Home of the Brave

- home of the brave -

Sometimes Neville Longbottom secretly hated the world.

It was a simple enough choice, really, when it came down to it: either he could hate himself or everything else. And he already hated himself enough of the time, and now that he didn't have the luxury of giving up, those times weren't to be allowed very often.

He'd never been a flashy sort; not the kind of bloke who'd cry or whimper at the stray Bludgers life handed him, was he? No, he was a Longbottom, and that meant something. It meant something to his Gran, and it meant something to him. What's more, he was a Gryffindor, no matter what.

Gryffindors didn't cry, Neville knew that. Gryffindors tried again.

So if it wasn't going to be Ginny, it could be someone else. That was the spirit Gran expected from him. He could almost hear her voice in his ear, scolding him. How could he turn into a wet rag like this over some girl? There was a war to fight and he didn't have the time to lie to himself anymore. He hadn't even wanted her, had he? No.

No.

What kind of friend was he? What kind of man was he?

'True strength comes from being honest with yourself', she'd say. Accept your weaknesses and focus on your strengths. After all, a weakness could become a strength at any time, and a good wizard has to be ready.

The recollection of Gran's strong voice didn't help like it used to, though.

He stuffed a fist in his mouth and tried thinking of how good he'd been getting; he'd come in second after Harry in the recent DA hexing competition. He was great. Brilliant, Harry said.

Harry said that, and Neville wanted to believe.

That look in Harry's eye-- he'd looked straight at him, like he really noticed. Like Neville was a big help, and Harry depended on him; knew he wouldn't let them down.

Harry had clasped his shoulder and told him he did a good job last week.

Thinking of the look in Harry's eyes made Neville queasy, like he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him. He could tell how much it cost Harry to give him a measure of confidence. Harry wasn't as strong as he had been, these days: Neville could tell. So he, Neville, had to be strong enough to make up for all that. Harry would thank him one day, when Neville really helped. Not just a little; not just "didn't hurt". One day, Neville was going to be essential, and he had to be prepared.

Gran had never believed in acknowledging success, because success had to become a habit, she said. You will become what you believe you are, she told him, and he still remembered that even if he couldn't quite decide what she meant. He thought maybe she meant that he'd always be a squib because he couldn't help himself, but maybe he was wrong.

He thought he was getting better, even; he'd begun to hope things were turning around. Yes, this was a dreadful state of affairs, of course; the war was a terrible thing, but he'd started forgetting why he -couldn't- do things, because they needed him, didn't they? He could help.

So he'd tried forgetting the parchment he didn't finish for Transfiguration tomorrow (what was he supposed to write, if he couldn't get the spells to work?) and the dinner he'd skipped yet again and uncomfortable look in Ginny's eyes when he'd asked her....

Neville's pudgy fist was too big to fit into his mouth, and some sound escaped. Something like a whimper, maybe; a little bit like a sob.

It had been a simple question, he thought. It was nothing special, really. He just wanted to see what the fuss was about. Will Putnam, a Ravenclaw seventh-year, said Ginny didn't need much encouragement. If he could do it, certainly Neville could do it. Will had a reputation as a dumpy, unsociable Muggle-born bookworm in a House supposedly full of bookworms. His glasses were even thicker and bulkier than Harry's, and half the time he'd trip over his own feet. He'd seemed to be Hermione's twin in almost every way, and indeed he'd had a widely known crush on her since she'd shown up in Hogwarts with her nose in the air and her hand perpetually raised, but eventually he settled for trying one of Hermione's few girlfriends.

Even if Ginny had done it out of pity, she'd still done it with sad little Will Putnam, hadn't she?

Neville felt he wouldn't have minded pity too much. He could live with it. He just couldn't bear the painfully good-natured teasing about never having had a snog any longer. Maybe it didn't show, but Neville wasn't all that different than any other sixteen year-old boy; there were needs.

Besides, he thought he'd gotten to know Ginny this past year. It wasn't like they were friends, exactly, but even so, she'd taken to smiling at him when she saw him in the corridors. Ginny had a nice, warmly mischievous smile, which made Neville feel warm around the middle. It was easy to fancy a girl was flirting while one was lost in that smile. So easy and sweet; kind of like forgetting something nasty that wasn't worth remembering anyway.

He thought of taking her slim, freckled hand between his own and smiling back at her; that would be nice. He could brush her fringe out of her eyes and make sure they were brown instead of maybe hazel or an odd sort of yellow-green like they were in his nighttime fancies.

When he'd finally gotten up his courage, Ginny looked away and blushed, and like a total git, Neville had pressed. 'What's wrong?' he'd said; 'I can change', he'd said.

