Work Text:
Prologue: Singing Roses
Neville wanted to hide. He nearly always hid, when his gran was having tea parties with her friends. She didn’t usually mind. But for whatever reason, this Sunday she had charmed the staircase to his bedroom so it wouldn’t let him up. He was sitting on his hands in the best parlor, trying not to break anything, and he was miserable.
“How old are you, dearie?” asked a sharp-looking old woman. All of his gran’s friends were old and sharp-looking, and he couldn’t remember what this one was called. Madam Bugs? No, that wasn’t right, but it was something like that.
He muttered “six” in reply to her question. He knew he didn’t look as old as he was, his family had been telling him that for as long as he could remember. He was sure that was what the witch would say next. Instead, he got a shock.
“I’m sure you’re dreadfully bored, and I’ve got a fabulous idea -- I saw a gardener putting in a beautiful singing rosebush in the back garden on my way in. Why don’t you go down and watch her do it?”
Neville wanted to, oh how he wanted to. But what would his gran say if he left the party early? He glanced towards her, nervously. She seemed to be completely occupied by her scary friend Mariel (or was it Muriel?), but you could never quite tell, with Gran.
The kindly witch seemed to see what he was thinking. “If your grandmother looks for you, I’ll take all the blame, I promise.”
Neville was decided. He was going to do it. “Thank you, Madam… Madam Blood?” he said, looking at his shoes.
“Bones, dear, but close enough,” Madam Bones said with a chuckle. Neville took one last look at his gran, then slowly backed out of the side door of the parlor, before running, tripping, and falling down the back stairs.
Somehow, Neville wasn’t as hurt as usual, so he managed to brush past Peony, their house elf, already getting ready to fuss over his wounds, and burst through the kitchen door into the garden.
From somewhere across the lawn, Neville heard singing.
Neville had never really paid too much attention to plants before. He had had so many accidents outside, and he spent most of his time indoors with tutors, anyways. But when he got to the source of the music, he stood stock-still, entranced.
There was a rosebush, as tall as he was, with full, light pink flowers larger than his closed fist. And every flower was singing, petals moving gently, a choir of inhuman silvery voices floating on the breeze, drifting through the afternoon sunlight.
Neville had forgotten about the gardener. She had been grabbing some fertilizer from the potting shed when he came outside, so he hadn’t seen her. Now she tromped to his side in her heavy boots, and crouched down to match his height. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, with a kind of knowing reverence. “Do you want to know why it does that?”
Neville nodded.
First Year: Shrivelfig Tree
Neville had a secret. Well, he had recently acquired a secret. Or, more like, several months ago he had decided to keep part of his hitherto non-secret life a secret. He hadn’t known he would do it until he got on the train, and the only pitying looks he got were for losing his toad. It was so nice to have people look at him without The Look, the one that said “I know your parents are on the closed ward, and I know why.” So, he hadn’t told any of his classmates about his parents, just let them assume whatever they wanted to think when he told them he lived with his gran. He knew it wasn’t what Gran would want him to do. She was always telling him to be proud of his parents. And he was. He was just tired of The Look, and didn’t think he could bear it on top of everything else. Of course, his professors knew, and some still gave him that Look occasionally, mostly Flitwick, but it was less bad when it wasn’t so constant.
First year had gone better than Neville had expected, so far, mostly. He had been terrified when the Sorting Hat had sorted him into Gryffindor, had argued harder than he’d ever argued in his life. But it had mostly turned out well. Of course, Malfoy was rather horrible, and Professor Snape was terrifying. He was pants at Transfiguration, and Flying Lessons. But Charms was actually quite nice, and Defense was okay, even if Professor Quirrell was a little odd -- Neville could understand being scared of the creatures and curses they talked about, even as a professor. He loved every Herbology lesson, and got good marks on his essays although he hadn’t quite gathered the courage to raise his hand. His dorm-mates seemed to like him pretty well, which was not what Neville had been led to believe would happen. It was nice, having friends. Hermione, in particular, was so patient with him when he didn’t understand things the first time, or his wand was acting up. He had thought for most of the year that he would be sad to go home, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Neville sat on his stool in Greenhouse 1, reflecting. It was his friendship with Hermione (and Harry and Ron) that had gotten him into his current pickle. Neville had learned that there was a different way people could look at you that was almost as bad as The Look. The glares he was attracting from all directions, after their catastrophic loss of house points, were enough to make him shake. And he still couldn’t understand why Harry, Ron, and Hermione were keeping whatever had really happened that night from him, when it had landed him in so much trouble. Neville was going to have detention with Malfoy in a few days, and he couldn’t really think of a worse fate than that.
