hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2003-08-14 11:29 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2003-08-14 11:29 am
Entry tags:
Excuse the mad posting angst.
The Trouble With Harry Potter
Part I
Part II
::
In seven years at Hogwarts, Neville had had more than his share of detentions. He hadn’t had quite as many as Seamus or Ron, but he’d certainly had a few, and he’d found that they were all very different depending on the professor.
Detentions for Professor Flitwick tended to be interactive and learning-oriented with special charms, while detentions for Professor Sprout invariably involved something Herbology-related. McGonagall’s detentions tended to be tedious, but fair, while Filch just went for old-fashioned hard labour, much like Neville’s gran. Detentions with Snape, however, were drawn out sessions in pain, suffering and sadism, which was why Neville was trapped in one of Snape’s less than well-lit storerooms, trying to make order out of complete and utter chaos.
Cauldrons clanked as he piled them on top of each other so he could get into the corners of the room, and clean as if his life depended on it, which it might have knowing Snape. If there were a system to be found to Snape’s disorder, Neville had yet to discover it. Of course, he was only supposed to be cleaning, not rearranging, because Snape “wouldn’t trust him to organise books in the library without causing an accident,” and “would sooner have tea with first years” than let Neville touch his precious ingredients.
So, instead of cataloguing thousands of ingredients, like Harry, Neville was sweeping and sneezing and getting dust all over his robes. He could have spent quite a long amount of time resenting Snape, which he did when he wasn’t fearing him, but he’d much rather resent Harry, who kept popping around the doorway and inquiring if Neville needed anything.
Neville did not need anything, no thanks to Harry bloody Potter, who was still incredibly fit even if he was a deceiving git, who had fame and adoration and parents who were dead instead of wandering around the fourth floor of St Mungo’s. Not to get Neville wrong, he loved his mum and dad very much, but he didn’t really remember much about life before he lived with his gran, and he wouldn’t have minded hearing stories about what his parents were like when they were at school. People always went on about Lily and James Potter, but nobody seemed to remember Frank and Alice Longbottom except their immediate family.
All things considered, Neville could’ve had a lot to feel angry and hostile about, and… and yet Neville didn’t think he did hostile terribly well. Every snide remark pained him just that little bit, and somewhat unexpectedly, he still fancied Harry despite the recent revelations. Harry had always been kind to him, even when he didn’t have to be, and he seemed to understand about Neville’s parents. He never made fun of Neville’s clumsiness. Even before Neville had realised he fancied Harry, he had genuinely liked him, which perhaps was what made everything so much worse: he had trusted Harry, and Harry had abused that.
Neville had always thought Harry was above that sort of behaviour. To find out he was just as bad as everyone else was tremendously disappointing, if not very humbling. It was a long fall from the top of any pedestal, and Harry wasn’t perfect; he was just as fallible as anyone else.
When Neville finished with the cauldrons, he removed his robe and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. It was already covered in dust, but it was impossibly hot in the confined space, and Neville’s undershirt was sticking to his back.
He took a moment to consider the creaking shelves that were crammed with ingredients and things he’d never seen, let alone used: oak roots, arsenic, asphodel and wormwood, salamander’s eggs, rabbits feet and phoenix tears, Monarch butterfly wings and dried Everreds. He was going to be cleaning for the rest of his life at this rate.
Neville paused at the Everreds, and reached out to remove the jar from the shelf. He’d read all about Everreds in Mystery-Us Herbs and Flowers by Heather Fern; they were beautiful when they bloomed, but survived only on human blood. Professor Sprout refused to grow them because they were ‘dark plants.’
“I didn’t hear you clanking around, so I came to make sure you hadn’t been attacked by anything.” Harry’s voice disrupted Neville’s thoughts for the umpteenth time that evening, and the jar of Everreds slipped in his grasp. For a second, Neville was certain he was going to drop it, and he had countless visions of endless detentions with Snape. Somehow he managed to hold on to the jar. He blinked, however, when he realised Harry had tried to rescue the jar at the same time and his hand was now covering Neville’s own. He was the Gryffindor seeker for a reason, Neville mused, before a larger problem made itself known: the body attached to the hand had moved as well, and Harry’s proximity was entirely too close for Neville’s comfort. Harry’s robe was redolent of paste and ink, and the smell made Neville think of the dark corners of the library where people went to snog.
“You have dust on your face,” Harry said, reaching out and brushing Neville’s cheek with calloused fingers. Neville leaned into Harry’s touch before he remembered that he was still vexed with Harry, except that the deluge of anger he expected to arrive never came. Moving his head away from Harry’s fingers, Neville gently tugged the jar away from Harry.
“I think I can manage to put it back on my own.”
“Right,” Harry said, letting go slowly.
“You should probably get back to cataloguing,” Neville suggested.
“Right.”
“Right.”
Neville turned away from Harry to slide the jar of dried flowers back on the shelf. He managed to knock some dust loose when replacing the Everreds though, and he sneezed when it floated into his face. Keeping his eyes closed, Neville blindly groped for the hem of his shirt, and pulling it up, used it to wipe the dust off his face.
When he felt it was safe to open his eyes, he squinted and then opened them fully, only to find Harry staring at him with a glazed expression on his face. Neville wasn’t quite sure what Harry was staring at, but it wasn’t really his problem.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he reminded Harry.
Harry nodded his head, and when he lifted his hand to push his hair behind his ear, he knocked his glasses askew. It was probably the lighting or the close quarters, but Neville could have sworn that Harry looked flushed. “Look, Neville, I know you’re still angry with me about the prophecy,” Harry began, but Neville turned away.
“You just don’t know when to leave well enough alone, do you, Harry?” he said, his voice devoid of the bitterness that it had carried for the last week.
“I wish you would just listen to me for one second,” Harry said, his voice dropping off as he turned away. “Because I think you’re making things more difficult than they need to be, but never mind, it won’t happen again.”
After Harry left, Neville sat down on a cauldron and wondered, not for the first time, what life would’ve been like if he were the famous Harry Potter, or if his parents were sane. He wondered what it would be like if Harry had told him about the prophecy earlier, and if all this bad feeling could have been avoided. He had no idea how long he spent thinking before he snapped out his daze; none of this wondering was finishing up his detention. In the end, Neville found playing ‘what if’ very tiring and frustrating.
