Neville loved Greenhouse three in all weather, but he loved it most of all when it rained, the pitter-pat-pat-patter of the rain drumming on the glass above his head the soundtrack to a perfect night. Plants were ever so much better than people. They didn't snap at you – well, verbally anyhow he thought ruefully, as the Fanged Geranium he was tending grabbed his left index finger between its razor sharp teeth. He yanked his, now bleeding, finger free.
"Ow! What did you do that for?"
The plant waved its fuchsia head menacingly.
Outside the rain was heavier now. The pitter-patter-pit-pit-patterpatter-pit was so loud Neville could no longer hear the whinging of the over-manured screechsnap in the corner or the sympathetic hoots of the honking daffodils. He also did not hear the creak of the door or the thwop-thwap of wet cloaks tossed aside on a work table.
Neville fished out a bottle of modified wound-cleaning potion Hermione had brewed for him the week before, she really had an uncanny brilliant when it came to potions- not like him. Sometimes he wondered how she stood all that extra time in the lab with Snape, but mostly he tried not to think about it. Anything that kept him away from Snape was a gift he wasn't going to examine too closely. Three drops on the cut, a sudden flash of pain accompanied by a hiss and the finger was as good as new. Keeping a wary eye on the still waving head of the geranium, he returned to work transplanting the plant to a new pot.
He had successfully pulled the plant from the soil without receiving another bite when the rain stopped.
For one perfect second greenhouse three was completely silent.
From the other side of a flutterby bush that badly needed to be pruned, came a sound halfway between a moan and a growl.
Eyes wide, Neville dropped the geranium and reached for his wand. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry – some Gryffindor I am – as he crept quietly towards the bush.
There was another sound. Definitely a moan. And not a moan of pain.
Neville's face flamed. This was the worst part of prefecthood. He knew other prefects, like Ron Weasley, loved catching couples "in the act" – some warped voyeurism Neville didn't want to know about … but for Neville it was the worst thing next to double potions.
There was a gap in the flutterby bush, just large enough for Neville to see through. What he saw made him wish he hadn't. "Hermione?" He cried, in true thoughtless, Gryffindor fashion.
Hermione's eyes went wide. Her black-haired paramour whipped around, searching with beetle black eyes for the person who had dared interrupt their midnight tryst.
Why do things like this always happen to me? Neville thought mournfully as his consciousness lost the battle and he collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.