Chapter Text
A nondescript school owl tapped on the window of Lord Harry Potter’s bedroom in the Head Boy chambers. He rubbed tired eyes and threw back the covers. A wide yawn split his face. He absently scratched the itch on his stomach as he wandered over to open the window. It took little effort to push it open, but the blast of freezing wind and the face-full of snowflakes was an unwelcome wake-up call.
He had been planning to crawl back into bed after reading the missive, but that wouldn’t happen now. He had never been able to fall back asleep after being alert.
“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, lips twisted in an expression that said just the opposite.
The owl screeched and lifted its right leg, revealing the velvet pouch that dangled from its talons. Harry untied it in silence, eyes narrowed with confusion. He recognized it. However, it was early. Was something wrong?
“Thank you,” Harry said, his thoughts not focusing on the present time.
With another screech, the owl took off. Its wings flapped flurries of snowflakes into his face. Harry sputtered as he pulled the window shut, grumbling under his breath, “I hate the cold!”
It reminded him of childhood nights at Privet Drive and memories that he had learned Occlumency to lock away even from himself.
Harry hurried back to bed and got under the covers. He sat against the headboard, his fingers fiddling with the bag. Why was it so early? One had never come early before.
“What will it be this time?” Harry asked, anticipation flooding his body.
He knew it would be a flower, but he didn’t know what kind.
His gaze shifted from the velvet bag to his left wrist. The silver bracelet that encircled it had thirteen plant charms attached. He got the bracelet itself and a basil charm for his eleventh birthday, before Harry had even learned about the magical world. It had seemed like a gift more appropriate for a girl, but Harry hadn’t complained; it was the first gift he had ever been given. The basil, his first charm, was different from all the rest. It was the only one that came without a memory in it.
He chuckled as he remembered his previous ignorance.
Harry hadn’t even known that flowers and plants had meanings until the third week of Herbology back in his first year. That was when he learned what basil meant—best wishes. The thought of someone having kind and well-meaning intentions toward him had brought him comfort, especially in a world that was so different and unfamiliar.
Since Harry first received the bracelet, a new charm arrived twice a year, and each came with a brief memory of him attached. Like clockwork, Harry got one for every birthday and every Yule. However, Yule was still several days away. The pattern was broken.
“Why? What’s different?” he wondered.
Harry stroked the other charms on his bracelet. Whenever he opened the little velvet bags, they attached themselves to the bracelet in the order in which he had received them.
“A bell flower, for gratitude,” Harry said as he touched his first Yule gift. He still didn’t know what he had done to inspire that one; he wished he did.
“A fern, for sincerity.” His twelfth birthday present had distracted him from his forced imprisonment in his room. It reminded him that he wasn’t alone.
“An oak-leaved geranium, for true friendship.” Harry cherished that one especially, because friendship was the best Yule present he had ever received.
“And for my thirteenth birthday,” Harry said, as a charm balanced on his fingertip, “you gave me a hepatica, for trust.” Trust was a gift not many treated as carefully as they should. Harry treasured it.
That winter, before the truth of Lord Sirius Black not wanting to murder him was discovered, he received yet another. “An allium, for unity.” Harry was never alone, even when it felt like it. Someone was silently supporting him from afar.
The charm signifying his fourteenth birthday never failed to bring a blush to Harry’s face. “A lilac, for first emotions of love,” he whispered. If only Harry knew his secret admirer’s identity! How did she always know just what he needed?
His fingertips danced to the next charm, the one that came to him not long after the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, when everything was falling apart. “A wallflower, for fidelity in adversity.” Whoever she was, she had believed that Harry could succeed, and that he hadn’t put his name in the blasted Goblet of Fire. Such people were rare.
Upon turning fifteen, when Harry’s friends ignored his requests for information, and nightmares of the graveyard filled his mind, a little velvet bag came and restored some measure of peace.
“A cypress, for despair and mourning.”
It meant a lot that Harry’s secret admirer hadn’t tried to pry into his feelings. Instead, she had acknowledged their importance. Mister Cedric Diggory’s death and Lord Voldemort’s return were just cause to despair and mourn.
And that Yule, as the Daily Prophet continued a smear campaign against him and Dumbledore, she sent just what he needed.
“A Lily of the Valley, for return of happiness.”
Knowing his pain caused her pain had encouraged Harry to try harder to be strong.
