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A sense of excitement hummed throughout the Leaky Cauldron, the kind of buzzing energy that could only precede a long awaited weekend. Firewhisky and mead flowed as freely as the lively conversations held by the pub’s patrons, eager to let their hair down after yet another busy work week. In a dark corner of the pub sat three young wizards with precisely this goal in mind — one tall with shockingly ginger hair, another with circular glasses and a conveniently hidden lightning-shaped scar, and the last with blond locks and cherubic cheeks.
As had been their long-standing ritual, the three wizards tucked away into this particularly cosy nook of the Leaky for its privacy — not keen on the occasional fan swooping in to demand an autograph, photo, or some other such silly nonsense. And, so that they could more freely discuss the important things in life.
The important things in life, of course, being Quidditch.
“... and the Cannons have that new chaser who replaced Gorgovitch. Bloody fast, he is. I reckon we’ve a fair shot at clinching the playoffs this year,” Ron declared emphatically, tipping onto the back legs of his barstool in a precariously casual fashion. He chased this wishful sentiment down with a hearty chug from his tankard of ale.
Harry, however, remained resolutely unconvinced — they had been through this well-rehearsed song and dance countless times over their many, many years of friendship. “Come off it, Ron. I’d bet all my Galleons the Cannons are gunning for last place. Just like last year.”
Ron’s brow furrowed. “That’s not fair, and you know it! Gudgeon had that head injury last year when Jenkins knocked him off his broom with that bludger—”
“Only makes it worse when you remember that Gudgeon and Jenkins are both on the Cannons…” Harry interjected with a snort.
“It was a one-off!”
“Oh, yeah? And what about the year before last? And the year before that… ”
Ron leaned forward, all four legs of his barstool returning to the safety of the ground with a resounding clunk. He plonked his tankard down onto the wooden hightop and retorted accusingly, “You’re just biased, is all!”
“Biased? Me?” Harry scoffed.
“Yes, you! Ever since Ginny joined the Harpies. Isn’t that right, Neville?”
But Neville, who honestly didn’t care much for the Cannons — or the Harpies, for that matter, other than Ginny’s spot on their roster — hadn’t paid mind to a word of this exchange. Instead, he was far too busy staring off in the direction of the bar. Or, more specifically, the person presently tending it.
Since joining the Auror department, Neville, Ron, and Harry had taken to celebrating the start of the weekend at the Leaky Cauldron. Every Friday afternoon, without fail, they’d settle at their favoured hightop to enjoy a cheeky round or two while exchanging the best Ministry gossip of the week. Occasionally, they’d be joined by Hermione, Ginny, Luna, or some other combination of their eclectic cast of friends. It had become a cherished tradition — not to mention, a sure-fire way to blow off steam from their challenging Auror jobs.
Or at least, it had been, when Tom had remained landlord of the Leaky. Now, the whole ordeal was akin to torture for Neville.
“Nev?” Ron repeated. “Earth to Neville?” He waved a hand in front of his face, which finally broke his focus.
“Er, sorry. What was that?” Neville shook his head as if to clear it, refocusing his attention on his two mates.
“Nothing important,” Harry replied pointedly and took a drawn-out sip of his Firewhisky, signalling his concerted effort to end this discussion.
Ron — as Ron was so apt to do — ignored this and, instead, vented his frustrations through a well-aimed kick under the table.
“Merlin, Ron!” Harry yelped. “No need to take it out on my bloody shin!”
“‘Nothing important’, he says,” Ron huffed and shook his head. “I was just saying that Harry’s so blindly in love with my sister that he wouldn’t be able to see true talent if it hit him square between the eyes. With his glasses on.”
Still rubbing his battered shin, Harry narrowed his eyes and countered, “Well, love does funny things to a bloke. You, of all people, should know that well enough.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Ron regarded Harry warily.
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I not speaking with Flourish & Blotts’ new number one customer?” Harry asked with a knowing smirk. “Hermione’s got you wrapped around her little finger, spending more time there than at your flat.”