And she'd blushed more and winced and told him she'd heard he was queer, and that was all right, of course it was, it was just that it might make things awkward and she didn't want to hurt him and....

What was he supposed to say?

Neville had been getting so close. He'd started forgetting the things he wouldn't become.

He knew he was pudgy and unattractive, though he didn't eat very much. He knew he was awkward and he seemed to do nothing well, and he tried. He really tried. It was never enough, somehow. No matter what he did, he only got in the way.

If he thought about it, he didn't feel self-pity, not exactly. The last couple of winter nights before Christmas, while the few remaining Gryffindor sixth-years were off making merry yet again, Neville laid awake, seething with anger.

At least they noticed he was -there- lately, but they still didn't think he felt the same things they did, he was pretty sure.

It was no good, any of it. He'd kept trying and trying, but it could never really make a difference, because no matter what, Neville couldn't change who he was; not even if he forgot. Someone would always be there to remind him.

He paused for a second, mid-sob, hearing a muffled sound coming from the downstairs Common Room. It was unmistakably Harry's voice, he knew. He didn't know anyone else who yelled like that-- like they were a breath away from setting fires with their voice alone. Only Harry's voice had that sort of power; only Harry's voice made him shiver like this. He didn't know if it felt good or not, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel guilty. He understood, he thought. The rest of them didn't, but he did.

No one would've believed that he and Harry were alike, and of course in most ways they weren't. But sometimes Neville laid awake and thought about how Harry had lost his parents too, and about how he never talked about it, and how he looked so lost and sad and confused when he thought no one was looking. Maybe Harry hadn't wanted to become who he was either. Neville knew he wouldn't have wanted to be the Boy Who Lived even if he could.

Neville didn't envy him; he just wanted him.

While Neville was also a little scared of Harry, he couldn't help creeping across the room and crouching quietly at the stairs to listen. It was like Harry had acquired some sort of dark, magnetic pull during their fifth year, and it had only been getting stronger and stronger. Neville had always been able to resist, but just barely. Harry was so loud-- so angry. He sounded as frustrated as Neville felt, too, and that meant he couldn't think of backing away.

There had always been a dampening spell of some sort around the Common Room, of course, so Neville couldn't make out the actual words. He could only hear the intonations: Harry's strong voice rising and falling, and Ron and Hermione in staccato counterpoint. Usually Ron got quite a bit louder than Harry in their frequent shouting matches as of late, but this time he sounded more weary than defensive. Neville chewed on his bottom lip worriedly, wondering if this was how it felt when people's parents had rows: this sort of numb, helpless feeling.

Then, suddenly, the voices stopped, and there was a loud crashing sound, the thud of a portrait swinging shut and the heavy fall of rapid footsteps just around the corner. Neville was utterly frozen: even if he hadn't been a Gryffindor, he was simply never very good at running away.

Harry blinked at him, seeming to be just as frozen as Neville himself.

"Er," he said indistinctly. "Listen, about-- that-- I don't know if you heard, so--"

"You don't have to tell me, Harry," Neville said quietly.

Harry blinked some more. The flickering torchlight reflected off his glasses in the dark of the stairway, and Neville thought Harry looked dangerous. So it really made no sense that he felt so safe somehow, did it?

After a bit, Harry grunted and sat down several steps below Neville, leaning against the curving stone wall of the Tower as if he was really tired. "Thanks," he said simply, and that was more than Neville had expected.

"You seem tired," he said tentatively, certain he was making a fool of himself yet again somehow. Maybe taking the focus off himself would help, because Neville hadn't felt this nervous in ages. That was over, he'd thought. He was better now.

A tiny smile curled the left corner of Harry's mouth. "There's no need to be polite to me, Neville," he said lightly.

Neville thought about that for a bit, and about how Harry's eyes were completely in shadow now, and about how he didn't have all that much to lose. After a short internal debate, he moved down to the step next to Harry's, so that their sides brushed together in a way that made Neville's arm and leg buzz pleasantly.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. His hair seemed more ridiculously mussed than usual, and he looked kind of small in that horrid oversized plaid button-down shirt. For a moment, Neville had to remind himself this was -Harry-, and he should know appearances were deceiving.

Though maybe they'd achieve a companionable silence of a sort, soon. Maybe he wasn't too embarrassed to stand without fidgeting awkwardly, and maybe his name wasn't Neville Longbottom.

"They don't mean to hurt you, you know," he said before he thought better of it. Where had -that- come from? He'd been almost-- almost there... almost enough courage at last, and he had to mess it up. "They must care a lot."

