Violets and Verdant Paths

When Neville was young, shopping in Diagon Alley with his grandmother had always been the very worst of chores, especially since she never saw the use in taking the time to visit the herbology shop which had stood, beckoning him, for years. Finally of age, on his own, and back in the country, Neville was able to tend to his own errands in Diagon Alley, and indulge in his fancies and go where his curiosity led him—to Felicity Faustine’s Flora & More, at long last.

Upon entering the shop to the gentle chime of bells, Neville felt his heart swell—everywhere he looked were amazing and wondrous plants, some he knew well from Professor Sprout’s herbology class, some he recognized from texts he had read, some he had identified and studied in his travels, and others even he had never seen before. The shop was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, magically enhanced, of course. Against every wall stood different types of plant stands and potting tables and shelves of all manner of materials—some of wood, some of iron, some of wicker—and on every possible surface were buckets and planters and pots and baskets, all filled with lush, thriving vegetation; even the vacant clerk’s desk was covered in a variety of tiny potted plants. His vision was flooded with verdant leaves of all shades of green, dark, curling ferns, and blossoms of all colors imaginable; plants for potion brewing, plants for healing, burning, herbs for cooking and scrying and innumerous other tasks—never had Neville imagined such a wonderful place as that which lay before him. The air was thick with humidity and a fine mist covered everything in sight with delicate dew drops; the storefront window was fogged to near opaqueness, Neville could only make out spots of it through the vines which devoured the trellis before it. A winding path led him through the jungle of a shop into another room, this one filled with pools and basins and tubs, each boasting delectable specimens of aquatic plants growing in dark, murky waters. The next room was a shadowy atrium, with a wide glass ceiling some fifty feet above him. Here there were trees and shrubberies thriving in a cool, damp climate. So little light penetrated the thick canopy of foliage that Neville felt for all the world that he was once again in the Forbidden Forest.  The heady smell of rich earth and bark was most intoxicating here, carried on a magical breeze which caused the leaves of the trees to shiver and rustle. Neville sighed with contentment and continued on the path to the final room. Bright light streamed in through windows and skylights, bathing the room in a heavenly glow, momentarily blinding him as he emerged from the “forest” into a large, L-shaped room boasting row upon row of flowers of the purely ornamental variety. He noted with pleasure the perfection of every individual bloom; not a single blemish marred a single petal; not one glorious bud wilted on its stem. Overwhelmed with wonder, Neville could not wait to see what was held in the other side of the room. Turning the corner, Neville stopped dead in his tracks and breath caught in his throat.

A woman stood with her back to him, her face buried in the large bouquet of roses in her arms. She was barefoot, with tiny gold and silver chains around her ankles and gold and silver rings on her toes. Light, gossamer robes in soft shades of blue, green, and gold flowed around her delicate frame, caressing her body and whispering as she moved. Her shoulders were bare and long, soft, light brown curls flowed to her waist. Having savored the scent of the roses, the woman tucked them gently into the container in front of her, already filled with roses. Stepping back and gracefully spinning around, the young woman noticed Neville for the first time. He immediately lost himself in the most fascinating blue eyes he had ever seen.  “Hello, welcome to Faustine’s, may I help you?”

Neville stood entranced for a long moment, and then stumbled a bit over his own feet. He turned and ran.

*          *          *          *

It took three days for Neville to muster the courage to return to Faustine’s on Diagon. He spent those three days pacing his flat, mentally retracing his steps through the shop, agonizing over his behavior, and envisioning those amazing eyes. He was painfully aware of what a fool he had been, but was equally conscious of the fact that he had to see that girl again. So he returned to Diagon Alley with little in the way of a plan, but plenty of resolve.

            Neville marched determinedly up the Alley; halted short at the front door of Faustine’s, squeezed his hands into fists at his sides and opened the door. He winced painfully as the cheerful peal of bells signaled his reentry to the shop, though to his relief there were a few other patrons drifting around the greenery, each absorbed in their own musings. The mystery girl was nowhere in sight. A smallish young man in green robes stood at the clerk’s counter, measuring out a portion of enormous black and yellow seeds into a packet, looked up and grinned warmly at Neville. Neville swallowed deeply and nodded in return. Taking the winding path through the store, for the first time in his life, Neville failed to take notice of the grass growing around him. Having walked the length of the shop without a hint of the young woman, Neville was more than a little disappointed, but was delighted to discover what he had missed the first time he visited Faustine’s. Around the corner where he had seen her, behind the roses, was a very comfortable looking niche which held an odd, mismatched assortment of very comfortable chairs and tables, as well as a serves-you-itself tea service, and several well stocked bookshelves. The bookshelves in question exhibited the most marvelous selection of comprehensive herbology texts Neville had seen since he graduated from Hogwarts several years ago. Browsing the shelves, Neville glowed with pleasure when he recognized a few titles which he himself had written. Selecting 1000 Uses for Peruvian Pyro Pitchers by Melora Copperidge, he settled into one of the cushioned chairs. A cup and saucer soon made their way to his side, and within minutes Neville was lost in his world.

            He was back in Brazil. They’d been trying for months to make their way through the dense jungles to the isolated grove where local legend told of a magnificent variety of Orchidaceae which had unusually potent healing properties. The fiery red and yellow blossoms were supposed to have grown in the grove where a certain phoenix had lost her mate. Indigenous tribes harvested a single bloom no more frequently than once every fifty years and only when the most respected or innocent tribe members sincerely deserved the sacrifice of the sacred flower. He was determined to find this grove; he’d spent most of the earnings from his last book on this expedition and was not to be discouraged by such trivial things as cryptic warnings from tribesmen, vicious jungle diseases which defied even wizards healing draughts, and the increasing numbers of men abandoning the quest. Most of his team members had already turned back, but Neville could not be dissuaded. Shirt plastered to his body with sweat, trousers stained, torn, and patched beyond belief, he pressed onward stubbornly, machete in hand.

            “Peruvian Pyro Pitchters? Have much experience with that breed? They tend to be rather malicious.”

            Shaken from reverie by the soft, husky voice, Neville looked up in surprise. It was her.

            “Not so much reading the pages as looking at them then? You’re just as well, Copperidge doesn’t usually handle the plants she writes about, she just seems to choose the more sensational breeds which make the most money with the dabblers…not that I’m calling you a dabbler or anything…I just get all…oh bother, now I’ve offended you…”

            Neville realized that his mouth was hanging open as he stared at her incredulously. He shut his mouth. She was talking to him. He could feel his ears turn pink. “I…I…I was just thinking of…well…Copperidge…yes, I mean no…I don’t think she’s ever even seen the Peruvian strain in person, though I believe she might have some experience with the…the more docile West African Pyro Pitchers…her description seems more…in line…with such qualities as exhibited by…them,”

 Neville was very confused. He always found it easy to talk about plants. He always found it impossible to talk to women. Talking to a woman about plants was…well, he should have foreseen this, after all, she was a woman working in an herbology shop. Oh hell, what was he thinking, coming here again? She probably thinks I’ve just escaped from St. Mungos. Neville’s befuddlement grew as the woman began to laugh; rich, clear, and resonant, her laugh poured out from her soul.

“Docile West African Pyros? Oh my! Well yes, I suppose compared to Peruvian variety, but docile? Docile like a raging hippogriff!” She continued to laugh merrily, and after a few moments, when Neville realized she wasn’t laughing at him, he began to laugh as well.