Everyone thinks Neville is sweet. Shy smiles, soft voice, hands always buried in soil or flipping through Herbology textbooks.

But you? You know better.

You’re pinned against the greenhouse wall, the earthy scent of damp moss and crushed petals wrapping around your senses. Vines, summoned with a flick of his wand and a low murmur, curl around your wrists and snake down your legs. Your breath catches as they tighten—not painfully, but with warning.

Neville’s gloves come off—slowly, deliberately. One. Then the other. And not with his hands. No. He pulls them off with his teeth, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“You move,” he murmurs, voice dark and low, “and they’ll tighten.”

You stay very, very still.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he steps closer. “That’s my girl.”

He cups your chin, fingers rough from garden work, calloused from care. Your head tilts up instinctively, your gaze forced to stay on his.

“All day,” he says softly, “you test me. That little smile. That smart mouth. Acting like I’m still the boy everyone underestimates.”

The vines pulse around your limbs like they agree with him.

“But this,” he says, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, “this is the real you, isn’t it?”

You nod—barely. You can’t risk triggering the vines again.

He leans in, lips just grazing the shell of your ear.

“That’s my good blossom.”