A Blossoming Courtship

A Blossoming Courtship

by Hippogriff_Lover

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Rated: PG-13

Genre: Romance/Drama

Spoilers: Book 1 – 6

Pairings: H/Hr

Era: Regency Period

Summary: A/U. In nineteenth century , it isn’t considered proper for a young lady to send flowers to a healthy young bachelor. But when Harry Potter receives a bouquet with a challenge, he can’t help but be intrigued.

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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The characters of Ben Wollag, Neil Walter, and others that you don’t recognise are mine though.

*~ Author's Note:

Hello people! I know, I know; I shouldn’t be starting another story without having finished ‘Love Hurts’, but I seriously couldn’t get this idea out of my head and I had to get it down. I think that it doesn’t matter your age, status or where you are from: we all need a little bit of romance from time to time. This one has been brewing for a while now, so… let’s see how it goes.

Before you start reading you should know a few things though: the first is that this story is very different from my other one; which means it has more fluffiness and much less angsty drama. Second, this fic is A/U, so you’re probably going to see something odd somewhere. Third, since I’m not JKR, all characters are, by definition, a bit OOC. And last, but not least, this story starts a couple of years after the Wizarding War with Voldemort has come to an end, in an elite magical society with Dukes, Earls and all that included.

Thanks to Chris (Discount Ninja) for his beta work and help! Love you, dear. ^_^ If you see something weird out there, that’s my doing, not his. I’m a somewhat obsessive editor/reviser. *shrugs* English is not my first language as some of you know already; so if you see any mistakes on the text, feel free to point it out to me in a review (I’ll love to reply to every one of them if I can).

Oh, and thanks to my dear Madelaine! She was the first one who gave me her opinion on this fic, and it meant a lot to me that she liked it. *Besitos, mi niña* 

So, let the story begin here. Hope you enjoy it!

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Chapter One

A Bouquet

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“He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not,” repeated Hermione Granger in a bored tone over and over again as she striped a deplorable daisy of its petals. “He loves me. He loves me not.” The last petal drifted to the ground and she sighed, pushing aside some books and flopping back on the plaid wool blanket she had lain over the grass in the garden of her family’s townhouse in Wizarding London: the Athmore House.

“Who on Circe’s name do I think I can fool?” she muttered to herself and tossed the daisy stem aside. “I’m being irrational. He doesn’t even know I exist and he probably never will. He’ll live his life out, marry a woman who looks like a Veela and always do the right thing and she’ll bear him as many children as he likes—not too many, so as not to seem uncivilized and not too few because she’ll be an obedient wife who will always do her duty to her recognised husband.” She watched the clouds float along in the sky, mentally picking out shapes among them as she went on with her ranting prophesy.

“One day, when his children are all grown up and he’s bouncing his youngest grandson on his knee, the butler will walk in and say, ‘The mail, Lord Potter,’ And he’ll go through it, laughing over letters from his friends and reading his grandson some passage from one letter his daughter in Italy wrote, and then he’ll come across a cream coloured envelope with flowing words in red ink. He’ll open it and, lo and behold, there will be an invitation informing him that some strange witch obsessed with books and flowers died and, as her last wish, asked that he attended her funeral.

“Yes, and he’ll go, even though he’ll think it’s odd and strange and rather grotesque. He’ll go out of respect for a woman’s last request, because he’s ridiculously noble like that. It shall be open casket of course; Ginny would make it so because that’s just the way she is. He’ll look down at me and pretend he’s saying some monumental goodbye to someone he knew very, very well, but really he’ll be thinking—against his good conscience—how awful I look in whatever dress it is that Lavender shall pick out for me. Then he’ll go home and tell his still beautiful wife about what a strange day he’s had and she’ll say something perfect that will make him laugh and by the next week, he’ll have forgotten all about it…

“Well, I won’t have it!” Hermione sat bolt upright on the blanket, blinked and cast a look around the garden to make sure no one had heard her sudden outburst. There was no one near, besides Crookshanks and the gnome he was trying to chase near the border of the house, that is.

