The Language of Flowers
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: The Language of Flowers
Characters: Harry, Myrtle, Neville, H/N
Rating: PG
Summary: Harry confides things to Myrtle he wouldn’t tell another soul.
A/N: I wrote this two years ago, so it definitely contains no spoilers.
The Language of Flowers
It was hard to keep secrets in a dorm. Particularly when you had a squeaky trunk hinge, Neville thought, listening to Harry rifling after his Invisibility Cloak. It had been the same story for weeks now, not every night, but often enough that Neville now woke up every time that hinge creaked or the springs in Harry’s mattress dipped a certain way when he was getting out of bed in the small hours of the night. Neville tried not to feel jealous that Harry was slipping off so frequently to meet some girl, but it wasn’t easy. If I were a better person, he thought sadly, I would feel glad that my friend has finally found someone. After all, there was no reason to think that Harry would ever be interested in him, and therefore no reason to think that he wouldn’t eventually join in the kind of after hours exploits all their other dorm mates engaged in. It might’ve taken Harry longer than most, but it had been bound to happen.
Neville didn’t see anyone leave the room, but he knew when Harry was gone.
~*~
“Back so soon, Harry?”
“You don’t mind, do you, Myrtle?” he asked, sliding off his cloak and settling onto the floor with the book in his lap.
“You shouldn’t be wandering the halls on a winter’s night, not in such damp places.”
“It’s almost spring,” Harry informed her.
“But it’s still cold. I can tell.... there’s frost on the glass. Like long silver spiders.”
Whether it was mention of the frost, or her phrasing, he felt a little involuntary tremble run through him.
“See - I made you shiver. Almost like I touched you.”
~*~
Neville was listening to the conversation in the Common Room intently, though he tried to keep his gaze fixed on his parchment.
“Harry must be seeing someone, he’s gone all the time at night,” Ron said.
“Doesn’t mean he’s dating anybody,” Ginny shrugged.
“Whatever he’s doing, or whoever he’s doing it with, why wouldn’t he tell us?” Hermione sounded hurt.
“Maybe she’s from Slytherin,” Ron suggested, and they all had a good laugh over that, except for Hermione, who was tapping her lip with her quill.
“I do hope he’s not off brooding somewhere,” she said anxiously.
“He doesn’t seem depressed or anything,” Ron offered.
“He doesn’t seem ecstatically happy in love, though, either,” Ginny said quietly.
Neville said nothing. He didn’t know whether Ginny’s observation made him feel sad or hopeful, and again he felt a twinge of guilt.
~*~
Under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry almost felt like a ghost himself. But his breath was still hot under the fabric, he still bumped into things, and he still had to be careful not to make noise while creeping down the halls to the second-floor bathroom.
In the beginning, Harry had simply read his homework assignments aloud, but now he brought other books from the library ~ novels, things he thought she might like. His voice would amplify pleasantly against the tile walls. Afterward, they would discuss the book for a while, and then they would talk about themselves, sometimes for hours.
The topic Harry had most wanted to discuss, however, he’d had to tread around lightly for weeks. Eventually he’d been able to talk about Cedric, and even Sirius. But tonight he wanted to talk about her death. It had been bothering him quite a bit.
“Myrtle,” he began, gently. “If you ~ you know ~ in 1943, why do you still look the same? Like a Second Year? Couldn’t you, well, age?”
“Why would I want to do that? This is how I look.”
“Yes, but surely you... well, aren’t the same any more... in the non-physical sense. In your mind, I mean.” He knew he was making a complete hash of this conversation, but she seemed to regard him shrewdly.
“You mean did I grow up?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, Harry, I have been around for over 50 years. I suppose I couldn’t help changing a bit, on the inside.” Her eyes were sharp. “Not like you, though. You can grow up - inside, outside, every side. If you choose to.”
Harry had the uncomfortable feeling the topic was getting back round to him again, and indeed, Myrtle’s next question made his stomach flip anxiously.
