Cherry Blossom

By Tiffany&Co

Summary: The Japanese samurai lived so that they could die with honor like the cherry blossom; at the height of its bloom. As Hermione realizes that in the end, no one can help Harry decide his fate, she wonders why the blossoms must always fall just as they begin to live.

Rating: PG-13

Harry Potter paced back and forth, his hands locked tightly behind his back. He had never been so worried. He felt like there was a balloon in his chest, getting blown up bigger and bigger. His stomach hurt. His head pounded. He felt awkward and ugly and gangly. And something else. Some unnamable sweetness, some emotion that was at once tender and soft but passionately fierce, so deep it threatened to utterly engulf him. All he knew was that when he looked at her, he found that the world's troubles didn't matter so much anymore. He knew he loved her, more than he had loved anyone else before, loved her with an all-consuming fire that would burn him if she said no tonight.  

What could be taking her so long?

What if it rained? What if the dress he had sent didn't fit? What if she hated it? What if there were too many mosquitoes out? What if he had gotten the wrong day? What if he lost the ring?

Speaking of which, where was it?

Dammit, don't say-

Harry fumbled through his pockets, desperately searching for the ring he was going to give her. As he dug his hands deep in his pocket, the velvet blue case dropped out of his pocket and fell to the floor with a soft thunk. He hastily spun around and bent down to pick it up.

Sighing in relief, he re-pocketed the ring and turned around slowly and lifted a foot to begin pacing again and then-

"Hermione," He breathed. Only that single name escaped his lips as that unnamable emotion overwhelmed him again. Who cared if there were mosquitoes? The world was perfect. There had never been any Voldemort, there was no war, there was no nothing… because tonight, tonight Harry Potter was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived. Tonight, he could be happy…

.:~*~:.

Hermione Granger fiddled nervously with the train of her dress, glancing again and again in the mirror to make sure it was straight. It was beautiful, a deep, rich red fading out to white at the edges, the silk swirling around her and making her sharp, angular, bony-and-thin-in-all-the-wrong-places look like perfection. Harry had sent it to her along with a single rose the night before, and an invitation to a Portkey.

They were at Wandflie Manor, an inheritance from Sirius. Hermione had been awed the second she set eyes upon the Manor. It was indescribable. There was something elegant about it, something of grace and beauty that suggested pride and strength. It's stones were old and dignified, magnificent and stately. It would last long after this war was over, and survive many more.

It was larger than Hogwarts, and the grounds, and everything around it for miles and miles and miles was empty. Hermione had no idea where it was, and for once, didn't care. There was no magical cream in her hair, no blush on her cheeks or colour on her lips, no eyelash lengthening spells or glamours. Yet there was a beautiful glow on her cheeks and a light to her eyes that made her beautiful.

In the dining room as large as the Great Hall, with a wall or mirrors and a wall of windows, with gold walls and white marble floors, with a starred ceiling and a single table set up just for them… Harry waited. And as Hermione gazed down the beautiful staircase and the dining room, and just Harry… something in her heart stilled.

That thing she had searched for all her life, that endless thirst and eternal longing… it stilled. The need to prove herself stopped. Her dissatisfaction with her looks, her voice, herself dissolved. In Harry she found peace. In his green eyes that now locked on her, she was completed. Was happy.

When she looked at him, she swelled with the sheer joy of seeing him. Something infinitely soft, infinitely gentle caressed her heart and sent waves of happiness coursing through her. Some unidentifiable emotion stripped away her masks and left only her, completely content. She wanted to hold Harry close and never let him go, never let him be hurt because she couldn't bear to see him in pain. Because every time he hurt, a shard of her heart shattered.

But tonight, she need not worry. If they should both die in the morning… they would always have this night. Always have tonight to themselves, with the burdens of the world lifted… tonight they could forget and be happy… tonight they could love…

.:~*~:.

The two stood, transfixed by each other, each wanting to preserve this moment forever.

And then… "May I, Ms. Granger?"

"You most certainly may, Mr. Potter."

Harry stepped up the white steps, never taking his eyes off her, and fastened a necklace around her neck. It was a beautiful white gold antique studded with rubies and diamonds, but Hermione barely noticed it.

He gave her his arm, and together they entered the dining room…

.:~*~:.

"Would you like to step outside?"

"Of course."

Harry opened the huge glass door, and they stepped out onto the grounds, in a garden. The perfection of it was lost on them as they talked of meaningless things, walking the stone paths until they found themselves in the center.

A branch of pale pink cherry blossoms framed Hermione's face, and Harry gently caught one as it fell, the soft pink petal swirling as they fell.

Hermione reached out and touched his hand, her fingers brushing his. They both looked at the ring on Hermione's hand and smiled.

