Learning Lessons

"How do you feel?"

Neville blinked slowly, inhaled deeply, opened his mouth, and then closed it. How did he feel? It was hard to describe. He'd trembled while waiting for the lesson to start, felt almost crippled with fear when Pomona had handed him the lesson, and then... then a young Hufflepuff had asked him why there were earmuffs on the bench, and that had been that. Herbology had taken over, giving him speech and thought, and keeping his dread cowering in the corner. He'd smiled as they'd laughed at his stories, felt relief at their stern...and slightly fearful...faces when he warned them about the Mandrakes' cry, and he'd rejoiced in their keen gazes fixed on him.

When a quiet tinkling in his ear reminded him to end the lesson, he had felt his breath snatch with disappointment. It had been the best experience of his life. So, when Pomona asked him how he felt, he was at a loss to define such a feeling. He looked up at her, speechless, but his glowing and enthused features must have conveyed something, because she smiled knowingly.

"Like that, eh?" she teased gently. "I knew you were a natural." Giddy on the feeling, he swayed happily in the chair. "After lunch, we have third–year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins; want to take the lesson?"

Some of the elation evaporated. It may have been easy to keep a first-year group, awestruck with all that Hogwarts had to offer, under his spell, but third-years were slightly more jaded. He swallowed, but nodded. Pomona and he had planned their lessons over the last few days, and he knew most of the activities and objectives without needing any notes or prompts. And no one knew his subject better.

"Don't worry, you won't be alone," she assured gently. "No new teacher is left alone: Randall will have Septima, until her maternity leave starts." Settling into the chair opposite, she slid a fresh cup of tea towards him. "And everyone was new once."

"Even Professor Snape?" he asked before he could clamp his lips shut.

She tactfully ignored his blush. "Even Severus," she answered firmly, her expression giving nothing away.

They sat and sipped, thinking about the lesson that had been and the one to come. Neville felt a thousand questions squirming in his mind and guts, but he squashed them down... after all, what could be worse than his looming mentor session with Severus Snape?

Those questions and doubts made a peevish return when the greenhouse began to fill with... teenagers, but he rallied behind the fact that he had the element of surprise...they didn't really know who he was. He watched them sit and whisper to each other, their eyes lingering on him. He risked a glance at Pomona, but she was watching the group with something akin to suppressed mirth and knowingness and stepping back into the shadows. Neville was on his own.

He quickly looked around him. Twelve Slytherins and nine Hufflepuffs...not the most terrifying thing he'd ever encountered, but...

"Welcome to a new year of Herbology." He allowed himself a small smirk at the traditional groan from the far corners. "I'm Professor Longbottom." He saw a few faces snap around to his own, but he ignored their curious expressions. "And over the next few lessons, we will be focusing on harvesting techniques."

A few of the Slytherin boys pulled a face and slumped back; Neville felt a mix of pique and dark humour: how could they not like Herbology? And he'd found his first group of volunteers.

"You're as pathetic as my dad said you were," muttered a bitter voice from the back of the class.

The barely heard comment had the same impact as a hiss in long grass. Everyone stiffened pensively and backed away from the source, watching their step while beating a hasty retreat. Neville had no difficulty in spotting the widening gulf between class and agents provocateur. From the corner of his eye, he saw Pomona puff up and step forward. Something gripped him, and he surreptitiously waved her to relax. This was his test... this moment defined him. He had no choice but to tackle this head on... and carefully.

A trio of boys sat sullenly at the back, their ties were slightly askew, and they affected an air of sheer belligerence and stubbornness. Pomona had mentioned those students who were... challenging, and the threesome, sitting sullenly, were the most challenging. For various reasons, most of the staff seemed to find them a handful. He eyed the boys and examined the tactics and strategies Pomona had shared. With a rather evil smirk, he recalled the tactic of bringing the students into the lesson...making them a part of their learning. Who said that he couldn't make this learning curve slightly steeper than Herbology could manage?

His lesson plan went out the window, along with the last of his nervousness; this was a challenge, a battle, and one thing Neville had become an expert at was fighting. They wanted warfare, he'd give them a war.

"You may consider Herbology to be a safe topic... nothing dark or explosive about it, is there?" His question prompted a round of non-committal grunts, but he caught the puzzled, suspicious flicker on a few of the Hufflepuff faces. "I daresay that Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions are far more thrilling than potting plants and picking flowers, eh?"

As he spoke, he pulled on a pair of hefty dragon-hide gloves, earning a few surprised and curious glances. The dismissive boys raised their game to a sneer, but still exemplified boredom and petulance. Sucking on his teeth thoughtfully, Neville exaggerated making sure the gloves were on and then sauntered into the store room-cum-staff room adjoining the greenhouse. He grinned darkly as he reached out to gather up his chosen weapon.

Pomona caught his eye on the way out; she knew what this plant could do better than most, and he could imagine the small battle waging within her conscience. With a gentle inhale and a lifting of the eyebrows, she allowed Neville to proceed.