“So why are you still all alone?” she asked.
“Who says I am?” he countered, tipping his chin up a bit, wondering if he could bluff her out without lying.
“Oh, come now, Harry. If you had yourself a pretty girlfriend, you wouldn’t be skulking about in here with me.”
“I don’t skulk,” he protested. He tried to sound affronted, but it was only half an effort.
She didn’t rephrase it, she just waited.
“There is someone,” he whispered into her silence, startled to hear the words coming out as if by their own volition. “But it’s someone I can never have.” His voice wavered a bit, the admission sent a painful little stab through him.
“Why not?” she asked. “Are they breathing?”
Harry blinked, and then chuckled a little. “Well, yes.”
“Then I don’t see the problem,” she declared firmly, and that, Harry thought, seemed to be that, as far as Myrtle was concerned. He rather envied her her simplicity of outlook.
~*~
Neville put his books away quietly, so as not to wake up Harry. It was the middle of the afternoon, but he guessed Harry had to make up the sleep somehow. There was an attractive golden glow of daylight coming through the window, but Harry had closed the curtains on that side, throwing himself into shadow. Neville paused a moment, watching him sleep, worrying about him. He resisted the urge to walk around the bed, to push the curtains open and let the light in.
~*~
The next night, instead of being pleased to see him, Myrtle actually scolded him for coming.
“Why are you here and not with the person you really want to be with?”
“I told you, it’s impossible. It was just a fantasy.”
“You’ve got to reach out for things, Harry,” she said with exasperation. “Take what is offered to you in this world.”
“I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I’m fine. Really.” Indeed, compared to what Myrtle’s existence was like, he felt guilty complaining. Suddenly it all washed over him, like one of her floods, the extent of her predicament.
“Can’t I do anything to help you?” he asked plaintively. “It’s been such a long time that you’ve been hanging around here, haunting the bathrooms. It’s sad, Myrtle.” And he started to cry, for her, for himself, overwhelmed by loneliness - hers, his, other people around him he could sense but not identify...
“It’s sweet of you to cry for me, Harry. I know all those tears aren’t for me, of course ...but it’s enough.”
“Enough for what?” he asked, bewildered. He looked up. At first he thought it was his own blurred vision, or salt water staining his glasses, but Myrtle was growing fainter. She didn’t seem at all concerned about this, in fact, she was starting to smile a little.
“Don’t let me haunt you anymore, Harry. Your place is with the living.“ And she continued to fade until she was completely gone. In a panic, he jumped to his feet, wondering what had happened, what he had done or said, and where she had gone.
“Wait!” he cried. “Myrtle!”
But only the sound of his own echo answered him.
~*~
Neville jumped as an unseen presence made the curtains on his bed ripple. But it wasn’t a ghost, he realized - it was Harry materializing from thin air as he dragged the cloak off his head, making his hair stand up like black rooster feathers. He almost looked like a ghost, though, he was so white.
“Are you OK, Harry?” he began. “You scared me half to - “ He broke off in astonishment as Harry crawled into the bed and collapsed beside him. Neville gasped, Harry was like ice, from head to toe.
Neville sat up long enough to pull the quilt up from the foot of the bed, wrapped it around them both, then just held Harry close until the warmth slowly crept back into his body. By then Harry was asleep, so Neville laid back into his pillow and tried to find sleep as well. It was a long time coming. He’d dreamed of this moment so many times, of having Harry in his arms, in his bed ... but not like this. Never like this.
~*~
In Harry’s dream, he was dancing with a beautiful young woman his own age. There were others dancing contentedly around them in a blurry watercolored background, the music sounded as if it were from a much earlier era. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet, he and the girl danced as if gliding, but her hand was warm in his. She had very long, dark brown hair, with large white flowers entwined in the braid down her back. Her dress, too, was white, and there were green and silver ribbons trailing from her sleeves.
