"Oh, what a diligent little sprout—of course that's fine, but..."
Professor Sprout pressed a slab of hazelnut chocolate into Sean's palm, then flicked her wand,
and all the clinging leaves, petals, and soil vanished from his robes in a puff.
"Every year, a few eager new shoots want to take root in the greenhouses, but precious few stick it out through the endless, backbreaking toil."
Professor Sprout tilted her head, her gentle eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief,
"I reckon I could spin you a tale or two."
"Professor, could we save it for next time?"
Beside them, Bruce's face had gone tomato-red, drawing a curious glance from Sean.
"Certainly, Mr. Dickinson."
Professor Sprout's smile warmed even further.
Leon and Pist, half-hidden behind a seedling bed, burst into outright guffaws.
"Oi oi! You two!"
Bruce looked positively boiled over.
"Oh, did I laugh? Sorry—it's just, picturing someone tumbling head over heels out the greenhouse door gets me every time..."
Leon's chuckles swelled,
"Pist, remember his sleep-talking?"
"Hit me with those snapping beans, geraniums, save me, devil's snare!"
The stockier Hufflepuff mimicked in his earnest baritone,
and everyone shared a soft laugh, the air lightening like a charm.
"Fine, fine—I admit it, the greenhouses are dangerous and downright enchanting. And exhausting, mind."
Bruce threw up his hands in surrender, sighing.
"So not many wizards keep at it."
He said it with a steady gaze at Sean, utterly earnest.
"Mm."
Sean murmured,
"I want to give it a go."
His voice was soft, laced with that unmistakable stubborn streak.
...
The greenhouses were always short-staffed. Compared to the quick punch of charms, the lively twists of Transfiguration, or the thrill of Quidditch,
Herbology only ever drew in the hardworking sort from Hufflepuff.
Even those patient, kind-hearted Badgers didn't root themselves in the dirt forever,
let alone tangle with the perilous plants.
So Professor Sprout greenlit Sean's request all the same.
The way she looked at him? Same as those firebrand Hufflepuffs who'd come buzzing with zeal before—
a mix of admiration, delight, and that quiet resignation to whatever might come next.
In the corridor outside the greenhouse.
A long, blue Quick-Quotes Quill hovered before Sean—a clever bit of alchemy,
that, if stood upright on parchment, would scribble notes on its own.
Sean had splurged on just the one, mainly to sort his thoughts, jot down sparks of insight.
Worth mentioning: wizarding stationery didn't come cheap. That quill had set him back a full ten Sickles.
But he'd gritted his teeth and bought it anyway.
Study hard, no matter the cost,
Sean thought.
[Step One: Master processing methods for every ingredient in the Cure for Boils]
The quill scratched across the parchment with a faint scritch-scratch, as Sean inked in his current goal.
Professor Sprout had signed off,
and just minutes ago, Bruce had walked him through spotting and prepping dried nettles.
Next time, he could ask about the rest—Sprout wouldn't turn him down, he figured.
Once he had ingredient handling down pat, practice was next.
Fire control and stirring? No book tricks there—just feel it out.
But one solid success, and he could grind the rest via the system.
Plan's solid.
Sean tucked the quill into his bag, Bruce's teasing lilt drifting in his ear.
"I remember our first Herbology lesson—sorting ripe dittany stumped half the class,"
he eyed Sean's note-taking with real interest,
"Looks like you'll shine next go-round.
Sprout doesn't skimp on house points for keen first-years who prep ahead."
House points?
Sean barely registered it.
Points wouldn't clinch his scholarship.
McGonagall had said the award hinged on the Headmaster's call—blending his progress with staff appraisals.
Headmaster Dumbledore was fair-minded, wise as they came,
and Sean trusted that if he hit the mark, Dumbledore wouldn't hold back those six hundred Galleons.
It was Dumbledore, after all, who'd rubber-stamped his application without a blink.
Swap him for some Black family headmaster, and Sean'd be grinding the Azkaban trio, begging black wizards for loans.
Hogwarts Legacy stuck in his mind—
one line everyone parroted:
"Voldemort's terrifying because he slaughtered hundreds with his own hands."
...
"Ahem, and the day after?"
Sean's thoughts wandered. The orphanage had honed them all in the art of staring into nothing,
back when the system lay dormant and he could scarce lift his head from the pillow.
That was when he'd truly grasped it: some silences weren't from lack of words, but from no one bothering to listen.
All that flipped the morning that owl smashed through the drafty window.
So Sean treasured every scrap of magic he could grasp. White-trash talent or no, he'd grind it legendary.
"Oh, you lot probably haven't clocked how big a deal the House Cup is yet,
but trust me—it's massive.
We wouldn't mind the Great Hall banners draped in rival colors at the end-of-year feast,
but Hufflepuff yellow-and-black looks sharper, doesn't it?"
Bruce gazed off dreamily.
"Mm."
Sean nodded, and only then did Bruce clock the Ravenclaw trim on his robes.
He let out a dry chuckle:
"Ha—I mean, blue-and-bronze is cracking too."
"Yellow-and-black looks great."
Sean said it straight-faced.
Time was ticking toward afternoon's first bell; Sean pressed the chocolate into Bruce's hand
and veered into the stairwell for History of Magic.
"Thanks, Bruce—see you."
His small voice echoed down the hall.
"Solid kid. Hard to believe he's not a Badger."
Leon watched Sean's retreating back, chuckling soft.
"Wonder who it was said: Professor Sprout..."
"Don't..."
Leon's face fell into a scowl.
Pist just grinned, used to it by now.
...
Clear of the greenhouse, Sean turned his mind to fending off Professor Binns' lullaby.
Sure, the Shrieking Shack's "hauntings" were all hot air, never a proper ghost in sight,
but Hogwarts? Undeniably the spookiest spot in Britain.
No two ways about it—these misty isles brimmed with more specters than anywhere else on earth, or so they said.
In the Harry Potter world, ghosts went by "specters" too,
ethereal, three-dimensional imprints of departed witches and wizards, lingering in the land of the living.
Muggles couldn't turn spectral post-mortem; no sensible witch or wizard would choose it either.
Only the "dead not done" sort balked at the veil beyond—out of fear, guilt, or sheer fixation on the material plane.
And Professor Binns? His hang-up was droning through the textbook.
Sean was certain of it.