Dog Rose
Title: Dog Rose
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Helga/Salazar
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,100
Summary: Winter’s end brings daffodils to the forest floor, not in a blanket or a cloud, but in wisps and hints of color and of spring. It ends how it begins.
Author’s Notes: For vegetasbubble at hp_wishes, who requested Helga/Salazar and "something to do with daffodils." I found a really, really, really old book on the Language of Flowers, and had fun; all flower meanings are in reference to that book, even though a couple of the websites I cross-checked disagreed. Dog rose means pleasure and pain, which I thought appropriate. REMEMBER TO CHECK OUT helga_salazar!
Dog Rose
I
Winter’s end brings daffodils to the forest floor, not in a blanket or a cloud, but in wisps and hints of color and of spring. Salazar slows his horse, dismounting beside a nigh unfrozen stream. He plunges his hands into the water and cups them to splash the cold upon his face-a cold meant to clear his mind, but which only brings into focus other thoughts.
Rosemary, for remembrance; daisies, for innocence…
There is no one less innocent than he, no one plagued by memories more.
Daffodils, for unrequited love and for regard…
This, at least, he cannot boast. Still, he thinks, how strange it is that a symbol marked for sadness is also the symbol of spring. Of life. Of beginnings anew.
To leave, to abandon, is to begin anew.
How ironic, then, that he feels as though the dead of winter is still upon him.
viii
It begins with a glance, as slowly-forming affection often does. And many glances follow, innocent looks not yet stolen, for they are but in friendship. Yet they boil and bubble as if in a cauldron, rising suddenly until it is different.
Salazar’s eyes meet Helga’s for the thousand-and-third time, but this time there is change: her eyes dart away and her cheeks color. He blinks, tries to recapture her gaze, and all for naught, at first. Yet Helga is not one to flee as a startled doe.
Oft times, now, she does not look away.
Her stares expose him as no one has ever done ere this.
vii
She teaches him the language of the flowers, her skirts and sun-browned hands covered in earth. As she digs deep into her garden, names and meanings she lists as if counting off upon her fingers. Half distracted, half attentive. Salazar listens and watches her in silence, breathing in the sight of her, for actions oft times speak volumes more than words.
Aloud-and loudly done, at that-he deems his newfound knowledge useless, decreeing that there is no veritable worth in this branch of herbal lore.
“’Tis but nonsense,” he hisses when Godric asks.
“And yet you are such a willing student.”
“Helga’s passions are not my own, but I humor them.”
“Out of kindness?”
“Out of friendship.”
Godric snorts. “Whenever have you done something that doesn’t profit doubly: for someone else and for yourself? Surely, there’s no benefit in this for you.”
Rowena, passing, arches her brows. “Is not there?”
Godric does not understand; Rowena, all too well.
vi
There is no need for secrecy, for they are too proud-too honest-to conduct themselves in shame. But emotions are not things he can bear upon his sleeve as though a coat of arms, and so from all but she they are hidden.
Helga is not similarly discreet. Her steps are light, and she laughs more often, tucking myrtle flowers behind her ear.
“Are you in love, Helga?” Godric teases. “Tell me, what is the lucky lad’s name?”
She has the grace to blush and hum melodies beneath her breath, and not to answer. “Perhaps I’ll say,” she laughs, “perhaps I won’t.”
Her eyes are bright.
v
When she touches his hand, his pulse races and flies.
It is difficult to concentrate when she is near, and even more so when she is gone from his side. He wonders sometimes if he is mad, if he is ill, for never have his thoughts turned in such a direction as this.
It is a new feeling, but newness and change do not frighten him, as a rule.
iv
He has dark ideals now, and even darker plans. He paces back and forth, forth and back, in the dimly-lit depths of the dungeons, expending candles and time. With Rowena, Helga chatters, with Godric, she bandies sugar-spun insults in jest; she talks until her lips grow numb.
Yet with Salazar, she listens.
“It’s but nonsense,” he hears her promise Rowena when asked.
He eases himself flush with the wall to avoid being seen.
“And yet you drink his words like wine.”
“Salazar’s ambitions are not my own, but I’ll hear them.”
“Out of pity?”
“Out of friendship.”
