lomonaaeren (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lomonaaeren) wrote2020-07-30 06:52 pm
lomonaaeren) wrote2020-07-30 06:52 pm
Entry tags:
[From Litha to Lammas]: The Kiss of a Veela, Harry/Neville, PG-13
Title: The Kiss of a Veela
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Neville
Content Notes: Humor, Hogwarts “eighth year,” angst, pining
Wordcount: 6200
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry is very busy at Hogwarts during his eighth year: dodging his fans, making up stories about his imaginary highly jealous Veela boyfriend to get said fans to stop chasing his arse, and pining after Neville Longbottom.
Author’s Notes: This is another of my “From Litha to Lammas” fics being posted between the summer solstice and the first of August, and as you can see, this is deeply, deeply not serious. It also involves zero actual Veela. Sorry.
The Kiss of a Veela
Harry knew from Hermione’s discreet cough that he had been staring too long at Neville Longbottom again, but bloody hell, it was hard to stop staring.
Neville had hardened his muscles and sharpened his wit during the year he’d spent at the school while Harry and Ron and Hermione hunted the Horcruxes, despite how much time he’d had to spend hiding in the Room of Requirement. Both were on display now as he lounged back in his chair at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, trading insults with Seamus as fast as Seamus could throw them.
Harry sighed and tore his eyes away. Then he grimaced as he noticed who had managed to slip into the empty seat beside him.
“Hello, Romilda,” he said glumly as he picked up a scone and tore it into small pieces.
“Hello, Harry.”
Romilda’s voice was warm, and she didn’t flutter her eyelashes as much as she used to during her fourth year. Harry hid a second sigh. Romilda had fought in the Batlte of Hogwarts, and she’d been genuinely brave, from what people had said. He should feel more generous towards her than he did.
But he would probably never be able to feel generous towards a girl who had once used a love potion meant for him on his best friend and who was still obsessed with dating him, something she mentioned every time she saw him.
Now was no exception. Romilda tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder, in a way that was probably meant to draw attention to its length and thickness, and which Harry only thought made her look like she hadn’t brushed it this morning. “Please come on a date with me, Harry. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, you know.”
Harry smiled at her brightly and spoke the lie that he’d perfected a week after they came back to school. “Sorry, Romilda, can’t. My boyfriend would be very jealous, you know.”
Hermione sighed into her book. Harry kept his back turned to her. Hermione didn’t appreciate the rumor of a Veela boyfriend living in France that Harry had concocted, but Harry didn’t see why she had to sigh about it. He needed people to know he was gay, he needed people to know that he was protected by someone with magical creature blood who would be inhumanly jealous over him, and he needed a “foreign” romance to make plain English people feel they couldn’t compete with “Armand.” The story made whole categories of his fans back up. Without it, his life would be intolerable.
Even as it was, Romilda still pursued him. She dropped her eyelashes now and reached out, not quite resting her hand on his arm. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, Harry. Veela or not.”
Harry pulled his arm back and injected coldness into his voice. “You’re not suggesting I cheat on my boyfriend, are you, Miss Vane?”
Romilda paled a bit. “I only meant—”
“That’s not honorable, and it’s not Gryffindor,” Harry said, standing up and reaching for his glass of pumpkin juice to drain the last dregs of it. “I am not going to cheat on the person who holds my heart.”
Which was true, but there was no use being so faithful to Neville. He was dating Hannah Abbott, and he thought of Harry as a friend and comrade-in-arms, and that was all.
“You should know it’s not honorable, Miss Vane,” Neville interjected now, leaning around Seamus and shaking his head at Romilda. “I’m really surprised at you. You never would have suggested such a thing when we were both in Dumbledore’s Army.”
Romilda looked flushed to be the center of attention. “I…”
Harry walked out of the Great Hall and left her to it. He did nod to Neville in thanks on the way.
Neville gave him a smile so warm it could have burned Harry’s bones. Harry hoped his return smile was somewhere on the side of “brilliant and charming” instead of “stupidly awkward,” but he wouldn’t have bet on it. He ducked his head and left.
*
“Just ask him out, Harry, really.”
Hermione kept her voice low as they sat in the back of Defense, at least. McGonagall had hired someone who did teach them practical magic, but must be related to Binns. Her lectures were infinitely boring, and not even Hermione pretended to pay much attention to Professor Hellens until required to answer a question—which she always could.
Harry sighed and shook his head. “He’s dating Hannah, Hermione.”
“So he turns you down and then you can go on with your life. Honestly, Harry.”
“I can’t go on with my life yet,” Harry said simply. He didn’t look at Neville, who was seated in front of him near the middle of the row, but he knew exactly where he was, the way he could have pointed out the direction of the sun with his eyes closed.
Harry didn’t know exactly when his crush had begun. Probably when Neville had cut off Nagini’s head, though. Or when he had come to Harry the day after the battle and asked what he could do to help with sorting out the dead and making speeches and holding funerals and the like. He had been the person after Harry that everyone was most eager to speak to and turn into a hero.
And he’d really shared that burden, Harry thought, his eyes straying before he yanked them back front and center to Professor Hellens, reading from the textbook, again. The only one who could have helped Harry.
Harry understood perfectly why his friends couldn’t. Hermione had left for Australia as soon as she could, and Ron had been involved in the grief for Fred, and then his funeral. But it would have been lonely to face the Ministry’s appetite for a hero alone.
Instead, Neville had been there. For everything. Making the speeches at Remus and Tonks’s funeral. Rededicating Dumbledore’s tomb. Late-night drinking when Harry had been swearing furiously about the people who just wanted everything to “go back to normal,” which meant Death Eaters roaming at large under the excuse of the Imperius and Muggleborns being disregarded. (Sometimes Neville had listened, but sometimes he’d joined in). Even taking Harry’s desperate Floo connections when he was trying to get Teddy to sleep during some late nights and Neville had shared lullabies his grandmother used to sing to him.
Harry still didn’t know why it was a crush instead of another friendship like the one he had with Ron. But that was just the way it was, he supposed.
“Professor Hellens?”
The professor looked up from the textbook and focused on Hermione. “Yes, Miss Granger?”
“Harry has a question, but he’s too shy to ask,” Hermione said, and, to Harry’s horror, picked up his arm and waved it around. “So I said I would do it for him.”
“Oh, of course,” Professor Hellens said, apparently not realizing that wasn’t the way it was supposed to work, and also oblivious to the way that Hermione was dodging Harry’s kicks from under the table. “I hope that no student is ever afraid to ask a question in my class.” Even those words were bland and monotone. “Please, Mr. Potter, go ahead.”
Hermione shot Harry a triumphant look. Harry put on a meek one and asked, “Professor, why is the list of bolded terms in a red box on page 111 and in a purple box on page 113?”
Harry knew Neville had turned to look at him—there was always that impression of the pressure of his gaze—but he just kept his eyes on Professor Hellens.
He was not going to ask in public, if he asked.
“Oh, of course, Mr. Potter, I was waiting for someone to ask me that,” said Professor Hellens, without sounding any more excited than if someone had cast a spell with a slight mistake. Harry had concluded that she might be the only person he’d ever known who would talk to Voldemort in the exact same voice she used for everyone else. “The answer is simple. When our book publishers used red on this particular page…”
Hermione leaned towards him under cover of the drone about dyes and symbolic significances, and hissed, “You have to ask sometime, you know.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be private,” Harry hissed back. “Enough of my life is already public.”
There was a long pause, and then Hermione’s face turned as red as the box on page 111. Harry raised his eyebrows at her and turned back to “focus” on the lecture again, while in the background Ron winked at him. Then Ron went back to his nap, which only needed to be a little more subtle than it’d ever been in History of Magic: his head drooping a little less, his arms folded over his chest.