Harry didn’t want to touch the present he received when he turned sixteen. The memory in it always made him cry. It was, perhaps, the most insightful of them all. “An everlasting, for enduring remembrance,” he said. Sirius had died to protect him from Lady Bellatrix Lestrange as Harry fulfilled the prophecy and vanquished Lord Voldemort, and Harry would never forget that or his godfather.
A blush colored his cheeks again as the next charm filled his vision. Who was she? If her aim had been to win his heart, she had succeeded long ago. “A tulip, for declaration of love.”
No matter what he tried, he had never been able to trace the deliveries back to their source. Despite his best efforts, he still didn’t know her identity.
And, of course, Harry’s coming of age charm, received just months ago, still made him tremble. “A wild daisy, which asks the question, Dost thou love me?”
Harry did. He knew only a pureblood witch would go to such trouble to express her affection in an appropriate manner. And he had decided that he would bond with her—whomever she may be. He didn’t care what House she was in, how much magic she had, what her family name was, and her physical appearance didn’t signify.
Harry Potter loved his secret admirer for her personality. She was the reason he had never sent anyone a courtship offer. She was the reason he had never been on any Courtship Dates. And he still didn’t have any idea who she was.
“Please,” Harry begged, “give me a clue.”
His fingers shook as he opened the velvet bag that had been delivered early. He dumped it upside-down and caught the charm in his left palm. It skittered sideways and magically attached itself to the bracelet. Then, as had been the case with the last twelve, a memory swallowed him—as if he had stumbled inside a miniature Pensieve.
Harry stood still as it played around him. He was standing in the Gryffindor Common Room, watching himself sit in a chair by the fireplace. His feet were thrown carelessly over the arm of the chair, and his face was alight with laughter.
“I remember this,” Harry said. “It was just last week.” He had never before been sent such a recent memory.
The Harry in the chair propped his chin on his hand and asked, “Hey, Ron, why did my invitation to your bonding with Lavender say ‘Lord Harry Potter and Guest’ on it?”
Mister Ron Weasley snorted and looked up from the game of Exploding Snap he was playing to say, “Because Mum thought it would be tragic if you didn’t bring your future lady-wife to the bonding. She says it’s ‘the blackest of luck’ for the best wizard to attend a bonding without escorting the love of his life.”
Harry froze. “She’s kidding, right?”
Ron flinched and rubbed the back of his head. “Not really, no. It’s really old magic, Harry. Bondings and such. Are you sure you can’t—?”
He glanced away from Ron and brushed his thumb over the tulip charm. “I’ll try.”
The common room vanished, and Harry was left sitting on his bed.
Harry examined the newest charm thoroughly, but he didn’t recognize the flower. He thought it was some type of rose, but that was as close as he could get. He wouldn’t let that stop him, though. Lady Nephele Longbottom was an Herbology genius; she already had an apprenticeship lined up for after graduation. She would be able to tell him what it was and its meaning.
Harry had never gotten ready for the day so fast in his life. He showered, dressed, and left his room within ten minutes. He walked so quickly that he was almost running through the corridors. He wouldn’t have stopped at all if he hadn’t heard someone speak her name. Maybe she hadn’t made it to the Great Hall for breakfast yet?
“Really, Seamus? Lady Nephele?” Mister Dean Thomas asked.
Harry didn’t particularly like Dean, even though they were on the Quidditch team together. Dean had broken Miss Ginny Weasley’s heart and Harry thought of her as a little sister. After everything that happened back in second year, he was very protective of her.
“Isn’t she too curvy for you? I thought you liked slender girls,” Dean said.
“I do,” Seamus said, “but Lady Nephele’s parents are both in St. Mungo’s Hospital, so her husband would become a lord since she’s their only child. I would be the Lord of the Valiant and Most Ancient House of Longbottom.” Seamus laughed like a child in a candy store. “I’ll bond with her, and if she gets on my nerves, well, it’s not like I have to spend time with her. I’m sure there are loads of Longbottom properties I could live in instead of with her.”
Harry felt cold and hollow as his brain slowly processed what he just overheard. Seamus intended to bond with her, fully planning to abandon her to a life alone while he lived on her family’s ancestral wealth? How could Seamus even consider doing something like that? Especially to someone as innocent and sweet as Nephele? She deserved a bonding with someone who was madly in love with her, who would faithfully remain at her side.
