One Sweet Moment

There's no chance for us
It's all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us
- Queen, "Who Wants to Live Forever?"

Neville's in Greenhouse 5 the first time Harry comes looking for him. Truthfully, he's more than a little surprised when Harry seeks him out; in the entire time they've known one another, Harry's never done that and, after the botched attempts he made himself in third year, Neville's stopped trying. But, still, he's more than a little curious. Harry hasn't been himself in a lot of ways this year. Ron and Hermione think it's the death of Sirius Black, but Neville thinks it might be more than that.

Harry, with a befuddled expression on his face, gazes around the greenhouse like he's never seen it before. It occurs to Neville that this is actually a possibility, as only the NEWT-level students work here and Harry has dropped Herbology this term. After a few minutes of this, Neville tentatively says, "Hi, Harry." His hands are covered in dirt and he's trying to move the Fanged Geranium seedlings into larger pots. It's delicate work.

"I don't want to die a virgin," Harry says pleasantly, almost like he's returning Neville's greeting.

At this, Neville nearly drops a seedling, which, in turn, proceeds to sink its needle-like teeth into Neville's thumb. He wonders what the appropriate response is here: That's nice? Me either? Want to have a go in the dirt? He settles on "Oh."

"Don't look so panicked, Neville." Harry's voice is laced with laughter and he's trailing his fingers along a worktable, leaving clean trails on the soil-covered surface. He wipes his hands on his robe. "I was just thinking..."

"Thinking can be dangerous." Neville casts a healing charm on his thumb and continues to work.

"Yeah, well, I don't have much choice, do I?" Harry's voice is laced with bitterness, which scares Neville a little. He keeps his eyes on his work. "I've got to think about a madman on the loose, out to kill my friends. He's already killed my family." Neville winces, thinking of the man he saw fly through the arch and disappear. "Unless I kill him first, he's going to kill me."

"Kill him? Surely, you can't be expected to -- I mean, Dumbledore..."

"Is the one who told me I had to kill him or he'd kill me."

Neville blinks, feeling ill-equipped to deal with this information. "Really?"

"The prophecy --"

"Broke," Neville says, bitterness creeping into his voice, too. "I kicked it and it broke, remember?"

Harry softens a bit. He's moved so he's standing at Neville's side. Uncertainly, he reaches a hand out, but one geranium opens its mouth threateningly, and he yanks it back. "That wasn't the only copy. Dumbledore heard it; he had it in his Pensieve." His voice taking on an exaggerated, eerie quality, Harry recites, "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..."

"Seventh month?" Neville says suddenly. "When's your birthday?"

"July thirty-first."

"Huh," Neville says, surprised, facing Harry now. Their faces are entirely too close and he takes in a gulp of air. "Mine too. How come I didn't know that?"

"Dunno. Maybe we're both incredibly unobservant?" Harry offers Neville a small smile, which Neville returns, an unsettled feeling overtaking his stomach. "You do know what that means, right?"

Neville shakes his head, turning away again so he can re-pot the last plant.

"Was down to the two of us -- you and me -- and, for whatever reason, Voldemort chose me. So, now I have to kill him."

"Shit," Neville says under his breath, startling Harry.

"You swore!"

Raising an eyebrow, Neville brushes excess dirt from his hands. "Are you telling me you don't?"

Harry's cheeks turn red for reasons Neville can't quite fathom. "Ye... I mean, no, of course I do. I just never expected it out of your mouth."

"I expect there's a lot you don't know about me, Harry." Neville casts a cleaning charm on himself. "Should I do you?"

"Wh-- what?"

Neville remembers Harry's opening line and blushes, realising what that must have sounded like. "Uh...cleaning charm. Do you need one?" He waves his new wand around, still amazed that it feels so right.

"Oh! Yes. Thank you." Harry spreads his arms open as Neville casts the charm and Neville's impressed at the level of trust Harry demonstrates. He wonders if Harry would have let Neville turn his wand on him a year ago. Probably not.

"So," Neville asks, trying to sound as casual as possible, "what's this about dying a...er, a..."

Harry chuckles. "A virgin? Yeah, well, I am sixteen, so that's about all I ever think about."

Groaning, Neville nods.

"And I'll probably die before my eighteenth birthday."

"You won't," says Neville fiercely.