Neville was so distracted by his worries that when Professor Sprout asked if anyone could list the preconditions for growing a shrivelfig tree, his hand shot up before he could stop himself.
“Mr. Longbottom?” said Professor Sprout, with the faintest aura of surprise. Neville could feel himself blushing, but it was too late to back down now.
“Well, the air temperature has to be kept between 26 and 31 degrees Celsius, um, the soil should be as close to 6.2 pH as possible, er, they should be watered about once every two weeks, they must be pruned every autumn…. Oh, and ideally they would be sung to every full moon, but a clever grower can get away with doing it every three months if timed to the correct planetary cycles.” Neville realized that everyone was staring at him with a kind of awe, a very different kind of staring than they’d been doing the past couple of days, and he supposed that no one besides Hermione had known he liked plants.
Professor Sprout beamed at him. “Well done, Mr. Longbottom, thank you. 5 points to Gryffindor.” Neville felt a warm glow of pride in his chest he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt before.
Second Year: Adolescent Mandrakes
Neville wasn’t sure what he was doing. Professor Sprout had always seemed to like him fine, but he didn’t normally talk to professors outside of class. He didn’t want to take up too much of their time. And he didn’t want to make himself too visible. But he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here, while Hermione was petrified in the hospital wing. Neville knew Harry and Ron were going to try to go after the monster. That’s the kind of people they were. Neville didn’t know how to be that kind of person. But there was something he could do.
He walked up to Professor Sprout where she stood chatting with one of the ghosts -- he could never quite keep any of them but Nick straight, and now Nick was gone. “Professor Sprout?”
“Yes, Mr. Longbottom?”
Neville could feel his face heating up, but he had to do it. For Hermione and Colin and Justin and Nick and Penelope, whoever she was. “Is there anything I can help with, with the mandrakes?”
Professor Sprout’s whole face seemed to soften, somehow.
“They’re actually in a terrible acne phase right now, Mr. Longbottom. It would be a great help to me if you could accompany me to Greenhouse 2B at lunch. We’re applying some anti-blemish potions. Oddly enough, the confidence they gain helps them mature more quickly. I’d be happy to have your assistance, you’re so capable in class.”
Neville nodded. He wasn’t quite sure he could speak.
Later, after Neville had painstakingly applied diluted murtlap essence to moody adolescent roots, he felt a kind of bone deep tiredness mixed with elation. He had spent every ounce of his concentration, and it was really going to help.
Third Year: Potted Dittany
Neville wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself. Ron was fine, and no one else had been harmed by, or even seen Sirius Black. But still. Neville knew as well as anyone how Death Eaters could destroy a family. Neville knew he was thick, but he couldn’t believe he had been this reckless. Yes, waiting outside for someone to let him in was embarrassing. Yes, Gran had sent him a particularly angry howler. Yes, the way none of the adults, not even Professor Sprout, looked at him the same brought stinging shame to his cheeks. But by far the most painful consequence Neville had faced in the past few days was the way his mind kept going over and over how it could have been worse. Ron could have been killed. HARRY could have been killed. Either one of them could have been…..worse than killed. And their families and friends would have blamed Neville forever, and they would have been right.