“You must make your alliances carefully, Helga.”
Helga frowns. “Do you not trust Salazar?”
“I cannot.”
Godric looks up sharply, and Salazar slips away.
iii
He catches her outside his chamber one night, stealing through the castle when all is quiet and dark; though in truth, when he pushes open his door, he does not expect to find her there, bending down with a flower clasped between her fingers.
“Helga?”
She gasps, frozen.
His arms do not open wide and beckoning, his hands do not trace along her cheek like wind. He merely watches her, as is his wont.
One corner of his lips turns upward so slightly that by her eyes only would it not be missed.
“Is it not I,” he inquires lightly after pause, “whose task it is to deliver such gifts?”
“It’s monkshood,” she rushes to say at last, once overcoming her surprise.
“For a potion?”
Helga shakes her head. “For chivalry.”
She presses her lips to his, and he succumbs.
“You are not as heartless as they say.”
He bites back his disagreement.
ii
The story of how and why he leaves is known well thereafter; the castle walls still reverberate with his and Godric’s shouts.
He moves to hastily gather his belongings, packing them away with shaking fingers and a snarl twisting at his features.
Upon his bed rests a sprig of hemlock:
You will be my death.
The last thing he does in this room is transfigure the hemlock into leaves of arborvitae.
Live, he thinks, for me.
i
It ends with a glance, as hasty partings often do.
He makes to steal away across the grounds, into the darkness, but a misstep brings him to her; and, face nigh face once more, they do not speak.
She clutches a daffodil, its roots still attached, as if she has ripped it carelessly from the ground; and she weeps.
Something within his chest rips and tears and breaks. He reaches out to touch her tears and to take the daffodil from her grasp.
“Nay,” he says hoarsely. “Believe that not of me.”
He makes the mistake of looking back.
II
Salazar rises from the ground beside the stream, wiping the excess moisture from his skin.
He will not return, here or anywhere behind him.
Magnolia, for magnificence; dahlias, for instability; brambles, for remorse; dead leaves, for sadness; forget-me-nots…
Yet always will he gaze into the past, and there, he knows, he will dwell.
THE END
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Helga/Salazar
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,100
Summary: Winter’s end brings daffodils to the forest floor, not in a blanket or a cloud, but in wisps and hints of color and of spring. It ends how it begins.
Author’s Notes: For vegetasbubble at hp_wishes, who requested Helga/Salazar and "something to do with daffodils." I found a really, really, really old book on the Language of Flowers, and had fun; all flower meanings are in reference to that book, even though a couple of the websites I cross-checked disagreed. Dog rose means pleasure and pain, which I thought appropriate. REMEMBER TO CHECK OUT helga_salazar!
Dog Rose
I
Winter’s end brings daffodils to the forest floor, not in a blanket or a cloud, but in wisps and hints of color and of spring. Salazar slows his horse, dismounting beside a nigh unfrozen stream. He plunges his hands into the water and cups them to splash the cold upon his face-a cold meant to clear his mind, but which only brings into focus other thoughts.
Rosemary, for remembrance; daisies, for innocence…
There is no one less innocent than he, no one plagued by memories more.
Daffodils, for unrequited love and for regard…
This, at least, he cannot boast. Still, he thinks, how strange it is that a symbol marked for sadness is also the symbol of spring. Of life. Of beginnings anew.
To leave, to abandon, is to begin anew.
How ironic, then, that he feels as though the dead of winter is still upon him.
viii
It begins with a glance, as slowly-forming affection often does. And many glances follow, innocent looks not yet stolen, for they are but in friendship. Yet they boil and bubble as if in a cauldron, rising suddenly until it is different.
Salazar’s eyes meet Helga’s for the thousand-and-third time, but this time there is change: her eyes dart away and her cheeks color. He blinks, tries to recapture her gaze, and all for naught, at first. Yet Helga is not one to flee as a startled doe.
Oft times, now, she does not look away.
Her stares expose him as no one has ever done ere this.
vii
She teaches him the language of the flowers, her skirts and sun-browned hands covered in earth. As she digs deep into her garden, names and meanings she lists as if counting off upon her fingers. Half distracted, half attentive. Salazar listens and watches her in silence, breathing in the sight of her, for actions oft times speak volumes more than words.
