Morning light filtered through the tall windows beside Nicholas's bed, casting pale golden rays across the room. The warmth of the light crept across his face, nudging him from the depths of sleep. He shifted, muttering incoherently, "Bacon, please," as he stirred, the words slipping out before he was fully aware. He blinked groggily, slowly coming to his senses, only to feel a flush of embarrassment spread across his cheeks as he realized what he had just mumbled. His gaze darted around the room, relieved to find that his roommates were still fast asleep, undisturbed by his sleepy request for breakfast.
Nicholas shared this room with Harry, Ron, and Seamus Finnigan, a cheerful Irish boy whose tendency to chat late into the night had nearly kept them all awake. The previous evening, after their arrival in Gryffindor Tower, they had been assigned this cozy, round dormitory. Seamus, eager to learn about his new roommates, had peppered Harry and Nicholas with questions until Ron had finally groaned for him to be quiet. Despite the late night, Nicholas now found himself wishing for just a few more minutes of sleep.
But the room was brightening steadily, and a glance at the ornate grandfather clock in the corner—its pendulum swinging back and forth with a soft tick-tock—reminded Nicholas of the time. The clock, a stately piece of furniture that looked as old as the castle itself, seemed to chide him for lingering in bed. It was nearly time for breakfast in the Great Hall, and he wasn't about to miss it on their first proper day at Hogwarts.
He threw back his covers and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, standing with a stretch. "Five minutes… We're going to be late for breakfast," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Nicholas crossed the room in a few quick strides, heading towards Harry's bed. He gave Harry's shoulder a firm shake, calling his name until he began to stir.
"Wake the other two up, Harry. We don't have much time," Nicholas said, urgency creeping into his voice. He spoke louder than he intended, but with Seamus and Ron still buried beneath their blankets, there was little choice.
Harry, still rubbing sleep from his own eyes, nodded and moved to rouse Ron and Seamus. Ron, as expected, grumbled something unintelligible before eventually rolling out of bed, while Seamus, always chatty, muttered about wanting "just a few more minutes." But Harry persisted, and soon all three of them were sluggishly beginning their morning routines.
Meanwhile, Nicholas turned his attention to the small wardrobe beside his bed, quickly pulling out his freshly pressed Hogwarts uniform. His movements were precise and practiced as he dressed, buttoning his shirt and fastening the Gryffindor tie with care. He even took a moment to smooth his hair with a bit of gel, ensuring it lay neatly. The habit of making a strong first impression was one he had been taught since childhood, particularly by his father and the other Gryff family elders. "First impressions last," they would often say, and today, with classes starting, Nicholas was determined to live up to that maxim.
By the time he finished, Harry, Ron, and Seamus were already waiting by the door. Their uniforms, in contrast, were hastily thrown on—ties slightly askew, robes not quite straight. Ron's shirt was untucked in the back, and Seamus's tie hung loose around his neck as if he couldn't be bothered to tighten it properly. Harry's glasses were slightly crooked, but he looked as eager as ever, a small smile playing on his lips.
Arriving at the Great Hall that morning, Nicholas, Harry, Ron, and Seamus found themselves in a delicate balance—late enough to draw a few pointed looks, but not so tardy as to risk reprimand. As they slipped into their seats, a wave of soft chuckles rolled their way, most notably from the Slytherin table, where a few students exchanged smirks. The boys flushed slightly under the attention, but their embarrassment quickly melted away as they beheld the feast spread before them. The tables brimmed with steaming platters of breakfast delights, from crispy bacon and golden sausages to fluffy scrambled eggs and fresh-baked pastries.
Nicholas helped himself to a generous serving, savoring each bite with a level of refinement befitting his upbringing. The sweet tang of freshly squeezed orange juice accompanied his meal perfectly, a sharp contrast to the hurried antics of his companions. Across the table, Harry struggled to straighten his tie, while Ron ran his fingers through his unruly red hair, clearly attempting to tame it. Both of them wore the signs of a rushed morning.
Hermione, who sat in front of Harry, leaned over with a small sigh, exuding an air of exasperated propriety. "Harry, that's not how you tie a proper knot," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. She reached across and deftly adjusted his tie, her fingers moving with the precision of someone who had long mastered the skill. "I imagine you've picked this up from observing me, haven't you?" she remarked, casting a sidelong glance at him, a hint of pride mingling with the reproach in her voice.
