
"The person you have feelings for..." Hermione said, biting down on her lips, lines of concern wrinkling her brow, "are you sure they don't feel the same for you?"
Holly recalled hateful dark eyes, the twisted sneer, the cold, scornful voice.
"I'm sure."
Hermione hugged her, and told her she was sorry.
"I don't want anyone to know," Holly said.
So Hermione helped her keep that secret. She made excuses for Holly when she felt petals come up and had to step away, she bought her potions to slow the disease's progression, procured by owls anonymously, she researched the disease extensively, without finding a solution.
The year went on, Snape killed Dumbledore, they went to hunt for Horcruxes, and still Holly coughed up petals. She began having trouble breathing, as the flowers took root in her lungs, growing there, in malignant colors. Ron found out, but there was no time for grief. They had a mission to complete, and so much on their minds already. They destroyed all the Horcruxes they found, they saved Snape, she killed Voldemort.
She sat next to Snape in the infirmary while he recovered, and he told her she was wasting her time.
"You should have let me die," point-blank, to her face.
"I couldn't," she said.
"I love you," she didn't say.
He lived. Was tried, declared not guilty, resumed teaching Potions.
Holly was back at Hogwarts for a eighth year, along with Hermione and Ron. She coughed petals several times a week, apple blossoms, red carnations, irises, roses. The women in her family were named after flowers. Lily, Petunia, Holly. She'll die from them too, growing in her lungs, choking her of air.
It's a secret she carries with her everywhere.
There is no cure. No cure, except for true love's kiss, and Snape does not love her.
"Just tell the bloke," Ron says one afternoon, as they're all sitting near the lake, in an isolated nook of greenery and moss—and pastel petals that Holly has just finished hacking up.
"It's not that simple, Ron," Hermione says, handing Holly a glass of water.
"How can you be so sure he doesn't love you?" Ron asks Holly. "Maybe he's just hiding it really well."
"He doesn't," Holly mutters, taking small sips of water.
Her chest burns, her throats aches. Copper on her tongue. Bloody petals form a scattered crown around her.
"Ron," Hermione says, in an annoyed tone, like he's missing something obvious. "If she tells him and he rejects her, it's... it's really not good for her prognosis. Can you blame Holly for wanting to hang on?"
Ron's face falls.
"Sorry. I didn't—I'm sorry Holly, I just want to help and I don't know what to do..." He suddenly blanches. "Wait, it's not me, is it? The bloke you—"
"Of course it's not you," Hermione says, with an eye-roll.
Ron sighs in relief, then eyes Hermione suspiciously.
"So you know who it is?"
"I guessed it," Hermione says.
"Is it... it's someone we know, right?"
"Yes," Holly says, miserably.
"Who?"
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, gives a raspy exhale. Something is tickling the back of her throat. Probably a petal that's gotten stuck back there.
"Snape."
Ron's eyes go wide. He stays silent for a long minute, while Holly drinks more water and Hermione makes the petals and the traces of blood disappear.
"I still think you should confess," Ron says. "Who knows what's actually going on in Snape's head. He fooled Voldemort into thinking he was his most loyal follower, while actively working against him for years. It's possible he's in love with you, Holly, and he's just hiding it."
"He hates me," Holly murmurs.
Hates me, she thinks the next day, sitting in detention in Snape's office. She can't even remember why she's here. She broke something during class this morning, or talked back to him, or.. does it matter anyway?
Four months left. And still she wouldn't spend them anywhere else than close to Snape.
"Potter," he drawls, watching her with that incisive black gaze she keeps dreaming of. "I seem to remember giving you lines to write. Do cease gawking at me."
"Has anybody ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?" she does not say.
"Yes, sir," is what comes out of her mouth.
She looks at the line she has to copy. I will handle my glass vials with more care instead of dropping a whole tray of them like a brainless idiot. Oh, so that's what happened.
She's writing all that for the sixth time when she feels it. The telltale tightening in her chest, the constricting pain in her throat, the sudden sweat beading down her back. She's going to have an episode.
But she can't. Not here, not while Snape's watching.
He can't know.
She stands, one hand clutched against her chest as pain pulses there.
