Unlikely Heroes

******************

Part Two: Loss

******************

Dear Neville,

Hey. I should have written earlier. I know that. I'm sorry, but work has been...

No. No, that's not an excuse. Truth is, lately I've been getting very little work done at all. All I can do is think about you. All I can do is sit here, staring at your pictures and wondering what I did wrong. I sit here and wonder why it all turned out as badly as it did.

You have to believe me, Neville, I didn't mean for this to happen to us. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It just seems like things got out of my control. And that's what this is about, right? Control? You wanting something and I. Well. Shit. I don't even know what I want anymore.

No. No, that's not true. I know *exactly* what I want. It's not about that-- it's about what I can't *have*.

When you... when you kissed me, I didn't know what to do. All I could think was that this... this was right. This was how it was supposed to be. I wanted to wrap my arms around you and never let go. I wanted... God, I wanted to hold you and never let you get hurt again. I wanted to kiss your hair and protect you forever.

It's silly, isn't it? This need to protect you, to protect everyone. I can't even take care of myself.

It's a bit ironic that I should feel this way. The others would say so-- my brothers. Especially Ron. He thinks I only care about myself, about my position. Wouldn't he just laugh if he could see me now. *Control*. I can barely control my *thoughts* any more. I see the clouds in the sky and think of you. I see the sunlight refracted in a drop of water and think of you. Every flower, every soft petal's brush is a microcosm of you.

My fingers itch to touch you again. I want... I want you here. With me.

But I can't.

I wish that I could make you understand. I wish that there was something, anything that I could say to just make you *understand*. It's not as easy as love. It's not as simple as yearning. It's the complication of you being a man and me being a man. It's the snarl of my position here where so many people can see me. It's the possibility of my losing that position if someone were to find out. And someone always finds out, Neville. Always.

Father and I do good here. We both keep our eyes and ears open to help those who are fighting for what's right. I can't risk that.

But, Neville, I can't risk you either. I can't risk losing you. Losing you like I'm afraid I already may have.

I've never been in love, you know. I've loved, of course-- I would die to protect my family: Mother, Father, Bill and Charlie, the twins, Ron, Ginny... They are everything to me. They're the reason I try so hard sometimes. If I could just get a high rank in the Ministry, if I could just get the money to help them... Ron shouldn't have to wear second-hand robes. Ginny should have beautiful things. So I love. But not *in* *love*. Not really. Penny came close. Penny was... She was the first person who ever bothered to *try* to get to know me. She was the first person who cared. And I did care for her.

But in love... I think I may be in love with you.

It happened so fast. So fast. But you were so soft in my arms, your skin smelling of rain and rose petals. I try to sketch you, but I don't have the talent to convey that open, trusting look in your eyes. I can't show the shockwave of warmth in your smile.

I dream of you at night; I think of you during the day. I can't let you go-- you haunt me.

I love you. No matter that I can't say it to your face, no matter that I can never act on it. I love you.

Please write back.

Love,

Percy.

***

Percy sighed as he leaned back in his chair, brown eyes scanning over the parchment. The writing was sloppy-- he'd been shaking so badly as he wrote that he could barely hold the quill. He reached up to pull off his gold wire-frame glasses, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. His eyes flickered shut and he drew in a deep breath.

"I think I'm going insane," Percy muttered darkly as he tossed aside the feathered quill and reached for the glass of water perched in a ring of silvery condensation on his desk. It felt cool against his hand, beads of moisture slipping down his wrist as he lifted it to his cracked lips to drink. The water tasted bitter, stagnated, and he screwed up his nose as he swallowed, ignoring the metallic after-flavor. He carefully placed the glass back onto the desk, skidding it away from the edge absently as he stared at the letter. It had been almost three weeks since the... since he and Neville had...

Since The Incident. And he was going insane. "Why couldn't this just be simple?" He picked up the letter, turning it over in his hands. On the back was an absently-drawn sketch of a pair of light brown eyes, shining and laughing up at him.

"But it's not," he sighed and stood, pushing aside the black leather chair and heading around his desk. "It's not simple at all." The light from the small, glass-paned window had faded long since, and Percy knew that his mother was most likely still up waiting for him. Old habits, he supposed, died hard.

He paused once before the fireplace, then shook his head, lips pressed together and head bowed as if in penitence or prayer as he flicked his pale wrist and let the letter drift into the slowly dying fire, brown eyes riveted on the low flames as they sucked in the brittle paper and began to blacken and curl the edges. "I'm sorry Neville," he whispered, one hand braced on the mantle, the other hanging useless at his side as he watched the letter join the remains of all the rest, shifting down to coat the floor of the fireplace in a sea of soft ash.

"I'm so sorry."

******************

The walls drip shadows and memories cling to the air, breathing in and out, out and in, with regular pain. Eyes flicker closed, alone in the darkness, voices drifting like fragile webs from below.

A small, curled-up form shudders with cold and memories. Hands clench and release against the darkness of robes.

Alone...

********************

"I don't doubt that many of you think that you've managed to learn something these past six years." Severus Snape stalked down past the rows of his students, long black robes brushing against the numerous cauldrons. He glanced down his large nose as he passed by each student, eyes skimming over the bubbling potions, searching for a flaw that he could comment on. "Somehow, you've made it to your seventh year, which I'm sure impresses you to no end. But you're still in my class, and you still have much to learn."

"From him?" Seamus whispered, lips quirking into a smile. "Not bloody likely! Unless it's something about bad hygiene."

"Shh!" Dean Thomas, his best friend and lab partner, glared quellingly at him, but his dark eyes were sparkling with barely-concealed amusement. "He'll hear you!"

