Sirius stood beside the planting trough, one hand behind his back, the other waving through the air.

His mouth moved fast, expression like someone explaining something terribly complicated and making it worse with every word, brow knotted into a mess.

Eleanor crouched in front of the trough, a potted Mandrake clutched to her chest, arms locked around it like a shield.

She looked up at Sirius with her brows pinched, the corners of her mouth turned down, her earmuffed head tilted slightly. The expression on her face needed no translation: What nonsense are you spouting?

Sirius brought his hand out from behind his back. Clenched in his fingers were several leaves, dark green, thick, serrated edges. Mandrake leaves.

He tried to hide his hand behind him again, then brought it back out, apparently defending himself, his expression sliding from explanation into shamelessness.

Eleanor’s face darkened instantly, as though she’d witnessed an unforgivable crime.

She shot to her feet. The pot nearly slipped from her arms, wobbling twice before she caught it. Her right hand freed itself and lunged for the leaves in his grip.

Sirius reacted fast. His arm shot up, stretched overhead.

He had a good half-head on her, and his arms were long. At full extension, the leaves dangled from his fingertips, swaying.

Eleanor rose on her toes. Couldn’t reach. Hopped twice. Still couldn’t.

She stamped her foot in frustration.

Regulus watched from outside, the corner of his mouth curling upward.

Eleanor switched tactics. No more hopping.

She set the pot on the nearest trough, both hands free now. One grabbed the wrist of Sirius’s raised arm and yanked downward. The other went straight for his face, palm pressing down.

His head tilted sideways under the pressure, arm still raised, mouth mashed out of shape by the heel of her hand. He was saying something, garbled and indignant, probably some variation of quit it, quit it.

His free hand found the top of Eleanor’s head and pushed her backward.

Her head tipped back under the force, both hands still clawing at the air, swiping at the leaves and then, when those stayed out of reach, slapping his arm with sharp, ringing smacks.

They were tangled together in a mess of limbs.

Eleanor wrenched free of his hand and jumped back a step.

Two earmuffed heads, not far apart, gesturing wildly at each other, mouths moving at top speed, neither able to hear a word the other was saying.

Regulus stood on the other side of the glass and found it thoroughly entertaining.

Whether they’d forgotten or done it on purpose, neither had drawn a wand the entire time.

He folded his arms and watched. Patient.

The argument inside continued.

Eleanor had clearly failed to reclaim the leaves. She’d given up the grab, standing there now with her hands on her hips, mouth moving at blistering speed.

Through the glass wall, the words were inaudible, but from the speed of her lips and the expression on her face, she was laying into him.

Shouting through earmuffs, completely unaware of her own volume. The greenhouse glass hummed.

Sirius stuffed the leaves into his robe pocket, slapped both hands over it protectively, and his expression shifted from triumph to something approaching guilt.

For once, he didn’t fire back. His mouth twitched, started to form words, swallowed them. He managed a few gestures, probably explanations, but none of them landed.

Eleanor’s tirade was seamless. She didn’t pause for breath, her pace only accelerating.

Her finger jabbed from Sirius’s chest to his face and back again. With each jab he retreated half a step.

Three, four steps back. His back hit the edge of a planting trough. Nowhere left to go.

A crooked grin hung on his face. Mouth tilted to one side, brows drawn low, trying for nonchalance, but the angle was wrong. It had tipped into something almost placating.

Then Eleanor’s hand dropped.

She scooped up her pot, turned to leave.

Two steps away, she turned back. One hand lifted an earmuff, and she said something.

Through the glass, Regulus could only read her lips.

Sirius’s expression shifted from guilt to blank confusion. He opened his mouth.

Eleanor had already pulled the earmuff back down, huffed once, and strode off, the yellow hem of her robes flaring with each step.

She walked out through the Greenhouse Three door, turned toward the tool shed, and her figure disappeared around the corner of the greenhouse cluster.

