Errand Rosemary for Remembrance Solo fin.

IC Date: September 7, 2019

a week after arriving at Hogwarts for the beginning of thee year, Clem notices that a poster asking for students to work in the garden that was a hold over from the summer. He hoped it was still applicable. After all, the first week of September sweltered just like the summer - before fall came and things would fall back into the traditional placid Scottish grey. And he needed something to do with himself; he constantly felt as if he was bursting at the seams with nervous energy. For one thing, he was tripping over things more often than he normally did, which was rather impressive. There was also that need to go out, to wander the grounds in a way that wouldn't get him in trouble, that would let him see it all without reprimand.

Which is how he found himself in the herb garden, the first weekend of the school year, his old jeans muddied and his hands in far too large gloves, clipping away at a rosemary plant. He hummed as he worked, pulling off enough stem cuttings of each rosemary plant, until there was enough to bind together and set to the side in a pile for drying. Back at home, there hadn't been a lot of space for garden. His family had lived in a small city flat, enough space for them and their books, and located close enough to the colleges that his parents worked at hey they were always rushing in and out. The closest thing they had to a harden was a small box in the window, which he had taken responsibility for.

That wasn't to say he didn't know his plants of course. His spare time had been spent lingering in botanical gardens, watching the gardeners work, and reading old books of plant lore and botany textbooks. It was almost a relief that the magical word and muggle world had similar meanings for plants. But at the same time it was a reminder of home and for the first time in a few days Clem felt that pang of longing for home, as he clipped away at rosemary and was reminded of his own scraggly plant back home. 

It was at this point that he decided that it was time to change what he was working on: rosemary brought out too many memories, and he had already put together a sizable pile for the kitchens (he hoped). Since he was a first year, he had been relegated to the mundane, non-magical plants - he wouldn't know what do with a magical plant even if it bit him (and it might just do that, he thought darkly). 

It was high noon at this point, and the sun beat down - fall had not yet come fully, and before he started his next task he pulled on a straw hat that had been shoved to the bottom of the basket of gardening supplies. It was thin, and it didn't stop him from sweating at the sun rose in the sky over him. But it provided some shade, and it meant that he wouldn't be burnt to an absolute crisp by this time tomorrow. He imagine himself coming into class beet red, and shuddered a bit. Then he began on his next task: planting.

Fall was a good time for herbs, you could plant the seedlings of important ones and they'd grow, bolstered by the warm start of fall, not burnt to a crisp by summer or suffocated by winter. And it was a simple process: dig a hole, break apart the roots, place the plant in gently, and cover with more soil. Then you just move down the row and repeat the process until all the of the plants have been taken care of. It was a pattern you could fall into, a calming rhythm, Clem thought. Gardening was a sort of constant. 

The seasons would change, plants would live and die and people would tend to them. And in tht tending lay a reminder that you exist, he thought to himself as he patted soil around the base of a young mint plant. It was easy sometimes for him to get stuck in his books and his head. You could get trapped in there, wondering after fictional concepts and imagined worlds. That was why he liked gardening he supposed. There was something to the tangible nature of the work: he could smell the soil, feel the sun on his back and the cold of the mud through his pants, could taste the refreshment of the mint leaves, and see the trail of plants he had cultivated. It was a reminder that outside of his head, the world still spun. 

He hoped, as he continued onward into the future, that there would be more chances to do work like this in the future - he needed that reminder, especially in a house full of people that had that same tendency o get swept up in the abstract. 

Slowly but surely, he had his way down the line of herbs, following the markers that had been placed. Somehow, he hadn't realized the delicacy of planting. Some plants couldn't be planted next to each other because one would kill the other, some flourished in proximity, and some could be planted willy-nilly. But as he planted, he began to notice these patterns and trends as he placed down cilantro and rosemary and thyme and mint and so many others. The scent of green filled his nostrils and the air, and aromatic cloud against the saline scent of sweat. And below the green lingered the smell of soil, a rich, almost indescribable scent, that spoke of growth and expansion and a deep will to live. But ultimately he game to the end of planting, and dusted the soil off of his gloves. There was only one thing left to do: weeding. 

Making his way down the row of plants, he hummed quietly to himself, reminded of a song his parent always put on in the summer, an ode to growth and warmth. Weeding was simple business, an act of slow moments and careful attention. As he went, he prayed that what he was weeding weren't the plants that he needed to keep safe. reaching the end of the line, he yanked off his gloves. That was the last of the work he had to do he thought. Looking around him, he collected his various tools, and the bundle of herbs. It was mid-afternoon now, and it had been a day well spent. 

Word count: 1092