“I won’t have it,” repeated Hermione, more quietly this time. “I won’t stand for living without him ever knowing I even exist. There must be something I can do so he’ll at least have a clue of who I am.”

She looked around her garden, recalling the meaning of each plant planted there as she did. Her eyes fell on the two clusters of bluebottles on either side of the door. Bluebottles. It certainly was a suitable message, but was it…too suited, perhaps? After all, she didn’t want him to think of her at her funeral as ‘that pitiful girl who sent me those bluebottles all those years ago.’ Gnawing on her lip, Hermione considered the idea.

What does it matter what he thinks of me after I’m dead? So long as he remembers me at all, I’ll be happy. God, this has got to be the most foolish idea that has crossed my mind. Ever. The sun must be affecting my head.

Decidedly, she picked up her garden shears from where they lay beside her on the blanket and crossed over to the bluebottles. As she did this, she called out, “Ben! Ben! Where have you gotten off to now?”

“I’m here, milady,” panted a young boy as he jogged through the garden from the coach house. He was roughly eleven years of age, with a mess of brown hair covered by an old hat. His face was dusty and his shirt, which Hermione could have sworn had been white just that morning, was covered in dirt.

She stood, holding a small posy of bluebottles in her hand, her shears in the other, and looked at him wearily. “Whatever shall I do with you, Ben?”

The boy blushed and grinned. “What would you do without me, milady?” he countered.

Hermione laughed and waved for him to follow her into the small shed at the side of the garden. “You’d better start tidying yourself up, Ben,” she chided him. “You know Father and Mother don’t approve very much of me having you here. Father will have you thrown back onto the streets if he finds the smallest excuse.”

Again, Ben looked bashful. “I’m awfully sorry, milady. It just, me old chums were hanging about and we started talking and—”

“It’s alright, Ben. Just don’t let my father catch you in such a state,” said Hermione, casting a cleaning charm on him. “There, much better.” She then tied the bouquet with a piece of straw and handed it to him. “Do you know where the Duke of Godric Hollow’s townhouse is?”

Ben nodded eagerly. “It’s that one where those two blokes had their big duel in front of last summer, ain’t it?”

“Yes, that’s the one. I need you to take these there and give them to his grandson, Harry—but don’t tell him who they’re from or anything about me! Just say that a lady told you to give them to him.”

“What if he wants to reply or something?”

“Tell him to send it back with you.”

Ben scratched his head as he regarded the flowers. “Wait… You want me to give these flowers to Harry Potter? Why’re you sending him flowers? He sick or something?”

“No, no. It’s nothing like that. Just bring him the flowers. Please, Ben?”

“Alright.” He turned towards the door, still looking slightly confused. Just when he reached the threshold, he turned around and suddenly asked, “You aren’t in love with him, are you?”

Hermione flushed scarlet and Ben’s eyes opened wide. “You are! You are!”

“Stop making such a ruckus, Ben,” she hissed at him. “Just give him the flowers and don’t tell anybody about this.”

Grinning, he tipped his hat with his free hand. “As you say, milady.” And then he was gone.

Hermione sighed and leaned back against the worktable. A wave of remorse swept over her and she had the sudden urge to run after Ben. Groaning, she sank in the chair and buried her head in her arms. What on Earth had possessed her to send those flowers to Harry Potter? Women didn’t send flowers to men. Men sent flowers to women. And how likely was it that he would even know the meaning of bluebottles, for Merlin’s sake? She had never met anybody yet who cared as much as she did about the meaning of flowers or books in general, for that matter. He would think her odd… mental, even. What was she to do? She should have sent a note or told Ben to explain the significance of the flowers to Harry. But that couldn’t be helped now. Harry would never know what message she had sent him.

‘I admire you from afar, being too timid to approach.’