Harry knew Neville looked at him for a long moment before he faced forwards again. It didn’t matter.
Harry wasn’t going to cheat on his imaginary Veela boyfriend, and he wasn’t going to ask Neville to cheat on Hannah. That was the way it was.
*
“Does your Veela boyfriend look anything like me?”
Harry froze for a second. Then he peeked slowly over the top of his library book at Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy stood by the table with a weird expression on his face, hopeful and impatient both at once. He folded his arms and tapped his foot as Harry went on not answering.
“No, other than being blond,” Harry finally said, when he’d worked past the stupefaction over Malfoy possibly fancying him, and looked at his book again.
Malfoy sighed—which everyone around Harry seemed to be either doing lately or causing him to do—and sat in a chair across from him. Even though Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the book, he was aware of the extra grace and elegance Malfoy was putting into the movement. It was the kind of thing he’d become aware of when he finally accepted that thinking men were handsome wasn’t something he would just “get over.”
That didn’t mean he was in love with anyone other than Neville. He just noticed.
Harry grimaced to himself. Crush or in love? Neither was great news for him, but the first would be easier to get over.
“What does he have that I don’t?”
“A personality not dedicated to getting in bed with me to improve his family’s position.”
Malfoy breathed in so sharply he started coughing. Harry turned a page in the book and read about the Levitation Charm and how it had been developed—there would be a question about it on the NEWTS, he was sure—but he felt a tiny flame of satisfaction start burning in his chest.
“I—that’s not why I would want to date you.”
“Yes, it is.”
Malfoy’s way of being flummoxed was to start fuming silently, with the fuming working more and more towards open expression. Harry carefully turned another page and copied down the explanation for how the Cutting Charm differed from the Slicing Charm. They weren’t supposed to spit things out word-for-word on the NEWTS, but it was a good explanation and he wanted to remember it.
“I want to go out with you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not because I want to improve my family’s wealth. We have enough Galleons already. Besides, that’s an argument in favor of dating me.” Malfoy’s voice sounded smooth again, but it was higher-pitched than Neville’s, and Harry could too easily remember it whinging when they were younger. “We’re both rich. We can understand each other.”
Harry laughed before he could stop himself, and a few people at tables nearby cringed and looked over. One of them was Neville, although he didn’t cringe. He just put down his book, leaned back, and started watching the interaction between Harry and Malfoy.
Great, Harry thought, and stabbed his parchment with a vicious quill.
“What’s so funny about it?”
“I wouldn’t date someone based on wealth,” Harry said, and graced Malfoy with a look. “Besides, I didn’t mean that. You want to get back your family’s social position.”
“We have enough of that, too.”
But one of Malfoy’s arms was curled defensively around his middle, and Harry nodded. “Not after the war. Your father’s lost political influence in the Ministry.”
“I wouldn’t date you to get that, either.”
Harry sighed. “Did you know that when you start lying, your neck gets all red?”
One of Malfoy’s hands flew up to check, and he flushed even harder, probably all down his chest beneath his shirt (but honestly, that wasn’t appealing for Harry to think about, not the way Neville’s chest was). He apparently decided that he could put diplomacy away and go straight for what irritated him. “Look, Potter, will you date me or not?”
“No,” Harry said calmly. “I have Armand. I don’t need anyone else.” He caught a hint of Neville’s grin from the corner of his eye, and stifled his own irritation at himself as he picked up his book again. He was a good enough liar to hide his stupid pining. That was the only thing he should think of.
“I could give you—”
“Nothing I want. Not even beauty,” Harry added, because Malfoy’s mouth was opening in a way that made him think that would be the berk’s next suggestion. “Armand is plenty beautiful enough for me.”
“Do you have a picture of Armand?”
Requests like that had been one reason Hermione was sure Harry’s lie wouldn’t survive for a second, but Harry had been prepared for it. He smiled a little sadly. “I wouldn’t want to carry one around, even though he offered. I’d have to worry about people trying to steal it from me, the way people keep trying to steal me from him.”
Malfoy huffed at him. Harry just sat there. In the end, Malfoy stood up and stalked out of the library.
Harry would have returned to studying Charms, but Neville leaned over to say something to Susan Bones, who he was at his table with, and then stood up and walked towards Harry. Harry was immediately sure he had started blushing like Malfoy.
Act calm, act calm.
“Mind if I join you, Harry?”
It was a good thing that that question just required a quick shake of Harry’s head, because his tongue was as stiff as if someone had cast a Numbing Charm on it. Neville sat down across from him and sighed. “Is that true, about not wanting to keep a picture of your boyfriend around in case someone takes it?”
Harry nodded, then coughed and broke his tongue loose. “That, and I want to short-circuit attempts like Malfoy just made to get me to compare him to Armand.”
“Short-circuit?”
Neville was so easy to talk to that Harry sometimes forgot he probably wouldn’t get Muggle references. He flushed harder and muttered, “Sorry. I meant, take care of them before they can start making arguments about why I should date them.”
“Oh.” Neville paused. “Harry, is Armand real?”
“How did you know?” Harry blurted, and then felt stupid as hell when Neville smiled at him. But it was that smile that went straight into his heart like sunshine.
“I just put together things logically,” Neville said, shrugging as if seeing through a deception that no one except Hermione and Ron even knew about was no achievement. “You were so busy this summer, and I’m pretty sure that I would have known if you were in France. And I know that you didn’t meet him when the Beauxbatons students were at Hogwarts for the Tournament, because those were all girls.”
“I could have met him at Fleur’s wedding,” Harry said defensively. “Or the Burrow.”
“But you didn’t. He doesn’t exist.”
Harry sighed. “No. But I was just so tired of people like Romilda and Malfoy. Nothing I bloody say about just not wanting to date them puts them off, but Armand gives me a good reason to do it.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Neville said, and then cocked his head like a curious cat. “Have you thought about getting a real boyfriend, though?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said, and his voice was thick.
“But?”
“The bloke I really want is dating someone else.”
Utter surprise flashed across Neville’s face. “Oh,” he said after a long moment. “And you couldn’t even ask him if he would, I don’t know, break up with his boyfriend?”
“Girlfriend,” Harry corrected, shaking his head, floating in an odd sea of devastation and enjoyment at the same time. At least Neville had no idea. “He’s straight.”
“Huh.” Neville settled back against his chair. “Sorry, mate.”
Harry nodded, reminding himself again that he had Neville’s friendship, and that was enough. “Sorry, but I’ve really got to finish this essay.”
“Sure.” Neville stood up, giving Harry a long look. “You never know, Harry. Someone might consider you worth dating no matter who he’s with right now.”
Harry smiled sadly at him. “Why would that person be any different than Romilda or Malfoy, though?”
“I suppose that’s true,” Neville muttered, looking a little stricken, and practically slunk back to the table where Susan was waiting for him.
Harry sighed. He hoped that Neville didn’t think Harry was implying that he would be unfaithful to Hannah or anything like that.
Or that Harry thought badly of him for suggesting that strategy. It was the one Hermione was always pushing Harry to pursue, after all.
But…
But, he really did have an essay to write.
*
“Hey, Harry.”
Harry eyed Seamus warily. They’d long since made up whatever problems might have lain between them for Seamus’s refusal to believe Harry in fifth year, but they also weren’t that close. And Seamus definitely didn’t slide into the seat at Harry’s side on a normal basis, giving him a flirtatious smile that felt about as deep as Umbridge’s good will.
