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hackthis_archiveIt could be the best thing I've ever written, but sadly, because LJ keeps f**king up my shit, we'll never know. Seriously. It's all here, split into two entries though, just to be on the safe side.
Harry Potter
The Trouble with Harry Potter
The trouble with fancying Harry Potter, as Neville saw it, was that *everybody* fancied Harry Potter. Small children, old hags, Slytherins (if Seamus were to be believed), even Trevor spent a large portion of his amphibian time hiding under Harry’s bed when he wasn’t trying to escape from Gryffindor tower. Everyone and everything fancied Harry, and Harry, top man that he was, did nothing to discourage them. Harry graciously accepted valentines from younger years, had yet to hex Dennis Creevey for stalking him, and had the decency to look bashful when Justin Finch-Fletchley tried to invite him to the Yule Ball in their sixth year. Harry didn’t call Justin a flaming poof like Malfoy probably would have. He never said he didn’t find Justin attractive; he simply said that he was planning to go alone for personal reasons, and he hoped that Justin didn’t mind.
Neville had been in the hall at the time, which was how he knew all of this, but the grace with which Harry reacted under pressure always amazed him; and the lack of name-calling had stretched Neville’s Harry-worship to epic proportions. After all, Justin was quite fit, and Neville certainly wouldn’t have minded going with him; but Justin hadn’t asked him. Justin had asked Harry, just like half of Hogwarts, and Neville obviously hadn’t stood a chance in Muggle hell of getting Harry to go with him, so he hadn’t bothered. That hadn’t stopped him from wishing, however, and it certainly hadn’t stopped him from standing near the lemon tarts for most of the ball, and staring at Harry. Thankfully, the Great Hall had been bewitched to look like a starry night, so Harry hadn’t noticed, or if he had he hadn’t said anything. The same couldn’t be said for Parvati or Lavender, both of whom had forced Neville to dance with them because ‘Neville could do better than sitting about mooning over Harry.’
Neville didn’t necessarily agree.
He wasn’t the one who had fought off He-Who-Made-Neville-Need-a-Lie-Down-Just-Thinking-About-Him. Neville was the one who blundered and broke other people’s prophecies, and then bled all over his own robes. Neville wasn’t a star player on Gryffindor’s Quidditch team; he was the one that had broken his wrist the first time he tried to fly. He was never going to be the top of their year with his Potions marks, either. He was quite aware of all his faults and shortcomings, and only in the past year or so had he given any consideration to the idea that he might have something to offer someone else. He *was* quite good in Herbology, and he did all right in DA. He wasn’t too bad looking, at least his uncle Algie didn’t try and sell him anymore when they went into Hogsmeade together, but Neville didn’t really see that as enough to recommend himself to *Harry Potter*. However, Harry was his mate, and since it was only a matter of time before Neville couldn’t even sit at the same table as Harry without staring himself into a stupor, Neville felt he could make a sufficient arse of himself looking no more absurd then he probably already did. Besides, Neville fancied Harry, not as a gay or straight thing, but as a Harry thing.
If Neville could explain that, with a minimum amount of embarrassment, then surely Harry would be able to turn him down gracefully.
::
As far as Neville saw it, there was no such thing as spending too much time with Harry. With the exception of Ron and Hermione, Neville spent more time with Harry than almost anyone else, except perhaps Dean and Seamus. They’d shared a room for more than seven years, had classes and ate meals together. Of course the majority of these activities took place with their entire house, if not their entire year, but Neville took what he could get, so he felt fortunate to also spend four hours a week in DA practise at Harry’s instruction.
The hours Neville spent in the Room of Requirement were among some of his most enjoyable, and as another lesson came to a close and everyone began filing out of the room, Neville took a moment to gather his wits about him and build up what small store of courage he had. Harry, as usual, was staying behind to straighten up, and Neville made himself useful by doing likewise. He watched warily as Ron and Hermione laughed and joked by the exit, and it was only when Harry looked ready to leave that something inside Neville spoke up.
“Harry, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?”
Harry turned around to answer, but Neville’s question had inevitably caught the attention of Hermione, and she batted Ron’s hands away in an attempt to be serious. “Of course you can, Neville,” she said, waiting expectantly.
Neville flushed and stammered for several seconds, before Ron came to his rescue by poking Hermione in the ribs teasingly. “My Harry, what long hair you’ve got. You didn’t look like that this morning.”
Both Ron and Harry laughed, and Neville managed a few weak smiles as Hermione harrumphed before poking Ron back in retaliation.
“Don’t mind her, Neville,” Ron said, ushering Hermione out of the room. “I’ve always suspected that she wanted to be a boy, but just hadn’t found the right spell yet.”
The door closing muffled Hermione’s reply, but Neville definitely heard Ron give a shout of pain before the lock snicked shut behind them. They made quite a good pair as far as Neville could tell, just the right balance of friendship and that other stuff. Not that Neville had ever thought of Ron that way, but he had fancied Hermione back in their third year. Of course, it wouldn’t do to be thinking about Hermione when he was supposed to be thinking about…
“Neville? Are you all right?” Neville blinked and shook his head. He’d wandered off as he was often want to do. It was a tendency that always drove his gran mental, and Merlin, he didn’t want to be thinking about her right now.
Shaking his head again, Neville focused his eyes on the tips of Harry’s shoes that were peeking out from the bottom of his robe. The toe of his left trainer was scuffed and looked in danger of coming unattached from the rest of the shoe at any second.
“I’m all right, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. You said you wanted to talk to me, right?”
“Right.” Neville swallowed and tried to calm himself. His heart seemed to be beating faster than normal.
“Right. So.”
“So.”
Harry stood there, waiting, and Neville’s tongue froze. He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say. He’d written down a course of action on the palm of his hand, but words? Bugger. Glancing down, Neville tried to read the blurred writing on his left hand with increasing anxiety. He’d forgotten that DA made him sweat; he had no idea what to do now, and he jumped when he felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder.
Harry was only slightly taller than Neville, and his proximity made Neville a bit queasy. Now he was not staring only at Harry’s trainers, but at his robes, which weren’t totally closed and showed bits of his trousers.
If Neville tried hard, he could probably smell Harry.
“Neville, whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?” Harry’s voice washed over Neville like a Cleaning Charm, and he wondered if Harry could carry on a conversation with the top of his head without growing annoyed. It would be for the best if Neville looked Harry in the face, but he wasn’t sure if he could stand seeing the rejection as well as hearing it.
Taking a deep breath, Neville lifted his head, and stared. Harry was right *there*: black messy hair, thin pink lips and green eyes hidden behind smudged glasses. The words tumbled out before Neville could stop them.
“I, um, fancy you, and I wanted to know if you wanted to perhaps do something. Sometime. If you wanted. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to, and I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you or anything, Harry, because I know you like girls. Not boys. And please don’t hate me. We can forget this if you want, actually that’s probably for the best, don’t you think?”
Neville went to clap his hand over his mouth, but Harry blocked him, and Neville’s mind went hazy when Harry smiled at him before leaning down.
The kiss wasn’t supposed to come first.
The correct order of events was gone, along with all the other notes on Neville's palm, but he knew for certain that the kiss wasn’t at the top of the list. It was supposed to come third, or perhaps fourth, after Neville had confessed how much he fancied Harry, but before he ran for his life. After all, Neville had been quite sure that telling Harry that he was mad about him, and desperately wanted to snog him, and would very much like to take him on a proper date was going to require running away at some point. That didn’t seem to be happening, however, ergo Neville was horribly confused even though Harry Potter’s arms were around his waist, and he was kissing Neville quite enthusiastically.
Neville emitted a noise, not unlike a whimper, and moved closer, stepping briefly on Harry’s foot. Harry’s glasses pressed into Neville’s forehead, and Neville wondered momentarily if they should stop so Harry could remove them. When Harry nipped at his lower lip and his tongue slipped into Neville’s mouth, all thoughts of anything evaporated. One of Harry’s hands slid up Neville’s back to cradle his head. Harry’s fingers rubbed the hair that Neville’d had sheared last week, and Neville quivered as one of Harry’s legs was pressed between his. That was most certainly not a wand in Harry’s pocket as far as Neville could tell.
