The atmosphere inside Greenhouse Number One was thick with the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and exotic foliage. Professor Pomona Sprout was in her element, moving between the tables laden with pots and specimens, her voice a soothing murmur as she introduced the wonders and dangers of magical flora.
"In the herbal medicine class, we don't just study garden-variety petals and stems," Pomona explained, her enthusiasm undimmed. "We encounter life in all its forms. I've brought many kinds of plants today, including some fungi, or as some of you Muggles call them—mushrooms."
She pointed to a cluster of iridescent, purple-spotted caps that looked decidedly unfriendly. "These, for instance, are Shrivelfigs; very useful for certain shrinking solutions, but handle them with dragon-hide only, or you'll find your fingers feeling rather oddly... limp."
She moved on to more fantastical specimens, detailing the intriguing properties of the Guardian Tree, a unique, silvery mountain pear tree. "It's said that this tree protects anyone who touches its rugged trunk from attacks by most minor Dark Creatures. Wizards often like to carry a small piece of its bark as a magical amulet—a simple, natural ward against ill will."
Of course, the lesson quickly pivoted to truly perilous vegetation. She pointed out the noxious, twitching leaves of the Poisonous Tentacula, a plant whose juice could paralyze instantly, and gave a solemn warning about the Mandrake, whose infamous, human-like scream was lethal to those unfortunate enough to hear it fully.
Finally, Professor Pomona arrived at a small, unassuming black pot containing a cluster of dark, slimy-looking sprouts.
"And this," she announced, tapping the pot with her wand, "is a very young Devil's Snare."
As if alerted by the sound, the sprouts instantly stretched out thin, wickedly fast tendrils that wrapped around her wand like inquisitive snakes.
"As you can see," Pomona continued, pulling her wand free with a practiced yank, "once you get close, the Devil's Snare will automatically lash out and attempt to ensnare you. Once it grows to a certain size—like the specimens in Greenhouse Three—it can easily cause injury or death through sheer constriction. When you're caught in a fully grown one, the first rule is: don't struggle. The vines only tighten in response to resistance."
She waved her wand again, ensuring everyone had a clear, albeit unsettling, view of the plant's suffocating characteristics.
"The Devil's Snare prefers a dark, damp living environment, living off shadow and moisture. Therefore, light and warmth naturally become its natural enemies." A small, controlled plume of silvery-blue flame erupted from the tip of Professor Pomona's wand. The tendrils of the Devil's Snare recoiled instantly, shriveling back into the pot as if burned by an acid.
"Fire can be a serious threat to it," she confirmed, extinguishing the flame. "If you are ever attacked by one—a life or death scenario, mind you—setting fire to drive it away is a very effective, and often necessary, method."
Albert meticulously noted down the details, focusing on the plant's specific weaknesses. Meanwhile, the twins were already discussing how they could weaponize the Snare's aversion to light, Fred suggesting a Blasting Charm and George advocating for a simple Lumos Maxima.
"People who don't understand the Devil's Snare might confuse it with the innocuous Christmas cactus, which shares a similar physical structure when young," Pomona cautioned. "This is a potentially fatal mistake to be especially careful of."
The Herbology class was intensely practical and fascinating. Pomona's rapid-fire introduction to various magical plants benefited everyone immensely. The only real difficulty was the sheer length of the double period. Everyone had to stand the whole time, and by the time the bell finally rang, most of the students were massaging their slightly numb legs.
"There's Defense Against the Dark Arts this afternoon," Lee Jordan announced excitedly as they exited the humid confines of the greenhouse, his earlier sluggishness forgotten. DADA was arguably the most anticipated subject for freshmen.
"Have you heard the rumors?" George asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts position is cursed. The professors who teach it always encounter all kinds of bad luck—they resign, are hospitalized, or simply disappear every year. No one ever teaches for more than a single year."
"Cursed, yes," Albert confirmed, knowing the true source of the trouble. The curse was the work of Voldemort—or, rather, Tom Riddle—the Dark Lord who, ironically, shared a name with Albert's own cat. After Tom was rejected for the DADA position by Dumbledore years ago, he allegedly cursed the post, ensuring that no professor could hold the job for long.
"It's said that a powerful wizard cast the curse," Lee Jordan added, nodding soberly. "Otherwise, with Professor Dumbledore's power, he should have broken a simple curse by now."
"A curse that has lasted decades certainly speaks to the power of the caster," Albert said as they walked. "For now, we can only hope our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be exceptionally capable and survive the year."
