Hannah nudged Tobias with her elbow, her gloves already dusted with potting soil.
“You first,” she whispered, nodding at the seedling between them.
Its tendrils curled tight around the starter pot’s edges, a faint shiver running through them when Tobias exhaled.
He flexed his fingers once, then lifted his wand.
*Wingardium Leviosa.* The incantation came smoother than it had in September—less breath, more wrist.
The seedling trembled, then rose cleanly from its pot, dirt cascading in slow arcs.
No fumbling.
No collapse.
Just the faintest wobble as it hovered over the waiting tray.
Sprout paused behind them, her shadow warm across the bench.
“Good form,” she said, quiet enough that only their pair heard.
“Now lower it *gently*, mind the roots—yes, just like that.” The seedling settled into its new soil with a sighing rustle.
Tobias blinked.
Five in a row now.
No misfires.
Hannah grinned at him, her cheek smudged with dirt, and he felt his own smile coming late but certain, like dawn cresting a hill.
Outside, the October wind rattled the greenhouse glass.
Inside, the air smelled of damp earth and something sharper, greener.
Tobias was at one of the long benches with Hannah.”Your turn,” Tobias murmured, nudging Hannah’s elbow in return.
She rolled her shoulders, wand already poised—no hesitation, just the practiced flick of her wrist.
The seedling lifted effortlessly, drifting sideways in a smooth arc.
Hannah’s tongue peeked between her teeth as she tilted her wand tip downward.
The seedling rotated midair, roots unfurling like sleepy fingers before plunging into the fresh soil.
Perfect alignment.
Sprout’s gaze flicked over from where she was adjusting a heat lamp two benches down.
A nod, crisp as a snapped stem, then she turned back to her work without comment.
The next seedling on the bench was Tobias’s.
Tobias settled his grip and raised the wand.
The holly wood warmed against his palm—not with magic, just the greenhouse’s thick humidity.
He inhaled, held it, exhaled halfway as he flicked.
*”Wingardium Leviosa.”* The seedling lifted on the first attempt.
No shudder.
No dip.
Just a clean ascent, trailing soil like comet dust.
He let the breath go.
The seedling drifted left, tilting at fifteen degrees—he corrected with a minute roll of his wrist.
Steadier now.
Across the bench it went, slow as syrup pouring.
Hannah’s glove creaked as she tightened her grip on the tray edge.
“You’ve got it,” she murmured, too low for Sprout to hear.
The seedling hovered above the new soil.
Tobias angled his wand down.
The roots twisted, almost right, almost—there.
The seedling came to rest in the growing tray with the roots almost correctly oriented.
A drop of sweat slid down his temple.
Five for five.
The greenhouse air pressed close, rich with the scent of damp peat and something muskier beneath—the Devil’s Snare’s first whisper of hunger.
“Acceptable work, Mr.
Vesper,” Sprout said from behind him.
Her shears snipped once, decisively, as she moved to the next pair.
“Mind the angle on your next one; roots like a gentler touch.” Tobias nodded.
His wand hand didn’t shake.
That was new.
Hannah nudged the next seedling towards him with her trowel, her glove streaked black where the Devil’s Snare had brushed her wrist.
“Almost got it perfect,” she whispered.
“One more?” Tobias flexed his fingers.
The wand felt lighter now, like it had settled into the shape of his grip.
He exhaled—half-breath, half-focus—and flicked.
The seedling lifted clean, but the roots twisted slightly clockwise.
Sprout had stopped what she was doing on the next bench to watch.
“Better,” she said when the seedling settled.
She walked over, boots scuffing against the damp flagstones, and peered into the tray.
“See how the tertiary root’s bent?
Quarter-turn more next time.” She demonstrated with her hands, rotating an invisible plant between her palms.
“You’ve got the lift down.
Now it’s about finesse.” The correction was worth more to him than the praise would have been.
Sprout moved on, leaving the scent of potting soil and something faintly medicinal in her wake.
Tobias glanced at Hannah.
She was already grinning, dirt smeared across her nose like war paint.
“Told you,” she said, and bumped his shoulder with hers.
The contact lingered—warm, solid—before she turned back to her own tray.
Outside, the wind rattled the glass again.
Inside, the seedlings trembled in response, their young tendrils curling toward the sound.
Tobias lifted the next one.
The seedling rose without protest, its roots trailing dark against the humid air.
Tobias adjusted his wrist—quarter-turn, just as Sprout had shown—and the plant settled into its new home with the roots aligned perfectly this time.
No wasted motion.
No second-guessing.
Just the quiet certainty of a spell finally mastered.
Hannah exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Show-off,” she muttered, but her eyes crinkled at the corners.
Sprout’s shadow fell across them again as she inspected the tray.
She didn’t speak, but her nod was longer this time, deliberate.
Tobias felt it settle in his chest like a pebble dropped into still water—the understanding, wordless but clear, that this wasn’t luck.
That the afternoons spent recasting Wingardium Leviosa at his mother’s kitchen table while she chopped vegetables had carved grooves in his magic.
That Sprout knew, and approved.
The bell rang then, distant through the greenhouse glass, and the class exhaled as one.
Hannah lingered by their bench, peeling off her dirt-crusted gloves.
“Professor?
About the tertiary roots—if they’re bent during transplant, does it stunt growth long-term, or—” Tobias didn’t wait for the answer.
The greenhouse door sighed shut behind him, sealing in the thick warmth.
Outside, the path glistened where an earlier shower had slicked the flagstones.
He turned his face into the wind—sharp with leaf rot and the distant metallic tang of the lake—and tucked his hands into his sleeves.
His wand rested against his forearm, still faintly warm.
Six seedlings today.
Six clean lifts.
No hesitation.
The realization came quietly, like noticing an old bruise had faded: Wingardium Leviosa was just a spell now.
Not a hurdle.
Not a reckoning.
Just a tool that worked when he called it.
The castle windows glowed amber against the gathering dusk.
He walked slowly, matching his pace to the rhythm of his breath.
No hurry.
No dawdling.
Just the crunch of wet leaves underfoot and the unfamiliar lightness in his chest where uncertainty used to sit.
He had crossed a line he did not know was there until he crossed it.
If Hollow at Hogwarts has caught your eye and you’d like to keep going, the full story lives on the usual site under TransmigratorTales, alongside my other ongoing serial.
More on the way, and I’m really glad you’re here reading this.