Harry smiles sadly. "I might. We all might."

Neville closes his eyes. He still doesn't know why Harry sought him out.

"You're a good listener, Neville." Harry's fingers are very close to Neville's hand.

It's become so common for Harry to come looking for Neville that Neville's grown to expect it. They walk to Charms together on Thursdays, Harry shows up late nights while Neville's working in the greenhouses, and at D.A. meetings, Harry volunteers to be Neville's partner. It's not that Harry's had a falling out with his friends; Neville sees him speaking to Ron and Hermione often, even if the other two have recently been spending far more time standing close together and exchanging nervous looks than they have in the past. Still, Neville can't quite place why he's been singled out. Maybe it's the prophecy that easily could have been Neville or, like Harry says, he's just a good listener.

One Friday evening, Neville's sitting in the library, poring over his Transfiguration text. Not many people are there, which is unsurprising, as most people choose to have lives on the weekends. Neville used to feel that way himself, but he's only been able to keep up with his advanced classes by devoting every extra moment to revising. Still, he's not entirely unhappy to see the doors swing open, revealing Harry looking furtive and searching around the room. Neville waves Harry over, ignoring the flip his stomach does when Harry's eyes light up as he rushes over.

Harry's grinning goofily. "Guess what I have?"

"An increasingly frequent habit of interrupting my studying?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry opens his robes slightly, revealing a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey. "Interested?"

Neville looks down at his homework, then back up at Harry's flushed face. "Yes," he says before the little nagging voice that sounds uncomfortably like his Gran has a chance to talk him out of it. He slams his book shut. "Let's go."

Ten minutes later, they're in the broom shed, sitting along the far wall, and passing the bottle back and forth. "Where did you get this?" Neville asks, coughing as the liquid burns his throat.

"Seamus. He swiped it from his mother right before leaving for the term." Harry takes an unusually long swig, then makes a face. "Uck. This stuff tastes awful." He passes the bottle back to Neville.

"And, yet...." Neville tips the bottle back, making a horrible face of his own. His fingers and toes are tingling a bit and he feels warm all over. The sensation is weird. Weird, but pleasant.

Harry's head is pressed against the wall, face tipped up and facing the shelves above them. Neville's staring at him a little too often, but Harry's eyes are closed and Neville figures he can blame the alcohol. "Seamus says that Dean told him that Ginny said that Cho went down on Michael Corner out here."

A few weeks ago, that non-sequitor would have thrown Neville off, but not anymore. No matter what he and Harry start talking about, the topic eventually winds its way back to sex.

Harry asks, "You think Cho would have done that, if I hadn't messed things up?"

Neville shrugs, then remembers Harry's got his eyes closed. "I've no idea what Cho Chang would or wouldn't do, Harry. I've never even talked to her." He pauses for a moment. "Would you have wanted her to?"

Opening his eyes, Harry tilts his head and looks at Neville. "Yes? No. I don't know. Our kiss sucked."

"Sucking's not usually considered a bad thing in... uhm, that situation. I mean, so I hear... not that I would know," Neville adds hastily. He takes a long drink of the whiskey, immediately deciding that was a bad idea.

Harry takes the bottle back. "Who would you... you know. If you could."

"Anyone?" Neville would rather not answer this question, despite feeling warm and relaxed. "I...I haven't really thought about it," he lies.

"Ginny?" Harry suggests. "I know she's dating Dean and all, but didn't you go to the Yule Ball with her?"

"Yes," Neville answers quickly.

"How was that?"

"I stepped on her toes a lot."

Harry's staring at Neville, his eyes wide. Feeling uncomfortable, it's Neville's turn to close his eyes, which turns out to be another bad idea. He can still feel a blush creeping up its way up his neck, spreading to his cheeks, and surely the room wasn't spinning this much when he had his eyes open. "Did you kiss her?" Harry asks finally.

Neville scrunches up his nose. "Yes," he answers after a moment. "Well, really, she kissed me."

"And what happened?" Harry's obviously shifted; Neville can feel his leg pressed up against his own.

His head suddenly feeling very heavy, Neville lets his shoulders sag. He's completely lost the feeling in his toes. "I told her I didn't like her that way."

"But why?"

