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Harry Potter did not know what the flower over his heart meant until one night when he was seven years old and his fat and loud cousin asked his mother what the yellow rose on his chest meant. Of course, Harry, being somewhat of their personal gardener, knew that the rose, because of its color, was symbolic of jealousy.
He also knew that the purple hyacinth on his heart stood for sorrow.
Aunt Petunia had sighed, and told her son the rose stood for love anyway. She told him that everyone was born with a flower on their heart, and it symbolizes their person, their essence. What they were. She explained how extra flowers grew as you did, as you experienced new things, like how Dudley's Bay flowers on his arms stood for glory.
Aunt Petunia wore her heart flower as she did her name; with anger and resentment.
Harry lied to himself, just as his aunt had lied to his cousin. Harry told himself that it stood for playfulness and rash behavior, and that it didn't matter if it was purple.
Harry lied to himself, and pretended the sad willow branches didn't reach down his arms and the single yellow carnation of misfortune didn't rest over his shoulder, and worst of all, the burdock flowers surrounding his forehead like a tattooed on flower crown screaming Touch Me Not, their magenta in sharp contrast with the bright green eyes full of sorrow. He wore his pain like a canvas on his body and he wished no one could see.
As Harry grew up, he wore long sleeves to cover the willow - though you could still sort of see, as the branches reached from his elbow to his fingertips - and grew out his hair and messed it up so nobody would see the Burdock.
As soon as Harry learned he was a wizard, ferns bloomed on his hands and he still treasures them today. Magic. Later, two Sorrell flowers appeared on his left shoulder - affection, for Ron and Hermione - pink roses for happiness bloomed on his feet after realizing that this, Hogwarts, was his
He gained bluebells, humility, every time someone congratulated him for not dying. they spread just under the roses, and made his toes and the bottoms of his feet appear blue.
Third year, Harry got even more roses up his ankles, but this time they were dog roses. Pleasure and pain. Pleasure over the fact that Harry had a godfather and pain over his betrayal, and his imprisonment. They spiraled up his ankles and later they'd be joined by yellow carnations and convolvulus majors - disappointment and extinguished hopes - after finding the promise of living with Sirius ripped away. And Harry went back to the Dursley's, and his will branches grew thicker and Harry earned Golden Rods behind his ear, whispering "Be cautious, Harry!"
Be cautious, Harry.
As Harry got older, keeping his flowers a secret became harder. There were so many. And as famous as he was, people wanted to know. Somehow he kept hidden long enough to learn how to use a glamour to hide the pain he wore, no matter how it drained him.
Harry earned more and more flowers but none could match the Zinnia's spreading from his chest to his pelvis signifying the death of Cedric, and the thickness they gained when Sirius died as well. Harry had Hyacinths gathered through every willow branch. Purple. Sorrow. Regret.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Harry was sorry and no matter how many times people told him it wasn't his fault he had a hyacinth on his heart that told him they were wrong.
The scar down his arm ripped away the willow there and was replaced by Burdock flowers. Harry realized they stood for Voldemort's touch, and was not surprised.
Harry's arms screamed sorrow, and sadness, his feet humility and happiness and his ankles pain and pleasure and disappointment. His hands said magic and his shoulders said affection and misfortune and his ear said be careful. His forehead and arm said don't touch me but his heart - his heart said "I'm sorry." His chest said death and his chest said I remember.
After Sirius died Harry had a hard summer. Even more burdock flowers bloomed wherever Vernon decided was the best punching spot of the day and purple hyacinths grew at a constant rate and Harry couldn't even tell you what for, anymore.
And Harry pretended he was fine.
Harry pretended all the way until the beginning of sixth year.
Harry pretended his body didn't say I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I wasn't more careful. I'm sorry I'm sad. I'm sorry - don't hurt me. Don't touch me.
Harry didn't talk about them to anyone, he never had, so it wasn't a surprise when nightshades burned into his throat and around his neck.
A chain of silence, just over his vocal chords.
He pretended, because that was just easier. And if the boys in his dorm thought anything of the glamours he wore, well, they didn't say so. Except, one morning, Ron saw him without them, and Harry was only panicking a little. Harry knew that Hermione knew, as Ron had obviously told her, so it wasn't a surprise when he overheard them (he was definitely eavesdropping) talking about him.
He was making his way to the library to meet them and had just spotted them at a table when he realized their discussion was about him. He had quickly ducked behind a shelf and hid to overhear them.
"I'm worried about him, 'Mione - I'm no flower expert but I know he's got a lot - and loads of them are bad. He's got such thick willows on his arms you can hardly see the skin - the amount of Zinnia's and that - that awful - his heartflower." Harry's blood went cold, he tensed all his muscles and his heart just stopped. Awful. Ron was right. He was awful and it was his fault and he was sorry. But what could he do? He cannot change his flower because it's impossible and he wished he could because he's so sorry.