"So? It's about time someone told Mr. High and Mighty Potions Master the truth about regular bathing, and it might as well be me. Shit-- you'd think that Snapey had never even heard of shampoo before."

"Maybe you should enlighten him, then."

"Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I should. I mean, it's not like I..."

"Was there something you wanted to add to the conversation, Mr. Finnigan?" Snape's silkily smooth voice cut into the whispered conversation, and Seamus turned to face his teacher, red staining his cheeks as Dean snickered beside him.

"Er... no."

"Nothing?" A black brow rose in mock surprise as Snape crossed his long arms over his thin chest. "Are you quite sure about that?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes sir! Nothing to add, sir."

"Nothing at all? No weak-minded barbs or commentary to lighten up our dismal day?" He gestured towards the Slytherin half of the room, and Seamus swallowed at the sea of eager, malicious faces.

"Zero commentary, sir."

Dean made a noise next to him that sounded suspiciously like a snigger. Snape nodded coldly. "Very well, Finnigan. Since you seem to have so little to add to the discussion, then may I assume that you'll be getting back to working productively?" He looked down at the battered cauldron in front of the Irish boy and sniffed, as if he doubted Seamus' ability to gather brain cells enough to do his assigned work at all, productively or not. Then, nodding, he made his way past the two boys to go congratulate Draco Malfoy on his brilliance.

Seamus and Dean were quiet for a long moment while they waited for their mutually-hated teacher to get out of ear shot. Then, dimples appearing on his dark cheeks, Dean turned to look at his best friend and raised a single black brow.

"Oh, shut up," Seamus muttered as he stirred his bubbling potion with more force than was necessary.

"You sure told him..."

"I said, shut up!"

"I could just see him shaking in his boots."

"Dontcha know what 'shut up' means, ya wanker?"

"Maybe you should just take the direct rout next time," Dean suggested evenly, "and try talking to him."

"......"

"Or you could try for subtlety and hand him a bottle of shampoo."

".....!"

"I wonder what fragrance he'd prefer? He may like your lovely apple scent..."

Seamus shot the other boy a death glare from beneath his lowered lashes. "I really hate you sometimes, Dean Thomas. Did you know that?"

Dean's dimples flashed. "That's what best friends are for!"

There was a long silence as the two boys measured out the materials for their potions, hands evenly pouring and stirring. Then, as if unable to contain himself, Seamus burst out, "And my mum makes the shampoo."

Dean widened his eyes in mock innocence, as if he had no idea what Seamus was yammering about.

"She makes it, so I don't have any say in what it smells like." His scowl darkened as Dean nodded his head slowly, eyes blinking rapidly as he fought to hold back his laughter. "And besides, it's *not* a girlie smell!"

"Mmmhmm."

Seamus turned away from the other boy with a scowl, manhood offended. "Whatcha doing sniffing my hair anyways?" he grumbled, missing Dean's sudden blush.

Dean cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his work, trying to force the creeping tendrils of color from his face. It was perfectly natural for him to notice... it wasn't like he sat and obsessed about Seamus' clean, spicy smell, like he wondered if his skin would smell and taste the same... because that would make him gay. And that would. And.

"Oh, bother," Dean sighed.

"Huh?"

"Er..." He cast around desperately for something to comment on, and almost sighed in relief when he noticed the direction of Snape's gaze. "It looks like Neville's about to get blasted," he said, nodding towards the quiet boy at the front of the room. He usually sat next to Hermione, near Harry and Ron, but lately he had been sitting alone. In fact, Dean realized suddenly, Neville had been sitting off by himself in *all* of his classes, soft face closed off and impassive. And he hadn't been down to the common room for weeks, and...

"Oh, well, like *that's* something new!" Seamus scoffed, interrupting Dean's increasingly dark thoughts. "Snapey-pooh is *so* after that boy."

"Hm."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that the hygienically-challenged professor wanted his body."

"Hm."

"Hey, Dean! Hey, man, are you even listening to m..."

"Hush, Seamus." Dean commanded, more forcefully than he had intended. "I'm listening." He leaned forwards to hear Snape berate the sweet-faced boy, not that it was all that difficult-- Snape was taking no pains to be quiet.

"Really, Longbottom, you'd think that after six full years in this class, you'd manage to learn *something*," Snape sneered as he looked down at the cowering student, features cold and lofty.

But Neville wasn't cowering. In fact, Dean noticed with a start, Neville didn't seem to be paying any attention at all. His eyes stared fixedly down at his potion as he absentmindedly stirred, soft blond hair brushing down against his rounded cheeks.

"But it seems as if I can expect the same level of incompetence this year as I have come to enjoy in the past. It amazes me that you manage to pass each year, just barely scraping by, riding on the tailcoats of Granger, I would suppose. You may be from an old wizarding family, Longbottom, but I assure you that this will not help you eek by in the world. Even the Leplen family had squibs... And they were treated accordingly." Snape glowered down at the unresponsive student, brows drawn together darkly. Neville had never before failed to be entertaining when he was in a foul mood. "Look at me, Longbottom." His voice was low and dangerous.

Dean found himself holding his breath as Neville slowly turned his head to look at the potions Master, face unsettlingly blank. His chin lifted up until he was meeting the dark gaze, features as pale and immobile as carved marble, eyes blank and cold as glaciers. Snape blinked once, then again, startled by the complete lack of anything within Neville's gaze, and Dean's mouth dropped open in surprise as the tall man nervously licked his lips and, shockingly, dropped his gaze. Neville merely watched as Snape turned and stalked away from him, then turned his attention back to the empty air, face never betraying emotion.

