Chapter Text
The Warlock’s Council Chambers were currently vibrating. This was not due to some ancient, malevolent ritual or a breach in the ethereal veil, but rather because Oscar Piastri was tapping his foot.
Oscar was a man of immense magical talent and zero emotional regulation when it came to the passage of time. He sat at his mahogany desk, surrounded by levitating scrolls and glowing inkpots, staring at a small, enchanted calendar that was currently flashing a neon, aggressive shade of pink.
"MOTHER’S DAY," the calendar shrieked in a high-pitched, magical register. "YOU HAVE FOUR HOURS REMAINING UNTIL THE MATERNAL DISAPPOINTMENT RADIUS REACHES CRITICAL MASS."
Oscar winced, his pale face draining of what little colour it possessed. He was a high-ranking warlock, capable of bending the elements to his will and silencing demons with a flick of his wrist, but he was absolutely powerless against the silent, disappointed sigh of his mother.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, the understated panic settling into his bones.
He rose abruptly, his heavy, midnight-blue robes sweeping the floor. He didn't have a gift. He didn't even have a card. He had spent the last three weeks perfecting a stasis spell for a rogue chronomancer, and in the process, he’d managed to forget the most basic of social obligations.
He stepped out of the Council spire and into the bustling, cobbled streets of the Magical District. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and roasting chestnuts. He needed something impressive. Something that said, 'I am a successful, powerful warlock who definitely didn't forget what day it was until the calendar started screaming at me.'
He bypassed the "Artisan Wands" shop and the "Curated Cauldrons" boutique. His mother didn't need more hardware. She needed something... soft. Something that didn't involve ancient curses or obsidian.
That was when the smell hit him.
It wasn't the usual magical musk of old paper and dragon dung. It was the scent of a summer meadow immediately after a thunderstorm—cool, petrichor-heavy rain mixed with a sudden, cloying sweetness of spun sugar and, curiously, the sharp, metallic tang of a mild explosion.
Oscar followed his nose down a narrow, crooked alleyway he’d never noticed before. At the end of it sat a shop that looked like it was being held together by nothing but prayer and ivy. A swinging wooden sign dangled above the door, painted in bright, messy letters:
BLOOMS AND BOOMS: BOTANICALS FOR THE BRAVE & THE BEWILDERED.
Oscar hesitated. It looked... chaotic. He preferred order. He liked his magic in neat, geometric circles and his potions in labelled vials. This shop looked like a greenhouse had swallowed a laboratory and then had a bit of a lie-down.
He pushed the door open. A bell chimed—not a normal bell, but a sound like a tiny, silver trumpet fanfare.
"Just a second! Don't move! If you step on the Snap-Dragons, they will bite your ankles!"
The voice was frantic, high-pitched, and endearingly frantic. Oscar froze mid-step.
From behind a massive, overflowing display of what looked like sentient ferns, a head popped up.
It was a young man, perhaps Oscar’s age, with a wild mop of chestnut curls that seemed to have a life of their own. His face was smudged with dark potting soil—a streak across his cheek and a thumbprint on the tip of his nose—and his eyes were a bright, startling green that crinkled at the corners. He was wearing an oversized apron covered in pockets, out of which sprouted various trowels, seed packets, and a very confused-looking toad.
"Oh! Hello! Hi! A customer! A real one! In a cloak!" The man scrambled over a pile of terracotta pots, nearly tripping over a watering can that was currently watering itself. He skidded to a halt in front of Oscar, wiping his dirt-streaked hands on his apron and then immediately realising that just made them dirtier. "Sorry. I’m Lando. Welcome to the shop. Do you want flowers? Or something that explodes? Or flowers that explode? I have both. I have a 'Petunia-Pop' that’s very popular for birthdays, though it does leave a bit of a glitter residue on the ceiling."
Oscar blinked. He felt like he’d been hit with a mild stunning spell. This boy was... loud. Not in volume, but in vibration. He radiated a sort of pure, unadulterated sunshine energy that was deeply confusing to a warlock who spent most of his time in dimly lit libraries.
"I... Mother's Day," Oscar managed to get out. His social skills, usually mediocre at best, had decided to go on a complete sabbatical.
Lando’s eyes widened. "Mother's Day! Right! The Big One. The 'I-forgot-until-the-last-minute' special. Don't worry, mate, you’re the twelfth one today. Most of them were crying, so you’re doing better than average."
Lando gave him a wide, toothy grin. It was a brilliant, infectious thing.
And then, something very strange happened.
