Harry gave the wilting lilies a blank stare.
He had been standing at the forefront of Forest Flats' community garden for the past ten minutes, trying to gather up his courage to politely knock on the landlady's door, and file a request. His mother's name was Lily, and he doubted that she would be impressed by the fact that her son was letting one of her own crumble into ash.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
So, that was how Harry found himself with his fist raised to a shiny, white door, and face-to-face with what he hoped was a kind-hearted woman in her mid-fifties.
Her house was the same, sage color as the rest of the flat building, a small cottage off to the side.
Butterflies hummed as they swept around the backyard of Forest Flats, and bumblebees buzzed as they swirled around Harry's form in dizzying round-a-bouts.
The landlady was in the midst of combing her fingers through chocolate-colored strands, nearly toppling over when she caught a glimpse of Harry. He gave her a weak smile, and the woman quickly recovered from the startle.
She continued braiding her hair, even as she spoke. "I'm terribly sorry about that, sweetheart. The only visits I receive are from old men who complain about the state of their flat." She gazed aimlessly off into the distance as if recalling a recent memory. "In my defense, I warned them."
Harry frowned, and he spat out music to the landlady's ears. "If they didn't like how the apartment looked on the tour, then why did they purchase it?"
"Exactly!" the woman cried, finishing off her braid with an electric blue ribbon. She placed her hands firmly upon her hips, giving the man an appreciative scan. "I think I might just like you, boy. All of these people—buying without a cause, and expecting no charges because the flat doesn't meet their exceedingly high standards."
Harry's eyes traveled to the pink apron that was tied around her waist, smothered in what looked like powdered sugar. "Were you baking?"
The land-lady perked up, angered wrinkles fading into a sugary smile. "As a matter of fact, I was. Why don't you come on it? I'm not going to bite." She winked. "Besides, you deserve a treat for being the first person I've met today that didn't drive me insane."
Harry's teeth dug into his bottom lip. "I'm afraid that I don't have any more sanity than the rest of your guests. I have a proposition, you see."
The landlady sank away, giving him a suspicious side-long. "What are you inputting? It would be a terrible shame to have such a nice, young man turn out to be like the rest."
Harry's eye twitched. He couldn't tell whether the woman's words were a dangerous threat or a simple warning, so he sighed—entwining his fingers behind his back. It wasn't as difficult as he had expected—playing the part of the sympathetic boy. "I really feel awful for bothering you at this time of day. Afternoons are meant to be enjoyed, not be filled with nagging. But, I couldn't help but notice the state of the community garden. And I was er—curious—as to whether you would be alright if I tended to it? I didn't know if it belonged to somebody, so I came to ask you . . ." He trailed off.
The woman's prickly facade dropped, and she caught hold of his shoulders, ushering him inside of her humble home. "Why, you are even more thoughtful than I originally thought! You truly are a surprise, sweetheart. Respect is a rarity in times like these."
Harry's dark brows furrowed at the mention of, 'times like these', but he didn't dare to question the matter any further. He squeaked as the landlady yanked him down onto one of the kitchen stools, and the woman set to tugging on the oven handle. A burst of smoke flew out of the machine, tingling
Harry's nose as he fought the urge to cough.
The landlady snapped on a pair of wool oven mitts, cautiously sliding out an iron tray. The sight of the cookies made Harry's mouth water, and he quickly flushed in embarrassment.
Yet, the woman only chuckled. "So, Mr. . . ."
"Potter," he answered, gracing her with a quiet thanks as she slid a set of glimmering silverware across the porcelain counter—not that he needed it.
"Mr. Potter," she continued, voice lowering to a hushed whisper. "You want to tend to my brother's garden?"
Harry froze. Although it wasn't unheard of for a man to take up the career of a florist, it was certainly a rarity. He thought back to the garden—daisies drenched in muddy puddles, and roses withering to a crisp—he could only wonder what had affected the garden so terribly.
"My brother passed less than a year ago," the land-lady continued, wearing a look that Harry could quite decipher. "So, obviously the plants haven't been cared for. I am not a gardener." She glanced up, searching Harry's expression. "Are you dead set on this? This means a lot to me—and I'd love for Rome to smile down from the Heavens at such an act—but I don't want to give you something that you have the potential to take advantage of. It will also be pricey. There will be quantities of money involved."
