Disclaimer: Neville does not belong to me. I belong to Neville.
There was a warm breeze lifting the leaves of tomato plants and cooling the back of his neck. There was a warm sun beating down, browning his arms and making the cotton of his white shirt stick to his back. There was dirt between his toes - he had removed his shoes and socks to wiggle his toes deep down, unable for many years to pass up an opportunity to temporarily join the community of the soil. There were ripening tomatoes hanging pungent on the vine one row over, patiently waiting for a few more days of this kind of sun, there were potatoes sleepily growing beneath the surface behind him, lettuce rushing to bolt before he harvested its leaves, and tucked over there in a discreet portion of his garden, just a few more special and more worrisome plants that he hadn't been able to resist planting. And there was dirt all over his hands, worked deep into the the calluses and around the edges of the nail beds, smudged on his nose and ground into the knees of his trousers. Jeans, he thought to himself, in an attempt to feel slightly more American. Neville smiled; this was the only thing he'd ever really wanted out of an afternoon.
A drop of sweat slid off the end of his nose. Sitting back onto his heels to rest, he looked back through the stand of broccoli he'd been weeding, and thought it a job well done. Beyond the tomatoes, the corn grew high under the August sun. He cast an appraising eye over the onions, the squash, the cucumbers, and the beans, and decided they'd all do for another day. He'd checked the needier of his magical plants before getting involved with the food garden; most of the rest actually did better with less attention. So he stood, stretching his lower back and mopping his face with his sleeve. Judging the sun in the sky, he thought it might be middle of the afternoon. He thought about the beans; the purples could do with a quick harvest and probably a repeat of the charm to strengthen the mycorrhizae, and then that chard planted on the other side had been having a hard time with the slugs. Not to mention the raspberries; they'd been looking a little peaked, and he wanted to do a little diagnostic spellcasting. He reached inside his shirt and pulled his wand from the holster that kept it concealed along his back; then sighed and gestured, "Illuminatio temporum." A large and ornate clock face materialized a yard or so in front of him. He'd often wished he knew how to make the clock look more modern; maybe a little bit Swedish, or something. But he'd learned the spell from Luna back in the day, and in addition to his general disinclination these days to work at spells not directly pertaining to plants, he wasn't sure the spell could stand up to any tinkering. And it was useful enough, truth be told; a few extra rhinestones and a picture or two of a totally imaginary creature never hurt anyone.
He smiled at the thought of his best friend, and looked at the clock. It was true, it took a little effort to read it through all the ornamentation, but after a few moments, he decided it was 5:30. Later than he'd thought, but still plenty of time to get cleaned up and changed and get into town to meet that girl for dinner.
He picked up his boots and socks and headed back into his little old farmhouse, banging the screen door on the way in. Doing his best to brush the dirt from the soles of his feet, he looked down at his trousers considered the amount of dirt attached to them. The windows were all open, but nobody was around; his house stood alone in the middle of five acres. So he stripped off his dirty trousers and sweat-soaked shirt, and leaving them in a filthy pile by the door strode utterly naked through his own house to the bathroom.
Luxuriating in the shower, he made sure to scrub the dirt off his feet and clean the sweat out of his hair. He thought about his dinner date and that girl's short dark hair, perky little breasts and the way she wore jeans so tight he didn't understand how she could walk, and so low it was like they weren't trousers at all. Such an improvement on the robes girls wore back home... When the obvious problem ensued, he considered trying to use manly self-restraint. In the end, it was either that he had none to speak of, or (he preferred to think) that he decided the evening would go better if he took care of things ahead of time.
Half dressed in tight slacks, poking through his shirts trying to decide which was most likely to get him laid by a sorority girl that night, he decided simultaneously not to call Regina to confirm their date and to wear the blue shirt with the military-style epaulets. Who could resist that? he thought to himself, dancing a little two-step while he tucked it in. Sorority girls are the best thing about Muggles!
Neville opened one eye to a room filled with light. Birds sang, white curtains moved lazily in front of the open window, and adorable, gentle snores issued from the mouth of the girl next to him.
He stretched slowly, careful not to disturb her. The hair that had been so carefully arranged last night was spread over a pillow with the same kind of surprising abandon she had showed in bed. Her clothes (and his!) were spread all around his bedroom. Remembering, he changed his mind about trying not to disturb her, and instead touched one hand to the gentle curve of her shoulder, caressing.