~*~

Harry Potter strode through the doors of his London townhouse, and, lost in thought, handed his top hat and jacket to the butler, Neil Walter.

“There’s a rather scruffy looking character waiting for you in the drawing room, sir,” Walter informed him then, interrupting his mental musings. “He seems to be under the impression that he has a message to deliver to you—personally, it seems.” The butler smiled wearily, as if he found the matter ridiculous, but said nothing out loud of his opinion.

Harry cast him a curious look before striding to the drawing room, rolling up his sleeves against the stuffy summer weather. A boy of about eleven was joyfully playing with the usually dull black cocker spaniel, Chaucer, who was yapping happily at his unexpected playmate. Harry’s eyebrows rose but he remained unnoticed until he had finished rolling his sleeves and cleared his throat, hands now folded behind his back. The boy jumped up, grabbing a bouquet from the floor beside him.

“Hello. I was told you have a message for me?” inquired Harry, looking down at the boy. A scruffy little devil, Walter had considered. An orphan living on the streets, more likely, hailed by someone to deliver a message, with the promise of a coin. Harry immediately felt a surge of pity and sympathy for the boy.

“You his Lordship Harry Potter?”

“Yes, I am,” he answered a bit warily. After months of living in town, he was still rather cautious when people asked him that. And he still wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about his future title. As if I need another one, he always joked with Ron.

“Milady told me to give these to you,” said the boy, holding out the flowers.

Harry blinked, shocked. Flowers? Sent by a lady? Was the lad joking with him? He had been expecting another invitation to a ball or something, dreading it even. Not that he was completely antisocial, but he wasn’t very keen on attending all the reunions and celebrations that were being hosted all the time around town. Unfortunately, sometimes the invitations began to stack up to the point of becoming unavoidable. Now, flowers, in the other hand…

“I can’t tell you who she is ‘cause she told me not to,” continued the boy. “She said to tell you they were from a lady and that’s all. If you want to send her a reply, you have to send it back with me.”

Drawing in a breath, Harry regained his composure. He still couldn’t tell if the boy was just playing a joke or not. He seemed sincere, but boys on the street were known to be skilled pranksters.

“You can’t tell me anything about her at all?” he inquired slowly.

“Not a thing, milord.”

“And there’s no message to go with the, er, flowers?”

“No, milord.”

“Well, then,” smiled Harry, “How can she expect a reply if she hasn’t said anything?”

The boy’s eyes darkened and he all but glared at Harry. “She ain’t stupid. She’s right smart, probably smarter than you are. She knows the meanings of flowers and such. That’s all she needs to say anything.”

The meaning of flowers. Harry’s heart softened suddenly. He knew his mother had loved Herbology and gardening, specially the individual significance of each type of flower. She had kept several tomes on the subject, both Muggle and magical, which had been transferred to the family library after his parents died. Would any of them be there in the London townhouse? Harry wasn’t sure. He had never had cause to look before. He regarded the offered bouquet now in a new light.

“Can you tell me the name of the flowers, at least?” he asked the boy, doubting he would get an affirmative.

“They’re bluebottles or something like that, I think.”

Bluebottles. He had never heard of them, but the flower was a common one, often seen in gardens.

“What did she give you for running this errand?”

“A bed and three meals a day.”

Harry looked up in surprise. “For one day?”

“Nah. Until her old man finds an excuse to kick me out of the house.”

“You do errands for her regularly, then?”

The boy nodded and Harry considered this for a moment. If her family could afford to take in orphans, they were obviously well off. She was charitable, but had a stingy father, not unlike his grandfather. She had an interest in gardening, like his mother, and sent messages in the form of bouquets. He smiled. What a delightfully intriguing diversion from the continuous fawning of the ton and the lull of the summer.

“Be back here by nine tomorrow,” he told the boy, finally relieving him of the flowers. “I’ll have an answer for your lady by then.”

The boy nodded and stooped to give the spaniel a parting pat.

“What’s your name?” asked Harry.

“Ben,” answered the boy. “Ben Wollag.”

