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Neville cut the ribbon and wound it around the vase. He didn’t even need to measure; he had done this many times before. With dextrous fingers, Neville created a perfect bow, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
The late summer sun was filtering through the windows of his floral shop. He loved this time of year when the plants outside were giving their last hoorah before the chill of autumn left them dormant. Meanwhile, the plants in his greenhouse bloomed year-round, ready to be snipped and added to a bouquet to make someone’s day. Neville’s work might not have been vital, but he liked to think it was important.
The tinkle of bells alerted Neville to the arrival of a customer. “Just a minute!” he called as he straightened the bow. This particular piece was for a mother and a father who wanted to congratulate their daughter on landing her first job, and Neville wanted it to be perfect when they picked it up later today.
“Alright,” Neville said, finally turning to face the customer, “how can I help you today?”
To his surprise, the man who stood before him was immediately familiar from his broad shoulders, tall, athletic frame, and mop of slightly–too-long red hair. Basically, he was everything that Neville was not.
“Hi, Ron,” Neville added. “What’s the occasion?”
Ron’s hands were stuffed into his pockets, and he looked about the shop sheepishly. “Listen,” he began, “I really need you to help me out. I need something for Hermione’s birthday.”
Neville tried not to grimace. Hermione’s birthday had been yesterday—Neville knew because he’d agonised over the appropriate card—so Ron really was in need of some assistance.
“Okay,” Neville said, and he thought he was doing an admirable job of not sounding too judgmental. “What is her favourite flower? I think that’s always a good place to start.”
Ron looked around again and shrugged. “I don’t know. What’s the most expensive?”
“Just because it’s the most expensive doesn’t mean she’ll like it,” Neville replied. “What about her favourite colour?”
“Pink?” Ron hedged.
No, it’s orange, Neville thought. Merlin, this man was clueless.
Neville could have done the heartless thing and let Ron continue to flounder. But he was not heartless and would help the man out. If not for his sake, then for Hermione’s.
“Wait here. I think I have something in the back.”
That was a lie. But Neville did not want Ron to think he had a vested interest in a bouquet for Ron’s girlfriend. So, once he was safely ensconced in his greenhouse, he began working rapidly, amassing a collection of gerbera daisies in sunset hues. Neville was breathing heavily when he’d finished, but he was proud of the resulting product. He slowed his racing heart with a few deep breaths and returned to the other room with the bouquet.
Neville expected Ron to be overjoyed that he had produced a bouquet that was so perfect for Hermione—complete with two different shades of orange!—but Ron simply narrowed his gaze.
“Is that okay? You sure you’re just not cobbling together the leftovers to give her?”
Neville tried not to deflate. He had cut the flowers specifically for Hermione. “No, I assure you these are fresh.”
Ron scrutinised the bouquet even harder. “It’s mostly orange. Where is the pink?”
That much was true, but Neville couldn’t exactly correct Ron about his girlfriend’s favourite colour. “There’s still some pink.” He pointed to a pale pink flower and a striking magenta.
Ron pointed to a premade bouquet sitting on the shelf. It was full of pink lilies. “What about those?”
“Those wouldn’t be a good fit for Hermione,” Neville explained. “Lilies aren’t good for Crookshanks.”
Ron muttered something about “that damn cat” but then extended his arm to take the bouquet. “Alright, how much do I owe you?”
“Seven galleons and two knuts,” Neville replied.
Ron fished around for his wallet. “No friends and family discount?”
Neville’s eyebrows shot up. He’d already given Ron a discount, and he would be losing money on the materials and labour. But Neville also didn’t want Hermione to get a smaller, less expensive bouquet for her birthday.
“Of course,” Neville said. “Five galleons.”
“Thanks, mate. You’re a lifesaver.”
February was always Neville’s busiest time of the year. He might have felt more able to complain about the mountain of work he had to complete before the big day were it not for the money that came along with it. But this year, he had made the mistake of offering deliveries. So, not only did Neville have to worry about finishing the bouquets in time, but he also had to rent a fleet of owls, for which the logistics were a nightmare.
Never again, he told himself.
Neville was already thinking about those owls with their pointed beaks, claws, and the sheer amount of poo he was going to have to clean off the floor when he heard the tinkle of the bells.
“Good afternoon! How may I help you?”
It was Ron again. Neville tried not to let his surprise show. Ron had never once visited his shop in all the years he’d owned it, and now he’d come for Hermione’s birthday and Valentine’s Day? Neville supposed he should have been happy that Hermione was getting the flowers she deserved, but it was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy.
