Chapter 27: The Essence of Dittany
"Why are we learning how to turn soil in Herbology class? Isn't that what gardeners do?"
The whining voice drifted straight into Russell's ears. He didn't even have to look to know who it was—of course, it was Phineas Fawley stirring up trouble again.
Fawley had gone into Herbology assuming it would be the easiest class at Hogwarts — some light reading, maybe a few flower names, perhaps even a leisurely stroll through the greenhouse to admire the blossoms.
But the reality hit him like a rogue mandrake.
Hard labor, dirt, and—Merlin forbid—manual work.
While he muttered complaints under his breath, a shadow fell over him.
The normally kind and smiling Professor Sprout stood behind him, her expression unusually stern.
"Mr. Fawley," she said suddenly, her tone cool.
The boy froze, his body stiffening as he turned around nervously.
"Professor, I—"
But she didn't let him finish.
"Mr. Fawley, I want you to understand something. Turning soil is one of the foundations of Herbology. You'll need it when we re-pot Mandrakes later this term, and you'll need it even more in your fifth year, when you begin handling plants that are far stranger—and far more dangerous."
Her gaze softened slightly, but her tone remained firm.
"If you understand that, then please, continue."
Without another word, Sprout moved off to check on the other students, leaving an embarrassed silence behind her.
To make Professor Sprout, of all people, lose her temper… that was quite an achievement.
Fawley scowled, muttering under his breath as he crouched down again. "Fine, fine, turning soil, what a waste of talent…"
He jammed his shovel into the earth with exaggerated force—
and instantly regretted it.
A great clump of soil flew up in a perfect arc… and landed squarely on the heads of three unfortunate Ravenclaws behind him.
A chorus of shrieks followed.
Sprout sighed, rubbing her temples. "Ravenclaw, minus one point. Mr. Fawley, please pay attention. Take a look at how the others are doing it properly."
She waved her wand gently, cleaning the dirt off the victims while Fawley stood there, red-faced and sulking.
---
By the time the class ended, the atmosphere had returned to normal. The students filed out of the greenhouse, chatting happily as the bell rang.
Russell was about to follow when he heard Sprout's voice.
"Russell, a word, please."
He turned back as she approached, smiling warmly, and handed him a small glass vial filled with shimmering white liquid.
"Thank you for your help today," she said. "I believe you'll make a fine herbologist one day."
Russell blinked, looking down at the vial. "Is this… Dittany Essence?"
"Indeed," Sprout replied with a knowing smile. "And don't forget to send my regards to Morticia."
"Of course, Professor. Thank you," Russell said sincerely. He tucked the vial carefully into his pocket—it was far too valuable to take lightly. A single drop of Dittany Essence could close deep wounds in seconds; it was, quite literally, a life-saving elixir.
He didn't notice that across the greenhouse, Phineas Fawley was watching him with narrowed eyes.
Fawley's jaw tightened as he muttered under his breath,
"Hmph. I don't need gifts from the professor to prove my worth."
But his gaze lingered on that shining vial just a little too long.
Turning away sharply, he muttered to himself,
"I've got rarer plants back home anyway…"
Still, as he stalked off in search of Rosen and Barkins—who had already fled the scene long ago—his jealousy burned hot in his chest.
"Hey, Cedric," Russell greeted as he carried his breakfast tray over and sat beside him.
Cedric looked up from his pumpkin juice with a friendly grin. "So? How was your first class at Hogwarts?"
"Not bad," Russell replied casually, spearing a cherry tomato with precision. "Professor Sprout's really nice."
"You're absolutely right," Cedric said proudly, his smile widening. Hearing praise for his Head of House filled him with genuine joy. Around them, a few nearby Hufflepuffs turned toward Russell with approving looks.
In the Hufflepuff worldview, anyone who praised Professor Sprout was automatically a good person — and therefore, a friend.
Cedric leaned forward eagerly. "Do you have any classes this afternoon? If not, come by the Hufflepuff common room. We can play a round of Wizard's Chess."
"Wizard's Chess?" Russell tilted his head. "What's that?"
"Oh, right," Cedric chuckled, smacking his forehead. "I forgot you grew up among Muggles."
He began to explain.
Wizard's Chess, it turned out, was much like regular chess — except the pieces were alive. They moved on their own according to the player's command. When one piece captured another, it physically attacked it, smashing it apart before dragging the remains off the board.
The tricky part, Cedric said, was that the pieces had personalities. If they didn't respect you, they might move sluggishly or even argue back about your decisions.
Russell couldn't help but laugh. "That actually sounds fun. But I think I'll head to the library this afternoon instead."
Cedric sighed dramatically. "Your loss. Maybe next time."
The Hogwarts Library was on the fifth floor, vast and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and candle wax.
As soon as Russell stepped inside, he felt it — a sharp, hawk-like gaze fixed on him from across the room.
The source was an elderly, thin woman whose hooked nose and piercing eyes made her look uncannily like a malnourished vulture.
Madam Irma Pince, the librarian.
"What are you looking for?" she asked as she glided toward him, her robes whispering against the floor.
"Nothing specific," Russell said politely. "Just browsing."
"Browsing," she repeated coldly, her eyes narrowing as if the word itself were an insult. After an uncomfortably long silence, she finally said,
"Do not damage, mistreat, or otherwise defile any of the books in this library. If you do, I will see to it that you face the most horrifying consequences I'm legally allowed to administer. Also—no chocolate. Or food of any kind."
"Understood, ma'am."
After a long, appraising stare, she finally turned away and resumed her patrol, stalking between the aisles like a silent guardian spirit.
Russell exhaled slowly. Even the librarian at Hogwarts feels like a mini-boss, he thought wryly. No wonder this school produces so many famous witches and wizards — everyone here could probably duel a troll before breakfast.
He began to explore, and soon found himself lost among the towering shelves. Thousands of books filled the library, covering everything from basic charms to the obscure study of magical symbology. It was, quite literally, a sea of knowledge.
After a while, he pulled down a thick volume titled "The Wonder of Quidditch."
One glance was enough. He sighed and returned it to the shelf.
Quidditch just wasn't his thing. Sure, he understood why wizards adored it — the sport combined the chaos of rugby and dodgeball, with the added thrill of flying and near-death experiences. It was fast, violent, and unpredictable — everything spectators loved.
Still, to him, it felt… childish. Maybe that was the Muggle side of him talking.
He reached for another book — this one with a pitch-black cover, smooth and faintly warm to the touch. Something about it seemed… familiar.
Wait. He blinked.
He'd seen this before.
Yes — this was the same book he'd bought from the dusty back corner of Flourish and Blotts' used section before coming to Hogwarts.
Curiosity sparked in his chest. He was just about to open it when a thin, bony hand shot out from nowhere and snatched it away.
Russell looked up to see Madam Pince's sharp, hawk-like glare boring into him.
"That," she said stiffly, her voice cold as a dungeon wall, "is not a book you should be reading. Choose another."
Without another word, she turned and walked away, the black book clutched firmly against her chest.
She frowned slightly as she disappeared between the shelves.
Strange, she thought. I could've sworn I already moved that to the Restricted Section.
Neither of them noticed what happened next —
As the book left Russell's hands, the pure black of its cover began to fade, as though the darkness itself were retreating, leaving faint veins of dull gray in its wake…
And for a brief moment, the faint outline of a symbol — a twisting, serpentine rune — shimmered beneath the surface before vanishing completely.