“Sod off, Harry,” Ron grumbled, though the corners of his lips betrayed him as they twitched into the beginnings of a soft smile. He again lifted the tankard to his mouth in what Neville assumed was an attempt to better hide it. But it was of no use — Ron was absurdly transparent in his love for Hermione. He always had been.
Except, evidently, to Hermione for the first seven years of their friendship — and poor Lavender Brown for a painfully awkward bit of sixth year. But, thankfully, that was now old news.
With a satisfied sigh, Ron polished off his ale. “Well, what do you say, gents — another round? Hermione sent a memo earlier, said she’d need to stay late at the Ministry sorting out her elvish legislation, so I’ve got some time.”
Harry pulled back his cloak sleeve, checking his battered gold watch. “Alright with me. Ginny won’t be home for a while yet, either. She’s got a late training session.”
Still lost in his thoughts, Neville merely nodded.
Ron hailed the bartender over with a cheerful wave, failing to notice the way Neville instantaneously tensed as the flaxen-haired landlady bustled over to their section of the bar.
“Hannah!” Ron exclaimed jovially, as she reached their table. “Another round for us, if you please.”
“Taking more of your hard-earned Galleons? Nothing would please me more!” she chuckled. “Let me see if I remember… ale for you, Ron?”
Ron gave a funny mock bow, earning another laugh from Hannah — and a pronounced scowl from Neville.
“Firewhisky for Harry?” Hannah continued.
Harry tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“And, last but certainly not least…” Her cornflower blue eyes scanned over him and he froze in place. “Gillywater for you, Neville?”
With his brain now fully short-circuiting, Neville very nearly forgot that he was expected to respond. He choked — quite unattractively, might he add — over the last of his gillywater.
He managed a weak, “Yes!” between desperate gasps for air, as Ron thumped him gently on the back.
“Oh, goodness! Let me take that glass away before it can do you any more harm!” Hannah jested goodnaturedly.
She reached out for the empty glass, their fingers making the briefest contact at the handoff. It had been a mere brushing of skin, and yet a tingle zinged straight up his arm. Neville promptly turned as red as a tomato and, as if things couldn’t go any worse, he ended up dropping the glass to the floor with a sickening shatter.
“Blimey, Neville. Maybe you shouldn’t have another drink. We’ll be levitating you home at this rate!” Ron let out a low whistle and waved his wand to reassemble the shards of broken glass, before stooping down to pluck it up and hand it to Hannah.
“Ah, no bother, Neville! Just an accident — nothing to fuss about!” Hannah insisted, before turning on her heel. “I’ll be back shortly, lads!” She called over her shoulder as she traipsed off again towards the bar.
After catching his breath, Neville looked up between Harry and Ron, twin expressions of concern etched upon their faces.
“You alright, mate?” Harry asked kindly.
Alright was an interesting word in Neville’s current predicament, as visiting the Leaky recently had been both absolute heaven — and downright, infernal hell. But not because he missed crotchety old Tom, or that the gillywater had gone a bit pongy after his retirement.
No, it was something much worse than that.
It was all because he was completely, head over heels, madly in love with Tom’s replacement — one Hannah Abbott.
The truth was, Neville had always nursed a bit of a soft spot for Hannah. While at Hogwarts, they had shared many a Herbology class, and even been partnered up for various assignments over the years. He could still remember the way the sunlight glinted off the greenhouse’s glass walls and across her shiny hair and rosy, dimpled cheeks. How pleased he had felt when he succeeded in making her laugh, the sound warm and buttery rich to his ears. And while she had always been quite the sight for sore eyes, that wasn’t what Neville liked best about her — it was that she was also impossibly kind and considerate, always ready to share a smile.
During their final year at Hogwarts, as terror reigned down upon every non-Slytherin in the school, they had bonded over reuniting Dumbledore’s Army and taking down the Carrows. When living conditions in the castle had ultimately become untenable, and the resistance movement had been confined to the barracks in the Room of Requirement, they had grown particularly close. He had comforted her late at night when she missed her mother, who had tragically lost her life to the Death Eaters. She had returned the favour following his confession of his own parents’ mental demise at their hands.
