Gift for kamerreon!
Recipient: kamerreon
Author: songquake
Title: Overs
Pairings: Neville/Harry
Rating: R
Warnings: Other than the emo? Pillock!Harry. Canon violence and deaths.
Word Count: ~5300
Summary: Why don't we stop
foolin' ourselves?
The game is over, over, over…
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine. Harry Potter and his universe belong to JK Rowling and her associates. Title and summary are by Simon & Garfunkel, who were the sound of my adolescent melancholia. No copyright infringement is intended, nor payments accepted.
Author's Notes: Direct quotes and close paraphrases from the Harry Potter books are underlined. ♥ kamerreon, I hope you enjoy this! I tried to corral the story into a Harry-centric POV, but Neville wasn't having it (Harry has behaved rather poorly, after all), so it's a sort-of dual triple POV.
♥ Thanks to the mods for running another fantastic round! Thanks especially for your enormous flexibility with writers such as myself, whose real lives kept them from turning things in on time.
♥ Thanks also to She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named for the moral support and beta-reading.
"Nev, Miss Dumbledore wants you," Seamus called, interrupting the conversation he was having with the Patil Twins about an exercise programme they wanted to add to the DA's repertoire of battle preparation activities.
"Tell her I'll be right with her," Neville returned, turning back to listen more closely to the theory that Eastern meditation and very-slow martial arts could increase Dumbledore's Army's success rates when its members entered magical duels and battles. The spiritual concentration, it seemed -
"Mate, she's tapping her foot; don't think she much fancies waiting," Seamus' voice cut through the buzz of chatter again.
Neville started and turned to look at the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore, who was indeed tapping her foot. She was also tossing impatient glances back over her shoulder, her auburn tangles whipping back and forth as she divided her attention between glaring at Neville and trying to keep an eye on the other side of the portrait-hole.
Neville was always amazed at how the fourteen-year-old had no compunction about staring down the leaders of the Resistance (he'd long since learned that hearing the name "Dumbledore," especially when it concerned her elder brother, would drive Ariana into shrieking fits; it resulted in a strange sort of censorship regarding the name of the Resistance when in her presence).
As Neville approached where Ariana stood and tilted his head in greeting, the portrait-girl rolled her eyes, jerked her head toward the other side of the tunnel, and set off. One never would have thought this sulky bird to be the fragile child rumoured to be afraid of her own magic.
Ariana Dumbledore may not have been much of a talker, but she had a way with faces.
"Er, Padma, Parvati," Neville stuttered, "it seems I'm needed elsewhere." He gestured helplessly at the now-empty portrait frame. The Patils nodded their matching heads, and Neville suppressed a sigh of relief as he turned from them.
As he approached, Ariana returned and swung the frame of the portrait from the wall so he might enter. Neville could see the back of her, hair tangled and dress rucked up in her fists as she walked ahead of him. Neville had long since stopped questioning what sort of magic managed to combine the 'traditional' portrait hole with a 'traditional' Wizarding portrait such that the portrait's subject could lead living wizards through a secret passage. Ariana remained beyond his physical reach, and Neville supposed that's what made the difference.
A few yards down the passageway, it occurred to Neville to wonder what - or who - might be so important as to render Ariana impatient. Usually she only came by when the troops on mess duty had forgotten to fetch brekkie and Aberforth was ready to bin it.
Has the rest of Hogwarts been destroyed, he mused, or...perhaps the Order has finally come to take back the school!
Neither seemed a likely option, but being fetched to the Hog's Head was itself rather unlikely. Whatever might be coming, it was time to contact the rest of the D.A. He slowed his jog so he could charm his D.A. Galleon to read "Apparate in Hog's Head, now, fight!" The writing filled the coin; the depicted wizard scowled as the words flowed unbidden from his mouth. Neville smiled at the image. As he continued through the tunnel, he entertained himself with images of students as young as his portrait-guide disabling Death Eaters with hexes like Tarantellegra and Rictusempra.
Neville was, therefore, more than a bit surprised at what he saw as he approached the other portrait-hole.
Harry.
Harry was back.
And with Harry, Neville found Ron, Hermione, and his own never-acknowledged mix of adoration and anger.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: June 1996
It is dusk, and you feel the chill of night settling into the late spring air.
A blond, somewhat stocky boy, mid-adolescence, approaches a figure with black messy hair. That figure is seated in the grass just before the place where the ground turns to mud before succumbing to the Black Lake. The figure is hugging its legs. From where the Pensieve dropped you, you can see the first adolescent greet the second and see the black head rise and turn in acknowledgement, but you cannot hear anything. You see that the second boy (you can tell now) has glasses, round-lensed and held together with Spello-tape. Realising that this is Harry Potter, that you are in a memory about Harry Potter, you decide to approach. After all, what use is landing in a memory if one does not explore it?
Taking advantage of your invisibility, you take a seat facing the two young men, who stare silently at the rippling water.
Eventually the larger boy speaks. "All right, there?" he asks.
Harry Potter snorts, and the two fall back into silence. Eventually he speaks.
"Never follow me anywhere again, Nev."
His companion must be Neville Longbottom, who turns his head, his brows furrowed, eyes wide, and lips almost sneering; the effect is some sort of sarcastic incredulity. "You've got to be nutters, mate," Neville says. "What are you thinking - that all your friends should just let you hare off without any back-up?"
"If you really think I'm 'haring off', then yeah," Harry says, his voice sharp. "At least that way, I'm the only one that gets hurt."
His head drops forward again, and Neville reaches over to pat his back. After, Neville leans back on his elbows, head jerking toward them as they sink into the mud, but not so much as to change his position.
"Mate, none of that was your fault: not my broken nose; not Ginny's broken ankle or Ron's broken mind and scars; neither Hermione's nor Luna's unconsciousness. Not Sirius." Neville is nearly panting, his face red. "And your lot wasn't any easier, was it? Having V-Voldemort take over your body?"
"At least I'm undamaged now," Harry mumbles.
"As am I, as is Gin, as will be Luna and Hermione and Ron. And blimey, Harry..." Neville bites his lip and inhales through his nose before finishing his thought. "I wouldn't say you were quite undamaged." He sits up, and one hand reaches over to pat Harry's knee.
When Harry, tears streaming down his face and nose red and swollen, rests his head on Neville's shoulder and Neville plants a light kiss on his forehead, the Pensieve tugs you back to your own time.
~*~
Harry saw Neville's eyes widen before he spread his mouth into a grin that further stretched his broad face.
Fuck.
He'd hoped the absence of Neville's dot on the Marauder's Map, like the absence of Ginny's, had indicated an absence from Hogwarts altogether.
