Neville isn't an early riser; he'd spent his whole childhood plagued by restless, nightmare-infused sleep, and as an adult relished the chance to have a sleepily peaceful lie-in. It's a particularly warm Saturday morning during half-term break when he's woken earlier than usual by the rays of soft light streaming through his attic-flat's skylight, but he stays buried under the mountain of blankets he'd inherited from his grandmother for a good while, safe from the cold gusts that occasionally wafted through his draughty flat, before he decides it's finally time to get the day properly started.
He locates his slippers and clambers into a sweater, grabs a book off his bedside table and wanders to the kitchen to puts on the kettle, an antiquated Muggle configuration he'd chanced upon in a charity shop some time ago. While he waits for the water to boil, Neville starts to tend to his family of houseplants - they always suffered a bit when the chillier months encroached, so he made sure to take extra care to their individual needs, dedicating a good chunk of his sparsely-attended office hours to hitting up Muggle research sites and consulting them on how best to foster his botanical companions. As much as Neville appreciated the captivating diversity and transfixing properties of magical plants and funghi (from gillyweed to leaping toadstools to Mimbulus Mimbletonia, how could you not), he harboured a somewhat secret fondness for Muggle botany, and wished that the wizarding world would take up practices of more casual gardening and exploratory appreciation, instead of zoning in so single-mindedly on their potion-making values. He knew many Muggles often found solace in connecting with their perceived natural world, even conserving revered specimens in greenhouse-like museums they called 'botanical gardens' - he'd even visited a few himself, sometimes with Luna or Rolf - and he tried his best to instil this sort of cherishment in his students.
He pours himself a cup of boiling water with steady hands, and carefully steeps a portioned tea ball infuser's worth of his latest concoction into the mug (a birthday gift from Luna, of her own handiwork, a simple but well-crafted work of pottery engraved with a scratchy cartoon of some baby mandrakes). Sighing satisfiedly, Neville cradles the hot drink in his palms, inhaling the aromatic particularities of the homemade blend - Japanese sencha, sea buckthorn, lemon verbena, spearmint and cornflowers, a perfect autumnal late-morning infusion.
He's started out of his rumination when the doorbell rings, and his brow furrows - he doesn't recall anticipating any plans or social calls. It is a Saturday, after all, and he is tucked away in the outskirts of London when he's not teaching (out of most people's way, rather purposefully). Grabbing the steaming mug off the hard maple kitchen counter, he makes his way to the front door, bringing his eye up to the keyhole to identify the unheralded visitor - and the hand-decorated ceramic tankard clatters to the floor as Neville's body freezes in shocked recognition.