It had been a lovely friendship, steeped in mutual consolation and unwavering support, but it had been all too brief — nothing had ever progressed further than that.
In the aftermath of the war, Neville had immediately busied himself with Auror training and they had sadly lost touch. He had watched on as all his friends coupled off with ease — Harry and Ginny, so effortless together, and Ron and Hermione, having finally gotten their infuriating will-they-won’t-they nonsense settled for good. Even batty old Luna had recently met her match in the form of Rolf Scamander on a magical safari in Botswana.
But not Neville. He was comfortable being single, really. But there was a loneliness that had stealthily crept in, undetected at first but blossoming steadily into a deep desire. A yearning to share his life, and love, with someone. To come home to something other than his trusty Mimbulus Mimbletonia.
Then, one Friday, when he had shown up to the Leaky with Harry and Ron for their weekly happy hour, there Hannah was — just the same as ever. Just as stunning as ever.
And he had been a lovestruck sop ever since.
“Er, nothing!” Neville hastened to respond, his voice coming out squeaky and unnatural even to his own ears.
Harry regarded him with a shrewd expression, searching out the lie, but apparently came up blank as he kept his mouth shut.
Ron, who had always been the more outspoken one of their duo, drawled, “Didn’t seem like nothing to me… Are you sure you’re feeling well, Nev?”
He only managed a curt nod of his head, as at that moment, Hannah returned, levitating the drink tray with her wand. With a neat flick of her wrist, the drinks were distributed to their proper recipients, Neville’s noticeably bearing a funny little drink umbrella that twirled in place.
“Cheers, Hannah!” Ron grinned.
Harry lifted his glass in gratitude, and took a small sip of his fresh tumbler of Firewhisky.
Hannah addressed him last. “All good now, Neville?”
“Yeah, erm, ch-cheers, Hannah,” he stammered. He felt his entire face flush in some unbearable combination of embarrassment and admiration.
She hesitated, an eyebrow arched in concern, before offering him a small smile, and returning to her post. Neville tracked her movements intently, his eyes unwittingly drawn to the enticing swing of her full hips as she glided away.
More astute than he was usually given credit for, Ron had observed their entire exchange with great interest. Once Hannah was safely out of view, he let out a delighted chortle and cuffed Neville’s shoulder. “Oi, Nev, why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell us what?” Harry asked.
Ron stage-whispered to Harry, “Tell us that he fancies Abbott, of course!”
After assuring himself that Hannah had not overheard, Neville dropped his beet-red face into his hands and groaned.
“What? Is that true, Neville?” Harry gasped.
“Of course, it’s true. Did you see the way he looked at her? Like how you look at Ginny on the Quidditch pitch,” Ron teased, affecting a particularly lovesick expression.
“Shove it, Ron. I seem to recall you making quite the dopey face when Hermione presented in front of the full Wizengamot last week,” Harry protested.
“Naturally.” Ron shrugged, completely unphased. “It’s not my fault my girlfriend’s a bloody genius. Who wouldn’t be impressed? Anyway, this isn’t about me and Hermione. This is about young Neville’s quest for love.”
When all Neville did was burrow his face deeper into his palms, Ron nudged him again and pestered, “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”
Neville only nodded.
Ron whooped, punching a fist into the air in his excitement. “I knew it! Wait til Hermione finds out!”
Finally allowing himself to lift his head, Neville was faced with matching, wide grins from Ron and Harry.
The latter of the two piped up, “So… are you going to ask her out, then?”
“I— well— I dunno…” Neville furrowed his brows, trailing off fretfully. “What if — what if she doesn’t like me like… like that?”
“What’s not to like?” Ron growled, indignant on his behalf. Ron was the kind of friend you could always rely upon not just for an easy laugh, but also to defend you to the ends of the Earth — even against your own inner critic.