Neville felt like he couldn’t look at his classmates as they filed into Defence. He’d skived off on Monday, which he never did unless injured, because he had been locked out from his textbook and notes and it was a good excuse not to face Professor Lupin. He had already been doing rather badly in this unit, but up until this point he hadn’t actively abetted a dark wizard. He sat down at his desk and pulled his wand out of his bag. Even that seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. It was probably disgusted to be used by someone like him, when someone like Dad had been its original owner.
Neville moved through class as if sleepwalking. Head down, taking notes on Red Caps, careful not to look left, where Ron was seated, passing notes with Harry as normal and snickering occasionally. When the lesson ended, and everyone filed out for lunch, Professor Lupin called his name.
“Neville,” he said, in a kind voice, “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Neville quailed, but stayed as his classmates filed past him, Hermione giving him a pitying look he didn’t deserve. Staying was the least he could do. He turned around to face his shabby-robed professor.
“It hasn’t been a stellar few days for you, has it?”
“Well, sir,” muttered Neville, looking at his shoes “I deserve it, don’t I?”
“Hmmm…” said Lupin, and Neville waited for what he would say. “Do you like hot chocolate?”
Neville, not sure how this was relevant, nodded.
“How about we go down to the kitchen and see if we can find some?”
After a whirlwind few minutes, Neville found himself seated in a cushy chair, across from a smiling Professor Lupin, surrounded by the busy working of house elves.
“Your mother used to love it down here,” Lupin said, with a far-off look in his eye.
Neville felt his eyes widen. He’d never heard very much about his mother. Besides that she was an auror. He wasn’t really in touch with that side of his family. And talking specifics about either of his parents made Gran sad.
“She was the first one who took me here,” continued Lupin. “She was a sixth year prefect and I was a third year. I’d been sick and missed an important class, and she’d heard me whinging and worrying to my friends about it. Instead of borrowing notes to catch up I’d worked myself into a lather. I was speaking, rather too loudly, in the common room about whether it would be alright to cheat, just this once. My friends were, of course, egging me on.” Lupin sighed. “Alice took me down here, got me some hot chocolate, and gave me a very gentle talking to. She told me that everyone is a bit stupid when they’re thirteen, but that I would feel better about myself if I just buckled down and caught up, and that she would help me if I needed it.” Lupin looked at Neville for a long moment. Neville wasn’t entirely sure anyone had ever looked at him like that before. “I wanted to tell you a similar thing.”
“But--” Neville began, all the reasons his actions were worse on the tip of his tongue.
“You can’t let guilt for someone else’s bad actions take over your life, Neville. You’re thirteen and didn’t think your actions through entirely. That’s true of every thirteen year old. Even Hermione. And an adult with bad intentions took advantage of that.”
Neville couldn’t quite believe his ears.
“I’ve noticed that you spend some of your free time working with Professor Sprout in the greenhouses,” said Lupin. Neville blushed to the roots of his hair, thinking of someone as clever as Professor Lupin noticing him. “I have a plant that I don’t really have time to take care of. I’m not skilled enough to keep it alive with the time it takes to be a professor. Could you do that for me?”
Neville nodded, feeling honored.
Lupin waved his wand and a small potted plant appeared, soft gray-green with fuzzy round leaves.
“It’s a potted dittany. Do you know what that is?”
Neville began to recite, almost involuntarily, “It’s a healing plant, used in potions or as pure essence, it’s found in the wild only on Crete, which means for it to be cultivated in Britain both the climate and the magical atmosphere have to be precisely adjusted to match…” Neville’s brain caught up with his mouth and he trailed off. But Professor Lupin was smiling.
“Excellent, I see I’m going to be leaving it in the perfect hands. And, Neville?”
Neville had been subtly readying himself to leave, sure the pleasant, but baffling interview was over. He looked up from fussing with the pot.
“Dittany is relatively rare in Britain, and has immense healing power. If you can keep my plant alive for the next couple of months, you will be doing more than enough good to make up for whatever small part you played in Sirius Black’s infiltration of Gryffindor Tower. What’s important is not the mistakes we make, but that we keep fighting.”
