A/N - Thank you to my Beta, Gannet, who helped with characterization and plot. This story is better because of you. I can't thank you enough. Of course, I do not own the Harry Potter characters or world.

“A silver thorn, a bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.”
Don McLean, “Vincent”


Silver Thorn, Bloody Rose

I walk into my room, frustrated that there is no door to slam to express my feelings.
Instead, the entrance to my chambers silently shifts itself back into the damp stone wall
of the dungeon. It is over. I have done it.

I have added the powdered Graphorn horn to the potion while her back was turned,
causing the explosion for which I blamed her. Now, she will turn away from me,
breaking me. But it is better that she does it now, when I have control, than at a time
when I am not expecting it…when I am happy. I have always been in control, and with
her, it can be no different.

I had to do it. For her own good. She deserves better than a broken, sarcastic, ex Death
Eater old enough to be her father. And one day she would have realized that and left me.
And I would have understood. But now I have given her the freedom to live, without her
Gryffindor loyalty forcing her to stay with me, breaking her spirit. It is better I am
broken than her.

In my rooms where I have hoped to find peace and a chance to forget her, I am instead
surrounded by her very essence. It is infused into the room. Her books lying open with
mine on the table, a discarded robe thrown over the chair by the unlit fire, a vase of roses
she insists upon placing on the table next to the bed, but mostly, mostly it is her scent that
I notice. It surrounds me, reminding me of the one person I do not want to dwell on at
this moment…this moment when I must try to control the bitterness that has built up
because I know one day she would have left me.

I told her it never would have happened if she hadn’t worked her way into my life. I did
not look into her eyes as I degraded her skill and her person, but instead surveyed the
room…the melted cauldron, the ruined pages of research for which I pretended to have
no copies…I could not look at her, I would not look at her. With her away from me, she
will be able to live. She can leave this musty old castle, associate with people her own
age, love someone who is worthy of her. But, with her gone, my dreams have gone.
Dreams of being recognized by someone as something other than a former Death Eater.
Dreams of being recognized as myself…as a man.

I cannot bear it any longer and flee from the room, back through my private labs. She is
still there, staring at the wall I had disappeared through minutes before. I make the
mistake of looking at her, noticing the tears that linger in her eyes, threatening to fall to
her cheeks, now pale with an emotion I cannot decipher.
Embarrassment…shame…anger…I cannot tell. I look away before I am incapable of
such action…before I go to her, cradle her in my arms and tell her that everything will be
fine.

“Miss Granger,” I address her, using the voice I have perfected on unruly children, “I am
sure you can remember the way off the grounds?” I sweep away from her, not bothering
to wait for a reply, through the doorway and out of the dungeons, deducting points from
any student I happen to come across. I must get away from her, away from the pain that
seeing her causes me.

Out in the cold, I realize I have left my cloak behind and am underdressed for my
impromptu venture into the Hogwarts gardens. Lost in my mind’s wanderings and silent
curses, I trudge through the freshly fallen snow, the first of the season. It is not until I am
here that I realize where my legs – or was it my mind? My heart? - have unintentionally
taken me.

Here. It was here that I first saw her, really saw her. She was standing alone, holding a
rose up to her face, deeply breathing in its sweet sent. The war was over, the Dark Lord
had been defeated by Potter, and everyone was in the castle celebrating. Everyone but
Miss Granger. I had needed to get away from the festivities, away from all those who
fawned over the Saviour of the Wizarding World, so I had sneaked out into the garden,
hoping to find entertainment in the deducting of house points from over-amorous
Hufflepuffs. But instead, I only found her.

“Miss Granger,” I snarl, enjoying her slight jump as I sneak up behind her, “A little
early to be letting down your guard, isn’t it? What if I had been an unaccounted for
Death Eater?” I raise my eyebrow at that…technically, that is what I am…a Death
Eater, unaccounted for in Azkaban.

“Professor.” She acknowledges without turning to face me, “It seems rather silly to be
still so consumed by watchfulness when it is possible to finally relax.”

“Five points from-”

It was then that she turned to face me, and I could see that damn sparkle in her eye that
reminded me so much of Albus. Whenever I forget myself and snap at her, she still
sparkles, silently laughing at me, reminding me not to take myself so seriously. It is her
greatest gift to me – I cannot be Bastard Snape with her. She knows me too well. With
her alone can I be Severus. Only she is capable of making me see the humour in any
situation, forcing me to cast aside my usual negativity. Until now. My negativity is in
full bloom. She would have left me. Even she is aware of that. Her eyes did not sparkle
back in the lab. She knows it is time for her to go. I have given her that freedom. She
does not need to make that decision…to take my feelings into account.

“Taking points, Professor? I didn’t know it was possible to make a house suffer for what
a former student does or does not do.”

“My apologies, Miss Granger. Please carry on with whatever it is you were doing.” I
waive my hand dismissively at the rose still being held in her grasp. As I turn to go, my
robes trailing behind me, she responds. I stop to listen to her explanation, even though I
did not ask for it.

“Smelling the roses, Professor, just stopping to smell the roses. It’s nice to know that
some things remain unchanged after all that we have been through.”

“Indeed,” I whisper to myself, my lips quirking in what could almost be called a smile,
glad that my expression is unknown to her, my face turned away. She has not changed,
still knowing everything, even the simplest way to deal with the remnants of war, “Roses
indeed.”

It was then I had noticed that she was no longer a child. She had grown into a woman,
self assured and confident, but still a Know-it-All. She had sparked my interest, not only
in her actions, but also in herself. Still bushy haired and small she possessed such
strength. I found myself thinking about her, days after our little encounter had passed.

