Holly & Yew

C42

Chapter 42: You like Potato, I like Po-tah-to

They gardened in the mornings when the sun was still weak. London summers were relatively mild, but living in the Slytherin dungeons for most of the year had lowered Harry's and Tom's tolerance for the heat.

The radio spat out a burst of static before the cloyingly familiar advert began playing: "Do you ever find your long wait has been useless? The supplies of what you want have run out before your turn comes? It's not the greengrocer's fault. It's up to you." Triumphant music swelled. "Dig for victory. There's a bit of ground waiting for—"

Tom snapped the radio off with an irritated cluck of his tongue.

"They make growing a vegetable garden sound so easy," Harry complained, unearthing a carrot that was literally the size of his finger.

"It's propaganda, love," Tom said, harvesting his own tiny carrot. "If the people go hungry, it's just a way to blame it back on them."

"Is it really?" Harry argued half-heartedly, sitting back on his heels. "I've heard victory gardens are helping to feed a lot of people."

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"That may well be true, but the architecture of the machine is still present. Take Potato Pete for example. What is he other than a propaganda icon?"

"A total dandy," Harry answered immediately. Potato Pete was the main character of the leaflet series for the Victory Gardens. Along with Dr. Carrot.

Tom blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry flushed, feeling silly.

"You know, a dandy," Harry repeated. "Spiffy outfit. Dapper shoes. Fancy cap. Winsome smile."

Tom's eyes darkened abruptly.

"Winsome smile?"

"You have to admit he's pretty cute," Harry insisted.

Tom let out a sharp, derisive scoff.

"If I ever crossed paths with Potato Pete, my supper that evening would be mashed potatoes," Tom said, murderously stabbing his spade into the ground. "Then I would boil his skin overnight for a nice broth."

"My god. What did he do to you?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.

"I'm immune to propaganda, Harry," Tom answered. He violently hacked at a weed like it was Potato Pete's face. "This is what integrity looks like."

Harry gave Tom a concerned look before turning back to the garden bed.

The next carrot he pulled up was barely more than a nub.

"This feels pointless," Harry said, flopping onto the ground to measure the baby carrot with his pinky.

"Then let's not do it," Tom suggested.

Harry sighed, unwilling to abandon his chosen task for the morning.

"At least they did most of the planting in spring," he said, trying to be optimistic. He wiped the sweat from his brow, accidentally getting dirt on his forehead.

Tom made a noncommittal hum.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, reaping the depressingly small (but actually sort of cute if they weren't meant to be dinner) carrots and uprooting weeds as they came across them.

"I will name you Maurice," Harry told a stumpy, bifurcated carrot. It looked like it had two tubby legs. Harry patted the carrot's leaves.

"Harry, don't do it," Tom warned. "You won't be able to eat him."