Harry snorted. "What makes you think I didn't mean to hurt -them-?"

Neville started, turning his head to stare fixedly at Harry's indistinct profile. Harry's face looked pinched and pale, and he sounded like he was speaking through his teeth, but his body-language was relaxed like he didn't have any place he'd rather be at the moment. He could be as puzzling as a girl, and certainly just as fit-- gods, those eyes. Neville had never seen a merperson up close, not like Harry, but he fancied they'd have eyes like that, so dark and green with untold secrets. What could Neville possibly say to him that would ever matter?

"You wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose, I think," Neville said slowly, painfully startled at Harry's harsh laugh before he realized how that sounded. As usual, that didn't come out right. How stupid could he be, and after--

"Is that so?" Harry was looking back at him now, and their noses were too close. Did Harry notice that? Because they were. "I have, you know. I used an Unforgivable on that -bitch- that-- that killed Sirius, and-- and I liked it. I liked it." Harry sneered at him, and he looked scarier than Neville had ever seen him, and he didn't want to leave. It wasn't about running away, not anymore. He wouldn't leave Harry like this. "I used Crucio on her, Neville. I hurt her, all right."

His fingers tangled at the sides of his pajama bottoms, but Neville didn't flinch. The word "crucio" tumbled around in his head, making him dizzy enough to have been grateful he was sitting down, but he kept staring into those too-green eyes. "I think I-- I understand," he whispered, swallowing.

"Are you afraid of me, Neville?"

Neville didn't like the way Harry said that, like he already knew the answer. He probably wouldn't believe him if he said 'no', either. He was only Neville, after all. Of course he'd be afraid.

There was something hot and insistent that felt like it was stuck somewhere in his chest, but it didn't feel like fear at all. In fact, if Neville didn't know better, he would have thought it was anger.

If Harry kept using his name like that, something was going to happen. He could feel it in his skin, in the prickly pounding of his heart, in his constricted throat. Harry was pushing him, and in the end, Neville didn't like being pushed. Except maybe... by Harry.

"Why should I be?" he said. The steadiness of his voice left something to be desired, overall. "She deserved it."

Harry tilted his head, fleetingly wearing some unnamable expression as he stared at him. Neville could see him pretty well at this distance, and he'd always been pretty good at noticing the relevant details when it counted. So he watched Harry's brows knit and his mouth pucker almost in slow motion, and it would've been cute if Neville wasn't absolutely terrified.

When Harry kissed him, Neville's fingernails dug sharply into his thighs and he made no sound whatsoever. His mouth seemed utterly frozen, like it wasn't his own, and his eyes wouldn't seem to close. He was distantly grateful that he didn't do something completely humiliating like choke on his own spit or moan. His breath had hitched, but that could probably be dismissed as normal. His heart might have stopped there for a second or two or three though, so it was a good thing no one knew much about Neville's heart but Neville.

Harry's eyes were closed behind his glasses, and his mouth was dry and slightly rough. Neville's lips had always been too soft, he knew. Like a girl's.

After it was over, Neville blinked again and again, but the sheer weight of the past few seconds wouldn't lift and go away. He would have thought a thing like that could crush him, but he was still sitting there, staring at Harry. Still not moving, as well.

Good old Neville. Could always be trusted to stick out a difficult situation, they'd say.

Harry still looked rather puzzled, and Neville couldn't imagine why. He was thunderstruck enough for the both of them, unless that wasn't quite the same.

"Are you scared now?" Harry whispered, as if he was asking Neville to tell him a secret. "Tell me the truth." Those eyes were turned on him full strength, and Neville thought he couldn't possibly be enough for what Harry was asking. He'd tried, but this was too much. There were limits to what he could imagine becoming.

"Yes," he rasped.

"Good," Harry nodded. "Me too."

Neville sat there on the stairs for a long time after Harry left the same way he'd come, barely noticing the soft noise of the portrait swinging shut on the other's way out.

He was reminded of being petrified, first year, and still watching the three of them leave, listening to them talk to each other and being unable to do anything whatsoever. He remembered feeling useless and frustrated and quite embarrassed, then, but he was almost certain his chest hadn't ached like this. His lips kept tingling three, four, five minutes later, and Neville thought he'd finally found something he would rather not forget.

Neville got up, groaning as his stiff body uncurled. He would look for Harry because Harry needed him. It was obvious Harry had some things he'd wanted to tell Neville, if Neville had known how to listen. And how hard could one boy be to find, if another didn't stop looking?

Sometimes Neville Longbottom secretly thought he could do anything.

~~