HELLO GUYS! This fic is the sequel to "Barmy" and "High", although it could technically be a stand alone. It was inspired by a plunny suggested to me by BoredRavenclaw620. It will be seven chapters long :)

Beta love to SaintDionysus who is my kindred humor spirit. SaintDionysus also created the lovely cover art for this fic.

ENJOY!

Neville had never hit anyone in his life. He had cut the head off a giant fucking snake that contained the soul of a dark wizard. He'd dueled with the most diabolical criminals in British wizarding history. But he'd never inflicted physical damage on another person using sheer brute force. He'd always seen himself as too well-mannered and reasonable to do such things—or at least too much of a pansy.

Yet, here he was, biting his fist to keep himself from knocking the ever-loving shit out of that obsequious little dick fuck, Ernie MacMillan (aka, The Only Hufflepuff Who Didn't Smoke Weed). The only thing that stopped him was the fact that MacMillan happened to be the Head Boy, so he'd probably get expelled and then his Gran would certainly murder him in his sleep.

Earlier that day, the self-important prick had cornered Neville and basically threatened to shut down his entire operation. Granted, he didn't actually know shit, but he'd insinuated that he had a hunch what Neville was up to. Neville's eye twitched at the grating memory of MacMillan's used car salesman vocal cadence, assuring him that, "Gee, I'd hate to see a chap as nice as yourself, Neville, old boy, get yourself expelled, but see, I'd just be doing my job because, in case I haven't mentioned it for the twenty thousandth fucking time this year, I'm Head Boy. So why don't you just promise your old friend, Ernie, that my suspicions are wrong and that you're not getting up to any mischief. There's a lad!" Ernie was one of the younger 8th years, but he spoke to everyone like he was their smarmy old uncle who would present them with a shiny new Knut if they were very good.

So insufferable was his strict adherence to meaningless rules, had the guy been born a Muggle, and considerably less of a swot, he would have fit the bill to be one of those guys who impounded improperly parked vehicles. As it is, the guy would probably end up a bureaucrat in some gormless division of the Ministry as a professional schmoozer and knob polisher of the rich and influential. Neville didn't care, so long as he didn't have to put up with the prat after this year. He got that MacMillan had worked hard to become Head Boy, but Neville had also worked bloody hard to change his reputation, and he'd be damned if anyone, especially a plonker like MacMillan, would take that from him.

Before this year, Neville had never been one of the cool kids. He'd never even kissed a girl, much less been privy to the more forbidden sexual liberties for which he ached desperately. While his friendship with Harry Potter and his newfound hero status might have been enough to save him from the pit of social obscurity for which people like Neville were typically destined, upon returning to school, he learned that it wasn't quite enough to get him laid. It had been more than enough for Ron, but Neville, bless him, simply had much further to climb in order to be considered truly fuckable by Hogwarts' female population. His stubborn layer of puppy fat, squirrely social skills, and penchant for digging in the dirt weren't exactly valued characteristics in potential sexual partners. But recently everything changed.

Something Seamus had said while blazed out of his damn mind two years ago on Ron's birthday had really resonated with Neville. "You could grow this stuff, Nev!" So, he did.

The first step had been finding a space. Easy. Professor Sprout adored him. The conversation between the two of them concerning his need for his own greenhouse had been eye-opening.

"Professor Sprout, I need a greenhouse."

"Sure, Neville. What for?"

"Um…" Eh, fuck it. "I need a place to grow marijuana."

Sprout bit her lip and surveyed the Gryffindor for signs that he was taking the piss. Finding none, she nodded. "Well, alright then. Just be sure to keep Macmillan off your arse. I don't give a shit if that boy's in my house, he is a right buzzkill."

Neville's jaw dropped so low he damn near dislocated it. That was entirelytoo easy.

Professor Sprout leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "Just be sure to remember I helped you out. Maybe, uh…throw an ounce or two my way when the goodies come in, eh?"

So yeah, that happened.

Then came germinating the seeds. He had managed to get his hands on just the cutest little female sativa seeds from a Muggle high school chemistry teacher in Surrey. Super nice guy. Neville almost felt bad about dosing him with Veritaserum during the transaction to make sure he wasn't getting swindled. The old Neville would never have done something quite so illegal, but the new Neville was a maverick who chopped giant reptiles into sushi. Hopefully that meant he could also operate a one-man marijuana cartel successfully, and maybe, just maybe, lose his virginity.

Neville didn't fancy himself some bloody gardener. Any idiot could throw a seed in the dirt and piss on it. No, Neville was an artist. He magically altered those seeds where they would, once they were in smokeable form, produce not just a hot-air blowing, dude-I-get-the-secret-to-life-now sort of high, but a high of true euphoria. His strain would be a one size fits all—a drug for the chill, calm, pseudo-intellectually stimulating couch session, or a party drug. It depended entirely on the needs of the user.