Her focus then shifted to Ron, her brows knitting together. "And you, Ron—surely you must know the consequence of staying up far too late. Just look at you, arriving late and looking completely disheveled. You guys nearly missed breakfast!"
Ron's response was a barely concealed roll of his eyes as he leaned toward Harry, whispering conspiratorially. Nicholas, seated close enough to overhear, caught Ron's grumbled words. "How can she go on about appearances? Look at her—does that hair look tidy to you?" He gestured subtly toward Hermione's thick, bushy curls, which framed her face in their usual wild fashion.
Nicholas stifled a smile as he turned his attention back to Hermione. True, her hair seemed as untamed as ever, but something was endearing in her earnestness. Nicholas, in contrast, cut a much neater figure—his robes crisp, his hair carefully styled. He felt a quiet sense of pride in the way he had managed to present himself, even amidst the chaos of the morning.
As he glanced around the table, Nicholas couldn't help but notice a few curious looks aimed his way. One such glance came from a girl seated further down the Gryffindor table—a first-year like himself, with dark hair and features that suggested she might be of Indian descent. He remembered her from the sorting the previous evening, her quiet demeanor standing out amid the excitement of the night. She caught his eye again, and when he offered her a warm smile, she returned it shyly, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
Nicholas's attention shifted back to Hannah, who sat across from him. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since breakfast began, her expression tinged with worry. Sensing her unease, he offered her a reassuring smile. "It's great to have you in the same house, Hannah," he said warmly, though he could see that his words had not lifted her spirits. Concerned, he leaned in closer. "What's the matter?"
Hannah hesitated, her gaze dropping to her plate. "It's just... I can't help but feel guilty," she confessed in a small voice. "Wouldn't Draco and the others... dislike us for being sorted into different houses?"
Nicholas followed her gaze toward the Slytherin table, where Draco, Pansy, and Blaise sat together, their expressions difficult to read from a distance. But as he studied them more closely, he noticed a hint of a smile on Pansy's lips and a look of curiosity in Draco's eyes, as if they were assessing this new dynamic. "Maybe, but it doesn't look that way to me," Nicholas said gently, gesturing for Hannah to take a closer look. "See? They don't seem angry. And you should come join me in a little chat with them later."
Hannah nodded quickly in agreement, her face brightening at the prospect of joining the gathering of their circle. But before they could linger in conversation, a loud, resounding bell rang throughout the Great Hall, signaling the start of classes. The chatter of students quickly dissolved into the shuffling of chairs and the clatter of footsteps as everyone stood up and began making their way out. Nicholas moved with the flow of the crowd, his eyes scanning the throng of eager first-years when he heard a familiar voice.
"Nicholas!" Hermione's voice cut through the din. She appeared alongside him, weaving through the mass of students with her usual determination. Hannah trailed slightly behind her, clutching her books tightly to her chest. Hermione offered a polite smile. "Would you care to join us on the way to class?" she asked, her tone more formal than the urgency in her stride.
Before Nicholas could respond, a voice rang out from the front—sharp and defiant. "Wait a minute, Granger. Nicholas is coming with us!" Ron's tone was edged with irritation, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Hermione. He stood with Harry, who looked caught between the two, his expression puzzled at the sudden clash.
Hermione's brow arched as she turned her attention to Ron, her voice as cold as the drafty corridors of the castle. "I do believe you are not part of the conversation at present, Weasley. Perhaps it would be best if you continued on your way. We have no need of your interference."
"You—" Ron began, his face flushing with frustration, but before the argument could escalate further, Nicholas stepped in, his voice firm and calm.
"We're all heading to the same class, so we'll go together. That settles it," he declared, casting a pointed look at both Ron and Hermione. His tone carried a quiet authority, and for a moment, the tension between the two subsided. Ron grumbled under his breath but said no more, while Hermione huffed slightly, though she made no further objections.
Contrary to their previous assumption due to the labyrinth-like feature of Hogwarts Castle, It was extremely easy to find the way to Herbology Class, since they just had to follow the stream of fellow first years towards the place. It was a winding adventure that led the students through the enchanting grounds of Hogwarts. As they exited the castle, the fresh scent of earth and blooming plants filled the air, invigorating their spirits. The sun shone brightly, casting golden rays on the sprawling lawns, while the distant chirping of birds accompanied their footsteps.