His fingers scrabbled at Harry’s robes, and when Harry pulled away slowly, Neville gasped for air. He shook his head, one, twice, until Harry gripped his jaw and forced Neville to look at him. Harry’s glasses were askew, he smiled as his thumb rubbed Neville’s cheek, and he used his free hand to straighten his glasses. “Don’t do that, you’ll shake something loose.”
Neville gaped. His heart was in danger of jumping out his chest from shock, but he felt quite certain that dying while snogging Harry Potter would be a good way to go. “You didn’t do that when you turned down Justin.”
Harry’s nose crinkled when he laughed. “That’s because I was turning him *down*, Neville.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
Neville thought again, but it was difficult with Harry so close and breathing on Neville’s face. Harry smelled like trifle and roast chicken. “So, you’re not turning me down?”
“I try not to turn down people I fancy,” Harry said. “I think that sort of defeats the purpose.”
Neville peered at Harry carefully. There were worry lines etching themselves across his forehead, directly perpendicular to that scar, and when Neville took a step back Harry’s hand slid from his face. “But you can’t possibly fancy me.”
Harry considered him quizzically. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because.”
“That’s a crap answer, Neville, and besides it’s rubbish. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
Neville didn’t want to think poorly of Harry, but what kind of daft question was that? Neville looked in the mirror every bloody morning to clean his teeth and shave, and only recently had the mirror stopped telling him he was a hopeless cause.
Neville had been looking in the mirror since he was knee high to Hagrid. Instead of saying so, he just shook his head.
“Look, Harry, if you’re not interested, I don’t mind, but don’t mess me about.”
The smile that had been creeping across Harry’s face disappeared, but he stepped closer, and Neville took another step back. He was prepared to take another step, when Harry reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Neville, but you’re quite fit.”
Neville’s eyes rolled so hard he felt sure they’d get stuck in his head, and he turned away. Obviously Harry was having fun at his expense, and Neville really wasn’t up for that today. He should have thought this through better, and he could hear his gran muttering about his inability to get anything right.
When he moved to leave, however, Harry’s hand was still holding his wrist, and his fingers were stroking Neville’s palm. “Look, Harry, if you don’t fancy me, that’s fine; an explanation isn’t necessary. You’ve always been nice to me, so I’m sorry if I’ve mucked that up, but don’t say something you don’t mean just to make me feel better.”
Neville tried to break away again, but when he moved, so did Harry. “Wait, you can’t leave yet,” he said. “We need to talk.”
For some reason the words ‘we need to talk’ completely flew over Neville’s head, and all he could see was Harry refusing to let him leave with even a modicum of dignity left. The exasperation began to build behind his eyes, causing him to blink, and he looked from Harry, down at his wrist, and then back again, pointedly.
“You haven’t always been this stubborn, have you? I remember –“ Harry stopped. “You’re not leaving until I have my say,” he corrected, and Neville’s legs began to wobble underneath his robes. He’d really stepped in it this time, and Harry’s fingers against his palm were making the wrong parts pay attention.
“I do like you, Neville, whether you believe me or not is up to you, but I do.” Neville began to protest but Harry cut him off. “Let me finish, first,” he said.
“The thing about it though, is that I haven’t really known what to say because there’s this other stuff that you don’t know. I haven’t been sure how to tell you before, but now I think I have to because I want this, us, to work out.” Harry paused, released Neville’s wrist, and gave him a tentative smile.
Neville rubbed his wrist absently. It didn’t hurt, but the rubbing was far better than him tapping his foot, or tripping over his tongue as he was wont to do when he could sense anxiety approaching. “What sort of stuff could you have to tell me?”
“The sort of stuff I should have told you a long time ago, but didn’t. I… I don’t know why.” Harry’s voice trailed off, and he looked away.
Neville wasn’t good with a lot of things, but he knew nerves when he saw them. People like Harry didn’t get attacks of the nerves. Ever.
Neville stopped rubbing his wrist. Now Harry had his undivided attention.
“For example?” Neville prompted.
“You remember the prophecy that was broken that day at the Ministry?”
“Harry, I’m really sorry about that,” Neville began, but Harry silenced him with a hand over his mouth.
“That wasn’t the only copy of the prophecy,” Harry continued. “Dumbledore was there when the prophecy was made, and he knew the whole thing. He hadn’t told me before, which is a different story altogether, but when I went to see him at the end of fifth year, after all that business at the Ministry, he told me what it was about.”
Neville’s eyes were glued to Harry’s face, but his brain was confused. The feel of Harry’s fingers against his mouth wasn’t helping his ability to concentrate, and Neville couldn’t figure out why the hell Harry was telling him all this.
“The prophecy talked about a baby that would be born at the end of the summer to parents who fought on the side of good. The prophecy said that this baby could bring about the end of Voldemort.” Neville flinched when Harry said the name, but his mind reeled from the news.
“Dumbledore said that the Order looked into the prophecy, and found out there were only two possibilities: me,” Harry paused. “And you.”
Harry kept talking but Neville tuned him out. His heart slowed down until he was sure it wasn’t beating any more, and eventually, Harry’s hand dropped from his mouth. His brain, which had always tended to be slow, chose that moment to make up for lost time and began firing thought after thought into his conscious. He could have been Harry Potter. His parents had almost been killed because of a prophecy. Why wasn’t he dead? Why wasn’t he the famous one? Where was his scar? What the hell did that mean for the rest of his life? Was Harry telling him that this was his prophecy or not? That he was almost good enough, but not quite? Why tell Neville now?
For once, Neville’s mouth moved just as fast as his brain. “You knew this and you didn’t tell me earlier?” he said, edging away from Harry.
His leg bumped against a chair, but Neville sidestepped it. He couldn’t stop staring at Harry, who looked strangely helpless, but people like Harry weren’t helpless. Except that Neville was like Harry or Harry was like Neville. He couldn’t quite sort it out yet, but there was something itching under Neville’s skin that he didn’t like. He needed to get away and think about what Harry had said.
Harry stepped closer, and Neville shook his head to warn him off. “I wanted to tell you, Neville, I just didn’t know how to start. Every time I thought about it, I couldn’t quite figure how to bring it up. Then all this time went by, and I still hadn’t told you, it became almost too easy. I figured if I did eventually tell you, you’d be mad that I’d waited.”
It wasn’t Neville’s imagination that Harry looked nervous. In fact, he looked almost concerned, and quite contrite.
None of that meant anything to Neville at that moment.
“You were concerned that I would be angry because you *knew* why my mum and dad are mental, and that I could have been you?” Neville voice wavered, but there was no mistaking the harsh tone.
“Yes. No, it’s not like that,” Harry insisted. “I just didn’t know what to say.”
Neville repeated each word back, slowly. “You didn’t know what to say.”
He stared at Harry in disbelief.
Who was this boy? This wasn’t the famous Harry Potter that his gran had told him great stories about when he’d cried at night when he was small. Harry Potter always knew what to say. Harry was brave and smart and truthful. He was perfect.
Actually, no, he wasn’t.
Harry Potter was a fucking liar.
“You let me feel guilty for almost two years about breaking your prophecy when it was mine too?!” Neville shouted.
Harry stared.
Neville had never shouted in his life.
Neville never raised his voice to anyone. He was meek and mild. Neville was never a threat. He was just a poor orphan who lived with his grandmother and couldn’t remember anything about his parents. Neville was lousy in all his classes and might as well have been a Squib. Neville was a no one.
Or perhaps not.
He took a step towards Harry, and stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were crooked, again. The scar on his forehead was ugly, and he was just another boy. He wasn’t anybody special at all. He was just another teenage boy, and Neville had been stupid enough to fall for his nonsense.
“Did you just snog me because you felt guilty?” he said, honestly curious. “Or was that you feeling sorry for me?”