“Seamus,” Harry said, with a nod, and turned back to the Daily Prophet. One unexpected side-benefit of making up a Veela boyfriend was that the paper was going mental trying to find him, and that meant they left Harry alone about other things and also didn’t have time to make up those other things. Harry chuckled as he read a paragraph about how the reporter in question had traveled to France and tried to verify if there was a man named Armand with Veela ancestry who’d graduated from Beauxbatons in the last five years, only to be escorted out of every Veela enclave.
Not that he put “escorted out” so plainly, but “accompanied by gracious and friendly Veela” meant the same thing if you read between the lines.
“So,” Seamus said, in such a drawl that he sounded like Malfoy. Harry blinked at him.
“What?”
Seamus pointed at himself, then pointed at Harry, then pointed at the paper. Harry followed his pointing finger, and finally focused on the word “Hogsmeade” printed in an article about the anniversary of a Death Eater attack there during Voldemort’s first war.
“Sorry, can’t,” Harry said, shaking his head and turning the page.
“Why not, though?”
“Seamus.” Harry waited until Seamus met his eyes and stopped trying to pout (although if that was his best effort at a pout, he really should have seen Neville Longbottom with a hangover). “Listen. I have a boyfriend.”
“But he’s all the way over in France. He’s not going to know.”
“Don’t you think Harry’s every move gets reported in the Prophet?” Ron asked from the other side of Harry. Unlike Hermione, Ron enthusiastically supported Harry’s story about Armand, and even claimed to have met him, although Harry thought it was probably just because Ron would prefer it if Harry and Ginny didn’t get back together, which he thought was “weird.” “Of course his boyfriend would know he’s going to Hogsmeade with someone else.”
He caught Harry’s eye and winked, then jerked his head down the table. Harry did his best to look without appearing to, and found Neville watching them.
Shut up, Harry mouthed to Ron. Ron chortled back, which was always a horrifying thing when he had a mouth full of scrambled eggs.
“But Harry,” Seamus said, and reached out to slide his fingers up the crook of Harry’s elbow, which made Harry start and jerk his arm away. “I really fancy you. And it’s just a date to Hogsmeade together.”
“I would consider that pretty serious, given that I haven’t even been to Hogsmeade with my boyfriend.”
“Leave him alone, Seamus,” Neville said firmly. “Come on,” he added, when Seamus turned his pout on Neville. “Besides, weren’t you telling me last night that you actually fancy Romilda Vane, too? Maybe the two of you could get together and stop bothering poor Harry.”
Damn it, from the heat of his face, Harry just knew he was blushing again. But at least people would hopefully see it as being about needing to be rescued, rather than about who was rescuing him. He nodded in thanks to Neville, while Seamus started sighing about Romilda.
“That hair! Do you think she has curls naturally, or does she use spells to make them? And there’s the fact that she’s a dream when she’s casting, all that strength and energy…” Seamus stood up and wandered away, maybe to go look for Romilda.
Harry relaxed. He reckoned that Seamus had probably just wanted to go with Harry because he found him handsome and not as a serious thing, but he was glad it wouldn’t change into another source of friction.
“Thanks,” he mouthed to Neville.
Neville nodded back, his face so serious that Harry wondered if he was upset about something. Come to think of it, Hannah wasn’t at the Hufflepuff table today. Maybe she was sick?
Maybe she was pregnant?
Harry shook his head and tried to convince himself that his imagination was just jumping to conclusions, and that if Neville and Hannah had a kid on the way, he wouldn’t have bothered to notice that Seamus was making Harry uncomfortable. But the thought lodged itself in the back of Harry’s head and stuck there like a stone.
And it shouldn’t have, because of course Neville and Hannah were dating and if they wanted to start a family early, that was their business. Harry was the child of two people who had started a family early, after all.
He shouldn’t be jealous. He had no right to be jealous.
Harry stood up and abruptly left the Great Hall. He did occasionally write letters and take them to the Owlery, sending them to Bill or Mrs. Weasley or someone else who didn’t live at the school, to keep up the charade that he was writing to Armand. He should go write another one now.
To Bill and Fleur. He would ask how Fleur’s pregnancy was going, and replace the imaginary one (the probably imaginary one) in his head with a real one.
*
“Harry, can I ask you something?”
Harry ignored the way his heartbeat had accelerated, because it was stupid like that, and smiled up at Neville as he came over to sit at Harry’s table in the library again. “Sure, Nev. What is it?”
“I’m starting to get worried about my Defense NEWT.” Neville was frowning as he opened the dreaded Defense book. “Professor Hellens puts me to sleep in class all the time, so I can’t ask questions there. And this book is boring. And it’s not like there are a lot of chances right now to practice the kind of magic that the NEWT is going to demand. What do you think I should do? Will you study with me?”
Harry blamed the need to get Neville’s attention off the blush staining his cheeks for what he blurted out next. “Hannah won’t mind?”
Neville blinked. “Hannah? Why would she? Of course not.”
Harry blew away his embarrassment and nodded, as calmly as he could be when his cheeks were red again. She won’t mind because no one sane thinks private study sessions are some sort of gay dating session.
And at least Harry would get to be close to Neville and in a semi-private space. It hadn’t escaped his notice that, even though Neville didn’t think Hannah would be jealous, he hadn’t said anything about inviting her to study with them, either.
“Yes, we can do that,” Harry said, and hoped that he sound normal and calm and not too eager. Then he hoped that he sounded eager enough, so Neville wouldn’t think Harry thought he wasn’t good at Defense. “But for the practical magic, we should probably go outside.” He grimaced at the bookshelves. “Madam Pince might not like it if we practice in here.”
Neville laughed, loudly enough to make Madam Pince herself pop her scowling face around the edge of a shelf. Harry blinked at him. He hadn’t thought it was funny, just true, but sometimes people had different senses of humor.
“Yes, that’s true,” Neville said when the laughter had faded. He leaned across the table, and Harry tried not to notice the way his biceps flexed even doing that simple action. He failed. “Why not the Room of Requirement, though? It might be more private.”
“You suffered terrible things you had to hide from there. I thought you probably wouldn’t want to go back.”
Neville opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. He ducked his head, and hid his eyes. Harry looked politely off to the side. Sometimes he had to do what Neville was doing himself when someone brought up a memory of the war.
“Thank you, Harry,” Neville finally said.
Harry smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
*
“I can do a perfectly good Shield Charm! I just can’t do it wordlessly.”
“But wordless magic is what they’re going to look for, Neville.” Harry pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He and Neville were in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, only a few meters from the edge, that Harry had put up shields around until it practically hummed. The shields also helped absorb or deflect their stray spells, which was nice. “I mean, maybe not all the spells, but you definitely have to practice wordless magic if you want higher than an Acceptable.”
“I know that.” Neville scowled at him and then stared at the cracked earth in front of him, where a spell from Harry’s wand had landed. Neville’s Protego had kept it at bay, but he’d had to shout the incantation. “Can you show me how you do it again? I know you’re a genius, but maybe you can impart some knowledge to me anyway.”
Harry felt himself flush again; he was starting to hate that. But he nodded. “I’m pretty sweaty, though. Let me do a—”
Neville flipped his hand. “Your shirt’s a wet rag, and a Cooling Charm won’t help with that. I don’t mind if you take it off.”
Harry froze for a second. Neville knew he was gay, and that Armand was a fantasy. Was he—
No, idiot, he’s with Hannah. Harry told himself to stop being stupid, stop making everything deeper than it was, and above all to stop blushing, and stripped off his shirt, dropping it beside the pile of robes they’d already made when they started dueling.
“Um. Wow.”
Harry looked back at Neville, whose eyes were a little wide, and then down at his chest. The scar from the locket Horcrux was pretty noticeable from this angle. He grimaced. “Yeah, the war marked me, huh?”
