Ever since Harry could remember he has always gotten a red rose on his birthday.
Every year a red rose came to the Dursley's in an owls beak and he has kept every single rose hidden from the Dursley's.
In Harry's 4th year at Hogwarts the rose came...
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Description:
As the clock ticks midnight, a rose appears in grand gesture to Harry. Always white. Always dripping with fresh dew.
It is beautiful.
Prologue:
'One bares a snake, The other a pheonix Within petals they meet again'
The room was shadowed. Misted in darkness. Nothing but the crackle of a dying fire, and the breathing between two people breaking the silence. Harry stares, from the flicking embers in the fireplace, to the man whom he sits on the lap of. The man, with crimson eyes and the skin of translucent snow. He lifts a singular item within his fingers.
Holding it gently. Caressing the spikes pinning along the stem. The white petals smother Harry's vision as the man lifts it toward him.
"Would you like it, flower?"
Yes. He'd like the white rose very much. The man lifts it toward Harry, gesturing for him to take it. Grab the stem and tuck it closely to his self.
Harry does take the stem. Then hisses as pain courses from the thorns, into his fingers. The man's bare chest rumbles with unabashed amusement as Harry lifts his hand.
Red. As dark as the man's eyes bead in small spots across his tiny hand. It hurts, tingling across each minute wound. Harry lifts his hand, licking at the blood. The white rose curling underneath his other hand. This time careful as to not upset the thorns.
Red, beads once more. Smaller, in fragments. The man takes Harry's hand. The palm, and the fingers each miniature against the crimson-eyed man's massive hand.
Large. So large the man with the red eyes is.
He presses at the wounds budding on Harry's skin. Stares at the blood.
He does not heal the wounds immediately. Instead smearing the small pools of red across white petals.
It's hideous, the dark color across the pure rose.
Harry stares down at the red from his own hand. Watching it blend into the veins of each individual petal.
"Fascinating, is it not?" The man whispers, his hot breath a heavy blow against Harry's ear. "How easily purity can be transformed."
A finger curls underneath Harry's chin, lifting his blinking gaze from the flower within his hands. To the deep crimson of the man's eyes.
So deep. So dark. So very, very red. Like blood.
"Tell me, flower. Do you like it?" Harry nods, slowly. He's unable to look down at the flower, forced to continue the unrelenting eye contact. "Even with its tarnished purity?" Harry nods.
Thin, chilling lips press into the crown of his head.
"Happy birthday, flower."
Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
The noise comes in rapid fire. Heavier, louder than Harry has ever awaken to.
Jolting upright in his makeshift bed, Harry scurries for his glasses. Shoving them up his nose, Harry throws back the quilt, jumps out of bed and arrives at the window before Pig can begin screeching. Shoving the rusted window sill up, Hedwig dives between the warm crack. The summer heat having long cooled to a bearable temperature.
Hedwig settles on the board at the foot of Harry's twin bed. A white rose resting gently between her beak. Each thorn swiftly removed from the glistening green stem.
Harry sits on the thin mattress, tugging the quilt around his knees before taking the rose carefully from Hedwig. She hoots, spreading her wings. Impatient for approval on her completed job. Harry pats her feathers, running three curled fingers along her neck. Hedwig titters, hopping to his thigh as Harry spins the dew-ridden rose between his fingers.
It positively stuns him every time a rose appears. Whether beside his door, or in an owls beak. Harry glances at Hedwig, wondering minutely why she was the one to bring him his annual white rose.
The door creaks, startling Hedwig and Harry to snap their heads to the door. Where Hermione quietly slips between the crack in the door frame. Shutting the door behind her, Hermione quickly hops from the entrance of Ron's tiny room, to Harry's twin bed. Her gaze is transfixed on the rose dripping soft water beads. Mesmerized by the full bloom flower twisting through Harry's fingers.
"It always amazes me how beautiful the roses are fresh." Hermione comments after a moment. Her finger extending to touch a full-bloom petal before Harry pulls it back. "Did it just come?" Harry nods, staring back down at the rose. "Hedwig brought it." "Hedwig?" Hermione whispers. Harry nods.
Hermione doesn't inquire, even though surprised. Harry, like her, will not be able to explain why Hedwig was the one to bring Harry's birthday gift.
Glancing at the clock, Ron's old alarm clock ticks fifteen minutes past midnight.
