"I," a Gryffindor seventh-year announced as he dropped wearily into a chair in the common room one evening, "Am being followed around by an aroma of compost."
"Too right you are," said his friend, hastily evacuating the chair next to him. "You're also late," he added, sitting down again a little farther away.
"I know," the first one said. "I was accosted by Professor Sprout." He waved a weary hand. "There was a problem in the greenhouses. I had to explain that if she does want all that lovely, lovely Beauxbatons horse manure, there's not much we can do if the mandrakes get tipsy..."