"Shit," Dean breathed, shocked. His brain was whirling with information and questions and worry as he stared at the meek boy and then towards the growling teacher. He had never seen Snape so furious, and it looked as if Potter would take the brunt of it, as usual.

"What's up, Dean?" Seamus whispered, though he really didn't have to worry about being quiet-- Snape was raging at Harry so loudly that he wouldn't have noticed a cornificous spell going off in their midst.

"I-- I'm not quite sure." He watched, amazed, as Neville stood and headed towards the door, taking no cares not to be seen as he left Potions class behind him. "I'm not sure at all, but it can't be good."

****************

It was quiet here. Peaceful. Tranquil...

Alone. So very alone.

But alone didn't matter. Silence didn't matter. All that mattered was the swaying of the flowers in the light breeze; all that mattered was the coolness of dirt against his hands, his forearms, his cheek. All that mattered was the gentle wind as it dusted over his crumpled form.

So strange... the stillness...

Eyes staring forward, missing their sight. Thoughts stilled into an echo of alone. A flower lost in beauty as it's crumpled within a blind, grasping palm.

Cold creeping in.

And the silence.

****************

Dear Neville:

I thought about you today. I know you'll never read this, because I know that I will never be able to bring myself to send it to you, but I needed to tell you anyway. I thought of you today. I thought of you. And me. About us. Kissing.

It's strange, you know? Kissing? It's something that's so ordinary and every-day, and yet... And yet, it has a power over you. It pounds within your heart and your wrists as soft lips meet and press together. It slips through your fingers like silken hair and warms like the closeness of touch. It's the most real experience available in this world.

And I dream of it. I dream of it and of you.

What's wrong with me? Why can't I work anymore-- why can't I function like I'm supposed to? It's like my mind's tearing apart, and it's all your fault. You did something to me, something that I somehow can't deny or explain, and I can feel it inside, slowly killing me. It's a pressure in my chest that only builds with time; it's a memory that won't fade away; it's a realization that can't be denied. I am losing a battle within my own consciousness.

Maybe I shouldn't fight anymore. Maybe I.

Maybe...

Love, Percy

*****************

"So then I said that there was no sodding way that I was going to do that, because then that would mean that there was going to be ... Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Mmmhmm."

"'Cause you don't *look* like you're listening to me."

"Hmm."

"In fact, you have a decidedly not-listening to Seamus look on your face."

"Hmm."

"And if I were anyone else, I would jump to the conclusion that you *weren't* listening to me at *all*. That you were *ignoring* me."

"Ah."

"And that would just *suck*."

"Ummhmm."

"But I don't have to worry about any of that, because you're most certainly listening to me."

"Ummhmm."

"And being damned unvocal about it, too."

::sigh:: "I'm sorry, Seamus. I'm just a bit worried."

"Worried? About?"

"About Neville."

"About *Neville*?"

"Yeah..."

"*Why*?"

"I don't know! It just seems... Seamus, have you been noticing anything strange about him lately?"

"Strange? About Neville? Dean, we're talking about the boy that sings the purple rhino song while he showers. He has a stuffed *sock* with buttons sewn on it for *eyes* and a *nose*."

"That may have some kind of emotional significance, you know. And besides, *this* is coming from the boy who still sleeps with a stuffed giraffe."

"Hey! I've had that since I was a kid!"

"... Named Mr. Snuffle-bottom."

::grumble::

"But, I'm serious, Seamus..."

"Ha. You? Serious?"

"Seamus..."

"Look, Dean, I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about. I mean-- so he's being antisocial? So what? Does he *ever* hang out with the rest of us? I mean, he's *always* off by himself. So it's not like anything's changed. Right?"

"Well... Yeah..."

"And even if there *were* something wrong, it's not like he won't come to someone with his problem or anything. I mean, Neville's not the type to just keep it all bottled up inside."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"*And* there are much more fun things to do than to sit there angsting!"

::rueful grin:: "Like?"

::eyes glitter:: "Like watch our favorite little red-head. Did you hear about the huge fight Weasley got into with Draco Malfoy?"

::raised brow:: "Somehow, I missed out on that."

"Well, it all started when Draco called Ron a..."

***************

Have you ever had one of those dreams? You know, the kind that just twists inside of you until you can't think and you can't breath. The kind where you're alone, so very alone in the darkness, and everything is black and cold. The kind where you can no longer feel your body or hear your breath and your mind keeps stumbling over the fact that you're dead, you're dead, you have to be dead... And then you wake up and realize that you aren't dead, that you're still breathing and that you're still so very much alive.

Have you ever been disappointed when you realized that you were still alive?

I'd like to think that you'd tell me not to talk that way. I'd like to think that you'd say, oh, Neville, baby, hush, and pull me into your arms. I'd like to think that you'd hold me and brush back my hair and tell me that it'd all be okay. I'd like to smell the sweet scent of lavender as you kissed my forehead and whispered that you loved me.

I'd like to think a lot of things, Mum. I'd like to think that you loved me, that he loved me, that Gran loved me, that I was smart and not practically a squib, that I had friends... But I'm not stupid, Mum. I'm not stupid-- I know better.

It's kinda strange, you know? I-I had gotten used to being alone. I had gotten used to having no-one there. And then. Then he was there, and for a while, it was like I had someone that cared about me and wanted me and would touch me and hold me so I'd never be alone. For a while, it was perfect. And now... Now I don't know how the handle the cold anymore. Now even talking to you isn't enough.

Can't be enough.