Harry broke off a small piece of the cookie that she had given him. "No offense, Ms. . . ."
"Figg," she interjected, wearing a polite grin. "But please, call me Arabella."
"I don't think I would've asked to do something that I knew I couldn't afford. My mother's name was Lily. And to see something so beautiful wither like that . . ." An involuntary shiver crept down his spine. "It's God-awful."
"Bless your soul, my dear!" Arabella cried, throwing her arms around Harry in a tight embrace.
Harry's mouth opened to assure her that it wasn't that big of a deal, but he stopped himself. Although it might not have been a big deal for him, it was certainly a big deal for Arabella. He had offered to up-keep Rome's garden. And, she made him think that he had a slice of a good soul—one that allowed him to make decisions that ended up not being regretted, and commit actions that weren't labeled as crimes.
Arabella slowly released him, crossing the kitchen swiftly to rattle through one of the drawers. Harry peeked over her shoulder, trying to complement what she was digging for. He inhaled sharply as her hand flicked up abruptly, revealing a roll of parchment and a feathered quill. She smoothed the paper flat on the countertop, scribbling down inked sentences furiously.
Once she handed Harry the note, he realized that he had given her a set of instructions.
Arabella's neck craned around, widely smiling as she spotted his attentiveness towards the sheet. "I listed a set of ingredients that should assist you in nursing those poor flowers back to life. Keep me updated, won't you? It's not every day a stranger does something like this. I'm proud of you, sweetheart."
Harry toyed with the idea of humor. "For not banging on your door to complain about the state of my flat?"
Her eyes darkened. "Precisely. Good luck!"
He grinned, giving Arabella a ferocious wave as he stepped over the threshold, and back into the lawn. He attempted at flattening down his tangled hair, before giving up and letting his arms swing limply to his side. He strolled through the winding pathway that led back to the mouth of St. Matthew's, scowling at all of the twists and turns.
Unlike the flowers in the garden, the ones strung up above swayed in the wind gracefully. The pathway had purposefully been constructed to look like a tunnel to the jungle, with strings of daffodils swooping down from metal poles, and sparkling ponds littered with lily pads.
Fortunately, the storm had cleared out of London yesterday evening. Unfortunately, the gloomy sky remained, yet the heat had gradually grown worse.
Harry bunched up the cuffs of his white undershirt to his elbows, unbuttoning the first few loopholes as Nott had suggested the day earlier. Harry scowled at the thought of the boy but continued stomping onwards—as if that would get rid of Theodore Nott's ghost.
He unwrinkled the roll of parchment that Arabella had given him, tilting the paper to the side as he tried to make out her ridiculous cursive.
(Soil, for the roots. Fertilizer, for the seeds. Water, for the flowers. *Try your best not to injure them as poorly as the rain did.)
The hidden meaning to her words roused a smile from Harry's mouth, and he tucked the list back into his pants pocket, keeping his eyes peeled for any sort of floral shop.
Since the majority of the items stated on the note were provided by Mother Nature, Harry attended to search for the basic, required items. His eyes locked onto a small, kept flower shop, with clusters of purple roses set out in a brilliant display window, and weaved tulip crowns swinging off the side of a pearl-white bench.
Harry's eyes sparkled.
He headed straight for the store, sole with determination. A bell rang as he entered the flower shop, and the catastrophe of tentacle-like vines forced him to duck. He kept his eyes peeled for an employee of the sort, admiring all the different types of unique flowers that poked out from marble shelves—wrapped in lettered newspaper and tied with a golden ribbon
Although the shop was particularly overwhelming, Harry found comfort in the oddity of it all.
A young girl stepped out of the shadows, bowing her head in greeting. She looked as if she were in her early twenties, around the same age as Harry—ginger hair held into a messy bun by a rose, and skirts splattered with what Harry presumed was soil.
"Hello." She dramatically winked. "Welcome. Is there anything that I can help you find? We have all sorts of flowers. Big, small, wide, thin. You name it, and we got it."
Harry's eyes lingered on a bouquet of lilies. "Sorry, hi. I really don't know much about flowers," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in shame. "At my flat, there's this community garden, and I've kinda put it on myself to take care of it."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Ah, I see. Quite the responsibility. Plants are delicate things. Like us, their beauty holds power. And the not so appealing ones?" She directed a pitiful glance towards a row of midnight-colored flowers. "Like black delight violas, for example. I've received many comments on how it looked suited for a gnarly witch, not a secret spouse."