Harry’s mouth fell open in shock. “No! Neville, I’d never do that to you, you know that. I fucked up, I admit it, but I do fancy you; I just didn’t know how to tell you. You can ask Hermione. Just last week she told me I was hopeless because it was obvious that you had no idea I was keen on you, but because I couldn’t figure out what to say, nothing would ever come of it. Why do you think I said no to –“
“Shut. Up.” Neville cut Harry off. “You expect me to believe that the great *prophesied* Harry Potter fancies the lowly Neville Longbottom, who wasn’t even good enough to be killed by Vol – Vol – You-Know-Who? Come off it, Harry.”
Harry’s face darkened, and he looked on the verge of shouting himself. Instead, he took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Neville, just let me explain.”
Neville was incredulous. “Explain *what* exactly? I think you’ve explained quite enough, don’t you?”
The question was rhetorical, but Harry took his opening where he could. “We have to talk about this, Neville, you need to understand—“
“I think I understand too bloody well, thank you very much.”
“I didn’t do this to hurt you. I know what it’s like to be lied to.”
Neville was adamant. “This is not about *you*. Not every thing is about Harry bloody Potter!”
“I can explain,” Harry insisted through gritted teeth.
“No.” Turning around, Neville took several long strides to reach the door. His fingers grasped the handle, and the door opened grudgingly. It seemed to weigh twice as much as normal.
“Neville, *please*.” Harry moved across the room quickly, but he stopped immediately when Neville yanked his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at Harry’s chest.
The look of shock on Harry’s face would have been laughable on anyone else, and Neville’s hand shook only slightly. He felt as though he should be crying, but couldn’t quite remember how.
“Don’t you fucking ‘Neville’ me, Harry. You knew. You *knew*, and you didn’t see fit to tell me. I’d always thought you were this great hero, who fought for truth and right and all that bollocks. I was so proud that I could call you my friend.” Neville’s voice dropped slightly. “I fancied you madly, but obviously I couldn’t see the truth. You’re just a liar, Harry Potter. Stay away from me.”
Neville shoved his wand in his pocket hard enough to rip his robes, and left the room, ignoring Harry’s voice trailing after him.
::
Neville stumbled up the stairs to the tower, his cheeks heated and his skin itching strangely. He could feel all sorts of things simmering below the surface, and he stopped for a second and leaned against the wall, feeling inexplicably exhausted. The stones were cold where he rubbed his cheek again them, and when he closed his eyes he saw the rims of Harry’s glasses, which forced him to keep his eyes open. It was an odd feeling, not blinking, but everything just then was strange, foreign and wrong.
Neville had just shouted at Harry. He had just *fought* with Harry Potter and walked away. Neville couldn’t imagine anyone ever walking away from Harry, especially if the result meant feeling so tired. Perhaps it was a side effect of all the anger, because Neville was most definitely angry, and he didn’t particularly enjoy the sensation. He never tended to get seriously upset for a host of reasons, not the least of which being he never had much to be vexed about. Neville tended to accept his lot in life and get on with it. He was never going to be the fastest or the strongest or the richest or the most popular. That was simply how it went. That was how Neville was built, but he made the best of what he did have. He didn’t have boys and girls fawning all over him, but he’d felt that he didn’t need that when he had good friends. Even if one person wasn’t quite as good a friend as he’d thought, Neville himself was still dependable and sincere. He made a fine show of doing what had to be done when it had to be done. Harry had once said he was worth twelve of Draco Malfoy, and Malfoy was quite rich and somewhat attractive, but Neville didn’t really want to think about Malfoy or Harry.
He scratched at his neck, sighed, and kept walking down the hall, ignoring the murmuring of several portraits. When he reached the Fat Lady, he cleared his throat to wake her up from her doze. She looked at him for several seconds, lifting a monocle he had never seen her with before.
“Are you quite all right, dear? You don’t look terribly well.”
Neville shrugged; he didn’t feel terribly well either, yet, for once, he had no problem remembering the password.
“Persnickety,” he said, waiting for the portrait to clear the entrance.
Though it was late in the evening, there were still quite a few people in the common room, and Neville nodded at one of the Creevey brothers and gave Ginny Weasley a half-hearted smile as he headed for the stairs. He heard someone calling his name but ignored it, and his right foot had just cleared the first stair when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder.
Neville spun around so quickly that he pushed whoever it was away at the same time that he fell off the stair.
“Bloody hell, Neville, what was that for?” Ron’s eyes were huge, and he was rubbing at his shoulder when Neville had presumably pushed him. By the fireplace, Neville could see Hermione watching them like an eagle owl.
“Sorry.”
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Ron said.
Neville lied. “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”
“I was just going to ask you where Harry was. I reckoned he’d be coming back with you and…”
Neville cut Ron off abruptly. “I don’t know; I’m not his keeper.” He got a strange sense of satisfaction from the gobsmacked look on Ron’s face as he turned away and went up to their room.
Thankfully, neither Dean nor Seamus were there, and Neville made minimal work of preparing for bed. Having short hair cut down his showering time drastically, and he sat on his bed rubbing his hair dry, until there was a great to-do at the window and an enormous owl fell thru and into the room.
Despite whatever sort of day Neville had been having, he had to laugh. Evinrude was a strange vulture-hybrid sort of owl, but he was quite smart even if he was rather ugly and accident-prone. Neville’s gran, Phyllida, had even had a hat made in homage to her favorite owl.
Neville dropped his towel on the bed, and patted the mattress for Evinrude to fly up. The owl made a strange sort of hooting-squawking noise when he landed, and one of his wings smacked Neville in the head.
“I’m all right,” he said when Evinrude hoot-squawked again.
Evinrude rustled his feathers, and Neville glanced at piercing yellow eyes. “Yes, really. Don’t worry about it.” He set about removing the parchment from the owl’s leg, and only jumped slightly when Evinrude let loose with another hoot-squawk.
“Don’t worry about it, really. You’ll set gran worrying, and I doubt you want to fly back out here twice in the same week.” Evinrude’s wings flapped, and he hopped about on the bed, butting Neville in the chin.
“Stop that, or I’ll never be able to remove this,” Neville said, his finger wedged between the parchment and the owl’s leg.
Evinrude finally came to a rest on Neville’s newly washed pyjamas, and Neville shook his head. He removed the parchment with a tug, freeing a small square of red tissue paper that floated a few inches above the coverlet rather than falling onto the bed. With one last hoot-squawk, Evinrude flapped off the bed and took off, just barely managing to squeeze himself out the small window.
Neville smiled despite himself, and pulled the hangings around his bed before unrolling the parchment.
///Something told me you needed this. – Gran///
Short and to the point, just like his gran.
Neville unwrapped the red packet and stared at the shining star that emerged from the last fold of tissue paper. He had no idea what it was supposed to do. When he reached out to touch it, his fingers tingled, and in a vaguely painful way it reminded Neville of how he felt when Harry kissed him. Rather than dwell on that, he quickly changed into his pyjamas, hopped out of bed long enough to extinguish the light and then climbed back into bed. The glittering star hovered near the canopy, but Neville would sort it out in the morning. He had just closed his eyes when a burst of brightness made him open them again.
The star had exploded, and in its place were thousands of little stars, sticking to the canopy of his bed. It was like being outdoors without leaving his room, and Neville blinked in wonder. His gran had only surprised him with things like this when he was small, and she’d never told him how it was done. She’d said he would find out the truth when he was older; she’d said that about a lot of things. If she had known about the prophecy, though, she would have told him. It wasn’t in her nature to keep secrets, and despite the events of the day, Neville fell asleep feeling strangely contented about his lot in life.
At least some people were still trustworthy.
::
The trouble with Hogwarts, as Neville saw it, was that despite all appearances to the contrary, it wasn’t as big as it should have been. If someone wanted to avoid another person, who was in their year and shared their bedroom and all their classes, doing so was not terribly easy.
Over the next several days, Neville was forced to leave the tower at the most ridiculous hours of the morning, except for when there was Quidditch practise, just to eat breakfast without becoming irrationally ill and angry. During classes, he made a point of arriving late, thereby ensuring several detentions, but also ensuring he was the closest to the door and the furthest away from The-Boy-Who-Neville-Was-Very-Disappointed-In.