Sirius stood by the planting trough, hand still clamped over his pocket, staring in the direction she’d gone. He stayed like that for a while.

Then he bared his teeth at the empty doorway, shrugged, muttered something to himself, and followed her out.

Regulus lingered outside the glass, mouth still curved.

Those two were interesting.

Eleanor Bones. Hufflepuff. Pure-blood. A respected family, known for fairness and integrity.

Her brother, Edgar Bones, the current Head of House, had joined the Order of the Phoenix in the 1970s and become one of its core members. He and his wife would be killed by Death Eaters during the First Wizarding War.

A formidable fighter, praised by Mad-Eye Moody himself as a true warrior.

Her sister, Amelia Bones, known for her sense of justice.

Every one of them had stood on the right side. Every one of them had paid for it.

Since arriving at Hogwarts, Regulus had dealt with plenty of pure-blood children. Eleanor was the most direct of the lot.

She carried an undisguised goodwill and curiosity, the same with everyone, open and unguarded.

That kind of temperament might not stand out in another house, but in Hufflepuff it was quintessential.

When her temper flared, though, even Gryffindors might not be able to handle her.

Sirius certainly couldn’t.

Sirius never lacked for people orbiting him. Gryffindor admirers flocked to him in droves; the kind of boy who’d set off a Dungbomb in the corridor held an inherent magnetism for young witches and wizards.

His close friends went without saying. James Potter was cut from the same cloth; put the two of them together and anything became potential prank material.

Lupin was his friend and his conscience, the one who pulled him back before he went too far.

Peter trailed behind, idolizing him, imitating him, though the imitation never quite took.

All of them were his friends, standing with him. None of them were Eleanor.

She didn’t worship him. From the scene just now, she didn’t dislike him either. If she truly disliked him, she’d have drawn her wand and dropped him instead of hopping up to shove his face.

She’d gone after him because he’d stolen her leaves. Simple as that. He deserved to be told off, so she told him off. In her eyes, he was nothing more than a thieving idiot.

That was exactly what Sirius needed most.

Everyone around him either looked up at him or looked down on him. No one jabbed a finger into his chest.

No one treated him like an ordinary person. Eleanor did. And that was good.

Regulus stood with arms folded, thumb brushing his chin, and felt an unexpected pang of something.

In the blink of an eye, Sirius was fifteen.

The kid at Grimmauld Place who’d kicked over Regulus’s block tower and then crouched down to help him rebuild it was now stealing Mandrake leaves from a girl.

Adolescence. Hormones flying everywhere. The age when a boy would go to absurd lengths over a girl, stumbling, charging headlong, not even understanding what he was doing.

The leaf-stealing itself might not mean anything special. He did need those leaves. The preparatory steps for becoming an Animagus required them.

But he could have asked someone else. Could have bought them himself in Diagon Alley. Could have written home and had them sent.

He hadn’t chosen any of those. He’d chosen Eleanor’s little potted plant. Chosen to get jabbed in the chest and scolded. Chosen to take the scolding and grin anyway, then come back for more next time.

Whatever. Not my business. Let them sort it out.

He pulled his gaze away and turned toward the castle.

The Disillusionment Charm dropped. His figure reappeared in the sunlight.

He followed the path along the Black Lake toward the castle. In the distance, a few younger Gryffindors were skipping stones at the water’s edge.

Library or Room of Requirement for the afternoon. He hadn’t decided yet when a shout came from behind him.

"Regulus!"

Eleanor.

He’d sensed her already. The young witch had come from the greenhouse direction, spotted him, and charged over in a beeline, footsteps fast and heavy, anger audible in the rhythm alone.

He found it a little funny but kept it off his face. He stopped, adjusted his expression, and turned.

She skidded to a stop in front of him, caught her breath, then lifted her chin. Her expression was pure righteous indignation: brows pinched, mouth set, radiating moral authority.

"Your brother stole my leaves again!"

