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Summary: Muggle plants bloom out of season in the wizarding world. They flourish and wither at the whim of magical energies, a barometer of wizard emotions. Many thanks go to Abstract Concept and Chalcopyrite for their beta help and support on this fic. This story uses references to Victorian flower language. I’m not making any money off of this – it is done soley for love of the characters and fun. Muggle plants bloom out of season in the wizarding world.
They flourish and wither at the whim of magical energies, a barometer of wizard emotions and events. Or portent, Neville thinks, recalling the rhododendron that arose, choking Hogwarts’ gardens the day of the final battle. He’d found Pomona that morning, staring grimly at the red blooms. Danger,’ she’d said, then gone about preparing for the battle. Though still the earliest blush of summer, the air is laden with heat. The short walk from Hogsmeade proper feels as if it has taken all day. Neville loosens his grip on the bouquet, his palm sweaty and aching from the unconscious clench.
Zinnias stand like sentinels at the gate, but the rest of the yard is a riot of dahlias and marigold. From somewhere comes the scent of honeysuckle, lingering like perfume in the wake of a woman. Neville thinks, hefting one of the larger pots onto the worktable. Late at night, when he can’t sleep for the feel of a half-empty dorm and a day of watching the fear on his classmates’ faces. Standing, hands pressed flat to the table, Neville waits for the ache in his back and thighs to abate. His flying has improved, but Hooch seems to work him harder each week, seemingly determined to make him regret requesting extra lessons. Winter sunlight falls over everyone with indiscriminate warmth, making the hall appear deceptively cheerful.
Ginny passes him the paper with a look that speaks of another day without news, of fluff articles. Her action draws his attention to the table center, where normally a floral centerpiece of muggle blooms would sit. Looking up he finds Pomona at the dais, face pained. There are days Neville hates the sunlight, days it makes him doubt everything his gran taught him about what is right and good. Hooch leans in from Pomona’s side, speaking softly in defiance of glares from the Carrows.
Your arms are too tense, speed flying requires fluidity. Trying to relax his arms and lean forward, Neville loses focus on keeping his flight straight. The broom angles, tipping him towards Hooch. Her hand is firm, a patch of heat where everything else is cold from the wind. He looks up, watching the silver of her eyes alight with the thrill of flying. Drawing her hand away, she clears her throat.
You have made progress, but you’ve still a lot to learn. Two teacups stand on the worktable in fine china defiance of the dirt and pots wreckage around them. He can hear voices from further in the greenhouse and knows that Hooch is visiting again. Pomona answers, not missing a beat. It’s a game they often play, Hooch testing Pomona’s knowledge, as she tests his.
He approaches, pausing before they see him as he catches sight of Hooch’s face. He comprehends with sudden clarity the look of fondness and longing as she watches Pomona, and realizes the game is not truly a game. Barreling into the greenhouse, Neville ignores Hooch and Pomona’s startled cries and dashes towards the back. Entering seconds behind him, sallow skin mottled red from exertion, is Snape. You look quite flushed, are you alright? Pomona asks, sounding rather too chipper. Neville watches from behind a stack of pots as Pomona looks about uncertainly.
He has stolen something of mine. Silently, Neville slides Gryffindor’s sword into a fertilizer bag. Neville darts across the moonlit grounds quick and fluid as a frightened minnow. On days like this, when the castle halls seem charged with fear, and the shadows beneath his classmates’ eyes are like bruises, Neville needs the greenhouses. As he approaches the greenhouses, one sound begins to separate from the hum.