Aloud-and loudly done, at that-he deems his newfound knowledge useless, decreeing that there is no veritable worth in this branch of herbal lore.
“’Tis but nonsense,” he hisses when Godric asks.
“And yet you are such a willing student.”
“Helga’s passions are not my own, but I humor them.”
“Out of kindness?”
“Out of friendship.”
Godric snorts. “Whenever have you done something that doesn’t profit doubly: for someone else and for yourself? Surely, there’s no benefit in this for you.”
Rowena, passing, arches her brows. “Is not there?”
Godric does not understand; Rowena, all too well.
vi
There is no need for secrecy, for they are too proud-too honest-to conduct themselves in shame. But emotions are not things he can bear upon his sleeve as though a coat of arms, and so from all but she they are hidden.
Helga is not similarly discreet. Her steps are light, and she laughs more often, tucking myrtle flowers behind her ear.
“Are you in love, Helga?” Godric teases. “Tell me, what is the lucky lad’s name?”
She has the grace to blush and hum melodies beneath her breath, and not to answer. “Perhaps I’ll say,” she laughs, “perhaps I won’t.”
Her eyes are bright.
v
When she touches his hand, his pulse races and flies.
It is difficult to concentrate when she is near, and even more so when she is gone from his side. He wonders sometimes if he is mad, if he is ill, for never have his thoughts turned in such a direction as this.
It is a new feeling, but newness and change do not frighten him, as a rule.
iv
He has dark ideals now, and even darker plans. He paces back and forth, forth and back, in the dimly-lit depths of the dungeons, expending candles and time. With Rowena, Helga chatters, with Godric, she bandies sugar-spun insults in jest; she talks until her lips grow numb.
Yet with Salazar, she listens.
“It’s but nonsense,” he hears her promise Rowena when asked.
He eases himself flush with the wall to avoid being seen.
“And yet you drink his words like wine.”
“Salazar’s ambitions are not my own, but I’ll hear them.”
“Out of pity?”
“Out of friendship.”
“You must make your alliances carefully, Helga.”
Helga frowns. “Do you not trust Salazar?”
“I cannot.”
Godric looks up sharply, and Salazar slips away.
iii
He catches her outside his chamber one night, stealing through the castle when all is quiet and dark; though in truth, when he pushes open his door, he does not expect to find her there, bending down with a flower clasped between her fingers.
“Helga?”
She gasps, frozen.
His arms do not open wide and beckoning, his hands do not trace along her cheek like wind. He merely watches her, as is his wont.
One corner of his lips turns upward so slightly that by her eyes only would it not be missed.
“Is it not I,” he inquires lightly after pause, “whose task it is to deliver such gifts?”
“It’s monkshood,” she rushes to say at last, once overcoming her surprise.
“For a potion?”
Helga shakes her head. “For chivalry.”
She presses her lips to his, and he succumbs.
“You are not as heartless as they say.”
He bites back his disagreement.
ii
The story of how and why he leaves is known well thereafter; the castle walls still reverberate with his and Godric’s shouts.
He moves to hastily gather his belongings, packing them away with shaking fingers and a snarl twisting at his features.
Upon his bed rests a sprig of hemlock:
You will be my death.
The last thing he does in this room is transfigure the hemlock into leaves of arborvitae.
Live, he thinks, for me.
i
It ends with a glance, as hasty partings often do.
He makes to steal away across the grounds, into the darkness, but a misstep brings him to her; and, face nigh face once more, they do not speak.
She clutches a daffodil, its roots still attached, as if she has ripped it carelessly from the ground; and she weeps.
Something within his chest rips and tears and breaks. He reaches out to touch her tears and to take the daffodil from her grasp.
“Nay,” he says hoarsely. “Believe that not of me.”
He makes the mistake of looking back.
II
Salazar rises from the ground beside the stream, wiping the excess moisture from his skin.
He will not return, here or anywhere behind him.
Magnolia, for magnificence; dahlias, for instability; brambles, for remorse; dead leaves, for sadness; forget-me-nots…
Yet always will he gaze into the past, and there, he knows, he will dwell.
THE END