Monday, 11/15/1998

The flames in the Common Room hearth burned low at night, casting long shadows on the two remaining students. Harry stole a glance at Hermione from across the table, her features softened in the dim light.

He loved her when she studied. She was beautiful like this, with her eyes narrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up, and hair gloriously bushy and free. God, how he loved her hair. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale it all, in basking in that mixture of parchment and vanilla and something else that was so purely Hermione. Would their kids have hair like that, he wondered? Or would they inherit his own ugly mop?

Danger zone, Potter! Danger zone! We agreed that this naming the kids stuff has to stop, and now you're deciding their features as well? How do you know she'd even want to shag you?

At this thought, the blood quickly rushed from Harry's head.

Would she actually? Oh Merlin, don't picture it. Shit, shit, bad Harry, bad idea, horrible idea. Picture Mrs. Figg. Mrs. Figg, and her ugly cat. Mrs. Figg and her ugly cat, and McGonagall, and Aunt Petunia. Not Hermione. Bad Harry! Shit. Shit. Shit.

Gritting his teeth, Harry tore his attention from Hermione towards the stairs to the dorms. Thankfully, she had not noticed his little internal struggle, nor his excitement under the table. His stomach flipped as he reconsidered his little plan with the flowers. For all he knew, she would never want to speak to him after this stunt, let alone make little Potters.

After his stroke of inspiration last week, Harry had refined and reconsidered his plan to get Hermione flowers at least a hundred times. The idea was simple: he had to find a species of flower that was all about Hermione, give it to her, and explain this. Neville's book had proven to be a godsend in this regard. For each of its species it included a magical picture of the flower, a description of where it could be found and harvested, and an explanation of what role it played in the courtship rituals of the time. Typically, the flowers would imply a specific message or declaration, such as a display of wealth or a compliment to the beauty of the recipient. But there were a wide variety of meanings to the various flowers, ranging from innocuous to utterly lewd.

The whole subject was surprisingly fascinating, and Harry had considered just giving the book to Hermione, who would surely enjoy the read. But that was the friend-Harry. Boyfriend-Harry had a different idea, which would hopefully accomplish the same thing, but with the boyfriend-y component of actual flowers.

Glancing down at his Potions homework, Harry silently recited his plan for the umpteenth time.

Get the flowers, tell her the species, tell her they remind you of her, explain why, smile. Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile. Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile. Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile.

Okay, now or never.

"Hermione, it's past midnight. D'you think we should sleep soon?"

Starting, Hermione blinked her eyes at Harry, eyes sweeping around at the empty Common Room.

"Oh, Harry, I must have lost track of time. Yes, let's head to bed."

Harry's chest jolted at the innocent way she suggested they "head to bed," as though they were going to sleep together. Danger zone, danger zone, danger zone…

Before he could lose his nerve, he leapt up from the table and hastily shoved his untouched Potions homework into his bag.

"I'll be right back. Don't head up without me."

Nodding, Hermione began to gather her sprawling mass of parchments, quills, and books. Harry raced up the stairs three at a time. Heedless of his sleeping dormmates, Harry dumped his schoolbag onto the floor and snatched the flowers from behind the curtains of his bed. Racing back down the steps with the bouquet tucked behind his back, he came to a jarring stop at the foot of the stairs, almost crashing into Hermione.

"What have you got there, Harry?"

Bringing his eyes to hers, Harry took a deep breath, and...completely lost his train of thought.

From this angle, the dimming firelight danced in her chocolate eyes, somehow making them darker and brighter all at once. Was he really going to do this? His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it. The hand behind his back was sweaty and shaking as he crushed the flower stems in a death grip. He must look frightful.

Gryffindor courage, mate. It's now or never.

"It's, uh...well...you know I care about you, right? A lot."

Smiling softly, she took a step towards him. Their faces were close enough to kiss now. He could feel her breath tickling his throat.

"I care about you too, Harry. A lot."

Exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Harry leaned forward to kiss her forehead softly, hands still in place. Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, and before he could think better of it, he unfurled his arm to bring the bouquet of flowers snug between them.

Harry leaned back to stand straight and grip the flowers firmly with both hands. Hermione's eyes fluttered open, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise as she noticed the flowers practically shoved under her nose.

As she looked up at him, Harry found himself utterly incapable of speech. Her eyes remained on his, bright and questioning and something else he couldn't quite place. He wanted to stay there, still as stone, studying her eyes until he could figure it out completely. There was no rush. He had no dark wizards to kill, and he really did not care to look at anything else in the world. At that moment, he reckoned he would not mind if he had some sort of eye condition, where he lost all of his vision except the ability to look at her. He might prefer it, really.

Full vision or not, it didn't make a whit of difference. He could not pull away from her eyes. There was a great force holding his gaze in place, pulling him in deeper and deeper as though he was drowning. Except, this couldn't be drowning, because he had almost drowned before, in the Great Lake, and this was nothing like that. Her eyes were wonderful and warm and inviting. He didn't want to leave them. This was all wonderful, and warm, and right.

