gamophobia (n.l.)
Pairing: Neville Longbottom x Reader
Word Count: 11.7k
Summary: Gamophobia (noun) | /ˌɡæməˈfəʊbiə/ An extreme or irrational fear of long-term commitment or marriage, often resulting in avoidance of deep emotional intimacy despite genuine affection.
A/N: My readers are familiar with my general loathing of a fic before i post it lol. also i wish i had written a bonus scene for this one but i really couldn't think of anything so any of my more imaginative readers pls pls feel free to reblog with a bonus scene
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
Your childhood had been a kaleidoscope of candy-coated memories, each one shimmering like gold whenever you thought of them, forever encapsulated in the delicate snowglobe of your mind.
Birthdays smelled of warm cake and sweet frosting; Mother’s Days were spent with your father and you in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and carefully crafting bouquets out of crepe paper, rolling each strip into a rose before presenting them with proud, beaming smiles.
Summers were a blur of sun and sand, of you holding tightly to your mother’s hand as the waves pulled you deeper and deeper, her laughter mingling with yours.
Christmases were a sacred ritual: stringing lights together, hanging ornaments, and finally, the pièce de résistance—placing the star on the tree. Your father would lift you up, both of you giggling as you struggled to steady it, the soft glow of the lights reflecting in all your eyes.
You were a daughter to happily married parents.
And then, everything changed.
It was during the summer break after your third year at Hogwarts that your world fractured. Returning home, you immediately sensed the shift in the air. Your once welcoming house now felt hollow, as if someone had pulled the warmth right out of it. Your father—who had always been there to greet you at the platform—was nowhere to be found. Your mother’s response to your frantic questions was clipped, distant.
“He’s… not here.” She said, avoiding your gaze.
The house looked as if a storm had passed through—boxes scattered across the floor, furniture moved, the faint scent of dust and stale air clinging to everything. Confused and anxious, you asked if you were moving, if the life you’d known was ending. Your mother’s reply was bitter, strange, and chilling: “We’re not going anywhere.”
Later that evening, at your favorite restaurant, the truth finally landed like a punch to the gut. Between bites of food you no longer had the appetite for, they spoke of divorce. Of separation. Of things you weren’t supposed to understand, yet had to, whether you liked it or not. Words blurred as your mind raced—custody agreements, legal proceedings, the stark reality that the perfect family you had always believed in was nothing more than a fragile illusion.
You remember the look on their faces—the disgust in their eyes when they looked at each other, the sharpness in their voices that had never been there before. You remember the suffocating swirl of confusion, anger, and grief as you demanded to know why, how, what had gone wrong.
You were never able to return to that restaurant again.
The summer that followed was relentless. You were dragged through endless legal meetings, forced to witness your parents change before your eyes—their smiles gone, replaced by cold calculation and quiet resentment. Even the smallest interactions, once warm and ordinary, now carried tension and unspoken accusations. You had to navigate the shifting landscape of their lives while still clinging desperately to the remnants of your childhood—a child trying to hold together a world that no longer made sense.
They yelled so much their voices carried through the heavy wooden doors of the lawyer’s office.
Your father wanted shared custody; your mother refused to grant it. She didn’t want you staying at his place at all—just occasional visitation. He was indignant. “She’s away at boarding school for most of the year. I want to see my daughter!” “Are you crazy? If you force her to leave, she’ll hate you forever.” “Oh, and that’s what you want, isn’t it? For her to hate me?” “I’m only trying to do what’s best for her!” “And I’m not?!” “If you cared an ounce about her, you wouldn’t have put her in this position at all!”
You remember being comforted by the divorce lawyer’s receptionist as you cried outside the door, your sobs echoing in the sterile hallway.
And then, one afternoon, you stumbled upon the reason for it all. You weren’t supposed to hear it, weren’t supposed to know—but your father had been sloppy.
It was the first time all summer you were allowed to spend an afternoon with him, outside the chaos. You sat in the car, nervous but excited, grateful for a glimpse of normalcy—until you reached into the glove compartment for tissues and froze.
Makeup wipes. A small container of hair ties. A nail kit. The car smelled faintly of perfume. Had someone else been inside before you?
You turned to your father. There was a red blotch on his cheek—something that might’ve looked like sunburn on any other day, except it was smudged, as though it had been hastily wiped away. A tissue stained with faint red sat in the holder on his door.
You felt your stomach drop.
You went quiet for the rest of the day, detached, pretending to be fine. Later, you faked a stomach ache—one that neither of you believed—and asked him to take you home.
That night, you asked your mother if it was true. If he had been with another woman.
Her face thundered. “He told you?!” She spat.
It felt like the floor had fallen out from under you, like someone had hollowed your chest and left a gaping void. All those golden memories—pancake mornings, seaside summers, Christmas laughter—twisted into shards of betrayal. Every photograph became a reminder that the love you thought was untouchable had been broken from the inside.
You felt hollow. You felt angry. You felt abandoned. And most of all, you felt a seed of doubt take root in your heart—a doubt that perhaps love wasn’t forever, perhaps people changed, and perhaps you could never trust anyone the way you had once trusted your parents.
You thought they loved each other.
How could your father have done this?
Even if he didn’t love your mother anymore, how could he betray her like that—as if fifteen years of marriage meant nothing? As if he hadn’t torn the ground from beneath both your feet? How could he do this?
You couldn't believe that you'd never have another summer with your parents again.
When Harry had asked you to the Yule Ball, you had been ecstatic. You’d been asked by the Chosen One—Hogwarts’ very own champion—to be his date, and you’d happily accepted. The night had been a blur of laughter and music, the two of you spinning across the dance floor under glittering chandeliers, your cheeks sore from smiling. And when, later that night, he’d asked if it was alright to consider this a first date, you had said yes without hesitation.
From that moment on, it was official. Harry Potter was your boyfriend.
That was, until Rita Skeeter—that nosy, vile cow—decided to publish a photo of Harry and Hermione hugging on the front page of The Daily Prophet, in a column boldly titled The Daily Gossip. The image was harmless enough: Hermione’s arms thrown around him, Harry smiling, relief written all over his face. But to you, it felt like a knife twisting in your stomach.
You tried to be rational, to tell yourself they were just friends. Harry had known Hermione for years—it was only natural for her to be worried when he was about to face a dragon. If he’d liked her, surely he would’ve asked her to the ball. But he hadn’t. He’d asked you. That had to mean something… right?
Still, the thought festered. Because you’d seen this story before—different names, same heartbreak. Your father had loved your mother once, too. He’d married her. Built a life with her. And still, he’d chosen someone else.
You ended your two-month-long relationship with Harry, that very night.
After that, there was a brief but scandalous stint with Blaise Zabini. He’d casually asked if you wanted to join him on a Hogsmeade trip, and you’d agreed—because why not? He was charming, clever, and made you feel wanted again. It lasted all of three weeks before you ended it the moment you noticed how often his eyes flickered toward Pansy Parkinson. He insisted they were just friends, but you’d heard that one before.
