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Author: MagnoliaMama Story: Under My Skin Rating: Young Teens Setting: Pre-HBP Status: Completed Reviews: 22 Words: 1,849 Neville watched Mrs. Arbuthnot go, his ears straining as the uneven tapping of her cane faded into the distance. Once he was sure she'd gone around the corner he drew the blinds, turned out the lights and locked the door behind him. His flat was a walk-up on Euphemistic Alley, not far from his florist's shop. He walked home purposefully, shoulders hunched and hands jammed into his jumper pockets as though to ward off a chill, but it was a balmy afternoon in mid-May. He didn't want anyone to stop and chat him up. He wanted anyone who recognized him to think he was in a hurry to be somewhere, and not to impede his progress. He also didn’t want anyone who saw him to realize he was going home, skiving off work on a weekday! He made it home scot-free and bounded up the stairs two at a time. Petrarch, his pet toad since Trevor's death at a ripe old age last year, greeted Neville with a croak when he let himself in. "'lo, Petrarch," he said, giving the toad a gentle pat on the head. He strode across the tiny flat, really more of a bed-sit, to the curtained-off corner that passed as his bedroom. A rectangular box sat on top of the wardrobe. Neville took it down and sat on his bed, setting the box beside him and removing the lid. Inside the box was a pair of gleaming black shoes, the most valuable item he possessed. He examined them carefully for smudges and scuff marks, then, after removing the sturdy brogans he wore for work, slipped his feet into the shoes and tied the laces in neat, symmetrical bows. Wearing the shoes made him feel instantly lighter and more graceful. To prove it to himself he did a little jig his great-aunt had tried in vain to teach him many years before. This time he did it perfectly, without tripping over his own feet or missing a step. His confidence thus bolstered, Neville came out from behind the curtain and activated a small wireless radio with his wand. Sultry music filled the flat. Neville next banished his settee and table for one to the edges of the room, then waved his wand one more time and uttered an incantation. The air before him shimmered briefly, then a woman in a close, flowing dress and stiletto heels appeared. "Buenos dias, señor," she said. "Are you here for a lesson?" "Yes," he said, trying not to stammer. "Lesson six, please." She smiled. "Ah, the tango. An excellent choice, señor, but a difficult one to master. Have you ever tried it before?" Neville nodded before he remembered the simulacrum responded only to voice commands. "Yes, I've had two previous sessions." "Very good. Then you do not need me to show you where to place your hands." Neville demonstrated the hold he'd learned in his first session. The woman nodded. "Good. I think perhaps you are ready for some advanced steps. Just do as I say and you will be an expert in no time." * * * * * The banquet hall was an explosion of flowers. He took what his gran might have called an inordinate amount of pride in how awe-inspiring the displays were, but this was a project he'd invested extra time and effort in. He already had a reputation as the best florist in wizarding Britain, but for this one occasion, for this one person, he'd outdone himself. He made a quick survey of all the displays, snipping off drooping blooms with his thumbnail or rearranging stems to enhance the blend of colors and styles. When no one was looking, he spritzed each arrangement with a Scent Booster he'd concocted himself. There was a flurry of activity behind him. Neville turned around just in time to see her enter the banquet hall. The sight alone took his breath away; no matter how expert he was, no arrangement of his could ever match her beauty. Even the most glorious of orchids looked dull in her presence. Being here was extraordinarily painful for him. He'd have preferred to spend this evening in a pub off Knockturn Alley, drowning his loneliness in a bottomless bottle of firewhiskey and cursing his terminal bashfulness. She'd come to him herself, however, and begged him to come. "With all the hard work you've done on the flowers, Neville," she'd said, "you have to be there. I'd never forgive myself if you couldn't see for yourself how much you've contributed to my happiness!" In the end, it was her happiness that had brought him here. He couldn't ever say no to her, not where pleasing her was concerned. He'd been lost like this for many years; his feelings for her had crept up on him until he woke up one day early in his sixth year and realized what had once been a passing fancy had blossomed without his realizing it into ardent love. He'd always been talented at Herbology, but after that day he threw himself into it, spending all his spare time in the school greenhouses nurturing the most delicate and difficult flowers Professor Sprout could provide him with. In his seventh year he undertook a cross-breeding project for his Herbology N.E.W.T. The Ginevra rose was a smashing success, garnering