"Because she's a girl." Neville's eyes fly open the minute the words come tumbling out of his mouth. He blinks rapidly and expects Harry to scramble away, calling him some choice names, while vowing never, ever to speak to Neville again. Harry does none of those things, though, and Neville, breathing a sigh of relief, thinks that maybe Harry hadn't heard hi --

"Cool."

Cool? Neville thinks to himself. Harry slumps down, then sits up bolt upright. Ah, he was just too drunk to understand at first and now he's going to --

"Want to go flying?"

Want to go flying with me. Neville shakes his head and pinches his arm, wincing when it hurts. Not passed out, then. "Flying?"

"Yeh," Harry says, gesturing around the room. "That's what all these brooms are for."

Neville raises his eyebrows. "Harry, how long have you known me? I'm not exactly renowned for my flying ability."

"I am," Harry says, struggling to his feet. "I could teach you."

"You're drunk."

"True. I can still fly, though." He holds his hand out to Neville.

Neville sighs. "I can't." Despite his better judgment, he takes Harry's hand and is yanked to his feet. Harry doesn't immediately let go.

Harry's standing very close to Neville and he can smell a mix of whiskey and peppermint on Harry's breath. "We can share then."

Noticing his palms are suddenly very sweaty, Neville lets go of Harry's hand and takes a step away.

"Well?" Harry's still waiting for Neville's answer.

"Yes?" he says nervously.

"That's the correct answer, Mr Longbottom." Harry stumbles over to the brooms lined up against the adjacent wall, studying each one intently. "God, these brooms suck."

"I wouldn't know."

Harry shoots Neville a glance over his shoulder. "I can't believe you grew up in a wizarding household. Ron and his brothers have never been able to shut up about these things in the entire time I've known them. Hell, even Malfoy's broom-obsessed." Without looking, Harry grabs one of the brooms from the rack. "What kind of upbringing did you have, anyway?"

"A very sheltered one," Neville says tersely, shutting down that line of conversation. He feels something welling up inside him - bravery, or maybe just plain old recklessness -- and he stalks to the door, calling over his shoulder, "Are you coming?"

As he makes his way out to the pitch, Neville hears footsteps pounding behind him. "You know," Harry says, a bit breathlessly, "it's hard to fly without waiting for the guy with the broom."

"Sorry," Neville says sheepishly. He stops moving. "Just wound up. I...I don't like flying much."

Harry places a hand on Neville's forearm, spinning him so they're facing each other. "I know that," he says, voice filled with an intensity it didn't have moments earlier. "I'm not completely unobservant. While you're with me, I promise that nothing will bad will happen to you."

Neville believes him. "Okay."

"Good!" Harry exclaims, grinning. The broom hovers a bit above the ground without Harry even needing to give it a command, and he mounts it, patting the spot in front of him. After a second, Neville climbs on in front of him, ignoring the fact that he's now pressed against Harry's chest, sitting between his legs. It's just a flying lesson. A drunk lesson in the dark on a Friday evening with no other people around. Perfectly normal, really.

Neville's hands wrap around the broom handle, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turn white. Harry's hands slide on top of his a moment later, which does nothing to help Neville relax. The broom slowly rises into the air, Harry guiding Neville the entire time, muttering words of encouragement into his ears.

"How are you doing?" Harry asks after Neville successfully manoeuvres the broom into making a lazy circle around one set of goal-posts.

The wind is whipping past them and Neville gives a strangled laugh. "My stomach's queasy," he replies, hoping his words don't get swallowed up by the air.

"Is it the whiskey? Are you going to be sick?" Each word sends a puff of hot air along Neville's ear and he shakes his head violently.

"Just nervous!" Neville shouts. "I haven't been on a broom since first year!"

"Really?" Neville can hear the incredulous tone of Harry's voice. He can understand that; it must be impossible for someone like Harry to wrap his head around actually being scared of flying. Harry slides his hands from their place atop Neville's and wraps them around Neville's waist, pulling the other boy even closer to his body. "Is this better?" Neville shivers, and not from the cold.

"Yes," he says more quietly, nodding. "Much."

"Much," Harry repeats, sliding one hand from Neville's waist to his thigh, rubbing through the coarse fabric of his trousers.