Then came Justin Finch-Fletchley. That one barely lasted two dates. You’d realized by the end of the second that he had an uncanny habit of calling every girl love. It didn’t make you feel special—it made you feel replaceable.
After Justin came Parvati Patil, and that had been different. Softer. She was kind, patient, the kind of person who held your hand just to make sure you knew she was there. It lasted longer than any of the others—by your standards, at least. But even that fell apart once she called you out on your jealous tendencies, gently but firmly telling you that you couldn’t keep punishing people for things they hadn’t done.
You’d broken it off that same evening.
Just like that, you continued to cycle through relationships—brief, intense, and destined to burn out. Before long, you’d earned yourself a reputation as Hogwarts’ resident heartbreaker. You worried it might make people think you were easy, but considering you’d never actually slept with any of them, the whispers were only about your tendency to be a cold-hearted bitch when it came to breakups. You’d perfected the art of ending things without so much as blinking, your expression unreadable as you walked away. That, of course, earned you another title—the Ice Queen.
You kept telling yourself it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to find love. A love so strong and so pure it would leave no room for doubt. You told yourself you deserved that—that you deserved someone who would never betray you, never make you question their feelings, someone who would understand the chaos in your head and stay anyway. Someone who would reassure every single paranoia until they vanished into nothing. Someone who would never even dream of looking at anyone else.
You kept telling yourself that.
But somewhere along the way—after enough endings, enough half-hearted apologies, enough people you never really let in—you stopped looking for love at all. Or at least, for anything that lasted. You convinced yourself that real love didn’t exist. It was just a fleeting rush, a temporary high meant to make you feel alive for a little while before it left you empty again.
So you started keeping your relationships short. The longest one barely stretched past three months. You’d take every sweet word, every fleeting spark of affection, every rush of endorphins and bottle them up like a potion—just enough to keep you satisfied until the glass cracked and the illusion shattered.
Neville had once been told by his grandmother that he wasn’t a very good liar.
He’d taken her words to heart at the time — after all, he’d known it himself. His heart always beat too fast, his palms got clammy, his cheeks burned, and his voice cracked at the worst possible moments. Eye contact became impossible. His brain turned to mush.
So Neville had made a quiet promise to himself: never lie to anyone. He wasn’t built for it.
What he didn’t realize was that he was just as bad at hiding things.
“Oh, come on, Longbottom,” Seamus’s teasing voice rang out across the Gryffindor table, far louder than necessary, “You’ve been mooning over her for weeks. Just ask her out already!”
Neville froze. His spoon slipped from his hand, clattering against his bowl. Heat rushed to his face in an instant, crawling up his neck and setting his ears aflame. He hadn’t even realized he’d been looking at you that long — maybe just a second too long every morning, maybe smiling a little wider when you laughed across the table. But apparently, Seamus had noticed.
Without meaning to, his eyes darted toward you.
And, to his horror, you were already looking back — eyes wide, frozen mid-bite, clearly having heard every word.
Neville’s breath hitched. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, “I—I haven’t— I mean, that’s not—”
Dean grinned, elbowing Seamus, “Go on then, mate. What’ve you got to lose?”
Neville wanted to sink straight through the floor. Every instinct screamed at him to deny it, to laugh it off, to say it was just Seamus being Seamus. He wanted to get up and leave, pretend this never happened—but if he did, everyone would talk. They’d tease him, sure, but they might tease you too. And he didn’t want that.
Then he saw you—the way you blinked, caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort, like you didn’t quite know what to do either. And before he could think twice, before he could chicken out—
“Would you—uh—would you go to Hogsmeade with me?”
The table went silent. The students between you turned their heads, watching like it was the most riveting Quidditch match they’d ever seen. Neville’s heart stuttered. The silence pressed in tight around him, broken only by the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears. His face was burning.
You looked at him for a long moment, sympathy settling low in your chest. You’d never really seen Neville like this before—in fact, it ashamed you to admit you hadn’t noticed him much at all. He was the kind of person who blended quietly into the background, steady and unassuming. But he’d always been there, hadn’t he? The boy who had won Gryffindor the House Cup in your first year because of his bravery. The one who’d gotten Harry the gillyweed two years ago for the Triwizard Tournament.
He really was sweet. Honest. The kind of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And you could tell, just by looking at him, that he liked you far more than you liked him.
If you said no, you’d break his heart. Embarrass him in front of everyone. Maybe even chip away at that small, fragile confidence he’d spent years building. He didn’t deserve that. He was too kind. Too good.
You took a slow breath, feeling that familiar twist of guilt tighten in your stomach.
And then you smiled—small and hesitant.
“Sure, Neville.”
For a second, Neville didn’t move. His expression froze, disbelieving, like he hadn’t heard you right. Then the realization hit, lighting up his entire face. A grin broke through, bright and boyish, and his friends immediately erupted into cheers.
The laughter and chatter of the Great Hall still echoed behind you as Neville practically stumbled out the doors, face red to the roots of his hair. You hesitated only a second before getting up, muttering a quick excuse to your friends, and jogging after him.
“Neville—hold on!”
He stopped mid-stride in the corridor, shoulders jerking like he’d been caught doing something wrong. When he turned around, his expression already looked apologetic.
“You—you changed your mind, right?” He said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush, “It’s alright, really. No hard feelings, I promise.”
You blinked, thrown off by how fast he’d jumped to that conclusion. His eyes darted to the floor, his hands wringing together nervously. There was something so painfully earnest about it—he was already letting you off the hook before you’d even said anything.
For a second, you just stared at him.
And this—this was the moment you should stop. The moment to spare him before things went too far. Before you led him on. Before you broke another heart.
But then you really looked at him. The awkward shuffle of his feet, the faint pink still dusting his cheeks, the way he couldn’t quite meet your eyes because he was so sure you were about to reject him. He looked like he was bracing for impact—and you suddenly hated the idea of being the one to make him flinch again.
Maybe… maybe you didn’t want to.
So instead of saying what you were supposed to, you took a small step forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Actually,” You said, keeping your tone light, almost teasing, “I just wanted to ask when we were having our date. We never agreed on a time.”
Neville’s head snapped up so fast you almost laughed. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, completely flustered.
“Oh—oh! Right! I—well, um—how about next weekend? If that’s okay? We could go to Honeydukes or—or wherever you want, really—”
His voice cracked on the last word, and you couldn’t help smiling for real this time. It felt strange on your face, unpracticed but warm.
“Next weekend sounds perfect.”
And just like that, Neville Longbottom smiled again—this time wider than before, the kind of grin that could light up an entire common room.
As he walked off, practically floating, you stood there for a moment in the quiet corridor, your heart oddly light and heavy at once.
You told yourself it was just a date. Nothing more. Nothing less.
