As the heavy wooden door of the Little Greenhouse swung shut with a muted thud, the atmosphere inside instantly shifted.
Porgie Chalman, momentarily startled, glanced at the closed entrance. Then, faintly, he caught the muffled sound of Char's voice from beyond the barrier.
"Professor Bogie," Char called with mock courtesy, "keeping the greenhouse open wastes resources. I thought it best to shut the door."
A pause followed, and Char's tone sharpened with feigned concern.
"If you find yourself struggling against the Devil's Snare or the Shadow Thorns, just shout. I'll come running to save you."
Porgie Chalman sneered. His lip curled upward in scorn, as though he had uncovered the boy's petty ploy.
So, Char wanted to frighten him into abandoning the greenhouse prematurely? To force him out, humiliated, in front of the entire review committee?
"Hah. Ridiculous tricks," Porgie muttered under his breath.
Instead of fear, excitement stirred within him. This, he decided, was an opportunity. He could expose every flaw of this so-called Little Greenhouse. He would write an article so sharp, so cutting, that it would circulate through the Herbology Association like wildfire. Readers would praise his insight. His reputation would swell.
Perhaps he could even leverage the good name of Professor Sprout to polish his own image. If things unfolded perfectly, perhaps the Association would finally recognize him as the true authority he always imagined himself to be.
"Yes," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "They'll see I should be the Professor."
With newfound arrogance, Porgie straightened his back and announced loudly, as though his words were meant for the committee outside:
"No need! How could I—Porgie Chalman—not handle mere Devil's Snare and Shadow Thorns?"
Before him, the soil stirred uneasily. Tendrils of Devil's Snare shifted like restless serpents, while the thorny roots of the Shadow Thorns quivered menacingly in their beds.
Yet Bogie's face remained confident, even smug.
"Both species fear light," he reminded himself. "And these here are but in their infant stages, barely out of cultivation. Hardly worth worrying about."
Still, his eyes betrayed another emotion—raw, burning jealousy.
He had once tried, countless times, to cultivate such dangerous plants. Each attempt had ended in humiliating failure. His lack of talent in practical Herbology had been laid bare, and he had carried that shame for years. Every young Herbology prodigy he met became a target of his bitterness.
So he did what he did best: wielded his pen like a knife, slicing apart their reputations in harsh, scathing articles. Only when others were diminished could he feel whole again.
But now?
To see Char, a mere first-year, not only nurture Devil's Snare but also cultivate Shadow Thorns… The injustice twisted like a thorn in his chest.
Coupled with Char's earlier mockery, Porgie's composure cracked. Anger surged hot and poisonous through his veins.
"No," he thought grimly. "Lumos is too gentle. Why bother with mere light when I can end them outright?"
His eyes darkened. "A Fire-Making Charm should do nicely."
Yet even as his mind turned toward destruction, something shifted in the dim greenhouse.
Behind him, the shadows on the floor seemed to ripple unnaturally, as though stirred by a silent current. Slowly, deliberately, they wriggled into form. Then, without warning, a coil of darkness shot upward, alive, and snatched at his wand hand.
With a sickening crack, his wand—an ornate aspen shaft inlaid with gaudy gold patterns—splintered into useless fragments.
Porgie froze. For a man who had spent decades safe behind ink and parchment, the sudden violence left him utterly defenseless.
Before he could react, several thick roots of Devil's Snare surged forth. They wrapped around his limbs and chest, squeezing with brutal strength. His lungs compressed, his ribs groaned, and he felt as though pythons had wrapped him in their coils.
A few seconds passed before the horror truly registered. He widened his eyes in disbelief.
"What—what was that shadow? What plant shatters a wand?" His mind raced. "And these Devil's Snare roots… impossible! They're too young. They shouldn't be this strong!"
In a flash of dread, realization struck.
"Variants—" his thoughts screamed. "These are mutated variants! Stronger than anything recorded. Even that shadow… another variant!"
But he had no time to dwell further.
The nearby Shadow Thorns stirred violently, their root clusters slithering toward him. Each one bristled with wicked spines that glistened under the faint light. Porgie's face drained of color.
He knew too well: wounds from Shadow Thorns resisted healing magic, festering for months, even years. A single prick could torment a wizard endlessly. To imagine dozens tearing into his flesh—
"No… no… help!"
