Everyone was surprised when Neville Longbottom came to class with the collar of his button-up shirt askew, unfolded and rising up to his jawline. That was the sort of fashion statement only rebels made, and Neville was the furthest thing from a rebel. It was obvious he could tell people were noticing: his baby-round cheeks were flushed, and he avoided everyone's eyes. People were whispering behind their hands, staring at him. If it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have reacted this way. After all, it was just a collar. But it was Neville. Neville never did anything unexpected.

He didn't want to do it, really. He just had to. That collar was hiding something, something that, if seen, would be even more embarassing than people talking about his collar. Questions would be asked, questions whose answers he didn't want to give. Under the collar was a circular bruise the size of a dime. Something Neville had never in his life expected to have. A hickey.

So he went through the day with his collar standing up around his neck, shieldingthe token of ownership from the rest of the school, blushing as red as Gryffindor Quidditch robes. People talked. Slytherins laughed, taunted him about his pathetic attempts to be cool. Draco Malfoy smirked knowingly, making Neville blush even harder. Every once in a while, Neville would brush his fingers against the hickey, bringing back memories of sweaty bodies pressed against each other in an empty classroom, of skillful hands on his skin, of a certain blonde-haired Slytherin...

Even though this hickey was the source of much embarassment, Neville still liked it. He was still glad he had it. Because it reminded him that he wasn't entirely unwanted. Someone cared about him enough to be possessive about him, to want to put their mark on him. It meant that Neville was claimed - and that was worth all the ridicule in the world.

A/N: I was bored, I went to the random word generator, and the word I got was "claimed." So I wrote a little story. B Innit nice? Reviews, as always, are luff.