"Harry?" asks Neville uncertainly. The broom still seems to be under Harry's control, making smooth, wide circles high above the pitch. Some wet pressure is applied to Neville's neck and it takes him a moment to recognise it as a tongue. "Harry?" he asks again, a bit at a loss.

"Mmm?"

"Wha-- what are you doing?"

Harry lightly bites Neville's ear, causing Neville to jump, but the grip around his waist keeps him firmly in place. "Right now, I'm biting your ear."

"Why?" Neville asks, experiencing dizziness not caused by their height or the whiskey.

"Because I'm going to have to wait until we're on the ground to get to your lips properly."

"You're drunk."

"I am; it's the only reason I'm brave enough to do what I've wanted for weeks."

"You're not going to die," Neville says suddenly.

Humming against Neville's throat, Harry shrugs. "We all will one day."

"Mmm," Neville agrees. It's hard to form coherent thoughts with Harry's body pressed behind him, his lips lightly sucking at the part where the shoulder meets the neck. "I think I'd like to land now."

The broom is instantly directed toward the ground, where it lands softly, safely. Harry pulls Neville off the broom, sending him sprawling onto the pitch, where Harry rolls on top of him. Then, Harry's lips close over his, whimpering noises rising up from the back of Neville's throat. Harry hungrily sucks on Neville's lower lip, slowly pushes his tongue inside Neville's mouth and Neville moans, unsure of what to do, but very sure of how good what they're doing feels. Tentatively bringing his hand up to tangle in Harry's always-messy, now-windswept hair, Neville instinctively deepens the kiss, knowing he wants to own that mouth, to have Harry own him.

He also knows they're both still a little drunk. And outside where anyone can find and interrupt them.

Neville breaks the kiss, sighing at Harry's slightly bewildered expression.

"Neville?" Harry asks, confused.

"We can't do this here." Neville, using every ounce of will power he possesses, pushes Harry off of him.

Harry blinks several times; Neville thinks he can make out every individual eyelash from this vantage-point. "Why not?" Harry says after a moment.

"Because I can't... I don't just want to... we're drunk and you might... I mean, it's not like I want to die a... but...." Neville stops and sits up, taking a moment to gather himself together. Without looking at Harry, he takes a deep breath and says, "Because I have actual feelings for you and I want to make sure they're mutual. If they're not, well, then we can forget this ever happened. If they are, come get me tomorrow and we'll talk."

He glances over at Harry, expectantly.

"Neville," Harry breathes, reaching up to cup Neville's cheek and placing a light kiss on his mouth. "They are. I'll get you tomorrow."

Standing, Neville lets out a shaky breath and helps Harry to his feet. They put back the broom and collect the whiskey before silently heading back to Gryffindor Tower, their fingers twined together.

The next day, Harry -- completely sober -- finds Neville again.

"Harry?"

"Mmm?"

They're lying on Neville's bed, Harry's head resting on Neville's chest. It's been a few weeks since Neville's first flying lesson and the two boys have been spending even more time together. This... whatever it is between them has a way of making Neville's stomach do the most awful flips, especially when they're not together. It's a bit unnerving.

"Why did you come visit me in the greenhouse that first night?"

Harry rolls to one side, propping himself up on his elbow. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Of course."

"Uh, well, you know how Ron and Hermione have been... kind of dancing around each other?"

Neville nods, staring up at his canopy. "Hasn't that been happening for the last three years?"

"Well, yes," Harry laughs. "Anyway, Ron had spent most of that day babbling on about how infuriating Hermione was because he'd done something to exasperate her. You know, I feel bad, but this happens so often that I can't even remember what it was about. Finally, I got fed up and told Ron to just do something about it before he lost her forever. We got into a little argument, but it was over almost as soon as it started, and I realised that I had to go after what I wanted, too."

"Me?" Neville asks incredulously. "So that virgin line was an opener?"

Harry's answer is muffled by the pillow in which he's buried his face. "Yes. God."

"Nice one, Potter."

Neville hears a strangled laugh delivered through fabric and chuckles himself.

Neither says anything for a moment, until Neville breaks the silence. "I don't want to, either, you know."

"What?" Harry has turned his head again

"You know. Die without... well, I don't want to die at all, but it's a possibility, of course, what with You-Know-Who --"

"Say his name, Neville."

