You didn’t usually show up to the greenhouses after hours.

It wasn’t your scene — all that dirt and moss and weirdly shaped magical plants that hissed if you touched them wrong. You were more of the common room crowd, the girl with glossy lips and a perfect braid, always laughing with friends in corners of the castle like you owned them.

And honestly? You kind of did.

People noticed when you walked by. Professors smiled too long. Boys stammered through “Hey”s. You were popular — not the mean kind, not the fake kind. Just… untouchable. You wore your robes like a statement and your smirk like you knew exactly what everyone thought of you.

Which is why no one would’ve expected to see you here. With him.

Neville Longbottom.

You’d been paired together for a Herbology project — Sprouting & Spellbound: How Emotions Affect Magical Plant Growth. It was dumb, really. You could’ve asked Professor Sprout to switch. You could’ve batted your lashes and ended up with someone cool, someone safe.

But for some reason, you didn’t.

Maybe it was the way Neville had flushed a deep scarlet when your name was called. Maybe it was how he dropped his quill, then his book, then his ink bottle — muttering apologies as he wiped it up with his sleeve. Something about it made you pause.

And stay.

So here you were. Kneeling on stone floors in Greenhouse Three. With Neville Freakin’ Longbottom.

He hadn’t said much at first. Just pointed out what to do, offered you gloves that were two sizes too big, tried to act like he wasn’t panicking every time your fingers brushed.

You teased him, of course. Softly. Kindly. Because honestly?

It was cute.

The way he stuttered around you. The way he knew every plant’s name in Latin but forgot his own when you smiled at him. The way his hands shook when you leaned just a bit too close to see the Mandrake root he was holding.

“You really love this stuff, huh?” you said, fingers stilling on the edge of the pot.

He looked up, startled. “What? Oh. Uh. Yeah. Plants are… nice.”

There was something quiet in his voice. Something honest.

And something in you softened.

You’d spent years surrounded by loud people. Confident boys, flashy friends, dramatic parties. But Neville? He was still. Gentle. Kind in a way most people forgot to be.

And now, you couldn’t stop looking at him.

His hair was a mess, of course. His robes wrinkled. His cheeks permanently pink.

But he was smiling.

You hadn’t seen him smile like that before. Not in class. Not in the Great Hall. Like he forgot you were the girl everyone wanted to sit beside and he was just… happy. Here. With you.