Author's note: This did not go where I expected it to, but I love it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the canon, world, and characters portrayed below and you can tell I'm not J.K. Rowling because #transrights

Hogwarts: Assignment 9, Archaeology Task #9: Write about a physical tribute to something.

Content Warnings: References canon character deaths, grief, mental illness, references past abuse/negligence briefly, therapy (positive experience)

These Lilies Are Mine

"Part of me still wishes you'd gone with the Hungarian Horntail," Ginny said as she sat down next to Harry, carefully balancing the tray of iced coffees she'd grabbed for them. Since Harry had to sit still in the tattoo artist's chair while the artist fixed the stencil on his upper arm, she lifted his drink to his lips for him.

"You've been telling people that story for years," Harry said. "Don't you want some new hot tip about me to leak to the Prophet?"

"I want hard, practical evidence that I wasn't lying to the public, or else they'll stop accepting my hot tips," Ginny said with a smile. As Harry laughed, she craned her neck to see the blueish stencil on his arm, and her features softened when she took it in. It probably helped that her hair was down and she was wearing a yellow sundress, so she looked as soft as sunshine to him. Even her voice was gentle when she said: "Although this is absolutely beautiful…"

"Thank you," the tattoo artist said with a smile. She put her hair up in a ponytail and donned a new pair of black gloves before taking her seat next to Harry. "Are you ready for us to start, Harry?"

Harry looked over his arm again, at the cascade of lilies racing from his shoulder to his elbow. In a few hours, they'd be inked into his skin with stark black ink and shaded with grey.

"Absolutely," he said.

"Alright. Get comfortable then," she smiled.

She gently repositioned his arm before turning on her tattoo gun, which whirred gently.

Ginny offered him her hand and he took it, focusing on the black nail polish she was wearing.

"Take a deep breath," the artist said gently.

Harry did. He'd been learning about all kinds of breathing exercises since the war. Therapists, psychiatrists, Healers, yoga teachers—they all had breathing exercises to try when the anxiety became overwhelming, when he disassociated, when he got caught in a memory or locked in a cycle of thoughts that wouldn't get him anywhere good. And Harry tried them, he really did, and some of them helped. But even when and if they grounded him, they weren't permanent—not like his scars and not like losing Fred and Remus and Tonks and… it was hard not to spiral when he started thinking about these things on his own, so Harry tried not to. But he knew he wanted something permanent.

The press of the needle in his skin wasn't as painful as he'd anticipated. He watched with fascination as the needle moved slowly but surely across his skin, leaving behind a trail of black ink that raced deep in his skin. After a while, it didn't hurt so much as simply buzz. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, actually.

Aunt Petunia had given him the idea, and the fact that she'd hate it only made it better, frankly. How many times had he heard her cluck her tongue as they walked past heavily tattooed men and women in the shopping centre or wherever she'd actually bothered taking Harry? She would always turn around to Uncle Vernon and ask Don't they realize that that's permanent? Yes. Yes, it was permanent—and that was exactly what Harry needed after the hell he'd just gone through. Something permanent. Something that couldn't be taken from him. Something that was happy and beautiful and meaningful and that wouldn't be going anywhere. His mother's love was all those things, he wouldn't be alive if it wasn't. He wondered, with all the hatred and pain he'd seen so early in his life, what kind of person he'd have become if he didn't have such tangible proof that he had been loved as much as anybody could ever be loved? His mother had been a hero so long before the world had actually needed him that nobody would see, nobody would think of that. But Harry wanted to. Harry wanted to remember that and he wanted to make it his—not something that Dumbledore could analyze, that Voldemort could struggle to understand, that came up in the heat of battle. So he'd make it that way, the same way she'd made him and he'd tried to make her proud.

"How are you doing?" the artist asked, not looking up from her work.

"I'm doing okay," Harry said. "Yeah, it's not bad actually. It doesn't really hurt."

"Perfect," she said, still not looking up—hyperfocusing on her needle. "We'll be here for a few hours. I'll need a smoke eventually, but let me know if you need a break."

"Let her know if you need a break," Ginny repeated. "No heroes, Potter."

"Alright," Harry said, opening his mouth for the straw she raised to his lips.

Everyone had reacted basically as he'd expected once he'd brought up the idea. Hermione had been encouraging but clearly panicky about such a drastic change though she'd done a good job of keeping all her overthinking to herself. Ron had been completely engrossed and fascinated by the mere idea and mechanics of a Muggle tattoo. Neville had been excited for him, and Luna had been happy to draw the cascading lilies for him, beautifully detailing their delicate petals, open to the world but tightly folded. And when he'd told Ginny about the consultation appointment, she'd simply nodded and said "Take me with you."

So he had, and she'd come, and she held his hand now as the lilies appeared on his arms slowly but surely. She sipped her iced coffee as she scanned the rest of the tattoo shop, with all the plants and art on the walls, and bobbed her head gently to the music coming out of a radio somewhere even if it was a Muggle song she must have heard for the first time today. The press was already going to have a field day when someone spotted him with a new tattoo; what would they say when they found out that she'd been in attendance as he'd gotten inked?

It didn't matter he decided, as he looked at the lipstick stain she left on her straw and then at her real lips as she smiled at him. Because his stomach churned when he started wondering if she'd be permanent too.