Chapter 3: The Students of Barracks E
Harry's footsteps were as light as the sky outside as he and Neville left Major Montgomery's office. Since Dumbledore's phoenix patronus appeared at their breakfast table at Grimmauld Place, Harry hadn't even had one moment to consider the fact that he was as free of Voldemort as he could possibly have been. Now that he had, an excited frisson of happiness bubbled up inside him. Voldemort was thousands of miles away—and no one knew where he, Harry, was.
He could be 'Just Harry' like he always wanted.
Harry drew a shaky breath, a smile growing on his face. No one at the Mesa would even know that he was Harry Potter! There would be no Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. There would be no glances at his forehead, no requests for autographs, no congratulatory handshakes from strangers. Finally Harry opened his mouth and let out a great cathartic ha! of laughter.
Neville eyed him sideways, fidgeting. Harry noticed that the golden light from the rising sun revealed red in Neville's brown hair that Harry hadn't seen before.
"Something up, Neville?"
A bashful grin shot across his face.
"Look!" he said abruptly, pointing a finger.
The camp was beginning to wake up now. More of the windows of the barracks they passed were lit, and some had steam from morning showers fogging the glass. But Neville's finger pointed to a lone building, larger than the others, with light streaming from the windows. Just one word appeared on the sign adorning the front door:
Cafeteria
Harry and Neville's stomachs rumbled at the same time. Mrs. Weasley's breakfast had been hours ago.
The building they entered was (unsurprisingly, for a wizarding building) much larger on the inside than the outside would have indicated. The huge room was packed with small round tables, each large enough to fit five or six people, and it was filled to the rafters with the smell of breakfast wafting from the far side.
Making their way down the room, Harry could see a long table piled with every breakfast food imaginable and staffed by handful of sleepy looking students, yawning and shuffling in place. Harry and Neville made their way down the line, helping themselves until they got to the end and they were confronted by an tall, wiry man with a shocks of black hair peeking out from underneath his white chef's hat.
He gave them both a big smile as he settled an enormous platter of bacon on the table. "Good morning gentleman, I'm Cookie, the chef here. Are you the two new students from Barracks E?"
"Yes, sir," they responded politely.
He laughed. "Sir! I like it! But feel free to call me Cookie if you want, everyone else does. I'm sorry about your situation here, but we're going to be working a lot together over the next few months and I thought I'd say 'hi'. We—"
"Cookie!" a voice shouted from a doorway which obviously led into the kitchen. "Help! It's burning!"
"Sorry, gotta go! Have a nice day!" Cookie dashed off through the door, leaving Harry and Neville to look bemusedly at each other.
Once they were seated at a table, Harry asked "What do you think he meant by "I'm sorry about your situation? Do you think he knows . . ?"
Neville shook his head, leaning in close. "Dumbledore and Major Montgomery said the staff might know, but it sounded to me like he was saying something else—"
Neville was interrupted by a loud crash as a student clattered their tray of food down on the opposite side of the table. She had huge, frizzy hair, tawny skin and a manic, high-energy gleam in her eye.
She reached her hand across the table and shook
Harry's and then Neville's hand firmly, staring them each in the eye as if
trying to gain some secret intelligence. "I'm Gloriana Chestnut. Are you Harry and Frank?" They nodded.
"I prefer Neville, actually." Neville swallowed.
"Okay good. You can call me Glory." She sat, shoving her untouched tray of food to the side before leaning over dramatically and asking "How do you feel about tyranny?"
Neville swallowed nervously and looked to Harry, who responded slowly. "I'm opposed to tyranny, I guess."
Gloriana's ensuing grin split her face like a bolt of lightning, at once brilliant and terrifying, lasting only moments before it was replaced with a gloomier expression.
"Well, Barracks E is in the grip of some of the worst tyranny I have ever seen." She said this in complete earnest, her first thumping the small table hard enough that their utensils rattled.
