To Helena (GollyGeeWhiz), for being one of my best friends in the world and all around an amazing person. Happy birthday! I think I randomly texted you ideas for this oneshot at about 1am months ago, and I found the ideas I had copied onto a word document the other day and was like i nEED TO WRITE THIS FOR HELENA so I did. XD It's short and unedited and probably not all that great, but I hope you like it anyway. :D

I love you so much and you're basically my favorite peep in the universe, so enjoy and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Also this is completely unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine. :)

So. It turns out cramming for lesson plans two days before school starts is not a good idea.

Neville realizes this, in his head. He really does. It's just that this is his first year being the herbology professor at Hogwarts, and he may or may not have forgotten to prep his lessons for the first three weeks of lessons for the sixth years.

This is his dream, his secret aspire from the time he was eleven years old and first entered the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Even through all his years at Hogwarts, keeping up with his friends' adventures and escapades against Voldemort each year, it always felt like the greenhouses were somewhere he could always escape, where he could be himself. Even after the war and his graduation, he still would sometimes apparate to Hogsmead and spend the day at Hogwarts in the greenhouses.

Now, five years after the war, he's finally accomplished his goal. Only a few months before, McGonagall had approved his resume with a warm smile and a comment about how his grandmother should be proud.

All summer, he had been preparing lesson plans, studying frantically, and experimenting with different plants to try figure out which ones are better for the children and which ones most definitely aren't (something he usually learns the hard way and often ends with him at St. Mungo's).

Somehow, through all his studying and planning, he forgot to create lessons for the first three weeks of the term for the six years.

Honestly, he wasn't even sure how it happened. He thought he had everything planned out to the letter, everything completed weeks before school started – and now there's less than 48 hours before the Hogwarts Express leaves the station and he's scrambling to find something to teach about for the first three weeks of the term.

Which is why it's one in the morning and he's out in the garden, trying to keep his eyes open as he frantically scribbles down notes about Hungarian Poppies. The blasted things were snapping at his feet as he stood, and between trying to stay awake, keeping his legs relatively un-mauled, and writing down whatever he can think of to start the six year lessons until he can get a bit more organized – well, it's an ordeal, to say the least.

Really, it's not one of his better ideas – and that's saying something, coming from someone who provoked the Carrows on a regular basis during his seventh year.

After struggling in vain for what seems like hours, he gives up, stowing his notebook in his back pocket and stumbling up to the porch. He collapses on the swing, hand painted with bright yellow sunflowers, and tries to scribble down a few more notes.

It's no use. He has a splitting headache and his eyes keep crossing from exhaustion, which is probably not the best combination. The energy potion he took two hours earlier has run out, and he knows he took the last of it.

He groans and lets his head fall into his hands. What if he can't get the lessons done? What if Hogwarts decides he isn't a good fit for them, and all his dreams from the time he was eleven are washed down the drain?

A soft hand interrupts his pity part, gently squeezing his shoulder, and he looks up, eyes bloodshot and bleary. His wife stands in front of him, a gentle smile on her face.

"Luna," he greets her, surprised. "I thought you were in bed."

"I was," she answers, voice lilting sweetly, and Neville knows that's the only explanation he'll get. She kisses him, grey eyes gazing into his bloodshot ones searchingly. "Are the nargles keeping you up?"

Neville sighs, letting a half-smile slip onto his worry-lined face. He sits down on the swing again, and Luna sits next to him, her small, pale hands rubbing the knots out of his neck. "No, sweetheart. I just –" he gestures to the pile of haphazard notes next to him, "trying to get the lesson plans for the six years done."

She picks them up, her long hair shifting and falling over her bare shoulders. Even in his exhausted, only semi-conscious state, Neville lets his eyes trace over her beautiful smile and the way her blonde hair shines in the moonlight. It looks like a waterfall of white-gold, and in that moment he's sure that even the most enchanting of Veelas have absolutely nothing on his wife.

Unaware of his thoughts, she picks up the pencil and starts writing in her odd cursive, the loops and scrolls dancing over the paper. "See, you simply have the history and care of Hungarian Poppies here – but instead of simply telling the students about the care and history, why don't you tell them the uses for it? The seeds can be used for many different medicinal purposes, and the leaves and petals are often used in potions in place of pixie wings." Her pen scratches furiously. "Sixth years especially tend to lose interest in non-practical lessons quickly, so make the lesson interesting for them. Have them dissect the flower and tell you what each part can be used for."

She pauses her writing and glances at him, that sweet smile on her lips and the moonlight shining in her soft grey eyes.

Neville's pretty sure he's never loved her more in his life than that moment. "You're a genius, Luna," he says softly, gazing at her in utterly exhausted adoration.

Luna laughs, sounding like a soft bell in the warm night air. She kisses him softly, and he kisses her back – sloppily, sweetly – before slumping into her lap.

Luna chuckles as her husband snores into her nightgown. "Come on, sweetheart," she says tenderly, helping him up. He blearily hooks his arm around her shoulder and stumbles with her into the house, nearly hitting his head on the doorframe.

Right before they cross the threshold, Luna turns around and smiles into the moonlight. "I guess it was the nargles keeping him up," she remarks, gazing softly into the garden.

Then the door shuts, and the night returns to soft silence.

Well, all except the Hungarian Poppies in the garden, still snapping at nothing in the air, and Neville's forgotten notes, scattering in the soft night breeze.

And that's that! Love you, 'lena! xx

WM