Hogwarts...
Alaric Thorn felt no real aversion to the idea. His own years as a student within those ancient stone walls had been, for the most part, quite agreeable. Perhaps taking up a professorship wouldn't be a bad change of pace. Besides, if history followed its course, Harry would be heading there soon enough. If only for the sake of advancing the Tree of Wisdom's growth, a position at Hogwarts seemed like a strategic move.
"I'll give it a try, Professor," Alaric said.
"Splendid!" Kettleburn beamed, nodding with vigorous approval. "I'll get in touch with Dumbledore immediately. You'll likely have a letter from the school within the week."
Once Alaric had given his word, the tension seemed to bleed out of Kettleburn's face. He celebrated by putting away several more glasses of honeyed mead in quick succession.
"Oh, before I forget..." Kettleburn began, starting to unwind the thick bandages from his prosthetic arm. "I almost lost track of this."
Alaric watched as the professor revealed the artificial limb. It was in a sorry state—the wood was splintered and battered, covered in deep gouges and several distinct, charred scorch marks. Alaric suspected the burns were dragon-fire; Kettleburn was notorious for "wandering" into dragon sanctuaries and nesting grounds far more often than was strictly professional.
"The limb you made for me is on its last legs, I'm afraid," Kettleburn noted ruefully.
Alaric rubbed his temples. "Professor, could you not try to stay out of trouble for five minutes?"
"You should tell that to the dragons, lad. They're the ones who won't stay still." Kettleburn unlatched the wooden arm and handed it across the table. "Sorry, Alaric. Any way to patch this up?"
Alaric took the prosthetic, turning it over in his hands. He remembered crafting it from a specific type of self-repairing timber—a byproduct of his Mutation ability. But it was painfully obvious that the damage here had far exceeded the wood's biological limits. He tapped the surface, hearing a hollow, fragile resonance.
"It's a lost cause, Professor," Alaric said, frowning. "What exactly did you do to it?"
"Mmm..." Kettleburn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see. It was bitten by a Norwegian Ridgeback first, then I believe a Hungarian Horntail caught it with a stray blast of flame while I was trying to soothe it... Oh, I forgot to mention—that Ridgeback? It's the one that hatched from the egg you gave me years ago."
As Kettleburn launched into a spirited description of the carnage, Alaric felt a vein throb in his temple. He let out a long sigh. "You're using this as a shield, aren't you?"
"Haha! Well, you did make it exceptionally sturdy," Kettleburn barked with a laugh.
Alaric shook his head and handed the battered limb back. "This one is beyond saving. You'll have to make do for a few days. I'll craft you a replacement, but it's going to take some time."
Kettleburn reattached the arm and gave it an experimental flex. "No matter. It's not the first time I've had to work one-handed. You focus on reporting to Hogwarts; get to the arm whenever you have a spare moment."
Alaric wondered briefly why Kettleburn was so insistent on him taking the job, but he accepted the gesture as the genuine goodwill it was.
By the time Alaric returned home, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. He stepped into the plantation and allowed the Devil's Snare to return to its post. As the primary security measure for the grounds, the Snare was indispensable; taking it out into the world was a calculated risk Alaric didn't enjoy repeating.
While the plantation was shielded by powerful concealment charms, it wasn't a pocket dimension; his briefcase functioned more as a localized gateway. Occasionally, stray magical creatures would blunder through the wards. Just last year, a Graphorn—a hulking, spike-headed beast with a humped back—had tried to make a den in the meadow. The Devil's Snare had handled it. To this day, the creature's horns sat prominently in Alaric's private collection.
Alaric walked out of the first conservatory, crossing the moonlit grass toward the second greenhouse. This one was specialized; layered with heavy Undetectable Extension Charms, the interior space was staggering, spanning the size of several football pitches. It was where Alaric kept his larger botanical experiments.
At the very center stood a massive, sprawling tree: an Ebony.
