Chapter 2
dahlias for inner strength and dignity;
the flower to gift those who in adversity stand tall
white for staying focused and pure
pink petals for grace – for sweet taste of kindness
blue and green preface changes, a morning sea of fresh starts.
black, a bitter warning of betrayal;
but on a bright marbled grave
the bouquet only tells of a sinister fall
Her first week in Hogwarts, Rose Potter had felt exhilarated and free but also so very intimidated. Finally away from Privet Drive and the whispers and rumors, from every suspicious glance thrown at her, she was supposed to be a new Rose Potter.
Of course, there was the whole matter of the Girl-who-Lived.
People knew her. At least, they knew of her.
Some looked at her with worship and awe; a few professors smiled her way, but sadly, old griefs and wounds that time had washed but not cleaned entirely. Professor McGonagall was perhaps the least obvious about it – so much so that, in the beginning, Rose thought the woman might not see the myth that history had stuck to her, to her soles, to her shadow, to her back, to her forehead and to her teeth indiscriminately. It had felt nice. But then Neville Longbottom, sitting in front of her, had made his match burst into a great fire.
McGonagall had pivoted, wand raised, but then her gaze had found Rose. Or rather, something in Rose: Rose didn’t think that her wide distressed eyes were much different from Ron’s, or from any of the Gryffindors clustered around them. And yet the professor had locked eyes on her, she was sure of it, even though it felt more like she’d been seen through than stared at.
And the Scottish woman had faltered.
That millisecond was enough for the magical fire to reduce Neville’s fretful notes to ashes. The poor boy was inconsolable about the whole thing and, still perplexed, Rose wordlessly passed him her notes to copy. Hermione, who had turned around to do the same, took only one look at Rose’s scarce and messy handwriting, and slipped the boy the parchment she had been writing on.
It had quotations, diagrams and illustrations, and her neat writing left no space for margins. Rose was rather certain McGonagall hadn’t talked quite so much, but she just refocused her attention to her grayish match and nudged Ron so that he’d stop glaring at Hermione Granger on her behalf.
He did so with a grumble, and they both started poking their sorry looking projects with their fingers and their wands. Neville touched nothing for the rest of the period, but studied the notes he had been offered with much intensity and despair.
.
.
The very next day, Professor Flitwick called her name and fell from his stool when she waved at him. The class laughed; Rose joined them.
It felt weird, being recognized but not. Being well-known but not known well; being ever watched but never truly seen.
She’d disappoint them before long, and they’d realize they had the wrong person.
(But maybe she could enjoy the feeling of acceptance while it lasted)
.
.
And then came Friday.
That was her first potion class; her first real encounter with the potion master, Severus Snape.
*
‘That is a nice jar you have there, Severus,’ Dumbledore’s portrait observed merrily, leaning forward in his frame as if it made a difference. ‘Are you making jam or honey? I must say, nightshade is certainly a bold choice for jelly.’
Honestly, Severus thought, had I known I would be stuck with your endless chatter, I’d have let Draco kill you and deal with the consequences.
Out loud, he only said, ‘I had planned to add no such nonsense as sugar or honey. It is an elaborate message, not a grandmother’s crafting session.’
‘I pity the maiden who must receive so bland an offering,’ Dumbledore hummed.
Severus crushed the flower he had been trying to fold in the glass.
*
Rose Potter had had bad teachers before.
Before coming to Hogwarts, they had been the norm. Many teachers cared neither about teaching nor about students in general, the sort who came for the paycheck and earned it by asking them to read in silence. Some teachers did care about their material, though not enough to make the class care too. Teachers like Binns, who cared in such a boring way that it hardly mattered at all.
A few teachers could be heard criticizing the intellectual failings of their charges in the hallway, without minding the witnesses. Others would take one look at Rose and judge her insignificant, unworthy of their time and efforts. The ones she hated most were those who always believed Dudley’s lies about her, even when he’d been an unpracticed liar, although the teachers who ignored her when she still bothered pleading to be heard and understood came close.
None had listened her nervous babbles about needing not to share a desk with Piers Polkins, and most who had sympathy for her lost it when the homework she handed in was unfailingly rushed and greasy.
