the one where the boy that works in the garden wants you to read him one of your poems
warnings: none
word count: 2.9k
(hi i haven’t written in years but i really love this concept and i hope that you do too <3 feedback is greatly appreciated <3)
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It’s past midnight.
There is no particular reason as to why you are still awake. You just couldn’t seem to fall asleep. No matter how many sheep you counted, no matter what position you moved your body into, no matter how long you kept your eyes shut, you just couldn’t drift off to sleep. Unfortunately, this was not a rarity for you. At least as of recently.
Instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling or watching the clock tick, you decided to leave your bed. You reach over your nightstand for your matches and strike it, grabbing the lantern that became more visible in the light and setting the flame to it.
The library was on the opposite end of the house but, honestly, you couldn’t imagine going to any other room. You grabbed your journal and poetry book and headed for the door. The thought of walking down the hall to the bedroom of your sister, Alice, came to mind. Surely, she wouldn’t mind staying up with you for a bit. She was always understanding of your unfortunate sleeping habits. You found yourself standing faced in the direction of her room, but stopped yourself from taking a step further.
“No, that isn’t fair to her. You woke her up just last week.” You whispered, and made direction for the library. The cold floor felt exaggerated against your bare feet, but you were almost there, just around the corner…
When you entered the room, the smell of the books filled your lungs. You sighed as if the scent had carried away a weight that you were holding. The daybed at the window was your spot. You grabbed the inkwell and fountain pen on the desk, settled everything down by the window, and opened it to let in the warm air of the summer night. You couldn't imagine the amount of hours that you have spent sitting here against the window. Most of the time you would sit there reading. Sometimes you would daydream. Sometimes, your groundskeeper, Harry, would be tending to the small garden that was visible outside the window, and you would pretend to be completely oblivious to him and hold your book closer to your face.
You thought back to a particular moment a couple weeks ago when you had been sitting in this exact spot, mindlessly staring out into the garden while you daydreamed about your future, and the garden that you would like to have. In your garden, there would be more bleeding hearts and baby’s breath.
You had found yourself so lost in the arrangements of your imaginary landscape that you had not noticed Harry appear with a watering can in one hand and shears for the hedges in his other. You stiffened, but he seemed to not notice you in the window. You watched as he touched up the hedges that had already seemed perfect.
He was wearing a blue button up and heathered gray pants. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tanned arms. He lifted his bicep to his forehead to wipe off his sweat. Harry then settled down the shears in the grass and picked up his watering can, crouching down next to the peonies and taking a seat in the bed of grass. While watering them, you see him furrow his brows and move his mouth in conversation.
Was he talking to them?
Indeed, he was. You saw him run a hand through his hair. Truly, he looked conflicted about something. If only you could hear…
Your curiosity had always gotten the best of you, and it was your curiosity that led to reaching for the handle on the french window. He was so caught up in his one-sided conversation, surely he wouldn’t notice as long as you were careful with your movements. You push open the window slightly, and just like that, even though you had been so careful, the loud squeak of the latch had blown your cover. Harry’s head perks up and you stare at each other in slight shock — you had both been caught in your actions. Your breath was caught in your chest and all of the blood in your body was present in your cheeks. When Harry sees that it’s you, he exhales, the corners of his slips turn upwards into a barely-there smile. He raises his hand to give you a soft wave.
Suddenly, a gust of wind from the window takes you back into the reality of your sleepless night, and along with it, it blows out your lantern.
“Christ!” You whisper to yourself, frantically looking around the room. Your eyes were still adjusting to the shift in lighting, so everything appeared pitch black. You remembered that there were matches on the desk on the adjacent side of the room. You sat up, taking blind but careful steps toward it. You had only moved a couple of steps forward when, of course, with just your luck, you hit your hip on a nightstand beside one of the chairs. You wince in pain as the table wobbles. You catch it just before it falls over, but you couldn’t save the books that were on it. They fall to the floor with a ‘thump’ that loudly echoes across the entire room. You squeeze your eyes shut and freeze your movements at the abrupt sound. A mere seconds later, you hear footsteps rushing to the library. Harry appears in the doorway, eyes blown wide in a search for what the noise had been. The house that included his room, as well as the rooms of the other workers, were separated by a hallway just down from the library. Harry recognizes your silhouette in the darkness, and you his.