He was so into his thinking that he hardly noticed a familiar face, if an unwelcome one, pop up next to him.
"Are they talking about you?" Draco Malfoy asked with absolutely no venom, looking shocked. Harry's eyes bulged and he tried to think of something to say, but Malfoy already had his hands on Harry's arm, pushing up his robe. He'd seen enough to know that they HAD been talking about him, but Harry ripped his arm away anyway, just as Ron was saying,
"I never thought about it before but it makes so much sense - the way he blames himself for everything and all that, the way he never lets anyone see - he feels guilty. Sorry."
Hermione seemed to realize without being told, just as she always did, and whispered the words softly, much the same as the way that Draco Malfoy was staring into his eyes, perplexed.
"Purple Hyacinth."
And Harry ran, forcing himself not to apologize to the boy in front of him as he did.
The burning of marigolds appearing on the back of his neck were what Harry felt, as he ran out of the library and found himself in the astronomy tower. He wasn't sure if they were because of the cruelty of the situation or over his jealousy that Malfoy got to hear his heart flower and not the other way around.
He ignored the burning red roses as they bloomed up his ribcage because he had known this day was coming as the sorrel flowers had gained one more and it had taken him too long to realize that the orange lilies of hatred he had on the backs of his knees were a thin line away from these red roses of love.
As the days wore on Harry tried not to stare at Malfoy and his stupid beautiful face with ferns blooming around his eyes, and tried to ignore the way that when Malfoy smiled and waved at him, an azalea had appeared on his hand, and Malfoy wasn't waving so much as showing him he wanted him to "Take care of yourself for me."
Harry nearly cried and the red carnations that bloomed over the tops of his shoulders seemed so unfair.
My heart aches for you. And you'd never love me back.
The new golden rods woven between the carnations seemed to prove so. Be careful.
Malfoy never intentionally antagonizes him again and it's sort of a relief. Harry even spots his friend Pansy smiling an odd smile or two at him every so often, and Blaise Zabini nudging him when Harry enters their vicinity, and Harry thinks it odd that every time he does so, Draco blushes and smiles shyly at him.
Shy isn't something he would use to describe this person, who antagonized him for half his life and seems intent to unknowingly torture him.
Because yeah, love is torture.
Love was torture when it ripped away his parents but protected him. Love was torture when nobody loved him, and love was torture when he found people that did and they were ripped away. Love was torture and Harry didn't want it if Draco wouldn't love him back and he knew Draco wouldn't because he was guilty and sad and betrayed and misfortunate and hateful and had the marks to prove it. Harry ached for Draco but was too careful to do anything about it. Harry was sorry and Harry remembered. Harry had a heart full of sorrow. Not love. Harry loved, of course, but Harry lost so much more, and he cursed whoever had said that it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all because Harry kept loving and Harry kept losing and it never got better and he wished he never loved at all.
Hermione noticed, just as she always did. She dragged him to the library under the pretense of studying, sat him down, and said, "I know, Harry."
Harry smiled and said, "I know you do. You always figure it out."
Harry and Hermione curled up in a corner far from knowing eyes and he told her - everything. She was his confidante, and he knew she'd keep his secrets, even from Ron. It made Harry think that really Hermione was probably his best friend, and Ron more of a good friend that was dating his best friend, and was pretty sure that if the two ever broke up in a bad way he'd probably stick to Hermione's side. He would never tell Ron so, but had no issue telling her.
Harry cried, for the first time since Sirius had died, telling her. He told her of the cupboard, the lies, how he hadn't even known his name wasn't Boy until elementary school. He told her how he had gotten every one of his marks and showed them to her, her sorrowful eyes echoing the hyacinths spread across his body, and when she reached to touch, he recoiled, holding up his arms about to apologize when she pulled away, confused for a moment until she spotted the burdock. She doesn't touch him anymore unless he initiates it.
She didn't tell anyone.
It's halfway through sixth year and yeah, things suck and the wars still going on, though the Aurors are getting awful close to defeating Voldemort and surprisingly Harry isn't even involved. He finds it odd however, that when the largest team of Aurors finally find and overpower Voldemort, that a group of palm leaves spread across his calves. Victory.
That seems to be background noise, now, and relief spreads through him.
Harry's in the prefect bathroom one evening and he's just dropped his glamours and is rising from the water in the bath, shirtless when he hears a gasp from behind him and Draco Malfoy is gawking at Harry and all his flowers and Harry feels like he should explain because he looks so heartbroken and all he can say is "I'm sorry." and Draco shakes his head.
"What have you even got to be sorry for?" He sounds so sad and Harry wished he could go back to five minutes ago when Malfoy didn't look like the world had disappointed him.
