A/N: And now for something completely different. A little different for what i would call my usual but it was written especially. Also, the rating deeply amuses me.

For Danni. Thank you.

Because Neville likes to think that here, in the clammy greenhouse with his hand confidently rising to answer a question, he is able to become someone different.

The World Alters

If he thinks about it, he realises that he is not capable of explaining it and he cannot be entirely sure why he feels such a tug, an irrevocable insistence towards this subject. He likes Herbology, likes the way the scent of earth folds into his robes, likes the way his tongue becomes loose with correct answers and he likes how he can feel the world shift and alter until it falls away and everything becomes easy, changed from the world outside.

Outside, there are the snide hints of the beginnings of frost, stealthy and quiet, subtle shifts in the chilling air and revolving seasons that promise a throttling force when Winter tires of her teasing and finds purchase on the hardening ground. The wildflowers that spill across the meandering path from the castle, clusters of betony and burdock, are slowly being choked by groping fingers of ice, yet they stand silent in their smothering, protests struck dumb. The few dying leaves that cling to naked branches are an unnatural colour and curled around the edges; cruel winds set them trembling like twitching spiders and a damp slickness floods outwards from his chest, numbing his hands, sparking shivers through a body tightened with an inexplicable dread.

But inside – inside, the air is thick with the damp scent of earth, round and heavy, and it swells in his nostrils and lungs; it stirs a curious warmth in the pit of his stomach that spreads in a steady thrum through his awkward limbs. There is a cloying humidity to the greenhouse and he believes it may actually be visible, broad webs of vapour that taste like soil and comfort, and it seems to settle around his shoulders in a weightless touch of soothing. His chubby fingers move effortlessly over tendrils of odd vegetation and vines of mysterious foliage; recitals of plant uses and herb lore tumbles naturally from his lips; after classes he trails the dusty shelves of the Library, pulling out worn tomes and drinking in incessant pages.

He sometimes wonders, just a vague thought that he doesn't want to dissect too thoroughly, if his parents would be proud of him. Sometimes, he is almost tricked into believing that the globular curves of Gurdyroot pale and become the round planes of his mother's soft face, or that the sturdy vines of Devil's Snare become the strong line of his father's jaw. He likes to think that here, in the clammy greenhouse with his hand confidently rising to answer a question, he is able to become someone different to the stuttering, shy boy who sits alone and is easily susceptible to colour rising in his cheeks. He likes to think he is able to forget about the pile of Droobles wrappers he keeps hidden under his bed at home, the only mark he has of a parent's affection. He likes to think that here, with soil buried beneath his fingernails and the heat of comfort in his chest, he can become someone more than the lost boy whose parents can't remember his face.

Peractio