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Augusta Longbottom’s greenhouses are extensive and varied, as expected of a witch of her age, capabilities, and paranoia. Because of this, people assume she taught Neville everything he knows about plants, before Hogwarts. But that’s not quite true.
--
He’s five, and he’s already noticed that the grass has a peculiar, layered whisper to it, how it reaches to touch him as he passes. His grandmother’s spelled roses sing lullabies to him, and her aging apple trees drop ripe fruit when he’s hungry. When he swims in the stream by the house, little vines and wisps of algae and aquatic moss gather under his toes and create a bridge under his feet so he doesn’t fall.
He stumbles into his mother’s old greenhouse and hears whispers, half-formed sentences and the lilting end of a question.
“Hello?” He says, unafraid, as all small children are. “I’m Neville.”
A lovely golden flower the size of his head bends down to point its petals at him, and the flowers around it begin to coo and squeal.
--
He’s ten, and Uncle Algie is dangling him by his ankles out a window. He’s crying, snot dripping into his eyes and through his hair, and below him the vines trailing up the sides of his grandmother’s manor are calling out to him, ready and willing to help. But he’s selfish; he doesn’t want his kindly cruel relatives to know about his only friends, he wants to keep them for himself. Uncle Algie is always the one who trims the rosebushes and chops off the dead-heads before they can fall; Neville just knows the man will try to test him by chopping the heads off all of the roses.
Uncle Algie’s grip slips and Neville shrieks as he falls, arms reaching out for something, anything. The grass below him grows and grows and grows and nets together in a spongy, giving web. He bounces right off and lands easily on his bottom.
He’s given a toad for his troubles, and his grandmother’s suspicious stare doesn’t leave him until a few months later, when his Hogwarts letter comes and she has more important things to focus on.
--
He’s eleven and walking into Professor Sprout’s personal greenhouse at her invitation. The floor is covered in creeping vines and wild, angry blossoms, and she gestures to all of it with a smile and says “Feel free to poke around, they’re all friendly for the most part. Just don’t get eaten!”
When she’s gone, he picks a perfectly-circular wall-hanging moss and greets it with, “I’ve always thought moss was particularly pretty, you know, seeing as you know your directions and all,” and when the moss seems to preen at his words, he can feel the other plants turning to point their buds at him and he grins.
He’s always liked plants the most.
--
He’s seventeen; the Battle of Hogwarts is raging around him. He’s holding the front steps with intense focus. It doesn’t hurt that Hogwarts has been practically emptying the greenhouses for him, using magic to bring him any plant he thinks might help.
“Withering Blisters,” he calls, pointing to one of the feistier werewolves tearing one of his Venomous Tentaculas to pieces. Hogwarts obeys with a quick flash of auburn light, and as he’d predicted, the Withering took one sniff of the werewolf and let loose a howl, causing every werewolf within twenty feet to pause, instincts screaming that this is your natural enemy . Many of them flee to other parts of the castle, but those who don’t last only seconds against the naturally-produced wolfsbane the plant creates in its pores and poisons its enemies with. Useless against humans, but almost deadly against any sort of were-beast. Neville’s glad Remus is across the grounds, doing battle in the back.
Luna is Stunning a witch to his right, kicking ass and taking names, as Harry’d put it once, and he resolves to teach her his favorite trick: sewing seeds into the hems and sleeves of his clothing, and letting particularly lethal creeping-vines grow among his personal artifacts. There were some breeds that were loyal solely to the one who’d sprouted them, which was an excellent way to protect your belongings from an opponent looking to steal or use your things against you.
--
He’s nineteen, and Luna is writing him from a little town in America, Spoon or Knife or something. They mail plants to each other nowadays, sharing their secrets with only the other, and he knows that the selection he’s giving her is especially useful against vampires.
She’s no slouch, though. He’s sure she’s cooked up several of her own new breeds, and he intends to weasel them out of her at any cost.