As Lando stood there, beaming at Oscar with a sort of shy, awkward intensity, a tiny, pale green bud sprouted from the mess of curls near his left ear. In the span of three seconds, it unfurled into a delicate, white jasmine flower.
Oscar stared at it. "You have... a flower. In your hair."
Lando’s hands flew to his head, his face turning a shade of red that rivalled the enchanted poppies behind him. "Oh, crumbs. Not again. It’s just—it’s a thing. It’s a magic thing. Very embarrassing. Ignore it. Please ignore it. It’ll go away if you don't look at it."
He began to bustle around the shop with renewed, frantic energy, his movements jerky and self-conscious. "Right! Mother's Day. Mothers love things that stay alive, usually. Does she like traditional? Or is she more of a 'plants-that-guard-the-house' kind of woman?"
"She... likes things that are elegant," Oscar said, his eyes still drifting toward the jasmine flower, which had now been joined by a second, smaller bud near Lando's temple.
"Elegant. Right. Got it. Classy. Sophisticated." Lando ducked under a hanging basket of glowing moss. "I’ve got just the thing. They’re a bit temperamental, but they’re lovely."
He led Oscar to the back of the shop, where the light filtered through stained-glass panes in shades of deep violet and gold. On a pedestal sat a cluster of peonies. They were a deep, velvety cream colour, but as the shadows of the shop fell over them, they began to emit a soft, pulsing golden light.
"Glow-in-the-Dark Peonies," Lando whispered, his voice losing some of its frantic edge and turning soft, almost reverent. "I bred them myself. They’re infused with a bit of moonlight and a lot of patience. And the best part..."
Lando reached out and gingerly brushed a finger against one of the petals. The flower didn't just glow brighter; it emitted a low, resonant hum, like a distant cello note.
"They hum when you touch them," Lando said, looking up at Oscar through his eyelashes. He looked incredibly proud and utterly terrified of Oscar's reaction at the same time. "It’s supposed to be soothing. My mum says it helps with her migraines."
Oscar reached out, his long, pale fingers hovering over the bloom. He touched it, and the vibration travelled up his arm—a warm, grounding sensation that felt like a physical manifestation of peace.
"It’s... remarkable," Oscar said softly.
Lando beamed again, and two more jasmine flowers popped into existence among his curls. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust from the sheer awkwardness of his own biological magic.
"I'll take them," Oscar said, finally finding his voice.
"Brilliant! Great! Fantastic choice!" Lando began to gather the flowers, his hands shaking slightly as he wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with a piece of twine that seemed to tie itself into a perfect bow. "That’ll be... uh... twelve silver groats? Or one very nice compliment? No, wait, my accountant says I have to stop taking compliments as legal tender. Twelve groats, please."
Oscar handed over the coins. As he took the bouquet, his hand brushed against Lando’s.
A small spark of static electricity jumped between them—or perhaps it was just the "Booms" part of the shop's name manifesting. Lando squeaked, a genuine, high-pitched sound of surprise, and a whole cluster of tiny blue forget-me-nots exploded into bloom across the back of his head.
"I am so sorry!" Lando wailed, his face now a deep, pulsing crimson. "I’m just—I’m a bit of a mess! It’s the pollen! I have a very specific allergy to... to... drafty shops!"
Oscar looked at the flowers in Lando's hair, then at the dirt on his nose, and then at the genuine, chaotic warmth in his green eyes. For the first time in his very structured, very serious life, Oscar felt something that wasn't a calculation or a spell-formula.
"It’s a nice shop, Lando," Oscar said, his voice surprisingly steady. "And the flowers are... they’re perfect."
Lando stood frozen behind the counter, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an enchanted carriage. "Thanks," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I... yeah. Thanks, Mr. Warlock."
"Oscar," the warlock corrected.
"Oscar," Lando repeated, the name sounding like a secret.
Oscar turned to leave, the glowing peonies humming against his chest. As he reached the door, he looked back. Lando was still standing there, surrounded by his exploding plants and his sentient ferns, frantically trying to pluck the jasmine and forget-me-nots out of his hair before anyone else saw them.
Oscar stepped out into the cool air of the alleyway. He had the flowers. He had a gift. He was no longer at risk of maternal disappointment.
But as he walked back toward the Council spire, he found himself thinking less about his mother’s reaction and more about the way a certain florist’s hair seemed to react to the sunlight—or perhaps, just to the presence of a very bewildered warlock.
"Fucking hell," Oscar breathed, a small, rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He was definitely going to need more flowers soon. For research, obviously.