HP: The Boy who Planted

As Snape hurried down the corridor, his mind raced with worry. The thought of Char being bullied by a group of Slytherin students sent a chill down his spine. He knew all too well how much Professor Sprout cared for Char. If she found out that her prized student had been mistreated by Slytherins, she might very well lose her temper—and Snape shuddered to imagine what Sprout, with her arsenal of strange and magical plants, might do in retaliation.

Without hesitation, Snape whipped out his wand. "Alohomora!" he barked, the tip of his wand glowing as the unlocking spell shot forward. The classroom door clicked open with a burst of light.

Snape strode in, his voice ringing out, "Stop! How can you use your numbers to bully the minority? Slytherin House still has to save its reputation—"

But the scene that greeted him was not at all what he'd expected. Instead of finding Char surrounded and bullied, Snape saw a room full of Slytherin first-years with tears in their eyes. They looked utterly haggard, some sobbing openly.

"I'm so sleepy," whimpered one.

"I just want to go to bed," another moaned.

The moment they saw Snape, the little snakes acted as if they'd been rescued from the jaws of a Hungarian Horntail. "Dean!" they cried. "You finally came to save us!"

Malfoy, his face streaked with tears and frustration, pointed at Char and wailed, "Char Sprout bullied us! He wouldn't let us leave, wouldn't let us sleep, and forced us to keep working on Flobberworms. Dean, you won't cover up for this kind of bullying, right?"

For a moment, Snape was too stunned to speak. Then his face darkened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You mean to tell me," he said, his voice low and cold, "that ten of you were bullied by Char Sprout alone? And you were the ones who started this. Now you want me to give you justice?"

Snape was so angry he actually laughed, his lips trembling with suppressed rage. "How did I end up with a class of Slytherins like you? You're bringing shame to the house!"

Malfoy and the others shrank under his glare, unable to meet his eyes.

With a wave of his wand, Snape cast a spell that made their eyelids feel glued open. "Go back," he snapped. "Go to the common room and reflect on your actions. Don't embarrass yourselves further. And as for sleep—forget it! You want to stay up, so stay up now!"

He took a deep breath, then added, "Five points from Slytherin!"

The little snakes looked devastated, but Snape's anger was real and they didn't dare argue. They shuffled out of the classroom, their heads down.

Once they were gone, Snape's mood didn't improve. He stared at Char, his expression still dark. "Mr. Sprout, you must be very pleased with yourself," he said sarcastically. "It seems I've been too lenient with you. You've gotten cocky."

He strode to the podium, snorting. "Let's see if you're really as impressive as you think. Char Sprout, do you truly believe you've handled your potion ingredients well? Do you think you're my right-hand man? Have you noticed anything about the consistency of Flobberworm slime magic? Answer me!"

Char nodded, meeting Snape's gaze. "I noticed it today, Professor. I paid more attention to it and tried to improve. Please, criticize and correct me."

Snape's anger faltered, replaced by confusion. He immediately examined the Flobberworm slime Char had processed. Despite his lingering frustration, Snape couldn't help but be surprised. Char's work was far better than before. The slime still wasn't as uniform as Snape's own, but it was a marked improvement—enough for Snape to grudgingly admit that it "barely meets the standard."

He looked at the large bottle of slime, his anger slowly ebbing away, replaced by a complicated mix of emotions. Was Char's potion skill strong? Not exactly. He wasn't a prodigy, but his progress was remarkable for someone of ordinary talent. Snape thought back to his own beginnings—he'd been far ahead of where Char was now, but then, Snape had always been gifted.

He found himself wondering: if his own talent had been as modest as Char's, could he have made such progress through sheer effort alone? The answer, he realized, was probably no. It was a sobering thought. Char's determination was extraordinary, but fate had given him only average magical gifts. Hard work could take you far, but there were limits—bottlenecks that only true talent could break.

Snape's anger faded. He picked up the bottle of Flobberworm slime and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "Since you're working hard and helping me lighten my burden, I'll agree to one request of yours—so long as it's not excessive. Think carefully before you ask."

Char's face lit up with joy. The promise of the Potions Master was no small thing. With Snape's pride, he could probably even ask for a dose of Felix Felicis and get it. But Char's goals were already set.

"Professor, I want to learn from you how to prepare the Sacred Tree Potion."

Snape's eyes widened in surprise. The Sacred Tree Potion? That was a potion used only in the second stage of cultivating the Guardian Tree—a rare, advanced herbology project. Had Char really reached that level?

He looked at Char, his expression unreadable. "You want me to teach you potions? You know I only tutor students who get an O in Potions on their OWLS."

Char hesitated, disappointment flickering across his face. Snape's lips curled in a faint, almost mischievous smile. After a moment, he relented.

"Starting next week, every Saturday night after you've finished your other tasks, I'll take two hours to teach you privately. But if you're too slow to learn, don't blame me for kicking you out."

With that, Snape turned and swept out of the classroom.

Char smiled to himself. No matter how roundabout the process, he'd achieved his goal. His schedule was now packed: tending glow mushrooms, goldfish spider plants, piranha algae; practicing spells; Quidditch training; searching for the Half-Blood Prince textbook; processing potion materials; training magical perception; and now, Potions lessons every Saturday. It was a full, demanding routine—but Char was used to it. He believed that sweating in practice meant less pain in real challenges. Even with the advantage of his planting system, he knew that effort was essential. He never wanted to look back with regret for not working harder.

He quickly put the recent events behind him and continued searching the classroom lockers. It wasn't until dawn that he finished, putting everything back in order before leaving the Potions classroom.

"All the lockers in this classroom have been searched," he thought. "The Half-Blood Prince textbook isn't here. That leaves five more classrooms. If I'm slow, I'll find it in half a month. If I'm lucky, it might be sooner."

Char was calm, going about his days as usual: growing plants, attending classes, Quidditch training, processing potion materials. Since Malfoy and the other Slytherins no longer dared to challenge him, he encountered no further trouble. His days were busy and fulfilling.

A week passed in a blur. Before he knew it, the castle was being decorated with pumpkins and other Halloween trimmings. Students chatted excitedly in the corridors, making plans for the upcoming party. Char was startled to realize how quickly time had passed—the semester was already halfway over.

He shook off his musings and focused on his goals. He was certain he hadn't wasted a single day, always pushing himself to grow stronger.

One afternoon, as he opened a locker in the corner of the Potions classroom, his heart skipped a beat. There, amid a jumble of old books and debris, was a battered copy of "Advanced Magical Potion Making." Char's hands trembled as he opened the title page.

A line of handwriting greeted him:

"All rights to this book belong to—Half-Blood Prince."

Char's heart pounded with excitement. At last, he had found it—the legendary textbook that would help him take his magic to the next level.

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