There's no chance for us
Neville's in Greenhouse 5 the first time Harry comes looking for him.
Truthfully, he's more than a little surprised when Harry seeks him out; in the
entire time they've known one another, Harry's never done that and, after the
botched attempts he made himself in third year, Neville's stopped trying. But,
still, he's more than a little curious. Harry hasn't been himself in a lot of
ways this year. Ron and Hermione think it's the death of Sirius Black, but
Neville thinks it might be more than that.
Harry, with a befuddled expression on his face, gazes around the greenhouse
like he's never seen it before. It occurs to Neville that this is actually a
possibility, as only the NEWT-level students work here and Harry has dropped
Herbology this term. After a few minutes of this, Neville tentatively says,
"Hi, Harry." His hands are covered in dirt and he's trying to move the
Fanged Geranium seedlings into larger pots. It's delicate work.
"I don't want to die a virgin," Harry says pleasantly, almost like
he's returning Neville's greeting.
At this, Neville nearly drops a seedling, which, in turn, proceeds to sink
its needle-like teeth into Neville's thumb. He wonders what the appropriate
response is here: That's nice? Me either? Want to have a go in the dirt?
He settles on "Oh."
"Don't look so panicked, Neville." Harry's voice is laced with
laughter and he's trailing his fingers along a worktable, leaving clean trails
on the soil-covered surface. He wipes his hands on his robe. "I was just
thinking..."
"Thinking can be dangerous." Neville casts a healing charm on his
thumb and continues to work.
"Yeah, well, I don't have much choice, do I?" Harry's voice is
laced with bitterness, which scares Neville a little. He keeps his eyes on his
work. "I've got to think about a madman on the loose, out to kill my
friends. He's already killed my family." Neville winces, thinking of the
man he saw fly through the arch and disappear. "Unless I kill him first,
he's going to kill me."
"Kill him? Surely, you can't be expected to -- I mean, Dumbledore..."
"Is the one who told me I had to kill him or he'd kill me."
Neville blinks, feeling ill-equipped to deal with this information.
"Really?"
"The prophecy --"
"Broke," Neville says, bitterness creeping into his voice, too.
"I kicked it and it broke, remember?"
Harry softens a bit. He's moved so he's standing at Neville's side.
Uncertainly, he reaches a hand out, but one geranium opens its mouth
threateningly, and he yanks it back. "That wasn't the only copy. Dumbledore
heard it; he had it in his Pensieve." His voice taking on an exaggerated,
eerie quality, Harry recites, "The one with the power to vanquish the
Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the
seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have
power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other
for neither can live while the other survives..."
"Seventh month?" Neville says suddenly. "When's your
birthday?"
"July thirty-first."
"Huh," Neville says, surprised, facing Harry now. Their faces are
entirely too close and he takes in a gulp of air. "Mine too. How come I
didn't know that?"
"Dunno. Maybe we're both incredibly unobservant?" Harry offers
Neville a small smile, which Neville returns, an unsettled feeling overtaking
his stomach. "You do know what that means, right?"
Neville shakes his head, turning away again so he can re-pot the last plant.
"Was down to the two of us -- you and me -- and, for whatever reason,
Voldemort chose me. So, now I have to kill him."
"Shit," Neville says under his breath, startling Harry.
"You swore!"
Raising an eyebrow, Neville brushes excess dirt from his hands. "Are you
telling me you don't?"
Harry's cheeks turn red for reasons Neville can't quite fathom. "Ye... I
mean, no, of course I do. I just never expected it out of your mouth."
"I expect there's a lot you don't know about me, Harry." Neville
casts a cleaning charm on himself. "Should I do you?"
"Wh-- what?"
Neville remembers Harry's opening line and blushes, realising what that must
have sounded like. "Uh...cleaning charm. Do you need one?" He waves
his new wand around, still amazed that it feels so right.
"Oh! Yes. Thank you." Harry spreads his arms open as Neville casts
the charm and Neville's impressed at the level of trust Harry demonstrates. He
wonders if Harry would have let Neville turn his wand on him a year ago.
Probably not.
"So," Neville asks, trying to sound as casual as possible,
"what's this about dying a...er, a..."
Harry chuckles. "A virgin? Yeah, well, I am sixteen, so that's about all
I ever think about."
Groaning, Neville nods.
"And I'll probably die before my eighteenth birthday."
"You won't," says Neville fiercely.
Harry smiles sadly. "I might. We all might."