"I have to go."
He gives her a contemptuous look.
"Are you under the impression you can dismiss yourself? Your detention isn't over. You will stay right here until you—Potter!"
She's already out of the room. Implacable pressure threatens to burst in her chest, and she runs, she runs to the nearest bathroom, holding her breath, trying not to—
The pressure bursts, and she retches, spitting a single petal out, red, red. She catches it in her hand, keeps running, wheezing now, her heart beating a staccato in her throat, her chest aching, and in her throat, in her throat... softness and colors, blooming.
She makes it to the bathroom in time. She skids into a stall, locks the door, and she's on her knees, coughing petals. Red this time, only red, the blood mingling crimson on the floor. It hurts, a deep, stabbing pain every time she expels more petals. She wheezes air in, one hand braced against the side of the stall, her head spinning, her lips stained red.
And then the bathroom door bangs open, furious footsteps marching in.
"Potter!"
She jolts, bites her lips, a fiery line of pain carving her up, her throat burning, burning...
"Don't come in!" she desperately cries out.
The footsteps halt. She can tell he's just on the other side of the door. There's a beat of silence, heavy, laden with too much, and she tries, she tries, but she can't stop herself from coughing again. A handful of petals flutter down, damning noise echoing in the silence of the bathroom.
"You're in distress," Snape says, his tone clipped, impatient, the same way he would say stupid girl, is there nothing of worth in your head?
"No," Holly says.
"You need to go to the infirmary."
"No, I'm—"
The last word doesn't make it out, drowned by another coughing fit. She can't see the tiled floor now. Only a bed of petals. They're roses, Holly knows. Red roses.
"You are evidently not fine, Potter, and this poor attempt at concealing your health problem is giving me a headache. Come out this instant, or I will open this door."
"No!"
He can't see—he can't see—
Her fingers scrabble at the wealth of petals, crushing them between trembling fingers, before she remembers her wand. She'll vanish it all, the blood too, and he won't see then, she'll—
Another spasm tears through her. Her wand clatters to the floor, and she heaves, a broken sound leaving her lips.
"That's enough, Potter!" Snape says.
He throws the door wide open. And he sees.
He sees the red, red petals covering the floor, a crimson, deadly wreath, he sees Holly's pale, bloodless face, he sees her lips as red as crushed roses, and he sees the truth.
Holly recoils in on herself, meeting his gaze with mounting dread. He's gone as pale as her, black eyes holding twin flames, and Holly doesn't know if it's fury or something else, but either way she's preparing to be incinerated. Reduced to ashes by that gaze, by cutting, searing words, by the weight of his eternal contempt.
None of that happens.
He stands there for unending moments, frozen like a statue, or perhaps it's only her own time perception that's unreliable, and it actually lasts a couple of seconds. She blinks, and she thinks he was just on her knees before her, slender fingers cupping her jaw, wiping the blood from her lips, but no, that's impossible. He's standing and he hasn't moved. She swallows, her breath thin and wheezing, not enough air making it into her lungs.
"Come with me," he says.
The words are soft, as soft as a caress of petals upon her skin, and now she's definitely hallucinating, but fine, she'll roll with it. She grabs her wand, struggles to her feet, stumbles out of the bathroom and down the corridor. Snape is at her side, his hand curled around her arm.
It feels solid. Real.
It can't be.
Snape doesn't touch people, and he doesn't care. Not about her.
They're back in his office. She's sitting on a chair, and a mug is placed in her hands.
"Drink," Snape orders, so she does.
The warm liquid tastes like honey-infused tea, and soothes the burn of her throat. She drinks more, her hands clutching the mug. She can feel Snape staring at her, can see him, the hem of his cloak brushing the floor as he stands close.
"Look at me, Potter."
She doesn't want to, but he says it so gently that she does anyway.
"Which stage are you at?" he asks.
Is it concern on his face? For her?
"Stage four."
There's a flash of cascading emotions across his features, too fast to follow. In the end, the one that stays is easy to identify. It's the one that's always overlaid all their interactions.
Anger.
"Then what are you doing hiding in bathrooms, Potter? Why are you here at all? Go find the object of your affection and shake them until they admit they return your feelings."