Neville continually skipped lunch, whilst being the first to dinner, and every free hour was spent in the greenhouses, which seemed to be the only safe havens in the entire school. Thankfully, Professor Sprout was more than encouraging of Neville’s Herbology interest, and if he failed all his other NEWTS, he would certainly get top marks in that discipline.
There was one class, however, that Neville would take no chances in being tardy for. No matter how disappointed Neville was in Harry and his behaviour, and all the things that might have been but obviously were not going to be now, he knew better than to be late for Potions and risk the wrath of Snape.
So, on the correct day and time, while everyone else enjoyed their lunch, Neville waited at the top of the stairs to the dungeon and when the first groups of students began leaving the Great Hall, Neville glommed onto a group that included Seamus and Parvati. He kept to himself as much as possible as the group descended into the dungeons, and he paused only to wipe his palms on his robes when it came time to enter the classroom. Dean was in the middle of telling some story about his beloved West Ham, but all conversation ceased immediately when they crossed over the threshold, which told Neville that Snape was already in residence.
Neville’s heart began to beat erratically, and he kept his head down, bumping into the side of a workstation as everyone took up their places. He was entirely too young to have some sort of heart episode like his Aunt Octavia, but it was Snape’s class, and he always managed to find new ways to torture Neville, so anything was possible. Everyone was silent as the seconds ticked by and more students trickled into the room; Neville kept his eyes firmly trained on his worktop until he heard someone shifting around beside him. With any luck it would be Hermione, there to save him from yet another disastrous Potions class, but knowing Neville it was probably Malfoy or Bulstrode, there to torment him.
However, neither was the case, and Neville paled considerably when he looked up and came face to face with Harry Potter. Harry’s smile faded away as Neville stared at him in disbelief. The cheek of him was unbelievable.
“Go away, Harry,” Neville said, turning away to see if there was anyone without a partner. There was Goyle, but then Crabbe waddled through the door. There was Parkinson, but she was with Bulstrode. Hermione was with Ron, but there was Malfoy. Could partnering Malfoy really be that much worse than being with Harry? Neville began to gather his books, but he was stopped by Harry’s hand on his shoulder and Blaise Zabini sliding in beside Malfoy.
“Neville –“
Neville rounded on Harry angrily, shrugging Harry’s hand off. “Go. Away.”
Something flashed across Harry’s face briefly, but before he could speak, Snape’s voice drawled from somewhere behind Neville, and Neville dropped all his books on the floor. “When you’ve quite finished, Longbottom, perhaps you’d be good enough to pay attention to my instruction. I plan on having *everyone* pass their NEWTS this year, even the completely inept. However, I’d rather that not mean I have to spend every second hovering over *you* simply to make that happen.”
Neville swallowed before turning around and looking Snape in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
Neville’s heart hammered in his chest, and he wondered for the thousandth time what it was about Snape that terrified him so much, apart from the sallow features and the greasy hair and the completely rotten disposition. Snape moved on, thankfully, and Neville bent down to pick up his books. He was completely appalled when Harry tried to help him.
“Neville, I just wanted to talk to you,” Harry whispered, picking up Neville’s Transfiguration text. “I’m sorry about not telling you, but can we talk about –“
“Piss off, Harry,” Neville cut Harry off, snatching the book away. “I’ve got nothing to say to liars.”
“Would you just listen for a bloody minute?” Harry hissed, but Neville ignored him. He stood back up, turned away from Harry and arranged his books on the corner of his desk, doing his best to pay attention to what Snape was saying about Revitalising Potions. It was twice as difficult as usual, however, with Harry next to him trying to get his attention, and Snape shooting dirty looks at them every other minute.
Finally, Snape finished with his instruction, and Neville immediately scooted away to gather ingredients. There was a rush for the dried tadpoles, and Neville found himself queued up behind Hermione and wishing desperately he could work with her instead. “Hermione, do you suppose Ron would trade places with me if you asked him too?” he said, emptying a spoon full of salamander eggs onto the ingredients tray.
Hermione didn’t look up from measuring out her Abyssinian figs. “Why would I do that, Neville?”
“Because I don’t want to work with Harry.”
Hermione frowned. “Why not?”
Neville tried to whisper, “It’s personal.”
Hermione’s reply was drowned out by Malfoy cackling behind them. “It’s personal, is it, Longbottom? What happen, you and Potty have a lover’s quarrel? Oh, wait, I suppose you’d have to get a date, first, for that wouldn’t you? Not to worry, I’ve heard mudbloods aren’t at all picky.”
Neville blanched, then coloured, and then got exceptionally angry.
The next several seconds passed by in a blur that he would never be able to explain, even under Veritaserum. One moment, Malfoy was sniggering at Neville, and the next Hermione was shouting and restraining Ron. Harry appeared out of nowhere and socked Malfoy a good one in the eye. Malfoy went down, and Pansy Parkinson started shouting as well. There were dried tadpoles and figs everywhere, and over the din, Harry tried to apologise to Neville, *again*, and Neville began shouting, *again*. Which then led Harry to start shouting as well about Neville’s ‘bloody-mindedness’ which really did Neville’s head in because *he* wasn’t the lying git.
Neville didn’t need any fake hero trying to rescue him, thank you very much. The air turned thick with indignation and the smell of powdered dandelions, and Neville turned around to get away from the mess that had been created, but Harry wouldn’t let it go.
Neville very clearly heard the words “unreasonable fit bastard,” and he thought they were directed at him.
“Can’t you just piss off?” Neville snapped, whirling around to face Harry, only to find himself staring into Snape’s pinched visage.
All the blood in Neville’s body went from hot to cold, and his legs barely managed to keep him upright.
“’Piss. Off.’ Mr Longbottom?” Snape’s voice was cold and disembodied. He wasn’t even sneering. Neville was entirely too old to faint, but he was very close. This was his worst-case scenario, ever, and he desperately wanted to say ‘Riddikulus.’
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t. I didn’t.” Neville tried, but his vocal cords seized up, and he bit his tongue when Snape’s stare penetrated through to his brain.
“You’re not sorry, yet, but you will be,” Snape said. “You can think about how sorry you are while you and your *hero*, Mr Potter, are serving detention this evening.”
Neville nodded, but Snape wasn’t finished. He turned to the assembled students who were looking back at him warily.
“Miss Parkinson please escort Mr Malfoy to the Infirmary lest his eye swell up and he run into something, thereby injuring the other. Weasley, stop grunting like an animal. The rest of you hooligans may also think about how sorry Longbottom and Potter are while you write me an eighteen-inch essay on the ten properties of Unicorn blood when combined with the heart of a Welsh Green Dragon.”
Continued here.
Harry Potter
The trouble with fancying Harry Potter, as Neville saw it, was that *everybody* fancied Harry Potter. Small children, old hags, Slytherins (if Seamus were to be believed), even Trevor spent a large portion of his amphibian time hiding under Harry’s bed when he wasn’t trying to escape from Gryffindor tower. Everyone and everything fancied Harry, and Harry, top man that he was, did nothing to discourage them. Harry graciously accepted valentines from younger years, had yet to hex Dennis Creevey for stalking him, and had the decency to look bashful when Justin Finch-Fletchley tried to invite him to the Yule Ball in their sixth year. Harry didn’t call Justin a flaming poof like Malfoy probably would have. He never said he didn’t find Justin attractive; he simply said that he was planning to go alone for personal reasons, and he hoped that Justin didn’t mind.
Neville had been in the hall at the time, which was how he knew all of this, but the grace with which Harry reacted under pressure always amazed him; and the lack of name-calling had stretched Neville’s Harry-worship to epic proportions. After all, Justin was quite fit, and Neville certainly wouldn’t have minded going with him; but Justin hadn’t asked him. Justin had asked Harry, just like half of Hogwarts, and Neville obviously hadn’t stood a chance in Muggle hell of getting Harry to go with him, so he hadn’t bothered. That hadn’t stopped him from wishing, however, and it certainly hadn’t stopped him from standing near the lemon tarts for most of the ball, and staring at Harry. Thankfully, the Great Hall had been bewitched to look like a starry night, so Harry hadn’t noticed, or if he had he hadn’t said anything. The same couldn’t be said for Parvati or Lavender, both of whom had forced Neville to dance with them because ‘Neville could do better than sitting about mooning over Harry.’