Should have known better than to think those I love safe, he berated himself. His shock at Nev's appearance was interrupted entirely when Neville embraced him. Harry felt his nipples, stomach, and groin tighten when Neville's low voice caressed his ear.
"If you ever leave me behind like that again, this," Neville blew lightly, causing Harry to bite his lip, "is over."
Harry's breath stuck in his chest, his language trampled by emotions running amok. Nev is alive...he still wants me...he'll be in even more danger if we're together!. Harry couldn't respond, but Neville had already moved on to embrace Hermione and Ron, and as he saw that... No wonder Ron thinks I'm a selfish prick, he thought. We're about to try to end a war, and I'm distracted by what my boyfriend's presence means, by whether I'll meet his approval. Not that Neville's approval had directed Harry's actions much this past year; in fact, he'd had no contact with anyone but those necessary to their Quest since Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Which Neville hadn't been invited to. He hadn't seen Nev since they got off the Hogwarts Express in June.
Neville's coming of age party had been slightly more formal and upscale than his own. Or so Harry had heard; he'd been busy escaping from Death Eaters that night.
Blinking, Harry came back to the moment when other members of the D.A. started showing up. Fuck. And they all wanted to help.
"There's something we - Ron, Hermione, and I - need to do, and then we'll get out of here."
Neville scowled. "We've been here, struggling, the whole time you lot have been gone," he pointed out. Harry could see his impatience, that he was starting to feel like a broken Pensieve. This did not bode well - neither for their relationship (such as it was) nor for the strategy.
While Hermione and Ron tried to convince the rest of Dumbledore's Army of the need to hold back for the moment, Harry pulled Neville aside.
"Look, mate," he said, watching Neville's scowl deepen, "this thing Dumbledore asked us to find - if we don't find it first, there will be no point in fighting. I know you're narked that we didn't bring you along, and we know you've been doing amazing things here - Luna told us that when we found her. But right now, the best thing to do would be to keep everyone from going off and getting themselves killed, right? Because... for fuck's sake. Having casualties with no hope of winning is bloody pointless."
He watched Neville take a deep breath before nodding slowly. "I should stay back and strategise with Ron, I suppose?"
Harry reached over and clasped Neville's shoulder, squeezing. He tried to send all his affection and love through that gesture. "Perfect thinking. Ron's got a great mind for strategy, but I reckon the situation in the castle has changed in ways he couldn't possibly account for without you."
Neville nodded again, but his face was shuttered. "Right. Consider it done." He paused. "Mate."
Fuck, Harry thought.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 18 February, 1997
This time, you're dropped into a classroom with stone walls and wooden floors; the view out the window shows the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch at night, so you know your general location, though the grime of the window suggests the room has fallen into such disuse that even the house-elves don't think of it anymore.
You hear muffled chuckles and turn your head toward the sound.
Where a teacher's desk ought to be, you see a bed. It's a rather modest bed; a four-poster fit for a single student, yet you spy two bodies spooned together in it, covered by a red duvet with gold trimming. Gryffindors.
When the one in the rear position reaches over the duvet to weave his arm under his companion's, you realise that these are the same two young men. Somewhat older, though, you think; Harry seems to have stubble, and Neville's hair is longer. Not to mention that the latter's shoulders are broad enough to be a blanket to the smaller man.
"Better?" Neville asks, running his free hand down Harry's chest.
Harry nods, and you hear Neville's teeth clack together behind him.
"Fuck, Nev, I'm sorry!" he exclaims and turns his body so they are facing one another and he can caress the jaw he's just rammed shut.
Neville is breathing heavily. You move closer and see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he blinks. He closes his eyes and seems to be moving his tongue and lips as if checking for damage in his mouth. "No bloodh, tho I reckon I'll be figh'," he says. "Bid my thongue, though."
Harry's hand strokes from Neville's jaw to the nape of his neck and pulls him down. "I'll have to be extra-gentle, then," he says just before kissing his lover tenderly. Neville returns the kiss and clutches Harry close to his chest before pushing gently on his shoulder in an invitation to spoon again.
Snug once more, Neville takes up his soothing rub of Harry's chest again. After a few minutes of this, he asks, "What's in that mind of yours right now?"
"Mm?" Harry murmurs, opening and re-focusing his eyes. "Oh... I was just enjoying how easy this is, just lying, with nobody harping on us to do anything else."
This time, Neville nods into Harry's shoulder. Harry moves his own arm above the bedclothes and places his hand under Neville's, their fingers weaving together.
"Yeah," Neville finally says, gruffly. "I wish we could just stay here, or even be this way in the dorm." His eyes narrow briefly and then relax until they turn down; his mouth does the same, as do his shoulders. He inhales; the breath seems both deliberate and deliberative. "You know I'd be more than willing to go public, Harry," he adds.
Harry pulls Neville's fingers tighter between his own. "I know," he whispers. "I just - it's just too much for me to deal with right now, okay?" His voice rises into a whinge at the end. "There's so much to do, to learn... To figure out."
Neville rolls away from him onto his back. "Let me help you, then!" he groans. "I'll stalk Malfoy sometimes, and I can revise with you, or help you figure out what Dumbledore's teaching you."
"No." Harry's voice is abrupt but steady. Hard. Determined, you think. "I mean, revising together is fine. But the rest? I need to do it on my own."
"Dumbledore's orders?" Neville asks, his voice heavy and sharp.
Harry pauses before answering. "Some of them," he says quietly.
Neville rolls away from Harry once more. "Don't shut me out, Harry," he says as his feet hit the floor. "I care about you, and I can't care properly if I don't know any of the stuff that matters to you."
~*~
Neville wasn't sure which grief was more overwhelming: that for Colin Creevey (whose body was being borne back to the Great Hall by Oliver Wood, or that for his relationship with the always-distracted Harry Potter.
Neville was beyond questioning how Oliver had managed to ditch the rest of the Wasps in order to get to Hogwarts. Then again, it's possible that the rest of the team had shown up as well; Neville had no earthly idea how the Great Hall had become so crowded with the Forces of Light.
Harry, on the other hand... Harry, Neville understood. He was the anointed one, as it were, and as such had always commanded more attention and authority than he'd ever wanted. And while he was stupid sometimes, at least he didn't have the misfortune of being both forgetful and clumsy, the way Neville did. His Gran (who had likewise appeared out of nowhere - Neville was sure he hadn't contacted her, so she must have heard through the grapevine of the Wizarding Diaspora) had also often compared the two of them, lamenting that while Harry had kept the best of James and Lily Potter's attributes, Neville had been left damaged by the trauma of seeing his parents After. His courage was acknowledged - hell, he was in Gryffindor, for crying out loud - but even when he expressed his principles, tactical skills, and forward-thinking he was overshadowed by others in his year.
