Come into my pot.

I'm the tiniest in the hatchling. My twiglets are thin, my leaflets shrivelly, I'm barely holding onto my rootlets. They pushed me off to a neighboring shelf, farther away, as if I'm contagious or someplant. So now I just stand here all alone, withering in loneliness. I'm not angry, no, not at all, just a smidgy bit hurt that I was sprouted this way. Not a freak, mind you, just - other. Madame Sprout - she's our Gardeneress, quite sharpish, doesn't like to dither for long. She sees I'm withering, but didn't bother to poke about. It's not because I'm poorly that I'm withery, it just so happened. How was I to know you can't go a-feeling the bumps of the other lads from our hatchling? If I'd known, I'd have probably not gone bump-prodding. And for that she set me on the neighboring shelf. Now, it's undoubted I blundered, as sure as sure. When the far-right fellow invited me to his pot, I didn't even want to go. I thought, why him? But he says to me, - Hey, Tiny, scoot over, it's warm here. Warm, he says. My place is warm too, earth all comfy-crumbly. Why did I agree? Who nose. I guess I wanted some talk-talk, tired of all that sitting by my lonesome in the pot. So, off I crept from my little pot and over to his. Being two is, as it swirvily turns out, warmer. I even smiled at first, got a bit zesty. He squished me to himself right away, his stem all strong-not like mine. He throws his great big branches over me and whispers how lonely he is. I thinks, perhaps we're soul-twigs, both lonely at times. Didn't even notice, not at first, what he was up to down below with his bumpy. But then he's already grabbed me by my top rootlet and pressed my fringy hand to his bump, like it's meant to be so. The protrudelump's not small, my whole fringlet spread over it, tensed up, felt something (though I couldn't tell quite what), and each of my finger-rootlets twizzled all a-whirl. I got curious, got all intrigued, didn't pull my hand away. I'm petting him, and he's panting heavier in my earholes. He presses close, bends me over his mighty stem, twistles me with his big hands. I start stroking faster, or else he'll snap me for sure, easy-squeezy. And then-I feel he squirts right into my palm, and more, wet and plenty. Covered my whole palm-fringe, got some on my back even. Goodness! His branches relax right after, breath evens out. He lets me go and leans on the pot's edge, all satisfied. And me, all splattered, I freeze, clueless what to do, and he tells me: - Well, that's it. Crawl off. And me: - What, crawl off? Can't I stay here forever? Shooed me away. Sent me back to my own pot. So there I go, all wet, grimey (soil stuck to my back), back to my place. Come morning, he's told everyone I hop into anyone's pot at just a whistle. Always says yes, do anything asked. Spread it all over the shelves. From that moment, I started withering, like a sickling. Professor Sprout spritzed me with every mad concoction, trimmed my leafies, tillered my earth, but I wouldn't grow anymore, stuck in my bud-beginning. When we all first sprouted, I was like the others, stalk-lings with a whirligig on top. We all sat in one pot, what times! Talked, played. I felt quite usual, shared each woe, tasted life, proper plantwise. At night, well, sure, I'd twizzlesnuggle my whirligig with the rest - just because it's chilly. I do love a hug. But slowly they started to flinch away, like I'm doing something wrong. Drew lines in our sandbox: their land, my land. When the sand was swapped for dirt, they drew lines there too: where I could root-crawl, where it's sudden doom. That's first time I felt my growth slow- they already half-a-head above; me, still a li'l stem-bud, peeking just from the earth. When we were potted separately, we all got our adolescent pimples. The girlies from the neighboring shelf started peeking at us, giggling. The lads got all getting hot, and it was irked me. But I'm no fool; I get it. The girlies are pretty, even with their own pimples, with lush leaves and funny rootlets. That's when the thing with the far-right fellow happened. I don't know why he thought I'd do instead of a girlie. Maybe I looked at them too hungrily, who knows. The lads are a sight, not like me. My whole life got spoiled then. I even thought of sneaking out of the greenhouse into the forest and burying myself. To die. At night, the lads started inviting the girlies over. Gerls got bolder, twirling their rootlets confidently and dangling from the pot edges, enticing. Rustling their leaves, driving the lads mad, even funny. Once, they threw a big party; everyone crawled out of their pots and hopped to each other for hugs. I felt so hurt. The girlies can hug them, but I can't. And I withered even more; even my leaves started falling off. About a month later, the girlies bloomed between their leaves. Beautiful, like bells. The lads lost their heads, went mad all at once, but that's how it should be, so they don't turn on the brains and get to business faster. Time came to pot the girls with