Neville didn’t necessarily agree.
He wasn’t the one who had fought off He-Who-Made-Neville-Need-a-Lie-Down-Just-Thinking-About-Him. Neville was the one who blundered and broke other people’s prophecies, and then bled all over his own robes. Neville wasn’t a star player on Gryffindor’s Quidditch team; he was the one that had broken his wrist the first time he tried to fly. He was never going to be the top of their year with his Potions marks, either. He was quite aware of all his faults and shortcomings, and only in the past year or so had he given any consideration to the idea that he might have something to offer someone else. He *was* quite good in Herbology, and he did all right in DA. He wasn’t too bad looking, at least his uncle Algie didn’t try and sell him anymore when they went into Hogsmeade together, but Neville didn’t really see that as enough to recommend himself to *Harry Potter*. However, Harry was his mate, and since it was only a matter of time before Neville couldn’t even sit at the same table as Harry without staring himself into a stupor, Neville felt he could make a sufficient arse of himself looking no more absurd then he probably already did. Besides, Neville fancied Harry, not as a gay or straight thing, but as a Harry thing.
If Neville could explain that, with a minimum amount of embarrassment, then surely Harry would be able to turn him down gracefully.
::
As far as Neville saw it, there was no such thing as spending too much time with Harry. With the exception of Ron and Hermione, Neville spent more time with Harry than almost anyone else, except perhaps Dean and Seamus. They’d shared a room for more than seven years, had classes and ate meals together. Of course the majority of these activities took place with their entire house, if not their entire year, but Neville took what he could get, so he felt fortunate to also spend four hours a week in DA practise at Harry’s instruction.
The hours Neville spent in the Room of Requirement were among some of his most enjoyable, and as another lesson came to a close and everyone began filing out of the room, Neville took a moment to gather his wits about him and build up what small store of courage he had. Harry, as usual, was staying behind to straighten up, and Neville made himself useful by doing likewise. He watched warily as Ron and Hermione laughed and joked by the exit, and it was only when Harry looked ready to leave that something inside Neville spoke up.
“Harry, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?”
Harry turned around to answer, but Neville’s question had inevitably caught the attention of Hermione, and she batted Ron’s hands away in an attempt to be serious. “Of course you can, Neville,” she said, waiting expectantly.
Neville flushed and stammered for several seconds, before Ron came to his rescue by poking Hermione in the ribs teasingly. “My Harry, what long hair you’ve got. You didn’t look like that this morning.”
Both Ron and Harry laughed, and Neville managed a few weak smiles as Hermione harrumphed before poking Ron back in retaliation.
“Don’t mind her, Neville,” Ron said, ushering Hermione out of the room. “I’ve always suspected that she wanted to be a boy, but just hadn’t found the right spell yet.”
The door closing muffled Hermione’s reply, but Neville definitely heard Ron give a shout of pain before the lock snicked shut behind them. They made quite a good pair as far as Neville could tell, just the right balance of friendship and that other stuff. Not that Neville had ever thought of Ron that way, but he had fancied Hermione back in their third year. Of course, it wouldn’t do to be thinking about Hermione when he was supposed to be thinking about…
“Neville? Are you all right?” Neville blinked and shook his head. He’d wandered off as he was often want to do. It was a tendency that always drove his gran mental, and Merlin, he didn’t want to be thinking about her right now.
Shaking his head again, Neville focused his eyes on the tips of Harry’s shoes that were peeking out from the bottom of his robe. The toe of his left trainer was scuffed and looked in danger of coming unattached from the rest of the shoe at any second.
“I’m all right, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. You said you wanted to talk to me, right?”
“Right.” Neville swallowed and tried to calm himself. His heart seemed to be beating faster than normal.
“Right. So.”
“So.”
Harry stood there, waiting, and Neville’s tongue froze. He hadn’t really thought about what he was going to say. He’d written down a course of action on the palm of his hand, but words? Bugger. Glancing down, Neville tried to read the blurred writing on his left hand with increasing anxiety. He’d forgotten that DA made him sweat; he had no idea what to do now, and he jumped when he felt Harry’s hand on his shoulder.
Harry was only slightly taller than Neville, and his proximity made Neville a bit queasy. Now he was not staring only at Harry’s trainers, but at his robes, which weren’t totally closed and showed bits of his trousers.
If Neville tried hard, he could probably smell Harry.
“Neville, whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?” Harry’s voice washed over Neville like a Cleaning Charm, and he wondered if Harry could carry on a conversation with the top of his head without growing annoyed. It would be for the best if Neville looked Harry in the face, but he wasn’t sure if he could stand seeing the rejection as well as hearing it.
Taking a deep breath, Neville lifted his head, and stared. Harry was right *there*: black messy hair, thin pink lips and green eyes hidden behind smudged glasses. The words tumbled out before Neville could stop them.
“I, um, fancy you, and I wanted to know if you wanted to perhaps do something. Sometime. If you wanted. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to, and I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you or anything, Harry, because I know you like girls. Not boys. And please don’t hate me. We can forget this if you want, actually that’s probably for the best, don’t you think?”
Neville went to clap his hand over his mouth, but Harry blocked him, and Neville’s mind went hazy when Harry smiled at him before leaning down.
The kiss wasn’t supposed to come first.
The correct order of events was gone, along with all the other notes on Neville's palm, but he knew for certain that the kiss wasn’t at the top of the list. It was supposed to come third, or perhaps fourth, after Neville had confessed how much he fancied Harry, but before he ran for his life. After all, Neville had been quite sure that telling Harry that he was mad about him, and desperately wanted to snog him, and would very much like to take him on a proper date was going to require running away at some point. That didn’t seem to be happening, however, ergo Neville was horribly confused even though Harry Potter’s arms were around his waist, and he was kissing Neville quite enthusiastically.
Neville emitted a noise, not unlike a whimper, and moved closer, stepping briefly on Harry’s foot. Harry’s glasses pressed into Neville’s forehead, and Neville wondered momentarily if they should stop so Harry could remove them. When Harry nipped at his lower lip and his tongue slipped into Neville’s mouth, all thoughts of anything evaporated. One of Harry’s hands slid up Neville’s back to cradle his head. Harry’s fingers rubbed the hair that Neville’d had sheared last week, and Neville quivered as one of Harry’s legs was pressed between his. That was most certainly not a wand in Harry’s pocket as far as Neville could tell.
His fingers scrabbled at Harry’s robes, and when Harry pulled away slowly, Neville gasped for air. He shook his head, one, twice, until Harry gripped his jaw and forced Neville to look at him. Harry’s glasses were askew, he smiled as his thumb rubbed Neville’s cheek, and he used his free hand to straighten his glasses. “Don’t do that, you’ll shake something loose.”
Neville gaped. His heart was in danger of jumping out his chest from shock, but he felt quite certain that dying while snogging Harry Potter would be a good way to go. “You didn’t do that when you turned down Justin.”
Harry’s nose crinkled when he laughed. “That’s because I was turning him *down*, Neville.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
Neville thought again, but it was difficult with Harry so close and breathing on Neville’s face. Harry smelled like trifle and roast chicken. “So, you’re not turning me down?”
“I try not to turn down people I fancy,” Harry said. “I think that sort of defeats the purpose.”
Neville peered at Harry carefully. There were worry lines etching themselves across his forehead, directly perpendicular to that scar, and when Neville took a step back Harry’s hand slid from his face. “But you can’t possibly fancy me.”
Harry considered him quizzically. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because.”
“That’s a crap answer, Neville, and besides it’s rubbish. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
Neville didn’t want to think poorly of Harry, but what kind of daft question was that? Neville looked in the mirror every bloody morning to clean his teeth and shave, and only recently had the mirror stopped telling him he was a hopeless cause.