Nicholas, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Hannah walked together, their shoes crunching on the gravel path that meandered toward the greenhouses. On either side of the path, vibrant flower beds blossomed with a kaleidoscope of colors—reds, blues, and purples danced in the gentle breeze, while the sweet aroma of honeysuckle wafted through the air.
As they approached the greenhouses, the sight that greeted them was enchanting. Large, arched glass windows sparkled under the morning sun, reflecting the vibrant hues of the surrounding greenery. Inside the greenhouses, Nicholas and his friends caught glimpses of lush, magical plants—some with delicate petals that shimmered like jewels, while others swayed gently as though greeting the young witches and wizards who approached. The air was thick with the promise of discovery, and a sense of excitement rippled through the group. The greenhouses seemed like a sanctuary, a hidden world of botanical wonders waiting to be explored.
Ahead of them, their classmates streamed into one of the greenhouses, led by a cheerful, plump witch standing by the entrance. She wore a patched hat that seemed to have seen many seasons and her grey, wavy hair peeked out from beneath it. A warm, welcoming smile spread across her face as she greeted each student in turn. Her demeanor was as inviting as the lush greenery surrounding her.
"That must be Professor Sprout," Ron whispered, leaning closer to Nicholas as they drew nearer.
He was right, as it turned out. Hermione stepped forward, offering a polite, "Good morning, Professor Sprout." Her greeting brought an even brighter smile to the squat witch's face, confirming their assumption that she was indeed the Herbology professor.
Professor Sprout's eyes crinkled with delight as she replied, "Good morning to you as well, Miss Granger. A pleasure to see such enthusiasm for Herbology so early in the term."
Not wanting to appear impolite, Nicholas, Harry, Ron, and Hannah quickly followed suit, offering their own greetings. It was only proper to extend the courtesy, especially as they sought to make a good impression on their new teacher.
"Good morning, Professor," they chorused, each trying to match Hermione's level of politeness.
Professor Sprout's gaze shifted as she addressed each of them in turn. "Good morning, Mr. Potter, Miss Abbott, Mr. Weasley." But when her eyes fell upon Nicholas, her expression shifted slightly, a glimmer of surprise and recognition sparking in her eyes.
"And an honor to meet you, Mr. Gryff," she said with a note of reverence in her voice. "I've been a great admirer of your grandmother's works ever since I was a child. Mirabel Garlick's contributions to Herbology were nothing short of revolutionary, and her writings... oh, she's an inspiration to many of us in the field. Truly, a remarkable witch."
Nicholas offered a polite smile, though inwardly he winced. He had only found out about what his Grandmother used to do the day Dumbledore visited their estate, and while he respected her legacy, the effusive praise felt like it might never end. Professor Sprout continued to lavish compliments, delving into the specific botanical achievements of his grandmother, her enthusiasm unwavering. Nicholas could feel his ears burning slightly from the prolonged attention.
Hermione, on the other hand, listened with rapt interest, hanging on every word. Nicholas could see that she was already cataloging every detail about Mirabel Garlick's accomplishments, likely adding them to her growing mental library of books to read. Ron and Harry, however, looked a bit lost, their attention drifting as Professor Sprout went on, seemingly unaware of the line of students that had now formed behind them.
"I suppose you've read most of your grandmother's books?" Professor Sprout asked Nicholas, her voice hopeful, as though she expected him to have inherited a deep passion for Herbology.
Before Nicholas could answer, Professor Sprout glanced around, suddenly realizing the small line of students behind them. Her cheeks flushed slightly as she straightened up. "Oh my! Look at me, rambling on and holding up the class. We'll have to chat another time, Mr. Gryff. Now, come along, all of you, and find your spots. We've got a full lesson ahead of us!"
Lining the walls inside the greenhouse were shelves crowded with pots of exotic plants, some of which seemed to twitch as students passed by, their leaves rustling in a whispery, secretive manner. One particular specimen, a vibrant red flower, snapped shut as if hiding from prying eyes when Nicholas's gaze lingered a moment too long. He noticed the strange blooms alongside larger, more mundane ferns that filled the air with a fresh, herbaceous scent, while bulbous, waxy leaves trailed down from hanging planters, their ends curling as if reaching out to the young witches and wizards gathered below.
