"Oh, what a hardworking kid! Of course, that's no problem, but…"
Professor Sprout placed a box of hazelnut chocolates in Sean's hand, then flicked her wand. In an instant, the grass, leaves, and dirt clinging to him vanished.
"Every year, a few sprouts try to take root in the greenhouse, but not many can handle the repetitive, tough work," she said, tilting her head slightly. Her warm eyes sparkled with a hint of teasing. "I think I could tell you a story."
"Professor, maybe next time?" Bruce, standing nearby, was red-faced and clearly embarrassed, catching Sean's curious glance.
"Alright, Mr. Dickinson," Professor Sprout replied, her smile growing even warmer.
From behind the nursery, Leon and Pister burst out laughing.
"Hey, you two!" Bruce, now practically glowing red, snapped.
"Oh, did I laugh? Sorry, I just can't help it when I think of someone scrambling out of the greenhouse on all fours," Leon said, laughing even harder. "Pister, remember his sleep-talking?"
"'Whomping Beans, Geraniums, save me, Devil's Snare!'" Pister, the slightly chubby Hufflepuff senior, mimicked with a goofy grin.
Everyone chuckled softly, and the mood lightened.
"Alright, alright, I'll admit the greenhouse is dangerous and fascinating—and yeah, exhausting," Bruce said, throwing up his hands in surrender. "So, not many witches or wizards stick with it."
He looked at Sean, his expression serious. "But you…"
"Mm," Sean replied softly, his voice carrying a quiet stubbornness. "I want to try."
…
The greenhouse was always short on hands. Compared to the direct thrill of Charms, the lively fun of Transfiguration, or the heart-pounding excitement of Quidditch, Herbology only ever drew the hardworking Hufflepuffs. Even then, most Hufflepuffs didn't stay buried in soil forever—especially not when it meant handling dangerous plants.
Still, Professor Sprout agreed to Sean's request. She looked at him the same way she'd looked at other eager Hufflepuffs over the years—with appreciation, joy, and a touch of resignation about what might come.
Outside in the corridor, a long blue Quick-Quotes Quill hovered in front of Sean. It was a magical alchemical creation that automatically scribbled notes when placed on parchment. Sean had splurged on one, despite its hefty price of 10 Sickles, to help organize his thoughts and jot down ideas.
You can't skimp on learning, he thought.
[Step One: Learn how to handle all ingredients for the Boil-Cure Potion]
The quill scratched across the parchment as Sean wrote his current goal. Professor Sprout had already approved his request, and just moments ago, Bruce had shown him how to identify and prepare dried nettles. Next time, Sean figured he could ask about the other ingredients—Sprout wouldn't say no.
Once he mastered handling the materials, it'd be time to practice. Books couldn't teach you about controlling the flame or stirring just right—that came from experience. But if he succeeded once, he could grind it out with his system panel.
The plan was solid.
Sean tucked the quill into his bag as Bruce's teasing voice broke through. "I remember our first Herbology lesson, trying to tell ripe dittany apart—it stumped half the class," he said, eyeing Sean's notes with interest. "Looks like you'll shine in the next lesson. Sprout's generous with points for students who study ahead."
Points, huh?
Sean didn't care much about those. They wouldn't help him win a scholarship. Professor McGonagall had explained that scholarships were decided by the headmaster, based on academic progress and professor evaluations. Headmaster Dumbledore was fair and wise, and Sean trusted that if he met the criteria, Dumbledore wouldn't hesitate to award the 600-Galleon prize.
Dumbledore had approved his scholarship application without a second thought. If it'd been someone like Headmaster Black, Sean might've had to grind out an Azkaban-worthy hustle to borrow money from dark wizards.
Sean's mind wandered to Hogwarts Legacy, where a popular saying went: "Voldemort was terrifying because he killed hundreds with his own hands."
"Yeah, and what about the next day?"
Back at the orphanage, everyone was good at zoning out. When Sean was still bedridden, his system panel inactive, he'd done the same. That's when he realized some silences weren't about having nothing to say—they came from no one caring.
Everything changed when that owl crashed through the leaky window.
That's why Sean treasured his chance to learn magic. Even if it was "white trash" magic, he'd grind it into legend.
"Oh, you lot probably don't get the House Cup's importance yet," Bruce said, his eyes gleaming. "But trust me, it's a big deal. Sure, we don't mind if the Great Hall's decked out in another house's colors for the end-of-year feast, but Hufflepuff's yellow and black are obviously the best, right?"
"Mm," Sean nodded.
Bruce suddenly realized the kid next to him was a Ravenclaw. He gave an awkward laugh. "Ha, I mean, blue and bronze are great too."
"Yellow and black are nice," Sean said earnestly.
With the afternoon's first class approaching, Sean handed the hazelnut chocolates back to Bruce and turned toward the staircase to the History of Magic classroom. "Thanks, Bruce. See you later."
His quiet voice echoed faintly in the corridor.
"Not a bad little wizard," Leon said, watching Sean disappear. "Hard to believe he's not a Hufflepuff."
"And who was it that said, 'Professor Sprout…'" Pister teased.
"Shut it," Leon groaned, his face darkening.
Pister just grinned, unfazed.
…
Leaving the greenhouse, Sean now had to brace for Professor Binns' sleep-inducing lectures. Despite rumors about the Shrieking Shack, it was never haunted. Hogwarts, though, was undeniably the most haunted place in Britain. These damp islands were said to have more ghosts—or at least, more sightings—than anywhere else in the world.
In the Harry Potter world, ghosts were called spirits: transparent, three-dimensional imprints of deceased witches and wizards lingering in the living world. Muggles couldn't become ghosts, and most sensible wizards didn't choose to either. Only those who "couldn't rest in peace"—due to fear, guilt, or attachment to the material world—stayed behind.
And Professor Binns? His attachment was reading the textbook aloud.
Sean was certain of it.