A/N: This is the Chudley Cannons Keeper checking in for Round 6 of Season 6 of the QLFC.

Prompt: Month: May; Character: Pomona Sprout

Word Count (before A/N): 1,136 words

I am not JK. This is her world. I merely dabble in it.

What's that? thought Pomona Sprout as she rounded the corner leading to her greenhouses. She was just returning to her office after dinner in the hopes of finishing up some grading for her sixth years before bed, when she heard a faint sniffling noise coming from the inside of the second year greenhouse.

Maybe a Mandrake hadn't been properly repotted, she thought as she twisted the handle of the door and eased it open.

The second years, bless them, were just learning how to care for Mandrake, and the lessons from earlier had the lot of them repotting baby plants. They did a fair job, or so Pomona thought, but every once in a while a mistake slipped through. Not that this would be considered a huge mistake, of course. She probably wouldn't even dock any house points since she thought everything had gone smoothly.

Nothing to worry over, she smiled to herself, grabbing a pair of ear muffs just in case the Mandrake was powerful enough to cause her harm. Slowly, she made her way over to the table holding the newly repotted plants. But Pomona soon discovered that the sound she had heard wasn't coming from the Mandrake at all.

She scrunched up her face in thought. There had definitely been a noise. A whimpering moan… almost like that poor ghost in the second floor girls' toilets.

"Myrtle?" Pomona asked tentatively. Again, there was a whimper, coming from somewhere on the other side of the greenhouse.

Pomona slipped the ear muffs off her head, letting them hug around her neck like a backward necklace.

She didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but she definitely heard someone trying to quiet their sniffles.

"Hello?" she called. Suddenly, the noise faded altogether, whatever it was drawing in a rasping breath before silence, and Pomona became acutely aware of the stillness of the greenhouse. "Alright now. Who's in here?"

A small head popped up over one of the tables, a mop of light brown hair and a round face.

"Sorry, Professor," the young boy squeaked. He rubbed at his eyes, which were red and puffy. "I didn't think anyone would be here."

"Didn't think?" she repeated. Then Pomona smiled at the boy, her eyes soft in the setting sunlight. She walked closer to the table he had been sitting behind. "Mr. Longbottom, why on earth are you hiding in here?"

"I wasn't hiding," Neville said, finally standing up from behind the table. "Well… not exactly, anyways."

Pomona pulled out a chair opposite the boy and beckoned him to do the same.

"Then what exactly are you up to?"

Neville gulped. Pomona couldn't help the twinge of pain she felt looking into his reddened face. So young and already this boy suffered far worse than anyone could imagine—losing his parents the way he did. She tried to give him an encouraging smile.

"I'm not sure if I can explain it, Professor. I just like it here. I feel—"

"At peace?"

"Right! Like the plants and the way the sun warms up the room make being here feel like—"

Neville quickly silenced himself, embarrassed that he might have said too much. But Pomona couldn't ignore the way his eyes had glowed while he spoke. She knew what he was feeling. She knew it well. It was the feeling of falling in love with Herbology, and sitting there, listening to the young Mr. Longbottom, Pomona was reminded just how powerful that felt. Like a plunge into rushing cold waters. Nose-diving right from the tips of the clouds.

"I know what you mean," she finally said, giving the first year's hand a light squeeze. "I feel the same way surrounded by my plants. Having my hands covered in dirt and sunshine. Herbology is another language, isn't it?"

Neville nodded, his eyes still unable to meet hers. But Pomona could see he was relaxing.

"You know," she said, "you are really taking to your lessons, Mr. Longbottom. I'm very impressed with your work in my class."

"Really?"

"Of course. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it."

Finally he looked at her, a huge smile plastered across his face.

"But," Pomona continued, "may I ask why you were crying?"

The tips of Neville's years turn a shade pink darker.

"Oh, that…" his face fell again. She didn't mean to pry, but it was late and as a professor, she wanted to take care of her students. And knowing he was a fellow Herbology-lover made Pomona want to find out as much as possible about this young prodigy. Because she really did see a potential in Neville that she wanted to nurture, just like a Mimbulus mimbletonia or a Mandrake.

"You don't have to tell me, Mr. Longbottom. Just know that you can… if you want to."

"Thanks," he mumbled. "I—I don't want to talk about it now, if that's okay."

"Of course," she smiled. "How about, instead, you help me get some of my dried nettles in order for my third years tomorrow?"

Neville nodded again, standing up. Together they made their way to the back of the greenhouse and started to sort the small plants and tools, aligning them on the tables for the next day. They worked in a comfortable silence, the sun setting and the ceiling alighting with little firefly orbs extending overhead. Pomona could see that Neville was starting to feel more relaxed.

"Oh my," she said, glancing outside. "I should walk you back to your Common Room before any Prefects write you up for being out past curfew."

"That's okay," Neville placed a final pot of puffapods down. "I don't want to make you walk all that way."

"Nonsense," Pomona said. "Besides, I've got to get to bed, too. I am head of Hufflepuff, you know. I don't actually sleep out here in the greenhouses," she laughed.

Outside Gryffindor's Common Room, Neville looked up at her, his brown eyes no longer surrounded by red, puffy blotches.

"Thank you," he said. "Would it be okay if, maybe, I helped out again sometime? I—I would really like that. It's nice to be—good—at something."

Pomona held in her breath, his words landing on her ears like lead weight. "Of course," she said, hoping the boy understood just how much she saw potential in him.

"Professor Snape—he doesn't think I'm—"

Tears caught in his eyelashes. Pomona placed a hand on Neville's shoulder and looked right at him. The mystery of his tears solved, she vowed to always let him find solace amongst her plants.

"I would be honored to have such an astute assistant. You come by anytime."

Neville nodded, turned toward the portrait of the Fat Lady, whispered the password, and disappeared inside, a smile still on his young face.