May 13th, 1893 - Annual Potts Flower Show
Henry Berkwood

Harry had always a soft spot for plants, though he was truly terrible at remembering names for things. He could tell a rose from a daffodil from a tulip, obviously, but for someone who'd gotten an O on his Herbology NEWT, he was terrible at identifying anything by name.

Still, the Potts' flower show was a fine reason to get himself out and about, and he'd ducked into the greenhouse in a fit of nostalgia. It was pleasantly warm inside, and he was enjoying his meanderings when he spotted the mistletoe. He stopped to watch it move through the air for a few moments, mildly amused, until-- "What?" He couldn't move. He was trapped under this floating mistletoe. "I--why?"

---

Jemima had been having a perfectly lovely day, with no terrible incidents or missteps at all, so she was determined to spin it out for as long as possible, and had decided not to leave until she had combed through every corner of the place.

Besides: Lila liked plants more than she did, and there seemed to be plenty of society here, eligible men looking for their next bride. So, feeling that no harm could befall her in a greenhouse rather reminiscent of Professor Skeeter’s old classroom (– oh, she did miss Professor Skeeter’s shy looks and soft brown eyes –), she had stepped into the sheltered area, pleased at the trapped heat in the place.

There was a young man over towards the back, but Jemima had eyed him up and then taken the sensible route of otherwise ignoring him, even as she wound her way along the path in his direction and he had yet to move. (That was very impolite. One ought to move along and kindly give everyone their turn to see the plants.)

Her gaze slid back to him as his expression suddenly changed, and she side-eyed him for a moment, unaware of what the problem was. When he spoke, she was still confused.

“Why, um, what?” Jemima echoed as she took a few bewildered steps towards him, brow furrowed. A glance over her shoulder was enough to conclude that he was probably talking to her, because there was simply no one else nearby.

That was, if he was talking to anyone and not just muttering to himself, and talking to himself was not especially comforting a thought, either.

---

Harry fought back a wince. Of course he wouldn't be alone in a moment like this. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse that it was a lady who arrived to witness his embarrassment. Though, the question itself implied there was any outcome that would be favorable. At least she hadn't come closer?

Granted, the idea of admitting to being stuck was almost embarrassing as the thought of being stuck with someone else. "Er... Why-y-y-y..." he drew out the word, scrambling to think of something that would hopefully make her turn back. "...have they set up such a terrible selection of plants in this section? I'd turn back now, miss, it's a bit of a mess past this point. Not worth your attention."

---

Jemima knew full well that she wasn’t the brightest wit about, and that she might have been called naive or gullible before, but – well, she wasn’t entirely stupid, so even she could tell that he was lying.

Why he would be lying, she frankly had no idea, but her eyes narrowed all the same. And she thought it rather rude, to be calling any plants terrible or any section a mess. The rest of the flower show had been perfectly lovely. Maybe he just didn’t appreciate flowers at all. So Jemima stalked over in brisk defiance, picking her way past an array of unobjectionable flowers, “I’m sure that’s not –”

She glanced at a few hanging baskets and then her eyes landed on a floating sprig of something. Her original sentence died in her throat. “Oh. But it isn’t even Christmas,” Jemima said stupidly. She supposed one could grow plants all year round if they liked.

Now she understood.

---

Sometimes, Harry wished he was a more convincing liar. Or that other people would be more gullible. Whichever scenario got him the least amount of embarrassment, really.

"Exactly my thought," he said grimly. "I'd make my escape if I were you." He glanced up at the offending mistletoe, as if hoping it had decided to move on by itself. It, of course, had not. "Though I'd appreciate if you found someone who could dispel this... ah... without needing the conventional method. Obviously." Presumably Mrs. Potts or someone helping with the show would have some control over their wayward plants. Hopefully.