You’d been on enough of them to know how this went — polite smiles, surface-level chatter, a bit of handholding if things went well, a polite goodbye if they didn’t. Neville Longbottom wasn’t supposed to be any different.
So when he met you outside the Great Hall, fidgeting with his sleeves and mumbling a nervous greeting, you kept your smile light, detached. The kind of smile that said don’t get your hopes up.
He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and was too kind to let it show.
“I, um… I thought maybe we could stay on the grounds,” He said, holding up a picnic basket like it was something fragile, “I figured it might be quieter than Hogsmeade.”
You almost told him you didn’t mind Hogsmeade — that you actually preferred the noise, if only to prove the two of you didn’t have much in common — but there was something so earnest in his expression that you stopped.
“Alright,” You said instead, voice even, “The Black Lake?”
He nodded quickly, relief flooding his face, “Yeah. I thought that’d be nice.”
So you went.
The walk down was quiet. He tried to start small conversations — about Herbology, about the weather, even about some magical plant he was growing for extra credit — and you answered politely, without offering much in return. You didn’t mean to be cold; you just didn’t want him to think this was something it wasn’t.
When you reached the lake, he spread a blanket beneath one of the old willow trees. The water shimmered, reflecting sunlight like scattered glass. Neville unpacked the basket carefully, lining everything up with a kind of quiet precision — sandwiches, pumpkin pasties, two flasks of tea.
“I, uh, didn’t know what kind you liked,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “So I brought both.”
You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar flutter in your chest. He was so… thoughtful.
“Thanks.” You said, a little softer than you meant to.
You ate, talked a bit. He told you about his favourite plants, about how the Mandrakes were growing slower this year, about how Professor Sprout was letting him help breed some rare hybrids. He rambled, words tumbling over each other — but there was something genuine in the way his eyes lit up when he spoke.
It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t a whirlwind of endorphins and magic and dizziness.
But it was peaceful.
You could almost feel your defenses lowering, just a little, with every quiet laugh.
Then, about halfway through the picnic, Neville reached into the basket again and pulled something out — a small, worn box. He hesitated, glancing at you like he was second-guessing himself.
“Um,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, I—I brought this, but it’s probably stupid, so we don’t have to—”
He opened the box to reveal a puzzle box— a picture of a meadow full of wildflowers.
“My gran gifted it to me,” He said quickly, “I just thought… maybe we could work on it together? Only if you want to, though.”
You stared at it for a moment, caught completely off guard. You’d been on plenty of dates — too many — and not one person had ever brought a puzzle.
Oh, he was just so—
“A puzzle.” You murmured, and he instantly started to backpedal.
“I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. I just thought—never mind, it was daft—”
“No,” You interrupted quickly, reaching out before he could put it away, “I like it.”
He froze, “You… do?”
You nodded, a real smile tugging at your lips for the first time that day, “Yeah. It looks like fun.”
Neville blinked, clearly taken aback, then relaxed as a shy grin spread across his face.
The two of you sat side by side, the sounds of the lake lapping gently against the shore as you pieced the puzzle together. It shouldn’t have been fun — but it was. You found yourself laughing quietly whenever he misplaced a piece, teasing him, brushing his hand accidentally (and sometimes not so accidentally).
And you realized, to your quiet horror, that you didn’t want it to end.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the castle, the puzzle was finished — a small meadow of wildflowers blooming between you on the blanket. You sat there in a comfortable silence for a while, the soft rustle of leaves and distant laughter from the castle carrying through the air.
Eventually, Neville packed everything back into the basket, careful as always, and the two of you walked back toward the castle.
It was quiet again, and while earlier the bad thoughts of worry and paranoia had sprouted in your mind despite your efforts to push them away, now you found yourself forcibly bringing them to the forefront. You were not supposed to lead Neville on. The others knew it wasn’t anything serious, but Neville seemed to have hoped something would come out of this.
When you reached the entrance to the common room, you turned to him with a small smile, “Thanks, Neville. For today. It was… nice.”
He looked at you for a moment — eyes wide, hopeful, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it. Then, before you could say another word, he leaned forward and kissed you.
It wasn’t bad, exactly — at least you hadn’t been assaulted with tongue — but his lips were chapped, pursed awkwardly, like he had only learned kissing from cartoons. It was stagnant and uncertain. His lips brushed yours and then froze there, as if he weren’t sure what came next. You were too surprised to react, caught completely off guard by the suddenness of it all.
When he pulled back, his cheeks were bright red. “S-sorry,” He stammered, “I—I shouldn’t have—”
You blinked, still processing, and forced a smile, “Goodnight, Neville.”
Then you slipped inside before he could say anything else.
You didn’t make it three steps into the common room before the guilt hit you like a bludger.
Oh, god.
He’d probably spend the whole night replaying it in his head, kicking himself, wondering why he ever thought you’d want him to kiss you. You could already imagine it — Neville sitting on his bed, face buried in his hands, convincing himself he’d ruined everything.
And for some reason, that thought made your chest ache.
You stood frozen for a few seconds, then groaned under your breath, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and bolted out of the common room. The corridors were dim, nearly empty, and your shoes echoed against the stone as you ran.
You found him halfway down the hall, still walking slowly toward the staircase, his shoulders slumped, staring at his feet. The happiness he had carried after the date had all fizzled out as he trudged forward. Perhaps on another day, when your head hadn’t been reeling, when you hadn’t been whiplashed with so many emotions, your eyes wouldn’t have pricked painfully at the sight of him like this.
“Neville!”
He turned, startled, “Y-you forgot something?”
You didn’t answer. You just ran the last few steps and grabbed his sleeve, tugging him toward you — and before he could say a word, you kissed him.
Properly, this time.
You placed your hand on the nape of his neck, angling him toward you, slotting your lips together, swallowing the gasp of surprise. Your other hand guided his to your waist, pulling him closer as you stood on your toes, deepening the kiss and tilting your head the other way. Neville, to his credit, was good at learning on the job, arms curling around your waist and stepping forward, following your lead to a T. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just soft, sure pressure, the faint taste of tea and pumpkin pasties still lingering between you.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide again, but for a very different reason.
You both were short of breath.
You felt your heart beating a little too fast, your voice quieter than you intended. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” You said softly, “It was just… bad timing.”
Neville blinked, still dazed, a slow, incredulous smile tugging at his lips, “Oh.”
“Goodnight, Neville.” You murmured again — but this time, it sounded a lot less final.
And as you turned away, you caught yourself smiling too.
The second date started differently from the first.
This time, it was a proper Hogsmeade outing. Snow dusted the cobblestones, and the streets smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and peppermint from the sweet shops. You walked side by side with Neville, your scarf brushing against his, sharing quiet conversation about schoolwork and the upcoming exams. He was, as always, earnest, slightly awkward, and impossibly sweet — listening to you complain about how stressed you were and even offering to lend you his Herbology notes. The darling.
