The Darkwood Wand

Gifts

Ginny was no longer in the common room, but Neville had taken the loveseat, the Cringing Vine beside him on the cushions. The plant rustled a bit as Hermione approached, but its vines remained spread out from the pot and curled over Neville's legs.

Hermione was surprised to see Neville sitting alone with the plant. Her friend had returned to Hogwarts tall, dark and unquestionably dashing, his wartime heroics adding a further luster. Even the Slytherin girls had taken notice, and Hermione had heard them whispering excitedly as she worked with Neville in the library. His family was part of the oh-so-Sacred Twenty-Eight, after all.

Neville gently moved a few branches so Hermione could join him on the loveseat. He was smiling, but those expressive eyebrows of his were quirked upward.

"What?" Hermione asked.

He cleared his throat. "Is that a camellia in your hair?"

"Yes."

"From Justin?"

Hermione frowned. "No. Why?"

He flushed and looked away. "No reason."

"Neville."

He turned back to her. "Passion."

"Passion?" Hermione repeated. She pulled the flower out of her curls and looked at it again. It was as big as her hand, densely packed with red petals. "This flower means passion?"

"Longing, passion, and deep desire." Neville's face was nearly as red as the flower.

Hermione collapsed backward on the loveseat. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

"You didn't wear it for him, then?" Neville asked.

She shook her head, wanting to groan aloud. Justin would never believe a passion flower just popped up in her hair by chance. Oh, Merlin.

Neville was eyeing her curiously now. "Did someone give you that flower?"

"I ... I don't know," she stammered.

"You don't know?"

Longing. Passion. And deep desire.

Surely not.

"I mean, there was a wizard," Hermione confessed. "But it was an accident. He didn't mean it that way. He ... he has a very strange wand. It likes to play tricks."

Neville looked interested. "What sort of wand?" Her friend had already begun his Herbologist Apprenticeship with Professor Sprout. He'd been carrying around wood samples for weeks, and still smelled a bit like cedar.

"I don't know," Hermione said. "It's black-and-white checkered."

Neville's face lit up. "You know a wizard with a harlequin wand?"

"A what wand?"

"Harlequin. Enchanted dogwood." Neville smiled that new slow smile of his that made Hermione stare helplessly for a second or two. "Wandmaking is part of my lesson on wood types. Those wands are said to be quirky and mischievous—your wizard must be great fun."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "He really isn't."

"Harlequins are quite sensitive, you know. Your wizard—"

"He's not my wizard!"

"Oh dear," Neville said. The Cringing Vine had picked up on her distress and was now coiled inside its pot again, shivering in fear.

"I'm sorry, Neville, I—"

Neville eyed her sternly. "Please apologize to the vine."

Oh, for heaven's sake. The things Hermione did to have friends these days. "I'm sorry," she told the vine. "Erm ... don't be scared."