He couldn't help but chuckle. "They must not have good taste then."
The girl perked up, scanning him with a new sense of intrigue. "You like them? I'm not one to tug a customer away from a request, but they aren't the best of companions. Violas require a lot of care, and would probably only make your flat mournful If you are into vibrant colors, I'd suggest myrtle. Such a wondrous flower with a tragic tale."
Harry's eyes glazed over with uncertainty, and he cleared his throat—shooing away the creeping silence. "Yes, I suppose I'll take one of the violas. But, do you have any supplies? Like tools? Or dirt? Or . . . um—"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! It's a shame how many flower shops don't provide the tools needed to care for what they sell. But we do. What do you need? If I heard correctly, you said that you are tending to a garden? What is the state of it?"
Harry winced. "Not . . . delightful."
Delightful was a compliment.
The ginger's tongue rolled around in her mouth, and she seemed to think for a lengthy moment. "We have things called 'starter kits'. They're an amazing invention by my mother, with instructions on how to treat your chosen flower. Such as how often to feed them, what to do if they begin to wilt," she waved a hand, "you get the point. Perhaps you'd find that useful?" At the stiff bow of his head, her shoulders slumped in relief. "Great. I'll grab one that has directions for all flowers—I'm not expecting you to list all of them off the top of your head. I'll also get those violas wrapped up, alright?"
Harry gave her an appreciative nod, killing time by wandering around the parts of the shop he hadn't got the chance to explore. Candles were lit at random across the checkered floor, and he had to cautiously navigate his way around to avoid stepping on a kindling flame—or slipping in a puddle of melted wax.
When the ginger darted out of the backrooms and presented his flowers and kit to him, Harry fumbled with the change in his pocket and tossed her a few coins.
The girl's eyes widened drastically, and she shook her head furiously, outstretching her money-filled palm back towards him. "No, sir. I think you've got it wrong. The kit and violas weren't that expensive."
"Nature lives, just like us," Harry interjected quietly. "And it's also for the advice. Thank you for your service."
She still continued to peer down at her hand, tossing the King's face up into the air. "Of course, but only if you insist." At his eager expression, she relaxed, and her lips split into a soft-hearted smile. "It's nice seeing someone do something for a change."
"A change?" Harry tilted his head quizzically.
The girl gazed off into the distance, wearing a dreamy look. "Why indeed. You're giving the world a breath of fresh air by purchasing these flowers." She snapped back to reality in an instant. "Oh, and my name is Junia. Thanks for being a nice customer."
Harry's teeth grit against one another, but it wasn't in anger. He clutched the newspapered violas to his chest, inhaling their nightmarish-like scent. "I'm Harry, by the way," he added, choosing to toss 'Mr. Potter' to the side. "You gave me your name, so it only seems polite to do the same. Good day, Junia."
The corner of the ginger's lips quirked upwards as she waved him goodbye ecstatically. "Good day, Harry. And watch out for the candles!" She leaned over, pointing a thin finger towards the floor. "My mother wants to keep away from more incidents."
Harry froze, blinking as his mind processed her comment.
More incidents?
He shook it off, biting the inside of his cheek as he hopped out of the shop, and back onto the pebbled sidewalk. The sun had begun to lower, and many restaurant owners were outside greeting ladies and gentlemen alike as they stepped inside.
Harry paused, waiting patiently for his stomach to rumble. But, when no sound was to be heard other than the whirl of the warm breeze—he shrugged off the prompt—and walked onwards. He didn't have a clue as to where he was headed, but it was in the opposite direction of his flat. When he passed by the alleyway that Nott had pointed out earlier, he made sure to purposefully miss the entrance.
A harsh pat on his shoulder caused Harry to nearly drop the kit and flowers.
"Oi, Potter! You've returned so soon?" Nott's posh voice rang around St. Matthew's.
A scowl played upon Harry's mouth. "In case you haven't noticed, I live here."
Nott's head cocked innocently to the side, feigned concern crossing over his face. "You live here, Potter? On the street? My, if you would've told me sooner, perhaps I would've pitched in and given you a portion of the Nott fortune. But then again, after the way you treated me with such disrespect yesterday, I'd soon come to regret it."