In the center of this living collection, a long wooden table stretched out, its surface polished but scarred from years of use. Twenty shallow bowls were spaced evenly along its length, each containing dark, rich soil with sprouting vines that wriggled faintly, as if they sensed the anticipation in the room. The tendrils twitched and shifted, turning slightly toward the students who gathered around them, as if the plants themselves were eager to meet their new handlers.
In the center of this living collection, a long wooden table stretched out, its surface polished but scarred from years of use. Twenty shallow bowls were spaced evenly along its length, each containing dark, rich soil with sprouting vines that wriggled faintly, as if they sensed the anticipation in the room. The tendrils twitched and shifted, turning slightly toward the students who gathered around them, as if the plants themselves were eager to meet their new handlers.
Professor Sprout directed the newly arrived students to stand in front of each bowl. Nicholas found himself positioned between Hermione and Harry, and they looked around with anticipation and excitement. The Gryffindors lined up along one side of the table, while the Slytherins took their place directly opposite them. Nicholas couldn't help but notice the palpable tension between the two houses. There was a sense of budding rivalry in the air—one that seemed to thrill some of his classmates and irk others.
Nicholas, however, found it all rather amusing. A House rivalry... with my friends even, he mused, stifling a quiet chuckle at the thought. The concept felt strange yet oddly entertaining.
Across the table, Draco Malfoy was doing little to hide his disdain for his new classmates. He fixed Harry with a disdainful glare, his lips curled into a sneer, as though the very sight of Harry offended him. Nicholas noticed the way Harry's jaw tightened in irritation, but before Harry could respond, Draco's attention shifted to Ron.
Draco's lips curled into a sneer as he eyed Ron from across the greenhouse table. "What are you staring at, Weasel?" he drawled, his voice laced with disdain. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly, adopting a posture that exuded false indifference. "Why don't you tell your little friend here to get out of my sight? He's ruining my morning. It's hard enough having to share space with all of you as it is."
Nicholas couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the pointed remark. He hadn't realized just how venomous Draco's words could be. Back in America, he was used to kids who spoke their minds bluntly, often engaging in sharp exchanges that he found more amusing than bothersome. But Draco's tone carried an edge that felt different—more biting and personal, aimed to wound rather than merely provoke. Yet, Nicholas couldn't resist a small, inward smile; this forced rivalry between the houses seemed almost theatrical, like something out of one of his mother's films.
Ron, however, was not in the mood for theatrics. His face reddened with anger, the flush spreading up from his neck to his ears. He glared at Draco with an intensity that could have melted ice. "Why don't you mind your own business, Malfoy?" Ron snapped, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "Not that you'd know much about that, always sticking your nose where it's not wanted. Maybe if you spent less time sneering, you might be a sight for sore eyes. Right now, you're more of a sore eye."
For a moment, Draco's expression faltered, a flash of surprise crossing his pale features. He hadn't expected such a bold retort from Ron. But he quickly recovered, his smirk returning, though there was a slight edge to it now—a touch of wounded pride. "I didn't realize Weasels could speak that way. Color me surprised, Weasel. You've got a bit more bite than I thought. But don't overestimate yourself. You're still just a poor, little red rat running around Hogwarts."
Ron's fists clenched tightly at his sides, and for a moment, Nicholas thought he might actually lunge at Draco. Ron's shoulders tensed, and he took a step forward, his expression darkening. "Say that again, Malfoy," he challenged, his voice low and threatening as if daring Draco to repeat the insult. It was the stance of someone ready for a scuffle, his stance wide and aggressive.
Draco's sneer deepened, and he leaned forward slightly, as if ready to continue the verbal sparring. Crabbe and Goyle loomed behind him, looking eager for any excuse to join in. Tension crackled in the air between them, like the charged atmosphere before a thunderstorm. This confrontation could get out of hand quickly.
Before things could escalate further, Professor Sprout's cheerful voice broke through the tension like a cool breeze cutting through the summer heat. "Now, now, that's quite enough of that!" she called, her tone still kind but carrying an unyielding firmness. She clapped her hands, drawing the attention of every student in the greenhouse. "We're here to learn about the Devil's Snare, not engage in petty squabbles. Let's focus on the lesson, shall we?"
The reprimand had an immediate effect. Draco straightened, his pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he cast Ron a final, scornful glance before turning his attention back to the bowl of vines in front of him. Ron, still simmering with anger, clenched his fists and shot Nicholas and Harry a look that clearly said, Can you believe the nerve of that git? But even Ron knew better than to continue challenging Draco with Professor Sprout watching closely. He bit his tongue, turning his focus back to the lesson with visible reluctance, though the tension in his posture lingered.
