Everything clicked into place.
Sean checked the timetable again.
[Ravenclaw — First Years: Monday morning: Potions, Potions; Monday afternoon: History of Magic. Note: First-year classes run Monday–Friday, 9:00–12:00 and 14:00–15:30.]
A first-year's schedule at Hogwarts was, without doubt, light—no classes after 3:30 p.m. Which meant one thing: self-study mattered even more.
After polishing off half a roast chicken at the house table, Sean's cheeks puffed as he chewed. Herbology wasn't like Potions. There were dangerous plants, sure, but he could avoid those and grind proficiency with safe ones—herbs like asphodel and daisies.
As long as…
He could find Professor Sprout and get her to agree to let him into the greenhouses—even just to do odd jobs.
Just then, a few older Hufflepuffs passed behind him, and their conversation snagged his attention.
"Step on it. Professor Sprout's setting up the first lesson for the first-years—we're going to be busy again."
"Happens every year. I don't mind helping with the plants. I just hope we don't run into those jagged, three-lobed ones again. You know what those are?"
"Ha?! You sneezed for three weeks straight and never looked it up?"
"I figured it was you lot cursing me behind my back."
"We were cursing you, but no one could keep it up for three straight weeks. Just like you can't keep a relationship going for three weeks."
"Hey! Do you have to roast me every time…"
"If you'd stop putting itching powder in our hats and under—"
"Heh, okay, okay, my bad."
As the three Hufflepuff lads were about to pass, Sean shot to his feet and popped his head over the table.
"The jagged three-lobed plant is sneezewort. It's toxic—commonly used in Confusing Concoctions and Befuddlement Draughts. The dried leaves are also used to make sneezing powder. If you don't want to get hit, stay more than two meters away—its pollen rides the wind."
His young voice was clear and firm, and the three stopped.
"Bookish little wizard—you must be a Ravenclaw first-year, eh? But you really shouldn't have told Bruce the truth. He deserved every last sneeze," said the shaggy brown-haired one, eyes dancing.
"Oi, at least don't say it to my face…" the short-haired one sighed.
"If you'd stop putting itching powder in our hats and under—" the slightly chubby one cut in.
"Can we please let that go? I'm begging you two…" Bruce said—but his face showed zero remorse. If Sean wasn't mistaken, he looked like he was… savoring the memory.
"Oh, thanks for the tip. Sneezing three whole weeks is rough. But we've got to run. Next time we meet, beans on me—Bertie Bott's."
They were turning to go when Sean called out:
"I've really wanted to learn more about magical herbs. Could I come help Professor Sprout with the plants? I know every plant in the first-year textbook—maybe I can be useful."
He rattled off his strengths and waited. Truth be told, even if they said no, he'd go on his own after hearing this.
"Huh?" The brown-haired boy looked pained.
"Seriously—you memorized that brick of a book?!" Bruce's eyes went wide.
"Bruce! Professor Sprout didn't say we could bring anyone!" The shaggy one—Leon—had already guessed where this was heading.
"Relax, Leon. Greenhouse One doesn't have dangerous plants, remember? And an extra pair of hands speeds us up. We've got Divination this afternoon—I'm not missing the Tarot-and-tea bit." The short-haired boy—Bruce—studied Sean with interest. "Sorry, but I've got to ask a few questions—make sure you won't turn the greenhouse into a disaster zone like certain first-years."
He offered an apologetic smile. "What's the nickname of the Alihotsy tree?"
"Hyena Tree," Sean shot back.
"Leaf shape of asphodel?"
"Elliptic, oblong, or oblong-lanceolate."
"What does mistletoe produce?"
"Mistletoe berries—white. Excellent ingredients for the Basic Antidote, Forgetfulness Potion, and the like."
"Please come with us," Bruce said, gripping Sean's hand, dead serious. The other two looked impressed.
"I'm Bruce. That's Leon, and that's Pister."
"Sean Green."
…
And that's how Sean got himself a pass to Greenhouse One. They'd be helping Professor Sprout with the plants—pulling weeds, gathering mature herbs, and chasing back any tendrils creeping over from Greenhouse Three.
"Those dangerous plants always fancy Greenhouse One," Bruce said, palms up, then warned Sean, earnest again, "It's rare, but if you spot any, tell the professor right away."
Sean tucked that away.
Under the gentle sun of the Scottish Highlands, he followed the practiced trio out of the castle to three domed buildings of different sizes. Each had an arched roof, with large sheets of glass forming skylights.
"One more thing—Greenhouse One is the frontmost. If you take a wrong turn, pray Professor Sprout's around. Kidding—just run fast," Bruce said, feeding Sean plenty of practical tips as they walked. He didn't look very reliable, but when it mattered, he didn't miss a beat. Leon and Pister nodded along, clearly approving.
They pushed open a creaking wooden door and were hit by a wave of hot, humid air. Pister's glasses fogged at once.
Everywhere Sean looked, green upon green dazzled his eyes: huge, warty pumpkin-like plants; pots where only a noisy tuft of leaves—sneezewort—stuck up; trellises laced with vines along the greenhouse walls.
The racks were crowded with oddly shaped pots. Some plants puffed smoke, some leaves pulsed like hearts, others bore glowing, gemlike fruit. Only a narrow path was left clear for walking—and in its center stood a short witch with flowing gray hair.