The Hufflepuff common room was covered in plants. Draco wasn’t certain whether this was due to the current Head of House’s position, or whether it was a Hufflepuff tradition stretching back through the years—perhaps as far as to the Founder herself. Either way, it had been irritating at first—the mess, the dirt, the trailing vines that were perpetually in the way no matter what you were trying to do—but he had adapted. He had adapted to a lot of things in the last couple months.
Now a small plant of his own rested on his bedside table. Alocasia Medeis, the “Regal Shield of Magic .” He thought if he was going to have a plant, this one was fitting, worthy of the Malfoy name . The leaves were deep green and veined with silver, broad and sturdy, and they glowed softly in the evening, leaving him without the need for a reading lamp.
He’d been spending more and more time working with plants, lately.
After his first talk with Professor Sprout, he’d gravitated back to the greenhouse almost unwillingly, his feet pacing the well-trodden path across the grounds of their own accord. Professor Sprout never tried to ask him what he was doing there, and never pressed him to make conversation. He might’ve left if she had, might have avoided the greenhouse in quiet stubborn resistance. But she only smiled at him, and then went about her work, letting him join her or watch quietly as he saw fit. After the first few visits, she started leaving out a second pair of gardener’s gloves; black stitched through with gold. They fit him perfectly.
He wasn’t sure what his parents would think about his newfound hobby. He wasn’t sure what they’d think about a lot of things he’d done lately, actually. Soon he would be going home for the holiday break, and he was carefully editing his stories about Hogwarts in his mind.
He wasn’t going to lie to them. He just didn’t think they needed to know everything about his new housemates, like how even though some of them were halfbloods and mudbloods, they were actually alright, most of the time. Or about how he was spending his evenings these days, up to his elbows in dirt in the greenhouse with Professor Sprout a soothing quiet presence in the background. Or how his second-best subject, after Potions, was Herbology. Not that there was anything wrong with Herbology—he knew his parents wouldn’t think so—just that it was something for other people to do, people without illustrious careers, people who weren’t occupied with shaping the future of the wizarding world. Or else it was an acceptable hobby for the wealthy eccentrics of noble families who needed to occupy their time by dabbling. But not as an earnest pursuit, not for the scion of the Malfoy family.
His eyes drifted over toward his plant again.
Professor Sprout had given it to him a week ago, after he’d helped her propagate a whole set of them. Looking at it now, flourishing because of his own work and skill, gave him a flush of pride. He had done that. He’d made something amazing.
It felt different than the pride he had in his father, in himself for being a Malfoy. Somehow this was earthier, more raw and less refined, and it lingered somewhere deeper in himself. Instead of an urgent, burning pride inside him that he fought every day to live up to, this was grounding and solid and satisfying .
The plant glimmered at him, soft white light running through gossamer veins. One wide leaf wafted itself gently in his direction.
“I’m fine,” he whispered back to it. Plants liked to be talked to, Professor Sprout had told them during class one day. Magical plants even more so than most. The leaf wavered a little, clearly doubting him.
“Really,” he insisted. He regarded his plant for a moment. He hadn’t done anything so pedestrian as name it, of course. It wasn’t a pet. Just a plant.
But it was his plant.
“Do you like it down here?” he asked it. Plants liked light, after all. The Hufflepuff common room was comfortably cozy, resembling the badger den of the House mascot, but the windows weren’t large. The entire dorm felt rich and loamy nonetheless, and the students’ cats were never shy of finding patches of sun and curling up for a doze or stretching themselves out by the comfortable hearth. But Alocasia liked lots of sun, and he wasn’t sure the soft light that suffused his rooms was enough – what was sufficient for cats might not suffice for other living things.
The plant stretched—there was no other word for it. Its leaves tilted upward and flared out, just a little. The glow grew brighter for a moment, happy and warm.
“Okay,” Draco said. He rolled back over to stare at the ceiling again. A soft rhythmic noise interrupted as water droplets struck the windows. He tucked his feet under the blankets. The weather was growing chilly, and the warm summer rains were long since past. Snow would come soon, and bury the castle in white.
“I’m going to leave you with Professor Sprout over the winter hols,” he said. The light dimmed slightly, and he scowled. “It’s not my fault. I just don’t think it would be a good idea to take you home, is all.”
“Are you talking to someone?” Smith’s voice was curious, not accusing, but his prying irritated Draco anyway.
“No!” he snapped back.
“Wait. Are you talking to your plant?” Macmillan was still awake too, and just as nosy.
“What?” Hopkins’ voice was bleary with sleep. “Wassgoinon?”
“Go back to sleep, Hopkins,” Draco said. “Nothing’s going on.”
“I think you should name it,” Smith said conversationally.
“Oh, the plant?” Hopkins said, sounding marginally more awake.
“Go back to sleep,” Draco said grumpily, but no one was listening.
“Is it a he or a she?” Even Finch-Fletchley was in on it now. “For naming, I mean.”
“It’s a plant,” Draco said. “It’s neither. And its name is Alocasia Medeis. That’s what it is.”
“That’s not a name, it’s a species.” Hopkins slid back his curtains to regard the plant thoughtfully. “It glows. You could name it for that? Something fancy, in Latin?”
“I think it should be something overdramatic. It would suit you.” Smith’s wit was cutting even when it was teasing, and Draco scowled.
“It wouldn’t be overdramatic, it would be regal. Because it’s a Regal Shield plant. And because it’s only right that it should have a regal name.”
“So you are going to name it?” Macmillan asked, and Draco realized the trap he’d just walked himself into.
“I’ll think about it,” he said. The others, satisfied, retreated back into their own beds. Draco sighed.
“I’ll think about it,” he said again, quietly, to the plant. Its leaves brightened a little, and he reached out his hand to let one finger trail slowly over its stem.
“Goodnight,” he told it quietly. Then he rolled over and pulled the covers up over his head and fell asleep to the gentle patter of the rain.