the boys. Madame Sprout cheerfully arranged us, pot to pot. The lads spread their branches, showing off their might; the girlies too, fluttering their leaves, giggling, exciting the lads to a bright blush on their stems. I went all quiet. Thought no one would be potted with me, but no, they did. She glanced at me, snorted, jingled her flowers, curled her top rootlets on her belly, and whispered to her friends in the neighboring pots: - Can you believe it? They potted me with a funny-boy! Our gardeneress must be blind! What seeds will come from him? None. I shrank, pressed to the pot's edge, sniffled quietly, stayed silent. A week later, my cohabitant took pity, realized I wasn't like this on purpose, and we started watching the lads together, discussing their features and how to please them. She liked the one in the center of the shelf, and I liked the neighboring one with big leaves. One night, my cohabitant got bold and crawled to her beloved's pot. In the morning, Madame Sprout saw this, huffed, but didn't repot the runaway back to me, probably realizing such a beauty had no business with me. And I was alone again, back to sadness. Doubts about me were gone; the gardeneress set me aside, but didn't stop watering. Still hoped for something. Midweek, students came to Madame Sprout's greenhouse; she was showing them how to pot girls in boyspot. Exactly so: girl in boypot, not the other. When a beauty is potted into a foreign pot, she agrees faster. It's a trick to speed up our seeding. In one's own pot, it's safer; you feel bolder, I know for sure. In my pot, I wouldn't touch someone else's bumps. That's certain. The students giggled, the mandrakes blushed (mandrakes are us-bushes potted around), and some boy glanced at me and asked: - Why's that one standing alone? Well, Madame Sprout answered him: - That one's unfit, - waved her hand at me, - Doesn't want to reproduce. The students giggled again; I was utterly ashamed, now afraid to look at my lads, knowing they despise me. Drooped my branches, curled my leaves, barely peeking from the soil, shut my eyes, trembling. And then one of the students grabs me (after the lesson ended and everyone left) and secretly places me on the shelf with my lads, right in the center. Took pity on me, kind-hearted. Even tucked me deep down so the gardeneress wouldn't spot me. How he ever twigged that I longed to be nearer the lads, I simply cannot tell, but after that move, I became more frightified. At night, I'm all trembling, fearing the lads will crawl out of their pots and give me hell. Snapping me would be a breeze. I see one already pulling his rootlets out of the pot, stretching his top roots, squatting on the lower ones, about to pounce on me. The very one I liked most. I shut my eyes tight, waiting for him to bury me in the ground, though glad the prettiest would be the one to end me. I already feel his strong top roots on my branches, squeeze my eyes tighter. He grabs me by the stem, pulls me out of the soil; I don't even squeak, and he wraps his leaves around me and drags me into his pot. Loosens the soil, tucks my roots deeper, covers me with branches, and rustles his leaves. - Sleep, - he says, - I won't hurt you. Don't be afraid. I peek one eye open, glance at the lads in the neighboring pots, they at me, at him, but say nothing, stay silent. I couldn't sleep till morning, staring at his big branches and roots, unable to believe they're so close. With one leaf, I dared to touch him just before dawn, ran the tip along his big body; he smiled in his sleep, nearly gave me a heart attack, and hugged me even tighter, but not painfully, pleasantly. In the morning, he suggested moving to my pot. Said: "It's conveniently placed; the gardeneress won't notice us in it." - What do you mean, move? - Well, move in with you, since we're together now. - Are we together now? - Yes, If you want. - I do, - I reply. Timidly, still can't believe it's true. That very night in my pot, he started stroking me. I got scared again, thought he was going to use me, and I couldn't go through that again, couldn't bear new mockery. I push his leaves away and say: - Am I your doormat? - Hey, what's up? I really like you, - he replies, - I didn't move in with you just for fun. - Who knows with you seeders, - I don't give in, - Maybe you're just bored. - Listen, - he sighs, - Just because things didn't work out with that weirdo doesn't mean all are the same. If I say I like you, then I do. - Seriously? - Yes. I don't like being compared to weirdos. - Sorry, - I apologize, - Won't do it again. He smiled, hugged me with his big body, kissed my neck (which goes straight into the body), and held me tight, touching nothing else. Well, I didn't sleep again that night, kept thinking why he didn't asked me to touch his bump. I would have stroked it. I know how now. Did I scare him? And I got scared too. Got all flustered. The next day, I crawled to that friend of mine, climbed to the top to chat. She had already moved to the maternity shelf, in a