It was almost as exhausting as being angry with Harry.
::
The morning after Snape’s detention, Neville went back to his usual schedule. Nothing had been resolved between Harry and him, but all the anger had taken its toll, and Neville simply couldn’t be arsed to feel so emotional any more; it was too much work. He had lost weight based on all the lunches he’d missed, and he was tired of not being able to spend time in the tower without worrying who’d be coming through the door at any moment. More important than anything else, though, Neville didn’t want to risk any more detentions with Snape. Bad enough Neville had to suffer through Potions lessons twice a week; he didn’t need to spend extra time with the man as well.
So, Neville had breakfast with Seamus and Dean, and when Harry came in fresh from Quidditch practise, Neville didn’t suddenly have to go off somewhere else. He didn’t engage Harry in any sort of conversation, but he didn’t glare at him either, which was quite the concession all things considered. It wasn’t life the way it used to be when Neville thought Harry could do no wrong, but it was passable. He managed to hand Ron the bacon without incident, and when Hermione joined them she made a point of smiling at Neville as though she was pleased to see him. When the mail arrived, Evinrude brought him the weekly missive from his gran, and a note from his Uncle Algie questioning what Neville wanted for his eighteenth birthday in July, and if he knew whether or not Muggles really had something called fox machines that could hunt rabbits and receive letters faster than owl mail.
After breakfast there were classes and lunch and then more classes, and a tutoring session in the library with Ernie McMillan because he was doing crap in Herbology, and Professor Sprout had suggested that Neville help him. When Neville returned to the tower late that afternoon, he didn’t really have anything on his mind except a shower before dinner and perhaps a game of chess with Ginny if she was about. All things told it wasn’t the best day of his life, but it wasn’t so bad either. In fact it was rather average, or so Neville thought until he tripped through the portrait hole and found Hermione waiting for him.
Neville didn’t actually know she was waiting for him until she said so, but considering the lack of other people in the common room, and the grave tone of her voice, Neville momentarily thought someone had died before dismissing the idea out of hand. Surely Dumbledore would tell him something like that or McGonagall or… “Did someone die?” he demanded, taking Hermione completely by surprise.
She had the grace to look properly shocked and contrite before she climbed out of her chair and gave him a brief cuddle. “Considering that no one is allowed to kill Ron but me, I certainly hope not,” she said, squeezing his arm and motioning for him to sit down.
“Oh, right.” Neville dropped his books by one of the plush armchairs and sat down opposite Hermione expectantly. “So, then, what do you need to talk to me about?”
“Harry.”
Neville immediately scooted forward until he was perched on the edge of the chair. Reaching out he groped blindly for his books and his bag. “Hermione, I’m sure you mean well, but there’s no point in talking to me about Harry. There’s nothing to talk about.”
Getting to his feet, Neville gave her a perfunctory smile and prepared to head up to his room.
Hermione’s voice carried clearly in the empty room. “He fancies you, Neville. Quite a bit actually, and he’s sorry for what he’s done.”
Neville’s books made a thudding noise as they slipped out of his hands. He left them there, and went back to where Hermione was still sitting in her chair. Grabbing the chair he had just vacated, he dragged it closer to Hermione’s chair.
“Do you know what he’s done?” Neville asked.
“I know about the prophecy,” Hermione admitted.
Neville inhaled sharply. “How long have you known?”
“For a little while.”
Neville sat back in the chair, and considered Hermione for several seconds. She didn’t blink or flinch, holding his gaze the entire time. “So, you know how I’m involved? You know that I could have been Harry, and that’s – that’s most likely why my parents are in hospital.” Neville paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hermione sighed.
“It wasn’t my place to tell you, because the prophecy was never mine, Neville,” she said. “Even so, it doesn’t change anything. Harry is Harry and you’re you, and I know that both of you are brilliant in your own particular ways.”
Neville made a noise of derision, but coloured when Hermione gave him a disapproving look. “I know it can’t be easy finding out something like this, and I completely agree that Harry should have told you sooner, but I can see why he didn’t.”
“By all means, enlighten me,” Neville mocked. The condescension came of its own accord; it was just another strange thing that randomly slipped out when Neville wasn’t paying enough attention to staying in the background.
Hermione chose to ignore his tone. “Neville, Harry’s always taken it upon himself to look out for everyone, because that’s what he believes he’s supposed to do: protect people from harm and all the bad things out there. Think about all the times that Harry’s taken on Vol… Voldemort.”
Neville blanched as Hermione paused.
“For the first eleven years of Harry’s life nobody cared about him, and then suddenly he discovered this whole new world where people cared about him, but only in regards to how he could help them. Somewhere along the line Harry’s gotten things messed up, and he believes that people only want him to protect them and that nobody wants him for himself.”
Neville’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out, and he could feel Hermione’s eyes on him. Harry had been his hero. Harry had been everybody’s hero. No one really thought about heroes as being like everyone else. They weren’t supposed to make mistakes.
Neville sighed under Hermione’s intense scrutiny. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that he lied to me, Hermione. He deliberately deceived me.”
Hermione shifted in her chair, leaning forward so that she and Neville were knee to knee. “Are you telling me you’ve never lied to someone you care about?”
Neville thought about his parents and his gran, and how his gran used to talk about them getting better. That never happened; but sometimes they still talked about it as though it were a real possibility. They were lies, but necessary ones. “That’s different.”
Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s not. The trouble with Harry is that he’s just like everyone else, but nobody seems to want to believe that. He throws wobblers and gets spots. He can be an annoying, self-righteous bastard when he wants to be, and people don’t want to see it, but it’s true. Harry’s not perfect Neville, he never has been.”
Neville rubbed his hand over his head and brought it down to cup his cheek thoughtfully. His gran said his dad used to do that when he didn’t know what to say.
“More importantly,” Hermione continued, “Harry is never going to be perfect, Neville, and he wants someone who’ll understand that. I don’t have to tell you that there are things happening and none of us are sure what’s going to happen next, but Harry’s going to need someone with him who can support him, right now. I, we, Ron and I, want someone who’s going to understand all that, too.” She smiled at Neville. “We think you’re it.”