Neville stammered some thanks, and left. But his conversation with Professor Lupin stayed with him all that night, and would return to him on many nights to come.
Fourth Year: Flutterby Bush
Neville didn’t really know when he had become friends with Ginny Weasley. It probably began sometime in third year, when they were both hanging around Hermione a fair amount, during her big fight with Ron. Neville was a little scared of Ginny. She was sometimes shy around Harry, but in every other situation, she was probably the fiercest and bravest person he had ever met. He liked her, though. She never really laughed at him, she only teased him, like they were the equals.
So, it seemed natural, when Hermione told him she already was going with someone else, to turn to Ginny and ask if she wanted to go to the Yule Ball with him. After all, she wouldn’t get to go if she didn’t have a fourth year or older to take her, and that wasn’t really fair, when her friends and brothers were all going.
As soon as Ginny accepted his offer, Neville began to panic. The whole Yule Ball situation felt overwhelming. He liked Ginny, she was his friend, but he had no idea what the implications were for this sort of thing. He didn’t think any of the other Gryffindor fourth years had particularly romantic intentions with their ball partners. Seamus seemed to have asked Lavender on a whim, and Dean had such a long-established crush on Parvati that Susan Bones didn’t really stand a chance with him. Ginny had told him, giggling, how Harry and Ron had asked the Patil twins just to get dates. But still, Neville’s gran had very old-fashioned ideas about chivalry and being a lady’s escort to a societal function. She had sent him a five page letter of instructions weeks ago, and it was sitting in the back of his mind, making him worried he was going to muck it up.
It was a great relief to Neville, then, when Ginny came up to him two days after he asked her, and revealed that she was almost as apprehensive about the coming event as he was.
“Nev, what am I going to WEAR?” she asked, in a despairing voice, as they stood chatting in the entryway to the Great Hall after breakfast on Sunday morning, having gotten past the usual speculation about the Second Task. “I can’t ask my mum for a dress, we can’t afford anything nice. But I can’t wear my school robes, I’d be the only one!” Neville had no idea what to say, although his heart rang a sympathetic note at the anguish in her voice. “Wait,” said Ginny, an unfamiliar, nervous look on her face, “Should I even be telling you this? You are my date after all…mum would say my manners are shoddy. But we’re friends, right?” she added, shyly, “We’re going as friends?” Neville nodded, perhaps too vigorously, but Ginny didn’t seem to mind.
“Excuse me,” said a vague, silvery voice from behind Neville. Neville didn’t know who it was, but Ginny seemed on the verge of some kind of giggle attack. He turned around, and there stood a girl, who he seemed to remember was a Ravenclaw in Ginny’s year. She had slightly straggly, dirty blond hair, large eyes, and the oddest hat he had ever seen. Her standard issue black hat had been affixed with hundreds of sequins, which played a sequence of a tiny, shiny Harry and tiny, shiny Cedric fighting a tiny, shiny dragon, in a seemingly never-ending loop. Neville couldn’t take his eyes off of it, but he heard the girl say to Ginny, “You’re Ginny Weasley. I overheard you saying you didn’t have anything to wear to the ball. No one’s asked me, I knew they weren’t going to, but Dad sent dress robes with me just in case. Would you like them?”
Neville turned away from the fascinating hat in time to see Ginny nod vigorously, and then she and the strange girl walked off together, talking logistics until they were out of Neville’s earshot.
The next day, Ginny caught up with Neville outside Greenhouse 3, where he had been helping Professor Sprout repot a flutterby bush that had recently come into bloom. “Look!” she said excitedly, and waved a very distinctive set of robes in front of his face.
The robes were deep red velvet, and around the neckline danced a line of tap-dancing penguins.
“Errrr” said Neville, unsure what response the extraordinary set of robes was supposed to evince from him. He shuddered, just a little, at the idea of walking into the ball with Ginny wearing those, and then felt immediately ashamed, since these were the only robes she had available.