Eventually, after enough roaming to numb your toes, you decided to stop for something warm. The Three Broomsticks glowed golden in the afternoon light, laughter spilling through its frosted windows. Neville opened the door for you with a bashful little smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back as you stepped inside.
You found a booth near the corner, the table still a little sticky from the last patrons. Neville slid into the seat across from you instead of beside you, and you chuckled softly into your scarf. Of course he did.
He got your drinks, returning with two steaming mugs of butterbeer. You sighed in contentment at the first sip — the warmth slipping down your throat, the sweetness coating your tongue, your frozen fingertips thawing against the glass. When you looked up over the rim of your mug, though, Neville wasn’t looking back at you.
Your smile faltered.
His gaze was fixed somewhere past you — toward the bar, where the cute bartender stood laughing with another customer. She was all glossy hair and easy charm, and the sight of Neville’s focused eyes made your stomach twist.
Of course. There it is. The moment it starts to fall apart.
Did he think she was pretty? Did he think she was prettier than you? Did she introduce herself when she handed him your drinks? Had he smiled at her the way he smiled at you — that soft, genuine way that made your chest ache? Your heart began to pound, the familiar flood of questions and doubts screaming through your head.
You could already hear yourself later that night — lying in bed, telling yourself that it was fine, that you’d end things before he could hurt you. It was always easier to leave first.
He still wasn’t looking at you.
“Ehem.” You cleared your throat pointedly, “Something wrong?”
Neville blinked, startled, finally turning back to you. “What? Oh… sorry.” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the bar, “It’s just that flutterby bush over there — it looks a tad overwatered. The leaves aren’t even fluttering anymore.”
You blinked, thrown entirely off your mental script, “The… plant?”
Confused, you slowly followed his gaze to the admittedly miserable-looking potted plant next to the bartender. Relief washed over you, making your chest feel like it could finally breathe again.
He nodded earnestly, eyes soft with concern, “Do you think I should say something? I’d feel bad if it died and I didn’t do anything to help.”
There was a pause — and then, helplessly, you laughed. A short, breathy sound that came out half disbelieving, half relieved.
Of course. Of course Neville Longbottom wasn’t staring at a pretty girl. He was worried about a bloody plant.
“You were worried… about the plant?” You repeated, just to be sure.
Neville shrugged, his expression so guileless it almost hurt to look at, “I mean… yeah. It’s alive. Shouldn’t I care?”
“Would you like me to tell her?” You asked carefully, lifting your brows slightly. You weren’t smiling this time. Your tone was measured, almost probing, testing him. Would he be okay with me talking to her? Would he want to say something himself? Make a move? Charm her in that clumsy, sweet way he did? Or would he brush it off, like it didn’t matter at all?
Neville blinked at you for a moment, then smiled, shy and pleased, like you’d just handed him a medal, “Could you? I… I wouldn’t really know how to bring it up. I’m not very good with people, you know.”
You bit back a grin. “You’re wonderful with me.” You said softly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity of it.
Before he could answer, you stood and made your way to the bar. One short conversation later and you were making your way back to the booth, sliding into the seat beside him this time. You ignored the wide-eyed look he gave you, pressing the side of your thigh to his and resting your head lightly on his tense shoulder, feeling a rare moment of peace wash over you.
Perhaps a third date might not be a bad idea.
Today’s Herbology class had gone longer than usual, and Professor Sprout had asked a handful of students to stay back and water the seedlings in Greenhouse Three. Neville, of course, had volunteered. You’d stayed behind too, waiting just outside the glass doors.
You could see him inside through the streaky glass — sleeves rolled up, soil on his forearms, humming softly to himself as he misted a row of asphodel bushes. It was honestly… unfair how attractive he looked.
Unfortunately, it seemed like you weren't the only one who noticed.
Clara Whitby. Ravenclaw. Pretty, clever, and stepping so close to Neville you felt heat burn down your neck. You watched as she leaned just a little too close to Neville, laughing at something he said (which, knowing Neville, was probably just “hello”).
You couldn’t hear what she said, but you saw her tilt her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that deliberate way girls do when they want to be noticed. Neville blinked, utterly oblivious, smiling kindly and offering her the watering can.
You felt it — that sharp, irrational sting low in your stomach. The kind that whispered mine before you could think.
When you pushed the greenhouse door open, the hinges creaked louder than usual. Both of them turned.
“Hey,” You said, tone calm but your smile a little too tight to be natural. The air smelled of damp soil and honeysuckle, but all you could focus on was Clara’s hand resting casually on Neville’s arm.
You crossed the space between them in a few brisk steps, brushing your fingers over the shoulder she’d just touched, flicking away imaginary dirt like it personally offended you, “Do you need any help?” You asked sweetly, your eyes locked on Neville.
“Oh, no need,” Clara interrupted, smiling with just the right amount of sugar to make your teeth ache, “It’s no trouble at all.”
You turned to her, returning the smile with one of your own — yours sharper, deliberate, “That’s kind of you. But I’d feel bad watching my boyfriend do all the work and not offering.”
The word landed with satisfying precision. You didn’t miss the way Clara’s expression faltered — the way her lashes fluttered once, twice, like she’d been caught off guard.
“Oh— I— I didn’t know—”
“Mm,” You hummed, tilting your head, “Well, since it’s no trouble at all, you wouldn’t mind finishing up here, right?”
You didn’t wait for her to answer. Your hand had already found Neville’s sleeve, looping around his arm and tugging him gently but firmly toward the door. He stumbled after you, mouth opening in confused protest.
“Wait—what—?”
The second you stepped outside, you released him, crossing your arms and fixing him with a glare that could have scorched a mandrake back into its pot. The crisp air outside felt cooler than it should’ve; maybe because your pulse was running a little too hot.
Neville blinked at you, brow furrowed, “Did I… do something wrong?”
You exhaled, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tighter than you wanted, “No. You just— Merlin, Neville, she was flirting with you.”
He blinked again, looking genuinely baffled, “She was? No, she was just asking if I needed help repotting—”
You shot him a look, the kind that said don’t test me right now.
He stopped mid-sentence. His mouth opened, then shut, “Oh.”
“Yeah,” You said dryly, rubbing your temples, “Oh.”
Neville’s ears turned pink, his voice small, “I didn’t even notice.”
You groaned, “Obviously. You never do.”
He hesitated, “You… were jealous?”
The question caught you off guard. You froze, heat crawling up your neck, “No— I wasn’t— you just can’t flirt with girls when you have a girlfriend. It’s the principle.”
Neville’s lips twitched, and you could see the bashful smile he was trying very hard to suppress, “I didn’t know you were my girlfriend.”
Your mouth dropped open, affronted, “We’ve been dating for a month!”
“Well,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, “last time I kissed you, you told me I had poor timing. I didn’t want to push and make you uncomfortable.”