Neville stared at her.
“You’re mad.”
She laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
Getting to her feet, Hermione reached down and patted Neville on the shoulder again. “Just think about it.”
::
Over the next several days, after his conversation with Hermione, Neville tried to figure out how to proceed in his relationship with Harry, and if he even wanted to.
He’d fully returned to his regular schedule of meals and classes, but there were subtle changes in his attitude that made all the difference in his day. He felt better about himself, and his letters to his gran were a bit more upbeat. Professor Flitwick caught him humming during a detention he was serving for being late to Transfigurations and some how convinced McGonagall to let him go early. When the Slytherins laughed at him in the hall, it didn’t bother Neville as much as it used to. More importantly, however, being around Harry didn’t make him as nervous as it once had. The omniculars were removed, and Neville could see Harry clearly. Quite a bit of that was due to the realisation that Harry was no different than he was, and in a way it was disappointing, but the disappointment wasn’t overwhelming anymore. In fact it was a relief; and Neville was happily puttering around Greenhouse Two when Harry eventually came looking for him, again. Actually, he wasn’t puttering as much as he was dragging around sacks of dragon fertiliser for Professor Sprout.
It felt good to work in the greenhouse, and Neville had left his cloak and his books by the door so he wouldn’t get them dirty. He’d smeared all sorts of things across his white shirt, however, and he’d just stacked the last sack by the door when it swung open and smacked him in the nose. It hurt quite a bit, and Neville let out a small groan when Harry’s face appeared through the mottled glass. Immediately, Neville brought his hand up to his nose to make sure it hadn’t been broken again, and when Harry’s head popped around the door to see the racket, his face went through a litany of emotions which made Neville laugh in spite of himself.
“Bloody hell, did I do that? Are you all right?” Harry immediately reached out to assess the damage, and his fussing amused Neville to no end. “Do I need to take you to the infirmary? Is it broken?”
Neville batted Harry’s hand away, and pulled his own hand away from his nose to check its status. “No blood. I’ll live.”
Harry continued to look horrified, and Neville shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, really,” he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder briefly before turning back towards the rows of plants before them. “If being dropped out a window didn’t do me in, being hit with a door shouldn’t even leave a mark.”
He still needed to prune the Fawning Fairylilies and spend some time with the Trilling Tulips. There was also the Tentacula that needed to be fed. Nodding decisively, he headed down the row towards the Fairylilies, but was stopped when Harry grabbed his hand. He turned smartly on his heel, glanced down at their joined hands and then back at Harry. “Planning on helping me with the Fairylilies then?”
Harry looked slightly flustered, but he smiled. “So you’re talking to me, again?”
Neville shrugged.
“I’ll help if you want me to,” Harry prodded. He looked almost hopeful, which reminded Neville of the first time he’d asked his gran if she ever thought his mum and dad would get better.
He’d grown up a lot since then. He’d become more independent and a lot less optimistic, whereas Harry always seemed to have hope.
Neville wondered how he did that.
“It’s up to you,” Neville shrugged, again. “But you’ll need to take off your robes and watch out for the glitter.”
Harry made a move to remove his robe, one-handed, and Neville tugged at where Harry’s fingers were interlocked with his own. “I’ve heard that works better with two hands,” he said, with a wink.
Harry blinked, and Neville bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It was the greenhouse and being in an environment where he was comfortable that made him cheeky. His gran said he was at his most entertaining after he’d been in the mud and flowers all day.
Neville watched as Harry removed his robe, and something fluttered deep in his stomach. He’d never stopped fancying Harry, and with good reason. Underneath his robe, Harry wore a dingy gray shirt and old muggle jeans, but the shirt was obviously old and a bit too small. Harry’s arms were tan, and there was flash of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his trousers. Neville swallowed, and when he turned around to lead Harry towards the Fairylilies he almost knocked over several pots of Pufferfin Posies. Some things never changed.
He made polite conversation about the upcoming Quidditch match as he led Harry towards the other end of the greenhouse and into the workroom at the back. The workroom was a solid enclosure, only partially made of glass, where Professor Sprout generally kept some of the more interesting plants. There were a few young Mandrakes as well as a Venomous Gnat Trap and seedlings for several plants that Neville wasn’t supposed to recognise as they might have been illegal Muggle plants.
Neville waited until Harry was through the door before shutting it firmly behind them.
“I didn’t know there was a backroom,” Harry confessed, walking around and looking at the plants.
Neville glanced at him as he pulled two pairs of gloves off of Professor Sprout’s workbench. “Most people don’t spend enough time in the greenhouses to know much of anything.”
Harry was silent for a second. “You spend a lot of time here, don’t you?”
“I’m hoping to open my own nursery one day,” Neville confessed. “Eventually.”
Harry turned and smiled at him. “You should do that.”
“I will,” Neville said. “One day. I’m hoping –“ he began again, before cutting himself off. In one, two, strides Neville was across the workroom and slapping a plant that was about to try and have a taste of Harry. “Stop that,” he said, to the Gnat Trap, gently guiding Harry out of the plant’s reach.
Harry stumbled over a bag of fertilizer that Neville had missed, and he gripped at Neville’s arm for a second and left his hand there for several seconds more. Neville said nothing, but eventually slipped away to the safety of the other side of an empty workspace.
“You’ll want to pay a bit more attention to them,” he said, gesturing to the plants, before he hefted two large pots of Fairylilies onto the worktable. “They can be very persistent.”
Neville bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing at the dumbfounded expression on Harry’s face, and he smiled as he handed Harry a pair of dragon-hide work gloves. “They remind me of you,” he commented lightly.
Harry smiled back and then looked slightly affronted when he realised Neville had handed him bright pink gloves. He put them on, and watched as Neville turned his own pot around carefully to consider the best angle. “The plants remind you of me? Or the pink gloves? I think I’m insulted.”
“Don’t be,” Neville said, taking up a tiny pair of shears and carefully beginning to clip away at the flowers. Blue pollen, like glitter, fell onto the table along with the dried leaves. “I like plants.”
He motioned for Harry to do likewise, and they worked in solicitous silence for several minutes; Harry pausing every now and then to watch Neville and copy his movements.
“Neville?”
“Yes?”