So, you know, I guess this is kinda good-bye, Mum. Not that you can hear me. Not that you would know who I was even if you could. It's just kinda my way of saying goodbye as I chant into the darkness.

Never wake up. Never wake up. Never wake up.

Never... wake...

*****************

Neville,

I-I've been thinking. Just thinking of, you know, all that's been going on. I've been thinking a lot about loneliness and pride and fear and, well, happiness. I've been watching my mother and my father. They are so happy together, Neville. I never really thought about it before. It never occurred to me think of them as 'in love'. But sometimes, when there is a moment of quiet, Mum will lay her head down on Dad's shoulder and he'll put his arms around her. That's all. He'll simply put his arms around her, but you can tell by the expression on their faces that there's something there. That they're happy.

And I thought: how can they be happy? Living the way that we do, being forced to take shit from other wizarding families. Taking their insults. How can they possibly be happy? But they are-- the expressions in their eyes can't lie. And Dad may get infuriated when he's looked down upon and treaded on, and Mum may bristle at the silken barbs that drive into the skin, but they're still there later, in the kitchen, looking at each other like there's nothing greater in the whole world.

And. And I realize that I want someone to look at me like that some day. I want someone to lay their head on my shoulder and let me put my arms around them and just be still. That's what I want.

Well, not exactly. I don't want someone. I want you.

So... So, yes, I still want to be rich someday. And I still want to excel in the Ministry. I still want all of that. But, you know, I want to be happy, too.

I can't tell you all this in a letter, Neville. It's just too... too impersonal for what I need to say, so this will join the ashes of all the rest, but Neville... I'll be there soon. As soon as I can make myself. I promise.

love, Percy

*******************

Body curled upon itself, flesh pressed against flesh in an attempt to force out the pain. Years of rejection from all corners, from all sides, battered against soft skin and leaving fine crisscrossing marks on the tender barrier of a heart and soul... An inferiority blissfully constructed by the world, molded by taunts and blank stares and the absence of I love you's. By the absence of care. By the unknowing insults, the ignorance, the barbs.

And you wonder...

Eyes that don't cry anymore-- what's the use? Tears only make them stronger. Fears-- only make them stronger. Every beating of the willful heart merely adds to their strength.

Their indifference.

Rejection-- eyes that don't know. Arms that won't hold. Friends that don't care. Broad back, covered in black, immaculate. So beautiful as he walked away.

Rejection-- she doesn't want me.

Rejection-- they don't want me.

Rejection-- he doesn't want me.

Rejection-- want.

Rejection-- need.

Rejection-- absence.

Rejection-- Alone. Alone. Alone.

Rejection...

And you wonder...

There is no desperation. There are no tears. No regrets, except for what never was. The dreams of what should have been are blown away by the violence of existing. ***At. At least, Harry, you know your parents are happy. At least you know that, wherever they are, they're together and happy. My parents are still alive, but they shouldn't be.

They shouldn't be...

We should all just be dead.***

And you wonder...

"I'm not brave like you," Neville whispered to the empty air-- no-one there, no-one there, no-one *there*.

He was so good at alone.

"I'm not brave like you, Harry. I can't keep it going like you do. I can't keep it going. I-I'm sorry. For not being a real Gryffindor. For being afraid; for being a coward.

For not being good enough."

Blade cool in hand, against skin, cooling feverish flesh. Always afraid of pain, of hurt, but too numbed to do more than stare as silver breaks the surface, tracing a fine line from wrist to elbow, dotting the tender flesh with a well of red.

Hands are shaking-- it's too late for regrets-- do what you have to do...

"I'm sorry..."

Warmth seeping down arm, across palm to tickle the fingertips. Light brown eyes watch, wide, amazed at the final act of courage and cowardice as the body slowly sinks to the floor, unable to hold its own weight. Falls into a comfortable, drowsy sprawl, sinking fast into a hazy sea, blood making a brilliant halo around silken blond hair.

Alone. So cold. So cold...

And you wonder...

-- you wonder why I trip.

*******************

~This is your fault,~ Dean sighed to himself as he trudged across the Hogwarts grounds. He had seen the fair-haired boy slip out towards the greenhouse earlier, and guilt had swarmed within him at the sight of Neville walking alone across the grounds. He had seen him head towards the greenhouse alone many times before and had always let it drift from his mind without comment, but now...

Now things were different. He was *aware*.

~Maybe he needs someone to talk to. Maybe... He seems so lonely. And you've let him be alone. For six years, you've practically ignored him and just *let* him be *alone*.~

He could claim that he had spent that time giving all of his attention to his best friend. He could claim that he hadn't meant to ignore the other boy, that he hadn't meant any harm by it. He could claim a lot of things, but the guilt... He still felt the guilt of not doing anything.

~So it'll be different now-- you'll talk to him and include him and be the friend that you're supposed to be to him. All you have to do is open that door,~ he looked towards the ancient glass door so nearby, ~and talk.~ He reached out for the handle, teeth nibbling nervously on his bottom lip as he pushed open the door and stepped past the threshold and into the warmth of the greenhouse. Talk was not something that he could do well, but it was a start. He paused just past the still-open doorway, head lifting. He looked around him in surprise, nostrils flaring at the thick, bitter tang that filled the humid air. Flowers rustled restlessly against one another as he stepped further into the room, eyes narrowing.

"Neville?" He called timidly, looking around. A brilliant red flower bobbed in the draft, nudging against his robe as he stepped forwards. "Neville?" A flash of dark color caught his eyes, and Dean moved forward quickly, hands reaching up to shove away grasping leaves. His dark eyes darted frantically along the ground, senses recognizing the vital scent that wafted rich and powerful throughout the room even as his eyes followed the dark stain.

