George frowns. "A... garden?" he asks, shaking his head at the thought. "I was bitten by enough garden gnomes while growing up, thank you."
Angelina laughs as though she thinks he's only joking again. "Right. Gardens have traumatized you," she says, a grin playing at her lips. "Good one, George."
"Well, not traumatized, per se," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a sigh. "But that isn't really the point, I never wanted a garden."
Her face changes, softened by understanding but twisted by confusion. "You're serious?"
"It's just a garden," George insists, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm sure we could find something better to make."
"Like what?"
With a grin, he places his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. "A family?"
.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" George asks defensively as he sets his finally sleeping son back into his cot. "It isn't my fault he caught the flu."
"But if we had a garden, we wouldn't have had to wait at St Mungo's for nearly three hours. We could have had fresh potion ingredients here!"
"We're back on the garden?" he sighs. "Why is it such a big deal to you?"
"Because I always wanted a garden when I was growing up," she admits. "But Dad said we didn't have the money for it."
"Then let's make a garden."
.
The garden is delayed again and again. First by Angelina's pregnancy, then an extended emergency at the joke shop, then by any little excuse until thoughts of a garden are just a distance memory.
Until they're not.
.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers, gripping her too cold, too frail hand in his. "Don't leave me."
"Not yet," she says, with a cracked-lip smile.
.
He fills the room with potted plants. Bright blossoms, small shrubs, even vines that climb the window sill.
"What's this?"
"If you want a garden, I'll give you a garden."
.
They adorn the grass with flowers, making it more garden than grave.