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In from the snow
Your touch brought forth an incandescent glow
Tarnished but so grand
Hermione coughed hard as she walked, gagging on the obstruction in the back of her throat that she couldn't quite decipher in the mirror. It was thick and white, which sharply contrasted the weird red strings she had been spitting out all day. It was leaving a bizarre taste in her mouth, a combination of sweet and bitter that seemed like it was coming from two different things. But what?
She was nearly to the Hospital Wing when something pricked unpleasantly at her intuition, stalling her steps. She should go see Madam Pomfrey, she was the healer. Another small twist in her gut that she couldn't decipher argued against her logic. Something in her mind was telling her that Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be able to help her. With a sigh, she turned around and began making her way to the opposite side of the castle. Her gut seemed to approve of her seeking out Dumbledore’s help.
When she reached the gargoyle, she was far more out of breath than she usually would have been. Her chest was unusually tight and her throat tickled unpleasantly.
“Snickers,” she rasped. It leapt aside.
It was late, but Dumbledore was still busy. He was often in his office until nearly midnight, and tonight was no exception. The war was hard on him.
“Do you ever feel like you're getting too… too old for all of this?” She had asked him once.
“Every day,” he had told her. “But to admit such a thing to the wrong person would result in a devastating blow to morale and terrify thousands.”
She had never forgotten the words that were left unspoken that night.
“Ah, Hermione. To what do I owe the late pleasure?”
“Something is in my throat, I think in my chest too. I was going to Madam Pomfrey but suddenly I felt like she was the wrong person to ask, so I came here instead.” She rubbed at her neck again even though she knew it wouldn't soothe the discomfort.
“Let's see then,” Dumbledore answered easily. As he stood up his shoulders dropped, seeming to loosen up.
Hermione opened her mouth as wide as she could, while Dumbledore lit his wand and bent down to look. As soon as he was close to her something moved inside her throat and she coughed hard, barely covering her mouth in time. When the coughing fit subsided she felt something soft inside her mouth, and spat it out into her hand. Then she stared at it in bewilderment.
It was an enormous white flower, with five petals connected together. Sprouting from the middle were thin red tendril-shaped petals. It almost appeared to be two separate flowers that had grown together. Hermione looked up at Dumbledore for an explanation, utterly lost. Dumbledore plucked it out of her palm and examined it carefully.
“I haven't seen a case of this since I was in my thirties,” he said mildly, “How fascinating.”
“What is it?” She asked, struggling for patience.
“Hanahaki. A condition where a person's feelings for another manifest physically in the form of plant life growing from the lungs and throat, usually in the form of flowers or vines.”
A pit opened up in her stomach.
“What sort of feelings?”
“Love or lust are the most common. Judging by the combination here, in your case it would appear to be the latter.”
“Combination?” She parroted. She wasn't a plant encyclopedia like Neville.
“The moonflower,” he traced the large white petals, “only blooms at night. In Hanahaki they are known to represent secret desires that one wishes to keep hidden. It can also imply confusion or shame. And here, the spider lily in the center is often associated with a taboo desire, or perhaps also a dangerous one.”
“What does all of that mean for me?”
“The prognosis is… complicated,” he admitted.
By complicated, she assumed he meant fatal.
“The easiest cure is to fulfill your desire, in which case they will wilt and disappear on their own. In your case it would seem that such a thing would be rather difficult. Judging by-”
Hermione coughed hard, and several more flowers fell onto the desk. These ones had significantly more red in them, which Dumbledore took notice of.
“Judging by the presence of the spider lily, this is a person with whom you know there cannot, or at least should not, be a relationship. I would venture a guess that it is because of the taboo nature that you want it to remain hidden, and why you find yourself confused by it. Would this be an accurate summation?”
“A little too accurate,” Hermione confessed.
Dumbledore rested his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in against his side. Immediately she was wracked with more coughing, this significantly more violent than before. Half a dozen flowers fell from her mouth this time, the red filaments nearly overtaking the white petals. He caught one and held it up, and she could practically hear him piecing it together.
“I see,” he said quietly.
“What are my options?” She asked, nearly in a whisper.
“There are potions that can slow the growth, but they prove less effective as time goes on. There's another potion that will kill them altogether, but doing so also makes one unable to feel desire for the remainder of their life. Left untreated, they will eventually cause suffocation.”
Her lungs chose that moment to send more up, but these looked different. The edges of the white petals were wilted and brown, rotting.
“What does that mean?” She couldn't help but ask.
“Guilt,” Dumbledore answered, sounding almost sad. “Sometimes self-loathing.”