Neville takes a deep breath. "V-voldemort... gaining power again." He reaches out for Harry's hand, squeezing the thin fingers tightly. "I don't want him to come after you."

"He will." Harry's voice is hollow; Neville hates when it takes on that quality.

"I-- I know." It's the first time Neville hasn't brushed off Harry's concerns, and he feels his pulse quickening as a result. "So. What I'm saying is... we shouldn't. You know. Be virgins anymore. Just in case." Neville rolls over and faces Harry, running his hand along the other boy's jaw.

Harry looks a bit startled, but he nods vigorously. "Right. Okay. Yes. Uhm, how much time do we have? I mean, the others... I don't want them walking in on us."

"A little while, I guess," Neville says. "We should be okay, right?"

Seemingly agreeing, Harry begins kissing Neville in earnest, his lips pressed hard against Neville's, tongue unrelentingly insinuating its way into Neville's mouth. Hastily, he begins pulling at the front of Neville's robes, as though their roommates are going to come bursting in at any moment.

He's nervous, Neville realises with some surprise, and he covers Harry's hand with his own, stilling it. "It'll be fine," Neville assures him. "Better than fine."

"Yeah. Okay," says Harry, exhaling hard. He slows his pace considerably then, and the two explore one another's bodies, clothes finding their way into a jumble at the edge of the bed. Neville finds the place where Harry's hipbone juts out fascinating, while Harry spends a great deal of time lavishing Neville's soft thighs with caresses and kisses. There's a lot of fumbling with the jar of lubricant Neville keeps by his bedside, and they spend some time deciding which way they want to do things. But Harry's hands and lips are always in contact with some part of Neville's skin and Neville finds he can't stop chanting Harry's name, the repetition growing louder as Harry moves within him, Harry's sweaty forehead buried into Neville's shoulder.

Afterwards, Harry murmurs, "I love you."

"That's just the afterglow talking," Neville says jokingly, but every one of his nerve endings is singing.

"No." Harry's face is dead serious as his eyes study Neville's expression.

Sure of how close he is to fucking everything up, Neville takes a deep breath and screws up the courage to say what he feels. "I know. I love you, too."

The light instantly returns to Harry's eyes as he snuggles close to Neville's body. "Now I can die a happy man."

Neville doesn't know what to say to that. He just holds his breath and studies the top of Harry's head.

The end comes much sooner than any of them anticipated. Spies have reported that Voldemort's strategy has changed from 'lie low and wait' to 'get to Potter now'. Neville's afraid, more afraid than he can ever remember being and, knowing Neville Longbottom, that's saying an awful lot. His hands shake terribly as he transports a tray of shrivelfigs from Greenhouse 1 to the infirmary, and he wordlessly, immediately retreats after his delivery. When Harry finds him, Neville is slumped in one corner of the greenhouse, his head pressed against the cool glass.

"It's time," Harry says, offering Neville a hand up.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Neville says with a laugh. "Where to?"

Harry looks at his feet, not answering for a moment. "You're staying at Hogwarts."

"What?" Neville says in low, furious tones. "I am doing no such thing! You think I'm going to let you go out and fight that... insane freak all by yourself?"

Voice calm, Harry shakes his head. "I won't be by myself; Hermione and Ron will be with me and the Order, too. You're needed here. Madam Pomfrey and Professor Sprout specifically requested your presence here and Dumbledore agreed. It's not just because I want to make sure you're safe." Harry walks behind Neville wrapping his hands around his waist and resting his head on Neville's shoulder. "I do want that, I won't deny it, but you should know by now that I've given up on trying to keep anyone away. Please don't be mad at me."

Neville's shoulders slump and he turns around, putting his arms around Harry's neck. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"Are you expecting anyone in here?" Harry says suddenly. "Because I just noticed that we're completely alone."

"Oh, you just noticed that, did you?" Neville smiles, despite himself.

They make the most of their time alone, a culmination of all the weeks they've spent memorising each other's bodies and Neville feels like he may know Harry's as well as his own. Things between them seem more desperate, more frenzied than they have in weeks past and, afterward, they dress quietly, each seemingly lost in his own world.

"I love you," Neville says for what feels like the thousandth time. It never gets old.

Harry tilts his head, placing kisses on each of Neville's eyelids, his glasses bumping Neville's forehead. Neville returns the favour, gently kissing Harry's scar. Harry shivers and murmurs, "Love you, too. Thank you... for everything."

