Greenhouse Three.
Lucien casually grabbed a pair of earmuffs. No need to rush; there were exactly one more pair than there were second-year students, and the leftover pink set was obviously Professor Sprout's.
Sure enough, once everyone else had theirs, she snatched up the pink ones.
"Put your earmuffs on, and make sure they're snug!" she barked. "When I hold up two fingers, you can take them off. Alright, now!"
Every kid obeyed, and we all double-checked each other's ears were sealed tight.
Then Sprout demonstrated.
She gripped a tuft of leaves, yanked hard, and up came the mandrake—not a root, but a hideous, squalling baby-shaped thing. Its lumpy, pale-green skin was blotchy and speckled.
The little face screwed up in a wail, mouth flapping like it was screaming bloody murder.
Thank Merlin for quality earmuffs; Lucien couldn't hear a peep.
Sprout jammed the ugly little critter into a bigger pot, shoveled in damp compost until only the leaves poked out, then shot two fingers in the air. Earmuffs off.
She gave her shoulder a solid whack, smacking back a spiky, deep-red tentacle that had tried to curl around her neck. Devil's Snare—those things had teeth now.
"Careful with the fertilizer, kids. These tentacles bite."
"Right, four to a group—get moving!"
Lucien teamed up with his dorm-mate Terry Boot and two Hufflepuff girls, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones. We each grabbed a mandrake seedling and the gear.
Lucien tugged his plant out smoothly. It didn't scream—just kept its tiny mouth shut.
No surprise there. His "Diligent Little Gardener" reputation came with a natural plant affinity. As long as he wasn't yanking them around on purpose, magical flora usually left him alone.
Terry and the girls weren't so lucky. Their mandrakes opened wide and howled the second they hit open air. We couldn't hear it, but the thrashing was obvious—arms and legs flailing, hating every second out of the soil.
Funny thing: even once we set them in the new pots, they still squirmed like crazy until we buried them in fresh dirt and dragon-dung compost.
Lucien had just patted the soil around his quiet mandrake when he glanced up. Hannah was clutching her hand, face twisted in pain, and her plant lay wriggling on the ground.
Bitten. Those baby mandrakes might be small, but their jaws packed a punch.
Lucien whipped out his wand and flicked a quick healing charm at her glove. The sting faded fast. Hannah peeled off the dragon-hide and watched a neat row of red tooth-marks vanish.
She realized it was Lucien who'd fixed her, mouthed a bunch of "thank yous," and kept gesturing gratefully.
Cute, but we still had earmuffs on—she couldn't hear herself, and neither could he.
Lucien just nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted her dropped mandrake twisting toward her ankle, mouth wide for a second chomp. No dragon-hide there; one bite and she'd be bleeding.
He parted his lips and sang a single, eerie word in a strange melody:
"Moon-sleeeep~"
Instantly the mandrake froze. Its tiny mouth opened and closed once, twice—then it conked out, snoring like a baby.
Weird side effect: Terry and the girls, standing closest, caught a muffled syllable through the earmuffs. Their eyelids drooped for a heartbeat.
Lucien cut the tune short. The earmuffs dulled the rest, and everyone snapped awake. They noticed their own mandrakes had chilled out too—no more tantrums.
He pointed at Hannah's feet. She followed his finger, saw the sleeping plant inches from her shoe, and jumped a foot in the air.
Knowing how bad those bites hurt (even if Madam Pomfrey could fix them), she shuddered, scooped the dozing mandrake, and patted her chest in relief.
Still holding the plant, she thanked Lucien again—finally remembering the earmuffs and switching to an exaggerated thumbs-up.
He waved it off, replaying the spell in his head.
Still clunky. Not enough finesse.
He'd learned the Moon-Sleep Lullaby from an ancient tome in Nicolas Flamel's private collection, written by a long-ago wizard with veela blood. The charm soothed any living thing—human, beast, even magical plants—into deep slumber.
It wasn't spoken; it was sung. The incantation stretched like song lyrics, and the magic grew stronger the longer you kept the melody going.
Lucien had been fascinated. So many old spells felt completely different from modern ones.
He'd asked Nicolas about it.
"Magic," the alchemist had said, "started with witches and wizards who woke up one day able to do impossible things. No textbooks, no set spells, no potion recipes. They experimented. Every caster had their own style, their own strengths. The results were wildly creative.
"The further back you go, the fewer spells a witch or wizard knew—but the ones they invented fit them like a glove. They understood every step because they built it from scratch. That let them push the magic to its absolute limit.
"Problem is, those personalized spells are tough to teach. Over centuries, most of them died out."
Lucien hated that—knowledge lost forever just because it was too unique to pass on.
Herbology ended with everyone sweaty and sore. Those mandrakes had put up a fight.
Lucien barely broke a sweat; a little gardening wasn't even a warm-up for him.
After class, Hannah caught him again to say thanks properly—no earmuffs this time.
Then he tracked down Professor Sprout. That morning, Fawkes had delivered a letter from Dumbledore: the Whomping Willow needed help after getting smashed by the Ford Anglia. Britain's only one—if it died, that'd be a crying shame.
The tree's branches and bark were valuable potion ingredients; Snape harvested them regularly.
Dumbledore figured Lucien could use qilin saliva to heal it before the damage became permanent. In exchange, Lucien could keep any fallen branches and bark.
He was all in—not just for the potion materials. He had a spell in mind that needed Whomping Willow wood.