Storybook

Neville shifted against the window seat, one arm resting on one drawn-up knee, watching the snow fall outside beyond the mullioned panes. The dormitory was quiet around him; it was Christmas Eve and the other boys had gone home for winter hols, save him and Harry.

After today it would be just Harry, along with the professors and the handful of students staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. The only reason Neville was still here was because of the owl Gran had sent him just before midterm. Some elderly cousin or another had fallen ill, and Gran had gone to tend them. Neville had already forgotten which cousin; he had loads, and nearly all of them were elderly.

No, tomorrow Gran intended to pick him up and bring him to St Mungo's to visit his parents, just as they'd done every year for almost as long as he could remember. Afterward they would return home and they would eat roast goose and Yorkshire pudding with Great-uncle Algie and Great-aunt Enid, and once the dishes were cleared away they would open presents. Neville already knew what to expect: sturdy knit jumpers and trousers and warm woollen socks, a Remembrall to replace the one he'd inevitably lost between the beginning of term and the end of the year, and a box of his favourite sweets from Honeydukes. Great-uncle Algie, at least, could be expected to give him something interesting, either a new book, a cutting or seeds from some new and exotic plant he'd discovered in his travels, or gardening supplies.

Once the presents were opened and admired (even if Neville often pretended), the house-elves would bring out rum-spiked eggnog for the adults and hot chocolate for Neville, and he'd listen as the others told stories about the past. Curled up in his usual spot by the fire, Neville found himself dozing more often than not as tale after tale of relations he barely knew were brought out and re-examined for another year.

Gran spoke of Frank and Alice, and at these stories Neville would lift his head, hoping to hear something new; but the tales were always of bravery and daring, battling against Voldemort and his Death Eaters during the First War. He knew all about his parents as Aurors, he'd heard all the stories a hundred times. Occasionally there would be a story of Frank during his own student days at Hogwarts, where he was popular and witty and brilliant, earning top marks in nearly every class, striding through the school corridors with a prefect's badge gleaming on his chest.

Gran always paused during those stories to glance at Neville, as if wondering where she had gone astray, because obviously, the apple had fallen very far from the tree in her grandson's case, and she couldn't understand how that had happened. Her lips would purse, and then she'd resume whichever story she'd decided to tell.

Neville shifted again, his head tilting back to rest against stone, and watched the snow fall, watched his breath form clouds of frost on the chilly panes, watched the steely grey skies darken as night fell. He would never admit it to any of his friends, but he really didn't much like Christmas.

He didn't move as footsteps announced Harry's arrival, until the other boy said, "You didn't come down for dinner. Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine. I wasn't hungry."

"Oh." Neville heard Harry shuffle uncomfortably. "I brought a sandwich back with me. Just in case, you know, you decide to change your mind."

"Thanks." Neville kept his gaze on the window. It was dark enough now that he could see his reflection in the glass. "You can set it on top of the cabinet. I'll probably eat it before bed tonight."

He listened as Harry moved around the dorm, heard the small clatter as he set down the plate holding the sandwich and small rustlings in the vicinity of the other boy's bed. More quick, light footsteps announced his approach just before Harry hopped onto the opposite end of the window seat.

"Jesus, Neville, it's freezing over here!"

Neville allowed himself a small smile as Harry stated the obvious, turning away from the window to look at him. Harry was sitting cross-legged, folded neatly into himself in a way Neville could never duplicate. A flat package wrapped in shiny red paper glittering with tiny falling golden snowflakes rested on his lap, and Neville nodded toward it. "What's that?"

Harry smiled, pushing the brightly-wrapped gift toward Neville. "It's your present," he replied. "I figured I wouldn't wake up tomorrow until after your grandmother came to fetch you, and I wanted to make sure you got this first."

"You shouldn't have." He brushed his fingers over the satiny paper, feeling his face heat. "I didn't get you anything."

"It's not just from me," Harry said, his tone deliberately casual. "I had help putting it together. Go on, open it."

Neville hesitated a moment longer before picking at one Spellotaped corner, tearing the paper loose. He unwrapped it carefully, following the seams until the paper fell away, revealing a photograph album. He looked up at Harry, puzzled. "What is this? Some photo collection of Colin's?"

"It's a photo collection, yes." Harry had leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands beneath his chin. "Look."