You blinked, thrown off guard by how genuine he sounded. “I didn’t mean—” You huffed, folding your arms tighter, “You really have no sense when it comes to these things.”
Neville laughed quietly, that soft, shy little sound that always made it hard to stay annoyed with him, “Maybe not. But I’m learning.”
You rolled your eyes, though your voice softened despite yourself, “You’d better learn fast, Longbottom. Or next time I might actually hex someone.”
His smile widened, warm and utterly unbothered, “So… does that mean I can call you my girlfriend now?”
The word caught you off guard again — girlfriend — heavier than it had any right to be. It had been a long while since you had been anybody's girlfriend, choosing not to put labels on things, wanting to remain untied.
You opened your mouth, ready with some sarcastic deflection, but all that came out was a quiet, “Yeah.”
Neville’s grin turned brighter, boyish and disbelieving, “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.” You warned, fighting the way your lips curved upward at his reaction. He really seemed to like you.
With an essay in Herbology due next week, you’d invited Neville over to help you outline your thoughts — and maybe, if you were lucky, to make sense of the incomprehensible notes you’d taken in class.
Luckily, you’d had the sense to cast a quick Scourgify over your dorm beforehand. The challenge, of course, was finding the right balance: clean enough not to look like you lived in chaos, but not too clean — you didn’t want him to think you’d scrubbed the place spotless just for him. The line was hard to walk on.
By the time you’d finished fluffing the pillows and straightening your desk, there was a knock at the door.
He was standing there with his bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from a shower, a stack of Herbology notes clutched in his hands like an offering. His eyes flicked past you into the room — once, twice — uncertain.
“Come in.” You said, stepping aside.
He hovered at the threshold like the doorway was protected by ancient wards.
“Are you sure you don’t want to study in the common room instead?” He asked, voice hesitant.
“It’s far too noisy there, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” He mumbled, “But we could go to the library.”
You raised a brow, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice, “You’re acting like you’re about to walk into the Forbidden Forest, Neville.”
He flushed immediately, “I’ve just… never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”
That made you bite your lip to hide a grin, “Oh, Merlin. You make it sound scandalous.”
Neville’s blush deepened, “It is scandalous. If Gran ever found out—”
“She’d what?” You interrupted, fighting laughter.
“She’d have a cow.” He muttered, so sincerely that it nearly made you snort.
“Come on,” You said, taking pity on him and tugging him gently inside, “I promise not to tell your Gran.”
He stepped in cautiously, like the floor might give way beneath him, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching his notes as though they might save him. His eyes darted toward the bed, then quickly away.
“You can sit, you know.” You said, nodding to it.
“The bed?” He looked genuinely horrified, “I can just take the chair—”
“The chair’s broken,” You lied easily, crossing your arms, “And if you keep hovering like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re scared of me.”
He blushed even harder at that, mumbling, “I’m not scared of you.”
“Then sit.” You patted the spot beside you, “Unless you want to study standing up?”
Reluctantly, Neville sat down at the very edge of the mattress, back straight, knees together, looking as stiff as if he were being interrogated by Snape. You sat beside him — comfortably close, but not too close — and opened your notebook, pretending not to notice how he froze.
“Relax, Neville,” You murmured, flipping to your essay draft, “I don’t bite.”
He smiled nervously, eyes fixed on his parchment, “You’re teasing me.”
“Only because you make it so easy.”
He laughed under his breath, and for a moment, the tension melted.
As the two of you leaned over your notes, heads nearly touching, your shoulder brushed his. You didn’t do more — didn’t hold his hand, didn’t rest your head on his shoulder, didn’t even dare to think about kissing him, because Merlin knew that either Neville or his grandmother, somewhere in England, would burst into flames.
So you stayed like that. Close, but not touching. Almost, but not quite.
You tried to focus on the essay — on sentence structure, on magical root systems, on the words in front of you — but your mind kept drifting. To how warm he felt beside you. To how gentle his breathing sounded in the quiet room. To how easy it was to just… be near him.
And as ridiculous as it was, sitting there with your quill poised over parchment and your heart thudding like you were thirteen again, you realized something that made your stomach flip.
For all your dates, for all the people you’d kissed, for all the walls you’d built — sitting beside Neville Longbottom on your bed somehow felt like the first time all over again.
You were halfway through dessert in the Great Hall, absently tracing patterns in your pudding with your spoon, when Hannah plopped down across from you with a grin that looked far too knowing.
“So,” She began, drawing out the word like she was about to deliver very important news, “How’s Neville?”
You blinked up at her, “He’s… good?”
Hannah’s grin widened. “Just good?” She tapped her spoon against the edge of her plate, “You’ve been seeing him for… three months now, hasn’t it?”
“Three months? That can’t be right.” You thought back to your first date, trying to count the weeks in your head. As you stood to be corrected, it became painfully clear—Hannah was right. Crazy how she was keeping more tabs on your relationship than you were.
“Three months and a bit, actually,” She said smugly, clearly enjoying herself, “Don’t give me that look. I remember because you said that thing after your second date about how nothing past three months ever works out for you.”
You squinted at her, “I said that about other people, not me.”
She raised a brow, unconvinced. “No, you said—and I quote—‘Three months is when the rot sets in.’” She grinned, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, “And yet… here we are. You’ve passed the expiration date.”
You frowned down at your pudding, suddenly unsure what to do with your spoon, “It doesn’t feel that long.”
“Well,” Hannah shrugged, “time flies when you actually like someone.”
You looked across the Hall then — instinctively, without meaning to — and found Neville at the Gryffindor table, laughing at something Seamus said. His head tilted back when he laughed, cheeks going pink, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that soft, familiar way. The sight of him — so happy, so relaxed, so himself — made your stomach twist in a combination of relief and panic.
A sudden flutter of pins and needles ran up your legs, tightening around your throat. The walls of the Hall felt like they were closing in. You pushed your plate away, stomach lurching, suddenly feeling sick. A bucket of cold water seemed to have been dumped over you when you realized, with a shockingly simple clarity that despite your trepidation, that all you wanted in that moment was a hug from Neville.
Hannah, apparently sensing your sudden silence, smirked knowingly, “Guess your little rule’s been broken.”
You forced a laugh, brittle and unconvincing, letting it tremble out into the air. “Yeah… miracles happen.” You murmured, your voice quieter than you intended, as your eyes lingered on Neville, feeling them begin to water.
The dorm room was quiet, the soft breathing of your friends usually enough to lull you to sleep, but tonight, sleep was impossible. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, every muscle taut, your stomach knotted with a restless energy you couldn’t shake.
Scenes rushed through your mind, a relentless reel of memories from the very first awkward conversation with Neville to last week, when you had finally coaxed him into relaxing in your dorm long enough for a kiss—albeit a brief, breathless one. He had pulled back almost immediately, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, needing a moment to catch his breath. A small, tender smile tugged at your lips at the memory. Even after three months, he was still so shy, so wonderfully nervous.