He froze when he finally found Neville. He was sprawled gracelessly on the floor, one arm thrown over his head and the other draped across his chest, fingers curled into a helpless claw, as if he had been pressing against his heart. Next to him lay a darkly gleaming knife-- one of the cutting blades from potions class, used to par the specimens. Blood pooled around Neville, haloing about his head and dampening his black robes, making him look like the young victims of homicide Dean sometimes saw in his parent's books, childish bodies twisted in remembered pain.

"God, Neville," he whispered, frozen in place by the beautiful horror of pain. Blood pooled at his feet, soaking into his shoes and the back of his robe. He stepped forwards, blood swirling with the motion as he stared at the pale, lifeless face.

Suddenly, Dean snapped out of the helpless trance, fingers tearing at the fastenings of his robe as he quickly knelt beside the prone boy, dark eyes skillfully making out the erratic rise and fall of Neville's chest. He ran careful fingers along Neville's body, assessing the damage with a physician's skill-- one long, very bad cut along the forearm. Fatal, if he couldn't stop the bleeding.

"Help me," Dean gasped as he tore the bottom of his robe. One hand grasped at the gaping flesh, pulling the two halves together as blood made his fingers slippery, the other hand wrapping the thick black material tightly from palm to elbow, staunching the bleeding. "Help, me, Father. Help me, God. Oh, God..." He tied off the ends and sat back on his heels, reaching for his wand as his mind frantically turned over everything he knew about charms and spells. He couldn't think of anything done to heal, and there wasn't *time* to get Neville to Madame Pomfrey...

"Think, Dean," he demanded, eyes squeezing shut as images flashed through his mind, dropping from memory to memory. "There has to be. There. **Think**."

He shook his head helplessly as he frantically racked his brain for something, *anything* that he knew could stop the bleeding long enough to get Neville to the infirmary. Then, suddenly, his eyes popped open and he gripped his wand with determination, lips pressed together. "Filum invisibus," he said, tapping the cloth-covered wound. The tell-tale tingle of magic shivered through his fingers, and Dean shuddered lightly as he formed in his mind the torn flesh, imagining the welling blood spurting from the open edges of the cut. Then, slowly, he began to mime sewing, taking care to make the stitches tight and small for the opened vein. He shivered again, then closed his eyes, but he could almost *see* the wound before him, slowly mending itself back together as he moved his hands in a gentle repetition, breath slowing as Dean sank further and further into his own spell, calmed by the beautiful inner image of blood and the tracery of veins and musculature, gently dancing toget!

her back into good.

Slowly, carefully, consumedly, Dean stitched life back into Neville Longbottom.

**********************

There was pain in the void-- of that much he was sure. Deep, throbbing, aching pain, lacing down his left arm as he turned his head into his soft pillow and moaned.

"Neville-- Neville, be still," a voice murmured above him, and Neville shook his head in denial, eyes squeezing shut tight as soft hands gripped his cheeks, fingers skating gently but firmly along his jaw-line to hold his head still. "Neville, open your eyes. Come on, man, I know you can hear me: open your eyes."

"I--" Neville whispered, but the words were caught in his throat. Slowly, against his own will, his eyes batted open and he blinked at the unfocused confusion of daylight, lashes brushing against his too-pale cheeks. "I don't want to..."

"But you have to," Dean assured him, thumbs stroking gently beneath his eyes before his hands moved away. Neville squinted to bring the dark face into focus, and Dean almost-smiled a greeting, brown eyes filled with recent fear. "Hey, Neville."

"Hi, Dean." He moved to sit up, then winced at the shockwave of pain that flickered through his skull like a firecracker explosion.

"Don't move yet-- you lost a lot of blood, and I'm not too certain of the spell I used. I thought it wouldn't do any good for a while there."

"Oh?" He wouldn't demand to know why he was still alive, but he wanted to-- it seemed unfair that he had finally managed to gather the courage to just end it, and then it was taken away from him. He didn't think he could bring himself to try again. "How did you find me?" He pressed his cheek into his makeshift pillow-- Dean's wizard robe wadded up like scrap cloth-- and sighed.

Dean shrugged and sat back on his heels, face twisted into an uncomfortable expression. "I followed you," he shrugged again, long-fingered hands picking at his pale jeans as his eyes darted to Neville's arm, then away. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Good thing my parents are doctors, huh?" He forced out a chuckle. "Well, anal-retentive doctors. They pretty much put me through the basic medical paces when I was young, so I had an idea of what to do. And, well, I was able to hold it all together until I could figure out a spell to use... er. Sorry it's a little... uneven?" He gestured towards the forearm in question and flushed.

Slowly, Neville pushed himself upright, face paling alarmingly as shudders of brilliant pain shivered through him. Dean reached forwards to help him but paused when Neville shook his head. "I'm okay," Neville lied softly as he scooted back until his back rested against the glass wall. The floor was clean of blood-- another spell, he supposed-- but there was a faint pink shimmer, as if Dean had been unable to make every trace of Neville's attempt vanish. That was, Neville assumed, reassuring. Except...

He pushed back his sleeve and looked down at his forearm, blond brows drawing together in surprise at the angry red scar that snaked up his pale flesh.

"I didn't know how to heal it without leaving that," Dean apologized, shifting forwards to look at the scar. It ran from the tender bend of his elbow and followed the dark blue vein down to the fragile wrist, path raised and swollen. "But I'm sure Madame Pomfrey..."

"No!" Neville's head jerked up from an inspection of the wound, and he shook his head forcefully, eyes wide and pleading. "No, please, we can't tell anyone."