Hermione, standing beside Nicholas, let out a small sigh of relief, clearly glad that the confrontation had been defused before it could escalate further. However, her disapproving frown lingered, aimed squarely at Draco. Nicholas couldn't help but notice the shift in her demeanor; it seemed as though her patience with the Malfoy heir was beginning to wear thin. It was as if she had finally decided that Draco's unkind words weren't just the product of his upbringing but rather a deliberate choice to antagonize.
"Now, children," Professor Sprout's voice rang out, drawing their attention back to the lesson at hand. Her usual cheerfulness had returned, as if she intended to wash away the earlier unpleasantness with her enthusiasm for Herbology. "Please don your gloves with your non-dominant hand. These plants can be a bit... touchy when handled directly."
The students hastened to follow her instructions, each of them taking the thick, dragon-hide gloves placed beside their respective bowls. Nicholas slid on the glove over his left hand, feeling the cool, rough texture against his skin. He glanced around the table, noticing similar expressions of curiosity and apprehension on the faces of his fellow first-years as they tugged on their gloves, wondering what exactly lay in store for them.
Professor Sprout, now satisfied that everyone was properly outfitted, gave them an encouraging smile. "Very good. Now, before we proceed, is anyone familiar with the plant in front of you?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, but it was clear to everyone who would answer. Hermione's hand shot up immediately, her eyes bright with eagerness. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, as if she could barely contain her excitement. Professor Sprout's gaze landed on her with a fond smile. "Miss Granger?"
Hermione took a deep breath, her tone taking on that familiar air of a student who had read far more than the syllabus required. "The Devil's Snare is a semi-sentient plant, Professor. It uses its tendrils to ensnare anything that comes too close, especially when it feels threatened. It's known for its ability to constrict around its prey, which can make it rather dangerous if one doesn't know how to handle it properly. It's sensitive to warmth and light, so casting a bright light or providing warmth can cause it to release its grip."
Professor Sprout clapped her hands together, clearly delighted by the thorough response. "Very good, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor for that splendid explanation." Her praise rang through the greenhouse, causing Hermione's cheeks to flush with pride.
A ripple of murmurs followed, and Nicholas noticed the curious, appraising looks from some of their classmates directed at Hermione. Her knowledge had clearly made an impression, even if not everyone welcomed it warmly. While Hannah and the other Gryffindors gave her encouraging smiles, on the Slytherin side, the reception was far less kind. A few of Draco's cronies exchanged disdainful sneers, rolling their eyes at Hermione's detailed answer. Draco himself wore a smirk that suggested he found the display of knowledge tiresome, his aristocratic features settling into an expression of aloof superiority.
Hermione, however, seemed unfazed by their reactions. She stood a little taller, basking in the small victory, her expression one of satisfaction. Hannah seemed to admire her unshakable confidence. It was as if the disdain from the Slytherins only made her more determined to prove herself.
Professor Sprout, blissfully unaware of the social undercurrents simmering between the students, pressed on with her lesson, her tone warm and encouraging. "Now then, let's see how you handle the plants before you. These aren't as temperamental as a mature Devil's Snare, but they do have their quirks. Gently touch the tendrils with your gloved fingers, and let's observe how they respond."
The students hesitated for a moment, glancing at one another before following her instructions. Nicholas reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against the delicate, curling tendrils in front of him. He felt a slight shiver run through the plant as it made contact, and then, to his surprise, the tendrils began to coil around his fingers like curious serpents. They tightened their grip, and instinctively, Nicholas tried to pull his hand away. However, the more he struggled, the more the tendrils seemed to constrict, refusing to let go.
He glanced around and noticed similar reactions from his classmates. Across the table, Ron had a grimace on his face as the vine twisted around his fingers, while Harry shot a bewildered look at Nicholas, clearly uncertain of what to do next. Even the ever-prepared Hermione looked slightly disconcerted, though she kept her composure. On the other end of the greenhouse, several students began to panic as the tendrils wrapped more tightly around their fingers.
