Neville had always been hopeless when it came to you. He admired you from afar, convinced that someone like you could never look at him the same way. His friends knew it, of course. They teased him about it, nudged him whenever you walked by, encouraged him to do something about it.

But he never expected them to act on it.

When you turned to him after class that day, eyes shining with something unreadable, he felt his heart stutter.

—“Neville,” you murmured, stepping closer, your fingers barely grazing his wrist. “I… I think I’ve been blind all this time. You’re amazing.”

His breath caught.

This was everything he had dreamed of hearing. But something about it felt… off.

Your gaze was hazy, too intense, as if you were drowning in something beyond your control. And then, he saw it—the empty teacup in your hands, the faint shimmer of residue at the bottom. His stomach twisted.

Amortentia.

His hands shook as he turned, scanning the room. His eyes landed on them. One of his own friends. Their smirk faltered when they saw his expression, like they had expected gratitude, not horror.

—“I did you a favor, mate,” they muttered, stepping forward. “You’d never have the courage otherwise.”

His jaw clenched. A favor? Watching you stare at him with a love that wasn’t real, knowing that someone had stolen your choice?

—“This isn’t love,” he snapped, stepping back, away from both you and them. “This is wrong.”

His friend scoffed.

—“Come on, Neville, you’re happy, aren’t you?”

But he wasn’t. He had dreamed of you choosing him, of your feelings being real. Not like this. Never like this.

Without another word, he grabbed your hand.

—“We’re going to Madam Pomfrey.”

And as he led you away, he ignored the way his so-called friend called after him, ignored the ache in his chest.

If you were ever going to love him, it would be on your terms. No magic. No tricks. Just you.