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Myrtle was nearly by the tulip grove when she saw him. She groaned. He startled at the sound.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she grumbled, padding carefully past the delicate leaves. “Tuesdays are for me.”
The incongruity of her words must have confused him out of irritation. He only asked, “What?” tiptoeing past the tulips with practised ease.
“The Forbidden Forest,” Myrtle explained, a little impatient. “You come here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I don’t want to bump into you so I come here Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. If you’re taking Tuesdays then you’ll have to give me Mondays—or Wednesdays. You can’t have more than three days by the tulip patch. Everybody knows it’s the best place to be at midnight.”
“Oh, well, if everybody knows,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. And then, dryly, “I wasn’t aware there was a schedule.”
Myrtle drew herself up to her full height. “Of course there is,” she said indignantly. She’d worked it out in the beginning of the school year, when she’d been stumbling through the grounds escaping Hornby and her minions. They’d had her backed against the Great Lake, the Forest to one side and the girls to the other, and she’d chosen the Forest over year-long pustules on her face—or whatever it was they’d had up their sleeves at the time.
The Forest liked her, of that she was sure. They were given the usual warnings: the groves were dangerous, the plants likely to sprout teeth and snap flesh—but nothing hurt Myrtle. The leaves were soft and inviting, furling against her skin like the touch of a friend; the light from the moon fell gently over the path; and once, when she was sat on a grassy knoll, making knots out of fallen petals, she could swear the trees moved behind her, brambles climbing upward, briar twining around wood, creating an arch. The light fell squarely on her shoulders; the thorns were like a crown. She had felt yearning, then, as she had never felt before, and did not move from there until morning.
The tulip patch was something of a recent find. It had cropped up, oddly, in the middle of two myrtle shrubs. And sometimes the shrubs would throw white petals into the grove, and the petals would flower, which had the kaleidoscopic effect of hybridity, blue-stemmed flowers with swirling white-blue sepals.
It was there that she’d found Tom, the first time, creeping along the edges, inspecting the blossoms, looking, but never touching. He liked the patch as much as she did, it seemed, but she liked her solitude even more. And so through trial and error, she taught herself to avoid him.
“Well,” Tom said, something strangled in his voice. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait!” Myrtle said, and stopped. She was as surprised as he was.
“What?”
Myrtle raised an eyebrow. “Somewhere to be?”
Tom bit the inside of his cheek, then, calculatingly hesitant. A moment later he said, “Second floor girl’s lavatory.”
Myrtle made a face. “Why?”
Tom shrugged. “I’ve a door to open." And then, with a strange burgeoning awareness, “You know, you’re welcome to join me.”
For a moment, Myrtle felt tempted to go. They’d never spoken before, hardly ever interacted. And he was beautiful, and untouchable, and he was asking for her company. Olive Hornby would be so jealous. She opened her mouth, on the verge of agreement, and then paused.
Tom waited.
No one would believe her, she realised. So what would be the point?
“No, thank you,” Myrtle said, and Tom’s lips parted in surprise. “But,” she added, something in the night air urging her on, “you’re welcome to join me.” She reached into her pocket, and pulled out two shoddily rolled joints. “I’ve Gillyweed.”
Tom’s eyes widened. He turned and looked back at the castle, contemplative, and then said, “Oh, why not,” and beckoned for her.
They sat at the foot of a twisted bark, and did not speak to each other, even when Tom lit the joint wandlessly with a snap of his fingers, and Myrtle longed to ask him to teach it to her. The silence seemed too precious to break.
And then Tom broke it.
“This is,” he said, holding the joint out to her, “quite good.”
His eyes had taken on a glassy quality, and he looked more ruffled than usual, younger, like the boy he sometimes struggled not to be.
But Myrtle saw him, because Myrtle saw everyone.
“Professor Sprout had the seeds personally shipped in from South Africa,” she informed him. “He was very particular about the quality of the strain. Told me so himself when I helped him pot them.”
Tom laughed, the sound stuttering out after a moment. “You are,” he said, “full of surprises.” He took the joint from her and inspected it, turning it from side to side. “If you sold this, you could make a fortune. Plenty of students with enough galleons.”
Myrtle shrugged. “I don’t want the money,” she said. “I just want to be left alone.” She plucked the joint from his hand. It was still burning, and there was no sense wasting it.
Tom watched as she inhaled, head cocked to one side, curious. She felt her lungs expand, the smoke smooth and soothing, and she blew out rings, just because he was looking.
“Do you know how to do it?” she asked.
Tom shook his head carelessly. “I don’t bother learning useless skills.”
There might’ve been an insult in there, but Myrtle did not care. The moonlight was mellow against her skin, the night breeze was just the right shade of cool, and the Gillyweed was turning her pleasantly slow. She did not care about anything.
“Myrtle is a good name,” Tom said to her, after a beat. “Myrtle is a laurel. Myrtle is victory.”
“Myrtle is the flower behind your head,” she said, snorting, and reached across and plucked a white bloom from the overhanging shrub. She tucked it behind Tom’s ear. Tom blinked.
“Myrtle,” he said slowly, “is the girl next to me.”
They stared at each other, for one moment, or several—and then promptly fell into laughter.
“Oh,” Myrtle gasped, in between breaths. “You think you’re so clever—”
“I am clever,” Tom said, looking highly affronted, but the effect was ruined when his face crumpled back into a grin.
Myrtle stubbed out the joint and Tom Vanished it with a flick of his wand, and they flopped onto the floor of the Forest. The grass was pleasantly prickly through her robes, and the stars twinkled sedately in the sky. It was a night like any other, and yet it was different from them all.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Myrtle asked, still looking up. “A door to open?”
She felt, rather than saw, Tom turn on his side. She tilted her head towards him.
“The door, I think, can wait till tomorrow.” He held out a hand in the direction of her pocket. “Shall I light the next one, or will you?”