---

Memory of the last time she’d been trapped under mistletoe came flooding back to her – when the man, the stranger, had been following her, and leant in and snatched a kiss from her as quick and easy as breathing, and left her feeling shaken then – and struck a shiver up Jemima’s spine. She tried to block it out. The greenhouse was warm. This was different.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, fumbling over her tongue in a sudden fluster. She would be the saviour this time, and although she didn’t know any spells that worked on enchanted mistletoe, she was confident of her ability to fetch Mr. or Mrs. Potts to the rescue. “I’ll be right –” back, she began with forced brightness, to assure him that he wouldn’t be left alone for long in this scrape; but when she tried to turn on her heel and retrace her steps, she couldn’t peel her heel off the floor.

She tried, and tried again. “Right here,” Jemima said in a small, frustrated voice, trying with all her might not to let the panic rise.

---

Harry just managed to keep himself from groaning aloud. Of course. That would be just his luck. At least the lady didn't look any happier to be stuck there with him than he was to be stuck with her. Though, Harry supposed if one was a lady and had to be stuck in this situation with a strange man, he wasn't the worst option. Even considering his... proclivities... he was still a gentleman. Not that he thought she'd find this particularly reassuring if he said it out loud.

"Well," he said, trying to offer a reassuring smile. "Not to worry! I'm sure someone will be... along... shortly..." His words trailed off as it occurred to him that being found now might not make things better. Bugger.

In an effort to put them both at ease--much as was possible, anyway--Harry leaned his head back as much as he could without moving his body, and instead chose to stare up at the ceiling. It was better than staring the poor girl in the face and making them both more uncomfortable.

It was quiet for a full minute before Harry couldn't stand it anymore, and blurted out, "Do you like chess?" He was still staring at the ceiling, but now with the resolve to distract. "I've been thinking I should take up chess. I don't know when I'd have the time, mind you, but expanding one's mind and hobbies seems like an important endeavor. Wouldn't you agree?" Harry rambled along, truly on the first thing he thought of, because, well, it was better than the alternative, which was accosting a woman who clearly didn't want him to.

---

She couldn’t relax, because this was too unfortunate a situation for anyone to be relaxed, and the way out of it was either a kiss at wandpoint or being discovered alone and a little too close in the greenhouse by someone, possibly a gossipy stranger, and Jemima was not keen on either option.

Although his smile had been a little sweet, hadn’t it? And he hadn’t surged forwards and kissed her yet. That was nice.

In fact, he wasn’t even looking at her anymore, which made Jemima feel so much more at ease already, because maybe he was as nervous as she was, and clearly he wasn’t going to take advantage of her. She had opened her own mouth to possibly say something, because stretching silences did tend to agitate her, but he had got out the words first –

Jemima tried to stifle the snort before it came out of her nose, which she only half-managed and which was not polite or attractive at all, but her mouth curled into a guilty-apologetic-amused smile all the same, nibbling on her bottom lip to stop it spreading any wider. “Chess!” she echoed gratefully. “I’ve tried to play but couldn’t remember all the rules for the pieces, which way the knights can go and all sorts,” she confessed, words spilling out without inhibition on a topic that she had never really considered caring about before. “That’s, um, that’s a clever pursuit though, I’m sure, and very – noble.” Noble? She pulled a face at her nonsense, relieved if he still wasn’t looking at her. “But not if you’re too busy – I suppose you have a proper career to contend with already?” Chess, she considered, was perhaps better suited to schoolboys and gentlemen of leisure.

---

Harry nodded, glad that she was apparently going along with his nonsense distraction. "There are rather a lot of rules," he agreed, though that was something that appealed to him about it, honestly. "Precisely why I think you would need time to dedicate to it!" Any pursuit worth doing--even as a hobby--took time to perfect. Perhaps hobbies especially.

He sighed, a little wistfully. "Sometimes I miss that about Hogwarts. Being at school, you had to spend time with diverse subjects. It was the perfect excuse to dabble." Honestly, Harry thought he might have been happy to remain in school forever. Not because he didn't want responsibility or anything like that, but because academics held no limit of interest for him. "I'm a potioneer," he said, by way of answer to the woman's question and also as explanation. "I found one particular subject to focus most of my time and energy on."'