You shook your head, trying to focus.
You cataloged everything meticulously—pros and cons, tiny details, moments you had laughed, moments you had panicked. Every glance, every word, every small, earnest gesture.
You thought back to the way he had fumbled over his words when he first asked you out. A con? You glanced at the memory critically, comparing him to all the social media horror stories of supermodel influencers whose boyfriends had cheated once they got “confident enough” to try someone else. Would Neville be like that? Would he, once he no longer shied away from kissing, find someone else to put those skills to use?
But then you remembered the things he had told you about intimacy—how it was sacred, how he only shared it with people he truly cared about. He hadn’t even been comfortable stepping into your dorm at first. He wasn’t the type to just move on. He was loyal.
You shook your head again, scolding yourself. The pros list wasn’t supposed to outweigh the cons.
But then… Clara. That day in the greenhouse when someone had been flirting with him, and he had remained blissfully oblivious. That was a definite con. If he couldn’t notice someone trying to make a move, how could he protect himself from them? Someone as innocent and naive as him was likely to be seduced.
You tried to make sense of it, but your thoughts always drifted back to him: that smile, the way he laughed, the subtle nervous tugs at his hair, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
Would he ever look at anyone else? In these three months, you had never seen him treat a female friend differently than a male one. He didn’t even have many female friends to begin with.
You remembered Hermione in Herbology, discussing plants with him, both of them so engaged in conversation that you had almost panicked. Perhaps they’d have a connection… But then you remembered the way he had held your hand under the table, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
Your chest tightened, heart thumping wildly as the memories surged. You bit your lip, telling yourself to calm down, to stop letting him occupy so much of your head. But the harder you tried to push him away, the more present he became in your mind.
Every “pro” you listed had him at its center; every “con” circled back to him. You could almost hear his gentle, hesitant voice asking questions, sharing stories, fumbling over words with that quiet, earnest charm.
You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. Why does he have to be so… him?
The ceiling blurred as tears threatened to spill. You felt ridiculous, terrified, yet completely powerless.
And through it all, the pull toward him was undeniable. The quiet, unignorable certainty that, no matter how much you cataloged, panicked, or overthought, part of you just wanted him there—wanted to lean into him, hear his voice, feel his warmth beside you.
But you couldn’t move. Not yet. Not until you figured it all out.
You were sitting in Charms, quietly taking notes as Professor Flitwick droned on about the subtleties of non-verbal wand movements and spell trajectories, but your attention kept drifting. Neville, sitting beside you, was scribbling something on a piece of parchment. At first, you didn’t think much of it—Neville was always diligent—but then curiosity got the better of you.
You leaned just enough to catch a glimpse. His hand jerked, and he quickly turned the parchment toward his chest, eyes wide and guilty.
Your heart immediately began hammering.
Is he cheating on me? He’s writing about someone else. He doesn’t want me to see it. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Your mind spiraled. Maybe he was scribbling something sweet for someone else, doodling hearts or sketches, the kind of thing that would make your chest ache and stomach drop. He’s falling for someone else.
Or maybe—no, stop—maybe he’s jotting down all the ways you frustrate him, all the little flaws you work so hard to hide. Maybe he’s complaining to someone else about how disappointing you are. Telling her that you'd never hold a candle in comparison to her.
Your fingers drummed nervously against your desk as the lesson blurred past, the words floating over you like fog.
Finally, the bell rang. Neville began packing, oblivious to the storm raging in your head. The second his back was turned, you leaned over, snatched the piece of parchment tucked between his textbooks, and shoved it into your pocket.
You forced a polite smile when he asked if you were ready to leave and muttered something about needing the washroom, ducking into an empty stall the second you slipped away from him.
Hands shaking, you unfolded the crumpled sheet.
Your eyes widened.
“Longbottom + (Y/N)” “Neville + (Y/N)” “(Y/N) Longbottom” “Neville (L/N)”
Your stomach dropped, then flooded with warmth so intense it made your knees weak. Relief crashed over you, and you let out a shaky laugh, pressing your hand over your mouth as heat crept up your neck. You wiped away the beginnings of tears, not wanting to lose a single second staring at his neat, whimsical calligraphy.
He had taken your last name. How silly.
For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the page. Little sketches and hearts decorated the names, surrounded by playful flourishes and swirls. Every shred of doubt, every paranoid thought, every fear of him leaving or being distracted by someone else melted away.
He was so perfect.
Neville’s dorm smelled faintly of cedarwood and parchment, the soft hum of rain against the window making everything feel too gentle, too intimate. You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching as he rifled through his desk for a quill.
It was a lazy afternoon — the kind that felt suspended in time — and you hadn’t planned on staying long. But then he’d offered to help you study, and then you’d started talking, and now here you were, wrapped in a blanket that smelled suspiciously like him, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.
“Are you cold?” He asked, glancing up, concern flickering across his face.
You hesitated, “A little.”
He smiled — that soft, crooked smile that always made something flutter deep in your chest — and pointed to the trunk at the base of his bed with his chin, “You can borrow one of my cardigans, if you want.”
You opened your mouth to politely decline, but he was already holding it out to you — that heavy knit thing you’d seen him wear almost every day last week. So you took it, immediately feeling wrapped up in his warmth, so much so that you couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips.
“I’ll give it back to you.” You murmured automatically.
He chuckled, “It’s alright, love. You can have it.”
You froze.
Have it?
Have it?!
Your mind went white for a second — and then the panic set in.
If you kept his clothes, that meant you were entering the comfortably-in-a-relationship phase. The stage where your things blend with his, where people start saying “our stuff,” where you wake up one day and you’re wearing his jumper and suddenly you’re emotionally married. And when it ended — because it always ended — you’d have to dig through drawers and closets, separating his things from yours, each piece a reminder of something you’d lost.
You forced a smile that felt dangerously close to manic, “Oh, um, no— I’ll just borrow it, it’s fine, I’ll give it back later.”
Neville blinked, surprised by your sudden rush of words, “I didn’t mean— I mean, I’ve got others, you don’t have to—”
“No really,” You said quickly, tugging the cardigan tighter around yourself and sitting very straight, like posture alone could prove how casual you were being about this, “You look great in this cardigan. I couldn’t possibly be the reason you don’t get to wear it anymore.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he sat back down beside you, “You’re very strange sometimes, you know that?”
“Mhmm.” You mumbled, burying your face in the collar. It smelled like him — like soap and something green and earthy — and you hated how much you loved it.
He looked at you for a long moment, eyes crinkling with quiet affection before turning back to his notes.
You hadn’t meant to join Neville and his friends that afternoon — you’d only stopped by the Gryffindor table to say hello before heading back to study — but somehow you’d been pulled into a conversation with Dean and Seamus that had spiraled far beyond your control.
“So,” Seamus said with a grin that was all teeth, “how long’s it been now? You two’ve been joined at the hip since Christmas, yeah?”
