"Mr. Alphonse, you always manage to make me laugh with your jokes," exclaimed Amélie as she flipped the omelet in the pan.
"You think so? Well, I love being witty enough to hear that melodious laugh of yours—it fills my heart, giving me more life and the will to live," said Alphonse, seated elegantly at the dining table, sipping his tea with poise.
Alphonse never disappointed. He was the one who had taught me the art of wooing a woman back when I was at the academy. We had always kept in touch, and he would advise me on how to win over the girl I liked.
"My beautiful lady, I would love to keep talking to you about other matters, but it seems we have a little visitor," Alphonse said as he opened the door in front of me, revealing my pitiful outfit to them both.
"Good morning, my lord, it's such a pleasure to have you here. Breakfast is almost ready, so please take a seat," Amélie said brightly and politely.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Amélie. As always, you look splendidly beautiful."
At those words, she quickly glanced at Alphonse, her eyes misting as a joyful smile spread across her face.
"Thank you, my lord, it is an honor."
Alphonse looked at me, nodded, and smiled as he walked toward me.
"Keep it up, my lord, and all women will fall at your feet," he whispered in my ear, then headed back toward the kitchen, winking at me as he went.
Now that I thought of it, as a child, I had barely had any connection with anyone outside of Alphonse and Prik. I usually ignored or outright belittled the servants for various reasons—especially Amélie. Though she had always been cheerful, I had never cared for even the slightest contact with her. In truth, I had considered her an inferior being, for although she was born of magical parents and carried magical blood, she possessed no magical powers herself.
Such cases were rare in the wizarding world. These people were known as Squibs. Few Squibs had ever been documented. One of the most famous cases occurred in 1858: Angus Buchanan, who, despite being the son of magical parents, never received a Hogwarts letter. Somehow, though, he managed to reach the Sorting Hat before being exposed as a Squib.
Accounts tell that, in sheer desperation after sneaking into Hogwarts, he threw himself in front of a girl whose name had just been called and placed the Hat upon his head. The horror of the moment—when the Hat gently announced that the child beneath it was kindhearted but not a wizard—was never forgotten by those present. Angus removed the Hat and left the hall, tears streaming down his face. It had never happened before, and has never happened since. Angus's condition as a Squib caused him to be cast out from his family.
"Allow me to set the table," Alphonse said, pulling plates from the upper cupboard.
"As chivalrous and thoughtful as ever, Mr. Alphonse. Now I see where you learned your gentlemanly manners, my lord," Amélie said with a flirtatious smile toward him.
"There's no doubt I learned from the best."
Alphonse leaned toward Amélie and whispered something in her ear, which made them both glance at me.
"My lord has been… different all morning. Look me in the eyes and tell me nothing is wrong?" Alphonse asked as he came closer, laying a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm just happy to have you both with me, after everything that happened," I said, my eyes watering slightly.
"All right then, go fetch Prik. He must be hungry too—he's been working very hard."
I nodded and made my way to the back garden—the place where my mother had spent countless hours tending her flowers and vegetables. As a child, I had loved watching how her face glowed with peace and tranquility whenever she was there.
At least, that was how it had been. After the day everything changed, I never returned to that place—until later, when Alphonse persuaded me to go with him. Even then, I was afraid, unable to be there without her stroking my head and singing songs that radiated her immense love.
It was a side of her very few had ever known. That day, I thought everything would be lost, withered, rotten. I believed I would see only death among the things she had once nurtured, and even as a child, that thought broke me.
Alphonse had taken my hand and, without a word, led me there. My palms grew sweaty, fear tightening in my chest until my breath quickened and my vision blurred.
But then something changed everything—her voice, her song. It still echoed within that place. Tears poured from my eyes, my heart shattering as I thought for a moment she was there, that I might see her again—only to be devastated when I realized it wasn't so.
When I looked at Alphonse, his eyes were brimming with tears too. Part of me knew she would never return, but both of us felt, if only for an instant, that perhaps we could believe in such a miracle.
As I entered the garden, my eyes brightened and my mind settled. Among the flowers and plants, still vibrant with color and life, I caught sight of pointed ears. A small figure darted from place to place, watering can in hand. It was Prik, my mother's house-elf.
Prik had always been shy. He had been with us for as long as I could remember, but he had always avoided contact with anyone other than my mother. Until the day of her death. I had cried in my room for hours when he suddenly appeared before me. Without a word, he climbed onto my bed, looked into my red, weary eyes, and wiped away one of my tears with his finger. Somehow, I had stopped crying. Then he embraced me, and I drifted off to sleep, believing it had been nothing more than a dream.
But later, I saw him again in the garden, tending the plants my mother had once protected. The song came from a special plant that could mimic voices. And though for a moment I thought he would vanish again, he simply looked at me and continued watering the flowers in silence.
From that day on, I began visiting the garden more often. Prik grew closer too, until he would sit beside me to listen to the singing plant. In time, he became my confidant. I told him my troubles, and he even helped me with the odd adventure outside Beauxbatons Academy.
"Hey, Prik, how long have you been here?" I asked, brushing aside the leaves of some of the larger plants.
"M–my lord… is it t–time already?" Prik spoke timidly, pointing to the letter tucked in my jacket.
"That's right, Prik. The letter came today. What do you say—will you come shopping with me?" I said, pulling the letter out to show him.
"No! That wouldn't be w–wise, my lord. Someone as filthy as me would bring shame to the h–house, should I be seen at your side," Prik stammered, backing away slowly, wringing his hands with anxious unease.
"Calm down, Prik, I'm only joking. Do you think the hydrangeas will be ready this season?" I asked as I wandered further into the garden.
"Of course, my lord. I assure you they'll be the finest, just as the lady liked them," Prik replied, hurrying after me with quick little steps.
"I'm sure of it, Prik. My mother would be so happy to see how you've kept this place. You're incredible."
"…I only follow the instructions the lady left, my lord. I would never dare take credit for what is not rightfully mine," Prik explained, producing a hardbound journal adorned with a gardenia at its center.
"You always do this, Prik—deflecting any compliment, even though my mother trusted you from the very first day you came to her."
Prik fell silent and apparated near the gardenias—one of the hardest plants to care for, and my mother's favorite. That was his way of ending our conversation, as always—conversations that, though brief, were deeply meaningful.