And yet, in the space of one lesson, Severus Snape had them all beat.
*
‘You know,’ Dumbledore piped up after a while, ‘nightshade is said to symbolize bittersweet truth.’
Severus stared flatly. Oh really, his expression said.
‘Oh, yes. Its symbolic use in mid-fifteenth century romantic literature has been analyzed in depth by poets and lovers, who have oft imitated it to let down someone they loved but couldn’t make happy.’
The potion master rubbed at his eyes.
After inhaling, he said, ‘The flower signifies only truth. Bittersweet might be its alternate name, but it changes not the meaning.’
‘Is that so?’ The painted man tilted his painted head to the side, looking for all the world like a curious puppy. That this man would be the only man to ever scare the Dark Lord – ridiculous.
Another deep breath. It wouldn’t do to let apoplexy do him in when there were so many more interesting ways to die. ‘Anyone who knows anything about flowers will understand the code.’
Well. That wasn’t exactly true, but who would fault him? The intended recipient knew more than enough about the subject to not fall prey to misinterpretations.
Dumbledore beamed. ‘Oh! The language of flowers, how thoughtful of you! And here I thought you only wanted to send it as a scarlet fever remedy!’ The dead headmaster shook his head sadly. ‘I am very sorry that I so often underestimate you, Severus.’
*
The dark haired man had swooped into the room in a flare of dark cloaks and black eyes. He was, much like the Weasley twins had promised, the very picture of an overgrown bat. However, the twins had made it sound funny and laughable. The actual man was sort of terrifying, like a nightmare that grabs your ankle and pulls harshly just as you fall asleep.
As soon as she thought that, his eyes cut to her and narrowed. Her breath caught. Without meaning to, she felt her spine straighten under his scrutiny. It wasn’t tainted with the same sort of snob disdain Malfoy gave the whole world, with an upturned nose and a pout. It did, however, make her feel like she was just a pitiful fly in a sticky web, only surviving because her predator judged her too revolting to eat alive.
She squirmed and immediately hated herself for it.
There was a glint of something in the man’s eyes. Rose hadn’t noticed the minuscule twitches around the professor’s lips as he detailed her physical form and caught sight of a few oddities, but the glint was so familiar – she had, after all, grown up with the Dursleys –, there was no way she wouldn’t recognize it.
She steeled herself.
When he spoke, before even taking roll call, his voice was smooth and deadly.
‘Miss Potter,’ he drawled, eyes never leaving her.
It sure seemed like he wanted to say more. He seemed like he wasn’t sure what words to say first – but she knew none of them would be kind. ‘Yes, sir?’ she asked anyway, because at least unjustified cruelty was familiar territory.
Severus Snape sneered at her, and turned his gaze to the rest of the class.
‘Class, this is Rose Potter, as you are well aware, seeing as she is our new celebrity,’ he spoke calmly, quietly, but everyone shifted their attention to him without hesitation. ‘My colleagues may have given the faulty impression that it matters. I assure you, in this class, Rose Potter is nothing.’ He paused, and went on, though it seemed to be forced for property’s sake, ‘nothing more than another first year student who is woefully unprepared for the delicate art of potion.’
He turned back to her, mocking this time. ‘Or do you believe yourself prepared, Miss Potter?’
She clenched her fists to stop her slight tremble.
She had thought herself ready the day before. She had thought herself prepared this morning at breakfast. That was before her teacher had given her that look. The same look accompanied the words “car crash” in the mouth of her so-called family.
Inwardly, she had dubbed it the ‘wouldn’t it be nice if you hadn’t survived’ look. She had thought she’d grown used to it.
She gave a dull smile. ‘I hope to learn. Sir.’
*
‘You know,’ Dumbledore started talking again a few minutes later, and Severus cursed for letting himself hope he wouldn’t.
Honestly, he had no idea why Dumbledore put him through this relentless torture – for what else could those conversations be? As it stood, the old man had begged him to kill him. Surely he had no right to take vengeance now.
‘No,’ he responded shortly.
