Of Hatred and Hidden Things
“Can I help?”
Minerva looked up from her perusal of various magical blooms and met the curious eyes of the owner. She smiled wryly.
“Hello, Miss Granger,” she said. “Capable as you are, I doubt it. I imagine most of your customers like the people they’re buying flowers for.”
“Well, you’d probably be surprised… what exactly are you looking for?”
“Something that has the same sort of message as venomous tentacula, except prettier and less likely to land me in Azkaban,” Minerva replied dryly.
“Oh?” Hermione asked with a chuckle. “So something that looks lovely, but secretly says ‘I’ve always hated you’?”
“Perfect,” Minerva agreed. She hesitated, then reminded herself that Hermione had long since ceased to be a student. In fact, she had been twelve years into a ministry career and the favourite for Minister of Magic when she’d filed for divorce, vanished abroad for three years, and resurfaced only a months ago with her own herbalist and florist on Diagon Alley, where most of her business involved supplying Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
“If you must know,” she said finally, “Sybill is retiring. She deserves something non-alcoholic and showy to go with the rest of her leaving gifts, but I like neither the woman, nor her subject.” She crinkled her nose in distaste.
Hermione burst out laughing. “Something we have in common,” she said merrily. “What about these?” She began pointing out various blooms and bunches, explaining the meaning of each flower and its origins. There was the depth of knowledge Minerva was used to from the girl, and the passion - but a lightness, a freedom, she’d never seen before.
“That’s perfect,” Minerva said finally, holding in her hands a strikingly bright bouquet which looked the part, but apparently conveyed - to those who knew - a splash of gratitude, a heavy dose of scorn, a sprinkling of sarcasm, and a dash of dislike.
Hermione snorted. “I never expected you to be so… devious,” she said. “I rather expected the great Minerva McGonagall to purchase flowers without considering the meaning and turn the other cheek on the occasion of a long-time colleague’s retirement.”
“Pomona is the only one who may know, and she’ll be highly amused,” Minerva replied with as much dignity as she could muster.
“If you say so,” Hermione sing-songed, and waved away Minerva’s attempts to pay. “You’ve paid dividends in amusement, I’ll be laughing about this for weeks.”
“Well, thank you,” the elder witch said graciously. “It is good to see you, Hermione.” She inclined her head formally and Disapparated.
Hermione watched her go, the smile sliding from her face. There went the Headmistress of Hogwarts - the reason Hermione could never have been Minister. The reason her marriage had failed.
“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered. “But I hate you a little bit too, for being so utterly out of reach. And I hate myself, for lacking the courage to tell you anyway, and take a risk.”
In a burst of inspiration, she began flitting through the shop, selecting flowers to send to the castle to say exactly that. She’d been living with unrequited love for long enough that she was ready, no matter the outcome, to share it - for she had nothing to lose except that kernel of bitter resentment glowing like an ember in her heart.