Harry stopped and put down his shears. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear it, and I know you’re still angry with me, but I just needed to tell you that. I know I made a right mess of things, but I tend to do that. I don’t know if you’d noticed, but it happens quite a lot.”
Neville continued his ministrations even as he could feel Harry watching him. “I talked to Hermione the other day,” he said, wondering if Harry would take the bait.
“About what?” Harry leaned forward slightly, only to reel back to make sure the flowers weren’t going to try and have him for tea.
Neville laughed, and Harry had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “About you, strangely enough.”
“About me?”
“Hmm,” Neville turned his pot to make sure he had pruned in all the proper places, and crouched down to look directly into the soil. “She seemed to have this mental idea that you fancied me, but I told her she was mad.”
“I do fancy you, you know that. I told you that. ” Harry was leaning forward again, so far, in fact, he was practically crushing his flowers. “The problem is that you refuse to listen to me because you’re a stubborn git, who’s entirely too good-looking.”
“Are you talking about me, or you?” Neville queried.
Harry made a noise, and Neville fought very hard not to be charmed. Possibly he should have still been angry, but he just couldn’t be arsed.
Instead, he straightened up, and moved his finished pot onto another surface so he could rescue the one Harry was ignoring. He pulled the plant away from Harry, and glanced fleetingly at Harry’s stricken expression.
“You told me a lot of things,” Neville prompted, turning the plant to work the proper angle.
“Do you want me to apologise again, because I will,” Harry said, taking off his gloves and tossing them on the table. “But you should know that I can only say ‘I’m sorry’ so many times, and I wish you’d either forgive me or tell me to sod off so I can stop going mental.”
Neville looked at him, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Neville. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and kept the prophecy from you. You should have known; you deserved to know, and I was a bastard for not telling you.” There was a note of earnest desperation that took Neville by surprise, and he blinked deliberately before going back to the Fairylilies.
Harry’s eyes followed him as Neville considered the flowers, and he could feel the heat from Harry’s gaze stirring the hairs on the nape of his neck and making his stomach do bad Quidditch moves.
“I count on you to be honest with me, Harry,” Neville said quietly.
“I know. I know, I just…”
“You didn’t know what to say.”
“Right.”
Neville stopped what he was doing, placed the shears out of harm’s way, and considered Harry for several seconds. He leaned forward, towards Harry, until they were practically nose-to-nose across the table. Harry blinked rapidly, and Neville felt something move under his skin again. Unlike the previous incarnations, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. Harry’s lips were parted slightly, his breath coming in warm bursts, and Neville could easily have snogged him. Instead he spoke. “You should watch out, you’re getting glitter all over your shirt.”
Harry’s face went from expectant to confused to annoyed. He glanced down briefly at the blue pollen coating his shirt, and then back at Neville. “I don’t care.”
Neville shrugged, and lost his sense of balance, almost falling on the table. Rather than laughing, however, Harry rushed to keep him standing. When Neville had regained his own footing, Harry came around the other side of the table, and turned Neville around to face him. “Can I snog you now, or would you like me to apologise more?”
Neville pretended to consider it for several seconds, but he was taken off guard when Harry swept in and covered Neville’s lips with his own. This kiss was even better than the first, and Neville yanked off his gloves so he could touch Harry freely. The first time he’d been shocked and uncertain. He’d thought Harry too fragile and irreplaceable to be touched like everyone else. This time, Neville pulled away long enough to remove Harry’s glasses and place them on the table behind them.
“Better,” he said, before guiding Harry’s lips back to his own.
Neville’s fingers were grubby, and he was certain he reeked of all sorts of unpleasant things, but that didn’t stop Harry from kissing along his jaw line and biting at his earlobe.
Whatever the state of Neville’s clothing, it didn’t stop Harry from mauling him, and didn’t stop Neville from sliding his hands down Harry’s chest and under the hem of that too-small shirt. Even underneath the dirt coating Neville’s fingers, Harry’s skin was smooth and warm. He moaned appreciatively when Neville’s fingers pinched his nipples lightly, and Neville bit down on Harry’s neck when Harry’s hands began groping his arse.
After several minutes of carrying on this way, Neville pulled away slightly, feeling quite dizzy. Harry’s arms were still firmly around him, so he didn’t move terribly far; he wasn’t trying.
Harry’s mouth was wet, and he bit his lip thoughtfully while he studied Neville for a few seconds. “You have freckles on your nose,” Harry announced decisively. “They’re very small.”
“Yes, and you have a scar on your forehead,” Neville mocked. “But that’s all right, nobody’s perfect.”
Harry’s mouth opened, but no sound came out until he began to laugh uncontrollably. He didn’t relinquish his hold on Neville, instead burying his head in Neville’s neck until the shaking stopped.
Eventually, he lifted his head, and brushed his mouth against Neville’s enticingly, but Neville pulled away.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” he asked, cautiously.
“Just one thing,” Harry admitted.
“What?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
Neville laughed.
“The trouble with you, Harry Potter, is that you think that’s a problem.”
“Is that my only problem?” Harry said.
Neville thought about it. “No, but we have time to work on that.”
-finis-
1. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
obsessedmuch for the Improv that's about three months old: lemon, cradle, quiver, (and some other word I don't remember now)
2. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kormanfan for wondering what the hell I saw in Neville in the first place. You pretty much inspired this journey.
3. Thanks toethrosdemon for giving me this plot which I swore I could never write. You're the Dark Lord for a reason.
4. Thanks topandarus for read-throughs and gorgeous icons and all her support. Tell Bill I said hi when you get to Egypt.
5. You are only as good as your cast. So, I'd like to thank Ciaran for being such a hot Neville, and Hugh for being everything I expect Harry to become.
6. Last but never ever ever least, I'd like to thank my absolutely amazing betas:serialkarma and fearlessdiva. You somehow managed to stick with me, even when I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on and producing twenty copies of the same bloody thing. The story would be nothing without you.
Again, thanks to everyone, and I hope I've kicked out at least one story you've enjoyed this week.
Also, I'm going away for a while, but I'll see you in September, which is when I get back. Keep tabs on shit for me, and try not to kill each other while I'm away. I'll be completely MIA, so if you e-mail me and it bounces that's why.