Neville closes his eyes. He still doesn't know why Harry sought him out.
"You're a good listener, Neville." Harry's fingers are very close
to Neville's hand.
It's become so common for Harry to come looking for Neville that Neville's
grown to expect it. They walk to Charms together on Thursdays, Harry shows up
late nights while Neville's working in the greenhouses, and at D.A. meetings,
Harry volunteers to be Neville's partner. It's not that Harry's had a falling
out with his friends; Neville sees him speaking to Ron and Hermione often, even
if the other two have recently been spending far more time standing close
together and exchanging nervous looks than they have in the past. Still, Neville
can't quite place why he's been singled out. Maybe it's the prophecy that easily
could have been Neville or, like Harry says, he's just a good listener.
One Friday evening, Neville's sitting in the library, poring over his
Transfiguration text. Not many people are there, which is unsurprising, as most
people choose to have lives on the weekends. Neville used to feel that way
himself, but he's only been able to keep up with his advanced classes by
devoting every extra moment to revising. Still, he's not entirely unhappy to see
the doors swing open, revealing Harry looking furtive and searching around the
room. Neville waves Harry over, ignoring the flip his stomach does when Harry's
eyes light up as he rushes over.
Harry's grinning goofily. "Guess what I have?"
"An increasingly frequent habit of interrupting my studying?"
Rolling his eyes, Harry opens his robes slightly, revealing a bottle of Old
Ogden's Firewhiskey. "Interested?"
Neville looks down at his homework, then back up at Harry's flushed face.
"Yes," he says before the little nagging voice that sounds
uncomfortably like his Gran has a chance to talk him out of it. He slams his
book shut. "Let's go."
Ten minutes later, they're in the broom shed, sitting along the far wall, and
passing the bottle back and forth. "Where did you get this?" Neville
asks, coughing as the liquid burns his throat.
"Seamus. He swiped it from his mother right before leaving for the
term." Harry takes an unusually long swig, then makes a face. "Uck.
This stuff tastes awful." He passes the bottle back to Neville.
"And, yet...." Neville tips the bottle back, making a horrible face
of his own. His fingers and toes are tingling a bit and he feels warm all over.
The sensation is weird. Weird, but pleasant.
Harry's head is pressed against the wall, face tipped up and facing the
shelves above them. Neville's staring at him a little too often, but Harry's
eyes are closed and Neville figures he can blame the alcohol. "Seamus says
that Dean told him that Ginny said that Cho went down on Michael Corner out
here."
A few weeks ago, that non-sequitor would have thrown Neville off, but not
anymore. No matter what he and Harry start talking about, the topic eventually
winds its way back to sex.
Harry asks, "You think Cho would have done that, if I hadn't messed
things up?"
Neville shrugs, then remembers Harry's got his eyes closed. "I've no
idea what Cho Chang would or wouldn't do, Harry. I've never even talked to
her." He pauses for a moment. "Would you have wanted her to?"
Opening his eyes, Harry tilts his head and looks at Neville. "Yes? No. I
don't know. Our kiss sucked."
"Sucking's not usually considered a bad thing in... uhm, that situation.
I mean, so I hear... not that I would know," Neville adds hastily. He takes
a long drink of the whiskey, immediately deciding that was a bad idea.
Harry takes the bottle back. "Who would you... you know. If you
could."
"Anyone?" Neville would rather not answer this question, despite
feeling warm and relaxed. "I...I haven't really thought about it," he
lies.
"Ginny?" Harry suggests. "I know she's dating Dean and all,
but didn't you go to the Yule Ball with her?"
"Yes," Neville answers quickly.
"How was that?"
"I stepped on her toes a lot."
Harry's staring at Neville, his eyes wide. Feeling uncomfortable, it's
Neville's turn to close his eyes, which turns out to be another bad idea. He can
still feel a blush creeping up its way up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and
surely the room wasn't spinning this much when he had his eyes open. "Did
you kiss her?" Harry asks finally.
Neville scrunches up his nose. "Yes," he answers after a moment.
"Well, really, she kissed me."
"And what happened?" Harry's obviously shifted; Neville can feel
his leg pressed up against his own.
His head suddenly feeling very heavy, Neville lets his shoulders sag. He's
completely lost the feeling in his toes. "I told her I didn't like her that
way."
"But why?"