“You’re a good Auror, an even better friend, and a right nice bloke,” he ticked off Neville’s positive attributes on outstretched fingers, one by one. “I say you go for it! Worst that could happen is she’ll turn you down, and we’ll just have to move our happy hours to the Diagon Arms. Mind you, they do have that ogre who tends bar from time to time. Makes the pints all slimy…”
“Oh, don’t listen to Ron. He’s clearly forgotten how nerve-wracking it is to work up the courage to ask out someone you fancy,” Harry rebuked, and Ron had the decency to look slightly repentant. “You know Hannah, so it’ll make things easier. Always makes the prospect of asking a girl out easier if you know them first. Like me and Ginny.”
Well, Neville theorised, Harry did make a solid point. He’d known Hannah now — in some capacity — for nearly eleven years. Surely that’d render the prospect of asking her out easier, right?
Right?
Ron laughed. “I seem to remember you waiting months to ask Ginny out, so I dunno if that’s a sound strategy, Harry.”
Perhaps not.
“Well, I was worried that her older brother was going to punch me in the nose, wasn’t I?” Harry snarked. “Not to mention, I was a tad preoccupied with the whole trying to not get murdered by a dark wizard thing at the time.”
“Ah, fair point, that — her big brother is a bit scary,” Ron deadpanned and paused to take a sip of his ale before continuing. “But come on, think of me and Hermione! It took us years to get ourselves sorted, and we were the best of friends.”
Harry shook his head. “And you drove everyone around you absolutely batty in the process.”
Neville shuddered to think of spending nearly a decade in the purgatory of the friend zone. He wasn’t sure how Ron and Hermione had managed to survive it. Harry was right — it had been maddening for all of their friends to witness. One thing was for sure — he wasn’t willing to find out for himself.
Waving Harry off, Ron pressed on, “Just goes to show — it’s best not to wait too long. I stand by my case. You ought to just go for it, mate.”
“G-go for it?” Neville gulped nervously.
“Well, yeah! Girls like it when you’re straightforward with them. Direct. No guessing games,” Ron pronounced sagely, waggling his pointer finger at him. “That’s what Hermione’s told me, at least. Said if I had just plucked up the courage and admitted outright how I felt, she might’ve snogged me as early as fourth year…”
Ron trailed off, almost wistfully, as if imagining all the abandoned broom closets and dark stairwells he and Hermione could have sullied at Hogwarts in a different timeline.
“And thank Merlin for small mercies.” Harry shivered dramatically. Ron smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
“I dunno… what if I scare her off?” Neville worried his bottom lip in between his teeth as he pondered Ron’s suggestion.
“Scare whom off?” a bossy, feminine voice sounded from his right.
Neville spun around to find that Hermione had finally arrived. She had her arms flung around Ron’s neck, pressing a smack of a kiss to his cheek in greeting.
With a look of total delight, Ron pulled Hermione to his side, wrapping an arm tightly around her waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of her neat work robes. “Do my eyes deceive me? To what do we owe this great pleasure, Miss Undersecretary Granger?”
“We secured the vote on that elvish welfare law! And much earlier than I thought we would have done — thank goodness!” Hermione shared, still a bit breathless from bustling in from the street.
“Ace!” Ron grinned widely and kissed her temple. “I knew you’d do it! I was worried you’d be at the Ministry all night… thought I’d need to drag you out at some point and make sure you had a proper dinner. Here — have a chip.”
He held a soggy chip out to Hermione, who regarded it with a wrinkled nose before acquiescing. She swallowed it down quickly, eager to get on with her story.
“And that very nearly could have been the case. We had a hold-out — that old Ministry coot, Thackeray.” Hermione narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in annoyance. “Let’s just say, he suddenly found himself breaking out into an itchy rash and had to miss the vote at the last minute.”
Over the years, Neville had borne witness to enough of Hermione’s unusual sense of ethics to know that this suspicious rash had probably not developed by natural means. On the contrary, it had more than likely emanated from the end of her wand.
