A Sprig of Affection

Sirius Black was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a herbologist. He could barely keep a mandrake alive, and the last time he’d tried to repot a Venomous Tentacula, he’d ended up with a rather embarrassing scar on his left ear. Yet for the past four weeks, he’d found himself wandering into the same little greenhouse tucked behind Diagon Alley every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly four o’clock.

The greenhouse belonged to Elara Thornwood, a witch with auburn curls that escaped her bun in a perpetual riot and eyes the colour of fresh mint. She was patient and kind, and she never once laughed at his pathetic attempts to prune a Fanged Geranium—at least, not until after he’d left.

“Good afternoon, Elara,” Sirius said, stepping through the floral-painted door and inhaling the rich, earthy scent of dung and dragon dung compost. He’d done his research: half a dozen visits, three accidental purchases, and one near-amputation later, he was still no closer to asking her out.

Elara looked up from a tray of sprouting Dittany. “Sirius! Back again? Your last batch of Mimbulus Mimbletonia must be thriving by now.”

“Thriving? Absolutely. I’ve got enough boils on my hands to start a plague,” he joked, holding up his bandaged fingers. She giggled—a sound like wind chimes—and his heart did a little backflip.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “What can I help you with today? A Whomping Willow sapling? A Snargaluff seedling?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a butterbeer with me after you close. My treat.” The words tumbled out before he could second-guess them. He tried to smile charmingly, but his face felt stiff.

Elara tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Is that why you’ve been killing my plants? To work up the courage to ask me out?”

“Killing is a strong word. I prefer ‘creative horticulture’.”

She laughed, crossing her arms. “All right, Sirius. I’d love to. But only if you promise to let me handle the plants from now on.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning so wide his cheeks ached. He offered his arm, and she took it, stepping out of the greenhouse and into the golden afternoon light. Perhaps he wasn’t so hopeless after all.