It all clicked into place.
Sean checked his timetable again.
[Ravenclaw First-Years: Monday morning: Potions, Potions; Monday afternoon: History of Magic. Note: First-year classes run Monday through Friday, mornings 9:00–12:00, afternoons 2:00–3:30]
Hogwarts' first-year schedule was a breeze—no classes after half-three in the afternoon.
Which meant it all hinged on the students' self-starters.
After demolishing half a roast chicken at the Great Hall table,
Sean's cheeks bulged as he chewed. Herbology wasn't Potions; sure, there were dodgy plants aplenty,
but Sean could steer clear of the perils, grinding proficiency on the safe sorts—
fluxweed or daisies, say.
Provided...
he could track down Professor Sprout and convince her to let him into the greenhouses,
maybe as a general dogsbody.
Just then, a gaggle of older Hufflepuffs ambled past, their banter snagging Sean's ear.
"Pick up the pace—Professor Sprout's prepping for the first-years' intro lesson today; we've got a bit of work ahead."
"Same every year. I don't mind lending a hand with the herbs,
just hope we skip those serrated three-leaved beasts this time. You know what those are?"
"Ha?! You sneezed for three weeks straight and never bothered looking 'em up?"
"I figured you lot were hexing me behind my back."
"We were cursing you, sure—but no one's got the stamina to slag you off for three weeks straight. Much like you can't hold a crush that long."
"Oi! Can we not with the ribbing every time..."
"If you hadn't slipped itching powder in our hats and knick—"
"Heh, say no more—I was wrong."
As the three Hufflepuff lads drew level, Sean shot to his feet, popping his head over the table.
"Serrated three-leaved plants—sneezewort, that. It's toxic,
goes into Confusing Concoctions and Draught of Delusion. The dried leaves make sneezing powder.
Best keep two meters off if you don't fancy a faceful—pollen drifts on the breeze."
Sean's young voice rang clear and firm, halting the trio in their tracks.
"Quite the scholar—you must be a Ravenclaw firstie?
Though you shouldn't have spilled the beans to Bruce here; he deserved every achoo."
The one with the tousled brown mop shot Bruce a teasing wink.
"Oi oi, not in front of company..."
His short-haired mate groaned.
"If you hadn't slipped itching powder in our hats and knick—"
The stockier lad chimed in.
"Can we drop it? Please, you two..."
He said it with a straight face, but there wasn't a scrap of regret—more like...
If Sean wasn't mistaken, a touch of fondness?
"Oh, cheers for the tip—three weeks of nonstop sneezing's no picnic,
but we're off now. Catch you later; I'll owe you a pack of Bertie Bott's."
As they turned to go, Sean's voice piped up:
"I've been dying to get stuck into those magical herbs. Mind if I tag along and help Professor Sprout? I can rattle off every plant from the first-year textbook—might come in handy."
Sean rattled off his pitch quick-smart, then held his breath.
Truth be told, even if these Hufflepuff seniors stiffed him, he'd have legged it over anyway.
"Eh?"
...
The brown-haired one pulled a face, torn.
"Seriously—you memorized that brick of a book?!"
Bruce's eyes bugged out.
"Bruce! Professor Sprout didn't say we could drag extras along!"
Tousled-top knew his mate's game in a flash.
"Hold your Hippogriffs, Leon—Greenhouse One's tame as they come, yeah?
And an extra pair of hands'll speed us up no end.
Got Divination this arvo; wouldn't miss Tarot tea for the world."
The short-haired one—Bruce—eyed Sean with keen interest,
"Sorry, but I've got to quiz you first—make sure you're not the sort to muck up the place like some firsties."
He looked genuinely apologetic,
"What's the nickname for the Alihotsi tree?"
Words tumbled fast.
"Hyena Tree."
"Shape of dittany leaves?"
"Oval, ovate, or lanceolate."
"What does mistletoe produce?"
"Mistletoe berries—white ones, prime for Wiggenweld or Forgetfulness Potions."
"You have to come with."
Bruce seized Sean's hand, dead serious; his mates gaped in surprise.
"I'm Bruce; these are Leon and Pist."
"Sean Greene."
...
And just like that, Sean scored a slot in Greenhouse One, tagging along to help Professor Sprout with the herbs—
weeding, harvesting ripe bits, and shooing off tendrils creeping in from Three.
"Those nasty plants have a soft spot for One,"
Bruce spread his hands, then turned grave,
"Rare as a quiet Slytherin, but if you spot any, holler for the professor."
Sean filed it away,
then, under the balmy Scottish sun, trailed the sure-footed trio from the castle
to three glass-domed structures of varying sizes.
Curved roofs, great panes forming skylights.
"One last thing: One's dead ahead—if you mix it up, pray Sprout's about,
Kidding— just leg it if you must."
Bruce filled Sean in on the details en route,
seeming a bit of a chancer at first, but spot-on where it counted.
Leon and Pist nodded along, full of approval.
Pushing open the creaky wooden door, a wall of humid heat slammed into them,
fogging Pist's specs in an instant.
Everywhere the eye roamed: layer upon layer of dazzling greenery.
Lumpen, pumpkinish giants;
sneezewort in pots, just a tuft of noisy leaves poking out;
trellises woven with vines along the edges.
Racks crammed with wonky pots,
plants puffing smoke, leaves pulsing like hearts, some berried with glowing, jewel-like fruit.
A narrow path snaked through it all for foot traffic,
and smack in the middle stood a short witch with flowing gray hair.