Her words had had a startling affect on me. I had been floundering after the defeat of the
Dark Lord, unsure what to do with myself with my time no longer spent spying for the
Light. But she was right. Some things really do remain unchanged. I was still Severus
Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had not
been putting on a persona with that position. Potions was – is - my expertise, and some
things do not change. So I taught the dunderheads in a vain attempt to show them the
subtle art of potions, deducted points in a most rapid manner, and was still the greasy git
of the dungeons.

And for once, I was happy teaching...well, if not happy, satisfied. Although I didn’t show
it of course. I had a reputation as a bastard to uphold, Dark Lord or not. And then she
came back into my life, intruding in my dungeons, borrowing my supplies, asking her
perpetual questions, all under the guise of seeking a Potions Mistress title. And although
I fought it, she worked her way into my heart, first as a friend – the first in many years-
and then, then as more. But I could not let her know. I was the overgrown bat, her
teacher for seven years, she was apprenticing under me, I was cruel, sarcastic, bitter…I
had come up with many reasons to keep my feelings private as they had always been.
And I was miserable.

And then she, with her Gryffindor bravery, helped me to put my misery behind me.

As we walk through the garden on our nightly stroll, discussing our next project to be
completed now that the students have boarded the Hogwarts Express to return home for
the summer, she quietly reaches for my hand and links her fingers through mine,
continuing to talk as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

But it has. She has never held my hand on these walks before. We have always
maintained a distance suitable to a friendship. Could it be that she wishes for a
relationship more than that of friends? But no, it is most likely just another expression of
our friendship, nothing more. She touches Potter and Weasley and I know she harbors
no romantic feelings toward them. She has told me as much herself.

So I do not say anything, but instead continue my musings, reveling in the feel of her soft
palm against mine, the warmth she is passing to me, the way her fingers feel as though
they belong, linking her to me forever.

And suddenly we are stopping. We are in front of the same rose bush I had found her by
the day of the celebration. She turns to face me, still holding onto my hand.

“I apologize, Hermione. I’m afraid I did not hear what you were speaking of.”

“Severus,” she sighs. I love the way my name sounds coming from her lips. It is as
though she savors the feel of it, the taste of it in her mouth, “why haven’t you kissed me
yet?”

And then her lips are upon mine, and I cannot move, I cannot breathe. I did not expect
this…I had hoped, prayed to the gods even, but I have never expected…

And then I realize that Hermione, my Hermione, is in my arms, kissing me, urging me to
open to her, and I do. I cannot deny her any request, especially as she demands
something that I so desperately want. I disentangle my fingers from hers and wrap both
of my arms around her, securing her more firmly against by body. Her small grunt of
disapproval at the loss of contact from my hand turns into a moan as I touch more of her.
Her hair tickles against my face, unruly and in every direction as always. I savor the feel
of it…I have always desired its touch. And now that I have felt it, I never want to be
without it. It is something that is so intrinsically Hermione, and I want it…I want her.

Her lips slowly pull away from mine, and she rests her head against my chest. After an
indescribable length of time, she looks up at me, smiling.

“Imagine where we could be now if you had only done that weeks ago, Severus.”

As I stand here now, where I first wanted her, where I first kissed her, my sense of self
sacrifice morphs into despair. What have I done? I have treated Hermione, the woman I
love, as if she were nothing more than a dunderheaded first year. Not trusting that she
knows her emotions, not trusting her feelings for me. I have disregarded all of our
feelings for each other with my insecurities.

And now I am furious with myself. How could I have put her through this? How could I
have treated her with so little respect? In my anger, I snap the stem of a rose…the roses
Hermione loves to place in our rooms. I stare at the flower, its red petals just beginning
to bloom, opening themselves under the care and light of the sun.

How can she forgive me when she learns of what I have done? How will I ever be able to
regain her love? I know I have lost her. The look in her eyes I tried so hard not to see as
I told her in no uncertain terms to leave had been disappointment. Disappointment, not in
herself, but in me. Disappointment in the way I was treating her…treating our
relationship. Our love, so fragile and so young, is lost.

I glance down at the rose, its stem mangled in my fist, the silvery thorn in its side digging
into my palm…but I do not feel the pain. I feel nothing except loathing for myself. I
have felt many things about myself - unworthiness and cruelty, age and sarcasm, but not
self-loathing. That is something I haven’t felt since before the fall of the Dark Lord.

Just as I have ruined this rose, plucking it from its source of energy, its nurturing force,
ceasing its growth and causing its eventual death, I have ruined Hermione’s love for me,
cutting it down before it had the chance to fully blossom.

All of my doubts and fears are proven to be true. I am just a cruel, sarcastic, and bitter
man. Beautiful, courageous, young Hermione deserves someone better than I. She has
given me her heart, and instead of treasuring it, I throw it back to her, not believing it is
truly mine. I realize now that unlike potions, love cannot be remade when so heartlessly
destroyed.

The only movement I have made since the plucking of the rose has been the gradual
tightening my fist around its base. But suddenly, I move, arcing my arm to fling away
the offending flower. I need no symbol of the damage I have caused. My heart is enough
reminder. It is only now that I notice the blood on my hand. The thorn of the rose has
cut into my skin, drawing blood. It is a thing of beauty, but also of pain.

I look to it one last time, lying broken on the virgin snow, crushed from the pressure of
my hand, smeared with my blood. Although I did not want it near me, I cannot look
away. Slowly, I sink to my knees in the snow, not caring as it soaks my trousers or as my
joints stiffen, my eyes still locked onto the rose.

I stay that way, still and cold, the image of the broken flower burned into my retinas, into
my brain, into my heart…and I despair.