Herbology class was held in sprawling greenhouses that shimmered with condensation, their glass panes glowing faintly from the sunlight filtering through. Inside, the air was thick and earthy, carrying the mingling scents of damp soil, blooming flowers, and the occasional whiff of something less pleasant. Shelves and benches were crowded with pots of peculiar plants—some vibrant and beautiful, others spiny or oozing strange fluids, and a few that seemed to twitch if you looked at them too long.

Each lesson introduced a new botanical curiosity: plants that shrieked if mishandled, vines that moved of their own accord, or herbs with shimmering leaves that glistened as though they’d been dusted with starlight. Leather-bound textbooks lay open on worktables, their pages covered with diagrams and warnings in bold letters. Tools were neatly arranged: pruning shears, dragon-hide gloves, and enchanted watering cans that filled themselves as needed.

Herbology required both courage and caution. One moment you might be repotting a shy little sprout that quivered under your touch, and the next you’d be wrangling a stubborn root system determined to tie itself in knots. It was a lesson in respect—for the plants, their quirks, and, most importantly, their dangers. But for those who paid attention, there was a quiet wonder in coaxing life from the soil and learning the secrets of nature’s strangest creations.