They were immediately joined by two more girls, the first a girl with dark hair pinned up on her head, glinting dark eyes and a mischievous expression who introduced herself as "Maggie Jape, of course" and a shorter, round-faced girl with blonde hair, black at the roots, who shook their hands with a "Della Kwan".
Glory leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial stage whisper so they could hear her above the general din of the cafeteria.
"So, everyone, this is Harry and Frank, who goes by Neville. Harry and Neville are here to join our noble alliance against Cynthia's tyranny." Despite her grandiose words, she sounded completely serious. Harry smiled a little, reminded of Hermione.
The girl who had introduced herself as Maggie Jape rolled her eyes and snorted. "Alliance," she rolled the word in her mouth, slowly, mockingly touching every syllable. "Tyranny. We're talking about chore allotments because of an election of our ten person class president. Maybe we could talk about this with a teensy bit less drama?"
Glory slammed her fist resolutely on the table, causing the plates and cups to clatter noisily. "No. Tyranny is the unjust exercise of power wherever it is found." Glory glared fiercely around at the rest of the table. Personally, Harry wasn't about to argue with her. "No matter the scale, we have a leader who gave retribution to her constituents because they voted against her!"
Neville raised his hand tentatively. "Um . . . what kind of retribution are we talking about?"
Maggie shrugged. "We have chores to do—cleaning the barracks common room, for example, or assisting the cook or working in the greenhouse. It's not a big deal, maybe 60 minutes per day per person if everyone contributes. The barracks captain's job is to make sure the jobs get done. Most of the other barracks captains ask for volunteers and if they can't get volunteers for a job they assign people, but they do it so that no one has to do the worst jobs all the time, because then they'd get voted out the next week."
"But . . . that's not working here?" Harry asked.
"Well, last week there were only eight of us. The three of us," she gestured around the table "voted for Glory, but Cynthia and her four cronies voted for her and she won, five to three."
"Well, now, if Harry and I vote against her, we're even. So we should be good."
Glory scowled. "It would if this were a sensible system, it might have some form of run-off vote, or ranked-choice voting -"
Maggie spoke up, interrupting her. "'In the event of a tie, if either of the claimants for the captaincy held the position the previous week, they are the winner.'" she said this in a resigned monotone that strongly implied she was quoting from the textbook.
"So even if all of us," Harry gestured at the table "Vote against her, she's still going to be captain."
"Yup." agreed Maggie, popping the p at the end. "And because the three of us," she gestured to the two other girls "tried to 'thwart her ambition'" her eye-roll was Weasley-Twin-worthy in its disdain "we'll basically just be doing all the chores . . . forever."
Now Harry realized what was going on. Even if they all voted together against Cynthia, all that would happen would be that the ten person chore roster would be divided into five parts rather than into three.
"Why, hello there," a voice called, saccharine cheerful with a slight drawl.
Harry turned in his seat to see the newcomer. She was pretty and blonde, with intense blue eyes and the kind of smile that was used to getting its way.
"I'm Cynthia Richmond, the barracks captain from Barracks E." She reached out her hand daintily and Harry shook it; it was like shaking a dishrag.
"Harry, er, Smith," said Harry with a sidelong glance at Neville. "And this is Frank."
"Neville," corrected Neville and he too shook her proffered hand.
"Welcome to the Mesa! I'm so glad we've had a chance to meet!" Cynthia gushed. "I'm sure it's so interesting being from England and all. You want to join us over there?" she pointed where four more students were hunched over their breakfast trays. Suspiciously on cue, they all turned and the waved, except for one boy in a black t-shirt on the far side of the table, who needed to be nudged into it by his neighbor.
"We were just getting to know each other," Harry gestured around the table, his voice slightly cool.
Neville spoke up. "Maybe we could join you for lunch?"
Cynthia shook her head. "I'm afraid we'll need to speak before then. You see, the weekly votes for Barracks captain are first thing, when we have Transfiguration with Mr. Tempin, and we need to make sure that y'all are on the winning side of things." Harry was liking her less and less by the second and was feeling unpleasantly reminded of his conversation with Draco Malfoy on the train.