Overcome by emotion, Neville can only nod.

"I have to go now," says Harry abruptly. "We're leaving soon."

"Kill the bastard, Harry."

"I promise."

After Harry leaves, Neville frames the greenhouse doorway, still watching long after Harry's out of sight.

The next few hours rush by in a frenzy of activity, surprising Neville. Once Harry and the others leave, Sprout sets Neville to work, clipping herbs, evaluating the freshness of what was in storage. There is a moment where he speaks to Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing and he thinks he sees sympathy and worry written all over her stern face; the expression nearly breaks him as he becomes hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, his cold, clammy hands. He just wants this to be over, wants Harry to come back triumphant, possibly with Voldemort's head on a spike.

Then, Portkeys carrying the wounded activate, filling the infirmary, and Neville doesn't have time to worry about himself. These are classmates, Order members, Aurors, people he knows -- not well, but he recognises many of them -- and he runs around, being as much of a help to the staff members and students still in the castle as he can. After delivering a Healing Salve to Pomfrey, he heads back to the greenhouses, so he can collect more supplies.

"Neville," says a tired voice behind him. It's female and Neville spins around, coming face-to-face with Hermione.

"Are you hurt?" Neville rushes over to her, checking for curse damage.

"It's over," says Hermione flatly. "Voldemort's been defeated."

There's a wave of relief, followed by terrible feeling in the pit of Neville's stomach. "Where's Harry?"

A brief look of pain in Hermione's face and Neville knows everything. "Neville...."

"No."

"It was the Dark Mark. We didn't know --"

"No." Neville shakes his head, sinking to the ground. He's shaking all over and, before he has a chance to shrug her off, Hermione's there next to him, arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Harry killed him; that much we know. Ron was close enough to see Harry cut Voldemort -- with a Muggle knife -- and he cut himself, too. There was a curse and then Voldemort just melted away. I think that he and Professor Dumbledore had been working on it for awhile." She takes a deep breath, biting her lower lip and Neville can tell Hermione's trying desperately not to cry. "Then, before any of us knew what was happening, everyone with the Dark Mark collapsed -- Lucius Malfoy, the Lestranges..." Hermione pauses again, swallowing hard. "Professor Snape. I suppose they were linked too closely to Voldemort, and they all... they --"

"Died," Neville finishes flatly.

"Harry was last; it must have been his scar. They were too closely connected."

"It should have been me."

Hermione's voice is fierce. "It shouldn't have been anyone. Shouldn't have been Harry. He didn't want to die."

"A virgin," Neville mutters under his breath, an insane giggle escaping his lips as he remembers what initially brought them together.

"What?" Hermione asks, bewildered.

Neville doesn't think she understood what he said, so he just shakes his head. As the reality of the situation washes over him, Neville feels suddenly, inexplicably cold and he shivers, despite Hermione's proximity.

"He loved you," Hermione tells him abruptly. "He said so before we.... Before."

"I love him, too. God, Hermione, I love him so much it's painful and half of me refuses to believe what you're telling me. Why... why does he have to make things so hard?"

"That's just Harry," Hermione replies, making another pained expression.

Neville feels a bubble of anger rise. "I wish he'd never come after me. I wish he'd just left things the way they were. Then... then I wouldn't feel like this."

"You don't mean that." She tightens her grip on him. "You love him."

"I do," replies Neville, unsure of which statement he's answering. "He didn't have to go."

"He did." Hermione's voice is raw from the effort of holding back her tears. "I... I think he must have known this was going to happen. But he wanted you to live, wanted us all to live."

"Yeah, well, I wanted that for him, too. Can't always get what you want, though, right? Death is just a part of life." Neville shrugs off her embrace and stands, brushing dirt from his robes. Hermione scrambles up, unwilling to let him stalk off, and grabs his hand.

"You're still alive, Neville. Please don't forget that." She pulls him into an embrace and he feels all his bones turn to liquid.

Neville thinks of flying, of the taste of peppermint, of interrupted homework, tentative hand-holding, secret kisses in empty classrooms, and Harry. And Harry. His eyes fill with tears and he bends down, burying his face in Hermione's neck.

"How could I?"