The class erupted into giggles when he returned. And who would blame them? Held in his protective mitts was the smallest, cutest plant possibly devised by Nature. Delicate, oval shaped leaves curled like cowlicks over the edge of the pot and huddled together into a soft green mound of gently glistening leaves. From this, slender stalks stood proud to wave five delicate white trumpet-shaped flowers a full two inches in the air. Despite this, Neville carefully placed the pot on the table as though it were likely to explode.

The Slytherin trio snorted and folded their arms across their chests, then one of them offered himself up for sacrifice.

"I could teach this class better than him," he sneered.

"Ah," Neville sighed, beaming. "Perhaps you could share with us your knowledge of how to harvest the flowers from this plant?" he asked with perfectly pitched challenge. Finally, he realised who the boy was: Phineas Crabbe, Vincent's much younger and twice-removed cousin.

With the class watching him and his friends smirking, Crabbe found himself agreeing and standing. His hubris carried him over to the plant, and he snatched the secateurs from Neville's gloved hand. Pride was making him a fool, but it hadn't completely robbed him of his wits.

"What is this thing, anyway?" he asked snidely.

Neville leant forward and whispered reverently, "Aside from the tentacular in the corner, this is the most dangerous plant in the greenhouse...it's a mini hosta."

The boy frowned, glancing between teacher and plant as if deciding what was the more ludicrous. "Never heard of it," he mumbled.

"That may be because it's predominantly found in Muggle gardens."

Neville was relieved to see the revulsion roll across the young man's face...not because he was thrilled that such prejudice existed, but because he knew his weapon had been loaded and sighted. All that was needed now was the pull on the trigger... and there it was!

"But," he interjected quickly before Crabbe became trigger happy, "you should know that this plant defends itself." Neville took a step closer so he could speak to Crabbe sotto voce. "If I were you," he said gently, "I'd realise that looks can be deceiving and learn to respect what you don't know."

Crabbe paused, contemplating the advice, then flashed Neville a disgusted look. He plunged the secateurs towards the slender stalk with malicious glee, but the blades snapped around air...the flower had moved! Puzzled and sneeped, the Slytherin tried again, but the white blossom swayed to the left with an almost mocking laziness. With a grunt and a bitter glance at Neville, Crabbe held the flower in his fingertips and re-aligned the blades, his lips curling up as he felt the flower strain futilely against his hold.

Neville counted down: three, two... one...snap!

"Ow!"

The flower had twisted out of its prison, and the petals were now happily and firmly clamped on the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger. On instinct, he jerked away, but the whole pot went with him, swinging under his frantically waving arm. His classmates, studious to the core, stood for a better view of the lesson.

To free his hand, he brought down the scissors, intent on cutting the pot loose, but the other flowers reared back like angry snakes, snapping at his hand and fingers, defending their brother with vitriolic and accurate determination. A particularly accurate nip on his inner wrist sent the clippers clattering to the floor. Those standing close enough could swear they heard the blooms hiss, as though laughing.

Crabbe reached under the pot to pull it free, but two of the biting heads lunged down and latched onto his hand. With a shriek, he realised that now both his hands were stuck, held by a very angry plant. Herbology suddenly didn't seem hazard free. To add to this was the painful realisation that while he was trapped, the plant still had two free mouths. He glared at it, and he thought he saw the petals curve up in a smug smile. The bloody thing was gloating!

"What the hell is this thing?" he yelped.

"I told you," answered Neville calmly, "it's a mini hosta, found typically in Muggle gardens. This one comes from Japan and is known to be particularly responsive to magic. Class!" he called out, catching their attention. "As you can see, this species also defends itself extremely aggressively when threatened."

Crabbe lunged at his nearest classmates for help, but they leapt back as if avoiding a Boggart. With a grimace, he rested against the bench and tried to wedge his foot between his wrists and on the pot to kick it loose. The class formed a tighter circle; this was the best Herbology lesson they'd had in years. As casual observers, many of them could see the inherent flaw in Crabbe's plan...one of the flowers had slipped under his hem. With much elbow-nudging and grinning, they watched and waited.

"Ow!" he snarled, hopping and cursing as he tried to extricate his foot. "The bloody thing bit my ankle."

"Hostas such as these," Neville continued, ignoring the scuffling and occasional giggle, "were used for ground coverage around Wizarding properties."

"Why?" screamed out the tormented Crabbe, now that his foot was free and he had less to worry about. "Were they insane?"

Neville flashed him a tight smile. "The hosta was used to protect a Wizard's property from magical animals and other wizards. In the presence of magic, they become very... agitated." Crabbe supported this by suddenly yelping. "The idea was that if something magical entered the garden, the hostas would react and... distract the trespasser."

"Is it distracting you, Crabbe?" a Slytherin shouted snidely.

"Surely, the point was to alert the wizard to the trespasser?" someone mumbled from the back. "I mean, Crabbe's making enough noise to put many wards to shame."

"So," Neville interjected, "clever idea?"

Based on Crabbe's predicament, they all answered, "Yes."