But what was that other thing in her eyes? He had to find out. After knowing those eyes for 7 years, he thought he knew everything there was to know. He knew when they flashed with the excitement of discovery or accomplishment. He knew when she was tired but too proud to admit it. He knew when she was at the end of her patience, although she was usually too polite to say anything. Except when she wasn't, and then her eyes would flare, and she would grow 10 feet, and she was a sight to behold. He knew when she was laughing to be polite or really, actually laughing. Merlin, he loved hearing her laugh. He could never get enough of it. He could tell when she was happy, sad, amused, annoyed, satisfied, scared, and everything in between. All this he could tell from her eyes.

But in that moment, her eyes were a mystery to him. She was looking at him with an intensity he had not seen since the war - as though she could see straight to his soul. Her eyes shone in the firelight with that kind of complete, life-or-death trust that both thrilled and terrified him. Her eyes were completely open, and so Hermione, and...what else?

Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile. Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile. Flowers, species, reminder, explain why, smile.

Bringing his gaze down to the periwinkle blue wildflowers he was crushing in his hands, he forced a smile.

"You, uh, I mean - well, uh - these flowers are for you, Hermione. They're called gemmae molles, which means unbreakable gem. They're said to be the toughest flowers in Britain, because they're known to grow in virtually any conditions. Rain or shine, good soil or not, they just...keep growing. And they just keep going, always blooming into something beautiful."

At this, he brought up eyes to meet hers again. She hit him like a freight train, and as his breath left his body, he exhaled the next words in a faint whisper.

"Just like you."

Harry's heart was pounding so hard that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. His fingers pulsed painfully but he did not weaken his grip on the flowers, or make any move to hand them over.

For several long moments he stood there, held motionless by her eyes. Hermione's mouth was parted slightly, eyes still wide and shining. She stared up at him, waiting. Always the perceptive one, she could tell he had more to say. She would not let him get away with his cheesy line and a smile, she was too damn smart for that.

What was there to say, though, except that he was drowning again? Should he just tell her that? Or should he say nothing, and just bask in this moment as long as she let him? What a lovely way to die, he thought, to just stand there looking into her eyes until the world ended. He wasn't afraid of Death, not now. But he would miss her, and if he could just carry those eyes with him into the next adventure then he would welcome Death with open arms.

The worlds spilled out of him now, rough and unfiltered. He was barely conscious of what he was saying. It just all came out, like a dam had burst and Harry was standing on the sidelines, watching himself speak.

"You're so strong, Hermione, so strong, you always have been. Always. All these years, risking your life over and over again to do the right thing, or even just to help me. And," he took a rasping breath, feeling his throat constrict as he struggled to keep it together,

"And when Dolohov hit you with that curse it was like my heart stopped, I couldn't breathe until I saw you breathing, it was so scary. But you survived, and then you were strong again, even when I wasn't. I was terrified you would leave Hogwarts and go far away. Sometimes I wish you had, you would have been safer, but you stayed and kept fighting. It was so scary, Hermione, because it was so close, and because-"

Because I loved you, even then I knew it, and I know it now, and I can't do anything without you, I'm nothing, if you ever left me it would ruin me, please don't leave me, don't leave...

"Because I'm selfish, and I wanted you in my life even if it was dangerous to you. And you, you recovered and were so stubborn and fought for the right thing all over again, and then last year-"

His voice broke as he glanced down at the pale pink scar on her neck from Bellatrix's knife. It was barely visible, but he knew exactly where it was. The one that taunted him, reminding him that he had failed to keep her safe, that his failure had gotten her hurt again.

He took a shuddering breath and locked eyes with her again.

"But you recovered again, and I knew you would, knew that you had to,"

Because I would shatter otherwise.

"Because you're the strongest person I know. To me, you're…."

You're everything. Everything, everything, everything. Everything.

I can't help it. I've tried so hard, believe me, but it just never worked, so you'll have to just have me or kill me. The choice is yours. Really, it's really okay either way. Just tell me. But that's a lie, I'm lying, because I am selfish, so just have me, please please please please…

"You're my rock." Finishing his train of thought rather lamely, he unclenched his fists from the flowers and guided Hermione's hands to the stems, replacing his own. She had not broken her gaze from him, and seemed rather dazed.

Fighting to keep the tears at bay, he cracked her a soft smile and placed his hands on her arms.

"Do you like them?"

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. A few seconds ticked by as Harry stood stone-still, his heart still hammering as though he had run a marathon.

Then, to his relief, she nodded vigorously and stepped back.

"Harry…" she said, her voice thick with emotion.

She paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at Harry, then at the stairs, and then at him again. She turned away and said, "I'll be right back."

And then she had rushed up the stairs, clutching the flowers to her chest with her bag forgotten on the floor.

Shit...did I really just say all of that?

Well, bugger it all. So much for his plan. He had managed to tell her species and describe the defining feature of the flowers, and then gone completely off the rails. He was right on track, too. Gemmae molles, strongest plant in Britain, and all that.