"The Japanese samurai warriors loved cherry blossoms," Hermione smiled. "They lived so that they could die with honor. Like the cherry blossom. It always falls at the peak of its life, just when it reaches full bloom. It never rots, fades, or loses it beauty. It stays… immortal… in its perfection, remembered always as it is now…"

Harry thoughtfully stroked her hand, then gently led her hand up to her ear, tucking the pink flower behind her hair. The wistful look he gave her made Hermione realize she had said the wrong thing. She had reminded Harry of his own death.

The look they then shared was one of understanding. They both knew they had dedicated their lives to the war, and they might end up giving them as well. Hermione playfully tugged at Harry's ear, and he wrapped an arm around his waist, their movements teasing. They fit together perfectly as Hermione pressed her body against Harry's and he gave a soft moan of lust.

They fell down together on the soft, cushioning spring grass. Under the winking white stars, Harry began to pull off Hermione's dress with surprising ease.

"Tonight is ours," He whispered.

"All ours." Hermione breathed into Harry's neck.

The white stars shone as the two shared their one perfect night…

.:~*~:.

As spring turned to summer and the war raged fierce, and lives were lost in the thousands, that night would be all that sustained them as they entered a bloody, hateful world that seemed to be turning into hell.

As Draco Malfoy the spy was found and spent months in torture, and Fred and George died together defending each other, and Bill went down and took twenty with him, Hermione would remember the dinner they had, or the dances they had shared after.

As neighbor turned on neighbor and the fear and distrust spread, Harry remembered the walk they had taken and kept hope.

As outright war and chaos broke out, they both found that the few moments they had with each other were all that were keeping them alive.

Summer fell into fall, the leaves blood red, and their world was hell.

Draco Malfoy died by burning literally at stake, his last words being "I die well, Ginny."

Ginny herself, who had never openly returned his love, went insane, killing 2/3 of Voldemort's inner circle and who's last words were said to be, "Fuck you, Draco's waiting."

And so, it became a tradition for Aurors to gasp with their last breaths, "I die well." And as more and more died, the phrase was heard far too often.

Hermione remembered the cherry blossom, and cried.

Winter came, and with it white, cold snow, cleansing and pure. Dumbledore died. As Harry and Hermione came to his funeral, their faces wet with tears, they were told that he had died because he refused to use the Killing Curse.

.:~*~:.

"HERMIONE!"

Harry's cry was anguished, ripping out of him like someone had pulled his beating heart out of his chest. Voldemort's wand was pointed at the frozen Hermione, who's eyes pleaded with Harry to ignore her, pleaded with him to live because she would die if he did.

Harry pointed his own wand at Voldemort. The Killing Curse was on his lips.

"AVADA KEDAV-."

"Too scared, Potter? Are you going to die like Dumbledore? All the more fun. I can torture you the way you tortured me, make you see what its like to live in this body, this inhuman rotting body… and I will be the greatest… you will suffer what I did, Harry Potter. You will die and be forced to live on!"

And Voldemort's Killing Curse flew from his wand, towards Hermione, towards the one person who's death would torture Harry beyond any petty physical pain Cruciatis might cause. In that instant, Harry did not hesitate. That emotion, the wonderful sweet truthful emotion that burned like fire it was so strong swept through him again, and he knew that he would never let Hermione die. Hermione was his soul, was his heart… he could not survive the pain if she died.  

And with a flash, Harry was dead, his scar bleeding. And Hermione saw Voldemort fall, slowly crumpling, his robes falling back to reveal, at last returned, Tom Marvolo Riddle. No longer Voldemort.

And alone, on the bitterly cold white snow that was colorlessly emotionless and beautifully pure, Hermione knelt by her love's side and held him in her arms, as with his last breaths, he gasped out with despair the famous last words repeated by so many others.

"I die well, Hermione."

"No. You lived well, that's the only thing that matters, Harry!"

"I loved well."

"Harry…"

"I love you, Hermione."

He weakly raised and hand with so softly, like a whisper, he stroked her cheek, his line tracing the wet path her tears made. Hermione knew she would burst from the pain, the pain that burned her with its passion and its desperation. He couldn't die, he couldn't leave her alone… she loved him too much. Not Harry… please… Harry, please… don't die… She longed to take away his pain, take away his death for him…

"I love you, Harry."

And with that, he slipped away, his lips still curved in his smile. He had loved well, loved more than most people could understand in ten lives. When fear and greed and hate consumes humans whole; when there is no only death and killing and blood, deep and red… In a world like that, how could anyone love? But they did.

The red blood from his scar, so deep, slid down his face and stained the snow a delicate red-pink.

The color of the cherry blossom that falls at the height of its life, forever immortalized in its most perfect beauty, never to fade, always to have lived to its best…