“Are you alright, Y/N?” He asks, his voice reaching a soft tone that you haven’t heard before. Your heartbeat thuds at his new sound.
You fixed your posture and used your hands to straighten out your nightgown before speaking, “Yes, I- uhm. I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry that I-”
“I couldn't sleep either.” He interrupts. Even in the darkness of the room, you were almost positive that he could see the warmth in your cheeks.
“I was trying to grab the matches on the desk,” you motion your hand to the furniture that was only a few steps nearer, “The wind had blown out my candle.” You see Harry’s figure look to the left at the desk, and swiftly walks towards it in the darkness, no nightstands bothered. He feels around the desk for the matches, picking one up and striking it. His face appears in the light of the flame and his eyes look to yours. A breathless gasp leaves your lips. Harry takes a step towards you, and with every one after it you could feel your heartbeat quicken. He stands in front of you in silence. His lips tuck into his teeth as he studies your face for just a moment before looking to your things on the daybed. You waited for him to say something, anything.
“May I join you?” He whispers, shifting his stare back to your face. A chill runs up your spine and you quickly nod your head. A smile breaks on his lips and you hear the exhale from his nose. Then, he reaches out his hand for you to take. When you put your hand in his and he sharply inhales.
“Goodness, Y/N! You’re freezing!” He says in bewilderment. Your lips curve in a slight smile at his sudden concern. Without a thought, he raises your hand to his rose-colored lips and gives it a soft kiss, rubbing his thumb over the spot afterwards. You gasp as if his lips were a branding iron and flinch back your hand at his intimate action.
His eyes went wide — his movements were so quick and thoughtless — regret immediately washed over his face, “Y/N I’m, I’m so sorry that was very careless and inappropriate of me,” You had never heard him speak this quickly, “Truly, I-”
“It’s fine, Harry,” You whispered. He let out a sigh of relief, and opened his mouth to apologize again, “I just wasn’t expecting you to do that. But, honestly, it’s nothing.”
It was not nothing. It most certainly was not nothing.
You take his hand again with a tenderness, and guide him to the daybed. He relights the lantern and you close the window. A shriek sounds from the hinge and you wince. Harry lets out a laugh and you knew that he was thinking back to the last time he heard that same sound. You sat with your knees pulled into your chest and Harry stretched his legs across the daybed, leaving centimeters between his feet and your clothed thigh.
His eyes look to the inkwell and fountain pen that you had resting on your poetry book, “Were you writing?”
“Just some poems, that’s all.” You shrugged, looking down to hide your embarrassment.
“Your parents tell me that you’re a wonderful writer.” He says quietly. His eyes look down at his twiddling thumbs, and so do yours.
You furrowed your brows at his comment. Why were your parents talking to Harry about your writing? What else have they told him about you writing? What else have they told him about you? Your stomach starts to turn as you think of all the embarrassing things that your father could have possibly told Harry about.
“Parents always bias towards their children. Trust me, Harry, they’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” Now you were the one twiddling with your thumbs. Harry snaps his gaze in your direction, a look of confusion on his face.
“Why would you say that about yourself?” He had looked as if you offended him. His lips were parted in the slightest way and his eyebrows were placed in a way that had accentuated the lines in between them. The jade of his irises circled in a thin line around his large pupils. Honestly, he looked quite cute. However, you still scoffed at his question.
“Oh, come on, Harry. I’m not Emily Dickinson. My writing isn’t anything special.” You confessed.
“Then read some for me.”
“I beg your pardon?” You spoke. You were genuinely taken aback by his statement. Your mind immediately went to the book filled with your poetry, and how so many of them had been written with the thought of Harry in mind. God, at least half of them were about him.
“If your poetry is nothing special then why don’t you read one to me, someone who is unbiased?” Unbeknownst to you, Harry was biased. You could read him your daily schedule and he would praise you as if you had composed Beethoven’s 9th symphony.
You truly thought about what he had said for a moment. You had never read one of your more personal poems (your favorites) to anyone, and now, here you were. About to read one to the person that they were about. You rolled your eyes at him and he giggled in return, not taking you seriously at all.
“Fine.” You muttered, and reached for your book. You stretched out your legs, accidentally poking Harry’s thigh with your foot. You try to act as if the contact meant nothing and continue to cross your ankles. Harry cleared his throat.
You open the pages and look through some of them, biting on your cheeks to hold back a smile while you flip past the more obvious ones. Finally, you found a piece that you liked that would be okay for him to hear. You can feel his eyes on you before you meet his gaze. He gives you a smile of encouragement.