For a crazy moment, she imagines herself doing just that. Reaching out, clamping down both hands on Snape's arms, and shaking him. She wonders how he would react.
"I can't say anything to him," she says. "He doesn't love me, and I'm not... I want more time."
It's selfish, perhaps, that he'll never know. She has sworn Ron and Hermione to secrecy. When she dies, the secret of her disease will get out, and people will wonder who she loved, and Snape will, if he cares, places the blame on anyone but himself. It's not his fault, after all, that he doesn't love her.
Holly won't be the first to die from unrequited love. The disease is not that common, but it does claim a few victims every year.
"He doesn't love you," Snape repeats, and there's disbelief in his voice, like it's properly impossible for anyone not to love her.
"He hates me."
He's staring so hard at her. Is he using Legilimency? No, she would feel it. Unless he's so skilled at it he can do it undetected... She lowers her gaze hastily.
"Is it someone we both know?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Someone you used to hate."
"Yes."
"Potter..." he says, softly, too softly.
Fuck. She should have lied. He can't know. He can't know, it will only hurt him, if, apparently (impossibly), he cares.
"It doesn't matter," she says quickly, meeting his gaze.
"Of course it does. We're talking about your life." He looks angry again. "Finish your tea. Stay here. I mean it, Potter. You will not move."
"Alright," she replies.
She's puzzled when he leaves. He closes the door behind him, and she hears the lock slide into place, but, well, she could open it if she wanted. She doesn't.
She remains in her chair, sipping the warm tea. Wondering where Snape has gone. Maybe he's fetching her friends. Doesn't trust her to go back to her dorm alone, so he'll have her escorted by Hermione and Ron. That would make sense.
The tea really helps with her throat, and with the soreness of her entire chest. She should ask Snape for the recipe.
She sets down the mug on the nearby desk once it's empty, crosses her legs, sets a hand just under the lower end of her sternum. If she presses here, hard, she can feel the flowers in her lungs, feel their weight, their roots, their petals, the entire bloody thing. Feel every dwindling breath, each one bringing her closer to her end.
A couple of minutes later, the door creaks open. Holly is not surprised to see Snape didn't come back alone. She is, however, surprised to see just who accompanies him.
"Malfoy?"
Draco frowns at her, his posture going a bit rigid, and turns to Snape.
"What is this about, Professor?" he says.
Snape grabs him by the shoulders and makes him face Holly.
"It's time for the truth to come out," he says. "You haven't said anything because your father would disapprove of such an union, but Potter needs to hear it now. Tell her what you feel for her."
"What?" Malfoys squeaks, voice going so high it's almost funny.
Holly blinks, slowly. What was in that tea?
"Go on, Draco," Snape says.
"Uh," Draco says. "I guess I see her as a friend? Potentially a friend?"
"You can't be serious," Holly says.
"It's fine if you don't want to," Draco says quickly.
"I'm talking to Snape. You complete idiot, you think it's Malfoy I have feelings for?"
The silence that follows is so absolute she swears she can hear the flowers growing in her chest.
"I'm confused," Draco eventually says.
"Draco," Snape says, staring at Holly like he's planning to murder her. "Leave. Now."
Draco scrambles away, and Holly is left alone with Snape. A Snape with bared teeth, wild eyes, and a terrible look on his face. A pale specter wreathed in dark robes. An omen of death.
Something tickles in her throat. She groans, coughs. A single white lily blooms on her tongue, the soft petals brushing her lips.
"You foolish girl," Snape growls.
He lunges forward, grabs her face, and bites the lily out of her mouth. He spits it on the floor, and—
Holly realizes then that he's not planning to murder her. Not planning to murder her at all.
He's kissing her, bruisingly, maddeningly, kissing her like he wants to breathe life-giving air into her lungs himself, kissing her like he will die if he doesn't. The kiss of a lifetime.
True love's kiss.
She feels the magic of it, and that is not a metaphor. It's a river, flowing through all of her, a cleansing pour that washes away the deadly growth in her lungs in an instant. Suddenly she can breathe unimpeded, and she knows the flowers are gone. She can breathe, and she's burning up, lips locked with Snape's, hands—where are her hands?—on his chest, palms spread wide, her heart pounding like thunder.
