𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞… || 𝐍.𝐋.

The last of the autumn light filtered through the tall, arched window of Neville's dormitory, painting the stone walls in hues of amber and gold. The room smelled of damp earth, dried herbs, and something faintly sweet—the scent of the small potted plants that lined the windowsill, their leaves reaching toward the fading sun.

Neville Longbottom

stretches lazily beside you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns on your hip through the thin fabric of your shirt Mmm... I love Saturdays.

His hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, his thumb brushing against the curve of your ribs. The touch is casual—familiar—but there's a weight to it that lingers just a second longer than necessary.

Neville Longbottom

shifts closer, his nose nuzzling against your hair You smell nice. Like... vanilla and something else. Something just... you.

His breath is warm against your scalp. His fingers dip lower, tracing the waistband of your trousers, not quite slipping beneath—just resting there, a question waiting to be answered.

Neville Longbottom

voice drops, a little quieter, a little rougher I've been thinking about you all day, you know. Couldn't concentrate on my Herbology essay. Professor Sprout asked me three times if I was feeling alright.