Snape and Abbot left the castle together, walking past the lush vegetable garden toward the greenhouses, where magical plants of every kind thrived.
As they approached, a crowd of students had already gathered on the lawn in small clusters, waiting for Professor Sprout.
From a distance, Snape spotted the Whomping Willow. It stood there swaying lazily in the breeze, its new leaves glistening translucent in the sunlight.
His mind drifted—dragged back to that moonlit night last term.
Urged on by Black's malicious little "prank," Snape had poked the knot on the trunk with a long stick, freezing the Willow long enough to enter the secret passage leading to the Shrieking Shack.
And at the far end of that tunnel, he'd caught a glimpse—brief, but enough—of a werewolf: fanged, feral, monstrous.
Just as it leapt at him, James Potter had arrived, yanked him back at the last second.
That was how James had saved his life.
And yet, Snape remembered well what Dumbledore had once told Harry, after Peter Pettigrew escaped: "When one wizard saves another's life, a bond is formed between them."
Later, Pettigrew was strangled by his own enchanted silver hand—betrayed, it seemed, by that very bond.
Now Snape couldn't help but wonder—uneasy—what strange consequences might yet lie dormant, waiting to awaken.
"What are you daydreaming about?" Abbot jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.
"Nothing."
Snape blinked, refocusing, scanning the gathered students.
Remus Lupin stood among them—human in form, but pale, worn-out. Snape guessed the full moon had just passed. Lupin must've only recently endured another painful transformation.
Snape's thoughts were wandering again when Professor Sprout strode across the grass.
She was a squat witch with windblown hair tucked under a patched hat, robes speckled with soil, and a perpetually cheerful squint.
"Today, we'll be in Greenhouse Three," she announced brightly. "From now on, we'll be working with some truly fascinating plants."
Students murmured with curiosity. Before sixth year, they'd only set foot inside Greenhouse Three once.
Compared to the more familiar Greenhouse One, this one contained plants that were far more intriguing—and far more dangerous.
Professor Sprout pulled a large key from her belt and unlocked the heavy door.
A wave of warm, damp air wafted out, rich with earth, fertilizer, and the overpowering sweetness of strange blooms—flowers as big as Hagrid's umbrella hung like chandeliers from the ceiling.
She led them inside and stood behind a bench where a dozen pairs of earmuffs—each a different color—were laid out.
Once everyone had filed in, she cleared her throat and said, "Today, we'll be repotting Mandrakes. Now, who remembers what makes Mandrakes special?"
After two weeks of class, Snape noted that most students had stopped bothering to raise their hands. Someone always shouted the answer anyway.
"The Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative. It's a key ingredient in many antidotes, but also very dangerous…"
"Yes, precisely," Snape thought dryly. 'Ten points to Gryffindor,' of course."
"Very good—ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout, to no one's surprise. "It seems you haven't forgotten what I taught you back in second year."
Snape eyed the rows of small, green-and-purple seedlings. He decided it would be wise to wait until this batch matured before he considered any business involving the Chamber.
"These Mandrakes aren't mature yet," Sprout said, pointing to a series of deep trays. "The worst their cries will do is give you a trip to the hospital wing—and perhaps a memorable Christmas."
"Here, this one's for you." Abbot snatched up two pairs of earmuffs—both pink and furry—and handed one to Snape with a smug grin.
"What's with the color?" Snape asked flatly. "Why?"
"They're cute! I think they suit us," Abbot said, slipping his on without shame.
Snape looked to the bench in despair—the rest had been taken.
"You're outrageous! How did I never see your true nature—"
"—What?" Abbot tapped his earmuffs. "Can't hear you—"
"~!@#￥%..."
"You two sound like a married couple."
The voice was gentle, and when Snape turned, he saw a girl with waist-length, tangled golden hair, dirt-smudged, wearing a necklace made of Butterbeer corks.
Her eyes were pale and unfocused, her brows nearly invisible, and she smiled as though amused by something only she could see. There was an odd energy about her—offbeat, unfiltered.
Luna?
Snape's mind instantly summoned a skipping, sprite-like image—yes, this girl had to be Luna's mother.
He'd never noticed her before.
But then again, his past self had eyes for only one shade of green.
"You're the mad girl—Pandora Lovegood!" Abbot announced loudly, his voice booming under the muffs.
Pandora didn't seem offended.
Her large eyes blinked slowly. "You call me mad too?"
Then she turned and walked to an empty table nearby.
"Wait," Snape called out, flicking Abbot's head as he passed. "Ignore this idiot—he's defective.
"There's space here, if you'd like."
"Sure," Pandora said cheerfully, settling across from him.
"You know," she said conspiratorially, "Mandrake cries are actually a kind of healing magic. If you pair them with Carthaginian incantations, they have miraculous effects.
"Three centuries ago, a witch named Elfrida cured a vampire's sunlight allergy using Mandrake wails…"
Her voice was dreamy, her words ridiculous—and Snape knew beyond doubt that this was Luna's mother.
She would die in an accident during a magical experiment, when Luna was nine.
Yet here she sat, alive and alight, sharing her strange beliefs without a hint of embarrassment.
From her expression, Snape realized—maybe no one had ever just listened before.
Light poured through the greenhouse glass, gilding her face in gold.
The sun was beautiful today.