neville longbottom

Teddy had heard the professor’s entrance–though, at the time, they hadn’t known it was him. There had been a quick, quiet scramble as they scuttled further back beneath the work bench they’d devised to set camp under, pulling their bag from the aisle in hopes they might be overlooked, but…

“Professor!” It’s a relief, seeing a familiar and friendly face. Professor Longbottom is an old friend of their Godfather’s, after all, and a very kind teacher. Still, their current position quite possibly requires some explaining. It’s not quite after-hours, yet, but with their homework strewn about the floor, their book propped against their knee, scattered wrappings from long-gone chocolate frogs, and a bright-burning jar of blue flame tucked into the shade of their cloak…no one would believe they’d been preparing to leave any time soon. 

“I…uh…” They swallow, sheepish. “Yeah, I’ve got one in my bag. Gram’d kill me, someone writes her I’m out in this.” They feel their expression growing concerned, a note of pleading tripping into their words. Professor Longbottom isn’t the sort to send those kinds of trivial owls, is he? “What…what are you doing back out here? I thought lessons were done, for the day…”

It’s an unexpected pang: Gram’d kill me. Neville finds himself knocked ever so slightly off balance, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation. Nor is it particularly unfamiliar; this is, he supposes, part and parcel of getting older surrounded by wave after wave of new students. The first years look younger every year.

He’s never met Andromeda Tonks, not properly. There had been the funerals, of course, and the memorials, and the terrible anniversary ceremonies, but they’d never shared more than a few perfunctory moments together. Neville doesn’t hold her likeness to her sister against her, even if it makes it difficult to make eye contact. He hopes she doesn’t hold what he must remind her of against him either. All that said, there’s no doubt in his mind that Mrs. Tonks is a formidable woman, as formidable as Augusta Longbottom had been in her own day.

“The mandrakes,” he says by way of explanation, holding up the bundle of scarves and hats. “They get fussy if they get too chilly - Scotland isn’t an ideal climate for them, but you never know when you’ll need them.” A basilisk might awaken in the bowels of the school, for instance. Sometimes he wonders if his entire education wasn’t one long, horrifying fever dream interspersed with fits of normalcy. The greenhouses had been welcome respites; he’s glad Teddy’s continuing a long tradition of sweets and bluebell flames ( in Neville’s case, usually conjured up by Hermione; he wonders if Teddy has a friend with a knack for it, or if they can do it themself; given their performance in class, Neville leans toward the latter ).

The call of her name could barely be heard over the din of the crowd. In fact if Ginny had not been waiting for Neville she likely would not have noticed it. But she was and so she did. The scowl on the woman’s face who he accidentally hit was hilarious and Ginny cannot hold back the laugh that came out instead as a snort. Thankfully both the witch and Neville are both far enough away that her amusement likely got lost in the crowd. By the time he joined her she had regained control of her expression.

“It’s always like this on Friday nights,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. Thanks to a hefty training schedule and other social engagements it had been entirely too long since she’d last seen him. “You want a drink?”

“A drink sounds great,” he says over the dull roar of the pub, pulling back to look at her properly. Wide smile, flushed cheeks, a general air of health and good humor: oh, it’s wonderful to see her again. “How’s training going, then?” he asks as they maneuver their way through the crowd. Shorter than him by a good six inches now, Ginny still manages to clear a way with an ease Neville admires. “I don’t read the Prophet anymore, but the sport headlines make it look like it’ll be a nice season.”

it’s good, it is - - in a way she knew it would be, couldn’t quite have expected how much - - to talk to him again, truly talk, and talk not about carrows or curses but toads and flats. still she wonders what he might think, if he knew where she lived, knew she lived just here, above. “it is rather odd,” she says. “i grew so used to having susan and megan about. though they do stop by, when they can.” 

trevor’s name broadens smile to a grin. never had she known a creature lost so frequently! even that last year, so darkened by the carrow’s presence, had known moments of pure levity in so many searching eyes through the room of requirement, cushions and hammocks and blankets turned inside-out to find him. “dear old trevor. do you remember the day he nearly hopped into the venemous tentacula’s pot?” 

it’s her turn to blush, now - - turning pink as she turns her gaze down to the bar, busies hands with un-stacking and re-stacking a small set of glasses. did he mean that?? he looks quite frantic now, she cant help but think he hadn’t, yet…

“…i’d like that,” she says, so soft it might be missed - - almost. 

