Chapter 36 — Roots Tested, Mischief Sprouting
Professor Pomona Sprout sat at her desk in the greenhouses long after the last students had left. Outside, frost rimed the edges of the windows, and faint candlelight shimmered against the glass panes. In front of her lay Ron Weasley's manuscript, still neatly bound, and beside it, parchment after parchment of her own careful notes. She had read the book twice through and then again in sections, cross-checking every oddity, every daring suggestion.
Her quill hovered for a moment, then she began to write, her words steady but thoughtful.
*"Dear Ronald,
I have spent the past weeks carefully reviewing your manuscript, and though I must confess to astonishment at the depth of your knowledge, I must also proceed with caution. Many of your theoretical models—your greenhouse designs, your hybridization proposals, your grafting methods—though feasible on paper, demand practical testing. The Herbological Society will be tasked with these trials. It will take no less than two months for us to gather results. If the methods hold under scrutiny, then by January of 1990, the Society will recommend your book for publishing.
Further, I will advocate for its adoption as a core text for Hogwarts' first through third year students beginning with the 1990–1991 academic year. Your ambition is commendable, Ronald, but remember: Herbology is not merely science—it is patience, trial, and care.
Do not lose that balance.
With respect and guarded optimism,
Professor Pomona Sprout
Head of Hufflepuff House, Herbology Mistress at Hogwarts"*
She sanded the parchment, sealed it with a green wax imprint of a mandrake leaf, and attached it to Ron's eagle owl, who had been watching her with those unsettling golden eyes. "Off with you, Stark," she said softly, stroking his feathers. "Your master will need patience now."
The owl vanished into the night, leaving Sprout staring at the manuscript once again.
The next morning, at the weekly Hogwarts staff meeting, Sprout finally spoke. The fire crackled in the staffroom hearth, casting warm light on Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, Snape, and a few others.
"I have in my possession something remarkable," Sprout began, laying Ron's manuscript on the table. "I intend to submit its proposals to the Herbological Society for trial. If his methods are sound, this boy's work will alter the way we teach the foundations of Herbology."
McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, her face pinched between skepticism and admiration. "You're speaking of a nine-year-old child, Pomona."
"Yes, Minerva," Sprout replied firmly. "And that child has mapped patterns of plant behavior that even graduate apprentices overlook."
Flitwick leaned forward, squeaking with excitement. "Fascinating! Cross-pollination techniques? Environmental resonance models?"
Sprout nodded. "And greenhouse designs—adapted from Muggle horticultural practices but magically reinforced. He has diagrams for temperature regulation, soil rotation, even experimental grafting techniques. It's advanced, but presented as if meant for beginners."
Snape's lip curled. "We are to believe that a Weasley, barely nine years old, has rewritten centuries of Herbological teaching?"
"Not rewritten," Sprout countered, "refined. And tested knowledge must speak louder than prejudice."
Dumbledore stroked his beard, his eyes twinkling. "Then let the Society test it. Knowledge, as young Ronald has already declared, belongs not on shelves but in minds."
There was no further objection, though Snape muttered something about "children meddling where they should not."
The Herbological Society convened two weeks later in a grand greenhouse near St. Mungo's, its panes frosted from December chill. Senior magi-botanists gathered around tables where Ron's methods were laid out in diagrams and notes. They debated, argued, and set their apprentices to work.
One group began experimenting with Ron's rotational greenhouse models, shifting magical wards to mimic seasonal change in controlled cycles. Another group tested grafting: combining non-magical rootstocks with magical hybrids to see if stability improved. Still others examined his warnings about "over-sympathetic pollination," where too much magical affinity between species caused collapse instead of growth.
"Remarkably prescient," muttered Elder Botanist Oakes, adjusting his monocle. "See here—the resonance tables match our own unpublished findings."
"Coincidence, surely," sniffed Madam Greengrass, though even she conceded the grafting results were promising.
By the end of the month, cautious optimism had replaced doubt.
Meanwhile, Hogwarts itself remained as lively as ever. The twins, Fred and George, had wasted no time turning their first year into a stage for pranks. By November, they had already bewitched the suits of armor to sing bawdy Quidditch chants.
McGonagall had caught them in the act, standing stern as the armor clanged out, "Gryffindor will thrash you all!" in seven different keys.
"Detention," she said crisply, though her lips twitched.
"Worth it," George whispered to Fred as they shuffled off.
Later, they replaced Snape's classroom chalk with a self-writing quill that scrawled rude limericks about greasy hair. The potion master's fury had been volcanic.
"You think yourselves amusing?" he hissed, robes billowing as the twins quailed.
"Yes, sir," Fred admitted cheerfully, earning them another week's detention.
Charlie, now a sixth-year, heard of their antics through Gryffindor grapevine and wrote home in exasperation. "Mum, they're only in first year and already causing half the castle to groan. Percy, of course, keeps trying to lecture them, but you know how that ends."
Indeed, Percy—already in third year and straining under the weight of prefect ambitions yet to come—had cornered his brothers in the common room more than once.
"You're embarrassing the family name!" he snapped, face red.
"Oh lighten up, Percy," Fred said with mock solemnity. "Someday you'll thank us when people remember us as legends."
"Not legends," George added. "Innovators."
Back at the Burrow, Ginny devoured Charlie's letters with shining eyes, while Ron chuckled quietly. Their world was widening, and though the twins caused chaos, part of him admired their fearless mischief.
For Ron, November and December passed in quiet rhythm—studying plants, listening to Ginny chatter about Harry Potter, waiting for Sprout's official reply. The seed had been sown, but whether it would flourish depended now on trials far from his reach.
And within the walls of Hogwarts, between greenhouses full of testing botanists and corridors echoing with twin-born chaos, the roots of both knowledge and mischief began to take hold, promising a spring of consequences yet to come.