Neville could not make a subtle entrance into Madam Malkins with a bell jingling over the door, or the clutch of student Healers giggling and pointing at him. He blanched, tugging nervously at his robe collar, before he realized that it wasn't him they were interested in at all, but the bolts of reflective fabric hanging on the wall right behind him.
Gulping, Neville made his way to the counter, where there was hardly space enough to speak to anyone, with all of the families and young witches and wizards talking hurriedly about their plans for their costumes.
Why had Hannah insisted they dress as, her words, "something couple-y"? To be fair, Hannah could hardly insist on anything, but she may as well have. It would break her heart not to float alongside some Robin Hood, or Lancelot, or Godric, and upsetting her was the very last thing Neville wanted to do.
"Excuse me, ah, I could use some help?"
Help in telling my girlfriend I haven't worn a costume since I was eight, because Gran dressed me as a krup every year.