“I. Yeah.”
Neville was kind of stuttering, so Harry reckoned he needed some time to come to terms with the image of the scars Harry had, when they echoed some of the scars he probably had. Not that Harry would know.
He wanted to know.
It’s none of my business, it’s Hannah’s, Harry thought firmly, and that managed to quell some of the reaction he wanted to have to Neville staring at his bare chest (not looking aside the way he had when Harry brought up the Room of Requirement, which was strange, but also none of Harry’s business). He walked over to the far side of the clearing and turned to face Neville, who looked normal again, mostly. Maybe his eyes were a little wild.
“Neville? Still with me?”
“Um. Yeah.” Neville cleared his throat and then nodded firmly. “Sure.”
“Good. The basis of wordless magic is how much you want something to happen. That’s probably why you’re great with using it in Herbology, because you want to take care of the plants and get good marks in there.”
Neville frowned a little. “I want to get a good mark in Defense, too, Harry.”
Harry smiled encouragingly. “I know. But you have to want the Shield Charm to happen, too. More than anything. That particular spell, not just a high mark. It can’t be that abstract for you. Maybe that’s part of what’s going on.”
“All right.” Neville blinked. “But how can we make it less abstract for me?”
“I want you to cast the harshest spell you know at me.”
“The—the harshest spell I know is the Cruciatus Curse.”
Neville was stuttering again the way he often had in first year. Harry looked at the forest floor. “I’m sorry for reminding you of that.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Neville swallowed. “Harry—”
“The harshest you can personally envision yourself casting, then,” Harry said. “Think of it, don’t try to make it wordless if you’d rather not, and then cast it at me as hard as you can. Think of me as your worst enemy.”
“I could never do that.”
Neville had the serious look on his face that he’d worn the day he saw Seamus flirting with Harry. Harry raised his eyebrow and his wand at the same time. “Tempestas ignis!”
The Firestorm Curse filled the air in between them with a howling wind of flames in instants. Neville yelped and leaped, his hair already singeing from the heat, and then raised the Shield Charm in front of him with a yell of “Protego!”
Harry bent the Firestorm closer and closer around Neville; it was a fire that could be directed, like most fire spells once you knew how to do them. Neville backed up until his shoulders were right against the shields that contained the clearing. Harry urged the Firestorm closer.
“Harry!”
Harry sneered a little. “What? You don’t have the will to hold the Shield Charm against that, even though it’s the perfect counter?” He dismissed the Firestorm with a flick of his wand and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Longbottom.”
“Excorio!”
Much better, Harry thought, as the Flaying Curse jumped from Neville’s wand and flew straight towards him, a vague reddish-pink bolt much the color of the flesh that would be exposed if it managed to peel his skin. He stared at it.
“Harry!”
Harry waited until the Flaying Curse was only a centimeter away, and raised the Shield Charm around himself, wordless—and perfect. The strong silver-blue shield covered his skin instead of curving in front of him, not a surprise when Harry had been thinking about protecting himself from a spell that affected the skin. He laughed as the curse slammed into the shield and dissipated.
Neville was gaping at him. Harry winked. “See? This is the way you have to do it. Think as hard as you can about the Shield Charm and how much you want to be able to raise it nonverbally. We’ll think of spells that could make you want to—”
“Right now, you know what I really want?”
Harry let go the Shield Charm with a relaxation of his will. “No, what?”
“To flay you myself,” Neville growled, and marched across the clearing.
Harry began to consider that perhaps he’d gone a little too far, but on the other hand, how else was he supposed to show Neville what a shield could look like if he didn’t set up a situation where he really wanted to escape a curse? He opened his mouth to explain that.
Except he’d let Neville get too close, because he trusted him, and he never really thought that Neville would punch him, or flay him. He was utterly shocked and vulnerable as Neville grabbed his shoulders and jerked him closer.
“You tosser,” Neville told him.
And kissed him.
It was so unexpected that shock was Harry’s dominant sensation for a long moment. Then Neville’s warm mouth pressed more firmly against his and Neville made a soft sound, and Harry remembered how much he’d wanted this.
And that Neville was dating Hannah.
Harry placed his hands gently on Neville’s shoulders and pressed him back. Neville didn’t want to go, so there was a brief wrestling match that Harry again enjoyed far more than he should have. Finally, he got his mouth free and said, “Neville, we can’t. You’re dating Hannah—”
“She’s my Armand.”
“What?” Harry felt like the Flaying Curse had hit him after all.
Neville grimaced at him, but didn’t let go of Harry, and in fact drew him close enough that Harry could smell his sweat. Harry swallowed, tried not to wish that Neville hadn’t left his shirt on, and attended to his words.
“So many people wanted to date me after the war,” Neville whispered, cradling him close. “All the war heroes got that, I think. Ron and Hermione were only spared because people knew they were together, and they weren’t in the public eye much then.
“I hated it, Harry. Those people don’t understand what we went through. I realized maybe a fortnight after the battle that the high point of my week was seeing you, and discussing the war with you. You understood.”
Neville nudged his chin up, and Harry went with it, despite feeling like his eyes were too big for his face. Neville was smiling at him with all the genuine fondness that Harry had ever dreamed of, and hunger that he hadn’t, despite the dreams he’d had focused on Neville’s chest and arms and—other places.
“So I asked Hannah if she would pretend to date me, because—she was getting it, too, if to a lesser extent.” Neville glanced off to the side and grimaced a bit. “And because she was trying to hide a relationship her parents didn’t approve of.”
“With—”
“Susan.”
“Oh.” Harry felt a brief stab of sorrow for Hannah, who’d suffered in the war like all of them and now couldn’t get her family’s acceptance for the woman she loved.
“I never realized it would go on so long, or that you would come up with your own strategy and not see through mine.” Neville abruptly smiled. “Or how little attention you pay to gossip. I ‘broke up’ with Hannah a week ago, when she told me that she’s going to tell her family about Susan and I realized I might be the one you fancied, and spread the news around school. I thought you knew.”
Harry felt his face heat. As a matter of fact, he’d heard something about that, but he’d dismissed it as some other kind of gossip about Neville and Hannah—who did get a lot of attention the way Harry did, it was disgusting—and told himself not to hope or listen.
“So.” Neville rested his hands lightly on his shoulders. “Are you willing to break up with your devastatingly handsome Veela boyfriend, and go out with me?”
Harry had to smile then. “Are you prepared to get jealous over me? I sort of like that.”
Neville snorted. “If you hadn’t been so utterly convinced that I was straight and it would be immoral of you to look at someone who had a girlfriend, you would have noticed the way I was scowling at Romilda and Seamus days ago. And I will be more than happy to put Malfoy in his place.”
“That sounds good.” Harry pretended to think. “Of course, one thing about Armand I never mentioned, but which has to be true of my boyfriend…”
“Yes?”
“He has to be able to cast a wordless Shield Charm.”
Neville glared at him, took his hands off Harry’s shoulders, and spent a long moment looking at Harry in a way that made Harry’s whole body flush. Then he drew his wand and concentrated, lunging forwards.
A perfect, wordless Shield Charm appeared in front of him. Neville put his wand away with casual movements. “You’re right. You have to really want it.”
Harry was grinning now, his face a mad red and his heart going mad, but he wanted to play the game to its end. “And, of course, you’d have heard me telling people about how well Armand can kiss me.”
“That’s a challenge if I ever heard one,” Neville said, stepping towards him. “And what sort of Gryffindor would I be if I didn’t accept a dare?”
Neville leaned in and kissed him, and Harry met him with an open mouth again. Neville’s muffled soft sound rumbled against his lips, and it was his groan, and Harry wrapped his arms around Neville’s shoulders and hung on.
