Flower

Daisies

In retrospect, at least I had a plan. That's about all that can be said for me. I had a plan. Plans, really. One for today, one for yesterday, the day before, and so on. Everything was planned out ahead of time. It's acting out the plan that keeps killing me.

Take today. I'm at a table in the library, working on Snape's essay. I can see Hermione at the table across the room, surrounded by books. The setup is perfect. Meaning it's time for my plan to brilliantly not swing into action.

I don't set my quill down. I don't get up from my table and I don't walk swiftly and confidently across the library. I then proceed to not lean casually up against her table, which causes her to not look up at me, our eyes not locking in a fiery embrace. Then she doesn't say "Oh, hello Neville. Did you need help with that transfiguration assignment?" To which I don't reply "Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date next Hogsmeade weekend." Then she doesn't say (And here the plan does get a little weird) "Oh yes, Neville! Take me in your arms! I love you desperately!" The scene reaches its climax when we don't join in a passionate kiss, not vowing to be together forever and ever until death do us part amen.

But hey, at least there was a plan.

Who the hell am I kidding? I'm pathetic. Every day I plan to say something to her, and every day I don't say it. I could write a book of all the things I didn't say. Except of course that I'm not going to write it because that would involve following through on a plan. Pathetic.

Last night I dreamed I was in a hosptial ward and Hermione was visiting me. I tried to tell her how I feel about her, but I could only communicate by giving her bubblegum wrappers, which she threw in the trash. I'm sure it means something terribly significant, but I really don't want to think about it.

Hogsmeade weekend came and went (the last one before Christmas), and I didn't ask her. She went with Ron, who's funny and smart and brave and tall and athletic and good-looking and just generally all-around perfect for her. They sat at a table at the Three Broomsticks and had a fantastic time, I'm sure.

Harry went with Ginny and Luna into Zonko's, and they spent the day dreaming up ways to terrorize Malfoy. One time I bought a bag of dungbombs from Zonko's. I still have it under my bed, unopened.

I spent the day alone behind the Shrieking Shack, making flowers grow. I learned how to do it in extra lessons with Sprout. I can make them come up even through the three inches of snow on the ground. If I really concentrate, I can make them grow right out of the side of the house. I can do roses and tulips and carnations, but my favorites are still daisies. They're not as pretty as the others, but they're the nicest.

God, listen to me. I sound like such a dork. "I like daisies, they're the nicest." I wonder what Malfoy would say to me. Or Harry or Ron. Or Hermione.

At any rate, now it's late and Snape's essay is kicking my ass (as usual). Hermione's probably still up in the common room; she can help me with it. I'd make a plan if I weren't so tired.

Out of habitual pessimism I should note that I didn't end up getting any help with that essay. I'll have to come up with something tomorrow morning before class. Oh well.

Oh wow. Oh wow oh wow oh wow oh wow.

Okay, so I got back to the common room, and sure enough she was there, surrounded by books.

She was crying.

I stood transfixed for a moment. Here we go again. I'm going to not go over and not say "Hey, what's wrong?" She's going to not tell me about her problems, I'm going to not comfort her, and, not smiling through her tears, she won't say "Thanks so much Neville. You're a great guy." A brilliant plan.

I went over and said "Hey, what's wrong?" Oh wow.

Turns out the date with Ron went terribly. He had no idea what to say. I told her I couldn't believe that; Ron always had something funny to say. She said no, he was completely clueless about her feelings. I told her that was men for you. She said that couldn't be all men, because I knew how she was feeling and came to talk to her about it. (Oh wow.) I countered that I had no idea what was going on. That made her laugh.

She laughed. I made her laugh. Oh wow.

At some point, I'm not sure quite when, I noticed that I was holding something. Looking down, it was a handful of daisies. Holy crap, did I just do that? She noticed too, because she pointed and asked what I was holding.

I froze. Think of something, dork! "I, uh... thought some daisies might cheer you up." What the hell kind of romantic line is that? She was speechless for a moment, probably thinking of a polite way to decline.

But then she smiled at me (Oh wow), took the flowers (Oh wow), and gave a shaky "Thank you." (I think she would have added the "You're a great guy" except that it sounded like she was having trouble speaking.)

As I got up to leave, she got her voice back. "Since I won't see you over vacation, I guess I'd better say Merry Christmas now."

"Merry Christmas" I said back, my spirits falling just a bit.

I hate Christmas.

Hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it.

Christmas means sitting around Gran's smelly old house, talking to all my smelly old relatives, who all give me socks, and I have to write a thankyou note for each pair. They ask me things like "How soon are you taking your apparition test?" and "How soon are you becoming a prefect like your parents were?" They don't ask "How soon are you going to live up to the family name?" even though they're all thinking it.

But of course the hospital is the worst. I've been told they're my parents, and they've been told I'm their son, but none of us can remember that far back and I'm not sure any of us believe it anymore. I think we recognize each other less with each visit.

I keep thirty-nine bubblegum wrappers in a box under my bed, and I've got a space all cleared out for number forty. One wrapper per visit, three visits per year, since the age of three. I think part of me thinks they're pieces to a puzzle, and if I get enough of them, they'll magically fit together and form a solution. Nevermind that every damn wrapper looks the same.

I step out of the curtains, wrapper number forty in my pocket. I push past Gran, hating her, push through the door, hating Christmas, hating these people who aren't my parents, hating my pathetic self most of all...

And Hermione is sitting on a bench, holding a bouquet.

"Hey, Neville. I thought some daisies might cheer you up."