Neville blinked, mid-bite of shepherd’s pie, “Er—nine months?”
You froze.
Nine. Months.
That was almost a year. More than double your longest relationship.
Dean let out a low whistle, “Blimey, Longbottom, didn’t think you had it in you.”
Seamus snorted, “Yeah, we all had money on the third-date crash and burn. Guess I owe Weasley five Galleons.”
They laughed, and you forced a smile, even though your heart was racing. Nine months? That meant you’d been a we for nine months — people probably said “you and Neville” like it was one word now.
Neville just looked bashful, ducking his head, cheeks pink. “She’s easy to love.” He mumbled under his breath, and Seamus groaned dramatically while Dean nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.
Your brain short-circuited. Easy to love. Me? Since when?
And suddenly, everything around you — the laughter, the chatter, the clinking of cutlery — faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was your heartbeat, thudding too fast. All you could feel was that warm, terrifying weight in your chest.
Because he said it so simply. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was just true. He was okay with loving you.
You didn’t know how to respond to that. How were you supposed to respond to Neville’s quiet, unguarded affection when you were doubting it every single step of the way?
He was such a sweet soul. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized he might be the most selfless, considerate, good boy you’d ever met in your life. He was perfect. He truly was.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a crooked grin, “And in those nine months, a girl hasn’t so much as looked at you two blokes.”
You laughed — too high-pitched, too quick — but when you glanced at Neville, who met your gaze with that open, steady smile, your chest ached in that familiar, dizzying way.
Nine months. You hadn’t even noticed them pass.
And that scared you more than anything. Because for once, you weren’t counting the days until it ended.
Nine months. He’d said it so easily. Like time didn’t scare him the way it scared you.
You could still hear his voice, low and certain — she’s easy to love. The words kept looping in your head, echoing against every defense you’d ever built.
By the time you reached the stairs, you could feel your pulse in your throat. You stopped, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag just to buy yourself a second to breathe.
Neville turned, smiling softly, “You okay, love?”
You nodded too fast, “Yeah. Just—heavy bag.”
He didn’t question it, didn’t push. He just reached out, took the strap from your shoulder, and slung it over his own, “There. Easier now.”
And that—god, that was the thing about him. He never made a big deal of it. Never demanded gratitude. He just noticed.
As you walked beside him, shoulder brushing shoulder, something in your chest began to loosen — like a knot slowly, reluctantly coming undone.
Neville never made you feel like loving you was work. He just did it — quietly, like breathing.
You glanced at him, at the way his fringe fell into his eyes, the little crease between his brows when he concentrated on balancing your books in one arm.
Something warm and painful bloomed in your chest.
You realized, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that you couldn’t remember what life had felt like before him. And worse — you didn’t want to.
The thought made your stomach twist. Love had always been a thing you tiptoed around, a house made of glass you refused to step inside. But now you were standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, realizing you’d already been living here without noticing.
He looked at you again, smiling that same gentle smile that never failed to undo you, “You sure you’re alright?”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah,” You said quietly, “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
You almost told him. You almost said about you.
But instead, you just smiled faintly and said, “About how time goes faster when I’m with you.”
He chuckled, his fingers brushing yours as you walked, “Guess that’s a good thing, yeah?”
You looked down at your intertwined shadows on the stone floor, your throat tightening.
“Yeah,” You whispered, “It is.”
But inside, your heart was trembling — because for the first time, the thought of falling didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like safety.
Rain tapped softly against the window by your bed, the room washed in the pale blue light of the moon.
You couldn’t sleep.
Your mind kept circling the same set of thoughts it had been for months now. Neville Longbottom. The source of your peace — and the source of the greatest anxiety you’d ever known.
His sweet disposition. His kind eyes. His smile — soft, genuine, a little crooked. His full cheeks that hadn’t lost all their boyish roundness. The way he always put you first.
You sat up slowly, pulling your knees to your chest.
Your father had seemed perfect at first, too. Hadn’t he? After all, your mother wouldn’t have married him, wouldn’t have had you, if he hadn’t put up the perfect front.
But would Neville ever commit the same atrocities? You couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. Or had he just tricked you that well? Would you look back ten years from now — when you had children of your own — and realize you’d made the same mistake your mother had?
Maybe it had been her fault, you reasoned. Maybe she hadn’t screened your father well enough. But you had been careful. You had been auditing Neville with the critical eye of someone who refused to be fooled again.
And still — he’d passed every test.
Neville hadn’t so much as looked at another girl since the day you’d started dating. Whenever doubt or paranoia clawed up your throat, he’d been there to soothe it — patient, steady, real. He remembered every date, every preference, every offhand comment you made in passing. He brought you flowers just because. He’d buy you little trinkets in Hogsmeade because he thought you might like them.
He gave you his last sip of tea, his last piece of chocolate, without complaint.
Even though he was shy, he stood up for you in front of his friends — voice trembling, ears red — but never letting them tease you too far.
Clearly, Neville was perfect.
He was perfect for you.
He’d never hurt you.
This relationship would be good for you.
You shut your eyes, trying to let the conclusion settle into your chest, willing it to quiet the ache in your ribs. You wanted to believe it. You wanted to rest in it. To trust someone for the first time in your entire life.
But then your brow twitched.
Wait.
Neville wasn’t the problem. He never had been.
He was patient, kind — the sort of person who noticed when you were about to spiral and quietly handed you an anchor before you drowned. He listened when you spoke — really listened — without trying to fix you or make it easier. He loved you without asking you to change.
And if he wasn’t the problem…
Then the problem was you.
You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, like you could hold yourself together by force.
No relationship was without flaws. No love story ended perfectly. But Neville had broken your pattern — he’d stayed.
And now, with nowhere left to direct the blame, you were left with the only truth that fit:
You would ruin him.
Because how could something this fragile, this good, possibly survive you?
You imagined it — the end.
If it happened a year from now, Neville would be crushed. He’d have loved you too deeply by then — the kind of love that doesn’t unravel easily. You’d be finishing school, talking about the future, and then you’d ruin it with a few sentences you could never take back. He’d smile through it, tell you it was okay, but the second you turned away, his heart would break.
Five years from now, it would be worse. You saw it so clearly — his face when he realized you’d stopped loving him, the disbelief in his eyes. He’d cry until his voice gave out, then find the small ring box tucked in the back of his dresser, the one he’d meant to give you someday. He’d hold it in his hands until the metal grew warm, until it hurt too much to look at.
And if it was ten years from now — if you made it that far — it would destroy him completely. You’d see it in the way his shoulders would shake when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger. He’d beg, voice cracking, for you to stay — for the children, for the life you’d built — and you, cold and hollow, would walk away anyway. Leave him standing there in the doorway, the kids asleep upstairs, and he’d raise them alone, never saying a bad word about you. Because that’s who he was.
You could see it all with sickening clarity — the look on his face, the pain in his voice, the ruin of something pure.