spacious pot. All plump, content. I sat next to her and said: - Rosalinda, share your experience. How many seeders did you have? - None of your business, - she frowns. But it's friendly, she's joking. - Spill it, - I say, - I need advice. - What kind? - Listen, I first put mine in his place, and now I'm afraid I overdid it. - You? Put in place? Oh, don't make me laugh. - I'm not lying. And now I'm afraid I overdid it. Unintentionally hurt him. Could it be he won't want to? Well... Intimacy. - Pfft, - my Rosalinda snorts, - He'll want to, alright. He's just biding his time. - For what? - To talk you into full intimacy. - Into what? - Oh, don't be silly. He needs to stick his pod into you. That's how it works with girls and boys. I don't know how it should be with two boys, but clearly, some hole needs to be made. And you've only tried stroking. - A hole? - Yep. - What if I don't want to make a hole? - I squeak, terrified. - That's why time is needed. Think about it. But... He won't wait forever. Either decide or send him packing. And stay alone, keep withering and drying up. - I don't want to keep withering and drying up, - I reply, offended. - Oh, you're such a fool, Rubicus! - laughs Rosalinda, - Go on, crawl back. And don't be afraid to be happy, got it? She shooed me away. Told me to get back to my pot. I returned to my lad on the shelf, buried myself in the soil, and snuggled up to him, to cuddle. But I'm scared. What is this hole? And where should it be made? Between the roots? What if it hurts? - Visited your friend? - Yes. - She's carrying seeds from my friend. Glycopalamus is his name. But he doesn't even greet me now. - Because of me? - I ask, frightened. Afraid to say another word, in case I blurt out something stupid and scare him away. - Because of what I turned out to be, - he sighs, - There are many of us "unfit for reproduction," we just hide. Even that weirdo. He didn't lure you into his pot for no reason. He liked you. But didn't dare stay with you. Coward. - Me? Liked? - Yes, you, - he chuckles, and touches my branches, - Have you even seen yourself? You're a looker! Me? Well, he's fibbing. Me, a looker? Pfft. That very night, I decided to touch his bump. Even if he's seducing me with his words, I don't care anymore. I wanted to believe in a miracle, just wanted to! I reached for his roots, parted the soil, found his bump, and started stroking, to make it swell. My heartlet (or whatever I have inside) fluttered, I exhaled nervously, and pressed closer to him, tighter. He smiled, pressed back, and started feeling for my bump. I was so surprised, didn't expect him to stroke me too, blushed even more, and my heart pounded like mad dash. We crawled out of the soil a bit, to be more comfortable; he had already stroked me all over, and I felt my sap flowing through my stems, like a glow, and gathering at my bump. I looked at his lower roots, saw that it wasn't just a bump anymore, but a whole stem, a pod! I grabbed it with my little fist, stroked up and down, tugged the tip a bit faster, and then down again. Remembered how Rosalinda told me in the evenings how to use my mouth. I knelt, and started sucking. That pod. Then I looked at my bump, and there was the same stem between my roots, trembling. Phlebus (my lad) suddenly grabs me by the stems, pulls me up, kisses me on the mouth, and strokes my stem with his big hands; I felt so good from this, hot. The sensations were bright, waves of goosebumps ran through me. The last one, that one was like a tsunami, huge, bright. My sap squirted out, right onto his chest. Then he sprayed me all over too. All my leaves, branches, everything all. We both fell asleep, wet, happy. That was the first time I felt happiness. And even grew a bit overnight. The next morning, Madame Sprout finally discovered us. All nervous, they had some pre-exam check at school, I don't know. All the teachers worry more than the kids, driving themselves crazy. She saw us, gasped, and started pulling us apart. We clung to each other, intertwined our roots, grabbed each other with branches, but nothing worked. Our Gardeneress pulled us apart, scattering us back into separate pots once more. And as if that weren't enough, she tucked me away again upon the farthest shelf, farther from everyone - lonely as ever. - If you spoil my seedersboys, I'll dispose of you! - she declared. And so I stayed there, standing all alone and rather wilted. I didn't even lift my gaze to the Phlebus shelf! I knew what I'd see. Oh, I knew he was already giving his fine seeds to someone else up there! And my poor heartlet bled and bled. Once again, I shriveled up, my leaves went limp, my twiglets all curled and frail. On the third night, I felt I would die soon, but I didn't want to die without telling him the most important thing. No way. I crawled out of my pot and, with my last strength, climbed the walls to get to the seedersboys shelf. Clinging with my fringes, my little roots trembling. Barely made it up, caught my breath, looked. I see my lad