Her eyes flickered open. He watched them carefully: confusion first, followed by pleasant remembrance understanding, then worry. "Neville! Um... do you know time it is? I should probably get going, I have a class at noon." She made a disorganized kind of motion, indicating an intention of getting out of bed.
He slid his hand from her shoulder to the back of her waist. "Good morning." He smiled suggestively and moved it lower yet. "Are you sure you have to go now? It's early yet." A lock of brown hair fell in front of his eyes. "I could make you breakfast and give you a ride back to school afterwards."
"I guess I could stay a little longer, then." Her hesitancy melted away and she moved forward to kiss him, nipples pressed against his chest.
Some time later, Neville kicked the the sheet away and rolled out of bed. Regina stayed where she was, lying spent against the pillows. "You're going to make me breakfast, right? I'll just stay here and wait."
"Absolutely. I'll just be a bit, and I'll bring it in on a tray. You like eggs and toast?" She nodded while he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, trying not to show his relief. The downside of bringing girls back to his place was that he had to keep them out of the kitchen at any cost. He did have running water, because friends and such who came over (not to mention the occasional girl when he was lucky) would need to use the bathroom. But the house didn't exactly have the gas hooked up. Or the electric. He hadn't seen the point, honestly; still wasn't comfortable with using them, and the fuss and hassle of paying the bills every month wasn't worth it when he was perfectly competent - sometimes even downright skilled - at all the housekeeping spells his Gran had made him learn all those years ago.
So all things considered, it was simpler when he brought home a girl who was a bit of a spoiled princess and didn't really want to talk to him. He'd lay any odds that she was texting her friends about her conquest from his bed right now, and his actual company trying to make awkward conversation would only be an impediment to her enjoyment of the morning. Which left him free to get on with breakfast.
He retrieved his wand from its spot by the door and got eggs scrambling, bread toasting, and coffee brewing. A stack of mail sat on the edge of the smooth-scrubbed old kitchen table where he'd left it yesterday afternoon; all junk, no doubt. He glanced out of habit at the windowbox outside the open kitchen window. It was empty, which might have seemed odd (shouldn't there be soil? flowers? herbs? something, anyways) to anyone thinking about it, but nobody ever did. He couldn't really remember the last time he'd had an owl post, but he supposed they'd remember to leave it in the box the next time came. Just so long as they didn't make a delivery to him in his office; endless awkwardness, with no Ministry to help with the necessary Obliviation.
Idle leafing-through of the pile of junk mail found him a gardening catalog with pretty pictures to look at while breakfast cooked, but with little enough intellectual content that his sleepy, post-coital brain wasn't taxed. He arranged the breakfast things on a tray, leaned out the back door to pick a handful of flowers from the bed next to the house, and stuck them in a little vase. It was the little touches that really defined chivalry, his Gran had always said; and even if he never saw Regina again, which seemed entirely possible, he wouldn't want her to think she wasn't worth a little romance.
When he carried the tray into the bedroom, he found she'd put her clothes back on and was sitting in bed poking at her phone. She looked up and smiled; the phone was quickly tucked away in a belated display of manners. "Oooo, breakfast in bed with flowers!" she cooed. "I don't think a boy has ever brought me breakfast in bed before." Dark lashes batted, and an endearing display of cleavage was presented, almost certainly on purpose, as she leaned forward to snag a cup of coffee. "You British boys really are raised right."
The inevitable stab of sadness was almost immediately quelled by long habit, and he smiled back. I wonder what Gran would say about that. "Have some toast, won't you?"
Muffled electronic pop music emanated from his jacket pocket. Neville could tell from the ringtone he'd assigned that it was his lab phone calling, and wondered what on earth would impel Jackson to call him at just past ten on a Friday morning, when Neville was never on campus and rarely available by phone. "I'm sorry, I really have to take this call."
He ignored the ensuing pro forma pout and retrieved the phone from its pocket berth. "Jackson, what's going on?"
There was a massive and audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line. "Oh thank god you answered! You've got to come in, Neville. There's a little bit of a situation here."
Neville looked over at the bed; Regina's pout had disappeared and she was making rapid inroads on the the pile of cheesy eggs. "What kind of a situation is that? I'm a little busy this morning."
"Well..." A throat was cleared, hesitantly. "Your seed seems to be missing."