Author’s Note: Weird. That’s all I’ve got to say. And this is in Harry’s POV – even though technically it’s in third person. And don’t ask where the oranges came from – since I have no idea either. Dedicated to my mom since I blame her for putting jasmine in my hair in the first place and thus getting this wonderful little plot bunny. *sarcasm* The first version was a bit longer and a bit descriptive – but then I stupidly erased it, so here you go, the second version.

And thanks to Sandra – just because. This goes out to you especially.

She smelled of jasmine.

He knew that.

The smell was overpowering, sweet, tangy, full of life – everything all at once. It somehow made her presence, the very essence, the wholeness of her shine clearly, her more alive. It was her signature scent – just one whiff and he knew immediately that it was indeed her, not something – or someone, in this case – conjured in his dreams. She was real. Or so he’d thought. The image of her was sharp in his mind. Always. She was always there, haunting him. He welcomed it, though. Whether she was haunting him or there by his side, he needed her. Memories of her – laughing, singing, crying, smiling, frowning – wafted through his mind. Nothing but sharp memories recalling what was real and what was fantasy. Revealing to him, taunting him, never leaving him alone. She wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t.

Like jasmine, she was sweet, yet at the same time full of attitude. Sharp, tangy, yet sweet. Almost like the flicker of a flame before it goes out, or even life – bittersweet yet wonderful at the same time. Intense. In some way or another he was always reminded of her. Always.

Like jasmine, she was full of life, vibrant – almost life itself. One of her smiles made your whole day somewhat brighter; one of her tears made you feel sorrow unlike any other. In an ironic way, she was like the classic image of a little girl with curly hair picking wildflowers in midsummer. Always spreading happiness and pure freedom in some way or another. Always tracing and leaving footprints in her wake. Always leaving behind a part, a piece, a trace of herself. Always herself.

She smelled of jasmine.