When he and Harry had first started hanging out together in fifth year, it was a revelation. Harry did treat Neville as an equal and even shared the horrific story of how Neville might have been the Boy-Who-Lived, or at least the Chosen One. Sharing the knowledge that their own lives had been guided by fate nudged by the Dark Lord's logic (why choose Harry over Neville? Was it a choice of opportunity?), they bonded as friends, then confidants, and finally the intensity of their terror had tipped them into a sexual relationship.
Yet Harry had remained distracted - by Ginny, by Draco, but most of all, by his "special lessons" with Dumbledore. Lessons he told Neville, repeatedly and emphatically, he couldn't share. "Only I can know these things," Harry would say. "Dumbledore's orders. I wish I could tell you." Sometimes he would pause and then say, "I haven't told Ron or Hermione, even."
It was never good to know that he didn't rank as highly in Harry's confidence as his two best friends, foolish and short-sighted as they could be sometimes. And deep down, Neville wasn't sure Harry did regard him as an equal.
Not poor Colin, either. Harry generally treated him like a gnat. Neville wondered whether Harry would even care that the younger boy had finally been swatted.
Harry, of course, took that minute to appear in front of Neville with a flourish of Invisibility Cloak.
Neville knew, then. He knew by the look of crazed determination in Harry's eyes that his erstwhile lover had in mind some ridiculous plan. Harry was blithely going on, as though he were a general and Neville a lieutenant, and all Neville could think of was that this might be the last time he saw him alive.
"Harry!" he exclaimed, the horror of it shocking him into speech. "Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"
"No. 'Course not..." Harry continued talking and Neville responded with half a mind. He could recognise a necessary lie when he saw one; he had, after all, been tending to Carrow-scarred students since September. If Harry needed to think he was acting in secret...
Then Neville would refrain from punching him in the nose.
In the whole conversation, Harry barely looked him in the eye. He didn't make any acknowledgment of the relationship the two of them had: no embrace, no kiss - not even a pat on the shoulder. Not even now, when nobody was watching and he was about to walk straight to the enemy.
So Neville grabbed Harry by the wrist, giving a pep talk of sorts in order to have an excuse to touch the man whom he loved despite chronic public rejection. He rubbed his thumb along Harry's pulse point, his eyes burning and fighting back tears.
And that seemed to break Harry, who shuddered before his face fell blank, dead. The man Neville loved was already gone, even though Neville could feel his heart racing beneath his fingertips.
So Neville embraced him, patted him on the shoulder, and released him. He turned to let Harry get whatever last looks he needed, but when he heard the faint squelch of mud, he turned.
Neville watched Harry's footsteps make their way, through mud and mostly-trampled grass, to the Forbidden Forest. "Remember what I said," he murmured. "If you leave me behind, this thing between us is over."
He walked on heavy legs back to his work as medic and undertaker, heart too numb to break further.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 6 June, 1996
This time you're dropped onto the Hogwarts grounds, into the paddock behind Hagrid's hut. You see six figures convene near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Their voices rise and fall, and you're about to jump the gate and go investigate when one of them (Harry, you're guessing) shouts something that causes the rest to clamour back. You decide to jog rather than walk to them.
Arriving, a stitch in your side (how are you this out-of-shape in someone else's memory?), you look past the teenagers: Thestrals. The students debate who will ride on them. You try not to be grateful that you can see the herd, try not to think about why you see them. And you realise what night it is. Of course.
One stares directly at you, snuffles, and paws at the ground. You wonder what you are meant to see here.
The Thestrals approach the students, lapping at any blood they find on them. They six of them are still arguing, or rather, Harry is still barking commands that the rest of the lot don't heed. You watch Neville reach out to Harry, offering a hand up or perhaps seeking one. Harry shakes his head and walks around the Thestral to a tree stump. Neville's face falls for a moment but quickly stills before he nods, clenching his jaw. He too mounts his steed.
When they begin to take off, you pat the Thestral that has befriended you and clamber on. You whisper, "Follow them," and the Thestral does. The cold of the high winds bites your nose and cheeks as you and your Thestral give chase. But the sky, students, and scene around you goes fuzzy and swirls, and you know you're on your way somewhere else...
~*~
Harry stopped thinking about his friends, his loved ones, as he got closer to the Forbidden Forest. Tactics and strategy. In this game of chess Dumbledore and Voldemort had been playing, Harry wasn't a pawn. Nor, however, was he the King. He was, instead, the Queen: powerful yet expendable
Not that Harry could tell who the King would be. Hogwarts itself, perhaps, or the Wizarding World as a whole.
He snorted to himself; if only Rita Skeeter could be inside his head now. Harry shook his head as his mind briefly fell back into memories of unwelcome press. Funny how at the end I have quite the ego, after all.
Strategy and tactics. Time for the Queen to sacrifice himself.
Harry snorted again at that mental turn-of-phrase. If only Neville could hear that....
He brushed memories of being called a Drama Queen out of his mind though, shivering as he approached the line of Dementors. He was walking to give himself to Death. Not even memories of brilliant shags could help him summon a Patronus now.
As Harry considered the end of his life and how he might get past the soul-eating wraiths, the smell of wet earth beneath his trainers wrapped around him like Neville's warm arms.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 30 May, 1992
You have been yanked from the evening of the Battle at the Department of Mysteries and deposited in an overly-warm room covered with red and gold tapestries. These are not, however, the tapestries that you remember being in Gryffindor Tower.
It takes a moment, but you remember the school decided to replace all the tapestries in the Common Room after Sirius Black broke in and wreaked havoc in your third year at Hogwarts. This memory must be from before then.
Low voices and a flash of spell-light bring your attention to the entrance of the room, where a bushy-haired child bites her lower lip with overly-large teeth as a pudgy blond boy falls forward, smashing his face on the floor. You watch Hermione turn the boy, Neville, over.
"You'll understand later, Neville," you hear the high, rough voice of young Ron Weasley say as they disappear.
You expect the others aren't watching when tears begin to slide down Neville's face.
As the portrait hole opens, you realise just how long the habit of leaving Neville behind has been established.
~*~
Most people thought it was grief-inspired anger at the Dark Lord that drove Neville Longbottom to grab the Sword of Gryffindor and charge at the bloody great snake.
Never mind that he had "orders" from Harry Potter himself to kill the snake. Harry was dead; nobody knew of those orders. And since Neville had lost out on the chance to kill his lying, disappearing lover, somebody else had to die. Nagini was as good a target as anyone. Better than most, in fact.
As Voldemort's coterie grew closer, a captive Hagrid carrying the limp body of Harry from the Forbidden Forest to the castle, Neville turned to those gathered in the Entrance Hall.
