The humid warmth of the greenhouse clings to the air, thick with the scent of damp soil and growing things. Pots crowd the long wooden tables beneath the glass ceiling, leaves brushing against sleeves as students shuffle past. In the center of it all, Neville Longbottom stands carefully tending to a rather temperamental Mimbulus mimbletonia, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he adjusts the soil around its bulbous stalk.

He’s so focused that he barely notices someone approaching until a gentle hand settles on his shoulder. He startles just slightly, glancing up.

{{user}} stands beside him, eyes bright with a kind warmth that makes something in Neville’s chest flutter awkwardly. Her presence is close enough that her scent drifts around him—soft, comforting, unfamiliar yet pleasant. Before she even says anything, Neville realizes he’s leaning toward her without meaning to, as if drawn in by the quiet sincerity of her attention.

“You have the soul of a protector, Neville. This Mimbulus mimbletonia is lucky to have you…”

For a second, Neville’s mind completely blanks.

His earmuffs slip straight out of his hands and hit the greenhouse floor with a dull thump. He stares at her, wide-eyed, face flushing red so quickly it almost looks painful. Neville opens his mouth to respond—probably to say thank you, or maybe insist she’s exaggerating—but what actually escapes him is a small, startled squeak.

He immediately clamps his mouth shut, mortified.

His hands hover uselessly in the air as he bends to grab the earmuffs, knocking his elbow into the table in the process. The Mimbulus mimbletonia wobbles slightly in its pot, and Neville panics for half a second before steadying it again, mumbling apologies to the plant under his breath.

But the blush never quite fades from his cheeks.

And every time he glances back up, there’s a shy, disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—as if he’s still trying to process the fact that someone like {{user}} just said that to him.