“Oh,” Neville replies, anxiety instantly replaced with a heady, floaty feeling. He adjusts on his barstool, somewhat worried he’s going to slide off, as if the world has tilted just enough to tap everything askew. He finds himself fascinated by the compulsive but graceful movement of her hands, a curious combination of anxiety, muscle memory, and care. “I’m not the best cook,” he admits. “My cheese toasties are all right.” He offers her a grin, shy but not quite as hesitant as he’s been. She seems almost as nervous as he is, and his own nerves are suddenly eclipsed by the need to alleviate hers. “And my fry-up’s not so bad either, if you don’t mind having breakfast for supper.”

Trevor is a safe enough avenue of conversation, and he steers them there.

He’s pleased as punch and pink as a strawberry, and the Firewhiskey has made him bold. 

           “Neville!”  Lavender has this way of lighting up when in the presence of old friends, delight rising up in her like the dawning sun, much like the smile that spread across her face, or the sparkle in her doe brown eyes.  She giggles, the sound dry and raspy.  

“Running errands.  Thought I’d pop in for a sec to bother you?  If you aren’t too busy for it.”  She has a canvas tote bag hanging from her shoulder that holds the day’s shopping, a few odds and ends that she needed to pick up herself instead of ordering through post.  

“I mean, I’ve also got an order coming in and I should, ah, probably check on that, you know?”  

“Oh, I’m swamped,” Neville jokes, and the punchline is the slow spiral of dust motes drifting through the air, undisturbed since the last customer, who’d come and gone so quickly he half wonders if he isn’t recalling a customer from yesterday. Time slides easily between Mondays and Fridays, although thanks to daily inventory, he always knows what the date is, and that’s a nice change. “No, you’re not bothering me at all — it’s my job. Let me see . . . Brown, Brown, Brown . . . ” He flips through the order book, running his finger down a long list of B’s. “There you are. Should be in by tomorrow afternoon.”

gnomes and dittany - - how much their lives have changed! so much for the better. their home is safe, their friends all safe - - - safer, anyway, than they had been before. now before is just a word, and fear a thing for nightmares, and no green skulls glitter in the sky. better in smaller matters, too, smaller matters built one upon the other in foundation, something to build lives upon. (once he hardly dared to touch her, as though with but a touch she’d fade away). now she turns into his touch, lets him brush flour from her face, lets out a happy little hum at the kiss pressed to her temple.

 she’d liked how he had been, has always liked him (even - - once, in school  - - when she wouldn’t have admitted to it). likes this more, though, how easily affection passes between them. each small routine : two mugs for tea. “oh, i hope you’re right - - - i still want to impress her, that’s all” she, sets cut-out dough upon a tray, brushes flour from her hands. just in time, too, to catch neville by the collar at his next kiss, hold him in place as she lifts up on her toes, a butterfy-light kiss dropped on his nose. “she is not. but if you are trying to flatter me, i do believe it’s working.” she kisses him for real then, softly, before she lets him go. “we should find that vase she gave us, though, the great big dark one - - remember? it wouldn’t do not to have it on the mantle when she comes by.” 

She’s got a knack for details, an excellent counterweight to his tendency to lose track of the small things — Gran would indeed notice immediately if the vase weren’t on the mantle, and as much as he loves his grandmother, she’s not the type to let things like that go.

“I think it’s in the linen closet?” He has no idea, and that could become a problem in the very near future, but he’s not inclined to ponder on it now; there are far more pressing matters at hand, namely her mouth and her smile and the persistent smudge of flour that he’s determined to get off ( he doesn’t need the excuse to touch her, not anymore, but it’s nice to know that he can regardless ). “You hardly need to impress her, and that’s not flattery,” he says firmly, but he adds with a cheeky grin, “but if it’s working, who am I to get in your way?”

He lifts the kettle off the stove before it can build up to a proper wail and sets about making tea — it’s in the little things that he’s reminded of how firmly tucked together they are: he knows how to make her a proper cuppa, could identify based on color alone if it has enough milk, enough honey, enough sugar. And it’s different for different teas, too. Small things, maybe, but they aren’t small to him. He likes knowing that he can make things for her and that they will be just right. Pride, while more familiar to him now than when he’d been shorter, rounder, and altogether more generally flustered, is still a startling — and dear — sensation.