"Spread the word: We will not fall quietly. We are going out to meet Voldemort with our heads high, and we will not surrender." He hardly recognised the large, steady voice emanating from his chest and mouth. Still, Neville gestured to Professor McGonagall, who was ashen and bright-eyed. The two of them led the way out the doors, through the courtyard, and to the castle gate.
Neville's rage braced him against fear and grief. He had loved, but not been loved back, and now there was no chance for it, for them. And hell hath no fury like a wizard scorned.
He barely had patience to allow Voldemort's ramblings. Neville had seen the Dark Lord before, of course, and so was less impressed by his visage than others in the crowd of fighters for the Light.
Voldemort was ugly. Not to mention, he was so thin he looked as if a light breeze could knock him over. And then we could all trample him to death, Neville thought.
He did not let himself be disturbed by his apparent descent into barbarism. There was still a battle to win, and now he needed to give the rest of the lot a reason to keep on.
When asked later, Neville wouldn't remember what he had said, exactly, when he broke ranks to confront the Death Eaters. What he remembered was an absence of fear, a feeling of incandescence, determination.
And then being stifled by the Hat.
You won't Sort me into Slytherin like he wants, Neville shouted in his mind.
"Why, of course not," the Sorting Hat replied. "You're entirely too rash and bold to be in Slytherin. Not to mention you seem insufficiently self-protective. Your loyalty could mark you for Hufflepuff, but I still say..."
Neville would never be sure whether the Hat had actually shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" or just dropped Godric's Sword into his hands. In any event, his fury returned just as he spied Nagini before him.
As he lunged forward, the crowd erupted. The battle was engaged once more.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 26 July, 1997
This room is small and stuffy. The blue-coloured shag carpet is stained and worn in several places. The cot to one side of the room (too rickety, really, to be called a bed) is made, but the blanket and pillow are so thin you wonder whether they do any good or exist as so much bed-dressing.
A broken frame for window-bars keeps the picture window from being picturesque. Facing it, you only know the door to the room is closing from its loud squeak behind you. As you turn toward it, the snowy owl in its cage blinks sleepily and hoots at you.
You walk to the doorway and creak the door back open. From below, you can hear one voice boom as another one attempts to soothe it and the sound of flatware and china threaten to drown both out.
Odd, you think, for while all the earlier memories had been of Harry and Neville, Neville had never visited Privet Drive.
Deciding the clue you're meant to see must be in this room (for what could you learn about Harry and Neville from watching breakfast with the Dursleys?), you scan it. The room is sparsely-furnished and meticulously neat. Harry's trunk lies shut and locked at the foot of his bed; the wardrobe is closed; Hedwwig's cage is freshly-cleaned.
But upon the bureau there is a parchment. A biro lies atop it.
You cross over so as to examine it. It reads:
Nev -
Happy birthday. I hate that I can't be there to give you what we both want you to have this year. I miss you too much, I think.
Do have some fun, alright?
I don't know when I'll see you again; I doubt your Gran will let you leave Hogwarts without any NEWTs. I'll likely be off soon - can't say where. Hedwig should be able to find me, though. Just make sure you keep Trevor out of her sight, yeah?
When all this is over, we can get on with things the proper way. I promise.
I hate having to do things the way I do, but I haven't any choice. I don't see any reason to put you in danger. I won't have you in danger just because of me.
It's better this way.
I hope to be with you again soon.
Yours,
Harry
Reading it, you feel as though your own gut has been punched. You want to curse Harry for being a fool, for treating his lover this way.
But it's too late.
~*~
As the stunned silence of the crowd watching Harry's defeat of Tom Riddle faded into murmurs, chatter, and finally exclamations, Harry himself surveyed the Great Hall.
Ginny's arms were wrapped around Mrs Weasley, who sat on the floor pale and shaking. She stroked her mother's hair. Harry assumed the shock of losing a son and saving a daughter's life by killing was enough to wreck Mrs Weasley for quite a bit. Ginny had her hands full, then.
Convenient, that, he thought.
Hermione and Ron had approached him and were nattering about something or other; Harry wasn't paying attention. Instead, he scanned the room, looking for...
There. Over where the Gryffindor table should stand, Neville was directing students to various tasks. Some nodded and headed over to assist Madam Pomfrey with the easier Healing tasks, some paired up and grimly headed back out to the grounds. Neville cocked his head as Luna Lovegood spoke to him and then he nodded and sent his Patronus southward. Luna spoke again, and Neville seemed to laugh before sweeping his arm out to indicate the entire hall.
Harry's heart grew warm and he smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. He shook his head, waved away his two compatriots, and started toward the man he could, perhaps, love.
He took a circuitous route to where Neville stood so he could approach from behind. There was enough din that no-one could hear footsteps.
Neville startled when Harry's hands landed, one on his hip and one on his shoulder. Looking behind him, he raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"Nev," Harry said. "I - I'm proud of you." He tried to turn Neville around so as to embrace him, but Neville shook him off.
His voice was cool. "You don't get to be proud of me, Harry," he said. "You have no right." He shook Harry's arms off and walked to another pod of students looking to be at loose ends.
Harry could only stare after him.
He started when he felt a hand on his arm.
"Harry," Hermione said.
Harry shook his head. "He just walked away from me, Hermione," he said. "Like I wasn't worth his time."
Hermione followed his gaze. "You know, you never did tell me what was going on between you and Neville."
"I'm not sure I quite knew," he confessed, shoulders slumping. "But I... I think it isn't, anymore." His eyes burnt.
Hermione turned Harry toward her. "Look at me, Harry," she said.
Harry looked.
"What just happened?"
"He said I haven't any right - to be proud of him. Maybe to touch him, too." His voice cracked. He'd lost Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin... He couldn't bear to lose his lover, his lover who had survived, as well. "I don't understand."
Hermione blew a hot breath past Harry's cheek. "You know you're an idiot sometimes, right?" she said.
"I -"
Hermione shook her head. "My suggestion is you go back to the headmaster's office, pull that Pensieve back out, and look at the relationship you've had with Neville." She looked hard at him. "Just do it. And for pity's sake, pay attention to what you see."
Harry nodded. "Thanks, Hermione," he said. "Keep everyone else away for a bit, yeah?"
"Yeah." She rolled her eyes.
Harry's legs felt like wood as he trudged back toward Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle had been knocked over during the battle and the opening to the revolving staircase was exposed to anyone who might wander by.
Harry cast a Notice-Me-Not charm, and hoped nobody would come looking for the entrance.
Dumbledore's Pensieve was where he had left it on the Headmaster's desk. He waved his hand and otherwise ignored the portraits as they clamoured to learn of the battle's progress.
Harry chanted Neville's name to himself as he touched the Hawthorne wand to his head, transferring his memories into the stone basin.
When they swirled before him, he took a deep breath. He gathered his courage.
Harry plunged his face into the Pensieve's depths.