“Hermione’s going to help me with the color,” said Ginny, sagely. “It would clash awfully with my hair. Now I just need something pretty to cover up the penguins….”
Neville could hear the doubt creeping into her voice.
“What color are you going to change them to?” he asked, desperate to turn the conversation to something happier.
“Well, I was thinking maybe cobalt,” said Ginny. Neville had a vague recollection that this meant blue of some sort.
“I have an idea,” said Neville, bemused by his own daring. “Do you like flowers?”
“Well, yes,” said Ginny, in a confused sort of voice.
“I just helped Professor Sprout repot a flutterby bush. They only bloom every hundred years, but they have beautiful blue flowers. She said that as a reward for helping her, I could harvest a portion of them.”
Ginny still looked confused, so Neville kept going.
“Maybe Hermione could put a stasis charm on some and you could cover up the penguins somehow…” Neville trailed off, unsure of himself. Fashion was not at all in his line of expertise, not that much was.
“Merlin, yes, that’s perfect,” Ginny said with fervor. A joyful, mischievous grin dawned on her face.
Neville felt his lips form an answering beam.
Fifth Year: Mimbulus Mimbletonia
“Neville,” said a soft voice behind him, and Neville turned to see Luna Lovegood, wand tucked behind her ear as usual, “Can I walk with you?”
Luna wasn’t like anyone Neville had ever known. When he’d first met her, in fourth year, with Ginny, he’d been terrified. Neville had spent so much of his life trying to be invisible that he was certain that anyone who dressed and acted like Luna Lovegood did must be dangerously unstable. But after a few months of seeing her at DA meetings, Neville was starting to think Luna might be the sanest person he knew. It wasn’t just that she had gotten her dad to run the Harry interview in the Quibbler, although that was cool. It wasn’t even that she worked hard in DA meetings and was clearly focused on the very real threat of a second wizarding war, although Neville had been pleasantly surprised by that. It was that there was absolutely no artifice about her. Neville didn’t know any teenagers that were like that. In fact, he wasn’t certain he knew any adults like that, either.
So when Luna asked, Neville was happy to walk back through the halls with her after the first March DA meeting, even though she still sort of made him nervous. Luna chattered amiably about some vampire conspiracy, while Neville kept a wary eye out for Filch, Mrs Norris, Umbridge, or the Inquisitorial Squad, as they made their way to the ninth floor corridor that was the exact midpoint between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers.
When they reached the tapestry that marked the midpoint, which portrayed a particularly bloody battle in the last goblin war -- Neville wasn’t sure which one, as he never managed to stay awake in History of Magic -- Luna stopped for a second.
“Do you still have that squishy plant?” she asked, changing the subject in the sudden way she had.
“Which plant?” said Neville, unable to process the sudden turn from discussions of anti-vampire bias among the aurors to herbology.
“The one you had in the carriage, the one that embarrassed Harry so much,” said Luna, and Neville could feel the tips of his ears turning red at the memory.
“Er, yes,” said Neville, “My great-uncle gave it to me.”
“I remember,” said Luna serenely, “You said that on the train.”
“Right,” said Neville, entirely unsure where this was going.
“Would you mind very much if I did an experiment with it?”
“What?” exclaimed Neville, visions of his precious plant being stuck with needles and set on fire running through his mind.
“I would love to see if that sludge that got on us has any effect on the new potion I’m developing,” explained Luna, and Neville felt his hackles lower.
“Oh,” he said, trying and failing to get his bearings in the conversation. “Um, sure. We can harvest it tomorrow at lunch, if you want, maybe in Greenhouse 3A, Professor Sprout lets me use it sometimes--”
Luna clapped her hands together with glee, her big eyes shining. “Perfect, this is going to be so much fun!”
Neville made his way back to the Gryffindor Tower, worried about what he had gotten himself into.