“Hiya, Neville.” If Neville was not mistaken, Ron seemed in a much better mood than his last visit. Probably because he’d come far enough in advance and not the day after. “So, Valentine’s Day, huh?”
“Yes,” Neville replied. For what else could he say?
“I know you don’t have anyone to buy flowers for—” A muscle in Neville’s jaw ticked. He knew Ron meant no harm by his comment, but it stung all the same. “—but what would you get for your Valentine if you did?”
“A dozen red roses is a classic for a reason,” Neville said. And the reason his workshop was overflowing with them, he thought.
“But is that unique enough?” Ron asked. “What about those? Those are red.”
Neville followed the trajectory of Ron’s finger. “Those are carnations.”
“Are they good or bad flowers?”
“Well,” Neville said. “As a florist, I wouldn’t assign such labels to flowers. But they’re certainly not traditionally seen as romantic as roses.”
“Are you sure?” Ron asked. “Or do you want to charge me more money?” Neville blinked, but Ron simply guffawed. “I am only taking the piss, mate. I’ll buy your roses, but only because I trust your judgement. Hermione loved the last bouquet I bought her.”
Neville tried not to place too much value on this compliment. Of course, he’d already known that he’d made the right decision when he’d visited her and Ron’s flat for game night, and Hermione had still been proudly displaying the daisies even after they’d begun to wilt.
“Of course, I was in hot water then; believe me. Let me tell you, mate—never forget a girl’s birthday; she will never let you live it down. That’s why I’m in here spending my hard-earned galleons on something that will die in a week anyway.”
Neville grabbed the ribbon in one hand and scissors in the other. He would focus only on creating a beautiful bow for Hermione and not let Ron’s words affect him. After all, what did Ron know? He had never known the joy of tending to plants, watching the blooms open, and arranging the flowers into a work of art. His bouquets didn’t stay fresh forever, but did anything? Everything in life was transient.
“Hermione is one lucky witch,” Neville said when he’d finished. He set the bouquet on the counter, where he saw a pile of galleons already waiting for him. It wasn’t his usual fee, but Neville knew the flowers were going to a good cause. Hermione’s happiness was priceless.
“I just hope this is enough for her to forgive me,” Ron said, hoisting the bouquet under his arm like a quaffle. It didn’t look very secure, and Neville could just imagine Ron dropping the whole thing, glass shattering everywhere.
“Fingers crossed,” Neville said, then he watched Ron go.
A bolt of jealousy shot through Neville then, and red-hot anger boiled just below the surface. He despised Ron more than he’d ever despised anyone before. How could that man be so ungrateful? Hermione—the Hermione Granger!—loved him, and he was so heedless with her heart.
If Neville had her, well… It was not an idea that he liked indulging because it only brought pain, but Neville knew he would never forget her birthday. He would give her flowers for every occasion. Every holiday and sometimes just because. That was the kind of love and attention Hermione deserved.
Neville could still remember the day he’d first met her. He’d been scared witless by the prospect of going to a new school. Neville already knew the other kids would bully him, just as he’d been bullied at his last school for being too timid and for his weight. And while his great-uncle Algie had been dangling him out of windows, waiting for his magic to come, Neville had been praying that he was a Squib. Because then he could remain at his old school, where he didn’t have any friends but at least knew his place in the social hierarchy.
But then Hermione had appeared in his compartment, asking if she could take the seat opposite his. Neville had agreed wholeheartedly, not only because he thought she was incredibly pretty with her curly hair but also because he could tell that she had been picked on herself—a sense all bullied people shared—so she was unlikely to bully him, too.
And, of course, she didn’t. Instead, she’d talked animatedly about Hogwarts Castle and the subjects they would be studying. Her enthusiasm had been infectious, and Neville had almost found himself getting excited about the prospect of writing essays and sitting for exams.
Except, Trevor had gone missing and Hermione—helpful as she was—had left to find him. And as fate would have it, she’d met Harry and Ron shortly thereafter, and though Hermione would remain Neville’s friend, Harry and Ron would become her closest companions.
Still, Neville couldn’t complain. Hermione had helped him in Potions whenever Neville bungled a recipe, and, in one memorable instance, she’d managed to save Trevor from being poisoned. She’d also studied with him in the library, somewhere Ron and Harry would not be caught dead. And though he’d longed to be closer to her, Neville was grateful for her attention at all.
His wish came true somewhat when Dumbledore’s Army had been formed, and he’d been invited to join. Neville was rubbish at the spells he and the other members practised, but he’d become a devoted participant if only to spend more time with Hermione. She hadn’t paid him any more mind than she’d given anyone else, yet it had felt good all the same.
