Harry Potter's Beloved Flowers
In a childhood defined by neglect and cruelty, Harry Potter's only solace was his love for flowers. Years later, as the wizarding world mourns his tragic death at Muggle hands, only the flowers in his garden know the true story. A dark secret buried deep, waiting to bloom.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84158846
🌿 Working in the garden was both his salvation and his curse.
It had a magnificent garden with flowerbeds bursting with bright colours. There wasn’t another garden like it on the whole street—probably not in the whole country. There was something almost... magical about it.
"You should be thanking your lucky stars we haven’t buried you right under those bloody flowers."
His favourites were the petunias. Bright, velvety flowers in every shade of pink and purple. They bore his aunt's name, and in that, there was a bitter, twisted irony that only he understood. By tending to them, he felt as though he gained power over the woman who held absolute power over him. He gave these "Petunias" what he himself was denied: care, tenderness, and above all, water.
...If the world wanted him to be a weed—well, weeds are the most resilient things on earth. They can crack even the strongest foundations.
Jamie's eyes fell upon the dead flowers once more. They were a bad omen. A very bad omen.
💔 A ghost boy.
"Do they even feed you in that 'Brutus' place?" "They feed us," Harry sneered. His voice had dropped deeper, laced with velvet, dangerous undertones. "They feed us hopes and orders. Especially the old men."
"It was for our own safety!" Vernon blustered, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He had always seemed a little out of this world.