It was worlds better than the kiss of any imaginary Veela.
The End.
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Neville
Content Notes: Humor, Hogwarts “eighth year,” angst, pining
Wordcount: 6200
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry is very busy at Hogwarts during his eighth year: dodging his fans, making up stories about his imaginary highly jealous Veela boyfriend to get said fans to stop chasing his arse, and pining after Neville Longbottom.
Author’s Notes: This is another of my “From Litha to Lammas” fics being posted between the summer solstice and the first of August, and as you can see, this is deeply, deeply not serious. It also involves zero actual Veela. Sorry.
The Kiss of a Veela
Harry knew from Hermione’s discreet cough that he had been staring too long at Neville Longbottom again, but bloody hell, it was hard to stop staring.
Neville had hardened his muscles and sharpened his wit during the year he’d spent at the school while Harry and Ron and Hermione hunted the Horcruxes, despite how much time he’d had to spend hiding in the Room of Requirement. Both were on display now as he lounged back in his chair at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, trading insults with Seamus as fast as Seamus could throw them.
Harry sighed and tore his eyes away. Then he grimaced as he noticed who had managed to slip into the empty seat beside him.
“Hello, Romilda,” he said glumly as he picked up a scone and tore it into small pieces.
“Hello, Harry.”
Romilda’s voice was warm, and she didn’t flutter her eyelashes as much as she used to during her fourth year. Harry hid a second sigh. Romilda had fought in the Batlte of Hogwarts, and she’d been genuinely brave, from what people had said. He should feel more generous towards her than he did.
But he would probably never be able to feel generous towards a girl who had once used a love potion meant for him on his best friend and who was still obsessed with dating him, something she mentioned every time she saw him.
Now was no exception. Romilda tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder, in a way that was probably meant to draw attention to its length and thickness, and which Harry only thought made her look like she hadn’t brushed it this morning. “Please come on a date with me, Harry. It’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up, you know.”
Harry smiled at her brightly and spoke the lie that he’d perfected a week after they came back to school. “Sorry, Romilda, can’t. My boyfriend would be very jealous, you know.”
Hermione sighed into her book. Harry kept his back turned to her. Hermione didn’t appreciate the rumor of a Veela boyfriend living in France that Harry had concocted, but Harry didn’t see why she had to sigh about it. He needed people to know he was gay, he needed people to know that he was protected by someone with magical creature blood who would be inhumanly jealous over him, and he needed a “foreign” romance to make plain English people feel they couldn’t compete with “Armand.” The story made whole categories of his fans back up. Without it, his life would be intolerable.
Even as it was, Romilda still pursued him. She dropped her eyelashes now and reached out, not quite resting her hand on his arm. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, Harry. Veela or not.”
Harry pulled his arm back and injected coldness into his voice. “You’re not suggesting I cheat on my boyfriend, are you, Miss Vane?”
Romilda paled a bit. “I only meant—”
“That’s not honorable, and it’s not Gryffindor,” Harry said, standing up and reaching for his glass of pumpkin juice to drain the last dregs of it. “I am not going to cheat on the person who holds my heart.”
Which was true, but there was no use being so faithful to Neville. He was dating Hannah Abbott, and he thought of Harry as a friend and comrade-in-arms, and that was all.
“You should know it’s not honorable, Miss Vane,” Neville interjected now, leaning around Seamus and shaking his head at Romilda. “I’m really surprised at you. You never would have suggested such a thing when we were both in Dumbledore’s Army.”
Romilda looked flushed to be the center of attention. “I…”
Harry walked out of the Great Hall and left her to it. He did nod to Neville in thanks on the way.
Neville gave him a smile so warm it could have burned Harry’s bones. Harry hoped his return smile was somewhere on the side of “brilliant and charming” instead of “stupidly awkward,” but he wouldn’t have bet on it. He ducked his head and left.
*
“Just ask him out, Harry, really.”
Hermione kept her voice low as they sat in the back of Defense, at least. McGonagall had hired someone who did teach them practical magic, but must be related to Binns. Her lectures were infinitely boring, and not even Hermione pretended to pay much attention to Professor Hellens until required to answer a question—which she always could.
Harry sighed and shook his head. “He’s dating Hannah, Hermione.”
“So he turns you down and then you can go on with your life. Honestly, Harry.”
“I can’t go on with my life yet,” Harry said simply. He didn’t look at Neville, who was seated in front of him near the middle of the row, but he knew exactly where he was, the way he could have pointed out the direction of the sun with his eyes closed.
Harry didn’t know exactly when his crush had begun. Probably when Neville had cut off Nagini’s head, though. Or when he had come to Harry the day after the battle and asked what he could do to help with sorting out the dead and making speeches and holding funerals and the like. He had been the person after Harry that everyone was most eager to speak to and turn into a hero.
And he’d really shared that burden, Harry thought, his eyes straying before he yanked them back front and center to Professor Hellens, reading from the textbook, again. The only one who could have helped Harry.
Harry understood perfectly why his friends couldn’t. Hermione had left for Australia as soon as she could, and Ron had been involved in the grief for Fred, and then his funeral. But it would have been lonely to face the Ministry’s appetite for a hero alone.
Instead, Neville had been there. For everything. Making the speeches at Remus and Tonks’s funeral. Rededicating Dumbledore’s tomb. Late-night drinking when Harry had been swearing furiously about the people who just wanted everything to “go back to normal,” which meant Death Eaters roaming at large under the excuse of the Imperius and Muggleborns being disregarded. (Sometimes Neville had listened, but sometimes he’d joined in). Even taking Harry’s desperate Floo connections when he was trying to get Teddy to sleep during some late nights and Neville had shared lullabies his grandmother used to sing to him.
Harry still didn’t know why it was a crush instead of another friendship like the one he had with Ron. But that was just the way it was, he supposed.
“Professor Hellens?”
The professor looked up from the textbook and focused on Hermione. “Yes, Miss Granger?”
“Harry has a question, but he’s too shy to ask,” Hermione said, and, to Harry’s horror, picked up his arm and waved it around. “So I said I would do it for him.”
“Oh, of course,” Professor Hellens said, apparently not realizing that wasn’t the way it was supposed to work, and also oblivious to the way that Hermione was dodging Harry’s kicks from under the table. “I hope that no student is ever afraid to ask a question in my class.” Even those words were bland and monotone. “Please, Mr. Potter, go ahead.”
Hermione shot Harry a triumphant look. Harry put on a meek one and asked, “Professor, why is the list of bolded terms in a red box on page 111 and in a purple box on page 113?”
Harry knew Neville had turned to look at him—there was always that impression of the pressure of his gaze—but he just kept his eyes on Professor Hellens.
He was not going to ask in public, if he asked.
“Oh, of course, Mr. Potter, I was waiting for someone to ask me that,” said Professor Hellens, without sounding any more excited than if someone had cast a spell with a slight mistake. Harry had concluded that she might be the only person he’d ever known who would talk to Voldemort in the exact same voice she used for everyone else. “The answer is simple. When our book publishers used red on this particular page…”
Hermione leaned towards him under cover of the drone about dyes and symbolic significances, and hissed, “You have to ask sometime, you know.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be private,” Harry hissed back. “Enough of my life is already public.”
There was a long pause, and then Hermione’s face turned as red as the box on page 111. Harry raised his eyebrows at her and turned back to “focus” on the lecture again, while in the background Ron winked at him. Then Ron went back to his nap, which only needed to be a little more subtle than it’d ever been in History of Magic: his head drooping a little less, his arms folded over his chest.