~*~

Early morning sunlight poured in through the window behind Harry as he forced his eyes open, blinked, and lifted his head from where it rested on top of the desk in the library. Around him lay his mother’s books on flowers and in his left hand was a scrap of parchment with a few hastily scribbled words on it. He put on his glasses, which had fallen to the floor, and turned towards the window just in time to see his owl Hedwig enter and go to her perch, her snowy feathers a bit ruffled by the wind. There was a knock on the library door as Harry straightened and he called for whomever it was to come in.

Walter opened the door and if he was at all surprised by his young master’s disorderly appearance, he took care not to mention it. “The boy who came yesterday is here, sir. He claims he came an hour early because he had nothing else to do.” The butler’s tone suggested he didn’t believe the boy even had an appointment in the first place.

Harry glanced at the daunting grandfather clock and stood, making a small pretence of neatening the desk and giving Hedwig an affectionate caress before striding towards the door. “Tell the boy I’ll see to him in half an hour. In the mean time, let him entertain Chaucer—no one plays enough with the poor dog.”

Walter bowed his head slightly and held the door open for Harry to leave. “Very good, sir.”

Harry didn’t waste time and, with a nod, Disapparated up to his room. He knew his valet noticed that he was wearing the same clothes as the day before, but he didn’t care what anybody thought at the moment. Like almost all mornings, Harry adamantly—and a bit uncomfortably— dismissed him. He really didn’t know why the man bothered coming up all the time; he had told him in more than one occasion that he could dress by himself just fine, but the valet always appeared at his door in the morning. As he began to dress, Harry’s mind was racing with thoughts of the flowers that were currently standing in a vase on the library mantle. Bluebottles.

‘I admire you from afar, being too timid to approach.’

At least it didn’t seem to be one of his silly fervent admirers, like the ones who followed him around to bask on the ‘glory’ of his name. It was just a shy, distant message sent in the form of flowers by a lady adored by a young orphan boy. The thought brought a smile to Harry’s face and he absentmindedly summoned his gloves with his wand while glancing at the parchment he held in his right hand. On it was written his reply—or rather, the name of his reply: Clematis.

‘I pay tribute to your brilliance and cleverness.’

Rather elaborated wording, but the message was the one he wanted. He tucked the parchment in his pocket and caught his gloves in mid-air, heading out into the hallway. Ben was in the sitting room, frolicking with a happily barking Chaucer. Harry smiled at the sight, feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time; he hardly even noticed the ache in his neck from sleeping all night with his head on his desk.

“Come on, then,” he called good-naturedly to the boy. “We’ve got to go and buy something for this lady of ours, don’t we now?”

“Buy her something?” repeated Ben as he set aside the dog and stood, following Harry to the door. He had to walk rather quickly to keep up with the young man. “She’s not much for bought things. Her cousin’s the one who likes all that. Not that I don’t like Lady—”

“She has a cousin, then?” interrupted Harry, pouncing on the bit of information that the boy had let slip.

Ben shut his mouth tight and looked to be silently chastising himself. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

It was Harry’s turn to curse his own tongue. The boy had been about to mention the name of the lady’s cousin. He should have waited. Sighing, and briefly thinking of how very like his old friend Hagrid the lad had just sounded, he stepped into the carriage and Ben followed him, a little hesitantly, it seemed to Harry.

“What are you getting her, anyway?” asked Ben after a moment.

“A bouquet. You said she likes flowers, after all.”

Frowning, Ben scratched idly at the back of his head. “They’re got to have some meaning or she’ll think you’re just another daft sod, war hero or not.”

Harry’s mouth curved in a half smile. The boy could certainly inspire confidence.

“Don’t worry. They have a meaning.”

*~ End of Chapter One ~*

A/N: So, what do you think about it? It’s a bit different, I know. I’d like to hear your opinion very much, my dears. Oh, and next chapter’s coming soon, too, so don’t worry. ;)