It Rains

With Neville's Help

November 1, 1997

The young wizard jumped down onto the wooden floor and looked back to see the portrait of the blonde girl closing behind him. The room was dark, and he was able to avoid the rickety chairs thanks to the light from the lamppost on the silent street shining through the windows.

He opened the door, careful not to make a sound. The long hallway was empty and completely dark, except for a weak beam of light escaping through the crack of a door at the end. Straining his ears, he could hear the soft tinkling of water coming out of a faucet.

The young man narrowed his blue eyes, trying to adjust them to the darkness. He sighed deeply, the cold autumn air seeping into the old inn, bringing with it that melancholy smell of rotting leaves that helped ventilate the smell of stale beer and smoke. But there was something else. He could smell a subtle, bitter scent that made his nose itch. He looked towards the stairs and quickly followed the smell of fermented aconite. It was clear that it was coming from the attic.

He climbed the narrow stairs and stopped at a small, ajar door. Pushing it open, he was hit by the full force of the smell: a potent mix of herbs, dampness, and the characteristic acrid scent that made him sneeze immediately. His eyes searched for a window, but there was only a tiny window high up, through which not enough fresh air was coming in. Moving his wand in a sweeping motion, he dispelled the dangerous fumes that had built up.

Laurel's room was cluttered with books, jars of ingredients, and scrolls spread out on a large wooden table. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings and pamphlets, and an old bed sat in one corner.

The young man approached the table, looking curiously at the laboratory equipment and the various flasks of Lupinaria potion flashing in the shadows of the room. He began to look through the notes, brushing his fingers over the rough parchment. Laurel's handwriting was hurried and chaotic, full of diagrams and annotations. He picked up a particularly dense-looking sheaf and leafed through the pages, his eyes examining the various theses for the application of the potion and the complex modifications she had been making.

As he read on, he grew more and more proud of Laurel. She was clearly brilliant, her ideas laced with Muggle knowledge, and she spared no expense in making experimental potions. One scroll caught his eye: a long list of supplies and money sent to various members of the Order. It was clear that she had been helping the cause in more ways than he had realised.

Lost in the sea of ​​ink and paper, the blond boy didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching. He turned around just in time to see Laurel standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Neville? What are you doing here?"— she asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

"I'm... I'm sorry," —he stammered, feeling a sharp surge of heat on his cheeks.

The woman in front of him was wearing a light, almost transparent cotton nightgown that clung to her damp skin, the delicate fabric revealing the curves beneath. Her short hair clung to her face in dark strands and shimmered in the dim candlelight.

Laurel frowned, feeling herself being stared at, and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the cool air against the damp fabric of her nightgown. She hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and turning her back to the young man, she quickly put on her robe, still feeling Neville's intense gaze on her.

"Neville, it's early morning," —the woman said, finally turning to him. — "I thought we agreed that you were to keep a low profile. Has something happened?"

The boy looked away and focused on a spot on the cluttered table.

"I was looking for you," ­—he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. — "I'm sorry I came into your room without permission. I just... wanted you to know that Snape knows exactly who was involved in the riot. He's already imposed punishments..."