Then, one day, a stray charm had glanced off his face, cutting his cheek. He remembered the brief sting and his hand coming away with blood, but it hadn’t hurt. Hermione had rushed to his side, wand at the ready. She’d learned healing spells expressly for this purpose since they couldn’t have gone to Madam Pomfrey without rousing suspicion. Hermione had cradled his face in her hands and ran her cooling wand tip against his skin. Neville had watched her unabashedly, as she’d been too focused on her work to notice the way he’d stared into her warm brown eyes.
“There you go,” she’d said when she’d finished, patting him on the shoulder. “Good as new.”
And Neville had felt it. He’d felt like he’d been born again, that the world was shiny and new. Up until that point, Neville had tried to convince himself that it was just a silly crush, but after that moment, he could deny it no longer.
Neville Longbottom loved Hermione Granger.
Yet the feeling was not mutual, and it had become painfully clear that the object of her affection was Ron. This had irked Neville to no end, given how openly Ron snogged Lavender in the common room, but one year and one war later, Ron and Hermione were officially an item. And had been ever since.
If Neville were less pathetic of a man, he might have moved on. He’d tried to go on dates—honestly!—but his heart wanted what it wanted.
So, here he would remain, alone in his floral shop, with just flowers for company.
Neville sighed and returned to his work. These bouquets wouldn’t finish themselves.
Spring had arrived, and Neville was in good spirits. Hints of new life were all around as the bare sticks of winter began to bear green buds. Daffodils were sprouting up, overtaking the dreary brown earth. Birds chirped from their wooden perches, and Neville whistled along with them as he headed to work.
He tied his apron behind his back and grabbed a pair of shears for a bit of pruning. Before he headed into his greenhouse, Neville turned on the radio and sang along, buoyed by his good mood.
It would not last long.
The bells tinkled, and Neville stopped singing. Something was wrong. He never had customers this early.
Neville turned down the radio and headed into the other room to see… Ginny Weasley? Ginny was breathing heavily.
“Good morning,” he said. “How are you?” He’d always liked Ginny. She was much better than other Weasleys. Well, in truth, she was much better than one Weasley in particular.
“Sorry to drop by so early in the morning, but I have an away game today, and I need to leave—” she checked her watch, “—ten minutes ago. Anyway, I wanted to buy some flowers before I left.”
Neville searched his mental calendar. Was it Ginny and Luna’s anniversary? No, that wasn’t right. He remembered attending the wedding in June. It definitely wasn’t June. And Luna’s birthday was in February.
“What can I get for you?” he asked.
“Do you have a premade condolence bouquet?”
“I do,” Neville replied. He took a vase filled with white lilies from the shelf. Ginny handed him eight galleons. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, no. No one in my family died. They’re for Hermione.”
“Hermione!?” Neville asked, incredulous. He could feel his heart rate quicken. Had something happened? Were her parents okay?
“Yes, Crookshanks passed.”
“No!” he replied, feeling his heartbreak for the ginger cat. “Oh, that’s awful.”
“Yes,” Ginny said. “Hermione is really broken up about it, as you can imagine.”
Neville chewed his nails and paced his shop when Ginny had gone, debating what to do next. Would it be too forward of him to drop by? He imagined her crying into Ron’s arms. But then he remembered how Ron had spoken so openly about his disdain for the cat. Was he even sympathetic to her loss? Crookshanks had been a cat—no one could deny that—but Hermione had loved him so fiercely since the day she’d adopted him.
In the end, he decided he ought to see her. Neville would rather be considered “too much” if it meant supporting his friend during a tough time. So, he temporarily closed his shop and carried a bundle of white daisies and a card. A small gesture, but it was the best he could offer her.
Neville’s bravery waned after he knocked on her door, and she didn’t answer immediately. But then she appeared and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. This was the first time she’d touched him since that fateful day in their fifth year, but Neville wasn’t going to be weird about it. Instead, he returned the hug and squeezed her tight.
“I am so sorry,” Neville said. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice straining against tears. “It means so much to me that you’re here.”
He squeezed her even tighter. She started to cry into his chest, and Neville could feel the tears wetting his shirt. Even if he couldn’t be with her romantically, he could still be her friend. And wasn’t that relationship just as important, just as meaningful?
Later, they buried Crookshanks in Hermione’s parents’ garden. Neville planted a tree over his grave. The plant was only a stick now but would eventually grow into a sturdy rowan.
Neville took a step back, and Hermione took his hand, offering a gentle squeeze. Her face was wet with tears, and her eyes were red, but she smiled up at him, full of gratitude. And Neville was grateful, too, to have such a brilliant, beautiful friend.
This was real love, plain and simple.