A sodden barn owl landed in front of him, letter clutched in its talons.
The seal—his mother’s looping E—was smudged from rainwater.
He peeled the damp parchment free with careful fingers, watching the owl shake itself like a dog before taking flight again.
Cedric slid onto the bench beside him just as Tobias cracked the seal.
“Morning.
Bit grim out.” Tobias nodded, unfolding the letter.
Eleanor’s handwriting sprawled across the page, ink blotted in places where rain had seeped through.
She’d written about the garden—how the rosemary was finally taking—and asked, as she always did, if he’d managed to light his wand yet.
He folded the letter back into quarters, slipping it into his robe pocket.
The porridge had gone cold.
Across the hall, a group of third-years laughed too loudly, their voices echoing off the stone.
Cedric nudged Tobias’s elbow with his own.
“Sprout’s got us repotting fluxweed today.
Least it’s dry in the greenhouses.” Tobias picked up his spoon again.
The rain beat against the windows, relentless.
Most of the table was empty because most of the school was still asleep.
Cedric scraped the last of his porridge from the bowl, the spoon clinking softly.
“You should see the lake when it’s like this,” he said, nodding toward the rain-streaked windows.
“Whole surface looks like it’s boiling.” Tobias watched the water distort the view of the grounds.
His fingers traced the folded edge of Eleanor’s letter in his pocket.
“Walked the perimeter before breakfast,” Cedric added, shaking his damp sleeve.
Droplets hit the table.
“Almost stepped on a frog near the reeds.
Jumped straight into the water.” A house-elf refilled Cedric’s pumpkin juice without being asked.
Tobias stirred his own cold porridge, watching the steam rise from Cedric’s robes where they’d begun to dry.
“Fluxweed’s fussy about its pots,” Cedric said, pushing his bowl aside.
“Sprout’ll have us doing it properly.
No vanishing acts like in Transfiguration.” Tobias’s spoon stilled.
The memory of his matchstick crumbling to ash instead of silver flashed behind his eyes.
Cedric stood, adjusting his slightly steamed robes.
“Coming?” The rain had lessened to a steady patter by the time they reached the greenhouse door.
Sprout stood just inside, her patched gloves already on, surveying the rows of plants with a critical eye.
Water dripped from the gutters onto the stone path behind them, rhythmic as a heartbeat.
Cedric shook his head like a dog, sending raindrops flying.
He sat in the empty seat beside Tobias and reached for the porridge.”You ever think about trying out?” Cedric asked, pushing the sugar bowl toward him.
Tobias added a slow spoonful, stirring without looking up.
The porridge was lumpy where it had congealed.
“Not much.” “For reserves,” Cedric clarified.
“First-years can’t play proper matches, but Zacharias reckons we’ll need a backup chaser if Jenkins moves up to Keeper.” He leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially.
“And between us?
Jenkins can’t block a bludger to save his life.” A faint smile tugged at Tobias’s mouth, arriving late, as it always did.
“You’d need a decent broom, obviously,” Cedric continued, “but there’s time to save up.
Dad’s got an old Comet 260 he might lend—” “I can’t fly well enough for trials,” Tobias said quietly.
Cedric paused, then shrugged.
“Fair.
More time for Herbology, then.” He tapped his spoon against the rim of his bowl twice, decisively.
“Sprout *is* the best of them.” Outside, the rain fell harder.
The path to greenhouse one shone slick underfoot, rainwater pooling between the flagstones.
Tobias matched Cedric’s stride, shoulders hunched against the downpour.
His mother’s letter rustled faintly in his pocket with each step, the damp parchment settling against his thigh.
A gust sent water cascading from the greenhouse eaves just as they reached the door.
Sprout’s gloved hand caught the swinging frame before it could smack Tobias in the face.
“There you are,” she said, shaking a clod of dirt from her sleeve.
The earthy scent of damp soil and something pungent—maybe dragon dung fertilizer—warmed the air inside.
“We’ve got Flutterby bushes needing repotting.
Mind the thorns.” Cedric grinned, shaking rain from his hair like an overeager crup.
“Brilliant.
Do they still—” “Sing?
Only if you repot them wrong.” Sprout’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she handed Tobias a pair of gloves.
