Autumn was nipping at the ankles of Scotland, but even for a cold part of the United Kingdom, it was a few degrees milder than October in North Europe. The air, to her, was gentle. Most especially here in the greenhouses, where temperatures and humidity were easily controlled with magic to keep both seasonal and foreign fauna blooming year round. Back home-- both in Copenhagen and further north, at Durmstrang-- things would be colder yet. The sun in the alpine tundras and archipelago even closer to the North Pole than the centuries-old Unchartable fortress of Durmstrang Academy, like most cold places, saw fewer and fewer hours of daylight as the season progressed, but to a much more drastic degree. Polar night would begin before Hallow’s Eve and last for months, over eighty days of darkness.

Magda’s annoyance with the hot, sticky greenhouse was not its climate, but the fact that she had stepped into the wrong one. A younger student-- who was a Zufreiden for a reason, it was all too clear now-- had told her Greenhouse Four was for plants which flourished in cold, dry environments. Magda cradled a dwarf shrub native to such ecotones, something carried in the great belly of the handsome ship which had recovered quite nicely from being seesawed onto its side over the summer. Like Hogwarts students, the Durmstrang pupils were expected to keep up with their studies throughout the Tournament-- perhaps to a more stringent degree, since they were also adding guest lectures and surveys to their schedules and were under the never-ceasing, threatening gaze of their elders to prove that Durmstrang was not merely adequate.

This included Herbology projects. Magdalena’s current project required little light and less sun, though it certainly flourished in the brief but perpetual summers of the far north. It was a plant at odds with itself, highly adaptable and yet seemingly allergic to temperance. Here in the humid, subtropical greenhouse reserved for the opposite of such plants-- those coddled with plenty of water, annual, healthy amounts of sunlight, and mild evenings, the shrub was like a cat cornered in a bathhouse. (Magda felt much the same.)

Her sigh was sharp, needled with frustration. She turned to leave, to hunt for the proper greenhouse and then the incompetent student, in that order, when her eyes settled on an impressive... plant. The young man behind it gave her pause. Magdalena would have trouble not recognizing him. The tall, irritatingly charismatic Salemite with purportedly gifted hands (for Herbology), who had placed exactly one spot higher than her in the tournament. And who was currently shirtless. She stood there, gaze a little suspicious, but also unwittingly (subtly) curious. Her plant gave a guttural rattling and grumble of impatience (which she appeared to ignore).

After a moment’s hesitation (which was not a real hesitation, as Magdalena was not one to hesitate), she spoke up. “Do you know where the arctic plants are kept?”

Preoccupied as he was with his own plant (a lil’ pet project of his, bred in the spirit of Halloween), Tracy hadn’t noticed the icy girl’s arrival until she spoke; he was a mite too busy dodging playful (but painful) roots, coy brushes of slender branches, and the shrub’s own mercurial temper… Which, alrigh’, still left something to be desired. But, he was trying—crossbreeding the already volatile hybrid with a Mandrake had been a mistake, is all, and he was determined to rectify it.

Or, better yet, do something with it. The notorious root had its own properties, after all, and the species he’d chosen specifically was Mandragora turcomanica, a rare variety that even his mother had trouble acquiring. Despite its violent capriciousness (which it’d only proven time and time again by leaving him with welts), Tracy thought it showed a great deal of promise. True, his chest still hurt something tender, but it was really only a badge of his efforts (-not to mention one he was proud to show, though not necessarily by choice; because the salve he’d applied to it was lubricated and afforded him protection better than most greenhouse gear, he’d chucked his shirt completely. Hence, his current state.

To be honest, though, it was a state he was most comfortable in—when dealing with plants—anyway.)

With an absentminded (but no less brilliant!) grin, Tracy looked around his plant and smiled, even as he wrestled with the banyan’s roots. He had recognized her immediately.

“I’m—ouch—sorry,” he said, the smile turning apologetic as he grabbed one particularly tricky tendril. “C’n you—ow!—repeat that-”

Another scored a lucky hit. Now frowning—albeit slightly—the Salemite grabbed at it, too, and wrestled with them until he was holding both in one hand. His other hand, gloveless after he’d torn it off with his teeth, had located a dip in the thing’s trunk, which he now thumbed at gently. “Stop it,” he murmured under his breath. That soft drawl of his was disappointed, rather than angry. Much more quietly, he said, “Please?”

Reluctantly, it stilled. With that done ‘n dealt with, the boy slowly rose to his feet, looking back at the Oberteil with a slight, sheepish smile. “Artic plants, you said?” The one her shrub drew was just as friendly.

   

The scene before her seemed to inspire slow-motion blinking. Magda, both feet firmly in place, watched as he wrestled branches whose snakiness rivaled the gray mood of her own plant while. The marks on his chest suited him, somehow, and the glisten of ointment wasn’t obstructing the view. He spoke even as he tempted to tame the thing-- Magdalena’s lips parted in preparation to respond, but his drawn-out words were peppered with semi-universal reactions to volatile flora, and so she paused. Of course the only person in all the Hogwarts greenhouses would be the half-naked, oiled down Salem student besting a dangerous crossbred plant.

She raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly as he murmured some last command at the thing. Her eyes lingered for a moment on his hands and where they had disappeared.

“Artic plants, you said?”

He was standing before she had stopped wondering, which annoyed her. That rarely happened. She looked (up) at him pointedly, suddenly, keeping her eyes trained on his face. She had seen plenty of the rest of him-- had stared perhaps a few seconds longer than she should have, but the hot, hazy air in this place had a way of slowing time, even if she had worked in plenty of such greenhouses throughout her school years.

“Yes,” she answered simply. Her eyes flickered to the plant in one arm, and back up to the American, as if it were explanation enough.

But then, she might as well. The boy had given her a show. “It becomes... temperamental.” As if on cue, the plant made another throaty noise of displeasure. Magdalena lifted her brows mildly, tilted her head just so, a sort of shrug of sometimes plants are vicious. Her eyes flickered to his plant, now calm, and back to the Salem student. “Nothing like yours.”

Her attire was starting to get... stuffy. “Do you know which greenhouse it is?” She repeated. She could not envision someone less dressed likely to haunt the freezing greenhouses. But saw no one else to ask, and he seemed somehow suddenly more competent than the younger student who had given her the wrong information. It was clearly the Herbology wunderkind reputation. Clearly.

Her hand moved to the neck of her cloak, two fingers unclasping it. She was disciplined, but not stupid. The fine but insulating material draped lazily to her shoulders. She tugged. Immediately the humid air felt a little less stifling, even if the Oberteil now had another thing to drag around (the plant’s grumbling was none too subtle).

Even if she was impatient, she was also curious. Her eyes landed on the plant he’d been wrestling a minute ago. Her own plant was starting rattle, though it would surely do nothing quite like the boy’s. Magdalena silently cast a succession of freezing and drying charms on the planter while appearing to ignore it, before returning her gaze to the boy. “I can see why you aren’t wearing a shirt.”