‘You know,’ Dumbledore repeated as if Severus hadn’t said a thing, ‘I am glad you found it in you to let go of your feelings for Lily and let yourself try being happy now.’
Severus closed his eyes. He’d have to brew himself another headache potion. He had already drunk his way through his reserve and his secret reserve in the twelve hours that Dumbledore had become his flatmate. Wall decoration, Severus amended.
‘Still you misunderstand, you impossible man.’
Dumbledore frowned. ‘There is no shame in moving on, Severus. In these perilous times, love may be our ultimate advantage against the darkness advancing.’
‘This will be sent to Rose Potter,’ the potion master cut in before the dead headmaster could continue.
The old man looked aghast. ‘Severus, no.’
*
Rose’s first impression of Severus Snape had been far from positive, and it had gone downhill from there. After she had professed a desire to learn, he had bombarded her with unrelenting questions about material she was sure did not belong on a first year’s curriculum, though looking at the eagerness of Hermione Granger, one would never guess that the thirteen steps to good liver preparation wasn’t in their introductory books.
Snape graded her works on a twisted curve and scoffed at her questions and her potions.
The only upside was that, the more awful the head of Slytherin’s house was to her, the nicer her own housemates treated her. The scowling, the swooping, the sneering and the jeering: every quirk of nastiness Severus Snape possessed was vindictively discussed in Gryffindor’s common room. Complaining changed little about the injustice, but the enthusiastic griping sessions rushed along the bonding of the first years.
They’d later find out the phenomenon was quite common amongst young Hogwarts lions. Having a common enemy did wonders for their sense of togetherness.
*
‘Albus,’ Severus said, then paused. ‘Yes.’
Albus Dumbledore may never have had to live with his plans being dismissed and redrawn, but only fools couldn’t learn, and Albus was far from a fool, despite playing one well.
‘Severus, you can’t.’
Was that anxiety? Perhaps a touch of anger? Severus felt smug. ‘I do not think I asked for your permission.’
Strangely, Dumbledore seemed at a loss for words. That was new. In Severus’ experience, when the man had nothing to say, he uttered cryptic strings of empty nonsense. ‘I know you have grown to care for the child, but had I known... Had I only known...’
Severus scoffed. ‘Care? Keep your sentimentality. I hardly care for her.’
*
There had been a moment in first year, though, where Severus Snape had seemed a bit more human than predator, a bit more ghost than bully.
Rose had been outside, practicing Quidditch drills and acrobatics on her own, enjoying the smooth turns of her Nimbus. The sun had been bright that day, washing the courtyard in a yellow light.
She hadn’t noticed Snape before he barked at her to get down before she broke her neck and inconvenienced Madam Pompfrey with her stupidity. That got her attention, and she slipped from her broom, only barely catching herself on the handle.
She caught his eyes widening as she dangled from her broom.
Which would have been a sign that he wasn’t just out to make her miserable if it wasn’t for the fact that –
‘You startled me on purpose!’ she exclaimed as her feet touched the ground.
He looked at her coolly, sneered at her scarlet dress that matched her hair, and yet it lacked harshness. ‘Gryffindors, always so hotheaded and quick to presume.’
She glared at him.
Unexpectedly, like McGonagall had all those weeks ago, the man faltered. For a moment, a tiny wisp of a Gryffindor girl stared down the head of Slytherin, and he let her. It was impossible and nobody would believe her, no one would ever believe that Severus Snape forgot to take points for her impertinence, forgot to be sinister, forgot to be cruel.
Yet he just looked at her standing in the early afternoon light. ‘Your eyes. They were brown in my class.’
It somehow resembled an accusation. Rose frowned. ‘They’re hazel,’ she said slowly, because she figured that was what he wanted to know, though she couldn’t imagine why. ‘The light makes it change colour, sort of.’ When his eyes kept boring into hers, she felt her shoulders draw back defensively. ‘Does it matter?’
The potion master observed her. ‘More than you think.’
And then, raising an eyebrow, ‘Ten points from Gryffindor for endangering school grounds with your reckless, unsupervised flying, Miss Potter.’