The next day at noon, Neville walked nervously down the hallways, carrying his Mimbulus mimbletonia, hoping not to attract too much attention. When he got to Greenhouse 3A, Luna was waiting outside, with her hair done up in some sort of reddish orange scarf and a mad glint in her eye.
“You came!” she said, with such open pleasure that Neville was mildly shocked. There were only a couple of people who were ever that happy to see him.
“I brought my plant,” said Neville, “Er, you aren’t going to hurt it, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Luna, with a hint of a scoff in her voice. “I just need you to show me how to harvest some of the sludge.”
“It’s called stinksap,” Neville corrected automatically, as he tapped the greenhouse door with his wand to identify himself. They made their way to an open work station, and Neville lowered his precious cargo onto the table surface, Luna looking at him expectantly.
Neville knew how to properly harvest stinksap now, he’d made sure of that months ago. And he knew the plant liked him, as much as plants could, it hummed a little when he touched it. But it was very rare for anyone to look at him the way Luna was looking at him now, as if he were an expert they were waiting to learn from. It gave him a warm feeling in his chest, and also made him nervous. He didn’t want to mess this up.
“Well,” he began, “I did it wrong on the train. Or, um, I activated the defense mechanism, but there are less messy ways to collect stinksap,” he paused, “do you have a bottle?”
Luna pulled a glass vial from somewhere inside her robes and handed it to Neville. It was faintly glittery, but Neville didn’t think that would make a difference.
“Good, um, now I just massage one of the pustules that’s the right color red, and --” a steady stream of stinksap flowed into the vial Neville was holding up to the pustule. He held it there until it was full, and then gestured for Luna to take it. She looked at him wide eyed for a second, then corked the bottle, tucked it away, and proceeded to ask him about thirty questions. Questions on the properties of stinksap, the history of Mimbulus mimbletonia, the correct way to care for the plant, and more. It was a bit much, but no one had ever cared quite this much what Neville had to say. He answered every single question.
As they were leaving the greenhouse, Neville, carefully holding his pot, Luna turned to him and asked, “What do you like about herbology?”
Neville thought for a moment. “Um, I love plants. I think they make more sense than people do, sometimes. And I like working with my hands.”
Luna nodded, thoughtfully.
Neville glanced at his watch and realized that they still had twenty minutes before afternoon classes. “Do you want to go to the kitchen and get some hot chocolate, and maybe a sandwich?” he asked. Luna clapped her hands enthusiastically, and they walked inside together.
Sixth Year: Venomous Tentacula
“Uh, Mr. Longbottom?” said a voice at Neville’s side while he was watering some honking daffodils outside Greenhouse 3, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be used to that title coming from a person younger than him. He was working as an assistant to Professor Sprout during his free periods, and he knew she had had to take a student out, so he was theoretically in charge of the class. However, the third year Ravenclaws and Slytherins were just working with puffapods, so he hadn’t thought there would be any need for his intervention.
“Yes, Astoria?” he asked. The girl blushed, which was also new. A small minority of Hogwarts students, especially younger students that didn’t know him well, had gained a weird sort of admiration for Neville following the events at the Ministry last summer. Neville didn’t really know how to react. He would have asked Harry, but he knew for a fact that Harry was worse at this than he was. So he just ignored any tells he noticed, and hoped that it would eventually go away, or that he would learn to get used to it.
Astoria muttered, “Er, Professor Sprout had to take a Slytherin to Professor Snape for something and, uh, avenomoustentaculagotCharlie --”
“WHAT,” said Neville, rushing through the ajar door -- he would have to remind Astoria not to leave it open, later -- and to the back corner, where, sure enough, a tiny Ravenclaw with dreadlocks was was wrapped in the fangy embrace of the poisonous plant. Neville wanted to panic. He wasn’t qualified for this! But he was the only authority figure in the room, and the third years trusted him. He needed to get this right, and he needed to do it now.