“It’s okay, Y/N, it’s just me.” He says in the same soft tone that you heard when he had first entered the library. You take a deep breath before starting.
“If he is the sun then I will be the flowers that bloom in the spring
And I’ll open up for him so that his light can meet with every part of me
When he is lost in the clouds I’ll ache with the emptiness
But he’ll send me raindrops and remind me that he’ll never leave.”
Slowly, you close the pages of your book. Your head remains tilted down, you were too shy to see his reaction. After moments of silence you give into your eagerness. You needed to know what he was thinking.
He stares at your book like he was lost in deep thought. Oh, God. He hates it. He knows it’s about him and he hates it. How could you have so stupid as to read him your poetry? You should have put your foot down and told him that your writing was none of his business. He would have left you alone and forgotten about it had you done that.
Harry was trying to think of who you wrote the poem about.
Was it the mailman? Her french tutor? A friend of her brothers?
He looks up to see the worry on your face and shakes his head into a kind smile.
“I think you’re a wonderful writer, Y/N.”
Your cheeks must have looked like cherries from how hard you were blushing. You wouldn’t tell him, but his words meant the world to you. You were so relieved, as if you had spent all of this time trying to prove yourself to him and here he was, telling you how wonderful your words about him were.
“Thank you, Harry.” You had hoped that those words were enough.
“Thank you,” His eyes sparkled like the stars just outside of the window, “for sharing something so personal.”
It was time to change the subject, you decided. For your entire life, never had you enjoyed the attention being on you for too long. You took your eyes away from Harry’s and looked at the shelves of books that covered the walls of the library.
“Would you like to read something?” You suggested. Part of you had regretted saying that. You wished you asked Harry a question about himself, there was so much what you wanted to know. What was his family like? You had only known the names of his mother and sister. What did he like to do when he wasn’t working? What was he saying to the peonies in the garden a few weeks ago? Were peonies his favorite flower?
“Um- sure, if that’s what you’d like.” He said. He rose from the daybed and looked around the vast room until his eyes landed on the books that you had knocked over earlier. He walked over to it, picking up both of the large books and holding them with one hand. He settles back into his spot across from you and shows you both of the books.
“Anna Karenina or Grimms Fairy Tales. Take your pick.” After a short pause, both you and Harry share a laugh at the latter suggestion. It must have been a read of one of your younger brothers.
“Anna Karenina, please.” You say, pursing your lips.
“Good choice,” He whispers, “He stepped down, trying not to look at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”
Your heart skipped a beat at how effortlessly he had recited the words, “I love that quote. It’s so beautiful.”
I’ve written more beautiful things about you, Harry thought. But, you couldn’t possibly ever hear them, they were all so evidently about you. While you stare out the window, he takes a moment to look at you, really look at you. He had hoped his fondness for you wasn't blatantly obvious throughout your time spent together, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was, and you had caught onto it. Your eyes had a delicate stare out the window, your lips had been tilted upwards in a way that made your face look so beautifully peaceful. They had looked so soft under the moonlight. Everything about you looked soft. Your hands had laid on your knees. If only he had the courage to just reach out and touch.
“Well, go on.” You told him.
Harry’s eyes grew wide. For a second, he thought he had said his thoughts aloud. The confused expression that you give him made him realize that you wanted him to read the book. He stifled a laugh of embarrassment while he opened to a random chapter.
It had only taken ten minutes of Harry’s reading to leave you leaning against the window in a drifted sleep. It had taken him a few minutes to notice. The moonlight had given a bit of a blue tint to your face. Your lips were slightly parted and your eyelashes created an ethereal shadow across your cheeks. Harry took a moment to thank whoever was watching over him. He was so grateful for everything that this night had given him. It was rare that he was able to share moments even close to this with you. You were often so busy taking care of your siblings and he was so busy with all of the outdoor work. If it meant that he could spend hours like this with you, he would never choose to sleep.
He stared at your face again. For a moment, he contemplates going back to his room to grab his sketchbook. The possibility of waking you up changes his mind. Instead, Harry stays seated across from you and stares at you for what feels like hours trying to paint you in his head.
Harry is the Groundskeeper at Hogwarts, which means he had free reign to make any landscaping decisions he wants. Including planting flowers outside the windows of the Potions classroom.
