Valentine's Day.

Neville stood just outside the greenhouse, clutching a small flowerpot close to his chest like it held the secrets of the universe or maybe just his heart.

It had taken him months. Months of flipping through Herbology books, nervously double-checking growth spells, adjusting the soil just right, and whispered questions to Professor Sprout.

Nestled in the pot was a single bloom, your favorite flower, rare and delicate, but glowing with life. Not just any flower, but one he’d grown himself. He'd charmed the petals to shimmer just slightly, like morning dew had permanently settled into the edges.

But the hardest part wasn’t growing it. It was giving it.

He had almost done it three times that day already. Once before breakfast, when he saw you in the Great Hall, he’d frozen and ended up pretending he was looking for a fork. The second time, outside Charms, he’d turned the other direction entirely. The third time, he stood right behind you in the corridor, holding the flower like a fool, before losing his nerve and ducking into a nearby broom cupboard.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that he found you alone near the courtyard, bundled up in your scarf, fingers red from the cold. You didn’t see him at first, which was probably for the best, because he stood there for a good minute and a half just… staring at you.

Then, finally, finally, he took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the flowerpot, and made himself walk over. He knew if he didn’t do it now, he might never do it at all.

“H-hi,” he stammered.