Shame. It was a white-hot feeling that started out as arousal mixed with the schoolboy sentiment of butterflies in the pit of his stomach and ended with some awful thought – she's too young or you're too old or dirty old man or even simply Hannah.
But there she sat, as always, elbow-deep in potting soil. She called out for his help, because she wasn't sure she was doing this right, and in dove Neville's scarred, muscled forearms alongside Victoire's pale, smooth ones. She was within his awkward embrace and it would take the simplest movement to envelop her completely within his grasp and then to kiss her. But she was eighteen and beautiful and Hannah still hadn't signed the divorce papers.
"Professor Longbottom," she said, an hour later when he had returned to his desk to grade papers and she had left the potting soil far behind for a ragged old towel to clean her arms with. "I mean, Neville. I can call you that, right? I mean, you were friends with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione."
Shit. He was torn between excitement that she had used his first name and disgust at the reason why – that he was so much older that he was friends with her uncles and aunts. He was thirty-eight, she was eighteen. It would never – should never – work.
"Well, I suppose that's alright in private, Miss Weasley," he said with a soft smile, because he'd give her anything he could.
She laughed and placed the towel, now dirty, back where it had been. "I guess you should call me Victoire, then."
"Victoire."
Her name tasted like honey on his lips. He'd only ever said it to himself, in the quiet of his office after a long day when thoughts of her in her ridiculously shirt Ravenclaw skirt clouded his mind. Though now, she seemed so much more mature than that, in skinny jeans and sneakers and an old T-shirt.
"Thanks for giving me this opportunity," she said, referring to her nightly work-study sessions in the greenhouses. "I mean, this is going to prove invaluable for me in the future, this experience and…"
She trailed off and Neville stood, feeling drawn towards her though she stood meters away. Was she faltering with words as an excuse to stay even later than usual? The sun was about to set. Would she miss dinner?
This was getting ridiculous, his hopefulness. The feeling of shame returned and he thought of Hannah, lonely and broken, but then he thought of their marriage, in the same exact state.
"I just don't know how to thank you enough." Her voice was quieter now and yet so much closer. Neville's head snapped up. He was done gazing at his feet in shame. Victoire stood so close. Had she walked nearer to him or had he approached her? He could see every freckle on her nose. He could see her perfectly glossed lips, her forehead shining with a bit of perspiration caused by the humidity in the greenhouse.
Her hands shaking, she reached out and grasped his right arm. The sleeves of his blue button-down shirt had been rolled up, and she tenderly caressed his forearm, running her quavering fingers along each jagged scar. He didn't know what she was up to but hoped for the best and the worst at the same time. "I'm not saying it's a dangerous profession," he said, feeling as if he was watching the scene from outside of his own body, "but it's scarring, that's for certain." He watched as she gazed at her own arms, perfect and smooth, and then back at his.
"Some of these are battle scars, though," she whispered, and then she leaned down and kissed a rather nasty scar, that so happened to be from a run-in with a plant rather than a Death Eater, with trembling lips.
That was his undoing.
When she looked up from kissing him, her eyes watering, Neville immediately leaned down and claimed her mouth with his own. The kiss was passionate and felt like it lasted forever and eventually she had to pull away for breath, but when she did her eyes were no longer full of tears but rather matching her perfect smile.
"I think I've loved you for so long," she said, breathless, and though he worried about the word – think – he shrugged that off and nodded vigorously and said, "Me too" and it was then that he realized that he had loved Victoire for a while now. This was no silly fantasy.
She kissed him again and he picked her up now, cupping her round, perfect arse with one hand and her thigh with another. He placed her tenderly on his desk, wiping aside any and all papers and other items, his mouth never leaving hers. Though he intended to do little more than to kiss her, knowing that they could be found out at any moment – by a student with a late paper, by Hagrid with a question about a bush Fang got into, by anyone at all – Victoire must have felt his arousal because she pulled away and said, "God, I want you so badly. And I hope you want me but I just want you to know I'm shit at this."
Neville pulled away to look at her properly. He reached a hand up to brush some hair that had fallen out of her ponytail off of her face. "Of course I want you," he reassured her, before kissing her once more. He had difficulty breaking off the kiss but had to. "But I'm sure you're not shit at anything, Victoire. You're perfect." And it was true. She let out a breathless little sigh as he said this but he meant it, because not only was she perfect to him, but she was Head Girl and the smartest in her year and a lot of things.
"Look. I've only ever done this with Teddy and I'm cold, you know, and that's why we broke up. Which I'm completely over but…"
He didn't hear her go on. He was suddenly reminded how young she was, wrapped up in thoughts of her ex-boyfriend, but wasn't he equally traumatized by his awful relationship with his note-quite-ex-wife? Victoire's words rung in his ears – I'm cold – and he doubted them instantly.