"Because she's a girl." Neville's eyes fly open the minute the
words come tumbling out of his mouth. He blinks rapidly and expects Harry to
scramble away, calling him some choice names, while vowing never, ever to speak
to Neville again. Harry does none of those things, though, and Neville,
breathing a sigh of relief, thinks that maybe Harry hadn't heard hi --
"Cool."
Cool? Neville thinks to himself. Harry slumps down, then sits up bolt
upright. Ah, he was just too drunk to understand at first and now he's going
to --
"Want to go flying?"
Want to go flying with me. Neville shakes his head and pinches his
arm, wincing when it hurts. Not passed out, then. "Flying?"
"Yeh," Harry says, gesturing around the room. "That's what all
these brooms are for."
Neville raises his eyebrows. "Harry, how long have you known me? I'm not
exactly renowned for my flying ability."
"I am," Harry says, struggling to his feet. "I could teach
you."
"You're drunk."
"True. I can still fly, though." He holds his hand out to Neville.
Neville sighs. "I can't." Despite his better judgment, he takes
Harry's hand and is yanked to his feet. Harry doesn't immediately let go.
Harry's standing very close to Neville and he can smell a mix of whiskey and
peppermint on Harry's breath. "We can share then."
Noticing his palms are suddenly very sweaty, Neville lets go of Harry's hand
and takes a step away.
"Well?" Harry's still waiting for Neville's answer.
"Yes?" he says nervously.
"That's the correct answer, Mr Longbottom." Harry stumbles over to
the brooms lined up against the adjacent wall, studying each one intently.
"God, these brooms suck."
"I wouldn't know."
Harry shoots Neville a glance over his shoulder. "I can't believe you
grew up in a wizarding household. Ron and his brothers have never been able to
shut up about these things in the entire time I've known them. Hell, even
Malfoy's broom-obsessed." Without looking, Harry grabs one of the brooms
from the rack. "What kind of upbringing did you have, anyway?"
"A very sheltered one," Neville says tersely, shutting down that
line of conversation. He feels something welling up inside him - bravery, or
maybe just plain old recklessness -- and he stalks to the door, calling over his
shoulder, "Are you coming?"
As he makes his way out to the pitch, Neville hears footsteps pounding behind
him. "You know," Harry says, a bit breathlessly, "it's hard to
fly without waiting for the guy with the broom."
"Sorry," Neville says sheepishly. He stops moving. "Just wound
up. I...I don't like flying much."
Harry places a hand on Neville's forearm, spinning him so they're facing each
other. "I know that," he says, voice filled with an intensity it
didn't have moments earlier. "I'm not completely unobservant. While
you're with me, I promise that nothing will bad will happen to you."
Neville believes him. "Okay."
"Good!" Harry exclaims, grinning. The broom hovers a bit above the
ground without Harry even needing to give it a command, and he mounts it,
patting the spot in front of him. After a second, Neville climbs on in front of
him, ignoring the fact that he's now pressed against Harry's chest, sitting
between his legs. It's just a flying lesson. A drunk lesson in the dark on a
Friday evening with no other people around. Perfectly normal, really.
Neville's hands wrap around the broom handle, clutching it so tightly his
knuckles turn white. Harry's hands slide on top of his a moment later, which
does nothing to help Neville relax. The broom slowly rises into the air, Harry
guiding Neville the entire time, muttering words of encouragement into his ears.
"How are you doing?" Harry asks after Neville successfully
manoeuvres the broom into making a lazy circle around one set of goal-posts.
The wind is whipping past them and Neville gives a strangled laugh. "My
stomach's queasy," he replies, hoping his words don't get swallowed up by
the air.
"Is it the whiskey? Are you going to be sick?" Each word sends a
puff of hot air along Neville's ear and he shakes his head violently.
"Just nervous!" Neville shouts. "I haven't been on a broom
since first year!"
"Really?" Neville can hear the incredulous tone of Harry's voice.
He can understand that; it must be impossible for someone like Harry to wrap his
head around actually being scared of flying. Harry slides his hands from their
place atop Neville's and wraps them around Neville's waist, pulling the other
boy even closer to his body. "Is this better?" Neville shivers, and
not from the cold.
"Yes," he says more quietly, nodding. "Much."
"Much," Harry repeats, sliding one hand from Neville's waist to his
thigh, rubbing through the coarse fabric of his trousers.
"Harry?" asks Neville uncertainly. The broom still seems to be
under Harry's control, making smooth, wide circles high above the pitch. Some
wet pressure is applied to Neville's neck and it takes him a moment to recognise
it as a tongue. "Harry?" he asks again, a bit at a loss.