She leaned in conspiratorially. "Just between us," she went on in a de soto whisper so everyone at the table could hear her. "There are two kinds of people in this world. Winners, and . . ." her hand flittered vaguely toward her table of smiling, waving sycophants as she paused delicately "well, everyone else." She gave Harry and his new friends a once over with her eyes. "And I just wanted to know what kind of person you are."
She placed her hand on Harry's arm in an almost possessive manner; and tilted her head to look at him through her lashes.
Before Harry had a chance to respond at all, Neville burst out. "I think we can tell the wrong sort for ourselves, thanks."
Neville was, not, as a rule, an angry person. Even when he had offered to fight Ron, Harry and Hermione at the end of first year, he had been more defiant than angry. The only time Harry had seen Neville truly angry was once in second year when Lavender Brown tried to steal honking geraniums out of the greenhouses to grow in her dorm room. Neville had given her a fiery ten minute row on how stealing a honking geranium from the magically-controlled greenhouse was the same thing as killing it and what kind of idiot killed beautiful flowers?
This was angrier than Harry had ever seen him. He half-rose from his chair, his grey eyes flashing as he glared darkly at Cynthia, his hands was clenched around the table so tightly the tendons on his arms and hands stood out. n
Cynthia looked taken aback but quickly smoothed her features as her hand left Harry's arm. "Well, if you change your mind, voting is at 8:30 in Transfiguration. I'll see you there." She waggled her fingers in a simpering wave and sauntered back to her friends.
The whole tabled watched her go, Neville still looking murderous. Harry gave him a gentle elbow. "You alright there, mate?" Neville turned to look at Harry, then flushed, embarrassed and looking much more like himself.
"Yeah, I'm sorry for . . you know, speaking for you. If you want to . . . you know, follow her, don't let me stop you."
Harry laughed. "And deny myself the chance to make a fool of myself in the kitchen with my new friends?"
A few minutes later they were filing out of the Cafeteria to go to their first class of the morning.
Harry walked next to the Maggie and asked "So, is Cynthia really as awful as she seems? She reminded of me a guy from England. Rich, always get what he wants, talks about his father all the time . . ."
Maggie snorted. "Yeah, that sounds like her. She had to give a speech when we had the election last week, and her speech was, and I quote." Her made air quotes with her fingers as her voice took on a dull monotone. "'My name is Hyacynthia Richmond, yes, one of those Richmonds. Tee hee'" (Maggie actually said the words 'tee hee', her voice dripping with caustic disdain.) "My Father is Vice-President of MACUSA, so when I say I can divide chores and allotments fairly, you know I mean it. It's in my blood."
Harry shuddered with a grim laugh of recognition. "Does she ever say 'When my father hears about this?'"
"Not yet, but she seems to have everything pretty well in hand with the rigged elections and all. Maybe we can off-put her with a 5-5 vote for barracks captain."
The air was noticeably warmer since dawn had passed over breakfast and the sun, a red orb huger and hotter than it had ever been in Scotland, seemed to have stained the entire landscape a deep red-brown. Wild, craggy peak in every imaginable shape sprung up from the dusty ground that was carpeted in hillocks of tenacious scrubby bush. Harry couldn't imagine how hot the sun would be when overhead.
The transfiguration classroom had a very comfortable, lived-in feel. Knick knacks, flower pots overflowing with vines and ferns, and animal skeletons littered every horizontal surface in the room; every wall was covered in charts comparing types of transfiguration or diagrams showing humans half-way transformed into animals. As Harry sat down at a desk between Neville and Della, Della leaned over and whispered "Mr. Tempin is my favorite. He's the best teacher here by far."
Mr. Kuma Tempin was a heavyset man with dark, shoulder length hair and penny-red skin. He stood easily in front of the room in muggle blue jeans, a red flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and scuffed cowboy boots. He smiled slightly as he surveyed the students.