Harry had a sense that someone else was coming to claim the next dance soon, that he was only a visitor here and would have to leave, but the young woman in his arms seemed completely unconcerned that his presence was temporary, enjoying the moment at hand.
She snuggled against his shoulder, then, and he heard a familiar, girlish giggle. He finally smiled in recognition.
And then Harry fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
~*~
Neville could not help but notice that Harry no longer went out at night; his other friends began to realize that as well. He went to bed at what McGonagall would call “a decent hour”, and got up at the crack of dawn to head for the showers, and breakfast, and classes. Beyond that, he slept. That seemed to be all he wanted to do with his spare time.
“I guess he was seeing someone,” Hermione whispered to Neville, as they watched Harry trudge down the hall between classes. “They must’ve broken up. I think we should go and talk to him after last class, don’t you?”
Neville agreed, though silently wondering how he was ever going to express condolences that Harry’s romance with some stranger was over. He certainly didn’t like seeing Harry suffer though. Really, said a voice deep inside, I only want to see him happy. His emotions were so complicated; he just hoped Hermione would do most of the talking. She usually did.
Harry, however, was not in the last class. They found him an hour later at a corner table of the library; he was asleep with his head on his folded arms. There was a parchment beside him. Hermione picked it up very carefully, without a rustle, and glanced down at it. After a moment, she brought it back to Neville.
“What plant is this describing?” she asked.
Neville took the parchment carefully and read over the list that Harry had made.
~~~~
Evergreen shrub or small tree
aromatic leaves
white flowers - 5 petals
native to the Mediterranean
sacred to Aphrodite (Greek)
-brides wore crowns of it for wedding
-wreaths also made for victors of ancient games
M. communis
language of flowers - name means ‘love’
~~~~
“The myrtle,” he said quietly.
They stared at each other in dawning comprehension.
~*~
Harry sat up as Hermione approached, putting his feet on the floor so she had room to sit down beside him on the sofa. Her eyes regarded him with compassion.
“She’s gone, you know,” Hermione said gently. “We asked Sir Nicholas and he said she was.”
Harry didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’m glad for her.” Harry was sincere about that, but it was hard to deal with the fact he could no longer talk to her, confide in her. If I were a better person, he thought guiltily, I wouldn’t be missing her so much...
“Listen,” Hermione was saying, pulling him from his thoughts again. “Neville got a little myrtle sapling from the Hogsmeade nursery supplier. We all chipped in. We thought we could plant it down by the lake.”
Harry looked up at that, deeply touched. “I’d like that,” he said.
~*~
Neville was relieved that his suggestion had been so well received by Harry. That afternoon the two of them, accompanied by Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny, walked together in a quiet procession through the meadow, and a bit of forest, until they found a secluded spot by the lake that Harry liked and Neville agreed had the right conditions for the plant. They said a few words, reminisced a bit, and settled the tree into its new home.
~*~
Afterwards, while the others roamed about nearby, Harry sat on a little hill, where he had a good view of the newly planted tree, appreciating the warmth of Spring, and enjoying a bit of sun for the first time in weeks. It was good to get back out into the daylight and fresh air. It was even better when Neville came and sat down beside him. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up from planting and he had a twig in his hair.
“Thank you for the tree, Neville,” he said quietly. “It was...” he searched around for words that could possibly convey how monumentally grateful he was for the gesture, tears beginning to prickle at his eyelids. “Kind of you,” he finished desperately, voice ragged.
“You’re welcome, Harry,” Neville said softly. Then, even softer, he added, “Don’t cry anymore, OK?”
Surprised, Harry looked up at his friend. He had only a moment to wonder why Neville was leaning toward him, and then Neville’s lips were upon his. Neville was warm, his lips were warm and so was his breath on Harry’s cheek. Harry inhaled, and when he did he finally recognized his third Amortentia smell, that flowery fragrance that had eluded him so long. It was the smell of the greenhouse, of growing things, of life and renewal and Spring.
Remembering the words of another friend, Harry reached out to take what was offered.