Fin
Author: songquake
Title: Overs
Pairings: Neville/Harry
Rating: R
Warnings: Other than the emo? Pillock!Harry. Canon violence and deaths.
Word Count: ~5300
Summary: Why don't we stop
foolin' ourselves?
The game is over, over, over…
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine. Harry Potter and his universe belong to JK Rowling and her associates. Title and summary are by Simon & Garfunkel, who were the sound of my adolescent melancholia. No copyright infringement is intended, nor payments accepted.
Author's Notes: Direct quotes and close paraphrases from the Harry Potter books are underlined. ♥ kamerreon, I hope you enjoy this! I tried to corral the story into a Harry-centric POV, but Neville wasn't having it (Harry has behaved rather poorly, after all), so it's a sort-of dual triple POV.
♥ Thanks to the mods for running another fantastic round! Thanks especially for your enormous flexibility with writers such as myself, whose real lives kept them from turning things in on time.
♥ Thanks also to She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named for the moral support and beta-reading.
"Nev, Miss Dumbledore wants you," Seamus called, interrupting the conversation he was having with the Patil Twins about an exercise programme they wanted to add to the DA's repertoire of battle preparation activities.
"Tell her I'll be right with her," Neville returned, turning back to listen more closely to the theory that Eastern meditation and very-slow martial arts could increase Dumbledore's Army's success rates when its members entered magical duels and battles. The spiritual concentration, it seemed -
"Mate, she's tapping her foot; don't think she much fancies waiting," Seamus' voice cut through the buzz of chatter again.
Neville started and turned to look at the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore, who was indeed tapping her foot. She was also tossing impatient glances back over her shoulder, her auburn tangles whipping back and forth as she divided her attention between glaring at Neville and trying to keep an eye on the other side of the portrait-hole.
Neville was always amazed at how the fourteen-year-old had no compunction about staring down the leaders of the Resistance (he'd long since learned that hearing the name "Dumbledore," especially when it concerned her elder brother, would drive Ariana into shrieking fits; it resulted in a strange sort of censorship regarding the name of the Resistance when in her presence).
As Neville approached where Ariana stood and tilted his head in greeting, the portrait-girl rolled her eyes, jerked her head toward the other side of the tunnel, and set off. One never would have thought this sulky bird to be the fragile child rumoured to be afraid of her own magic.
Ariana Dumbledore may not have been much of a talker, but she had a way with faces.
"Er, Padma, Parvati," Neville stuttered, "it seems I'm needed elsewhere." He gestured helplessly at the now-empty portrait frame. The Patils nodded their matching heads, and Neville suppressed a sigh of relief as he turned from them.
As he approached, Ariana returned and swung the frame of the portrait from the wall so he might enter. Neville could see the back of her, hair tangled and dress rucked up in her fists as she walked ahead of him. Neville had long since stopped questioning what sort of magic managed to combine the 'traditional' portrait hole with a 'traditional' Wizarding portrait such that the portrait's subject could lead living wizards through a secret passage. Ariana remained beyond his physical reach, and Neville supposed that's what made the difference.
A few yards down the passageway, it occurred to Neville to wonder what - or who - might be so important as to render Ariana impatient. Usually she only came by when the troops on mess duty had forgotten to fetch brekkie and Aberforth was ready to bin it.
Has the rest of Hogwarts been destroyed, he mused, or...perhaps the Order has finally come to take back the school!
Neither seemed a likely option, but being fetched to the Hog's Head was itself rather unlikely. Whatever might be coming, it was time to contact the rest of the D.A. He slowed his jog so he could charm his D.A. Galleon to read "Apparate in Hog's Head, now, fight!" The writing filled the coin; the depicted wizard scowled as the words flowed unbidden from his mouth. Neville smiled at the image. As he continued through the tunnel, he entertained himself with images of students as young as his portrait-guide disabling Death Eaters with hexes like Tarantellegra and Rictusempra.
Neville was, therefore, more than a bit surprised at what he saw as he approached the other portrait-hole.
Harry.
Harry was back.
And with Harry, Neville found Ron, Hermione, and his own never-acknowledged mix of adoration and anger.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: June 1996
It is dusk, and you feel the chill of night settling into the late spring air.
A blond, somewhat stocky boy, mid-adolescence, approaches a figure with black messy hair. That figure is seated in the grass just before the place where the ground turns to mud before succumbing to the Black Lake. The figure is hugging its legs. From where the Pensieve dropped you, you can see the first adolescent greet the second and see the black head rise and turn in acknowledgement, but you cannot hear anything. You see that the second boy (you can tell now) has glasses, round-lensed and held together with Spello-tape. Realising that this is Harry Potter, that you are in a memory about Harry Potter, you decide to approach. After all, what use is landing in a memory if one does not explore it?
Taking advantage of your invisibility, you take a seat facing the two young men, who stare silently at the rippling water.
Eventually the larger boy speaks. "All right, there?" he asks.
Harry Potter snorts, and the two fall back into silence. Eventually he speaks.
"Never follow me anywhere again, Nev."
His companion must be Neville Longbottom, who turns his head, his brows furrowed, eyes wide, and lips almost sneering; the effect is some sort of sarcastic incredulity. "You've got to be nutters, mate," Neville says. "What are you thinking - that all your friends should just let you hare off without any back-up?"
"If you really think I'm 'haring off', then yeah," Harry says, his voice sharp. "At least that way, I'm the only one that gets hurt."
His head drops forward again, and Neville reaches over to pat his back. After, Neville leans back on his elbows, head jerking toward them as they sink into the mud, but not so much as to change his position.
"Mate, none of that was your fault: not my broken nose; not Ginny's broken ankle or Ron's broken mind and scars; neither Hermione's nor Luna's unconsciousness. Not Sirius." Neville is nearly panting, his face red. "And your lot wasn't any easier, was it? Having V-Voldemort take over your body?"
"At least I'm undamaged now," Harry mumbles.
"As am I, as is Gin, as will be Luna and Hermione and Ron. And blimey, Harry..." Neville bites his lip and inhales through his nose before finishing his thought. "I wouldn't say you were quite undamaged." He sits up, and one hand reaches over to pat Harry's knee.
When Harry, tears streaming down his face and nose red and swollen, rests his head on Neville's shoulder and Neville plants a light kiss on his forehead, the Pensieve tugs you back to your own time.
~*~
Harry saw Neville's eyes widen before he spread his mouth into a grin that further stretched his broad face.
Fuck.
He'd hoped the absence of Neville's dot on the Marauder's Map, like the absence of Ginny's, had indicated an absence from Hogwarts altogether.
Should have known better than to think those I love safe, he berated himself. His shock at Nev's appearance was interrupted entirely when Neville embraced him. Harry felt his nipples, stomach, and groin tighten when Neville's low voice caressed his ear.
