Author's Notes: I should be writing Neville/Pansy.

I'm not. Obviously.

I'm also out of the country and away from all internet service and phone service and hot water and air conditioning for a week. Review anyway and I'll get back to you when I return. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Lavender tries hard to be brave and not cry, but a few traitorous tears slip past her defenses and it's like a dam breaking and suddenly you've got a crying, sobbing Lavender Brown on your hands and you've never been the comforting type.

You're too brash, too rough around the edges, too battered and bruised and war-torn to be good at comforting.

And then she's forcing out words, hateful, hurtful, broken words about how this boy did this or said this or what have you and you don't understand a bleeding word of it, but, hell, you're sure you don't have to do more than hold her and listen to what she's trying to tell you (even though it's mostly just a bunch of angry words and tears).

So that's what you do, because you're Seamus Finnigan and you've liked Lavender Brown for—well. Too long.

Or at least too long to continue carrying on like this. It's time you do something about your feelings for her and she's obviously single and so you ask her, because you're Seamus Finnigan and that's what you do.

Ron Weasley's got nothing on this.

And no angry horde of canaries attacks you, but Lavender does slap you across the face, which, in hindsight and after a talk with your sister about girls' feelings, you suppose you deserved. But then…

Then, in the midst of another angry tirade, Lavender looks up at you, her face blotchy and tearstained, and, sniffing delicately, informs you that you may take her to brunch tomorrow.

And, even as your cheek stings (Lavender Brown has a mean open-handed slap), even as you Apparate home and face another lonely night of bad Muggle TV (a novelty Dean insisted you keep in the flat, and, even though Dean's moved in with Parvati now, you keep it around), you can't wipe the goofy grin off your face.

Brunch tomorrow. It's a start.

Lavender gives herself to you in bits and pieces—sometimes she'll leave an article of clothing behind at the flat, or you'll come home and she'll have let herself in with the spare key under the mat and be sitting on your couch with a butterbeer and a box of Chinese takeaway and you love it, love the way she's slowly working her way into your life. It makes you happy to see her happy, to see her satisfied and content.

And she gives herself in other ways—lets you see her without makeup and with her hair a tangled brown halo around her cheeks, creased and rosy from sleeping. She holds your hand when you walk down the street together, sometimes, or kisses you on the cheek, sweet, innocent kisses that are a far cry from the passion filled ones she smothers against your neck, but that somehow show more, give more. Lavender lets you see Lavender and it makes you deliriously happy.

You go on in this way for a time and it's nice—nice being able to just be and just breathe just be and breathe together. It's a little bit intoxicating, waking up to her warm, sweet, floral smell in the mornings, a little bit crazy and beautiful and wonderful when she demands you fix her breakfast, because Lavender is still Lavender, even broken and war-torn—she's still beautiful, colorful, dainty, and vain and demanding Lavender and you can't help but love her all the more for it, love this beautiful girl who lets you into her world bit by bit.

And you know where it's going.

It's the only logical place to go—you love her and Lavender loves you and—

And you're still scared shitless by the mere possibility that she might say no.

But you do it all correctly, down to the last of the dozen red roses that appear on Lavender's bureau as she's getting ready. Lavender is a classic romantic—she likes red roses and fine wines and diamonds.

She's actually relatively easy to woo—all you have to do is pick up the nearest romance novel and Lavender is pressed between the pages.

She says yes, like you knew she would, but the best part of proposing is the moment before she says yes—that moment of anticipation, where everything seems to hang in the balance, when you count each of Lavender's individual lashes and pray and hope with everything that you have that she says 'yes' and all of you is pulled towards this moment, breathing and praying and hoping.

And the wedding is true Lavender style—it is big, it is obnoxious, and it is the wedding of the century, but she grabs you at the reception and pulls you close to her and says "take me anywhere."

So you whisk her away to a beach where she laughs and plays and you fall in love all over again with this beautiful girl who wears lace and ribbons for you and you are so, so thankful for her and everything she gives you.

And you will follow her anywhere—go anywhere with this beautiful girl—as long as it's her hand you're holding and her heart you're keeping. As long as it's her, you'll go anywhere.

That...went somewhere I didn't expect. No matter. Review?