OWL/RP: Sending yet more flowers...
Date: 11 August 1998
Characters: Draco Malfoy, anyone else
Location: Diagon Alley (because there's nowhere in Hogsmeade to buy roses)
Status: Public
Summary: Having struggled through a hard day, Draco heads home. He has things to do on the way.
Completion: Complete
The flower shop was a phrase dictionary, a veritable language of flowers, all written about the place. The florist was an absolute pleasure; it reminded him of the flowers growing in the grounds of the Manor, only clever herbology practices could bring spring, autumn and winter flowers all together in Summer. Draco was not fond of herbology in any way. Hard, dirty work was not his idea of fun. But he could certainly employ people to work with flowers for him if he desired.
Certainly, there were few people, he'd decided who saw flowers as more than simply flowers. Draco was well aware that sending red roses was overtly passionate. That yellow meant sickness and jealousy. He knew that the white lily was a reasonable representation of himself. Draco couldn't help but dabble between the Lily of the Valley and the peach roses, deciding on the latter eventually, for continuity.
A dozen peach roses, wrapped in glittering paper, with a single white ribbon wound amongst them. Draco was under no illusions - Granger would probably recieve many gifts and flowers. It was only under these circumstances that he even considered it. They would not go very far to making him feel better, nor would they be some miracle cure for Hermione, but they would make him feel like he was doing something.
He needed to do something. The inactivity was making him crazy, and Andy had not been herself all day. He'd stayed in the office and missed lunch intentionally, so that he didn't have to listen to the hubbub. Draco had thought that things might ease off by the evening, but things were only getting worse. The madness was spreading. Now everyone knew Hermione. They all talked about her as they walked down the street, and even the florist raised an eyebrow when he gave the name of the intended person for the flowers.
The Prophet was even more useless. It wasn't enough information.
Distracted, Draco leant forwards and wrote on the note to be sent with the flowers:
Get well soon,
Loveless.
When he got home, he was simply going to have to work off this energy. He was angry. Aggravated. Very much ready to break something, and he hardly ever felt so physically violent. The match was tomorrow, he reminded himself, he'd fly it off. And try not to kill himself, or someone else, in the process.
Satisfied, Draco paid the florist in galleons and sickles, straightened his travelling cloak and swept out the door, back onto the street.
Characters: Draco Malfoy, anyone else
Location: Diagon Alley (because there's nowhere in Hogsmeade to buy roses)
Status: Public
Summary: Having struggled through a hard day, Draco heads home. He has things to do on the way.
Completion: Complete
The flower shop was a phrase dictionary, a veritable language of flowers, all written about the place. The florist was an absolute pleasure; it reminded him of the flowers growing in the grounds of the Manor, only clever herbology practices could bring spring, autumn and winter flowers all together in Summer. Draco was not fond of herbology in any way. Hard, dirty work was not his idea of fun. But he could certainly employ people to work with flowers for him if he desired.
Certainly, there were few people, he'd decided who saw flowers as more than simply flowers. Draco was well aware that sending red roses was overtly passionate. That yellow meant sickness and jealousy. He knew that the white lily was a reasonable representation of himself. Draco couldn't help but dabble between the Lily of the Valley and the peach roses, deciding on the latter eventually, for continuity.
A dozen peach roses, wrapped in glittering paper, with a single white ribbon wound amongst them. Draco was under no illusions - Granger would probably recieve many gifts and flowers. It was only under these circumstances that he even considered it. They would not go very far to making him feel better, nor would they be some miracle cure for Hermione, but they would make him feel like he was doing something.
He needed to do something. The inactivity was making him crazy, and Andy had not been herself all day. He'd stayed in the office and missed lunch intentionally, so that he didn't have to listen to the hubbub. Draco had thought that things might ease off by the evening, but things were only getting worse. The madness was spreading. Now everyone knew Hermione. They all talked about her as they walked down the street, and even the florist raised an eyebrow when he gave the name of the intended person for the flowers.
The Prophet was even more useless. It wasn't enough information.
Distracted, Draco leant forwards and wrote on the note to be sent with the flowers:
Get well soon,
Loveless.
When he got home, he was simply going to have to work off this energy. He was angry. Aggravated. Very much ready to break something, and he hardly ever felt so physically violent. The match was tomorrow, he reminded himself, he'd fly it off. And try not to kill himself, or someone else, in the process.
Satisfied, Draco paid the florist in galleons and sickles, straightened his travelling cloak and swept out the door, back onto the street.