Neville Dancing, 6:10pm
Neville was acting as though you’d given up your whole life to help him, but in reality, it was an hour of dinner in the Hall. He had very nervously asked if you’d help him practice for the Dance after McGonagall’s class, to which you obviously said yes. So after the last class of the day, you’d quickly rushed down to the Hall to pick up a few doughnuts and biscuits, stashed them away in your pockets, and scurried up to the Gryffindor Common Room. Neville was sat on one of the good armchairs, his hands on both of the armrests, looking anxious. When you enter, he stands up, almost soldierly. You salute, and he gave a toothy grin.
The boys room smelt a bit funny, and you furrowed your brow at the boxers and socks strewn across the bedposts and floor. You heard Neville gulp.
‘Oh- God- turn around a sec! P-please...’
You face the staircase, chuckling. You wondered why the boys staircase wasn’t enchanted like the girls. Then you think back to the state of the room, and realised there was no point; the boys had practically cast their own protection spell through scent and state.
‘Okay. You can look now.’
When you turn back around, it was fairly clear that Neville had kicked the old clothes under the fireplace, and pulled the curtains over everyone else’s beds. It was extremely sweet nonetheless.
‘Okay, Fred Astaire. Let’s see.’
It proved almost impossible to get Neville to loosen up, but you assured him that on the night, adrenaline would kick in, and his inner Michael Flatley would emerge. You explained who Michael Flatley was and sat opposite on the bed, doughnuts and biscuits scattered between the two of you.
‘Who’re you going to ask, Nev?’
‘To the Ball?’
You nod.
‘I, uh- not sure, really. A g-girl.’
‘Mazel tov.’
‘Shush. Here you are, crumby.’ Neville handed you a tissue from his bedside table to place the biscuits on. He didn’t ask who you were going to the ball with, and you had a feeling he wanted to get off the topic, quickly.
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