"Alright everyone, settle down." His voice was light and friendly, but it had the crisp edge that some teachers had—like McGonagall or Snape—that made you think that he wouldn't be a teacher to cross. After he introduced himself to Harry and Neville (and had them introduce themselves to the class) he quickly got to business.
"One of my first responsibilities as your home room teacher is to host the weekly election. Last week, short of our full number, we elected Ms. Richmond as your barracks captain. Congratulations again, by the way."
Cynthia beamed at him as her friends filled the room with a smattering of applause. Harry noticed Glory had her arms folded in front of her chest, hands clenched.
"We hold these elections weekly, so everyone has a chance to re-evaluate their vote and choose another candidate if you believe the chores and allotments aren't being allocated fairly," It was so slight that Harry almost believed he imagined it, but Mr. Tempin's gaze flashed for a moment toward the side of the room where Cynthia and her friends were sitting.
"Ms. Richmond, as the sitting Barracks Captain, if you'd like to say a few words before votes are cast, do so now."
Cynthia stood up, her megawatt smile turned up to full blast. "I'm Hyacynthia Richmond, and I promise to continue the excellent work I did last week. If you enjoyed how I divided things, this week you can continue to expect more of the same." She gave that same little, faux-cheerful finger wave and flounced back to her desk.
"Thank you Cynthia. Is anyone else standing for election?" There was a smile on his face and he was already looking at Glory.
"I am Mr. Tempin." Glory stood up, marched to the front of the room, then faced them all with a fierce expression on her face.
"Everyone here knows that this entire election is a farce. People in power delayed the entry of two students into this barracks, then hand-picked the students to make it impossible for a particular person to lose the first election of the year," She said all of this very calmly and matter-of-factly.
"This is a brain-melting level of corruption for what is, essentially, a class president seat for a ten person class and I personally find it abhorrent." Next to Harry, Maggie grinned and gave a discreet thumbs-up sign as Glory took a deep breath. "Additionally, I find the fact that our Barracks Captain assigns chores only to their opponents anti-democratic, foolish, short-sighted and cruel. If I am elected, I will fairly and without bias assign chores and reward honors. Thank you."
Harry and his new friends clapped.
They took a few minutes to vote in an area of the classroom roped off with heavy velvet curtains, but the results were never in any real doubt.
Mr. Tempin announced the results of the election in an even voice, but couldn't keep the slight edge out of it. "And the vote is five to five, and the tie goes to the winner of the previous weeks' election, Ms. Cynthia Richmond. Congratulations. Now, let's get down to the business of transfiguration . . . "
The lesson—mostly review, for Harry—concerned inanimate to animate transfiguration—turning things into animals. Harry and Neville had studied that inanimate to animate transfigurations under McGonagall, but they'd never had a lesson about how to use them in combat situations before.
"Imagine you're in England, visiting one of our friends here," Tempin nodded at Harry and Neville "and you're attacked by the Death Eaters . . ."
Harry was struck her by Mr. Tempin's blase tone; certainly none of his professors, with the possible exception of Lockhart, would have spoken about Death Eaters so casually. But, he supposed it was like the Major said. Death Eaters, Voldemort, they were just . . . stuff you'd read in the news.
". . . name an object that you'd probably have on hand, one animal you could transfigure it into, and one way that you could use that animal to fend off our heinous kidnappers."
Cynthia's hand shot into the air.
"I can transfigure wolves, which would be useful in a fight." It came out as more of a boast than a hypothetical.
Mr. Tempin tapped the chalkboard with his wand and the words "Wolves" and "Fight" appeared.
"Anyone else?"
The next few suggestions were similar. Two of Cynthia's friends—a big, curly-headed bloke named Marty and a narrow-faced, dark-eyed girl named Kate suggested transfiguring a hyena or a leopard. Apollo, Cynthia's boyfriend, announced that he could transfigure Lions. Mr. Tempin raised his eyebrows skeptically at that one.
"What would you use to transfigure a Lion? That's quite a big animal. A female might be up to three hundred pounds, a big male more like five or six hundred."
