Disclaimer
This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Regarding Neville
In the Transfiguration classroom, the first-years are sweltering over the written portion of their exam. The small sounds of concentration ebb and flow: the rustle of paper, the scratch of quills, breathing. A cough. The rustle of a sweet wrapper. One student is humming, low and tunelessly, as if meditating.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stands very straight, absorbing the texture of the class. Every year the same cast of characters appears, predictable and easily categorized. Every year brings the endless repetition of human nature and its thousand minute variations.
Neville Longbottom lays down his quill for a moment with a tiny sigh. He is the slow one in this Gryffindor group, truly one of the least talented wizards in the year, if not the school. McGonagall addresses him scathingly at least once each lesson.
And yet, she cannot help being fascinated by the slow ones, the dim ones, the awkward ones. So often these defects are accompanied by a startling physical freshness: smooth hair, still-childish cheeks, long eyelashes. Neville is no exception, with his innocent rounded face and worried eyes.
He is the last one finished, tapping his quill on the page and absently chewing one fingernail as he focuses.
She has a sudden urge to stroke his cheek, to kiss him very softly on the lips, to hold him close as one would a baby. It is an entirely pure desire, intense and sweet. She closes one hand over the other to restrain herself from touching him.
Too private to share her life, Minerva McGonagall has never wanted a husband or children. The large, ever-changing family that is Hogwarts suits her well; composure and reserve maintain the distance she needs to appreciate the human race. She has long since ceased calling herself a sentimental fool these odd flashes of love, and simply accepts them, as inevitable and uncomfortable as they are fulfilling.
Neville looks up from his paper, finished at last, and wonders if he's in trouble again. McGonagall smiles thinly and holds out her hand.
"Finished, Mr. Longbottom?"
He hands her the test and leaves, pleased to be through with the exam and out into the late afternoon sun.