Neville had been looking in the mirror since he was knee high to Hagrid. Instead of saying so, he just shook his head.
“Look, Harry, if you’re not interested, I don’t mind, but don’t mess me about.”
The smile that had been creeping across Harry’s face disappeared, but he stepped closer, and Neville took another step back. He was prepared to take another step, when Harry reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Neville, but you’re quite fit.”
Neville’s eyes rolled so hard he felt sure they’d get stuck in his head, and he turned away. Obviously Harry was having fun at his expense, and Neville really wasn’t up for that today. He should have thought this through better, and he could hear his gran muttering about his inability to get anything right.
When he moved to leave, however, Harry’s hand was still holding his wrist, and his fingers were stroking Neville’s palm. “Look, Harry, if you don’t fancy me, that’s fine; an explanation isn’t necessary. You’ve always been nice to me, so I’m sorry if I’ve mucked that up, but don’t say something you don’t mean just to make me feel better.”
Neville tried to break away again, but when he moved, so did Harry. “Wait, you can’t leave yet,” he said. “We need to talk.”
For some reason the words ‘we need to talk’ completely flew over Neville’s head, and all he could see was Harry refusing to let him leave with even a modicum of dignity left. The exasperation began to build behind his eyes, causing him to blink, and he looked from Harry, down at his wrist, and then back again, pointedly.
“You haven’t always been this stubborn, have you? I remember –“ Harry stopped. “You’re not leaving until I have my say,” he corrected, and Neville’s legs began to wobble underneath his robes. He’d really stepped in it this time, and Harry’s fingers against his palm were making the wrong parts pay attention.
“I do like you, Neville, whether you believe me or not is up to you, but I do.” Neville began to protest but Harry cut him off. “Let me finish, first,” he said.
“The thing about it though, is that I haven’t really known what to say because there’s this other stuff that you don’t know. I haven’t been sure how to tell you before, but now I think I have to because I want this, us, to work out.” Harry paused, released Neville’s wrist, and gave him a tentative smile.
Neville rubbed his wrist absently. It didn’t hurt, but the rubbing was far better than him tapping his foot, or tripping over his tongue as he was wont to do when he could sense anxiety approaching. “What sort of stuff could you have to tell me?”
“The sort of stuff I should have told you a long time ago, but didn’t. I… I don’t know why.” Harry’s voice trailed off, and he looked away.
Neville wasn’t good with a lot of things, but he knew nerves when he saw them. People like Harry didn’t get attacks of the nerves. Ever.
Neville stopped rubbing his wrist. Now Harry had his undivided attention.
“For example?” Neville prompted.
“You remember the prophecy that was broken that day at the Ministry?”
“Harry, I’m really sorry about that,” Neville began, but Harry silenced him with a hand over his mouth.
“That wasn’t the only copy of the prophecy,” Harry continued. “Dumbledore was there when the prophecy was made, and he knew the whole thing. He hadn’t told me before, which is a different story altogether, but when I went to see him at the end of fifth year, after all that business at the Ministry, he told me what it was about.”
Neville’s eyes were glued to Harry’s face, but his brain was confused. The feel of Harry’s fingers against his mouth wasn’t helping his ability to concentrate, and Neville couldn’t figure out why the hell Harry was telling him all this.
“The prophecy talked about a baby that would be born at the end of the summer to parents who fought on the side of good. The prophecy said that this baby could bring about the end of Voldemort.” Neville flinched when Harry said the name, but his mind reeled from the news.
“Dumbledore said that the Order looked into the prophecy, and found out there were only two possibilities: me,” Harry paused. “And you.”
Harry kept talking but Neville tuned him out. His heart slowed down until he was sure it wasn’t beating any more, and eventually, Harry’s hand dropped from his mouth. His brain, which had always tended to be slow, chose that moment to make up for lost time and began firing thought after thought into his conscious. He could have been Harry Potter. His parents had almost been killed because of a prophecy. Why wasn’t he dead? Why wasn’t he the famous one? Where was his scar? What the hell did that mean for the rest of his life? Was Harry telling him that this was his prophecy or not? That he was almost good enough, but not quite? Why tell Neville now?
For once, Neville’s mouth moved just as fast as his brain. “You knew this and you didn’t tell me earlier?” he said, edging away from Harry.
His leg bumped against a chair, but Neville sidestepped it. He couldn’t stop staring at Harry, who looked strangely helpless, but people like Harry weren’t helpless. Except that Neville was like Harry or Harry was like Neville. He couldn’t quite sort it out yet, but there was something itching under Neville’s skin that he didn’t like. He needed to get away and think about what Harry had said.
Harry stepped closer, and Neville shook his head to warn him off. “I wanted to tell you, Neville, I just didn’t know how to start. Every time I thought about it, I couldn’t quite figure how to bring it up. Then all this time went by, and I still hadn’t told you, it became almost too easy. I figured if I did eventually tell you, you’d be mad that I’d waited.”
It wasn’t Neville’s imagination that Harry looked nervous. In fact, he looked almost concerned, and quite contrite.
None of that meant anything to Neville at that moment.
“You were concerned that I would be angry because you *knew* why my mum and dad are mental, and that I could have been you?” Neville voice wavered, but there was no mistaking the harsh tone.
“Yes. No, it’s not like that,” Harry insisted. “I just didn’t know what to say.”
Neville repeated each word back, slowly. “You didn’t know what to say.”
He stared at Harry in disbelief.
Who was this boy? This wasn’t the famous Harry Potter that his gran had told him great stories about when he’d cried at night when he was small. Harry Potter always knew what to say. Harry was brave and smart and truthful. He was perfect.
Actually, no, he wasn’t.
Harry Potter was a fucking liar.
“You let me feel guilty for almost two years about breaking your prophecy when it was mine too?!” Neville shouted.
Harry stared.
Neville had never shouted in his life.
Neville never raised his voice to anyone. He was meek and mild. Neville was never a threat. He was just a poor orphan who lived with his grandmother and couldn’t remember anything about his parents. Neville was lousy in all his classes and might as well have been a Squib. Neville was a no one.
Or perhaps not.
He took a step towards Harry, and stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were crooked, again. The scar on his forehead was ugly, and he was just another boy. He wasn’t anybody special at all. He was just another teenage boy, and Neville had been stupid enough to fall for his nonsense.
“Did you just snog me because you felt guilty?” he said, honestly curious. “Or was that you feeling sorry for me?”
Harry’s mouth fell open in shock. “No! Neville, I’d never do that to you, you know that. I fucked up, I admit it, but I do fancy you; I just didn’t know how to tell you. You can ask Hermione. Just last week she told me I was hopeless because it was obvious that you had no idea I was keen on you, but because I couldn’t figure out what to say, nothing would ever come of it. Why do you think I said no to –“
“Shut. Up.” Neville cut Harry off. “You expect me to believe that the great *prophesied* Harry Potter fancies the lowly Neville Longbottom, who wasn’t even good enough to be killed by Vol – Vol – You-Know-Who? Come off it, Harry.”
Harry’s face darkened, and he looked on the verge of shouting himself. Instead, he took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Neville, just let me explain.”
Neville was incredulous. “Explain *what* exactly? I think you’ve explained quite enough, don’t you?”
The question was rhetorical, but Harry took his opening where he could. “We have to talk about this, Neville, you need to understand—“
“I think I understand too bloody well, thank you very much.”
“I didn’t do this to hurt you. I know what it’s like to be lied to.”
Neville was adamant. “This is not about *you*. Not every thing is about Harry bloody Potter!”
“I can explain,” Harry insisted through gritted teeth.
“No.” Turning around, Neville took several long strides to reach the door. His fingers grasped the handle, and the door opened grudgingly. It seemed to weigh twice as much as normal.
“Neville, *please*.” Harry moved across the room quickly, but he stopped immediately when Neville yanked his wand out of his pocket and pointed it at Harry’s chest.
The look of shock on Harry’s face would have been laughable on anyone else, and Neville’s hand shook only slightly. He felt as though he should be crying, but couldn’t quite remember how.