"No, not really," deadpanned Neville. "You see, hostas reproduce asexually, which means they send out specialised roots...rhizomes or stolons...that develop into new plants. These roots can extend quite far, and it wasn't unheard of for a wizard to wake up with something nibbling determinedly on him." Nervous giggling followed. "For some, this wasn't an entirely unwelcome experience, but for the owner of this species, it could be a severe impediment."

"Crabbe seems more inconvenienced than hurt," an unsympathetic classmate pointed out.

"Oh," Neville replied dismissively, "you have just one plant here... imagine a whole bedding area suddenly sprouting up and finding you interesting." As a collective, the class winced. "And I will remind you that this is a mini hosta."

"So, hostas are dangerous?"

Neville sighed and tilted his head, deep in thought. "There are more dangerous plants out there, but in sufficient numbers and in the right anatomical areas, they could do some serious damage, yes."

Crabbe stopped struggling and stared incredulously at his teacher. Inhaling sharply, he swung the pot downwards...missing Neville's rapid attempt to stop him...and smacked it against the edge of the bench, shattering the pot, but not dislodging the peeved plant. It did, however, free the roots, roots that to his horror moved to wrap around his hand and wrist.

"Oh dear," sighed Neville, earning eager looks from the class and a frantic desperate stare from the Slytherin.

"What?" he whimpered, trying to grab the stringy roots whilst avoiding the two angry blooms. "Oh.... no! No!" he moaned, grabbing at his conveniently baggy sleeve. "No! Oh... come on!"

"Ah, now this is interesting, class," Neville uttered excitedly, urging them closer. "Here, you'll see that its stolons...those long, slightly thicker roots... can wrap around objects, in this case the arm, to help pull the plant along."

"Oh Merlin!" screamed the volunteer, stiffening and urgently patting at his forearm. "It's gone up my sleeve!"

The class strained for a better look, catching sight of the last of the shuddering leaves disappearing under the shirt's cuff and a slight bulge sliding smoothly upwards. A curious pinched expression crept across Crabbe's face and he stiffened. A few of the class winced in sympathy, but Crabbe had...over the years...been a blight upon everyone's school days, so he was getting limited help. Besides, this lesson was too rewarding.

"It's in my armpit," he squeaked, suddenly turning and twisting as he tried to evade the biting flowers and the tickling tendrils. It looked like he was the victim of a powerful Tarantallegra, if someone had modified it to also focus on the arms and the face. It was quite possible, judging by his expression, that he was also occasionally enjoying some of the plant's attentions.

"It moves fast!" gasped one of the Hufflepuffs.

"Oh yes," Neville replied. "It's advised when counting how many discrete plants you have in a bed to mark them as counted in case one should move; they can be quick little beggars."

"But," murmured a shy girl, "my Aunt has mini hostas, and they've never moved."

Neville smiled gently. "Muggles have generated over three thousand cultivars, and only a very few behave like this...I'd say that your aunt most likely has the inert variety. Also, they only respond in this manner in the presence of magic. In non-magical areas and around Muggles, they are just as you'd expect a plant to be."

"So," continued the girl, "how would you stop them from... attacking?"

"The mini hostas' magical response resonates sympathetically... do you know what that means?"

A number of heads shook; the rest were fixed in place, watching Crabbe twist and giggle.

"It means that whatever you're feeling, the hosta will respond in kind...it shares your intention."

"So, because Crabbe tried to take its head off, the plant is attacking him?"

"Precisely!" declared Neville with a satisfied grin.

"But...?"

"Yes?" Neville encouraged.

"Crabbe's had enough... It's still going for him."

"I doubt that very much," he replied, just as Crabbe emitted a squeal. "Hostas have no mind as such, so they cannot do anything other than what their...for want of a better term...teacher guides them to do."

The class turned to Crabbe as he pirouetted and tittered, thinking about what his intentions and needs would be. Neville could see the answer blossoming on their faces...Crabbe wanted it to leave him alone, so the plant wanted Crabbe to leave it alone, unfortunately, the plant was stuck under his shirt. With their epiphany, their lips clamped shut. No one wanted this to end prematurely... Crabbe owed them.

Neville rested back against the workbench and folded his arms. "Sometimes, we get back exactly what we put in, eh, Crabbe?"

Crabbe tried to glare and laugh at the same time: it didn't quite have the impact he desired. It was made worse by the fact that he just wasn't allowed to stand still; looking like a marionette in the hands of someone with the shakes did not help maintain the image he had spent two years refining. He just wanted to hide in the dark.

Neville straightened and pulled off the gloves, replacing them in a drawer underneath the bench. As far as he was concerned, this particular lesson had been learnt, and it was time to end it.

"Argghhh!"

The thin, high-pitched whine filled the sudden attentive silence until it ended with a defeated squeak. Neville looked back quizzically, and a young boy with spots and glasses supplied an answer with all the glee of one seeing vengeance unleashed upon a foe.

"It's just gone down his trousers, sir."