Neville had never been particularly lucky, but today, he thought maybe—for once—he had a chance.

The last of the students were trickling out of the classroom, voices echoing down the stone corridors of Hogwarts. He lingered behind, clutching a small bouquet of enchanted flowers he had grown in the greenhouse. They shimmered in soft hues of gold and red, warm like the way he felt whenever he was near you.

This was it. He’d ask you to the Yule Ball. He just needed to speak up.

Then he heard it.

—“So, what do you think?”

Harry’s voice was unmistakable. Neville froze just outside the door, his breath caught in his throat. Peeking through the doorway, he saw you standing there, books in hand, looking up at Harry as he smiled, waiting.

The bouquet in Neville’s hand trembled slightly.

He could walk in. He could say something. But his feet wouldn’t move.

Harry P—the Boy Who Lived, the hero, his friend—was asking you to the dance. And Neville? He was just… Neville.

His fingers loosened around the stems. A petal fell to the cold stone floor.

Maybe he had never really stood a chance.

With a quiet exhale, Neville turned away, his worn shoes scuffing against the floor as he took a step back.

—"Huh?" Harry’s voice cut through the moment, and Neville’s heart nearly stopped.

—“Did you hear that?” Harry glanced toward the doorway, brow furrowed.

Neville squeezed his eyes shut for a second before forcing himself to move, disappearing down the corridor before either of you could see him.