Neville
His porridge was relenting its toasty heat before him as Ron and Harry discussed amongst themselves from across the table. They were as frosty about their headaches as the snow was on the trees. Hogwarts had awoken to a thick mattress of white, the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling mimicking the pastoral snowfall.
The students were muttering quietly in the morning gloom as the Sunday sun rose from over the mountains, gray and drab, but Neville wished the sun wouldn't stir at all. That it would stay away and grant him thought. His stomach was a woeful cyclone as he scowled down at his meal, too ill to eat. He couldn't believe it. The stupidity. The calls our minds make for us after midnight. When everything was a good idea. What will she say? What will be her verdict on the matter? Reading Dahlia was futile, she rocked on this boundary she drew, a line of hidden location.
This must have just been drunken adultery, nothing more.
His spoon stirred pointlessly around his bowl, all for show. A pastime, for he was too distracted by the entrance as people walked in, gazing at their features, each time dreading that it would be Dahlia.
He needed to think.
"Are you not feeling well either, mate?" Ron related to him, saddling his fork with his scrambled eggs.
Neville contemplatively eyed them, and with a stiff neck, nodded yes.
Harry countered, with a loss of his usual charm. "I didn't think you drank that much Neville."
"I didn't. Just tired." He fudged, physically he was up to par.
All of a sudden, reminiscence sated Ron's face. "Oh!" He trumpeted with great enthusiasm, his ginger hair ruffling as he lashed his head around. "Did you tell him about what we heard last night at the party?" It was ordered toward Harry.
Harry triggered with the same enthusiasm."No, I didn't!"
"T-Tell me what?" The things this could pertain to was eclectic, and it set Neville on a cliff.
Harry indicated to Ron that he should share it. "We overheard Patrick Madden last night talking with McLaggen, he claimed to have asked out Dahlia."
No.
"Did Dahlia bring it up at all?" Harry followed up.
There wasn't much time for talking last night.
But if Patrick asked her out, why did she choose to snog me? She could have forgotten our kiss and had her redo with Patrick.
"No, I-I saw them talking at the liquor table though." Neville tried to cultivate a mild interest, to not allow anything offshore to dock in his emotions.
"I'll bet that was who she kissed, remember Harry? With truth or dare."
Porridge bound his sight again as he putted around the cold mess, attempting to smuggle the smile Ron had caused with his guess.
Now, with this novel of information, thinking was paramount. Leaving breakfast and heading to the greenhouses like he planned had just shadowed his mind, when two people filed into the Great Hall. Again he looked, and this time she was there. As beautiful as ever: her champagne-colored hair in a high ponytail, secured with a black ribbon, a pretty pink jumper under her brown leather jacket, her frayed army green messenger bag over her shoulder, her blonde, makeup-less eyelashes caught by the porcelain lighting as she admired the snowy ceiling...
Neville cussed pensively, he so badly needed to think. He knew if he started the prologue his words would be incredibly wrong.
Pulling her awe away from the snowflakes, Dahlia riffled through the Gryffindor table until she met Neville in the dawn of their soberness. She quickly grinned, looked down, and snagged Hermione's hand, guiding her to their group.
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When the Stars Align (Neville Longbottom)
Fanfiction'Before he could give it another thought, Dahlia had leaned up, kissing desperately close to his lips, the corners essentially overlapping. It was deep, lasting, her hands had found his neck, her fingertips grazing over his jaw. He leaned his head d...
