"Buy Yourself Flowers!"
Hogsmeade was, by all accounts, a small village. There were only about three thousand or so people who actually lived there. On any given day, if one were to spend every sunlit minute going about the township, they would only come across a mere handful of its inhabitants. What visitors never realized was that most of the other people they interacted with in the village, even many of the shopkeepers, were hired employees, drawn to the tourist trade in this last purely wizarding community. In those days, there were only a couple of us left that not only owned but ran our own shops. There was old Eunice Weathergate, with her quiet trade in the magic-forged metal jewelry, Lorraine Treelaugh, who made her wage off of wizard-clock repairs (the Weasley's were still her number one customers), Beatrice Bottsworth, who didn't really even need to work what with all the proceeds she made off her candy business, but still enjoyed seeing to the occasional customer who sought the yarns and thread she sold, and Mr. Greence, though none of us ever really figured out just what, exactly, he was supposed to be selling. And then, there was myself. Gertrude Howardson. I own the flower shop off main street, but at the south end, closest to the Shack and the Surrounding Forrest. Due to my store's location, I didn't (and still don't, really) get many customers. Every once in a while, a romantically-minded young man might wander in and purchase a bouquet of roses, daisies, lilies, or, in one unforgettable instance, corn, for a sweetheart, but business was generally pretty slow. To be totally honest, the only reason I was ever able to rationalize staying in business in those days was because of the orders I would receive every month from the school, often for the Herbology classes, but mainly for Potions' ingredients. On the first Wednesday of every month, I would receive an order slip from Professor Snape, with minute instructions as to how and where he wanted his ingredients, and by the following Friday, I would load up the various items in Geraldo Higgins' cart and deliver them to the house elves at the gate. For all that the Potions Master and I had been carrying out our business for over ten years by then, the closest contact I ever had to him was the signature on his checks. I still had no idea what he looked like.
That particular day will always live on in my heart. It was late April, and the last of the snow had already melted the week before. The trees all had leaf buds, the grass was regaining its green color at last, and already there songbirds in the trees once more. I remember stepping outside my back door that morning, and looking out at the forest beyond. The ground was still moist with dew, and the air had that fresh sweetness to it, like a clear waterfall transmuted into smell. Closing my eyes, listening to the tentative first chirps of the returned birds, I knew something good had to happen that day.
Ten hours later, I no longer believed that anything was going to go right. There had been a Hogwarts visit, and several of the ruffians had decided that it would be a good idea to Transfigure each other into various animals, only to discover they had no clue how to return their young friends back to humanity. Of course, in their beastly forms, the former children had even less caring for any rules of propriety, and so several of the main street shops (including, I'll have you know, my own) were plagued by a herd of uncontrollable monkeys, geese, donkeys, and a particularly vindictive badger. Needless to say, by the time the end of their visit drew near, it was with great anticipation that I looked to close up. Just as I had begun the process of bringing the display tables inside and drawing the shutters, I was startled to find a customer standing on my welcome mat. At first glance, he appeared the sort of man to instantly put anyone with sense on the offensive. Dressed all in black, looming high above average height, he exuded an aura of one who was to be respected, obeyed, and feared. However, I did not worry for long. When I looked past his appearances to his actual face, I saw what most would have missed if they instantly withdrew in fright. His eyes, while, admittedly, an unusually dark hue, expressed not haughty disdain, nor dangerous intent, or even overwhelming annoyance. The expression was such an odd sight to see in such a powerful face. There was uncertainty, and loneliness, and, most surprising of all, fear of me, if such a thing could be possible!
Well, after seeing all that, I certainly couldn't just dismiss him with a simple, "Sorry, we're closing up for the night," now could I? No, I didn't think so, either. After a moment's contemplative pause, I asked him how I could help, and he replied simply,
"I would like some Forget-Me-Nots, if you have any."
Well! How did he know? I had just received a new order of them, the first of the season that very morning! I informed him as much, to which he merely replied,
"That's nice."
Not so much of a pleasure talker, this one, but I was just dying to know who they were for. Usually the only folks who specifically asked for that flower by name were brides who had heard something of the old legends or hopeful beaus who purchased the small posies because their grandma's had instructed them so. Never had I ever seen a person quite like this, who gathered together enough of the sturdy little stems to form a fat bunch and tied it with a simple twist of twine. His handling of the blossoms themselves was altogether thrilling; he did not hold them as if considering the reaction of an intended recipient, nor with the offhand acceptance of a necessary component of an exasperating ritual, but with the tenderness of one who looked at the petals and leaves and saw them for what they were, and felt his expectations perfectly fulfilled. As I rang up his purchase, I couldn't help asking him what he wanted them for, wondering aloud if his mother would like them. (Yes, of course I was fishing for answers, what more would you expect of a nosy old woman with too much free time on her hands?) However, he merely smiled, ever so slightly sadly, as if to apologize for his lack of interesting reply.
"They are no one but myself. I saw the sky today, and knew I could not go back to the castle without some symbol of the beauty of the day with me. The color so perfectly matches the hue of the sky at dawn, don't you think?"
So saying, he signed the receipt, and walked sedately out of my shop, leaving in his wake silence. As I watched this stranger disappear beyond my windows, I realized why I suddenly felt so light. Here, at last, was a totally unselfish appreciation for the beauty that was in all life, whether animal or plant. He had his memento of the sky at dawn, but I had gained something far more precious. I was reminded of why it was I ever decided to run a flower shop at all. It had never been for the income, or even the knowledge that romance was still alive. No, it was for the self-gratitude of being with the beautiful creations of nature, and for the sharing of these gifts with others. Fervently, I wished I could have caught my voice in time to have thanked the stately gentleman who had reopened my eyes with his simple reverence. But, it was not to be so.
As I mentally shook myself to regain my senses, I absently picked up the receipt I had so quickly forgotten. There, signed neatly in a hand I had seen so many times, was the name Severus Snape.
Since that day, I have always made sure to include a free bundle of Forget-Me-Nots in my April shipment to the castle, with a small note reading, 'Silently, one by one/ in the infinite meadows of heaven,/blossomed the lovely stars,/the forget-me-nots of the angels.'
A/N: in case you were wondering, the quote is from Longfellow's Evangeline, which can be read in full here: h t t p : // etext . lib . virginia . edu / etcbin / toccer - new2? id = LonEvan . sgm & images = images / modeng & data = / texts / english / modeng / parsed & tag = public & part = all (just remove all the spaces)