"Yeah, ok." Dean nodded reassuringly, then shrugged as he shifted closer to the other boy. "It's just that it was a pretty difficult spell, and I'd be hard up to have to do another one any time soon..."

"You won't have to."

Dean raised a single brow as he met Neville's calm brown gaze. "No?"

"No."

"So... so this isn't going to happen again?"

Neville licked his lips and gently touched his wrist, fingers running over the scar as if he were reading Braille. "No, I. I pretty much regretted it once I had... you know. Um."

"Yeah." Dean's fingers were soft as he gently touched Neville's hand. "Yeah, I know."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They were silent for a long moment, and Neville went back to looking at the darkened wound. It'd be difficult to hide, but he would simply have to take care not to push his sleeves back. For a wild moment, he imagined himself baring his arm and shoving it into the path of all those indifferent eyes, to show them, to show him, what he had driven him to...

But that was foolish. And it wasn't Percy's fault.

"I. I tried to do that too, you know," Dean confessed, and Neville looked up with a confused frown, pale brows drawn together as he stared at the dark-skinned boy. "A long time ago-- I must have been about ten."

"You. You tried...?" He couldn't quite bring himself to say it, so he merely closed his eyes and nodded his head, knowing that Dean would know what he meant.

"Yeah. I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin and curled up in my closet where no-one would be able to find me. I drowsed in and out of consciousness for a while, but then I woke up, vomiting everything that I had ever had in my stomach, it seemed." He smiled ruefully. "It wasn't pleasant."

"It. It doesn't sound all that... pleasant." Neville wondered at how weak his voice sounded-- it was a struggle to make himself talk, but he was suddenly interested. Dean had never shown him this side of himself before. Though, if he were to be honest with himself, he'd have to add that Dean had never shown him *any* side of himself before. Not really. "Why did you?"

Dean grimaced. He didn't like talking about it, but it seemed like a good idea to get the other boy talking, to try to draw him out before testing out the idea of going to see Madame Pomfrey again. "I hated school." At Neville's amazed expression, he continued, "I mean, not in that I hated the work, even though I can't say that I *loved* it, either. I was just. I was too different, and the other boys at my school..." He licked his lips and looked away. "Well, I got beat up a lot. And I didn't have any friends, because anyone who was nice to me would get some kind of stigma for talking to me. So I was pretty miserable."

"Why'd they hate you?"

Dean made a face. "They thought I was gay." He shrugged, attention riveted on his hands, which were pulling at the hem of his khakis. "I mean. I mean, they knew that I was. So."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"But you ended up going to Hogwarts right after that. And you made friends here."

"Yeah, I did. But I wouldn't have if it had, well, worked."

Neville's lips pulled up into a ghost of a smile. "I think there's a moral here."

Dean laughed. "Did one slip in when I wasn't looking? Damn-- I hate when they do that."

"Yeah..."

"Hey, Neville?"

"Hmm?"

"Why?"

"I..." Neville looked down, then away, lashes fluttering against his too-pale cheeks as he tenderly rubbed his wrist. "I mean, I..."

Dean laid a hand on his arm. "Never mind-- you don't need to tell me now."

"'kay."

"But I'd *like* to talk about it sometime. If you want."

Neville nodded nervously, insides gripping tight at the earnest, worried expression. Not many people had ever bothered to care before, and even less had managed to *show* that they cared in any reasonable display of affection. His Grandmother, once or twice; Percy; Dean.

"Okay," he half-smiled, tentatively taking Dean's hand. He winced when the other boy helped him to his feet, the world spinning around him in a sudden, sickening merry-go-round of color. "I'd like that." Neville forcefully shoved back the voices that Dean was only being nice, he didn't care... ~And we all know what happens, even with people who care for you. They always leave you in the end.~

Rejection...

Dean grinned in relief, unaware of the chaotic thoughts whirling through Neville's brain. "Great." He looped Neville's arm around his neck, his other arm snaking around the other boy's back as he drew him closer. Neville leaned into him as they stepped towards the door, lips going white where they pressed together to keep out the dizzy moans. "What're we going to say to everyone?" Dean asked as he tried to carry more of Neville weight. "When they see us? It's obvious that you're hurt."

"We'll tell them I went wandering out and twisted my ankle," Neville breathed, eyes fluttering closed and then open again as he fought back nausea. "And you found me and took pity on me. Sounds like something I'd do anyways."

"Neville..."

"Hush, Dean. You know it's true-- I'm a klutz and everyone knows it."

"Well." He looked away, embarrassed, and then, suddenly, began to chuckle. "Hey, Neville, did I ever tell you about the time that Seamus fell into the lake and almost got drowned by a mermaid..."

******************

The room was dark and silent, shadows clinging to the walls as he stared before him, hands clenched over his stomach. Dean had helped him up the long, winding stairs, letting him lean against him when the dizziness and exhaustion were too much.

Slowly, Neville touched the long, red scar on his forearm, index finger tracing over the wound with an absent expression on his face. He had told Dean the truth-- he *had* regretted it the moment the knife had slipped to the floor, falling from deadened fingers. He felt... he felt like such a *coward*. Like he was taking the easy way out.

Like he had done it just to make them feel sorry for him.

"Which is manipulative," he whispered to the empty room, "and wrong. Yes, they would feel bad. Yes, they would cry. Percy would be torn up inside. And what would it have done? Nothing."

Absolutely nothing.