His desperate cry cut short as the Devil's Snare coiled tightly over his mouth. Muffled whimpers were all that escaped.
The living shadow writhed again. This time, it entwined Devil's Snare and Shadow Thorns together, twisting them into a grotesque whip bristling with spikes. With a hiss like tearing air, it lashed across Porgie's body.
Agony unlike anything he had ever felt exploded through him. Blood welled from the fresh wounds, tainted by the Shadow Thorns' dark magic, which gnawed at the flesh and made the pain unbearable.
Outside the greenhouse, muffled noises drifted through the thick walls.
"Did you hear something?" whispered a board member.
"Sounded… like a scream?"
Char, arms folded and face composed, shook his head vigorously.
"A scream? Impossible. There are only young Devil's Snare and Shadow Thorns in there—pathetic little things, harmless, really. What could possibly make Professor Bogie scream?"
He paused dramatically, then snapped his fingers.
"Ah! I see. He must be talking to himself, brainstorming ways to improve the greenhouse. Some scholars grow quite loud when their inspiration flows. Best not to disturb him, yes?"
The board exchanged uncertain looks. His reasoning—though odd—was not entirely implausible. Surely, an esteemed professor like Porgie Chalman could not be bested by immature plants.
But inside, reality was far grimmer.
The whip lashed again and again. Each strike carved bloody welts, each wound dripping and refusing to close. After half a dozen blows, Porgie teetered on the edge of madness, wishing for death over this torment.
Staggering, he cast his eyes desperately toward the sealed door. "Help… save me," he begged silently. But only pitiful muffled cries spilled from his gagged mouth.
Meanwhile, Char's calm reassurances outside continued to disarm suspicion.
Only Dumbledore and Professor Sprout, privy to the true nature of Char's greenhouse, exchanged knowing glances.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the boy with quiet intrigue. Char was a curious one—ordinarily avoiding entanglement, yet ruthless when it came to defending his own. Such loyalty, such cunning… rare traits indeed. Perhaps, when the world faced its inevitable upheavals, Char would not stand idle.
Sprout, on the other hand, brimmed with maternal pride. "My clever little badger," she thought, eyes shining. "So brave, so resourceful."
Back inside, salvation flickered.
Half-conscious, Porgie fumbled in his robes and pulled free a polished alchemical flint—a vanity trinket he carried to light cigarettes with a flourish. With a trembling motion, he struck it. A spark flared, small but bright.
The Devil's Snare recoiled instinctively, loosening just enough. With his last reserves of strength, Porgie staggered toward the door, beating on it desperately.
"Help! Let me out!"
This time, his cries rang clear.
The board jolted upright in shock.
"It's Bogie!" one gasped. "He's shouting for help!"
Char blinked theatrically. "Really? Impossible! Surely he's… testing the greenhouse's safety protocols. Yes, a demonstration! And such realistic acting—why, Professor Bogie could rival the theatre!"
But his stalling could not last. Inside, humiliated by Porgie's brief escape, the shadow reared back and whipped him thrice more. Flesh tore, blood spattered, and the man collapsed unconscious, crumpled like a broken doll.
Dumbledore finally interjected, voice firm.
"Char, I believe Professor Bogie's… safety drill has concluded. Kindly open the door."
With exaggerated reluctance, Char complied.
The door creaked open, and Porgie's battered body was unceremoniously flung outward, rolling across the ground in a bloody heap. Gasps erupted from the board, professors, and even seasoned witches alike.
Only Snape remained composed, though his dark eyes gleamed with a predator's knowing glint. He had long understood Char's vindictive streak. Bogie, in his arrogance, had wandered straight into the lion's den—and paid the price.
But even Snape was shaken by what he saw within the greenhouse. Devil's Snare, Shadow Thorns—ordinary specimens could never wreak such havoc. Unless…
His breath caught.
"Variants," he whispered, pupils narrowing. "These are mutated subspecies!"
And then, realization struck with full force. Char had not only cultivated Piranha Algae variants, but now also Devil's Snare and Shadow Thorns, all within half a year of schooling.
Such a feat was unprecedented. It was legendary.
For once, Severus Snape—proud genius of the Potions world—found himself stunned silent.
"Professor Sprout did not lie," he thought grimly. "This boy… Char…"
"He carries the potential for legend."
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