Regulus looked at her. Considered it. Decided not to defend Sirius.

Indefensible, really. If you’re going to steal, at least spread it around. Hitting the same pot every time was beyond the pale.

His tone was mild, unhurried. "How many?"

"Three!"

Eleanor’s voice shot up an octave, and the pot in her arms trembled. "Four last time! That’s seven total! The term’s barely started!"

Her face was a picture of outrage, eyes perfectly round, nostrils flaring, looking about ready to breathe fire.

Regulus glanced at the pot in her arms, then at the greenhouses. Sirius’s figure was long gone, slipped out through some door.

He looked back at Eleanor, expression easy, a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Want me to sort him out for you?"

Eleanor blinked, clearly not expecting that. She stared at him, mouth open, then her gaze turned suspicious, sweeping him up and down.

Regulus’s mouth was still curved.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Was he laughing at her?

He wiped the amusement from his face, tone serious, earnest. "Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him."

Eleanor snorted, half-believing. "You won’t take his side?"

Regulus matched her righteous expression, voice firm. "Stealing is wrong. I’ll tell him that if he wants something, he can trade for it."

A pause. Something thoughtful crossed his face. He looked at Eleanor. "Eleanor, what do you like?"

Her expression shifted to confusion. "What?"

"What do you like?" he repeated, tone sincere. "If he’s going to trade for them, he’ll need to know what you want."

Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it.

She stared at his face. His expression was perfectly sincere. His gaze perfectly earnest. His tone perfectly reasonable. Everything about him was perfectly proper.

But she had the distinct feeling things were veering somewhere strange.

She’d come to file a complaint. She didn’t want his brother stealing her leaves. How had this turned into a trade? Trade what? With what? Between whom?

Her brain spun. Nothing clicked. She gave up, closed her mouth, and said nothing.

Regulus let the silence stand.

Young people’s business. Let them handle it.

Part of him wanted to ask why Sirius only stole her leaves, no one else’s. What expression she’d make. How she’d respond.

Probably entertaining.

But he held back.

No.

He didn’t.

"Eleanor." His tone was casual, eyes warm. "Have you ever wondered?"

"Hm?"

"Why does Sirius only steal your leaves?"

Eleanor froze mid-motion. Her mouth opened. Then color flooded her face.

Rising from her neck, spreading to her ears, blazing across her cheeks, until even the tips of her hair seemed to catch fire.

Her eyes narrowed. Teeth clenched. The words squeezed out through them. "He thinks I’m easy to push around?!"

Regulus choked.

He wanted to say that wasn’t the point, but his mouth opened, then closed.

The color in Eleanor’s face. The blaze of fighting spirit in her eyes. The way she’d gone from flushed to grinding her teeth in exactly one second.

Maybe... this was fine too?

He cleared his throat.

Eleanor glared at him, eyes wide, the corner of her mouth pulling into something sharp and cold, the crooked canine bared.

Then her eyes narrowed, and the flame of vengeance caught. "You tell him that if he touches my Mandrake again, I’ll answer with my wand!"

Regulus looked at her expression and failed to stop his mouth from twitching upward.

He gave a solemn nod. "Don’t worry. I’ll pass that along word for word."

Not a chance. He wouldn’t say a single syllable.

Eleanor huffed once more, tightened her grip on the pot, lifted her chin, and marched off trailing battle spirit like a banner.

A few steps on, her pace quickened, walking faster, more urgent, the loose bun bouncing at the back of her head, like a soldier headed for the front.

Regulus watched her go, mouth still curved, and couldn’t quite pull it back.

Baruk poked his head from the inner pocket, tilting his spider-skull toward Eleanor’s retreating figure, then up at Regulus’s chin.

A single click of his chelicerae.

Regulus glanced down. "That witch is probably going to be a Black someday."

Baruk clicked once, uncomprehending, and retreated.

He turned and walked toward the castle.

---

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