But then she had given him that look, the one he still had not made sense of, and it had pierced that tight armor shielding all his fears and insecurities.

He had not said everything, because that would be completely mad. But still - how did giving a girl flowers turn into this? After the war, wouldn't she want to forget all of the pain he had put her through? Why'd he gave to go and remind her? Remind her that he was a fool, and useless at protecting her to boot, and she could do so much better than him?

She had probably gone up to toss the flowers in the bin where he could not see them, or chucked them out of her dorm window, hoping they would get buried in the snow. He figured she would never want to see them again.

Lost in his ruminations, he completely missed Hermione gently padding down the dorm steps, coming up to him and catching his chin in her hand. He instinctively leaned into her touch, turning to those lovely eyes once more. Instead of drowning, though, he noticed they shimmered with unshed tears.

Shit. I did that. It's my fault. How can I fix this?

"Harry?" She whispered, as she brought her other hand to cup his face.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the flowers."

And then she crushed him in a hug, head tucked into his chest as she soaked his shirt with tears. He let himself cry as well, mourning the loss of her innocence and all of the pain and injustice she had suffered. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring up the war like that, I didn't mean to upset you…"

Still clutching him, she shook her head vehemently as she looked up at him, the something else still in her eyes.

"No, no, no, Harry, I'm...I'm just so happy. This is what we fought for, right? To have this. To have a future, safe from fear. I'm just realizing that we do have it, is all. I'm so happy we have our future."

And just like that, he was drowning again.

She said a future, a future together. She said our future. Ours. Us. Together. In the future. And she's happy about it. Does she know what she's doing to me? She can't mean it like that. But what if she does?

Desperate to regain his ability to speak, Harry shuttered his eyes and touched his forehead down to hers.

"I want a future. Our future. Does that...do you want that?"

She said nothing, only tightening her hold on him.

Harry lost all track of time, holding onto her in the Common Room for dear life. He committed every aspect of her to memory. The warmth of Hermione in his arms. The way her hair felt in his hand. The way she tucked into him like they were one person in two bodies. This would be his Patronus memory for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. How could any person possibly feel any happier than this?

After a lifetime, Harry felt the tightness in his throat clear.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Did you really like the flowers?"

She hummed her agreement, tickling his chest.

Pulling back to look at her, he searched her face for the truth.

"You really did?"

"I loved them, Harry. Nobody's ever gotten me flowers before."

Never? That couldn't be possible. A girl as beautiful as Hermione? He was sure men showered her with flowers at every turn. She was just that kind of girl. She could steal a man's sanity with a smile, could cause strangers to declare their undying love on street corners and from moving cars. Not one of those men had ever tried to buy her flowers?

"What about Viktor, or Ron?"

Not meeting his eyes, she mumbled into his chest. "No, Harry. Only you."

The smallness of her voice crushed him. He heard it in her tone, how she didn't expect such things. His throat burned and hated the world, hate every man who had dared to think he was worth her time. How dare they look at her, be in the same room as her? They didn't deserve her presence. Nobody did. They scorned her, this brilliant woman, who would gladly lay down her life to help a stranger. She had gone through hell and back to save a world that still thought she was a second-class citizen. They scorned her for having the nerve to care about the weak and defenseless, just because nobody else did.

He hated the world. He wanted to steal her away from it, hide her somewhere where he would tell her over and over how perfect she was until she started to believe it.

But he couldn't do any of that. She simply wouldn't let him. Even in the tent, when it was just the two of them, and it would have been so easy for them to just grow old together...she wouldn't do it. Not when there was injustice in the world.

So Harry settled for this small act of love. In the quiet of the night, he held her as the last embers of the fire died and the wind and snow shrieked outside the castle. He resolved, at that moment, that she would get flowers for the rest of her life. Even if it wasn't him who had that privilege, he would find whatever lucky fool she had chosen and wring his neck until he realized how she deserved the whole world, and that included all of the bloody flowers on it.

His heart clenched at the thought. Who would be the faceless man who would eventually win her heart? It couldn't be Harry. Not Harry, the cursed freak who got everyone he loved killed. His parents, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore, Remus, Dobby...it was only a matter of time. He was too weak to admit it to her, but she would soon realize that he was too dangerous and broken to be with forever. She would find someone else, someone smarter, more handsome, a man whom she would actually be proud to bring home to her parents.

And then Harry would die. Not physically, of course, because that would hurt her. But he would become empty, a husk in a human body like he had received the Dementor's Kiss. He would attend their wedding, of course, and smile for the pictures. She would look painfully beautiful in the white dress. He would shower her children with gifts. They would be painfully beautiful too, and they would call him Uncle Harry and it would shred his heart to pieces every time. He would go from seeing her every day to once a month, maybe at the Burrow, where she would tell him all about the fun trips she and Faceless Man took together and the beautiful jewelry he had bought her. He would smile, and nod, and shake Faceless Man's hand on the way out.

Will he buy you flowers, too? I pray to Merlin he does, Hermione. Please, just find one who will get you flowers.