Harry knew Neville looked at him for a long moment before he faced forwards again. It didn’t matter.
Harry wasn’t going to cheat on his imaginary Veela boyfriend, and he wasn’t going to ask Neville to cheat on Hannah. That was the way it was.
*
“Does your Veela boyfriend look anything like me?”
Harry froze for a second. Then he peeked slowly over the top of his library book at Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy stood by the table with a weird expression on his face, hopeful and impatient both at once. He folded his arms and tapped his foot as Harry went on not answering.
“No, other than being blond,” Harry finally said, when he’d worked past the stupefaction over Malfoy possibly fancying him, and looked at his book again.
Malfoy sighed—which everyone around Harry seemed to be either doing lately or causing him to do—and sat in a chair across from him. Even though Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the book, he was aware of the extra grace and elegance Malfoy was putting into the movement. It was the kind of thing he’d become aware of when he finally accepted that thinking men were handsome wasn’t something he would just “get over.”
That didn’t mean he was in love with anyone other than Neville. He just noticed.
Harry grimaced to himself. Crush or in love? Neither was great news for him, but the first would be easier to get over.
“What does he have that I don’t?”
“A personality not dedicated to getting in bed with me to improve his family’s position.”
Malfoy breathed in so sharply he started coughing. Harry turned a page in the book and read about the Levitation Charm and how it had been developed—there would be a question about it on the NEWTS, he was sure—but he felt a tiny flame of satisfaction start burning in his chest.
“I—that’s not why I would want to date you.”
“Yes, it is.”
Malfoy’s way of being flummoxed was to start fuming silently, with the fuming working more and more towards open expression. Harry carefully turned another page and copied down the explanation for how the Cutting Charm differed from the Slicing Charm. They weren’t supposed to spit things out word-for-word on the NEWTS, but it was a good explanation and he wanted to remember it.
“I want to go out with you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not because I want to improve my family’s wealth. We have enough Galleons already. Besides, that’s an argument in favor of dating me.” Malfoy’s voice sounded smooth again, but it was higher-pitched than Neville’s, and Harry could too easily remember it whinging when they were younger. “We’re both rich. We can understand each other.”
Harry laughed before he could stop himself, and a few people at tables nearby cringed and looked over. One of them was Neville, although he didn’t cringe. He just put down his book, leaned back, and started watching the interaction between Harry and Malfoy.
Great, Harry thought, and stabbed his parchment with a vicious quill.
“What’s so funny about it?”
“I wouldn’t date someone based on wealth,” Harry said, and graced Malfoy with a look. “Besides, I didn’t mean that. You want to get back your family’s social position.”
“We have enough of that, too.”
But one of Malfoy’s arms was curled defensively around his middle, and Harry nodded. “Not after the war. Your father’s lost political influence in the Ministry.”
“I wouldn’t date you to get that, either.”
Harry sighed. “Did you know that when you start lying, your neck gets all red?”
One of Malfoy’s hands flew up to check, and he flushed even harder, probably all down his chest beneath his shirt (but honestly, that wasn’t appealing for Harry to think about, not the way Neville’s chest was). He apparently decided that he could put diplomacy away and go straight for what irritated him. “Look, Potter, will you date me or not?”
“No,” Harry said calmly. “I have Armand. I don’t need anyone else.” He caught a hint of Neville’s grin from the corner of his eye, and stifled his own irritation at himself as he picked up his book again. He was a good enough liar to hide his stupid pining. That was the only thing he should think of.
“I could give you—”
“Nothing I want. Not even beauty,” Harry added, because Malfoy’s mouth was opening in a way that made him think that would be the berk’s next suggestion. “Armand is plenty beautiful enough for me.”
“Do you have a picture of Armand?”
Requests like that had been one reason Hermione was sure Harry’s lie wouldn’t survive for a second, but Harry had been prepared for it. He smiled a little sadly. “I wouldn’t want to carry one around, even though he offered. I’d have to worry about people trying to steal it from me, the way people keep trying to steal me from him.”
Malfoy huffed at him. Harry just sat there. In the end, Malfoy stood up and stalked out of the library.
Harry would have returned to studying Charms, but Neville leaned over to say something to Susan Bones, who he was at his table with, and then stood up and walked towards Harry. Harry was immediately sure he had started blushing like Malfoy.
Act calm, act calm.
“Mind if I join you, Harry?”
It was a good thing that that question just required a quick shake of Harry’s head, because his tongue was as stiff as if someone had cast a Numbing Charm on it. Neville sat down across from him and sighed. “Is that true, about not wanting to keep a picture of your boyfriend around in case someone takes it?”
Harry nodded, then coughed and broke his tongue loose. “That, and I want to short-circuit attempts like Malfoy just made to get me to compare him to Armand.”
“Short-circuit?”
Neville was so easy to talk to that Harry sometimes forgot he probably wouldn’t get Muggle references. He flushed harder and muttered, “Sorry. I meant, take care of them before they can start making arguments about why I should date them.”
“Oh.” Neville paused. “Harry, is Armand real?”
“How did you know?” Harry blurted, and then felt stupid as hell when Neville smiled at him. But it was that smile that went straight into his heart like sunshine.
“I just put together things logically,” Neville said, shrugging as if seeing through a deception that no one except Hermione and Ron even knew about was no achievement. “You were so busy this summer, and I’m pretty sure that I would have known if you were in France. And I know that you didn’t meet him when the Beauxbatons students were at Hogwarts for the Tournament, because those were all girls.”
“I could have met him at Fleur’s wedding,” Harry said defensively. “Or the Burrow.”
“But you didn’t. He doesn’t exist.”
Harry sighed. “No. But I was just so tired of people like Romilda and Malfoy. Nothing I bloody say about just not wanting to date them puts them off, but Armand gives me a good reason to do it.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Neville said, and then cocked his head like a curious cat. “Have you thought about getting a real boyfriend, though?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said, and his voice was thick.
“But?”
“The bloke I really want is dating someone else.”
Utter surprise flashed across Neville’s face. “Oh,” he said after a long moment. “And you couldn’t even ask him if he would, I don’t know, break up with his boyfriend?”
“Girlfriend,” Harry corrected, shaking his head, floating in an odd sea of devastation and enjoyment at the same time. At least Neville had no idea. “He’s straight.”
“Huh.” Neville settled back against his chair. “Sorry, mate.”
Harry nodded, reminding himself again that he had Neville’s friendship, and that was enough. “Sorry, but I’ve really got to finish this essay.”
“Sure.” Neville stood up, giving Harry a long look. “You never know, Harry. Someone might consider you worth dating no matter who he’s with right now.”
Harry smiled sadly at him. “Why would that person be any different than Romilda or Malfoy, though?”
“I suppose that’s true,” Neville muttered, looking a little stricken, and practically slunk back to the table where Susan was waiting for him.
Harry sighed. He hoped that Neville didn’t think Harry was implying that he would be unfaithful to Hannah or anything like that.
Or that Harry thought badly of him for suggesting that strategy. It was the one Hermione was always pushing Harry to pursue, after all.
But…
But, he really did have an essay to write.
*
“Hey, Harry.”
Harry eyed Seamus warily. They’d long since made up whatever problems might have lain between them for Seamus’s refusal to believe Harry in fifth year, but they also weren’t that close. And Seamus definitely didn’t slide into the seat at Harry’s side on a normal basis, giving him a flirtatious smile that felt about as deep as Umbridge’s good will.
“Seamus,” Harry said, with a nod, and turned back to the Daily Prophet. One unexpected side-benefit of making up a Veela boyfriend was that the paper was going mental trying to find him, and that meant they left Harry alone about other things and also didn’t have time to make up those other things. Harry chuckled as he read a paragraph about how the reporter in question had traveled to France and tried to verify if there was a man named Armand with Veela ancestry who’d graduated from Beauxbatons in the last five years, only to be escorted out of every Veela enclave.