Title: The Language of Flowers
Characters: Harry, Myrtle, Neville, H/N
Rating: PG
Summary: Harry confides things to Myrtle he wouldn’t tell another soul.
A/N: I wrote this two years ago, so it definitely contains no spoilers.
The Language of Flowers
It was hard to keep secrets in a dorm. Particularly when you had a squeaky trunk hinge, Neville thought, listening to Harry rifling after his Invisibility Cloak. It had been the same story for weeks now, not every night, but often enough that Neville now woke up every time that hinge creaked or the springs in Harry’s mattress dipped a certain way when he was getting out of bed in the small hours of the night. Neville tried not to feel jealous that Harry was slipping off so frequently to meet some girl, but it wasn’t easy. If I were a better person, he thought sadly, I would feel glad that my friend has finally found someone. After all, there was no reason to think that Harry would ever be interested in him, and therefore no reason to think that he wouldn’t eventually join in the kind of after hours exploits all their other dorm mates engaged in. It might’ve taken Harry longer than most, but it had been bound to happen.
Neville didn’t see anyone leave the room, but he knew when Harry was gone.
~*~
“Back so soon, Harry?”
“You don’t mind, do you, Myrtle?” he asked, sliding off his cloak and settling onto the floor with the book in his lap.
“You shouldn’t be wandering the halls on a winter’s night, not in such damp places.”
“It’s almost spring,” Harry informed her.
“But it’s still cold. I can tell.... there’s frost on the glass. Like long silver spiders.”
Whether it was mention of the frost, or her phrasing, he felt a little involuntary tremble run through him.
“See - I made you shiver. Almost like I touched you.”
~*~
Neville was listening to the conversation in the Common Room intently, though he tried to keep his gaze fixed on his parchment.
“Harry must be seeing someone, he’s gone all the time at night,” Ron said.
“Doesn’t mean he’s dating anybody,” Ginny shrugged.
“Whatever he’s doing, or whoever he’s doing it with, why wouldn’t he tell us?” Hermione sounded hurt.
“Maybe she’s from Slytherin,” Ron suggested, and they all had a good laugh over that, except for Hermione, who was tapping her lip with her quill.
“I do hope he’s not off brooding somewhere,” she said anxiously.
“He doesn’t seem depressed or anything,” Ron offered.
“He doesn’t seem ecstatically happy in love, though, either,” Ginny said quietly.
Neville said nothing. He didn’t know whether Ginny’s observation made him feel sad or hopeful, and again he felt a twinge of guilt.
~*~
Under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry almost felt like a ghost himself. But his breath was still hot under the fabric, he still bumped into things, and he still had to be careful not to make noise while creeping down the halls to the second-floor bathroom.
In the beginning, Harry had simply read his homework assignments aloud, but now he brought other books from the library ~ novels, things he thought she might like. His voice would amplify pleasantly against the tile walls. Afterward, they would discuss the book for a while, and then they would talk about themselves, sometimes for hours.
The topic Harry had most wanted to discuss, however, he’d had to tread around lightly for weeks. Eventually he’d been able to talk about Cedric, and even Sirius. But tonight he wanted to talk about her death. It had been bothering him quite a bit.
“Myrtle,” he began, gently. “If you ~ you know ~ in 1943, why do you still look the same? Like a Second Year? Couldn’t you, well, age?”
“Why would I want to do that? This is how I look.”
“Yes, but surely you... well, aren’t the same any more... in the non-physical sense. In your mind, I mean.” He knew he was making a complete hash of this conversation, but she seemed to regard him shrewdly.
“You mean did I grow up?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, Harry, I have been around for over 50 years. I suppose I couldn’t help changing a bit, on the inside.” Her eyes were sharp. “Not like you, though. You can grow up - inside, outside, every side. If you choose to.”
Harry had the uncomfortable feeling the topic was getting back round to him again, and indeed, Myrtle’s next question made his stomach flip anxiously.
“So why are you still all alone?” she asked.