A sharp cry pierced the air. "Oh no!" Neville Longbottom shouted, his voice trembling with fear. "What do I do, Professor Sprout?" His face was pale, and his hands shook as the vine's grip on his fingers tightened. He stared at the plant with wide, tear-filled eyes, as if it might suddenly devour him whole.
Professor Sprout clapped her hands to get everyone's attention, her voice rising above the growing murmur of anxiety. "Calm yourselves, children! The more you panic, the tighter it will hold. Deep breaths, Mr. Longbottom. Focus on your breathing, and soon enough, you'll find yourself free from its grasp."
Despite her reassurances, Neville continued to tremble, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes darted around desperately, and tears welled up at the corners. "It's going to cut my fingers off!" he wailed, pulling harder against the tendrils, which only seemed to respond by coiling tighter.
Nicholas could feel his own pulse quickening, a faint edge of panic creeping into his chest as the tendrils tightened around his fingers. Even he, normally composed, found his heart beating faster than usual. Across from him, Ron's face was flushed with frustration, while Harry tried unsuccessfully to pry the vine from his hand. Yet, through the chaos, Hermione maintained her focus, though a hint of worry creased her brow.
Professor Sprout raised her wand, her voice more commanding this time. "Close your eyes, children!" she instructed sharply, and, despite their confusion, they all complied, squeezing their eyes shut. A moment later, a spell rang through the greenhouse, clear and confident: "Lumos Solem!"
Even through closed eyelids, Nicholas could sense a brilliant flash of light, bright enough to penetrate the darkness behind his eyelids. The warmth spread through the greenhouse, and he felt the grip of the tendrils slacken, loosening their hold around his fingers.
"Now, open your eyes," Professor Sprout said, her tone softening again. When Nicholas blinked his eyes open, he saw that the tendrils had released him entirely, retreating back into their bowl as if sulking from the sudden burst of light. Around him, his classmates sighed with relief, their hands freed from the plants' grasp.
"Remember, children," Professor Sprout continued, a gentle smile playing at her lips, "these plants will release you as long as you remain calm. They do not take well to panic. Or, you can use a simple light-creation spell, like Lumos Solem. They're not very fond of light or heat—anything that mimics the sun's warmth."
The students nodded, absorbing her words. Though they hadn't fully seen the spell's effect, the results were enough to inspire a sense of awe and curiosity. Nicholas noticed how the tension in the room began to ease, replaced by a newfound interest in the peculiarities of magical plants.
Professor Sprout seemed to sense the shift in their mood, and she tapped her wand lightly against her palm, considering for a moment. "Hmm... I suppose it wouldn't hurt to teach you all Lumos Solem before you begin your formal charms class. Very well, today we shall have our first attempt at spell-casting."
Excitement rippled through the group at the unexpected opportunity. Nicholas glanced at Hermione, who could barely contain her enthusiasm, her eyes practically shining at the prospect of learning a new spell ahead of schedule. Even Harry and Ron seemed to perk up at the idea, their earlier frustration forgotten in the thrill of casting real magic.
It had been a productive morning in the greenhouse, filled with a sense of accomplishment and the thrill of learning something new. Nicholas, with his natural affinity for spellwork, was the first to successfully cast the version of Lumos, Professor Sprout casted— Lumos Solem. A soft, warm light glowed from the tip of his wand, illuminating the tendrils in front of him, which shrank back from the brightness.
Nicholas couldn't help but feel a quiet pride in his success. He had always been rather fond of the Lumos spell, often practicing it on his own back in the estate. With a bit of adjustment to the wand movements and a deeper focus on his intention—techniques he'd learned from his tutor, Miss Blume—he managed to master the more advanced version without much difficulty. He found it almost second nature to tweak the spell's incantation and flourish until he got it just right.
His accomplishment did not go unnoticed. Around him, students cast curious glances, some admiring, others envious. Even Professor Sprout offered him a pleased nod, her eyes twinkling with approval. "Oh, wonderful! Mr. Gryff, I must say you must have learned Lumos quite proficiently before arriving at Hogwarts."
"I have, Miss Sprout." And Nicholas was proud of it.
Not long after, Hermione managed to cast her own Lumos. A touch warm light radiated from the tip her wand, causing the vines in front of her to recoil. She beamed, clearly delighted with her success, and Nicholas offered her an encouraging smile. "Well done, Hermione," he whispered, and she nodded back, her cheeks flushed with pride.