Part I
Part II
::
In seven years at Hogwarts, Neville had had more than his share of detentions. He hadn’t had quite as many as Seamus or Ron, but he’d certainly had a few, and he’d found that they were all very different depending on the professor.
Detentions for Professor Flitwick tended to be interactive and learning-oriented with special charms, while detentions for Professor Sprout invariably involved something Herbology-related. McGonagall’s detentions tended to be tedious, but fair, while Filch just went for old-fashioned hard labour, much like Neville’s gran. Detentions with Snape, however, were drawn out sessions in pain, suffering and sadism, which was why Neville was trapped in one of Snape’s less than well-lit storerooms, trying to make order out of complete and utter chaos.
Cauldrons clanked as he piled them on top of each other so he could get into the corners of the room, and clean as if his life depended on it, which it might have knowing Snape. If there were a system to be found to Snape’s disorder, Neville had yet to discover it. Of course, he was only supposed to be cleaning, not rearranging, because Snape “wouldn’t trust him to organise books in the library without causing an accident,” and “would sooner have tea with first years” than let Neville touch his precious ingredients.
So, instead of cataloguing thousands of ingredients, like Harry, Neville was sweeping and sneezing and getting dust all over his robes. He could have spent quite a long amount of time resenting Snape, which he did when he wasn’t fearing him, but he’d much rather resent Harry, who kept popping around the doorway and inquiring if Neville needed anything.
Neville did not need anything, no thanks to Harry bloody Potter, who was still incredibly fit even if he was a deceiving git, who had fame and adoration and parents who were dead instead of wandering around the fourth floor of St Mungo’s. Not to get Neville wrong, he loved his mum and dad very much, but he didn’t really remember much about life before he lived with his gran, and he wouldn’t have minded hearing stories about what his parents were like when they were at school. People always went on about Lily and James Potter, but nobody seemed to remember Frank and Alice Longbottom except their immediate family.
All things considered, Neville could’ve had a lot to feel angry and hostile about, and… and yet Neville didn’t think he did hostile terribly well. Every snide remark pained him just that little bit, and somewhat unexpectedly, he still fancied Harry despite the recent revelations. Harry had always been kind to him, even when he didn’t have to be, and he seemed to understand about Neville’s parents. He never made fun of Neville’s clumsiness. Even before Neville had realised he fancied Harry, he had genuinely liked him, which perhaps was what made everything so much worse: he had trusted Harry, and Harry had abused that.
Neville had always thought Harry was above that sort of behaviour. To find out he was just as bad as everyone else was tremendously disappointing, if not very humbling. It was a long fall from the top of any pedestal, and Harry wasn’t perfect; he was just as fallible as anyone else.
When Neville finished with the cauldrons, he removed his robe and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. It was already covered in dust, but it was impossibly hot in the confined space, and Neville’s undershirt was sticking to his back.
He took a moment to consider the creaking shelves that were crammed with ingredients and things he’d never seen, let alone used: oak roots, arsenic, asphodel and wormwood, salamander’s eggs, rabbits feet and phoenix tears, Monarch butterfly wings and dried Everreds. He was going to be cleaning for the rest of his life at this rate.
Neville paused at the Everreds, and reached out to remove the jar from the shelf. He’d read all about Everreds in Mystery-Us Herbs and Flowers by Heather Fern; they were beautiful when they bloomed, but survived only on human blood. Professor Sprout refused to grow them because they were ‘dark plants.’
“I didn’t hear you clanking around, so I came to make sure you hadn’t been attacked by anything.” Harry’s voice disrupted Neville’s thoughts for the umpteenth time that evening, and the jar of Everreds slipped in his grasp. For a second, Neville was certain he was going to drop it, and he had countless visions of endless detentions with Snape. Somehow he managed to hold on to the jar. He blinked, however, when he realised Harry had tried to rescue the jar at the same time and his hand was now covering Neville’s own. He was the Gryffindor seeker for a reason, Neville mused, before a larger problem made itself known: the body attached to the hand had moved as well, and Harry’s proximity was entirely too close for Neville’s comfort. Harry’s robe was redolent of paste and ink, and the smell made Neville think of the dark corners of the library where people went to snog.
“You have dust on your face,” Harry said, reaching out and brushing Neville’s cheek with calloused fingers. Neville leaned into Harry’s touch before he remembered that he was still vexed with Harry, except that the deluge of anger he expected to arrive never came. Moving his head away from Harry’s fingers, Neville gently tugged the jar away from Harry.
“I think I can manage to put it back on my own.”
“Right,” Harry said, letting go slowly.
“You should probably get back to cataloguing,” Neville suggested.
“Right.”
“Right.”
Neville turned away from Harry to slide the jar of dried flowers back on the shelf. He managed to knock some dust loose when replacing the Everreds though, and he sneezed when it floated into his face. Keeping his eyes closed, Neville blindly groped for the hem of his shirt, and pulling it up, used it to wipe the dust off his face.
When he felt it was safe to open his eyes, he squinted and then opened them fully, only to find Harry staring at him with a glazed expression on his face. Neville wasn’t quite sure what Harry was staring at, but it wasn’t really his problem.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he reminded Harry.
Harry nodded his head, and when he lifted his hand to push his hair behind his ear, he knocked his glasses askew. It was probably the lighting or the close quarters, but Neville could have sworn that Harry looked flushed. “Look, Neville, I know you’re still angry with me about the prophecy,” Harry began, but Neville turned away.
“You just don’t know when to leave well enough alone, do you, Harry?” he said, his voice devoid of the bitterness that it had carried for the last week.
“I wish you would just listen to me for one second,” Harry said, his voice dropping off as he turned away. “Because I think you’re making things more difficult than they need to be, but never mind, it won’t happen again.”
After Harry left, Neville sat down on a cauldron and wondered, not for the first time, what life would’ve been like if he were the famous Harry Potter, or if his parents were sane. He wondered what it would be like if Harry had told him about the prophecy earlier, and if all this bad feeling could have been avoided. He had no idea how long he spent thinking before he snapped out his daze; none of this wondering was finishing up his detention. In the end, Neville found playing ‘what if’ very tiring and frustrating.
It was almost as exhausting as being angry with Harry.