"Mmm?"
"Wha-- what are you doing?"
Harry lightly bites Neville's ear, causing Neville to jump, but the grip
around his waist keeps him firmly in place. "Right now, I'm biting your
ear."
"Why?" Neville asks, experiencing dizziness not caused by their
height or the whiskey.
"Because I'm going to have to wait until we're on the ground to get to
your lips properly."
"You're drunk."
"I am; it's the only reason I'm brave enough to do what I've wanted for
weeks."
"You're not going to die," Neville says suddenly.
Humming against Neville's throat, Harry shrugs. "We all will one
day."
"Mmm," Neville agrees. It's hard to form coherent thoughts with
Harry's body pressed behind him, his lips lightly sucking at the part where the
shoulder meets the neck. "I think I'd like to land now."
The broom is instantly directed toward the ground, where it lands softly,
safely. Harry pulls Neville off the broom, sending him sprawling onto the pitch,
where Harry rolls on top of him. Then, Harry's lips close over his, whimpering
noises rising up from the back of Neville's throat. Harry hungrily sucks on
Neville's lower lip, slowly pushes his tongue inside Neville's mouth and Neville
moans, unsure of what to do, but very sure of how good what they're doing feels.
Tentatively bringing his hand up to tangle in Harry's always-messy,
now-windswept hair, Neville instinctively deepens the kiss, knowing he wants to
own that mouth, to have Harry own him.
He also knows they're both still a little drunk. And outside where anyone can
find and interrupt them.
Neville breaks the kiss, sighing at Harry's slightly bewildered expression.
"Neville?" Harry asks, confused.
"We can't do this here." Neville, using every ounce of will power
he possesses, pushes Harry off of him.
Harry blinks several times; Neville thinks he can make out every individual
eyelash from this vantage-point. "Why not?" Harry says after a moment.
"Because I can't... I don't just want to... we're drunk and you might...
I mean, it's not like I want to die a... but...." Neville stops and sits
up, taking a moment to gather himself together. Without looking at Harry, he
takes a deep breath and says, "Because I have actual feelings for you and I
want to make sure they're mutual. If they're not, well, then we can forget this
ever happened. If they are, come get me tomorrow and we'll talk."
He glances over at Harry, expectantly.
"Neville," Harry breathes, reaching up to cup Neville's cheek and
placing a light kiss on his mouth. "They are. I'll get you tomorrow."
Standing, Neville lets out a shaky breath and helps Harry to his feet. They
put back the broom and collect the whiskey before silently heading back to
Gryffindor Tower, their fingers twined together.
The next day, Harry -- completely sober -- finds Neville again.
"Harry?"
"Mmm?"
They're lying on Neville's bed, Harry's head resting on Neville's chest. It's
been a few weeks since Neville's first flying lesson and the two boys have been
spending even more time together. This... whatever it is between them has a way
of making Neville's stomach do the most awful flips, especially when they're not
together. It's a bit unnerving.
"Why did you come visit me in the greenhouse that first night?"
Harry rolls to one side, propping himself up on his elbow. "Promise you
won't laugh?"
"Of course."
"Uh, well, you know how Ron and Hermione have been... kind of dancing
around each other?"
Neville nods, staring up at his canopy. "Hasn't that been happening for
the last three years?"
"Well, yes," Harry laughs. "Anyway, Ron had spent most of that
day babbling on about how infuriating Hermione was because he'd done something
to exasperate her. You know, I feel bad, but this happens so often that I can't
even remember what it was about. Finally, I got fed up and told Ron to just do
something about it before he lost her forever. We got into a little argument,
but it was over almost as soon as it started, and I realised that I had to go
after what I wanted, too."
"Me?" Neville asks incredulously. "So that virgin line was an
opener?"
Harry's answer is muffled by the pillow in which he's buried his face.
"Yes. God."
"Nice one, Potter."
Neville hears a strangled laugh delivered through fabric and chuckles
himself.
Neither says anything for a moment, until Neville breaks the silence. "I
don't want to, either, you know."
"What?" Harry has turned his head again
"You know. Die without... well, I don't want to die at all, but
it's a possibility, of course, what with You-Know-Who --"
"Say his name, Neville."
Neville takes a deep breath. "V-voldemort... gaining power again."
