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“Nev?” Seamus called from the doorway. “Ya ’round, mate?”
The hydraulic hinges activated, automatically closing the door of Greenhouse Five. The force propelled him forward, working to keep the excess heat and humidity trapped inside the pseudo-tropical interior. But Seamus barely noticed, instead fixating on a massive plant spilling from a pot on the main workbench.
Easily twenty-feet tall, its rather phallic main stalk kissed the glass-paneled ceiling. At least, if not more impressive, were the vibrant blue-ringed tentacular vines, bulbous leaves, and matching veiny flowers, that stole his attention. Comparatively watching—stalking—him.
“Fee-fi-fo-fum, ya not gunna smell my blood.” Despite reciting his deviation of the classic Muggle rhyme, Seamus reached toward an undulating off-shoot, completely enthralled.
“Seamus! Don’t!” Neville collided with him, the full-speed impact knocking Seamus to the ground, a hair's breadth before making contact with one peculiar, ostentatious leaf.
Seamus grumbled, Irish brogue thickening, “Whaddaya do tha’ for?” He waved away Neville’s offer to help him stand, brushing off his trousers.
“Sorry, you know you can’t come in and touch things.” Neville spun, rifling through a supply basket, then tossed him sturdy gloves. “Surely you remember basic First Year Herbology lessons? This is a Cobalt Calla.” Frowning sternly, he expected Seamus to understand.
Seamus muttered, but nonetheless, pulled on the impenetrable gloves. “O’ course, I know wha’ ’tis. Everyone knows tha rhyme.”
“The rhyme?”
“Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell tha blood of an Englishman. Be he livin’ or be he dead. I’ll grind his bones ta make my bread.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Ya asked,” Seamus quipped, shrugging with a smirk. “But why friend shaped, if not friend?
Neville didn’t have time to explain because one enormous flower popped open. “Run!” he shouted, tugging Seamus around a hedge, plastering him into the dirt as the first of two seeds shot at them. “Duck!”
“Feckin’ hell! If ya wanted ta roll ’round wit’ me, all ya had ta do was say so.”
Neville groaned.
“So, why canna I touch tha mean ol’ plant?”
“You were the one parroting murdery Muggle children’s rhymes. You see that?” Neville pointed to the large, aggressively weaving plant on the table. “That’s a male plant, highly poisonous if it touches—feeds—on you. Do you see those?” He didn’t wait for Seamus’s nod before continuing on. “Cobalt Calla seeds are undoubtedly magic beans.”
Seamus scoffed, “Magic beans? Ya don’ really expect me ta believe they grow clear ta tha clouds?”
“They cause growth, all right,” Neville emphasized. “Those little seeds are the most powerful sexual enhancement ingredient on the planet.”
“Really?” Seamus dragged the word out, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Ya still ain’t givin’ me a good reason not ta touch it.”
“It’s spitting seeds at us because it’s trying to seduce us. That stalk—”
“Wait!” Seamus cackled, “Are you tryna ta tell me, tha’ big ol’ shoot is tha plant’s willy?”
“Sort of. The problem is…the plant needs blood to survive. And it’s sentient enough to know exactly how to get it.”