You’d tried so hard to protect yourself from being hurt that you’d never stopped to think about who you might hurt in the process.
Your throat ached. Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. He didn’t deserve that.
He was good. Too good.
He’d be the one bleeding when this ended.
And the worst part was — you knew he’d forgive you anyway.
You stared at the thought until your vision blurred, your heart heavy with the unbearable weight of being loved so gently by someone you were convinced deserved better.
Outside, the rain softened to a hush.
You lay back, pulling the cardigan— his cardigan— tighter around your body. His scent clung to the fabric. It should have comforted you. It didn’t.
Your breaths came shallow and uneven as the truth settled like lead in your chest.
You needed to end this before you did something stupid.
You’d rehearsed it all day — in the mirror, in your head, even under your breath between classes. Every version ended the same way: with you breaking something that had only ever been gentle.
Neville opened the door to his dorm with that familiar soft smile, “Hey, love. You alright? You look—”
“Can we talk?”
Oh no. It was already going awry. In your head, you’d planned to let him finish his sentence, at least — but with the way he was looking at you, with the compliment you were sure he was about to give, you thought it might be too painful if this started on the right foot.
He froze at your tone. You were standing too straight, voice too steady. That always scared him more than tears.
“Of course.” He said quietly, stepping aside.
The room smelled faintly of soil and tea, the window cracked open to let in the cool night air. You stayed standing while he sat on the edge of his bed, looking up at you with those impossibly kind eyes that made your throat tighten.
You handed him a small paper bag — the folded cardigan inside, washed carefully to make sure none of your perfume lingered. Nothing that would remind him of you.
“I have your cardigan.” You said.
His brows furrowed, as though confused why you were handing it back at all, especially after he’d insisted you keep it, “I told you before, you could keep—”
“I think we should break up.”
Neville blinked, like he hadn’t heard you right, “What?”
You forced yourself not to flinch, “I’m— I’m breaking up with you, Neville.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, eyes wide and wounded, until finally he managed to whisper, “Why?”
“We’re not good for each other, Neville. Actually—” Your voice cracked, “I’m not good for you. And I’m sorry.”
You turned to leave, but he reached out and caught your wrist, “Hold on now! You can’t just— not without telling me why— (Y/N), please, I lov—”
“Don’t say it.”
His eyes misted, and your heart broke in your chest, “Merlin, this is what I was trying to prevent, Neville. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t hurt me.” He said, voice tight.
“I don’t want to, Neville. But some things are just… inevitable.” You swallowed hard, “You’re an amazing person, and if we keep going like this, then— I’m going to marry you.”
His brow furrowed, an incredulous laugh slipping out, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
You shut your eyes, sighing, “You don’t get it, Neville. It’s easier for us to break it off now than ten years from now.”
“Why do we have to break up ten years from now?”
Helga, why did he have so many questions? Did he not understand what was going on here?
“Because I’m a terrible person! Because I’m going to hurt you! Don’t you understand, Neville? I’m trying to protect you!”
He stood then, closing the distance between you, “You’re not a terrible person.”
“Yes, I am!” The words came out louder than you meant. You took a step back, hands shaking, “I’m mistrusting and cold-hearted and pessimistic and jealous and vile. I’m always looking for flaws, and I’ve been in this relationship with one foot out the door since day one! And if we keep doing this, then one day I’m going to break your heart, Neville — and that will tear me apart.”
For a moment, the only sound was the rain outside, soft and steady against the window.
Neville just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece you back together with his eyes alone. His lips parted — once, twice — but no sound came out. Then, finally, quietly:
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
You blinked, “What?”
He took a step closer, voice trembling but steadying with every word, “You’re standing there, telling me how awful you are like it’s a fact. Like it’s written somewhere. But none of that’s true. Not a single bloody thing.”
You shook your head, swallowing hard, “You don’t know me like I do, Neville.”
“Yes, I do,” He said simply, “I know you better than you think. I know you’re scared. I know you overthink until it hurts. I know you find it easier to leave first than to be left behind.”
Your breath hitched, chest tightening painfully, “Stop—”
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but certain, “You think that if you end it now, it’ll hurt less. But you’re wrong. Because I already love you.”
You blinked hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill, “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” He smiled faintly, heartbreakingly gentle, “You can walk away if you need to. But don’t pretend it’s for my sake.”
That did it. The tears came hot and fast, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hands to your face. Neville stepped forward again, hesitating only a moment before wrapping you in his arms.
“You deserve someone better, Neville,” You sobbed, your words muffled against his chest, “I’m sorry for making you fall in love with me.”
And yet, you didn’t push him away. Not yet.
You stood there, crying quietly against him—wishing love was something you could return as easily as a cardigan in a paper bag.
"I'm not sorry for loving you, (Y/N). Even if you break my heart, even if you ruin it. I still love you. I can't erase that. Only you can determine our future, (Y/N)."
Neville held you tighter, his warmth seeping into every trembling muscle. His thumb brushed gently along your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. You wanted to pull away, to stick to the narrative you’d been rehearsing all day, but his presence felt like a lifeline.
“You’ve had one foot out the door this whole time?” He murmured, voice low, full of disbelief yet tender, “Then… take a step inside. Shut the door, (Y/N).”
The words hit harder than anything else could. Take a step inside. Shut the door. Let go of your fear, your panic, your carefully maintained defenses. Let him in.
Your chest heaved, your hands still pressed against his chest as if the world might snatch him away if you loosened your grip. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you realized you were ready. Ready to stop running, to stop overthinking, to stop protecting yourself at the cost of hurting him.
“I…” Your voice wavered, trembling like leaves in a storm. You swallowed hard, letting your tears fall freely, “…I love you, Neville.”
The effect was immediate. His arms tightened around you, resting your head against his shoulder. “I know,” He whispered, almost like it was a promise, “I love you, too. Always have. Always will.”
Somewhere deep in your chest, the coil of anxiety that had lived there for months began to unravel. For the first time in your life, you let yourself trust completely. The fear, the paranoia, the endless “what ifs”—they didn’t vanish overnight, but they became background noise beneath the steady, unshakable truth of his love.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, wiping your cheeks. His eyes—wide, earnest, filled with that infinite patience and kindness, your infallible mountain against your tumultuous river—met yours, and you felt your heart unclench in a way you hadn’t known was possible.
“Let me love you.” He whispered, voice gentle.
With a shaky laugh that felt like relief incarnate, you nodded. You stepped fully into his embrace, shutting the door to all the fears and doubts you had carried for so long.
For the first time, you didn’t worry about what might happen. For the first time, you believed in the now—and it was enough.
“I love you, Neville.” You whispered again, making sure the words held the weight they deserved.
He kissed your forehead, soft and grounding. The rain tapped against the window outside, a comforting rhythm, as if the world itself had let out a sigh of relief. You stayed there, wrapped in each other, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
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