Note: I'm changing the status of this story to complete; not because this is the last chapter, but because each chapter is an independent story and that way it's always complete. :)
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Disclaimer: I do own some milk and herbs, but not Neville.
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Of Glorious Lives and Obituaries
Of Milk and Herbs
He had become a world famous Herbologist after his first shocking discovery, and all the others that followed. But that first one had opened him the door into the society where he had always wanted to belong. Not the rich, not the handsome, not the powerful. But those who studied herbs and plants, and made an art out of their study, adding to the progress of other research areas or helping people with their discoveries. The bunch of them were unremarkable, quiet, and awkward, at least with any outsiders. But once together with another of their kind, uncomfortable silence became conversation, conversation became debate, debate became argument, and argument became yelling. A bunch of ferocious people they were, the Herbologists.
His first discovery had been so shocking and so ridiculous that initially he had been laughed out for it. But then he had proved it, explained it, and showed it. And written lengthy essays and speeches on the topic, presenting them to everyone who cared to listen, and to some who thought they had much better things to do. But as it came out, they didn't, and this shocking ridiculous discovery gave him respect and recognition, after their laughs had been laughed, and they were ready to listen, and see, and be shocked.
He liked milk. But that was not the discovery, although it had helped. He liked Victoria. But that was not the discovery either, although it had helped. Victoria didn't like him, even though he took great care of her. And that wasn't the discovery either, although it had helped as well. Victoria didn't like milk. That was the discovery.
Thanks to his love for milk and his clumsiness, he had once dropped a bottle of it. Thanks to his love for Victoria, he had discovered that Devil's Snare was afraid of milk, and avoided it at all costs.
What kind of person kept a pet Devil's Snare named Victoria? The quiet awkward unremarkable Herbologists. Although some preferred Venomous Tentacula or other highly dangerous species.
And who would have thought that something as ordinary and harmless as milk was the best protection one could have from a Devil's Snare? Nobody, until he made it public.
But as wonderful and ferocious as their debates were, and as wonderful and surprising as it was to deliver speeches to hundreds of interested people, speaking with a confidence he never knew he had, and hearing their thunderous applause afterwards, he didn't let himself forget where it had all started, and who he had to thank for it.
The two-week convention had been wonderful and highly educational, but he missed home, and he missed Victoria. She was the first he ran to as soon as he got back, grabbing the bottle of milk, and touching her tendrils in affection. She answered to his caress, winding her vines around his neck and giving a warm squeeze. He had expected this, and raised the bottle of milk to spray some of it at her; not too much to hurt her, but enough to make her loosen her grasp.
A moment later Neville Longbottom realized the error in his ways of leaving the milk out in the warm room for a whole fortnight. There was more of it in the fridge, and he had brought some fresh with him, but he never made it back into the kitchen.
The End.