He reaches out for Harry's hand, squeezing the thin fingers tightly. "I
don't want him to come after you."
"He will." Harry's voice is hollow; Neville hates when it takes on
that quality.
"I-- I know." It's the first time Neville hasn't brushed off
Harry's concerns, and he feels his pulse quickening as a result. "So. What
I'm saying is... we shouldn't. You know. Be virgins anymore. Just in case."
Neville rolls over and faces Harry, running his hand along the other boy's jaw.
Harry looks a bit startled, but he nods vigorously. "Right. Okay. Yes.
Uhm, how much time do we have? I mean, the others... I don't want them walking
in on us."
"A little while, I guess," Neville says. "We should be okay,
right?"
Seemingly agreeing, Harry begins kissing Neville in earnest, his lips pressed
hard against Neville's, tongue unrelentingly insinuating its way into Neville's
mouth. Hastily, he begins pulling at the front of Neville's robes, as though
their roommates are going to come bursting in at any moment.
He's nervous, Neville realises with some surprise, and he covers
Harry's hand with his own, stilling it. "It'll be fine," Neville
assures him. "Better than fine."
"Yeah. Okay," says Harry, exhaling hard. He slows his pace
considerably then, and the two explore one another's bodies, clothes finding
their way into a jumble at the edge of the bed. Neville finds the place where
Harry's hipbone juts out fascinating, while Harry spends a great deal of time
lavishing Neville's soft thighs with caresses and kisses. There's a lot of
fumbling with the jar of lubricant Neville keeps by his bedside, and they spend
some time deciding which way they want to do things. But Harry's hands and lips
are always in contact with some part of Neville's skin and Neville finds he
can't stop chanting Harry's name, the repetition growing louder as Harry thrusts
into him over and over, his sweaty forehead buried into Neville's shoulder.
Afterwards, Harry murmurs, "I love you."
"That's just the afterglow talking," Neville says jokingly, but
every one of his nerve endings is singing.
"No." Harry's face is dead serious as his eyes study Neville's
expression.
Sure of how close he is to fucking everything up, Neville takes a deep breath
and screws up the courage to say what he feels. "I know. I love you,
too."
The light instantly returns to Harry's eyes as he snuggles close to Neville's
body. "Now I can die a happy man."
Neville doesn't know what to say to that. He just holds his breath and
studies the top of Harry's head.
The end comes much sooner than any of them anticipated. Spies have reported
that Voldemort's strategy has changed from 'lie low and wait' to 'get to Potter
now'. Neville's afraid, more afraid than he can ever remember being and, knowing
Neville Longbottom, that's saying an awful lot. His hands shake terribly as he
transports a tray of shrivelfigs from Greenhouse 1 to the infirmary, and he
wordlessly, immediately retreats after his delivery. When Harry finds him,
Neville is slumped in one corner of the greenhouse, his head pressed against the
cool glass.
"It's time," Harry says, offering Neville a hand up.
"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Neville says with a laugh.
"Where to?"
Harry looks at his feet, not answering for a moment. "You're staying at
Hogwarts."
"What?" Neville says in low, furious tones. "I am doing
no such thing! You think I'm going to let you go out and fight that... insane
freak all by yourself?"
Voice calm, Harry shakes his head. "I won't be by myself; Hermione and
Ron will be with me and the Order, too. You're needed here. Madam Pomfrey
and Professor Sprout specifically requested your presence here and Dumbledore
agreed. It's not just because I want to make sure you're safe." Harry walks
behind Neville wrapping his hands around his waist and resting his head on
Neville's shoulder. "I do want that, I won't deny it, but you should know
by now that I've given up on trying to keep anyone away. Please don't be mad at
me."
Neville's shoulders slump and he turns around, putting his arms around
Harry's neck. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"Are you expecting anyone in here?" Harry says suddenly.
"Because I just noticed that we're completely alone."
"Oh, you just noticed that, did you?" Neville smiles, despite
himself.
They make the most of their time alone, a culmination of all the weeks
they've spent memorising each other's bodies and Neville feels like he may know
Harry's as well as his own. Things between them seem more desperate, more
frenzied than they have in weeks past and, afterward, they dress quietly, each
seemingly lost in his own world.
"I love you," Neville says for what feels like the thousandth time.
It never gets old.
Harry tilts his head, placing kisses on each of Neville's eyelids, his
glasses bumping Neville's forehead. Neville returns the favour, gently kissing
Harry's scar. Harry shivers and murmurs, "Love you, too. Thank you... for
everything."
