Over the next week, Juniper tried not to think about
the party at all. It wasn’t the best coping mechanism, but it would have to do.
Whenever she tried to think about it, she felt sick and dizzy. What would she
wear? What would she say? What if the Minister himself looked at her like the
wizard in Diagon Alley? She had heard that Shacklebolt was a kind and caring
man, but he always looked so intimidating and serious in his photos in the
Daily Prophet. To be looked at like that by someone like that, Juniper thought,
would be just as effective as the Killing Curse at ending her life on the spot.

She couldn’t even talk to Delia about it. She knew
that Delia was convinced that this whole fiasco would be for Juniper’s own
good. She couldn’t act ungrateful, or spoil Delia’s dreams of raising her
friend’s self-esteem. She couldn’t bear the thought of making Delia feel like a
bad friend, and so simply resolved to ignore her, as well. It would be far
better to ignore her than it would be to insult her.

Besides, thinking about Delia made Juniper think
about the party, and thinking about the party made Juniper want to transfigure
herself into a tree on the spot.

She turned for comfort to the only place she could:
her greenhouse.

Plants never misunderstood her. They never tried to
help her and only succeed in making her feel worse than before. They never
threw her into uncomfortable social situations in the hope of making her come
out better than she went in.

She checked the moist soil of her Rat Root, giving
it plenty of water. She placed its pot on a higher shelf, catching even more
sunlight than it had before. She could smell its gingery scent as she moved it,
and the scent helped to calm her. She thought of all of the potential such an
unassuming-looking plant had. Perhaps she could ask Delia to make a tonic from
it, to calm her nerves before the party?

No,
she thought, shaking her head as she backed away from the Rat Root. I can’t think about that right now. I just
can’t.

She turned to a far less nice-smelling plant, examining
the large pot containing her prime specimen of Gurdyroot. It was a very nice
individual, with a stem about fifteen centimeters in diameter. She watered it
and set it in the sun, putting a small amount of Dragon dung to ensure that the
soil would have the proper nutrients. She pulled her wand out of the wand
pocket of her robes, casting a quick protective charm around the plant. While
she didn’t see any harmful bugs in the greenhouse, it was still far better to
be safe than to be sorry.

Without even a hint of fear, she turned to another
pot hidden in the shade. Her Aconite was growing very nicely. She felt the soil
through her thick dragon-hide gloves, and was satisfied at by its fluffy
texture and dark color. Even with the gloves, she had double-checked earlier
that morning that she didn’t have any open wounds on her hands. She was skilled
enough at raising plants that she did not fear the Aconite, but she still took
all of the necessary precautions before handling it. Professor Sprout had
always taught her that there were two kinds of Herbologists: careful
Herbologists and dead Herbologists. She had always taken that lesson to heart,
and so she had always remained the first kind.

She readied a watering can with salty water as she
turned to her Wormwood plant. It was almost two meters tall, she noted proudly,
and she watered it easily. Wormwood was not a difficult plant to care for, and
not terribly demanding. She gently fingered its leaves through her gloves, her
thoughts straying elsewhere.

She thought of her childhood Potions classes, and
what a horrible nightmare they had been. She remembered how easy brewing even
complicated potions, such as the Draught of the Living Death, had been for
Delia. Professor Snape had been impressed with her, and awarded countless
points to Slytherin for her good work. Juniper, on the other hand, had always
managed to lose points for Hufflepuff. She didn’t understand it. She could grow
Wormwood so easily, but to use it in a potion seemed almost completely
impossible for her.

But then, she remembered how Delia had managed to
kill even easy-going Wormwood in their Herbology class.

Juniper walked in a slow circle around her
greenhouse, appreciating the beauty of each of her individual plants. They were
all so different from one another, but they were all so interesting. From the
towering Knotgrass to the unassuming Gillyweed, from the fussy Dittany to the
vivacious Wormwood, from the calming Rat Root to the toxic Aconite—each plant
was important, and each plant was exciting. More importantly, each plant was
loved. They were all her babies, and she was so proud of all of them.

Still, underneath her pride, Juniper couldn’t help
but feel her anxiety.

What
do I have to do to make other people see what I see in these plants?