If you search for the meaning of cherry blossoms, you will find that they represent the fragility and beauty of life. They are a reminder that life is almost overwhelmingly beautiful, but also tragically short.

Harry Potter sat silently in the evening hush as the earth quieted. In honor of those who died in the war, a grove of cherry blossom trees had been planted, and it became a place of remembrance for many students. He would visit the grove frequently at dusk, and watch the evening sun brush the falling petals with gold. Harry didn’t come to grieve, as many did, but came to remember, and relive each fond memory of the people represented by the trees. The cherry trees that whispered around him.

Harry sighed and stretched his legs out from the position he’d been sitting in for the past few hours. He had heard Ron and Hermione walking through the trees earlier, their voices no louder than those of the trees, that had faded away soon enough, and left him alone with his thoughts.

He hadn’t cried for those who had died in the war, there hadn’t been any time. The days after the war was a blur of constant work, and each night he’d stagger to his bed to collapse into a restless sleep before the nightmares awoke him. He was so tired, Harry wasn’t sure what it was he was tired of, but the constant weariness dragged at his bones. The war was over and he had served his purpose, it made sense that everyone had forgotten about him in the aftermath.

He just wished it didn’t hurt so much.

The other students that fought had their fair share of scars, but they smiled, and laughed, and found happiness within their lives while he lost his. He wasn’t jealous, he wasn’t going to begrudge them of the joy that had been so scarce during the war, he just missed the way it felt to have joy warm his insides, to laugh and cry and feel the whole beautiful range of emotions that should have come. Instead, all he felt was a chilling numbness that followed him into sleep.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice as the sun disappeared behind the hills and crickets began to sing. He didn’t notice as cherry blossoms fluttered to the ground, swirling about him in a fluid dance, and as heavy steps paced their way towards him.

“Mr. Potter.”

The words, spoken quietly without disdain, made him look up. Snape stood above him, his dark eyes glinting with some unnamed emotion. “You should go inside, it’s gotten dark.” The words weren’t spoken gently, in worry, but carried an firmness, hiding a hint of curiosity. He gazed at the man for a few heartbeats, before dropping his gaze to observe the soft green grass below him. Harry could feel the stare burning into his head, and heard a huff of scorn before Snape’s lean figure dropped gracefully onto the ground. He didn’t sit beside Harry, instead choosing to sit a few feet away, giving him room to think.

Harry tipped his head back, seeing Snape do the same out of the corner of his eye, and examined the few stars visible through the swaying branches. Harry remained silent for a few more moments, before remarking, gaze still fixed on the sky, “I can’t cry professor.”

Snape looked over at him, his face unreadable as usual. “Why?”

Harry shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Snape muttered something under his breath, before replying, “There has to be a reason Mr. Potter.”

Harry snorted softly, “I don’t know about that, sir.”

"Everything has a reason, and most of the time it is to teach us to examine life from a new perspective.”

“How does that fit into this conversation, professor?”

“Instead of asking yourself why you cannot cry, you should be asking why you always place the blame on your own shoulders.

Harry quieted instantly, any response drying on his tongue as he turned to face the man.

“I-I don’t do that professor.”

Snape shook his head as though exasperated by his foolishness. “Mr. Potter, it is quite evident that you continue to blame yourself for the casualties of the war.”

Harry heard his voice come out edged with broken glass, “It was my fault, I should have done something to prevent this, I could have-”

“Regardless of what you believe, Mr. Potter, you could not have stopped this in any way whatsoever, you did not point your wand at those people. The blame rests upon us for handing you this much responsibility. You were a child thrown into a war, a child that was never meant to shoulder this burden. If anything, we have failed you, by making you fight for us.”

Harry was, needless to say, surprised. No adult had ever spoken to him like this before, like the war didn’t matter as much as he did. It felt nice, oddly enough.

Harry turned away and looked through the fluttering petals. He turned this over in his mind for a while, before glancing over at Snape, who was examining him thoroughly as though seeing him for the first time.

“What were you saying about not being able to cry?”

Harry started, finally noticing the burning in his eyes, and reaching up to his cheek, he felt the wetness of tears that had finally escaped.

He laughed, from either joy or from the sheer absurdity of the situation he didn’t know, and said, “Thank you professor.”

"You are welcome, Mr. Potter.”

Silence rang out between the two men, both having been taught how fragile life is too early. They remained seated in the grass, both lost within thoughts that walked along the same paths, and listened to the cherry blossom trees that spoke of renewal, and the beautiful tragedy that is life.