Once the plants flowered, Neville started to do what he did even better than Herbology—he panicked. It was an understatement to refer to running a marijuana cartel entirely composed of himself as "stressful." He'd lay awake at night, convinced he would soon be discovered and his Dr. Jekylesque attempts to reinvent himself would be dashed to shit. His health had deteriorated. He could barely eat—which was like…insane for him. His little babies needed so much love, and he needed to be strong for them.

But the plants had grown without incident and survived to maturation, exhibiting a level of vitality that the most seasoned botanist would envy. They smelled divine, and they were the most beautiful violet color. Neville could have sworn he heard one purr the other day. Le sigh. He was one proud papa.

His pride gave way to a protectiveness of which he had not realized he was capable. So, earlier today when MacMillan made his prattish half-threat, Neville had wanted to throttle him. To calm his nerves, he did what he always did when he was feeling out of sorts; he went to the greenhouse to check on his plants. He didn't want to coddle them too much. He just wanted them to know they were loved. As he adoringly stroked the drying plants while they hung from the greenhouse ceiling, he vowed to do whatever necessary to protect them.

He caught a glimpse of himself, surrounded by his children, in the one-way greenhouse window. He raised an eyebrow at his reflection.

Fatherhood became him.

If he was being totally honest, it had been around the harvesting and drying stages where things had truly begun to change for Neville. When it came to Herbology, he was never one to cut corners, so he had refused to use magic, opting instead to perform the physical labor he felt these plants so obviously deserved. Hours of digging, cutting, hanging to dry started to take a toll on his previously soft body, and his BMI nudged him into the "Hey, Look at That Guy" category. He had developed the sunburn of a farmer, as well as the same sort of quiet, tired way of interacting with people.

Neville laughed to himself now as he thought about how odd it was that being shy had always made him seem "creepy" to women. Now that he was starting to look like Clive Owen's long lost son, his demeanor inspired girls to describe him as "soulful," "mysterious," even "brooding." He hadn't even noticed the way girls looked at him until one night at a Gryffindor party, Parvati Patil had drunkenly offered to give him a hand job. He was so convinced it was a joke that he ran as fast as he could back to his dorm.

After a pep talk and a minor bout of weeping, Neville proudly returned to the Common Room where he very politely inquired from Parvati if her previous offer was still on the table. It was. He accepted. And it. Was. Awesome. Since then, he had snogged a few more girls, and a couple had even allowed him to touch their breasts. He got the impression from these girls that he could have gone further, but Neville, ever the romantic, was saving his man-cherry for someone special.

He sighed as he inhaled the aroma of his beauteous babies. If only that "someone special" was an option.

"Come on, love. No one ever uses this one," a familiar voice, muffled by the greenhouse walls, said, interrupting Neville's reverie.

His eyes narrowed as he stood up and scanned the area of the greenhouse with all the scrutiny of a suspicious meerkat. He knew that voice. It was the voice of someone he deeply hated.

"I promise you; I'll make it worth your while." Neville could practically hear him sneer.

Malfoy.

It didn't matter that Neville was now enjoying a burst in popularity with the female population of Hogwarts. There was one girl in particular to whom he was still invisible, and it happened to be the one he'd fancied since fourth year. What stung the most wasn't that Hermione Granger didn't fancy him. He'd lived with that fact for years. It was the fact that even if he now happened to be all handsome and stuff, he never would have had a shot with her because she was affianced to Draco Malfoy, the prattiest arsehole to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts.

It didn't help that the Slytherin Prince strutted around the castle with his arm constantly around Hermione's waist, smirking like a fucking lunatic every time someone demanded to see the massive engagement ring on her finger. Pansy Parkinson had tried to pull her hair out the first time she saw it. Neville, himself, had thrown up.

He'd see the two of them in the corridors, laughing, holding hands, kissing. Malfoy seemed to take every opportunity he could to kiss her, not that Neville could blame him. If she was his girl, he'd never come up for air. And of course, Malfoy's constant public claiming of Hermione meant that any guy who dared look at her sideways did so at risk of finding himself on the other end of Malfoy's Stinging Hex-or at least a mean glare. Neville didn't care for either option, if he was being honest. Malfoy's glares alone had made him to cry more than a few times during his first and second years.

And now, as if there weren't literally hundreds of other places in and around this castle to snog, Malfoy was attempting to defile the girl of Neville's dreams in his greenhouse—the one in which he kept his babies.

Neville bolted the doors, using all manner of complex locking spells. Nuh-uh. Not in his house.