"If you ever leave me behind like that again, this," Neville blew lightly, causing Harry to bite his lip, "is over."
Harry's breath stuck in his chest, his language trampled by emotions running amok. Nev is alive...he still wants me...he'll be in even more danger if we're together!. Harry couldn't respond, but Neville had already moved on to embrace Hermione and Ron, and as he saw that... No wonder Ron thinks I'm a selfish prick, he thought. We're about to try to end a war, and I'm distracted by what my boyfriend's presence means, by whether I'll meet his approval. Not that Neville's approval had directed Harry's actions much this past year; in fact, he'd had no contact with anyone but those necessary to their Quest since Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Which Neville hadn't been invited to. He hadn't seen Nev since they got off the Hogwarts Express in June.
Neville's coming of age party had been slightly more formal and upscale than his own. Or so Harry had heard; he'd been busy escaping from Death Eaters that night.
Blinking, Harry came back to the moment when other members of the D.A. started showing up. Fuck. And they all wanted to help.
"There's something we - Ron, Hermione, and I - need to do, and then we'll get out of here."
Neville scowled. "We've been here, struggling, the whole time you lot have been gone," he pointed out. Harry could see his impatience, that he was starting to feel like a broken Pensieve. This did not bode well - neither for their relationship (such as it was) nor for the strategy.
While Hermione and Ron tried to convince the rest of Dumbledore's Army of the need to hold back for the moment, Harry pulled Neville aside.
"Look, mate," he said, watching Neville's scowl deepen, "this thing Dumbledore asked us to find - if we don't find it first, there will be no point in fighting. I know you're narked that we didn't bring you along, and we know you've been doing amazing things here - Luna told us that when we found her. But right now, the best thing to do would be to keep everyone from going off and getting themselves killed, right? Because... for fuck's sake. Having casualties with no hope of winning is bloody pointless."
He watched Neville take a deep breath before nodding slowly. "I should stay back and strategise with Ron, I suppose?"
Harry reached over and clasped Neville's shoulder, squeezing. He tried to send all his affection and love through that gesture. "Perfect thinking. Ron's got a great mind for strategy, but I reckon the situation in the castle has changed in ways he couldn't possibly account for without you."
Neville nodded again, but his face was shuttered. "Right. Consider it done." He paused. "Mate."
Fuck, Harry thought.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 18 February, 1997
This time, you're dropped into a classroom with stone walls and wooden floors; the view out the window shows the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch at night, so you know your general location, though the grime of the window suggests the room has fallen into such disuse that even the house-elves don't think of it anymore.
You hear muffled chuckles and turn your head toward the sound.
Where a teacher's desk ought to be, you see a bed. It's a rather modest bed; a four-poster fit for a single student, yet you spy two bodies spooned together in it, covered by a red duvet with gold trimming. Gryffindors.
When the one in the rear position reaches over the duvet to weave his arm under his companion's, you realise that these are the same two young men. Somewhat older, though, you think; Harry seems to have stubble, and Neville's hair is longer. Not to mention that the latter's shoulders are broad enough to be a blanket to the smaller man.
"Better?" Neville asks, running his free hand down Harry's chest.
Harry nods, and you hear Neville's teeth clack together behind him.
"Fuck, Nev, I'm sorry!" he exclaims and turns his body so they are facing one another and he can caress the jaw he's just rammed shut.
Neville is breathing heavily. You move closer and see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he blinks. He closes his eyes and seems to be moving his tongue and lips as if checking for damage in his mouth. "No bloodh, tho I reckon I'll be figh'," he says. "Bid my thongue, though."
Harry's hand strokes from Neville's jaw to the nape of his neck and pulls him down. "I'll have to be extra-gentle, then," he says just before kissing his lover tenderly. Neville returns the kiss and clutches Harry close to his chest before pushing gently on his shoulder in an invitation to spoon again.
Snug once more, Neville takes up his soothing rub of Harry's chest again. After a few minutes of this, he asks, "What's in that mind of yours right now?"
"Mm?" Harry murmurs, opening and re-focusing his eyes. "Oh... I was just enjoying how easy this is, just lying, with nobody harping on us to do anything else."
This time, Neville nods into Harry's shoulder. Harry moves his own arm above the bedclothes and places his hand under Neville's, their fingers weaving together.
"Yeah," Neville finally says, gruffly. "I wish we could just stay here, or even be this way in the dorm." His eyes narrow briefly and then relax until they turn down; his mouth does the same, as do his shoulders. He inhales; the breath seems both deliberate and deliberative. "You know I'd be more than willing to go public, Harry," he adds.
Harry pulls Neville's fingers tighter between his own. "I know," he whispers. "I just - it's just too much for me to deal with right now, okay?" His voice rises into a whinge at the end. "There's so much to do, to learn... To figure out."
Neville rolls away from him onto his back. "Let me help you, then!" he groans. "I'll stalk Malfoy sometimes, and I can revise with you, or help you figure out what Dumbledore's teaching you."
"No." Harry's voice is abrupt but steady. Hard. Determined, you think. "I mean, revising together is fine. But the rest? I need to do it on my own."
"Dumbledore's orders?" Neville asks, his voice heavy and sharp.
Harry pauses before answering. "Some of them," he says quietly.
Neville rolls away from Harry once more. "Don't shut me out, Harry," he says as his feet hit the floor. "I care about you, and I can't care properly if I don't know any of the stuff that matters to you."
~*~
Neville wasn't sure which grief was more overwhelming: that for Colin Creevey (whose body was being borne back to the Great Hall by Oliver Wood, or that for his relationship with the always-distracted Harry Potter.
Neville was beyond questioning how Oliver had managed to ditch the rest of the Wasps in order to get to Hogwarts. Then again, it's possible that the rest of the team had shown up as well; Neville had no earthly idea how the Great Hall had become so crowded with the Forces of Light.
Harry, on the other hand... Harry, Neville understood. He was the anointed one, as it were, and as such had always commanded more attention and authority than he'd ever wanted. And while he was stupid sometimes, at least he didn't have the misfortune of being both forgetful and clumsy, the way Neville did. His Gran (who had likewise appeared out of nowhere - Neville was sure he hadn't contacted her, so she must have heard through the grapevine of the Wizarding Diaspora) had also often compared the two of them, lamenting that while Harry had kept the best of James and Lily Potter's attributes, Neville had been left damaged by the trauma of seeing his parents After. His courage was acknowledged - hell, he was in Gryffindor, for crying out loud - but even when he expressed his principles, tactical skills, and forward-thinking he was overshadowed by others in his year.