Like the day before, Nott's brown hair was tousled—as if he had been constantly running his hands through it—and a pair of polished dress shoes lay upon his feet.
Harry rolled his eyes, yanking his arm out of Nott's clumsy grip. "You know what I mean. Many apartment buildings reside in St. Matthew's. No shame in not knowing that, I'm sure that you'd rather fill your vision with elaborate mansions than flats. 'Cause, you practically live in a castle, y'know."
"Why, of course." Nott flashed him a smug smirk. "And, what a compliment, Potter. It seems as though you are capable of saying something nice for once."
"And I'd soon come to regret it," Harry grumbled, repeating Nott's earlier words as he muttered profanities underneath his breath.
"Flowers?" Nott's eyes traveled down to the violas in his arms. "Interesting. The last time I checked Monthly Mayhem, it didn't mention that Harry Potter had acquired a spouse. So, who is the lucky lady? You know I don't spill secrets, Potter." Nott nudged his elbow, sending Harry scrambling to regain his lost composure. "I wouldn't count on my best buddies, though. Heaven knows that we men can be a bit reckless in what we tell each other. Hmm?"
"For sure," Harry replied flatly.
Creases formed between Nott's brows. "I don't feel like you're listening to me, Potter. Don't you dare try to diverge me off-topic, either. We're already throwing insults at one another like a herd of pride-ruined peacocks. You and I . . . we're better than that."
"Oh trust me," Harry drawled, "I'm listening. I just think that paying attention to a dead bird would be more interesting than having a conversation with you."
Nott beamed an unexpected reaction. "There's my man! For the only entertaining thing in this world is the dead, am I wrong?"
Harry fought a grimace at Nott's ability to twist his words into something so wicked. "You are, actually. That was a suggestion, not a statement. There are many things more entertaining than death. Life, for example. I'd fancy myself a nice cup of mint tea and a pastry, would you not?"
"You're only arguing with yourself Potter," Nott warned, a tune on the tip of his tongue. "Now, I saw that you very deliberately avoided Borgin and Burkes. Didn't have to make it that noticeable to throw a blow to my pride. Honestly? Could've just ignored the whole thing, and that would've made the entire situation even worse."
Harry blinked. Surely Nott had to be exaggerating. He only curved around the alleyway very dramatically. "Watching me, Nott?" he scoffed. "Knowing you, it wouldn't be such a shocker to find out that you were a stalker."
"A good stalker," Nott insisted. "You didn't feel a pair of eyes on you, did you?"
Harry faltered. He refused to admit to Nott's fact that he had a real knack for throwing people off track—but the sentence tumbled past his lips before he could process what he was saying — and a slow grin etched itself upon Nott's mouth.
"What a change of heart, Potter," Nott praised. "A true friend." He halted, shielding a hand over his eyes as he glanced up at the descending sun. "You wouldn't mind if I gave you a tour of Knockturn Alley, would you?"
"Shockburn what?" Harry guffawed.
Nott snorted. "Knockturn Alley, Potter. A sweet little place—it has some particularly delightful people. You may walk in with a lot of hands to shake, but I can assure you that you'll leave with many new alliances."
"I didn't know an antique shop could bestow me with so many blessings," Harry retorted dryly, adjusting his grip on the violas and kit that Junia had given him. His arms were beginning to feel like jelly—and Nott's blabbering wasn't helping. Yet, Nott didn't seem to catch his sarcasm. He took Harry's remark as an answer, dragging the man along as they halted in front of the shadowed alleyway. Harry stared beyond with uncertainty—locking eyes with a hagged figure and shuddering—but Nott's glee only seemed to grow as he led Harry on ahead.
Black seemed to be the fashion.
Harry felt oddly out of place with his blinding white undershirt, and dark-blue overcoat as the wanderers close by gave him peculiar looks.
Nott sneered at the prying onlookers. "Don't fret about the hags, Potter. They enjoy snooping in on other people's business, all while managing to keep an extra in their own."
Harry winced as Nott dragged him into Borgin and Burkes. He sincerely wished that he would've put more effort into defending himself from Nott's soothing manipulations. But, the escaping period had passed, and he was shoved inside of the dimly-lit shop.
Gaping skulls leered at home from atop rusty tabletops, shelves stocked to the brim with vials whose contents glowed viciously. The lanterns that dangled from the ceiling cast a hazy orange glow across the tiled floor—which creaked every time Harry shifted a step.