Not that he put “escorted out” so plainly, but “accompanied by gracious and friendly Veela” meant the same thing if you read between the lines.
“So,” Seamus said, in such a drawl that he sounded like Malfoy. Harry blinked at him.
“What?”
Seamus pointed at himself, then pointed at Harry, then pointed at the paper. Harry followed his pointing finger, and finally focused on the word “Hogsmeade” printed in an article about the anniversary of a Death Eater attack there during Voldemort’s first war.
“Sorry, can’t,” Harry said, shaking his head and turning the page.
“Why not, though?”
“Seamus.” Harry waited until Seamus met his eyes and stopped trying to pout (although if that was his best effort at a pout, he really should have seen Neville Longbottom with a hangover). “Listen. I have a boyfriend.”
“But he’s all the way over in France. He’s not going to know.”
“Don’t you think Harry’s every move gets reported in the Prophet?” Ron asked from the other side of Harry. Unlike Hermione, Ron enthusiastically supported Harry’s story about Armand, and even claimed to have met him, although Harry thought it was probably just because Ron would prefer it if Harry and Ginny didn’t get back together, which he thought was “weird.” “Of course his boyfriend would know he’s going to Hogsmeade with someone else.”
He caught Harry’s eye and winked, then jerked his head down the table. Harry did his best to look without appearing to, and found Neville watching them.
Shut up, Harry mouthed to Ron. Ron chortled back, which was always a horrifying thing when he had a mouth full of scrambled eggs.
“But Harry,” Seamus said, and reached out to slide his fingers up the crook of Harry’s elbow, which made Harry start and jerk his arm away. “I really fancy you. And it’s just a date to Hogsmeade together.”
“I would consider that pretty serious, given that I haven’t even been to Hogsmeade with my boyfriend.”
“Leave him alone, Seamus,” Neville said firmly. “Come on,” he added, when Seamus turned his pout on Neville. “Besides, weren’t you telling me last night that you actually fancy Romilda Vane, too? Maybe the two of you could get together and stop bothering poor Harry.”
Damn it, from the heat of his face, Harry just knew he was blushing again. But at least people would hopefully see it as being about needing to be rescued, rather than about who was rescuing him. He nodded in thanks to Neville, while Seamus started sighing about Romilda.
“That hair! Do you think she has curls naturally, or does she use spells to make them? And there’s the fact that she’s a dream when she’s casting, all that strength and energy…” Seamus stood up and wandered away, maybe to go look for Romilda.
Harry relaxed. He reckoned that Seamus had probably just wanted to go with Harry because he found him handsome and not as a serious thing, but he was glad it wouldn’t change into another source of friction.
“Thanks,” he mouthed to Neville.
Neville nodded back, his face so serious that Harry wondered if he was upset about something. Come to think of it, Hannah wasn’t at the Hufflepuff table today. Maybe she was sick?
Maybe she was pregnant?
Harry shook his head and tried to convince himself that his imagination was just jumping to conclusions, and that if Neville and Hannah had a kid on the way, he wouldn’t have bothered to notice that Seamus was making Harry uncomfortable. But the thought lodged itself in the back of Harry’s head and stuck there like a stone.
And it shouldn’t have, because of course Neville and Hannah were dating and if they wanted to start a family early, that was their business. Harry was the child of two people who had started a family early, after all.
He shouldn’t be jealous. He had no right to be jealous.
Harry stood up and abruptly left the Great Hall. He did occasionally write letters and take them to the Owlery, sending them to Bill or Mrs. Weasley or someone else who didn’t live at the school, to keep up the charade that he was writing to Armand. He should go write another one now.
To Bill and Fleur. He would ask how Fleur’s pregnancy was going, and replace the imaginary one (the probably imaginary one) in his head with a real one.
*
“Harry, can I ask you something?”
Harry ignored the way his heartbeat had accelerated, because it was stupid like that, and smiled up at Neville as he came over to sit at Harry’s table in the library again. “Sure, Nev. What is it?”
“I’m starting to get worried about my Defense NEWT.” Neville was frowning as he opened the dreaded Defense book. “Professor Hellens puts me to sleep in class all the time, so I can’t ask questions there. And this book is boring. And it’s not like there are a lot of chances right now to practice the kind of magic that the NEWT is going to demand. What do you think I should do? Will you study with me?”
Harry blamed the need to get Neville’s attention off the blush staining his cheeks for what he blurted out next. “Hannah won’t mind?”
Neville blinked. “Hannah? Why would she? Of course not.”
Harry blew away his embarrassment and nodded, as calmly as he could be when his cheeks were red again. She won’t mind because no one sane thinks private study sessions are some sort of gay dating session.
And at least Harry would get to be close to Neville and in a semi-private space. It hadn’t escaped his notice that, even though Neville didn’t think Hannah would be jealous, he hadn’t said anything about inviting her to study with them, either.
“Yes, we can do that,” Harry said, and hoped that he sound normal and calm and not too eager. Then he hoped that he sounded eager enough, so Neville wouldn’t think Harry thought he wasn’t good at Defense. “But for the practical magic, we should probably go outside.” He grimaced at the bookshelves. “Madam Pince might not like it if we practice in here.”
Neville laughed, loudly enough to make Madam Pince herself pop her scowling face around the edge of a shelf. Harry blinked at him. He hadn’t thought it was funny, just true, but sometimes people had different senses of humor.
“Yes, that’s true,” Neville said when the laughter had faded. He leaned across the table, and Harry tried not to notice the way his biceps flexed even doing that simple action. He failed. “Why not the Room of Requirement, though? It might be more private.”
“You suffered terrible things you had to hide from there. I thought you probably wouldn’t want to go back.”
Neville opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. He ducked his head, and hid his eyes. Harry looked politely off to the side. Sometimes he had to do what Neville was doing himself when someone brought up a memory of the war.
“Thank you, Harry,” Neville finally said.
Harry smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
*
“I can do a perfectly good Shield Charm! I just can’t do it wordlessly.”
“But wordless magic is what they’re going to look for, Neville.” Harry pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He and Neville were in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, only a few meters from the edge, that Harry had put up shields around until it practically hummed. The shields also helped absorb or deflect their stray spells, which was nice. “I mean, maybe not all the spells, but you definitely have to practice wordless magic if you want higher than an Acceptable.”
“I know that.” Neville scowled at him and then stared at the cracked earth in front of him, where a spell from Harry’s wand had landed. Neville’s Protego had kept it at bay, but he’d had to shout the incantation. “Can you show me how you do it again? I know you’re a genius, but maybe you can impart some knowledge to me anyway.”
Harry felt himself flush again; he was starting to hate that. But he nodded. “I’m pretty sweaty, though. Let me do a—”
Neville flipped his hand. “Your shirt’s a wet rag, and a Cooling Charm won’t help with that. I don’t mind if you take it off.”
Harry froze for a second. Neville knew he was gay, and that Armand was a fantasy. Was he—
No, idiot, he’s with Hannah. Harry told himself to stop being stupid, stop making everything deeper than it was, and above all to stop blushing, and stripped off his shirt, dropping it beside the pile of robes they’d already made when they started dueling.
“Um. Wow.”
Harry looked back at Neville, whose eyes were a little wide, and then down at his chest. The scar from the locket Horcrux was pretty noticeable from this angle. He grimaced. “Yeah, the war marked me, huh?”
“I. Yeah.”