As the practice continued, the class split into two groups—those who had mastered the spell, and those still struggling to produce even the faintest glow. Among the latter was Neville, who, despite his earnest attempts, could only produce a few sparks. Harry managed a dim, flickering light, and though he appeared slightly frustrated, he seemed determined to get it right before the lesson ended. Even Draco, usually quick to boast, had to focus intently before his wand emitted a proper glow, his earlier smirk replaced with a furrowed brow.
By the time the class finally drew to a close, the sun outside had climbed higher in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the greenhouse floor. The students were both weary and satisfied, their robes slightly rumpled and their hands dirtied from their earlier tussle with the vines. Yet, there was a sense of camaraderie in the air, a shared feeling of having crossed the first hurdle of their magical education.
Professor Sprout clapped her hands together, drawing their attention back to her. "Well done, everyone! Those of you who managed the spell, excellent work. And for those still struggling, do not fret—you'll have plenty of time to master it in Charms class." Her tone was encouraging, and she gave Neville an especially warm smile as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
With that, she dismissed them, and the class began to file out of the greenhouse, chattering excitedly about their morning. Nicholas, walking beside Harry and Ron, felt a sense of anticipation building in him as they made their way back towards the castle. They still had much to learn, and there was a whole world of spells and enchantments waiting for them.
As they stepped into the Great Hall for lunch, the delicious aromas of roasted meats and warm bread filled the air, making their stomachs rumble. They slid into their seats at the Gryffindor table, and the conversation soon turned to their next class: Defense Against the Dark Arts. "I've heard Professor Quirrell's a bit of an odd one," Ron remarked, helping himself to a slice of pie. "Dad says he used to be fine, but then he went off to study vampires or somethin', and now he's got that twitch."
Nicholas, who had been taking a sip of pumpkin juice, looked intrigued. "Vampires... I thought they were just myths, things you'd read about in Muggle books or see in those horror films," he mused, furrowing his brow. He had always associated vampires with tales and cinema rather than real-world dangers. "If Professor Quirrell truly faced one, he must have been quite formidable to survive. I mean, if they're real at all."
Ron scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "Formidable? Maybe, but I wouldn't fancy surviving if it left me like him—always jumpy, and with that ridiculous turban he wears now. Probably got scared out of his wits. And who wears a turban in Britain, anyway?" Ron's words were laced with a mixture of skepticism and disdain as he reached for another roll, tearing it open with a smirk.
Hermione, who had been listening intently, couldn't hold back her disapproval any longer. She straightened up, setting down her fork with a clink and fixing Ron with a stern look. "That's quite enough, Ron. It's hardly fair to talk about Professor Quirrell like that behind his back," she reprimanded, her tone cutting through the jovial chatter. "He's a Hogwarts professor, and he deserves our respect, regardless of how he acts. You might not know what he's been through."
Ron, unbothered by her sharp tone, rolled his eyes dramatically and leaned back in his seat. "Alright, Miss Oh-so-Perfect," he muttered, mimicking her serious expression with a mocking tilt of his head. "I suppose we should all just mind our manners, then."
Hermione's cheeks flushed with frustration, and she glared at Ron, her lips pressed into a tight line. Clearly, she was not amused by his flippant attitude. She seemed to consider a sharp retort, but in the end, she simply turned back to her lunch, her pride wounded. The air between them grew tense, as if a small storm cloud had settled over their corner of the table.
Harry, sensing the tension, tried to change the subject. "Maybe Quirrell's seen a lot more than he lets on," he suggested cautiously, casting a quick glance between Hermione and Ron. "You'd have to be a bit mad to go out looking for vampires, wouldn't you?"
Nicholas nodded thoughtfully, trying to lighten the mood. "I suppose that's true. It's one thing to read about dark creatures, but it's another to actually face them. Can you imagine coming face-to-face with a vampire? It's no wonder he's a little... well, different."
Ron shrugged, not entirely convinced but willing to let the topic shift. "I still say he's daft, but I guess we'll find out soon enough what he's like in class."
The conversation lingered in the air like the delicious scents of the feast around them, but as the plates began to empty, the tension between Ron and Hermione gradually faded into the background. They all knew that the mysteries of Hogwarts—and its staff—would only deepen as the term went on. Soon enough, they'd have the chance to see if Professor Quirrell's oddities were more than just quirks, and whether there was indeed a reason behind the anxious tremor in his voice and the shadows in his eyes.