Harry squinted as a figurine hand caught his attention—its gnarly fingers closing, before snapping back open in a sudden, fluid motion. He felt tempted to lace his fingers with its own, and he leaned forwards, entwining his fingers with the figurine's . . . the hand crushed his own in a bone-breaking grip, and Harry gasped, failing as Nott watched the scene with bemusement.
"Potter, you idiot," the other man huffed, prying Harry's hand out of the figurines. "Everything has a consequence. Did your parents not tell you to think about your actions before projecting them?"
No, my parents are dead.
Harry shuddered, holding his arm close to his thumping heart. As his eyes darted furiously around the interior of the shop, he let out an internal groan at the realization that he must've accidentally left his purchases on the St. Matthew's sidewalk.
At Harry's quickening breaths, Nott sighed. "Breathe, Potter. Your flowers and box are safe. You dropped them when you trapped yourself in the Hand of Glory—so I set them down over there." He jabbed a finger in the direction of a small coffee table. "Now, I'd like to resume the tour. Preferably with no childish intentions." He shot Harry an accusing look—whom bluntly ignored the notion.
Nott's teeth ground together, an eerie harmony of pain. "Mr. Burke is up at the payment counter. I wouldn't recommend getting on his bad side. He can turn out to be quite the nasty human being."
Harry's brain flashed back to Hagrid's opinion on the store owner.
"Mr. Burke is a pretty nice lad. Organized, too."
As Harry's eyes drifted in another round of the shop, he couldn't help but disagree with Hagrid's last thought on the matter.
When they arrived at the countertop, Mr. Burke leaned over the top of the counter, peering down at Harry suspiciously. "Mr. Nott. You brought a visitor."
Nott lowered his head in a mixture of impatience and greeting. "I've already given Mr. Potter your introductions. Where did Riddle get off to?"
Mr. Burke's eye twitched, and his lips flattened into a straight line. "He's in the back sorting through customer requests. I wouldn't suggest bothering him, he is a very busy man at the moment."
Nott sucked on the inside of his cheek, waving for Harry to follow him as they stopped in front of a barricaded door. "I wouldn't be too concerned, Mr. Burke. I'm sure that customer requests can be put on hold for a minute or two. Patience is a virtue, something that the world seems to lack. It'll do those people well to learn to wait a little longer than expected."
"But it'll do my store ratings no good," the old man muttered underneath his breath.
Harry gave Mr. Burke a curious look, surveying the main area once more before he was tugged into the backroom. He had to force himself to blink a few times before his vision adjusted to the darkness—keeping his eyes peeled for any fragile objects that he had the potential of knocking over. Navigating through the backroom was like relying on an empty map. Harry didn't know what he would run into next.
Nott braced a hand against the black wallpaper as Harry's eyes locked on a figure hunched over a desk—clutching a grand roll of parchment in between the pad of its thumb and forefinger.
"Riddle?" Nott called.
The shadow perched up, a faint trickle of disappointment crossing over its expression. "Nott."
"I have a guest," Nott added quickly, swiftly moving to the side to reveal Harry.
Harry raised a dark eyebrow, giving Nott a delicate look of confusion. "Nott—I swear to God if you're attempting at—"
"He's not attempting anything," the same, smooth voice reassured him. "I asked for a favor, and he followed through on it."
Harry could only imagine what the figure's 'favor' was, as his lips pulled back to reveal a ferocious sneer. "Well, now you've done it, Nott. First, you trick me into listening to your utter bullshit, you pull me into some haunted alleyway, and what now? If I'm correct, then please do it quickly. Kill me quickly."
Nott paled considerably.
"No one here wants you dead, Mr. Potter," the shadow—Riddle spoke softly. "I have an offer." There was rustling. "I'm sure that you've heard of the Death Eaters? They are a society that targets fixing all of the terrible things that occur in everyday London. Britain. The United Kingdom. Europe. Possibly further. The Death Eaters are a group with connections," the man purred the last word.
Harry's eyes narrowed to slits. "I know very well who the Death Eaters are. And that was not their target twenty-two years ago."
Riddle's head tilted ever-so-slightly to the left. "And what was their target, twenty-two years ago, Mr. Potter?"
"Murder."