Having seemingly come to the same conclusion, Harry shared a commiserating grimace with Neville. Ron, however, was totally in awe of his girlfriend — and frankly, much too infatuated for Neville’s sense of comfort. “Bloody brilliant, you are,” he gushed. “Scare the living daylights out of me, mind, but brilliant.”
Hermione smirked as she shoved him lightly on the shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ron. Anyway, enough about Thackeray. Who is Neville worried about scaring off?”
“Erm…w-well, you see…” Neville stalled, playing for time.
Ron cut in excitedly, “Can I tell her, Nev?”
Though embarrassed that his deepest, darkest secret was now going to be aired so shamelessly, Neville was also relieved to not be the one to share the news. It took the pressure off immensely. Plus, Hermione was smart — and a girl. Maybe she’d have some sound advice on the matter. So far, Harry and Ron had been useless. Fat lot of help those agony aunts were.
Lowering his voice, Ron muttered, “Neville fancies Hannah Abbott.” He grinned at his girlfriend, evidently quite proud to have shared this scrap of steaming hot gossip.
Hermione huffed out an exasperated breath. “Well, of course he does.”
“What?” The boys all chorused in dumbfounded unison.
“Oh, please. Neville’s fancied her for ages now! It was totally obvious,” she tutted, before stealing Ron’s tankard away.
Ron pouted, his bottom lip protruding. “I thought I’d gotten better at making sense of these romantic sorts of things.”
Hermione perched herself on his knee and cupped his cheek affectionately, her hard exterior softening at Ron’s forlorned expression. “Of course you have. You’re very observant.”
“If you insist,” Ron shrugged exaggeratedly, sheepish but clearly mollified under Hermione’s attention.
“And romantic.”
“Quite right, that.”
“A certified Romeo,” Hermione soothed, as Ron nuzzled his cheek a bit more snugly into her palm.
He peered down at her, eyes glinting in equal parts adoration and mischief. “I don't know who this Romeo bloke is, but I’d rather you not mention him around me. He should know your boyfriend’s the jealous type.”
Hermione giggled in a way that made Neville feel deeply uncomfortable. Hermione didn’t giggle. And yet, she and Ron simply carried on, their eyes locked as they beamed at each other, both blissfully unaware of their surroundings.
Unfortunately, said surroundings very much still included him and Harry.
Harry chided them, “Oi, you two knock it off with the googly eyes before I get sick all over Neville’s girlfriend’s bar.”
The couple blushed, Hermione awkwardly averting her gaze. Ron cleared his throat and pried the tankard back from his girlfriend for a hasty sip, upsetting a bit of ale in the process.
Neville, meanwhile, sputtered over his suddenly very uncooperative tongue. “She — she’s not my girlfriend!”
“Well, not yet anyway! So, what’s the plan, Neville?” Hermione prodded, settling fully on Ron’s lap. She had apparently overcome her embarrassment just enough to get down to brass tacks, that terrifying glint of determination in her eyes that frequently accompanied obsession over her newest cause.
Chewing through the chip he had just popped into his mouth, Ron piped up, “I told him he should just knuckle down and give it a go!”
Hermione regarded him appraisingly and nodded, before turning back to Neville. “Ron’s right. Maybe you could bring her some flowers. Show off your green thumb,” she suggested.
“And chocolate!” Ron added.
“Be upfront. Tell her you’d like to get to know her better,” Hermione chimed in.
“Or ask her out to dinner,” Ron continued where she had left off. “But whatever you do, make it clear it’s a date.”
“Yes. It’s very important to be specific about your intentions,” Hermione instructed.
Ron winced. “Trust us. Been there, done that. Learn from the error of our ways, young grasshopper.”
“G-grasshoper?” Neville inquired, perplexed. What the ruddy hell did grasshoppers have anything to do with chatting up a girl?
“Muggle film thing. Ignore him,” Hermione explained, shaking her head at Ron and gently rolling her eyes.
Neville felt something akin to whiplash watching Ron and Hermione volley suggestions back and forth like an intense verbal tennis match. They had always been this way — even back in school — but since becoming an official couple, they were more in sync than ever. Sometimes it was quite the frightening thing to behold, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted something like this for himself. Hopefully with someone like Hannah.