::
The morning after Snape’s detention, Neville went back to his usual schedule. Nothing had been resolved between Harry and him, but all the anger had taken its toll, and Neville simply couldn’t be arsed to feel so emotional any more; it was too much work. He had lost weight based on all the lunches he’d missed, and he was tired of not being able to spend time in the tower without worrying who’d be coming through the door at any moment. More important than anything else, though, Neville didn’t want to risk any more detentions with Snape. Bad enough Neville had to suffer through Potions lessons twice a week; he didn’t need to spend extra time with the man as well.
So, Neville had breakfast with Seamus and Dean, and when Harry came in fresh from Quidditch practise, Neville didn’t suddenly have to go off somewhere else. He didn’t engage Harry in any sort of conversation, but he didn’t glare at him either, which was quite the concession all things considered. It wasn’t life the way it used to be when Neville thought Harry could do no wrong, but it was passable. He managed to hand Ron the bacon without incident, and when Hermione joined them she made a point of smiling at Neville as though she was pleased to see him. When the mail arrived, Evinrude brought him the weekly missive from his gran, and a note from his Uncle Algie questioning what Neville wanted for his eighteenth birthday in July, and if he knew whether or not Muggles really had something called fox machines that could hunt rabbits and receive letters faster than owl mail.
After breakfast there were classes and lunch and then more classes, and a tutoring session in the library with Ernie McMillan because he was doing crap in Herbology, and Professor Sprout had suggested that Neville help him. When Neville returned to the tower late that afternoon, he didn’t really have anything on his mind except a shower before dinner and perhaps a game of chess with Ginny if she was about. All things told it wasn’t the best day of his life, but it wasn’t so bad either. In fact it was rather average, or so Neville thought until he tripped through the portrait hole and found Hermione waiting for him.
Neville didn’t actually know she was waiting for him until she said so, but considering the lack of other people in the common room, and the grave tone of her voice, Neville momentarily thought someone had died before dismissing the idea out of hand. Surely Dumbledore would tell him something like that or McGonagall or… “Did someone die?” he demanded, taking Hermione completely by surprise.
She had the grace to look properly shocked and contrite before she climbed out of her chair and gave him a brief cuddle. “Considering that no one is allowed to kill Ron but me, I certainly hope not,” she said, squeezing his arm and motioning for him to sit down.
“Oh, right.” Neville dropped his books by one of the plush armchairs and sat down opposite Hermione expectantly. “So, then, what do you need to talk to me about?”
“Harry.”
Neville immediately scooted forward until he was perched on the edge of the chair. Reaching out he groped blindly for his books and his bag. “Hermione, I’m sure you mean well, but there’s no point in talking to me about Harry. There’s nothing to talk about.”
Getting to his feet, Neville gave her a perfunctory smile and prepared to head up to his room.
Hermione’s voice carried clearly in the empty room. “He fancies you, Neville. Quite a bit actually, and he’s sorry for what he’s done.”
Neville’s books made a thudding noise as they slipped out of his hands. He left them there, and went back to where Hermione was still sitting in her chair. Grabbing the chair he had just vacated, he dragged it closer to Hermione’s chair.
“Do you know what he’s done?” Neville asked.
“I know about the prophecy,” Hermione admitted.
Neville inhaled sharply. “How long have you known?”
“For a little while.”
Neville sat back in the chair, and considered Hermione for several seconds. She didn’t blink or flinch, holding his gaze the entire time. “So, you know how I’m involved? You know that I could have been Harry, and that’s – that’s most likely why my parents are in hospital.” Neville paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hermione sighed.
“It wasn’t my place to tell you, because the prophecy was never mine, Neville,” she said. “Even so, it doesn’t change anything. Harry is Harry and you’re you, and I know that both of you are brilliant in your own particular ways.”
Neville made a noise of derision, but coloured when Hermione gave him a disapproving look. “I know it can’t be easy finding out something like this, and I completely agree that Harry should have told you sooner, but I can see why he didn’t.”
“By all means, enlighten me,” Neville mocked. The condescension came of its own accord; it was just another strange thing that randomly slipped out when Neville wasn’t paying enough attention to staying in the background.
Hermione chose to ignore his tone. “Neville, Harry’s always taken it upon himself to look out for everyone, because that’s what he believes he’s supposed to do: protect people from harm and all the bad things out there. Think about all the times that Harry’s taken on Vol… Voldemort.”
Neville blanched as Hermione paused.
“For the first eleven years of Harry’s life nobody cared about him, and then suddenly he discovered this whole new world where people cared about him, but only in regards to how he could help them. Somewhere along the line Harry’s gotten things messed up, and he believes that people only want him to protect them and that nobody wants him for himself.”
Neville’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out, and he could feel Hermione’s eyes on him. Harry had been his hero. Harry had been everybody’s hero. No one really thought about heroes as being like everyone else. They weren’t supposed to make mistakes.
Neville sighed under Hermione’s intense scrutiny. “That doesn’t excuse the fact that he lied to me, Hermione. He deliberately deceived me.”
Hermione shifted in her chair, leaning forward so that she and Neville were knee to knee. “Are you telling me you’ve never lied to someone you care about?”
Neville thought about his parents and his gran, and how his gran used to talk about them getting better. That never happened; but sometimes they still talked about it as though it were a real possibility. They were lies, but necessary ones. “That’s different.”
Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s not. The trouble with Harry is that he’s just like everyone else, but nobody seems to want to believe that. He throws wobblers and gets spots. He can be an annoying, self-righteous bastard when he wants to be, and people don’t want to see it, but it’s true. Harry’s not perfect Neville, he never has been.”
Neville rubbed his hand over his head and brought it down to cup his cheek thoughtfully. His gran said his dad used to do that when he didn’t know what to say.
“More importantly,” Hermione continued, “Harry is never going to be perfect, Neville, and he wants someone who’ll understand that. I don’t have to tell you that there are things happening and none of us are sure what’s going to happen next, but Harry’s going to need someone with him who can support him, right now. I, we, Ron and I, want someone who’s going to understand all that, too.” She smiled at Neville. “We think you’re it.”
Neville stared at her.
“You’re mad.”
She laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
Getting to her feet, Hermione reached down and patted Neville on the shoulder again. “Just think about it.”