standing aside, also withered, gaunt. Just like me, all unhappy, forgotten. I crawl up to him and, with my last strength, whisper: - Forgive me, for being such a-so-and-so-poor-thing who chanced to meet a you-so-glorious-and-wondrous. If not for me, none of this... He grabs me, hugs me, kisses me even more than ever, and drags us both off that shelf we hated. The other seeders started complaining that we were too loud, woke everyone up, but their girlies quickly shut them up, stood up for us. Phlebus and I smiled at them, the girlies, held hands, intertwined fringes, and crawled from the shelf to where my pot stood alone, to bury ourselves in it. We decided that if they separated us again, we'd crawl to the forest together. To die. In the morning, we both felt a bit better. Half the night we hugged each other from all sides. Though we didn't sleep, we were happy. Rubbed our bumps together a few times, and then I whispered in his ear that I didn't mind if he made a hole in me. He smiled and modestly replied that it was too early. First, we needed to defend our right to be together. A bit later, Professor Sprout came. She looked at us, was horrified, and started pulling us apart again. We clung tightly, held on. The lads from the seeders' shelf started placing bets, whistling. The girlies screamed, begged her to leave us alone. But she didn't hear them, didn't understand, pulled us in different directions, puffing. In the end, she grabbed the scissors. Wiped the sweat from her forehead, looked at us, and in her eyes-fiery flames. Truly demonic! Phlebus and I clung to each other, saying goodbye, and then a boy enters the greenhouse, the same dark-haired one. Looks at us and says: - Do you need an infusion from their leaves, or do you want everything by the rules? Professor Sprout looked at him, caught her breath, fixed her hair. - Oh, Mr. Potter! Did you forget something? You won't get credit from me for your pretty eyes. Go prepare. The boy frowned, looked at us again with his big green eyes, and smiled. - But look at their leaves, how swollen they are. He took a textbook from the desk, said he came for the textbook, not to beg for credit, and left. Professor Sprout exhaled, looked at our leaves with Phlebus, examined them, put the scissors aside, and left too, to recover and drink tea. Apparently, it dawned on her that she overworked herself, grabbing garden scissors without need. Phlebus and I were beside ourselves with joy. We threw a proper celebration, we did! By then, both of us had become rather accomplished crawlers - honestly, we could have given any seeders a run masterclass - so when dusk began to fall, we wriggled our way over to Professor Sprout's shelving, where rows and rows of elixirs basked upon an entire shelf. Of course, we didn't dare touch the bottles made from our own sap, but we did take a big bottle filled with fiery-looking liquid. The label said, plain as day, "Firewhisky Infusion." We hauled it out between us and dragged it right over to the Seeder Boys' shelf for everyone to try it. - Here, - we say, - Let's make peace. The lads didn't get it at first, then tasted it and, with fiery burps, had a blast. We invited the girlies too, had dances. By morning, not only our pot stood on our shelf, but about forty others were lying around. Everyone sprawled wherever, several bushes crammed into one pot, many lost their pots altogether and were now snoring loudly, twitching their roots. Professor Sprout looked at all this, sighed, waved her hand, and went on, preparing for exams. The night before the exam, Phlebus and I decided we'd make a hole. I know, it sounds awful, but it's not like making a painful wound or a sneaky graft; it means finding a groove and just deepening it a bit. I know, it sounds even worse. In general, the first few seconds are a bit painful, but then it's all good. As I suspected, the deepest fold in us mandrakes is at the bottom, where the body splits into two roots. The bump is in front (in boys), and the fold, where the groove is hidden, is in everyone, boys, girls; you can make a hole, or not, if you're a girl and don't plan to carry seeds. Phlebus and I decided we'd do it. Not for seeds, but for the sake of the cause. Night fell, it got dark. Phlebus and I returned to our pot after a walk around the greenhouse, said goodbye to friends, and buried ourselves in our soil. Phlebus loosened the soil for me, to make it softer, and I did the same under him. We hugged. I kissed him and felt him slipping his fringes between my roots, looking for the fold. I tensed, waiting for the inevitable, and he grabbed my lower roots and flipped me upside down. I got scared, didn't understand, grabbed his thighs, and trembled, waiting for what would happen next. He put my bump in his mouth and, with his top leaves, started feeling for my fold between the roots. Well, I didn't hesitate, started sucking his bump too, I know how now. And then he spat out my stem, lowered me a bit, spread my lower roots even more, and started licking the