The leather was supple, already broken in by someone else’s hands.
“You’ll want the smaller trowel for these, dear.
Their roots bruise easily.” Tobias flexed his fingers inside the gloves.
Through the glass panels, the rain blurred the world into smears of green and grey.
Somewhere beyond the mist, the lake would be churning as Cedric had described—water boiling skyward in endless, circular motion.
“Here.” Cedric nudged a terra-cotta pot toward him, its rim chipped from years of student use.
A single purple bud trembled atop the Flutterby’s stem, petals tightly furled against the damp.
“You take this one.
I’ll get the compost.” The bud twitched as Tobias lifted the plant.
Something deep in the stem hummed, a vibration too faint to hear—only to feel through the gloves, like holding a sleeping breath.
He pressed his thumb against the pot’s drainage hole, steadying the root ball as Cedric poured dark, rich soil around it.
Neither of them mentioned the way the Flutterby’s thorns curled away from Tobias’s touch, nor how its faint humming stuttered when his shadow fell across it.
Cedric just passed him the watering can, its spout dripping onto the workbench between them.
Sprout moved down the row, her patched gloves brushing leaves as she went.
The greenhouse filled with the quiet sounds of work—dirt shifting, pots scraping, the occasional muttered curse when someone pricked their finger.
Outside, the rain kept time.
Tobias pressed the soil gently around the Flutterby’s roots, careful not to jostle the humming stem.
Water dripped from the ceiling onto his shoulder, absorbed instantly by his already damp robe.
“Turn it counterclockwise,” Cedric murmured beside him, wrist-deep in compost.
“They root better when you—yeah, like that.” The Flutterby shuddered as Tobias adjusted its position.
A single thorn pricked through his glove, drawing a bead of blood that vanished into the soil.
The plant’s humming stuttered, then steadied.
Sprout’s voice carried from three tables down: “Mr.
Diggory, if you’ve quite finished lecturing, the silver shears need passing.” Cedric wiped his hands on his robes, leaving muddy streaks.
“Coming, Professor.” He tossed Tobias a wink before ducking between workbenches.
Alone with the Flutterby, Tobias watched a raindrop slide down the greenhouse glass.
It traced the same path as the one before it, over and over, until the panes fogged with their breath and the rain outside became a distant, shapeless roar.
The plant’s thorn still tingled where it had pierced his skin.
Tobias flexed his fingers.
Somewhere beneath the damp soil and dragon dung, beneath the scent of wet wool and cedar shelves, something metallic lingered—faint as the memory of a wound.
“Here.” Cedric reappeared with an armful of terracotta pots, their rims glazed with years of mineral deposits.
He set them down with a clatter that made the nearest Flutterby recoil.
“Sprout says we’re doing the venomous tentacula next.
Reckon you’ll be good at that—steady hands.” Tobias picked up his trowel.
Outside, the rain fell harder.
Sprout’s boots squelched in the damp gravel as she crossed to inspect their work.
The Flutterby’s humming rose in pitch when she leaned over Tobias’s shoulder—a sound like wind through dry grass.
“Nicely done,” she said, brushing a clump of soil from the pot’s rim.
Her glove left a streak of something dark and glistening across the terracotta.
“Mind the drainage layer next time, Mr.
Vesper.
These ones drown easy.” Cedric nudged Tobias’s elbow with his own, leaving a smudge of compost on his sleeve.
“Told you Sprout was the best.” The greenhouse door banged open behind them, letting in a gust of rain-scented air.
Three first-years stumbled in, robes soaked to the knee.
Sprout sighed, shaking water from her sleeves like a displeased heron.
“Right, you lot—tentacula at the back.
And *don’t* let them taste your fingers this time.” Cedric grinned, wiping his hands on his already filthy robes.
“Coming?” he asked Tobias, jerking his chin toward the writhing mass of plants in the far corner.
Tobias flexed his fingers inside the borrowed gloves.
The Flutterby’s thorn prick throbbed faintly, a counterpoint to the rain drumming on the glass overhead.
He followed Cedric down the row of workbenches, stepping over puddles of spilled water and scattered soil.
He had been adopted, without anyone making it a thing, by the older Hufflepuffs.