“I respectfully disagree,” Harry interrupted quietly.
Under his breath, Ron rejoined with an amused, “Imagine that.”
Readying herself to argue back, Hermione crossed her arms. “And what, pray tell, is your brilliant advice?”
“I think girls prefer a bit of mystery. Ginny’s always said there’s a thrill to the chase.”
Hermione snorted. “Of course you’d say something like that.” Beside her, Ron chuckled.
Neville privately agreed with Hermione — Harry had always gone about his business in a cavalier way that Neville would never manage to pull off. And Ginny — well, Ginny was confident, and just downright cool. And Neville was neither naturally confident nor cool.
“Play it coy for a while, you know? Maintain an air of mystery. Woo her. No need for drastic action, just chat her up a bit here and there. Then, you can make a move when you’re ready,” Harry explained, taking a long swig of his Firewhisky.
He slammed the tumbler back onto the tabletop and stood. “I’m going to pop to the loo — be back in a mo’. Don’t let these two bully you into anything while I’m gone.” He pointed a finger accusingly between his best friends before ambling away.
As expected, Ron and Hermione failed to heed his warning and immediately rounded on Neville. Their shared scrutinising gaze made him feel quite anxious and sweaty, as if under a spotlight for the entire pub to ridicule. Shaking with nerves, he fixed his eyes determinedly on the twirling umbrella resting on the edge of his gillywater.
Nudging him lightly on the shoulder, Ron prodded him, “Go on, then, Neville. Up you get. Go get your girl!”
Hermione, however, was uncharacteristically patient when she suggested, “If it makes it easier, you could order me a drink? Use it as a cover to talk to her?”
Neville gulped. Without Harry here to talk them down, Ron and Hermione really could be very persuasive.
He stared at them for a beat, until Hermione grew just a bit impatient and waved him on. “Well?”
“O-okay… sure. What’ll you have, Hermione?”
“A gillywater, please, with a twist of ginger. Good luck, Neville!” She squeezed his upper arm in encouragement, bolstering him to rise from the safety of his seat.
Ron saluted Neville in a jocular fashion, before pulling Hermione more securely into his lap and whispering something in her ear that made her blush. She coiled her arms around him, much like Devil’s Snare would wind its way around a garden stake.
As he trudged slowly over to the taps, where Hannah was currently filling a tankard with mead, Neville felt much like a man walking towards the gallows. Terrified, uncertain of what horrific fate awaited him. There was no way someone as charming and beautiful and wonderful as Hannah could be interested in someone like him.
Bashful. Chubby cheeks. Roommate to his gran and too many plants go be considered healthy.
He was surely setting himself up for unimaginable embarrassment and heartache. He’d never be able to show his face in the Leaky — let alone Diagon Alley — again!
Before he knew it, though, as if time had cruelly sped up in her veritable death march, Neville was standing directly in front of her, feeling vaguely ill.
“Alright, Neville?” Hannah’s kindly voice broke him from his reverie. His head snapped up, eyes snagging on her dazzling smile. She passed the now full tankard of mead she had been filling to a hag sitting at the bar.
“Oh, erm, no. I— I mean, yes!” Neville stuttered, closing his eyes and groaning. “Sorry. I, erm, just popped by to a-a-ask you something.”
“What is it?” she pressed, leaning forward and resting her forearms atop the bar, her interest clearly piqued.
With her attention now fixed upon him, Neville suddenly felt quite weak in the knees and heavy of tongue. The idea of just going for it, as Ron had so breezily suggested, felt far too daunting at the moment.
And so, he panicked.
“Erm, a–a drink!” Neville latched onto this conversational lifeboat with all his might. “Yes. You see, Hermione’s just arrived. Sh–she’ll have a gillywater, please. Twist of ginger.”
Hannah’s smile faltered. “Oh… right. Of course. Coming straight away.” She whirled about and busied herself with the preparation of Hermione’s drink, while Neville desperately drilled his head for a way to make himself seem just a bit less ridiculous.