“Who says I am?” he countered, tipping his chin up a bit, wondering if he could bluff her out without lying.
“Oh, come now, Harry. If you had yourself a pretty girlfriend, you wouldn’t be skulking about in here with me.”
“I don’t skulk,” he protested. He tried to sound affronted, but it was only half an effort.
She didn’t rephrase it, she just waited.
“There is someone,” he whispered into her silence, startled to hear the words coming out as if by their own volition. “But it’s someone I can never have.” His voice wavered a bit, the admission sent a painful little stab through him.
“Why not?” she asked. “Are they breathing?”
Harry blinked, and then chuckled a little. “Well, yes.”
“Then I don’t see the problem,” she declared firmly, and that, Harry thought, seemed to be that, as far as Myrtle was concerned. He rather envied her her simplicity of outlook.
~*~
Neville put his books away quietly, so as not to wake up Harry. It was the middle of the afternoon, but he guessed Harry had to make up the sleep somehow. There was an attractive golden glow of daylight coming through the window, but Harry had closed the curtains on that side, throwing himself into shadow. Neville paused a moment, watching him sleep, worrying about him. He resisted the urge to walk around the bed, to push the curtains open and let the light in.
~*~
The next night, instead of being pleased to see him, Myrtle actually scolded him for coming.
“Why are you here and not with the person you really want to be with?”
“I told you, it’s impossible. It was just a fantasy.”
“You’ve got to reach out for things, Harry,” she said with exasperation. “Take what is offered to you in this world.”
“I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I’m fine. Really.” Indeed, compared to what Myrtle’s existence was like, he felt guilty complaining. Suddenly it all washed over him, like one of her floods, the extent of her predicament.
“Can’t I do anything to help you?” he asked plaintively. “It’s been such a long time that you’ve been hanging around here, haunting the bathrooms. It’s sad, Myrtle.” And he started to cry, for her, for himself, overwhelmed by loneliness - hers, his, other people around him he could sense but not identify...
“It’s sweet of you to cry for me, Harry. I know all those tears aren’t for me, of course ...but it’s enough.”
“Enough for what?” he asked, bewildered. He looked up. At first he thought it was his own blurred vision, or salt water staining his glasses, but Myrtle was growing fainter. She didn’t seem at all concerned about this, in fact, she was starting to smile a little.
“Don’t let me haunt you anymore, Harry. Your place is with the living.“ And she continued to fade until she was completely gone. In a panic, he jumped to his feet, wondering what had happened, what he had done or said, and where she had gone.
“Wait!” he cried. “Myrtle!”
But only the sound of his own echo answered him.
~*~
Neville jumped as an unseen presence made the curtains on his bed ripple. But it wasn’t a ghost, he realized - it was Harry materializing from thin air as he dragged the cloak off his head, making his hair stand up like black rooster feathers. He almost looked like a ghost, though, he was so white.
“Are you OK, Harry?” he began. “You scared me half to - “ He broke off in astonishment as Harry crawled into the bed and collapsed beside him. Neville gasped, Harry was like ice, from head to toe.
Neville sat up long enough to pull the quilt up from the foot of the bed, wrapped it around them both, then just held Harry close until the warmth slowly crept back into his body. By then Harry was asleep, so Neville laid back into his pillow and tried to find sleep as well. It was a long time coming. He’d dreamed of this moment so many times, of having Harry in his arms, in his bed ... but not like this. Never like this.
~*~
In Harry’s dream, he was dancing with a beautiful young woman his own age. There were others dancing contentedly around them in a blurry watercolored background, the music sounded as if it were from a much earlier era. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet, he and the girl danced as if gliding, but her hand was warm in his. She had very long, dark brown hair, with large white flowers entwined in the braid down her back. Her dress, too, was white, and there were green and silver ribbons trailing from her sleeves.
Harry had a sense that someone else was coming to claim the next dance soon, that he was only a visitor here and would have to leave, but the young woman in his arms seemed completely unconcerned that his presence was temporary, enjoying the moment at hand.