Then, he did the strangest thing, and took off his shoes and dipped his feet in the water. Harry wondered what the purple hyacinths and lavender flowers on Draco's toes stood for for a few moments, before Draco sucked in a breath as if he were about to say something, and instead began to rip off his own shirt.
Harry feels bad that where he'd expected a tiger lily (wealth and pride) the flower over Malfoy's heart was a sprig of Ivy. Anxious to please and affection. He let Harry's eyes roam over himself, documenting the Hydrangeas (thank you for understanding) next to the Ivy, the Holly (Defense) around his shoulders, the few bunches of sorrell near his neck, where nightshade similar to Harry's grew. Orange lilies down his ribcage and Harry wondered if they were all his. Geraniums (stupidity) on his chest seemed out of place and he wondered why they were bunched together with clematis flowers. Beautiful stupidity. Harry wants to ask, but keeps looking. He takes in the cactus flowers (constancy) and the Narcissus flowers curling around petunia's up his arms, a light smattering of willow mixed in, though nowhere near as thick as Harry's.
Malfoy reaches for his shirt then, and says to Harry, "Nothing."
"What?" Harry asks, confused.
"I'm simply answering my own question, Potter. You've nothing to be sorry for."
He leaves, and for the first time Harry wonders why he feels so guilty.
The Malfoy family is tried and cleared, with the help of Harry's testimony, and it’s back to school like usual.
Except it isn't like it was before, and Draco keeps doing weird things like passing Harry notes with weird jokes on them or drawings - that are really gorgeous but that’s besides the point - of him as he concentrates during potions.
Harry is confused.
Suddenly Malfoy is talking to him at the ends of defense classes about the weather or the upcoming Quidditch game or classwork and Harry gets asked to join a study group of unlikely members.
Hermione and Harry show up to the library on that fateful
afternoon to see Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom all huddled at a desk talking in hushed tones. Harry didn't know when Malfoy had made up with his two friends, but it appeared they had done so anyway and Harry didn't ask.
Harry sat at the table, nervous, especially around Draco's friend Pansy, as he had hardly known much about her.
Draco cleared his throat. "Pansy, Harry, you know him, and Harry, this is Pansy, my good friend of 6 years. Of course you know these two odd people." He pointed at Neville and Luna, all three of them smiled. "We have an odd sort of friendship going on, but it's there."
Harry thought he saw a bit of longing in Draco's eyes as he looked at Harry.
The rest of the meeting went smoothly, and Harry said little as Hermione and Pansy seemed to get along like a house on fire. Harry didn't say anything, later, but he thought Ron might have a bit of competition, and thought that if Hermione ever felt the same as Pansy did about her, Ron would lose.
Harry knew he was losing.
Draco kept trying to get Harry to talk, but it seemed that he wasn't going to. Draco's sad eyes hurt to look at, so Harry looked away.
It didn't seem like Draco was going to stop - he kept giving Harry weird folded roses and kept writing him notes and making small talk and Harry couldn't take it - knowing that he could never have this, him. His roses kept blooming and every note made him smile but he couldn't believe that he could ever have this because goldenrods kept blooming over willow branches and he was sad and he had to be careful or Draco would stop, would leave him, and wouldn't even be friendly anymore.
Jonquils found there way around Harry's jaw, and Harry hated them. They were desperate and sad and they burned whenever he said Draco's name and Harry hated them.
Love Me Back.
So he decided he would tell Draco off. The Geraniums blooming up the front of his neck show his folly as he does.
"What is your angle? Are you trying to get me to trust you so you can hurt me again? Or are you serious?"
Draco bites his lip, he knew Harry would question this at some point. He says, "I do want you to trust me, but not because I want to hurt you. It's, well. Draco rolls up his sleeve and Harry's eyes meet a cluster of red roses and Harry is scared because he wants to believe they're for him but he knows that nobody could ever love him because loving someone filled with this much pain is too hard, and he was so guilty and Draco couldn't love him and he felt yellow roses burning into his thighs and he almost spilled up his lunch because now he shared flowers with Dudley and Vernon. He looked into Draco's eyes and found himself staring at a fresh variegated tulip on Draco's left cheekbone as he spoke the words the flower stood for. "You have beautiful eyes, Harry. And a beautiful soul to match. You feel so much and I haven't seen them all but I know that it’s written across your skin in flowers and in scars and I am in love with you for it, and a thousand reasons more."
He reached up for Harry's chin, and pressed their lips together and Harry melted, even as he felt the primroses melt around his cheekbones because yeah, he had thought he could before but now he knew.
I can't live without you, is what primroses mean, and he knew now that he couldn't live without Draco.
And it would take years of passed notes, folded paper roses, and shared kisses, but sooner rather than later Harry found Ambrosia flowers mixed with Forget-Me-Nots wrapping up his fingers and his legs.
True Love.
Reciprocated.
Finally.