Neville shook his head and pushed back down his sleeve. He wasn't strong and he wasn't brave, but he wasn't coward enough to try that again. And he wasn't coward enough to just lie here and wallow in his depression. He wasn't so scared of life that he wasn't going to live it.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and out of the bed, eyes flickering closed at the wave of dizziness and nausea that swept through him. He touched his hand to his forehead, then shook his head as if to clear it. Tomorrow, he'd write to Percy and see what he could salvage. Tomorrow, he'd take care of it all. But tonight... tonight, he was going to be Gryffindor, and he was going to face his friends.

With a small smile on his face-- the first in weeks-- Neville headed towards the stairs and the Gryffindor common room.

*****************

::flip pages::

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::pause::

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"I know you're there, Seamus, so you might as well stop trying to sneak up on me."

::pause:: "Damn. How'd you know I was there?"

"Skills."

"Skills? You?"

"You doubt?"

"I doubt."

"A fine best friend you are."

"Heh." ::sit down and stare morosely at friend:: "Speaking of best friend-- I've not been getting any attention today."

"I'm busy."

"I'm bored!"

"Go bother Harry."

"He and Ron told me to bugger off."

"Bug Hermione."

"*Her*? But she's so *dull*." ::pause:: "And she threatened to curse me if I didn't leave her alone."

"Colin."

"He ran away."

::blink:: "You couldn't even get *Colin* to listen to you?" ::low whistle::

"Shut up, ya wanker. And then I thought I could go see what Neville was up to..."

::startled glare:: "Seamus, you didn't..."

"... but he was asleep up in the room."

::relieved sigh:: "Oh. Well. I'm busy."

"Since when is... '101 Magical Healing Techniques' and 'A Wizard's Guide to the Operating Room' more important than *me*?"

::quirky grin:: "Was this a rhetorical question, or did you actually expect an answer?"

"Jerk."

"Dick-wad."

"Shit-head."

"Ass-wipe."

"Wanker."

"Dork."

"I will have you know that I am the epitome of utter coolness."

"Seamus-- *Colin* wouldn't play with you. **Colin**."

::laugh:: "Well, I'm not so sure that I want Colin to play with me..."

::blank stare::

"Don't strain yourself, Dean..."

::blink blink-- understanding. groan:: "*Seamus*."

::brilliant grin:: "I'd much rather play with *myself*."

"God, Seamus..."

"Well, not *here*, ya kinky-assed prat. I usually do it a lot later at ni..."

::brilliant blush:: "I do *not* want to know."

"What, not even a little curious?"

"I'm ignoring you now..."

"Heh."

::pause::

::pause::

::pause::

"*Stop*."

"Stop what?"

"Stop that."

"What? Stop this?"

"Yes, that."

"Oh. Okay."

::pause::

::pause::

::pause::

"Seamus..."

"What?? I'm not doing anything!"

::sigh:: "I was just saying that... Oh, hi Hermione."

"Hi, Hermione!"

"Do it and die, Seamus."

"Why does no one trust me?"

"Superior intelligence?"

"Riiiight."

"Dean, did you hear about Neville?"

::surprised look:: "Neville? Er... what about Neville?"

"He fell down the stairs."

::blank stare:: "Huh?"

"The Gryffindor Tower stairs. He was going down to the common room and tripped and fell down the stairs. Ginny found him and she's in hysterics-- he was hurt pretty badly. Ron says it looks like he might've broken his neck or something..."

"Oh, God..." ::jump up and run from library::

::Seamus and Hermione stare at one another::

::whisper:: "He broke his *neck*?"

********************

Dean shoved through the crowded hallways, pushing past black-robed teachers and students alike as he raced towards the infirmary. His lungs were on fire and his legs ached from taking the stairs two at a time, but his mind was concentrated on the fact that he had to get to Neville and he had to get there fast.

~I shouldn't have left him alone!~ he cursed as he ran. ~I should have realized that he was going to try something again, that he wasn't ready... Just because he seemed like he was sorry to have tried doesn't mean... I should have done something. I shouldn't have left him alone!~ He pushed past a small group of third-years and picked up the speed.

~I shouldn't have...!~

He skidded to a stop in front of the Infirmary, one hand reaching up to press against his heaving chest as the other shoved the door aside. Dumbledore and McGonagall looked up from where they were talking, faces grave and voices low.

"Dean Thomas!" McGonagall exclaimed. "I don't think you should..."

"It's about," Dean gasped, "about Neville." He took a step into the room and looked pleadingly at Dumbledore. "Professor, I need to speak to you. It's about... it's important."

The old wizard nodded and motioned for Dean to follow. "We'll talk in Madame Pomfrey's office."

Dean nodded and followed the Headmaster into the small office, eyes passing blindly over the piles of books and interesting-looking vials as Dumbledore seated himself in the large black chair and motioned for him to take the seat across the paper-filled desk. "Now, Dean, there was something you needed to say?" He motioned with his wand, and the door closed with a snap.

"Yes, sir. It-- it's about Neville. About what happened today."

"I see."

"It's just that, well..." Dean cleared his throat. "It's just that I don't think it was an accident."

Two white brows shot up as the old Headmaster leaned forwards, eyes narrowing. "Go on."

"It's just that... I mean, earlier today..." He bit his lip and looked away, not able to meet the piercing look. "I should have made him come here! Or come to someone, but I thought that he wouldn't..." He shook his head helplessly. "He promised."

"Dean?" There was a question in the deep voice.

