Gardening is cheaper than therapy. And you get tomatoes.
Gardening is cheaper than therapy. And you get tomatoes
Hermione Jean Granger was many things. The Golden Girl. One third of The Golden Trio. Order of Merlin Recipient. War Hero. The Reason Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter Were Currently Alive. Friend. Godmother. Reknowned Healer.
The thing she wasn’t was damaged.
Was she stressed? Absolutely. She was an “extraordinary healer” (not her words) in St. Mungo’s trauma, emergency, and rare diseases wards. It was a stressful job. And thanks to her unusual teen years, to her friends, and a little Dark Lord named Voldemort, she knew how to handle stressful situations. Her resume had practically written itself when he first applied to the hospital after gaining her Healer’s Mastery.
In fact, she was so adept at handling these situations, she had received several awards that joined her the Order of Merlin that hung on the wall of her rarely used office.
So, no. She was not damaged. Despite what the board at St. Mungo’s said after her last… episode. Well, that is what Poppy Pomfrey was calling it. Madame Pomfrey, after an illustrious career as the resident nurse of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had retired and almost immediately been appointed to the Board of Directors of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies.
The aforementioned “episode” included Healer in Training Pomona Johar-- a recently graduated Ravenclaw--, a rare form of the Sectum curse on a patient, and HIT Johar having a … lapse in memory on the best course of treatment. Hermione, personally, believed that the dressing-down that Healer in Trainee Johar received was well deserved. Sectum cannot be fixed with a simple Episkey , especially when that patient is bleeding out of more cuts than any of the healers on shift could count.
Nevermind that the screaming match that she and Johar had in the hallway of the hospital could be considered Hermione’s third of three write ups before legitimate disciplinary action was taken. Which meant that she was gifted a mandatory “vacation” by the board.
An interesting way to put “suspension”, she thought.
Hermione was right . Johar’s lack of correct action put the patient’s life at risk. The fact that her uncle was on the Board with Pomfrey was completely unfair and unrelated.
Hermione was not damaged from her past. She most definitely did not keep her beaded bag full of unperishable food, extra clothes, books, and potions (Ron had called it a “bug-out bag” one night when they had drinks at the Leaky) just in case.
Anyone that had spent their formative years on the run from evil wizards would do the same. And anyone that knew that mistakes killed people would have reacted the same way to Johar nearly killing a patient.
At least, that is what Hermione Granger thought as she shoved her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and snatched her work bag out of her locker in the staff room. Blaise Zabini watched her, stalwart as always, from the doorway.
“Granger, it’s a week, not an eternity.” Zabini intoned, his arms crossed over his healer’s robes.
Hermione kicked off her hospital shoes, and shoved her feet into her battered trainers, “I don’t care that it’s a week, Zabini,” She snarled, “I care that Johar gets a slap on the wrist for almost killing someone. And I effectively get banished and an appointment with a mind healer for doing my fucking job.”
Blaise merely raised an eyebrow at her words. Damn Slytherins , Hermione thought, I should shave off their eyebrows so they can’t make cryptic looks anymore.
Blaise Zabini had been unfortunate enough to see the truly impressive outburst and argument between Granger and Johar. He personally believed the Gryffindor had gotten off easily with a week suspension and an appointment with a therapist. He did agree, though, that Johar should never be allowed anywhere near a patient ever again. Zabini, being part of an illustrious line of knowing the right -- or wrong people, depending on who you ask-- also knew that this position was Johar “paying her dues” before she was quickly moved up St. Mungo’s pay grade into an administrative position.
Merlin help them all when that happened, he thought, Granger might start a third Wizarding War just for the hell of it.
Hermione knew about Johar, of course. She wasn’t an idiot when it came to hospital politics. She had turned down higher positions in the hierarchy more times than she could count, which meant that other -- less qualified-- people got positions with more power in the food chain than they should have. But accepting a position in administration took her out of the adrenaline inducing wards that she was more comfortable in.
She wasn’t broken , she told herself, she was merely a product of her environment. A good seed that didn’t get enough sunlight.
Hermione slammed her locker shut, pushed past Zabini, glared at Johar (who managed to glare back, barely), and swept into the floo in the staff breakroom. She gritted out her flat’s address and disappeared in a flare of green flames.
~
Draco Lucius Malfoy was many things. Ex-Death Eater. Felon. The Boy Without A Choice.. Auror. Curse-Breaker. Friend. Devoted Son (To one of his parents)... Gardener.
Gardener was a recent addition. Well, an addition of the last few years. Upon his release from Azkaban, he was required to complete two years of community service before he was able to reclaim his wand and begin his Auror course in France.
The choice of his community service was, graciously, left up to him. As long as he chose from Cultivation, Dragon Keeping, or Street Cleaning. Draco would not be caught dead cleaning the streets of Knockturn Alley. He was also fairly convinced that Charlie Weasley would find some way to “accidentally” feed him to a Hungarian Horntail. So, with the urging of his mother, he decided to commit to “Cultivation”.
The Cultivation Committee was created after the Second Wizarding War as a way to help feed Hogwarts and the rest of wizarding Britain. Formed like the Woman’s Land Army of the Second Muggle World War, volunteers and “unwanteds” were shipped out to the countryside to help grow crops, potion ingredients, and any other horticultural needs that the survivors of the war could think of.
Draco had been in Azkaban for two torturous years and the transition from sitting in a cell all day to hard manual labor was… uncomfortable. His hands sprouted blisters, his skin burnt to a crisp red, his unused muscles ached. However, his quasi-freedom under the sun began reforming his broken soul and spirit.
After his two years of mandatory community service, he regained his wand and wondered what he should do next. His time under the watery English sun repaired him enough to be a functional member of society, but not enough to make him.. Pleasant to other people. Narcissa tried to keep him in the Manor. Tried to bring him to Society Teas and tried to forget that the last few years never happened. The Azkaban runes tattooed on his neck, let alone the thing emblazoned, on his arm would never let him forget. And when he was at “society” (i.e. idiotic pureblood balls and parties that couldn’t be called as such) events his mother drug him to, he returned to his modus operandi: When you don’t have anything nice to say, let everyone around you know. He became known as hated in some circles and downright unpleasant in others.
So he ran to the closest “unpleasant” people he could find. The French. The Continent had little care for what had happened to the little island to the north over the last few years, so he was welcomed with the general hostility that every English person was greeted with. Not the outright hostility his last name, platinum hair, and forced tattoo he recived on the soil of his home country.
Despite moving to a new continent and his studies to become an auror, Draco found himself itching to plant something and watch it grow. He had begrudingly enjoyed working on the farm and missed the quiet days spent with dirt under his fingernails, watching seeds sprout.
So in his tiny Parisian apartment, he started small.
He started with tomatoes. And studying.
Eventually his tomatoes became peppers, zucchini, dittany, and shrivelfig.
His studies became Masteries in Auror Practices and Curse Breaking.
After two years on the continent, he returned to his homeland. Still unpleasant, but extremely marketable. Especially with so many items in Pureblood Vaults being reclaimed by the Ministry.
He was hired by the Auror department and was a subcontractor for the Department of Mysteries. His new position was thanks to, surprisingly, none other than Harry Potter. Who had originally, succinctly, contacted him when he was in France.
Oi, Prat.
We need your help, so get your pompous arse over here.
XOXO
The Boy Who Lived
So, Draco found a little cottage near the Manor, packed his plants, began working at the Minstry of Magic, and wondered what on Earth his life had become.