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In a quiet field not far from The Burrow lies a quaint cottage. The cottage is small, with a sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath, and it’s much smaller than Pansy Parkinson is used to, but it’s been home for the last two years, and if she’s perfectly honest with herself, she loves how small it is. Of course, that may be the sense of pride she gets from knowing that she earned money to purchase the cottage, but she’ll let the mind healer assess that one later.
Her favorite thing about the cottage is the garden. While like the rest of her home, it’s small and lacks the grandeur of the gardens of her youth, it’s hers, and she takes great pride in coaxing the bulbs and seeds from the dark soil. In the center of the garden sits an old birch tree.
When she first moved in, the tree had seen better days. Back then, the tree was half dead and covered in a fungus that made her want to vomit anytime she came near it. Most of the landscapers she called told her she would be better off removing the tree since it was too far gone to be saved, but it wasn’t until Neville Longbottom showed up that she was given the hope she was so desperately seeking. Over the next several weeks, he would spend hours in the garden with her, cleaning, trimming, and spreading mulch. When it came time to “heal the birch,” as he put it, they spent days painstakingly scraping all the moss and lichen from the trunk and trimming back the dead branches. A special potion was mixed into the soil to heal the roots. Within days, the leaves had returned, and there was new growth where they had cut all the branches.
While they worked, they would talk. At first, it was just simple small talk, neither of them giving away what they really thought. After all, they fought on different sides of the war, so it was only natural they both would have their guard up. Over time, a cautious friendship began to develop, and they began to loosen up. One day, while they were working on the birch, he said something that shook her to her core.
“She needs a name.”
“What?” she asked.
“The tree,” he explained, “She needs a name.”
“Whatever for?”
“So she knows we care about her. I know you probably think it’s an old witches’ tale, but naming and talking to plants really does help them grow.”
“Okay,” she said, hesitation clear on her face. “I’ll take your word for it. What shall we call her?”
“What about Berkana?”
“Berkana?” she asked, “What kind of name is that?”
“It’s the ancient Norse name for Birch tree,” he explained.
“Okay, but what does it mean?”
There was fear in his voice that betrayed the hope she could see in his eyes as he answered her question.
“It’s the ancient Norse word for birch tree,” he said, “It means rebirth and healing.”
She smiled, understanding why he chose that name for the tree.
“And since that’s what we’ve been doing, it feels appropriate to give her such a strong name.”
“Well then,” she smiled, “Berkana it is.”
That was the first night she asked him to stay for tea. As expected, it was awkward, but as the evening wore on, they began to loosen up and share stories with each other. She told him what it was like growing up surrounded by the glitz and glam of the pureblood elite, and he told her what it was really like having Harry Potter as a roommate. Before they knew it, it was well past midnight, and neither wanted the conversation to end.
“Look,” she began as he stood up to grab his coat, “It’s late; there’s no point in you apparating home just to come back in a few hours.”
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight? I promise the sofa is comfortable, and we can always transfigure it into a bed if necessary.”
“I don’t know…”
“You’re always saying you want to get an earlier start; well, this way, you’ll already be here and can start as early as you like.”
“Well, when you put it that way…” he began, “how can I say no?”
The following day, when she finally drug herself out of bed and into the garden, her jaw dropped at the sight. There, toiling away in the morning sun, was a shirtless Neville. As her eyes raked over the Adonis in front of her, she wondered how it would feel to run her hands along those fantastic abs. Just when her fantasy was getting to the good part, he looked up. Catching her eyes and knowing she was staring, he stood up and stretched, never taking his eyes off her.
“Like what you see?” he asked, winking.
She finally managed to tear her eyes away, her cheeks flushing.
“I’m sorry,” she started, “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he began, gesturing to a tattered shirt that lay at her feet, “I slipped, and my shirt got caught on a rose bush. I’m no good at repairing charms. I’ll just apparate home and grab a new one.”
“No need,” she said with a wave of her wand, “Here you go, good as new.”
She handed him the shirt, her smile faltering when he pulled it on over his head.
“Come,” he said, reaching out his hand to her, “I have a surprise for you.”
As they walked through the garden, she kept her eyes down, determined not to be caught staring again.
“Close your eyes,” he said with a smile.
Doing as she was told, she grabbed his hand as he led her to whatever he had in store.
Once they finally stopped, he let go of her hand, and her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest from excitement. No one had ever done anything to surprise her before, and while she couldn’t put her finger on why, she was glad that Neville was the first.
She barely heard him when he whispered, “Open them.”
For the second time that day, her jaw dropped as she took in the sight around her. Around the base of the old birch, he had planted hundreds of pansies.
Her flower.
He planted her flower.
“They’re beautiful,” she said with a gasp.
“So is the woman who shares their name.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked, finally letting her eyes meet his.
“I do,” he said, closing the distance between them.
As their lips met, she couldn’t help but think this wasn’t supposed to happen; she was never supposed to fall for Neville Longbottom, of all people.
But she was so glad she did.