When he and Harry had first started hanging out together in fifth year, it was a revelation. Harry did treat Neville as an equal and even shared the horrific story of how Neville might have been the Boy-Who-Lived, or at least the Chosen One. Sharing the knowledge that their own lives had been guided by fate nudged by the Dark Lord's logic (why choose Harry over Neville? Was it a choice of opportunity?), they bonded as friends, then confidants, and finally the intensity of their terror had tipped them into a sexual relationship.
Yet Harry had remained distracted - by Ginny, by Draco, but most of all, by his "special lessons" with Dumbledore. Lessons he told Neville, repeatedly and emphatically, he couldn't share. "Only I can know these things," Harry would say. "Dumbledore's orders. I wish I could tell you." Sometimes he would pause and then say, "I haven't told Ron or Hermione, even."
It was never good to know that he didn't rank as highly in Harry's confidence as his two best friends, foolish and short-sighted as they could be sometimes. And deep down, Neville wasn't sure Harry did regard him as an equal.
Not poor Colin, either. Harry generally treated him like a gnat. Neville wondered whether Harry would even care that the younger boy had finally been swatted.
Harry, of course, took that minute to appear in front of Neville with a flourish of Invisibility Cloak.
Neville knew, then. He knew by the look of crazed determination in Harry's eyes that his erstwhile lover had in mind some ridiculous plan. Harry was blithely going on, as though he were a general and Neville a lieutenant, and all Neville could think of was that this might be the last time he saw him alive.
"Harry!" he exclaimed, the horror of it shocking him into speech. "Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"
"No. 'Course not..." Harry continued talking and Neville responded with half a mind. He could recognise a necessary lie when he saw one; he had, after all, been tending to Carrow-scarred students since September. If Harry needed to think he was acting in secret...
Then Neville would refrain from punching him in the nose.
In the whole conversation, Harry barely looked him in the eye. He didn't make any acknowledgment of the relationship the two of them had: no embrace, no kiss - not even a pat on the shoulder. Not even now, when nobody was watching and he was about to walk straight to the enemy.
So Neville grabbed Harry by the wrist, giving a pep talk of sorts in order to have an excuse to touch the man whom he loved despite chronic public rejection. He rubbed his thumb along Harry's pulse point, his eyes burning and fighting back tears.
And that seemed to break Harry, who shuddered before his face fell blank, dead. The man Neville loved was already gone, even though Neville could feel his heart racing beneath his fingertips.
So Neville embraced him, patted him on the shoulder, and released him. He turned to let Harry get whatever last looks he needed, but when he heard the faint squelch of mud, he turned.
Neville watched Harry's footsteps make their way, through mud and mostly-trampled grass, to the Forbidden Forest. "Remember what I said," he murmured. "If you leave me behind, this thing between us is over."
He walked on heavy legs back to his work as medic and undertaker, heart too numb to break further.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 6 June, 1996
This time you're dropped onto the Hogwarts grounds, into the paddock behind Hagrid's hut. You see six figures convene near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Their voices rise and fall, and you're about to jump the gate and go investigate when one of them (Harry, you're guessing) shouts something that causes the rest to clamour back. You decide to jog rather than walk to them.
Arriving, a stitch in your side (how are you this out-of-shape in someone else's memory?), you look past the teenagers: Thestrals. The students debate who will ride on them. You try not to be grateful that you can see the herd, try not to think about why you see them. And you realise what night it is. Of course.
One stares directly at you, snuffles, and paws at the ground. You wonder what you are meant to see here.
The Thestrals approach the students, lapping at any blood they find on them. They six of them are still arguing, or rather, Harry is still barking commands that the rest of the lot don't heed. You watch Neville reach out to Harry, offering a hand up or perhaps seeking one. Harry shakes his head and walks around the Thestral to a tree stump. Neville's face falls for a moment but quickly stills before he nods, clenching his jaw. He too mounts his steed.
When they begin to take off, you pat the Thestral that has befriended you and clamber on. You whisper, "Follow them," and the Thestral does. The cold of the high winds bites your nose and cheeks as you and your Thestral give chase. But the sky, students, and scene around you goes fuzzy and swirls, and you know you're on your way somewhere else...
~*~
Harry stopped thinking about his friends, his loved ones, as he got closer to the Forbidden Forest. Tactics and strategy. In this game of chess Dumbledore and Voldemort had been playing, Harry wasn't a pawn. Nor, however, was he the King. He was, instead, the Queen: powerful yet expendable
Not that Harry could tell who the King would be. Hogwarts itself, perhaps, or the Wizarding World as a whole.
He snorted to himself; if only Rita Skeeter could be inside his head now. Harry shook his head as his mind briefly fell back into memories of unwelcome press. Funny how at the end I have quite the ego, after all.
Strategy and tactics. Time for the Queen to sacrifice himself.
Harry snorted again at that mental turn-of-phrase. If only Neville could hear that....
He brushed memories of being called a Drama Queen out of his mind though, shivering as he approached the line of Dementors. He was walking to give himself to Death. Not even memories of brilliant shags could help him summon a Patronus now.
As Harry considered the end of his life and how he might get past the soul-eating wraiths, the smell of wet earth beneath his trainers wrapped around him like Neville's warm arms.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 30 May, 1992
You have been yanked from the evening of the Battle at the Department of Mysteries and deposited in an overly-warm room covered with red and gold tapestries. These are not, however, the tapestries that you remember being in Gryffindor Tower.
It takes a moment, but you remember the school decided to replace all the tapestries in the Common Room after Sirius Black broke in and wreaked havoc in your third year at Hogwarts. This memory must be from before then.
Low voices and a flash of spell-light bring your attention to the entrance of the room, where a bushy-haired child bites her lower lip with overly-large teeth as a pudgy blond boy falls forward, smashing his face on the floor. You watch Hermione turn the boy, Neville, over.
"You'll understand later, Neville," you hear the high, rough voice of young Ron Weasley say as they disappear.
You expect the others aren't watching when tears begin to slide down Neville's face.
As the portrait hole opens, you realise just how long the habit of leaving Neville behind has been established.
~*~
Most people thought it was grief-inspired anger at the Dark Lord that drove Neville Longbottom to grab the Sword of Gryffindor and charge at the bloody great snake.
Never mind that he had "orders" from Harry Potter himself to kill the snake. Harry was dead; nobody knew of those orders. And since Neville had lost out on the chance to kill his lying, disappearing lover, somebody else had to die. Nagini was as good a target as anyone. Better than most, in fact.
As Voldemort's coterie grew closer, a captive Hagrid carrying the limp body of Harry from the Forbidden Forest to the castle, Neville turned to those gathered in the Entrance Hall.
"Spread the word: We will not fall quietly. We are going out to meet Voldemort with our heads high, and we will not surrender." He hardly recognised the large, steady voice emanating from his chest and mouth. Still, Neville gestured to Professor McGonagall, who was ashen and bright-eyed. The two of them led the way out the doors, through the courtyard, and to the castle gate.