::
Over the next several days, after his conversation with Hermione, Neville tried to figure out how to proceed in his relationship with Harry, and if he even wanted to.
He’d fully returned to his regular schedule of meals and classes, but there were subtle changes in his attitude that made all the difference in his day. He felt better about himself, and his letters to his gran were a bit more upbeat. Professor Flitwick caught him humming during a detention he was serving for being late to Transfigurations and some how convinced McGonagall to let him go early. When the Slytherins laughed at him in the hall, it didn’t bother Neville as much as it used to. More importantly, however, being around Harry didn’t make him as nervous as it once had. The omniculars were removed, and Neville could see Harry clearly. Quite a bit of that was due to the realisation that Harry was no different than he was, and in a way it was disappointing, but the disappointment wasn’t overwhelming anymore. In fact it was a relief; and Neville was happily puttering around Greenhouse Two when Harry eventually came looking for him, again. Actually, he wasn’t puttering as much as he was dragging around sacks of dragon fertiliser for Professor Sprout.
It felt good to work in the greenhouse, and Neville had left his cloak and his books by the door so he wouldn’t get them dirty. He’d smeared all sorts of things across his white shirt, however, and he’d just stacked the last sack by the door when it swung open and smacked him in the nose. It hurt quite a bit, and Neville let out a small groan when Harry’s face appeared through the mottled glass. Immediately, Neville brought his hand up to his nose to make sure it hadn’t been broken again, and when Harry’s head popped around the door to see the racket, his face went through a litany of emotions which made Neville laugh in spite of himself.
“Bloody hell, did I do that? Are you all right?” Harry immediately reached out to assess the damage, and his fussing amused Neville to no end. “Do I need to take you to the infirmary? Is it broken?”
Neville batted Harry’s hand away, and pulled his own hand away from his nose to check its status. “No blood. I’ll live.”
Harry continued to look horrified, and Neville shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, really,” he said, clapping Harry on the shoulder briefly before turning back towards the rows of plants before them. “If being dropped out a window didn’t do me in, being hit with a door shouldn’t even leave a mark.”
He still needed to prune the Fawning Fairylilies and spend some time with the Trilling Tulips. There was also the Tentacula that needed to be fed. Nodding decisively, he headed down the row towards the Fairylilies, but was stopped when Harry grabbed his hand. He turned smartly on his heel, glanced down at their joined hands and then back at Harry. “Planning on helping me with the Fairylilies then?”
Harry looked slightly flustered, but he smiled. “So you’re talking to me, again?”
Neville shrugged.
“I’ll help if you want me to,” Harry prodded. He looked almost hopeful, which reminded Neville of the first time he’d asked his gran if she ever thought his mum and dad would get better.
He’d grown up a lot since then. He’d become more independent and a lot less optimistic, whereas Harry always seemed to have hope.
Neville wondered how he did that.
“It’s up to you,” Neville shrugged, again. “But you’ll need to take off your robes and watch out for the glitter.”
Harry made a move to remove his robe, one-handed, and Neville tugged at where Harry’s fingers were interlocked with his own. “I’ve heard that works better with two hands,” he said, with a wink.
Harry blinked, and Neville bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It was the greenhouse and being in an environment where he was comfortable that made him cheeky. His gran said he was at his most entertaining after he’d been in the mud and flowers all day.
Neville watched as Harry removed his robe, and something fluttered deep in his stomach. He’d never stopped fancying Harry, and with good reason. Underneath his robe, Harry wore a dingy gray shirt and old muggle jeans, but the shirt was obviously old and a bit too small. Harry’s arms were tan, and there was flash of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his trousers. Neville swallowed, and when he turned around to lead Harry towards the Fairylilies he almost knocked over several pots of Pufferfin Posies. Some things never changed.
He made polite conversation about the upcoming Quidditch match as he led Harry towards the other end of the greenhouse and into the workroom at the back. The workroom was a solid enclosure, only partially made of glass, where Professor Sprout generally kept some of the more interesting plants. There were a few young Mandrakes as well as a Venomous Gnat Trap and seedlings for several plants that Neville wasn’t supposed to recognise as they might have been illegal Muggle plants.
Neville waited until Harry was through the door before shutting it firmly behind them.
“I didn’t know there was a backroom,” Harry confessed, walking around and looking at the plants.
Neville glanced at him as he pulled two pairs of gloves off of Professor Sprout’s workbench. “Most people don’t spend enough time in the greenhouses to know much of anything.”
Harry was silent for a second. “You spend a lot of time here, don’t you?”
“I’m hoping to open my own nursery one day,” Neville confessed. “Eventually.”
Harry turned and smiled at him. “You should do that.”
“I will,” Neville said. “One day. I’m hoping –“ he began again, before cutting himself off. In one, two, strides Neville was across the workroom and slapping a plant that was about to try and have a taste of Harry. “Stop that,” he said, to the Gnat Trap, gently guiding Harry out of the plant’s reach.
Harry stumbled over a bag of fertilizer that Neville had missed, and he gripped at Neville’s arm for a second and left his hand there for several seconds more. Neville said nothing, but eventually slipped away to the safety of the other side of an empty workspace.
“You’ll want to pay a bit more attention to them,” he said, gesturing to the plants, before he hefted two large pots of Fairylilies onto the worktable. “They can be very persistent.”
Neville bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing at the dumbfounded expression on Harry’s face, and he smiled as he handed Harry a pair of dragon-hide work gloves. “They remind me of you,” he commented lightly.
Harry smiled back and then looked slightly affronted when he realised Neville had handed him bright pink gloves. He put them on, and watched as Neville turned his own pot around carefully to consider the best angle. “The plants remind you of me? Or the pink gloves? I think I’m insulted.”
“Don’t be,” Neville said, taking up a tiny pair of shears and carefully beginning to clip away at the flowers. Blue pollen, like glitter, fell onto the table along with the dried leaves. “I like plants.”
He motioned for Harry to do likewise, and they worked in solicitous silence for several minutes; Harry pausing every now and then to watch Neville and copy his movements.
“Neville?”
“Yes?”
Harry stopped and put down his shears. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear it, and I know you’re still angry with me, but I just needed to tell you that. I know I made a right mess of things, but I tend to do that. I don’t know if you’d noticed, but it happens quite a lot.”