"I. I had seen him go into the greenhouse earlier today and had decided to follow him. Neville's been acting strangely for a while now, and I was worried. I. When I went in. I mean..." He met the kind, blue gaze and swallowed, the first memory of Neville lying there in a pool of his own blood emblazoned on his memory. "He'd try to slit his wrist with a paring knife. He'd. He was serious about it, sir. He didn't cut horizontal, which takes a lot longer to die from. I mean, he did it the other way, and... So I bandaged the cut and tried to heal it, but when he came to, he said he didn't want to go to the Infirmary. He said he wasn't going to try it again. So we talked for a little, and I took him up to the room and helped him into the bed and *left* him there, all alone!" His dark eyes were bright with bitterly fought tears and his hands shook where they clutched each other in his lap. "He *said* he wasn't going to try it again, and I just *left* him, and now he did try it aga!

in and he could die this time, and I just *left* *him*, and..."

"Dean. Dean!" Dumbledore was out of his chair and around the desk, one large hand clasping the boy's shoulder and the other lifting his chin, making him look up into the kind gaze. Dean shook his head, not wanting to see the recrimination he knew should be there, but Dumbledore took his face into his palms and forced him to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were serious. "Dean, no-one is going to blame you for what happened. You saved Neville's life, and that's to be *commended*. Yes, you should have let someone know immediately, but it's to be understood why you didn't. And now that we know, we can keep a closer eye on Neville and see to it that he's taken care of and gets help. All right?"

Dean blinked back tears. "All right," he whispered.

Dumbledore stepped back with a small smile. "So you used a stitching spell to save Longbottom? Ingenious. Pomfrey will be delighted to hear this-- she's always keeping her eye out for possible medically-minded students."

"I. Um. Thanks."

"Why don't you go in there and see if there's anything that she needs? It's a fairly simple spell, but I'm sure that she'd be thankful for the help." His hand squeezed Dean's shoulder and his voice dropped low and serious. "And I don't think Neville should wake up alone, do you?"

"No sir. I-- I'll be there!"

The Headmaster smiled. "I knew you would. You're a very good friend."

Dean's eyes sparkled with new tears and he shook his head, but he didn't say anything as he left the office, mind awash with recriminations and guilt. McGonagall nodded to him as he passed by, then she slipped into the office and met Dumbledore's serious gaze, one brow raising. The Headmaster of Hogwarts motioned for her to shut the door behind her, and she did so with a shrug. "Was there something..." she began.

"Dean just told me some interesting information about Neville Longbottom," Dumbledore began, face grave.

Her brows rose in surprise. "So he did try it? It wasn't an accident?"

"We're not sure about him falling down the steps being an accident-- Dean seems to think that he did that on purpose. But he tried to slit his wrist earlier today."

One long-fingered hand pressed against her throat. "Oh, dear. I realize that we had him under watch for a long time now, but I never thought... It just doesn't seem possible that he'd."

"Try it? I know. I don't think any of us seriously considered Neville in the 'at risk' category. But now... It's a good thing Thomas was there."

McGonagall shook her head and leaned back against the door. "So what are we going to do? Hannah hasn't managed to get very close to Neville. I'm not sure she was even trying-- Neville was only added to the list as a minor precaution. None of us ever thought that he'd actually... do it."

"Not Hannah," Dumbledore said. "We can ask her to keep her eye on young Potter instead."

"You don't really think Potter...?"

"He *is* at risk, Minerva. As is Draco Malfoy and Peter Eddins and a handful of others. No, we still need to keep our senior-level Hufflepuff students watching them to make sure that something like this doesn't happen again."

"And Neville?"

"I have a feeling that Dean Thomas isn't going to let anything else happen."

"But Dean's not been trained in counseling. And he's shown no aptitude for the empathy required for something such as..."

"Peace, Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted. "Sometimes it has to do more with being a friend and less with training. But we'll bring in Justin Finch-Fletchley to speak with Neville and see what he can do."

"And Dean?"

"All three of them will be excused from classes until we feel that Neville's ready."

McGonagall nodded, lips pursed together. "I'll inform the other professors." At Dumbledore's nod, she turned and left the small office, leaving the Headmaster to sit alone, head in his hands, and wonder why he couldn't save everyone.

*******************

Darkness clung to the ceiling and walls, dancing across the empty floor. Neville stared out of the single window, aware of Dean asleep in the chair next to the bed. He'd been there all night.

He glanced over at the other boy, lips curving up into a painful smile. His entire body ached with a fierceness that he couldn't believe, shuddering through his form as he moved his head and neck. He reached up to touch the new injury and winced, feeling stupid. So much for starting out again on a good foot...

"Klutz," he sighed bitterly, letting his head fall back into the warmth of the pillow. He was so tired, so drained.

Scars on the out to match the in.

He closed his eyes briefly in memory, seeing the red hair and the gentle smile, feeling the warmth against his hands. The way the light danced around them as he was held and held Percy in return... The way Percy laughed, deep voice filling the small office... The way his eyes shown when Neville kissed him.

The broad back, covered in black, immaculate.

So beautiful as he walked away.

"No," Neville whispered, reaching up to touch the snaking scar, still there. A tactile memory of his cowardice. "No. I won't... Oh, Percy," he sighed, eyes squeezing shut. Tears pressed past his eyes and ran warm down his cheeks. The ice within had melted, and Neville turned his face into the soft pillow and sobbed, thankful for the emotions that welled up within his chest. Emotions that he had thought he'd never feel again. Broken past his feeble barriers and raging deep within his chest.

Warmth rocked through him as Dean crawled into bed behind him, woken by his tears, and wrapped his arms around his middle, pulling him close. Contact. A reaffirmation.

Life.

~Percy... Oh, I do love you.~

A connection.

~I do...~

A promise.

~I won't give up on you, Percy. I won't give up...~

A promise of peace.

~I won't give up.~

And the warmth.

***************