Teddy Lupin, he reminded himself, was a good student, and a nice guy, and very funny and charming, but he was also only twenty-years-old had perhaps, just perhaps, he hadn't known enough to make Victoire feel like she wasn't shit at something she, with her beautiful hair and perfect figure, certainly was not shit at.
He kissed her, cutting off her worried words, and slid his hands up her thighs. She was hungry for his skin and began unbuttoning his shirt with shaking fingers, and when she was done with that he pulled off his undershirt while she took off her T-shirt. He gazed at her in her almost naked beauty and then watched her watching him. Neville had never thought he was much to look at, but at thirty-eight he felt he looked almost the best he had in his entire life, and her curious hands on his chest and his back and his arms soon told him she felt the same way.
He unhooked her bra, Ravenclaw navy, and she slid out of it before he pulled her to him, wanting to feel her naked torso against his own, before he bent forward to lick and tease her nipples. He moaned as he tweaked one with his fingers while lapping and nipping at her other breast. While he did so, she began to not-quite-expertly unbuckle his belt, and when he felt her hand grip his throbbing cock he knew this was something, like most things, Victoire Weasley was absolutely not shit at.
With her beckoning, he peeled off her jeans and then stepped out of his own pants. He arched her hips towards his, still sitting on the desk as he stood, but Neville shook his head. No. If she'd never enjoyed his properly with Teddy, he was going to make sure she did in this secret hour in the greenhouse. He returned to his pants, grabbed his wand to lock the door, and then returned to her, lightly grabbing her legs to spin her around on the desk so that she could lie across it, and then standing at the side of it to properly admire her naked form.
"God, you're perfect," he said, gazing at her creamy white, skinny thighs, her perfect hips, her small waist, her round, pert, tiny breasts, her flowing strawberry blonde hair and unsure smile and ocean blue eyes. "And I want you so bad, but first, I'm going to show you that you're great this, Victoire, and that you're not cold, certainly not cold."
She whimpered in what seemed like anticipation and he leaned forward, climbing atop the desk to plant kisses down her naked body before reaching the area he coveted. "Did you know," he said, hoping he sounded seductive rather than corny but unable to not share the fact with her, "that the tongue is made up of sixteen muscles, not just one?" He spread her legs and kissed the smooth inside of one thigh and then the other before looking up at her. She shook her head and then leaned her head back, sighing in what definitely – had to be – anticipation.
From his limited experience with women – two frustrated trysts in his awful seventh year and his marriage with Hannah – Neville knew that if there was one thing he wasn't shit at, this was it.
He kissed her there before flicking his tongue along her and inside her, spreading her legs so he had better access. She moaned and writhed against him and he licked her throbbing clit before flicking at it playfully with his tongue, slipping one and then two fingers inside of her. She continued to moan, wrapping her legs around him, gripping at his naked ass with a slim, perfectly manicured foot while he continued, teasing her with light kisses and sucking as he reached a hand around to cup her own perfect bottom as he continued his oral ministrations.
When she came, he kept going, wanting her to feel every bit as perfect as she was, and then he trailed sloppy kisses up her body before she drew his face towards his own, hungrily kissing him with what little energy she had left. He lay on top of her, trying not to place too much weight on her small form, but when she felt his arousal rub against her thigh she bucked her hips towards his own and nodded. "I want you so bad," he murmured into her hair and she guided him into her and it was bliss, pure velvet bliss, and there was no looking back and she smelled like sunshine and her lips were on his shoulder and he reached down to kiss her, biting her lips so that they were perfectly bruised and then it was over too quickly but it felt amazing, much more amazing than it ever had with anyone else.
They lay there for a bit, panting and sweating in the humidity. Occasionally, he cast a lazy glance her way before kissing her once more. She laughed and smiled and nuzzled against his chest.
Soon, it was dark and they had to dress to go their separate ways. Though he wanted to lie like that forever, the desk was becoming uncomfortable, and it wouldn't do for the third years to find them that way in the morning. He dressed slowly, watching her do the same, and when they were finished the smile she offered him showed so much adoration. "I love you," he said, and she kissed him to return the sentiment.
She left first, headed for a last bite of dinner in the Great Hall. Neville remained in the greenhouse, his head spinning with joy. What have I just done? he thought to himself, and then he looked at the pot where he and Victoire had stood hours before.
I've just loved Victoire Weasley, he told himself, and I don't think I'm going to stop any time soon.
And of the multitude of emotions Neville Longbottom felt at that moment, not a single one was shame.
A/N: Written for "The Tongue Challenge" and "The Start and Stop" Challenge at HPFC.