“That’s a good point,” Dean said. “Sometimes, things just don’t work out, you know?”
And that sent Harry right over the edge.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone this much since Bellatrix had murdered Sirius right in front of him. Harry took a deep breath and walked past the alcove they were in, head down. If he saw them, he knew he would attack them for that.
“Oi, Harry!” Seamus’s voice called out in greeting.
Harry gripped the strap of his book bag so that he wouldn’t reach for his wand. He took a deep breath and bit out, “Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, from this moment forward you and are enemies of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter.” He didn’t wait to hear their responses before sprinting off.
Harry only slowed when he reached the entrance hall and saw Ron leaning against the wall with a scowl.
Ron dragged a hand over his face and sighed, “I wish you’d give me a warning before doing that, Harry.”
“It wasn’t planned,” Harry replied, feeling only slightly guilty for the rush of magic that would’ve just ripped through his First Vassal.
“Of course, it wasn’t,” Ron said. “All right, I give. Who are we enemies with now?”
“Finnigan and Thomas,” Harry spat. He was still wondering if he had made the right choice; it would’ve been so much easier to curse them.
Ron’s jaw dropped, before snapping shut. “They really must have made you angry.”
The Elder Wand was in Harry’s hand before he even realized he wanted it there. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then we won’t,” Ron replied. “But if you storm into the Great Hall with your wand in your hand, you’re going to freak everyone out.”
“Right.” Harry closed his eyes, slid his wand back into its holster, and then caressed his bracelet. As disturbing as the past few minutes had been, he did have something very important that he needed to find out. He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”
Ron offered him a mocking bow and said, “Your Grace.”
“Knock it off. I hate it when you do that in public,” Harry said, cheeks flushing.
Snickering, Ron said, “Why do you think I do it?”
Ron could be a prat sometimes, but he kept life interesting. Best mates were good for that.
Harry rolled his eyes and headed into breakfast. As usual, Harry was the center of attention once he entered the Great Hall. He had long become accustomed to it, though he still didn’t like it. He answered the polite questions the younger students asked and returned every “good morning” thrown his way.
When Harry was less than five feet away from where the seventh-year students always sat, Nephele turned her head to say something to Miss Parvati Patil. Her honey-colored hair was up in a high chignon, and there was a single white flower placed in it. It was a larger version of the charm he had received that morning.
Harry stood and stared at her hair as the realization sank in. Nephele Longbottom, Heiress of the Valiant and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, was his secret admirer and personal strength. And with that knowledge, his desire to attack Seamus and Dean returned.
“Whatever it is,” Ron whispered, “bottle it up. No murder before breakfast, mate.”
It was harder than expected to control his temper. Harry could never stand anyone plotting to hurt the people he cared about. He had already lost and suffered enough.
Harry claimed the seat next to Nephele, which wasn’t all that unusual. It was like any other morning at the Gryffindor table. Until, of course, Harry wrapped his arm around Nephele’s waist, pulled her firmly against his side, kissed her flushing cheek, and said, “Good morning, my lady.”
“Lord Harry?” Nephele queried as she blushed a lovely shade of pink.
If he kissed her again, would the blush darken? “After all these years, my lady, there’s no need to be so formal. Call me Harry.”
“G-good morning, H-Harry,” she stammered, her face turning a deep red.
Harry grinned. That was much better. Satisfied, he leaned down and whispered the question he needed her to answer against the shell of her ear, his lips brushing against it in the process. “What flower is it, Nephele?”
She fiddled with the newest charm on his bracelet and whispered, “A hawthorn.”
His voice lowered before asking the next question, “And what does it mean?” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. She was captivating. She smelled wonderful; he wanted to bury his head in her neck and breathe her in.
“Hope,” Nephele said, her head ducked. “It means hope.”
Harry relished her warmth at his side and knew he never wanted it to change. Her hope would not be in vain.
With a flourish of his wand, a bouquet sprang into Harry’s hand. It was the answer he had wanted to give his secret admirer for the last two years. He offered his answer in the same language the question was asked—the language of flowers.
“Will this be acceptable, my lady?”
Nephele fondled the petals of the amaranth and acacia flowers. Her big brown eyes were wet as she smiled up at him and said, “Yes, Harry. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of having.”
Nephele leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder, melted against his side, and accepted his offer of immortal bonds of love.