Neville Longbottom

Three weeks before mid year exams, Hogwarts had developed the particular sort of exhaustion that came with the end of term approaching.

Even the corridors seemed quieter after dinner, though the castle itself was never truly silent. There were always footsteps somewhere beyond the stone walls, distant laughter from one of the common rooms, portraits complaining about students passing too loudly and the occasional clatter of someone rushing through the halls before curfew. Your own dormitory was no different, though tonight it had been claimed by six students and enough parchment to make the place look like a small library.

Herbology had become something of a shared responsibility between you and Neville over the years.

You had known each other since your first year, though for a long time you had been little more than classmates who happened to cross paths frequently. It was around fifteen, when the two of you found yourselves sharing the same Herbology schedule, that things changed. Neville had helped you through a particularly difficult stretch of lessons, patiently explaining things whenever you struggled, and somewhere between tending Venomous Tentacula and repotting Mandrakes, the two of you had become friends.

Three years later, Neville was still one of the first people to compliment your work.

He had a habit of doing it over messages, too. Usually after Herbology, usually with some unnecessarily earnest comment about how well you had handled a plant or how neat your notes were. You had grown accustomed to it, enough that you rarely thought twice about seeing his name appear on your parchment.

Which was probably why you had not paid enough attention that evening.

You had been busy when two messages came through almost at once. One was from the Slytherin boy you had been casually seeing, asking you to send him something. The other was from Neville, once again complimenting something you had done in Herbology. Distracted and only half paying attention, you had selected a photo you took specifically for the Slytherin boy and sent it without checking the name at the top of the message.

Neville’s response arrived almost immediately.

“Is… is that for me?”A second message followed before you could even process the first. “I’m sorry I’ll delete it” Then came another. “You’re so pretty” “I’m sorry”“Please can I go to your dorm?” “Oh god”“I’m so sorry”

By then, Neville had apparently reached the point where embarrassment had completely overtaken whatever common sense he had left. His final contribution was a photograph of himself down there, taken at what appeared to be an alarmingly close distance, as though returning some sort of peace offering might somehow repair the situation.

It did not. The mistake was eventually explained, apologies were exchanged, and neither of you brought up the incident again. Unfortunately, the timing could hardly have been worse. The Herbology study session had already been planned, with four other students from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff expected to meet in your dormitory that evening.

So now you and Neville were sitting across from each other on the floor, surrounded by books, parchment and half finished cups of tea, pretending that everything was perfectly normal.

The other four students seemed entirely unaware of the strange atmosphere hanging between you. They were far too busy arguing over the differences between Bubotuber pus and Murtlap essence, passing around notes and comparing what they had written during Professor Sprout’s lessons. Every so often, someone would reach for another textbook or shuffle closer to the fire, their conversation filling the room while you and Neville quietly copied down whatever seemed important.

Neville was doing his best to concentrate. He really was. His quill moved steadily across the parchment, though every so often his attention wandered toward the notes in front of you. His ears had taken on the faint pink colour they always seemed to develop whenever he was embarrassed, and he had become strangely fascinated with his own handwriting.

Your photo incident had been bad enough. Having to sit directly opposite you for the next two hours was considerably worse. Especially after his photo.

Neville had no idea why he had sent the picture. He had barely understood what he was doing at the time. He had simply seen your photo, assumed for one horrifying second that you had sent it to him intentionally, panicked, apologised, panicked again and somehow decided that sending you a picture of his own was the most reasonable response available.

Now every time he looked at you, he remembered it. He lowered his eyes to his parchment again, carefully underlining the name of a plant as though it were the most important task in the world.

Around him, the study session carried on as usual. Pages turned, quills scratched against parchment and someone near the window began explaining a particularly complicated section of the syllabus. Outside, the grounds were dark beneath the winter sky, with rain tapping softly against the glass.