Pushing open the greenhouse door, Sean felt his heart hammering like mad.
What if Professor Sprout wasn't there?
What if she'd already finished with the venomous fangs?
What if...
The worries flickered and died as Sean spotted the plump professor hard at work.
"Professor Sprout."
Sean trotted over, his voice wobbling just a touch.
"Welcome, Mr. Greene,"
Professor Sprout greeted him with her usual warmth,
"Come along—we've got some special ingredients to prep today."
Sean's jog turned to a dash, as if the professor might vanish in a blink.
The stout witch let out an "Oh!" and parted the vines overhead for him.
Professor Sprout led the way with a spring in her step,
guiding Sean through the familiar Bubotuber patch.
"My dears are ripening up—the pink pods'll swell a bit more, and then those shiny beans'll bounce right out.
We'd best harvest before they do, or the whole place'll bloom with pod flowers."
She pinched a pod, her voice brimming with harvest joy.
"Fancy a go at picking, Mr. Greene?"
Sean nodded firmly, and the pair—big and small—reached the oak workbench.
It was strewn with all manner of snake fangs.
"Every year about now, I lend a hand with the prepping...
Ah, look at these fangs—proper sturdy. Know the difference, Mr. Greene?"
Professor Sprout waved her wand; a few fangs hovered before him.
Sharp and gleaming, they did look a bit off from each other.
"Venomous ones have tiny grooves inside."
Sean studied them a moment, then said.
"Spot on,"
Professor Sprout blinked, surprised,
"Sharp eyes."
With that, a mortar and pestle zipped into Sean's hands.
"Give grinding a whirl, Mr. Greene."
Sean didn't hesitate—pounding wasn't tricky,
especially with the pestle humming some magic (a Crushing Charm, he reckoned), speeding things along.
Professor Sprout watched him work, then flicked her wand—
and ten mortars and pestles sprang to life on the table.
"For Alertness Draught, we want it finer, but for Cure for Boils? This'll do."
As she spoke,
Sean paused his pounding—he'd finished ten batches.
Not too shabby,
he thought.
Then he eyed the ten sets whirring away at once.
Wizards are just too well-rounded.
Sean shrugged it off, noting the fangs' grind state instead, peering close at the powders' differences—venomous versus not.
No dice.
"Oh, Mr. Greene."
Professor Sprout caught him near nose-to-powder, chuckling till her hat tipped askew.
Another wand-wave, and the powders sorted into vials by hue:
pale red for venomous, white for the harmless sort.
Sean got it in a flash.
"The sunflower's tilt says it's time you were off, Mr. Greene."
Professor Sprout waggled her fingers in a wave-bye.
Sean realized an hour and a half had flown—
he bid her a quick farewell, murmuring:
"Professor, could I pop by this afternoon too?"
"Of course—the greenhouses welcome every nature-loving sprout."
...
Afternoon meant Transfiguration for Ravenclaw with Gryffindor.
Sean picked up the pace—he'd rather not end up a pocket watch or a map.
...
He cracked open the system en route:
[Herbology Knowledge: Locked (59/90)]
[Apprentice-level Herbology Knowledge: Unlockable—Herbology domain apprentice title]
Fang work didn't count toward Herbology, then.
Sean scrolled on.
[Wingardium Leviosa: Apprentice (4/300)]
[Scourgify: Apprentice (70/300)]
[Lumos: Novice (19/900)]
Lumos had leveled up—
Sean sparked his wand; brighter than apprentice glow,
and quicker, smoother to cast.
For classroom-brilliant? That meant mustering emotion,
though no guarantee.
(He'd tried right after, but the blaze wouldn't reignite.)
...
The Transfiguration classroom lay on the second floor, not far from Professor McGonagall's office.
Stepping in, Sean took in a modest brown desk up front, backed by a Jacobean chair.
Antique,
Hogwarts is loaded,
he thought.
Then he spotted Michael, face twisted in a pickle, beside a black-haired girl—
debating whether to slide over to Sean.
Sean shook his head and took the seat by Hermione; a cage sat next, housing a squeaking rat.
Even with paired desks, her spot stayed empty till now.
"Sean, did you see the tabby on the desk? She's adorable."
Sean looked up—a silver-tabby perched primly on the wood.
"Mm."
Sean nodded.
Mid-chat, a creak sounded from behind.
Harry and Ron, flustered, shoving through the door.
Three minutes late by now.
Hermione twisted for a peek, then pursed her lips and shook her head.
"Made it—if we'd been late, McGonagall's glare would've done us in."
Ron said, relieved.
As they dawdled seatward, Sean knew they were for it.
The tabby sprang—morphing mid-air to a tall witch in emerald robes,
head cocked at chatty Ron.
Ron's eyes bugged; his lips thinned to a line—face screaming:
Harry, reckon we'll make it?
"Utterly brilliant."
Ron tried to play it cool.
"Thank you for that glowing review, Mr. Weasley—
perhaps I should Transfigure you and Mr. Potter into pocket watches.
At least then one of you might keep proper time?"
"We got lost."
"Then a map it is—surely you can find your seats without one?"
Low chuckles rippled through the room.
"Gryffindor, minus two points."
McGonagall added.
Sean caught Hermione's speechless side-eye at the pair.
Gryffindor living up to the name,
he thought.
"Transfiguration is among the most complex and dangerous magic you'll study at Hogwarts."
McGonagall said sternly,
"Anyone who misbehaves in my class will leave and not return. You've been warned."
With that, she flicked her wand—
her desk became a pig, rooting about the room, then flipped back.
The first-years' eyes gleamed; they itched to start.