When she returned with drink in hand (no whimsical, twirling umbrella in sight), Neville had yet to come up with any reasonable way to steer their conversation into more romantic territory. It was time, it seemed, to throw in the towel. Disappointment flooded him as he simply offered her a quiet wish of thanks and turned on his heel to return to his friends.
As he began to retrace his steps to the hightop, Neville saw Ron groan, pulling at his hair and burrowing his face into the crook of Hermione’s neck. Harry, who had returned from his trip to the loo, only shrugged helplessly. Hermione flapped her hands, indicating that Neville should turn back and try again.
They were right. He was a Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sake. He was not going to give up. Not that easily.
Summoning every ounce of his Gryffindor courage, Neville sucked in a steadying breath and marched back over to a very confused Hannah.
“Neville — ?”
“I— I’m probably about to seem like a massive prat, but erm, I— I just wanted to say that I– well, I quite fancy you.” He could feel himself turning vividly red, but persevered. “Ron reckons I should just go for it and tell you. And he said something about grasshoppers I didn’t quite understand, but apparently that’s just a Muggle thing. Hermione said something about flowers and being clear about intentions. Harry thinks I ought to play it cool and take my time, but I just don’t think I’ve got that sort of thing in me — obviously. And er — I just — ”
Hannah placed one of her hands gently atop his, mercifully bringing his nervous rambling to a lurching halt. She made him feel delightfully tingly and warm all over — he was so spellbound by her simple touch, that he couldn’t have uttered another word even if he tried.
“And what do you want to do?”
“M-m-me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I — well, I suppose I’d just like to get to know you better. Again,” Neville murmured bashfully. His face felt as though an egg could easily fry upon its surface.
He was prepared to make a hasty runner of it, but Hannah’s response stopped him in his tracks. “I’d really like that.”
Snapping his head back up, Neville was finally brave enough to meet her eye. “Really?”
With softly blushing cheeks, she smiled bashfully. “Really. I like you, too. I thought I was being totally obvious!”
Barely believing his luck, he let out a gleeful peal of laughter, gripping the bar tightly so that he didn’t accidentally fall over from the sheer force of this surprising revelation. “Would you, erm, maybe like to get dinner together sometime, then?”
“Like a date?” Hannah ventured softly.
Neville nodded. “How about tomorrow?”
She beamed. “I’d love that. I’ll see if Susan can cover me at the bar.”
“Brilliant. It’s a — it’s a date, then.”
Before he could convince himself that this had just been some cruel sort of highly realistic dream, Neville patted the bar and began to turn back to his mates, until he felt a warm hand gripping his wrist. He whirled back to find himself on the receiving end of a small peck on the cheek from Hannah, as she leaned over the bar.
“It’s a date,” she confirmed happily, before releasing him and waving him off.
As he strode back to their hightop, a renewed pep in his step, he caught sight of Hermione grinning, hands clasped beneath her chin. Harry smiled on proudly, too, producing a thumbs-up.
Ron cheered, a tidal wave of ale sloshing to the floor in his excitement. “Eh, Nev, good on you! So, now that’s settled… you reckon Hannah’ll give us a discount now?”
Hermione elbowed him. “Oh, hush, you! Leave poor Neville alone. He’s only just managed to ask the girl out!”
Throwing his hands up, Ron conceded, “Fine, fine.”
Then, more quietly, he muttered out of the side of his mouth to just Neville, waggling his eyebrows, “Just be sure to put out on your date. That should do the trick for the discount just fine. I can recommend a book if you need tips on wooing the ladies…”
“Ron!” Hermione hissed, as Harry guffawed and Neville flushed anew, dropping Hermione’s glass of gillywater to the floor.
And thus, Neville learned to never trust Ron and Hermione— and especially not Harry — with love advice ever again. Somehow, he’d had it in him all along — he’d just needed to meet the right girl. And, blimey, was he glad it was someone like Hannah Abbott.
There really was a pot for every plant.