HP: The Boy who Planted

Char's mind was still buzzing with thoughts of magical creatures and the elusive Blood Jade as he moved through the greenhouse, his hands busy with the familiar rhythm of tending his plants. The idea of using a Norwegian Ridgeback's blood to mature the Blood Jade was both exhilarating and daunting. He remembered from the original book how Hagrid, ever the lover of dangerous beasts, had long dreamed of raising a dragon. It was this obsession that allowed Quirrell—disguised as the stuttering Professor Quirrell and secretly serving Voldemort—to trick Hagrid into revealing the secret to calming Fluffy, the three-headed dog, in exchange for a dragon egg.

That egg, Char recalled, hatched into Norbert, a Norwegian Ridgeback. Hagrid doted on the dragonet, but Norbert grew quickly, becoming too much for even Hagrid to handle. Eventually, with the help of Harry and his friends, Norbert was sent away to Charlie Weasley in Romania, where he would be safe—and less likely to set the castle on fire.

Char's lips curled into a small smile as he replayed these events in his mind. If he could somehow get a small sample of Norbert's blood during that window of time, it would be far more feasible than facing down an adult dragon. But there was still a long way to go before Hagrid even acquired the egg. For now, there was no point in worrying about it. He needed to focus on what he could control: the magical herbs already growing under his care.

He turned back to his work, his thoughts clearing. The glow mushrooms, having absorbed their fill of Lumos for the day, no longer needed his attention. But there were always other tasks: loosening the soil to keep it aerated, pruning away any deformed or unhealthy growths, checking for pests, and ensuring the magical wards around the greenhouse were intact.

Char moved methodically through the rows, casting his silver-level Soil Loosening Spell and Pruning Spell with practiced ease. He knew that these small, daily acts of care were what made the difference between a mediocre harvest and a truly magical one. Over time, the cumulative effect of these details—soil just loose enough, every plant trimmed to perfection—could mean the difference between a plant that merely survived and one that thrived.

Professor Sprout watched him for a while, her eyes full of pride and appreciation. She knew, better than anyone, how rare it was to find a student with Char's patience and dedication. Most young wizards wanted quick results, flashy spells, and instant glory. Char, on the other hand, found joy in the slow, steady work of nurturing life.

Without disturbing him, Professor Sprout quietly left the greenhouse, her heart lightened by the sight of her nephew's diligence. As she passed the great hourglass in the castle corridor, she couldn't help but smile even wider. Hufflepuff was still leading the House Cup! It had been years—decades, even—since she'd seen her house in first place. She hummed a little tune as she walked, her steps light.

At that moment, Severus Snape swept past, his black cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a giant bat. He caught sight of Professor Sprout's cheerful expression and stiffly nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without another word, he turned down a side corridor, his mood as dark as his robes.

Professor Sprout didn't let it bother her. She knew Snape well enough to know that he took the House Cup very seriously. For seven years running, Slytherin had dominated the competition under his watchful eye. This year, though, things were different. The Hufflepuffs were united, hardworking, and—thanks to Char—more motivated than ever.

Meanwhile, Snape was fuming. He'd just come from a Potions lesson where he'd done everything he could to award Slytherin extra points, but it still hadn't been enough. He muttered under his breath as he stormed into his office. "Maybe if these dunderheads spent half as much time practicing Lumos as they do whining, we'd be in the lead." He glanced at the cauldron simmering on his desk. "I'd better get this potion ready if I want them to have any hope in the Charms test."

In the Slytherin common room, the mood was equally sour. The first-year snakes were sprawled on the green velvet sofas, groaning and rubbing their sore arms. They'd been practicing the Lumos charm for hours, as Snape had ordered, but progress was slow and tedious.

Malfoy, who was still recovering from the boils and scabies caused by the giant konjac flower, looked especially miserable. Every time he sweated, a prickling pain flared across his skin, reminding him of his humiliation. The memory of being drenched in the foul-smelling juice haunted him, and he shuddered, trying to shake the image from his mind.

Finally, he slammed his wand down and called for everyone's attention. "This is ridiculous! How long are we supposed to keep practicing this stupid spell? Are we really going to waste every free moment for the next two weeks?"

The other Slytherins perked up, glad for an excuse to stop. Diligence wasn't exactly their house's strong suit; they preferred clever shortcuts to hard work. One of the boys, a sharp-faced little snake, grinned. "What's your brilliant idea, Malfoy? You're not going to send someone to the hospital again, are you?"

Malfoy flushed. "Shut up! I've got a much better plan this time. We don't need to work harder—we just need to make sure the other houses lose points. That's as good as us gaining them."

The others looked at each other, intrigued. "So what do you suggest?"

Malfoy smirked, enjoying the attention. "It's simple. We send a letter challenging Harry Potter—and maybe that Hufflepuff tree-hugger, Char—to a midnight duel. Then we tip off Filch. When they show up, Filch catches them out of bed, and their houses lose a ton of points. Maybe even enough to put us back in the lead."

The Slytherins murmured in approval. It was sneaky, underhanded, and perfectly in line with their house's reputation. A few of the more cautious students raised concerns. "What if they don't show up? Char doesn't seem the type to care about duels."

Malfoy waved them off. "Just make the letter insulting enough. No one can resist a challenge to their pride. Besides, who would pass up the chance to win a duel in front of everyone?"

The plan was set. As the Slytherins began drafting their letters, Malfoy's mood improved. He could already picture the look on Char's face when he realized he'd cost Hufflepuff the lead. Revenge, he thought, was best served with a side of lost house points.

Back in the greenhouse, Char remained blissfully unaware of the Slytherins' plotting. His mind was on the plants before him, the gentle hum of magic in the air, and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. Whatever challenges lay ahead—whether in the form of magical beasts, rare potions, or midnight duels—he knew he would face them with the same patience and determination that had brought him this far.

And somewhere deep in the castle, the hourglasses gleamed in the morning light, Hufflepuff's golden sand still trickling steadily ahead.

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