HP: The Boy who Planted

The open grounds in front of Hogwarts Castle were alive with the golden light of afternoon. The grandstands, empty now but echoing with the memory of roaring crowds, circled the tall Quidditch ring. This was the place where legends were made, where house pride soared as high as the Seekers chasing the Golden Snitch. But at the edge of the pitch, tucked away behind the stands, stood a far less glamorous sight: the old broom warehouse.

It was here that Hogwarts stored every broomstick that had ever been retired, broken, or simply outclassed by newer models. Some were battered and splintered, others merely outdated, but all were piled together in a dusty, forgotten heap. Most students never spared a thought for this place, and even Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, only visited when she absolutely had to.

But today, Madam Hooch was surprised to find herself standing at the warehouse door with Char Sprout, the earnest Hufflepuff who had recently made waves with his flying and his magical gardening. She eyed him curiously. "Char, are you saying you want to work part-time in the abandoned broom warehouse? You want to trim and sort out all the old brooms?"

For a moment, she wondered if this was some sort of elaborate prank. But then she remembered—Char was a Hufflepuff. The little badgers were known for their sincerity and work ethic, not for mischief like the Gryffindors or cunning like the Slytherins.

Char nodded, his expression serious. "Yes, Professor. I'm a big fan of old broomsticks. I think every broom has a story. Maybe some of these brooms once carried Quidditch stars, or were part of legendary games. Even though they're abandoned, they shouldn't be forgotten or left in such a state. I'd like to help prune their branches, give them a little dignity."

Madam Hooch was taken aback by his earnestness. She felt a surge of respect for the boy. As a lifelong broom enthusiast herself, she hated seeing students neglect their brooms. But in all her years, she'd never met a student who cared so much about the old, discarded ones.

Still, she hesitated. "Char, I admire your spirit, but Hogwarts has rules. First-years aren't allowed to do part-time work. It's against the Young Wizards Protection Act. And besides, we barely have enough funding to maintain the brooms we use now. I can't pay you to manage the warehouse."

Char grinned. "That's fine, Professor. I don't want any payment. If I don't get paid, it's not part-time work—it's voluntary labor. I'm just a student learning outside the classroom. Trust me, I worked on a Muggle plantation for years. No one knows how to get around labor laws better than I do!"

Madam Hooch blinked, then burst out laughing. "Are all young wizards these days so noble? Voluntary labor, just to help old brooms?" She shook her head, amused and touched.

At that moment, her eyes fell on the Nimbus 2000 broom Char was holding. She gasped, her eyes widening. "Is that… is that a custom Nimbus 2000?"

Char nodded. "Professor Sprout had it made for me when I made the Hufflepuff team. Would you like to take a closer look?"

He handed her the broom, and she turned it over in her hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. "I've seen the standard version, but never a custom one. They say the Light Wheel Company tunes every branch for the custom orders—makes it at least thirty percent better than the regular model!"

Char smiled. "If you let me work in the warehouse, you're welcome to take it for a spin anytime."

Madam Hooch was sold. "Deal!" She handed him a heavy iron key. "Here you go, Char. Just be careful in there. Some of those brooms are ancient."

With a final, longing look at the Nimbus 2000, she wandered off to admire it in the sunlight, leaving Char alone at the warehouse door.

Char pushed open the creaky door and was immediately hit by a cloud of dust. He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face, and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, polish, and a faint trace of magic. Before him, the discarded brooms formed a small mountain—hundreds, maybe thousands, stacked haphazardly, some so old they looked like museum pieces.

He picked up the nearest broom, its birch tail dry and brittle. Most of the branches were dead, but as he closed his eyes and reached out with his magical perception, he felt a faint pulse of magic in a few of the twigs. He raised his wand. "Arbor-Siccus!"

A silver flash of the Pruning Spell cut away a branch that still held a spark of magic. Char grinned. The spell felt almost as smooth as when he used it on living plants. These brooms, even in their retirement, were perfect for practice.

He realized, with a thrill, that this warehouse was a treasure trove. Not only could he practice the Pruning Spell for months—maybe years—but the process of sensing which branches still contained magic was an incredible exercise for his magical perception. To anyone else, this was a junk heap. To Char, it was a gold mine.

He set to work, falling into the familiar, meditative rhythm of pruning and sorting. Each time he found a branch with lingering magic, he felt a little surge of accomplishment. He imagined the stories these brooms could tell—the games they'd flown in, the witches and wizards who'd ridden them, the victories and defeats.

Time slipped away. Char lost himself in the work, only half-aware of the world outside. It wasn't until Madam Hooch returned, her cheeks flushed from flying the Nimbus 2000, that he realized how late it had gotten.

"Char, Hufflepuff's training is about to start. You'd better get ready," she called, peeking into the warehouse.

Char looked up, a little disappointed. "Already? I was just getting into the groove. Thank you, Professor—I'll be back after practice."

He packed up his things, carefully setting aside the branches he'd trimmed and the brooms he'd restored to some semblance of dignity. Madam Hooch lingered, glancing at the neat pile of pruned brooms and the organized branches. Her eyes grew misty. "Char, you're really something special," she murmured. "So few students care this much."

As Char walked out into the sunlight, the Nimbus 2000 gleaming in his hand, he checked his system panel. The silver glow on his Pruning Spell was brighter than ever, almost pulsing with energy. "At this rate, Pruning might be my first gold-level spell," he thought, his heart full of hope.

He strode onto the Quidditch pitch, ready for his first real practice with the Hufflepuff team. The stands loomed around him, silent for now but soon to be filled with cheers. Char took a deep breath, feeling the magic in the air, the promise of flight and teamwork and glory.

Whatever challenges lay ahead—on the pitch, in the greenhouse, or in the forgotten corners of Hogwarts—Char knew he was ready. With every spell, every broom, every act of care, he was building something lasting. Not just a harvest, not just a victory, but a legacy.

And as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field, Char mounted his Nimbus 2000 and kicked off into the sky, a little badger soaring into his own adventure.