She snuggled against his shoulder, then, and he heard a familiar, girlish giggle. He finally smiled in recognition.
And then Harry fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
~*~
Neville could not help but notice that Harry no longer went out at night; his other friends began to realize that as well. He went to bed at what McGonagall would call “a decent hour”, and got up at the crack of dawn to head for the showers, and breakfast, and classes. Beyond that, he slept. That seemed to be all he wanted to do with his spare time.
“I guess he was seeing someone,” Hermione whispered to Neville, as they watched Harry trudge down the hall between classes. “They must’ve broken up. I think we should go and talk to him after last class, don’t you?”
Neville agreed, though silently wondering how he was ever going to express condolences that Harry’s romance with some stranger was over. He certainly didn’t like seeing Harry suffer though. Really, said a voice deep inside, I only want to see him happy. His emotions were so complicated; he just hoped Hermione would do most of the talking. She usually did.
Harry, however, was not in the last class. They found him an hour later at a corner table of the library; he was asleep with his head on his folded arms. There was a parchment beside him. Hermione picked it up very carefully, without a rustle, and glanced down at it. After a moment, she brought it back to Neville.
“What plant is this describing?” she asked.
Neville took the parchment carefully and read over the list that Harry had made.
~~~~
Evergreen shrub or small tree
aromatic leaves
white flowers - 5 petals
native to the Mediterranean
sacred to Aphrodite (Greek)
-brides wore crowns of it for wedding
-wreaths also made for victors of ancient games
M. communis
language of flowers - name means ‘love’
~~~~
“The myrtle,” he said quietly.
They stared at each other in dawning comprehension.
~*~
Harry sat up as Hermione approached, putting his feet on the floor so she had room to sit down beside him on the sofa. Her eyes regarded him with compassion.
“She’s gone, you know,” Hermione said gently. “We asked Sir Nicholas and he said she was.”
Harry didn’t have to ask who she was talking about.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’m glad for her.” Harry was sincere about that, but it was hard to deal with the fact he could no longer talk to her, confide in her. If I were a better person, he thought guiltily, I wouldn’t be missing her so much...
“Listen,” Hermione was saying, pulling him from his thoughts again. “Neville got a little myrtle sapling from the Hogsmeade nursery supplier. We all chipped in. We thought we could plant it down by the lake.”
Harry looked up at that, deeply touched. “I’d like that,” he said.
~*~
Neville was relieved that his suggestion had been so well received by Harry. That afternoon the two of them, accompanied by Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny, walked together in a quiet procession through the meadow, and a bit of forest, until they found a secluded spot by the lake that Harry liked and Neville agreed had the right conditions for the plant. They said a few words, reminisced a bit, and settled the tree into its new home.
~*~
Afterwards, while the others roamed about nearby, Harry sat on a little hill, where he had a good view of the newly planted tree, appreciating the warmth of Spring, and enjoying a bit of sun for the first time in weeks. It was good to get back out into the daylight and fresh air. It was even better when Neville came and sat down beside him. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up from planting and he had a twig in his hair.
“Thank you for the tree, Neville,” he said quietly. “It was...” he searched around for words that could possibly convey how monumentally grateful he was for the gesture, tears beginning to prickle at his eyelids. “Kind of you,” he finished desperately, voice ragged.
“You’re welcome, Harry,” Neville said softly. Then, even softer, he added, “Don’t cry anymore, OK?”
Surprised, Harry looked up at his friend. He had only a moment to wonder why Neville was leaning toward him, and then Neville’s lips were upon his. Neville was warm, his lips were warm and so was his breath on Harry’s cheek. Harry inhaled, and when he did he finally recognized his third Amortentia smell, that flowery fragrance that had eluded him so long. It was the smell of the greenhouse, of growing things, of life and renewal and Spring.
Remembering the words of another friend, Harry reached out to take what was offered.