Neville continued his ministrations even as he could feel Harry watching him. “I talked to Hermione the other day,” he said, wondering if Harry would take the bait.
“About what?” Harry leaned forward slightly, only to reel back to make sure the flowers weren’t going to try and have him for tea.
Neville laughed, and Harry had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “About you, strangely enough.”
“About me?”
“Hmm,” Neville turned his pot to make sure he had pruned in all the proper places, and crouched down to look directly into the soil. “She seemed to have this mental idea that you fancied me, but I told her she was mad.”
“I do fancy you, you know that. I told you that. ” Harry was leaning forward again, so far, in fact, he was practically crushing his flowers. “The problem is that you refuse to listen to me because you’re a stubborn git, who’s entirely too good-looking.”
“Are you talking about me, or you?” Neville queried.
Harry made a noise, and Neville fought very hard not to be charmed. Possibly he should have still been angry, but he just couldn’t be arsed.
Instead, he straightened up, and moved his finished pot onto another surface so he could rescue the one Harry was ignoring. He pulled the plant away from Harry, and glanced fleetingly at Harry’s stricken expression.
“You told me a lot of things,” Neville prompted, turning the plant to work the proper angle.
“Do you want me to apologise again, because I will,” Harry said, taking off his gloves and tossing them on the table. “But you should know that I can only say ‘I’m sorry’ so many times, and I wish you’d either forgive me or tell me to sod off so I can stop going mental.”
Neville looked at him, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Neville. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner and kept the prophecy from you. You should have known; you deserved to know, and I was a bastard for not telling you.” There was a note of earnest desperation that took Neville by surprise, and he blinked deliberately before going back to the Fairylilies.
Harry’s eyes followed him as Neville considered the flowers, and he could feel the heat from Harry’s gaze stirring the hairs on the nape of his neck and making his stomach do bad Quidditch moves.
“I count on you to be honest with me, Harry,” Neville said quietly.
“I know. I know, I just…”
“You didn’t know what to say.”
“Right.”
Neville stopped what he was doing, placed the shears out of harm’s way, and considered Harry for several seconds. He leaned forward, towards Harry, until they were practically nose-to-nose across the table. Harry blinked rapidly, and Neville felt something move under his skin again. Unlike the previous incarnations, it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. Harry’s lips were parted slightly, his breath coming in warm bursts, and Neville could easily have snogged him. Instead he spoke. “You should watch out, you’re getting glitter all over your shirt.”
Harry’s face went from expectant to confused to annoyed. He glanced down briefly at the blue pollen coating his shirt, and then back at Neville. “I don’t care.”
Neville shrugged, and lost his sense of balance, almost falling on the table. Rather than laughing, however, Harry rushed to keep him standing. When Neville had regained his own footing, Harry came around the other side of the table, and turned Neville around to face him. “Can I snog you now, or would you like me to apologise more?”
Neville pretended to consider it for several seconds, but he was taken off guard when Harry swept in and covered Neville’s lips with his own. This kiss was even better than the first, and Neville yanked off his gloves so he could touch Harry freely. The first time he’d been shocked and uncertain. He’d thought Harry too fragile and irreplaceable to be touched like everyone else. This time, Neville pulled away long enough to remove Harry’s glasses and place them on the table behind them.
“Better,” he said, before guiding Harry’s lips back to his own.
Neville’s fingers were grubby, and he was certain he reeked of all sorts of unpleasant things, but that didn’t stop Harry from kissing along his jaw line and biting at his earlobe.
Whatever the state of Neville’s clothing, it didn’t stop Harry from mauling him, and didn’t stop Neville from sliding his hands down Harry’s chest and under the hem of that too-small shirt. Even underneath the dirt coating Neville’s fingers, Harry’s skin was smooth and warm. He moaned appreciatively when Neville’s fingers pinched his nipples lightly, and Neville bit down on Harry’s neck when Harry’s hands began groping his arse.
After several minutes of carrying on this way, Neville pulled away slightly, feeling quite dizzy. Harry’s arms were still firmly around him, so he didn’t move terribly far; he wasn’t trying.
Harry’s mouth was wet, and he bit his lip thoughtfully while he studied Neville for a few seconds. “You have freckles on your nose,” Harry announced decisively. “They’re very small.”
“Yes, and you have a scar on your forehead,” Neville mocked. “But that’s all right, nobody’s perfect.”
Harry’s mouth opened, but no sound came out until he began to laugh uncontrollably. He didn’t relinquish his hold on Neville, instead burying his head in Neville’s neck until the shaking stopped.
Eventually, he lifted his head, and brushed his mouth against Neville’s enticingly, but Neville pulled away.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” he asked, cautiously.
“Just one thing,” Harry admitted.
“What?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
Neville laughed.
“The trouble with you, Harry Potter, is that you think that’s a problem.”
“Is that my only problem?” Harry said.
Neville thought about it. “No, but we have time to work on that.”
-finis-
1. Thanks to
obsessedmuch for the Improv that's about three months old: lemon, cradle, quiver, (and some other word I don't remember now)2. Thanks to
kormanfan for wondering what the hell I saw in Neville in the first place. You pretty much inspired this journey.3. Thanks to
ethrosdemon for giving me this plot which I swore I could never write. You're the Dark Lord for a reason.4. Thanks to
pandarus for read-throughs and gorgeous icons and all her support. Tell Bill I said hi when you get to Egypt.5. You are only as good as your cast. So, I'd like to thank Ciaran for being such a hot Neville, and Hugh for being everything I expect Harry to become.
6. Last but never ever ever least, I'd like to thank my absolutely amazing betas:
serialkarma and fearlessdiva. You somehow managed to stick with me, even when I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on and producing twenty copies of the same bloody thing. The story would be nothing without you.Again, thanks to everyone, and I hope I've kicked out at least one story you've enjoyed this week.
Also, I'm going away for a while, but I'll see you in September, which is when I get back. Keep tabs on shit for me, and try not to kill each other while I'm away. I'll be completely MIA, so if you e-mail me and it bounces that's why.
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Off topic, but it's been bugging me for a while: where exactly is your journal layout pic from?
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