Scarlet Woman

I may not be brain of Britain. I may not be breath-takingly, heart-stoppingly, seat-wettingly gorgeous to look at. But if there's one thing I am, then it's green-fingered.

The plants are my children. I nurture them, I talk to them, I love them. I spend more time with my babies than I do with real people, which, admittedly, is a bit scary. But Gran says we all have our weaknesses, and surely plants are a better weakness than booze, rampant sex or naughty illegal substances.

I stood in the abandoned greenhouse, sunlight streaming through the transparent roof in hazy stripes. The tomato plants curled round their cane in exotic vines, their sumptuous crimson fruit hanging enticingly from them, begging to be eaten. Pots of geraniums lit up the place with their sunny pinks and gave the air that intensely satisfying all-natural aroma. I stroked their hairy leaves, like velvet under my stubby and blistered fingers. I lovingly lifted the leaves, giving them a little water.

"Yes, Daddy loves you," I crooned to them. I often found myself singing to them, giving a full performance. Their favourite was a song about somebody called Mrs. Robinson I had heard once on a muggle radio station.

"And this afternoon, live from your greenhouse," I began in my best announcer's voice. "NEEVILLEE LON-". I wheeled round to see Gran standing at the door with a bemused look on her face.

"Er, hello, Gran, I was just-"

"Yes." She nodded, thankfully not interested. "Brush your hair, Neville, we're going out."

I half-heartedly ran a hand through my hair. "Where?"

"The Weasleys- for tea. Come on, now."

Before there was any time for protest, she had taken my arm and frogmarched me up the garden path. Goodbye, my babies, I thought morosely, not wanting to leave them on their own. As I walked up the path and through the narrow lanes to The Burrow, the funeral march played repeatedly in my head as I thought of one particular flame haired temptress.

*

I stared down into the chipped, sunny yellow teacup, watching the ripples my breath made in the tea. It was the only thing I could do to stop myself from looking up, from recognising the same rose pink walls, the same scruffy armchairs and the same Mrs. Weasley I had seen that night.

It was driving me mad. On one side was Ginny, the mud wrestling princess. Across from me was the scarlet woman, her chair currently empty. And on my other side was Gran, a nasty little reminder of my absent conscience, my slipped halo and scuffed wings.

"Here they are!" Mrs. Weasley sung gaily, rejoining us. She was carrying a box that was stuffed to the brim with photographs. I caught a glimpse of Ginny, who groaned and rolled her eyes at the sight of them.

I watched photograph after photograph flip past each other, various red heads moving in and out of pictures in a blur. I looked around the table, unaware that my sleeve was in the butter. It was then that I noticed the absence of Mr. Weasley, and felt my face deepen into a vermilion blush.

Mrs. Weasley gave a running commentary over the photographs, her eyes shining with beautiful memories. Every part of her body spoke with unconditional love, with motherly fondness. I was shamefully jealous- why couldn't I have a mother who loved me like that? Why couldn't anyone love me like that? I moodily removed my sleeve from the butter, wiping my sleeve surreptitiously on the blue gingham tablecloth.

Wait.

Was that......?

Oh God, oh God, what do I do, what do I do? As Mrs. Weasley spoke so lovingly of her family, her foot ran itself up my leg, stopping at... No! My knee jerked in shock and it bashed hard into the table, making me swear out loud in pain and frustration. Two pairs of eyes blinked in bemusement, one pair shone, burning through my soul, and one pair glared at me in disgust.

"Sorry, sorry..." I muttered, breaking into a sheepish grin. "Got to get some fresh air."

The relief of leaving that table was immense. As I stepped out of the back door, the warm air washed over me. I sighed, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. I wasn't surprised to find that I had forgotten them, to me, forgetting was an art and I was a connoisseur in it. But there was something in my pocket that rustled. I drew it out, confused. It was a piece of parchment, yellowed at the edges and scented faintly of cinnamon. With trembling hands, I turned it over to find scrawled in red ink:

Neville. Come and see me tonight. The house will be empty.

Aaaaargh!! Jumbled words flew through my head, words which made no sense at all. I said no, didn't Mrs. Weasley understand, didn't she care at all, no, no, no no no, no, no!

"Hiya, Nev."

I actually jumped at the sound. Then I turned around to face the source of the voice, trying to appear normal. Silly Neville, normal is something you will never be, I thought as I tried to force my mouth into a smile.

Ginny smiled, her perfect red lips amongst creamy skin like roses in the snow. I didn't understand how she, a saint, could be sprung of a scarlet woman. I must have been staring at her because she blushed a little and dropped her eyes to the ground.

"I brought you a scone. You didn't eat anything." She put on her mother's voice, unaware of the bizarre effect it had on me, the pictures it put in my head. "You'll waste away, Neville Longbottom."

I mumbled something about not wanting a scone, thank you, and that I was just heading home to feed the cat.

Only I didn't have a cat, did I?

"Eat the scone, Evil. I made them this morning, especially for you." She batted her eyelashes, almost giving me a coronary.

But I mustn't take the scone. Taking the scone is like giving in to Mrs. Weasley. I can resist temptation. I can!

"No thanks, Gin."

Oblivious to my answer, Ginny stuffed the scone into my mouth. I spluttered and choked as she laughed her bizarre cackle. The scone was perfection, the fruit sweet and plump, the dough buttery and crumbling in my mouth.

"Mmmphanks, Gin. Ffewy nysshe."

She laughed more and more. My mind kept flooding back to Mrs. Weasley, to her games and desires. What did somebody so devoted to their family want with a chubby, useless teenager? And what did I want from her? Tonight, I thought, hand closing around the parchment in my pocket, I would find out.

"Well, I've fed you. Now you can go home and feed the cat." Ginny smiled, squeezed my ribs and went back to the house. When she walked, her hair flew out behind her like a floating blaze. Her beauty hurt me.

"I don't have a cat," I called after her, left standing alone on the long, cobbled path.