He growls against her mouth, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, then diving in, slick and so hot. How did she ever think him cold, she wonders. He is a furnace, and she would gladly burn with him, for him. She grasps at his shoulders, pants into his mouth, lets herself be devoured. There's something hard and cold at her back, probably the wall, yes, that's it, and Snape is pressing her up against it.
He clutches a fistful of her hair, forces her head back, kisses her harder, angry and passionate and desperate too, as if he's afraid she'll disappear if he stops, as if he wants to punish her for keeping her secret for so long, as if they're not going to kiss ever again.
When he stops, she's out of breath, but for once, it has nothing to do with flowers.
"Were you not going to say anything?" he says in a snarling rasp, his hand knotted tight in her curls. "Was your foolish, irresponsible plan to die alone?"
His gaze is a black inferno, and she wants it to consume her.
"I thought... I thought you didn't love me."
"How could I not love you? Potter, you complete idiot."
She smiles at the echoing insult.
"You didn't say anything either," she remarks.
He touches his forehead to hers, sighs heavily.
"I had no inkling of your feelings of me, and didn't wish to burden you with something that would have left you at best puzzled and at worst disgusted. I watched you from afar and waited for you to find love in the arms of another."
"Like Draco? No. I've always wanted you."
He draws back, letting go of her hair, his hand cradling the back of her head.
"When did it start?"
"Sixth year."
He looks utterly shocked by that answer.
"And all this time, you kept it secret? How did you manage that, Potter? Did you use a Time-Turner?"
"No. I was careful, and I had help. My friends covered for me."
"Your friends. Weasley, Granger, they knew about this? About... me?"
She nods. He gives a small huff.
"And neither of them tried to encourage you to tell me the truth?"
"Ron did. I told him you didn't want me."
With a growl, he presses his hips forward, and she feels—oh. That's—he's—oh, oh.
"Does that feel like someone who doesn't want you? If I had known, I would have revered every inch of you..."
His lips trail down her temple, feather over her cheek, slide on her throat, and then she feels his tongue, flicking over her pulse. She groans, grinds herself against him, against that large bulge that's all him.
"You can... do it now..."
"You must be sure," he says, and his hand is grasping her hair again, and he's grinding back, a heavy, steady motion that makes her feel just how hard he is, how thick he is. "Be very sure of what you're asking..."
He sounds like he's barely holding himself back.
"Your cock," she says.
And then all pretense of control is shattered, and he's on her.
He rips her blouse open, yanks her bra down, bites her lips, her throat, lower, now his mouth is on her breasts, licking stripes of scalding heat, engulfing her nipple whole, sucking on it, and oh fuck, the heat, the heat, it's going to burn her alive. She moans something, either a yess or his name, or some mix of both, she's not sure, doesn't care.
His hands are roaming, hungry, avid, all over her. They explore, they grasp, they knead, fervently, frantically, they want to know every part of her, want to lay bare every secret, want to possess and tear, and they slide down, and—
—yes, yes—
—are under her skirt, are pushing her knickers to the side, and strong, slender fingers are parting her folds, finding her clit, drawing circles on it. She bucks into the touch, mewls wantonly. She's so wet, so ready for this, and it's better than in her dreams, better than anything her mind ever conjured up during all those lonely nights in her bed. Snape is licking at her breasts, groaning, his fingers working like magic between her legs, building the sweetest, fiercest sensations, and she's whining, shaking with need, so empty. It's a crime that she's this empty. She aches from it.
"Snape," she pleads, shuddering, her hips bucking again.
He responds with a deep, deep growl. Teeth rasping against her taunt nipple, hand gripping her hair tighter.
"Potter—Holly—I need—"
He's not coherent, gasping the words into her feverish skin.
"Yes, yes, yes..." she says.
Their hands meet at his belt, collide, cooperate, and they both scramble to undress him. His cock appears, flushed red, so big and thick. In any other circumstances, she'd be worried it won't fit. Right now, she needs it inside her, and she can't wait to take him.