Just as he finished speaking, they turned a corner into a wide, heavily trafficked corridor, and a vile, gut-wrenching smell slammed into them. It was a dense, corrosive stench, the unmistakable signature of a Dungbomb.
They arrived just in time to see Filch, his face purple with rage, restraining a third-year Gryffindor student. The corridor floor was marred by a rapidly dissolving smear of pungent, brown goo.
"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Albert covered his mouth and nose with his hands, his eyes watering, and quickly asked a nearby senior student who was fleeing the scene.
"That lunatic," the older student muttered, rushing past. "He made a bet that he couldn't throw a Dungbomb in the corridor right in front of Filch's face without getting caught. He lost the bet, and now we all lose our sense of smell."
"He's utterly insane, a walking death wish!" Albert couldn't help but shake his head. For a brief, irrational moment, he felt a flicker of sympathy for Filch; the poor man's job was literally to breathe this chaos.
The twins, however, were enthralled. Their eyes lit up, not with disgust, but with admiration. They saw the caretaker shaking the third-year student violently, roaring with fury. They were eager to try something that provoked such a satisfyingly intense reaction.
Albert quickly caught their attention. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed lightly. "Ahem. You also want to spend your Saturday helping the school hospital wash the chamber pots and scour the toilets? Because that's generally the punishment for that kind of stunt."
The Weasley twins' excited expressions instantly crumpled. Washing chamber pots. The mental image was enough to kill any remaining urge for spontaneous, messy revenge.
Lee Jordan, however, was already leaning toward them. "Actually, as long as we don't get caught, it will be fine."
"With your current level of operational stealth, it's going to be difficult to avoid being caught," Albert continued, pouring cold, pragmatic water onto their burgeoning schemes. "Unless you want to model yourself after that crazy, suicidal guy over there."
On the way back to the Great Hall for dinner, the twins were uncharacteristically silent. Their minds were clearly battling between the visceral thrill of a successful prank and the horrifying reality of cleaning toilets.
"We've decided," Fred declared abruptly, dropping into his seat at the Gryffindor table. He and George looked at each other and nodded, a flash of shared, determined madness in their eyes.
"Decided what?" Albert asked, raising an eyebrow.
"We've decided to do it," the twins said in unison, their voices low and intense.
"Do what?" Albert had a sickening premonition.
"Throw a Dungbomb at Filch's office," the twins repeated, deadly serious. They had clearly spent the entire walk solidifying their commitment.
Upon hearing this, Albert almost sprayed the pumpkin juice in his mouth onto the faces of the two boys opposite him. He covered his mouth and coughed repeatedly, wiping his chin.
Lee Jordan, who had just seated himself, simply opened his mouth wide, then closed it. He looked at the twins as if they had just announced they were joining a competitive Bludger-catching team.
"These two guys are truly... intent on self-destruction," Albert wheezed.
"Look," Albert began, wiping his face. "If you are truly going to do something this monumentally idiotic—something that guarantees you a detention that will feel worse than a full body-bind curse—I can give you some... small, purely theoretical suggestions." He held up a hand. "But only if you answer a question for me first."
"Hey, why are you helping them?" Lee Jordan couldn't help but shake his head, a mixture of disapproval and immense curiosity on his face. This guy really belongs in Gryffindor, he thought. He has the nerve.
"It's easier to help them do it smartly than listen to them spend another night discussing how to do it stupidly," Albert replied simply. "Besides, excessive curiosity is a disease, Jordan, and you are infected." He then looked back at the twins.
"By the way, I'm genuinely curious how you are managing to eat so much at noon, after being so tired this morning," Lee Jordan asked, stiffly changing the subject to distract himself from the impending crime.
"Nonsense," Albert said, rolling his eyes at Lee. "I ate breakfast at seven in the morning. How can that compare with you three who ate after eight-thirty? We have light appetites by noon."
"Forget lunch! Tell us, how should we play a prank on Filch?" Fred urged, leaning across the table.
"You want the prank to be just subtle enough so that you don't get expelled, but impactful enough that Filch is incredibly angry, correct?" Albert asked, glancing at the corner of the long table where the detention-bound third-year student was now holding court, surrounded by a crowd eager for the details of his reckless act.
"Yes!" the twins nodded in unison. "Maximum effect, minimum consequence."
"Are you prepared to face the consequences—the loss of house points and immediate, punitive detention, even solitary confinement, if you are caught?" Albert asked, drilling them with a serious gaze.
"Yes! We are ready!" they confirmed, their voices ringing with a terrifying, unified determination.