him invitations to work at several major botanical firms and admission to the Leiden Institute for Botanical Studies in Holland, the best place in the world to study Herbology at an advanced level. He considered them all, but then when he heard the rumors, and later when the rumors became confirmed fact, he turned down all the offers save one. Upon leaving Hogwarts, Neville apprenticed himself to an elderly florist who owned a shop near Diagon Alley, with the agreement that he would inherit the shop upon the proprietor's death. He'd hoped that time and distance, and the distraction of work, would seal the gaping chasm in his heart, but he was wrong. She and her mother appeared in his shop one day last fall. No one else would do, they said. Only the best. Money was no object. How could he say no? In the end, he'd donated the flowers and his services. They were his gift to them. He had one more gift for her, however, the payment of a debt that was long overdue. He kept to the perimeter of the banquet hall, downing the occasional flute of champagne for fortification, and watched and waited for the right moment to give her his gift. He was afraid he would lose his chance, or worse, his nerve; she was so lovely, and so many people wished her happiness, she seemed never to be alone. His chance came when she spotted him lurking in a corner and came over to him, her face glowing with joy, her arms stretched out to him. "Neville," she said, embracing him and kissing him on the cheek. "I'm so glad you decided to come. The flowers are just... they're so beautiful. I can't possibly thank you enough." "It was my pleasure. I'm glad to see you so... happy." His chest hitched. "Oh, you have no idea how happy I am. I've been waiting for this day for so long. Since I was a little girl, I think." She turned to go then, but Neville laid his hand on her shoulder. "Ginny, wait." She looked up at him. "I would... May I... Er, that is... Would you care to dance with me?" She tried to hide her recoil, but he felt the slight jerk of her shoulder under his hand and knew she was remembering the disastrous night of the Yule Ball in his fourth year. "I promise I won't tread on your toes this time," he said. She glanced behind her, obviously looking for someone to rescue her, but no savior came. With a small sigh she turned back and smiled. "Of course, Neville, I’d love to dance with you." He thought his heart would burst with happiness. He set down his champagne flute on a passing tray, gently took Ginny's hand in his, and led her across the room. A band had been playing old standards for about twenty minutes; Neville sent up a quick prayer to whomever might be listening that the band wouldn't suddenly decide to take a break. Fate seemed to smile on him, however, because just as he and Ginny reached the dance floor the band struck up a tango. He'd have been happy with a waltz, but he'd worked especially hard on the tango, and was thrilled he'd have the opportunity to show off what he'd labored so hard to learn. At the sound of the music Ginny drew back again, but he clasped her hand more tightly and said, "I promise. If I step on your toes even once, you can hex me any way you like." She grinned. "You'd best be careful then. You know I'm handy with a hex." "I think we can both make it through this unscathed." And with that, he set himself to the task of giving Ginny his true gift. * * * * * Holding Ginny in his arms like this was the closest he'd ever get to heaven, in this life or the next. Unfortunately, his bliss ended all too quickly; mere seconds seemed to pass -- though he knew it was much longer -- before he felt a tap on his shoulder and a masculine voice said, "D'you mind if I dance with my bride for a while?" Neville turned, regret tearing him apart as he dropped Ginny's hand. "Of course," he said, looking up into the man's green eyes. As much as it hurt, he couldn't begrudge Harry Potter his happiness. After all, Harry had done what Neville had not; as soon as he'd recognized his feelings for Ginny, he'd acted upon them. Neville had only himself to blame. "I didn't mean to intrude." "No intrusion at all, mate," Harry said. "I wish I could dance half as well as you do. I'm afraid I'll squash poor Ginny's feet." "I suggest you duck if you do," Neville said. "Else she might hex you." Ginny laughed. "I think I'll let my husband off on our wedding day," she said, tilting her face up towards Harry for a kiss, which he readily bestowed. "I may send him to you for lessons, though. You really are a very good dancer." Neville smiled despite himself. Then, clasping Harry's hand in his and shaking it firmly, he said, "I wish you both every happiness in the world. I've never known two people more deserving of it." As
he turned to go, he felt Ginny's hand on his arm. He turned to
look at her one more time. "Thank you, Neville," she said, and
kissed him again before turning back into the arms of her new husband. My eternal gratitude, as ever, to Jenadamson, my beta and #1 cheerleader, who endures my strange taste for Neville/Ginny with patience and good humor. |