.
.
Okay, so the man had unsettled her.
Rose spent hours upon hours working on her next potion essay after that strange encounter. She wasn’t sure why it felt urgent to prove that she could hand in a perfect work, but it did.
Hermione was surprised but approving. Bad idea, Ron warned, because then their bookworm of a friend would keep expecting this kind of studiousness from her, and then were would they be?
It’ll be worth it, Rose assured, though she could only hope that to be true.
When she slapped down her homework on the Snape’s desk the next Friday, she held his gaze and had to force down the urge to say, ‘Shove it!’.
From the unimpressed stare he gave her, maybe something of her face said it loud enough.
.
.
Severus Snape could find no fault in her paper.
It was worth it.
*
‘To honour your memory,’ Severus offered as a peace offering, because as infuriating as the man was, he had done good where and when he could, ‘since it is your funeral tomorrow, I won’t disclose your role in this turn of events.’
‘My role…? Severus, you can’t mean I have something to do with this.’
‘You can’t mean you haven’t,’ retorted Severus, back to glaring. ‘You planned her death! Surely you wouldn’t be so senile as to forget.’
Dumbledore frowned, then suddenly lit up. ‘You mean you are going to tell her about our arrangements early so she’ll forgive you.’
‘Not ours, and not so that she forgives me, but so that she might have a chance to survive,’ Severus objected darkly. He then scowled. ‘Why sound like you only just worked that out?’
Dumbledore’s eyes widened.
A moment later, the elderly man started to whistle innocently, a light blush spreading under his beard.
Re-examining the conversation took Severus the matter of seconds. ‘You thought,’ he started, then stopped, the words too horrifying to utter. ‘Your memory doesn’t deserve to be preserved, you sordid old man,’ he decided with scorn and finality.
He’d tell Potter everything.
‘Achoo,’ said Lavender Brown when Rose got back to the dorm after another fruitless day of searching answers in books.
Rose frowned. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Achoo,’ Lavender repeated pointedly. ‘Achoo, achoo, achoo.’
‘Lav, you’re not actually sneezing. What’s going on?’
‘I’m allergic to flowers,’ the girl said with a huff, crossing her arms.
‘Flowers?’ repeated Rose dumbly, thinking about all the times that Lavender hadn’t been allergic to flowers. Maybe it was a new development. Maybe it was caused by her breakup with Ron, as so many other things were. ‘You’ve never been allergic to flowers before.’
Lavender’s look became more and more pointed. Rose followed its direction. ‘I’ve always been allergic to ugly flowers, Rose. Why do you think I couldn’t stand your weird muggle clothes in first year?’
The girl had been looking at a gloomy jar of dried, thorny flowers. It was a potion’s jar, so Rose was certain that it was hermetically shut and it could do no damage other than being a possible eyesore, but there was something to it. ‘What’s it doing here?’
‘How would I know? It’s on your bed, isn’t it?’ retorted Lavender tartly.
‘So it was already there when you got in?’
‘Well, no,’ Lavender admitted, ‘it just appeared a while ago.’
Rose stared at her friend, then at the jar. Huh. ‘Nightshade,’ she murmured as she picked up the jar, missing the small slip of parchment that fell on the floor as she did so. ‘It’s used for lung-cleansing potions.’ Except in potions, you’d hardly need all the parts of the flower and stem, would you? The nagging feeling of staring at something significant but missing the point came back. From the looks of it, it wasn’t deadly nightshade. It was just the common sort – the one that also grew in the Muggle world, though the non-magical name for it was bittersweet.
‘When did you turn into Granger?’ Lavender cut into her thoughts, voice sharp and unforgiving.
Everything about Lavender was sharp and unforgiving when Hermione came up, these days.
Rose sent her a strained smile. ‘Don’t worry, Lav, I’ll get rid of it.’
‘Won’t your lover mind?’
The girl-who-lived laughed at the wrong conclusion in spite of herself.
‘Dry truth is hardly the sweet whisper of a lover, is it?’
.
.
She left the jar by the foot of Neville’s bed. There’d be time to figure it out later.