Of the Unlikely Sort

"Would you mind passing the lacewings, please?" he asked you, his arm trembling as he reached across the table.

Afraid perhaps that if you two accidentally touched, the temptation to cannibalize him would be too strong to pass up. You were a Slytherin, after all.

And you looked at him, oddly.

You had never noticed him. He caught the look on your face.

His face very generic, his hair typical, but his hands, as they shook slightly, they were long and conditioned. They were used on a daily basis.

You passed him the lacewings.

Then stared at your own hands, at their softness, and their shortness. At your manicured fingers, and pristine cuticles.

And then you attempted to finish your potion.

*****

You learned his name was Neville Longbottom.

That he was Gryffindor.

That you should avoid him - which you did with little problem.

That his father was an Auror and his mother was a housewife. And that they were both nutters in St. Mungo's.

You learned that when he walked, he looked at the hard stone floor of Hogwarts. You learned that he lived with his grandmother. You learned that he called Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan his best friends, when in fact, it was secretly a frog named Trevor.

And you learned Trevor liked to leap.

Especially into girls' cleavages. Not that you had any at the time, granted, but it was during the Yule Ball fourth year, Draco Malfoy as your date, when you decided you wanted some air, tired of watching pretty Hermione Granger, with her sleeked hair, being courted by Viktor Krum. You happened upon Neville outside - on a balcony, in the gardens, the location did not matter - as he whispered to his green friend.

"What kind of date does a frog make, Longbottom?" you queried, your attitude displayed about as well as your developing breasts.

He stared at you, frightened.

"I-I wouldn't know what kind of date a frog would make," he stuttered, " 'cause this is a toad." And he walked back into the party, holding his amphibian loosely in his long fingers; it leaped straight onto you when he passed you.

You screamed, not that anybody could hear you over the Weird Sisters.

You screamed, not that it would remove the slimy, warty thing wiggling somewhere within your dress.

You screamed, not that this clumsy boy with red cheeks would attempt to touch you, let alone get his frog - toad, you reminded yourself matter-of-factly, not a frog - out from somewhere between your breasts.

And as the frog fell down, down from underneath your dress, it poked its bulging eyes from underneath your beautiful dress, you laughed. Why, though? The hilarity of the moment? The awkwardness of the situation? The relief at having this boy's pet on the ground and not crawling somewhere on your abdomen?

He laughed too, as he reached down to retrieve his toad. As he dusted your dress, and conjured a handkerchief to remove the slime from the top of your dress. His eyes sparkled, and his shoulders straightened.

He made eye contact with you.

And you liked it.

*****

You heard things about him. That he was a coward, and that he fraternized with the blowhard hero sort, the carrot-topped sidekick sort and know-it-all girl book buddy sort.

Of course, you didn't believe all of it. This does not mean, though, that you didn't believe some of it.

Draco was what was expected of you, but he saw you as nothing more than a conquest. The number of notches on his broomstick, the better life was for him, with his glistening white-blonde hair and angelic looks.

You heard many things from your fellow Slytherins - that the Longbottom boy was crazy, maniacal, or both. That insanity ran in his family. That he lived with his grandmother. That he was horrible at Potions (you, though, saw this first-hand in Snape's class), and horrible at sticking up for himself. That he was wonderful at Herbology and wonderful at listening whenever you spoke to him.

But you rarely did this, seeing as how you were avoiding him.

Somehow, though, by fifth year, you would exchange a passing barb with him when Draco was around, or a silent hello, or a wave, when Draco wasn't around.

And sometimes, you'd carefully pet that stupid little toad when you saw him peek his head out from his pocket. He was, after all, the first thing to ever touch your breasts. That must count for something.

And sometimes, you would encounter him in the library, that toad sitting on the table, as he studied some book intently, his tongue out, touching his top lip as he concentrated, his fingers moving down the page as he read. You would sit down, and he would look up, shocked that you would sit at any table with him. And as darkness fell and dinnertime came and went, you would talk, about toads and school and families and expectations. About Slytherins and Gryffindors, Muggles and wizarding folk, and whatever other opposites settled themselves on your tongue.

"What would the Slytherins think," he questioned, "knowing that you were with me?"

"That's the thing about my House," you answered capably. "We rarely think, we just do."

*****

Then one day, it happened.

After enough quiet conversations in dimly lit libraries, after enough nights spent sneaking out to skip rocks on the water, after enough hours toad-sitting to deem yourself an expert on the creatures, after enough locked gazes in the Great Hall and hesitant touches in hallways, you realized that you were in love with him.