Opening the album to the first page, Neville looked down at the first photograph and caught his breath. The scene depicted a round-faced woman with dark hair, wearing white dress robes, standing beside a tall man with sandy hair and a ready smile. They were both waving, despite the enormous floral bouquet in the woman's hand. The pair was surrounded by others: a slightly younger couple whom Neville immediately recognised as Harry's own parents, a much younger and less careworn Remus Lupin, a few other faces he couldn't place, and a relaxed, smiling version of Gran, with fewer grey hairs and a sparkle in her eyes he'd never seen.

The opposite page contained a sheet of parchment filled with Lupin's elegant handwriting. He scanned the first few lines and gasped, "He's telling about Mum and Dad's wedding day!"

He turned the page, and then the next, feeling something unnameable in his chest grow and expand, making it hard to breathe. Each page held a different photo, accompanied by another handwritten story, in penmanship both familiar and strange, each bearing a different tale, and not a single one had to do with Aurors, or acts of courage and defiance.

"Hagrid gave me a book like that, at the end of our first year," Harry said softly, through the sudden roar filling Neville's ears. "I always wanted to know what my Mum and Dad were like as real people. I--I thought maybe you'd want to know, too."

"Where...? How...?" Neville tore his gaze from the photos. It was hard to speak; that unnameable tightness was in his throat now as well.

Harry smiled, lifting one shoulder. "I was asking Remus about some of the pictures in my album and just happened to wonder aloud whether or not you had something similar. Ron's mum overheard, and next thing you know, she and Remus had both produced pictures of your parents. Mrs Weasley got some of the stories from other people, and here we are."

"Here we are." He couldn't speak above a whisper. "Harry, this...this is...I've never..."

He didn't have the words. The words to express what he felt at that moment didn't exist. He couldn't have said them even if they had. He closed the album gently, fingers stroking the cover for a second before setting it aside.

"Neville? Is it okay?" Harry looked suddenly unsure, the green eyes behind his glasses shadowing with doubt.

Neville launched himself forward, arms wrapping around Harry's smaller, slighter frame, clinging tightly. The unexpected motion propelled them both backward until Harry's back collided with the wall, his hands fluttering around Neville's shoulders before settling, sliding around him, drawing him further into the embrace.

Harry was warm beneath his oversized jumper, the skin of his neck smelling faintly of salt and soap and aftershave. Neville could feel the other boy's pulse, strong and steady, beneath his cheek. He drew back slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against Harry's and no further, because for some reason Harry still had his arms around Neville's shoulders and he seemed disinclined to let him go.

"You didn't have to go to such trouble," Neville breathed. "You didn't..."

Harry's arms tightened, pulling Neville in, and suddenly they weren't just nose to nose. Harry's mouth brushed against Neville's, stealing the rest of the sentence with that single warm, light caress of lips, and Neville went very still. He let his eyes slip shut as he waited for something he couldn't quite place, much like that unnameable tightness in his chest, which no longer felt so tight. It had transmuted into something warmer, more comforting, yet equally inexplicable.

Neville sighed as the caress became a slight pressure, deepening as Harry's lips tightened over his own, and his own mouth parted just enough to feel the smallest bit of wetness as the tip of Harry's tongue touched his, their breath mingling. One hand moved upward, skimming lightly until his fingertips rested against Harry's cheek.

"It's okay," Neville whispered, lips shaping and brushing the words across Harry's. "It's more than okay. It's the best present ever."

Harry drew back first, his expression almost dazed. Neville understood; he felt much the same. He watched Harry blink slowly before a wide, dazzling smile spread across his face.

"I wasn't joking when I said it was freezing here," Harry said, grabbing Neville by one hand and pulling them both out of the window seat. "Your fingers are like ice! Come on, and bring your gift with you."

Neville just managed to snag the photo album in his other hand before he found himself in bed, and Harry crawling under the covers with him. The other boy pulled the blankets up, tucking them around their bodies before curling around Neville, lending him some much-needed warmth. Now that he was away from the window, Neville realised just how cold he had been.

"Now," Harry said, as if snuggling beside Neville was something he did all the time, "I'm in the mood for a bedtime story. You wouldn't happen to know any, would you?"

"I might." Neville smiled, opened the photo album once more to the first page and began reading, "I had never seen Frank so nervous as he was the day he married Alice MacKinnon..."