I decided I should attempt to write something from the perspective of an oft neglected and overlooked character that is absolutely nothing like me. As I racked my brain, a little light bulb slowly illuminated its cobweb-covered recesses. "Professor Sprout!" echoed quite loudly and gave me a bit of a headache. After I recovered, I wrote this. I've never seen a similar concept, and I apologize profusely if I missed a piece based on a similar idea. Sorry, kids, no sarcasm here! (Okay, maybe a smidgeon. But very little!) It's almost fun to write such an honest, straightforward character after lots of Snape angst. Almost.

The professor belongs to Ms. Rowling, Warner Bros, Scholastic, and Bloomsbury. I'm just pretending to be wholesome for a spell.



Vegetative Therapy



As she tended to her menagerie of plant life, her already appalling fingernails grew more soil-encrusted, her wispy mass of silver strands formed an increasingly more disheveled halo framing her lined face, and her aging knees protested her kneeling position with a passionate fervor. Despite the immense devotion she poured into her favorite task, Hufflepuff's Head of House could not lighten the several ton load burdening her heart.

His face kept replacing the greenery, saddened in defeat, thoughtful during class work, and the expression that haunted her most, triumphant and pleased at the Tournament Selection. He had been so proud to represent his House, the House of "idiots" and "cowards," the House he honored in everything he did. She remembered also, with a bit of shame, her own resentment of the Potter boy. Despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, she had been so sure he had just been another cocky Gryffindor, claiming the glory once again, stealing the spotlight that had been so long overdue to the diligent and hard working. As her thoughts drifted to what the poor child had faced, her eyes misted over for what seemed like the thousandth time in a week. Her prized pupil, killed by evil in corporeal form, another good-hearted student subjected to the worst pain imaginable several times over...she shuddered. The true bravery and loyalty that boy exemplified was immeasurable.

Again, Cedric's smile dominated her mind's eye. His features shifted into his father's. That conversation would haunt the Herbologist as much as any she had held with her late charge. "He died a hero..." Had she actually had the gall to say that? No doubt of its validity, but of course they didn't care. They had lost their only son to the Darkest Wizard to rise in a millennium, and she was prattling on about the lovely way he'd died. Such a wonderful boy...And he and Harry had been developing a bit of a friendship, from what she understood. And poor Cho. Taking strolls along the grounds, smiling at each other when each thought the other wasn't looking...they had been so enamored. When the little witch recalled the glance she'd gotten at the teenager only the night before, she was strongly reminded of why she'd barely toughed her food.

With a sigh, the professor regained her feet and absentmindedly rubbed at her knees. Recalling another excuse as to why she couldn't see Poppy just then about their creaky protests, Sprout made her way out of the greenhouse and towards the Quidditch field, vaguely thinking a walk would calm her gloomy thoughts and loosen her joints a bit. Hagrid's cabin in the distance drew her concentration from its former melancholy brooding to a steaming mug of tea. Perhaps she'd stop in for a chat before he left for that vacation he was planning. Africa, was it?



Hmm. I'd really appreciate feedback on this study of an ever so slightly less psychotic character than my normal fare. Did my portrayal of Sprout seem legitimate? Thanks for reading, and always remember to cherish the oddities others might refer to as "psychoses." What do they know?