"Oh, what a diligent child! Of course you may but…"
Professor Sprout pressed a box of hazelnut chocolates into Sean's hand and gave her wand a flick. In an instant, the dirt and plant debris clinging to him vanished.
"Every year, there are young shoots who want to put down roots in the greenhouse. But few can endure the hard, repetitive work."
Her eyes twinkled with a hint of teasing as she tilted her head.
"I was thinking I might tell you a story."
"Professor could we… perhaps save that for another time?"
Bruce's face went scarlet, and Sean couldn't help glancing at him with curiosity.
"Yes, Mr. Dickinson," Professor Sprout replied warmly, her smile widening.
Leon and Piester, half-hidden behind a row of seedlings, burst out laughing.
"Oi, you two!" Bruce snapped, his embarrassment plain.
"Oh, did I laugh? Sorry just remembered someone rolling right out of the greenhouse…" Leon doubled over, his laughter growing louder.
"Piester, do you remember what he muttered in his sleep?"
"'Hitman Bean, Geranium, save me, Devil's Snare!'" Piester recited with innocent glee, and everyone chuckled softly at the memory. The atmosphere lightened at once.
"Alright, alright, I admit it greenhouses are dangerous and fascinating. They're also exhausting." Bruce threw up his hands in surrender, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.
"That's why so few wizards keep at it."
As he spoke, he looked seriously at Sean.
"Mm."
Sean nodded.
"I want to try."
His voice was quiet, but beneath it lay a steady stubbornness.
…
The truth was, the greenhouses were always short-staffed. Compared to the flashy spells of Charms, the dazzling transformations of Transfiguration, or the thrill of Quidditch, Herbology rarely appealed to anyone but a few hardy Hufflepuffs.
But even the hardworking, kind-hearted Hufflepuffs did not remain rooted in the soil forever much less spend their lives handling dangerous plants.
And so, while Professor Sprout agreed to Sean's request, the look she gave him was the same one she had once given to many eager Hufflepuffs: part admiration, part happiness, and a touch of helplessness for what might one day follow.
…
In the corridor outside the greenhouse, a long blue shorthand quill floated in front of Sean. It was an alchemical marvel of magical stationery: set upright on parchment, it would write notes automatically.
Sean had bought one for himself, mainly to help organise his thoughts and capture sudden flashes of inspiration.
Of course, wizarding stationery was outrageously expensive. The quill alone had cost him ten whole Sickles.
Still, Sean had gritted his teeth and paid.
No matter how difficult things are, I must study properly, he told himself.
Step 1: Learn to handle all the ingredients for the Boil Cure Potion.
The quill scratched busily across the parchment as Sean wrote down his goal.
Professor Sprout had granted his request. Only a short while ago, Bruce had shown him how to identify and prepare dried nettles. Next time, perhaps he could ask about processing other ingredients. He doubted Professor Sprout would refuse.
Once he mastered material handling, the next stage would be practice.
Heating, stirring, the precise timing those could not be learned from books. They had to be lived, attempted, and felt by hand.
But so long as he succeeded even once, the panel would secure that success.
The plan was solid.
Sean slipped the quill back into his bag just in time to hear Bruce's teasing voice.
"I remember our very first Herbology class. Most of us couldn't even tell the difference between ripe and unripe white mulberry it stumped nearly everyone."
He watched Sean's note-taking with a grin.
"Seems like you'll be showing off in the next lesson. Professor Sprout never holds back when it comes to rewarding first-years who prepare ahead. Extra points, guaranteed."
Extra points?
Sean didn't care much.
House Points would never win him a scholarship.
Professor McGonagall had explained that scholarship evaluations were decided by the Headmaster himself, based on a combination of academic performance and the professors' recommendations.
Headmaster Dumbledore was both fair and wise. Sean believed that as long as he met the standard, Dumbledore would not begrudge the six hundred Galleons.
It was Dumbledore, after all, who had approved his scholarship application without hesitation.
If it had been Headmaster Black, or someone like him, Sean thought wryly, I'd probably have to smuggle out the Azkaban starter kit and borrow money from some dark wizard instead.
The thought made him chuckle, though it was edged with the weight of his memories.
He remembered how, back at the orphanage, they had all been good at daydreaming. When the panel wasn't active and he could only lie weakly in bed, he too would drift into long silent fantasies.
It was then he learned that silence did not always mean there was nothing to say sometimes it simply meant no one cared to listen.
But everything had changed the day an owl smashed through the broken window with a letter.
From that moment, Sean had treasured the chance to study magic. Even if his talent was little better than rubbish, he was determined to turn it into something legendary.
…
"Oh, you probably don't yet realise how important the House Cup is," Bruce said with a faraway look. "But believe me it matters.
We don't mind the Great Hall being draped in other colours at the end-of-year feast… but Hufflepuff's yellow and black really do look the best, don't they?"
"Mm."
Sean nodded absently.
It was only then that Bruce noticed the boy at his side was wearing Ravenclaw blue.
He laughed awkwardly. "Ah ha well, blue and bronze are quite nice too."
"The yellow and black look very nice," Sean said seriously.
There was little time left before the first afternoon lesson. Sean tucked the hazelnut chocolate into his bag, waved to the older students, and turned toward the stairway that led up to the History of Magic classroom.
"Thank you, Senior Bruce. Goodbye."
Only his quiet voice lingered in the corridor as his footsteps faded.
"What a nice lad," Leon remarked with a faint smile. "Hard to believe he isn't a Hufflepuff."
"I don't know who it was who said Professor Sprout "
"Stop right there…" Leon groaned, lines of exasperation creasing his face.
Piester, beside him, only smirked. Clearly, he was used to their banter.
…
After leaving the greenhouses, Sean was already planning how best to defend himself against Professor Binns' legendary powers of hypnosis.
The Shrieking Shack's reputation aside, it had never truly been haunted. But Hogwarts itself was another matter. The castle was said to be the most haunted place in all of Britain.
There was no doubt about it. On these damp islands, wizards claimed that more ghosts could be seen and felt than anywhere else in the world.
In the wizarding world, ghosts were indeed called ghosts: translucent, three-dimensional echoes of dead witches and wizards, lingering in the world of the living.
Muggles could never become ghosts after death, and no sensible witch or wizard would willingly choose that half-existence.
Only those who "died with their eyes open" consumed by fear, regret, or attachment to the mortal world clung on.
And Professor Binns' own obsession was… lecturing from his textbooks.
Sean sighed. That much, he had already confirmed.