Chapter Text
Their seed is the only one that doesn’t grow.
Across the greenhouse, a holographic leaf adorns Luna and Theodore’s seedling. Beside them, Neville and Pansy’s slow-bloomer transformed overnight, bursting with vanilla-scented flowers.
Draco and Hermione’s terracotta pot has… soil.
“You over-watered it,” grumbles Draco, knuckle-deep in dirt. “I’ll do it from now on.”
“It’ll freeze in the dungeons.” She casts a diagnosis spell. “The water levels are perfect.”
“Your spell must be wrong.”
Luna passes by holding fertilizing potion. “They sense your aura. Try being nice to each other.”
Five half-hearted compliments, three reluctant study sessions, and (nearly) zero arguments later, a sprout appears. Ripe green. Fragile. Useless.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Pansy hops onto their table. “You need to shag.”
“It’s a school project,” says Hermione.
At his station, Neville’s clipping flowers for Luna, who’s weaving them into a crown. Pansy blows him a kiss and his face splits into a huge smile. Another flower blooms. “Worked for us.”
That afternoon, Hermione finds Draco at the library. “We should try it.”
His brow lifts. “Pardon?”
“Not shagging,” she revokes quickly, setting the pot down and sitting across from him. “But…” She takes his hand shyly. “Maybe this?”
Draco swallows hard, looking hopelessly lost. Mortified, Hermione begins to retreat when his fingers close around hers.
They sit this way until dinner.
‘Slytherdor’, proudly named by Draco, grows its first leaf.
At the Yule Ball, they dance together. Twice. Draco accidentally calls her beautiful.
Mature leaves are silver-veined.
After holidays, Slytherdor’s droopy and yellow.
“He’s practically dead!” Draco clutches the pot protectively.
Hermione’s devastated. “I don’t know what happened.”
He plucks a crisp leaf, muttering, “can’t trust anybody,” under his breath.
The week they give each other the cold shoulder, Slytherdor shrivels until nothing’s left but a parched stem, holding on for dear life. For the sake of their grade, Hermione apologizes.
Draco feigns interest in extracting dirt from his fingernails.
“I missed you, alright?” she blurts out. “Maybe it knew.”
Grey irises thaw like spring dew.
Slytherdor becomes green again.
“How often do they shag?” asks Hermione bitterly, watching Neville upgrade his pot for a twenty-four-inch.
Draco snorts, misting their flowerless stalk tenderly. “Slytherdor’s coming along.”
She disagrees, burning with determination. “School’s nearly over.” Before he can reply, she grabs him by the shirt.
Their first bud smells like Draco: spearmint, teakwood. Tightly furled petals delicate as Hermione’s honey-warm lips.
Unlike Pansy’s fertile monster, Slytherdor pushes a single flower.
They snog in secret alcoves, spend sleepless nights exchanging stories of home. Petals sharpen like dragon talons the first time Draco whispers, “Hermione,” like a prayer.
“Don’t get up,” he hums against the curve of her neck, dawn gleaming against his platinum hair.
Breakfast is over when Hermione remembers, “it’s the last day of Herbology!” and frantically untangles herself from Draco’s relentless grip.
In class, a crowd’s gathered around their station. Pansy coughs “finally,” as they pass through.
Slytherdor’s larger than Hagrid’s head, petals dappled gold like starlight. Rapturous in full bloom.