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If you had asked Neville Longbottom, at the tender age of eleven, as he pulled his blankets over his head to muffle his sobs on his first night at Hogwarts, what he thought he’d be doing in twenty years time, he would have… well, he probably wouldn’t have heard you through his tears. But if you’d asked him the same question a few weeks later, once he’d settled in, he would have mentioned the Ministry, and a wife, and perhaps some children.
Because that was what you did, wasn’t it? You left Hogwarts and you worked for the Ministry and you got married and had kids. That was what being grown up was. If you’d pushed that long ago Neville to think about what he really wanted out of life, he’d probably have blushed to his ears and mumbled something about plants, but the only job with plants he knew about was Herbology teacher at Hogwarts, and that was already Professor Sprout’s job.
Sometimes it still astonishes Neville a little bit that he ended up here, of all places. There were a couple of years when he wasn’t sure he’d survive at all, but somehow he did. They all did. Well, no, not all. Too many hadn’t made it through, from Cedric Diggory, all the way back in fourth year, to Ernie Macmillan, the news of whose death by suicide three years after Voldemort’s defeat had shaken their whole little community of survivors. Neville himself had fled to Estonia, where some very interesting research on magical forests was taking place, and had remained there for several years. He’d only come back when Gran had, alarmingly, mentioned having had a mild cold in one of her letters. Gran never complained about her health.
So he’d come back. Gran had been even more unwell than he’d suspected, and to see her, thin and weak, struggling to climb the stairs to her bedroom each night, had been a horrible shock. He’d moved back into her cottage with her and taken care of her through what had turned out to be her last few months of life, and even though she’d died one June morning as she sat in the shade of her favourite chestnut tree, they had been happy months for both of them.
But afterwards, he’d found himself alone. He still owled his Estonian friends regularly, and talked to them through the floo when they could arrange a connection, but it wasn’t the same, and it was so long, too long, since he’d gone anywhere in magical Britain. He’d arranged to have most things that he and Gran had needed delivered so that he didn’t have to leave her alone, and, yes, because the thought of plunging back into that world while Gran was so ill had been a little overwhelming. Somehow, it had felt even more overwhelming after she’d died.
But, to his complete astonishment, his old friends hadn’t let it stay that way. Gran had long been a pillar of the magical community, and her funeral had been well attended, and then the next day Dean and Seamus had turned up at the cottage and presented him with a casserole and a drawing of Gran that Dean had done and framed. The drawing had been beautiful, showing not just Gran’s features, but somehow the essence of who she’d been. It still stands on the mantelpiece in the study.
Luna and Ginny came the next day with more food, (from Molly, since neither of them is any good at cooking), a puffskein, and an invitation to dinner at the weekend. The day after that, Harry visited and stayed the whole day, helping Neville in the greenhouse and listening to him talking about Gran, then, when Neville went silent, telling Neville about the breakdown he’d had three years into being an Auror, and how he’d taken up pottery and somehow ended up good at it. He’d even extracted a confession from Neville that he hadn’t been eating much since Gran’s passing, and had heated up the delicious steak and kidney pudding Molly had sent over, and they’d eaten it together at the big, oak kitchen table. Neville had cried into his and Harry had rather awkwardly patted him on the back and then, when Neville hadn’t been able to stop, had actually hugged him, for quite a long time.
The following day (long afterwards, Neville had realised that his friends must have conspired so as not to overwhelm him, but at the time he hadn’t questioned it) Hermione had knocked on the cottage door, hand in hand with Pansy Parkinson, of all people. It had been awkward with Pansy at first, but she’d confided, picking at her hands while Hermione was looking through Gran’s paperwork to see if there was anything Neville ought to know about urgently (she’d offered, and he’d accepted gratefully), that she’d lost her own Granny last year, and since Granny had been the only decent member of her family it had been pretty awful. They’d swapped stories until Hermione came back, and it had somehow ended up being a really nice day.
After that, Ron came, with his Muggle husband, and Hannah, and the Patil twins and Lavender, and Dennis Creevey, and Justin, and Anthony and Blaise, and Susan, and Cho, and Neville had had no idea that so many people still cared about him, still even remembered him after all this time. He’d gone to Luna and Ginny’s, and met up with Hermione in a coffee shop, and at the Leaky with Harry, and he’d skipped Harry’s birthday party, since he wasn’t feeling much like parties, but Harry had nipped through the floo a little after midnight to bring him some cake and a pie from Molly and they’d ended up sitting around and talking again, Neville in his flannel pyjamas and Harry dishevelled in jeans and a t-shirt, his curly hair sticking out in all directions, and somehow it had become four in the morning, so Harry had slept on the sofa and they had had chicken and mushroom pie and cake for breakfast, and Harry had fed cake to Neville’s puffskein and Neville had found himself smiling for the first time since Gran died.
Things had started getting better after that. He’d still hurt terribly from losing Gran, of course, but he’d found himself smiling more, even laughing. He’d started cultivating plants in the greenhouse behind the cottage, from the beautiful to the rare, and selling them. And then, one day, Harry had told Neville that the shop next to his was up for sale, and how about they buy it and go into business together. Pots and plants were a good partnership, after all, and so were they. Six months after that, on a chilly January night, as they meandered tipsily down Charing Cross Road after an evening at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had kissed him.