“Again, accurate.”
“Why? There's nothing you should feel guilty for.”
“Putting something else on your shoulders when you've already got way too much to deal with. Putting you in an awkward position. Feeling something I shouldn't be in the first place.”
“Desire is one of the most human feelings to exist, there is nothing wrong with wanting.”
“Except the part where I either die or kill my ability to ever want anyone again,” Hermione countered him.
There was a long pause.
“Or…” He began quietly, hesitating.
“Or what?”
“Come with me,” Dumbledore said instead, gesturing for her to follow him.
The door to his sitting room was hidden, and she’d only been through it once. It was a cozy space despite its size, probably due to the fact that most of the space was taken up by bookshelves. She had been itching to be invited back again, though this wasn’t exactly the circumstances she had in mind. The moment she was through the door they had her attention and she began drifting that way without consciously thinking about it, only stalled by his hand taking gentle hold of hers.
“Another day,” he promised.
“Right, sorry.”
“Never be sorry for being interested in books,” he chided with a smile.
“Now, or what?” Hermione asked, the heaviness in her chest pulling her back on track.
Dumbledore sighed and turned his back, drifting over to the window to push it open. The air was sharp and cold, perfect for clearing one’s head…
“I’ve been alone for a very long time, I’m sure you’ve guessed as much,” he began. “I made a grievous error in judgement about someone many years ago. Since then, I’ve only sought out company of the transactional sort, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do,” Hermione answered. “What makes you want to tell me this?”
His shoulders slumped, his head dropped forward, while his hands braced on either side of the window, like he had a physical weight upon his shoulders. She approached him cautiously and rested one hand gently on his back, waiting patiently.
“The last time I allowed myself to be wanted by another person was the day I turned eighteen.”
His implication hit her like a particularly heavy brick.
“And now…”
“And now a beautiful woman has shown up on my metaphorical doorstep with a desire so strong it threatens to kill her if I refuse to… indulge.”
Finally he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were scorching, and there was colour high on his cheekbones above his beard. It sent a thrill down her spine. Far more than simply a headmaster, he was widely regarded as the best wizard the world had ever known. Yet right now, he was looking at her as though ready to devour her. Lonely or not, the way his eyes hugged her figure was undeniable. Her body flooded with arousal.
“I think at this rate I won’t be the only one choking on plant life for long,” Hermione managed.
“Perhaps not.”
“Do you want me to leave so you can think?”
“No.”
The answer came far too quickly for him to have thought it through first.
“I don’t want to be the reason you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”
He removed one hand from the window and placed it on her waist.
“I’m fairly certain I’ll regret something no matter what I choose,” Dumbledore admitted. “And like you pointed out, I’m liable to come down with my own case of it now.”
He moved like lightning, circling her waist with his arm and cushioning the stone with his hand before her head could crack painfully against it. His body pressed hard against hers, but he hadn’t kissed her yet. His pupils had dilated, giving his eyes the illusion of darkening. He was waiting for something, but his proximity made it hard for her to think of what it could be. Finally it clicked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His mouth captured hers roughly, suddenly, like he couldn’t breathe for another moment if he didn’t kiss her. She twined her arms around his neck and stood up on her toes, trying to get closer to his height. Long fingers tangled hopelessly in her hair, but she didn’t think he cared if her curls ever gave them back. In contrast his hair was soft as silk, sleek as water, and nearly a perfect white. She’d been dying to touch it for ages and now her hands were buried in it.
The arm around her waist moved, his hand traveling to her hip, then trailed slowly down her thigh and gathered the hem of her robes. His fingers trailed up her bare leg, soft and teasing. His fingers hooked behind her knee and she gladly wrapped her leg around his hip when he guided it there. His other hand freed itself from her hair, slid down her body, grazed her bum and took hold of the back of her leg. In one quick motion he hoisted her up, her legs wrapping tightly around his hips.
Once she was secure, he carried her to his bed.
When Hermione awoke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was the arm wrapped loosely around her, and the steady heartbeat in the chest her head was resting on. The sheets were far softer than anything she’d ever felt in her life, and that was what brought the night back to her. When she opened her eyes, she found that he was already awake, waiting for her.
“How do you feel?”
She hesitated, then tried to take a deep breath. For the first time in days, her lungs filled without obstruction. Dumbledore reached over her, plucked something from her pillow and showed it to her.
One perfect white moonflower, with the red tendrils of spider lily flowing out from the center.
A reminder.
Oh, I can't
Stop you putting roots in my dreamland
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you