---

Jemima wasn’t sure she knew his name or who he was, but in the last few moments she might have bet her entire dowry that he had been a Ravenclaw. (If she were a betting lady, of course.) She grinned to herself as he went on.

“Oh,” she declared, as he revealed he was a potioneer. She was a little perplexed and amused by his obviously intellectual habits, but at least she had almost forgotten about the mistletoe looming. “Then are you sure you want to take up chess as well? They both sound like they need rather a lot of concentration,” she pointed out, light-heartedly enough. “You could always do something more relaxing for a hobby.” Here Jemima was nearly almost teasing. “Like – checkers. Or exploding snap. Or cycling.”

“Did you know,” she added keenly, because he did seem very taken by the idea of playing chess, and this was a fact she was confident of, “that muggle chess pieces don’t even move?”

---

Harry sighed, a touch wistfully. "You may be right." Adding the extra stress of being overly ambitious in his endeavors was probably not the point of having hobbies. In fairness to himself, doing things in half-measures had never really been his strong suit. He was badly out of practice. He was evidently much better at distraction, though, because he'd nearly forgotten himself that they were rooted to this spot.

"I did know that!" he said. "That was my first introduction to the game. Imagine my surprise when I got to school and discovered wizard chess." He laughed. "Muggle chess isn't quite as exciting, I'm afraid."

---

He had known that fact already. It took away her chances of seeming clever, then, educated and interesting and whatever else – but she didn’t really mind. She didn’t think anybody much thought her clever or interesting to begin with.

But he was interesting, because he must be a muggleborn then. (She had been exposed to too much fascination with the muggle world through her youth not to find a sort of secondhand curiosity in anything like this.) “No, not quite,” she said with another smile, although it was much less violent. Her parents were delighted by the prospect of moving their own pieces, though. “What do your parents think of you being a potioneer?” Jemima asked, just a little taken aback by her own boldness – but she was genuinely interested now. “If they’re muggles. Do they know what you do? Do they quite understand it?”

---

The good thing was, Harry really didn't mind bold questions. At least not when it didn't sound like the other person was trying to be rude, anyway. "Ah, well," he said, a little sheepishly. "I've tried explaining it in terms they might understand--it's a bit like a science, really. But academic pursuits in general have never been of great interest to them." His father had been a military man before he came into his inheritance and married Harry's mother, and he'd always found it easier to understand action. "They only really understand that it seems to make me happy, which I suppose is what matters."

---

“Oh, well, of course,” Jemima agreed, pleased for him that his parents hadn’t made it difficult for him to pursue his (obvious) passions. “My parents – they’re magical – but they are ever so intrigued about the muggle world and how it works,” Jemima explained, and it was rare enough that she wasn’t sheepish about the fact, herself, but she wasn’t today. She might have even been tempted to ask him questions about science. “And some of my siblings are healers,” she added, just because she thought they might be acquainted. “My sister’s in Potions & Plant Poisoning, in fact. So I don’t know much about potions, myself, but I hear a lot about them,” she said with a small grin.

Jemima was coming to a sudden and slightly unwelcome realisation that everyone else in her family had passions and interests and talents they followed. Abruptly she felt a little ashamed of herself, and rather left out. What did she ever do, except fail at finding a husband?

(It was a pity this gentleman looked a little too young to be a match for her elder sister. He and Delilah would have made a rather nice pair, she thought wistfully.)

---

"It's funny, isn't it," Harry said, chuckling a little, "how what's normal to one person can be fascinating to someone else?" Though he much preferred people with genuine curiosity about the muggle world than those who actively despised it. Harry could hardly blame anyone for curiosity.

"Do you have a particular interest in... well, I was going 'muggle studies' or 'healing,' but of course, anything?" If anything, Harry understood having interests that deviated from those of his family's.

---