Apollo drooped slightly before rallying. "Um, lawn mower? a motorcycle?"
Tempin's eyebrows, if anything, rose even higher. "A standard push lawn mower isn't going to be big enough. I doubt even Albus Dumbledore himself could manage it. And turning a motorcycle or a riding lawnmower, hundreds of complex parts with computers and gasoline . . ." he shook his head.
"I can do it!" Apollo boasted, looking both nervous and boastful at the same time.
"I'm not doubting you," allowed Mr. Tempin, a small smile playing on his face. "Just . . . preparing to be impressed, that's all. Can anyone else think of something that might be in Harry's house that you could transfigure into a lion? Something closer to the right size than a push mower and less technically complex than a motorcycle?"
Harry raised his hand. "A couch would be about the right size, although I'm not sure whether I'd be more scared of death eaters or of my Aunt if I turned the sofa into a wild animal," he joked.
"A secondary concern, I think, if dark wizards are coming for you." Mr. Tempin chuckled.
"But, Mr. Tempin," Glory had raised her hand "Isn't it really easy to get rid of a transfigured or conjured animal? It's not hard to do enough damage to an animal to revert the transfiguration—a simple cutting charm, or dropping it after a wingardium leviosa . . . or you could simply finite it."
"Excellent point, Glory." Mr. Tempin tapped the board and all words "fight" turned into "Ambush/Divert".
"As Glory said, it's trivial to dispel or destroy a transfigured or conjured animal. The only way a mundane animal is any real threat to a witch is with an ambush, if the dark witch in question doesn't have enough time to bring her wand to bear." He tapped the word "ambush" with his wand. "Alternatively you could use your animals to divert or distract enough attention to escape. Now that we know that, can anyone think of any other ideas?"
Harry raised his hand. "You could transfigure a garden hose into a snake. No, I have a better idea, cut a garden hose into pieces with a severing charm, then make a bunch of snakes. They're small and quiet, but you could make them poisonous . . . "
"That's an excellent idea. Let's talk for a second about transfiguring venomous snakes. Harry, for future reference, something is poisonous is when you bite something and you get sick, venomous is when that animal bites you and you get sick . . . "
The class passed quickly. Mr. Tempin had a flair for talking about things in an offbeat or even funny way that made Harry think about Transfiguration differently than when McGonagall taught it. He was less strict than McGonagall, but just as encouraging, and worked to pull every idea from the students before bringing his own thoughts to the front.
After transfiguration was charms. Madame Chung-an ancient chinese woman with a posh accent even Malfoy couldn't have turned his nose up at-wore stiff, embroidered black robes, and a strict demeanor (especially compared to the genial and excitable Flitwick), but she smiled when people performed a spell correctly and assured Harry and Neville that if they had any questions, the door to her cabin was open until curfew.
After charms was lunch. Carrying his food to the table where he could see his friends sitting, Harry couldn't help but notice their dispirited mood. Maggie was picking at her food listlessly with a fork, her eyes downcast. Delia had her head resting on her hand, staring into space, and even the usually irrepressible Glory was fidgeting and staring into space.
After an awkward, silent minute in which no one said anything, Harry finally asked "So, what's after lunch?"
Maggie sighed. "Chores. Lots of chores. Weeding the greenhouses, helping Cookie, cleaning the dorms, stuff like that."
"What? Aren't we supposed to be learning advanced defense here?" After four years being taught his favorite subject by a series of frauds (Lupin being the notable exception) the prospect of being taught defense by a real teacher had been an exciting prospect.
"The afternoons four days a week are supposed to be for dueling practice, supervised by the Defense Instructor." Glory agreed, picking at her meatloaf. "Chores are supposed to be done during them, with the idea that you should have one day a week doing weeding or whatever, and then you can spend the rest of the time at dueling practice, then do your homework after dinner. But because the five of us" she gestured at the table "are doing chores for ten people, we get to spend the afternoons washing dishes" She sighed, looking gloomy and defeated.
