Looking up from where he was considering how best to pack several pounds of peat moss, Neville grinned.
"I don't think Filch is going to be routinely sniffing trunks," he teased, reaching out for his wand and waving it in the direction of the wireless, lowering the volume on the adverts that preceded his and Hannah's favorite programme. "Though it might kill him, if he starts. I'm sure Crabbe and Goyle don't believe in washing their socks."
The hols had brought to Neville a peace he hadn't thought possible after the last few wretched weeks in the castle, but it seemed as though the worse things got, the more he felt he could handle them, could handle anything. For all he wanted and would enjoy himself now with Hannah, he was almost anxious to return to school, to be doing.