“Don’t you fucking ‘Neville’ me, Harry. You knew. You *knew*, and you didn’t see fit to tell me. I’d always thought you were this great hero, who fought for truth and right and all that bollocks. I was so proud that I could call you my friend.” Neville’s voice dropped slightly. “I fancied you madly, but obviously I couldn’t see the truth. You’re just a liar, Harry Potter. Stay away from me.”
Neville shoved his wand in his pocket hard enough to rip his robes, and left the room, ignoring Harry’s voice trailing after him.
::
Neville stumbled up the stairs to the tower, his cheeks heated and his skin itching strangely. He could feel all sorts of things simmering below the surface, and he stopped for a second and leaned against the wall, feeling inexplicably exhausted. The stones were cold where he rubbed his cheek again them, and when he closed his eyes he saw the rims of Harry’s glasses, which forced him to keep his eyes open. It was an odd feeling, not blinking, but everything just then was strange, foreign and wrong.
Neville had just shouted at Harry. He had just *fought* with Harry Potter and walked away. Neville couldn’t imagine anyone ever walking away from Harry, especially if the result meant feeling so tired. Perhaps it was a side effect of all the anger, because Neville was most definitely angry, and he didn’t particularly enjoy the sensation. He never tended to get seriously upset for a host of reasons, not the least of which being he never had much to be vexed about. Neville tended to accept his lot in life and get on with it. He was never going to be the fastest or the strongest or the richest or the most popular. That was simply how it went. That was how Neville was built, but he made the best of what he did have. He didn’t have boys and girls fawning all over him, but he’d felt that he didn’t need that when he had good friends. Even if one person wasn’t quite as good a friend as he’d thought, Neville himself was still dependable and sincere. He made a fine show of doing what had to be done when it had to be done. Harry had once said he was worth twelve of Draco Malfoy, and Malfoy was quite rich and somewhat attractive, but Neville didn’t really want to think about Malfoy or Harry.
He scratched at his neck, sighed, and kept walking down the hall, ignoring the murmuring of several portraits. When he reached the Fat Lady, he cleared his throat to wake her up from her doze. She looked at him for several seconds, lifting a monocle he had never seen her with before.
“Are you quite all right, dear? You don’t look terribly well.”
Neville shrugged; he didn’t feel terribly well either, yet, for once, he had no problem remembering the password.
“Persnickety,” he said, waiting for the portrait to clear the entrance.
Though it was late in the evening, there were still quite a few people in the common room, and Neville nodded at one of the Creevey brothers and gave Ginny Weasley a half-hearted smile as he headed for the stairs. He heard someone calling his name but ignored it, and his right foot had just cleared the first stair when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder.
Neville spun around so quickly that he pushed whoever it was away at the same time that he fell off the stair.
“Bloody hell, Neville, what was that for?” Ron’s eyes were huge, and he was rubbing at his shoulder when Neville had presumably pushed him. By the fireplace, Neville could see Hermione watching them like an eagle owl.
“Sorry.”
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Ron said.
Neville lied. “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”
“I was just going to ask you where Harry was. I reckoned he’d be coming back with you and…”
Neville cut Ron off abruptly. “I don’t know; I’m not his keeper.” He got a strange sense of satisfaction from the gobsmacked look on Ron’s face as he turned away and went up to their room.
Thankfully, neither Dean nor Seamus were there, and Neville made minimal work of preparing for bed. Having short hair cut down his showering time drastically, and he sat on his bed rubbing his hair dry, until there was a great to-do at the window and an enormous owl fell thru and into the room.
Despite whatever sort of day Neville had been having, he had to laugh. Evinrude was a strange vulture-hybrid sort of owl, but he was quite smart even if he was rather ugly and accident-prone. Neville’s gran, Phyllida, had even had a hat made in homage to her favorite owl.
Neville dropped his towel on the bed, and patted the mattress for Evinrude to fly up. The owl made a strange sort of hooting-squawking noise when he landed, and one of his wings smacked Neville in the head.
“I’m all right,” he said when Evinrude hoot-squawked again.
Evinrude rustled his feathers, and Neville glanced at piercing yellow eyes. “Yes, really. Don’t worry about it.” He set about removing the parchment from the owl’s leg, and only jumped slightly when Evinrude let loose with another hoot-squawk.
“Don’t worry about it, really. You’ll set gran worrying, and I doubt you want to fly back out here twice in the same week.” Evinrude’s wings flapped, and he hopped about on the bed, butting Neville in the chin.
“Stop that, or I’ll never be able to remove this,” Neville said, his finger wedged between the parchment and the owl’s leg.
Evinrude finally came to a rest on Neville’s newly washed pyjamas, and Neville shook his head. He removed the parchment with a tug, freeing a small square of red tissue paper that floated a few inches above the coverlet rather than falling onto the bed. With one last hoot-squawk, Evinrude flapped off the bed and took off, just barely managing to squeeze himself out the small window.
Neville smiled despite himself, and pulled the hangings around his bed before unrolling the parchment.
///Something told me you needed this. – Gran///
Short and to the point, just like his gran.
Neville unwrapped the red packet and stared at the shining star that emerged from the last fold of tissue paper. He had no idea what it was supposed to do. When he reached out to touch it, his fingers tingled, and in a vaguely painful way it reminded Neville of how he felt when Harry kissed him. Rather than dwell on that, he quickly changed into his pyjamas, hopped out of bed long enough to extinguish the light and then climbed back into bed. The glittering star hovered near the canopy, but Neville would sort it out in the morning. He had just closed his eyes when a burst of brightness made him open them again.
The star had exploded, and in its place were thousands of little stars, sticking to the canopy of his bed. It was like being outdoors without leaving his room, and Neville blinked in wonder. His gran had only surprised him with things like this when he was small, and she’d never told him how it was done. She’d said he would find out the truth when he was older; she’d said that about a lot of things. If she had known about the prophecy, though, she would have told him. It wasn’t in her nature to keep secrets, and despite the events of the day, Neville fell asleep feeling strangely contented about his lot in life.
At least some people were still trustworthy.
::
The trouble with Hogwarts, as Neville saw it, was that despite all appearances to the contrary, it wasn’t as big as it should have been. If someone wanted to avoid another person, who was in their year and shared their bedroom and all their classes, doing so was not terribly easy.
Over the next several days, Neville was forced to leave the tower at the most ridiculous hours of the morning, except for when there was Quidditch practise, just to eat breakfast without becoming irrationally ill and angry. During classes, he made a point of arriving late, thereby ensuring several detentions, but also ensuring he was the closest to the door and the furthest away from The-Boy-Who-Neville-Was-Very-Disappointed-In.
Neville continually skipped lunch, whilst being the first to dinner, and every free hour was spent in the greenhouses, which seemed to be the only safe havens in the entire school. Thankfully, Professor Sprout was more than encouraging of Neville’s Herbology interest, and if he failed all his other NEWTS, he would certainly get top marks in that discipline.
There was one class, however, that Neville would take no chances in being tardy for. No matter how disappointed Neville was in Harry and his behaviour, and all the things that might have been but obviously were not going to be now, he knew better than to be late for Potions and risk the wrath of Snape.
So, on the correct day and time, while everyone else enjoyed their lunch, Neville waited at the top of the stairs to the dungeon and when the first groups of students began leaving the Great Hall, Neville glommed onto a group that included Seamus and Parvati. He kept to himself as much as possible as the group descended into the dungeons, and he paused only to wipe his palms on his robes when it came time to enter the classroom. Dean was in the middle of telling some story about his beloved West Ham, but all conversation ceased immediately when they crossed over the threshold, which told Neville that Snape was already in residence.
Neville’s heart began to beat erratically, and he kept his head down, bumping into the side of a workstation as everyone took up their places. He was entirely too young to have some sort of heart episode like his Aunt Octavia, but it was Snape’s class, and he always managed to find new ways to torture Neville, so anything was possible. Everyone was silent as the seconds ticked by and more students trickled into the room; Neville kept his eyes firmly trained on his worktop until he heard someone shifting around beside him. With any luck it would be Hermione, there to save him from yet another disastrous Potions class, but knowing Neville it was probably Malfoy or Bulstrode, there to torment him.