Being a resident of Alaric's garden, this was naturally a mutated variety. Unlike common Ebony, its bark and branches possessed a strange, metallic sheen of deep violet. Alaric focused his intent, and the tree's data flickered into his mind:
Species: Ebony
Level: 3
Traits: Regeneration, Lightweight
Status: Growing (12%)
Ebony was world-renowned for being a dense, heat-resistant wood, making it a premier choice for wandmakers. Those same properties made it an ideal base for high-end prosthetics. The branches of this specific tree were what Alaric had used for Kettleburn's previous limb. The "Regeneration" and "Lightweight" traits were perfect for someone of the professor's active—and reckless—lifestyle.
Unfortunately, Ebony was a slow grower. This tree had hit Level 3 years ago, and since then, the progress bar had only moved a measly twelve percent.
As Alaric stood beneath the violet canopy, he paused. Something felt... different about the tree's aura today. He reached out and gave the trunk a firm tap.
A tiny, spindly head topped with a few sharp leaves poked out from a crevice in the branches. It was a Bowtruckle.
This specimen was slightly larger than average, its bark-like skin a dark forest green that shimmered with a purple tint, blending almost perfectly with the Ebony. It blinked its coal-black eyes at Alaric, clutching a small, fallen twig to its chest as if it were a king's ransom.
"And when did you sneak in?" Alaric arched an eyebrow.
The Bowtruckle let out a sharp, chattering cry, looking annoyed that its nap had been interrupted. Alaric noted that the twig it held was a piece of the Ebony; though dead and dry, it still hummed with a faint trace of residual magic.
"That's my tree, you know," Alaric said with a faint smile, reaching for the twig. The Bowtruckle hissed and scurried back into the shadows of the bark, hugging the wood even tighter. It gave Alaric a defiant glare, clearly having no intention of surrendering its prize.
"Fine. Have it your way." Alaric shrugged, deciding not to press the issue. It seemed the creature had decided to make the Ebony its home. As long as it didn't start gnawing on the living wood, he saw no harm in the arrangement.
Alaric left the greenhouse and returned a moment later carrying a small ceramic jar filled with woodlice—a Bowtruckle's favorite delicacy. He returned to the Ebony and gave the jar a gentle shake.
At the sound of the scuttling insects, the Bowtruckle poked its head out again, its leafy "hair" quivering. It eyed the jar suspiciously, weighing its hunger against its distrust of the wizard.
"Want some?" Alaric rattled the jar again. The Bowtruckle nodded vigorously.
"Then let's make a deal." Alaric knelt, extending a finger to lightly boop the creature's tiny head. "You stay here, but you help me keep an eye on this tree. Don't let anything harm it."
The Bowtruckle tilted its head, considering the terms. After a beat, it gave a solemn nod and held out its tiny claws.
"Here you go, you little glutton." Alaric placed a handful of woodlice onto a broad branch. The Bowtruckle scrambled over, hugging the pile of insects and letting out a series of happy, trilling chirps as it began to feast.
Alaric turned his attention back to the Ebony and drew his wand.
"Sectumsempra."
A flash of silver light sliced through the air. A secondary branch of the Ebony tree was severed cleanly, falling to the soft earth with a muffled thud. Alaric leaned down to retrieve it, admiring the surgical precision of the cut.
"The Sectumsempra curse really is the ultimate tool for pruning," he mused. "Professor Snape is quite the genius, in his own dark way."
The Bowtruckle looked up sharply at the sound of the branch falling.
"Peace, little one. I'm only taking a bit of material. The tree isn't hurt." Alaric gestured toward the trunk. "Look, it's already healing."
Under the influence of the "Regeneration" trait, a layer of fresh, tender bark was already beginning to seal the cut. The Bowtruckle stared at the closing wound for a moment, and once satisfied the tree was intact, it went back to its woodlice.
Alaric balanced the new Ebony branch in his hand, testing its weight and density.
"Excellent," he whispered, a satisfied smirk touching his lips. "This is far superior to the last batch. Kettleburn is going to love his new limbs."