fold, right with his tongue. The seeders saw this, wrinkled their faces, the girlies, on the contrary, almost fell out of their pots. Those who were in pots with the lads started grabbing them by the leaves, screaming: - Look, you blockhead, how it's done! Remember! Phlebus and I didn't see this, we were busy. He'd already found that little hollow, curling one of his leaflets into the tubes and gently, ever so gently, nudging. The juices squirted out of my tiny fold, just a little, but enough to make the leaf move more easily up-down. I hummed and quivered, nearly breathless, clutching at the rim of our pot and letting out little sighs and whimpers. My own leaflets wandered, exploring his secret nook, slipping and curling and searching, too... And in my head, even my thoughts exploding! Then Phlebus pulls away, flips me over, lays me on the ground belly down, spreads my lower roots, and aims his stem at my fold. I feel there's already a hole, small, he hits it with his stem and enters. Slowly, to make it pleasant for me. And it is pleasant. Inside me, it's all sensitive; he reached my pulp. The sap starts bubbling again, heat spreads-it's a miracle! I'm twitching my roots, Phlebus feels he's about to squirt, decides it's too early, and again flips me all around, turns me over. I end up on my back. He leans over me, enters me with his stem again, almost throws my lower roots over his head, and strokes my little stem. I don't know where to go, it feels so good, magical. - Tell me when it's soon. - Uh-huh. Almost there. I answer him, but I don't understand what I'm feeling at all. Before, all the sap only flowed to the stem, squirted from there, but now I feel my new hole starting to glow, and not just that, but with all the colors of the rainbow! He's handling me both front and back. I didn't even have time to say that it's has come. Before I knew what was happening, I started spurting-all at once, from goodness knows where! My whole little stem was spraying, droplets splashing all over him, all down his broad, sturdy chest. When Phlebus saw this, he pulled his stem out of me, tugged it a bit, and sprayed me all over too. Even reached the far leaves, got on the wall behind our pot, and a bit on the shelf. Professor Sprout didn't notice the next morning. Thank goodness. Because that morning was the exam, or rather the pre-exam work. The students entered, sat down wherever throughout the greenhouse. Professor Sprout looked at them closely, opened the envelope with questions, wrote one on the board, and ordered the kids to prepare an answer. - You have thirty minutes. Begin. Phlebus and I looked at the kids, felt sorry for them. I spot him among the students-the dark-haired one with the kindliest heart. The boy pushes his glasses up his nose and glances sideways at another. And that other is a charming thing altogether-fair-haired, with great grey eyes that take up half his face-and I see, plain as day, that the dark-haired lad isn't just sneaking glances for no reason. They like each other, those two, just as Phlebus and I do. Right down to the very heart. Right to the most sensitive little pulp inside. The dark-haired boy slips a note straight into the fair boy's pocket and then squirms in his seat, fidgeting and fussing, clearly all nerves. The fair boy finds the note, unfolds it, reads-and turns as white as chalk. Professor Sprout spots it from the corner of her eye, probably thinking it's some sort of cheat-sheet, and in a moment she's swooping towards him, ready to snatch the note away. - What's that? - asks the professor, and points her finger at Phlebus and me. Professor Sprout is distracted for just a second- enough that the note vanishes into thin air. What was written on it, we'll never know, but it must have been something rather special, for the fair one's cheeks and ears turn the brightest shade of pink. Meanwhile, Phlebus and I are hugging out of the pot, leaves swollen, bloomed, lush, mighty... - That? - answered Professor Sprout, - Oh, those are unfit for reproduction, - she waved her hand, - One climbed into the other's pot, and now they can't be separated. Pity. Well, at least the leaves are swelling properly, and that's good! - and then, she snapped, - Don't get distracted! Write your papers! Botany won't learn itself! The kids stared at their parchments again and started scribbling with their quills, and I looked at those two boys for a long time after that, hugging my Phlebus, thinking: "They're still little, almost like I was when I first ended up alone in a pot and thought I was the loneliest in the world." Back then, I was sure nothing would shine for me in this world. And now, look! Beautiful, bloomed, leaves bigger than the largest seeder! In this life, I understood one thing-your pot can still surprise you. Yes, yes. If you're lucky enough to meet that one and only, and not be afraid to invite them into your pot. After which, not be afraid to ask them to stay with you forever, sharing the rest of your magical, such a wonderful life.