Seamus Finnigan grew up in the countryside. His mother grew amazing roses and swore with no magic. His father was from a farming family and took gardening very seriously. But Seamus didn't inherit their green thumbs; he'd needed all of Neville's help just to pass his herbology NEWT.
So when he and Dean moved to their country cottage he hadn't anticipated spending so much of his time in the garden. His sister Moira, a herbologist, had come to help him put some dittany at the entryway, a hybrid that she swore even he couldn't kill, and suddenly something about kneeling on his own land, sinking his hands into the soft soil, felt natural. He even bought a hat, gloves and a set of gardening tools. That fall he set out girdyroot, bouncing bulbs and tulips and during the winter he poured through seed catalogues, trading owls about the garden with a father who teased him about nesting and a mother who hinted about grandchildren.
In summer Seamus saw his winter plans coming to fruition. He was tending the flower bed in the sunny side garden when Dean come out of the house. He set aside his spade and gladly accepted the glass of lemonade on offer.
"It's beautiful out here," Dean said as he sat down on the grass.
"I just wanted to make the outside as nice as you've made the inside," Seamus said. "I must finally have the knack of keeping things alive."
Dean smiled. "Maybe the plants think you see enough death as it is," he replied.
Seamus looked at Dean from under his hat. "Yeah, maybe." He slid back on the cool grass to cuddle in Dean's arms. They sat and watched the daisies stirring in the breeze, white and green against their dark blue cottage.