Overcome by emotion, Neville can only nod.
"I have to go now," says Harry abruptly. "We're leaving
soon."
"Kill the bastard, Harry."
"I promise."
After Harry leaves, Neville frames the greenhouse doorway, still watching
long after Harry's out of sight.
The next few hours rush by in a frenzy of activity, surprising Neville. Once
Harry and the others leave, Sprout sets Neville to work, clipping herbs,
evaluating the freshness of what was in storage. There is a moment where he
speaks to Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing and he thinks he sees sympathy and
worry written all over her stern face; the expression nearly breaks him as he
becomes hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, his cold, clammy hands. He
just wants this to be over, wants Harry to come back triumphant, possibly
with Voldemort's head on a spike.
Then, Portkeys carrying the wounded activate, filling the infirmary, and
Neville doesn't have time to worry about himself. These are classmates, Order
members, Aurors, people he knows -- not well, but he recognises many of them --
and he runs around, being as much of a help to the staff members and students
still in the castle as he can. After delivering a Healing Salve to Pomfrey, he
heads back to the greenhouses, so he can collect more supplies.
"Neville," says a tired voice behind him. It's female and Neville
spins around, coming face-to-face with Hermione.
"Are you hurt?" Neville rushes over to her, checking for curse
damage.
"It's over," says Hermione flatly. "Voldemort's been
defeated."
There's a wave of relief, followed by terrible feeling in the pit of
Neville's stomach. "Where's Harry?"
A brief look of pain in Hermione's face and Neville knows everything.
"Neville...."
"No."
"It was the Dark Mark. We didn't know --"
"No." Neville shakes his head, sinking to the ground. He's
shaking all over and, before he has a chance to shrug her off, Hermione's there
next to him, arms wrapped tightly around him.
"Harry killed him; that much we know. Ron was close enough to see Harry
cut Voldemort -- with a Muggle knife -- and he cut himself, too. There was a
curse and then Voldemort just melted away. I think that he and Professor
Dumbledore had been working on it for awhile." She takes a deep breath,
biting her lower lip and Neville can tell Hermione's trying desperately not to
cry. "Then, before any of us knew what was happening, everyone with the
Dark Mark collapsed -- Lucius Malfoy, the Lestranges..." Hermione pauses
again, swallowing hard. "Professor Snape. I suppose they were linked too
closely to Voldemort, and they all... they --"
"Died," Neville finishes flatly.
"Harry was last; it must have been his scar. They were too closely
connected."
"It should have been me."
Hermione's voice is fierce. "It shouldn't have been anyone.
Shouldn't have been Harry. He didn't want to die."
"A virgin," Neville mutters under his breath, an insane giggle
escaping his lips as he remembers what initially brought them together.
"What?" Hermione asks, bewildered.
Neville doesn't think she understood what he said, so he just shakes his
head. As the reality of the situation washes over him, Neville feels suddenly,
inexplicably cold and he shivers, despite Hermione's proximity.
"He loved you," Hermione tells him abruptly. "He said so
before we.... Before."
"I love him, too. God, Hermione, I love him so much it's painful and
half of me refuses to believe what you're telling me. Why... why does he have to
make things so hard?"
"That's just Harry," Hermione replies, making another pained
expression.
Neville feels a bubble of anger rise. "I wish he'd never come after me.
I wish he'd just left things the way they were. Then... then I wouldn't feel
like this."
"You don't mean that." She tightens her grip on him. "You love
him."
"I do," replies Neville, unsure of which statement he's answering.
"He didn't have to go."
"He did." Hermione's voice is raw from the effort of holding back
her tears. "I... I think he must have known this was going to happen. But
he wanted you to live, wanted us all to live."
"Yeah, well, I wanted that for him, too. Can't always get what you want,
though, right? Death is just a part of life." Neville shrugs off her
embrace and stands, brushing dirt from his robes. Hermione scrambles up,
unwilling to let him stalk off, and grabs his hand.
"You're still alive, Neville. Please don't forget that." She pulls
him into an embrace and he feels all his bones turn to liquid.
Neville thinks of flying, of the taste of peppermint, of interrupted
homework, tentative hand-holding, secret kisses in empty classrooms, and Harry.
And Harry. His eyes fill with tears and he bends down, burying his face
in Hermione's neck.
"How could I?"
It's all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us
- Queen, "Who Wants to Live Forever?&"