Neville's rage braced him against fear and grief. He had loved, but not been loved back, and now there was no chance for it, for them. And hell hath no fury like a wizard scorned.
He barely had patience to allow Voldemort's ramblings. Neville had seen the Dark Lord before, of course, and so was less impressed by his visage than others in the crowd of fighters for the Light.
Voldemort was ugly. Not to mention, he was so thin he looked as if a light breeze could knock him over. And then we could all trample him to death, Neville thought.
He did not let himself be disturbed by his apparent descent into barbarism. There was still a battle to win, and now he needed to give the rest of the lot a reason to keep on.
When asked later, Neville wouldn't remember what he had said, exactly, when he broke ranks to confront the Death Eaters. What he remembered was an absence of fear, a feeling of incandescence, determination.
And then being stifled by the Hat.
You won't Sort me into Slytherin like he wants, Neville shouted in his mind.
"Why, of course not," the Sorting Hat replied. "You're entirely too rash and bold to be in Slytherin. Not to mention you seem insufficiently self-protective. Your loyalty could mark you for Hufflepuff, but I still say..."
Neville would never be sure whether the Hat had actually shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" or just dropped Godric's Sword into his hands. In any event, his fury returned just as he spied Nagini before him.
As he lunged forward, the crowd erupted. The battle was engaged once more.
~*~
Through the Pensieve: 26 July, 1997
This room is small and stuffy. The blue-coloured shag carpet is stained and worn in several places. The cot to one side of the room (too rickety, really, to be called a bed) is made, but the blanket and pillow are so thin you wonder whether they do any good or exist as so much bed-dressing.
A broken frame for window-bars keeps the picture window from being picturesque. Facing it, you only know the door to the room is closing from its loud squeak behind you. As you turn toward it, the snowy owl in its cage blinks sleepily and hoots at you.
You walk to the doorway and creak the door back open. From below, you can hear one voice boom as another one attempts to soothe it and the sound of flatware and china threaten to drown both out.
Odd, you think, for while all the earlier memories had been of Harry and Neville, Neville had never visited Privet Drive.
Deciding the clue you're meant to see must be in this room (for what could you learn about Harry and Neville from watching breakfast with the Dursleys?), you scan it. The room is sparsely-furnished and meticulously neat. Harry's trunk lies shut and locked at the foot of his bed; the wardrobe is closed; Hedwwig's cage is freshly-cleaned.
But upon the bureau there is a parchment. A biro lies atop it.
You cross over so as to examine it. It reads:
Nev -
Happy birthday. I hate that I can't be there to give you what we both want you to have this year. I miss you too much, I think.
Do have some fun, alright?
I don't know when I'll see you again; I doubt your Gran will let you leave Hogwarts without any NEWTs. I'll likely be off soon - can't say where. Hedwig should be able to find me, though. Just make sure you keep Trevor out of her sight, yeah?
When all this is over, we can get on with things the proper way. I promise.
I hate having to do things the way I do, but I haven't any choice. I don't see any reason to put you in danger. I won't have you in danger just because of me.
It's better this way.
I hope to be with you again soon.
Yours,
Harry
Reading it, you feel as though your own gut has been punched. You want to curse Harry for being a fool, for treating his lover this way.
But it's too late.
~*~
As the stunned silence of the crowd watching Harry's defeat of Tom Riddle faded into murmurs, chatter, and finally exclamations, Harry himself surveyed the Great Hall.
Ginny's arms were wrapped around Mrs Weasley, who sat on the floor pale and shaking. She stroked her mother's hair. Harry assumed the shock of losing a son and saving a daughter's life by killing was enough to wreck Mrs Weasley for quite a bit. Ginny had her hands full, then.
Convenient, that, he thought.
Hermione and Ron had approached him and were nattering about something or other; Harry wasn't paying attention. Instead, he scanned the room, looking for...
There. Over where the Gryffindor table should stand, Neville was directing students to various tasks. Some nodded and headed over to assist Madam Pomfrey with the easier Healing tasks, some paired up and grimly headed back out to the grounds. Neville cocked his head as Luna Lovegood spoke to him and then he nodded and sent his Patronus southward. Luna spoke again, and Neville seemed to laugh before sweeping his arm out to indicate the entire hall.
Harry's heart grew warm and he smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. He shook his head, waved away his two compatriots, and started toward the man he could, perhaps, love.
He took a circuitous route to where Neville stood so he could approach from behind. There was enough din that no-one could hear footsteps.
Neville startled when Harry's hands landed, one on his hip and one on his shoulder. Looking behind him, he raised a sceptical eyebrow.
"Nev," Harry said. "I - I'm proud of you." He tried to turn Neville around so as to embrace him, but Neville shook him off.
His voice was cool. "You don't get to be proud of me, Harry," he said. "You have no right." He shook Harry's arms off and walked to another pod of students looking to be at loose ends.
Harry could only stare after him.
He started when he felt a hand on his arm.
"Harry," Hermione said.
Harry shook his head. "He just walked away from me, Hermione," he said. "Like I wasn't worth his time."
Hermione followed his gaze. "You know, you never did tell me what was going on between you and Neville."
"I'm not sure I quite knew," he confessed, shoulders slumping. "But I... I think it isn't, anymore." His eyes burnt.
Hermione turned Harry toward her. "Look at me, Harry," she said.
Harry looked.
"What just happened?"
"He said I haven't any right - to be proud of him. Maybe to touch him, too." His voice cracked. He'd lost Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin... He couldn't bear to lose his lover, his lover who had survived, as well. "I don't understand."
Hermione blew a hot breath past Harry's cheek. "You know you're an idiot sometimes, right?" she said.
"I -"
Hermione shook her head. "My suggestion is you go back to the headmaster's office, pull that Pensieve back out, and look at the relationship you've had with Neville." She looked hard at him. "Just do it. And for pity's sake, pay attention to what you see."
Harry nodded. "Thanks, Hermione," he said. "Keep everyone else away for a bit, yeah?"
"Yeah." She rolled her eyes.
Harry's legs felt like wood as he trudged back toward Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle had been knocked over during the battle and the opening to the revolving staircase was exposed to anyone who might wander by.
Harry cast a Notice-Me-Not charm, and hoped nobody would come looking for the entrance.
Dumbledore's Pensieve was where he had left it on the Headmaster's desk. He waved his hand and otherwise ignored the portraits as they clamoured to learn of the battle's progress.
Harry chanted Neville's name to himself as he touched the Hawthorne wand to his head, transferring his memories into the stone basin.
When they swirled before him, he took a deep breath. He gathered his courage.
Harry plunged his face into the Pensieve's depths.
Fin