All of him.
In a flash of movement, he has his strong hands under her thighs, and he's lifting her, bracing her against the wall. Then the smooth, broad head of his cock presses where she's hot and slick and so, so needy. He opens her up slowly, pushing in, hissing as he sheathes himself inside her.
It fits. It burns, and it's a lot, but it fits. Her cunt gives fluttering spasms every time he sinks another inch inside her, and then he's fully in, his balls snug against her dripping slit. She's breathing in raspy little inhales, her hands gripping his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist. He watches her, his cock pinning her to the wall, the thick, hard throb of him inside her.
Watches her for a moment more, while she's marveling at how he feels, how she can have him all in her and hold all that heavenly pressure, how she's clenching down on him already, how he's so deep, the head of his cock lodged right against her cervix.
Then he licks at her throat, gives one slow thrust, pulling out, his cock dragging along her inner walls, pushing back in, her nerves flashing with heat. A second thrust, a little faster. A third, and his his pace picks up.
Their hips start slapping together. He holds her up, fingers bruising her thighs, surging forward, driving deep, and deeper, deeper, his entire length filling her slick sheath, bringing such burning pleasure, such blazing heat. Her thighs are contracted so hard they shake, her hands now clutching his hair, pulling hard. She's keening and wailing on each thrust, and she's dripping all over his cock, leaking arousal on his shaft, her wetness coating him thoroughly as he fucks her.
He's sucking bruises at her throat, a trail of them, each new pull from his mouth harder than the last. A collar of purple flowers that will bloom around her throat. Her back scrapes against the wall, and she'll have bruises there too, from the jarringly hard thrusts he's inflicting.
He drives in again with brutal force, the head of his cock punching some special place inside her. She arches with a strangled scream, and comes. She sobs as she's ravaged by white, pure bliss, molten heat bursting liquid into every vein, an orgasm unlike anything she's ever had before.
He keeps moving, thrust, thrust, thrust, spearing her clenching cunt with his large, throbbing shaft, exquisite fullness and friction, and he doesn't stop even when she goes limp and pliant in his arms, moaning weakly, mind floating in a haze of blissed-out satisfaction.
He's grunting hard now, hauling her body onto his thick cock, seeking his own end. His teeth are at her throat, and he groans something there, two syllables, muffled. His pace falters. He presses deep, grinds, grinds, hard and heavy, straining into her, shuddering...
"Please," she mewls, half out of her mind, knowing what she needs all the same. "Please, please—"
Pain, sharp, hot, melding so perfectly with pleasure, as he bites down. And he grunts, and he spills inside her. She feels the splatters of his cum against her walls, burst after burst of it, as he comes with his cock lodged so deep in her. She's overtaken by a second climax, her inner muscles contracting in a flurry, seeking to draw every hot spurt from him, and she rides the wave of sensations high, screaming something. She thinks it might be his name.
There's more shuddering, more muffled noises, more pleasure. When it ends, he's still supporting her, his spent shaft slowly going soft inside her. He lifts his head, she opens her eyes, and they look at each other. His face is a mess, sweaty, curls of hair sticking to his cheeks, his lips wet and swollen. She's sure she looks the same.
"Are you alright?" he asks, in the raspiest voice she's ever heard from him.
"Yes," she slurs, chest heaving rapidly.
He sags a little against her.
"I hurt you."
She laughs. A long, streaming laugh, which makes her chest shake harder.
"You were hurting me before, when you were hiding that you love me," she says. "I'm fine now. We'll be fine."
"Will we?"
He's got one eyebrow raised, and he looks down at their joined bodies, as if to say look at what we just did.
"Yes," she says, and she kisses him on the forehead. "Perfectly fine. Wait, no. There's one problem, actually."
"What?"
She gives him a stern look.
"You haven't actually said it. That you love me."
He smiles.
"I love you."
Best day of her life.
"I'll need to hear it every day," she tells him. "In case the flowers come back."
This isn't how this works. They both know it. And yet, his smiles widens, and he says it again.
"I love you."
There's one last thing missing.
"Love you too," she says, and she kisses him.
There. Perfect.