"Weird. It's locked."

Damn straight motherfucker.

"Let's just go somewhere else, Draco. We could even go back to my dorm," the angel voice of Hermione Granger pleaded.

"You said yourself, love, it's a nice day. I want to have you outside," he said with a suggestive leer in his voice.

She giggled at his declaration, while Neville dry-heaved.

"Come on."

Neville could make out the silhouettes of Malfoy dragging Hermione by the hand to the back of the greenhouse, which was well-hidden from view. Well…everyone's view except Neville's. Ironically, it was a favorite spot for people to come smoke out.

But right now, Neville had a problem. He was fairly certain that Malfoy intended to have sex with the love of Neville's young life up against the very greenhouse he could not leave without them noticing, thus exposing him as a drug dealer and, potentially, a pervert. So, it came down to this. Would he rather be perceived as a voyeur or would he rather actually be a voyeur? Sweat started to bead around the top of his head. Surely Hermione would see that it was all just a huge misunderstanding. He could never actually spy on his friend in such a vulnerable state.

Malfoy backed Hermione against the greenhouse wall and immediately began removing her top. "Fuck, you wore the red lace bra," Malfoy said, practically gasping at the sight. "Hermione, you know I can't get enough of your tits in that thing."

On second thought, maybe he should stay. No need ruining his hard-earned reputation now.

Neville cringed as he heard them kiss—the subtle wet smacking peppered with throaty moans, indicating someone was getting their brains snogged out. "I don't want to wait, Draco. I need you inside me now."

Neville stifled a groan as he was overcome with the urge to vomit at the thought of Malfoy sticking his evil, bully dick inside the lovely vessel that was Hermione Granger, and immediately popped a massive boner as he heard those words come out of her mouth. Oh, that she had said those things to him, instead.

SLAM!

Neville was sure he was going to cry as Malfoy thrust into Hermione while she was backed into the greenhouse wall, her dainty legs wrapped around his waist. She began moaning and urging him on whilst she consented to be ruthlessly fucked by Neville's arch enemy—the boy who stole his Remembrall first year, who pantsed him in Care of Magical Creatures third year, who spread a rumor that Neville was born with female genitalia during fifth year.

SLAM!

"Oh, yes, like that, Draco."

SLAM!

"Circe, you're so fucking wet."

SLAM!

Neville didn't know it was possible to feel nauseated whilst aroused. He'd never been so confused in his life.

SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!

As Malfoy began rocking Hermione languidly into the greenhouse wall, the entire building started to shake. Neville seriously hoped the greenhouse had a stable foundation.

"Touch yourself," Draco commanded.

Please don't do it, please don't do it, please don't do it, Neville silently prayed. He wasn't sure his weeping erection could take it if Hermione Granger frigged herself mere feet from where he crouched on the floor.

"Oh, fuck yeah. Just like that, love. Sweet Circe you are so fucking hot right now. Do you like that, hmm? You like touching yourself while I fuck you?"

Neville was pretty sure his boner had a heartbeat, it throbbed so badly. If only the heart in his chest wasn't breaking.

Hermione sounded like she was struggling to breathe. "You know I do. Gods, it feels so good."

Neville was sobbing from the horrendous hurt in his pants.

Draco panted. "Come for me, baby. I want you to fucking soak me."

Neville lay in the fetal position, crying silent tears over the loss of the girl he'd fancied for the past four years. He would never be able to look at her the same after this; knowing that she was truly, and completely, Malfoy's.

"Draco…" she sighed. "…I'm so close."

The greenhouse shook harder. Somewhere in the part of Neville's brain that wasn't devastated or disgusted he was genuinely concerned for the well-being of his babies. If the greenhouse went, where would they live?

"Ahhh…Hermione," Draco sounded pained. "…I'm…oh fuck!"

Both of them released animalistic yelps and filthy expletives, and the walls of the greenhouse thrummed. Neville assumed it meant they came.

Honestly, he was kind of relieved.

The End of the Sex was followed by a minute or ten of kissing sounds, sighs, and sweet murmurs regarding one another's stellar performance.

Neville hated to admit it, but it was kind of sweet. Yeah, right, he mentally chided himself. Imagine Malfoy being sweet? It's not fucking possible. He has no heart.

"I love you with all my heart, Hermione," Malfoy whispered loudly enough for Neville to hear.

Neville rolled his eyes. Whatever. Guy just had an orgasm. Of course he loves her after that. But she's too smart to fall for it.

"I love you more."

Neville gagged.

Long after the two of them straightened their clothes and left the vicinity, Neville remained crouched on the greenhouse floor, firmly in the fetal position.

"Well," he sighed. "That's sex ruined for me."