They’ve been living together for nearly four years now, and it’s still wonderful. Harry detests housework and Neville frequently forgets all about it, so the cottage is usually a mess, but neither of them cares. The shop, of course, is spotless, and is doing very well. Perhaps that was inevitable, given that it’s run by two heroes of the magical world, but while they’re there, people just treat them like Harry, who makes gorgeous pots, and Neville, who grows glorious plants.
“Hi, Neville,” says a voice behind him. Neville climbs down his step ladder, where he’s been arranging a display along the top shelves, and turns to see Draco Malfoy, smiling. Draco is a regular customer of Neville’s; Neville supplies a lot of the plants he needs for his potions, and, of course, he’s also been Harry’s boyfriend for over a year now. He makes Harry really happy, and that makes Neville happy, but so far they’ve kept their own relationship more or less on a business footing. Well, and the odd drink here or there. A few evenings spent together. It’s hard to completely avoid any member of the small magical world, let alone one who’s your boyfriend’s boyfriend, and it’s not like Neville wants to avoid Draco. Not at all.
“Hi,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“You look nice today,” says Draco, and then blushes slightly.
“Thanks,” Neville says awkwardly, and gestures at Draco. “So, um, do you.”
“I always look nice,” Draco points out.
“True.” Neville swallows. All right, so it’s not just that he doesn’t want to avoid Draco, it’s that he likes him. Likes likes him. But Harry and Draco are already involved, and Neville doesn’t want to step on toes, doesn’t want to risk changing their dynamic for the worse. They’re all happy at the moment, and Neville knows better than most people how precious that is.
The silence has dragged on too long. Draco’s cheeks are becoming pinker and pinker. It’s… well, it’s rather sweet, actually. Pretty. Draco doesn’t mind Harry talking about their relationship to Neville (apparently, he rather likes it), so Harry has told Neville all about how Draco likes to feel vulnerable, to give up his control. Sometimes Neville thinks about how he’d tie Draco up, how he’d make him feel, small and helpless, and so, so loved. He probably shouldn’t be thinking about it right now, though. Draco looks as though he can tell exactly what Neville is picturing. His grey eyes are wide and his face is getting redder and redder.
“The thing is,” he begins, and stops. “The thing is…”
He lowers his eyes, finally, and Neville can see him swallow. Suddenly he wonders if Draco has something really serious to say, and Neville’s just been standing here lusting after him without even realising it.
“What’s up?” he says, gently.
Draco stares at the floor and inhales.
“HarrysaidIshouldaskyouout,” he says, all in a rush.
“Harry said…? Sorry, I didn’t quite…”
“Harry said,” Draco repeats, looking a bit desperate. “That I should… that I should ask you on a date.” Neville stares at him. Draco, impressively, goes an even deeper crimson. “Well,” he says loudly. “I think I’ll be going n…”
“Wait!” says Neville. Draco shuts up. “Give me a second, okay?” He tries to marshal his thoughts. A date. Draco wants to go on a date with him. A date. With him. Neville. Draco wants to… then something in Draco’s wording catches his attention, and he frowns. “Why would Harry tell you to do that?” he says.
“Because he knows I fancy you, okay?” says Draco, sounding aggrieved. “He said we weren’t twelve so he wasn’t going to ask you for me, but I should give it a shot.” He meets Neville’s eye for a second, then looks away again. “I wish we were still twelve,” he mutters. “Then I could just punch you and run away."
Neville gives a little snort of laughter, and Draco scowls.
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re right, it was a simpler time.”
Draco rolls his eyes, but it makes him smile, too. Neville smiles back.
“So?” says Draco. “You’ve had a second. Let’s get it over with so we can all go back to normal.”
“All right,” says Neville. “Let’s go on a date.”
Draco gazes at him.
“Really?” he says, a bit faintly.
“Yeah.”
“You want to go on a date?”
“Yeah.”
“With me?”
“Yep.”
Draco’s mouth curls slowly into a big, surprised, smile. “Why?”
“Well,” says Neville. “I like you. And I fancy you. And, um, you know Harry talks about…” Draco nods quickly. “Right. Obviously. Well, you know, I like hearing… and sometimes I think about… so, yeah, I…”
“I hope the ends of these sentences are good,” says Draco, with a breathless sort of laugh.
“Yes!” says Neville quickly, and he laughs too. “Um, yeah. Well, I think so. Anyway. Yes. I would like to go on a date with you. That would be amazing, actually.”
He grins, suddenly very happy, and Draco grins back.
Then the bell above the shop door tinkles and they jump away from each other, even though they weren’t touching or even standing particularly close together.
“Hi Nev,” says Harry cheerfully. “I’m back from lunch, if you want to… oh, hi, Draco!”
He looks between them, eyebrows raised. Draco rolls his eyes.
“Fine, yes, I asked him and he said yes,” he snaps.
Harry beams. “I knew it! That’s brilliant, I’m so happy for you both!” He sweeps forward and kisses Draco, then Neville, then bestows another brilliant smile on the two of them and trots through to the back.
Neville and Draco look at each other.
“What a twat,” says Draco.
“Absolute twat,” Neville replies, nodding. “So what about this date? I’ve got an hour off for lunch now.”
“Perfect,” says Draco, and, arm in arm, they walk out into the bright summer sun.