"What are we doing today?" asked Neville an optimistic, all-for-the-best note creeping into his voice.
"I'm weeding today," Della groaned. "I hate weeds. Dandy Lions and prick weeds and . . . urgh," she made a face, shuddering.
"I wouldn't mind weeding, if you want to take whatever I was supposed to be doing instead." Neville offered.
Delia brightened immediately. "We put you down as cleaning the cabin. It's the easiest, you know, to help you settle in for the first day." She scooched her chair closer, ducking her head and lowering her voice. "You're not supposed to use magic to clean the cabins—you're not supposed to use magic to do any of the chores at camp, really—but people do anyway, and it only takes a few minutes, scourgifying the bathroom and picking up Cynthia and Apollo's junk."
"I guess I'd prefer weeding too," Harry added. He'd cleaned the Dursley's bathroom more than enough, thanks all the same. At least he'd be with Neville.
After lunch, a now cheerful Della led them to a small wooden hut labeled "Greenhouses" that was about the size of the Weasley's broom shed.
"Have fun with Lou," Delia said with a cheeky grin, leaving Harry and Neville to themselves.
Neville and Harry gave each other matching what-was-that-about? looks then entered the small shed and clambered down the narrow, spiraling staircase inside.
It was a long way down the staircase, but it eventually opened into a narrow, dark hallway.
"Lumos," Harry muttered, using the wandlight to illuminate the corridor—which looked to have been carved from the rock of the mesa itself—on a narrow door on the far end with light peeking out from underneath.
Passing through the doorway, Harry and Neville both had to stop and blink as their eyes adjusted from the darkness. Brilliant sunlight streamed from the ceiling and the walls, making it look like midday on a tropical island rather than 200 feet in the middle of solid rock.
"Good good!" a voice cackled. Harry leapt back in shock as a ghost popped out of the ground from right underneath him, making his legs feel as if someone had poured icy water on them.
"You boys here to weed m'yearth? Always lookin' for fresh yacks! This way, this way, this way!" The ghost darted away, laughing and muttering as he shot this way and that.
Harry didn't know if he'd ever seen a ghost in such bright light; sometimes he looked more like the shimmer of a heatwave than the nearly-solid translucent blue of the Hogwarts Ghost. The ghost was dressed in a floppy, broad-brimmed hat, a checked shirt, high leather boots and a striped vest. He looked, to Harry's inexperienced eye, like someone from an old cowboy movie.
Harry moved to follow the ghost, but stopped after a few steps. Neville hadn't moved.
"You okay mate?" Harry asked. Neville's expression was one of slack-jawed shock.
"Look at this place . . ." Neville breathed. Harry took a moment to look, not at the ghost, but at the room.
The room they stood in was simply cavernous, bigger than the quidditch stadium at Hogwarts, although maybe not quite so high. It was packed with rows upon rows of raised planting beds. The beds didn't seem to be in any particular order; right next to them was a bed filled with pineapples, and next to that, four fully grown oak trees, forty feet high, casting dappled shade on the ground of this cave. Aa few of the beds showed only damp, black soil, but most of the beds were simply overflowing with every type of imaginable greenery, ferns, maize, Devil's Snare, flutterby bushes, honking daffodils . . . and those were just the beds within reach.
The Greenhouses at Hogwarts were massive glass structures but even combined they didn't reach a tenth of the size of this cavern.
"I've never even heard of something like this." Said Neville, running his fingers over the wood of the nearest raised bed, brushing the leaves of the ferns that spilled into the path between the beds. "I mean, you can make a room like this, with air freshening charms and sunlight spells but . . . I've never seen anyone do anything like this underground, or so . . . so . . .so . . ." he made wild, expansive hand gestures until Harry supplied "big."
"Yes!" Neville agreed. "And the air in here . . ." he took a deep breath, dramatically filling his lungs. Harry copied him and could see what Neville meant; it smelled fresh and damp, filled with new things and possibility. It was certainly a relief after the hot, dry air up on the mesa.