However, neither was the case, and Neville paled considerably when he looked up and came face to face with Harry Potter. Harry’s smile faded away as Neville stared at him in disbelief. The cheek of him was unbelievable.
“Go away, Harry,” Neville said, turning away to see if there was anyone without a partner. There was Goyle, but then Crabbe waddled through the door. There was Parkinson, but she was with Bulstrode. Hermione was with Ron, but there was Malfoy. Could partnering Malfoy really be that much worse than being with Harry? Neville began to gather his books, but he was stopped by Harry’s hand on his shoulder and Blaise Zabini sliding in beside Malfoy.
“Neville –“
Neville rounded on Harry angrily, shrugging Harry’s hand off. “Go. Away.”
Something flashed across Harry’s face briefly, but before he could speak, Snape’s voice drawled from somewhere behind Neville, and Neville dropped all his books on the floor. “When you’ve quite finished, Longbottom, perhaps you’d be good enough to pay attention to my instruction. I plan on having *everyone* pass their NEWTS this year, even the completely inept. However, I’d rather that not mean I have to spend every second hovering over *you* simply to make that happen.”
Neville swallowed before turning around and looking Snape in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
Neville’s heart hammered in his chest, and he wondered for the thousandth time what it was about Snape that terrified him so much, apart from the sallow features and the greasy hair and the completely rotten disposition. Snape moved on, thankfully, and Neville bent down to pick up his books. He was completely appalled when Harry tried to help him.
“Neville, I just wanted to talk to you,” Harry whispered, picking up Neville’s Transfiguration text. “I’m sorry about not telling you, but can we talk about –“
“Piss off, Harry,” Neville cut Harry off, snatching the book away. “I’ve got nothing to say to liars.”
“Would you just listen for a bloody minute?” Harry hissed, but Neville ignored him. He stood back up, turned away from Harry and arranged his books on the corner of his desk, doing his best to pay attention to what Snape was saying about Revitalising Potions. It was twice as difficult as usual, however, with Harry next to him trying to get his attention, and Snape shooting dirty looks at them every other minute.
Finally, Snape finished with his instruction, and Neville immediately scooted away to gather ingredients. There was a rush for the dried tadpoles, and Neville found himself queued up behind Hermione and wishing desperately he could work with her instead. “Hermione, do you suppose Ron would trade places with me if you asked him too?” he said, emptying a spoon full of salamander eggs onto the ingredients tray.
Hermione didn’t look up from measuring out her Abyssinian figs. “Why would I do that, Neville?”
“Because I don’t want to work with Harry.”
Hermione frowned. “Why not?”
Neville tried to whisper, “It’s personal.”
Hermione’s reply was drowned out by Malfoy cackling behind them. “It’s personal, is it, Longbottom? What happen, you and Potty have a lover’s quarrel? Oh, wait, I suppose you’d have to get a date, first, for that wouldn’t you? Not to worry, I’ve heard mudbloods aren’t at all picky.”
Neville blanched, then coloured, and then got exceptionally angry.
The next several seconds passed by in a blur that he would never be able to explain, even under Veritaserum. One moment, Malfoy was sniggering at Neville, and the next Hermione was shouting and restraining Ron. Harry appeared out of nowhere and socked Malfoy a good one in the eye. Malfoy went down, and Pansy Parkinson started shouting as well. There were dried tadpoles and figs everywhere, and over the din, Harry tried to apologise to Neville, *again*, and Neville began shouting, *again*. Which then led Harry to start shouting as well about Neville’s ‘bloody-mindedness’ which really did Neville’s head in because *he* wasn’t the lying git.
Neville didn’t need any fake hero trying to rescue him, thank you very much. The air turned thick with indignation and the smell of powdered dandelions, and Neville turned around to get away from the mess that had been created, but Harry wouldn’t let it go.
Neville very clearly heard the words “unreasonable fit bastard,” and he thought they were directed at him.
“Can’t you just piss off?” Neville snapped, whirling around to face Harry, only to find himself staring into Snape’s pinched visage.
All the blood in Neville’s body went from hot to cold, and his legs barely managed to keep him upright.
“’Piss. Off.’ Mr Longbottom?” Snape’s voice was cold and disembodied. He wasn’t even sneering. Neville was entirely too old to faint, but he was very close. This was his worst-case scenario, ever, and he desperately wanted to say ‘Riddikulus.’
“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t. I didn’t.” Neville tried, but his vocal cords seized up, and he bit his tongue when Snape’s stare penetrated through to his brain.
“You’re not sorry, yet, but you will be,” Snape said. “You can think about how sorry you are while you and your *hero*, Mr Potter, are serving detention this evening.”
Neville nodded, but Snape wasn’t finished. He turned to the assembled students who were looking back at him warily.
“Miss Parkinson please escort Mr Malfoy to the Infirmary lest his eye swell up and he run into something, thereby injuring the other. Weasley, stop grunting like an animal. The rest of you hooligans may also think about how sorry Longbottom and Potter are while you write me an eighteen-inch essay on the ten properties of Unicorn blood when combined with the heart of a Welsh Green Dragon.”
Continued here.
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Date: 2003-08-14 10:18 am (UTC)*swoons*
That was wonderful! :)
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Date: 2003-08-14 11:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 10:20 am (UTC)I'll stop burbling now and go back to reading.
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Date: 2003-08-14 11:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 10:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 11:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 10:49 am (UTC)Second, oh, my GOD, I'm in love with your story. My crush on Neville is intensified a million-fold now, and I'm squeeing and laughing like a little schoolgirl at the perfection that is this story. If I quoted my favorite lines at you, we'd be here all day long; suffice to say that you nailed *both* of them, perfectly, perfectly, perfectly, and I am just giddy with delight at how right this is.
I absolutely adored the part where the star from Neville's gran exploded for him -- such a gorgeous moment of epiphany. It made me shiver, Zahra. Mostly this whole story just made me shiver from the total goodness of it.
<--- is a complete broken record, but you just rock. This was LOVELY. One of my top 5 favorites, ever, of all the fic I've read spanning several fandoms.
and you're sweet for saying I had anything to do with this. That's a wonderful compliment, and appreciated.
*hugs Zahra tight* We'll miss you a lot. Come back soon.
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Date: 2003-08-14 11:40 am (UTC)*sighs*
This only happens to story I really like, you know. Always some SNFAU in posting.
<--- is a complete broken record, but you just rock. This was LOVELY. One of my top 5 favorites, ever, of all the fic I've read spanning several fandoms.
That has got to be the most amazing thing anybody's ever said to me. Thank you, Sarah. {{{{{hugs}}}}
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Date: 2003-08-14 11:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 01:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 01:44 pm (UTC)It's exactly the pairing I would hope for. Go, Neville!
Beautifully written. Thankyou for sharing it.
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Date: 2003-08-14 03:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 09:28 pm (UTC)But you've been toying with Neville a while now, huh? I know I have missed some of the fic with my gallivanting around and work and blah blah, shut up about me.
This is Neville prime. Make him real, honey, he belongs to you.
“You’re not sorry, yet, but you will be,”
Yes, Severus is related to me, you know.
Also, you do Harry as a blithering idiot v well. I have seen this Harry as a thread through your work, and I v much love him because he's human and just such a twit. V canon.
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Date: 2003-09-02 10:14 am (UTC)But you've been toying with Neville a while now, huh? I know I have missed some of the fic with my gallivanting around and work and blah blah, shut up about me.
It was hard damn you, I sweated some bullets over that plot thing, but Neville was all 'hook me up, dammit!' and I was like 'well, aight.' I am a cheap ho for Neville, and you, but you knew that all ready.
Also, you do Harry as a blithering idiot v well. I have seen this Harry as a thread through your work, and I v much love him because he's human and just such a twit. V canon.
Harry is a twit. He's just lucky cos he's hot and he's got a famous last name.
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Date: 2003-08-14 09:31 pm (UTC)I also detected a sinister overtone with her? maybe? I hope. We shall see.