That the reserved boy you had met in your Potions class first year was in fact the boy that you knew - you knew - you were meant to be with.

When you realized that information, and it took you a good six years to realize it, the first person you wanted to share it with was he. He who had listened to you about your problems with Draco and Madam Hooch and Hagrid, and comforted you when you were scared about life post-Hogwarts, and talked you up after you had failed your Herbology final.

You found him in Northern corridor, near Hagrid's, coming out of class, clutching that toad, who was not so much slimy as he was aridly-challenged.

You pulled him away from his conversation with Scarboy - no, you literally pulled him out of that conversation, clutching his elbow fiercely, pushing him out towards the grass, him complaining and questioning, "What's going on?" non-stop.

"I love you," you said, your 16-year-old self absolutely bursting at the seams to tell him this news you had just found out.

"What?" he squeaked.

"I love you," you repeated, and at that moment, you didn't care if he loved you back or if anybody was watching. You kissed him. And you kissed him some more as the sunlight shined brightly on your golden hair. He ran his fingers through your hair, somewhat awkwardly.

Everything he did was awkward, you realized, but that was fine.

You pulled back, and he stared at you stupidly.

He licked his lips and cocked his eyebrow.

"What?" he squeaked.

*****

Things progressed. You held his hand and said hi to him with words now. You didn't insult him, even if Draco was around. You were proud. And you felt pretty. He made you feel pretty.

Seventh year rolled around and the ribbing never stopped. If it wasn't Potter, it was Granger. If it wasn't Granger, it was Weasley. If it wasn't Weasley, it was Bulstrode. If it wasn't Bulstrode, it was Crabbe. If it wasn't Crabbe, it was Malfoy. It came from every end, from every House, from every person who couldn't quite believe that you had fallen for that toad-wielding schmuck.

He isn't a schmuck, you'd defend.

Is his slavemaster of a grandmother paying you? they would ask you.

No. I just love him. Then you would walk away.

Your parents had no problem with the arrangement. He was pureblooded, if not a little too anxious whenever he was invited for dinner. And he had no spunk, they complained.

He has spunk, you'd defend. He just has to be comfortable with you.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" you asked him later as you lay with him in the darkness, holding hands, him clutching you closer on the bed, his legs entangled with yours.

"I'm sure," he murmured before kissing you as you ran your fingers over his pudgy face, which was not so much pudgy as it was kissable.

"We're going to be leaving Hogwarts soon," you started slowly, trembling as badly as his hand on that first day in Potions.

He looked at you, seeking your eyes despite the black that surrounded you. "I know," he responded, squeezing his hand.

"I-ummm, I need to tell you something," you said.

"What?"

You stared past his gaze, over the top of his nose towards the moon that shone brightly. "I'm pregnant."

And he rose a little, and took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled. Repeated a few more times before opening his mouth.

You closed your eyes. Afraid. Of his reaction? Of his response to impending fatherhood?

You opened his eyes.

You saw his goofy smile.

"Well," he laughed, "I hope it's either a boy or a girl."

"I'd say that's a pretty safe bet," you responded.

"Do you think you'll hyphenate your name, then?"

And you gasped. You didn't expect this. "Are you asking me to marry you, Longbottom?

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Life would be much easier - just you and your frog," you pointed out.

"I wouldn't know what kind of bride a frog would make," he said, "but I am attracted to you more than I am a toad."

You punched him in the shoulder, kissed him, and snuggled deeper into him.

*****

When the doctor handed you Francesca Parkinson Longbottom, you knew that it hadn't been in vain, walking around Hogwarts that last year as if you were a blimp underneath yards and yards of robes.

Not that anyone would have given you a hard time, considering Draco had threatened to sic Crabbe and Goyle on anyone who even looked at this married seventh year the wrong way.

He was beside you in the birthing room, coaching you, breathing with you, when he was not sitting down in the chair provided, on the verge of fainting. He was in worse condition than you ever were. Nauseous and green, constantly moaning, trying to be supportive when the one thing he wanted was out of that room.

And when Frankie started crying in your arms, her blonde hair and chubby cheeks front and center, your husband looked at you, looked at the baby, and started crying too.

You knew that it hadn't been in vain.

Because this was it.

This was it.

This was your home - wherever you were didn't matter as long as you were with your husband, and your baby.

And your toad.

Welcome home.