"Addle pots!" bellowed the ghost some hundred yards in front of them, almost completely obscured by the mass of greenery crowding the space between the beds. "Come along!"
The cowboy ghost led them to a random intersection of beds that looked (to Harry) no different from any other spot. The beds in the area were filled with flutterby bushes in every shade, the butterfly-like flowers in every color of red, yellow, orange and pink all waving and fluttering. Neville smiled, brushing his fingers against a particularly enormous purple flower quivering on one of the bushes."You yacks are slower than molasses in January," accused the ghost. "I'm Lou, and this here is my yearth. There's scads of dandy-lions and I want you to beef 'em. Sabby?"
Neville and Harry exchanged confused glances. "Er . . . what? I'm sorry." Asked Harry.
Lou shook his head sadly. "Dumber than the governor of Massachusetts." He muttered. He knelt, gesturing at the dirt underneath the quivering flutterby bushes. "Dandy Lions are having a shindy with these flutterby bushes. Garden 'em out. Got it?"
"Yes, thanks." Said Neville, rolling up his sleeves. "How do we find you once we're done?"
"Oh, just give a holler. I'll find you. No shoalin', you two." Lou waggled his finger admonishingly before drifting away, and Harry and Neville set to the task of weeding the flutterby bushes. Harry had pruned Flutterby bushes before, but the Hogwarts greenhouses were much too well behaved to require much weeding.
Dandy-lions looked just like the weedy dandelions that Harry was familiar with from long afternoons in the Dursley's garden, except they tried to bite you as you pulled them up. Harry received several deep gouges from their sharp teeth before he pulled his wand surreptitiously out of his pocket and began stunning them with a whispered "stupefy".
Harry thought his pile of weeds was progressing well before he glanced over at Neville's (much larger) pile. Neville's technique was much different; he reached out tenderly with one finger and gently stroked the weed's fuzzy head, crooning about how handsome they were until, just like a cat, they began nuzzling affectionately against his outstretched finger. As they purred contentedly, he reached with his other hand and gently freed them from the soil, removing grains of dirt from their roots with a fingernail.
Harry watched, fascinated as Neville used his broad nails to weed the Dandy-Lions. Harry's fingernails were narrow pink ovals, and he had a lot of experience with them in all states of repair. Weeding and cleaning and cooking at the Dursleys meant that he'd seen his fingernails cracked, dirty, split, bleeding and hanged. Neville's nails never looked like that. They weren't narrow, like his; instead, they were round and flat, stretching from one side of his finger to the other, not leaving any flesh to either side to get dirty or hanged. They weren't delicate pink, either, but a sturdy almost opaque white.
Neville looked up and caught Harry's gaze. His eyebrows knit together. He paused, standing straight and ran the back of his hand over his sweaty brow. The movement lifted his shirt enough that Harry caught a glimpse of a narrow band of Neville's stomach. Harry's brain noted (without any directive from Harry himself) that it was quite trim.
"Something up, mate?"
"W-what?" Harry asked, stammering at having been caught staring. "Um, no, nothing. Just . . . admiring your technique," he extemporized wildly.
Neville grinned down at his pile of content, uprooted dandy-lions, obviously pleased. "Yeah, they're not so bad, once you know what they want." His gaze fell on Harry's pile of stunned weeds. "Yeah, stunning them works too, but they transplant better if they go willingly. Some people," he rolled his eyes disbelievingly "simply yank them out by their roots." Harry tucked his bleeding hands awkwardly into his back pockets.
"So, er, you're going to transplant them? Are they useful for anything?"
Neville shook his head. "Not really. Some hair care products, like Sleek-Eezy's, things like that. It's not like they're rare or anything." He gestured his hands at the rows of flower beds, indicating the nearly endless supply. "But they grow quite happily bunched together in flower pots if they're in a place someone can see them. I don't think living things should be discarded just because you can't see an immediate use for them."
Harry—thinking of long nights spent in a lonely cupboard—could only agree.