Neville started by taking a deep breath, just like Luna had taught him. Then he got to work. “Charlie, I need you to stand as still as possible,” he said, in the calmest voice he could manage. The Ravenclaw blinked at him, and Neville supposed that was the most assent he could hope for, under the circumstances. He wanted to keep both the girl and the plant intact, if possible, although obviously getting the student out in one piece was the more important task. He could see that none of the plant’s fangs had broken skin yet, so his task would be to get little Charlie Amadi out of the venomous tentacula’s clutches before that happened.
It took Neville five painstaking minutes, but he did it. He carefully undid the vines with a modified relashio, bound them with some soft cord, and unhooked Charlie’s robes from the clinging fangs of the plant’s stalk. Neville felt quite proud that he managed to free the student without damaging the valuable venomous tentacula. Then he looked around, and found himself surrounded by thirteen year olds, alternately hugging their friend and looking at him in obvious admiration. “Er, time to get back to work on your puffapods, please,” he said, with the slight authority he could muster, and the teens reluctantly returned to their work stations. Neville sighed in relief.
He heard a soft chuckle from behind him. “Good job, Neville,” said Professor Sprout, “That was a perfect rescue. You should practice getting rid of your admirers, though.”
Neville shrugged uncomfortably, gave a little laugh of his own, and headed out to finish his watering.
Seventh Year: Singing Roses, Again
Neville sank to the floor, and leaned his head back against the wall of the Room of Requirement, heart still pounding. He’d made it, he was safe. He mentally took stock of his injuries. Cuts on his fingers, bruised ribs, a couple of broken toes, the normal face bruising -- nothing too bad. Hannah would be able to heal him, no problem, as soon as he could get a message out. But for now, he just wanted to rest.
Every knob in Neville’s spine ached. He closed his eyes. It had been a long day, of a long year. He tried to imagine what Luna would tell him to do now. Probably some sort of meditation exercise. He didn’t think he knew how to do that by himself, though. The Ginny that lived in his head wasn’t much help either, just swearing and casting bat bogey hexes. Neville snorted at the mental image, and was surprised to feel tears seep past his eyelids. He missed his friends so much. Ginny and Luna, of course, but also Harry and Hermione and Ron and Dean and Lavender and Colin. It had helped, fighting the Carrows. He knew it had. But he was sick of fighting. And tonight his teachers had come to kill him, in the school where he had learned everything about himself.
He felt a hot tear draw a line down his bruised, dirty face. It hurt, a little.
Then Neville heard a sound. It started off faint, a lone, quavering note. Then other voices joined it -- soft, sweet, not quite human. Beautiful. Neville almost couldn’t get himself to look, afraid he was imagining things, that he’d finally lost his marbles. But when he got up the courage and cracked open his eyes, it was right there. A beautiful, blooming singing rosebush, in a glorious glazed terra cotta pot. Its flowers were blush pink and seemed to be faintly shining.
Neville felt his heart lift in his chest. It wouldn’t be easy to keep this plant alive in an inner castle room, in northern Scottish spring, but this was work he knew he could do. He didn’t know where the bush had come from, but it was really there, a tangible living thing. He stood up slowly, as if enchanted, and walked across the room to where the pot sat. He reached out to touch a petal, just to make sure. The rose was velvety under his fingertip, and the other flowerheads seemed to nod at him as if greeting an old friend, silvery voices filling the air.
Neville finally looked around to take in the rest of his refuge. He’d been pretty vague when he thought in front of the door, only asking for somewhere to hide. But the Room of Requirement had outdone itself. He was standing on a plush blue carpet. A scarlet Gryffindor banner hung from one wall, and another bore a golden tapestry that read “Dumbledore’s Army” in cream-colored stitching. There was a comfortable looking hammock strung in a corner. Some books and maps that looked like they would be useful in any eventual action against the Carrows were set out neatly on some sturdy shelving. And in the far corner was a large niche with a skylight, perfect for his roses once he made some atmospheric adjustments.
Neville toed his shoes off. If he was going to live here, he shouldn’t get the carpet dirty. He could stay here, as long as it took. It was time to get to work.