Neville was kind of stuttering, so Harry reckoned he needed some time to come to terms with the image of the scars Harry had, when they echoed some of the scars he probably had. Not that Harry would know.
He wanted to know.
It’s none of my business, it’s Hannah’s, Harry thought firmly, and that managed to quell some of the reaction he wanted to have to Neville staring at his bare chest (not looking aside the way he had when Harry brought up the Room of Requirement, which was strange, but also none of Harry’s business). He walked over to the far side of the clearing and turned to face Neville, who looked normal again, mostly. Maybe his eyes were a little wild.
“Neville? Still with me?”
“Um. Yeah.” Neville cleared his throat and then nodded firmly. “Sure.”
“Good. The basis of wordless magic is how much you want something to happen. That’s probably why you’re great with using it in Herbology, because you want to take care of the plants and get good marks in there.”
Neville frowned a little. “I want to get a good mark in Defense, too, Harry.”
Harry smiled encouragingly. “I know. But you have to want the Shield Charm to happen, too. More than anything. That particular spell, not just a high mark. It can’t be that abstract for you. Maybe that’s part of what’s going on.”
“All right.” Neville blinked. “But how can we make it less abstract for me?”
“I want you to cast the harshest spell you know at me.”
“The—the harshest spell I know is the Cruciatus Curse.”
Neville was stuttering again the way he often had in first year. Harry looked at the forest floor. “I’m sorry for reminding you of that.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Neville swallowed. “Harry—”
“The harshest you can personally envision yourself casting, then,” Harry said. “Think of it, don’t try to make it wordless if you’d rather not, and then cast it at me as hard as you can. Think of me as your worst enemy.”
“I could never do that.”
Neville had the serious look on his face that he’d worn the day he saw Seamus flirting with Harry. Harry raised his eyebrow and his wand at the same time. “Tempestas ignis!”
The Firestorm Curse filled the air in between them with a howling wind of flames in instants. Neville yelped and leaped, his hair already singeing from the heat, and then raised the Shield Charm in front of him with a yell of “Protego!”
Harry bent the Firestorm closer and closer around Neville; it was a fire that could be directed, like most fire spells once you knew how to do them. Neville backed up until his shoulders were right against the shields that contained the clearing. Harry urged the Firestorm closer.
“Harry!”
Harry sneered a little. “What? You don’t have the will to hold the Shield Charm against that, even though it’s the perfect counter?” He dismissed the Firestorm with a flick of his wand and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Longbottom.”
“Excorio!”
Much better, Harry thought, as the Flaying Curse jumped from Neville’s wand and flew straight towards him, a vague reddish-pink bolt much the color of the flesh that would be exposed if it managed to peel his skin. He stared at it.
“Harry!”
Harry waited until the Flaying Curse was only a centimeter away, and raised the Shield Charm around himself, wordless—and perfect. The strong silver-blue shield covered his skin instead of curving in front of him, not a surprise when Harry had been thinking about protecting himself from a spell that affected the skin. He laughed as the curse slammed into the shield and dissipated.
Neville was gaping at him. Harry winked. “See? This is the way you have to do it. Think as hard as you can about the Shield Charm and how much you want to be able to raise it nonverbally. We’ll think of spells that could make you want to—”
“Right now, you know what I really want?”
Harry let go the Shield Charm with a relaxation of his will. “No, what?”
“To flay you myself,” Neville growled, and marched across the clearing.
Harry began to consider that perhaps he’d gone a little too far, but on the other hand, how else was he supposed to show Neville what a shield could look like if he didn’t set up a situation where he really wanted to escape a curse? He opened his mouth to explain that.
Except he’d let Neville get too close, because he trusted him, and he never really thought that Neville would punch him, or flay him. He was utterly shocked and vulnerable as Neville grabbed his shoulders and jerked him closer.
“You tosser,” Neville told him.
And kissed him.
It was so unexpected that shock was Harry’s dominant sensation for a long moment. Then Neville’s warm mouth pressed more firmly against his and Neville made a soft sound, and Harry remembered how much he’d wanted this.
And that Neville was dating Hannah.
Harry placed his hands gently on Neville’s shoulders and pressed him back. Neville didn’t want to go, so there was a brief wrestling match that Harry again enjoyed far more than he should have. Finally, he got his mouth free and said, “Neville, we can’t. You’re dating Hannah—”
“She’s my Armand.”
“What?” Harry felt like the Flaying Curse had hit him after all.
Neville grimaced at him, but didn’t let go of Harry, and in fact drew him close enough that Harry could smell his sweat. Harry swallowed, tried not to wish that Neville hadn’t left his shirt on, and attended to his words.
“So many people wanted to date me after the war,” Neville whispered, cradling him close. “All the war heroes got that, I think. Ron and Hermione were only spared because people knew they were together, and they weren’t in the public eye much then.
“I hated it, Harry. Those people don’t understand what we went through. I realized maybe a fortnight after the battle that the high point of my week was seeing you, and discussing the war with you. You understood.”
Neville nudged his chin up, and Harry went with it, despite feeling like his eyes were too big for his face. Neville was smiling at him with all the genuine fondness that Harry had ever dreamed of, and hunger that he hadn’t, despite the dreams he’d had focused on Neville’s chest and arms and—other places.
“So I asked Hannah if she would pretend to date me, because—she was getting it, too, if to a lesser extent.” Neville glanced off to the side and grimaced a bit. “And because she was trying to hide a relationship her parents didn’t approve of.”
“With—”
“Susan.”
“Oh.” Harry felt a brief stab of sorrow for Hannah, who’d suffered in the war like all of them and now couldn’t get her family’s acceptance for the woman she loved.
“I never realized it would go on so long, or that you would come up with your own strategy and not see through mine.” Neville abruptly smiled. “Or how little attention you pay to gossip. I ‘broke up’ with Hannah a week ago, when she told me that she’s going to tell her family about Susan and I realized I might be the one you fancied, and spread the news around school. I thought you knew.”
Harry felt his face heat. As a matter of fact, he’d heard something about that, but he’d dismissed it as some other kind of gossip about Neville and Hannah—who did get a lot of attention the way Harry did, it was disgusting—and told himself not to hope or listen.
“So.” Neville rested his hands lightly on his shoulders. “Are you willing to break up with your devastatingly handsome Veela boyfriend, and go out with me?”
Harry had to smile then. “Are you prepared to get jealous over me? I sort of like that.”
Neville snorted. “If you hadn’t been so utterly convinced that I was straight and it would be immoral of you to look at someone who had a girlfriend, you would have noticed the way I was scowling at Romilda and Seamus days ago. And I will be more than happy to put Malfoy in his place.”
“That sounds good.” Harry pretended to think. “Of course, one thing about Armand I never mentioned, but which has to be true of my boyfriend…”
“Yes?”
“He has to be able to cast a wordless Shield Charm.”
Neville glared at him, took his hands off Harry’s shoulders, and spent a long moment looking at Harry in a way that made Harry’s whole body flush. Then he drew his wand and concentrated, lunging forwards.
A perfect, wordless Shield Charm appeared in front of him. Neville put his wand away with casual movements. “You’re right. You have to really want it.”
Harry was grinning now, his face a mad red and his heart going mad, but he wanted to play the game to its end. “And, of course, you’d have heard me telling people about how well Armand can kiss me.”
“That’s a challenge if I ever heard one,” Neville said, stepping towards him. “And what sort of Gryffindor would I be if I didn’t accept a dare?”
Neville leaned in and kissed him, and Harry met him with an open mouth again. Neville’s muffled soft sound rumbled against his lips, and it was his groan, and Harry wrapped his arms around Neville’s shoulders and hung on.
It was worlds better than the kiss of any imaginary Veela.
The End.